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The Dust of Water	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 20632 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

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Chapter Ten—Skin
            Harry took another gulp of scalding hot tea. He and Ron and Hermione had been sitting around their dining room table for long enough that Harry had already used a charm on his cup. And Hermione’s stare was wearing more and more in the direction of “baffled and not liking it.”
            Ron was staring at his hands, sneaking glances at Harry only now and then.
            Harry gave up and leaned in. “I don’t know how else to ask this,” he said. “Something must have happened to me in the month right after the war, because now I’ve heard from people that that’s when I began to act different. What do you remember?”
            Hermione turned to Ron. Her hand reached out, and he took it, turning it gently over in his. Harry watched with an envy that hurt almost as much as the lack of memories. It seemed he might have had that with Rob, if not Ginny.
            And he’d spilled that love on the ground and wasted it.
            “I don’t know what else to tell you about that month after the war that we haven’t told you,” said Hermione, and turned to face him. “I mean, you’ve seen the Pensieve memories of our celebrations and the speech you made the day after the Battle of Hogwarts and the way you sealed Dumbledore’s tomb to put the Elder Wand back in. There were days when you mostly stayed in the Burrow, but I doubt that’s what you mean.”
            Harry sighed and closed his eyes. He wondered how much he could explain to his friends when he didn’t understand it himself, and then decided that he would have to go further than he had. “What I mean is—is that I started becoming an insensitive prick not that long after the war, apparently. I need to figure out what might have caused it. Did someone curse me? Did someone attack me and turn me bitter?”
            “I can’t remember anything like that. I don’t even remember you being insensitive.” Hermione finally turned to Ron with an air that looked like someone trying to put him out of his misery. “Can you, Ron?”
            “No.” Ron lifted his head, and Harry jumped at the look of devastation on his face.
            “Losing you from being part of the family is like you losing your memories all over again,” Ron whispered.
            Harry felt as though someone had slapped him across the face, and since he didn’t think that was really reasonable, he got angry. “You haven’t lost me from the family,” he said, and his voice was a little shrill. “What are you talking about? You still have me. I still think of you and your family as mine.”
            “But you won’t marry Ginny.” Ron shook his head. “And I’ve been looking forward to that for years.”
            Harry rubbed his scar. A headache was forming behind it. The only good thing about the ten years that had passed since the war, he thought, was that no one automatically asked about Voldemort anymore when he rubbed the damn thing.
            “Let’s try this again,” he said. “Why do you think that not being Ginny’s husband is going to keep me from being your friend?”
            Ron gave him a haunted look. “It’s not that. It’s just that you were looking forward to it, and it would have made Ginny happy, and it would have made all of us happy. And for months you’ve been telling us about how you were going to propose. You showed us the ring, mate.” He was no longer holding Hermione’s hand. “It’s like you came back from the dead a whole different person.”
            “That’s what I did do,” Harry said, a beat before Hermione would probably have said the same thing. He saw her closing her mouth of the corner of his eye, and gave her a grateful smile for letting him handle this on his own, before he turned back to Ron. “I don’t remember being about to propose to Ginny. Tell me about the month after the war.”
            “I think we did,” said Hermione. “At least in as much detail as I can recall it now.” She shook her head. “Would you like to see some memories of the funerals and the days at the Burrow?”
            “Yes,” said Harry at once.
            Hermione nodded and reached for the Pensieve that she had taken to carrying around with her lately. She’d probably borrowed it from St. Mungo’s for the sake of working with him, Harry thought.
            He looked at Ron, and Ron frowned at him. “How can someone who was that much in love with Ginny possibly be dead?” he mouthed.
            Harry looked away. He didn’t know, but he thought Ron ought to be closer to accepting it by now than it seemed he was.
            He looked at Hermione and the way she bent over the Pensieve instead. Memory after memory flicked out of her temple and onto her wand, but some of them took a while. Harry supposed that was the case with older memories.
            He honestly couldn’t remember, though. That was the hard thing.
            Hermione finally nodded and sat back. “There. Done.” The Pensieve was full and shimmering, and Harry dragged it towards him and plunged his head beneath it without even waiting to hear if they were going to accompany him. By this time, his consuming need to know had started to itch beneath his skin.
            He found himself, alone, in a room so dim that he didn’t recognize it for long moments. Then he did. It was the drawing room at the Burrow, and a younger self—one who looked the way Harry felt he should look, not as tall or broad—sat by the fire with his legs folded and his arms looped around them, staring at the flames.
            As he watched, Hermione came down the stairs and into the room, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Young Harry didn’t turn around. Harry watched the whole thing with a sense of unreality.
            He had assumed memories like this would connect him more with himself, would make him feel as if he was remembering something he had only temporarily forgotten. But instead, it was as if he was on the outside more than ever.
            Maybe that’s just because it’s Hermione’s memory, Harry thought hopefully, and continued to watch.
            “Couldn’t sleep?” Hermione asked softly as she sat down beside Harry.
