Adamant and Starlight

Chapter 11: Forget Me Not

Professor McGonagall had spent so much time in this wingback chair of late that she was beginning to feel a sort of proprietary attachment to it. She was perversely glad that she had managed to claim it today, before the mob of anxious, muttering wizards who had invaded the office could beat her to it. They were all conjuring stools or finding a piece of furniture to prop themselves against, saying little but conveying a vast deal of worry with their frowning looks. Minerva shared their worry, though she did not know exactly what had happened on the journey up from London, and she wished - not for the first time - that she could have spoken to Dumbledore alone.

Sinking back in the familiar flowered cushions, she eyed the man seated opposite her from beneath her lowered lashes. Snape looked dreadful, his normally sallow face white as chalk and his bitter black eyes sunk in shadows. He had not changed his robes since arriving so dramatically at the castle gates in a battered and scarred Knight Bus, with Malfoy an inert bundle in his arms and Potter haunting his steps in hollow-eyed shock. The black garments still stank of flame and magic.

From the moment she had opened the wards to let Severus and his charges through, Minerva had seethed with curiosity about the trial and its aftermath, but she still knew virtually nothing. First she had held her tongue because her students needed her, then out of concern for Severus himself, touched by the strange look in his eyes - a look she could not name and devoutly wished she could not see, either. Finally, they had come here to Dumbledore's office and settled into their usual places, but before she had the chance to ask her colleague a single question, most of the Order had descended upon them.

They were all waiting for Dumbledore to return with varying degrees of patience or detachment. Molly and Arthur Weasley sat on hastily-conjured stools, with their eldest, Bill, hovering behind them. Alastor Moody lurked in the shadows behind the desk, watching everyone darkly, as though he expected an ambush at any second. Sirius Black, his tall body folded into a window embrasure, scowled and picked at the torn leather of his boot like a sullen schoolboy. Remus Lupin stood by Fawkes' perch and murmured softly to the bird, playing at normalcy so he didn't have to acknowledge the crackling tension in the room. And Hagrid filled one whole section of the room, making the walls seem to shrink in on the rest of them. At least Kingsley Shacklebolt and Sturgis Podmore had taken themselves off to the Ministry. Minerva didn't think they could have scrounged up a bare bit of floor on which to park them, had they stayed.

Dumbledore slipped in the door and turned to lock it with a wave of his wand. A barrage of noise met his arrival, as half a dozen different questions were fired at him at once. His calm response silenced the racket and brought a grim smile to McGonagall's face.

"Would anyone like some tea?"

"No, Albus," Molly Weasley snapped, before he could get his backside in his chair, "we don't want tea. We want to know if Harry's all right!"

"Harry is fine." Dumbledore sat down with a barely audible sigh of weariness. "As fine as he can be, under the circumstances."

"Where is he?" Molly demanded.

Snape stirred, shooting a sardonic look at Molly, and said, "Where do you think?" Minerva was surprised to note that there was no sourness or anger in his voice. In fact, she was tempted to call his tone humorous but didn't dare go that far.

"Harry is where he needs to be," Dumbledore said, gently.

When Molly opened her mouth to protest, he raised a warning eyebrow at her. She shut her mouth with a snap and subsided, glowering.

"Harry is not our primary concern, at the moment," Dumbledore went on.

"He will be, if Narcissa babbles to Fudge," Moody growled. "Then we'll be right back where we were this morning, with Potter in the dock, and no excuses this time. Potter was very much in his right mind when he used threw a Cruciatus Curse at her."

A few of the listening wizards gasped, Molly among them, and Minerva felt a stab of fear go through her. Potter? An Unforgivable Curse? What in the name of Heaven could have possessed him to do such a thing, and only hours after rescuing Malfoy from a life sentence in Azkaban for the same crime? She leaned forward in her chair, a heated question forming on her lips, but Albus forestalled her.

"I think it unlikely that Narcissa will say anything about what happened today, and if she does, no one will believe her. Only consider how foolish she made Fudge look with her lies at Draco's trial. He won't put himself in that position a second time, nor will he dare bring open charges against Harry so soon after his own humiliation at Harry's hands."

Minerva blinked at him, startled, and muttered, "Just what did Potter do to the fat fool?"

Dumbledore smiled, some of his old sparkle showing through the worry. "Made him look every inch the fool, my dear Minerva," the smile died and the gleam left his eyes abruptly, "and earned himself an implacable enemy in the process, I'm afraid. But for the present, Harry has more credibility in the eyes of the wizarding world than Fudge, in spite of our esteemed Minister of Magic's attempts to tarnish his reputation, and Narcissa is in no position to challenge him. She was caught today in the company of two escaped prisoners..."

