Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Forget Me Not	By : dark_raven4426 Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 2090 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters, nor do I make any profit from this work.

Chapter List
- 1-Forget Me Not
- 2-Part 2
- 1
- 2
Forget Me Not

Part 2

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re trying to tell me, Miss…?” Draco trailed off, eyes sparkling in question at the two people who had cornered him along Octavian Street during his mad dash back to safety.

“Granger. I’m Hermione Granger and this is my husband, Ron Weasley. We’re friends’ of Harry’s and have been for many years. Oh, Lord, where to start?” The woman huffed, stomping her miniscule foot in what Draco interpreted to be childish frustration. Her frazzled hair sizzled and crackled annoyance behind her in the dull breeze as if it were a living entity by itself.

“Perhaps the beginning. I often find that to be the best,” Draco offered in a low murmur, watching her shrug tiredly, her hysterics obviously over, and thrust her hands into her coat pockets.

“It’s not his fault. I’m sure if he knew he’d be ever so sorry,” she sighed and glared at him through the cloud of mist that wafted from her parted, chapped lips. “It started a couple of years ago, when we left school. No one knows why it happened, just that it did and that there’s nothing we or anyone else can do about it.

“At first it was small things. He’d forget to close the fridge door or put the milk back. We didn’t think much of it at the time, he’d always been forgetful. Then it got worse. He wouldn’t turn up when we arranged to meet him or he’d lose track of which day it was,” she suddenly looked away and Draco could see tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. Devoted husband that he was, the gangly Ginger metaphorically stepped up to the podium.

“We solved those problems fine, bought him a watch with the date, a calendar that he religiously began writing every little thing in, I mean, you could see he was getting scared at this point. We even started keeping a diary for him. Everything was fine for a while.

“Then, a while back, everything went bad. Complete disaster. Short term memory loss the doctors’ called it, we went to the best and all, St Mungo’s psychologists too. No good. We had to take the watch back and the calendar. Everything with a date in his house.”

“But what exactly happened?” The shrug he received in reply infuriated Draco.

“Harry just…forgot.”

“I still don’t understand,” Draco said, slumping back against the brick wall behind him and then wincing as he felt the grime sliding across the back of his shirt.

“Harry’s stuck,” Granger whispered, her voice sounding hoarse, as if she had been silently sobbing while her back was turned. “Every night he goes to sleep and awakens the next morning to the same day.”

Draco jerked his head back, clanking his crown painfully against the solid obstruction behind him. A blurred, vague memory thrashed and sharpened to the forefront of his mind. ‘Moving in.’ “I have to be considerate, they’re moving in together and I can’t get in the way.” Harry had said it himself. Draco had seen it first hand. He shivered and, ignoring the ache of his skull, gazed at the two figures before him cloaked in darkness from under hooded eyes.

“You were moving in together,” he stated, eyes flicking up to the clouded sky. By all rights it still should have been broad daylight but the thunderclouds were so murderously thick that they cut off all access to the sun and shadow already coated the streets.

“He told you.” Draco dipped his head forward ever so slightly, not really sure if it had been a question. “This won’t end well,” Weasley continued. “We won’t let you take advantage of him. I’ve heard of you, Draco Malfoy, don’t think I haven’t. A promiscuous arsehole who wants nothing more than a quick night before he prescribes a boot up the arse and out the door.” Weasley was snarling at him now, held back only by the delicate fingers firmly gripping his tensed forearm.

“If that’s what you think of me then why tell me all this?” Draco asked, playing for time while his head slotted the remaining pieces of the puzzle together. This was why Harry had needed to get back, why he went there on such a repetitive pattern, why his friends had to make sure he reached his home safely every night. Draco could not imagine how scary it would have been to wake up in a strange bed with a strange man and in a strange world while not remembering the night before let alone the week or year. This was why, he realised, it had been pure luck on that night that he had agreed to go with him. Spontaneity. That was the key. It had just so happened that one night that Draco chose him as prey he had chosen to be adventurous and probably completely out of character. The odds of it happening a second time were fifty to one.

Draco deflated.

