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Potter was screaming.

Draco took a step back, despite himself, and the world tugged itself back with him. He blinked, feeling as if he’d just stepped right off the end of a moving staircase, and then Potter wasn’t screaming after all.

Potter was standing in a rather dank and cavernous kitchen, slathering violently pink icing onto a large and slightly lopsided cake. Behind him, a sinkful of dishes were washing themselves up, sending drifts of bubbles floating gently up through a slant of pale afternoon light, coming down from a window set high in the kitchen wall. Potter was humming under his breath, slightly out of tune. After a moment, Draco recognised the song – with some disgust – as the theme tune some enterprising fan had once composed for the Chudley Cannons.

Feeling a little braced by this evidence of Potter’s terrible taste, Draco stepped forwards again. Up close, you could see that Potter had flour in his hair, and that his eyes were still bright, bright green. He was wearing ratty Muggle clothes – also somewhat floury – and his tongue was sticking out, just a little, as he layered the icing carefully round the side of the cake. Next to him on the kitchen table, a whole herd of little sugar animals stamped and swayed uncertainly, waiting to take their place on the finished icing.

Draco was reminded, suddenly and rather unpleasantly, of one of his own childhood birthday parties. The house-elves hadn’t included a dragon among the animals crowding the top of his green and silver cake, and he’d sulked and sulked until Mother had ordered them to the nursery and had them perform what Granger’s latest position paper on ‘The Rights and Responsibilities of Sentient Creatures and Beings’ would have referred to as ‘acts designed to cause intense humiliation and distress’. It had worked at the time, though: for years to come Draco had rated it as among his top three birthdays. Not to mention, Mother had bought him a sugar dragon the next day, as well, all wrapped up in a red and white box, breathing out flames that smelt of burnt toffee. It had been so big, he’d felt a little sick after eating it.

“Malfoy,” Potter said. He half-raised his wand, sending a curl of icing out across the table before he vanished it with an impatient flick. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Draco opened his mouth to answer. But Potter was looking past him, over his shoulder. He turned around, and the sick feeling from his memory lurched abruptly out of the past and took up residence in his stomach. For there was Draco Malfoy, right in front of him, coming through the kitchen door looking sweaty and pale and altogether not his very best, and raising up his wand in one shaking hand.

“Seriously, Malfoy,” said Potter. Then he blinked and frowned, and levelled his wand.

“Malfoy?”

The Draco in the doorway swallowed. Then he pointed his wand straight at Potter, and said a single word, “Crucio.”

Potter was screaming.

Draco stumbled back from the Pensieve, shaking silvery drops out of his hair, his heart thudding like a piston. “I didn’t do it,” he said, as soon as he could get the words out. “Potter, I swear –”

Potter, sitting on the other side of a desk, all buttoned up in a scarlet Auror uniform and looking as if he had never baked a cake or screamed his guts out on the floor of his kitchen, raised a hand. “Calm down, Malfoy,” he said. “I want to know what you think, that’s all.”

“I am perfectly calm,” Draco snapped, drawing himself up. He’d forgotten just how much he loathed Potter, he realised. One look at his smug, self-righteous face and Draco was back in the courtroom, hearing Potter testify to the Wizengamot on his behalf. Taking pity on the unfortunate, misguided Malfoy family. “I merely want to point out, Potter, that the person in that memory isn’t me. I never – well, you know my record. I never did anything like that to you, Potter.”

“That’s Auror Potter to you, Malfoy,” said Potter. “And not for lack of trying, as I remember.”

Draco clenched his teeth.

Potter sighed. “Though I admit my response wasn’t exactly ideal.”

“You mean, practically vivisecting me?”

“Yeah, that.” Potter had the grace to wince. “Sorry.”

“Oh,” said Draco, as airily as he could manage, “don’t mention it, Potter.” He pulled his rickety Ministry-issue chair back into place in front of the desk and sat back down, smoothing his robe out over his knees. “Water under the bridge, and all that.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Right. Malfoy, what I’m trying to say here is that I believe you. I know perfectly well that it didn’t happen like that.” He leaned forwards, sending a pile of scrolls on his desk cascading to one side. “Didn’t you notice, back in that memory?”

“Notice what, exactly?”

“That wasn’t you. That was little Malfoy!” Potter sounded unnervingly triumphant.

“Little. Malfoy.”

“Exactly.” Potter tapped the side of the Pensieve, sending the silvery liquid inside it swaying.

“I’ve checked the memory several times. That’s the you from five years ago, in the middle of the war. That’s why you look quite so … scrawny and awful.”

“Little. Malfoy.” Draco could feel his cheeks reddening horribly. But even Potter must be able to recognise a flush of righteous rage when he saw one, surely.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Potter flapped a hand towards Draco. “Come on. You’ve changed since then, right?” For some reason, Potter took this as a cue to go rather red himself. It clashed horribly with his uniform, Draco noticed. “Younger Malfoy, then, if that makes you feel better. From, you know, back when you were Crucio-ing other Death Eaters left and right on Voldemort’s orders?”

Hearing it said like that was rather like stepping off the moving staircase all over again. “Yes, Potter,” said Draco. “Thank you so very much for the reminder.”

Potter sat back in his seat. “No problem, Malfoy. Any time.”

Draco paused. Potter might be an ass, but now he thought about it, his other self from the memory had looked somewhat – how had Potter put it? “Scrawny and awful?” he said aloud, putting as much chill into his voice as he could manage. “Really, Potter?”

Potter shrugged. “Well, yeah, Malfoy,” he said. “Basically. It wasn’t a great time for any of us, was it?”

“As I recall, Potter, you yourself spent most of the Battle of Hogwarts looking like a particularly obstreperous Flobberworm,” said Draco. Except for the part where you saved my life, he stopped himself adding. And except for the part when Potter had just looked, well, dead. Draco tried not to think about that part under any circumstances whatsoever.

“Don’t worry, Malfoy,” Potter said kindly. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve always looked scrawny and awful.”

“And you’ve always looked like a speccy git,” said Draco automatically. “So, you think someone contaminated your Pensieve, somehow, with a memory of me from five years ago?” he added. “I must admit, it seems as if there’d be easier ways to go about framing me.”

Potter suddenly looked rather weary. “Not the Pensieve,” he said. “Malfoy, I remember that happening. All of it. Just as if it was real.”

“But you know it wasn’t real, don’t you?” said Draco hastily. “Not like that, anyway.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Malfoy. I know.”

“You remember me torturing you?” Draco asked, slower this time. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been able to hold Crucio for, during the war, but the Dark Lord had always been there, watching, so Draco had tried. He’d tried very hard indeed. And, when he stepped out of the Pensieve, Potter had still been screaming. “Apologies, I suppose, Potter,” he said. “Not to be construed as an admission of guilt, naturally.”

“Oh, naturally, Malfoy,” said Potter. “But thanks. I think.”

“No problem, Potter,” said Draco. “Any time.” He frowned. All things considered, it was a good thing he’d kept his name well out of his little side project. But that same project meant that he did possess a certain level of expertise. “Memory magic can be bad news,” he said. “You need to catch whoever did this before they do it again.”

“Well, obviously,” said Potter. “Though that’s easier said than done. This isn’t the first case involving impossible memories of wartime unpleasantness.” He paused, doing a good impression of someone actually thinking things over. “It isn’t even the first case involving you, Malfoy,” he said at length.

Draco stared at him. “Do feel free to elucidate, Potter,” he said. “Any time.”

Potter tapped the Pensieve again. “The memory that ended up in my head wasn’t yours, of course,” he said. “I can’t tell you exactly who it was copied from, I’m afraid.”

“From someone I fucking well tortured, that’s who.” Draco sucked in a breath. It wouldn’t do to make a scene. “Apologies. Do continue.”

“Well. We’ve just identified the origin of some other anomalous memories. Memories of Voldemort casting Crucio on the – on the subject. Those did come from you, Malfoy.” Potter leaned forwards, his green eyes glittering. “Do you have any idea how they might have been taken? Any recollection of something out of the ordinary, in the past few weeks? Any gaps or inconsistencies in your own memories?”

Potter seemed entirely matter-of-fact, sitting there in his messy office in his red Auror uniform, the light from the low fire behind him glinting off his glasses – as if he was overseeing one of Draco’s twice-yearly probation interviews, or fining him for an improperly charmed broom. “Nothing exactly springs to mind,” Draco said at last. And it was true, nothing did. Nothing seemed to be missing from his memories, either – although, really, how would one know? “How do you even know they’re my memories?” he asked. “The Dark Lord wasn’t exactly stingy with his punishments.”

“I can’t tell you that,” said Potter, suddenly every inch the Auror.

“Who remembered it, then? Surely I have a right to know who ended up with some copy of my own memories swimming around in their brain.”

“I can’t tell you that either.”

“Well,” said Draco. “Potter, not that this hasn’t been fascinating, but if you aren’t going to charge me with anything, I think I might like to sod off home and contemplate the fact that persons unknown have apparently been poking about inside my head. There aren’t any side effects that you might see fit to tell me about, are there?” he asked.

Potter shrugged. “You know as much as I do on that one, Malfoy. I can tell you that much.”

“Right.” Draco was horrified to find his voice was suddenly on the quavery side. “Thanks. Ta, then. Good to catch up, and all that.”

“Wait, Malfoy.” Potter held up a hand. “You might actually be able to help us out when it comes to solving this thing sooner rather than later. I’m assuming you’ll let us know, of course, if you do remember anything suspicious.”

“Oh, I’ll come running,” Draco muttered.

“I’m glad you’re feeling so cooperative. But there is something a little more specific. Tell me, Malfoy, do you know anything at all about the possible whereabouts of a man called Samuel Snaveley? He was pardoned after the war, but apparently we didn’t exactly know everything he’d gotten up to, and now he’s nowhere to be found.”

“Well, I know he was a Snatcher during the war,” said Draco. “Nasty piece of work. But we haven’t exactly kept in touch. If someone remembers him doing something horrible to them in the recent past – or has his memories of something horrible being done to him - for all I know it actually happened.”

“It didn’t, though,” said Potter. “We’re sure of that much.” He stretched his arms behind his head and yawned, looking for a moment rather rangy and schoolboyish. “Well, Malfoy,” he said, “not that it hasn’t been nice to catch up, and all, but I think I’ve divulged enough classified information for one afternoon. You do realise that nothing I’ve told you leaves this room, right?”

“I’m free to go?”

“Well, yeah, Malfoy. For the moment. Don’t go off on any jaunts to the continent to visit Mummy and Daddy for the next little while, though.” Potter seemed to have already lost interest.

“Yes, Potter, I’ll try my best to restrain myself from leaving the country,” said Draco waspishly. Since Potter didn’t see fit to even reply, he was left with no choice but to pick up his cloak and make a dignified exit, closing the door behind him as hard as he dared. At least, he thought to himself as he hurried towards the Ministry Floos, Potter was too dim to notice that he had given Draco all the information he needed to start investigating on his own account. Draco might not know exactly where Samuel Snaveley, ex-Snatcher, was hanging his cloak these days. But he had a fair idea of where to start looking.

--

“And then you just let him go?” said Ron incredulously. “Mate. Mate.”

“That’s pretty much what Albert said,” Harry agreed gloomily. “Said we should at least have had him spend a night in the cells. Shaken him up a bit.”

Albert Postmark, coming up on his thirtieth year in the Auror Department, was Harry’s boss. What he’d actually said to Harry, shaking his long, smooth face – which always reminded Harry a little of a spoon – over one of his endless cups of tea, was more along the lines of, “Harry, Harry, Harry. What are we going to do with you?” Then he’d given Harry what had seemed like an hour-long gentle, more-in-sadness-than-in-anger bollocking, while Harry’s Auror partner, Meena Jones, made you fucked up faces at him through the half open door behind Albert’s back. She’d bought him a cup of coffee afterwards, mind you.

“Albert’s always like this when it comes to things that bring up the war, mate,” she’d said. “He stayed in the Department, after all. Tried to do what he could; had a rough time of it. Not inclined to take it easy on Death Eaters, you know?”

“I know,” Harry had said. “Malfoy was always a pretty shit Death Eater, mind you.”

Meena had shrugged. “An Unforgivable’s an Unforgivable, right?” she’d said. “As far as Albert’s concerned, that’s that. Hell, as far as I’m concerned, for that matter.”

Harry had thought to himself that sometimes it was pretty obvious that Meena had gone to Beaubaxtons and had spent the war in France. But he hadn’t said anything at the time, and they’d moved on to discussing the case. Meena was pretty sharp, even if she had picked up some weird obsession with sending him off to see a Mind Healer after he’d picked up his Malfoy non-memory.

“It’s not that I think you’re nuts, mate,” she’d said. “It’s that you had a traumatic experience. Or you remember having it, which comes to the same thing.”

“I’m fairly sure it doesn’t, actually,” Harry had told her. And, once he’d performed a strategic distraction by stealing the last Batty Biscuit, that had been that.

“Well,” Hermione was saying, “I think you did the right thing.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” said Harry, feeling rather touched. For all that she’d probably agree with Meena about the Mind Healer, Hermione had her priorities straight where it counted.

“I mean,” Hermione went on, “I’m assuming you think Malfoy’s going to hare off to chase after this Samuel Snaveley character in an attempt to clear his name, leading you right to his hideout?”

Harry nodded. “Exactly. Got a Trace on him; I’ll know as soon as he leaves Malfoy Manor.”

Ron whistled gently. “Not bad,” he said. “I take it back.”

“See,” said Harry smugly. “This is the sort of investigative genius you left behind when you abandoned me to start working at Wheezes, you traitor.”

Ron shrugged, grinning. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “Not sorry.”

Hermione patted Ron on the knee and took a sip of her pint. “See,” she said, swallowing, “what I think will actually happen is that Malfoy will be too much of a coward to so much as stick his pointy nose out of the gates of Malfoy Manor for the next month or so. At most you’ll get to follow him on a thrilling trip to Diagon Alley to watch him trying on new waistcoats at Madam Malkin's.”

“Malfoy’s banned from Madam Malkin's, actually,” said Harry. “And about half the other shops on Diagon Alley.”

“How sad for him,” said Hermione. “What you actually need,” she went on, “is to research memory magic. I mean, I can help. But it’s not an area that I have much appetite for, these days.”

“You don’t have to,” said Ron.

Harry nodded. They didn’t talk much about what had happened with Hermione’s parents, after the war. The last he’d heard, they remembered almost everything. But it hadn’t been much fun, there, for a good long while. “Yeah,” he said. “Just point me towards some books. Or preferably an expert or two.”

Hermione swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “Thanks,” she said, sounding a little watery. “Actually, I have been corresponding with someone who’s been doing some interesting work on Pensieves. He’s a bit mysterious about giving a name, but I have some ideas. In fact –” she stopped herself. “No, never mind.”

“Now you’re being a bit mysterious,” said Harry. “Come on, give.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Hermione. “I want to check some things first.”

“Well,” said Harry. “Okay, then.” It was practically the definition of a sensitive subject where Hermione was concerned, after all.

“What I’m thinking about,” said Ron, with considerable satisfaction, “is little Malfoy.”

Harry snorted. “He kept repeating it,” he said. “For a moment there, I thought I’d broken him.” Privately, he had to admit that Malfoy had grown into himself, at least a bit. He was still tall and pale and pointy – generally somewhat odd-looking, in fact – but he was sort of memorable. Striking, that was the word. Still, if he said as much to Ron, he’d never hear the end of it.

“So,” said Hermione, “while you’re waiting for little Malfoy to make his move, I suggest you get stuck into the case proper.”

Harry nodded. “I need to work out how the memories were stolen,” he said. “And why I was targeted.”

“Not to mention the other victims,” Hermione added. “Albert Postmark, and Mafalda Hopkirk – she’s the one who ended up with Malfoy’s memories of being Crucioed, right?” She sighed. “I can’t believe that you and Postmark are still on the case,” she remarked. “Talk about a conflict of interest.”

“That’s the Auror Department for you,” Ron agreed. “At least it’s only the two of them out there with the false memories. Or three, now, counting you, Harry.”

“So far,” Harry agreed.

Albert had woken up one morning remembering Voldemort casting Imperio on him in the middle of a perfectly innocent Department meeting – which perhaps, come to think of it, explained his reaction to Harry letting Malfoy off easy. It hadn’t exactly been difficult to identify the memory itself as belonging to Samuel Snaveley, a Snatcher who’d once been Imperioed into casting a series of nasty curses on himself in return for some perceived infraction. Albert himself remembered only the warm, calm embrace of the Imperius curse, and the way it had seemed so very sensible to start casting the Blighting Hex on his own arm. But anyone who entered Albert’s Pensieve memory of the incident could see Voldemort, standing tall and pale in front of a chart displaying projected Auror Department expenses for the forthcoming fiscal year, remark to some invisible interlocutor that Samuel was putting on rather a good show, wasn’t he?

And Mafalda Hopkins, one of the most stubborn fixtures on the Wizengamot, had woken up screaming, with what turned out to be Malfoy’s memories of being Crucioed rattling around her head. She was keeping quiet, at the moment, doubtless waiting to see if there was political capital anywhere in the offing. But sooner or later, Harry reflected glumly, someone was sure to make public accusations based on a false memory and cause one hell of a snarl-up. Not to mention, if his own Malfoy not-a-memory proved anything for certain, despite the likely denials of Snaveley, if and when they tracked him down, it was that the memories weren’t exactly false.

“The memories of Malfoy casting Crucio were taken from Oswald Starkton,” he said. “Low-ranking Death Eater; pissed Voldemort off at one point when Malfoy was in his bad books. Still remembers the torture; doesn’t remember anything about his memory being taken. Or copied, I suppose. Meena interviewed him in Azkaban this afternoon.”

“So whoever stole his memories managed to get into Azkaban?” Ron grimaced. “This case is looking more fucked up by the minute.”

“Still,” said Hermione thoughtfully, “it does narrow the field, doesn’t it?”

Harry shrugged. “Not as much as you’d think, annoyingly enough. Security’s not as hot as it used to be, now that the Dementors are gone. So much for our big post-war political victory, huh?”

Hermione looked out over the Leaky, full of dim bustle behind the twin barriers of their Muffliato and Obscuratus charms. “Well, I’ll still take it,” she said primly. Then she cracked a grin and raised her glass, looking over at Ron.

“Here’s to conditional victories and the art of the possible and all that kind of thing, yeah?” he said, smiling back at her in an alarmingly sappy way as they clinked pint glasses.

“Yeah,” echoed Harry, raising his own pint and plastering a smile on his face. “And all that kind of thing.” Then he caught sight of Ginny shoving her way towards them through the crowd, which seemed particularly het-up for a Wednesday, and grinned for real. “Ginny,” he called, “over here!”

“Managed to tear yourself away from that Norwegian Keeper after all, Gin?” Ron asked.

“Quit it, Ron,” said Ginny. “We need to get out of here right now.” Her face was pale, Harry realised. She looked as if she’d just taken a Bludger to the stomach.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked. “It isn’t Ingrid, is it?”

Ginny shook her head impatiently. “What I said,” she said. “We need to get out of here. Harry needs to get out of here.” She held up a copy of the Prophet. Splashed across the front page, right under the flashing text reading ‘Special! Late Edition!’ was the headline. ‘Harry Potter Cast Crucio on Me!” it read, in large, red letters. “Personal Account by our Very Own Rita Skeeter! Pensieve Verified!”

Harry stared at the headline. He wanted to punch someone, he realised dimly. He wanted to punch someone right in their stupid face. Instead, he finished the last of his pint and thumped the glass down on the table, wishing there was something there to squash. “They got at Amycus Carrow in Azkaban,” he said. “That’s his memory, all right. From that time in Ravenclaw Tower.”

