Chapter 3: Amnesia Amongst Company

~*~

Yesterday was the first day of the rest of your life, and you messed it up again - Patrick Murray

~*~

Barely fifteen minutes later, the group was making its way back along the road Harry, Draco and Hermione had travelled earlier. Despite their best efforts, the former two had been unable to deter their friends from accompanying them home. From what they were made to understand, it was a rare occasion when any evening out ended with a parting at the restaurant. It had become a custom to return to one of their flats for drinks and further socializing, and Harry and Draco had the undesirable roles of hosts for the night.

The city looked quite different by night. During the day it was bathed in a cold sunshine, that illuminated the dust rising from the roads and lit the streets with a yellowy glare. At night, though, the only lights were harsh neon, and the brilliance of the streetlamps and their artificial glow. There were lots of people around, many drunk, some stoned, and a few both, and Harry counted twelve bars and nightclubs on the way back to their flat.

He and Draco had been careful to keep up pretences as they had walked back home with the others. As soon as they had left the restaurant, Ron and Lavender and Hermione and Sean had promptly begun holding hands, and even Ginny and Seamus were getting on better. So as not to arouse suspicion, Harry resumed his hold around Draco's waist, and walked closely next to him all the way home. For his part Draco was a good actor, and perfected the art of turning his body slightly towards Harry, leaning into his shoulder and giving the impression of a great intimacy between them.

Luckily for them, the distance of their friends prevented any of them noticing the slightly awkward silence between the two, which was more difficult to overcome.

They arrived back at their flat by about eleven 'o' clock. Hermione was giggling at something Sean had said, and the group practically stumbled through the door and into the living room.

"Can I get anyone a drink?" Draco asked, moving into the kitchen where he had noticed a bottle of wine beside the sink earlier.

"Please," Ginny called before slumping on the sofa with Hermione. Harry sat on the other side of her, weary of the night, and hoping the others wouldn't be staying too long.

"Music..." Ron was muttering, looking through the CD rack, "can't do anything without music." His fingers closed around a Turin Brakes album and he shoved it into the player eagerly.

Draco, slipping smoothly into his character of host, returned before long with a bottle of red wine and some glasses which he had found in a cupboard. Setting them on the glass coffee table, he realised that he had nothing to open the wine with.

"Sit down, Draco," Ginny said, motioning for him to take the seat beside Harry. "I'll fetch a corkscrew." Draco sat down, a little reluctantly, and prodded Harry, who was sitting with his eyes closed, awake.

"What?" Harry asked.

"How long is this going to last?" Draco hissed. "I'm not sure how long we can keep fooling them."

"I know," said Harry, "but I'm sure it won't be much longer." Draco sat back, unappeased, whilst Harry saw Ron's keen eyes trained upon them. It was a minute before Ron voiced whatever it was that was on his mind, though.

"Look," he said, with a slightly apologetic tone, "I know you think I love it when you do, but have you guys been fighting? You've seemed really...cold with each other all evening."

Harry's insides were squirming unpleasantly.

"What do you mean?" he asked, feeling Draco shift uncomfortably next to him.

"You've just been distant," Ron said with a troubled expression, "like you do after you've had a row." Harry privately wondered how argumentative a pair they were, if everyone seemed so concerned about the state of their relationship.

"Don't be silly," said Harry at once, "of course we haven't."

"Well has something happened then?" Ron persisted. "Only there is definitely something different about the way you two have been behaving towards each other. I mean usually you'd be all over each other after a night out like this, but you've hardly spoken two words."

"There's nothing wrong," Harry insisted. "Is there Draco?"

"No," Draco replied immediately, "of course not." As if to confirm this, he slung one arm around Harry's neck and rested his head against him. It was a tentative gesture, but one that Harry welcomed, if only for the purpose of assuaging Ron's concerns.

Ron did not look convinced, but turned away after a moment to listen to something Lavender said.

"Are we really that transparent?" Harry asked worriedly.

"Yeah, I'd say so," said Draco.

"What should we do?" replied Harry, looking over to where Hermione and Sean were laughing together, their hands on each other's knees, stolen glances passing between them.