            Harry turned to her and nodded. “I think my best sleep was the day of the Battle, actually,” he said. “Right after I killed Voldemort.”
            See? He’s you. He’s the one who remembers going to sleep and waking up.
            But it didn’t make Harry feel much better. He listened, instead, to Hermione swish her hair from side to side, and murmur, “I think there are Mind-Healers who would be glad to talk to you, if you want. So that you can sleep better.”
            “They’d be glad to talk to me so they could run off and report all the rumors and gossip as truth,” said Young Harry. He paused a moment, sighed, and then said, “All right, maybe not all of them. But none of them could help me make the decisions I need to make, anyway.”
            Harry leaned forwards intently. This sounded promising.
            “What do you mean?” Hermione had to smother a yawn. “Are you talking about those speeches the Ministry wanted you to make? You don’t have to do those if you don’t want to, you know. Talk about people trying to exploit you!”
            Young Harry smiled, but there were already shadows far in the back of his eyes, shadows that Harry didn’t think would be there if something important hadn’t happened. He stifled the urge to kick Hermione. What had already happened? What did she not think was that grand or worth noticing that had, in fact, altered everything for Young Harry?
            But maybe Young Harry was about to tell her, because he hesitated and then said, “I thought I could rest, after Voldemort was gone. I can’t, though, you know? The world’s always going to need heroes. And there are so many people looking up to me.” He took a huffing breath. “I don’t want to disappoint them.”
            “You could never disappoint anyone just by being yourself, Harry.” Hermione reached out and patted his arm.
            “You think so? Really?”
            Shit. How can it be there so soon after the Battle of Hogwarts? Harry studied the way Young Harry leaned forwards and spoke, and wondered how Hermione could miss it. On the other hand, he only knew how significant it was because he was on the outside looking in and had some idea.
            He couldn’t blame Hermione for the way she smiled comfortably and shook her head. “No. All your real friends will always love you for what you are.”
            Young Harry slumped back again and said, “Oh.”
            Hermione missed the dull tones in that “Oh.” She nodded and stood up. “Yes, I mean it. Now go to bed, Harry. Lying in bed has to be healthier for your back than crouching in front of the fire like that, even if you don’t immediately go to sleep.”
            “In a little while, Hermione.”
            Visibly, Hermione restrained herself from saying something. She nodded again and went upstairs. The memory drew in around the huddled figure, and moved on to the next one.
            Harry saw himself standing in front of a hastily-built podium—he could still see the gleam of metal where it had been Transfigured from something else—and two coffins. There was a huge crowd spread out before him, and although Hermione was standing beside him and smiling, Harry felt his stomach twist.
            He didn’t need Young Harry to tell him that most of the people had come to see Harry Potter, not to see these people be buried.
            Young Harry cleared his throat and launched himself straight into it. “I didn’t know either Remus Lupin or Nymphadora Tonks nearly as well as I would have liked. But I know she hated the name Nymphadora.” There was a faint ripple of laughter from the audience. “So I’m going to call her Tonks when I talk about her, if that’s all right.”
            Is this the way I would have done it? Is it honest or is it just pandering to them? I can’t tell.
            Harry had to close his eyes as the speech went on. Young Harry talked about Remus being a professor and Tonks being an Auror, and how he hoped their son would grow up all right, and how Tonks had loved Remus despite him being a werewolf. And the grief was there as if it had never gone, never been buried, just building up in Harry like a raincloud building up from the addition of smaller clouds.
            It never did get dealt with. Not by you. You’ve just been concentrating too much on getting your memories back to have felt it.
            Now, he shivered under the avalanche of it, and his mind was so filled with memories that he was missing the one playing out in front of him. Remus encouraging him to use his Patronus blended with Tonks turning her nose into a pig’s snout to make Ginny laugh. And Ginny laughing was part of his memories of sixth year and the way she had looked when he broke up with her a few days ago, and all were part of the huge clot of unhappiness rising in his throat.
            What kind of mess did I make of my life?
            The speech finally ended, and Harry opened his eyes to find they had already segued into another memory. Hermione, Ron, and Harry were sitting outside the Burrow under a sunset that seemed bigger than a lot of others Harry remembered.
            And who knows how much I don’t remember?
            Ron had just finished telling a joke, and both Young Harry and Hermione were laughing at it. Harry moved a little to the side so he could see them. Young Harry stopped laughing first, and the shadows were already back in his eyes as he stared off to the side.
            “Do you think it’s possible for people to be born evil?” he asked suddenly.
            Harry blinked and came to attention, while Hermione turned around and looked at Young Harry in concern. Maybe this is it.
            “Is this about Voldemort?” Hermione’s voice was gentle. “Because I think it’s regrettable you had to kill him, but I also think you were doing what needed to be done. I told you that, Harry.”
            Young Harry shoved back from the little table they sat at and stood up to pace. His hair was even more ruffled than usual. Maybe he’d been playing Quidditch right before this, Harry thought.
