A Certain Kind of Memory

Man finds nothing so intolerable as to be in a state of complete rest,

without passions, without occupation,

without diversion, without effort.

Then he feels his nullity, loneliness, inadequacy,

dependence, helplessness, emptiness.

ATTRIBUTION: Blaise Pascal (1623-1662), French scientist, philosopher.

Pensées, no. 622 ed. Krailsheimer, no. 131 ed. Brunschvicg (1670).

When he arrived at the first property he was to inspect, he thought that he'd stepped into a hidden side alley of Knockturn Alley. It was quiet and dark, the cobblestone street echoing his steps as he headed to the dingy shop front and saw the agent waiting for him.

Right away he knew this was not a suitable place for Draco's shop. Visiting an apothecary wasn't fun at the best of times; often people had reactions to the miasma of aromas that went along with the profession. Having a shop in this back alley wouldn't engender any passing trade and Harry thought that Draco might need some passing trade to help survive.

"Hello. Rosemary, I presume?" Harry smiled as he approached the middle-aged woman waiting by the front door. She nodded and smiled back, professionally.

"Mr. Potter. It's an honour, sir. We actually met once before at a Ministry function when you made that charitable donation of your Godfather's house to the city orphanage. I was on the auction team that sold it for you."

Harry had no recollection of ever having met this woman before and he felt bad about not remembering, so he smiled and nodded. "Of course. How are you?"

"Well, thank you, sir," she replied, blushing pink.

"I have to say," Harry said, getting straight to business in the hope that she wouldn't mention anything else and expose the white lie. "This building doesn't suit my purpose. I'd have thought only one street back from Diagon Alley that it would be a lot more like the shops there. Do you have anything that's a bit less...sinister looking?"

Rosemary blinked and looked at the shop, frowning. "All it really needs is a good clean out, bit of sprucing up and the customers would come back here," she said, preparing to launch into her spiel, Harry was sure.

"Thanks but no thanks, I'd rather see something else,' he said firmly. "If you don't have anything suitable then I'll be happy to go elsewhere."

Rosemary looked horrified. "No!" she exclaimed loudly. "Er...no, that will not be necessary. There is one shop. It's right on Diagon Alley, two doors down from Ollivander's. I hesitated to mention that one because it is quite a bit more expensive than this place and I wasn't sure of what monetary limitations you'd set."

"Right on Diagon Alley? Sounds perfect," Harry said, smiling. "Let's go and have a look at it, shall we?"

"Of course," she said. "Follow me."

Harry did as he was bid and followed Rosemary back out into Diagon Alley and along the road past Ollivander's to a petite shop with clean windows and a polished brass knob on the front door. It was just as neat and clean on the inside and had a long room out the back that could be used as a Potions lab.

"Something of this quality doesn't come up in Diagon Alley very often. Since the war, these types of shop fronts have been very much in demand, which obviously makes it more expensive," Rosemary explained.

Harry had to smile to himself at the way people set their time line to 'before' or 'after' the war. They used the war as a reference to almost everything, but that didn't detract from the truth of her statements. At least they sounded logical.

And this shop was perfect. The actual shop space was decked out with spacious shelves of a dark timber that would hold all Draco's potions. The fittings appeared to be of excellent quality and remarkably well kept.

"It's perfect." Harry smiled at her. "Exactly what I was looking for. Will you have the papers drawn up for me and sent over for me to sign?"

"Mr. Potter, you haven't heard the price yet," she replied, shocked.

"I don't need to. This place is perfect and I'm prepared to pay what ever it costs."

Harry thought Rosemary looked like she'd just made her years salary in one commission. She smiled at Harry like he was the sun while they agreed on a price and he gave her his address so she knew where to send the paperwork.

They shook hands on the deal. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Potter," Rosemary said effusively as they said goodbye, Harry most satisfied with his mornings work.

His next stop was Gringotts and the vault that held all Dumbledore's personal effects. It was hard coming back here because seeing many of the items bought back memories of the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts. What use half of the things had was still beyond his comprehension but he'd wanted to have all his mentor's belongings in one place for some reason, instead of scattered over numerous places.