"I'm sure you can think of something," Draco said with a smirk replacing his frown. Harry was taken aback for a moment as he realised what Draco was suggesting. "I don't like this, Potter," Draco said honestly, with an edge of bitterness, "mainly because I don't like you. But I am more than keen to avoid yet further explanations and embarrassment."

Harry sighed. "I don't think Hermione really trusts anybody here," he said, "or she wouldn't be so reluctant about having us tell them who we really are."

"I, for one, am inclined to trust her instincts," Draco said quickly, "especially if it narrows down the chance of Death Eaters finding out about our now-feeble magical ability."

With an unpleasant sense of aversion, and well aware that Ron kept casting him anxious glances, Harry laid one hand hesitantly on Draco's thigh. The blond looked surprised for a fleeting moment, before responding flawlessly by nestling their faces together and running his tongue the length of Harry's jaw.

Draco was a great actor, with the acquired knack of making every action look spontaneous and enjoyable. His hand was tightening around Harry's shoulders, exerting a perfect pressure that made Harry's body respond of its own accord.

Harry became rigid with the sensations bombarding him from all directions. The indescribable, searing feeling of such intimacy was making him feel warm all over, and he was torn in two by conflicting emotions.

His hand was moving of its own volition. It was trailing up Draco's torso, slowly massaging the young man's muscles, and feeling involuntary jolts of pleasure run through him beneath Harry's touch. His tongue was leaving Harry's throat and he was moving his mouth up to meet the Gryffindor's, both of them closing their eyes, enveloping themselves in darkness. There was a moment of sheer, blinding heat as their lips duelled in another torrid kiss that stole the breath from their lungs and all reason from their minds.

As they parted, they looked at each other.

"That might have done the trick," Harry gasped into a whisper. Draco half-smiled, his deep grey eyes soulful and fathomless. There was an explosive shout of laughter from the other end of the room which drew their attention. Seamus was pouring himself a third glass of wine and telling jokes to Lavender, Sean and Hermione ,who were all seated around him, listening intently.

"And then," he was saying, his words punctuated by laughter, "he goes, "it was like that when I found it!"" They exploded into bouts of furious giggles again, pink-cheeked with telltale glints in their eyes. Ginny and Ron were talking quietly in a corner, and Harry could guess the subject of their discourse by the dark looks Ron was throwing Seamus over Ginny's green silk shoulder. After a moment or two she moved into the kitchen, and Ron came to sit with Harry and Draco.

"Is she ok?" Harry asked, looking worriedly at Ginny's small frame leaning heavily against the kitchen counter. He had been pleasantly surprised to see the change in Ginny. The bright-eyed beauty of youth had changed into a defining elegance that gave her face a distinct loveliness, despite her stubborn freckles and flaming red hair.

"I think so," Ron said unconvincingly. "She's just a bit sensitive on the subject of Seamus. He's been blowing hot and cold all night, and she can't understand what it is he wants from her."

"I thought they'd broken up?" Harry said tentatively. Ron gave him an odd look that set immediate alarm bells ringing in Harry's ears.

"They have," he affirmed lightly, "but you know, with everything that happened two weeks ago, it's complicated." Harry hadn't a clue what Ron was going on about, and didn't want to display his ignorance.

"She'll be ok," he said, in a brave attempt at changing the subject to something less dangerous.

"I know," Ron said, looking away, "it's just, she's my sister, you know? And Seamus is my friend. It's just hard."

*~*~*~*~*~*

Draco had passed the entire evening with people he spent most of his time avoiding. If someone had told him that he would one day be shacked up with Harry Potter and wining and dining with Granger, the Weasleys, Finnigan, Brown and a muggle, he would have had them shipped off to St. Mungo's. As it was, he had had an alarmingly agreeable evening, and a newfound admiration for Hermione was slowly but surely making itself known within his mind.

Draco shuddered, what was coming over him? He couldn't deny that Hermione had changed, though. She had a new confidence, sophistication and poise that came with finding her definition within the world. The muggle wasn't too bad either. Draco still didn't understand the concept of mobile phones, but accepted that they were a widely used, fascinating device. He had spent a good ten minutes at the restaurant exploring the phone's various functions, growing more and more amazed by the lengths muggles had gone to in order to exist without magic.