“Because,” Granger’s scratching voice pulled him from the murky depths of his thoughts, “you’d find out soon enough. When you had to reintroduce yourself every time you wanted to fuck him” - Draco barely held back the vicious sneer that was threatening to override his features at her crassness - “You seem intelligent enough. It was best that we explained things to you now so that you can leave him well alone. So that you know we’re watching. We know, Malfoy, and we aren’t going to sit idly by and let you hurt him. Don’t approach him again. Don’t speak to him or of him. We’re fine. We can handle this. We can handle him.” Granger’s voice rose, strength and decisiveness sparking like fire from the back of her throat and carrying in her words.

Draco stared into her eyes. He could not quite manage to glare at her no more than he could convince himself that the lingering pain and deep hurt were completely figments of his imagination. Draco broke the connection first, unable to look into her hazel windows any longer; a pang in his heart warned him that it was intimate to the point of violation and should not continue. Instead, he distracted himself by fluffing his collar up against the growing wind and gazing up at the toxic streetlight above him that was flickering to life.

Footsteps hurried away from him and he next time he looked he was standing in the cobbled street alone.

There were times when Draco hated himself. As a child, his mother had told him that he was prone to moping when he did not get his way. She had warned him that it was a trait riddled with weakness and one that he should never allow the outside world to see or exploit. Apparently, the habit would come back to haunt him one day.

This was one of those days.

This was one of those times.

Draco Malfoy slumped down in his ‘brooding chair,’ as he had so christened it, which sat forlornly in the corner of his study at the far end of his house, a house, it should be added, that was ridiculously large and grand for a single person. It was a rumpled, threadbare thing, very much out of place against the firm leather and dark, expensive wood. Its back, half collapsed against the deep emerald wall, was veined with multicoloured stitches and small pillows that certainly did not match its dirty cream colouring. At one time, when his grandfather had bought it, it had been a pure white, its arms perfectly rounded and its linings perfectly straight. Now the seams were crooked, the soft fabric pilled and the white tainted.

Draco stared morbidly down into his wine glass where a satisfyingly dusky red wine was swirling around, the deep colour glistening as it danced passed the lone lamp light on the other side of the room. There was something sinister in the character of the liquid that complimented his dark mood perfectly. He stilled his hand, a small smirk curling his lips as he watched it slosh and collide with itself, before he smoothly slung the calculated sip down his throat, perfectly flicking his wrist as he had been honed to do since childhood so the fragile glass touched his lips for the barest amount of time. The fruity but demonically bitter taste pinched his throat uncomfortably as it slunk down to his stomach. It was unusual for him not to enjoy the refined taste, this was yet more evidence that his emotional state was unbalanced.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture he’d learned from his late Godfather, Draco half-heartedly dropped the glass onto a nearby table and relaxed back into the chair, exceedingly thankful that his form was permanently imprinted into the fabric and so he was always comfortable. His mind, as he often found, had the infuriating ability to stay annoyingly focused at the worst of times. This was one of those times. No matter how much he tried to distract himself, his thoughts always seemed to wonder back to Harry. The dying swelling of the crimson liquid in his glass reminded him of the way Harry would knock a half-finished pint of dusky golden liquid between his nimble fingers. The unconscious, habitual tapping agitatedly against the arm of his chair reminded him of Harry’s nervous fidgeting that he found so endearing. Even the fall of his curtains across the artificially lit window on the other side of his study reminded him of the feather light way Harry’s hair fell around his face like angel caresses taunting him with perfection.

It was at that moment, perhaps a moment when his sense of reality was drowned out by his blazing desire for the other man, that he came to the conclusion that a world without Harry was not going to work for him anymore. He didn’t want people he picked up in strange bars he had never stepped into before. People who were attracted to the expensive jewels showing on his watch or the awe that mentioning his name would bring or the physical rapture they envisioned he would create with his athletic body. He wanted Harry, who appreciated his physical appearance, yes, he was sure he did, but who also knew him, or would at least get to know him before disappearing anywhere with him. Harry who would like him and whose soul was so compatible with his own that he would fall in love with him every day and never even realise it while Draco would never get tired of finding him again every single day for years to come.

He wanted Harry and, he thought in this moment of idealistic fantasy, he would not let him go just yet.