He'd had the book collection carefully crated by professionals after finding out he'd been bequeathed them. Now he and the Gringotts representative located them amongst the shelves of objects and trunks that held more personal items. Harry arranged to have them delivered to his flat, where he'd go through them and make sure there was nothing he wanted to keep for himself...Well that was rather ridiculous wasn't it? Why on earth would he wanting to keep books for himself? It wasn't as if he could take them with him.

Which prompted him to think that maybe he should make a will. No, not yet, he decided. It would make it too final, too real, if he were to make a will. It would also mean he accepted what was happening to him, and while on an intellectual level he knew what was happening and what was going to happen, emotionally, it really hadn't hit him yet. The reasons for which may stem from the fact that he'd been faced with death for most of his life and it hadn't managed to catch up with him, so far.

He amended his request to the goblin, and had the books sent to Hermione directly, instead. He thought he might stop in to see her and explain why he was conceding.

She was happy to see him, if a little confused. The books, which arrived while he was there, actually had her speechless and Harry had to laugh and wonder why he'd not thought of that before during one of the countless times Hermione had lectured him about something.

"Harry, these weren't going to be mine until I won the bet," she said.

"Let's just say that you're right and I am not cut out for relationships other than friendship," he replied, endeavoring to keep the resentment out of his voice. He must have succeeded, because Hermione didn't push all that much.

"But there's still plenty of time," she protested weakly.

Harry thought she was too taken with the book collection to pay too much attention to what he was saying. In fact he tried it out.

"Well, Draco said no to me and I just can't see myself with anyone else," Harry said.

Which was actually true, from a different perspective. He was watching for Hermione's reaction but all she did was nod and keep reading the bindings on all the novels, murmuring, "If you're sure."

"Yes, I am sure. You'll look after them better than I ever could," he said, smiling at her. "So, I'll just go now and let you get on with it, all right?"

Hermione looked up at him and returned his smile. She kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Harry. This is going to make such a difference."

"You're welcome," Harry said. "I'll see you at Neville's?"

"Of course, see you then."

As Harry opened the door, Hermione called out softly to him, "Draco is a fool, Harry," with a positively smug smile on her face.

Later at home, the papers for the property arrived and Harry spent a couple of hours going over all the fine print. Uncle Vernon hadn't been good for much as far as Harry was concerned, but he did remember him always yelling that if people didn't read the fine print themselves, then they deserved to get taken for a ride.

When everything appeared to be in order, Harry signed the papers, signed the withdrawal slip on his Gringotts account and sent them off via his owl Wulfric, feeling curiously proud of himself. He was now the owner of a decent shop in Diagon Alley. Apart from this flat he'd never made a large purchase before. It felt good and it felt even better knowing that eventually Draco was going to be the owner.

The happy, accomplished mood carried him through until dinner time, when he felt the walls start closing in on him again and silence rang loudly in his ears.

This was stupid, he told himself. Here he was, young and rich and he was sitting at home bored out of his skull because he had nothing to do. He could see himself sitting here night after night until the thing in his head decided that he'd bored everyone long enough and put him out of his misery. What a pathetic existence. He was pathetic. Pathetic. Harry liked the sound of that word; it was easily spat out; easy to make it sound like it meant. Pathetic.

Crap.

He stood up and walked to the Floo, and firecalled Ron.

"Fancy a drink, mate?" he asked. "I'm going spare here on my own."

"Sure. Hermione's lost to the world for the next six months anyway," he said, nodding. "Be there in five."

Harry checked that he had enough Butterbeer, which had always been Ron's drink of choice, and was opening a couple of bottles when the Floo roared and Ron stepped through. He clapped Harry on the back and took the opened bottle.

"Thanks for getting me away from the house." He took a drink from the bottle. "All Hermione can talk about is those books you gave her today. You do realise that I might have to put off our wedding because of this," he said, giving Harry a playful shove.

"Then maybe you have more to thank me for than you think," Harry joked back. "Saved you from a fate worse than death, I have," he added theatrically.

"There is that." Ron nodded thoughtfully and then broke out in a grin. "Cheers mate," he said, holding up his bottle. Harry laughingly joined in and drank, then they both flopped down on the couch.

"Seriously, though," Harry said, sobering. "It's not that bad is it?"