Harry had been watching him with a slightly amused expression, the teasing reflection from the candle flickering in his jade eyes. They had come to an unspoken agreement to postpone all hostility towards each other until they managed to return to Hogwarts. At the restaurant, united by a common lack of knowledge, they had been stranded together, and Draco had found the experience vaguely exhilarating. Some part of his brain was still refusing to contemplate the matter of their kisses, unwilling to open the floodgates to a torrent of emotions he might be unable to stem. All he knew was that in a world where he had the mentality of a teenager, he was growing up way too fast, and there was nothing to believe in any more.

It hadn't been hard to put his arm around Harry and lick a blazing path along his chin. His skin had tasted slightly salty, and Draco's tongue had flicked over the angles and planes that made up that work of art that was Harry. His adult self was strong and imposing, with an air of great power and a sense of darkness that Draco was invariably drawn to. He had watched Harry interact with his friends, watched him laughing and talking, without he himself being excluded. For the first time in his life, Draco had felt truly accepted, and even loved. Weasley still eyed him circumspectly, but there was no hint of true mistrust in his manner.

Of course, there were still the thousand things he hated about Harry. He hated the way the Gryffindor was simulating possessiveness towards him, hated the way he inadvertently patronized him, how he automatically assumed his role with little difficulty. Draco felt disoriented and unsettled, merely by being in his own future, but if Harry felt either of those things then he hid it very well.

He hated the way Harry was now talking with Weasley, hated him for being in his future, hated him for never leaving him alone. Wherever Draco turned, there was Harry, and even eight years seemed insufficient to sunder them. Now, though, he needed him to get home, and he hated that too.

"I'm going to get a drink," he said rather shortly, and pulled himself from the sofa and from Harry's hands. Stalking towards the kitchen he found Ginny still in there, sipping wine slowly, her blue eyes staring into melancholy space.

"Hi," she said softly.

"Hi," he grunted in return, not feeling particularly talkative now that such a sullen mood had descended. He began opening various cupboards, looking for some suitable source of alcohol, with little luck.

"What are you looking for?" Ginny asked quizzically.

"Something to drink," said Draco, thinking hard. "I...er...can't remember where Pott-Harry put it." He was stammering and he knew it. Damn it, since when was talking so bloody difficult?

Ginny shot him a strange look before kneeling down and pulling a bottle of vodka out of a drawer.

"This do you?" she asked, handing it to him. Draco grabbed it eagerly and unscrewed the cap. Tipping some down his throat and wincing sharply he said,

"Perfect."

Ignoring Ginny, he made his way quietly out into the bedroom and lay on the bed. Further sips of vodka did wonders to numb his confusion and assuage the general panic that seemed to increase with each passing minute he spent here.

The bed was nice and comfortable, and Draco was just drifting off to sleep when he remembered that this was the bed he shared with Harry. He and Harry had had sex - in this bed.

Getting off it as quickly as he could, Draco groaned with the realization and slumped in a chair instead. There were still sporadic shouts of laughter coming from the other room, and Draco could hear somebody turn the music up louder. The song 'Painkiller' drifted through the walls to meet his ears and he rubbed his eyes. All he wanted was a quiet life. Why did Harry always manage to fuck that up so spectacularly for him?

Draco lost count of the minutes that passed while he sat there. He could catch snatches of conversation from the next room, and from what he could glean, his 'friends' were becoming more and more intoxicated as the evening wore on.

He could feel his eyelids growing heavy, it had been one motherfucker of a day. The vodka bottle looked at him kindly, and it didn't register until some minutes later that bottles of spirits didn't have eyes, or the ability to look at him at all.

Draco smiled to himself, not really knowing quite why. All he knew was that the chair was comfortable, the room was dark, he was contentedly drunk and sleep was creeping over him like a warm tide.

Dawn couldn't have been too far off when Harry stumbled into the room and towards Draco. Poking him awake he said,

"Ginny, Sean and Hermione are staying the night."

"Good-oh," Draco replied, yawning sleepily. "Why are you telling me exactly?"