"But Bella and Rodolphus got away," Sirius growled, "so we have no proof."

"We have the word of everyone in this room - except yourself and Remus, of course, whose words would not help our cause - that they fought with Narcissa. And we have the Knight Bus as evidence of their violent intent. We can also, in a pinch, prove that Narcissa threw an Unforgivable Curse of her own."

"She did what?" Arthur gasped. Moody nodded lugubriously at him, while Sirius chuckled sourly from his place at the back of the group.

"That's my dear cousin."

Dumbledore sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose between two long fingers - sure sign that he was developing a headache - letting the murmurs die down on their own. Then he went on, "I grant you that Harry's actions were ill-timed and ill-considered, but we must not place too much importance on them. Harry and Draco are back at Hogwarts where they belong, the truth about Lucius' death is known, Fudge's latest attempt to discredit Harry has failed, and Narcissa is under guard at the Ministry. We will deal with a fresh attack on Harry if and when it comes." He brightened a bit. "And on a more cheerful note, we caught four dementors at the ambush. Kingsley managed to dispatch them to our makeshift prison with the others, before Fudge could send them back to Azkaban."

"Dementors." Molly shook her head and muttered, "Death Eaters... what was the woman thinking?" All eyes in the room turned on her, and she flushed, lifting her chin defiantly. "I wouldn't shed any tears over that son of hers getting his comeuppance, but why Narcissa - his own mother - is so anxious for You-Know-Who to have him, I'll never understand!"

Bill laughed humorlessly. "That's because you haven't sold your soul to the Dark Lord, Mum."

"Quite right," Dumbledore said. "You can't know what Narcissa was thinking, because you can't possibly put yourself in her position. It isn't in you to sacrifice a child to Voldemort." His face softened. "Even one you despise."

"Don't be too sure of that, Albus." At his wry look, she shrugged and let her gaze slide away from his. "Oh, very well. I'm not going to hand the boy over to the next dementor I meet. But that just makes Narcissa's behavior all the more puzzling to me. I loathe Malfoy, and I wouldn't wish that on him. How can his mother?"

"Narcissa is in a difficult position. She loves her son - of that I am sure - and she honestly believes that he has been ensorcelled by some subtle magic of mine. He would not betray his father, ally himself with Lucius' enemies, and prostitute himself to Harry of his own free will. He would not condemn himself to death..." At Molly's sort of disbelief, he turned serious eyes on her and said, in a soft, chill voice, "Make no mistake; that is exactly what he's done. Draco Malfoy has placed himself squarely between the Dark Lord and Harry Potter. When the final combat begins, where do you think the first blow will fall?"

"It's already fallen," Snape rasped out, his eyes burning as they touched Molly's face, "Malfoy took the full brunt of it, and your precious Potter doesn't have a scratch on him."

"I'd say Potter's taken a few good hits," Moody growled.

At the same moment, Molly leaped from her stool, railing, "So now it's Harry's fault that You-Know-Who is after Malfoy? Now he's a coward, hiding behind Malfoy, letting someone else fight his battles?"

"Molly, please..." Arthur began.

Snape cut him off with a burst of cold laughter. "Potter's no coward. He's a damned fool of boy, running headlong into trouble and dragging everyone in range with him, but he's no coward. No. He didn't push Malfoy into this or intentionally put him in danger. Malfoy made his choice." He bared his teeth in something that was not a smile and added, harshly, "And I think it's about time you all learned to respect that choice."

In the taut silence that followed his words, Minerva heard Arthur Weasley sigh.

"Sit down, Molly."

His wife slumped back onto her stool, but the mulish set to her jaw warned that she had not surrendered.

"Let's get back to this business with Narcissa," Moody said. "Do we consider her a Death Eater now?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "She doesn't wear the Dark Mark. She's never been connected with any of Voldemort's activities - until today."

"But she chose Voldemort over her son," Remus pointed out.

"I sincerely doubt that Voldemort gave her a choice. He has declared Draco a traitor and condemned him to receive the Dementor's Kiss, and he seems to believe that Draco is the key to winning the war, though how he arrived at this conclusion we don't yet know."

"Ask the centaurs," Hagrid rumbled, speaking for the first time.

Dumbledore's eyes gleamed at him from behind their half-moon spectacles. "I will, when I have the time to ponder stars and portents. In the meantime, we must simply assume that Draco is a very important player in the conflict to come, and we must do everything in our power to protect him, both from Voldemort and from his mother. Narcissa is bound to the Dark Lord by her husband's vows, if not by her own, and does not have the strength to defy him. She is surrounded by his creatures, completely isolated from those of us who might help her, and she will never come to me. She blames me for Draco's treachery. And above all," sadness and regret shadowed Dumbledore's face, "she genuinely believes that Draco is lost. What reason could she have to throw herself on the mercy of her enemies, when her son is already dead in her eyes?"

