Archive of Our Own

To Memory

by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

 

Strange Power, I know not what thou art,
Murderer or mistress of my heart.
I know I'd rather meet the blow
Of my most unrelenting foe
Than live—as now I live—to be
Slain twenty times a day by thee.

 

Yet, when I would command thee hence,
Thou mockest at the vain pretence,
Murmuring in mine ear a song
Once loved, alas! forgotten long;
And on my brow I feel a kiss
That I would rather die than miss.

 

 

 

Prologue.

Tall. Pointy. Presumptuous.

Malfoy Manor was just like its inhabitants.

Harry shook his head as a regal white peacock deigned to squawk at him. The Malfoys had even gone out of their way to ensure their creatures were similarly pale.

Harry hadn't been to the Manor since the night he'd been taken there during the war. Now though, in the bright light of day, he saw the nearly empty mansion for what it really was—immense, yes, but almost fragile. And as Malfoy as Malfoy could be.

At least it wasn't as threatening as he remembered, something he was quite thankful for as he stood at the entrance to the long drive. Certainly Death Eaters were no longer anywhere to be found... well, except for Draco, who would remain inside until his year of house arrest finally came to an end the following day. And even Draco wasn't a Death Eater. Not any longer.

No, with Lucius locked safely away in Azkaban for the foreseeable future and Narcissa staying in France on an extended holiday, there was little for Harry to fear of the Manor—except perhaps the memories his visit would almost definitely dredge up.

Harry sometimes thought he'd give almost anything to forget the terrors of his past.

What he never dreamed was how far he'd go to remember.

 

 

Part 1.

Harry was halfway to the front door of the Manor when Draco Malfoy stepped outside. Harry tried to keep his face neutral at the sight of Malfoy—the git had always made Harry's stomach burn—but ended up nearly stumbling over his own two feet in the process. Catching himself, he looked up expecting mockery, but all he found was the merest hint of a raised eyebrow.

In fact, not only was Malfoy forgoing the chance to taunt him, it seemed that he was actually walking out to meet Harry. It was a gesture that seemed uncharacteristically cordial and somehow beneath the haughty Malfoy he'd always known. He wasn't quite sure what to do with it, if he was honest. Wasn't even sure he liked it. But then, perhaps it was a sign that Malfoy was ready to set their past behind them, and maybe he might be willing to do the same.

“Potter.” Malfoy's lip curled in disdain as he approached.

So much for Malfoy forgetting their past.

“Malfoy.” Harry replied in turn, aiming to land the word halfway between 'I hate you, you sodding prick' and a mature attempt at reconciliation. Unfortunately, his greeting echoed his uncertainty and came out awkward.

“So, Potter, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Malfoy asked, his tone mocking. His familiar smirk twisted his lips.

Harry refused to rise to the bait. He'd owled the week prior letting Malfoy know he'd be by to return Malfoy's hawthorn wand now that his house arrest was almost over. “You know why. You responded when I asked if this was a good time to come by.”

“Yes, I distinctly recall telling you that I'd be here. After all, it's not as though I've had any other options as of late, what with my inability to leave the property.”

Malfoy looked healthier than Harry remembered and more mature, as though he'd grown into his body. He looked, well, he looked good. Harry tried not to stare as he took in all the little changes that somehow made a bigger difference than they ought to have—the bit of additional fullness in his jaw and slight broadening of his shoulders, and the small change in the way he wore his hair. There was definitely an aura of fatigue about him as well, but tired or not, Harry wanted to talk to Draco before simply handing over the wand. He envisioned a cup of tea and hoped for a civil—if not exactly friendly—conversation.

Harry sighed and looked past Malfoy at the house. “Look, can I come in?” he asked, continuing on his way up to the Manor.

“There's always a price,” Malfoy muttered. “And no, you cannot come in.” He said the words as though affronted by Harry's request.

Harry paused, confused.

“Look, do you have my wand or not?” Draco huffed.

Harry started walking again towards the house. “No, we need to talk first, so let's sit down and try to put everythi—ooof!”

Harry was cut off as Draco stepped directly into his path, causing Harry to crash into him, bouncing backwards a step and nearly falling over. Malfoy, of course, didn't look the least bit ruffled.

“I'm sorry, but what part of you're not coming in did you have trouble understanding, Potter?” He raised an eyebrow. “Then again, understanding 'no' was never your strong suit, was it?”

Harry rolled his eyes and attempted to push past. “C'mon, let's just go inside and talk.” He hadn't defeated Voldemort by letting Malfoys get in his way, and he wasn't about to let one stop him now.

But Draco moved in front of him again, glaring down at him. “I. Said. No.”

“Geroff, Malfoy. Move, okay?” Harry shoved him out of the way.

“You bloody move, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, pushing back.

“What's your problem? What's the big deal?” Harry tore his arm free, not quite sure how matters had already devolved into a shoving match.

“Fuck you. You have no idea. Just go, all right? Keep the wand and go, go back to your perfect life. And get the hell out of mine.” Malfoy turned his back and began marching into the house.

Harry was just about to argue further when he saw something peculiar out of the corner of his eye. It was the Manor. And it was...blurry. The image wavered, rippling, before righting itself once again.

“Wait, Malfoy! Stop!”

Harry whipped out his wand and cast a jinx to trip and slow Malfoy, who, sure enough, tumbled to the ground in a stunned heap, giving Harry time to study the outline of the Manor. Nothing seemed amiss, but then, he didn't have long to look; Draco had already got to his feet and was staring at Harry with a look of such malice that Harry gulped.

“Look, sorry, I just... why wouldn't you stop? And what's going on with your house?” Harry asked, scratching his neck as Malfoy stalked back over to him.

Harry never received an answer. Instead, Malfoy spat, “I hate you, Potter,” and lunged at him, crashing to the ground on top of Harry.

“Hey! Oooph!” Harry grunted as Draco's fist connected with his ribs. He tried to shove Malfoy off, squirming beneath Draco's weight and warmth as it pressed against the length of his body.

Malfoy managed another punch to his gut, but in doing so, gave Harry a clear view of the Manor over his left shoulder.

“What the hell?” Harry stared as the Manor shivered and blurred once again until the façade melted away completely. Over Draco's left shoulder, he could see broken windows, cracked walls, missing shingles, and damaged turrets. Apparently life at the Manor was not exactly as perfect as Malfoy had wanted it to appear.

When Malfoy realised Harry had stopped fighting back, he sat back on his heels and turned to see what Harry was staring at.

“Bloody hell,” Malfoy cursed, seeing the crumbling façade. “Fucking fantastic. You've officially ruined everything.”

Getting to his feet, Malfoy straightened his clothes. “Get the hell off my property, Potter,” he demanded before turning and silently marching off into the crumbling mansion as Harry watched, dumbfounded, from where he lay sprawled on the front lawn.

“Merlin,” Harry breathed, sitting up and adjusting his glasses after wiping the blood from his cut lip.

A squawk from a peacock startled him, but when he turned to look at it, he realized it wasn't a peacock after all; a common white chicken strutted across the lawn instead. He got to his feet and looked around. He could see another chicken in the distance, as well as patches of bare dirt and straggly hedges, and a cracked and broken fountain where he swore water had been merrily flowing only moments before.

Harry was so stunned, he very nearly did exactly as Malfoy asked, but as he was headed back towards the front gates to Apparate home, he realized that perhaps an apology was in order. Plus, he still had Malfoy's wand, and if the idiot was prideful enough to try to keep up some sort of glamour on his own house, the complicated and exhausting spellwork would at least be a bit easier if Draco possessed his own wand again.

Harry sighed and turned around. This time, he made it all the way to the front door.

Harry knocked once and the door to the Manor swung open. “What now?” Defeat was written across Malfoy's features.

As much as Harry didn't care for Malfoy's customary arrogant sneer, this seemed worse. “Look, I'm sorry,” Harry said. “I didn't know about the Concealment Charms, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Finally, Harry stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out the hawthorn wand. He held it out to Malfoy.

Malfoy looked at Harry's hand, then his face, then back at his hand, before sighing and opening the door the rest of the way. “Shut the door behind you, Potter,” he said as he turned and headed through the Manor's foyer.

Harry blinked before realizing he'd better follow quickly before the already lukewarm invitation was fully rescinded. He shut the door and hurried to catch up to Malfoy, trying not to stare at the vacant rooms and empty walls where valuable artwork, extravagant furnishings, and other ornate décor had once stood. When he entered what had once been an elegant sitting room, he found a simple table and chairs.

Malfoy motioned for him to sit. “Tea will be served shortly. Luckily the Ministry saw fit to leave me at least one house elf.”

“I...oh.” Harry said, looking away. “I'm sor—”

“Don't you dare say it.” Malfoy stared at him, cleared his throat. “Now, the wand. Didn't you pay attention at all in fifth year?”

“Er, well, I,” Harry began, but was interrupted by the crack of a little house elf who came bearing tea. She wore a large pink spotted bow around her head.

“Harry Potter, sir. Master is having tea with Harry Potter, sir.” She blinked her big eyes at him.

“Yes, I know that, Mipsy. Thank you, you may go now,” Malfoy dismissed her.

“Mipsy is to be going now, yes. But, Master! Master is having tea with Harry Potter, sir!” she squeaked.

Malfoy gave her a look.

“Yes, yes, Mipsy is to be going. Is to be going—” she said as she Apparated away.

Malfoy sighed and began fixing his tea. “In any event, Potter, in fifth year we clearly learned—or at least I learned—that you cannot just hand me back my wand and expect it to work for me. I have to win it from you if I ever want it to work properly.”

Harry looked up from the sugar bowl. He'd forgotten that bit. “Oh, er, right. How should we do that?”

Malfoy sipped his tea. “I'm not entirely certain. Especially given the fact that I don't currently have a wand, so we can't duel.”

“No wand? I didn't know that.”

“Conditions of my parole, Potter. I'd think you'd know that, having been at the hearing.”

Harry shrugged and tried to remember. He'd attended what seemed like hundreds of trials. “I guess I forgot. Is that why you look so terrible? Worse than a fifth year before his O.W.L.s, I'd say.”

Draco shot him a look. “You try to wandlessly maintain a glamour over a property this large.”

“Why do it at all?”

“I'll not give the Ministry the joy of seeing what they've done to us. They took everything. Everything. Checking for dark objects, they said, or for war reparations, or simply because they bloody well could,” Malfoy explained. “So if you'll finish your tea, I've got to go fix the glamours before anyone notices. Unless, of course, you planned to go blathering on about it to The Prophet, in which case, I needn't bother, and could well use a nap.”

Harry swallowed the last of his tea and thought himself mad because of the offer he was about to make.

“I'll help,” he said. “And maybe there's some way you could win your wand back as we go. Surprise me, or something? Just... don't do anything painful.” He narrowed his eyes at Malfoy.

“I don't need your help, Potter,” Malfoy said.

“But you do need your wand, and you'll be able to use it beginning tomorrow. And considering someone will be by from the Ministry in the morning to take care of your release paperwork, won't you want the house looking impeccable?”

“Impeccable? Where'd you learn a word like that? Been reading books again, Potter?” Malfoy's tone lacked its usual malice, though, and Harry smiled cautiously.

“Where should we start, inside or out?” Harry asked.

Malfoy looked at his hands. “The inside was never glamoured. I'd never have been able to keep that up. Why do you think I didn't want you to come in?”

Harry frowned. “Well, now you have my help, so we can do both. You can show me how you did the outside and we'll get started there.”

Standing, Draco narrowed his eyes. “It's my house. I'll be the one giving orders, don't you think?”

Harry snorted as Malfoy led the way outside. “Let's go, before I change my mind.”

“Now that you mention it, exactly why are you helping me?” Malfoy asked.

Harry thought for a moment. He'd had something to do with the failing spells—he'd probably distracted Malfoy. And maybe the Ministry had been a little harsh taking absolutely everything and leaving Draco wandless for the year. Besides, it wasn't like he wanted to do any of the other things he'd had planned for the day; being everyone's hero meant endless social responsibilities, all of which he hated and would be exceedingly glad to miss. Then there was the fact that Harry might have disliked Malfoy looking so entirely hopeless; it was as if his world simply wasn't right without the git's obnoxious sneer featured prominently in it. And then there was that warmth that used to curl in his belly when Malfoy was nearby, leaving him volatile, always on the verge of exploding into a duel or a fistfight or...Harry swallowed. Or... something.

That warmth was definitely back now.

As it seemed to be an extraordinarily bad idea to mention any of these reasons to Malfoy, he simply shrugged his shoulders. “I have absolutely no idea.”

~oOo~

Any doubts that he'd made the wrong decision were removed entirely when Harry paused to watch Draco ungracefully chase a disgruntled chicken through the gardens, all in an attempt to catch and transfigure it into a peacock. Malfoy huffed when he caught Harry watching, but Harry could see him struggling not to smile.

And when Malfoy proved better than Harry at filling the missing roof shingles—even without a wand—the stupid prat had fun mocking Harry accordingly. Still, Harry found he didn't mind quite so much as he would have expected. It was rather ridiculous how his shingles refused to appear in any colour other than lavender.

Instead of worrying over how much he was enjoying himself, Harry chalked it up to the sunny day and the physical work they were doing, which must have released those endorphins Hermione was always going on about. He even forgot about the hawthorn wand eventually.

Now that Malfoy wasn't so proud, Harry didn't mind the bit of obnoxiousness that remained. Still though, the property was immense and using all of the various repairing spells, transfigurations, Concealment Charms, and glamours was exhausting. He couldn't blame Draco for not attempting the inside of the Manor, and frankly, when they finally finished the outside, Harry wasn't sure how much more he could do.

Needing a breather, they headed back in the Manor, where Mipsy met them with glasses of cool pumpkin juice.

“Maybe we could just do a few of the rooms inside, the ones that the Ministry will see tomorrow,” Harry suggested, looking around as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Tired, Potter?” Malfoy mocked.

Harry shrugged. “Kinda,” he admitted.

“Thank Merlin for that,” Malfoy said, collapsing into a chair. “I'm exhausted.”

Harry scratched the back of his neck and looked around the sitting room. He set down his glass. “Tell you what. Let me have a go at this one.”

Ignoring Malfoy's protest, he surveyed the room. Then, with his wand, he set an automatic dusting spell and Floor Waxing Charm as he went to work fixing the peeled and faded wallpapering. When that was finished, he touched up the draperies, configured a myriad of ornate vases and decorative items to fill the shelves, and added a small chandelier to the ceiling. His final touch was a portrait of Salazar Slytherin to hang on the south wall and one of Godric Gryffindor to go on the north, which he personally thought was terribly clever.

Unfortunately, when he looked over to see Malfoy's reaction, he found Malfoy had fallen asleep in his chair, his mouth open and a bit of drool clinging to his lower lip. Harry felt the heat again tickling in his belly, but this time it was softer, and just... pleasantly warm.

Harry ignored it.

In the meantime, he was surprised to find he wasn't even angry that Malfoy had fallen asleep, though he knew he'd have to collect this memory to use in his Pensieve for future use when Draco inevitably pissed him off again. He wouldn't want to forget that the regal Malfoy drooled in his sleep.

Shaking his head, Harry decided to let Draco rest; he really had looked completely exhausted and the cheeky act of adding Godric's portrait to the wall had given Harry a second wind. So Harry promptly set off to whip the nearest loo into shape.

After the loo proved unexpectedly easy, he moved into the grand hallway, which he cleaned and buffed before adding some nice plants and transfiguring some stick figure drawings he made into an elegant still life of pumpkins and a gorgeous landscape filled with narcissus flowers.

He was exhausted by the time he'd gotten that far, but Harry judged that only the entrance foyer still needed attention, so he turned to cleaning out the Floo there. He was just about to set a polishing charm on the mantle when he suddenly felt something behind him. He jumped as Malfoy stepped close, pinning him against the wall.

The wand. Malfoy had to win back his wand.

But Malfoy didn't reach for the hawthorn wand in Harry's pocket; instead, he leaned over Harry's shoulder until Harry could feel his breath against his ear, tickling his neck. Heat spread rapidly throughout Harry's body.

“Why are you doing this, Potter?”