"Well," Harry didn't look sure, "it's your house too," he finished lamely.

"Thanks Potter," Draco said, "just what I wanted to be woken up for."

"You can't sleep there anyway," Harry said. "You'll have terrible backache in the morning. Look, you take the bed, I'll sleep..." He looked at a loss, and Draco was momentarily conciliated.

"No, you take it," he said. "I'll sleep on the sofa in the next room." He went to get up and found himself swaying more than usual. It must have been the alcohol, which also would seem to have prompted him to give up the bed in favour of Potter. Harry caught him as he looked as though he were about to fall and held his arm.

"You ok?" he asked worriedly. Draco shrugged him off, embarrassed.

"Fine," he said grumpily, and Harry nodded. He turned back to his bed and pulled his shirt off in one fluid motion. Something in Draco's mind told him that he should really leave now but he stood, transfixed. The muscles of Harry's back rippled enticingly, in a way that made Draco want to touch them more than anything else in the world. The vodka dulling his senses was unable to shut out an overwhelming attraction to the only slightly blurry figure slowly undressing in front of him.

"Draco?" Harry had turned round and was looking at him curiously. "Are you going to watch me strip?" Draco was tempted to say yes, spank Harry silly and tell him to get on with it, but some rational part of his mind stopped him.

"You're ok, Potter, I'm not playing voyeur tonight," he said, and stumbled inelegantly from the room.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The sofa next door turned out to be remarkably comfortable. Draco found a sable fur throw behind it and tossed it over himself for warmth. Pulling off his black top, he went to sleep there, still half-clothed and perfectly irritable.

His dreams were strange. Twisted fragments of some long harboured memories writhed in front of his eyes and he felt his body flinching in reluctance to admit them. It was like reliving parts of his memories over and over again, memories that Draco had no recollection of, memories that his future self had, but he didn't.

He was younger now, quite possibly in his seventh year at Hogwarts, and he was standing beneath the stands on the Quidditch pitch, watching absent-mindedly as Hufflepuff played Ravenclaw in the penultimate game of the year.

Some part of him wondered vaguely why he wasn't sitting with the rest of the Slytherins, when that question was answered for him in the form of someone breathing down the back of his neck. Draco's eyes closed in a moment of bliss and his skin prickled with the glorious sensation. He made to turn around but there were a pair of strong arms holding him in place, inhibiting any movement, and the hard lines of a boy's body pressed against his back.

"No. Don't turn around," it was Harry's voice, spoken softly into his ear. Draco quickly glanced around to make sure that none of the five-hundred or so spectators could see them from their vantage points. They were quite safe.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because I need to talk to you," said Harry, "and I can't do that if you're facing me." Draco narrowed his eyes questioningly.

"You're not making sense, Potter," he said, "but then, I wouldn't expect anything less."

"If you face me I'll be compelled to kiss you and then we'll never get anything done," Harry said honestly, and Draco felt his face heat up.

"What did you want to talk about?"A slight quiver tinted his voice.

"This morning,"

Draco felt his heart sink. "I thought we'd sorted all this out," he said.

"No," Harry's voice was bitter, "you spoke and expected me to listen. Now it's my turn."

"Speak then," Draco said at once.

"You told me this morning that after Hogwarts things will never be the same again," came Harry's voice. "You told me that you were leaving the country, and you didn't even give me a word of explanation."

"What do you want from me?" he asked. "That is what I plan to do with my life, you have no place in it." The arms around him slackened slightly, but Draco found himself leaning into Harry's embrace instinctively. He could feel every hard etch of his body. He knew each hollow so well. Had kissed every inch.

"I don't want to take over your life," Harry said. "I have never asked you for anything like that."

"I don't want to hurt you," Draco heard himself say, "but I am resolute."

"And so you should be," Harry said, "but I know that deep in your soul, you do not want to never see me again."

"Of course I don't," Draco replied. "I'm just saying that after Hogwarts there will be a few years when I'll be travelling the world alone, and you'll be here, studying to be an Auror. Our lives are going in different directions, Potter, for a few years at least."

"And when you return?" Harry asked. "When I'm finished training?"

