And So Life Goes On...

Chapter Four
A Serpent's Tale

The coffee he ordered is getting cold. There is no steam coming from the cup any more, and Malfoy is nowhere to be seen. He has already checked his watch twice: it says 4:10, then 4:15. Maybe Malfoy is not the punctual type, or maybe he is not going to show. Harry wants to leave, wonders why he is even here, but he knows the moment he leaves... he will regret it on the ride back to his flat.

He knows this is betrayal; he understands he is saying he cannot trust his friends. But whatever Malfoy has to tell him, he hopes it is not much. He hopes this is no reason to have to start looking at his friends with mistrust and wariness. He does not want that, and the only way not to go that direction is to be here, listening to whatever Malfoy has to say. Once he does, he will resume his life as he knows it without any doubts.

It is possible it is a mere mind game, in which Malfoy is trying to twist his life apart. But there is the slim possibility that Malfoy will tell an awful truth, and what happens when he hears it? Harry trembles and wraps his cold hands around the lukewarm cup. There is little warmth for him there. He stares down at the brown liquid and sighs. He should leave. He should go, and yet he stays, waiting.

At 4:20, Malfoy walks in, blond and elegant as every other time before that Harry has seen him. He looks around before he spots Harry. Malfoy smiles a little, enough that Harry feels slightly less annoyed, and walks over to where he sits in a back, hidden corner. "Sorry about being late," Malfoy remarks, not looking apologetic at all. "Business and all."

"You could have had me meet you at 4:30," Harry retorts, not feeling the least bit understanding. "Especially if you knew you might be late."

Malfoy's smile turns into a smirk. Harry hates it, absolutely loathes it. "But maybe I like it when people wait for me."

Why is he even waiting for this bastard? Harry pushes his cup away and grabs his jacket. The temperature had just fallen in the past day, signaling the start of fall and that winter is not too far off. He is about to put his jacket on when Malfoy grabs his wrist. "Let go," Harry says fiercely, trying to jerk his wrist free. "Now!"

"No," Malfoy replies and tightens his grip instead. "I really am sorry that I was late. I did not expect to be, and why am I even trying to explain myself to you?" Harry notes the mild disgust and in spite of it, Malfoy is still holding his wrist. "I thought you were the one who wanted to find out the real truth, the truth they aren't telling you."

Harry hesitates and it is enough of a reaction that Malfoy releases him, confident that he will not leave. He does not. Instead, he sits back down and watches Malfoy do the same. Harry would like to snipe, complain at will, but somehow he manages to smile politely. "Talk then," Harry mutters. "Tell me something that I won't believe, a truth they haven't told me."

Leaning forward, Malfoy reaches up and brushes Harry's bangs out of the way. His slender, white finger traces Harry's scar gently, almost reverently. "You did not get this from any mere car accident. There is only one thing in the world that could create such a scar." Malfoy's hand drops and he lowers his voice to a whisper, "Such a scar only comes from a curse. A deadly curse."

Harry hears the words. They go into his ear, into his mind and yet he does not know what to make of them. Curse. Deadly curse. It makes no sense. Curses are not real. That is like... magic, and magic does not exist. He wants to start laughing at Malfoy, laugh hard like Malfoy laughed at him two days ago. It would be sweet to do to Malfoy what had been done to him. And yet he cannot laugh, the sound remains locked in his throat. All he can do is stare at the blond in utter disbelief.

He shudders when Malfoy's hand forces his chin up. "You lived when you should have died," Malfoy murmurs. "Extraordinary luck you have, Potter. Or is it simply that you are the wonder everyone says you are? That you have a secret power in you that makes you the most powerful wizard alive? I can see you don't believe me, but it is true. You, Harry Potter, are a wizard."

-

"And this is your godfather, Sirius Black," Hermione said, flipping to the next page of the photo album a week or so after Harry had woken up. "He died several years ago, while you were still in school."

"How?" Harry inquired, staring down at the handsome, but worn-looking man.

