Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

Chapter 3: Seekers

He had lost one world and not gained another.

--John Steinbeck, The Pearl

Malfoy wants to remember.

He wants to remember his distant past the way he can remember two days ago, the way he remembers spells and incantations and the feel of magic tingling along his nerves and ready at his fingertips, coiled like a serpent ready to strike. He hadn't needed anyone to tell him he was a wizard. The magic is in his bones, knit into the fiber of his skin. It's as much a sensory awareness as it is a memory.

He has about two months of this obscure new life on which to draw now, and as far as he can tell, the Healers are no closer to removing the memory block. They've exhausted every Memory Recovery charm in their texts, one of them confessed when he prodded. Although he was brought to the hospital in less than ideal physical condition, with some bruising and minor head trauma in addition to the peculiar burn on his chest, they're certain it's not the result of a physical blow. But they have no idea what sort of magic might have caused his amnesia. According to what they've been told, he possessed his memory one moment, and it was gone the next. "How do you know that?" he'd asked. "Was someone else there? Did somebody tell you that?" But they wouldn't answer.

No one will tell him how he came to be here, what the circumstances were that presaged his memory loss. Some of the Healers refuse to talk to him at all outside of direct questions about his health, memory, and personal well-being. These ones seem almost annoyed when he tells them he's fine, no, the burn doesn't hurt today, no, he still can't remember anything past the day he woke up here. Once a week they trot out the Veritaserum when the Aurors come to question him, to be on the safe side. He hates the muzzy feeling it gives him, the lack of control over his own mind. It doesn't matter anyway--his answers remain the same. It's worse when the Aurors interrogate him about things unrelated to his health. There's always an unholy gleam in the administering Auror's eye when Malfoy is dosed with the serum, a certain dark smile when he feels himself slipping under its influence, a kind of mental tunnel vision suppressing his will until he is aware only of the questions he is asked and the truths he gives in return. Where have you been for the last five years? What was Lucius Malfoy planning? What is Voldemort planning? "I don't know," he says again and again. "I don't know. I don't know."

The Aurors vary from week to week, and the same one never appears twice, perhaps under the assumption that different questioning styles eventually will crack whatever barrier it is they imagine he's erected. Today it's a grizzled old man missing a part of his nose and with one eye that rotates independently and seems to see right into Malfoy. In spite of his resolve to appear unruffled, the effect is eerie. The Healer doses Malfoy with Veritaserum and he feels it rolling across his mind like fog. His face and limbs fall slack. The Auror only watches calmly while the Healer asks the usual perfunctory questions. Are you in any pain? Do you remember how you were injured? What is your earliest memory? Finally he departs and Malfoy waits for the usual Auror interrogation. But the Auror's first question is a new one--were his responses not so dulled, he might almost jump.

"What is your relationship with Harry Potter?" the old man barks.

"I--" The question spears into his mind like a beam of sunlight breaking through the cloud cover. But it illuminates nothing. "I don't know," he says.

The Auror eyes him speculatively. "How many times have you met with Potter since you arrived here?"

The answer comes easily. "Twice."

"And what did the two of you do during those visits?"

"We talked."

"What about?"

"About how we were at school together. What I was good at. He said I was a Death Eater."

The Auror grunts. "What was your reaction to that?"

"I didn't believe him."

"Why not?"

The question is frustrating, even through the haze of Veritaserum. "Because...I don't feel evil." Were his reactions not so suppressed, he'd feel embarrassed to be so inarticulate.

But the Auror only watches him, strange eye unblinking. "How do you think evil would feel?"

"Vengeful. Angry. Cruel."

"You don't feel angry?"

"Not like that."

"How, then?"

"I'm angry that I don't know who I am, that no one except Potter will tell me anything. I'm angry that people like you have the right to ask me questions I can't answer."

The Auror is silent for a few moments. "How does Harry Potter act when he is here?"

"He seems tired. Or angry. He laughed once. Mostly he just sits and answers my questions."

"What do you ask him?"

"I ask questions about my past, about what he can remember."

"What has he told you?"

"He's told me about our lessons together at Hogwarts, and that I appear to have no friends or relations. All in all, he says very little."

"What do you think about him?"

"I think he needs a holiday. Or a good shag."

The Auror only raises an eyebrow at that. "What do you think of him as a person?"

"I find him oddly likable. Trustworthy. Sad. I respect him."

"Are you friends?"

"No."

"Do you think you could be friends?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because Potter doesn't like me."

The Auror seems to pay closer attention. "Why do you say that?"

"He yells at me. I yell at him. He doesn't like to talk about the past, and that's what I usually ask him about. He says we weren't friends in school."

"What were you back in school?"

"I don't know. Acquaintances, Potter said."

"But not friends?"

"No."

"Not enemies?"

"He didn't say so."

