Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers
—e e cummings

When Ginny wakes, the sun is streaming through the window, and the head on the pillow next to hers is fuchsia.

Even as she watches, it melds into purple, then blue, almost in time with Tonks’s soft snores. Ginny finds herself smiling and angles her body to lean slightly over the sleeping woman. Her finger reaches out to touch Tonks’s nose, and a hand clamps over her wrist. She jumps, and sees that one of Tonks’s eyes has opened. “Mmph,” Tonks grunts, hoarse with sleep, “didn’t anybody ever tell you not to tickle a sleeping Auror?”

Tonks releases her wrist and, relaxing, Ginny eases back, chin propped on her hand. “I thought the motto was ‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon.’”

“Have you ever awakened an Auror from a sound sleep?” Tonks deadpans. “We breathe fire first and ask questions later.”

“I don’t see any fire,” Ginny retorts, unrepentant, then wrinkles her nose. “I do, however, detect some powerful morning breath.”

At that Tonks laughs and rolls over on top of her. Ginny has only a moment to feel her breath catch, her heart begin to beat crazily, before Tonks’s mouth is…hovering above hers. They both freeze, and Tonks’s eyes are inches from Ginny’s, flickering with surprise, anxiety, desire, the pattern more fascinating to Ginny than any physical transformation Tonks can perform. So absorbed is she, she almost doesn’t realize when Tonks speaks. “If you don’t want this,” she says, voice low, tense, “I’ll stop right now.”

Ginny takes a breath, and she can feel the warmth of Tonks’s body pressed against hers, from breasts to hips to thighs. She arches her back slightly and feels Tonks try to suppress a groan. Smiling, she reaches upward and slides her fingers into that short, spiky hair, now a brilliant turquoise. Her gaze on Tonks’s is challenging. “Don’t you dare,” she murmurs, and pulls Tonks’s head down to hers.

The sensation is exquisite, and Ginny has to remind herself that this is Tonks, her friend, the quirky Auror she’s known, at least in passing, since childhood. Tonks, who shows up unexpectedly just when Ginny needs her and doesn’t even realize it. Who’d let Ginny cry on her shoulder for an hour that morning, even to the point of falling asleep in Ginny’s bed, her shoulder still tear-damp, while Ginny clung to her in sleep. Tonks, who’s never touched her before the way she is now, and Ginny could almost weep again from the joy of it.

When Tonks draws away, propping herself up on her elbows, her face is flushed and her hair more brilliant than before, if that’s possible. Ginny trails a hand along her flank, and Tonks twitches, collapsing on top of her with a muttered, “Sorry...sorry...ticklish.”

Ginny laughs, wrapping an arm around her when she would otherwise draw away, and speaks into her hair. “Maybe the saying should be amended to ‘Never tickle an Auror, full stop.’”

Tonks’s cheek is pressed against hers, their bodies flush, both still breathing noticeably faster. “Might be wise,” she manages. “You always were a smart one.” She kisses Ginny’s ear, then rolls away before Ginny can catch her. When Ginny turns to her side, she is sitting upright, looking down at her with an inscrutable expression. “I didn’t mean for anything like this to happen,” she says.

Ginny sits up and latches onto Tonks’s hand, holding fast when Tonks tries to tug it away. “Don’t tell me you have regrets now.”

Tonks squirms a little. “It’s not that I have regrets exactly. It’s just—” She pauses, frowns. “I don’t want to ruin—” She shakes her head. “I mean, I’m not sure you’re ready—” Finally, she laughs. “Hell, I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

Ginny strokes her thumb along the back of Tonks’s hand, tracing the narrow bones, the slight rise of veins beneath the skin. Her skin is smooth but not flawless, marked by nearly invisible networks of small scars—faint silver lines where the skin has been rent and healed, shiny patches that form a terrain of burns. She hates to think of Tonks being hurt, always has hated it, even as she treated some of the injuries that caused these marks. Her fingers remember smoothing salve over raw skin, sealing gashes, setting and mending broken bones. In some ways, she muses, she’s played a part in the creation of this body. Her care eased the pain, and where scars could not be prevented, minimized their appearance.