"Then circumstances will dictate," Draco replied firmly. "I don't know what will happen, whether I'll return and you'll be happily married, or whether I'll return and you'll be dead. Necrophilia never was my thing."

He felt Harry smile.

"If circumstances are favourable," he said, "will you still want me in the future?"

"I don't ever want to lose you completely," Draco said, an edge to his voice. "My leaving the country for a while won't ensure that. In a few years, we might be able to pick up where we left off."
"Do you want that?" Harry asked. "Do you want me?"

"Yes," Draco breathed, even though it cost him a great deal.

"I can't do that, Malfoy," Harry replied, and Draco stiffened automatically. "I can't sit around for five years and wait for you on the off-chance that you'll want to continue this." Draco was silent, his breath snatched. Harry tightened his hold around him again. "Which is why this will end when our time at Hogwarts does."

"You don't mean that," Draco said.

"Actually, I do," and Harry's voice sounded like it was about to shatter. "We'll come out of the next few years as different people, we don't have a hope of..." he trailed off. The fears he professed were the same as the ones nudging through to Draco's mind.

"You're right," he said heavily. "You're always right."

"Which is why this must be the last time," Harry said bitterly, and Draco turned suddenly to face him. Those emerald eyes had seen too much, were shadowed with pain and grief, but Draco held their steady gaze and ran his hands up Harry's muscled arms.

"The last time," he repeated and then thrust his mouth against Harry's with enough force to knock them both backwards and into the wooden panel of the supports that held up the stands. Their tongues battled furiously, and their kiss became a sequence of tasting, biting and coaxing to draw an intense pleasure that drowned out everything else.

Somewhere up above, there was an almighty cheer as the Ravenclaw seeker caught the snitch. The two seekers on the ground bit their way again into each other's mouths, and brought the past six months to a triumphant close.

The scene faded, and dissolved into a swirling mass of grey that stretched before Draco into every corner of space and time. New recollections were coming to him, so splintered and broken so that it was like listening to someone speak with a terrible stutter.

The air was hot and muggy. It hung about him like some palpable force, weighing down the breeze and fogging Draco's mind with its sultriness. There were dark clouds scudding above him, heralding an almighty downpour. Rain was pattering softly on the broad leaves of the exotic plants that were surrounding him. He was in some kind of jungle or forest, where birds chattered ceaselessly and the heady scents of flowers made his mind swim.

This was a paradise he had no memory of, but a strange stream of knowledge was steadily permeating Draco's slumbering mind. He suddenly knew the creatures he could hear. There were indris, their plaintive notes tumbling eerily, and haunting the hills with echoes of their song. There were coua-birds, chorusing their ringing cries, and the gentle, plucked music of the vahina, the instruments of the villagers below.

Draco was in Madagascar.

Some part of him knew this, just as some part of him remembered this journey, but for now he was content just to watch, and to follow the steps he had once taken. The villagers were holding famadihana, and dancing with the bones of their dead, an archaic practice that was still held only in the more remote, secluded parts of the country.

He was being led somewhere, by a short, squat native guide who turned back to smile toothlessly at Draco as they walked. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, the back of his neck sunburnt and raw, but Draco was blissfully happy. They were climbing steep rocks, the cooling rain splattering over his face. He tilted his chin towards the heavens and opened his mouth; big, fat droplets of water fell upon him and he tasted them as though they were the elixir of life itself.

The guide was motioning excitedly to a cave in the mountainside, and saying something in a tongue Draco's future self understood.

"Marina ve?" Draco was asking. Is it true? Here was what he had spent so long searching for. He could scarcely believe it.

The guide would continue no further, and was pestering Draco to do similar. Draco felt himself shake his head, and the guide sighed,

"Tena sahy ianao," he said. You are brave. The Malagasy was a beautiful language, that sounded like the speech of children, their voices lightened by laughter. The man looked frightened, and Draco felt himself hand over some coins before continuing alone. His guide scurried down the mountain to be with his family in the village, where the ombiasy, the medicine man, was handing out amulets shaped like zebus and coua-birds.