"'Course not," Ron said. "She'll stop reading when...when she's read them all," he finished, laughing wryly.

"On the other hand," Harry said, elbowing his friend. "When has she ever not had a book in her hand?"

"Also true," Ron admitted. "You couldn't have given them to her one at a time, though?"

"I could have, but where would be the fun in that? This way I got to see her totally speechless. Money couldn't buy how good that made me feel."

"Totally speechless, huh?" Ron looked at him in resignation. "The only time I ever make her totally speechless is when I shove something in her mouth." Ron stopped and blushed. "Okay, you don't need to know that."

Harry laughed. He didn't mind hearing all this. At one time he thought he'd hate hearing about how his two best friends had sex, or whatever they did, but he didn't. They loved each other and if it were any other girl, Harry knew Ron would still say the same things and he, as a mate, would listen. The fact that it was Hermione should make no difference at all.

"Well, I guess my way of seeing her speechless is much better all round," Harry said, smirking.

"Er...yes," Ron said, emphatically.

"Getting back to this wedding you say you're going to have to put off - you have set a date, haven't you?" Harry asked.

Ron nodded. "December fifteenth. Don't ask me why it is so close to Christmas, that's the day she wanted it," Ron said, holding his hands up. "Something to do with it being her parents wedding anniversary. Said if it was an auspicious date for them then it would be a good one for us, too. I'm not inclined to disagree with her, mate, she's always right."

"True. And you got the reception place you wanted for that day?"

"Yes. I thought mum would have a fit when we told her she wasn't catering for the wedding." Ron drained the last of his bottle and got up to get another. "She went on about how we should save our money for the house and not waste it on feeding everyone a meal they'll forget as soon as they've eaten it."

He tossed Harry another bottle when he came back and they both opened the new ones with a flourish.

"She's got a point," Harry said. "People aren't attending your wedding for the food, you know. They want to see you two get married, that's all. You could do it out in the middle of a field, among the daisies and not feed them at all and they wouldn't care."

"You don't have to tell me, mate, but I'm told it's the bride's big day and so whatever the bride wants, the bride gets. It's easier that way, trust me. When you...oh, sorry." Ron shook his head.

"No matter." Harry smiled, but inside the words cut from more than just not being able to marry a same sex partner, but that he'd never have the chance or the need to fight that law. He could have a form of marriage in the Muggle world, but Wizarding society hadn't evolved that far yet. Sometimes, with their customs and rituals wizards hadn't emerged from the nineteenth century.

"Anyway," Ron continued after a drink from his bottle. "Hermione and I expect to only get married once and she wants no one to have to worry about anything. She doesn't want mum and whomever else she'd rope in, to have to spend days getting ready, be in a complete mess on the day and end up not enjoying themselves. I agree. I want my family's focus to be on us and not on the extras."

"So, where are you having it?"

"Regal Receptions," Ron said, lifting his nose in a useless attempt to look snooty. The problem was that red hair and freckles didn't normally lend themselves to snooty. "The Deluxe Meal Deal," he continued, waving his bottle around in an approximation of a flourish.

"Sounds good, mate," Harry said, and he hoped that it was good. For his friend's sake. Or else Molly would spend the next twenty years bemoaning the fact that they wasted money on a good for nothing meal, when they could have kept their money and had a perfectly respectable reception at The Burrow.

"Yeah," Ron agreed and subsided into thought for a minute. "Did you ever think we'd get to this stage, Harry?" he asked.

"What stage?"

"Like getting married, buying houses, having kids, like Neville and Hannah."

"Nope." Harry shook his head as he drained the second bottle. "Never did."

"I did. Up until I met you. And then not so much until the war was over," Ron said, thoughtfully.

Harry got up and went to get another couple of bottles of Butter-beer, as much for the beer as for causing a break in the conversation so that he might change the subject. In some ways he felt that it might have been better if he had died in the war. What was Fate thinking, giving him seven years to see what life might have been like without death hanging over his head? Giving him a small taste to show him what he'd never have, that everyone else just accepted? Just a hint of hope and a future and a normal life? What a fucking con Fate was.