She glances up to find that Tonks is watching the movements of her fingers, mesmerized. Daringly, Ginny trails her fingertips higher, along the delicate bones of her wrist, her eyes on Tonks’s face as the other woman begins to breathe a little faster. Amazing, Ginny thinks, how effective a simple touch is, the contact of nerve endings on nerve endings, and how fragile the balance is. She has seen patients exposed to obscure potions that hypersensitize the skin, bringing searing pain with the merest touch, while others have been subjected to curses that deadened all nerve endings, so that the sensation of touch was lost completely. Sometimes, in both cases, the patients go mad before a cure can be effected. Too much touch can be agony, while too little...torture.

Her fingertips skate just barely over the sensitive skin of Tonks’s inner wrist, and she smiles at the sudden indrawn breath. When she lifts her fingers, breaking the light contact, Tonks’s eyes rise to meet hers, and Ginny finds her own breathing has begun to hitch, seeing the near-glazed expression, the dilated pupils. She leans forward so that her face is inches from Tonks’s. “Not ready?” she murmurs.

Tonks blinks, and the dazed expression in her eyes clears slightly, leaving her looking a little sheepish. “Well…I earned high marks in Deception. Obviously I’m very good at lying to myself.”

“But not to me,” Ginny says, and smiles.

“Never,” Tonks says, and closes the distance between them.

* * *

The next time Potter shows up, it is broad daylight and his face is blank, no indication in his expression that anything other than bland pleasantries has ever passed between them. He carries a book under his arm and hands it to Malfoy without even a greeting.

“What’s this?” Malfoy asks.

“A photo album. From Hogwarts.” Potter’s mouth twitches downward, and it’s the first hint that he may not be entirely comfortable. “I don’t have many pictures with you in them, but something might jog your memory.”

Malfoy traces his fingers along the red leather binding, embossed in gold. Hogwarts 1998, the cover reads. He brushes his thumb over the letters thoughtfully, and wishes the word felt familiar to him.

Potter hovers at his elbow, and Malfoy glances up at him. “You can pull up the chair, you know. I won’t destroy your precious book while your back is turned.”

“Oh,” says Potter, looking startled. “Right. Of course.” Stiffly he rounds the bed and drags the chair closer. He looks more uncomfortable sitting next to Malfoy than he did standing, and seems to be taking care not to sit too close.

Sighing, Malfoy opens the book to a photo of a young witch and two equally young wizards, one of whom is clearly Potter. A tall, red-haired wizard who reminds him of Potter’s Healer friend stands in the middle, one arm around each of the others, both of whom are waving. All three are smiling, but there are shadows under their eyes, and the gray castle that rises behind them is familiar to Malfoy from newspaper photographs. “That’s Hogwarts?” he says.

Potter nods, his eyes on the figures in the foreground.

Malfoy’s finger hovers over the image of Potter. “That’s you,” he says, no question in his tone. He waits until Potter nods again. “Who are the other two?”

“My best friends.”

When he doesn’t say anything further, Malfoy asks, “Where are they now?”

Malfoy wonders if he imagines the ire that has crept into Potter’s tone. “I don’t know,” he says, voice curt. “Either of them, really.” He scowls and looks away. “I don’t know where either of them has gone.”

Malfoy looks at him, but Potter won’t meet his gaze. He turns the page, and there is Potter in a strangely familiar red and gold uniform, looking fidgety and self-conscious in front of the camera. He grips a sleek racing broom in one hand, his fingers—in what is almost surely an unconscious gesture—trailing lovingly along the handle. “What’s this for?” Malfoy asks.

Startled, Potter looks up at him. “Quidditch,” he says. “It’s before my final Quidditch match.”

“Oh,” he says. He’s read about Quidditch, and something about it seems familiar. He can almost sense the power of the broom harnessed under his grip, feel the force of the wind in his hair. Suddenly Malfoy recognizes the uniform. “I dreamt about this,” he says, surprised, and Potter looks at him sharply. “Well,” he amends, “not about this photo, but about you flying in this uniform.”

“You dreamt about me flying?”

“I think I was chasing you.”

At this Potter laughs, and some of the tension leaves him. “When it came to Quidditch, you were always chasing me, Malfoy.”

There’s an insult in there somewhere, but damned if he can figure out exactly where it lies.

“What position did you play?” Malfoy asks.

“Seeker,” he says, and there’s an unmistakable note of pride. He eyes Malfoy almost with amusement. “You were a Seeker too.”