After a moment's silence, Molly asked, "What will happen to the boy?"

"He has been placed in my care, which is an excellent first step. I've asked Iphigenia Fox to have a look at him. She seemed to think he was still treatable, though now..."

"What do you mean, now?"

Dumbledore shot Snape a glance from beneath his lowered brows and asked, quietly, "You were with him most recently, Severus. Has he shown any sign of awareness?"

Snape shook his head. "He hasn't moved or spoken since we found him on the hillside. Potter says he reacted when he... heard his mother scream..."

"When Harry hit her with the Cruciatus Curse?" Remus asked.

Snape glanced at him with a notable lack of malice in his gaze and nodded.

Remus sighed. "Harry will never forgive himself for this."

To everyone's surprise, it was Snape who spoke up in Harry's defense, saying in a flat, tired voice, "Potter did what had to be done. He's torturing himself for it, now that it's too late to change anything, but that's Potter for you. He'll pull himself together."

"Not if we can't bring Malfoy back," Minerva interjected.

"But when you do bring him back," Molly said, "how long will it be before he tells the wizarding world that Harry attacked his mother with an Unforgivable Curse?"

"Draco won't tell anyone," Sirius said tiredly, as if he'd been having this argument - or one very much like it - every day for an endless time.

"So you say, but it seems to me that Narcissa isn't the real threat here. Her son is. He's the one who's close to Harry, the one with the most to gain by betraying him. What's to stop Malfoy from turning Harry over to Fudge? What's to stop him from taking revenge on Harry himself?"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Molly!" Minerva cried, her frustration boiling over at last. "How many times must we go over the same ground? Malfoy is no threat to Potter! He's a sixteen-year-old boy, not the embodiment of evil! The worst he's done to Potter, so far, is cost him a bit of sleep. And who among us didn't spend a night or two snogging by the lake, instead of asleep in our beds, when we were that age? It didn't do us any harm, and it certainly won't hurt a healthy specimen like Potter! Though it may cost us the House Cup, if he gets caught one more time, which won't win Malfoy any friends among the Gryffindors."

Dumbledore chuckled at that.

"Then you condone this... this romance of Harry's," Molly said, stiffly.

"I don't recall them asking my permission," Minerva retorted. "And if they did... well, the chances are I'd tell them to run along and enjoy themselves while they could. Merlin knows, they get little enough time for it."

An angry flush stained Molly's cheeks, and she snapped, "You all seem to think this is some kind of joke!"

"Give over, Mum," Bill pleaded. "No one's making a joke of it; we just don't happen to agree with you that Malfoy's the worst thing to happen to Harry since his parents died!"

"More likely it's the other way round," Snape muttered, earning him another furious glare from Molly.

Pulling her dignity about her like a cloak, Molly rose to her feet and turned to look down her nose at Dumbledore - just like Narcissa in a snit, Minerva reflected. It must be the Black Blood showing. "I want to see Harry. I assume he's in the hospital wing?"

Dumbledore nodded affably. "Minerva, would you please take the Weasleys down to Poppy? I'll join you when we're finished here."

Minerva opened her mouth to protest - to remind Dumbledore that Potter was in no shape to handle another ambush today - but thought better of it at the last minute and held her tongue. Perhaps it would do Molly good to see Potter. And Malfoy. Perhaps a dose of bitter reality was just what she needed to clear her head.

"We don't need an escort," Molly protested, still at her most dignified and chilling. "We know the way to the hospital wing."

"But you don't know the password that will open the door, nor will Madam Pomfrey allow you in without permission from me." Dumbledore smiled sweetly to take the sting from his words. "Minerva will get you past Harry's guards."

Getting briskly to her feet, Minerva ushered the three Weasleys over to the door and waited for Dumbledore to remove the locking spell. They trooped into the moving stairway in silence, ranging themselves down the curve of the steps, with Minerva still in the lead.

The oppressive silence reigned through the short trip down to the first floor corridor. Even Bill seemed disinclined to engage in idle chatter, with his mother stalking at his side, her face taut with a combination of worry and outrage. Poor Arthur looked as though he wanted to comfort his wife but didn't know how. Watching him from the corners of her eyes, Minerva guessed that he had seen the memories in the Pensieve and had changed his attitude toward Malfoy rather drastically. Molly's continued resistance put him in an awkward position.

They reached the huge, carved oaken door that opened onto the hospital wing. Minerva pulled out her wand, touched the center of the door with its tip, and muttered the password. The door swung inward to reveal Madam Pomfrey standing squarely in front of them, looking severe. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the trio of Weasleys on McGonagall's heels.

