Fic: Everything Forgotten (To Memory), part 3

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FIC: Everything Forgotten (To Memory), part 3

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 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 10 words a day—11 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 hadsaid 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 Pensieve 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 gotten 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.

--> Go to Part 4 <--