When he opened the two bottles in the kitchen before heading back to the lounge, he threw their lids with all the force he could muster into the sink. One bounced back and hit him in the shoulder and the other just hit the wall. It left a mark, but he didn't care. What difference was a bloody mark on a wall when he was fucking dying?

He took the bottles back into the lounge and sank back onto the couch, handing Ron a bottle.

"How about we get totally smashed, Ron?"

"I have work tomorrow, I can't," Ron griped.

"Take the day off. You're entitled to a day off every now and then and I bet you've had none for ages."

"I did." Ron frowned. "Back when...er...back when Bill and Fleur had what's her name..."

"Ron, that was two years ago."

"It was?"

Harry nodded.

"Right, then I'm having tomorrow off," Ron said, decisively. "Can't get plastered on Butterbeer. You go break out the Firewhisky and I'll Floo Hermione and tell her not to wait up. If she even hears me, that is. She'll have her nose buried in those books."

"Deal."

Five minutes later, Harry and Ron were sprawled out over the furniture drinking Firewhisky and had made plans to put a serious dint in a second bottle as well as finishing up their current one.

By the time they'd started on the second one they were laughing and the maudlin thoughts Harry had been having were washed away in a flood of alcohol. At least the Firewhisky and the good company of his best mate had covered them up a little.

It took the neighbours banging on the walls complaining about them singing old school songs at the tops of their voices at 3am to call a halt to their evening.

Harry slung his arm round Ron's shoulder as he helped him toward the Floo. "You're my best mate, mate, ya know? Best mate I could ever have," Harry slurred.

"Never regretted meeting you on the train." Ron nodded, his head weaving and swaying before Harry's face. At Harry's astonished face, Ron put his hand over Harry's open mouth. "Not even when I was mad, or nearly dying or even when you made me come back with you and save Malfoy in the final battle." Ron was looking at Harry, whose vision was blurred even through his glasses, and nodding seriously. "You're me best mate an' always will be. Like me brother, you are." And then proceeded to nod over and over again as if reinforcing what he'd said and if he nodded enough then it would make it truer.

"Yeah, you're like my brother, too, mate," Harry agreed as he reached for the Floo powder. "Hug Hermione for me."

Ron nodded some more and swayed on his feet. "Right you are," he replied. Stepping, or rather staggering, into the fireplace, he dropped his Floo powder and called out "The Haven" and then was gone. Harry hoped that his stomach survived the traveling.

There would be hell to pay tomorrow morning, Harry knew that, but that was tomorrow morning and there was no need to care about that sort of thing right now. In fact, he felt so good that he should drink like this more often. What a nice way to spend his last lonely days - in a haze of alcoholic fumes and uninhibited behaviour patterns. He could just float through the next year or whatever he had left.

Although, why bother wasting the year? It would be so much easier just to end it now while he felt so good. Maybe it wouldn't even hurt? Maybe he wouldn't feel the aching loss as the wind rushed past his face on the way down? Maybe he wouldn't think it was taking the coward's way out while the ground was rushing up to meet him. And maybe the final thud when he hit the ground wouldn't echo in his soul in the afterlife. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to live after all.

As he hit the mattress face first when he threw himself on the bed, his last conscious thought was that he couldn't quite understand what had happened. How he'd gone from feeling so good to contemplating the merits or otherwise of suicide.

His alcohol sodden dreams that night were full of situations where he couldn't escape.

He'd find himself trapped on the top of a wardrobe while rising flood waters encroached to the point of cutting off his air. Then he'd find himself in a car that was heading at top speed off a cliff. Or on the wrong end on a gun, or a curse, or a truck, or a crossbow.

But he never died in any of them. He'd tell himself in the dream that the story went that if you died in your dreams you'd actually die. Even if there was no truth to the theory, Harry's subconscious wasn't about to test it.

Until the last dream. The one that could have been his reality. This dream he couldn't run away from and even his subconscious couldn't save him this time. He saw himself become weaker, lose more weight, lose speech function, memory, muscle control, one after the other until he was nothing more than a husk. A partially functioning brain inside a rapidly weakening body. Even his dream self knew when it was time to give up.

And so he did.

Or he would have, but a loud, continuous knocking on the door woke him up.