“He spat at McGonagall, mate,” said Ron. He scratched at the back of his head uncertainly. “And anyway, the Ministry will know it’s fake. Not that we wouldn’t all like to – well, maybe not to cast Crucio on Skeeter. But, well, you know.”

“It’s not as if I didn’t do it, though,” said Harry. “I just didn’t do it to her.”

“We all received blanket pardons for actions conducted during the Second Wizarding War,” said Hermione. “You’re at no legal risk, Harry. All the same, we should definitely get out of here.” She craned around Ginny to look at the barroom of the Leaky, which now resembled nothing so much as a Friday night after a big Quidditch match. Harry could see copies of the Prophet being passed around, now, with the picture on the cover shifting between a photograph of him looking shifty and one of Rita Skeeter looking brave and resolute and just a little teary. He wanted to punch Skeeter, he realised, specifically. But then, she already remembered him torturing her. Did that count?

“Come on,” said Ginny. “Before someone sees through the Obscuratus and we have to make a break for it.”

“We’ll sort this out, Harry,” Ron promised.

Harry looked around the Leaky. “I’ll sort this out,” he said tightly, before the squeeze of Apparition hit. “Just you watch me.”

“So, long story short, Potter,” said Albert Postmark the next morning. “You’re off the case.”

“Right,” said Harry. “I mean, yeah, obviously. Sir. Do you need me in custody?”

Albert shook his head and spooned sugar into his tea. His mug, Harry noticed dimly, had the crest of the Auror Department on it. “Your own Pensieve testimony has made matters quite clear, Potter. You had no involvement in the events Rita Skeeter claims to recall.”

“It’s not as if Pensieves are looking particularly reliable, nowadays,” Harry pointed out.

“True. More to the point, Auror Jones has already given evidence under Veritaserum. Apparently, you spent the morning when Skeeter remembers the attack occurring combing through the archives together, looking for cases with a similar link to memory magic. Auror Jones was quite vocal on the subject of an attack by a flock of feral memos you disturbed in Level S3 of the archives.”

“Well, they bit,” said Harry. He still had the paper cuts, as well. “Meena took Veritaserum for me?”

“With alacrity, Harry,” said Albert. “Of course, your Polyjuice results came back clean. We’ll be releasing a statement later in the day to that effect.”

“There’s still Skeeter.”

“Well, Harry,” said Albert gently, “I believe the time has come to make public certain details of the case. I imagine Skeeter will be only too willing to report on the new aspects of the story.”

“You mean, once it becomes a story about me committing war crimes instead of some memory of an attack half the readers probably think she made up? Yeah, I imagine so.”

Albert Postmark took a neat sip of tea, staring owlishly at Harry over the rim of his official Auror Department mug. For a man who looked so much like a spoon, Harry found himself thinking, he had quite a penetrating gaze. “Do you really think, Harry,” he asked, “that would be such a bad thing?”

Harry sighed. “I gave my testimony after the war, Albert,” he said. “If you remember, it was the Wizengamot’s decision not to release certain details.” He realised he was clenching his fists in his lap, and relaxed them with a certain amount of effort, staring around Albert’s office as he did so.

As ever, the walls lined with battered case files and the enchanted window with a dusty spider plant on the sill had a calming effect. Every day, Albert’s window looked out on a different landscape, all of them empty of people. Today, it was showing a wide grassy plain, stretching off to a range of low mountains in the distance. Overhead, the sky was a deep clear blue, so pure and dense in colour it was clear that even the plain itself was very, very high. Closer to space, Harry thought, breathing out and stretching his fingers.

“I know there’s an argument for – for truth being a step to healing, or whatever,” he said. “Merlin knows I don’t like it when people hold me up as a beacon of purity. I don’t like to think about what the war made me capable of. What I might have done if it hadn’t ended when it did.” He glanced across at Albert, sitting impassive behind his desk. Listening. “But really, Albert,” he said at last. “I just wish it had never happened. Any of it. That’s what I’d actually like, okay? And I know it’s impossible.”

“It’s impossible,” Albert echoed, giving Harry a small, strained smile.

“So we carry on, and so forth,” said Harry. “But, really. Rita Skeeter?”

“A most successful journalist,” Albert agreed. “No doubt this will do wonders for her career.”

“No doubt,” said Harry sourly. Really, one of the worst things about all this was having to feel even the slightest bit of pity for Rita Skeeter. “So, I’m on leave for the foreseeable future?”

“For the present,” Albert said peaceably. “Do take care, Harry.”

“Don’t worry,” said Harry. “I’ll try and restrain myself from fleeing the country.”

The only good thing about the day, Harry reflected, was that he didn’t have to escape from Ministry custody in order to start chasing down leads. That, and his Trace on Malfoy hadn’t gone off yet: the git was still holed up in Malfoy Manor. Still, he thought to himself as he stomped his way towards the office he and Meena shared, as silver linings went, these were pretty flimsy.

Meena was sitting behind her desk, looking rather wan.

“Don’t worry,” Harry told her, scooping up some files as inconspicuously as he could manage. “I’ll be back in time for the paperwork.” He paused, feeling rather awkward.

“Thanks, though,” he said. “For the Veritaserum, I mean.”

Meena flapped a hand. “Don’t mention it, Harry,” she said, obviously aiming for breeziness and instead sounding rather hoarse.

Harry stared at her. “Are you all right, Meena?” he asked. He had a sudden strong idea of what this was about, though. Meena wasn’t all right at all.

“It’s just, it was a real memory, wasn’t it?” she said now, tapping her bitten-short nails against the jar of eyeballs on her desk, left over from a couple of cases ago and now sporting a jaunty hat folded out of defunct memos. “It really happened, during the war?”

“It really happened,” said Harry.

“Right,” said Meena. “I know things were different, during the war.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “They were.”

“And I know I don’t know what it was like, not really.” Meena scrubbed both hands through her short black hair, until it was almost as much of a mess as Harry’s own. For a moment, Harry was reminded sharply of Tonks, although Meena would never, he was certain, be caught dead saying wotcha. “But it’s probably a good thing you’re being put on leave right now, Harry. For both of us.”

“Yeah,” said Harry numbly. “Probably.”

Meena nodded towards his armful of files, giving him a small, tired smile. “I didn’t see those,” she said. “But don’t do anything too stupid, huh, Harry? And don’t you dare fuck up my investigation.”

“Yeah,” said Harry again. “I’ll do my best. Not to fuck it up, I mean.”

There didn’t seem much else to say, really. Certainly, Harry thought as he strode off down the corridor, he couldn’t exactly have told Meena the truth. “Amycus Carrow tortured my friends,” he imagined telling her. “He spat in the face of my favourite teacher. I cast Cruciatus on him, and if I went back in time, then I’d do it again.” Yeah, that would have gone down well.

Harry shrunk his purloined files down with a vicious wave of his wand and made for the Floos. The Trace he’d set on Malfoy was chiming softly in the back of his head: the pointy wanker was finally on the move. At least, Harry thought, that was one thing that wasn’t coming completely unstuck. Hell, sneaking after Malfoy was nothing if not familiar, in a messed-up way. Reassuring, almost.

--

Draco stared down at the figure lying frozen before him on the grass, and allowed his nastiest grin to steal across his face. “Just like old times, this, Potter,” he observed. “I suppose I could stamp on your nose again, if you want to recreate the experience in full.”

Potter could apparently move his eyeballs, because they quite unmistakeably rolled.

Draco shrugged. “Have it your way, then,” he said, lifting the Immobulus charm. “Never let it be said that I couldn’t take a hint.”

Potter pulled himself to his feet, wincing. Half of him was still apparently missing in action, his Invisibility Cloak hanging in shimmering folds from one shoulder. The general effect was vaguely ridiculous. “How did you know I was there, Malfoy?” he asked. Then he rubbed the back of his head, grimacing. “You arse,” he added.

“I didn’t know it was you,” said Draco, with complete honesty. “Though I can’t say I’m exactly surprised. If you must know, I thought I might trip the wards on Snaveley’s hideout. We don’t all have much practice breaking and entering, you know. So I cast enough Care-and-Caution charms on me to pick up a suspicious ant in my general vicinity. And you, Potter, make a great deal more noise than the average ant, even under that fancy cloak of yours.”

Draco looked around them and cast another Disillusionment charm, just to be on the safe side. There was what looked like a large blackthorn thicket between them and the large, bleak house which Pansy had assured him had been owned by the Snaveleys for generations, but it was best to be sure – especially with half of Potter now on show to all and sundry.

“Right,” said Potter ruefully. “Well, that’s one plan bollocksed up already.” He paused, looking slightly more cheerful. “Hermione still owes me a drink, I reckon. That’s something.”

Draco did his best to raise an eyebrow. “I can’t say I’m interested in the intricacies of your relationship with Granger, Potter,” he said. “Congratulations on your stunning turn in last evening’s Prophet, by the way. Finally cracked and decided to take it out on Skeeter, I see?”

“Yeah,” said Potter, completely deadpan. “I couldn’t take another article on my love life. So, what can I say? Crucio seemed like a totally proportionate response.”

“See,” said Draco, “that’s the Potter I remember. Petty, vindictive, prone to bouts of vicious, uncontrollable rage…”

“You know, Malfoy,” said Potter mildly, “there’s precisely one person I know for certain has fed Rita Skeeter stories about me in the past. I didn’t think he knew much about memory magic, but I can’t deny he has an excellent motive for muddying the waters on this case. And he does enjoy making my life uncomfortable. Why, just a minute or so ago, he was threatening me with grievous bodily harm. I’m sure a Pensieve record of that little moment would interest quite a few people.”

“Fuck you, Potter. You know I had nothing to do with it!” Draco realised he was almost shouting, and hastily lowered his voice to a furious whisper. “I don’t give a shit what dubious stuff you got up to during the war, Potter. Why should I? As far as I’m concerned, you won, and that’s the only thing that matters.”

Potter had been looking rather smug, but his half-grin faded as Draco went on. “Yeah, well,” he said at length, his voice sounding rather peculiar. “Thanks for that rousing endorsement, Malfoy.” He looked over past the clump of blackthorn to the Snaveley house, which stood in the middle of a decidedly grim, grey moor, looking extremely grim and grey itself. Even the front door, Draco was impressed to notice, seemed to have been transfigured into solid granite. “I don’t suppose this venture into breaking and entering includes some knowledge of the entry charms, Malfoy?” Potter was asking. “Because something tells me that would be useful.”

“As a matter of fact, Potter,” said Draco, “it does. Just as well, since I rather doubt we can count on Ministry backup at the moment.”

“Yeah, I’m going what you might call freelance for the next little while,” Potter admitted, with a quite unnecessary and distracting sideways grin. “Just you and me, Malfoy.”

Draco stared at the Snaveley house, standing square and forbidding in the thin autumn light, and doubtless bristling with unpleasant defensive charms. “Fantastic, Potter,” he said. “Really, that’s just what I wanted to hear.”

“That’s sweet, Malfoy,” said Potter. “Also, your Disillusionment charms suck balls. You’d better come under the Cloak.”

“Absolutely not,” said Draco promptly.

“Aw, Malfoy,” said Potter. “You’re hurting my feelings. But, seriously, we’d better get a move on.” He rubbed the back of his head again, rather gingerly.

“Merlin’s balls, Potter,” said Draco, casting a hasty healing charm. “I’m beginning to think you have absolutely no sense of self preservation. You were just going to charge right in with what I can only assume was a splitting headache, weren’t you?” He eyed Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, which looked hardly big enough to cover Potter, let alone the two of them. “And there is absolutely no way I am getting under that thing with you,” he said firmly. “I do have some standards, even now.”

“Stop shoving, Malfoy,” whispered Potter, five minutes later. “Your feet are sticking out.”

Potter had some cheek, Draco thought, given that he was currently using Draco as a glorified armrest. In front of them, the opening charm snaked its way around the edge of the front door, chewing through Snaveley’s defences as it went.

“Screw you, Potter,” Draco whispered back. “This was your idea, remember?”

“Well, I didn’t anticipate you behaving like a bloody octopus.”

“I am being perfectly still and stealthy, Potter! Your Cloak is too small!”

“You’re shoving!”

“No, you’re shoving!” Undermining his point slightly, Draco stuck his elbow back, hoping to hit Potter in a soft bit. Potter’s elbow was coming the other way, though, and for a moment there was some undignified swaying and scrambling under the Cloak. Eventually, Draco let go of what he was going to pretend had not been the front of Potter’s jersey, and cleared his throat. “The spell should be finished shortly,” he said, trying very hard to sound like a dignified and adult wizard who would never even consider getting into a fight with Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World.

“Is this really working?” Potter asked, a few extremely strained minutes later, straight into Draco’s ear.

Draco scrambled for an elaborate retort, but trying hard not to think about Snaveley, or breaking and entering, or the war years in general, was taking up most of his concentration. Not to mention that he was uneasily certain that one of his feet was sticking out from under Potter’s Cloak. And, he was fairly sure, he could smell Potter’s hair. “Screw you,” he said again.

“Right, Malfoy.” Potter didn’t sound particularly impressed.

“Screw you right up the arse, Potter!”

“I’m sensing a theme, here, Malfoy.” Now Potter sounded amused.

“Oh, double screw you,” Draco was saying, when – thankfully – the front door of the Snaveley house swung open, revealing a large, grimy-looking entrance chamber, lit fitfully by a sour trickle of daylight and a couple of large stone sconces full of apple-green flames.

“Finally,” said Potter, elbowing his way in front of Draco and casting a couple of surveillance charms through the doorway. “Looks like the coast is clear.”

Tagging along on one of Potter’s little adventures, Draco discovered, was both tedious and nerve-wracking. Once they were inside the house, Potter spent what seemed like an inordinate amount of time checking for traps and setting defensive charms. He seemed to harbour particularly dark suspicions about the stuffed troll head hanging over the front door, even though Draco could have told him that the only thing it betrayed was Snaveley’s unfortunate taste in interior decoration. Still, Potter spent an eternity checking it for jinxes, all the while pressed close enough to Draco under the Cloak that Draco was in serious danger of getting a mouthful of hair every time Potter turned his head. Then, just as Draco was about to suggest at least sitting down, if they were going to spend much longer in the entrance hall, Potter shrugged, muttered “Point Me Samuel Snaveley,” and set off striding up the stairs.

“A little warning next time, Potter,” Draco hissed. “It’s difficult enough staying under this Cloak as it is.”

Potter paid no attention whatsoever. “Is it just me,” he said, “or does this place seem somewhat … on the dead side?”

Draco looked around. Through the glimmer of the Cloak, the upper gallery of the Snaveley house was thick with dust and cobwebs, and the portraits lining the walls were hardly moving. If it wasn’t for the still-flickering torches, and an abandoned, half-drunk cup of coffee resting next to a dull crystal ball on an ornate and hideous occasional table, he would have thought the house was long deserted.

It was perfectly clear, Draco thought, what the matter was. “Well, yes, Potter,” he said stiffly. “That would be because the house is dying. Snaveley’s the last of his line, you know, and he’s not exactly likely to be filling the nursery with the patter of tiny feet any time soon. Wizarding houses pick up on something like that, you know. Or, I suppose,” he added, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice, “you obviously don’t.”

“No,” said Potter, “I’ve never heard something like that before. And I’m actually half-way sure it’s mostly bullshit. But – wait a second.” He stopped outside a half-open door, his face intent in the low green light. “Here we go.”

The room Samuel Snaveley was sitting in actually had a fire burning in the hearth. It was the first thing Draco noticed – that, and the piles of dirty plates and tattered Quidditch magazines piled up around Snaveley’s armchair. Snaveley himself seemed to be asleep, with his feet propped up on the fireguard. He was wearing frayed pink socks, had a packet of Ghastly Gobstoppers open at his elbow, and generally couldn’t be looking more harmless if he tried.

“Bullshit, Potter?” said Draco crisply, casting a quick Incarcerous at Snaveley and stepping out from under the Cloak. “Are you sure about that? I mean, this whole scene is just full of dignity, don’t you agree? Really doing a sterling job of upholding the family honour, aren’t you, Snaveley?” Up close, Snaveley looked a wreck. He smelt, too, Draco noticed: of stale sweat and old food, and something faintly sweet. “Wakey wakey, Samuel,” he said, poking him in the shoulder with his wand. “Remember me?”

“Malfoy,” said Potter, behind him. “Malfoy!”

Draco looked down. The tip of his wand wasn’t meeting much resistance, he realised. It was sinking into the fabric of Snaveley’s grimy cloak as if what lay beneath it was jelly, not flesh. He started to step back, but Snaveley’s hand shot up with surprising speed, seizing his wrist in a moist fist.

“Lucius?” said Snaveley, looking slowly up at Draco. His voice was thick and wet, almost mushy-sounding. “Is that you? You’ve got some nerve, showing your face. If you hadn’t spent the last term chasing after that snotty blonde bitch, we would have won the House Cup for certain, you little twerp. Money doesn’t get you everywhere, you know.”

“I’m not Lucius.” Draco made to pull himself free, and Snaveley’s face twisted. A thin thread of silvery drool made its way out of his mouth and down his unshaven chin. His eyes, Draco realised, were silvery too, as if they were brimming with pale grey tears.

Snaveley’s grip on Draco’s wrist tightened. “Lucius, Lucius,” he said. “Lucy. I knew the Dark Lord would see through you, one of these days. And look at you now, Lucius. Look at your wand!”

“I’m not Lucius!” Draco tugged his wrist free from Snaveley’s grasp with a slick pop, as if he’d put his hand through a rotten apple. And Snaveley’s hand was rotten, or something like it, he realised – a bloated mass of flesh, still clutching at the air, dripping silver stuff like clots of blood. It was all over his own wrist, as well, cold and sticky and full of shivery, shimmering little images, half-visible if only you looked closely enough -

“Scourgify,” said Potter, and the silvery liquid vanished.

Draco blinked. Snaveley was still moving, he saw, his mouth still opening and closing. But nothing was coming out of it except a thick flow of iridescent silver, coating his chin and his throat, soaking into his clothes and his shabby armchair. It was coming out of his eyes, as well, like tears.

“Jesus fuck,” said Potter softly. “We need to get him to St Mungo’s.”

Draco dragged his eyes away from Snaveley’s face, which was collapsing in on itself slowly, like a cushion with the stuffing coming out. But looking at the rest of him, twitching and seething and showing silver through his clothes, wasn’t much better. “No, Potter,” he said. “We really don’t.”

It happened quickly enough, after that. Within a minute or so, all that was left of Samuel Snaveley was a tangle of flaccid clothes and what looked very much like empty skin, and a silvery puddle spreading across the floor.

“Jesus,” said Potter again. “Merlin.”

Draco swallowed back a mouthful of bile. Then he carefully conjured a potions vial, and, trying to ignore the way his hands were shaking, levitated a spoonful or so of the silvery fluid into it, slapped on a stasis charm, and corked it up.

“Bloody hell,” said Potter, rather weakly. “I mean, good thinking, Malfoy.”

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Draco was hoping, fairly urgently, that he wouldn’t have to explain.

Potter nodded. “Memories,” he said. “It’s memories. I’ve seen something a bit like this before.”

“Exactly.” Draco shuddered. “We should get out of here,” he said. “Right now, for preference.”

Potter held up a hand. “Wait,” he said. “Look.”

Draco looked. The silver puddle on the floor was curdling, or something rather similar: breaking apart into stringy clumps like half-cooked egg-white. It was losing its shiver of half-seen images, as well, turning dull and grey.

Potter peered down at the lumpy substance coating the floor at the feet like a layer of grubby lard. “Something tells me, Malfoy,” he said slowly, “that having your memories stolen has more serious health effects than we thought.”

“Having them stolen,” said Draco, “like mine were stolen. Potter,” he added, “I’m screwed, aren’t I.”