Draco stifled the smirk that rose from the pit of his stomach as he slid through the partially open door to the pub. As he had expected it was suitably busy, enough to warrant the sharing of booths at least. He snaked his way through the breathing mass of loudly chattering bodies and called to the barman, who gave him a exasperated look and took his order, slapping the relatively clean glass of wine in front of him with his soggy change. When he was satisfied that his face was forming an approachable, ‘good-guy’ expression, he ambled over towards Harry’s usual booth to find him settled with his back against the wood, staring placidly out at the milling crowd as if trying to learn every detail for later analysis.

Draco paused, hovering close to the seat before coughing lowly into his hand. “Is this seat taken?” he murmured, managing to stop himself from turning and running like a coward back out the door, diving in and wrenching the other man’s jaw up to kiss him senseless or melting down into an unattractive splatter of goo when his sparkling eyes darted towards him. Harry shook his head emphatically, his curling locks flying across his fair skin like dancing, ebony flames. Draco felt a rush relief flash through his veins, already on fire from the nervous adrenalin coursing through them.

Slipping his light jacket from his shoulders, Draco swiftly slid into the space between the old wooden bench and the ring marred table before the other man had a chance to change his mind. “Draco Malfoy,” he declared uncharacteristically brightly, shoving his hand embarrassingly ungracefully out across the table. He blamed the adrenalin coursing excitedly through his veins but there might have been the echo of rebellion of his upbringing too.

“Harry. Harry Potter,” Harry muttered and Draco almost let the secretive, knowing smile slip on his face before he realised the damage it could have caused had it escaped.

“Nice to meet you, Harry, Harry Potter.” Draco fumbled into his coat pocket for money, the slippery coins elluding his sweaty fingertips for nerve wracking seconds. His heart was hammering in his ears too, so much so that he wondered if he'd even be able to hear Harry's musing were it to boom any louder.

He allowed a slow secretive smile to curl his lips at whatever it was Harry was already rambling about as he waved the bartender along to their end of the sad excuse for a bar. Tonight would be the first of many wondrous nights with Harry. His head already hurt from the all hormones clashing around together. But his libido wouldn't be in charge from now on. He just wanted to enjoy each night as it came, wherever it took him.

"What do you think you're doing?" Harry murmured tentatively, glaring up from beneath the thick haze of his fringe. He might have looked intimidating, Draco thought, had his voice not been so soft and were his fingers not fiddling with the cuff link of his powder blue shirt.

"Oh," Draco feigned a stutter as if he were a seasoned performer, "are you waiting for someone?" He stepped out for between the chair and table, stroking his lithe hands over the marred wood sensuously.

"Well...erm...no...but." Draco almost smiled at the adorable quality Harry's mouth portrayed with its little pout, the flush of his lips mirrored suddenly across the top of his cheekbones.

"Well then," Draco flashed his most charming grin, sinking down into the seat and looking back from underneath his eyelashes coyly.

"I still didn't say you could sit there!" Harry protested weekly. Draco was ready.

"You would deprive a poor, wind-wrangled man of a seat when it's so busy in here! Shame." The blush burning on the other man's cheeks blossomed deeper. Endearing, Draco's mind supplied.

"It's not like you're old! And there's plenty of space at the bar!" Harry hunched down into the thick coat that was draped over his thin shoulders, his eyebrows knitting together spitefully and his nose scrunching with a sort of mock distaste.

"But this is a nice seat. And all the old women hit on me at the bar." Draco thought they were both reasonable arguments and hoped Harry would see it the same way. He had been deprived of company the night before by a bout of Harry's stubbornness; an occurrence that he had swiftly found was unfortunately far more

common than his bouts of wild, instinctive spontaneity. Not to misunderstand, Harry was in no way predictable but he was apparently more...uptight with his trust than Draco had first thought all those months ago when he had only been seduced by the chase and the lust. It felt like so much time had passed. But now he knew how to break into that first boundless circle quickly so he could enjoy more time in his company, whether it be nattering like mothers outside a school in their little secluded corner, ugly maroon colour and all, or in his bed (if he were lucky enough) finding the wonders the human body entailed.

