A Certain Kind of Memory

Usually when people are sad, they don't do anything.

They just cry over their condition.

But when they get angry, they bring about a change.

ATTRIBUTION: Malcolm X. Malcolm X Speaks, 1965.

US black nationalist leader (1925 - 1965)

The morning after the night before found Harry sleeping late and none too happy with the light filtering in through his curtains. Even if it was a weak summer sun, it was still light enough to make him want to curse the curtains shut and burrow back underneath his covers for the rest of the day.

When he finally emerged, the day was half gone and he was not surprised that when he checked the clock it was already after lunchtime. He was filled with a lethargy that was not the result of the amount of alcohol he'd consumed the previous night, although the faint pounding in his head would suggest otherwise. Of course that could be the fucking growth in his head drowning in the alcohol. Now, wouldn't that be a miracle?

With a bitter laugh, Harry admitted that he'd probably used up all his miracles and said miracle was probably not going to be forthcoming this time. Perhaps if he begged God or Merlin, one of them would allow a small miracle. Though it would surely have to be a bloody large one to save him, now.

Harry kicked the covers off his bed and stalked into the shower, though why he bothered he didn't know. What reason did he have to get up and get clean and dressed for, anyway? The world wasn't going to end if he spent the day in bed, or the week or the month...

Standing under the spraying jets and letting the hot water beat down on his head lessened the thumping and made it feel better, calming him slightly. This bitterness wasn't going to solve anything. He still had this thing in his head; he was still going to die and he still had no idea what he was going to do with the time he had left. He sighed and began to wash his hair. As he massaged the shampoo into his scalp he wondered how close the tumor was under the skull, whether or not he was almost touching it, what it would feel like. Could he just dig his fingers in and pull it out if he tried hard enough? He grunted in pain as he realised that he was in fact trying to do just that and his nails were scratching at his scalp. Fucking hell! He leant against the tiled wall of the shower, sagging under the weight of the knowledge that there was something growing in his brain and he could do nothing about it.

Death was such an intangible thing. He'd faced it too many times in the past to let it frighten him into running away from it, but that didn't mean he understood it. A year, if he had that long, was a year. Fifty-two weeks, three hundred and sixty-five days. And he had to plan to spend every one of them cramming as much living into them as possible. Standing in the shower feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to accomplish that.

But, what could he do? Apart from offing Voldie and playing Quidditch, there wasn't a lot he could do, really. So, where did that leave him? A wealthy layabout, with more money than time left on the planet. Harry supposed that was one silver lining; at least he didn't have to work at some dead-end job in order to pay his bills.

Feeling not much better than before his shower, he was dressing when the doorbell rang.

"Hang on," he shouted down the hall towards the front door. He dragged a t-shirt over his head, shoved one leg in his jeans and hopped down the hall attempting to get the other leg in.

When he opened the door, Draco was there, leaning against the frame and looking like he just stepped out of a Muggle fashion magazine. "How do you do that?" Harry asked, as he pulled his jeans up all the way and pulled the zipper up, leaving the button undone.

"Do what?" Draco asked "And don't leave me standing here on the doorstep, it's most impolite and your neighbours will think you don't like me. Mrs. Bowthistle has already been looking daggers at me. Protecting your reputation, are they?" he drawled.

Harry stepped aside, laughing. "At least they don't come at you with daggers, like your neighbours," Harry joked. "And how do you always manage to look like some fancy model when you never have any money?"

"Breeding, Potter, breeding." Draco smirked and entered the flat, chucking Harry's chin as he passed and headed up the hallway to the kitchen. "I'll thank you not to disparage my neighbours, thank you very much. They saved my life one night. And stop ogling my arse," Draco finished with a small swish of his hips.

Harry blushed as he had in fact been watching Draco's arse in those tight jeans as he walked up the hallway, but he covered it. "Just looking to see if I could actually see an arse there. You have no arse, Malfoy," he said seriously.

Draco's eyes narrowed as he swung around to face Harry. Then he smiled. "Oh, I see. You don't have those four-inch thick spectacles of yours on. No wonder you couldn't find my arse. Do be a love and go and put them on, you look even more moronic without them if that's possible."

Harry laughed. "Or maybe I can just feel to see if you have an arse," he teased and gave Draco's bum a quick slap as he walked past to the bedroom to get his glasses. "Make yourself a drink," he called over the squeak of protest.

As he hunted for his glasses, not remembering where he'd put them when he got home the previous night, he became aware that Draco had somehow put him in a much better mood. Obviously, it was being alone that was bringing on the self-pity, so he would have to make sure that he spent as little time alone as possible.