“It’s not looking great, no,” said Potter brusquely. Then he suddenly seemed to realise something, if the way he straightened up was any indication. Skirting the gelid mass of ex-Snaveley coating the hearthrug, he started searching through the clutter on the mantelpiece, pushing aside cracked foe-glasses and a small drift of slightly singed exploding Snap cards. “Here,” he said shortly, holding up a pot of Floo Powder. “I need to get to Albert. For all I know, this memory decay might work on both ends.”

“Auror Postmark? The chap who got Snaveley’s memories?” Potter had filled Draco in on a couple of details while they were skulking around under the Invisibility Cloak. “Potter, I don’t suppose you could give me a moment to contemplate my own imminent grisly demise? Just a second or so?”

“Nope,” said Potter, who seemed to have cheered up now that he had a chance to rush around and feel heroic. “Come on, Malfoy, I’m not leaving you here.”

And Potter lunged back, grabbed Draco’s arm, and more or less shoved him into the fireplace, together with a hefty pinch of Floo Powder, calling out the name of Auror Postmark’s office as he went. All in all, it was almost enough to make Draco forget the way Samuel Snaveley’s face had bulged and twisted and gone slack as butter, while all his memories ran out of him across the floor.

A little later, though, Draco was standing next to Potter, looking at the waxy remains of Auror Postmark spread all across a stretch of beige Ministry carpet. There was less left of him than there had been of Samuel Snaveley, if that was possible: only a sad red twist of Auror robes and a cup of tea on the desk, still steaming gently. That and the memories, of course, just losing the last of their silvery sheen.

“I didn’t really think it would get him,” Potter was saying. “I thought he was going to yell at me. Or be all quiet and disappointed at me, which is his version of yelling. Was.” He was prowling around the room, casting the occasion detection charm as he went. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Albert didn’t have memories stolen; he had them implanted, or whatever.”

“Like you, Potter,” said Draco quietly. For such a high-ranking Auror, Postmark’s office was surprisingly shabby: lined with shelves of battered files, with a couple of crumpled memos flapping feebly in the wastepaper basket and a neat row of medals on display over the fireplace. Over by an enchanted window showing a view of a grey street, crowds of people steaming past with their heads down, a spider plant waved a tentative leg or two. From the handful of times he’d met Postmark, Draco would have expected him to have done rather better for himself.

“Yeah,” said Potter. “Like me.”

“Would you like a moment or two to contemplate your impending gristly demise?” asked Draco, as solicitously as he could manage. For the moment, he was managing not to think about what the deaths of Snaveley and Postmark really meant, in the same way that he hadn’t thought, during Sixth Year, about what his failure would really mean for his family. It was a bit like walking across an iced-over lake above a giant squid, or having a family dinner with Aunt Bella: you couldn’t really be certain when the screaming would start.

“Malfoy,” said Potter, “you’re such a – such a fucking wanker.”

“Creative,” said Draco. Potter was looking a bit the worse for wear, now he thought about it – almost as if seeing his boss reduced to a smear of goo had come as a bit of a shock. Of course, it was just as well that Potter now had as pressing a reason as Draco himself for sorting out whatever had been done to them before they both dissolved, and he couldn’t do that if he was busy being all upset. “All right there, Potter?” he asked awkwardly. Should he pat Potter’s shoulder? He could pat Potter’s shoulder. It was right there. And it could hardly be more disturbing than the entire Cloak experience.

Draco moved forwards, raising his hand.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing, Malfoy?”

“Absolutely nothing, Potter.” Draco drew himself up and crossed his arms. “Wondering what possessed me to come into the depths of the Ministry with you, if you must know.”

“Well, I pretty much dragged you,” said Potter. “I was in a hurry, if you remember. But we should get out of here now, that much is true. If they find us right now, they'll be questioning us for days.”

“Questioning you, you mean,” said Draco sourly. “They’ll probably just chuck me in Azkaban and close the case.”

Potter ignored him. “I’ll send a Patronus to Meena when we’re clear,” he said, staring at the puddle of congealed memories on the floor. “I’ll, well – I’ll let her know.”

“Just make sure you leave me out of it,” said Draco, with feeling.

“Actually, I was planning to lead with how I teamed up with an ex-Death Eater to break into the house of a person of interest to the investigation, all while I was officially suspended from active duty,” said Potter. “I can just see how that would look on my annual report.”

“I imagine they just stamp your report ‘Our Saviour’ and call it done,” said Draco.

Potter sighed. “More to the point, Malfoy,” he said, “Albert reported his memory anomaly almost a month ago. If we assume Snaveley’s memory of being put under Imperius was stolen shortly before someone shoved it into Albert’s head, then it took until now for whatever – for whatever just happened to kick in and affect both of them. Which means that we’ve got a matter of weeks to figure out what’s going on, before the same thing happens to us.”

“In other words, Potter,” said Draco, “We’re both -”

“Screwed,” Potter finished. “We’re both screwed.” He paused. “We’ll solve the case before then, though. Definitely. So you can stop fretting, Malfoy. We’ll be fine. Absolutely and completely fine.”

It was at this point that – almost to Draco’s relief – what sounded like every single alarm in the Auror Department went off at once.

--

Seeing Malfoy in the Grimmauld Place kitchen, Harry reflected, was a lot better the second time around. Admittedly, he was standing there brushing Floo-dust off his front, looking indignant, and probably planning to do something stupid, but he was unmistakably not mid-war Malfoy. If nothing else, the fancy dove-grey robes, complete with silver frogging, which he had apparently considered appropriate wear for breaking-and-entering, put paid to that possibility.

“Was it really a good idea to tell this Meena person that much, Potter?” he was asking. “You did just place yourself at the scene of two unexplained deaths.”

“I left you out of it, though,” Harry said. “As requested. And Meena knows what I’m like.” He paused, remembering their last meeting. “Or she thought she did, anyway. Cheer up, Malfoy. If she cracks the case before we do, she might even end up saving your life.”

“Before we do?” Malfoy looked particularly pale and pinched. “I wasn’t aware this was a team effort, Potter.”

“Oh? I suppose I hallucinated all that time we spent under my Invisibility Cloak, then,” Harry said. “Practically cuddling. I assure you, Malfoy, it’s more or less seared into my brain.” At which point, he managed to stop himself before he went any further. As it was, what he was privately terming the Cloak Debacle had been mortifying enough. And now he’d gone and served Malfoy up with ammunition on a silver platter.

Malfoy, however, didn’t seem particularly keen on making use of it. “Yes, well, Potter,” he said, sounding slightly strangled and fingering his collar. “I suppose our goals are somewhat aligned.”

“You mean, our goals of not dissolving,” said Harry, thinking sickly of Albert’s neat little office, of his endless cups of tea and his wry, even voice. It’s impossible, Harry.

“Yes, that.”

“Well,” said Harry, “we need to get out of here, for one thing.”

This had a remarkable effect on Malfoy, who looked wildly around the kitchen, then at Harry.

“Merlin, Potter,” he said, sounding remarkably sincere. “Shit. I should have thought. I remember Mother couldn’t stand to go in the Green Drawing Room for almost two years, afterwards.”

“Malfoy,” said Harry, as kindly as he could, “I have absolutely no clue what you’re babbling about.”

Malfoy stared at him. Then he waved his arms around, apparently trying to indicate the kitchen at large. “Because this is where you remember me torturing you, Potter? You know? With the cake, and the screaming? The memory somebody copied out of some Death Eater’s head and stuck into yours?”

“Oh, right.” Malfoy seemed very upset about it, for some reason. Perhaps he thought Harry was holding a grudge. “That didn’t actually happen, Malfoy,” Harry explained. “So, it doesn’t exactly matter, the way I see it. Except insofar as messing around with memories like that seems to end up liquifying people from the inside out.”

“You still remember it happening, though,” said Malfoy, frowning.

Harry snorted. “You sound like Meena,” he said. “Anyway, what I actually meant was that we should get out of here before the Ministry comes knocking. If those alarms were picking up on what happened to Albert, there’s a good chance they recorded at least my presence. I cast quite a lot of spells in that room. Not that any of them did any good.”

“Oh.” Malfoy swallowed. “I suppose we could go to the Manor,” he said stiffly.

“Thanks and all, Malfoy, but I was actually thinking of somewhere a little less obvious,” said Harry. “I think it might be expedient for us to drop off the map, just for a while.” He lifted his wand and used an all-purpose packing charm he was secretly rather proud of. Distant clanks and bangs began to filter down from the upper stories of Grimmauld Place, as drawers slammed themselves open and shut. “I’ll let Ron and Hermione know where we are, of course.”

“Oh, of course, Potter,” said Malfoy. “Before I let you sweep me off on another little jaunt, let me remind you that we are only, oh, two of the most recognisable faces in all of Britain? If I had a sickle for every repulsively fawning article about the Saintly Harry Potter, or every just plain repulsive piece about the tattered Malfoy reputation, I’d –”

“Be even more filthy rich than you are right now?” Harry enquired. “And I don’t think the papers are feeling very big on the Saint Potter stuff at the moment, for very good reason.”

“Well,” said Malfoy, “I refuse to take Polyjuice. Horrible stuff.”

“We could dye your hair,” Harry suggested.

“We most certainly could not!” Malfoy looked scandalised by the mere suggestion. “And before you even mention it, Potter, I am not getting back under that Cloak of yours.”

“Yeah, okay, Malfoy. Keep your blindingly obvious hair on.” Harry’s battered rucksack thumped its way downstairs and settled itself onto his back. “I’ve got a much better idea, anyway.”

“Absolutely not,” said Malfoy, five minutes or so later. They were standing in a lay-by on a smallish country road, with a wide ploughed field sloping up behind them to a straggle of trees, the yellow of their leaves just catching the last of the late October light. “I am not spending the night in the middle of some Muggle wilderness.”

“I was actually going to suggest that we find a B&B,” said Harry. “I’ve done this before, you know. Throws most of the Wizarding World off your scent completely. Just be grateful that I apparated us here instead of making you sit through the London traffic.”

“And where is here, exactly?” Malfoy asked.

Harry shrugged. “Nowhere. Came here on a case once,” he said. “I just needed space to park the car.”

“The … car?”

“Ah.” With some satisfaction, Harry fished a keyring out of his pocket. Dangling from it were a couple of keys and a tiny, rather battered-looking Ford Mondeo, painted a fetching shade of purple. “Arthur chose the colour,” he explained. “But it’s covered in enough Notice-Me-Not and anti-tracking charms that it doesn’t make much of a difference.”

Malfoy stared at the tiny car. “Potter,” he said solicitously, “are you by any chance having what they call a crisis? Is a little trip to St. Mungo’s perhaps in order?”

“Stand back a touch, Malfoy,” said Harry, not dignifying this with a response. He tapped the car with his wand and watched fondly as it grew to full size. Malfoy, he was pleased to see, stumbled backwards, looking alarmed.

“Are you suggesting that I get inside that contraption, Potter?” he asked, his voice somewhat shrill.

“Well, yeah,” said Harry. “Don’t worry, Malfoy. I’ll drive.”

It was at this point, just as Malfoy was opening his mouth, doubtless full of further objections, that a ghostly Jack Russell came bounding through the air towards Harry, looking as close to worried as a Patronus possibly could.

“Mate,” it said in Ron’s voice, “Hermione says that you’ve done one of your disappearing acts, and you know that we normally let you get on with it until it’s out of your system. But right now, the Ministry really, really wants to talk to you, if you know what I mean. And Malfoy, actually, though I’m guessing you ditched him already, yeah?”

The Jack Russell paused, giving a rather un-doglike shake of its head. “I reckon you’ve got a little while before they come after you officially,” it said. “But we’re hearing some nasty rumours out of the Auror Department. Hermione’s trying to find out more. Keep safe, mate. You know where to find us.” And with that, it turned and trotted away across the road, fading away as it went.

Malfoy stared after it, frowning. Then he turned on his heel and clapped his hands together.

“Right, Potter,” he said brightly. “We were just talking about what a splendid chance this is to experience traditional Muggle transportation, weren’t we? Lead on, lead on. I know I personally can’t wait to get inside this charming, bijou … Night Bus?”

“It’s a car, Malfoy,” said Harry. “Even you must know that. But, I mean, I’m touched by your enthusiasm.”

Malfoy managed to keep the jollity up until they were driving along the dark country road, the headlights raking the road ahead of them and turning the half-bare hedges on either side into sharp scribbles of branches and bleached autumn leaves. After a few backhanded remarks on the inside of the car - “Such an unusual smell, Potter!” - he lapsed into silence, staring out of the window at the dark shapes of hills and the occasional Muggle house standing by the side of the road, curtained windows seamed with bright electric yellow or flickering blue from some unseen television. Harry hadn’t ever taken anyone along with him, on one of these night drives, but he found himself thinking that having Malfoy there wasn’t too bad. It was almost comfortable, even.

After a while, Harry stopped expecting Malfoy to announce that he’d had enough and Apparate off to parts unknown, and just drove.

His thoughts slid past Amycus Carrow’s contorted face and Albert Postmark’s sad warm cup of tea. There was Ginny, telling him that she wanted to focus on Quidditch and wasn’t interested in settling down just yet, anyway. There was the ruined outline of Hogwarts, after the final battle, before it had been rebuilt as good as new. That was one of the stranger things about magic, Harry sometimes felt: it was so easy to mend things.

He swung out, overtaking a Land-Rover chugging along at five below the speed limit, and sped up as they swept over the brow of a hill and down a stretch of road lined with trees, their branches meeting overhead so that for a moment he and Malfoy were alone in a half-glimpsed tunnel, the headlights catching pale lichened trunks and a scramble of branches rising above them into the dark. Harry found himself thinking of Albert’s enchanted window, with its view of the empty plain and the high blue sky. It’s impossible, Potter. Impossible.

“So, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, after a while, “what was the cake in aid of, dare I ask?”

“Cake?”

“In your memory. You were baking a cake.” Malfoy was still looking straight ahead, his pale profile stark against the night outside.

“Oh.” Harry slowed down slightly as they drove through an empty crossroads. They’d been driving for a while, and they’d passed a couple of turn-offs to Muggle towns and villages already, he realised. But it wasn’t as if Malfoy had said anything. “It was for Teddy,” he said. “My godson. He’s into pink at the moment.”

To his surprise, Malfoy snorted with laughter. “Trust me, Potter,” he said. “I know. The last time I saw him, his hair was pink. With orange stripes.”

“So you – so you’re in touch?”

“He is my cousin, more or less.” Malfoy’s profile looked extremely put-upon. “It’s awful, actually. Mother and Aunt Andromeda get together every other Sunday. It was all right when they were just polite at each other, which to be fair was the case for several years. But recently they’ve started actually talking.” Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw his expression turn piteous. “Potter, they compare notes. They chat.”

“Wow, Malfoy,” said Harry. “I can see how that must be terrible for you.”

“Well, you wouldn’t – ” Malfoy stopped himself mid-sentence. “I’ll have you know I gave Teddy a Nimbus 9000 for his birthday,” he finished. “Training version, of course.”

“Andromeda told me she bought that,” said Harry, feeling obscurely hurt.

“Well, she probably thought you’d assume I’d jinxed it, or some such,” said Malfoy.

“I would not have given a single shit,” said Harry promptly. “I mean, did you bake him an actual cake? Nope, Malfoy, you did no such thing.”

“I could have done if I wanted!” Malfoy paused. “Well, I could have told the house-elves to do it. Theirs wouldn’t have been lopsided, either.”

“Too bad, Malfoy,” said Harry. “I know perfectly well he liked it anyway. Teddy can’t lie for shit.”

“I know,” said Malfoy sadly. “I keep hoping he’ll grow into it. The Metamormagus thing certainly doesn’t help, what with the tendency to come out in purple spots whenever he stretches the truth. I suppose I’ll just need to keep setting him a proper example.”

“Come on,” said Harry, startled into laughter, and with a sudden image of a purple-spotted Malfoy dancing before his eyes, “it’s not as if you can lie for shit, either.”

“Screw you, Potter,” said Malfoy. He opened his mouth as if to say something – possibly about Sixth Year, Harry suspected, which wouldn’t really help his case – before crossing his arms and moving on. “He’s not half bad on a broom, at least.”

“Teddy? Yeah, you can see he’s getting a lot out of it,” said Harry. “I mean, he’s not exactly a natural, mind you.”

“Potter, he’s five. Though he may not be precisely on track to make the House team, I’ll grant you that.”

“There’s a lot of time yet, of course,” said Harry. “We should co-ordinate buying him Quidditch stuff, though. I mean, it would be stupid to overlap.”

“I thought, Potter,” said Malfoy with immense dignity, “that you were quite happy making the child hideous cakes. Not to mention buying him an obscene amount of assorted toy castles, paint sets, a quite unsuitable miniature potions lab, and a highly inaccurate stuffed dragon. Kindly stop trying to muscle in on my territory.”

“Fine,” said Harry. “I suppose he can always do with spares. And it’s not a dragon, it’s a Stegosaurus. How did you know it was me who got him all that stuff, anyway?”

“I told you,” said Malfoy darkly. “Mother and Aunt Andromeda. They talk.” He paused, smoothing his robes out over his knees. “Potter,” he said diffidently, “if you’re really going to drive this thing around all night, I must insist that you at least make it go as fast as it can. I can see that dial in front of you, you know. It has a lot more numbers on it.”

“Sorry I’m such a conscientious driver,” said Harry. “Not that I wouldn’t speed along some godforsaken B-road just for you, Malfoy, but I’m afraid we’re actually almost here. Upper Stinton,” he explained. “Mostly Muggle, but home to a few very exclusive wizarding residences.”

“I’m aware,” said Malfoy. “Full of ghastly nouveau riche wankers.”

“You’d know,” said Harry cheerily. “Anyway, so their Neighbourhood Watch wards tend to pick up Apparation. Better to drive, really. And I’m sure there’s some Muggle pub that’ll put us up.”

“I see,” said Malfoy, who evidently didn’t.

“We can go and see Rita Skeeter in the morning,” said Harry. “Or I will, at least. You’re welcome to bow out, Malfoy.” He switched lanes, overtaking a shiny new Nissan. Briefly, the headlights raked across a stretch of bare ploughed field visible beyond a gate, ashy and corrugated in the sudden light as the surface of an alien world.

“Go and see Rita Skeeter,” Malfoy was saying. “What a truly spectacular plan, Potter. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you and is very unlikely to call the Ministry the moment you walk through the door. Why do you even want to see her, anyway? If she does know anything, I can’t imagine she’ll be very keen to tell you.”

“That’s if the Ministry haven’t taken her into protective custody,” said Harry helpfully.

“Exactly!”

“And of course, she might actually believe I cast Crucio on her,” Harry continued.

Malfoy snorted. “She’s not that stupid, Potter. But you most assuredly are.”

Malfoy didn’t leave, though. He even seemed to try fairly hard to be agreeable about the grotty Muggle pub Harry pulled up at, which offered beds for the night in an upstairs that smelled firmly of chips.

There was hardly any swearing, and only moderately excessive amounts of whining and moaning, even though Malfoy was visibly discombobulated by the shower, the kettle, and the little air-freshener lurking in the corner of the room, a tinny waft of Spring Blooms fighting a valiant if doomed battle against the chips. Although Malfoy didn’t seem to be confused by the electric light, Harry noticed. He’d been in Muggle places before.

It was a thought that came back to him in the middle of the night as he tossed on the unfamiliar mattress, half-awake after a dream which involved Malfoy turning up in his kitchen, pulling out his wand, and transfiguring Harry’s cake into a Nimbus 9000. What had Malfoy been doing in the years since the war?