"Er..." she stammered, her eyes flicking over to Ron, who looked equally uncomfortable. "He had cancer, um, and well... he just got worse and worse."

"There was nothing that could be done," Ron added softly. His friend placed his hand on Harry's back, rubbing it reassuringly. "But you were with him at every moment, and he was happy until the end."

There was a glow in Hermione's eyes that Harry did not understand. It was as though she was proud of Ron, but for what? Saying the right thing? Being a good friend? Whatever it was, it caused Ron to blush a red only a few shades lighter than his hair. This Harry was used to. Ron nearly always blushed whenever Hermione gave him a certain type of look. Harry wondered how long it would take before Ron asked her out. And how long had this subtle, barely there relationship been going on?

Harry bit his tongue, almost drawing blood at his utter frustration in not being able to remember anything. He saw his godfather, knew what he looked like, and yet he had absolutely no fucking memories of him. Harry told himself to be patient, to relax, and not to be angry. It was not like he would remember things faster if he was angry.

"Would you like to know more about Sirius?" she inquired.

"Yeah," Ron remarked, "we can probably answer whatever questions you've got."

And oh, did Harry have questions. But more than anything, he would like to remember without being told. If he could not, then hearing about it was the next best thing. "Were we close?" he asked. "Did we have a good relationship? What was he like?"

Laughing a bit, Hermione held up her hand. "Not so many questions all at once. One at a time, or even I won't remember all of them."

Harry could not help but tease a little. "So you aren't infallible after all, are you?"

There was perhaps a time when she would have been upset about it, he thought, but now she only smiled. Was it because he was acting more like himself or that he was feeling free enough to tease at all? That he was comfortable with them? Whatever it was, it felt good to make them smile instead of worrying them.

"Of course not, one tries to be perfect, but that doesn't mean that one is," she responded.

"And the answer to one of your questions is yes, you and Sirius were close," Ron answered. "You two didn't see each other much, but you kept up by writing a lot of letters."

"He came by when he could," Hermione said. "You were his only godchild and he spoiled you quite a bit. He even got you this magnificent..." All of a sudden Ron start coughing loudly and she thumped him hard on the back. "You all right?" Ron nodded and she smiled sheepishly.

"What did he get me?" Harry asked.

Ron cleared his throat and replied, "He bought you a car, you lucky sod."

-

Magic is not real. Malfoy is an ass at lying. Magic is not real, Harry chants like a mantra. If magic were real, and he was a wizard--would he not have seen some magic occurring in his life already? Because if he is a wizard, and had always been so, then his friends from childhood would be too. That is unless, they have been lying and Malfoy is finally telling him of his real past. But why would his friends, his dear friends, lie about something like this?

Malfoy reaches down and clutches Harry's shaking hand. "Calm down," the blond murmurs. "I know this is a lot to handle, and truth be told I can't believe that your noble friends never told you. They don't seem like good liars."

That Harry has to agree to. Ron and Hermione seem so honest, so earnest. Yet if what Malfoy said is true, then they have been lying from the start. The fear that has lied dormant in Harry, that he pushed aside to be here, starts churning in his stomach. It is a good thing he did not drink the coffee because he feels a bit nauseated now. His head is spinning from an overdose of information; information he does not know if he should believe.

"And yet they did," Malfoy states, his silver eyes getting a far-off look to them. His fingers rub Harry's cheek absently and then stops, letting his hand drop. "So do you want to know everything of what your true life was?"

Does he? Does he really want everything he believes to be true proven false? Harry's teeth tug on his bottom lip, something he does when he is uncertain and utterly confused. Oh he admits, his curiosity demands the truth, but the part of him that is satisfied with his life does not. This truth could destroy everything he knows and cares about. Will his friends still be his? Or will everything go into complete ruin?

"Do you Harry?"

