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"Where is Anthony?" Thomas demanded. "His plan didn't work. What do we do next?"
Penelope cringed. "I don't know. Maybe we should just… stop?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Penny," Dahlia berated her. "If we don't separate them, who will?"
"But nothing is working! Maybe we should—"
"You're free to leave any time, Penelope," a harsh voice reminded her. "We exist to protect Harry Potter, even if it's from himself. If you're no longer one of his biggest—"
"No! I mean, I am. Of course I am. I'm not going anywhere."
"Good. I have an idea. How are you with memory spells?"
-
Shaking his head in confusion, Harry flicked his gaze between the two women before him. "I'm sorry, who did you say you were?"
"I'm Pepper and this is Paprika," the blonde woman said, gesturing to her dark haired friend. "We're your biggest fans! Can we have your autograph, please?"
"Er, sure… I suppose that's alright."
"Cheers!" Pepper giggled. "I still can't believe it's you. Not every day you run into Harry Potter, is it?"
"No, I suppose not," Harry conceded, handing the photo of his face back to Pepper and taking Paprika's.
"Are you busy tonight? There's a party at the ministry—"
"He knows that Pepper; he works there, remember?"
"Right, of course. Are you going with anyone?"
"I wasn't actually planning to go," he said easily. "If you'll exc—"
"Why not?"
"I'm—" he broke off, frowned. He usually enjoyed the ministry's parties, though he couldn't recall why. But he definitely remembered that he wasn't planning to go to this one. "I don't— I don't know, I might go."
"Save a dance for me," Pepper called, waving as he wandered away.
Now, Harry thought, what was he doing?
-
Draco glanced up at the clock on the mantel in his study, a concerned frown marring his smooth brow. Surely, Harry should have returned by now. It didn't take two hours to obtain a portkey. Especially not if you were Harry Potter.
Perhaps Harry had misunderstood and gone home, instead of back to the Manor. Rising, he crossed to the fireplace and tossed in a pinch of floo powder, calling out the address for their flat, then stepped through. “Harry?” he called.
It was a small flat, but it suited their needs. The benefit was: you couldn’t miss it if someone was home. No one was.
Turning, he decided he’d fire-call the Weasley-Granger house but, as he dipped his hand into the pot on the mantel, the fireplace roared to life, green flames licking at the edges of stone.
"Oh, Draco," Hermione said, her face hovering in the flames. "Just the man I was looking for. Have you seen Harry, by any chance?"
"Not since he went to collect our portkey," Draco replied hesitantly. "I take it you don't know where he is, either?"
"Oh… Well, no, I wouldn't say that. You see he's—"
"Hermione?" Harry's voice came from behind her. "Can I go home yet? I need to get ready."
"Harry's with you? Why didn't you say—"
"'Mione." Harry prodded her out of the fireplace and took her place. "Oh, hello. Who are you?" he asked with a dopey, lopsided grin.
"Who am— Granger!"
"We'll go to buy dress robes in a moment, Harry. Your flat is… being renovated! Yes. Just, go wait over there." Sliding back into view, Hermione sighed. "So, he wasn't like this the last time you saw him?"
"He doesn't recognize me? How did— never mind. Can't you take him to St. Mungo's?"
"That's where we are, Draco. They said he's been Obliviated, but they can't undo it because it's too intricate. They took every memory of you, Draco."
"What? That's more than half of his life!"
"No, that’s just it. It's just you. Even the things you did together are still there, just… without you. Shit, that's worse than I realised, I'm so sorry."
"How can they—" Draco began numbly.
"They said his memories could come back," she rushed to assure him. "But it has to be done lightly, or he could…"
"Or he could go mad," he finished for her. "Fuck. So, what do I do?"
"I have an idea. Harry's dead set on going to the Ministry ball tonight, can you meet us there?"
Draco thought of all the balls they'd attended together since they began seeing each other; they were fond memories of drinking too much and mocking the wizarding world's elite, happy to forget for a night that they were among them. Harry still had those memories, apparently. Perhaps putting Draco back into one would jog others loose.
"Okay, I'll be there," he promised.