"It's all right, Poppy," McGonagall said quickly, "Albus said they could visit Potter."

"This isn't a good time," Madam Pomfrey said.

"Is Harry ill?" Molly asked, as she sidestepped Minvera and rushed into the room. "Is he hurt? Where is he?" Her eyes swept the ward, then halted as they fell on the section of transparent wall and the small room beyond it. Her entire body stiffened, and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh, my."

Minerva moved up beside her and gazed through the magical window, into the Room of Requirement. Though she knew exactly what she would see, she still felt her throat tighten in distress.

For a very long moment, no one spoke. Then Minerva said, quietly, "I don't think we should disturb Potter just now."

* * *

Draco had not moved by so much as the flicker of an eyelash since Snape had laid him in his bed and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. He lay stretched out flat on his back, his face as blank and white as the pillowcase that framed it, his eyes closed and his mouth open slightly. The brand on his cheek looked even angrier and uglier than usual, against the lifeless pallor of his skin.

Harry caught himself staring at the brand, as the only source of color on Draco's body. It drew his eyes like a moth to a candle flame, until he lost all awareness of his surroundings and focused completely on the small, blurred letter burned into that perfect face. His father's last gift to him.

There must be something I can do, Harry thought, as he reached up to touch the brand with one finger. Draco did not flinch at his touch, though Harry knew that it must hurt. There must be a way to reach him.

More than anything about this ghastly situation, his own helplessness tortured Harry. It was as if he'd spent the last few weeks trapped in a Pensieve, watching terrible things happen while he screamed out useless warnings and snatched at ghosts. And the one time he had done something tangible, something real, it had ended like this. In emptiness and silence.

Harry would have preferred the blank, uncomprehending looks and wandering talk of stars to this. He would gladly have sat in the window embrasure with Draco, staring at his profile, holding his hand, privately weeping at the lack of recognition in his eyes. He would even relish the sight of a Patronus bearing down on him or the feel of crystalline fingers tightening about his throat, if it meant that Draco was still alive, somewhere inside himself, somewhere Harry could find him.

Perhaps he could roll Draco onto his side and curl him up in his usual sleeping position. Perhaps, if Draco weren't lying there like a corpse laid out for viewing, he might feel more himself and be more willing to venture out of hiding. Or perhaps it was Harry's own pain he wanted to ease by relieving the rigid formality and strangeness of the scene. His Draco - his cold-blooded boa constrictor of a love - would never sleep like that, all stiff and straight. He would pull himself into a protective huddle, halfway down the mattress, with his arms tucked in close to his body for warmth and the blankets pulled over his head. He would twine himself around the nearest heat source, holding it fiercely even in the deepest sleep, and give back blind trust in exchange for the warmth he stole.

Harry's entire body ached at the memory of holding Draco close, feeling strong, slender limbs tighten around him, hearing the soft sigh of breath or the occasional sleepy grunt from beneath the blankets that wrapped them both. He wanted desperately to crawl into the bed with Draco and pull the other boy's body against his, so he could feel Draco's weight in his arms again. It hurt to breathe without Draco's head on his chest. It hurt to live without Draco's presence beside him.

Slumping forward in his chair, Harry folded one arm on the mattress and buried his face in the curve of his elbow.

It hurt to live, period. Harry had always known this, but he'd never voiced it to himself until he had to face the possibility of suffering through it all alone. Now he had found the other half of himself, the one person who could make this ridiculous mess of a life bearable, known what it was like to have companionship for a brief time, and that person was being taken away from him. Slowly. Bit by agonizing bit. Leaving Harry to bleed and suffer and mourn, but never to die... not quite, anyway.

Harry slipped his hand beneath the covers and found Draco's arm - there was no hand for him to hold - lying on the mattress. He clasped the other boy's forearm and told himself that the touch gave him comfort. With his eyes still closed and his face still hidden, Harry struggled against the wave of bitterness and self-pity that washed over him and fought to hold back his treacherous tears.

He was still lying with his face buried in his bent arm when he heard the door open. Madam Pomfrey's familiar footsteps approached the bed, taking their time, letting him know that she was coming. He stubbornly did not straighten up or acknowledge her, until she touched his shoulder.

"Potter."

He sat up slowly, lifting dry, desolate eyes to her face. She winced at their touch, and her hand tightened on his shoulder.

"You'll have to leave, Potter. Madam Fox is here, and she wants to examine Malfoy."

"I can't stay with him?"