Malfoy remembers what he’s read about Quidditch, and now he gets the slight. He scowls, feeling distinctly petulant, and flips another page of the photo album.

The next photo depicts Potter’s tall, redheaded friend in the same scarlet Quidditch uniform, the color clashing horribly with his hair. He is beaming at the camera, one hand waving, the other curled around a rather less impressive broom. But he holds it as affectionately, if not more so, than Potter holds his. Except for the smile—he’s never seen her really smile—the resemblance to the Healer is uncanny.

He glances at Potter. “Is he related to that Healer?”

Potter looks at him, distracted. “That Heal—oh. Right. Ginny. Yeah, that’s her brother.”

“Ah.” Some things begin to click into place, and he thinks he might feel less envious of the pretty Healer. He remembers, vaguely, his first conversation with Potter. “So is he...here? In hospital?”

Potter’s lips compress in what looks like annoyance. “Yeah, he is.”

“Is he—”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” Potter snaps.

Malfoy watches him, but Potter won’t meet his gaze. He speaks hesitantly, wishing he had some remembered wisdom on which to draw. “Maybe if you talk about him—”

Finally Potter’s gaze swings to meet his, and where Malfoy expected pain, instead he sees what might be loathing. “Don’t say anything,” he says softly, but firmly. “I don’t want to hear you talk about him. I don’t want you to even think about him. You have no right.”

Malfoy bristles. “I have as much right as anyone—”

“You don’t,” Potter snaps. “In fact,” he continues, jaw tight with anger, “there is no one in the world who has less right to talk about Ron than you, unless it’s Voldemort himself.”

Malfoy starts to retort, but something about Potter’s expression makes him hesitate, and he glances again at the photo. Potter’s friend continues to wave cheerfully. “What exactly did I do to make you hate me?” he wonders aloud.

“I don’t—” Potter stops, shaking his head. His tone is dull with resignation. “I can’t tell you that.”

“But I did do something.”

A hesitation. Then, softly, “Yes.”

Malfoy looks back down at the grinning teenager in the photograph. “And it had something to do with him.”

Potter doesn’t respond, but Malfoy doesn’t require confirmation. The resentment in the Healer’s eyes begins to make some sense. But she’s required to be here to do her job. Potter, on the other hand....

“So why do you come here?” he asks, half-angry, half-pleading. He hates living in this world where nothing makes sense, where everyone knows the answers but him. He hates the weight of his own ignorance. “Why bother talking to me?” He gestures at the album, still lying open on his lap. “Why show me your personal photo collection?”

“Because,” Potter says, looking him dead in the eye, “the sooner you get your memory back, the sooner I can put you in Azkaban. And then I can forget about you.”

* * *

That night, Malfoy doesn’t dream about Harry Potter.

The dream fragments seize at him without warning, and without transition, hurtling him from one nightmare to another.

...He lowers himself on one knee, head bent, at the foot of a black-cloaked figure. He knows he dares not look up. He doesn’t want to see the figure’s face. Somehow he cannot believe it is even human. But that doesn’t stop him genuflecting, and a thrill runs up his spine as the creature addresses him.

“Draco Malfoy, do you come here willingly?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Do you swear to serve me all the days of your existence, to do my bidding no matter what task you are called to fulfill, and to give your life in my service if so required?”

“I do, my Lord.”

“Rise, young Malfoy.”

He stands, eyes still cast downward.

“Look at me.”

He braces himself and looks up into a tight, snakelike face, its venomous eyes fixed on him. It almost smiles. “Your father served me well for many years, Draco.” To hear himself addressed so familiarly sends a shudder through him, rooted in both revulsion and a strange ecstasy. “I have no doubt you will prove as loyal.” The creature presents him with a chalice, silver with writhing snakes along its exterior. “The fruits of your first act in my service,” the creature says. “Your curse was sure and effective, and the world is troubled with one fewer Mudblood.” A scaly, skeletal hand waves over the chalice, and the creature murmurs low words Malfoy can’t catch in a strange, hissing language he can’t identify. The liquid in the cup begins to glow, and the creature’s eyes fix on his. “Now drink.”