When Malfoy calls him by his name, a weird tingle goes down Harry's spine. It happened the first time the blond said it and it is happening again. Harry wonders why, as most people call him Harry. It should not feel out of place, but this does. Maybe it is a memory, and god knows Harry wishes it to be. It has been three years already, and he has nearly given up. He has resigned himself to never remembering, and yet he knows a part of him will always yearn.

It is frustrating, trying all this time, and never getting anywhere. But it makes sense if what Malfoy says is true. If they are lying about the memories, then how can he remember lies? Harry trembles, shudders with a tiny rage that has snuck into his being. He likes his life, but the part of him that needs to know--needs it.

"Yes," he says. "Tell me more, Malfoy."

-

"And this is Remus, he was a close family friend," Hermione said, her voice still sad. It seemed like his life was one long tragedy. Harry did not recognize this grey-haired man with rich chocolate-brown eyes. Hermione's tone and the fact he had not seen this Remus made Harry think that he was probably dead. "He was killed a few years ago by a madman. But the madman is gone now, locked away."

"Who was he to me?"

Hermione bit her lips and her eyes would not meet his. "You always said he was the last bit of family that you had left. I suppose it was because he was a close link to your parents and godfather, they were all the best of friends."

"Like we are?"

She nodded and managed a small smile. "Yeah," she said, wrapping her arm around Ron and reaching over to squeeze Harry's hand, "like we are. Definitely."

Harry stared down at the picture; the last link to his parents was smiling, in a warm and comforting way. Something in him told him that he could rely on this man, perhaps even more than his godfather. For some reason, he felt closer to Remus than he had to any of the other pictures, even the one of his parents. Maybe it was because he been around Remus in the years when his godfather and parents were gone?

"I miss him," he said suddenly, his voice wistful and sad. "I don't know why, but when I look at him I want to cry."

Hermione got up and wrapped her arms around him. "Oh Harry," she said, "are you finally remembering something?"

He did not know whether to shake his head that yes, he was, or to deny this odd feeling he got. It was not a real memory; it was just a feeling he could not explain. He felt something warm inside of him looking at Remus' kind smile, followed by a terrible, terrible pain. His heart felt like it was being squeezed to death, and all he wanted to do was curl up into a ball and let the sadness overwhelm him.

"I don't know," he cried. "I don't know, I don't know!"

He clutched onto her, his hands grabbing onto her shirt and making fists behind her back. Resting his head on her shoulder, his forehead against her neck, he had a vague recollection that this was not an odd position for him. "Maybe. God I hope so," he sobbed. "I fucking hate this! It's been days and still I can't remember anything! I'm such a weak and pathetic thing, and..."

"Shush," Hermione whispered, stroking his back and moving her body to give him a more comfortable position. "Ron, can you go get him some of the medicine in the cabinet? It should calm him down."

Somehow they managed to slip the gel pill into his mouth, and Harry swallowed it like an obedient child, falling into a realm of darkness and peace where the bothersome confusion of reality was left behind.

-

"As I have said, you are a wizard," Malfoy begins softly. "As a baby, you somehow incapacitated Voldemort, the Dark Lord akin to an Adolph Hitler, resulting in your scar. As a grown man, you destroyed him. Such power," he says, a sense of awe and envy in his voice, "that you hold such incredible power."

Harry senses a trace of bitterness, a subtle antipathy that makes too much sense. They were not friends, and are now nothing but people trying to gain something from each other. His friends have told him that he is a good person, noble and true, but this attempt at using someone to get something does not feel like any of the traits they say he has. He feels oddly unlike their Harry, but still like himself.

"I do not know much of your life until you attended Hogwarts, the school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I did not meet you until then, and by that time it was too late to be friends with you. You were already poisoned by Ronald Weasley, who like everyone in his family is a goddamn Gryffindor," Malfoy sneers, the disgust and dislike far more blatant than his previous emotions. "There has always been animosity between my family and his. And when you were sorted into Gryffindor, the natural rivalry between your house and mine, Slytherin, was added on top of that."

