Fic: Everything Forgotten (To Memory), part 2

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FIC: Everything Forgotten (To Memory), part 2

Gift for:  envy_venis
Summary: Harry couldn't remember and Draco knew too much. Or was it the other way around?
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Thanks: To my delightful prereaders and betas sapphirescribe, otta_ff, saltygoodness24, twilightmundi, and arcadianmaggie, I offer you endless thanks and epic squishes. xoxo

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.

 

 --> Go to Part 3 <--

o Memory)