Summary:

The morning after. A chat with Harry. More of Draco's log.

Chapter Text

Sunday

The wind whipped around his ears. They were all bathed in green light.

"Draco, Draco, you are not a killer," the old man said.

"How do you know?" he asked quickly. The words sounded childish in his ears. He felt a flush of embarrassment wash over his skin. His knees were water. His stomach threatened to empty itself at any moment. The stick burned in his hands. He gripped it tighter, leveling it at the old man. The old man was begging him not to do this, but didn't seem afraid of him.

"You don't know what I'm capable of," he said, more forcefully this time. "You don't know what I've done!"

He felt his parents behind him, urging him to do this. Maybe this time, if he just turned quickly enough, he'd be able to see them. He had to take the chance. He whirled around, but they disappeared. In their place was Him. The snake/man.

"You disappoint me, Draco." His voice was oil. Dirty. Clinging. "They will die. Because you have failed me."

"No." He meant for his voice to be strong, powerful. It came out in a strangled plea.

Suddenly, the green light in the sky contracted into a ball and streaked down towards the tower. He lifted his arms to the sky, shielding his eyes from the sick light. The bolt hit him squarely in the left forearm, sending a blistering pain throughout his body.

He felt blackness envelop him as he cried out and shut his eyes.

Suddenly, there was another person in the darkness, shaking him, repeating his name. Only not quite his name. Close to his name, but not his name.

"Drake? Drake? Wake up. It's just a dream. Wake up."

His eyes snapped open. Early grey light haunted the room. He was in his bed. She was next to him, framed by a ghostly aura. The sheets were a sweaty, tangled mess. His forearm was fucking on fire. He cried out and brought it to his mouth, expecting blisters to rise on his lips. When none did, he pulled his arm away and threw the sheets to the floor.

"The tower?" she asked.

"I was fucking there, Granger. I know I was. This isn't. Just. A dream."

"Drake ..."

"Draco."

"...What?"

"That's what they called me. The old man, the ... the other one. Draco. Like you do sometimes."

"Your subconscious must be mixing up the ..."

"No." He got out of bed and reached for his boxers.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going for a run." He opened his dresser and pulled out a pair of socks, nylon shorts and a T-shirt.

"Now? It's barely six in the morning."

"What the fuck do I care?" He asked, lacing up his trainers.

"Don't go. Stay with me. Let me get you a glass of water. We can talk ..."

"I'll be back."

He threw open the door of his flat and bolted down the stairs and out the building's entrance. He immediately broke into a sprint, ignoring the stiffness in his muscles. The sharp cold of the pre-dawn air cut through the dream-miasma circling his head.

He focused on the way his feet thudded against the asphalt, on the small clouds of breath that gathered in front of his mouth. The rhythm of his stride began to erase his mind, slowly but surely, until he was aware of nothing but the ache in his legs and the fire in his lungs.
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When he returned to his flat, he stood in the living room, palms on his mid-thighs, slightly hunched over. She emerged from the kitchen. He looked up at her. She had showered and put on his clothes again. He nodded at her, too winded to actually form words.

"Hey," she said, throwing a banana at him. It bounced off his shoulder. He grinned, snatched it up from the floor, and thanked her.

"I'd throw you a glass of water too, but I think that would be a bit messy."

He straightened up and steadied his breathing. "Agreed."

"You were gone for a while."

"Yeah." He walked past her into the kitchen. Sitting on the table was a half-empty tea mug and an opened envelope. He was annoyed, but he supposed she had the right; it was, after all, Sunday. He got a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water.

"I borrowed your clothes."

"I noticed." He filled his glass again. "Knickers in the wash?"

"No. I brought a spare pair this time."

He raised an eyebrow at her. The tips of her ears turned watermelon pink. He downed a second glass and started in on the banana.

"I read your log."

"I see." The banana vanished quickly. He chased it with a handful of almonds from the jar she had put on the table.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. He hated the look he knew he was giving her—he hated how distant he was trying to make himself from her after they had gotten so close to each other last night. But he did it, because it was easier, because it was the equivalent of running ten more kilometers. "I'm going to shower."

"Alright."