The nurse shook her head, her lips pursed in a way that Harry would once have interpreted as disapproval but now recognized as distress. "We mustn't interfere with Madam Fox. She's the only one who can help Malfoy, now." The trouble in her face deepened, making her look even more prunish, and she turned away to twitch Draco's blankets into a more perfect state of neatness, muttering, "To think I'd live to see this kind of thing again... spell-shocked students, Wizengamot trials, Unforgivable Curses..."

"You've seen it before?" Harry asked, as he shoved back his chair and rose to his feet.

"A long time ago, but not long enough." She shook her head lugubriously. "Not nearly long enough."

"The others who were like Draco - spell-shocked - did they recover?"

She looked steadily at him for a moment, her normally sharp eyes lost in memory and sorrow, her hands dangling at her sides in uncharacteristic stillness. "Some of them did. The lucky ones."

"And the unlucky ones?"

Her gaze sharpened again, and she gave her skirts a brisk shake as she headed for the door. "That's what the Closed ward at St. Mungo's is for, young man."

Harry swallowed the lump that rose in his throat and followed her across the small room to the door. He had assumed that he would find Dumbledore and Madam Fox waiting for him on the other side, perhaps with McGonagall and Snape in tow, but the last thing he'd expected was an invasion of Weasleys. Harry was caught completely unprepared by the flurry of brown robes and flaming red hair that descended upon him the moment he stepped into the main ward.

"Harry! Oh, Harry, my dear!" Mrs. Weasley surged toward him with both hands outstretched to catch his and tears in her eyes. "Thank goodness you're all right!"

Harry sidestepped her attempt to touch him and sidled away from the door. He felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, both at the scene Mrs. Weasley was making and at being confronted by her here, right outside Draco's room.

"Hallo, Mrs. Weasley," he mumbled.

She halted and, after an awkward moment, dropped her hands. "We've been so worried about you, Arthur and I. We were there, at the ambush, but we couldn't find you in all the furor. I was afraid you'd been hurt by Narcissa or that ghastly sister of hers!"

"They didn't want me," Harry said, coldly.

"No. No, I suppose not."

She gazed reproachfully at him for a moment, her body stiff with strain and her lips thinned to a rigid line. Then, quite suddenly, she gave a choking sob and let the tears spill from her eyes. Her face softened and the reproach in her gaze turned to pleading. "I know you're very angry with me," she blurted out, "and I don't blame you, dear. I've been perfectly awful, scolding and bullying, making this so much harder for you. I am truly sorry!"

Harry felt his mouth drop open in shock and tried to shut it, but it only sagged open again. "What?" he said, stupidly.

"I should never have spoken to you the way I did yesterday. I had no right." Her hand came up to rest against his cheek. "Oh, Harry, I can't bear to see you so worn and worried! You poor child! Only tell me what I can do to help. I'll do anything at all, even if it means helping a Malfoy in the process."

"He's not a Malfoy, he's Draco Malfoy, and I love him."

She swallowed once, loudly, then said, "I know you do."

He looked straight into her eyes for a moment, reading her genuine concern, and he had to close his own eyes very tightly to control himself. "Do you mean it, Mrs. Weasley?" he asked, his voice sounding unnaturally high in his own ears.

"Of course I mean it."

Harry felt her lips press to his cheek in a motherly kiss, and he uttered a low, ragged sob. In the next instant, he fastened his arms around her plump waist and buried his face in her neck, hugging her as hard as his arms could manage, while she alternately chuckled and sniffled in his ear.

When Harry finally collected himself and let go of Mrs. Weasley, he looked up to find both Bill and Mr. Weasley right behind her, watching him anxiously. He flushed and stepped away from Mrs. Weasley, deeply embarrassed to be caught in such a childish emotional display, but neither of them seemed bothered by it.

Mr. Weasley squeezed his arm in a fatherly way and said, "We're grateful you weren't hurt in the ambush, my boy. Dreadful business. Quite appalling. But Narcissa is under lock and key, so she won't be troubling you again."

Harry tried to smile his thanks, but it came out all crooked and wobbly. "Has she said anything about... what I did?"

"No, and the less said by any of us on that head, the better."

"Right." Harry looked away from the trio of worried Weasleys and let his eyes stray to the magical window that opened on Draco's room. He could see Madam Fox and Madam Pomfrey standing by Draco's bed, talking. "What happens now?" he asked.

Mr. Weasley answered him. "We leave it in Genie Fox's hands. She's the best there is, Harry. Quite the expert in this kind of thing. She's also young Malfoy's Great Aunt, or some such thing, so she has a personal stake in this."

Harry gave a start of alarm and turned wide, anxious eyes on Mr. Weasley. "She's a Malfoy?"

"A Black, as it happens."