Harry hadn’t exactly spared him a second thought after he’d given his testimony and the Malfoys had – more or less – wriggled out of consequences for everything, all over again. If he’d had to guess, he’d have imagined Malfoy slipping back into his ordinary lifestyle of dedicated snootiness and peacock-grooming, with perhaps just a touch of self-awareness that he wasn’t actually obliged to turn into Lucius Malfoy the Second creeping in around the edges every so often.

But Malfoy had at least been doing something else with his time, Harry thought fuzzily, turning over and trying to bury his face in a pillow with all the fluff and give of a half-inflated tire. He’d been buying Teddy stupidly expensive training brooms, and learning how to turn on an electric light, and coming into people’s kitchens and casting Crucio – except not really, Harry reminded himself; that hadn’t happened, or, rather, it had happened to some Death-Eater called Oswald Starkton, years and years ago, not to him. There was no use worrying about it.

Further proof of Malfoy’s surprising facility with all things Muggle came the next morning, when Harry knocked blurrily on his door, half-expecting him to have flitted in the night, to find Malfoy very much still present, waving a crumpled sachet of instant coffee with an air of profound indignation.

“Potter, make this device work,” he said, turning away in a whirl of elaborate green and silver dressing gown. “It claims to be coffee, but there’s nothing inside but some kind of coffee-flavoured gravel.”

Harry blinked around the room, which seemed to have sprouted an array of Wizarding accoutrements overnight. “Couldn’t you just have a house-elf bring you coffee?” he asked, picking his way around an enchanted trunk, which snapped its lid at him menacingly. “They seem to have brought you everything else.”

“I am not going to be beaten,” said Malfoy, with what he seemed to feel was immense dignity, “by Muggle coffee.”

“This isn’t exactly fancy Muggle coffee,” said Harry dubiously. “But I suppose I can show you. It’s a pretty delicate process, though, Malfoy. You might want to stand back.”

“This is revolting,” said Malfoy, some minutes later. “But you were right, Potter. It was a delicate process. That electric kettle thing is a danger to life and limb, if you ask me.”

“Er,” said Harry. “Right. So, time to go?”

Malfoy stared at him. “Potter,” he said slowly, “are you really proposing to charge off and face Rita Skeeter on an empty stomach?”

“If I’m really lucky, whoever is actually behind all this will turn up as well to throw curses at me,” said Harry brightly. “Are you coming or not, Malfoy?”

“Absolutely not,” said Malfoy. “I am going to stay here and keep an eye on that kettle.” He waved his wand, and a set of tiny dishes on the side-table suddenly unshrunk themselves, becoming a rather appetising looking breakfast served on plates decorated with something that, judging by the amount of ‘M’s involved, must have been the Malfoy family crest. There was even, Harry noticed, a pot of proper coffee. “At least take a croissant with you as you go off to meet your doom, Potter,” he said, waving a hand at a plate of pastries. “It is literally the most I am willing to do.”

“Wow, thanks, Malfoy,” said Harry. But he took a croissant just the same.

It probably hadn’t helped, Harry thought in retrospect, that he’d almost certainly had croissant crumbs down his front when he turned up at Rita Skeeter’s front door. He’d been cautiously cheered when her wards had parted before him – with a silvery tinkling sound, no less – but the sight of her actual house filled him with gloom. It was all red brick, large and sparkly in a way that looked as if it was trying hard to be larger and sparklier than it already was. It looked, Harry thought glumly, the way the Spring Blooms air freshener smelled.

Rita Skeeter opened her front door herself, revealing a hallway which managed to look both sparkly and artfully rustic. There was a pair of glittery wellington boots by the umbrella stand.

“Why,” she trilled, “if it isn’t the Fallen Saviour of the Wizarding World! Come to apologise, Harry? It’s maybe a wee bit too early in the narrative, all things considered, but then the public does love a good redemption story. Tarnished Hero Finds Strength to Confront his Sins, and all that. A front page spread in the Prophet at the very least! Perhaps a cheeky little confessional memoir, just to smooth your return to the public stage?”

Rita gave the side of her nose a coy tap and shot Harry a wink from behind her bejewelled spectacles. “People are very sympathetic to young men who’ve suffered a troubled childhood, Harry,” she said breathily. “And I’ve heard some very upsetting rumours about the way those Muggles you grew up with behaved. Not to mention the trauma of the war itself. Why, it’s a wonder you hadn’t snapped before now!”

“Ms Skeeter,” Harry said, when she seemed to have finally come to a halt, “are you really sure you didn’t engineer this entire thing yourself? I mean, you seem to have planned out the whole story already.”

“I’m flattered, my dear Harry – I can call you Harry, can’t I? After all, I’ve known you since you were quite a little boy – you seem to think my dedication to my craft knows absolutely no bounds. But,” said Rita Skeeter, all the sweetness suddenly dropping out of her voice, “I must admit I do draw the line at experiencing Crucio in the line of duty, you know. We can’t all be war heroes, after all.”

“It’s a fake memory,” said Harry. “Implanted. I’m not going to deny that I cast it on a Death Eater, back during the war. I’m not proud of that. But the memory you have of me casting it was from that Death Eater’s head. It isn’t something that happened to you.”

Rita Skeeter batted her eyelashes at him. “Such clarity!” she said. Her voice had gone treacly again. “Such forcefulness. I can see you’re a dashing addition to our brave Auror corps, Harry. And that nice young lady who came round yesterday – Meena, I think it was – did tell me something along those lines.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Because it’s true.”

Skeeter shrugged. “Well, maybe. Memory is a funny old thing, isn’t it,” she said. “It plays tricks. Come to think of it, this Meena – such a pretty girl, isn’t she? A touch exotic, too! A workplace romance, now that’s a humanising touch – she did mention something about some weeny little side-effects that come along with having memories put into your head. Or taken out of it, as the case might be. But I suppose that’s not something which really worries someone who only plays a – shall we say a starring role?”

Harry was certain he’d kept his face blank, but Skeeter peered forwards all the same, suddenly avid.

“Or,” she said, “could it be that you’ve had some nasty memories stuck into your very own head, Harry? Or stolen out of it? Troubled Hero Becomes Tragic Victim? Boy Who Lived Doesn’t Know His Own Mind? Saviour Suffers Grisly Fate? Of course, I probably wouldn’t be around to write that one, would I? But I suppose I could file copy in advance. Only the very best for you, Harry.”

“Look, I don’t really care about you smearing my name all over the Prophet. I need to know if you have any idea who did this, or why,” said Harry, stifling a sigh. Meena had better have re-evaluated her ideas about traumatic experiences after dealing with Skeeter: the memory of being tortured had certainly rolled off her like water off a particularly unpleasant duck.

“Well, at the moment, Harry, the Auror Department seems rather keen to talk to you. Somebody was a naughty boy who turned up at a crime scene when he should have been at home twiddling his thumbs, or so a little bird tells me.” Skeeter held up one manicured finger. “Oh, don’t worry. Hero Saves Gorgeous Journalist from Awful End is an even better story than Hero Turns Torturer – though I admit I may be a teensy bit biased. It’s just a pity that I don’t have anything useful to report, as I told that Auror yesterday.”

“Meena did tell you what happened to people who have memories copied out of their heads, or put into them?” Harry asked. “It isn’t pleasant.”

“Desperate Hero Turns To Threats,” said Skeeter sweetly. “Look, Auror Potter – or, my mistake, it’s just Harry right now, isn’t it? – the only time I’ve even heard about memory magic since the war is the time we almost ran a story about the Malfoy boy importing about half the Pensieves in Europe. But the charming Meena says that she can’t comment on his involvement, so I assume you’ve either cleared him or he’s sitting in a cell at the Ministry waiting to sing. Probably the first one, if I had to guess. Everyone knows that the Malfoys are yesterday’s news.”

“Malfoy imported half the Pensieves in Europe?” Harry asked.

“The younger one did. The little twerp with the pointy face and the Mark. You were at school together? I suppose,” said Skeeter thoughtfully, “School Rivalry Turns Deadly isn’t such a bad headline. Bad Boy Turned Good Goes Bad. Malfoy Heir Meddles With Memory.” She frowned. “That’s all I remember, mind you. Story wasn’t big enough to chase up. No-one cares what some rich has-been does with his money.”

“That’s all?” Harry stepped forwards without thinking, only to be thrown back on his arse in a flurry of sparks. These weren’t at all tinkly or silvery; they hurt. He looked up, head ringing.

“Well, I’m afraid that’s all we have time for today, Harry,” Skeeter said briskly. “Our little chat has given me quite the wealth of material, I must say.” She was holding her wand out in front of her, Harry saw. It was shaking. She was shaking.

“I’m sorry –” he started to say.

But Skeeter had already slammed the door shut behind her.

As Harry walked back to the pub under a row of baggy chestnut trees, busy dropping conkers all over a spruce village green, he was forced to acknowledge two things. First, that Rita Skeeter didn't seem entirely unaffected by either the memory of torture or her impending liquidation. At the end there, Harry reflected, she had been really quite upset. And, second, that Malfoy had a lot of explaining to do.

But when Harry got back to the pub, Malfoy was gone.

--

It was raining when Draco made it back to the pub, autumn rain coming down in mica-grey sheets. At the bus-stop, a couple of elderly Muggles huddled under a matching pair of startling pink umbrellas, turning in unison to watch as he splashed by.

Back inside, Draco was so glad to be out of the wet that he forgot his disappointment at his failure of a morning and the weird smell and harsh light of the Muggle building, and made his way upstairs feeling almost content. That, naturally, was when Potter charged at him out of his bedroom, like a maddened erumpent with unfortunate hair.

"Where did you go?" Potter demanded. "Malfoy, you can't just wander off like that."

"Actually," said Draco, his bad mood coming back in full force, "I can and I did. You seem to forget that I'm not actually in your custody, ex-Auror Potter."

Oddly enough, this seemed to calm Potter down. He scrubbed at his face and gave a rueful sort of laugh. "That's the second time this morning someone's thrown that ex-Auror stuff in my face," he said. “Silly, really, given how often I got a telling off from my boss for breaking protocol back when I was a proper Auror. By which I mean, let's see, yesterday.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his Muggle trousers and rocked back on his heels. "So, Malfoy, what were you actually doing?"

Draco swallowed. "I went to see Mafalda Hopkirk,” he said. “You know, the one who got my memories of being - of attracting the Dark Lord's personal attention. I suppose your stupidity is catching, Potter."

Potter stared at him. For a moment, his gaze was so sharp that Draco threw up his occlumency shields. But Potter wasn't a Legilimens, was he? Draco would have been in deep shit - deeper shit - by now if he were. "I couldn't get past the wards," Draco told him. “So what I really saw was an empty house, from a moderate distance. Not that exciting, really, Potter."

“Fine,” said Potter. “Okay. I suppose I do need to talk to Mafalda, myself.” He gazed at Draco for a moment, looking about as enthused about the prospect as Draco felt. "Have you really been wandering around a Muggle village in that get-up? he asked suddenly.

"This is perfectly unremarkable Muggle wear," said Draco, stung. "I'll have you know the Ministry forced me to do my probation at an establishment run by a Squib and a Muggle. They assured me this was perfectly acceptable."

"Malfoy," said Potter, "that's a cloak. A long black cloak." He paused and sighed again. "I need a drink," he announced.

"Potter," said Draco gently, "it is ten o'clock in the morning."

"Yeah," said Potter. "And I need a drink. Good thing we're in a pub, eh? Come on, Malfoy, you can tell me all about your Muggle work experience. And," he added as he led the way downstairs, "I've got some other stuff to ask you about as well. But first, beer."

"I take it," said Draco, trailing after him, "the meeting with Skeeter didn't exactly go to plan? Potter, what a total surprise."

Five minutes later, Draco and Potter were sat in a gloomy, low-ceilinged bar, mysterious Muggle artefacts crowding the walls and glinting in the shadows, and rain sluicing down outside. They were both nursing pints of something Potter insisted was known as Randy Stoat.

"I don't make the rules, Malfoy," he'd said. "Luna once made us all try a Muggle beer that she said was called Badger's Revenge. Anyway," he'd continued, "you have to make a bit of an effort, Malfoy. They opened the bar up just for us. Come on, turn that frown upside down!"

"If you go on like that, Potter," said Draco, shooting a tight little smile in the direction of the Muggle behind the bar, "I won't be held responsible for my actions." But he took a sip of beer, just the same. It wasn't bad.

"Won't you, Malfoy?" said Potter quietly. He took a long swallow of beer, his throat working.

Draco caught himself staring, and looked away. There was still quite a fug in the bar, he thought, for all that it was empty and silent but for the sound of the rain and faint hiss of Muggle appliances. It was almost too warm, in fact.

"Come on, Malfoy," Potter said at length. "I actually do want to hear about this Muggle establishment. What kind of establishment was it, if you don't mind me asking? Or, actually, even if you do?"

"Shove it, Potter," said Draco. "Shouldn't we be talking about the person or persons unknown who's currently on track to turn both of us into bags of skin full of goo?"

Potter tapped his fingers against his glass. "Fine," he said. "Fine. So, we know that they can steal memories out of your head, or put them in there, without you noticing. The only side effects seem to be a nasty death, some while later."

"Hardly worth mentioning," Draco agreed. "Do go on."

"They choose memories from the war - memories of people using Unforgivables. Meena thought that it was most likely because Crucio and Imperio both take away the victim's sense of themselves. Makes it easier for the person who gets the new memory to experience it as their own - they're just feeling pain, or that drifty Imperio feeling; they're not suddenly remembering to feed a cat they don't have, or whatever."

"And whoever’s doing it certainly does seem to be still fighting the war, so to speak," Draco remarked. “Not exactly willing to let sleeping doxies lie.”

"Exactly," said Potter. He'd hardly touched his beer after those first few swallows, Draco noticed. "It's all memories from the war. The perpetrator has scraped up a lot of the worst memories they could find, and they seem to have gone around shoving them into people's heads until somebody - that would be Skeeter - kicked up a fuss.

“I'd even say they chose to target people they think got off too lightly after the war, one way or another - Death Eaters who didn't end up in Azkaban; Hopkirk, who chaired the Wizengamot committees that got you and Snaveley off - but then there's Albert. He was an Auror for basically his entire life. Plenty of people might have a grudge against him, but if anyone came through the war clean, it's him."

“Really?”

“Really.” Potter grinned. “I went round to his house once, you know,” he said. “He made me drink about fifty cups of tea and told me all these stories about the Auror Department through the ages. I’m not saying he never had to compromise to get things done, but he really did believe Aurors could make a difference. He’s probably half the reason why I stuck around, even through all the regulations and paperwork. Hard to believe he’s gone.”

Draco took a long swallow of heavy-tasting Muggle beer. If Potter wanted to believe that Albert Postmark had kept his nose clean during the war, that was his own affair. The man was a puddle on the floor of his office now, anyway. "I didn't know you knew that about Madam Hopkirk," he said instead. "That she decided my sentence."

"Well, I did testify and everything," said Potter, somewhat diffidently. "She helped us out with the campaign to get rid of the Dementors, as well. She's pretty scary for someone who seems to be made mostly of knitting.”

"Knitting and animal corpses," Draco agreed. "I don’t think I ever saw her without that flit-fox stole round her neck. She probably sleeps with it on.”

“Ginny swears it moves,” said Potter. “Said she saw the heads snap at her once.”

"That's why they used to be fashionable," said Draco. "Gives a boost to your Apparation, what with the flitting. And you can enchant the heads to move and blink and so on, if you leave them on the skins."

"But ... why?" asked Potter, rather faintly.

"It was meant to intimidate your enemies," Draco explained. "What with the staring white eyes and the inch-long teeth. Flit-foxes may be peaceable sorts, as magical creatures go –being able to Apparate themselves anywhere they want rather cuts down on the need for defence – but they look fearsome enough when they’re dead and enchanted. Alicia Malfoy once caused five separate suitors to break down in tears in the middle of a single Halloween ball, and legend has it that she was wearing a flit-fox robe at the time."

"That's a lovely family story, Malfoy," said Potter. “Just lovely. More beer?" And without waiting for an answer, or even finishing his own glass, Potter got up and made for the bar.

"So, come on," Potter was saying, some time later. "What kind of Muggle establishment was it, Malfoy?"

"It was tea shop," said Draco, with as much dignity as he could muster. After all, lying now would just give Potter ammunition later.

Potter, however, didn't seem particularly inclined to mock. "Is that where you learnt to use electric light switches?" he asked.

"And the microwave,” Draco said smugly. “The Muggle world holds very little mystery for me now, Potter.”

Potter peered at him with those bright green eyes, his expression slightly quizzical. “You knew perfectly well how to use an electric kettle, didn’t you, Malfoy.” It wasn’t a question.

“Well, you tried to convince me it was some kind of explosive device, Potter,” Draco retorted. “I would have hated to disappoint you.”

“Hoist with my own petard, as Hermione would say,” Potter remarked mournfully. “Don’t ask me what a petard is, Malfoy, because I’ve got no fucking clue.” He leaned back in his chair, looking at Draco. Just looking, for long enough that Draco began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. “You know, Malfoy,” he said at length, “you’re not a bad liar, under the right circumstances.” For all his Gryffindorishness, Potter almost seemed to consider it a compliment.

“Well, yes,” said Draco. “Obviously.” He wished Potter would stop looking at him like that; it was distracting.

“So, it was all right, then, working with Muggles?” asked Potter, performing one of his mid-conversation non-sequiturs.

Draco found himself suddenly furious. “Of course it bloody well was, you absolute arse,” he said. “If you’re trying to get me to admit I was wrong about – about most things, then consider it done, all right? Would you like me to grovel, Potter? Would you like me down on my knees? Perhaps you’d be amused to hear that they had me waiting tables, then. Serving Muggles their food. That good enough for you, Potter? Anyway,” he finished, “Bernie and May were perfectly lovely people and I won’t hear a word against them. So there, Potter.”

“Er,” said Potter eloquently. “Right. I definitely don’t want you, um, on your knees. Absolutely not. And I don’t think it’s funny, you waiting on Muggles, you know.”

“Father does,” said Draco, before he could stop himself. “Or rather, he thought I was making a joke, when he overheard me telling Mother about it. He does that with a lot of things, these days. And we have to play along, or he gets … upset.”

“That sounds – well, that sounds pretty horrible, actually,” said Potter. He took a long pull at his beer – he was still on pint number one, Draco noticed distantly – and rubbed a hand through his hair. “I used to do a lot of that sort of thing,” he offered. “Waiting on tables, that is. More or less, anyway. Back when I was growing up.”

“Yes, but you were used to it,” said Draco. He drained the last of his third pint, hoping against hope that his cheeks weren’t as flushed as they felt. “Enough of this maudlin bollocks, Potter,” he said briskly. “If you insist on getting me drunk in the middle of the day when we should both be trying to save our own skins, the least you can do is talk about Quidditch like a normal person. The only thing Greg ever has opinions on is how serious a maiming the Beaters are going for.”

Potter paused for a moment, staring at Draco over his glass as if he was trying to work something out. Then he smiled, just a little. “So,” he said. “How about those Harpies?”

He should have realised something was up, Draco thought later. Potter had never restrained himself from haring off on some half-baked mission before, even if some of them - like the Muggle car-ride – were frankly ridiculous. But there was something rather soothing about sitting in a cramped Muggle pub, three pints down, needling Potter about the Harpies’ lamentable manoeuvrability record, with grey rain hissing, soft and low, outside the window. Something that made the prospect of dying a horrible liquid death, or not dying and watching the Malfoy name and Manor die under him instead, seem rather small and insignificant.