He took a change of clothes with him into the bathroom, and waited until he had closed the door before he peeled his shirt off of his body. He didn't want to fall into bed with her again, to feel that kind of intimacy. Not right now.

When he was done with his shower, he noted that his attempts at being demure hadn't really mattered; she wasn't near the door when he emerged. He ran a comb through his hair and hung up his towel. The smell of pancakes made his stomach growl audibly.

He walked into the kitchen and poured himself another glass of water. She put three pancakes on each of their plates and handed him a fork.

"I thought you might want them hot this time," she said.

"Thanks."

He waited for her to begin a sentence with "About last night ..." or "Drake, that dream ..." or "I read something in your log ...," but she never did. She simply ate her pancakes, drank her tea, and stole glances at him when she thought he wasn't noticing.

She could only manage to eat two, and slid her third one into his plate. He looked at her to see if she would change her mind, but she gave him a half-smile and waved her fork dismissively, so he devoured it.

"Good?"

"Mmm."

"Good." She took their plates to the sink and washed them. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled. He was so full of water and breakfast that he thought he was going to burst.

"You're supposed to eat carbs before a run, you know," she said, drying a dish.

"Well you should have woken up earlier," he said.

She snorted.

"Did you just snort?

"Yes."

"Charming."

"If you say so."

She put the dry dishes back in the cupboard. He should have helped her, but he felt rooted to his seat. The exertion, the shower, the food ... all were now combining in his system to create a perfect storm of sleepiness.

"You look like you need a nap."

"I'm fine."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever." She took the envelope from the table and brought it into the living room, probably to put into her bag. When she returned, she had his legal pad and favorite pen. "I need you to do that again this week."

"Granger ..." he grasped the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"I mean it."

He sighed in disgust.

"And use this pad and this pen." She thrust them towards him.

"Why?"

"... So it will match what you've already written. It makes it easier for me to keep everything together."

"Fine. But I'm not making this a habit. You get one more week of this."

"Deal."

"You'll be here on Thursday?"

"Yes."

"Will you be bringing a spare pair of knickers?"

Her eyes went from indignant to embarrassed to coolly amused in a fraction of a second. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He grinned at her. "Thanks for cooking."

"You're welcome." She sat across from him. "I'm going to talk to someone this week who might be able to help."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I've been doing a lot of research."

He said nothing. No sense subscribing to the false hopes she allowed herself to cling to.

"Look," she said, taking his hands in hers. "If I'm right about this lead, it might require some ... different therapy."

"What are you talking about?" He kept his hands limp in hers.

"I'm not entirely sure right now. But before I embark on any of this, I have a very important question."

"I don't want a different social worker, Granger. Or a sodding psychiatrist."

"That's not what I'm saying."

"It's not?"

"No. You won't have to deal with anyone but me. I promise."

"Good."

"So I still have a question."

"Go on then."

He realized that she wouldn't ask it until he was looking her dead in the eyes. When he finally complied, she tightened her grip on his hands until it began to hurt. Tears were threatening to spill over her lashes, but her gaze was steady.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes." He answered without hesitation. His heart was hammering against his ribs, but he didn't understand why.

"Are you sure?"

"I trust you completely." His tongue felt like a wad of cotton.

She relaxed her grip on his hands. Color flooded back into her knuckles. "Alright then." Her voice was soft, almost broken. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands and stood. "I have to go." Sadness radiated from her. He felt it infect him, spreading across his chest like a cold gust of wind. He wanted to tell her to stay, to pull her close to him, to lead her back into the bedroom where they could share heat and whisper to each other and knot their bodies together, but he didn't.

She went to the living room, picked up her bag, and turned to him. "I'll be back on Thursday. Please call me if you need anything. And don't forget your log. It's very important."

"Alright."

"Uhm ... thanks for the play."

"You're welcome."

"I ... I really loved seeing it with you, Drake." His name sounded wrong on her lips, but he let it go.

"I loved seeing it with you too, Hermione."

She took a step towards him and hesitated. Her lips were trembling.