"But that means..." He took a step toward the door, then halted and turned back to the Weasleys, gnawing his lower lip. "Isn't she dangerous?"

"Albus wouldn't let her anywhere near him, if she were," Mrs. Weasley said, with only a hint of dryness in her voice. "You don't have to worry about Genie."

Mr. Weasley grinned conspiratorially at him. "She's another of Dumbledore's moles. Fudge counted on her Black family ties to set her against Dumbledore, and that's why he put Malfoy in her care." The grin widened, and his eyes began to twinkle. "Must have come as a nasty surprise to old Fudge, when she turned on him at the trial. Albus has Fudge so worried that he's looking under his pillow for spies every night."

"Now, now, Arthur, don't be giving Harry false notions about our esteemed Minister of Magic." Dumbledore stepped up to them, smiling pleasantly, but he sobered at once when his eyes touched Harry's face. "There's no point in you waiting here, Mr. Potter. This may take some time."

"I'd rather stay, if you don't mind, Professor. I want to hear what Madam Fox says about Draco."

"And you will, you have my word." Dumbledore regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "Go to my office and wait. No one will disturb you there."

Harry nodded his thanks and turned for the door, relieved that he didn't have to face the other Gryffindors or figure out what class he was missing, grateful that Dumbledore understood how badly he needed to be part of Draco's healing process - if, in fact, there would be any healing done. He allowed himself one last glance through the magical window as he passed the Room of Requirement. No one appeared to have moved since he'd last looked. Turning resolutely away from the sight of Draco lying so still in the bed, he hurried out of the ward.

*** *** ***

"A memory charm?" Harry looked blankly at the Healer, who sat in the wingback chair opposite his. "You mean, you just tap him with your wand, erase a chunk of his memory, and he's well? Just like that?"

Madam Fox pursed her lips, making her look more than every like Aunt Petunia, and shook her head. "Hardly 'just like that.' This is not a standard memory charm, Mr. Potter, but a very complex, delicate process with unpredictable results."

Harry glanced from the Healer to Professor Dumbledore, looking for some hint of the Headmaster's thoughts in his face but finding none. Snape was no help either, since he wore his usual glower and avoided looking at Harry all together. Clearly, the adults wanted him to make some sort of decision on his own, without their guidance, but Harry had no idea what they expected of him.

He sat with Dumbledore, Madam Fox and Professor Snape in the Headmaster's office, where Harry had waited patiently for more than two hours. The afternoon was lengthening toward evening, the golden rays of the sun slanting sharply through the tall windows and lighting the dust motes that danced in the air. It was an incongruous time and place to be talking of madness and memory charms, but Harry had grown numb to his surroundings and did not stop to think about the loveliness of the spring afternoon. His life had narrowed down to this fierce, single-minded struggle to save Draco, a struggle that he sensed was coming to a head right here and now.

"So," he ventured, eyeing Dumbledore warily, "you think that erasing the memory of his captivity will help Draco recover, but you're not sure, and there's something... Could it make him worse?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "There is little danger of that."

"Then what are you so worried about?"

"The Memoria Recursiva charm is, as Madam Fox says, a very complex spell. It not only erases memories; it also removes the network of emotions that supports and connects memories in the wizard's mind. No memory stands alone, Harry. No single event in your life happens in isolation. And the thing that binds one memory to another is emotion."

"The same emotion that wounds or heals the mind, that drives a person to desperation or gives him strength," Madam Fox added, softly.

Harry felt the blood drain from his face, but he kept his voice level when he said, "Draco's emotions are hurting him."

"Yes. The complex web of memory and feeling built in him by what his father and the Dark Lord did to him has ensnared his mind, trapping him in a place where he cannot bear to live, and so he retreats. Becomes nothing, rather than the person who remembers and feels these things. The only way to free him is to cut the web. Take away both the memory and the emotion bound to it."

"Then he'll come back."

"He'll have the choice to come back."

Harry lifted his head at that, certainty stiffening his spine. "He'll come for me. I know he will."

Dumbledore gave him a look made equally of pride and sorrow. "Ah, but what if he does not remember you?"

Harry stared at him in silence, as full understanding finally hit him.

"Draco's feelings for you are very tightly woven into his memories of his father and the Giants' Dance, so tightly that it was you he reached for in his moment of greatest danger." Dumbledore's voice dropped to a gentle murmur. "Think of the Patronus, Harry."

Harry did not need the old wizard's reminder. He was already seeing again, in his mind, the magnificent creature erupting from the tip of Draco's finger and bounding among the dementors, shaking its mane. The Gryffindor lion. In the middle of his insane nightmare, caught between Voldemort, the dementors and his own mad father, Draco had called upon a Gryffindor lion to protect him. And again, when he knelt alone on the Salisbury plain, his mind rapidly slipping away into darkness, he had seen Harry in the stars above him, spoken to him, reached for him and unknowingly saved himself.