It didn’t hurt, of course, that Potter was really quite ornamental, in his way. Even in scruffy Muggle clothes, his bony wrists poking out of a too-small jersey and the soft hollow at the base of his neck just showing, shadowed by the collar of his shirt. Nobody would have said that thin face and mop of hair was a thing of beauty – or at least, they wouldn’t if it didn’t usually have Saviour written under it in flashing red letters – but there was something compelling about Potter all the same. It was the eyes, probably, Draco though muzzily. The eyes and the hair. Maybe even the glasses.

At which point, Potter shoved his pint glass off to the side and stared at Draco with eyes which were, all of a sudden, sharp as tacks.

“So, Malfoy,” he asked pleasantly, “just how long have you been messing around with memory magic?”

Draco felt as if he’d just taken a dose of sobering potion. “I wasn’t aware that this was an interrogation, Potter,” he said slowly.

Potter shrugged. “It is now,” he said.

“You mean it always fucking was,” said Draco bitterly. “I can’t believe I actually – I can’t believe you, Potter. What are you hoping for, a signed fucking confession of guilt?”

“So you have been using memory magic,” said Potter implacably. “What for, Malfoy? Why did you need all those Pensieves?”

Draco felt his face pinching up with anger. “Merlin, Potter,” he said. “And to think I thought you might be my meal ticket out of this mess if I stuck around and bore with your inane wittering for long enough. I actually did think that you were going to save the day, you know? And you seemed to genuinely believe I was innocent, which was somewhat refreshing, I’ll admit.”

“The Pensieves, Malfoy?”

“Fine.” Draco fixed his eyes on the aggressive swirls of the barroom carpet. It was better than looking at Potter. “I suppose I already all but told you, anyway,” he began. “That Father’s – not all there, any more. Not since Azkaban. He thinks he’s back in the past, sometimes. In the war. I was trying to find a way for him to go back to those kinds of memories and see that that’s all they are. Just memories, nothing real. Not,” he admitted, “that it’s done shit all to help Father, as far as I can see.”

Draco sucked in a breath. The fuzz of beer had vanished, leaving only a sharp headache between his eyes. “That’s what I was checking on this morning, if you must know. I’d been working on ways of leaving a kind of tag attached to some of Father’s memories. A sort of sign that could tell him this isn’t real. But the only way to do that was to leave a kind of foreign body behind. A seed, if you will.”

“A seed?”

“Or a door, I suppose. A way in. Once you’ve got that, you can do plenty of things. Copy memories right out of the person’s head. Add new ones. Though you’ve got to be careful. There’s a theoretical possibility of complete memory-decay.”

“Not so theoretical now.” Potter seemed to have calmed down. He sounded intrigued, if anything.

“No.” Draco shrugged, suddenly very tired. “I used some of my own memories, of course. A tea-spoon’s worth or so. Nothing important or disturbing. Just a view of the Manor.”

“Did it work?”

“I already told you, didn’t I? Father doesn’t want to leave all that stuff in the past. He isn’t exactly a co-operative patient.” Draco gave the carpet a thin smile. It was obvious what Potter was really asking, after all. “But, yes, if I’d wanted to, I could have left something awful behind,” he said. “Or stolen some of Father’s memories, I suppose.”

“I see.” Potter frowned, tapping thoughtfully at the table. At least, thought Draco, he wasn’t going for his wand.

“I still didn’t do it, though. I wouldn’t even know how. Some fucker poked around in my memories and played with the techniques I developed, if you want my opinion. Which,” Draco finished dully, “you obviously don’t.”

“But, Malfoy, this is great!” Potter was – of all things – grinning. “I mean, you’re a shit for not telling me all this much earlier, but this actually gives us something to work with. Even a chance of counteracting whatever it is that ends up turning people into memory-goop, if you can push on with your research. We need to get you in touch with Hermione, for one thing.”

Draco stared at him. “I’m already corresponding with Granger,” he found himself saying. “I did use an assumed name, but judging from the amount of preliminary research she owled to the Manor this morning, she knew it was me all along.”

“Well, that’s Hermione for you,” said Potter. He frowned. “Malfoy, are you all right?”

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” Draco said tightly. “I presume it was Skeeter who told you about the Pensieves? They do tend to have slightly different properties, you know. Depending on the manufacturer.”

“Yeah, it was,” Potter said. “Look, Malfoy, I’m sorry about –”

“About getting me drunk and interrogating me?”

“Yeah, that.” Potter rubbed the back of his neck. “I just needed to make sure.”

“That I wasn’t behind the whole thing?”

“Basically, yeah. I didn’t really think it was likely. But I needed to be completely certain.”

“And you’re certain now?”

“I think it was the microwave that did it.” Potter sounded thoughtful. “Maybe even the whole buying-Teddy-a-broom thing. That just doesn’t seem like the work of a remorseless killer with a war-crime fixation, if you ask me.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Potter,” said Draco. His voice sounded somehow small and far away in his own ears, as if someone else was speaking altogether. “I’ll keep you updated on any relevant breakthroughs in my research, of course. I still need to test the sample I took from Snaveley.”

“You’re leaving?” Potter had the gall to sound surprised.

“Don’t worry,” Draco told him. “I’ll send a house-elf for my things.”

“Malfoy.” Potter reached out across the table, then seemed to think better of it and let his hand fall. “Look, I really am sorry, okay? But now that you’ve come clean, we can actually work together properly on this thing. You don’t have to storm off in a huff.”

“Don’t I?”

“No,” said Potter. “You don’t. Come on, Malfoy,” he said. “You Crucio-ed me, after all. You can’t expect me to trust you just like that.”

“I did, did I?”

Potter rubbed at his forehead. “Fuck,” he said. “I mean – I mean, I remember it happening, that’s all. Shit. I’m sorry, Malfoy.”

Draco reached forwards and got a grip on Potter’s shoulder, pulling him forwards until he was talking almost directly into his ear. “Screw you, Potter,” he said, quietly and distinctly. Then - not moving quite as steadily as he would have liked – he got up, turned on his heel, and made for the door.

--

It wasn’t that Harry missed Malfoy, exactly, he told himself. It was that having him lurking around, being, well, Malfoyish, had been an excellent distraction from thoughts of impending doom. After a week of chasing down fruitless leads, avoiding the Ministry’s attentions, catching glimpses of increasingly hysterical Prophet headlines, and reading through various works on memory magic which ranged from the obscure to the completely unhinged, Harry was feeling doom-laden in the extreme.

It was with some relief, then, that he opened what turned out to be a message from Mafalda Hopkirk, she of the knitting and the flit-fox stole. “A light luncheon at noon, Mr Potter,” it read. “Get your skates on.”

At five to twelve, Harry Apparated into a street of tall, posh, pale houses, somewhere in Bath. Mafalda Hopkirk’s house was immediately recognisable, being as dark and knobbly as its owner, and considerably smaller than the Muggle houses on either side. Every so often, a puff of coloured smoke emerged from one of its many crooked chimneys and floated sideways across the neat Muggle facades. All in all, it was a pretty ostentatious advertisement for Hopkirk’s proficiency with notice-me-not charms. They’d certainly worked on him when he came looking for the house some days earlier, Harry thought crossly, stomping up to ring the doorbell. Back then, the house had been nowhere to be found. His mood was not improved when the doorbell turned out to have a pair of sharp fangs and tried its best to nip him as he pressed it.

“Apologies,” said Mafalda Hopkirk, opening the door. “It’s to put off door-to-door sales-wizards. I can’t abide them.”

“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” said Harry, edging his way gingerly past the doorbell.

“Finally, eh? Well, I didn’t have anything of use to say, before.” Mafalda hustled him through into a cramped room lined with bottles of potions and jars of ingredients, and sat him down in front of a plate full of lumps of anonymous flesh and a jar of what looked like pickled gherkins. “Cold tongue, Mr Potter,” she said briskly. “I’ve got some mustard somewhere if you want it. Don’t eat the ghostcumbers, though. They’re meant to be back in the lab.” Her flit-fox stole, which was indeed in place around her bony shoulders, raised one of its heads and yawned.

Harry caught himself turning to catch Malfoy’s eye, and stifled a groan. “That looks lovely,” he said instead. “Though I’m not actually particularly hungry, I’m afraid.”

“Squeamish, are you?” Mafalda didn’t sound particularly put out. “More for me, then.” She picked up a chunk of tongue and posted it into her mouth. “Now, Mr Potter,” she said, somewhat indistinctly. “I’ve brought you here not because I have any new ideas about why somebody put that Malfoy boy’s unpleasant memory into my head. Would have called the Aurors if that were the case. No,” she said, swallowing. “I called you here because I can see my late daughter sitting at the table there beside you, plain as day. This is unusual, Mr Potter. I am in possession of every one of my faculties, can tell you that much.”

“You think it’s a side effect,” Harry said, glancing at the empty space to his right.

“Damn straight. Thought you should know, given the circumstances. Sources tell me you got one of these memories put in your head, just after me. Don’t know who else was affected, but when something happens to the Boy Who Lived, people talk.”

“Right,” said Harry. “Thank you, Mafalda.”

“No need for thanks, Mr Potter,” said Mafalda, digging around in one of the pockets of her baggy knitted cardigan and retrieving a small jar. “Knew the mustard was lurking in the vicinity,” she said with some satisfaction. “Loose end. That’s what our memory-manipulator wants to tidy up, you know. Loose ends, left after the war. Appreciate the urge, as a knitter myself, but it’s no good, Mr Potter. You can’t snip all of them, or the fabric unravels. You’ve got to tie them back down, sometimes. Even the ugly ones.”

“Er,” said Harry, thinking rather frantically back to the times he’d seen Mrs Weasley knitting. “You think the person responsible is targeting people with unfinished business from the war?”

Mafalda nodded briskly. “Judge and jury,” she said. “And executioner, though that might not even be intentional. Bringing forgotten crimes to light. Punishing collaborators. People who didn’t pay. Or the people who didn’t make them pay, in my case. Even went to the papers in the end, didn’t they? Whistle-blower. Hand of justice. That’s what they’re going for.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “That’s what we – what I thought, too. Though Albert Postmark doesn’t fit the pattern.”

“Stayed an Auror during the war. Collaborator.” Mafalda pulled her stole tighter around her, patting one of its heads when it snarled at her. “You know why we have the three Unforgivables, Mr Potter?” she asked abruptly.

“Because they’re particularly, well, unforgivable?”

“Because they hide some loose ends. They make us feel better about all the manifold unconscionable things magic can do, Mr Potter. Choose three nasty spells, say they’re the worst there is out there. Makes the world seem a neater place, that’s what.”

“Are you trying to make me feel better about having used Crucio on Amycus Carrow?” Harry asked. “Because I regret it and everything, but I don’t actually feel all that bad about it, if I’m honest.”

“Trying to make you see you’re looking for a tidy-minded individual, Mr Potter,” said Mafalda. “Know you are. Looking, that is. Worked with you to get the Dementors out of Azkaban, didn’t I? Like a dog with a bone, that’s you.”

“Well,” said Harry. “Yes. Sometimes. Plus, I really don’t want anyone else to die the way Snaveley and Albert did.”

“Can’t say I fancy it myself,” Mafalda agreed. For a moment, her eyes slid sideways, resting on the space next to Harry. “Looking for a solution on my own account,” she said. “Potions, you know. Potions and politics, my personal forté. Let you know if I find anything.”

“Thanks,” said Harry. “Likewise. Are you going to be okay, though?” he asked. “With – with your daughter, and everything?”

“It’s not just her,” said Mafalda. “Other memories as well. Disconcerting. But I’ll live, Mr Potter. Let us hope so, in any case.”

“Yeah,” said Harry fervently. “Let’s.” He glanced around, half-expecting Voldemort to emerge from his own memories and hiss his way out of the shadows. Then again, he might see Sirius or Lupin. That wouldn’t be so bad. But there were only Mafalda’s shelves of potions, with a long striped scarf clicking away as it knitted itself in a corner. Of course, Mafalda had had the stolen memory shoved in her head for about a week longer than he had. Malfoy’s stolen memory, that is. “I’m sorry, Mafalda,” said Harry, getting hurriedly to his feet, “but I’ve got to go. There’s someone I need to see right now.”

“Is there now?” Mafalda waved a hand. “Off with you, then, Mr Potter. And, Mr Potter –”

“Yes?”

“You be careful now,” said Mafalda. “It’s a messy world out there.”

It really was, Harry thought to himself some while later, standing outside the front door of Malfoy Manor. He’d got past the front gate – which was more than the Aurors had been able to do, or Malfoy would have been twiddling his thumbs in the Ministry’s most restrictive version of protective custody. But the Manor’s large and fancy front door was staying resolutely shut. He’d tried knocking, and yelling, and even sending a Patronus charging through the door, with instructions to find Malfoy and at least try and warn him that he was liable to start seeing visions of the past at any moment. But nothing had worked – even the Patronus had come back looking as nonplussed as was possible for an enormous ghostly stag. Harry was just about to give the whole thing up, when the door in front of him swung silently open.

There was no-one behind it, however, not even a house-elf. Harry stepped through with his wand out, his throat dry. He hadn’t been here since the war. For a moment, he heard the crash of a shattering chandelier, and Hermione screaming, somewhere upstairs.

Then another door swung open on the far side of the entrance hall, and he came back to the present with a jolt. There was no-one behind this door, either – nor behind the one after that, or the one after that.

Harry made his way through the silent halls of Malfoy Manor feeling rather as if he was in a dream, and half-expecting something horrible to leap out at him from behind every posh corner. Nothing of the sort happened, although a few lamps obligingly lit themselves as he walked past. Malfoy Manor, he had to admit, was looking a lot less like a lair of evil than it had during the war. True, the décor was still heavy on the snakes and the skulls, and the portraits he passed were all disapproving in the extreme, but nothing about it seemed particularly sinister. It was almost a let-down.

Then Harry walked through one last door, into a room filled with Pensieves, and the Manor became abruptly and genuinely creepy, after all.

There must have been about fifty Pensieves, sitting there shimmering like pools of jellied light. The room itself looked like a defunct potions lab, with a vaulted stone ceiling and scarred workbenches lining the walls. But there were so many Pensieves that furniture from around the Manor seemed to have been drafted in to rest them on. Harry had to edge his way past a pair of chairs upholstered in rose-pink silk, each with a delicate jade Pensieve nestled amongst their cushions, before he could properly take in the room. And before he could see Malfoy, looking ridiculous in the extreme, leaning over a twiddly gold table. Malfoy’s head, Harry realised, was submerged inside a truly enormous Pensieve, which was carved, rather unnervingly, out of what seemed to be either ivory or bone.

“Hey, Malfoy,” said Harry. “Come on out of there!”

There was no response. Feeling rather silly, Harry moved a sheaf of notes out of the way and perched on a chair which managed to be both pink and skull-encrusted. Now that he’d found Malfoy, he was inclined to put the mysteriously opening doors down to house-elf interference, or perhaps – perhaps Malfoy’s own magic? Harry stared at the bits of Malfoy that he could see, and groaned. He was being ridiculous. Malfoy might be looking rather fit nowadays, in a pointy sort of way, and he might be surprisingly good company when he wasn’t being a complete wanker – sometimes even when he was – but so far, all Harry had done was give him a pretty solid reason to be furious with him. Malfoy’s accidental magic certainly wasn’t opening any doors in Harry’s direction.

After a few minutes, Harry was seriously beginning to question his vague sense that yanking someone out of a Pensieve was a bad idea. A few more minutes and some leafing through Malfoy’s notes later, he was seriously worried. The notes were full of arcane diagrams, incomprehensible scribbles, and – Harry was somehow pleased to see – a few sketches of a small stick figure with glasses, a scar, what appeared to be a halo, and an impressive set of sinister spiky teeth. It was nice that Malfoy was thinking of him, really. What wasn’t so nice were the notes saying things like “locate foreign seed memory and confront??” and “source of instability disguised? Memories frayed around rift? Set Locator Charm on Pensieve to ensure clear pathway to foreign memory??”

With a sinking feeling that Malfoy had done something really, really stupid, Harry got up, took hold of the back of Malfoy’s robes, and gave him a solid yank. Nothing happened. Malfoy, it seemed, was well and truly stuck in the Pensieve.

At this point, Harry was ready to admit defeat and call in Hermione, or possibly even the Aurors. What stopped him was catching a glimpse of something moving, just where the pale strands of Malfoy’s hair met the darker, shinier stuff inside the Pensieve. As he watched, a tiny bead of silvery liquid trickled out of Malfoy’s ear and down the line of his jaw, until it joined the rest of the memories swirling around his submerged face. Whatever it was that had happened to Snaveley and Albert Postmark, it seemed, was happening right now to Draco Malfoy.

Without stopping to think twice, Harry bent over next to Malfoy, took a deep breath, and plunged his own face into the liquid in the Pensieve.

--

Draco had been hiding in his bedroom for nearly a whole day when the air in front of him bulged and twisted, and Harry Potter fell through.

Draco bit his tongue to stop himself yelling, and brandished his useless wand in Potter’s direction.

Potter yelped and sprang to his feet, his own wand out. “Shit,” he said. “Fuck.” He turned his wand on Draco, eyes narrowed. “Malfoy? What is this? What have you done with Hermione?”

“Keep your sodding voice down,” Draco hissed. “Do you want every Death Eater in the house to know you’re here? And I haven’t done anything to Granger,” he added.

“But we were in the tent,” Potter said, quieter now. “I think. The last thing I can remember –” he stopped, frowning. “What the hell is going on, Malfoy?”

“I don’t know, all right,” said Draco. “I don’t know!” It looked very much as if Potter’s memories were in about the same state as his own – vague, to put it kindly. Trying to remember anything short-term and concrete, like what day it was or whether the Dark Lord had tested some new curse out on him or not, was like trying to pin down mercury.

“You don’t know?” said Potter, incredulous. “Yeah, I’m going to have to ask you to think again, Malfoy,” he said. “Incarcerous!”

The spell would have hit before Draco could do anything, if it had worked at all. As it was, Potter stumbled back, staring at the wand in his hand. “It doesn’t work,” he said, half to himself. “Should it even be here, anyway?”

“Well, well, Potter,” said Draco, getting to his feet and brandishing his own wand. “Looks as if I have you at a bit of a disadvantage.”

Potter stated at him, then flicked his gaze to Draco’s wand. “No you don’t, Malfoy,” he said. “You weren’t surprised when my spell failed, were you? And you aren’t casting now. Your wand is as useless as mine is, right now.” And he dropped his wand and leapt forwards, catching Draco by the shoulders and slamming him back against the wall of his room.

Draco shoved back, clawing at Potter’s arms, and Potter hooked a foot behind his leg and brought both of them crashing to the floor. There was a brief, sharp struggle, which ended with Potter on top, pinning Draco to the carpet and glaring down at him with furious green eyes. He’d lost his glasses somewhere along the way, and gained a split lip. Draco watched with a kind of horrified fascination as a bead of blood gathered on Potter’s bottom lip, growing fuller and fuller until it fell, hitting Draco’s own cheek.

“That’s disgusting, Potter,” he said, panting. “Really.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Potter. “Tell me what’s really going on. Where is this? And why –” he frowned. “Why do I feel like there’s something I need to find?”

“You too?” asked Draco, before he could stop himself. Then he thumped his head back on the carpet in frustration. None of this made sense, and he’d lost his best chance to turn Potter over to the Dark Lord and save his parents. Worse, he couldn’t even bring himself to feel bad about it.

“What is it, Malfoy?” Potter was asking, his voice low and urgent. “You can tell me. I know you weren’t going to kill Dumbledore, back on the Tower. I sure as hell know you don’t want to be in some house full of Death Eaters. You want out of the war as much as I do, don’t you. You want – you want none of this to have ever happened, right?”

Draco screwed up his eyes to stop them prickling. “Shut up, Potter,” he said. “You’re not even real, anyway.”