"And thanks for dinner, and tea ..." she was sniffling now. She took another step towards him and threw her arms around his body, pressing her head against his chest, nuzzling against neck as if she wanted desperately to memorize his scent or the feel of his skin. Tears began to soak through his shirt. Part of him wanted to ask her what was wrong, but most of him didn't actually want to know. She kissed his neck firmly, tightened her arms, and then let go. "I'm sorry for that," she said. "I ..." she cleared her throat. "I don't really know what came over me."

"It's alright." His own eyes had also begun to sting by this point. "Don't explain."

"I'll see you Thursday," she said. She gave his hand one final squeeze and left his flat.

-----------------------------------
Hermione managed to maintain her composure until she made it back to her own flat. She assumed that she would be able to safely burst into tears once she reached her door, but that plan was foiled by the presence of Harry, hand poised to knock on her door just as she was turning down the hallway. She tried to duck away, but it was too late; he had already seen her.

"Hermione?"

"Harry."

"I was just coming to ... what are you wearing?"

She looked down at Draco's clothes, hanging loosely on her frame. She shifted her bag on her shoulder. "Clothes."

"A little big for you, no?"

"I guess."

Harry's eyes bored into her. She opened her door and gestured for him to follow her. Once inside, she retrieved two glasses, filled them both with firewhiskey, and set them down on the coffee table.

"It's going to be that kind of Sunday morning, then?"

"Yes." She took a long sip.

"What's going on, Hermione?"

"You first."

"My news doesn't require firewhiskey."

"Even better. Let's hear it."

"Ginny and I have set a date."

"It's about bloody time, Harry," she said, a grin stretching across her lips. "When is it?"

"August 10th."

"That's wonderful." She hugged her friend warmly. "Oh, I can't wait. Will it be at the Burrow?"

"Of course. You think Molly would outsource this one?"

"You're right. What was I thinking? Has Ginny agreed to wear her mother's dress? The one with the birds?"

Harry sucked his cheeks in. "Dunno. Sore subject, that one. I try not to interfere."

"Smart move on your part. So a summer wedding? Harry, it will be so beautiful." Joy swelled inside of her. She was so relieved to be talking about this instead of rehashing the thoughts that had been swirling in her mind all weekend.

"Your turn now, Hermione," he said, snapping her out of her reverie.

"For what?" She played with the edge of Draco's shirt. It smelled like his detergent. Her skin smelled like his soap.

"Don't do that, Hermione. Not with me."

Tears began to spill down her cheeks before she could sufficiently steel herself.

"Oh, Harry ..." Breath hitched in her chest.

"It's noon. You're just getting back from his flat, aren't you?"

She nodded. He put an arm around her shaking shoulders.

"Hermione ... are you ..."

"Yes, OK? Yes."

"Hermione ..." His voice was soft, but still carried a tone of disapproval ... or possibly concern ... she couldn't discern one from the other.

"I know, Harry. I know. Believe me, I know. I can't help this. I can't help the way I feel."

"Oh, Hermione." He pulled her closer, letting her cry on his shoulder without asking her anything else. After a few moments, she lifted her head up, dabbing at her eyes with tissues from the box. As she was brushing away the strands of hair plastered to her face, a very unpleasant thought suddenly entered her head.

"Harry ... you didn't just come here to tell me about the wedding date. You could have told me at work tomorrow. Or owled me to get dinner and told me then."

"No, I just ..." His words trailed off. "Alright, yes. Ron asked me to come."

"That nosy git," she muttered.

"Hermione, he's just worried about you."

"Like hell he's worried about me. Intrusive arsehole." She stood up and began to pace.

"Not this again. Can't you sit down?"

"What right does he have to send you after me like some sort of watchdog? What did he even tell you?"

"Hermione, I would have done the same thing if I were in his place. Draco Malfoy is ..."

"Don't you get it?" She stopped pacing and turned to face him, bracing herself on the arm of the couch. "He's not the person we all knew then."

"How do you know that?"

"I just do. Harry, I've spent time with him, I've talked to him, I've ..."

"Slept with him?"

"That's none of your business," she said hotly. But she knew that the red in her cheeks and the clothes on her body had answered his question.

"Hermione, look ..."

"Harry, you don't ..."

"No, listen to me." He put his hands on her shoulders. "Hermione, I meant it when I said that I trust your judgment. I always will. You are smarter and kinder and more judicious than just about anyone else I know. So if you say he's changed, then I believe you. And if you say that you ... enjoy being with him, then I trust that you are doing what you think is best. But look ... where can this possibly go?"