Spotting his glasses half underneath his pillow, he cleaned them, put them on and returned to the kitchen, finding Draco pouring them both some orange juice from the fridge.

"So," Draco said. "The scratch Quidditch game tomorrow. You playing?"

"Yeah, I thought I'd turn up," Harry replied, taking the juice and sipping at it. "You?" Sipping the juice made him realise he was hungry, so he made himself a bowl of cereal and sat down at the table to eat it.

"I suppose so," Draco said, an enigmatic look on his face.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, and Draco blinked and looked at him.

"Oh, nothing I can't handle. Some of the guys still don't take too kindly to me showing up for those games, that's all."

"Well, tough luck for them. You're entitled to play just as much as they are. Don't let them get to you," Harry said around a mouthful of cereal.

"Urgh, do you have to speak with your mouth full?" Draco grimaced. "You're right though, I know I shouldn't but..." He sat down opposite Harry. "It can get a bit old. How long do these people keep grudges for, anyway? It's been more than five years since the war ended."

"I know, you'd think they'd grow up at some point."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "This from the man that eats Cheerios?"

Harry grinned and whacked Draco's hand with the spoon as he tried to steal some from the bowl. "Get your own."

"So cruel." Draco shook his head, but he did get himself a bowl, some cereal and the milk before sitting back down at the table. "I just wish things could be different," he said, returning to the earlier conversation.

Harry nodded. "They make me so angry with their narrow-minded prejudices. People like Smith and Finch-Fletchley haven't learnt a thing from the war," he said, annoyed. "Just because they were on the side that won, so to speak, they think it validates every arrogant, bigoted thing they've ever been taught or thought about."

"To be fair, Harry, I'd have been the same, had I been on the right side."

"That doesn't make it right. Sometimes it makes me feel like I fought the war for nothing. When I see some things haven't changed--"

Draco interrupted him. "Stop it, Harry. Don't even think that. I can understand the frustration but surely even you must see that things are a hundred times better than they were."

"Yes, but then there are people like you, who didn't deserve to have everything taken away and then not be able to find a job..." Harry stopped then because he knew Draco hated talking about the state of his finances.

"I'm all right, Harry." Draco frowned and looked down into his cereal bowl. "Hermione's given me some work and with what I get from the Apothecary, I make ends meet," he said quietly, and Harry could see a blush creeping up the side of his neck.

"I know you do," he answered. "I wish you'd let me help you, though," he added, silently.

"And there did need to be some form of punishment. My family was on the wrong side of everything, after all."

They'd discussed this many times before and Harry allowed that Draco felt the need to make reparations but, honestly, Draco had lost virtually everything. Wasn't that enough? Did it have to ruin the rest of his life as well? Especially seeing as both Draco and his mother had done what they could to keep Harry alive during the war. Without either one of them, things would have had a very different outcome. But it seemed that no matter how hard Harry tried, some people felt that a Malfoy should always have to pay and they forgot that the son was not the father and that the man was not the frightened teenager.

"Stop that," Harry said sharply. "You've paid more than enough and you know it." He wasn't going to let Draco fall into a resentful frame of mind. "Why are you here, anyway?" he asked, changing the subject.

It seemed to work, as Draco looked up and smiled. "I came to see if you wanted to have a bit of a practice run on the brooms before tomorrow."

Harry grinned. "For a pain in the arse you sure have good ideas," he said. "I'll get my broom."

"I keep telling you it's in the breeding, Potter, but you refuse to believe me," Draco replied, turning his nose up, the effect of which was ruined by Cheerios falling off his spoon and into his milk, splashing his shirt. "Oh, bugger," he exclaimed, brushing the drops off. "Potter, do you have a shirt I can borrow?"

Harry, still seated at the table was doing his best not to laugh aloud. "Of course, come on," he said, standing and heading through to the bedroom. "As long as there's no complaints about colour, quality or anything else," Harry warned, throwing open his closet and grabbing one of his better t-shirts and tossing it to Draco.

"I think I can manage to bite my tongue just this once," Draco replied.

"Right, well I'll grab my broom while you change," Harry said, delving into the closet once more for his broom which was standing at the end, leaning on the wall. "Hey," Harry said, suddenly realising something. "Where's your broom?"

He turned and watched as Draco removed his shirt and reached for the t-shirt.

"I thought it easier to shrink it," Draco said as he pulled the t-shirt on. Then he reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a miniature broom, which he quickly restored to normal size. "There," he said. "Let's go so I can kick your arse."

There was a challenge in Draco's eyes and Harry felt the familiar competitive spirit flare in him that reared itself each and every time he played Draco. It was unusual, he thought, that this specific feeling of rivalry, of having to win, only really appeared when it was Draco he was flying against. To be honest, he'd not found too many others that were decent competition for him. None that he found exciting to fly against, anyway.