Harry's friends told him he was obsessed. His friends told him it was unhealthy, reminded him of it every day. And in a way he supposed he was obsessed, consumed even. Five times now he had cut work just for experimentation purposes, conducting whether Harry's moods had some form of pattern he was missing out on.

The money wasn't a problem, he's inherited plenty of that, nor was his position in danger. But Pansy always seemed to be scrutinising him nowadays and Blaise's eyes followed him everywhere as if he would crack and break at any moment physically. Plus, of course, his mysterious disappearance from the annual Greengrass ball had been a downright scandal.

"But, Draco," Pansy would simper every time they disagreed-but-not-argued, "we're just worried about you." And then Draco would snap the conversation closed and dismiss them before they could see how much the situation really was chipping away at his icy innards.

Harry wasn’t being accommodating that night at all, in fact he appeared unaffected by every attempt Draco made a friendly conversation and was downright obtuse to every slipped gesture that Draco had come to recognise as familiarity and recognition of his growing closeness to the man.

So that night, Draco contented himself with just looking at him, watching him and learning as much as he could glean from his cold exterior. He wished for tender kisses but instead worshipped privately the way Harry’s tongue wet his lips to interrupt sentences when he was unsure of his brisk wording. He wished for trusting stares and shy glances but instead he studied the shift and dilation of his pupils when he was flashing between anger, annoyance and curiosity. He wished for secret smiles and flashes of teeth but instead he poked at his sentences before he spoke to make them flawless just so one senseless witticism would allow him a glimpse of even a half chuckle or determined stone face that betrayed how amusing Harry found it.

The night was a short one in comparison to many of the nights that would follow, and some days too, but it was necessity, Draco thought, for him to be able to appreciate all sides of Harry if he were to insist on continuing in his mission.

To make Harry smile, at least once, each and every day, even if only once and even for his own selfish need to witness it.

The window in his bedroom was open; a light summer breeze floating in with the scent of flowers and moonlight. Harry was here, exactly where he should be, his lips at Draco's shoulder as he laved at the delicate skin of his collarbone.

Draco noticed months ago that, as a being, Harry was one that liked to please his lovers. He spent hours sometimes just worshipping Draco's body, riling him to such a state of arousal that he thought his mind would be driven to imploding messily over his skull.

But Harry would always be considerate as well. He would know when Draco was ready, when he had reached his limit of the teasing touches and flirtatious smiles. It was strange that he would be so confident and perfect in his ability to read Draco when he was really a complete stranger to him.

That night was no exception. Harry bathed him in peppered kisses from the jut of his chin and along the pale stretch of his silky neck. He would pause at his collar bone, taking his time to dip his wet tongue into the hollow there and tracing it along the raised bone. Draco felt uncharacteristically fragile when he did that purely from the care Harry spent while toying with his body.

Next he would wander down to his nipples, sucking at them and glancing up at Draco, his eyes dim with promises of what was to come. The sensitive skin of his stomach would be assaulted by plush, damp lips trailing down to his bellybutton, plunging in experimentally and then playing with the trickle of ashen hair that began below.

His mouth was warm and inviting when it finally circled Draco's cock, only playing tentatively with the tip at first before boldness and a needy desperation took his actions slightly and he dove forward. Draco's spine would snap taught at that, his irises blasting outward at the intense closeness and blinding, scorching heat. It was an agonising torture that Harry remedied with slow laps of his tongue and flicks of his lips ghosting across the wet skin.

Draco would shiver then and Harry would know it was time innately somehow.

He would grin lecherously as Draco grabbed him by his firm biceps, flexing wonderfully under his own weight, and yanked him back to the pillows, throwing him beside and sliding above him. The sweat of their bodies would ease the slide of their chests against each other and Draco was forcefully pull Harry's chin toward him, hammering their lips together again. Their tongues would delved together and he would taste the reminiscent tang of himself before emerald and white overtook his world again as Harry's smooth fingers grasped at him, pulling their cocks together and beginning to work them.

Draco would push his tongue back into his mouth with more vigour and co-ordination than should be possible at this level of insane arousal. Their panting would be louder than the sordid sound of slapping flesh and Harry would buck and thrust up beneath him into his own hand, sliding against Draco with a carnal need washing through his veins.