Malfoy's voice was low, very low, and Harry's mouth went dry. He swallowed twice. “I... I don't know,” he finally got out, his forehead pressed against the wall, the heat of Malfoy behind him strange. It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him at all, other than to shake his hand. No one wanted to get close enough to heroes to understand they were people too, Harry had learned. They may have thought they did, but they didn't. Not really.

“Is it so you can gloat about it later? To all of your little Gryffindor friends? About how you saved the Malfoys yet again?”

Draco's words dripped with disdain and Harry found himself truly angered for the first time since they'd fought on the front lawn that morning. The pleasant warmth in his stomach ignited, and Harry was spitting fire. He shoved backwards off the wall and spun around. “You prat! Why can't you just let me bloody help? I'm not going to tell anyone. Gods, I was just trying to be nice!”

Malfoy stared at him, his jaw tense. “No one's that nice, Potter. Tell me why.”

“I don't know,” Harry spat back. “Just let me go, all right?” He put his hands on Malfoy's chest to push him away but found himself clinging tightly to Draco's soft grey jumper. Flames licked at his fingers where he felt Draco's warmth through the clothing.

“Potter.” Malfoy's eyes narrowed.

Harry shifted uneasily under the stare. Every part of him was flushed, burning up. He tried to pull his hands back, but they just wouldn't.

“Potter,” Malfoy repeated, his voice deep, and Harry couldn't help but look up and meet Draco's gaze.

Harry's eyes widened as he watched Draco lean in, and even though it all seemed as if in slow motion, he still found himself surprised by the resulting kiss.

“Mgmefmph” Harry said when Malfoy's lips connected with his own.

Malfoy pulled back, alarmed.

“I don't, I can't. What was? I—” Harry protested. What the hell was that? His heart beat like mad and blood rushed to his cheeks. And why the hell was he still holding onto Draco's jumper?

Draco raised an eyebrow, but Harry barely noticed as he couldn't seem to stop looking at the lips that had just kissed him.

“I—” Harry tried again to articulate the swirl in his mind, but with even less success if that was possible. Everything just sort of tingled and nothing made sense and the only thing he could seem to focus on were Malfoy's stupid lips.

Finally, he gave up. “Fuck it,” Harry announced, and leaned forward for another quick kiss, another taste.

“Oh,” he breathed as he released Draco's mouth.

His lips felt cold now that they were separated from Draco's once more. Bloody hell, Harry had enjoyed the fire in him that flared to life when they touched. Malfoy was his own personal incinerator, it seemed. And wasn't that just perfect.

“Indeed,” Malfoy smirked as Harry whimpered and stepped back against the wall. He needed the solid structure behind him. His knees weren't wanting to work and he didn't know why this was happening; why he couldn't let go of Draco's jumper or stop staring at the lower lip that had just touched his own. And he didn't know why he was suddenly noticing that he rather liked the fancy scent Malfoy wore, or the way his grey eyes were lit with a fire that maybe Harry had been missing a bit in the last year and chasing long before that.

Sod it all; Harry wanted another kiss. He licked his lips. “Malfoy...”

“Potter.”

They stared at each other.

Restraint, Harry, he coached himself. All he had to do was let go of Malfoy and gather his things and make it out to the front gates and then he could Apparate away and forget this ever—

Or not.

Simultaneously, and not a little ungracefully, they gave in and smashed their mouths together once more. Draco stepped up against him, reached for Harry's neck, and reclaimed Harry's mouth with his own, this time not nearly so gently. The spark in Harry's belly chose that moment to flare into a fireball of dragon-sized proportions and gods, he was just going to explode. Desperately, Harry licked at Malfoy's lips and found Malfoy seemed just as hungry for a deeper kiss. And really, the soft whining sound could have come from either of them, Harry decided, parting his mouth further as they met again and again, their kisses bruising and maybe a little angry—but after all, he and Malfoy knew instinctively how to fight with each other. The rest of this, well, it was new.

Not that he minded “new.” New was surprisingly okay with him. New even tasted familiar, like tea, but also like... well, like Malfoy, apparently. It was heady and messy and a little angry and a lot hot and thirty-seven sorts of brilliant.

He kissed back, again and again and again, eager for more. Yes, definitely brilliant.

Harry started to grow aroused, but before he could worry too much about it, he felt the solid press against his hip that indicated Malfoy had a similar problem. The knowledge took his breath away and his head swam with the impossibility of it all. It was then that Harry found himself releasing his hold on Malfoy's sweater, if not Malfoy altogether; Harry slid his hand down to Malfoy's arse, pulling Malfoy tighter against him. Malfoy responded by scraping his teeth along Harry's neck and suddenly Harry was having problems with his knees again.

“Gods, Malfoy...” he gasped, as Malfoy ran a hand up under his shirt, pinching his nipple. Harry dropped his head back against the wall. “Wait, what are we—?”

“Shut up, Potter, or you'll bollocks this up. We're snogging. And if you keep groping my arse like that, I may ask you to fuck me.”

Harry groaned shamelessly. It had been too long, and he'd never fucked anyone who mattered to him. Malfoy, if nothing else, well, he mattered to Harry. Inexplicably, he always had.

Malfoy licked at his throat. “Would you like that, Potter?”

“Ungh,” Harry managed, and even this only barely, as he suddenly imagined the heat of it, the press of bodies, the fire. Fire everywhere.

“Then I suppose you had better fuck me, Potter,” Malfoy breathed into his ear, then nibbled at it. “Right here, in the entryway.”

Harry's mouth dropped open in surprise as reality came back to him. “But... I don't...”

“Please tell me you've done this before.”

Harry nodded quickly. “I... yes. A few times.” A few meant twice, in this case, but it was close enough. He ran his hand through his hair. “But... why?”

“Why, Potter? You're asking why? Weren't you interested, then?” Malfoy asked as he brushed his hand over the hardened length in Harry's trousers. Harry bucked at the slight touch and then watched as Malfoy's fingers moved to the zip, tugging it down and then reaching inside of his trousers.

Harry nearly melted then, as did any small amount of resistance he'd felt beforehand. Now more than ever, it seemed that he and Draco simply could not leave each other alone. And with that realization, Harry added his own hands to the mix, hurriedly unfastening buttons and tearing at all manner of clothing he deemed to be in the way of more skin, please.

Soon Draco was left in only an unbuttoned shirt that hung open against his slender frame, and Harry himself had his trousers farther down around his ankles than he ever expected to whilst in the presence of a Malfoy.

Harry spun them so Draco was facing the wall, and, stepping up against Malfoy's back, he found himself murmuring preparatory spells he'd memorized before the war ruined the last vestiges of normal teenage experience.

Moaning, Malfoy leaned back and craned his neck to kiss Harry as Harry pressed a finger against him and breached him slowly. Malfoy clawed at the wall in front of him as Harry continued to finger him, Harry's other arm wrapped tightly around Draco.

Malfoy turned his head again for another bruising kiss. “Fuck me, Potter,” Malfoy panted, releasing Harry's mouth. Harry nodded into Draco's shoulder, nipping at the skin there before releasing it to watch as he slid his erection along the cleft of Malfoy's pale arse.

“Potter,” Malfoy warned, leaning against the wall to brace himself.

Harry, for once, was inclined to do exactly what he was told. He slowly pressed into the tight heat of Malfoy's arse, watching with fascination where his body entered Malfoy's. The pale skin whitened where Harry grasped Malfoy's hip, and this somehow made it more real, which was probably a good thing as the vast majority of his brain was still not quite able to believe what was happening.

As Malfoy relaxed, Harry pressed deeper still, and found his own harsh breaths mirrored Malfoy's panting.

“Fuck, Potter,” Malfoy grunted, his head pressed to the wall, a brilliant flush colouring his cheeks and neck. Harry rubbed the base of his back, comforting him, and then reached around to Malfoy's cock, which he stroked tentatively. Malfoy's deep groan gave him confidence and he tightened his grip, stroking it a few more times before he rocked his hips slightly.

Merlin, he could barely contain himself. Heat swept through his body and Harry couldn't help but thrust again, harder this time, and longer, the sensations both completely overwhelming and entirely demanding. “Gods, Malfoy...”

Soon Harry was relentlessly canting his hips as he clung to Malfoy's back, which was damp with sweat where the shirt had ridden up. Harry pulled the shirt down from his shoulders and ducked his head to lick along the skin there, tasting him, salty from their exertions.

Malfoy began to stroke himself as Harry fucked him. Harder, deeper, more, faster, Harry's internal monologue chanted. His thighs strained from the movements, but he couldn't care. Harder, harder, harder, again, again, again. Brilliant. If only he could get deeper still...

“Yes, just there,” Malfoy groaned, his cheek to the wall. He was flushed and trembling and not the least bit poised and it was all Harry's doing. In that moment, Malfoy was Harry's. And Harry was—yes, fuck it, it was true—Harry was his. They'd both won this round.

Harry's muscles were burning but even more, he felt the pressure begin to build that signalled his imminent release. “Malfoy...” he groaned. “Gonna...”

“Do it, Potter,” Malfoy grunted as Harry took him as deeply as he was able.

Dropping his head to Malfoy's shoulder, Harry let his climax sweep over him, emptying himself with a shudder. When he finished, he slid off Malfoy and turned him around so his back was to the wall. They both watched as Harry replaced Malfoy's hand with his own and began stroking his slick, pink cock.

Malfoy licked his lips and grabbed Harry's shoulder. “Potter.” His voice was strangled.

Harry kissed him fiercely and then watched as Malfoy pinched his grey eyes shut and jerked in Harry's hand, coming hot and wet against Harry's skin.

“Fuck, Malfoy...” Harry said, a bit in awe.

Malfoy merely groaned in response.

A crack suddenly announced Mipsy's entrance into the foyer and then everything seemingly happened at once.

“Master is having relations with Harry Potter, sir! Master is having relations!!!” Mipsy cried, her alarmed voice even more high pitched than before, her pink bow bouncing as she rocked from foot to foot.

As Harry scrambled to pull up his trousers, he saw Malfoy's expression flash from sated to mortified, then terrified, before settling on complete horror.

Harry noticed too late, however, that Malfoy had spotted the hawthorn wand peeking out of Harry's trouser pocket; Malfoy snagged it before Harry could protest. Nor did Harry see it coming when Malfoy waved the wand directly at Harry's head.

“Obliviate!” Malfoy yelled.

“Protego!” Harry responded on instinct, but he was wandless and unfocused.

The spells collided with a crash and a decidedly unpleasant spark raced through Harry's body as Mipsy continued squealing in the background.

A half second later, everything went dark.

Part 2.

Harry woke up to a pounding headache. He blinked against the soft light of the room trying to get his bearings. A gentle beeping sounded off to his right, accompanied by a quiet hum. He could smell antiseptic and Pepperup.

Mungo's, then.

He felt utterly drained. He rubbed his eyes to try to clear them before giving up and collapsing back against his pillow.

Closing his eyes, his mind drifted.

The soft scent of his mother beside him. Angry eyes glaring as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Hidden beneath the long ornate table, he nervously ran his wand through long, pale fingers. Not looking up, not looking up, not looking up.

Looking up.

Seeing Professor Charity Burbage writhing under an extended Crucio as she hung suspended over him.

Laughing and taunting erupted around him until two words cut through the mayhem. A green light flashed.

Amidst the chaos, she stilled. Gone.

Harry screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed. It was some sort of nightmare, even though he was somehow awake. “Turn it off, make it stop,” he shouted, as Healers rushed in, waving their wands, to feed him potion after potion until finally the sleeping draughts quieted his screams as he plunged once more into darkness.

~oOo~

Harry's head felt fuzzy when he next opened his eyes. His throat was sore. Everything ached.

A Mediwitch stood at a little table near his bed, measuring out a small quantity of a dark purple, nearly translucent potion. Sleeping draught.

She turned to Harry when he cleared his throat. She began to coo over him, offering to fluff his pillows, but all he could focus on was the deep green of her robes, which flowed around her as she approached...

Green. Dark green. Green everywhere.

The wind as it whipped through the hunter green uniform of a Slytherin Chaser just ahead of him on a broom.

The emerald Unforgivable levied again and again against helpless Muggles, accompanied by raucous laughter.

The rich curtains hanging around him, tinting the light that filtered through over his bed when he shut them for a bit of privacy from Crabbe, from Goyle, from...

Green eyes, bright green eyes, slowly revealed as they opened under hooded lids, bright even from behind thick glasses, a green set against pale skin flushed with the heat of recent kisses...

He shook his head in a weak attempt to clear it. The potions must have been making him delirious. After all, these weren't nightmares after all, but more like, well, very screwed up memories... impossible ones. Harry had never even been in the green-draped dungeon bedrooms at Hogwarts. And he'd certainly never kissed himself in the mirror. Harry shivered; the only person who should have been able to remember those things was...

Dressing himself in robes that were beyond elegant. Slipping a green and silver tie around his neck. Picking up his hawthorn wand—

Harry couldn't breathe. He clasped at his throat, scrambling for air as his heart pounded and his mind raced. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't breathe. He was hyperventilating.

He made a strangled sound. The healer turned to him, ready this time with the purple potion. He nearly choked as she poured it down his throat, barely swallowing it as the blackness overtook him.

~oOo~

When Harry woke up again, he still felt sedated. It was dark outside and St. Mungo's was quiet. Everything seemed foggy but he took comfort in the fact that Hermione sat in a chair beside his bed, dozing.

Hermione.

Hermione was his best friend, whom he loved. And she knew him better than anyone. And she was a brilliant, kind, good witch, whom he trusted with his life and then some.

He knew those things. But he couldn't quite figure out how he knew them.

Because, now that he stopped to think about it, all he could recall were lectures on Mudbloods from Lucius Malfoy, crazed rants from Bellatrix Lestrange, and endless mockery from various students sitting around him in the Slytherin common room. All directed at her.

Inside a classroom, he nervously tapped his quill against his desk until he received his exam score. He was pleased until he glanced at the grade adorning Hermione's scroll and found that it slightly bested his own. He snapped his quill in half and slammed his book against his desk, all the while feeling a deep, deep shame. His mind raced as he tried to figure out a way to keep this knowledge from ever reaching his father.

Harry blinked and the vision changed.

Outside, standing amongst Slytherins, laughing uproariously as he taunted Hermione until it earned him a fierce punch in the nose, and curls of childlike amusement sprouted into hatred in his belly.

Harry took a deep breath and fought against the sedation spell that relaxed both his brain and bones, leaving him dazed and susceptible to the visions.

He had absolutely no idea why these images were in his head. Everything about them was wrong. Yet there they were, experiences he'd never had, and thoughts he couldn't imagining thinking. And he had no idea what to do.

Looking down at Hermione again, he spotted a book on her lap: Obliviate Me Not.

Suddenly he felt even more exhausted. Maybe that was okay; the longer he remained awake, the more he saw, and the more he learned that he didn't ever want to know.

Harry closed his eyes and visions of students laughing and chatting in the Great Hall at Hogwarts filled his mind—all observed from an angle that felt somehow entirely wrong and through eyesight that was far too clear—before he gave in to sleep yet again.

~oOo~

It was the next afternoon before Harry once again opened his eyes, and this time he found Ron, Hermione, and several Healers surrounding him. All but Ron wore expressions thick with worry.

Harry was suddenly grateful his best mate had the emotional range of a paper clip. “Ron?”

“Hey, Harry. You awake now?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded. “Does someone want to tell me what's going on?”

Any response, however, was cut off by a sort of screeching noise from the next room.

“Oh dear,” one of the Mediwitches murmured. “Sounds as though Mr. Malfoy has woken up, as well. I'd best go check on him. He's dealing with matters even less successfully than you are, dear.” She patted Harry's arm and hurried out of the room.

“What's wrong with Malfoy?” Harry asked.

Everyone exchanged glances, but refused to meet his eye.

“Ron?” Harry asked. “What's going on?”

Ron glanced up. “Er... loo. Gotta use the loo... Back soon, mate!” He ran out of the room.

“Hermione,” he said, warning clearly evident in his voice. “Tell me.”

“Well, we're not entirely sure.” She hesitated. “We managed to talk to Malfoy for a few minutes this morning and we examined your wands and so we've managed to piece some of it together, but well, we don't have enough information yet.”

Harry blinked when he saw the tears well up in her eyes. “Tell me what you do know, then?”