"Gryffindor? Slytherin?" Harry inquires, confusion wrinkling his forehead. Hogwarts, a weird word, was explained but these words were not. "What are you talking about?"

"Gryffindor and Slytherin are two of the houses at Hogwarts, along with Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff," Malfoy explains. "Before students begin their first year, they are sorted into one of them based on personality traits."

"What are Gryffindors like?"

Malfoy's lips curl up, deepening his sneer. "The Sorting Hat, the one device used to gauge which house is right for the student, usually says they're noble and brave. But they're also impulsive and prone to doing things without thinking. They also tend to be very narrow-minded and set in their ways."

It relieves Harry a bit to hear Malfoy confirming what his friends had already told him. They say he is noble and brave, though sometimes he does not feel that way. Harry can certainly see Ron being impulsive, though he is not sure that any of his friends are narrow-minded. Hermione, in particular, seems very open-minded and not prone to doing things without thought. She thinks too much, Harry muses. Maybe she is not a Gryffindor? And his other friends? Neville does not seem particularly brave. More loyal than anything and very kind. Maybe they were not Gryffindors?

"And what are Slytherins like?" Somehow Harry knows exactly the kind of words Malfoy will say. The blond does not seem the type to acknowledge that anyone is better than himself, especially if he comes from a rival house. There is an air of superiority that he holds in his demeanor.

"We're ambitious," Malfoy answers. "We also tend to be cunning and adaptable to any situation. Unlike you Gryffindors," he spews, "who are as stiff and as unforgiving as stones."

Something claws inside Harry, something that protests what Malfoy is saying, but while some of it he cannot believe, there are bits that he almost thinks are true. But without proof, how can he even start to believe this unbelievable truth? "Prove it," Harry demands. "Prove you're a wizard."

Malfoy takes something out of his sleeve, the stick Harry had seen earlier. He waves it at Harry and whispers, "Silencio!"

Harry sees silver strands float from the stick, and he is glad they are in the back corner of the café where no one can really see them. It is a nice parlor trick, Harry muses, but it is nothing more than a trick, an illusion. Interesting how Malfoy had used Latin for his spell casting. Silencio, from Harry's little knowledge of the language, means silence. Nice try, Malfoy, Harry says, knows he says it, but his ears do not hear a thing. He tries again, Damn you, Malfoy!

"It's a silencing charm," Malfoy explains. "You won't be able to talk as long as you're under it, and since it's not a particularly difficult spell I could keep it up for a very long time without draining my innate magic. However," he says, flicking his wand, "as nice as it would be to not have to hear your annoying voice, the purpose of this visit is to inform you about your true self. To do that, you'll need your voice. Finite Incantatem!"

"Fuck you," Harry snaps, his eyes narrowing in exasperation. "Couldn't you use another spell?"

Malfoy smirks smugly. "If I had, would you have thought it a mere trick then? I thought using a spell on you would get the best results, besides it's not noticeable as much to the ones that are here. Magic and muggles tend not to mix very well."

"Muggles? What the bloody hell?"

"Non-magical people," Malfoy answers while tapping his fingers on the table. "Though I suppose you could consider yourself a muggle, considering you've been living as one for who knows how long? At least five years. That's how long it's been since I last saw you."

"I've been living like this for three years," Harry mutters, not knowing why he feels like he ought to tell this to the blond. "The accident happened five years ago, but I was in a coma for two years."

Malfoy raises his eyebrows, wrinkling his otherwise smooth forehead. "I'd always wondered where they were keeping you. The papers said you were alive after defeating Voldemort, but I never guessed they were keeping you in the muggle world for all these years. I just thought you were hiding away in that mansion your godfather left you."

"So my godfather is really dead?"

"Most assuredly," Malfoy drawls. "Dead more than twelve years, thanks to you. Did you know that? You killed your own dear godfather."