Draco loved to see him like this. When his lips were unoccupied his teeth would be gritted. His nostrils spasmed, grasping for oxygen as his body strained and quivered. And then Draco would thrust with him, hard, grinding thrusts that rocketed forwards against the body beneath him. A pace was set and they would be gone; bodies twisting and tiding against each other without conscious thought. Pure, beautiful instinct.

Afterwards, Draco lay as close as he dare, worried of crowding his bed partner; he was just a stranger to his lover after all. Luckily, he had learned to navigate past the awkwardness that had accompanied the minutes following their first time together. But Harry would reach for him, mumbling about the pub too quickly.

But this night, Draco had a plan. And he would see it through. It was one o'clock by the time he was finished and the excuse was plausible.

"Look, I don't think I'm comfortable with you going back to the pub by yourself. The pub closes in an hour anyway, what about if I drive you back to your place myself, I don't mind." And the fact that he didn't even own a car never came into the equation because he already knew Harry only live a quarter of an hour's walk away.

"That's really nice of you but..." Harry said, searching for his threadbare jeans and underwear. But Draco insisted and Harry caved with little encouragement, his memories still full of Draco's hands clamping on his bicep with the ferocity of an animal in heat.

The walk was pleasant and light, their heads still slightly higher into the clouds than was normal. The flat was small and neat, as Draco expected and when Harry invited him in he just smiled secretly to himself and accepted; Harry was a creature of habit after all.

They settled on the faux fur rug in front of the empty fire place and talked and petted each other. It was sheer, uncontrollable gravity when their lips met again, unavoidable really. And when they ended up naked again Draco only thanked the Gods, whoever they may be, as he sank into Harry's body smoothly.

It was dawn when he crept from the flat. His heart was still beating like a rabbit's, fleeting around in his chest, alive with a hope of 'what if.'

There was a spritely spring in his step the whole day until he entered the pub, his eyes immediately diverting straight to Harry, and felt the electric touch of his Harry's bright eyes light on him and skim away with no recognition sparking whatsoever.

10 years later

The floor beneath where Draco’s ‘brooding chair’ had been was a completely different colour to the rest of the carpet in the study. Old age and wear had faded the richness to a rust red rather than a deep, dark wine red it had originally been laid down as. The chair had been gone for several years now, its legs failing and causing a rather severe bruise to blossom on Draco’s arse.

The room was all darkness and depression that had built and pulsed beneath Draco’s skin over the years until it had become a physical incarnation of his mind. His veins seethed with a desperation he couldn’t quite grasp. He felt lost as if while he had been distracted by the sheer ethereal glow that was Harry’s presence an entire forest, as thick and nauseating as oozing mud, had burst up around him, shadowing from all light and clarity.

The antique mirror in the corner, an ornate thing with natural gloss and a frame of the deepest crimson and cheery vines, had been broken long ago. Depression and desperation were a potent mix. The glass was still irreversibly smashed; all the pieces exactly where they had fallen, left to rot but not forgotten.

It was like a curse; his reflection. Every time he saw himself a new wrinkle marred his skin as obvious and eye-catching to him as scales on a baby. First there was the one stemming from his mouth; 'a smile line, don't worry, Draco' Hermione had laughed. He had accepted it grudgingly. Then there were the bags that grew under his eyes with every year, they made him feel old and ragged. Now even the crinkle of his eyes annoyed him.

His body was aging too. He had filled out and, regrettably, not completely with muscle. There was a maturity in him that stemmed to his face too, the square, firmness that had replaced his pointy, childhood chin which spoke of experience and wisdom.

He hated it. He hated it all.

When would the time come when Harry would look at him, with his floppy ebony hair and his deft fingers and his intense eyes, and think he was old. Too old to chat with. Too old to laugh with. Too old to fuck with. And what was worse was that Harry seemed eternally youthful not only in mind but in body too. His face was always joyous and he always smiled and he didn't seem to age. Draco's heart burned with jealousy. Maybe if he could be like that Harry would want him forever. So more mirrors were smashed and left corroding in the corners of his home.

"We got a life expectancy in the post yesterday. They say he won't live passed fifty. His brain just won't be able to take the strain by then." She bowed her head further, leaning to her husband for support. Draco would never have that.