“Oh, Harry! It seems as though Malfoy attempted to Obliviate you, but the spell was miscast or maybe the wand didn't want to hurt you because you were its master for a year, and... well... the spell seems to have switched your memories instead,” Hermione said, wringing her hands. “As in, you probably have Malfoy's memories in your head, don't you? He has yours.”

Harry groaned as his suspicions were confirmed. The memories were Malfoy's.

“What can you do about it? What's the counter-curse? How long am I stuck with these bloody images in my head?” He wanted his own past back, not this mess of Death Eaters and Slytherins and Narcissa having tea at breakfast.

The Healer glanced at Hermione, who bit her lip. Harry fought back the panic bubbling his throat. “We... don't know,” she said, cringing. “We haven't exactly found one yet. The Healers think it might be irreversible, but they don't know, and I'm helping them research. We're trying Harry, we are. We'll figure something out.”

Harry shut his eyes and tried to process the fact that Malfoy's past was in his head for the foreseeable future. The urge to pity himself was very strong indeed.

Screaming sounded from the next room, and Hermione grimaced. “It's harder for Malfoy, I think, knowing that he caused it.”

Yes, Malfoy had caused it, hadn't he? Harry knew that, somehow. But... how? What had Malfoy done...?

Memories flashed through Harry's mind.

A crack. “Master is having relations with Harry Potter, sir! Master is having relations...”

Harry closed his eyes, trying to block the assault.

“Fuck me, Potter,” he panted, feeling Potter's prick sliding against his arse. He groaned when he felt Potter's teeth scrape at the skin of his shoulder as Potter continued to torture him with his cock...

Harry gasped. What the bloody hell had they done?

“Then I suppose you had better fuck me, Potter,” he breathed into Potter's ear, then nibbled at it. “Right here, in the entryway.”

Harry pressed his hands to his temple and grit his teeth. This had been the reason he'd been Obliviated? He was going to kill Malfoy.

One of the Mediwitches came by and ran a diagnostic spell over him, and a haze of green light ran down his body as he waited for her to finish. His brain was racing and he was completely overwhelmed. He tried to keep breathing.

“What now?” he finally asked when he felt a bit more in control. “Do I at least get to go home?”

“They need to keep you here for a bit. The spell took a lot out of you and they still have a lot of questions,” Hermione paused, her brow furrowed. “Why were you at Malfoy Manor, anyway?” she asked. “And why did Malfoy try to Obliviate you? What were you fighting about that was bad enough he would risk casting that spell on the last day of his house arrest?”

Potter clinched tightly to his jumper. He could feel the warmth emanating from Potter's palms against his chest and saw the desire plainly written in Potter's eyes.

“Potter.”

Potter's cheeks were flushed and he shifted uneasily, but never let go of his jumper.

Draco breathed the name once more, and leaned in to kiss him.

“Why don't you ask him that?” Harry replied bitterly.

She hesitated. “He... he wouldn't remember.”

“Oh.” Right. Bloody hell. “What a mess.”

Hermione nodded. “From what we can tell, Malfoy knows who he is and all about his past, but he has no memories of his own to support that knowledge.”

“Sounds about right,” Harry sighed. “I know my name is Harry and that I was a Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team—I simply can't recall a single game or practice. I know my parents are dead and that we beat Voldemort, but if I consulted my memories, I'd have to tell you that I have two living and extremely blonde parents who lent their home to the Dark Lord. It's... well, it's bloody fucked up. And not all of these memories are great, you know?” Harry trailed off.

“I can imagine,” Hermione clucked sympathetically. “We'll figure it out, Harry. We will.”

“I guess,” he sighed.

Ron came back into the room and took his place beside Hermione, who patted his arm. “Why don't we leave you to rest? We'll come back in a few hours after you've had some time to process everything.”

Harry nodded and slid back down in his bed, burying his head in his pillow after everyone had left the room. Perhaps if he tried to remember exactly what had happened...

Waking up in a familiar room now filled with unfamiliar things, Draco straightened his robes. He headed out into the foyer of the Manor, only to find Harry Potter there, a half dozen household cleaning spells whirring around him as he dusted the mantle above the Floo. Even if Potter drove him to the Firewhiskey, he couldn't help but appreciate the sight.

Feeling short of breath, vulnerability and gratitude swirled inside him and he felt out of control.

Time to take it back.

He slid up behind Potter, pressing him against the wall. “Why are you doing this, Potter?” he asked.

Harry watched in horror as the scene unfolded, his intimate view of his own kissed lips, his own nudity idealized by desire, and then, then he saw the wall, and his attempts to cling to it as he was filled again and again... by himself. How full, how desperate and wanton it was, there in the foyer. He remembered how he reached down to touch himself, except it wasn't him; it was Malfoy who reached down to grip himself. It was so weird and wrong and horrifying and... not at all hot. How could it be hot as it clearly ended with his trip to Mungo's and a malfunctioning cerebrum? Not hot, not hot, not...

Harry jolted up in bed, sweat clinging to his brow. As if Draco's memories weren't bad enough, he just realized what he'd previously overlooked: if he had Malfoy's memories, then Malfoy had his.

Malfoy could see everything.

Every moment spent in a cupboard under the stairs would become fodder for Malfoy's mockery. Every weakness. Every tear he shed for his parents and every night he tossed and turned under the crushing weight of Voldemort and the war. And gods, every embarrassing moment of puberty.

Every kiss. Every crush. Every wank.

Oh gods, every wank. He couldn't picture it but he knew that every damn one of his hormone fuelled wanks had to have featured not the image of a busty witch from Ron's magazines, but wizards, always wizards, and sometimes even the image of his schoolboy nemesis.

Draco'd know how Harry felt about everything while Harry could remember nothing. Malfoy now had unrestricted access to Harry's entire life in memories. It was beyond mortifying.

The rage started to build in him as the unfairness of it all raced in circles through his brain. Harry clutched the pillow, biting it with his teeth until he couldn't hold back the flood of emotions any longer.

His screeches brought the Healers running to his bedside armed with the purple potion that would take his problems away—at least until he woke up again.

~oOo~

 

“They told me you weren't handling it well.”

Harry didn't respond as he continued to pace the hospital corridor. Not that he didn't recognize the voice; it ran through nearly every one of his new memories.

“Potter.”

“Weren't you interested, then?” Draco asked as he brushed his hand over Potter's obvious erection. Potter jerked at his touch and sucked in a harsh breath of air. Encouraged, he moved to Potter's zip, tugging it down and then reaching inside of his trousers.

Fuck. He couldn't control the images that flashed through his mind and he simply couldn't take it. Wouldn't take it. He'd had enough and he didn't care to wait for the Healers to stumble across a solution, if they ever did at all. He forced himself to focus on the situation at hand in order to keep the memories at bay.

“Put down the wand, Potter.”

Harry raised the tip of his wand to his temple and tried to steel his nerves. He'd really have to mean it for the spell to work. Merlin knew what would result if he fired another miscast Obliviate at his brain.

He still hadn't been released from St. Mungo's and it had taken him an entire week to convince the Healers just to return his wand to him. He didn't tell them why he needed it, of course, but it hadn't taken Harry long to realize he couldn't live with Malfoy in his head. The memories—especially those dealing with Death Eater activity—they were so bloody fucked up that Harry had begun having nightmares again.

Nor were his days safe. Every time he turned around, memories would fly from his subconscious. He'd actually collapsed when he'd witnessed Malfoy casting his first Crucio. The war wasn't over for Harry as long as it continued to haunt him, and this fresh wave of fodder felt like it might pull him under.

Not to mention that the Healers hadn't made the slightest bit of progress finding a counter-curse and were starting to think there might not actually be one.

Harry looked out the window of the empty Mungo's hallway. A magpie was meandering about the gardens below him, happy as could be. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to be a bloody fucking magpie. He pressed his wand more firmly against his forehead.

“Potter.”

Harry ignored the voice and took a deep breath. Even if he couldn't get his own memory back, he sure as hell didn't want Malfoy's.

“Potter.” The voice was rich with warning. Harry ignored it completely.

He took a deep breath, steadied his magic and “Obli—”

“Fuck, Potter, no!” Draco tackled him to the ground before he could finish, wrestling the wand from Harry's grasp. “You stupid arse! Why would you do that?”

Harry let Malfoy take his wand and fell back against the floor with a huff. “I don't want your stupid memories.”

“You think that I want yours?” Malfoy spat.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine. Give me my wand back and we'll do it together.”

“You've got to be joking. Those are my memories in your head. You've no right to get rid of them. They'll find a counter eventually, and I'll want them back, I'll have you know.”

“Malfoy, stop kidding yourself. This is irreversible. And I want out.”

Draco sat back on his heels and rubbed his face with his hands. “What if... well, I want my past back, and presumably, you want yours. Though Merlin knows why, after seeing it.”

Harry glared at him. “Like yours are so great. Besides, what do I care what you want? This is all your fault.”

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy continued. “What if—in the meantime at least—what if we told each other about the memories? As in, you tell me what you remember and I'll do the same. It's better than nothing.”

“You want me to remember things for you?” Harry wasn't thrilled with the idea. “It wouldn't be the same, not at all.” Not to mention that he wasn't sure he had the vocabulary to adequately describe half of what he now saw in his head.

“Then you think of a better solution,” Malfoy demanded.

“Obli—”

“And don't say Obliviation,” Malfoy cut him off.

Harry humphed and crawled to sit with his back against one of the walls. Pulling up his knees, he rested his arms on them and buried his head in his hands.

“Fuck,” he said, unable to think of any other solution. He looked up. “Fine, we'll try it.”

“Good,” Draco said as he adopted a similar position against the opposite wall. “Now. Tell me about my eleventh birthday party.”

Harry's mouth dropped open. “You want to know about a birthday party? Never mind. I can't do this.” He started to get up and return to his room.

“Yes, Potter, I want to know about my bloody party. Or would you rather start off describing the fun I had casting Unforgivables and then sicking up afterwards? You prat, I was just trying to start with something easy. Now tell me about my fucking clowns, okay?”

Harry snorted. “Clowns?”

“Muggle clowns. I know my mother got me some. Now please describe to me how Pansy and I made them cry.”

“You didn't!” Harry gaped. “Malfoy!” Harry couldn't help but laugh. Gods, why did Malfoy have to be such an arsehole? On the rare occasions when he wasn't, Harry found him to be rather witty, and even a bit charming. Just a bit, of course. But there was that small bit...

Malfoy snickered. “Think back. You know I did. Now, I'd like you to describe it in as much detail as possible. Because the only eleventh birthday party I can currently picture was yours, and, no offence, but it sucked bollocks.”

“It did not! Hagrid—”

“Clowns, please.”

“But I—”

“Potter. Clowns. Now.”

“Why should I? What'll you do, Obliviate me?”

Malfoy glowered at him.

“Stupid git. Fine.” Harry thought back for a moment. Birthdays, birthdays, birthdays...Ahh, there it was. Clowns. With trousers full of...owl droppings? “Malfoy!”

“That's the one. Now tell me!”

Harry shook his head as he remembered the event more clearly. The poor Muggle clowns; no wonder they gave up clowning after the event. Devious children, some well-placed droppings from a Malfoy eagle owl, an illicit underage use of a Geminio Charm; the clowns hadn't stood a chance.

“All right, all right. It was a sunny day in June when—“

“I know when my birthday is, you imbecile.”

Harry glared at him. “Do you want me to tell it or not? Okay, so it was a sunny day in June when...”

~oOo~

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

Harry and Draco stopped glaring at each other to focus their combined wrath on the insistent Mediwitch.

“Yes, now please, move out of the way, Mr. Malfoy,” the Mediwitch demanded, wheeling his bed to the empty space in Harry's room.

“He is not staying in my room.” Harry tried to look menacing in his hospital gown.

“What he said,” Malfoy echoed.

“Sorry, you two,” she nodded at them. “But he is. Your healers insist on it. They think you'll be able to share more memories the more time you spend together.”

“But he's terrible at it!” Malfoy protested. “He tells them wrong!”

“You arse!” Harry chucked a hospital pillow at him. “You never even tell me any of mine because you always want to hear more of your own! And when you finally do tell me one, you pick the wrong one!”

Moaning, he craned his neck to kiss Potter as Potter slowly pressed a finger into him, sending sparks shooting through his nerves while desire pooled in his belly.

Harry grit his teeth. If he had to look at Malfoy all the time, he'd never keep the dangerous memories out of his head and he steadfastly refused to watch them.

Harry turned to the Mediwitch and begged. “Please, no. I already have to sit with him for hours a day. Don't make him stay here, too.”

“Your healers think this is the best course of action, I'm afraid. Now, once we get Mr. Malfoy set up in here, I know you'll want to get right back to work.”

Harry turned to glare at Draco, who leaned against the wall.

He clawed at the wall in front of him as Potter fingered his arse, resting his cheek against the cool surface when he felt the overwhelming heat of Potter's body wrap around him. Potter's fingers continued to press and curl...

“Please,” Harry whinged. “Anywhere else.”

Malfoy cleared his throat. “I'll handle this. Now, Mediwitch...” He paused to look at her name badge. “Ahhh, yes, Mediwitch Bethelda, if you let me return to my prior room, I can guarantee no small gift will find its way into your purse strings by this time tomorrow.”

The Mediwitch turned to Malfoy as she finished placing his things on the small table near his bed. “Mr. Malfoy, you're better than that, and are absolutely, positively, in no uncertain terms, staying in this room.”

Looking at Harry, she continued. “I'll be back after lunch to find out what you've shared with each other today...”

Harry glared at Malfoy. Somehow this too seemed entirely his fault. The tumult in Harry's belly was raging today, an angry ocean of red heat that Malfoy seemed to set spinning and multiplying, and there with no outlet in sight. Harry threw himself down on his bed. “Fine. Let's get this over with.” He looked at their latest assignment which he'd jotted down in his journal—yet another one of the Healer's stupid ideas. “We have to start remembering from the beginning, the oldest ones first, then move forward until the day I visited the Manor.”

“That's bollocks. I can't do that,” Malfoy said. “Your memories are messy and all out of order. Couldn't you have tried to be a little bit neater about things, for once?”

Harry growled. “Well, yours are shite, too, I'll have you know. How many times do I have to tell you about how you had tea and biscuits with your mum? But no, you want to hear about it again and again and again.”

Malfoy's face reddened. “Shut the fuck up, Potter.”

“You bloody shut up. Oh, I know, why don't we put it in a Pensieve for you, It'll last longer,” Harry mocked.

Draco's head jerked up, his grey eyes wide with surprise.

Harry blinked, realizing what he'd said.

He looked at Malfoy. Malfoy looked at him.

“A Pensieve!” They both grinned.

“We could remember things, put them in the vials, and then simply trade and watch them, don't you think?” Harry asked. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of using a Pensieve sooner, but he was too excited by the prospect of seeing, really seeing his memories again to be very upset.

“You know, Potter, I'm impressed. That may actually not be the worst plan in the entire world,” Malfoy said. “Do you think they have one here at Mungo's?” He paused and smirked at Harry. “I hope so. I'm dying to remember what I received for my eighteenth birthday.”

Harry groaned as his mind brought forth the image of Zabini in a brightly coloured party hat on his knees before him—er, Malfoy—before Malfoy.

“You git!” Harry called after Malfoy, who was snickering as he marched down the hallway to find a Mediwitch, leaving Harry to wonder if the Pensieve was such a great idea after all.

Part 3.

“And then I... well, I had to, you see? I...” Hermione bit her lip. “I used the Petrificus Totalus on him.”

“She did, mate. A full body bind. Left Neville right there on the floor,” Ron chimed in.

Harry watched as Ron and Hermione paused their rather disjointed narration to gaze at each other adoringly. He gave them a few seconds before interrupting. “And then?” he prodded.

“Then,” Hermione continued, obviously cheered by Ron's appreciation for her spellwork, “we ran into Peeves. But you had a brilliant idea, Harry—”

“Bloody brilliant!” Ron interrupted.

Hermione nodded. “It was. Well, you impersonated the Bloody Baron, and then Peeves...”

Harry nodded at all the right places as they told their tale, but the truth was, he was a bit too tired that evening to appreciate the retelling of their childhood adventures.