Now that he’d said it, it made a hideous kind of sense. It fitted with the way his room had kept coming in and out of focus, and how, when he’d ventured out to find Mother, she’d looked past him as if he wasn’t there at all. It fitted with the way he knew – just knew – that there was something he had to find. Draco twisted one arm out of Potter’s grip and punched Potter right in the gut. The angle wasn’t good, but Potter reeled back just the same, and Draco levered himself up and managed to get on top of him, one forearm across Potter’s throat.

“You’re a sodding figment, Potter,” he spat. “Which is nice for you, because the Dark Lord’s just downstairs. This is a dream, or a spell, and you’re only here because I kept wanting you here. So you can just shut up and help me find whatever it is that I’m looking for, and then – then I suppose I’ll wake up.”

“Why should I do that?” Potter croaked. “One minute I’m in the tent, and the next I’m here, and I can’t remember what the last minute was in the first place? This is a trap of some sort, isn’t it?”

“I wish,” said Draco. “If it were a trap, I’d be sitting at the Dark Lord’s right hand this minute, and you’d be in little pieces all over the floor.” He was leaning close, Potter’s flushed face only inches beneath him. So he saw the fear in Potter’s eyes, felt him swallow.

But Potter carried on. “He isn’t here anyway,” he said. “Vol – He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I’d know.” Then those green eyes widened. “Malfoy?” he asked. “Are you – are you crying? What is that stuff?”

“You don’t get me that easily,” said Draco. But there was something falling on Potter’s face, he saw. Something shiny. He reached up a hand to touch his eyes.

Potter wriggled out from under him and struggled to his feet, fists raised. But Draco was too busy staring at the smears of silver on his fingers to take much notice. “You cursed me,” he said softly. But he didn’t really believe it himself. “This is a dream,” he said again.

“This isn’t right,” said Potter. He was looking around the room, which was twisting in and out of shadow around them. First there was the grey light of the wartime afternoon, and then spring sunshine and a scatter of Quidditch gear across the floor. Mother was standing in the doorway, and then she wasn’t, and then there was Pansy, sitting cross-legged on the bed and smoking a cigarette, trying very hard to look grown-up. It was so long ago, Draco found himself thinking. But that had been only last year, before everything went completely to shit. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, feeling the silver stuff welling up under them.

“Malfoy!” said Potter sharply. “Draco! I believe you, okay. So pull yourself together!”

Draco took his hands away from his face and looked up. The room shivered around them and settled back to normal, with its unmade bed and the scatter of books across the floor from when Draco tried to pretend that he was still an ordinary schoolboy. “You do?” he found himself asking.

“Let’s say I do. And let’s say that if this is a trap, then we both seem to be caught in it. And we both need to get out. I’ve got things to do.” Potter took a deep breath. “Plus, I don’t like the look of that silver stuff.”

“It’s stopped, for the moment,” said Draco. He rubbed at his face, but there was no more silver, only the tight, hot feel of a fresh bruise on his cheekbone from his fight with Potter.

“Okay. You’ve already looked for – for whatever it is, right?” Potter asked.

“I told you,” Draco muttered. “The Dark Lord is downstairs. Right where it feels like I need to look.”

“I’d feel it if he was, though,” said Potter. He rubbed at his scar. “Look,” he said, “if this is a dream or whatever, then maybe he is as well?”

Potter was looking terrible, Draco noticed. Sort of thin and mangy, as if he really had been living out of a tent. His face looked defenceless without its glasses. And yet he was still making Draco feel prickly with hope, as if he might actually save the day after all. Potter’s glasses had fallen behind a pile of Potions books; Draco picked them up and shoved them in Potter’s general direction. “You’ll need to see,” he said. “If you’re going to run off and do something stupid.”

“Oh,” said Potter, taking the glasses, “we’re both going to do something stupid. You don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight, do you?”

“You were right,” said Potter, ten minutes later, crouching at the bottom of a spiral stair and peering through a half-open door. “This was stupid.”

Draco didn’t answer; he was too busy staring sickly at the Dark Lord, who was sitting in a tall chair by the fire in the great hall, stroking his way through a large, fungoid-looking book. Every so often he lifted one long white finger and the fire stirred itself and settled. His snake was coiled around his feet, in a heap of greenish, slack, enormous flesh. And there beside him, on the wall, there was something square, that looked a little like a mirror. But it wasn’t, Draco somehow knew.

“That’s what we’re looking for, isn’t it?” Potter whispered. “That window next to him.”

Draco nodded. There was no point in denying it if, not Potter felt its pull the same way he did. “Perhaps he’ll move,” he said. “We can wait.”

“Things don’t normally work like that in dreams,” said Potter. “And if the way people we passed didn’t really see us means anything, this is something like a dream.”

“Not to mention, one of them was my great-aunt Maud,” Draco said. “She died when I was six. Potter, what if we’re dead?”

“I really hope not,” said Potter. “Or we’re all screwed. Also, no offense or anything, Malfoy, but I don’t really expect my afterlife to feature large amounts of, well, you.”

“Mutual, Potter,” said Draco. “Maybe it’s a punishment.”

Potter snorted. “Could be,” he said. “Come on, Malfoy, you’re stalling.”

“Of course I am.” Draco paused. “Look, Potter,” he said, “if you’re really as important as everybody says you are, get out of here. Right now. We’re in Malfoy Manor; I’ll show you the safest way out. Just go, and perhaps you’ll snap out of whatever this is - and maybe hurry it up a bit with ending this whole thing, all right?

“You should know,” he added, “that Lovegood and some other people are in the cellars here. But try and restrain yourself from charging off to rescue them by yourself like a complete idiot, will you?”

Potter stared at him. “Well, now this really seems like a trap,” he said quietly. “But then again, it doesn’t.”

Draco shrugged. “I can’t exactly hand you over to the Dark Lord if he can’t see us,” he said.

“And if he can’t see us, we don’t need to worry.” Potter got to his feet. “Malfoy,” he said, “that stuff is coming out of your eyes again. I feel like we need to get on with it.”

Potter reached out his hand, and Draco took it and let Potter pull him to his feet. Potter felt different to everything else here, he realised. Sweaty and warm and real. And his feelings towards Potter were different too – sort of sharp and out-of-focus at the same time, too big for him to get a grip on. He was angry at Potter, he realised, but not for any of the sensible reasons like being on the wrong side of the war, or not winning it already, or being a filthy half-blood. It was like being angry with someone he knew. With a friend. “Come on, then,” he said, before he could think twice. And he pulled Potter through the doorway and out onto the floor of the great hall.

The Dark Lord didn’t stir. For a moment, Draco felt a great rush of glee, as if everything was already all right, and the Dark Lord was nothing at all worth worrying about. “You could kill him right now,” he whispered to Potter.

“Yeah,” said Potter. “Perhaps I should. But I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t take.” He was rubbing his scar again with his free hand. “It doesn’t even feel like he’s here,” he said. “Weird.”

“Come on,” said Draco. He was still holding Potter’s hand, which was ridiculous. But neither of them seemed inclined to let go. They’d both taken out their useless wands, he realised.

“Nearly there.” Potter was staring at the Dark Lord, looking puzzled. “I don’t even feel the way I should right now,” he whispered. “It’s like he’s … far away and not really important?”

Draco couldn’t exactly say the same – what he felt was more like bone-melting terror. But they’d almost reached the silver window.

“You probably need to climb through,” Potter said. “Go on.” He let go of Draco’s hand.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw the Dark Lord raise his head. “Your Father has disappointed me, dear Draco,” he said. “But I am a generous master. I will allow you to make up for his failings. I am giving you,” he said, “a most important task indeed.”

Potter and Draco stumbled back, wands raised. “Shit,” Potter was breathing. “Fuck, fuck!”

“I have complete faith in you, Draco,” the Dark Lord was saying. “Complete faith.”

Draco dragged in a breath. “This isn’t real,” he heard himself saying. “It’s from last year. It’s a memory.” It was true, he realised. The Dark Lord wasn’t even looking at him, exactly. But he was looking at the Dark Lord. So when Nagini lashed forwards, moving straight for Potter, Draco saw and stepped in front of her automatically, quick as making a save in Quidditch.

“Malfoy!” Potter pulled him back and broke out in flood of furious hissing, looking at the snake. But Nagini seemed to have lost interest. It was just like the time Draco had seen her bite a Muggle, he thought vaguely. Exactly like that. She hadn’t been hungry then, either. But it had hurt quite a bit for the Muggle. He knew that now. It hurt a lot.

“Merlin,” he said. “Fuck. Don’t you dare leave me here, Potter!”

“Come on, then. Come on, you total arsehole.” Potter hauled him to his feet, the room wavering around them. For a second, the Dark Lord was gone completely, and then Father was sitting by the fire, looking quite self-possessed and reading the Prophet.

“Hideous lot of Muggle-lovers,” Father remarked, turning the page.

And then the hall was decorated for Christmas, and there was nothing by the fire but a tall tree, its branches glittering with candles and enchanted snow. Potter and Draco reached out their hands, and, together, they touched the silver window.

Draco rolled over and groaned. “What in Merlin’s name,” he said hoarsely, “did you do?”

“You mean, what did you do, Malfoy?” Potter was lying somewhere beside him, not sounding much better than he did. There was a scuffle as he got up and looked down at Draco, his face caught between worry and exasperation. He looked older now, Draco realised. Better. They’d both been very young, back then. “Are you all right? Are you still, you know, dissolving?”

“Thanks for your concern.” Draco reached up with one hand and rubbed at his face, the last traces of silver coating his fingers like fish scales. “It doesn’t feel like it,” he said.

“You’ve probably lost some memories,” Potter said. “What year is it, Malfoy? How any fingers am I holding up?”

“The year of fuck you, Potter.” Draco summoned the energy to give Potter the finger. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought I gave the distinct impression that our acquaintance was over.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Potter looked mulish in the extreme. “I really am. But I got some information about our – our condition. I came over to warn you. And then I saw memories coming out of you, Malfoy.” He shuddered. “I had to at least try and rescue you, all right?”

“Well.” Draco struggled up until he was leaning against a large marble Pensieve-stand. He felt as if he’d just played ten games of Quidditch in a row, but the world wasn’t swimming around him any longer, and he couldn’t see anything that wasn’t supposed to be there. Not counting Potter, of course. “Thank you, I suppose,” he said.

“So did it work? Was that window thing some kind of memory the perp left in your head?”

“A seed,” Draco said wearily. “A rift. It let them add or take memories as they pleased, within certain boundaries. But all I needed to do was find it. It was hidden,” he added bitterly, “right where I was certain not to look.”

“Or even think about,” Potter agreed. “Ouch.” He got to his feet. “Your house let me in, you know,” he said, looking around Draco’s lab. “Or the House-elves did, anyway.”

“That seems unlikely,” said Draco. “It’s not as though this place has much reason to look after me.”

“Right.” Potter sounded dubious. “We’d better get you checked out,” he said. “Because it would be really, really frustrating if it turns out that was all for nothing and you haven’t figured out a cure, after all.”

“Such a lot of faith in me, Potter,” said Draco. “It’s sweet, really.”

“I just want to make sure!” Potter pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Anyway,” he said. “Thank you for taking a bite from Nagini for me, and everything. Even if she was just a memory.”

“Oh,” said Draco airily, “think nothing of it, Potter. Such acts of heroism come naturally to some of us, you know. I’ll just suffer through the blinding pain, as one does.”

“You’re still hurting?”

“Well,” said Draco. “I could be.”

Potter rolled his eyes, and held out his hand for the second time that day. “Come on,” he said.

“Let’s make sure your stupid, dangerous cure really is a cure. And then I’m pretty sure I owe you a drink or five. Minus ulterior motives.”

“I’ll show you ulterior motives, you arse,” said Draco.

But there was no heat to it, and he took Potter’s hand and let him pull him to his feet, the world steady and real around him.

--

“So, the good news,” said Hermione, “is that you’ll both escape without serious permanent damage. Even you, Malfoy.”

“Right. I mean, good,” said Harry. “What’s the bad news?”

“The bad news is that you’re both idiots. Christ, Harry,” said Hermione, “what were you thinking?”

“Come on,” said Harry. “Malfoy’s brains were leaking out of his ears. More or less literally! I had to do something.”

“Like Floo-call St Mungo’s?” Ron suggested. “I mean, come on, mate. You evade Auror questioning for an entire week, interfere with several witnesses, and turn up having gone frolicking through Malfoy’s memories and asking if you’ve lost any important bits along the way? Plus, you’ve been doing that thing where you bugger off and drive around on your own, haven’t you? And then someone has to come and dig you out of some godforsaken Muggle Bed and Breakfast in Scunthorpe or wherever?”

“This is a habit?” asked Malfoy, apparently fascinated.

Ron started. “No,” he said unconvincingly. “Harry doesn’t do bollocks like that. He’s a completely well-adjusted member of society.”

“Thanks, Ron,” said Harry, rather dryly.

“Can’t you knock Malfoy out again, Hermione?” Ron asked piteously. “I keep forgetting he’s here. Normally Harry does his most unfortunate stuff solo.”

“I need to test his reactions,” said Hermione. She turned to Malfoy, who sat up, if possible, even straighter, and looked as if he was trying very hard to look supercilious. Since he was perched on a battered sofa in Hermione’s flat with a couple of diagnostic charms circling his head, the effect wasn’t wholly convincing. “As for you, Malfoy,” Hermione went on, “I put up with you writing to me under an assumed name to ask about memory magic, although I’m not sure ‘Joe Bloggs’ was the most convincing pseudonym you could have come up with. But I don’t exactly appreciate you using my research to nearly murder yourself - and Harry, though that one’s really on him.”

“Let alone getting your work stolen out of your head in the first place,” Ron put in. “That wasn’t exactly helpful.”

Malfoy was looking pointier by the minute. “Look, Granger,” he said stiffly, “I realise I owe you a formal apology for my – for my past behaviour. I’m sorry, all right? I actually am. And obviously my cure needs a bit of fine-tuning. But if you’re going to insist that we play it safe and wait for St Mungo’s or the Auror Department to come up with something, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree. Strongly.

“And,” he added, “Joe Bloggs is a perfectly acceptable Muggle-born name. I checked!”

“You checked?” asked Harry, with a certain morbid curiosity. “Was this with the same Muggles who told you that wearing a cloak was totally inconspicuous?”

“They didn’t say it was inconspicuous,” said Malfoy. “They said it was gothic and dashing.”

“Did they say the same about Joe Bloggs?” Harry asked. “Because I can tell you, Malfoy, they were spot on.”

“If I can interrupt for a second?” Hermione said, with some asperity. “I’m not sure what gave you the impression I was arguing for playing it safe, Malfoy. Let alone for calling in the Aurors. Whoever did this had reliable access to ex-Death Eaters both in and out of Azkaban, redacted war records, and an obsession with settling old scores. Chances are, they are an Auror, or at least in the Ministry – Meena agrees,” she said to Harry. “Obviously we should press on with your technique, not least because Mafalda Hopkirk needs it even sooner than Harry does. We should just try and minimise the chances of failure.”

“And keep working on Hermione’s plan A,” Ron put in.

Hermione nodded. “If we find whoever did this,” she said, “we can force them to remove the seed memory themselves. It’s difficult for the person whose mind has been infected, but it should be pretty simple for the caster. It’s their memory they use as a way in, after all. You said it looked like a window, in your case?” she asked Malfoy.

“Not that it narrows it down, much, but yes,” Malfoy said. “You’re certain it’s gone?” he asked. “They can’t take any more of my memories?”

“Or put any more in your head,” Hermione said. “You’ve got some fraying, I suspect, but nothing you should notice.”

“Fraying?” asked Harry, alarmed.

Hermione shrugged. “You said you saw your great aunt in the Pensieve?” she asked Malfoy. “Well, what can you actually remember about her?”

“She used to give me blood lollipops,” said Malfoy. “Oh, and she wore a hat with stuffed fairies on it. The height of fashion in her youth, I believe.”

“Just lovely,” Hermione muttered. “But do you actually remember all that?” she asked. “Or remember remembering it?”

Malfoy paused. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “How would you tell?”

“Exactly.” Hermione twisted her hands in her lap for an instant. “Memories repair themselves,” she said. “To a certain extent, anyway. Not to mention, anything that was lost while you were in the Pensieve should have been restored when you came out of it. If you think you’re fine, you probably are.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” said Malfoy. “Thanks, Granger. Thanks so much.” He turned to Harry. “Potter,” he said. “I think I need that drink now.”

“I think Ron’s in shock,” said Harry, a couple of pints later. “He didn’t think I’d actually take you up on it.”

“Mmm,” said Malfoy, tipping back his London Pride. “Pity he didn’t come along.”

“So you could poison his drink or something? I don’t think so.” Harry looked sidelong at Malfoy, who was looking gothic and dashing – or at least extremely out of place – in a Muggle London pub just down the road from Hermione’s place. This one was heavy on the brass and red flock wallpaper, making Malfoy look particularly pale and angular. And edible, insisted a traitorous voice in the back of Harry’s mind. He shoved it back down. “So, do you think you’re missing any memories?” he asked.

“Tactful as ever, Potter.” Malfoy shrugged. “It’s not as if there aren’t a lot I wouldn’t exactly miss,” he said. “But I don’t think so.”

“Right.” Harry turned his glass round in his hands. “I spoke to one of your House-elves,” he said. “While Hermione was checking you over. He said it wasn’t them who let me into the Manor.”

“Of course not,” said Malfoy. “I told them not to allow visitors.”

“They said it was the Manor itself,” said Harry. “Looking out for you. So, you know,” he finished awkwardly, “you probably don’t have to worry about it getting all gloomy and rotten like Snaveley’s house. It seems to approve of you just fine.”

At this, Malfoy got very interested in his pint. “Well,” he said at length, “it’s just a house, Potter. It probably hasn’t worked out that there won’t be any little Malfoys running around it any time soon.”

“Because you’re gay?” Harry asked. “Couldn’t you adopt, or, um, arrange something with a helpful witch?”

Malfoy lifted his head and stared wordlessly at him.

“Pansy told Millicent who told Parvati who told Luna, who apparently knew anyway. And she mentioned it to Ginny, because apparently gayness is highly effective against glue-beetles,” said Harry hastily. “I didn’t think it was a secret!”

“Oh,” said Malfoy glumly. “Well, I suppose at least it didn’t make the front page of the Prophet.”

“Like me and Oliver Wood, you mean? Yeah,” said Harry, “that was fun. If by fun you mean intrusive and horrifying. The world’s most over-analysed one night stand. Anyway,” he added, “cheer up. Not only are you safe from glue-beetles - there’s still time for a Shocking Exposé on Sex Life of Malfoy Heir! Just shag a bloke somewhere semi-public, and the Prophet will do the rest.”

“Like a Muggle pub?” Malfoy coughed and knocked back the rest of his pint, looking rather pink around the edges. “Yes, well. Thanks, Potter. I’ll take it under consideration. It’s educational to see your image-management skills at work, I can tell you that much.”

“That’s how I wound up with a solid week of headlines about how I’m a depraved Dark Wizard who tortures reporters for kicks,” Harry agreed. “Definitely the public image I was going for.”

“Actually,” said Malfoy, “once Skeeter … modified her account, people started saying that you were right to do it, back during the Battle of Hogwarts. Something tells me, Potter, that you don’t actually keep up to date with the latest headlines.”

“Yeah, you got me,” Harry admitted. “They’re seriously saying that?”

“My reading comprehension might not have been at its best this past week,” said Malfoy, “what with the way I kept seeing that bloody snake out of the corner of my eye, not to mention great-aunt Maud. But, yes. Cheer up yourself, Potter – you’re bringing Crucio back!”

“Damn,” said Harry bleakly. “I’m going to have to make a whole public thing of it, aren’t I? An interview saying that, guess what, it was a bad thing to do, and probably some kind of community service or something. Skeeter is going to be thrilled.”