Suddenly, Harry feels very cold, numb even. His friends, they said, told him Sirius had been sick. If his godfather was sick, it was not his fault. How could it be his fault? He trembles and stares into Malfoy's silver eyes, trying to figure out if he is being earnest or false. He does not want to believe this. Of course he did not kill his godfather! He is not a killer. Dropping his head, he looks down at his hands. They are small, nimble, and not very masculine.

"I do wonder if it was intentional," Malfoy remarks with a sadistic gleam in his eyes. It almost makes Harry recoil, as it is he inches his chair back a bit. "But knowing you, honorable and all that shit, you probably did it unintentionally. The tragedy of a Gryffindor, acting without thinking. No wonder your friends didn't want you to remember your sordid past. Too bloody traumatic for you, I bet."

And that was the real question: why were they keeping his past from him?

-

There was a loud, impatient knock on the door. Harry knew who it was; Dr. Snape had a particular knock. It was authoritative and something that could not be ignored. Harry was not even going to try. Instead, he said, "Come in."

In his private room, his friends, Hermione and Ron, both glanced up from the photo album and shot him inquiring looks. But he did not feel like he needed to answer them, especially since they would find out shortly. After all, any moment now, his doctor was going to enter the room with his ground-eating strides. Dr. Snape could be a rather intimidating man, and there was simply no questioning his dominating presence.

The door flew open as it always did when his doctor was the one opening it. He stalked into the room like a big predator cat, ready for its next kill. Harry hoped whatever Dr. Snape's sharp tongue was going to say, it was not going to embarrass him in front of his friends. It was hard to predict whether Dr. Snape was in the mood to be encouraging or derisive. Harry would like the former, but one never knew with his doctor. Sometimes, he wondered if Dr. Snape was schizophrenic. His doctor's nice face was hardly kind, and his mean look was callous at best. It bordered on downright malicious.

"Your friends will need to leave," Dr. Snape snapped, glaring at Harry with a strange intensity.

It was definitely a strong emotion Harry saw, though he was not sure why his doctor would have any strong feelings for him. Maybe it was simple hatred, but was it typical for doctors to despise their patients? It was not like he wanted Dr. Snape to be his doctor; Dr. Snape just came recommended. And it was not like Dr. Snape had to take him as a patient either. He could have said no.

"Now!" Dr. Snape exclaimed, shifting his gaze at Harry's best friends. "I must speak to Mr. Potter, privately."

"Have you spoken to--" Hermione began.

"That is none of your business, Ms. Granger," his doctor hissed. "Now if you and your boyfriend would please leave, I would appreciate a private moment with my patient."

Hermione had the dignity to blush and snuck a glance at Ron, who was also a little pink. Harry rolled his eyes. His two friends were far too obvious about liking each other. As much as he was a little apprehensive about change--having just adjusted to being Harry--he did want his friends to be happy. He also knew that it was only a matter of time before they got together.

"Good day, Dr. Snape," Hermione muttered, her brief frown disappearing when she glanced toward Harry. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. Harry noticed with distracted curiosity that Dr. Snape was glaring at Hermione quite severely. "Bye, Harry," she whispered. "We'll see you later, alright?"

"Yeah, alright," Harry murmured and smiled. He reached over and squeezed Hermione's hand. "It'll be fine. Honestly," he said, glancing toward his doctor, "Dr. Snape isn't that bad. I've gotten used to him."

"Bye mate," Ron murmured, giving him a grin. "Come on, 'Mione, let's go."

Ron grabbed Hermione by the arm and pulled her out of the room. Harry watched them leave. When they were gone, he turned his attention to Dr. Snape and grinned broadly. "Physical therapy again, I assume?"

His doctor pursed his lips together and nodded curtly. "Aren't you the raving genius? After all, it is only what you do everyday at 4."

Biting the inside of his cheeks, Harry reminded himself that his doctor was always like this. He really ought to be used to it by now, and he really should not get irritated. Almost everyday was the same. At least today, Dr. Snape's odd assistant was missing. Harry tended to notice that his doctor was quite a bit nicer when Albus was not present. Maybe the old man made Dr. Snape feel vulnerable too. If so, it was no wonder Dr. Snape felt more comfortable when Albus was gone.