The healers had given Harry a new schedule now that he and Malfoy had come up with the idea of using the Pensieve. They spent their mornings remembering anything and everything they could, collecting those memories in vials, and then trading them at lunch. They spent the afternoon hours watching the memories, reliving them and then attempting to process them, all in an attempt to gain snippets of their past back.

Evenings were for visitors, such as Ron and Hermione, Neville and Luna, the other Weasleys, friends, and even a few former professors from Hogwarts. They each shared their own memories with Harry as well.

“Oh, but Harry, you were unconscious afterwards, for what? Two days?” Hermione's voice cut through Harry's stray thoughts.

“Three, I think.” Ron supplied.

“No, it was two, I'm certain of it.”

“Three,” Ron whispered, elbowing Harry.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Regardless, Harry, after a few days you woke up and Dumbledore explained the rest. And that's how you saved the Philosopher's Stone from Quirrell and Voldemort.”

“How we saved it,” Harry corrected her. Interjecting the “we” was a reflexive response for Harry; to be honest, he'd stopped truly listening to Hermione's story sometime around the chess game. It wasn't as though he wasn't interested, but he was simply mentally and emotionally exhausted.

It wasn't easy, sorting through Malfoy's memories—many of which were rather horrific—much less experiencing his own past through the Pensieve or through his friends. And having multiple versions of each event was also starting to give him a headache. Ron remembered fourth year Transfigurations differently than Neville did. Ginny recalled aspects of Bill and Fleur's wedding that Mrs. Weasley claimed couldn't have happened, and worst of all, Malfoy's memories currently stuck in his head often directly opposed those he watched back in the Pensieve each afternoon.

Luckily, Hermione saw the fatigue on Harry's face and took pity on him. “We should get going, shouldn't we, Ron?”

“Yeah, probably. Have a g'night, Harry, eh? We'll see you tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow. Tomorrow we have to go to the Burrow,” Hermione corrected. “Sorry, Harry. You're on your own tomorrow night. Unless you want me to ask Luna if she can come 'round?”

“No, no, that's fine,” Harry said quickly. He needed a night to himself to process everything.

“Well then, we'll see you soon.” Hermione gave him a peck on his forehead before taking Ron's hand and leading him out of the room.

After they'd gone, Harry closed his eyes and tried to breathe, slowly and deeply, as the healers had instructed him to do if he became overwhelmed.

When Harry opened his eyes again, he looked over at the bed next to him, where Malfoy had been pretending to sleep all evening, same as he did almost every night. Malfoy was motionless, his breathing even, but Harry could tell he wasn't sleeping because of the visible tension that pinched his shoulders.

At first, Harry wasn't sure how the evening visiting hours were going to work, but he quickly learned that Malfoy simply rolled over to face the wall and feigned unconsciousness during them, and Harry's own guests just ignored Malfoy's presence.

The only times Malfoy remained awake were those evenings when he knew Mipsy would be popping in with provisions from the Manor. Harry could still hear her shrill voice announcing her surprise when she arrived the first time after Draco had been moved into their now-shared room. (“Master, sir! Master is sleeping with Harry Potter, sir!”) Harry cringed even thinking about it.

Otherwise, Malfoy had no visitors of his own. The only person who even owled him with any regularity was his mother.

Harry felt bad for him, even if Malfoy was a total prat and even if he was responsible for their current predicament. Everyone deserved a few friends, and after spending way too many hours rifling through Malfoy's past, Harry was certain Draco was no exception.

~oOo~

“Here.” Malfoy held out the vial of Harry's memories. According to the label on the vial, it held scenes from when Harry was about 10 years old.

“Thanks.” Harry took it, handing Malfoy the memories he'd recalled that morning in exchange.

Harry hesitated. “They're of second year at Hogwarts mostly.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Potter. I see that on the label you've affixed to the front.”

Harry shrugged. “I just thought...”

Draco looked at him.

Harry wasn't sure how to finish the sentence. “Oh, never mind.”

“Continue, Potter.” Was Harry imagining it or had Malfoy's scowl softened a bit?

Harry frowned. He had woken up that morning determined to be nice to Malfoy. Maybe even to consider becoming friends with him. But Malfoy was as distant as ever, despite the intimacy of their work. Sighing, he turned away. “Nothing. I'll just take these to the Pensieve, then. See you at dinner.”

“Potter. Wait.” Malfoy cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

Harry turned to see Malfoy gesture towards the vial. Harry nodded once, then went off to use the Pensieve, smiling to himself along the way.

~oOo~

That evening was quiet. Harry had no visitors for once, so Malfoy wasn't pretending to be asleep. They each sat on their beds, Harry with his Quidditch magazine, Draco with his newspaper. And they were, as usual, not talking. They lived in the same room, had each other's most intimate moments in their heads, and worked together, day after day, trying to set things right.

And in doing so, they exchanged maybe ten words a day—eleven when Malfoy thanked him for passing the cream at breakfast.

Harry wanted to talk; there was so much to say and everything was all jumbled in his head. From the way Malfoy looked up and cleared his throat every few minutes, Harry suspected he felt the same way.

But breaking the silence seemed a near impossible feat.

What could Harry say to the person in the next bed, the one who had fought against him, who had hated him and who Harry hated in return—until they both realized who the real enemy was? How was he supposed to talk to the boy who'd recently grown into the quiet, proud man who slept in the same room with him each night, especially when he was privy to his deepest secrets?

The man who...

“Yes, just there,” Draco groaned, his cheek to the wall, the sharp twist of pain and pleasure racing through his veins as Potter filled him again and again.

The man he had fucked.

Even if he couldn't remember a bloody minute of it or why the hell he'd even done it.

How was he supposed to talk to that man?

Harry was determined, though. That afternoon they'd both exchanged memories from their sixth year. Watching his own actions with fresh eyes, it became immediately clear how his life centred largely around Draco that year—almost more than Voldemort himself. And from Malfoy's memories, which danced freely in his head, Harry could tell that Malfoy paid a rather significant amount of time observing him as well. It was...interesting.

Harry wasn't under the assumption that they could talk about that, but surely they could find something. Something such as, oh...

“Quidditch?”

Harry blinked. Had he said that aloud? Cringing, he glanced over at Malfoy, and found grey eyes looking back at him. Merlin. He had said it. Now what? He felt his face flush.

Luckily, Malfoy simply looked at him for a moment and finally asked, “Did you want the scores from yesterday?”

Thrilled by the save, Harry nodded furiously, and then listened as Malfoy read them off to him.

It took less than two full minutes.

And they were back where they started. In silence. Exceedingly awkward silence.

Harry sighed and went back to his Quidditch magazine. Malfoy flipped the page of the newspaper.

A few minutes later, Malfoy cleared his throat again. Harry looked up but found Draco staring at the newspaper. He started to go back to his magazine when Malfoy spoke up.

“I... I was wondering if you were... struggling... at all. With the morning sessions.”

Harry nodded. He struggled with almost every aspect of the process in one way or another. Looking over at Malfoy, he asked, “You?”

“I... I find it difficult to remember scenes if I don't know what I'm looking for. There's nothing to... cue my memory, per se.”

“Yeah, for me too. Plus, with some of the older ones, from when you were little, I don't really know how old you were in them, so I'm not sure if you want them all in different vials, or...” Harry shrugged. “But I know what you mean. You must have loads more memories that I'm not thinking of when I sit here and try to remember what we studied in Herbology.”

“Perhaps we can make lists of events we want to see and exchange them at breakfast?” Malfoy suggested.

Harry sighed. He wasn't big on lists. That was Hermione's style, not his. “Can't we just... maybe talk? I bet if we did, we could piece things together a bit better, and we'd remember more, and be able to understand what we remember?”

Malfoy looked thoughtful. “All right,” he agreed finally. “That might work.”

Good, Harry said to himself. Talking is good.

“Talking is good, Potter?” Malfoy smirked

Merlin. Had he said that aloud too? He glanced over and found a hint of a smile quirking at Malfoy's lips and more than a hint dancing in his eyes.

Harry bit his own lip to keep from grinning and went back to his magazine.

~oOo~

“Buckbeak, Malfoy? Really?”

“Shut up, you prat. I was injured.”

“Barely.”

Malfoy paused. “You know, you saved him. Buckbeak, I mean.”

“Show me?”

“All right.”

Malfoy swirled the memory from his mind into the Pensieve—they sometimes skipped the vial step entirely these days—and then plunged their faces into the water and their minds into the past.

~oOo~

Draco licked his lips and grabbed Potter's shoulder.

Too much, it was too much.

“Potter.” His voice was strangled, but he didn't care. Nothing in the world mattered but the feeling of Potter's hand working over his prick.

Potter kissed him fiercely and he pinched his eyes shut as his orgasm washed over him...

Harry growled in frustration.

He would not watch.

He wouldn't.

He wouldn't.

He flung himself out of his bed, hoping to find a night shift Mediwitch to talk to. He needed some sort of distraction, especially since he'd learned the night before that they weren't so keen on giving him any more sleeping draughts.

“Addictive,” the Healers had said.

“Necessary,” Harry had claimed. If only they'd known...

But they wouldn't budge.

He sighed and left the room in search of someone. Something. Anything other than...

“Do it, Potter,” Draco grunted as Potter filled him again and again...

Harry bit back a scream.

 

~oOo~

Harry packed up the belongings he'd accumulated at the hospital and tried not to watch as Mipsy gathered Malfoy's and Apparated away with them.

They were going home.

The healers were still trying for a solution, but saw no reason to keep them at Mungo's any longer, especially since Harry had Dumbledore's at home. The two of them would still be using it on a daily basis, getting together each day to continue the process they'd worked out over the past few weeks.

So they would still be spending a lot of time together. And Harry had to admit he was grateful for their work; there was still so much more of his past he needed to reclaim from the depths of Malfoy's mind.

And he simply liked spending time with Draco these days. Being around someone who now understood everything he was going through was comforting. It sometimes seemed impossible to explain to Ron how disconcerting it was to wake up every morning to a hodgepodge of images and facts, and to dream at night of people he never knew. Hermione was quick to understand the amount of trust he'd had no choice but to place in Malfoy, but then Harry was less eager to elaborate on why he wished particular memories had never been shared. Malfoy, however, uniquely understood.

He quickly tossed his few belongings in his bag. Part of him was very much looking forward to being in his own flat again, having his own space and a little privacy—something he hadn't had much of at all thanks to recent events.

But there was another part of him that might miss having someone to eat meals with, and...

“Potter? Potter!”

Harry looked up from his bag of crumpled jumpers, spare socks, and underpants. “Yeah?”

“Is that all right then?”

“Er...yes?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I asked if I should Floo in tomorrow after breakfast.”

“Oh, yes. I'll adjust the wards,” Harry confirmed.

Malfoy nodded, picking up the last of his things and heading for the door. “Goodbye, Potter.”

“Bye, Malfoy,” Harry murmured and watched until Malfoy walked to the end of the hallway and disappeared around the corner.

~oOo~

Harry couldn't sleep. He'd become accustomed to the smells and sounds of St. Mungo's and his own bedroom seemed too quiet. And too warm. He cast a quick Cooling Charm and kicked off his blanket, rolling over with a huff.

He looked at his alarm clock. 3:23 a.m.

Bloody fantastic. He had to get up at half seven to make sure he was awake and showered before Malfoy arrived.

Stupid Malfoy.

Harry flipped his pillow and rolled again, trying to get comfortable.

Stupid pillow.

He rolled onto his side.

He was still too warm.

With a frustrated grunt he punched his pillow, then sat up, yanked off his shirt, and tossed it onto the floor before collapsing back on the bed.

Why couldn't he get comfortable?

He cast another charm so a light breeze floated through the room, sweeping over his too warm skin.

That was a bit better. He rolled onto his other side. That was how Malfoy slept, on his side.

Stupid Malfoy.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Harry kicked and rolled again, this time onto his back.

No need to be like Malfoy.

Stupid Malfoy, keeping him awake and making him warm. That was Malfoy's fault too, he just knew it.

Malfoy with his stupid smirk and his stupid teasing and his stupid perfect hair that fell over his pale brow when he leaned down to look into the Pensieve.

Gods, the stupid git had all the nerve to keep Harry awake, making Harry think of his voice and how it had deepened, and was now smooth and liquid where Harry's own felt coarse and unrefined in comparison. Making Harry appreciate his stupid wit, dry and cutting, and not actually stupid at all. And his ability to look perfectly put together even in a hospital issued robe.

Stupid Malfoy.

Stupid bloody Malfoy.

Stupid Malfoy, who Harry could watch at his leisure, simply by opening his mind. Malfoy, who he could watch doing... anything. Things that Harry tried his hardest not to watch him do. Things that he'd seen flashes of anyway.

Things like... what Harry wanted to do then, just thinking about it.

Things like...

Harry touched himself. It had been awhile—the hospital hadn't afforded him much privacy—but Merlin, he was already half hard, just thinking about what he could see, if he let himself. But then, he'd never been particularly good at self-control.

Why start now?

Harry slipped his pants over his thighs and tossed them to the ground. The light breeze he'd cast skimmed over his skin, making it prickle with goosebumps.

He ran his hand along his prick.

And all he could think about was stupid Malfoy.

Gods, he was thinking about Malfoy as he wanked. Worse, even, it was the thought of the git that made him want to.

He'd seen brief flashes of Malfoy doing this. Tried not to, of course, but... Bloody hell, the memory arrived then in full, and Harry could no more send it away than he could remove his hand from his cock.

So he watched. Watched Malfoy grasp himself as he lay there on his deep green bed, watched how he held himself so casually, as if he had no idea how beautiful...

Watched the long pale limbs, the smooth skin stretched over firm muscles and sharp angles. Watched as the hand that moved over his length found a rhythm that set Harry's heart pounding in his chest.

Watched as Malfoy quickened his stroke with a soft groan, then tilted his long neck back, arching slightly against the bed. Bent up his knees—Harry couldn't help but mimic the pose—then grasped at his bedspread as his other hand moved between his legs.

Harry's breathing sped and he could feel the sweat bead on his brow as his body wound tighter and tighter by the smooth slide of his own fist in combination with the intensity of the memory. He shut his eyes tightly to better see...

Malfoy's breathing grew strained as his hand continued to twist along his prick, long and pink and hard, set against his slender torso. His muscles tensed, defined beneath smooth white skin. Malfoy's mouth parted with a small gasp, his lips open and vulnerable, and perfectly shaped to say...

“Harry.”

Harry came, his body jerking with the force of the orgasm that ripped through him, wave after wave, curling his toes and leaving him breathing heavily.

When his heart rate returned to normal, he cast a quick cleaning charm then gathered a light blanket from the foot of his bed, pulling it over him.

His body, at least, was now relaxed, and the frustration and tension gone from his bones. His mind, however, continued to swirl.

Had he imagined it, the name? Added that last bit in due to a bit of obviously insane wishful thinking? Or had the memory been entirely real?

Bloody hell.

Harry closed his eyes and watched as the memory spun behind his lids, twisting and turning the touches and moans, until at some point, they became his dreams.

~oOo~

"Miss me, Potter?” Malfoy brushed the traces of soot from his robes when he stepped through Harry's Floo the next morning.

Harry turned away and busied himself putting things away in his kitchen so Malfoy wouldn't see his face flush due to his... activities... the night before. Ignoring Malfoy's question, Harry asked, “Did you want some tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” Draco wandered into the kitchen to watch Harry place the kettle on the stove. “No house elves?”

Harry snorted. “And risk Hermione's wrath? Nah. Besides, I don't mind. Or, at least, I don't think I minded?”

Malfoy closed his eyes; it had become their standard sign that they were trying to remember something and were not to be interrupted. “I can recall a time recently when you had Granger and the Weasel over for dinner, and you seemed to enjoy cooking for them,” he finally told Harry, refusing to meet his gaze. “It seems that you learned to cook and clean when you were quite young.”

Harry nodded. Malfoy had shared precious few memories of his childhood with him, and Harry was beginning to suspect it was worse than he knew.

Harry poured the tea for them and handed Malfoy a mug.

“You can tell me, you know,” Harry finally said. “I know... I know it was bad. But I should know, everything that happened, I think.”