"We'll see," Harry challenged back, and led the way out of the bedroom with a swish of his own hips. "And stop looking at my arse, Malfoy." He hoped that would distract Draco just enough to give him the edge.

A few hours later and Harry was feeling on top of the world. Flying had always done it for him: made him feel like he owned the skies. The sharp flush of wind across his face, threading his hair and making his eyes water left him breathless. The daredevil rolls and spins he pushed himself and his broom into tested his muscles sorely, and the competition with Draco tested his stamina and his drive. And he bloody loved it. It was almost enough to make him forget.

They'd released a practice Snitch and chased it up and down the pitch numerous times. Most times Harry won but occasionally Draco did. Each time Draco won he crowed.

"Getting slow in your old age, are you, Potter?"

"Care to count how many you've actually won, Malfoy?" Harry yelled back, taking off as Draco released the Snitch once more.

"Ah, but I remember the days when I could never beat you. Ever," Draco called back, pulling alongside him as they raced for the Snitch.

"Well, you're not going to win this one." Harry scowled, right before he dived to his left, the Snitch having swerved there unexpectedly. With a quick sweep of his hand he palmed the tiny fluttering golden ball and held it up above his head. Maybe he was slowing down, Harry didn't really care; while he could he was going to enjoy flying and winning as many times as he could manage. Besides, losing to Draco wasn't as bad as he'd thought. Losing kept him on his toes, made him try harder and enjoy it more.

It was late in the afternoon by the time they decided they'd had enough. By then they'd lost count of who won how many times and, to be honest, Harry knew neither of them cared all that much. They were both exhausted and flushed and Harry had had a brilliant day, which only reinforced his decision not to tell his friends anything about his disease. They'd be too scared he'd hurt himself or they'd try to cosset him too much to enjoy this type of day again if they knew. He wanted to enjoy his friends in the time he had left, not suffer their fears for him. It might be selfish but it was his death not theirs.

But the thought of spending his evening alone wasn't appealing after the day he'd had.

"Come back for dinner," Harry said. "We can get some take away; I'm too knackered to cook tonight."

"Make it Indian and you're on," Draco replied. "I'm paying for my share though," he added.

"Nope," Harry said, shaking his head. "I asked you, so I'm paying. You can ask me next time."

Draco smirked. "Is this a date, Potter?"

Harry laughed. "No, just don't feel like being alone," Harry answered, frowning a little and looking away, hoping that Draco wasn't going to ask why he suddenly wasn't happy with his own company.

"I suppose I can play hero and rescue you from the boredom that is your life," Draco allowed as they made their way back to Harry's.

When they arrived, Harry ordered Indian food from the restaurant down the street while Draco showered. He grabbed a couple of towels and knocked on the bathroom door, opening it and stepping through.

"Dinner will be about ten minutes," he called to the steam filled shower cubicle.

"Did you get some poppadoms?" Draco asked.

"Double," Harry confirmed. "There's a couple of towels here, too for when you get out."

"Oh, great," Draco said, turning off the tap and stepping out of the shower, water dripping everywhere. "Thanks. Knew I'd forgotten something."

Harry laughed. Draco looked like a drowned rat with his fine blond hair plastered down the sides of his face. "This must be the shortest shower you've ever taken," he said.

Draco smirked. "Seeing as you saw fit to interrupt my privacy, I saw fit to make sure it was worth your while." Draco reached for a towel, not flaunting himself but not hiding anything either.

"Okay," Harry laughed, not bothering to hide that he was looking. What did it matter if Draco knew Harry thought him pretty damned hot? It wasn't as if he was going to have to live with Draco teasing him about it for long.

A cloud passed over his face at that thought and he turned to leave the bathroom. "I'll let you finish in peace and I'll shower when you're done."

"Potter...Harry..." Draco grabbed his wrist and Harry turned round to look into Draco's amused eyes. "You don't have to leave, I'm almost finished here." He let go of Harry's wrist and wrapped the towel around himself as if to prove it. "All done."

"So, I see," Harry said, smile back on his face.

"Shower is all yours," Draco said slyly and not moving.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "You just want to see me naked."

"Fair's fair."

"Get out of here, you git," Harry said, grinning. He pushed Draco out the door, his wet hair still dripping all over the place. Having Draco see his naked body would make his weight loss look even more pronounced than it did clothed. The questions that Draco would ask were not ones that Harry wanted to answer.

He quickly showered and dressed and arrived back in the lounge just as the food was delivered. And only just in time as Draco was fishing money from his wallet. Harry growled and Draco rolled his eyes and put it away.