"Well, what are you doing still lying in bed?" Dr. Snape asked sharply. "Get up and get ready. I don't have all day you know."

Harry pushed the covers off and crawled out of bed. It took him a while, but he managed to stand a bit shakily in front of his doctor. "Okay," Harry said. "I'm ready."

"Yes, I suppose you are," Dr. Snape remarked, staring at him with unreadable dark eyes. "Always the presentable one, are you not?"

Glancing down at his wrinkled pajamas, Harry shrugged. It was not like he was seeking to impress anyone, now was he? It was just him and his doctor, nothing really formal. Besides, he had the feeling he was not really a person who cared about his appearance. At least now it did not matter, and his friends had told him he was a lot like who he used to be.

"Follow me," his doctor demanded, heading toward the physical therapy room in a much slower pace than usual. It was with this action that Harry thought that his doctor did care about him. "Hurry up!"

Harry hid a grin when he saw that Dr. Snape was not moving any faster than he had been. "How are you today?" he inquired, stumbling a bit as he moved as fast as he could.

"As always, I will be much better once we are done with this," his doctor retorted.

"Dr. Snape?"

His doctor turned around and glared at him.

"Did you know me before this?"

His doctor was quiet for a second, his expression utterly blank before he scowled. "Are you remembering something?"

"Sometimes," Harry whispered, his eyes glancing down at the floor, "I think I know you."

-

"You still haven't proven that I am a wizard," Harry remarks after a long uncomfortable stillness. So he is a murderer. He killed his godfather, killed Sirius. Yet, somehow, he feels nothing but a deep chill. There is no guilt, no remorse, because he does not remember Sirius nor can he really care. He is afraid of what else Malfoy will tell him, but he says anyway, "You have done magic, but I have not."

Malfoy narrows his eyes and shrugs his shoulders. "I would rather not give you my wand for your first attempt at magic in five years. I don't even know if the wand will work for you."

"Is that what the stick is? A wand?" Harry inquires, trying hard--desperately hard to remain calm. "I thought wizards used staffs."

"Yes," Malfoy retorts sharply, "my stick is my wand, and no, wizards don't use staffs. What are you? A Lord of the Rings freak?"

There are few things that annoy Harry. One of them, unfortunately, is when people make fun of his Arda fetish. "I'll have you know Tolkien's work is a thing of genius, imaginative, creative, and--"

"No," Malfoy snaps, "it's boring, dull, and overly wordy. And yes, I would know because I've read it. I actually think," he murmurs, looking intently at Harry, "that a series of books based on your life would be an extraordinary fantasy story."

Harry snorts and stares down at his cold cup of coffee. Was his life a story worth telling?--according to Malfoy, yes; and to him, no. Of course, he has no idea of this life that Malfoy has told him. It is farfetched, and yet his mind refuses to deny it. "I don't see what's so interesting about me," he remarks.

"You've heard what I've said," Malfoy responds. "And if you've read Tolkien's books, you know what magic can do. Think of Voldemort as Sauron, only in this world. What Sauron would have done to Middle Earth is what Voldemort would have done to Britain and then the rest of the world. You saved us, and how can we not think of you as interesting... when you lived when you should have died, succeeded where you should have failed?"

Silence reigns while Malfoy waves away a waiter who approaches him to take his order. Harry has no idea what to say, what to do. There is too much information to absorb. According to Malfoy, he is not only a wizard and a killer, but a savior too. Harry wants none of this, and yet he cannot deny being curious. Already he has taken steps he should not have, so should he take the plunge?

"Malfoy...?"

The blond shakes his head. "Draco, call me Draco."

"Draco," Harry says, "prove to me I am a wizard."

Mal--Draco inclines his head. "Your request is mine to give."

TBC