Draco made for that cave, which was as vast as a palace, dark shadows yawning within, creating a place of fear and legend. The villagers didn't come here. No-one did. The tales of it stalked through their dreams and nightmares, and the horror of it was so wrapped up in myth that it was impossible to distinguish the truth.

Draco walked on without fear.

When he had climbed to the mouth of the cave, he peered cautiously inside, his wand held rigid in his hand. He had prepared for this, had spent hours researching and hours training, just in case the worst should happen.

Inside the mountain, a huge, hulking shape opened one yellowy eye and regarded Draco with haughty disdain. It was a dragon. The largest he had ever seen, and most terrifying. Its head was crowned with a set of blood red, spiky scales that gave it a most regal air, and continued all the way along its slender neck. Its wings were folded at its side, leathery and skeletal, with thin, parchment-coloured webs of skin stretching over them. Its mouth opened slightly, revealing row upon row of jagged teeth that looked capable of tearing Draco apart where he stood.

He froze. Awed.

He had never seen one this big or this magnificent, and had been forced to travel to Madagascar just to get a glimpse of one. This was one of the rarest dragons in the world, and legend told of there only being three of them left. They were native to this part of the country, and nocturnal, as a rule, which was why Draco had been able to take advantage of the beast's sleepiness. He stood silently, just watching, whilst his heart pounded with the thrill of seeing something he had so longed for.

The villagers called it the 'Black Terror' and they refused to come anywhere near this cave for fear of the monster that dwelled within. They hadn't seen it in its true glory, even when it wheeled through the skies on a moonlit night, they were too afraid to look. They hid themselves and prayed for the morning to come, whenever they heard its distinctive call. The indris in the baobab trees would immediately silence, as this lord of the skies grazed the heavens and swept from its cave down to the world below.

And now it was suffering Draco's presence. And suddenly Draco wanted to be anywhere else so badly that he turned around and walked away, the dragon watching him, one lazy eye opened.

*~*~*~*~*~*

In the next room, Harry was having similar flashbacks to a life he couldn't recall living. His own dreams were equally as fragmented and broken as Draco's own, with nothing making any sense and with no impression of continuity in them at all. A scene arose in his mind, and began to unfold itself.

He was no more than nineteen, he couldn't be. A sick wave of fear was steadily washing over him, its icy fingers clawing into every part of his body, making his hands tremble and cold beads of perspiration seep over his brow.

He was taking unsteady steps along a darkened corridor, knowing what he was looking for, knowing that certain death lay behind one of these many doors. The corridor was magnificent in its opulence, with a crimson carpet trimmed with gold and with portraits of long-dead witches and wizards watching him with their ghostly eyes.

Harry wanted something, someone to help him. The rest of the Order were outside, battling the impenetrable wards that shrouded the manor from the outside world, from all but Harry. He had been summoned there, through no trick or artifice of anyone else, he had been summoned by his own sense of guilt and determination. He would go and fulfil the prophecy, either killing Voldemort where he stood or becoming his latest victim.

It was a stupid thing to do, really. Voldemort would kill him and the rest of the world would be open to his domination, with his very last threat wiped out in a flash of green. The manor had been surprisingly easy to gain entry into, when one considered the number of charms and enchantments that protected it from the rest of the Order. They had realised what Harry had gone to do and they had come to stop him. But only Harry had been able to get in.

Voldemort knew exactly what Harry intended to do, and Voldemort exulted in that knowledge.

Chanting. Harry's ears pricked up as the distinct sounds of chanting reached them, coming from one of the doors to his right. He clutched the sword of Gryffindor more tightly in his hand as he kicked open the first door. It swung wide to reveal and ancient, dusty room that hadn't been used in years.

Harry moved on. Kicking open the next door he felt all strength trickle from him as that same blast of cold fear swamped his body.

Voldemort wasn't there, but Harry was face to face with forty of his Death Eaters. Somehow, ironically, the injustice of this struck Harry harder than anything else. Voldemort didn't even deem him worthy to be killed by his own hand, he was defying the prophecy and disputing Harry's magical skill. Harry felt rather affronted by that.

"Mr. Potter," A sneering Death Eater grinned at him from behind his white mask. The voice was so familiar and yet elusively so, and a torrent of nostalgia was stirred in Harry's breast.