“It must be tedious, having a conscience.” Malfoy tapped his empty glass. “Buy me more beer, Potter. I don’t understand Muggle currency.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Harry, rolling his eyes. “You know,” he remarked, pausing to lean over Malfoy’s shoulder as he made his way to the bar, “that house-elf of yours mentioned something about wages. I mean, he sounded completely scandalised about it. But it sounded to me as if someone’s been reading Hermione’s latest work for the Beings and Creatures campaign. Odd, that.”

“Yes,” said Malfoy, sounding rather strangled. “Odd.”

“So,” said Harry, a little while later, “were you really sitting around wanting me to turn up, during the war?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Potter,” said Malfoy.

“Perish the thought,” Harry agreed. The pub had got crowded with the after-work rush, and they were sitting side by side, legs almost touching.

Malfoy was staring fixedly at his beer. “I should possibly say thank you, though,” he said. “For coming in after me. You probably saved my life. Again.”

“Given that you were just sitting around in your bedroom,” said Harry, “I probably did.” He sighed. “I can’t believe I’ve got some arsehole’s memories floating around in my head,” he said. “I really thought I’d at least got the inside of my own skull back, you know?”

“No,” said Malfoy, staring at him. “I don’t, really. Although I’m getting some unpleasant ideas.”

“Yeah, well,” said Harry. “Unpleasant is right.”

For a moment, it looked as if Malfoy wanted to ask more. He seemed to think better of it, though. “In any case, Potter,” he said, “if Granger’s additions to the Pensieve enchantment really work, you’ll be able to find the foreign memory just fine. You’ll still remember me casting Crucio on you, though, I’m afraid. We’re getting rid of the doorway, not the things which came through.”

“I don’t remember it,” said Harry. “I remember some other bloke remembering it.” He propped a couple of beer mats up against each other, making the beginnings of a wobbly tower in the centre of their table. “What I mean is,” he said, “I would be stupid to hold it against you. But it’s possible I did let it get to me. Just a bit.”

“You don’t say,” said Malfoy. “Tell it to your Mind Healer, Potter. It would be strange in the extreme if you hadn’t, you know? Let it get to you, that is.”

“I don’t have a Mind Healer.”

“You don’t?”

“You do?”

“Mother hired the best one she could find, a couple of months after the war ended,” said Malfoy. “It’s not the sort of thing one talks about, but I suppose it is possible it helped. Somewhat.”

“Oh.” Harry’s tower fell over, and he started rebuilding, very definitely not looking in Malfoy’s direction. “I just object to the idea of somebody poking around inside my head, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s not as if I was ever thrilled at the prospect myself,” said Malfoy. “But sometimes it’s better than the alternative. And it’s not as if the inside of your head is so very fascinating, Potter. Get over yourself.”

Harry grinned. “You’re right there,” he said. “I just wish the Prophet agreed with you.”

“The Prophet is also interested in the inside of your trousers,” Malfoy said helpfully. “Which I’m sure is equally unremarkable. I mean, not that I’ve ever considered the matter in any detail.”

“Oh, of course not.” Harry nudged the topmost pieces of his beer mat tower carefully into position and sat back. “I wish I could forget all about it, sometimes,” he said. “The war, I mean. Or just that it had never happened at all. I’d definitely take that option.”

“If it hadn’t happened,” said Malfoy slowly, “I’d still – never mind. Drink up, Potter.”

“I’ve got to spend tomorrow sneaking around Azkaban looking for clues,” Harry objected.

“And you might have grown out of being a complete arse eventually, Malfoy. Maybe.”

The tips of Malfoy’s ears went pink. “Screw you, Potter,” he said.

“Well,” said Harry, warm and full of beer, “I’ll take it under consideration.”

This time, Malfoy turned pink in just about all the places Harry could see.

If it hadn’t been for the way Harry could also see Sirius, sitting right in front of them at the bar, large as life among the jostling Muggles, it would have been a pretty satisfying end to the day, all things considered.

--

He should have made a move back then in the pub, Draco reflected, a week and a half later. As it was, he was stuck biting his nails, watching Potter stand around with his head stuck in a Pensieve, without so much as having touched him. Or, he corrected himself, without having touched him properly. Or improperly, as the case might be.

“Calm down,” Malfoy, said Granger, raising her head from a heap of notes. “Harry can handle himself. And the process worked for Hopkirk and the other affected parties, didn’t it?”

“I’d be a lot calmer,” said Draco, “if Harry – if Potter hadn’t kept insisting he wasn’t seeing things. We all knew perfectly well he was lying.”

“Yes, well.” Granger fixed him with a level look. “Harry has a lot of practice, when it comes to keeping a lid on things like that.” She pushed her voluminous hair back behind her ears, frowning. “It is taking longer than it should,” she admitted. “The more time he spends in there, the more unstable the memories become, as you kindly demonstrated the other week.” She bit her lip. “I wonder if my adjustments haven’t worked after all,” she said. “They were wobbly for Mafalda, as well. She said she only just managed to hang on to her present-day memories while she was in the Pensieve.”

“Madam Hopkirk went back fifty-plus years,” Draco pointed out. “Potter doesn’t have that much memory.”

“True.” Granger pursed her lips. “Go on, then,” she said. “You’re the one Harry said should go in after him, if he didn’t come out after an hour. I’ll activate my failsafe and pull you both out after thirty minutes, if you don’t make it back by then.”

“Thank fuck.” Draco swung himself to his feet. Then he paused. “You’re sure, Granger?”

Granger sighed. “I didn’t come here for my health,” she said. “Harry asked for you. So get on with it, Malfoy.”

Draco nodded. Then, clenching his fists to stop them shaking, he took up his position next to Potter, and lowered his face down into the swirling silver of the Pensieve.

“This is unacceptable!” said Draco indignantly. He’d woken up in a tiny, dirty cupboard, with some horrible glowing Muggle thing above his head, and a boy he didn’t know staring up at him with big green eyes as if he was the strange one. “This is all Granger’s fault! Her spell didn’t work after all.”

“Who’s Granger?” asked the other boy. “What spell?”

Draco stared down at him. “I – I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But my father will be hearing about this.”

“Who’s your father, then?” The other boy didn’t seem very impressed.

Draco stared at him. “Lucius Malfoy,” he said incredulously. “Surely even someone like you must have heard of him. He’s the most powerful pureblood in Britain, you know.”

“No,” said the other boy. “I don’t. And keep your voice down, or Uncle Vernon will hear.”

He paused, looking Draco up and down. Well, Draco could understand that. He was wearing his cloak with the silver snakes all over it, and the Malfoy crest embroidered right above the heart. He was certainly worth looking at. “Do you know what’s going on?” the boy continued. “You just – turned up, out of nowhere. And my head feels strange. All fuzzy.”

“Obviously,” said Draco, “this must be an Apparation mishap. Or a mistake with the Floo.”

He looked down at the other boy, feeling quite grown-up. “Father will be along shortly, I’m sure,” he added. “Or Mother. They’ll sort this out.”

“I don’t know what half of that meant,” said the other boy. “And you’re still being too loud.”

“Well, you’re being shockingly rude,” said Draco. “What is this hovel, anyway? Is that thing Muggle?”

“That’s a lightbulb,” said the other boy, looking where he was pointing. “What do you mean, Muggle?”

“A Muggle is someone without magic, of course,” said Draco. “That means they’re not really human.” A horrible thought struck him, and he backed away as far as he could, which was all of six inches. “You’re not a Muggle, are you?”

“How should I know? Magic isn’t real, anyway.”

Draco stared at the other boy. He didn’t look like a Muggle; in fact, he looked rather ordinary. Except for that curse scar on his forehead. The very same scar, Draco slowly realised, that he’d seen in a thousand newspaper pictures and story books. “You’re Harry Potter,” he said, trying hard to sound as if he wasn’t even a little bit impressed. “Aren’t you?”

The boy – Harry Potter – shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “So?”

“So, you’re almost as famous as Father,” Draco informed him. “And you’re very important, even if you did cause an Unfortunate Realignment in Political Realities.”

“I still don’t know what that means,” said Harry. “And I’m not important at all.”

“Well, I’m important,” said Draco. “So I should know.”

Harry looked as if he was about to argue back. In the end, though, he only shrugged. “Show me some magic, then. Show me a spell.” He sounded almost desperate.

“Er,” said Draco. He was quite pleased that Harry hadn’t asked about the Political Realities, which was something Father had once said, but, then again, it wasn’t as if he had a wand yet, either. Still, he couldn’t let slip the chance to show up Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World. “Wait a minute,” he said, searching hurriedly through his cloak pockets. “Just hang on.”

“I’m hanging on,” said Harry Potter. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“Shut up,” said Draco. Then he found what he was looking for. “Here you go,” he said, brandishing a slightly crumpled white and red box. “It’s a pretty basic charm, of course. But Mother said it was the most expensive one in the shop.”

“Did she?” said Harry, rather sourly. Then he peered into the box, and his expression changed. “It’s a dragon,” he said. “That’s really cool. How come it’s moving?”

“Because of a spell, stupid,” said Draco. He tipped the dragon out onto Harry’s palm.

Harry gave its spiky back a gentle stroke, his eyes wide. “It feels like it’s made of sugar,” he said.

“It is.” Draco tapped the dragon on the top of its small green head. “Come on,” he told it.

Obligingly, the sugar dragon opened its mouth and breathed a tiny gout of fire right into Harry’s face.

Harry didn’t seem to mind getting singed. “That’s amazing!” he said, grinning. “That’s the best thing ever. Is it really magic?”

“Of course it is.” Draco felt, somehow, as if he’d just pulled off a once-in-a-lifetime stunt on a broom. “You mean you really don’t know … anything?”

“I know lots of things.” The smile had fallen off Harry’s face. “I know there’s something I really need to find, to start with. But I don’t know what it is.”

“You too?” Draco looked around them. They were in what was unmistakably a cupboard, even though it had a bed in it. Despite the horrible Muggle light and the other strange bottles and boxes piled up next to the bed, it was obviously a house-elf’s den. “This is revolting,” he told Harry. “You’ll catch something. And whatever we’re looking for, it isn’t in here.” He rattled the door behind him, to no avail. “Let me out of here.”

“Can’t,” said Harry shortly. “Locked.” He looked upwards, wincing. Bangs and thumps were coming from the sloping ceiling above their heads, getting louder and louder. “You need to hide,” he said urgently. “There’s a space behind Dudley’s spare ski gear, just there.”

“I’m not hiding in some smelly corner,” said Draco. “And give me that dragon back,” he added. “It was a gift from Mother.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay.” Harry put the dragon back in its box and handed it back to Draco, as carefully as if it really was the best thing ever. For a moment, Draco almost wished he hadn’t asked for it back, even though it was, after all, his birthday present. Then Harry grabbed his arm. “And you really should hide,” he said. “Unless you want my uncle to find you, that is.”

“I’m not scared of your uncle,” said Draco. “Let go of me!”

But somehow, by the time the cupboard door was pulled open by what seemed to be a solid wall of grown-up, at least ten feet tall, and Harry had been let out and told to serve supper, Draco found himself scrunched up in a corner of the cupboard, hardly daring to breathe.

“Your uncle,” he told Harry, after what seemed like hours and hours, “is a Muggle.”

Harry, who was eating what looked like somebody’s gluey leftovers off a plate balanced on his knees, looked sideways at Draco. “You said Muggles aren’t human,” he objected. “Uncle Vernon’s the worst person I know, but he’s not some kind of creepy monster. Even if he is acting especially weird this evening. Like he doesn’t even see me properly.”

“He is a Muggle,” Draco insisted. “And so are those other ones. And they made you work for them like – like a house-elf.”

“I saw you spying,” said Harry. “You could have got me into real trouble, you know.”

“I don’t care,” said Draco. “I’m going to tell Father, and he’s going to rescue you. From durance vile,” he added, remembering the end of a story he’d just read. The person Wizard Orlando had rescued had been a beautiful princess, not a skinny boy with messy hair and ugly clothes, but the idea was more or less the same.

“Telling people doesn’t do any good,” said Harry. “And I don’t think your father would want to rescue me, anyway.”

“He will if I ask him to,” said Draco. Privately, he didn’t feel quite so certain. “We just need to find – that thing, first. We must be under a spell, you know.” Then he stared at Harry, aghast. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

“Licking the gravy off the plate,” said Harry, doing just that. “What? I’m hungry, okay.”

“You’re disgusting, that’s what,” said Draco.

Harry’s face twisted. “Yeah, people tell me that a lot,” he said. “And you keep saying it, as well. Let’s find this thing and then you should go, all right? It’ll be safe for a little while. They always watch telly for ages after supper.”

“I’m still going to rescue you,” Draco muttered.

But Harry was peering out of the cupboard door, and didn’t seem to hear him.

“Well, that was sort of easy,” said Harry, five minutes later, staring up at a shelf right up next to the ceiling. They were in a place which must have been a kitchen, although it was smaller and shinier than any kitchen Draco had ever seen.

“It’s an enchanted chalice,” said Draco, craning up beside him. “Definitely a spell.”

“It’s a mug with something glowing inside it,” Harry corrected him. “And some weird stuff written on it. Is that what a spell looks like?”

“Of course,” said Draco. “Now climb up and get it.”

“I’m not your servant,” said Harry. “You climb up.”

“You let those Muggles treat you like a servant,” said Draco. “And you act like one too, with the way you eat. I’m not climbing up those dirty Muggle shelves. And it is too a chalice,” he added. “So there.”

Harry folded his arms. “No,” he said. “You can’t make me.”

“My father –” Draco thought again, and changed tack. Father was taking an awfully long time to find him. “Don’t you want it?” he asked. “Just as much as I do. And I want it a lot.”

Harry looked around, as if checking the coast was clear, and then pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. “I’m used to not getting what I want,” he said. “You get it.”

Draco was balanced on one of the smooth, white kitchen cabinets, his fingertips within an inch of the chalice, when the Muggle came in. It wasn’t quite as big as it had seemed from the cupboard, but it was just as loud. Draco froze.

“Boy!” it roared. “Stop messing around and get back in your cupboard!”

“Okay, okay. I mean, yes, Uncle Vernon.” Harry slid off his chair.

“Get a move on, you little freak!” The Muggle, Draco realised, didn’t even seem to see him. It wasn’t exactly looking at Harry, either. It was as though it was acting in a play, against characters who weren’t even there.

But Harry definitely seemed to think he was still one of those characters. He kept his head down and edged past the Muggle, not looking up at Draco, as if that would stop the Muggle from seeing him. “Get out of here,” he whispered, as he went by. “Go away.”

“I’m rescuing you!” Draco hissed back.

“You think I’m a revolting servant,” said Harry. “Maybe you and Uncle Vernon will get along just fine.”

But the Muggle really couldn’t see him, Draco could tell that much. It must be because he was a pureblood. So there was nothing to stop him turning round and reaching back up, his fingers just touching the shelf where the chalice rested – and then something hit the back of his legs.

It was Harry Potter, backing away from the Muggle, who wasn’t doing anything dangerous Draco could see – he was just turning around, without so much as a wand. But Harry stepped backwards, and Draco’s hand slipped, banging into the side of the shelf, and the shining chalice fell down, spilling silver liquid as it went, and shattered in a hundred tiny pieces all across the Muggle kitchen floor.

Draco opened his eyes.

“It didn’t work,” said Potter, next to him. “I fucked it up.”

Draco wiped Pensieve liquid out of his face, and turned to look at Potter. “Actually,” he said, “I think I fucked it up.”

“I’m sure it was a mutual effort,” said Granger. “I pulled you out; it was taking too long.”

“We forgot who we were again,” said Draco. “I mean, who we are now. It was probably because it was a memory from way back. From Potter’s childhood.”

“Well, yeah,” said Harry. “He does hide his seed memories where you’re least likely to look. I was expecting the war, but in retrospect – well. Yeah. I should have thought.”

“Oh,” said Granger. “Oh, Harry.”

“I’m sorry,” said Draco. He stopped himself. He couldn’t exactly tell Potter that he was particularly sorry for not giving him his special sugar dragon, even if it was the truth. And he definitely couldn’t tell Potter that a lot of things made sense, now, when they hadn’t before, or that he wanted to rescue him, still, so badly that it hurt. “I didn’t exactly help, back there,” he said instead.

Potter shrugged. “You were just being little Malfoy,” he said. “Actual little Malfoy, that is. You couldn’t help it.” He brightened somewhat. “And I did get to see you in that adorable outfit,” he said. “You were wearing a cloak with tiny silver snakes all over it, right?”

Draco cleared his throat. “We’ll try again,” he said. “The seed-memory will repair itself, you know. Granger should go this time.”

“No need.” Potter had sobered again. “Ron’s working through Azkaban records with Meena, isn’t he? We’ll need to call both of them in for this one, I reckon.”

“What in Merlin’s name are you talking about, Potter?”

“Time to try Hermione’s plan A,” Potter said. “Because I know who we’re looking for.” He laughed, short and humourless. “Or at least, I think I do,” he said. “I hope I’m wrong.”

“Well,” said Draco, when it looked as if Potter had ground to a halt. “Do enlighten us, then.”

“You probably didn’t notice, Draco,” Potter said. “But that mug in my memories? It had the Auror Department crest on it. Believe it or not, there’s only one person I know who actually uses a mug like that.

“Time,” Potter said, “to pay a visit to Albert Postmark.”

--

“Well, Harry,” said Albert, opening his front door. “You’ve taken your time getting here. I expected you more than a week ago – after all, I did leave something of a calling card in your memories.”

“You’ve been here all this time,” said Harry blankly.

“I have,” said Albert. “It wasn’t so difficult to spill a Pensieve or two around my office,” he added. “Though I’m surprised forensics didn’t twig what I’d done. Really, it’s as if the Department just can’t function without me.”

Harry raised his wand. In the hallway behind Albert, he could see shadows moving back and forth. Remus, looking over his shoulder at the moon. Lavender Brown, blowing kisses through the air. But none of them were real, he knew that much. “Albert Postmark,” he said, “you’re under arrest.”

“Yes, yes,” said Albert. “Though you’re not exactly an Auror at present, are you?” He slipped his wand out of his holster and held it out. “Still, you’d better have this.”

Harry took it, casting a web of search-and-secure charms as he did. Albert wasn’t carrying any other magical artefacts, at least. He wasn’t even soaked in dark magic – at least, no more than was usual for an active Auror.

“Satisfied, Harry?” Albert stepped back, smiling faintly. “Do come in,” he said. “It’ll take some time for your friends to get past my wards, I’m afraid. They’re set up so that only people who’ve had a touch of my memories inside them can get through. Which includes the Malfoy boy, I suppose,” he said, nodding to Malfoy, who was standing at Harry’s shoulder. “I must admit, I intended you to die. But then, it’s true that your research was very useful. A touch of Legilimency to get the general outline, and open access, naturally, once I’d made myself a door. You might have a future in memory research, Mr Malfoy. If you had a future at all, that is.”

“May I ask just how exactly,” said Malfoy, his voice icy, “you got inside my head?”

“Probably the tea,” said Harry. “You needed to get some of your own memories inside us, right?” he said to Albert. “So that you could steal our memories, or splice new ones into our heads.”

“Exactly! There’s always an element of sacrifice in truly powerful magic.” Albert turned his back on them and walked through to his kitchen, for all the world as if he’d invited them in for an afternoon snack.

Harry and Draco followed behind him, wands out. “Keep him talking,” Meena had said. “Get him to take his memory out of you, if possible, Harry. And,” she’d added, “good luck.” Now, with the half-visible coils of Nagini twisting around Albert’s neat grey kitchen, he felt as if he needed it.