Harry paid the delivery man, then took the packages of food through to the lounge. Draco collected plates and forks and they both sat cross-legged on the floor, the food on the coffee table, ready to eat.

"I told you I was paying," Harry said, dishing them both up some chicken curry.

"And you know I hate being paid for," Draco retorted, standing and heading back into the kitchen for a couple of bottles of Butterbeer.

"I already said you could get it the next time," Harry argued, taking the offered bottle and opening it. "Don't wreck a perfect day because you get your knickers in a twist about a friend buying you dinner."

"It makes me feel like I can't look after myself, Potter," Draco said, frowning.

"I know you can. Merlin, everyone knows you can and you're doing a bloody brilliant job of it, too, so don't stress over one little dinner. I promise I'll order lobster when you're paying," Harry said. He knew Draco was proud of being able to support himself and not need handouts or charity but a simple meal with a friend was just a meal and no big deal.

"You would, too," Draco groaned, finally smiling and digging in to the curry. "This is really good, though. You eat out from there often?" he asked, lifting the bottle of Butterbeer to his lips.

"No, not really," Harry replied, "Though it depends on what you call often. Is often when they know what I like to order? If so, then yes, I guess I do."

"Must cost you a fortune," Draco said, no trace of envy in his voice.

"Not really. There's only me anyway. I do cook most nights but it's not so much fun cooking for yourself. Tends to take a lot of the enjoyment out of it," Harry said. "Especially when I don't cook all that well."

"You need to find yourself a partner," Draco said, lifting his bowl to his chest and leaning back against the couch to eat.

"I wish," Harry said softly, knowing there'd be no one in his life. But then Draco was in the same boat, he should take his own advice. "What about you?" he asked after a moment.

Draco spluttered. "You want me?"

"Oh, no..." laughed Harry. "Sorry, I was thinking of something else. I meant why are you on your own?" He remembered what Hermione had said the previous night and he wondered what spin Draco would put on it.

"Haven't found the right person yet," Draco said around a mouthful of Butterbeer. At Harry's disbelieving look, he shrugged. "What do I have to offer, Harry? I can barely keep myself let alone set up a home with someone else."

"What about dating though? Surely you date?" Harry was sure he'd seen Draco out with some bloke or other over the years.

"Occasionally, though nothing serious. Serious is too emotional. Serious is too selfless. I'd have to start thinking about the other person and putting their needs above my own and I'm not ready for that. I'm still about survival and for me at the moment to survive means I have to be selfish. Love is not selfish, so love is not for me."

Harry thought about that while Draco ate. He could see Draco's point.

"So, what about the Chosen One. Why hasn't he found love yet?"

Harry scoffed. "Just as hard for me as it is for you to find someone. I have to get past my name too, you know."

"But they're all lining up to be able to say they fucked--" Draco inclined his bottle towards Harry who'd narrowed his eyes at him, "--or were fucked by the Chosen One."

"And therein lies the problem," Harry muttered.

"You're kidding me? All these years and I thought you'd been swimming in sex and groupies and you never...?"

"Of course I have," Harry protested. "Only I go into Muggle London to clubs and become anonymous. That way I know they're after the sex and not the prestige that goes with the name."

Draco finished off his curry and started picking at the poppadoms. "Doesn't solve your problem about finding a partner, does it?"

"What do you suggest? A Glamour? That's not having them like me for me, either. Anyway, it doesn't matter," Harry said, frowning. "Hermione thinks I couldn't do a relationship if I tried." Suddenly the conversation was making him feel depressed. "Another Butterbeer?"

He got up when Draco nodded, walked through to the kitchen and opened the door of the fridge. All the while he had the feeling that he wanted more time. More time in which to find someone and experience that overwhelming joy of being a part of something. Like Daphne and Luna.

A few moments later, he was still standing at the open fridge, thinking, when the noise of Draco dropping plates into the sink made him blink and realise what he'd been doing. He reached for the cold bottles, and went to close the door, but he felt two warm arms wrap around him and Draco's chin on his shoulder.

"Don't brood, Potter, it doesn't become you."

Harry huffed and relaxed into the embrace and Draco's arms tightened a bit more around him.

"Merlin, you're all skin and bone, Harry. What on earth have you been doing to yourself?"

Damn. Harry disentangled himself from Draco's arms and muttered that he'd had an off week where he hadn't felt well and not been able to eat and he was making up for it now and eating properly. Ignoring Draco's doubtful look, he handed him the unopened bottle and headed back to the lounge, feeling uneasy and very much like time was starting to tick away from him and he still had no idea what he was going to do with himself.