Without hesitation, Malfoy brings the cup to his lips and does so, the warm, coppery taste of blood washing over his tongue, thick against his teeth. He tips the chalice back and swallows greedily, feeling the power of the spell spread through his body, a tingling in this stomach, in his veins, in his head. He extends his left arm without being prompted, and the creature presses a sharp, icy finger against his skin. Malfoy screams as the burn begins, and he looks down to see the Mark rising out of his flesh. Blood oozes down his wrist, almost black in the torchlight, and he can hear the creature laughing as his vision dims....

...He dreams of a tall, elegant man who resembles an older version of himself, blond-haired and gray-eyed and sharp-featured, wearing hauteur like a cloak. Malfoy looks up at him and knows what awe is, and pride, and destiny. The man waves a hand, and it’s an economical gesture, the mark of a man who knows his very presence is impressive enough without unnecessary flourishes. His eyes are hard as he glances around the room, then turns to Malfoy, who is seated before him. “Someday,” the man says, “all this will be yours, Draco.”

Malfoy looks up at him and knows his eyes are wide. There is a catch in his throat, and he can almost feel the weight of the book-lined walls pressing in upon him. “Yes, Father,” he says, and yes, this man is his father, who deserves his awe and his respect and the love akin to worship that burns inside him.

“Bear in mind, though,” his father continues, “that I mean not only this home and its treasures, but the entire Malfoy legacy and all that entails.” The firelight flickers in his eyes, twin flames and a ring of smoke. “I expect that when the time comes, you will make the right choices, Draco.”

The pride threatens to burst out of his chest. “Of course, Father,” he says.

His father’s voice lowers. “Now that the Dark Lord has returned, we all will be called upon to show where our loyalties lie. You are very nearly at an age when you must make your own decisions regarding your future and with whom you will align yourself.”

Malfoy’s voice is earnest. “You know I strive to follow you in all things, Father.”

His father’s hand on his head is like a benediction. “You are an intelligent boy, Draco.” His father’s gaze meets his, and Malfoy almost can’t breathe. “Just as I always seek to protect you, so must you seek to protect all the Malfoy family stands for.”

“Always, Father,” he swears. “I would do anything.”

His father smiles, and there is darkness....

...He is in the same room, but alone, the only movement the writhing of the flames in the fireplace. He stares into them, not feeling any warmth, any comfort, only the insistent knowledge that something is coming, something big, something catastrophic. His palm flattens against the book laid open on the table before him, and the aged parchment crackles under the press of his fingers. He’s surrounded by books and manuscripts and letters and maps, some so fragile he fears to touch them, so archaic he cannot read the incantations, so ancient the listed potion ingredients are extinct. “There must be something here,” he thinks, not quite understanding. “There must be something useful in here.”

Somehow the knowledge—the conviction—is there in his mind that his time is short. His avenue of communication has been shut off. He fears he is no longer trusted by those whose trust he needs. By any of those whose trust he needs. More than just his fate lies in the balance. When the confrontation comes—and he knows it’s soon—he will emerge either a hero or a traitor. But to whom?

He looks down, but his gaze is unfocused, the words of the text blurring before his eyes as his mind spins with thoughts of pain and resentment and regret, of messages that don’t come, of kisses and Kisses…and which of the two he is likely to receive.

He knows somehow that the doorknob will not turn for him, that there is nowhere to go, no one he can turn to. There are threats outside of this room, both inside and outside of the Manor. He’s not sure which are greater.

Potter will come, he thinks. Sooner or later, Potter will come for him, and that will be the end. His hand curls into a fist, and it is only through conscious will that he relaxes, spreading his fingers across the pages of the rotting old book. He has to be prepared, he thinks. He has to be armed.

He forces himself to focus on the book, and when he sees the words half-concealed by his fingers, his gaze sharpens:

The Curse of the Occluded Heart.

His eyebrows draw together as he begins to read....

...The dreams dissolve into images that flash into his mind, one after another....

...A memorial ceremony in the rain with no body....

...A long, elegant neck hugged by a noose, blond hair falling in waves...

...The terror-bright eyes of a woman who cowers before the point of his wand as he feels the power surge inside of him: Avada Kedavra...

...The crackle of burning parchment, the corners turning to ash as waves of heat and ancient magic wash over him...

...Smoke, and sunset, and a dozen Aurors on the front lawn, but he is ready for them, he is ready, he is ready, and he draws his wand, the curse rolling off his tongue, and there is a gasp and a shout and pain and nothing....

When he opens his eyes, his pillow is damp, and he doesn’t understand why.