Swallowing to clear the tightness from his throat, Harry rasped out, "You're afraid that you'll... erase me from his memory along with Voldemort. Erase us."

"There is that risk."

"How big a risk?" He glanced at Madam Fox, eyes pleading. "How much will he forget?"

"The spell can usually be confined to a period of six months from the target memory."

"Six months," Harry murmured dully.

"Sometimes less, if we can tune it finely enough. We will do everything in our power to keep the effects as specific as possible, but we must go deeply enough into his memory to relieve the pain and erase the fear. If we take too little, he will not heal."

"And if you take too much, he forgets that he ever chose Professor Dumbledore over Lord Voldemort."

Dumbledore and Madam Fox both nodded soberly. Harry turned to look at Snape and found the Potions Master's eyes on him. They burned with a curious intensity.

"Is that really what you're afraid of, Potter?" Snape asked in his silkiest, most deadly voice.

Harry lifted his chin a fraction and refused to look away. "Yes."

"You wouldn't be fretting that Malfoy might forget your little romance? Maybe choose another place to sleep?"

Harry did not give him the satisfaction of flinching under the lash of word and tone. Instead, he retorted, sounding oddly confident in his own ears, "No, I'm not. I know he won't forget me."

"Because you're The Boy Who Lived, and you decree it?" Snape drawled, his lip lifted in a sneer.

"He may forget us, but he won't forget me. He's known me for six years."

"And hated you for most of that time."

"Draco never hated me." Snape's eyebrows rose at that, but Harry went on, doggedly, "It was my fault we spent all those years as enemies, not his, and I'm not forgetting anything. If I have to start all over again, convince him to trust me again, I will, but this time I won't wait six years."

Snape subsided into his chair, glowering at Harry from beneath lowered brows but offering no further comment.

Dumbledore, who had sat with his fingertips pressed together and his bright eyes fixed on Harry through this exchange, now spoke up. "Do you understand what Madam Fox is proposing, Harry?"

"I think so."

"You understand what Draco stands to gain, and to lose, if the charm works?"

Harry nodded.

"Then tell me, Mr. Potter, what would you have me do?"

Harry gazed into the old wizard's enigmatic face, realizing that this was the decision Dumbledore had been pushing him toward all along. And even Snape, who was obviously dying to say something nasty to Harry at that moment, was waiting for him to speak his mind. He glanced from Dumbledore to Madam Fox, his mouth suddenly dry, and said, "I want Draco back, and I don't care what it costs. If the charm will help him, do it."

Dumbledore's face relaxed, and an approving gleam showed in his eyes. He nodded once at Madam Fox.

"That's it, then," the Healer said, satisfaction plain in her voice. "I'll need your help with the potion, Professor Snape, and I'd like Filius Flitwick to assist me with the charm itself. There's no one with a lighter touch or a more skilful wand than Filius."

"My staff is at your disposal," Dumbledore said, with a smile.

"When will you do it?" Harry asked nervously. The queasy feeling in his stomach told him that he wasn't nearly as certain of the charm's success as he had sounded a moment before.

"As soon as we have the sleeping potion brewed."

"Why do you need to put him to sleep when he's... the way he is?"

"The potion puts him into a very deep sleep and opens the pathways in his mind, making him more susceptible to the workings of the charm. It also promotes a purely physical healing, taking him beyond the distress of mind and body where he can rest."

"So you give him the potion, do the charm, and then..."

"Let him sleep."

"For how long?"

"As long as he likes, Mr. Potter. He'll awaken when - or if - he's ready to enter his life again. That's when we'll know if the charm worked."

Dumbledore waited a moment for her words to sink into Harry's mind, then he pushed back his chair with a loud scrape and rose to his feet. "Let's get started on that potion, then, shall we?"

Madam Fox and Snape stood up and headed for the door, but they all halted when Harry called, "Professor Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore turned, with his hand still on the door knob. "Yes, Harry?"

"May I... May I talk to Draco, alone, before you put him to sleep? There are some things I need to say to him."

Dumbledore thought about that for half a second, then nodded. "Very well. You may stay with Draco until Madam Fox is ready. Then I must insist that you leave his room and leave the hospital wing all together, until I send for you. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, Professor."

"Good. Come along, my boy."

Harry trailed after Dumbledore and the others, down the spiral staircase and along the Second floor corridor. At the main stairs, Snape and Madam Fox went off to the dungeons together, earnestly discussing potion ingredients and brewing techniques. Dumbledore waited for Harry to catch him up, then he walked at his side down the staircase to the next floor.