Draco took a drink, then carefully set the cup down, before his grey eyes found Harry's. “I could say the same, Potter. You've modified some of my memories, haven't you? Some of them... there were blurry bits.”

Harry bit his lip. “Nothing important, I promise. The war was... no one needs to see some of the things you had to witness.”

“But, Potter, I do. It's part of who I am, part of that bloody fucked up time in my life.”

Harry cringed. “Just like I need to know what happened when I was a child?”

It was Malfoy's turn to frown. “Yes. I suppose you do.”

“Maybe we should go through some of the terrible ones at the same time. Get them out in the open. Get them over with,” Harry suggested.

“Like the Fiendfyre,” Malfoy said. They'd both avoided that one.

“Exactly.”

Draco finished his tea and set the cup down. “So we both remember the event, collect the memories, then we'll watch them?”

“I think we have to, don't you?”

Malfoy cringed. “It's probably important that we do.”

Harry nodded and led the way to the Pensieve.

 

~oOo~

“I'm sorry about Crabbe.”

“You've nothing to be sorry about.”

Harry looked across the Pensieve, and a pair of grey eyes gazed back. “Neither do you.”

Malfoy cleared his throat and turned away. “Right.”

“I mean it. Crabbe's de—well, it wasn't your fault.”

Harry watched in silence as Draco brushed what must have been the beginning of a tear from the corner of his eye.

“It wasn't,” Harry tried again.

A pause.

“I know.”

~oOo~

“Morning, Potter.”

“Morning, Malfoy,” Harry greeted him as he stepped from the Floo and into Harry's flat.

It was the fourth day since they'd left the hospital and they'd been slogging through some of the tougher periods of the war, comparing their versions and piecing together their roles. The day before, they'd managed to get through the time when Harry'd been put in the Malfoy dungeons, and Hermione had been tortured under Draco's nose.

By the time Malfoy had left, they were both a little shaken and a lot exhausted.

After a night to himself, grieving anew for that time and Dobby's subsequent death, Harry'd set the memory aside with the start of the new day. There were new memories to reclaim, and they deserved his full attention as well.

Malfoy, however, looked no less fatigued than when he'd left the day before, if not even more so.

“Couldn't sleep?” Harry asked as he poured tea, their new tradition with which they began each day.

“Oh, I could have, but I didn't.” Draco groaned, sitting down. “The Manor... there's so much to be done there. Well, you remember.”

Harry nodded. He'd watched Malfoy's memories of the endless hours he'd spent trying to keep up the Manor as it crumbled around him.

“Right. Well, putting everything right is time consuming even now that I have my wand back. Real repairs, I mean, not just glamours. And it's been quite late when we've finished with the Pensieve these last few days, so I don't even get started until... well... there's just not that much time for sleeping.” Malfoy furrowed his eyebrows.

Harry paused, his tea halfway to his mouth. His first instinct, as always, was to help. Then again, that was what had got them into this mess in the first place. Well, that and Malfoy's panic in the face of even the remotest bit of vulnerability. But seeing Draco's past, well, he sort of understood why Malfoy reacted as he did. Sort of. But maybe things were different now. He decided to have faith that was the case.

“I'll help.”

“Potter...”

“No, really. I can help. We can work in the morning as we talk and we'll remember plenty of things while we're at it, I'll bet. Then in the afternoons, we can watch them. We just have to take the Pensieve to the Manor.”

“Potter.”

“Well, that part might be tricky, but we can figure out how to transport it. We may need to ask Hermione for help. Can you adjust your wards for her?”

“Potter.”

Harry swallowed. “And I'm sorry I simply assumed you had all the time in the world to spend with the Pensieve. I should have realized you had things to do, and I'm sure you have people to see... I'll try to remember that you need to finish early so you have your evenings free.”

“Potter,” Malfoy sighed, “don't you ever stop talking?”

“Oh, and I... what?” Harry blinked.

“Thank you for your offer. You may have convinced me. I'm not sure how I'll get everything done otherwise. And, well, I understand you a bit better now, at least enough to know that your favourite thing in the world is to help people.”

Harry laughed. “Is it, then?”

Malfoy sighed. “Your memories indicate as much.”

“So you'll let me help?”

“Yes, Potter. You can help.” A smile tugged at the corner of Malfoy's mouth and his eyes sparkled. He no longer looked quite so exhausted either. “Oh, and Potter? Thank you.”

~oOo~

After working all morning in the Manor gardens and then watching Malfoy's memories all afternoon, Harry was tired by the time he got home that evening. He inhaled some Muggle take-away for dinner, even though it was barely half eight, decided to shower and go to bed.

He refused to acknowledge why he was so anxious to go to bed quite so early. Surely it had everything to do with the fact that he was tired and nothing to do with Malfoy working beside him for hours wearing a thin Muggle shirt in the summer heat.

Relaxing under the spray of the shower, Harry washed his hair and leisurely soaped up his body, lingering slightly on his prick before he caught himself and continued on.

As he turned to rinse his back, though, he slipped a bit. In an effort to regain his balance, he pressed his hand against the wall of the shower. The motion sent a memory splashing into his mind.

Moaning, he braced his hands against the cool wall for balance. He was only barely able to stay upright as a finger entered him slowly. He clawed at the wall as the man behind him wrapped an arm around him as he continued to finger him, sending his nerves dancing. He needed to kiss him, the man who did this to him, who had somehow always done this to him. He hated this and loved it in turn. As the sensations continued to tease him, he found that he had no choice but to turn his neck to find the man's lips, kissing him hotly before whispering, “Fuck me, Potter.”

Fuck, Harry cursed and dropped his head against the shower tiles. He tried to ignore his filling prick, and tried futilely to dig his fingernails into the thin spaces between the shower tiles as he clung to the wall.

He took a deep breath. Stuffed Malfoy's memory back in the corner of his mind. Tried to think of anything else.

Nothing came to mind. He yearned to call back the memory, to watch it further, again and again, this fantasy that had been reality and was simultaneously the hottest and weirdest wank fodder he could imagine.

But it wasn't right. It was downright creepy, he told himself, to wank to another bloke's memory. Not to mention that he was the one doing the fucking in it. No, it was wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.

He stood up, finished rinsing off his body, stepped from the shower—lingering there suddenly seemed dangerous—and towelled off before heading to his bedroom.

He didn't bother putting on clothing; he knew he'd be giving in to his insistent erection. But he refused to do it with Malfoy's memory in his head. He lay back on the bed and relaxed, casting a temperature charm so his room became comfortable as the last of the water evaporated from his skin. He trailed his hand along his torso, imagining the fingers of another touching his skin. Touching his...

Gods but he wanted to watch that memory. It was wrong, though, wasn't it? The occasional flashes that flitted through his mind throughout the day couldn't be helped. There was no controlling those. But to intentionally watch as he took Malfoy in the entry way, well that was a bit wrong. And hot, of course, but wrong.

Then again, it was sort of Harry's memory too. After all, it wasn't as though he was spying on Malfoy with another bloke—a possibility that made him highly uncomfortable, indeed. In fact, it was Draco's own fault Harry couldn't simply watch his own version of the events thanks to his little misfired Obliviation stunt.

Still, he wasn't sure he could intentionally get off on the memory and then face Malfoy the next day. Besides, there were plenty of other wizards who would do nicely. Why did it seem that lately he always had to wank to thoughts of Malfoy?

Determined, Harry tried to imagine Oliver Wood's arse on display in the showers after Quidditch. It wasn't until he came up blank that he realized those memories were now owned by Malfoy. Instead of embarrassing him, though, Harry paused to wonder if Draco had watched them. Or if Draco had watched memories of Harry... doing things.

Merlin. They'd never talked about those sorts of memories. Malfoy had never indicated any interest in doing so. Nor had he shown any interest in Harry since that encounter in the Manor foyer, so of course Harry was likewise careful to hide his own fluctuating thoughts.

Harry gripped himself harder, his growing need insistent on recapturing his full attention. He dropped his head back, suddenly tired of fighting Malfoy's memories. But instead of some image of Draco wanking popping into his head, he found he saw him as he'd looked that morning while they worked in the sun. They were laughing about some encounter Malfoy'd had with a house elf as a child. The sight of a carefree Draco laughing as he cleared away some debris from the base of a rose bush was rather intoxicating. His face had lit up and he seemed less pointy and more... devastatingly handsome, apparently. And his arse in those Muggle jeans...

Merlin help him, Harry thought, as he let himself drown in his new memories of Malfoy until he came, and maybe even as he fell asleep after.

~oOo~

Harry looked up from the lunch that Mipsy had made for them. (“Harry Potter is to be eating Master's sausages,” she'd explained knowingly as she Apparated in from the kitchen with the food.)

He found Malfoy watching him and instantly forgot their prior conversation about the merits of the Triwizard Tournament. Because then, Harry knew. Knew from the look in deep grey eyes across the table from him, that Malfoy had seen everything there was to see. Harry had known this, of course, but now he knew it.

I know you. I know you, Harry Potter, the look said. I know everything about you. I know you.

Harry couldn't have said how he knew this so clearly, but he did. Nor did he understand why it was so suddenly apparent. After all, Malfoy had most likely watched all of his memories a while ago, and Harry was only realizing it now. But somehow the magnitude of it all came crashing down on him by the simple look of complete understanding he found in Draco's eyes.

Draco had seen the horrors of his nights spent under the stairs. The torture of being able to conjure food yet forced to go hungry while locked away in his room day after day and week after week. He'd seen the moment Harry realized that Voldemort might be inside of him, and how he'd sicked up in the empty Hogwarts hallway right where he stood. Malfoy had seen every moment of weakness and vulnerability, knew of every hurt and every fear, even more than even Harry did at that point. He'd watched Harry's role in Cedric's death. And he had seen the memories that Harry would rather have had hidden away forever—the mortifying mornings when Harry knew he'd woken up with his sleep pants soiled because he'd had Quidditch practice with Oliver Wood the night before. The times when Harry knew he'd been unable to pay attention in class because of the hardness between his legs that drove him to distraction. How once, he went so crazy with need that he touched himself beneath his desk and under his robes, all while Hermione was sitting not three feet away, because Snape wouldn't let him go to the loo. Malfoy had seen the time when Harry forgot to spell shut the curtains around his bed and Seamus caught him wanking, and Harry'd come anyway. Saw the dreams Harry knew he'd had of Draco wrapped around him on a broom months and months after their escape from the Room of Requirement.

Harry knew Draco had watched those memories, because he watched all of Draco's. It was because of what he'd seen in them that he'd come to forgive Malfoy for his role in the war, performed under the duress of a madman and a father who'd twisted his son until he nearly broke.

Yet he looked away, unable to accept the understanding and forgiveness and acceptance regarding his own past that he saw reflected in Malfoy's eyes. He stared at his plate.

“It's all right.” Malfoy's voice was quiet. Harry heard him set his glass on the table. “I understand.”

“Malfoy, I...”

But Harry didn't know what to say—there were no words that could express how sorry he was for Cedric, how mortified he was of his adolescence, of his fears and his desires.

Malfoy stood up and walked around the table to him, but Harry could only bury his head in his hands, certain he was probably offending Malfoy by putting his elbows on the table, but entirely unable to care.

“Shhh,” Malfoy hushed him, leaning down to whisper in his ear as he rested one hand on Harry's shoulder and the other at the base of his back. “It's okay. Harry.”

Harry tensed at the sound of his first name. He turned at looked questioningly at Malfoy—at Draco.

Draco simply said, “It's time, don't you think?”

It was. Long past it, really. He nodded.

Draco slipped his hands from Harry's back. He started to turn back to return to his seat, but Harry reached for his wrist. “Draco. Wait.” The name didn't feel nearly as funny on his tongue as he'd expected. “Thank you,” Harry said when Draco turned back to him.

Draco nodded. “Tell you what, I'm going to go back outside. I want to try to mend the crack in the fountain that you noticed this morning. Feel free to take your time. Just summon Mipsy to clean up when you're finished.”

As Harry watched Draco's retreating form, all he could think was, I know you too, Draco Malfoy. I know you too.

Part 4.

Blood poured from Draco's face, and quickly his clothes turned a deep scarlet over his chest from the deep cuts Harry had inflicted with his spell. Draco fell backwards onto the floor of the bathroom, splashing to the ground.

“No!” the cry came from Harry as he ran to him, the pale skin becoming even whiter as the red of his blood swirled into the water. “No—I didn't...no!”

Harry fell to his knees over Draco, who lay there shaking uncontrollably as the pool of blood grew ever wider around him. Harry was aware that Moaning Myrtle was screaming but all he could see was the thick crimson that continued to pour from Draco.

Suddenly Harry was shoved aside as Snape knelt beside him, tracing the gushing wounds and incanting as he did so. Quicker than Harry expected, the blood stopped flowing and the wounds closed and Snape was leading Draco to Pomfrey.

Harry stood there, shaken to his core, and entirely frozen as he watched the blood float along the surface, stretching curls of red farther and farther into the clear waters. He was completely in shock. “I...I didn't...I didn't mean to...”

Harry's words, if he managed to say them at all, were lost in Myrtle's continued screams.

Harry yanked his head out of the Pensieve.

He’d thought he could handle it, thought he wanted to know, but he knew now that it was a mistake. His stomach turned over and he tried not to gag.

“I'm sorry,” he managed to say to Draco before he dashed to the nearest loo. Slamming the door shut, he fell to his knees and his stomach emptied itself into the toilet. “Fuck,” he whispered. They were both children. And he'd almost killed Draco. He hadn't meant it, but he had; he'd nearly killed him.

Watching it twice in a row nearly killed Harry. He gagged again and braced himself over the toilet.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered to the empty room when he finished.

He heard a soft knock on the door. Flushing the toilet, he sat back against the wall, his head in his hands “Don't come in.”

The doorknob turned slowly, opening despite Harry's protest.

“Come on, then,” was all Draco said as he cast a quick cleansing charm on the bathroom and on Harry himself before pulling Harry to his feet and back out into the hallway.

“Draco, I'm so sorry,” Harry said again. It would be impossible to convey exactly how much...

“Look, Harry, I know you are. And clearly you had no idea what the spell would do, and, well, I wasn't exactly faultless myself,” Draco said. “I was about to Crucio you. But well, no harm done, right? Against all odds, we're both here today. And now that we've watched it from both sides, we can deal with it, and move on.”

Draco started off down the hall, gesturing for Harry to follow. “Come along. I've ordered Mipsy to make you some tea and bring us some especially bland biscuits. I, on the other hand, plan to drink something a bit stronger. I hope after your stomach settles, you'll join me.”

“Right. Okay. Good.” Harry followed after him gratefully, thinking that something stronger might be just what the Healer ordered.

~oOo~

“Memories are rubbish,” Draco announced, taking another drink of his wine. His words were slightly slurred but Harry regarded him seriously because he could tell Draco was trying very hard to make a point. He was, after all, speaking quite loudly.

After thinking for a minute, Harry agreed. “Mine certainly seem to be.” His head felt very heavy as he hung over the side of the overstuffed chair.

“Mine too, mine too,” Draco murmured from his spot on the adjacent love seat.

“Then why do we want them back again?” Harry asked, not quite able to remember. He took another drink. He suspected his glass held at least a few answers.

Draco appeared to be deep in thought as he sipped his wine, so Harry took advantage of the time to watch how his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Draco finally answered.

“Prob'ly cause they're ours,” Harry said after a minute.

Harry felt Draco's gaze and looked up. Draco looked impressed. Harry felt warm then, but it was probably just from the wine.

Maybe he could impress Draco further. He raised his glass into the air. “I think... that memories... are th'key to the future,” Harry said. “The future of all Wizardkind. And hippogriffs. Well, maybe not th'hippogriffs. Do you think hippagrifts have memories?” He lowered his glass to think about it. “I think they do,” he said. “Memories and feelings.”

Harry sipped his wine. “D'you think hip—hippodrifts fall in love?”

Draco snorted. “If they're smart, they don't.”

Draco's comment stung, but Harry steeled his face. The wine made it difficult, but he did his best.

“Oh, don'listen to me, what do I know of... hippogriffs?” Draco said, catching the frown Harry hadn't meant to leave on his face.