Oh God. This was Lucius Malfoy. Draco's father.

"I have come to parley with Voldemort," Harry said, in the strongest voice he could muster, "not his minion." The Death Eaters fanned out behind Lucius, wands raised, killing curses poised on their lips.

"He has business to attend to," Lucius said. "He asks if I, personally, would complete his task for him."

"You?"

"Me," Lucius fixed him with a strange look. "He is busy with the recruitment of new Death Eaters, and is confident that one of his newest finds will be very disappointed to hear if you injure his father."

Father?

"Voldemort has Draco," Harry said with a strange rasp to his voice.

"Draco has renounced the light and will soon be returning to us," Lucius said with an insane smile, "and he will take his place beside me."

"Liar!" Harry screamed suddenly. "So you think that I won't duel with you for fear of hurting Draco?" Lucius did not respond, but his twisted smile remained immovable on his face. "Draco wants you dead!" Harry yelled. "He'll fucking thank me!" With those words he shot the killing curse at Lucius, who ducked just in time, and threw one of the lesser Death Eaters in front of him to catch the brunt of it.

"The Dark Lord will have you, Potter," Lucius said as the man he had used as a shield slumped to a lifeless heap on the floor, "and I shall be the one to deliver you to him. First, I must teach you a lesson, though." He pointed his wand straight at Harry's chest, and Harry was too slow to dodge.

"Crucio!" The pain erupted through his body like the stabbing of a thousand white hot knives. His nerves exploded with the agonising sensation of being riven with needles and blistered over and over again.

His last thoughts were of Draco, and how he would never let Lucius get him.

Before the world faded to black.

The fuzzy greyness of his mind returned, and the same slivers of memory were swimming before his eyes. It wasn't long before another one opened itself to him.

And Harry woke up. Panting hard, and completely disoriented, he tried to come to terms with where he was and why. It wasn't until a few minutes later that he remembered his bizarre dreams and the vividness of them. To his undying shame and horror he had a raging hard-on, and, muttering to himself, retreated blearily into the bathroom to deal with it in privacy.

The colour of the sky outside convinced him that it couldn't be much later than six am, and the flashing clock on the bedside confirmed that. Harry knew he wouldn't get any more sleep that night, and, sighing, sprawled himself across the bed, on returning from the bathroom.

His mind was turning over the various scenes and images that had been revealed to it during sleep. They were images of his life, he was sure, of the life that he had yet to live, and something about their tantalising fleetingness made Harry hungry for more knowledge.

He wanted to know how he had come to be in that mansion, being tortured by Lucius Malfoy whilst the rest of the Order tried to save him. It was probably the 'hero' complex Draco was so fond of referring to, and Harry had probably done it in an act of self-sacrifice to save his friends.

It couldn't have worked, though, considering he was still alive. Someone must have saved him, he doubted he could have escaped from so many Death Eaters on his own.

And the scene of his meeting with Draco after so many years; what had happened afterwards? How had Hermione known that Draco would be there, when he, Harry, had had no idea?

Wondering distractedly if Draco had experienced similar visions that night, Harry rubbed his eyes, watching the path traced by the light of the muggle cars below across his ceiling. Before more than twenty minutes had passed, Harry was just dozing off again when he heard a muffled thump coming from the next room and a garbled obscenity.

Grinning slightly, Harry moved to investigate. His presumptions had been correct, and Draco had rolled right off the white couch and into a heap on the floor. He was also looking most displeased about it.

"Oh for fuck's sake," he grumbled, as Harry came in, "second bad wake up call of the night." Ignoring him, Harry sat on the couch and pulled Draco back into his seat, throwing the fur rug around them both.

"Get lonely, Potter?" Draco asked nonchalantly, yawning widely.

"Er...no," Harry said. "I wanted to ask if you had any weird dreams last night." Draco's face looked confused for a moment, before he said,

"I think I did, why?"

"Dunno," Harry looked at his hands, "I had them too. I think they were visions of our lives. What did you dream about?" he asked curiously. Draco reddened slightly,

"Our last...meeting," he said, "before Hogwarts ended. It was under the stadium at the Quidditch pitch."
"What happened?" Harry asked, a smile quirking his lips.