They were nearly to the hospital wing when Harry broke the silence. "Professor, do you really trust Madam Fox?"

"Implicitly. Why do you ask?"

"Well, isn't she a Black? Related to Draco's mother?"

"She is Narcissa's Aunt."

Harry halted in front of the hospital wing door and turned to face Dumbledore. "Then isn't it possible that she wants Draco to forget the last six months? Forget his loyalty to you and his feelings for me? Maybe Mrs. Malfoy sent her to erase his memory."

"I'm afraid you're just going to have to trust my judgment on this." Dumbledore flashed him a smile, as he pulled his wand from his robe and pointed it at the locked door. "You, of all people, should know that not all Blacks are cut from the same cloth, Harry. "

He tapped the door once, and it flew open. At Dumbledore's gesture, Harry went through it first, followed closely by Dumbledore. Inside the hospital wing, he spotted the Weasleys huddled together in a corner, muttering to one another, and McGonagall pacing up and down in front of the magical window. They all turned to watch Dumbledore and Harry enter. Mrs. Weasley took a step toward Harry but stopped when she got a good look at his face. No one else so much as moved until Harry had opened the inner door with his password and slipped through it. Then they converged on Dumbledore, all talking at once.

Harry closed the door on their noise and crossed the room on silent cat-feet. His chair still stood at the head of the bed, exactly where he'd left it, and Draco had not moved. Harry sat down, crossed his arms on the mattress, and propped his chin on them. He gazed steadily at the other boy, wishing with all his might that Draco would open his eyes, just once, and look at Harry while there was still time. While the memory of what they meant to each other still existed somewhere in his shattered mind.

"Madam Fox thinks she has a way to help you," Harry murmured to the lifeless face just a few inches from his own. "She's going to do some magic to get rid of the memories and stuff that are making you so ill. When you wake up, you won't remember any of it and it won't hurt anymore. You won't remember this conversation. You might not even remember me. Us."

Harry sighed and closed his eyes, trying to block out his own despair with the sight of his wounded archangel lying in a heap of broken wings and spilled robes, his light dimmed and fading, his gold-leaf halo gone. But even with his eyes screwed shut, Harry could see the echoes of pain and horror in Draco's face, the purple shadows beneath his eyes, the livid brand on his cheek. It did him no good to hide. Opening his eyes again, Harry gazed sadly at Draco and, abandoning restraint, moved his hand to rest against the other boy's head. He began to comb his fingers through the tangled strands of silver-gilt hair in an unconscious, comforting gesture as he murmured softly,

"There are things I need to tell you, but it's incredibly hard when I know they will all be erased by the next time I see you."

His hand fell still, resting on Draco's head, then his thumb slid down to touch the frown line between his eyebrows.

"Please don't be afraid, Draco. I swear you don't have to do this alone. I'll stay with you, no matter how much you forget or how many times you tell me to bugger off, because this is where I belong. With you. Always with you."

Slow, hot tears welled up in Harry's eyes and slid from between his lashes. He had fought them all through this ghastly day, and now, at last, he stopped fighting and let them come. If there was one place he could cry in safety, it was here, with Draco. Draco would understand. Draco would look at him fondly, call him a sentimental prat, and let him cry into his shoulder until the ache in his heart eased. If Draco were here...

"You have to come back!" he gasped. "I can't bear it anymore, being alone like this! I don't care if you forget every second we ever spent together. I don't care if you say you hate me. I'll know it isn't true, that you still love me, deep down inside where you always did, and I'll stay with you! Just come back, and I'll prove it to you!"

"Potter." It was Madam Pomfrey, standing in the open doorway, motioning for him to leave.

Harry glanced once at her, then pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, with his hand still resting on Draco's head. Then he bent over the bed and pressed a kiss between the other boy's silvered brows.

"I love you, Draco Malfoy," he whispered to his unknowing archangel. "Don't forget."

"Come along, Potter," Madam Pomfrey called.

"And don't be afraid."

Kissing Draco's forehead one last time, Harry straightened up and moved over to the door. As he sidled past the nurse, he wiped his sleeve across his eyes in a belated attempt to hide his tears. Madam Pomfrey kindly pretended not to notice, as did the others waiting just outside the door. Harry did not acknowledge them, but hurried past with his face averted. He didn't have the strength to control himself any longer, and the thought of facing Dumbledore's piercing gaze, Snape's derision or Mrs. Weasley's motherly concern frankly horrified him.

The hospital ward seemed unnaturally long to Harry, as he walked the length of it under so many anxious eyes. He got through the door with his composure and his dignity intact, shut it firmly behind him, and took off down the corridor at a run.

To be continued...