The Auror mutters something to himself and makes a note in a small notepad, his strange blue eye never leaving Malfoy's face. "Has Potter told you why he visits you?"

"No."

"Why do you think he does?"

"Probably to gloat. Just like all the Aurors."

"What makes you think the Aurors are gloating?"

"The way they smile. They always smile when the Healers give me Veritaserum, because they can see I hate it." He pauses. "But you didn't smile."

"No, I didn't." Malfoy registers hazily that he can't imagine this man ever smiling. "Does Potter ever give you reason to think he's laughing at you?"

"Not in the same way."

"How, then?"

"If he's laughing at me, it's because of something I've said, or some memory I made him think of. It isn't malicious."

"But you said he visits you to gloat."

"Well, maybe he doesn't."

"Why does he visit, then?"

"He and that red-headed Healer seem pretty tight."

"Why does he visit you?"

"I don't know. Maybe she told him to. She was here the first time he visited."

"Why would she tell him to visit you?"

"She's probably scared of me and wanted the company."

The Auror makes another note. "What do you think of her?"

"I don't like her."

"Why not?"

"Because she and Potter are entirely too close."

"Why would that make you dislike her?"

"I'm jealous." Even in the depths of his own mind, Malfoy can feel the mortification.

"You don't like her because she's Potter's friend?"

"Yes."

"Have you met any of Potter's other friends?"

"No."

"Would you dislike any of his friends, just because they're his friends?"

"Probably."

"Is it just because they're Potter's friends?"

"Yes."

"Not anybody else's friends?"

"No."

"Why are you jealous of Potter's friends?"

"Because I want his attention."

"And they take him away from you?"

"Yes."

"You want all of his attention?"

"Yes."

"Do you ever feel violent toward his friends?"

"No. Not really."

"Not really?"

"No specific impulses. Just vague, unfocused anger."

"Do you ever feel violent toward Harry Potter?"

"No. Yes."

"Which is it?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

"Sometimes I want to hit him for being so stubborn."

"Do you ever wish to do him serious harm?"

"No."

"Do you want to kill him?"

"No."

"Could you see yourself wanting to kill him?"

"No. No, I could never see myself wanting to kill him."

"Have you ever killed?"

"I don't know."

The Auror's gaze sharpens. "Could you kill?"

"I...maybe." His breathing has sped up. "Maybe."

"Could you kill Harry Potter?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"I couldn't. He's important to me somehow. He's kind to me. I'm...attached to him."

"Why are you attached to him?"

"I don't know. There's something there, beyond what I know consciously. Something draws me to him. I wait for him to come every day, and I'm hurt when he doesn't. There's something about him I...need." He almost says crave, and isn't certain which is more truthful. His fists clench and unclench in leashed frustration at his impotence. "I can't explain it."

"Do you think it has something to do with your past?"

"I think it might."

"Do you remember Harry Potter from your past?"

"No." He closes his eyes. "I wish I did."

"If I say Cor Celatum, does it mean anything to you?"

"It's Latin. It means the hidden heart."

"Have you heard it before?"

"Yes, from the other Aurors who asked about it."

"Have you ever heard anyone other than an Auror say it?"

"No."

"Have you ever read it?"

"No."

"Do you know of a spell that uses those words?"

"No."

"What do you think might be the effect of such a spell?"

"It sounds like a love spell."

The Auror almost smiles. "How very interesting."

* * *

It rains for almost four days after Harry visits Malfoy. He has gone to the hospital every day, but only to sit with Ron. He steers clear of the Obscure Maladies ward altogether. Yesterday as he arrived, he encountered Mad-Eye Moody, who was just departing. Mad-Eye growled something in greeting before stomping toward the Apparation area outside the hospital bounds. Harry was certain his magical eye continued to watch him until Harry rounded a corner inside the building. It's still a bit mind-boggling that he is working under Moody. But after many of the senior Aurors were killed in raids over the past year, Moody was one of the few people qualified--or perhaps foolhardy--enough to take over the Chief Auror position. No one suspected how much he'd been itching to get out of retirement until Arthur Weasley, the newly christened head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, asked him to do so. Moody's paranoia no longer seems so unreasonable after ten years of constant war. In fact, it's almost a comfort now to know someone with, so to say, an eye in the back of his head is looking out for the Aurors, and the wizarding world in general.