"You came up behind me," Draco said, his flush deepening, "and we talked and decided that whatever we were doing would have to end, and then we...er..." He coughed and trailed off but Harry caught the gist of what he was saying. "And I dreamed about when I was studying dragons," he said with a much stronger voice, "I went to Madagascar, and- hey! I can speak Malagasy!" His delight was evident by his voice.

"You can? Cool," Harry said. "I hope I can speak another language. What were the dragons like?"

"Really sleepy," said Draco, trying to remember everything from his dream. "What did you dream about, then?"

Harry shivered slightly, despite the weight of the fur rug. "I was about nineteen or twenty," he said, "and I had gone into this mansion place to fight Voldemort alone." Draco snorted,

"You would," he said.

"But he wasn't there," Harry continued with difficulty. "It was...your father." Draco went slightly rigid beside him.

"My father?" he asked. "Escaped from Azkaban?"

"Apparently so," Harry said.

"What happened next?" Draco asked, as if dreading the answer.

"He told me you had rejoined the Death Eaters," Harry said, "and I called him a liar. He then tortured me with the Cruciatus curse." He chanced a look at Draco's face, and noticed he had gone a little paler. Still, he stared right back at Harry, holding his gaze.

"Oh," was all he said.

"And then it faded," Harry replied.

"I'm sorry," Draco muttered, "that he put you through that."

"It's not your fault," said Harry, and there was a stony silence between them. "Hey," he said, "I also dreamt about our first meeting after five years."

"Oh yeah?" Draco brightened. "What was it like?"

"Just as Hermione said," Harry chuckled, "very lustful. Your first words to me were to ask if I was wearing a girl's scarf."

"Were you?" Draco asked without missing a beat.

"Yes, come to think of it," Harry said, thinking hard. Draco laughed softly, a nice sound, and one Harry had rarely heard from him. He knew every derisive snort and scathing snicker, but this was different, this was pleasant.

"We must be quite a couple," he said.

"Hmm," Harry replied, pensive.

"I wonder if we'll get these every night," Draco mused,

"I hope so," said Harry, "it's fascinating to see what's going to happen to us."

"And supposing we see something we don't want to see?" Draco said delicately. Harry fixed him with a probing look for a moment before sighing again,

"Life isn't perfect," he said, and settled back against the plush comfort of the sofa. Draco stayed where he was for a minute before settling back as well, drawing the fur throw closer around him.

There was an hour or two of peaceful silence wherein Harry dozed quietly, falling in and out of a shallow sleep that seemed beyond him. He woke to find himself enjoying a face-full of someone else's skin. As most of his senses returned he realised he had fallen asleep with his head against Draco's shoulder and his face was now nestled next to the man's collarbones. Harry could smell his skin, and feel the smooth hollows of Draco's shoulders beneath his chin. He could see his Adam's apple bobbing beneath his jaw, and wondered why on earth Draco had allowed this touch. That soon became clear when Draco mumbled something in his sleep and woke himself up.

"What?" he said blurrily.

"Hmm?" Harry asked, ridding himself of sleep.

"Potter," Draco said, in a voice laden with fatigue, "why are you sleeping on me?"

"You're comfortable," Harry said without thinking, wanting to go back to sleep but understanding that it was probably not on the cards right now.

"Uh-huh," he could tell Draco wasn't listening to him.

"What are you two sleeping in here for?" Ginny's voice came from the doorway. Harry and Draco had forgotten that she was staying, and she looked very ruffled, as though she had just woken up.

"Er-" Harry began.

"If I'd known the bed was free, I wouldn't have slept on the floor," she said, looking faintly put out.

"Sorry," Harry said at once.

"Anyone hungry?" Hermione's voice rang from the kitchen area and Harry felt Draco immediately perk up.

"Me!" He called. "What time is it?" he asked Harry.

"'Bout eight thirty," Harry said, uncurling himself reluctantly, standing up and stretching. His muscles rippled appealingly as he moved, laid under acre after acre of soft, tanned skin.

Draco looked pointedly in the other direction.