“That's true!” It was Harry's turn to laugh. “Good point.” Draco hadn't exactly got on with Buckbeak, had he? Harry could laugh at it now, the look on Draco's face when Buckbeak advanced.

Draco chuckled, and something about the sound made Harry snort. Merlin, he really needed to put down the rest of his wine, but he couldn't stop laughing even long enough to do that, because the sight of Draco's red face and his unexpectedly high pitched laughter made Harry shake and laugh even harder himself—so much so that he sloshed wine out of his glass and onto his jeans.

“Oh! Bollocks!” Harry looked down at his reddened lap. He gulped the last of his wine, so as not to spill more, and stood up. He looked at Draco. “I'm pants at cleaning spells. Fix me?”

Draco laughed harder, and wiped his eyes. “You want me to fix your crotch then, do you?”

“C'mon. Just take care of it will you? Or I'll just have to sit back down and get it all over your silver sofa,” Harry whinged.

“Grey. Slate grey. Silver would be tacky,” Draco pointed out, breathing deeply as he tried to maintain his composure and not burst out laughing again. “Okay, okay, hold still.” He aimed his less than completely steady wand at Harry's bits. It was slightly alarming.

“Evanesco!”

Harry gaped at where his jeans used to be. “What the? Draco!”

Draco's cheeks pinked as he looked at his wand curiously. “Thas odd. I meant to say Tergeo. Din't I say Tregoeo? Maybe that's why McGonagall was always saying not to charm drunk.”

“No, you did not say Tre-tergeo. You vanished my favourite jeans!” Harry realized he was standing in the middle of the room in his pants. He looked down. His knees looked particularly knobby and his socks very clearly didn't match. He covered his bits with his hands. “Draco!” he huffed.

“Well, I got rid of the problem at least, didn't I?” Draco smirked, clearly trying to catch a glimpse.

Harry gave him a look.

“Okay, okay. Here, relax.” Draco transfigured a dark green throw pillow into a blanket for Harry, who wrapped around his waist as he sat down again on his chair, grumbling the entire time. “More wine,” Harry said hopefully, figuring that after another bottle he might be able to forget how Draco's eyes had travelled over his lower body minutes earlier.

Draco nodded and poured them each another glass.

They lapsed into silence. Harry tried not to think about how he was spending time trouser-less in Malfoy Manor. He glanced at Draco; his face was still reddened. Harry felt his own cheek with his hand. He was definitely flushed as well. Merlin, it had been a day. Too much wine and too many memories. Painful ones. Too many. Way too many...

Harry didn't want to share memories like that with Draco, he didn't want Draco weighed down with his past. He wouldn't have wanted that for anyone, but especially not Draco, not now when he was growing to like and even respect him. Stupid git.

Harry swirled the crimson liquid in his glass but it only reminded him of what he had seen in the Pensieve, the deep red that poured from Draco's body. He downed the last of the liquid and somehow managed to get to his feet, his blanket gathered around his waist. It seemed imperative that he pour another glass as soon as possible.

He wandered over to Draco, who graciously refilled his glass. Harry collapsed next to Draco on the loveseat. The empty spot was both nearer to Draco and the wine, so it seemed ideal to Harry. Plus, he was feeling a bit stumbly, so he decided it best to minimize any further walking so as not to appear uncoordinated in front of the ever graceful Draco.

His eyes moved to the man beside him, the tall, lean frame—still proud, but no longer of the wrong things. Draco was staring off into space, his lips moving slightly. He appeared to be reciting the words to the Muggle national anthem, so Harry decided it was okay to interrupt. Especially because he had something so very important to say. He took a deep swallow of his wine and gathered his courage.

“I'm sorry I sextumstempraed you, Draco,” he said.

Draco paused, his mouth still open, as he looked over at Harry. “You did sectumsextraed me, didn't you?” He started laughing. “Merlin, that is hard to say. Sectumsextras, sextrasemptum, sextumsempra. Sectumsemtums. Sep-tum-semp-ra, is that right?” Draco stuck out his tongue and pinched it between two fingers. Like his lips and cheeks, it was reddened from the wine. “Mah tongah isth mithbehafing.”

Harry reached over for Draco's arm. “I'm serious.”

“He'th theriouth,” Draco echoed, still gripping his tongue, and nodding in mock severity.

“Draco.”

Draco released his tongue and looked at Harry. “I know you are. I accept your apology. And I apologize for attempting to Crucio you. Now please, can we not talk about it? I want to forget and the wine can only do so much if you keep mentioning it.”

Harry nodded and drank deeply from his glass until it was empty. He held it out to Draco who refilled both of their glasses.

“Red looks good on you,” Draco said after a moment, as he looked at Harry, who wore a dark maroon shirt that Hermione had given him.

“Thank you. Er... It looks good on you too,” he responded after a moment, emboldened by the wine.

Draco looked confused. “I'm not wearing red.”

Harry bit his lip and decided maybe he'd had enough to drink. “Right. I meant... your cheeks. You're all red. Flushed. From the wine. It makes, well, ... you look... the red makes your eyes all big and silvery.”

“Oh. Well, thank you, I suppose.”

“Not silvery in a tacky way,” Harry elaborated.

“Yes, I got that. Thank you.”

Harry glanced up and saw that Draco looked pleased. It made him smile.

He set down his glass and rolled his head along his shoulders. Merlin, he was tired.

“I should go,” Harry said. He tried to get to his feet but he was caught up in his blanket and extricating his legs seemed fairly well impossible.

“You're troo dunk. Too drunk,” Draco replied. “You can stay.”

“But we didn't finish the guest rooms yet. They're still empty.” Harry kicked one leg free at last and attempted to stand, managing to fall partially off of the seat and onto the floor. He finally managed to get to his feet, and only then realized the blanket remained around his ankles. He quickly bent down to grab it, hiking it up to his chest. He sighed. At least he'd chosen to wear reasonably good pants that morning.

“I can transfigure the sofa into a bed.”

“And risk vanishing it by mistake?” Harry grinned. “I'm okay.” He said the words too loudly, he knew, but he couldn't stay. He'd already lost his jeans and his dignity. It was definitely, positively time to—

“Stay anyway?”

“Okay.”

Harry returned to his seat beside Draco, but this time he dared sit a bit closer, and when Draco shifted accordingly, Harry decided it was okay to maybe rest his head on Draco's shoulder. He settled in and pulled the blanket up over them both with a soft sigh, closing his eyes to rest them for a moment. The wine softened everything, even Draco's bony shoulder.

“Draco?” he said after a moment.

“Yes?”

“Did you vanish my trousers on purpose?”

Draco chuckled softly and Harry felt him relax into the sofa. He was glad they'd taken the time to figure out the ever-comfortable charm for the furniture. “No. Maybe. No, not on purpose.”

Harry smiled, his eyes still closed. “Okay.”

He felt Draco's breathing even out.

“Harry?”

“Hmmm?”

“I don't drool in my sleep.”

Harry tried unsuccessfully to open his eyes. “I never said you did.”

“Oh. Hmm. Must have been a memory.”

“Right. Must've.” Harry'd want to see that memory for sure. Best to do it in the morning though...

“Nox,” Draco whispered.

“Night.”

~oOo~

Harry awoke to a brutal headache, a respectable amount of nausea, a folded pair of Draco's trousers, a small vial of hangover potion, a slip of parchment, and an otherwise empty couch.

The hangover potion was the first item he reached for, and while his stomach gurgled at the small movement, he was able to hold his nose and swallow it down. It bubbled in his stomach, as expected, but after burping twice, it began to settle.

After using a small charm to adjust the fit of the trousers—slightly shorter, but a tad wider at the waist—he stood up and put them on. He blinked against the bright light in the room, but after stretching a bit and giving the potion time to work its magic, he felt decidedly better.

He picked up the parchment. “Breakfast on the veranda.”

Well, the note certainly gave away very little about how Draco was feeling that morning, but then, it did offer directions as to the nearest sustenance, and for that, Harry was grateful.

After a quick trip to the loo and a Scourgify to clean his teeth, he headed outside, where he could smell freshly baked pumpkin muffins waiting.

When Harry entered the veranda, Draco looked up. Harry ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck, slightly uncertain what to say after their night of drinking and the impromptu sleepover.

Draco didn't look the least bit fazed, however. In fact, he seemed to be in an excellent mood. He gestured for Harry to sit, then poured a second cup of tea and handed him a muffin, all without once insulting the state of his hair. And, while he couldn't be completely sure, Harry was fairly certain his eyes were a bit more sparkly than usual.

With a crack, Mipsy entered, wringing her hands. “Mipsy is to be apologizing, Harry Potter, sir. Mipsy wanted to be making your favourite, but we are being out of the ingredients.”

Harry was confused. “This is great, Mipsy. Thank you. I love pumpkin muffins.”

She looked relieved. “Mr. Harry Potter, sir, is too kind. Master says Mr. Potter, sir, likes his buns, but Mipsy can only be making muffins this morning.”

“Thank you, Mipsy, that will be all.” Draco coughed, as Harry grinned.

“Mipsy,” Harry said. “Does Draco like buns too?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Harry Potter, sir! Mipsy is hearing him say he likes Mr. Harry Potter's buns with nuts, sir! Mipsy is to be wishing for this recipe.”

Harry snorted. Draco buried his head in his hands. “Mipsy, please go to the house and clean something. Anything.”

She bowed slightly. “Thank you, Master. Mipsy is to be going now.”

“Well,” Harry said after she Apparated away. “That was illuminating.”

Draco huffed and stood up from the table to look over the gardens. He took his tea with him, sipping at it in the silence of the morning, as Harry sat and enjoyed the muffin along with the view.

“I thought we should try something different today,” Draco said eventually.

“Sure,” Harry agreed quickly. He wasn't sure he could handle a repeat of the day before. They'd been sharing some of the most difficult memories with each other, something Harry knew was necessary, if highly unpleasant. He was glad Draco seemed to feel similarly.

“We've been watching so many memories related to the war lately. I thought maybe we should try to remember some... ah... more pleasant occurrences, shall we say?”

Harry frowned at the teasing tone of Draco's voice. “Like what?” He was pretty sure Draco had already shared most of the happy memories he had, laughing with Ron and Hermione over Butterbeers, wandering around Diagon Alley with Neville and Luna as the Wizarding section of London rebuilt itself after the war, and the like.

“Aren't you curious about your first kiss? Your first crush? Your first... everything?” Draco raised an eyebrow.

Oh. Those sorts of memories. It was true they'd avoided discussing them.

Harry even avoided watching those sorts of Draco's memories.

Well, most of the time.

When Harry had his hands in his pants after a long day of sitting beside Draco, watching the shape of his shoulders and the back of his neck as he leaned over the Pensieve, well, that was another story. Harry may have watched a few of those kinds of memories then. Or possibly a lot of them. Twice.

Harry bit his lip. The idea was intriguing, but the potential for intense embarrassment seemed rather high. Still, he wanted to know about his own firsts, and there really was no other way...

He swallowed. “Okay.”

~oOo~

“I... er... hafta go. I'm sorry. Um, see you tomorrow then? Right, okay.”

Harry knew his voice sounded reasonably strangled and possibly quite high in pitch, but he couldn't worry about that. He grabbed his things and dashed to the nearest Floo, making sure his back was to Draco the entire time. When the ashes settled, he was standing back in his own home.

Merlin. What had he been thinking?

It hadn't started off so badly, sharing their “first time” memories. Harry had watched curiously as his younger self kissed Cho Chang, his first time kissing anyone, as Molly Weasley's pecks on his forehead certainly didn't count. He'd been confused afterwards—it couldn't have been said to have gone well; there were tears, after all. They'd then watched his experiences with Ginny and Harry'd gone so far as to attempt to make love to her—a funny way of describing it, considering she loved him and he wanted to love her. Watching it made him cringe though. It had been excruciatingly clumsy and nearly silent but for Harry's apologies and her sounds of discomfort. They hadn't known what to say, and both of them had trouble finishing at all. It was definitely not an experience Harry wanted to repeat, and it was more than enough to confirm that he just wasn't interested in her (or any other girl) that way. He hadn't been shocked, really, considering he hadn't exactly spent his nights in the tent during the war dreaming of any girl's face. They’d broken up soon afterwards.

They next watched Harry's first kiss with another man, which it turns out had been rather unremarkable. After the war he'd gotten to a point where he had simply been tired of waiting, so he wore a glamour to a Muggle club and had just...done it. Right there, in front of everyone. Kissed a man. And no one even noticed. Even the Muggle barely seemed to notice, as he'd wandered off toward the bar soon after. Harry felt a bit disappointed when he watched it, and he knew he felt similarly at the time, imagining maybe he'd just made kissing into more of a big deal than it really was.

Draco refrained from commenting after they'd finished watching those memories, for which Harry was grateful. But while slightly embarrassing, none of those scenes had been too troublesome. Especially since they'd gone right ahead and watched Draco's first kisses. too. Harry bit his own tongue when they watched Draco's first kiss with Pansy, which had been no less awkward that Harry's first kiss, especially considering it resulted in an exchange of hexes that left Pansy's lips thoroughly Engorgio'ed and Draco's belly button temporarily vanished. Draco's next kiss was slightly better. He and Zabini managed a thorough snog until they were interrupted by Narcissa's footsteps on the stairs.

No, those memories hadn't been too bad, really. After that, though, they got more and more difficult. Because that's when they got good.

Draco frotting against some Durmstrang boy after a Death Eater meeting, as the two sought out the only release from the tension that was within their reach.

Harry being thoroughly snogged by a Muggle boy in France after the war, the boy grinding up against him as Harry was pressed into the back of a building one autumn afternoon, making Harry lose control and come in his pants.

Draco's prick, glistening as it slid between Zabini's lips until Draco cried out...

Harry, in another glamour, staring down as another wizard took him in his hand and stroked him, offering to do more...

That's when Harry had pulled his face from the waters of the Pensieve and bolted for the Floo. He couldn't take it any longer, couldn't watch further. It was too much. He was achingly hard, which was not something he wanted Draco to see. Plus he was certain that if he watched one more moment, he'd never be able to hold himself back from simply tackling Draco to the floor without any sort of permission whatsoever—the only question being whether he'd take the time to remove their trousers and pants or simply just vanish all their clothing at once.

His need was no less acute after making it home, so Harry dashed off to the shower, peeling off his clothing along the way. Stepping under the hot spray of water, he slicked his skin with water and soap and took care of matters.

He steadfastly refused to recall any of the memories he'd seen earlier that day as he did so.

He was successful, too—for about 45 seconds.

Because really, he may have saved the Wizarding world, but he was only human. And resistance, it seemed, was entirely pointless.

~oOo~

Harry was quite unsure what to do with himself as he wandered through his empty house that night after dinner. He hadn't got home this early since, well, since before the accident. Every waking moment had been spent with Draco, it seemed.

At a certain point, he sprawled out on his sofa with a back issue of Quidditch Weekly. He'd probably already read it, but if he had done so, it was before the accident. It seemed new enough to him even if it was technically dated nearly a year prior.

He was halfway through the article on Victor Krum's tragic decline when Hermione firecalled. Frankly, Harry counted himself lucky that he was decent; he hadn't been expecting her to pop up in his hearth.

“Harry! Where have you been? I've called every night this week, and you're never here. We've been trying to invite you over to dinner. Ron and I thought it would be fun to reminisce about the time we destroyed the Horcrux with the basilisk fang. You haven't remembered that yet, have you? How's Saturday evening? That will be fine with us too—”

“Hermione, wait. No, I—”

“Oh, it's no bother to cook, Harry, I promise. I'll mark it in my calendar. Also, I wanted to ask you about your availability next week; I'm looking for a few volunteers to help staff the S.P.E.W. booth outside the Magical Creatures office during the Ministry career fair, and well, I know you're not working right now, so I just knew you'd be eager to help. I'll put you down for Wednesday, then?”

“I'm not sure that I—”

“Sure you can, Harry. No need to be shy, all you'll have to do is hand out pamphlets. I suppose people will want you to autograph them then, won't they? Hmm, I'll have to remember to bring some extra quills. I'm sure we'll get lots of people stopping by if they know you'll be there. Oh, thanks, Harry. You're the best.”

“Hermione! Stop. No.”

She looked confused. “You can't? Hmm, I suppose it is a bit last moment, but we've been trying to reach you for days now. You should have owled that you were going away. We were worried.”