-
Stepping into the ballroom, Harry looked around curiously. Part of him wanted to cringe at the tacky decorations, the countless politicians, and the wealthiest members of wizarding society in attendance but, somehow, there was still a part of him that was excited about the evening.
With Ron and Hermione flanking him, he moved through the crowd to the bar to order himself a firewhiskey. Yet, when the barman asked, he almost ordered two glasses of wine, then shook himself. He hated wine. Resolutely, he ordered a firewhiskey, then turned to survey the room again. It felt like he was looking for someone, but that was as ridiculous as ordering wine.
Harry understood that this was what the healers meant about his memories coming back slowly, but it felt wrong. Even standing here, he felt out of place in something that he held generally fond memories of. Something was missing.
Stamping down on the feeling, he went to find a table, surprised to find that, in his musings, he’d lost track of his friends. They’d show up, of course, but the idea of an evening alone wasn’t appealing, either. He had almost decided to leave when two women popped up in his path.
“Harry! You came!” the blonde one… Penny? called excitedly. “Remember me? Pepper?”
“Ah, yes! Hello, Pepper, and, I’m sorry, what was it?”
“Paprika,” the other woman intoned.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Who named their children after spices? “How lovely to see you both again. How are you enjoying the—”
Harry glanced up, his eyes flying desperately to the doorway just as someone new walked through it and the words caught in his throat. He was beautiful; tall and slim with slightly broad shoulders, accentuated by the almost rigid dress robes sweeping down his body, but split at the hip to reveal long, black clad legs. His white blond hair was swept to one side, cascading down his shoulder to his waist.
“Who is that?” Harry breathed, forgetting himself.
The women followed his gaze, then glanced nervously at each other. “That’s no one, Harry," Paprika said, sliding a hand up his arm. "Would you care to dance?”
“He looks familiar.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Pepper said, tugging on Harry’s other hand to regain his attention.
"Excuse me," Harry said apologetically, shrugging their hands off and slipping between them.
The mysterious man scanned the ballroom before his eyes landed on Harry and he smirked. Harry felt drawn to him, his feet carrying him forward, his hands itching to touch, his heart lifting with some unknown emotion. And the man approached him, as well, striding purposefully through the throngs of people until they met, somewhere in the middle.
"Harry," he sighed, and Harry started.
"You know me?" he asked, then kicked himself. He was Harry Potter; too many people knew him. "I apologise. It would appear I am at a disadvantage," he said, affecting a suave bow and wondering when he had become good at this.
"Bollocks, Harry, you can't use that on me. I taught you that." The haloed light around his head wavered as he jammed one hand on his hip and pasted a scowl on his face. "I suppose you don't remember me, then?"
"Should I? I'd like to—dance with me, let me get to know you."
He snorted, an undignified sound that seemed at odds with everything about him—except his words. He stared at Harry, something swirling in his clear, grey eyes as he seemed to think about how to answer."
With a sigh, he held out a hand. "Very well, Potter, but you had better not step on my feet. I'll hex you into next week."
"I can't make any promises, but I'll try." Holding out a hand, Harry smiled at him, a confidence he barely recognised coursing through him, and led him out onto the dance floor, determined not to let him out of his sight for the entire evening.
-
While they danced, Draco did what he could to trigger Harry's memories. He held him in the way he knew Harry loved, caressed his shoulders when they stood close, stroked the small of his back when their dance placed them side by side. He spoke of the memories they shared, though he knew Harry had no knowledge of his presence in them.
“This is brilliant,” Harry exclaimed after the fifth such memory. “Who would have guessed we’d have so many experiences in common?”
Draco wanted to kick him.
But, as the night wore on, Harry became more and more agitated. He fumbled conversation more, even did manage to step on Draco’s feet a time or two. He was beginning to wonder if he’d spooked Harry, but every time the harpies he’d been standing with earlier in the evening tried to cut in, he made his apologies and kept Draco’s hand firmly in his. Yet, his eyes darted around the room nervously, he stuttered when he spoke, and rubbed a hand through his hair more than once.
Eventually, Draco could take no more. “Potter, what's the matter?”
“I’m so sorry, I feel like I’m forgetting something rather important. What time is it?”
Draco glanced to the clock above the entrance to the ballroom. “Five till midnight. Harry, what’s wrong?”