There's no change in Ron's condition, of course; there never is. Recently, though, Harry noticed that Ron has become thinner. The Healers are making sure he gets the nourishment he needs, but without movement, without releasing the energy that has always seemed to thrum in Ron's veins--in most of the Weasleys, truth be told--his bulk has begun to dissipate, the shoulders and chest not as powerful as they once were. Not for the first time, Harry wishes for Hermione, as always convinced that she could put her finger on the problem, have some obscure learning gleaned from books that would pinpoint the source, illuminate the failure of every Healer and researcher on the case. He wants to believe that Hermione is the key. But then he wonders how Hermione would react when she learns that Ron has been hospitalized for two months without her knowledge, how focused she could be once she sees Ron, disappearing bit by bit in a cold, impersonal hospital bed. He remembers how she used to tease Ron about his strength once he finally grew into it, poking at his wide shoulders, pinching his biceps. Ron would make faces and flex while Harry laughed at their banter. He always suspected, though, that Hermione's touches would be much more reverent were she and Ron alone, and certain things understood between them. But Ron was blind and Hermione stubborn, and now they are half a world apart, separated by so much more than physical distance.

Yesterday one of the Healers told Harry they would be running more tests on Ron most of today, so he shouldn't count on being able to see his friend. So Harry sits at home in his flat, watching the rain streaming through the streets outside and fingering the letter that arrived from Remus this morning bearing the seal of the Secret Wizarding Operations for Research and Development. The owl that brought it is perched in Hedwig's cage, occasionally ruffling its still-damp feathers. Clever Remus put a waterproofing charm on the parchment, however, so it is wrinkled only through the worrying of Harry's fingers.

Dear Harry, it reads.

Reading between the lines of your last letter, I'm guessing that you've been neither sleeping nor eating properly, and spending far more time than is healthy at the hospital with Ron. Arthur tells me that nearly every time he and Molly are there during visiting hours, you're there, or have just been there, or are expected to be there. I've said so before, but it bears repeating: You are not at fault, Harry. I've read the documents, and heard the story from Moody himself. There's nothing you could have done short of attacking Ron yourself, and there was no time for that. If he'd stayed back, perhaps he would be fine now, but there's no way of knowing. It isn't your fault Ron was hurt, even if he was acting in your defence. It's nobody's fault. There were easily a dozen factors that influenced how the circumstances played out--if the Aurors had been forewarned of the number of Death Eaters, if they hadn't been taken by surprise, if Ron had thought before he acted, if he hadn't held on to his schoolboy grudge against Draco Malfoy. If, if, if.

I promise you, Harry, we will determine what that curse was, and why it caused Ron and Malfoy to be hurt. It's a priority for our research teams because we don't know how many other Death Eaters may be aware of the same spell. Right now, though, I don't have anything to tell you that you don't already know. There is no trace of it in any literature of the last 1,000 years. It's entirely possible that it is some form of very ancient magic that has been lost to time. But the other researchers and I are confident we will find something. After all, if Malfoy knew it, there is evidence of it somewhere, even if the Ministry has to track down every single remaining Death Eater and put them under Veritaserum. Meanwhile, the Healers are doing everything in their power to keep Ron healthy and try to stimulate his responses. I know you're worried, Harry. Hell, I know you're terrified. I know that loss is never easy, no matter how many times you experience it. God, how I know that! But you haven't lost him yet, and if we have our way, you won't--at least not as a result of this.

It's been a while since I've seen you, Harry, and I do wish you'd visit more often. I've thought about dropping in on you, but I respect your privacy too much for that. Besides, you're never home! If you're worried about violating my privacy, you needn't be. My home is always open to you, Harry. Always.

Please do come by sometime, when your schedule permits. I'm afraid I may have to start haunting the hospital myself if I want to catch a glimpse of you.

Remus

It isn't that he doesn't miss Remus. It isn't that he doesn't care for him. But every time Harry visits, they seem to end up talking about Sirius. While that isn't as raw a wound as it was a decade ago, he's never shaken his feelings of guilt. And as much as Remus tries to reassure him about everything, somehow Harry always feels even more hollow and depressed when he leaves, seeing again what the years have wrought on his former professor--the deep lines of pain carved into his face, the gray that far, far outnumbers the brown in his shaggy hair, the smile that never quite reaches his eyes anymore. He knows Remus misses Sirius--and it was only several years after Sirius passed through the Veil that Harry understood the true nature of their relationship, blind adolescent that he'd been--but he can't bring himself to relive the memories over and over. Even though, in his own way, he understands Remus's compulsion all too well.

He drops the letter on the table next to him and takes off his glasses to rub his temples. He knows, intellectually, that deciphering the spell that hit Ron is a Ministry priority, for fear that it could be a potent, unknown weapon. And he knows that even if it weren't a Ministry decree, Remus would still consider it a personal priority for Ron's sake, for Harry's. But it's hard to understand that they have been researching the spell for two months and determined nothing. Arthur Weasley had already told him there was no trace of it in any of the Ministry's reference materials--books, old manuscripts, documents, letters--centuries worth of accumulated wizarding knowledge. It's incomprehensible. How could Malfoy know something of this magnitude, and have it unknown to the rest of the wizarding world? Where did he find it? The contents of the libraries in Malfoy Manor were confiscated after the raid, and they contained a treasure trove of ancient Dark Magic texts. But there was nothing about this. Nothing.