“I wasn't away, I've been over at the Manor working with Draco, is all.”

“With Malfoy?” She frowned. “Are you guys still having to spend so many hours together? I'd have thought by now that...”

“That what? Thought that they'd have found a counter-curse? Because you know they haven't. Or maybe you thought that I'd somehow be able to get nineteen years of my life back overnight? Because that hasn't happened, either. We're working on it, but these things take time.”

“Can Ron and I help? We miss you, Harry. Malfoy isn't the only one who remembers things. If you spent time with us, you wouldn't have to spend so much time with him. Is it terrible, Harry? It must be terrible.”

“It's not so bad, really. Not anymore. Draco is... better now. And his memories in my head aren't as distracting anymore. At first they were all new, so it was hard to ignore them. But now I've seen him take his first broom ride a few times now, you know? So I don't really pay attention when it pops into my head. It makes it easier to concentrate. Though, honestly, I'm sure I'll always be highly disturbed when I remember some of the Death Eater activity. I can't wait for those memories to be gone. But I'm sure Draco feels the same way about some of mine, though. No one wants to shudder every time they walk by a door under a set of stairs. But we're getting through it.”

Hermione looked sceptical, however. “You... and... Draco...you're getting through it. Together.”

Harry nodded in the affirmative.

“And you don't need Ron or me.”

Harry shook his head.

Hermione bit her lip. “Are you sure, Harry? Why don't you come over for dinner tomorrow? You don't have to wait until Saturday. Come tomorrow.”

“I can't, Hermione. I'll be at Draco's. But please, you don't need to worry about me. I'm fine now.”

She eyed him. “What about next week? If you'd just man the S.P.E.W.—”

“You know I hate that sort of thing, with the crowds and the attention.”

“Oh, how do you know?” Hermione pouted. “Figures that you remember next to nothing, but that you're quite certain of.”

Harry laughed. “I'll owl you next week about dinner.”

She brightened at that. “Good. You were worrying me, wanting to spend all your time with Malfoy—”

“Draco.”

“Right. Draco.” She shook her head. “We're here for you, too. You know that, right?”

“I do. Thanks. Tell Ron hullo for me.”

“All right. Bye.”

“Bye, 'Mione.” he said, closing off the Floo.

~oOo~

Harry was so completely out of sorts that he decided to simply go to bed and start over again the next day. He fell asleep surprisingly quickly, possibly because the night before he'd been up so late until he eventually passed out on Draco's couch.

His dreams, however, were less surprising, considering all he'd seen that day in the Pensieve. Vivid and unrelenting, he watched again and again as Draco kissed Slytherin after Slytherin, male and female, with each kiss getting progressively more desperate.

Nor did his subconscious relent when Draco ran out of Slytherins. Draco began snogging Ravenclaws before moving on to Hufflepuffs. By the time he reached Zacharias Smith, the kisses had become lengthy groping sessions, and only when Draco vanished Zacharias' trousers, did Harry awaken, sweaty, panting, and rock hard.

Figures Draco'd never snog a Gryffindor; even his subconscious knew that.

Except he would, a small voice said. And you have a memory that proves it.

He bit his lip. Should he watch it, finally? Did he want to see how they'd been together? That day in the Pensieve he'd seen Draco's face screwed up in pleasure from the touch of another. He'd seen flashes of their own encounter as well, but only short glimpses. He'd never intentionally watched. But now, in the dark of night, in the privacy of his bed, he could really watch it. After watching Draco kiss the others, Harry wanted to know how Draco'd kissed him. Wanted to see how Draco had run his hands over Harry's body and how Harry had touched him in turn. Wanted to know what Draco'd liked, and hear the sounds he'd made as Harry fucked him...

Harry groaned. Gods, how had he gotten himself into this mess? And worse, he wasn't even completely sure he wanted to get out.

Merlin forgive him, and Draco too. He wanted to know.

He closed his eyes and let the memory wash over him.

“Why are you doing this, Potter?” he leaned over to whisper in Harry's ear, his voice low.

Harry Summoned the oil from his night stand, pouring just a bit onto his palm before he tossed the small jar aside once more.

Potter shoved back from the wall and spun around, his green eyes bright and defiant. “I'm not going to tell anyone. Gods, I was just trying to be nice!”

Draco gazed at him. “No one's that nice, Potter.” There was always a reason, always something to gain. Any decent Slytherin knew that.

“I don't know.” Potter spat, but then he was clinging to Draco's jumper and Draco could feel the heat of Potter's hands on his chest. He blinked his eyes against the assault.

Harry watched Draco accuse him of things that he didn't even believe himself. In the memory, Harry's cheeks were flushed as their emotions ran high, but Draco seemed to think Harry was handsome like that, mussed and angry and ready to fight. But when Harry had touched Malfoy's chest in the memory, Draco had experienced a surge of desire so strong that Harry couldn't help but be swept up in it as he lay there in the dark, already on edge from his vivid dreams. He took himself in his slicked hand, touching himself lightly, as though he had a prayer of lasting long at all.

“Potter,” he said, because that seemed to say everything while admitting nothing.

Harry closed his fist around his prick, running it slowly up and down his length.

Potter squirmed under his gaze, so Draco said it again. “Potter.” Green eyes held his own, and he knew what Potter wanted, likely before Potter knew it himself. He could see the desire in Potter's eyes, nervous but eager. And Merlin, he wanted it too. He'd never admitted that before, but with Potter clinging to his sweater, he could acknowledge it now, if only to himself.

Draco wanted him; the thought made Harry groan. Wanted him, wanted him, wanted him. Harry's head swam with the knowledge. Gods, Harry couldn't wait for Draco to...

Potter's green eyes widened almost comically behind his glasses as Draco slowly leaned in. Slow, so Potter didn't spook. Slow so that Draco didn't combust. Slowly. Very, very slowl—

Kissed him.

Harry licked his lips and wished he could feel Draco's kiss on them. Pinching his eyes shut, he lost himself again in Draco's memory—it was all he had.

“Mgmefmph,” Potter said when Draco's mouth touched his, and he pulled back abruptly. Did he honestly not know what Draco had been about to do? Yet Potter was still there, at least, his fingers against Draco's chest and his eyes locked on Draco's lips. He wasn't breathing.

Draco began to get defensive because Potter was just standing there looking all ridiculously clueless and Draco had about had it. He was dreaming up cutting insults especially for Potter when—

“Fuck it,” Potter said, ever eloquent, before kissing Draco back. It was worth the wait.

Harry smiled to himself. Draco was so pleased when Harry seemed properly awed after their next kiss. Not to mention, he was reasonably chuffed to find out Malfoy thought him a good kisser.

Potter backed up against the wall, and Draco leaned in, watching him lick his lips. They stared at each other, sizing one another up as though trying to determine who would blink first, until that didn't make sense any longer, because really, they both had lips, which meant Draco had better things to do with his time.

They kissed again, messy and hungry and maybe a little desperate, and Draco wrapped his hand around Potter's neck, holding him closely. The soft whine Potter made sent tingles down Draco's spine.

Yes. Harry's heart may have appreciated the kissing, but his prick was grateful they were getting to the good bits. He stroked himself as he watched them snog each other senseless.

Draco pressed against Potter's hip; they were both hard. Potter reached for Draco's arse, pulling Draco even more tightly against his body.

Gods, did Harry wish that he could feel Draco's heat against him...No Warming Charm could ever replicate the sensation of a body, heavy and hot and hard as it pressed against his.

Draco scraped his teeth along Potter's neck. He tasted like he smelled, slightly salty with a bit of spice. It was masculine and in no way smelled like he saved the world, which relieved Draco, because he wasn't sure he could have dealt with that.

The fact that he couldn't remember what Malfoy tasted like made his lungs hurt, but soon Harry was lost again in the memory, because Draco lifted his shirt and dragged his fingers over his abdomen and up to his chest, and it made Harry's skin prickle just imagining it.

Running his hand up under Potter's shirt, Draco found Potter's nipples before dragging his fingers along the heated skin. “Gods,” Potter said, but then he was questioning everything and that was simply ridiculous, Draco thought, because they both were very obviously aware of how much better this felt than hexing or ignoring each other.

Draco licked Potter's throat and told him what he could do if he wanted. He tried not to let on how badly he wanted it, too. Potter groaned, a sound that made Draco's cock harden further.

Harry continued to stroke himself as he watched, lazily twisting his hand over his head as he remembered how Draco had licked and nibbled at his throat, teasing him with broad swipes of his tongue and open kisses.

He reached for Harry's zip, biting back a smile as Potter jerked when his hand brushed over the erection straining against his trousers.

Draco couldn't even be bothered to get fully undressed, he wanted Potter so badly, and Potter didn't seem to mind. Draco was only wearing an unbuttoned shirt by then, and Harry's trousers and pants were at least down around his ankles, and that was good enough under the circumstances.

Merlin, the sight of them together, nearly naked and completely exposed—it made Harry crazy. Both of their pricks were heavy and hard, and while Draco didn't spend much time looking at himself, Harry could tell he was gorgeous. His hand sped up, and he gripped himself harder.

When he was spun to face the wall, Draco felt Potter's warmth behind him, felt the brush of wandless magic cast by one of the most powerful wizards of their time. Draco groaned softly and craned his neck, wanting those lips, that mouth, just as much as he wanted the rest of him. He wanted him. Wanted him, wanted him, wanted him. He grasped at the wall as Potter touched him, curling his finger and setting Draco's nerves on fire.

Harry reached down with his other had to tease his own arse, wanting to feel what Draco did. Bloody hell.

Draco's desperation increased exponentially when he felt Potter's prick running along his arse. “Fuck me. Please,” he panted.

Harry's fist flew over his prick, there was no helping it. Watching Draco like this, Harry could barely keep it together.

Potter pressed into him, stretching him past any possible semblance of comfort, and making him bloody like it. He gasped, pressed his cheek to the wall and tried to breathe through the intrusion, and Harry just kept pushing into him, further and further as Draco relaxed, and Draco wasn't sure he'd ever get over what Potter was doing to him, how he was taking him.

Harry grunted, still stroking himself as he fingered his arsehole, all the while watching Draco pressed to the wall. Bloody fucking fuck.

Potter thrust into him, filling him, wrapped around him, clinging to him as he canted his hips. It was sweaty and Draco was grunting as he scraped his fingernails against the wall, trying to find some way to hold on. He stroked himself with his other hand.

“Yes, just there,” he groaned as Potter pressed into him in such a way that his body caught fire.

Harry's body was wound tight and he couldn't take much more. He squeezed his eyes closed. Just a little more...

“Malfoy...” Potter groaned. “Gonna...”

“Do it.”

Potter pressed in as far as he could, his release making him tremble as he clung to Draco's body.

Draco's memory was still playing out in Harry's mind and he grunted as he jerked and came hard, his release coating his stomach.

Potter turned Draco and they both watched as he took Draco's prick in his hand, stroking with hands powerful enough to defeat the Dark Lord.

Harry's heart rate began to return to a respectable rhythm and his breathing slowed as he watched Draco finish.

“Potter.” His voice was strangled.

Potter kissed his mouth, silencing him. Draco pinched his eyes shut as he was finally overwhelmed and lasting a moment longer was no longer a possibility. He jerked into Potter's fist.

“Fuck, Malfoy...” Harry said, awe in his voice.

Harry agreed entirely. It was utterly amazing, what they'd done to each other, not to mention that it was the hottest thing he'd ever seen in his life. And now that he'd seen it once, he knew that he wanted to experience it again.

And again.

And again after that.

He yawned and lazily cast a cleaning spell before he curled into his pillow, his body now blissfully relaxed.

Again and again and again, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. And again and again after that...

Part 5

It seemed as though Harry rarely left the Manor after that. He didn't want to, and Draco never seemed to nudge him toward the Floo.

They read the paper together, worked together, used the Pensieve, and talked. They discussed Dumbledore, and the trials, the intricacies of house-elf grammar, and the merits of essence of dittany in powdered form. Unless, of course, they didn't feel like talking, in which case they simply busied themselves with their tasks and minded their own business, except to glance at each other once in a while. Or, at least, Harry looked at Draco. But he was pretty sure he caught Draco's eye on him a few times as well.

There was definite pressure to continue to come up with new memories to share, and it was getting harder and harder to remain objective as he watched. But he had to try. After all, if they ran out, Harry'd have to admit why he was spending all his time with Draco regardless. No, best to keep coming up with new ones. He even tried once to pass off his own daydreams as one of Draco's memories, but Draco gave him a look afterwards and suggested Harry keep his imaginings of the Slytherin Quidditch locker room to himself, thanks ever so.

After spending five days straight with Draco, being with him morning until night and only Flooing home to sleep, Harry found himself in a bit of a predicament.

Namely, he found himself leaning longingly against the door to the loo.

Since Draco was showering on the other side, it wouldn't have been proper for Harry to get any closer.

Instead, he rested his cheek and hands against the wood, and listened to the sounds of the water as it poured from the showerhead and landed, presumably, on Draco's smooth white skin. If he was a droplet of water, that's where he'd aim, at least. Yes, he'd go right for Draco's forehead, so as to touch as much of his skin as possible on the way down. He'd slide slowly over Draco's eyelids and then his nose, curl over the swell of his lips, then run along his chin, down the exquisite angles of his neck with a slight detour to his shoulder. He'd then make his way down Draco's chest and the flat plane of his abdomen before slowing up to glide over the length of his prick, pink and heavy between his legs.

And if he had to fall from there down to the shower floor and into the drain, well, it would have all been worth it, Harry decided. He hoped the water knew just how lucky it was.

Oh yes, Harry was officially a mess if he was envious of water, for Merlin's sake.

This was bad, Harry thought, closing his eyes. He couldn't continue like this. He wanted to share more than past memories; he wanted to make new ones, and do so with Draco beside him.

Harry swallowed. It was time to tell Draco.

As he listened to Draco turn off the water, clean now after their impromptu Quidditch match, and Summon a towel, he formed a plan.

That night, when Harry got into bed, he wanked once more to the memory of when he and Draco had fucked.

Then, with all of the Gryffindor courage he could muster, he isolated the new memory—the one of him touching himself while watching their past—and with shaking hands, placed it into a vial he'd readied on his nightstand.

~oOo~

Harry's nerves put him on edge the following day, and while he was certain Draco noticed, they proceeded with their usual arrangement: working together on the Manor in the morning as they discussed some aspect of their past (Snape, this time). Then in the afternoon, they watched in the Pensieve all of the memories that had popped up during the morning.

Afterwards they ate dinner with only minor interruptions from Mipsy and took a walk through the Manor grounds, stopping to pick a few herbs that Draco needed for his potion supply closet. The gardens were impressive now that they were growing happily again after Harry's relentless weeding spells and Draco's careful pruning. In fact, the Manor as a whole was in good shape these days. Draco was barely casting any more glamours, and while the furnishings may not have been as glorious as they once were, considering the state of the Malfoy coffers and the lack of house elves, it was looking altogether decent and liveable and there wasn't actually much more for them to do. Harry tried not to think about that too much.

Finally, when it was late and time for Harry to leave, he removed the vial which held his memory from the night before, and, when Draco wasn't watching, left it on the table with a little note.

“I remembered one more,” it said.

He Floo'd home immediately afterwards, his face crimson and his stomach tied in utter knots, wondering when Draco would find the note, and how he'd react. It was a distinct possibility Harry had just ruined absolutely everything.

He was pouring himself a glass of wine and planning to sit on the sofa with a small fire and the day's issue of The Daily Prophet, when he heard an owl pecking at his window pane.

Harry gave a treat to the owl, a brown spotted one he didn't recognize, and gathered the missive from her leg before releasing her again for her return journey.

He held the note and held his breath as he opened it, assuming the worst.

He was half-afraid Draco would yell at him for his stunt or for abusing his access to Draco's memories. Or worse, that Draco would try to reject him gently, but cease wanting to spend time with him.

Gods, Harry was nauseous and... sweating? Yes, definitely sweating. And he almost couldn't bear to even open the message for fear of what it would say. Bloody hell, what had he been thinking, leaving that vial for Draco?

He closed his eyes as he broke the seal and unfurled the small scroll.