            “Dumbledore told me that about Voldemort,” Young Harry muttered. “Or at least he implied it. That some people are just born evil, and there’s nothing you can do about it. But I wondered—if he was born evil, and part of his soul lived in my soul for seventeen years, what would happen if he influenced me? What if part of me was born evil?”
            Ron said loudly, “No way, mate.” Young Harry turned towards him, and Ron went on, with his eyes blazing so much that Harry’s heart ached. Ron had been a loyal friend, again, and there were so many things Harry couldn’t remember about that that he wanted to scream.
            I might never stop screaming if I do. Harry forced himself away from his thoughts and to attend to what Ron was saying.
            “You had the power and the love to sacrifice yourself to end Voldemort’s reign of terror.” Ron bulled straight ahead as Young Harry’s mouth opened, and Harry wondered if this was an argument they’d had before. “I know it didn’t take, but you didn’t know you would survive walking into the forest, did you? Could Voldemort ever have sacrificed himself like that?”
            Young Harry hesitated. “No,” he said finally.
            Ron nodded and reached out to punch Young Harry in the shoulder. “So. I think you should stop worrying about silly questions like if you’re evil. You aren’t. The way you’ve flung yourself into helping people since the war shows that. You’re never going to sit back and say that the world owes you a living for defeating Voldemort, are you?”
            Young Harry closed his eyes. A look of profound pain and tiredness passed over his face.
            And it stunned Harry like someone reaching into his chest and grasping his heart would.
            Because that was the way he had looked, in the mirror this morning. As if he would like to just go to sleep and never wake up.
            Young Harry sat down at the table again. Hermione nodded. “Ron’s right, Harry. You’ve been working yourself to the bone. Testifying at those trials and speaking at those funerals.”
            Young Harry opened his eyes. They were—strange. Not glazed any more, not tired. Harry thought he looked as if he’d rededicated himself to some secret goal in his mind while they were speaking. “I wanted to do that. I would give anything to have them back alive again, though.”
            “Of course no one doubts that, Harry,” Hermione said, and smiled comfortably at him.
*
            “Did you find what you needed?”
            Harry turned around slowly. Malfoy stood behind him, his face neutral as he regarded Harry. Harry had come home from Ron and Hermione’s house hours ago, and he felt more tired than he had when he’d gone over there.
            “No.” Harry shook his head and flopped back in the chair. After that scene of Young Harry asking questions about whether someone could be born evil, the memories had flowed seamlessly from one to the other, but none of them had told him anything else, including anything else important. In every one of them, Young Harry was already carrying a burden, and he would ask cryptic questions, but nothing that unlocked the mystery.
            “I think your potion is the best chance I have,” he told Malfoy, his own voice dull. “Ron and Hermione can show me what they saw and heard from the outside, and I thought that would be enough, because I’d see something and use it like a clue when they didn’t even realize it was a clue. But I don’t know what that person was thinking or feeling. That person isn’t me.”
            Malfoy gave him a single look so intense Harry thought he had gone away inside his head and was thinking his way through the potion or something. Then he nodded.
            “It’s best you realize that,” he said. “The potion isn’t a fix. It can show you private memories. But even that won’t bring back the dead or turn you into the man you were.”
            Harry nodded and closed his eyes. They were burning. “I know that. But to atone and apologize, I have to know who I should apologize to.”
            Malfoy moved softly across the carpet, but Harry heard him anyway. He opened his eyes and they looked at each other in silence. Then Malfoy held out what looked like a knife, although one so slim and sharp it was hard for Harry to see the edge.
            “I need the skin for the potion,” Malfoy said. “And then I think it’s best if you come with me. I have something to show you.”
            “Something important? I really feel like I should just go to bed, Malfoy.”
            “Something important,” Malfoy confirmed.
            Harry sighed, then extended his arm. Malfoy flicked the knife down and then up, so fast that the pain didn’t follow it for almost a full minute. Then Malfoy reached out and healed the wound with a simple spell. He had watched Harry and not the knife the whole time.
            Harry mustered a smile. “I thought you said this potion wasn’t brewed all that often, but you took the skin like you’re used to doing it.”
            “When you see what I have to show you,” Malfoy said, “you’ll understand why.” He took a step back and held out his hand.
            Harry thought he was gesturing, and looked around, but didn’t see anything in the room Malfoy could point to. Then he realized it was there to help him up, and turned back. But the hand had retreated to Malfoy’s side, and his face had closed.
            “Sorry,” Harry mumbled, and climbed to his feet. Malfoy only nodded and turned to pace out of the room in front of him.
            Harry followed him, thinking, Well, I should get some practice in saying that word anyway.
            He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had missed a chance that might never come again, but, honestly. That seemed to be the story of his life since the war.
*
starr: Thank you!
moon: Thank you! At the moment, even if I tried to tell you the answer, it wouldn’t make sense without added context, anyway.
SP777: Draco is being cautious about what he trusts Harry with, because while this one seems more honest than the one he dealt with, it’s also possible that this one might, say, decide to report Draco to the Ministry for activities he would have concealed before.
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The Dust of Water