His eyes widened and Harry stepped back. “Draco,” he gasped, then, “I’m sorry, I have to go! Draco’s waiting for me.”
And he dashed away, through the crowd while Draco stared on, flabbergasted. "Harry! Where are you going?" he called. "I'm right here, you oaf!"
Harry didn't hear him, though, so Draco took off after him, weaving through the guests as quickly as he could. But, by the time he made it out of the ministry, Harry was gone.
"Draco?" Hermione asked, rushing toward him with Ron in tow. "Where's he gone?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. He said my name and then left."
"We have to find him; where would he go?"
"How should I know?" Draco cried, throwing his hands in the air. "There's any number of places he might think he'd find me."
“Then what are we waiting for?” Ron asked. “He’s in as much danger as you are, apparently.”
-
Harry jogged the last several feet, his head whipping from side to side, searching for Draco. He felt foolish; he knew he should know who Draco was, Ron and Hermione had asked about… shit, he couldn’t even remember if his apparent fiance was a man or a woman, let alone what they looked like.
But he knew this spot. He knew it was his favorite place in Diagon Alley, knew he loved eating lunch here. The little bench, just big enough for two, in the center of a small garden that brought life to the middle of the city. It wasn’t very big, but it was his… theirs, he was coming to remember. And this was where he’d proposed, he thought. He loved this person enough to propose marriage, but he couldn’t remember their face.
Sitting, Harry dropped his head into his hands, groaning. And he’d danced all night with that bloke. Of course, he couldn’t remember Draco at the time, it wasn’t intentional, but the way he felt was immediate and all-encompassing. What if… what if Draco wasn’t enough, after that? The very idea closed a fist around his heart and squeezed. Draco was everything, that much he knew.
A sound cut through the night and interrupted Harry’s musing. The tap tap tap of heels on flagstones. He lifted his head and balked at the sight before him. The two women from that morning, and from the ball; the spices.
“Ladies,” he began cautiously. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Harry, we were so worried!” Pepper, the talkative one. “The way you left the ball, so suddenly. Are you alright?”
“I am,” he assured them, scooting away uncomfortably when they both tried to squeeze onto the bench beside him. “I’m just waiting for someone, so—”
“You are?” asked Paprika, dully. “Who’s Harry Potter meeting after midnight on a lonely street?”
“My fiancé,” he replied firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d rather wait alone.”
“Fiancé,” Pepper laughed. “You’re Harry Potter! You’re the most eligible bachelor in wizarding England, you aren’t engaged. ”
Harry opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. They said he'd only forgotten Draco, and some of the memories were still a bit muddled but he distinctly remembered a stream of howlers a few months ago. The wizarding world was angry he'd chosen to get married— No, that he'd chosen to marry Draco.
An image flashed before his eyes, of a small blond boy in a robe shop, then another, of a hand offered with a sneer. Image after image, memory after memory flooded Harry's mind; duels, fights, curses and tears, then smiles and laughter, soft touches and loving words.
"Harry! There you are!" Hermione’s voice rang through the night, quickly followed by Ron's relieved shout.
Harry rose, glancing back to the two women in time to catch their frightened glances before they jumped to their feet and ran.
"No! Stop them!" he shouted and Ron veered off course to do so as Hermione ran the rest of the way to his side.
"Harry, are you okay? Who are they?"
"They're the ones who Obliviated me," he said, lifting a hand to his temple and sinking back onto the bench just as he appeared, pale and lovely in his dress robes—Harry's favorite. "Draco," he sighed before his eyes fluttered closed and consciousness left him.
-
Draco sank to the bed at Harry's side, so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. But Harry had woken up and he didn't dare leave his side.
"The healer's said you should be fine," he murmured as Harry leaned into him. "all of the memories returning so suddenly knocked you out, but you're back to normal now."
"God, how do you handle this so calmly every time? Don't you just want to—"
"Of course I do, Harry. But I have you, they can't keep us apart, and they'll all be behind bars before this is over. Knowing that helps."
"I love you, Draco. Whatever they do to us, don't forget that."
"Scared Potter?"
"Yes. Terrified."
Draco bent to press a kiss to his temple, determined not to show how scared he actually was. They'd get through this, he knew. They'd been through worse.