Annoyed to catch himself brooding again, he abruptly stands and reaches for the cloak hanging on a peg on the wall. If he's going to sit around staring at walls, he might as well do so in his office at the Ministry, where he might actually feel compelled to get some work done.

He glances at the letter lying on the table. And, well, as long as he's Apparating to London, he might as well stop by Remus's flat. He thinks vaguely that tonight may be the full moon. If so, Remus might be at home, making preparations. He'll stop in to talk. Just for a few minutes. For old times' sake.

Certainly it's easier to do most things for the sake of old times than new.

* * *

Even over twenty-four hours after the Auror's visit, Malfoy still has a residual headache from the Veritaserum. He knows this is a result of the suppression of will and the tension that creates, but can't remember how he learned that. He wishes he'd never had to learn it in so practical a fashion, nor in such a regular one.

The horror of Veritaserum's aftereffects, though, lies not in the persistent headache, but in that he can remember each and every word of the exchange. Previous Auror visits have never left him feeling so raw and exposed, but those were, for the most part, perfunctory questions regarding his claim of amnesia. This was the first such visit to delve into his personal thoughts, his emotions, and Malfoy is horrified at the revelation of feelings he hadn't even realized he harbored. He feels sick, beyond even the headache--roiling nausea that twists his gut and makes him sweat, his skin pale and clammy. This isn't a physiological side effect. He's never been affected so before, and even the young Mediwitch dispatched to his room after the Auror's departure to record his vital signs remarked on the fact. "Heart rate accelerating," she murmured. "Blood pressure high." She looked up at him from her chart. "Shouldn't the Veritaserum be wearing off by now?"

"It is," he'd growled.

"Prove it," she said, eyes narrowed.

He spread his arms. "I love being trapped here in this hospital and interrogated by sadistic Aurors!"

"Hmph," she grunted, and turned back to her notes, muttering, "Veritaserum...worn...off," as her quill scratched.

And the measurements have only continued to climb as he's further regained control over his will. The Healer on duty is concerned, and offered him a tranquilizer, but he refused. He doesn't want his reactions suppressed any more than they already have been today.

He folds himself up as he sits on the bed, pressing his forehead to his knees. He can hear the slap of raindrops against the narrow window, feel the thrum of magic enchanted into the very walls of this building--protective charms, shielding charms, containment charms. He'd wondered, before Potter's visit, why he couldn't perform magic, when he could still feel it under his skin, writhing like snakes. He'd thought it an aftereffect of the injury that landed him here. Now he knows. He hasn't forgotten the power...they've just stripped him of his ability to use it. They might as well have carved out his lungs, his liver, his heart, or any other vital organ.

He breathes, and feels the warm air collect in the space framed by his legs, his torso, his head. It bathes his face, and he closes his eyes against the wash of air. He trembles.

The position doesn't help his nausea, but it does limit sensation. His body huddled, his eyes closed, his arms braced over his head, shielding his ears, he feels only the chill air of the hospital room, the pulse of magic; he tastes the bile in the back of his throat.

Why do they want to know if I would kill Potter?

What do they think me capable of?

What have I already done?

Potter hasn't seemed to feel particularly threatened during his visits, he thinks, but that may have something to do with the combination of amnesia and imprisonment spell. Why would Potter smile, even laugh in that rusty way of his, if he were somehow in danger? Why would he come at all?

And what would Malfoy do if he stopped coming?

He squeezes his eyes more tightly shut, feeling his face burn with humiliation even through the layer of cold sweat provoked by his nausea. So openly declaring his desire for friendship, his odd feeling of connection with Potter. Thank God the Auror didn't pry further. Thank God he didn't ask if Malfoy finds Potter attractive. There is just enough Veritaserum left in his system that he knows the answer is yes in spite of every impulse within him longing to shout a denial.

He wants to deny the absurd jealousy he feels just looking at that red-haired Healer, the ridiculous disappointment he feels now whenever another day passes without a visit from Potter, the weird little leap of joy he felt four days ago when he looked up to find Potter standing in the doorway. He wants to deny that part of the reason he feels the urge toward physical violence against Potter is that he simply wants to touch him, to confirm he's real, to feel the solid thud of his fist against Potter's flesh, to draw blood and feel his drawn in return.

He wants to deny the dreams that have begun to come more frequently, of a cold lake and a brilliant sunrise, of comfort and Potter and the urge to do more than touch.

His stomach clenches, and he runs to the loo to be sick.

When the Healer comes by again bearing a potion to calm his stomach and make him sleep, he doesn't even try to refuse. And when the dream comes again, he has no awareness of truth, and no concept of denial.