“Steady,” Malfoy whispered behind him, one hand at his elbow. “You’re right here, Potter.”

Harry blinked. He’d been lifting one foot up, trying to step over coils of snake which weren’t really there.

“Come on, Potter.” Malfoy was speaking fast and low, right into his ear, his fingers digging painfully into Harry’s upper arm. “They’re just memories, you wanker. Keep it together.”

Harry nodded. “I’m here,” he said. “I’m here.”

“I’m afraid spellwork like this does require initial ingestion of the caster’s memories,” Albert was saying. “A bit unsavoury, but there you are. You’re quite right, Harry, I put some in your tea. As for Mr Malfoy, I believe I charmed some straight into his bloodstream. The same with the scum I used from Azkaban – Carrow and the like.”

“Of course,” said Harry. “Getting into Azkaban wasn’t a problem for you, was it?”

Albert nodded. “Neither was arranging a meeting with Madam Hopkirk,” he said. “Now, I admit targeting her was more a matter of symbolism than anything - but I’m surprised you allowed the Azkaban prisoners to undergo the cure, Harry.”

“You wanted them dead?”

“I may have simply wished to force you to confront your own crimes, but my intention was always that the most guilty of my victims should pay with their lives. It’s the best we can do, with the Dementors gone.”

“Why?” Harry found himself asking. “I get that you wanted to show people that I’d used Unforgivables, and I even sort of agree they should know. But why like this? And why everything else? I mean, when it comes to me,” he said, “you could just have asked.”

“It’s because he feels guilty,” said Malfoy suddenly from behind him. “That’s all this is about, isn’t it, Auror Postmark? Harry says that you gave yourself a memory of being Imperioed, right?”

“For verisimilitude, my dear chap,” said Albert.

“Because you wanted to remember being under Imperio during the war,” said Malfoy. “But you couldn’t, because you weren’t. You weren’t under Imperio when I saw you bring those Muggles to the Manor. And you weren’t under Imperio when I saw you use Crucio, either, just to show the Dark Lord that you were willing to be a good little Auror, under his command. The rank and file might not have known quite who was in charge, but you did, didn’t you? Being so senior and all.”

Albert stepped back, looking unsettled for the first time.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy grinning nastily. “Trust me, Auror Postmark,” he said. “I know the feeling.” Then his smile slipped. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he said, “I should have told you.”

“It’s okay.” Harry felt his own face move into something like a smile. “I get it. You didn’t want to speak ill of the dead, and all that.”

Albert let out a whistle of breath. “Yes,” he said. His gaze flicked between Harry and Malfoy. “Yes, very well,” he said. “Young Malfoy is quite correct. I too committed crimes during the war – crimes that make me unfit to be an Auror. It was my duty to use what I knew to purge our society, to the best of my ability. Only then would I be free,” he added, “to purge myself.”

“You can start by purging Harry of that piece of memory you had him swallow,” said Malfoy, raising his wand. “I know you can do it. Come on,” he added, “Potter doesn’t have all that much time.”

“Dear me,” said Albert to Harry, “he is very protective, isn’t he? I must admit, Harry, I expected the enmity between the pair of you would make you suspect young Malfoy, especially since I did make use of his research, once I had my entrance route into his head. It was one reason I made you remember him in particular casting Crucio on you, you know.”

“You sanctimonious shit,” said Malfoy. “You … Auror. No offense, Potter.”

“So considerate, Malfoy,” Harry murmured. He didn’t take his eyes off Albert.

Albert pursed his lips. “Instead, you seem to have become the best of friends. A pity, really. I was planning to return to my post, once I’d wiped the slate clean. I was even,” he said to Harry, “going to invite you to join me. Your reputation might not be what it once was,” he said confidingly, “but you still have it in you to be a fine Auror, Harry. Never doubt that.”

“Well,” said Harry, trying hard to focus on Albert instead of the memories crowding around him, “I certainly am now. Doubting it, that is. Not to mention, it sounds as if you haven’t read the papers recently. Apparently my reputation is flourishing.” He paused, letting himself feel the solid presence of Malfoy at his back. “What do you mean, wipe the slate clean?”

“You said it yourself, Harry,” said Albert. “That you wished that none of it had ever happened.”

“And you told me it was impossible,” said Harry. “Which it is.”

“He was going to wipe his own memories of the war,” said Malfoy. “Weren’t you?”

“And I can take yours away, as well, Harry,” said Albert. “Within reason, of course. One can’t really wipe the world clean, but one can wipe away the darkest parts of one’s own mind, and start afresh. I have the expertise to do it,” he said reassuringly. “And the access, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry echoed faintly. He raised a hand to his eyes. It came away silvery and wet.

“As Mr Malfoy says,” said Albert delicately, “you don’t have much time.”

“Take your memory out of him now, Auror Postmark,” said Malfoy beside him. “And I can promise it’ll get taken into account in your sentencing. You can even take another shot at me, if you want.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Malfoy,” said Harry. “Albert, thanks and everything, but my answer is no.”

“Oh?” Albert sounded as if Harry had just refused a second cup of tea. “Are you quite sure, Harry? It’s not every day you get the opportunity to wash away your sins.”

“Yeah, well,” said Harry. “They’re my sins to worry about. How am I meant to stop myself from being my worst self when I can’t even remember what it is?”

Albert nodded. “Admirable,” he said. “It almost makes me wish I had stabilised my own memories more securely, after all. I might not have been able to return to the Department in any case, but I’ve always enjoyed our little chats, Harry. I would have liked to discuss this with you some more. But I’m afraid,” he said, “we’re both running out of time.” He held out a hand, looking expectantly at Harry. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll need my wand for this, of course.”

“Wait,” said Malfoy. “An Unbreakable Vow,” he said. “That you’ll use the wand to remove the memory you put in Harry, and nothing else.”

“Of course.”

Standing in Albert’s kitchen, watching the Vow’s blue glow reflecting off racks of clean dishes, pots full of wooden spoons, and jars of spices lined up in serried rows, Harry found himself thinking of Albert’s enchanted window. No wonder he’d never let it show any people. It had been his very own night-time car ride, out into the empty dark.

“It’s done,” said Malfoy, snatching his hand out of Albert’s grip and wiping it on his robes.

“Right,” said Harry, handing Albert back his wand.

Albert took it, smiling. And then he lifted his wand and fished a tiny slip of silver out of Harry’s forehead, just like that.

The world rippled around Harry, and then flicked into place. No more shadowy memories; no more tiny, earnest Hermione at Albert’s elbow, or the Hogwarts’ entrance hall rising up over their heads. Just Albert’s kitchen, and Albert himself, looking rather silvery around the eyes.

And Malfoy, of course, grabbing Albert’s wand out of his hand and looking over at Harry, his eyes full of something very much like worry, and relief.

“You actually did it,” said Harry. “You cured me.”

“I did always have a bit of a soft spot for you, Harry,” said Albert. “Do try and see that Malfoy boy for what he is, though,” he added. “It pains me, to see you wasting yourself on something like him.”

“What did you mean,” said Malfoy slowly, “when you said you could have stabilised yourself?”

Albert’s eyes were seeping silver now, Harry saw. It was coming from his mouth, as well. “Do excuse me,” said Albert. He lifted a handkerchief to his lips and wiped at the silver. “A little inadequate,” he said ruefully to Harry. “As I say, I was planning to purge certain memories from my head and return to my post,” he said. “Having staged my demise and worked behind the scenes with you, Harry, to pin the blame on young Malfoy here. It would have been a good story, you know. The Skeeter woman would have loved it.”

“You risked her life,” Harry said. “Just because nobody else was talking about your little games. That’s the only reason why you targeted her, isn’t it?” He thought of Skeeter, standing in her doorway and shaking, and felt a slow, sick shudder of anger run through him. “At least you had some kind of reason for everyone else,” he said. “You just used her. For publicity.”

“Come now, Harry,” said Albert. “You despise the woman.” He patted at his mouth again, then his eyes. “Such a strong sense of justice,” he said. “I would have enjoyed working with you once more. But it was not to be, it seems. That much has been evident for a while. Since you ran off and joined forces with Mr Malfoy, in point of fact.”

Malfoy stepped forwards beside Harry, his wand raised. “We can cure you,” he said. “You know we can. If you co-operate, Auror Postmark, we can save your life.”

“Trying to impress him, Mr Malfoy?” Albert’s smile was slow and crooked.

His face was sagging down on one side, Harry realised. And his eyes were moving, as if he was seeing things which weren’t there. Still, Albert could move quickly when he wanted to, fishing a wooden spoon out of the jar at his elbow in one smooth motion. Every inch the practised cook, thought Harry, with faint incredulity.

Only it wasn’t a spoon, Harry realised. It was a wand.

“Avada Kedavra,” Albert said, almost nonchalantly. He was aiming at Malfoy.

The bolt of green light went over Harry’s head.

“Expelliarmus,” said Harry, twisting round as he fell. “Accio Albert’s wand.” Albert’s second wand smacked into his hand, and he landed underneath Malfoy, who was warm and bony and heavy, and still very much alive, looking down on Harry as if he’d just seen the very best thing ever, right in front of him.

“I’m going to buy you a dragon, Potter,” said Malfoy, inexplicably.

“Right,” said Harry. “Thanks?” Malfoy had knocked him down, he realised belatedly. He’d moved to protect him, stepping out of the curse’s path as he did so. “Thanks,” he said again, with considerably more fervour. “I owe you one.”

“Get off me, Potter,” said Malfoy, flushing horribly and struggling to his feet. He held out a hand to help Harry up, keeping his own wand trained on Albert. “And no, you don’t,” he added stiffly. “Owe me anything, that is.”

Albert tutted. “A pity,” he said to Harry. “I had your own best interests at heart, Harry. It’s demeaning, seeing the way you look at this creature.”

“I’ll look at him any way I want,” said Harry. He stepped forwards. “Albert. You can still take the cure.”

“Oh,” said Albert, flapping a hand, “do stop it, Harry. Enough.” He coughed a little, bringing up more silver. “It really is quite liberating,” he said. “It’s all going, Harry. All of it.” And, folding up jerkily, as if he’d had all the air taken out of him, he crumpled to his knees. “All of it,” he said again, and more silver came out with his words.

By the time Meena broke through the wards, with Ron, Hermione, and what seemed like half the Auror Department at her back, Albert Postmark really was nothing but a puddle of memories, spreading slowly out across his kitchen floor.

“Damn,” Meena said, looking down at the mess. “Ew. Are you all right, Harry?”

“Did he remove the memory?” Hermione was staring around, her wand held high, one hand reaching much deeper than should have been possible into the bag at her side.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah, he did.”

“Really, mate? You’re sure?” Ron peered down at the pool of congealed memories, frowning. “What a way to go,” he said quietly.

“As sure as I can be,” said Harry. “So there’s probably no need for whatever you’ve cooked up in that bag of yours,” he told Hermione.

“Thank Merlin,” he heard Ron mutter to himself.

“And there’s really no need for civilians to be at a crime scene in the first place,” said Meena briskly, clapping her hands. “Much less civilians carrying that much firepower,” she added, glancing at Hermione’s bag. “Get off with you. You can have Potter when I’ve finished with him, all right?”

“I’m not leaving,” Malfoy announced, sounding mutinous.

“Seriously?” Ron looked between Malfoy and Harry, his eyes wide. “Seriously?”

“What he said,” said Meena. “You’re a witness, Malfoy. You’re not going anywhere.”

“Oh,” said Malfoy. “Well. Yes. Good.”

“And on that note,” said Hermione, giving Harry a quick, tight hug, “we’ll see you soon, all right? Both of you, I suppose,” she said, with a glance at Malfoy.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Both of us.”

“Right.”

Hermione sounded more than a little sceptical, but she seized Ron by the arm and tugged him out of the kitchen nonetheless, one last plaintive “Seriously?” echoing in their wake.

“You’re certain you’re clean?” Meena was looking Harry up and down, her square face creased with worry.

“I think so.” Harry looked down. After all that, Albert hadn’t even died in his Auror uniform, he realised. “I couldn’t stop him, though,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not as if there’s anything you could have done,” said Malfoy. “You had surveillance charms on us, didn’t you?” he said to Meena. “They’ll confirm.”

Meena nodded. “We heard what went on,” she said. “We’ll need to take statements, but, yeah. We heard.” She glanced again at what was left of Albert, and took Harry by the elbow, steering him away into a corner of the room. “Look,” she said quietly, “Harry, I heard what you said, as well. I’ll never be exactly okay with what you did back then, but I want you to know that I trust you right now, all right? Albert was right about one thing. You are a pretty decent Auror.”

“Oh,” said Harry. He tried to muster a smile, and failed. “Thanks.”

“When you’re not going off on your own and intimidating witnesses,” said Meena. “Come on. Hermione pulled some strings to get herself and Ron in with the first squad, but we’re got Ginevra Weasley and one Pansy Parkinson hovering outside, ready to go on the warpath. If I don’t show them that the both of you really are in one piece, they’re liable to start breaking stuff. Or each other, looks like.”

“Pansy?” Harry turned to Malfoy, eyebrows raised. “Really?”

“Apparently. I do provide access to an impressive wine collection, you know.”

“I might need proof,” said Harry. “Especially if it really is Pansy out there. Right now, I might really need to drink quite a lot.” He jerked his gaze away from the stuff on the floor, and felt his voice trail off, almost shaking.

“You there, Potter?” Malfoy was holding his arm again, Harry realised, his grip tight and warm.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I’m here.”

He was, he realised. He was right there, in the here and now, with Malfoy beside him. “Come on, Malfoy,” he said, squaring his shoulders and leading the way out of the kitchen. “Forget about expensive wine. I think I heard you say something about buying me a dragon?”

--

“No,” said Harry, “that’s second. You need third gear for normal driving.”

“I am in third!” Draco was speaking through gritted teeth. “I just want to make this thing go at a reasonable speed, Harry!”

“Now you’re in third,” said Harry. “You can tell by the way the engine doesn’t sound like it’s dying. And,” he added, “by reasonable speed, you mean stupidly fast, right?”

“Naturally.” Malfoy sat back and relaxed slightly. Around them, the first faint green of spring was fuzzing the countryside, and the blue sky was full of long pale clouds, their shadows scudding beneath them across the fields. “So,” he added, “how did it go, this morning?”

“You mean the Mind Healer?” Harry made a face. “It went just as well as usual,” he said. “Why do you think I needed to get out and drive really fast, nowhere in particular?”

“We’re going at twenty-five miles an hour,” Draco pointed out. “I can try for faster, but then you usually start yelling.”

“Only when you look like you’re going to start mowing over pedestrians.”

“Just the slow ones.”

“How was your morning, then?” Harry asked. “Unspeakables still picking your brains?”

“Well, their entire raison d'être is dubious experiments and unethical research” said Draco. “It’s bloody great. I saw Meena in the Ministry atrium,” he added. “She said your notes on the Oglivey case were invaluable. They really do want you back, you know.”

“In a while.” Harry tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “Merlin knows, I could do without any more Prophet headlines for a bit.”

“I thought your ‘Actually, Torture is Bad’ piece was really stirring,” said Draco. “Just the kind of hard-hitting, incisive journalism we need in this messed-up world of ours.”

Harry groaned. “Don’t remind me,” he said. “At least Hermione agreed to write most of it.”

“And just think,” said Draco, “how Skeeter will feel when she realises she missed the real scoop. Harry Potter Shags Death Eater!”

Harry grinned. “Hero Bends Over for Bad Boy,” he offered. “The Boy Who Lived to Love a Malfoy!”

“I like that last one,” said Draco. He was staring forwards, keeping his eyes firmly on the road.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I do too. Both those last ones, actually.” He looked across at Draco. “You know,” he said, “now I’m here, I can think of some more interesting things to do than driving.”

“Oh, really,” said Draco. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Screw you, Potter?”

“Screw you, Malfoy,” said Harry. “And screw this twenty-miles-an-hour bollocks. I’m throwing the invisibility switch, and you’re turning back to the Manor.”

“I am, am I?” Draco didn’t seem exactly put out.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “And I’ll show something else I’ve been working on, as well.” Leaning forwards, he tapped his wand against the dashboard. A pair of bright red buttons sprang into visibility, and he slammed the heel of his hand down on both of them. “Hang onto the wheel,” he said. “And try not to hit any passing geese.”

“What the – what the fuck, Harry?” Draco swung the wheel wildly as the car, cresting the brow of a hill, took off into the air. They veered off over a field, dipping low enough to score a line across the furrows, before rocketing up, high into the blue spring sky.

“It’s pretty simple once you get the hang of it,” said Harry. “Trust me. Much easier than Muggle driving.”

“You could have warned me,” said Draco, somewhat sulkily. “Still,” he admitted, spinning the wheel with a flourish, “this isn’t half bad.”

“Teddy loves it,” said Harry.

“You’ll make a flier out of him yet,” said Draco. “Even if it is behind a wheel.”

“Yeah, well,” said Harry. “You’re going to help. I can’t do everything myself, you know.”

Draco shook his head. “You know,” he said darkly, “Mother and Aunt Andromeda are going to be insufferable about this. Just insufferable.”

“I’ll take insufferable.” Harry frowned. “As long as they don’t, you know, talk about me too much. Or expect us to turn up to one of these tea-and-chatting sessions.”

“Oh,” said Draco, sending the car hurtling up through rags of cloud, “Don’t worry. I promise to take you to the pub afterwards.”

“You’d better.” Harry paused. “I could take you to the pub before you meet the Weasleys,” he offered. “It couldn’t make things much more difficult.”

“It’s almost as if you don’t think I can be charming, when I want to be,” said Draco. “Have some faith in me, for pity’s sake.”

“Pub afterwards, then.”

“Merlin, yes. And I’ll require fire-whisky,” said Draco. “None of this Muggle beer nonsense.”

“Done.” Harry looked out of the window, catching a glimpse of a confused looking seagull before it slipped away, out of sight. “You know,” he said, “I am going to go back to the Department. I just need to get Albert out of my head properly, first.”

“I know.” Draco steered the car downwards, sending it swooping round the curve of a hill. A cluster of Muggle houses flashed by, their gardens thick with snowdrops and crocuses, white and purple and shocking orange. “There’s no rush,” he said. “Trust me, I’m hardly looking forward to the next time I have to drop everything and come running to rescue you from the middle of some mission gone wrong.”

“My hero,” said Harry dryly. But he found himself smiling, just the same.

“Hey,” said Draco, a little later. “Potter. Harry. Look down there.”

Harry looked. Far beneath them, two small grey foxes were racing across a field, flicking in and out of visibility as they went. “Flit-foxes,” he said. “Look at them go.”

“You don’t usually see them out in the open.” Draco cleared his throat. “Hermione’s working on a preservation order, you know.”

“I know.” Harry rolled down his window and leaned out, hair whipping against his face. “Get closer,” he yelled, although the wind snatched the words out of his mouth as he spoke. The flit-foxes were chasing each other, he realised, blinking in and out of sight like ghosts across the empty field. “They’re playing!”

“I can’t hear a word you’re saying, by the way,” said Draco. But he took the car down, just the same.

“I said, they’re playing,” said Harry, pulling his head in. “They’re just – having fun.” He grinned sideways at Draco, suddenly full of happiness, fierce and sharp as a flit-fox tooth.

“Probably celebrating the demise of the last person they terrified into an early grave," Draco said quellingly, then spoilt the effect by smiling himself. "I suppose," he said, peering out of his window, "you might not be completely delusional."

Harry lifted his wand. “Point Me Malfoy Manor,” he said. “Drive on, Draco!” he ordered. “We’ve go places to go.”

“And people to screw,” said Draco.

“Exactly.” Harry sat back in his seat, watching grey-green woods unfurl beneath them, and felt the past peel away behind them, off into the cold spring air.