"That's still plenty of time. A good twenty years. You'll have loads of time."

A strict, tense silence met his reply. His breath came in a short puff in front of him. His lungs shrank within his ribcage while his heart swelled painfully. His vision blurred and he was forced to clamp his eyelid shut. His brain buzzed with activity and dread.

"'You'll' as in just us?" Ron murmured faintly to his hand, bitterness apparent in his dead tone.

"Yes. My mother…She's sick…In France." Draco clarified although whether it was to the frozen statues before him or himself he was not sure. He gripped the table like a life line, his knuckles cracking thunderously into the solid silence of the room.

"I warned you," Hermione hissed from the cover of her tangled hair. "I told you we should never have let it get this far." Her voice was venomous and sibilant, snake-like and accusing as if she were the sly, traitorous serpent and not Draco. It made him feel worse.

"Shut up." Ron muttered, glancing up at her and hauling himself to his feet. He glared physical icicles through Draco's chest, spearing him where he perched. "Just shut up. It's going to hurt him far more than it'll hurt Harry. Harry doesn't even know him."

Draco coughed to divert the stinging behind his eyes, choking on the dryness in his throat. His blood had long since flooding through his veins but now it felt frozen and clogged, burning him painfully from within it was so cold, scouring his nerves. His eyes must have been pleading unintentionally as he peered up at them because Ron snorted and turned his back on him.

"Get out."

Draco felt thoroughly dismissed. And even though he knew he would most likely never see these people again, he did not say goodbye as he fled their warm, safe home filled with love and devotion and caring. And he didn't stop fleeing even as he flung his personal belongings into an old suitcase he had never used or when he flew from his flat towards the nearest taxi rank.

Nor did he stop fleeing when they sped past the cemetery where his mother was buried.

50 years later

The heavy dribbling of my drip is steadily driving me insane. It is beside my bed when I wake up and I cannot recall when or who put it there nor why I would need such a thing. I can smell the sterile stench that I became familiar with at school as the smell that can be found only in hospitals. I can hear the padding footsteps of people outside, trying to be quiet but not quite willing to give up their insulated leather shoes enough to grant the rest prescribed for the people on the other side of the doors.

I remember this morning, when I awoke to this scene, my mind hazed and scrabbled for memories of how I came to be here. I feel that I should panic, that is, after all, what we humans are known to do when the unfamiliar presents itself without welcome, but there is something inside me, whether it is in my heart or my mind I do not know, which holds me back. Some sixth sense that tells me, ‘You know what, Harry, everything’s fine. We’re still here, we’re still alive. We’ll get through this,’ and for some reason I believe whole-heartedly in what this little voice is saying. I do not know who the voice is, only that I have never heard it before and yet it is so real, as if the person speaking to me is standing next to me, a guardian angel if you will, protecting me, preserving me.

So when I lift my hand and find wrinkled, aged skin instead of the smooth, unblemished skin of youth that I am used to, the voice, a seductive, male baritone that holds all the grandeur of an aristocrat but at the same time the teasing of a life-long lover, reassures me and I do not panic, but instead accept what my eyes show me and begin to assess my situation with an eerie fluency that makes me wonder if I am dreaming a dream I have often dreamed.

The room around me is small, holding only myself and the bed I am on, my drip filled, with a steady, clear liquid, and a bedside table the colour of curdled milk, a worn armchair and a neat little vanity in the corner opposite a window with its greying curtains tightly drawn. It is a room I would not wish to doom anyone else to live in. My ragged breathing echoes through the room and when I spot a down turned mirror, a small hand held thing of faux silver, on the table I reach for it with one gnarled hand. My reflection is not a pretty sight although I admit to myself, and the voice resounds comforts into my mind, that it could have been worse. For one second I hold onto the shred of hope that it is not me I am looking at but the slash of scar visible under my shaggy black hair with its heavy streaks of pure white, if that were not recognisable enough, is proof that it is indeed myself I am looking at. I pull the greased strands back to be certain and there it is, the scar that has plagued my short life. My eyes are as green as they ever where although it disheartens me to find a little less life within them. Some spark that I cannot define has left me.