"I don't know," she said, half in a murmur, half in a whine. "I don't know, Harry."

He led her back to the couch, but she still wouldn't sit. He sighed and began to pace with her again.

"What about the ... slipping? Is it getting worse?"

"Much." She briefly recounted the contents of his log and the dream he'd had the night before.

Harry swore under his breath.

"While he was out this morning, I charmed his pen and paper with the same spell I use on mine. Anything he writes in his log will be immediately copied to this," she said, digging a smaller notebook out of her bag. She flipped to the first page. Still blank. "This way I can keep tabs on him until we meet on Thursday."

"Hermione, we have to go to the Council."

"No."

"Hermione ..."

"It's not the end of the month yet, Harry."

He heaved a sigh of frustration. "Ok. So what's your plan?"

"I'm going to go talk to someone. Someone who's been through something that I'm going through right now."

"Who?"

"I read about a witch who once erased her lover's memories, but her spell went wrong somehow. I'm going to see if she can give me any sort of information that might help."

"I'm going with you."

"No, Harry."

"But ..."

"No. It's not going to be dangerous. She's an old woman."

"And what if she tells you that there's nothing you can do?"

Hermione paused, looked up at the ceiling, and filled her lungs. "Then we can go to the Council. I promise."

"What if she tells you that you have to erase his memories again? And that you have to stay out of his life?"

Tears spilled down her cheeks. She kept her gaze focused on a spot in the corner of the room. "Then that's what I'll do. I just want to help him, Harry."

He folded his arms and shook his head. "I don't like this."

"I know."

"What if ..."

"There are too many 'what ifs.' There's no point asking them."

They exchanged looks and simultaneously gulped their firewhiskeys, giggling slightly as they slammed their empty glasses on the table.

"You're a Gryffindor through and through."

"Because I can chug firewhiskey?"

"Because you're doing this for him. Whatever 'this' happens to be. But now that you mention it, that is pretty strong firewhiskey."

She snickered, but then her face grew serious. "I want to give you something."

"What?"

She walked to locked box in the corner of the room and tapped it with her wand, muttering something softly. When the box opened, she removed a blank piece of parchment and handed it to Harry.

"If I get myself into any sort of trouble, I will use this to tell you where I am."

He nodded. "I still wish you would let me go with you," he said, but he folded it and put it in his pocket.

"Take what you can get, Potter." She smirked at him.

"I always do."

"I have one more favor to ask you."

"Alright."

"I'm not going to work this week. I'm going to call in sick. Tell anyone who asks that I have something not serious, but highly communicable. Like ... uhm ... slug pox."

"Gross."

"Ah, that's the desired reaction. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Harry. I mean it. And I really can't wait for the wedding."

"You and me both. Er ... thanks for the drink, Hermione."

He squeezed his friend's shoulder and left her with her thoughts.

-------------------
Log for Sunday

I tried to go for another run tonight, but my muscles wouldn't let me make it more than two kilometers. I gave up and watched football instead.

Running temporarily erases it. So does booze and, as I recently discovered, sex.

I used to think that "it" was the frustration of not remembering my past life, or the dissonances I experienced in this one, but that's not quite right. The "it" that gets dissolved in adrenaline, exhaustion, alcohol, or sex is something I don't understand. It's a feeling that courses through my body. Not in my veins, like blood, but through my entire body. Through my nerves? I feel it at the tip of every pore. It's a sort of power in some way, but it's got no direction, no outlet. So it bubbles and seethes and courses through me, but it's useless, it's impotent, it's blunted, it's circuitous, it's ... neutered? I don't know if there's a word for this. Sometimes it's like an itch, but an itch on the inside, as if the undersides of my ribs were covered in insect bites. Sometimes it's like I've been puffed full of air, and no amount of exhaling deflates me. It's maddening.

It goes away a bit when I'm with you. Because you are part of where I belong. If that makes sense.

I'm going to bed now, Granger. I hope that if we end up on a train tonight, you look at me like you did last night.

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Hermione read the words over and over before she fell asleep, clutching the enchanted notebook to her chest.