When Harry finally looked at it, it didn't contain Draco's neat print. It was actually a sheet of St. Mungo's stationery. Sighing with relief, Harry charmed a small fire in the fireplace and sat down on the sofa with his note.

Sipping at his wine, he read it. When he was finished, he crumpled it into a little ball and tossed it into the fireplace.

He let out a deep sigh.

So that was that, then.

The room was silent but for the crackling of the fire. Staring at it, Harry let memories wash over him, one by one. His memories. Draco's memories. Did it even matter any longer whose were whose? They were a giant jumble in his head, but he found he no longer cared.

After significant research, the Healers at St. Mungo's have come to the conclusion that the effects of the misfired Obliviation spell are both permanent and irreversible, the note had said. Barring any future findings, we are terminating our research and will consider the case closed.

Irreversible.

But not necessarily irreparable. Or, at least Harry no longer felt broken.

At least not yet, he thought, his mind immediately returning to thoughts of Draco.

Harry watched the flames lick at the logs in the fireplace as his mind travelled to events he'd witnessed, a few he hadn't, and even more so, what he hoped lay ahead.

It was a full two hours later—quite late really—when Harry heard another owl peck at his window. This time, though, it was a Malfoy owl.

He read the note she bore: “I'm at your door and Muggles are staring at me. Let me in?”

Harry snorted, despite the nerves and heat that flaring in his belly. Leave it to Draco to owl instead of ringing the doorbell or knocking. He went to the door, his heart pounding.

“Well!” Draco huffed as he entered. “The nerve!”

“I..Oh. Er...” Harry stammered and he felt his face heat. “Sorry.”

Draco spared him a glance. “What in Merlin's name do you have to be sorry about? Didn't you get your letter?”

“My... letter? Oh, you mean from Mungo's? Yeah. Got it. Burned it.” Harry shrugged and gestured to the fire, not at all interested in discussing the letter, though this apparently went unnoticed by Draco, who promptly began ranting about it.

“The utter nerve of them, just giving up like that!” Draco paced around the room, punctuating his remarks by waving his copy of the letter around in the air. “I have every intention of marching straight into Mungo's tomorrow morning and telling them that they'll cease their research when I tell them t—Wait.” Draco paused and looked at Harry. “Aren't you upset about it?”

Harry shrugged, sitting down on his sofa. “It's not so bad. At least, I hadn't thought so, not anymore...”

“Yes, well.” Draco paused for a moment. “That may be true, but it's the principle of the matter, after all! Healers shouldn't simply stop researching whenever they feel like...”

Harry couldn't listen to Draco. He felt more and more as though he ought to find a medium-to-large sized hole to curl up in and hide for six months or so. Harry looked at Draco, who was still complaining about the state of the wizard healthcare programme, the lack of dedication of the current staff of Healers, and even Harry's dining table, as he stubbed his toe on it once when he marched by.

Harry sighed. Either Draco hadn't seen Harry's vial or he hadn't felt like watching the memory. Or, worse even, he had watched it, been completely uninterested or even disgusted, and had decided the only course of action was to ignore he'd ever seen it. Gods, what had Harry been thinking?

“...half nine should work, I'd think, unless they're even lazier than I imagine. Shall I meet you outside, then?”

Harry looked up. Draco had stopped his pacing and was apparently looking for some sort of response. “Tomorrow?” Harry finally asked.

“No, I thought we'd wait a week before confronting the Mungo's Board of Directors,” Draco said.

Harry sighed again, more loudly this time. “Fine. Half nine tomorrow. See you there.”

“Excellent. I'll just be going then.”

“Okay.” Harry got up and showed Draco to the door.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Draco said, his voice slightly teasing. It struck Harry as odd, considering that Draco had spent the last twenty minutes ranting about what he apparently considered a grave injustice. At that point, however, Harry had moved from mortified to exhausted, and he couldn't be bothered to return Draco's smile.

“Yeah. All right. 'Night.” Harry shut the door and promptly banged his head thrice against the nearest wall.

With a groan, he gathered his remaining energy and moved to extinguish his fire and put away his newspaper, deciding that bed was the only possible place for him at that point.

It wasn't until he'd flicked off one of the lights that he noticed something shiny sitting on his table. Rubbing his eyes, Harry moved to look closer.

A vial.

A vial holding a memory. With a little note tucked beneath it.

Harry's stomach leaped into his throat. He flicked back on the lights, his exhaustion completely forgotten. Swallowing, he slowly reached for it and unfolded the note.

“I remember, too,” it said.

Harry felt like he couldn't breathe.

Could it be that Draco had... used their memory as well?

Without another thought, he grabbed the vial and jumped into the Floo.

“Draco? Draco? Are you here?” Harry called out as he stepped out of the fireplace and into the Manor.

Mipsy Apparated in with a crack. “Oh, Mr. Harry Potter, sir! Mipsy is very sorry, sir, but Master Draco is in his private quarters. Mipsy believes him to be polishing his wand at the moment, but Mipsy shall let him know that Harry Potter is here. It isn't to be taking him very long usually,” she nodded. “Unless you is wanting to be helping him with his wand, Mr. Potter, sir?”

“Er, no. I'll just wait. Thank you, Mipsy.”

“No need to wait, I'm right here,” Draco said, entering the room. “You may go, Mipsy, but thanks ever so for entertaining Harry.” He rolled his eyes at her.

She smiled brightly as she Apparated away, chattering all the while.

“I suppose you'll be wanting to use the Pensieve?” Draco asked, leading the way to its storage space after Harry nodded. When they readied it, Harry pulled the vial from his pocket.

Draco cleared his throat and turned to go. “I'll just let you watch then. We can talk later.”

“Wait,” Harry said, reaching for his arm. “No. Don't go.”

“Don't you want to, ah, watch?” Draco asked.

“Oh, I definitely do,” he said. “But I want you to watch with me.”

Draco hesitated, biting his lip as Harry poured out the contents of the vial.

“Ready?” Harry asked.

Draco swallowed audibly. “All right,” he said, as Harry pulled him into the Pensieve to watch.

It took Harry only a moment to recognize Draco's memory. It was bright and new, having only occurred the day before, and, after all, Harry'd been listening from the other side of the door...

Water ran down Draco's face as he opened his mouth to the spray, running his fingers through his hair as he rinsed it free of suds. Taking the soap in his hands, he ran it over his body, washing himself free of the sweat and dirt that had accumulated from playing Quidditch with Harry.

He imagined Harry clinging to his broomstick as he whipped through the air, his thighs tense around it and his expression serious as he sought out the Snitch. He was sweaty and gorgeous, and Draco imagined what it would be like to have those thighs gripping him just as mercilessly.

Draco used the soap to wash his prick, semi hard already from thoughts of Harry. He couldn't help it, he had to wank if he wanted to stay in control around Harry the rest of the day, or so he told himself. He ran his hand over his cock, slicked with water and soap, as he tilted his head back into the spray and gave in to Harry's memory of them together.

Kissing in the foyer. Touching for the first time, the heat and saltiness. The desperation and madness of it. How Harry fucked him, watching as first his fingers, then his prick entered Draco, pressing into the fierce heat of him.

Harry's mind swam as he watched the scene unfold before him. Half of him couldn't help but contemplate all that this memory could mean for them, while the other half of him couldn't stop watching as the water poured over Draco's long, lean body, his skin glistening in the spray. Harry wanted him so badly it physically hurt. If only he could just reach out and touch—

Harry yelped as Draco suddenly pulled him from the Pensieve.

“What? Why'd you?” Harry asked, confused. “Draco?”

They were both breathing heavily.

“Harry,” Draco said, his voice strained. “I can't watch any more. I can't. I need you. I need you.” He pushed the Pensieve away and crawled over to Harry, kneeling before him, resting his hands on Harry's shoulders and placing his forehead against Harry's own.

Harry gasped, threading his fingers through Draco's hair. He was beautiful. “Gods, I need you too, Draco. So badly.”

Pulling Harry up to his knees as well, and then tightly against him, he murmured “Kiss me,” his mouth ghosting over Harry's.

Harry removed the last of the distance between them, and when their lips finally met, it took Harry's breath away. Draco's lips were soft and his mouth was warm, and Harry never wanted to let go.

Draco slid his hands to Harry's shoulders and pushed him back, gently lowering him to the plush carpet and falling on top of him, covering Harry's body with his own. Harry groaned as Malfoy rocked his hips forward and traced the line of Harry's jaw with his lips.

“Make a new memory with me?” Harry breathed.

Draco arched an eyebrow.

Harry grinned and curled his fingers through Draco's hair, pulling Malfoy towards him for another kiss and laughing when Draco failed to keep a straight face.

Harry reclaimed Draco's mouth then and their smiles turned to soft moans as they tasted each other's lips. Harry swiped his tongue against the back of Draco's teeth, shivering when Malfoy raised his shirt and rubbed his hand over Harry's nipple.

Arching to pull his shirt over his head, Harry moaned as Draco explored the newly exposed skin along his throat, his collarbone, his chest, writhing as Malfoy eventually closed his mouth over his nipple. Settling between his parted legs, Draco pulled his own jumper over his head and then continued licking and sucking as he moved down Harry's torso, placing open mouthed kisses along the lines of his abdomen, pausing only to undo his zip and urge Harry's trousers down. Malfoy continued to trace the ridges of Harry's hips, and finally, suck along the skin of his inner thighs. Malfoy mouthed his erection and Harry could feel the hot wet heat through the thin material of his pants.

“Please.” Harry groaned as Draco slowly peeled off his pants and tossed them aside as he nuzzled the crease of Harry's thigh. This was new; there were no memories to carry them away now. They'd never kissed or touched with any sort of tenderness, and Harry was lost in the swirl of new emotions.

When Draco licked the underside of his prick, Harry groaned and reached for the blond hair that haunted his dreams, carding his fingers through it, knowing that Malfoy'd hate it being mussed but not caring in the least. Draco sucked the head of his cock into his mouth, and Harry fisted his hair tighter as he cried out.

Draco bobbed up and down and licked along the length of him, and Harry cursed, and pulled Malfoy's head from his prick. “Not yet, I don't want to... not yet. Okay?”

Draco nodded and slithered his way back up along Harry's body until Harry felt his lips once again against his own. The weight of Draco made it real, Harry thought. It wasn't a dream or a memory. It was him and Draco, and it was real.

Harry reached down and palmed Malfoy's cock through the coarse material of his trousers.

“I want to taste you,” Harry breathed, rolling Draco over until he was beneath him. “I want to taste you, and then I want to fuck you.”

“Gods, yes,” Draco moaned, pulling Harry's arse towards him, so they could rock against each other.

Harry paused to unbutton Draco's trousers, urging him to raise his hips so he could remove his remaining clothing, and then wrapped his hand around Malfoy's cock.

Memories were great, he decided, but actually feeling Draco's heat and hardness in his hand was exponentially better. As Harry stroked him lightly, he saw Malfoy's grey eyes darken with need, and Harry could resist no longer; he ran the flat of his tongue over the head of Draco's prick, moaning at the burst of sharp flavour before he took the length of him deep in his mouth, sucking as he pulled back again. Malfoy grunted and panted below him as Harry licked along the sensitive flesh and buried his nose in the blond curls.

Releasing Draco, Harry sucked his finger in his mouth, moistening it.

“Harry,” Draco gasped. “I swear on the name of Salazar Slytherin, if you stop I'll hex your arse so—ungh . ”

Draco's threat was forgotten as Harry pressed his finger and found the puckered skin of Draco's arse. He slipped it in slowly while he ran the flat of his other palm over Draco's cock and balls, before finally leaning in and kissing the tip of his cock.

Removing his finger, Harry looked up innocently. “You were saying?”

“Fuck, just put your fingers in me, will you?”

Harry chucked and summoned the oil as he nibbled at the skin on Draco's hip before grabbing the jar as it flew towards him. “I'll do better than that,” he said, sliding a slicked finger, then two, into Draco, twisting them.

As he pressed his fingers into Draco again, his mind flashed to a memory, Draco's memory, of the last time they did this, angry and heated and intense, and suddenly Harry remembered how Malfoy'd felt as Harry fingered him. Harry curled his finger and Draco's breath came in sharp, short gasps. Harry smiled, knowing from the memory just how much Malfoy had liked that. The memories had given him that.

Harry dropped his forehead to rest on Draco's thigh and closed his eyes while he slowly moved his fingers in Draco's arse. Merlin, it was twice as intense, knowing how it felt from both sides. To touch and kiss and fuck and hold, all the while knowing how Draco felt as he did each of those things.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice strangled.

“I know,” Draco breathed. “I know.”

And he did. Draco knew how he felt as Harry fingered him, and also how Harry felt doing it; how both then and now Harry couldn't stop staring at the ring of pink flesh that stretched under his touch.

Draco reached down and grabbed Harry's shoulder, grounding him. “Harry, I need you to fuck me now.”

Harry nodded, and knelt between his legs, bending them up and apart so he could see the hole, slicking his cock and pressing the head to Draco's flesh and slowly entering him until they were as close as they could possibly be.

Draco gasped and Harry knew the burn Malfoy felt, but also the exquisite fullness of it. He bent to kiss Draco, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him tight to his own chest. Malfoy arched into the kiss with a whimper as he moved slightly over Harry's cock. The sound made Harry's hips jerk involuntarily and they both hissed in response.

Harry began to move slowly, intentionally, though the heat and agonizing tightness made him nearly insane with desire. He slid his hands over Draco's flushed damp skin, until he eventually returned to his knees and raised Malfoy's legs to fuck him even more deeply.

No secrets. No lies. All was laid bare between them and Harry gave Draco everything he had. He clasped Draco's hand in his as he poured every emotion into the thrust of his hips.

“Draco,” he choked out. “I need...”

Draco wrapped a leg around Harry's hip and grasped at his sweat-slicked skin to pull him closer, deeper. His fingernails scraped down Harry back, certainly marking him. Harry bent down to lave the scars he'd left on Malfoy's chest long ago.

Drawing in a ragged breath, Malfoy fisted Harry's hair, pulling his head up so their lips aligned. “Please, Harry.” Draco brushed his lips up against Harry's, lightly, barely touching them.

Harry licked at his bottom lip before kissing him desperately.

He knew then that he'd been wrong all those years ago. Kissing was more than he ever imagined it to be. Or, at least, kissing Draco was.

“Please, Harry,” Draco breathed. “Fuck me.”

Harry pressed him into the floor and gripped his hips as he began to fuck Draco quickly. Malfoy grunted in response and Harry watched greedily as Draco reached down and took himself in his hand, stroking his prick as Harry slid in and out of him. He swiped some of the wetness from Malfoy's cock with his finger, sucking it into his mouth as Draco watched through hooded lids.

When Harry bent down to kiss him again, Draco tensed and came, crying out Harry's name against his mouth as he tensed and jerked. Harry slowed his pace and held Malfoy as he came apart in his arms, kissing his throat, his eyelids, his chest before finally reaching for Draco's cock and stroking it, milking the last drops from the tip before tracing his fingers through the thick whiteness that had coated their bellies and bringing the salty bitterness to his tongue.

As the tension left Draco's body, Harry kissed him and then began fucking him in earnest once again, adopting a rhythm that quickly brought him to the edge of his own release. Shuddering, Harry slid as deeply as he could into Draco and let his orgasm wash over him, spilling into the tight heat before finally falling back down against Malfoy and allowing their mouths to meet once more.

He rolled off Draco then, lying on his side to face him. Harry felt Draco's breath dancing across his lips and he smiled, content. Draco returned his own soft smile.

Harry threaded his fingers through Draco's.

“I don't want to have to remember the past to feel your arms around me,” Harry said softly. “And I don't want to have to turn to a memory just to know what it's like to kiss you.”

Draco cupped Harry's face in his palms. “Yes, Harry, I understand. You'd rather not use a vial when you could be fucking my arse. Now, please. Less talking, more kissing.”

Harry snorted. “That's not exactly what I—”

“Kissing, Potter.”

“But I just—”

Draco rolled his eyes and pulled Harry tightly into his arms. “Potter. Kisses.”

When Harry opened his mouth to protest again, Draco cut him off with a lingering kiss that erased every other thought from his mind.

Harry's heart soared.

And it was better than any memory.