Placing the mirror back on the table I find, under where it had sat before, a small note, written in the script of my best friend, Ron Weasley, not changed in the slightest since the first day we met. Even though the scrawl is just as messy, I can easily discern each letter from the next thanks to my years of good practise.

Dear Harry,

Another day, another confession. As your best friend and brother, it breaks my heart each time I have to write and rewrite these notes. What will you do when I am gone, eh? But I’ve known you a long time now, Harry, and you’ll be wanting me to get to the point straight away now.

As you have probably discovered, you are not a child anymore. Over the years, you have grown but you are incapable of remembering your life. I assure you, you have been happy though. Do not panic. Tomorrow, you will read this note, and the next day after that, and the next day after that until it is time to replace it because you have crumpled it from anger so many times or the ink has run from your tears. But I’ll write you another one, as I always have over these many years, and look after you.

We have grown old, Harry. We are not young men anymore. We are old and our bodies worn. I’m afraid it would be too much of a strain for you, just as it is for me, to leave and see the outside world so, as entertainment, I want you to look in the cupboard of your bedside table. Inside, you will find a journal for each year of your life through the ages of until the present. Hermione and I have always written in them for you. Every night since you began to forget. Do read them. Learn your life, Harry. You did some wondrous things and I’m glad they have been recorded for you. Just remember to put them back in the right order, you’ll be reading them tomorrow don’t forget.

Your Brother Always,

Ron Weasley

P.S. Put this back under the mirror would you, that’s where you always seem to go first. Cheers, mate.

There was something I recognised about the note, as if throughout my reading of it I had been experiencing some extended exposure to déjà vu. And it wasn’t just the letter. That little voice that I was already addicted to hearing was buzzing busily in my head as if rifling through the filing cabinet of my memories searching for clips of my life I was unaware had happened.

I should have panicked at the letter as well but somehow I just knew everything that was written there was true, as if I had been born with this knowledge. It was there inside me, I just needed some sort of catalyst to awaken it again.

‘Draco, come look at this one!’ I yelled in excitement, bouncing on the balls of my feet. The blond man that appeared beside me caused the swarm of butterflies in my stomach to suddenly take a steep dive and then shoot back straight into my throat. It was strange. I had only known him for mere hours and yet I felt as if I had known him forever.

‘It’s pretty, Harry. What does it say it’s called?’

‘Agapornis nigrigenis. The Black-cheeked Lovebird from Zambia. They look so exotic.’

I could feel the gentle stroke of soft fingertips against my mind, soothing me through the memory. I did not wonder if it was real. I innately knew it was. I did not even wonder who this strange man was or how I knew of the surrounding circumstances. Something just snapped in my brain and I knew that it was him. The one who was calming me with his tender touches to my mind.

I read for many hours, marvelling that my heart can jump at every sentence even though I have no perfect memory of these times, just snippets of an instinct and a cooing caress in my head. When night falls and a nurse, little thing who looks like she needs the bed more than I do, darts in my room, whispering that it's lights out and I need my rest, I smile at her and lay my book back in the cupboard feeling as if I have achieved something with my day.

I imagine hands stroking my hair as I close my eyes, soft hands with long fingers and perfectly manicured fingernails and skin so ivory pale I would think it made of the most expensive marble were it not for its softness.

'It is with regret that this reporter is dutifully bound to tell all of you, devoted readers, that early yesterday morning the man who was known to have the first permanent, fully-fledged case of Short-term Memory Loss (STML) died after exceeding his life-expectancy by 30 years...'

'...Within his living quarters at St Jillian's Nursing Home in Scarborough, where Mr Harry James Potter spent the remainder of his days, over 50 journals were found hidden in the bedside cabinet. It is believed that these diaries were written by Mr Potter's lifelong friends; Mrs Hermione Weasley nee Granger, died age 81 five years previous to the present day, and her husband Mr Ronald Weasley, currently age 86 but suffering from a fatal tumour of the brain...'

'...It was recently discovered that one Draco Malfoy, who appeared as an important, devoted and faithful lover within Mr Potter's life for over 10 years in his youth, whose story will be revealed in completion at a later date, drowned upon attempting to return to the country approximately 49 years ago when his ship sank in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean just three months after his leaving Mr Potter’s side...'
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Forget Me Not