Chapter Text
Harry hated Azkaban. Even now, years after their departure, the gloom of Dementors clung to it like the mold he could see when the guard's swinging lantern splashed light on the base of the wall. Their power for sapping will was gone, however, and the darkness that remained just made him angry.
They turned into a corridor with lit torches -- an improvement, despite the thin haze of smoke that rose to a fog at the ceiling. Fresher air, bone-chillingly cold, cut in through a narrow window. Harry imagined choosing between the two in selecting a corner of a cell. That made him angrier.
"Here he is," the guard said, stopping by a door. "Malfoy, D., awaiting trial."
"Open the door," Harry ground out between clenched teeth, and a thin, huddled figure turned his head with the quickness of panic.
"Potter?" Despite the alarm in his first response, his voice rose with guarded hope, and he stumbled to his feet, still holding his blanket tightly around his shoulders.
"Yes," Harry said, and then, exasperated, added, "and no, I didn't know you were in prison! Why would I be asking you out for a drink if I knew that?" He beckoned Draco towards the opening door. "Come on. Kingsley's willing to let you out on my parole. I need you to promise you won't go anywhere without my permission, you won't do anything illegal, and you'll show up for your trial."
Draco's chin lifted in a reassuringly familiar manner, though his gaunt cheeks were streaked with dirt, and the eyes above them dark with lack of sleep. "Is that all?"
Harry grinned at the sarcasm. "Yes. But in return, I'll protect you and do my best to see to it that you and your mother get your freedom, and at least some of your assets back."
"Oh." The cynical amusement on Draco's face turned to something less certain. "I suppose asking the same for my father would be too much?"
"Yes." Harry stepped into the open doorway, so he was face to face with his former nemesis. "I can honestly say I don't think you and she deserve this. I can't say that about him."
"Honestly," Draco amended mockingly.
"Right. Now do you promise or not?"
Draco's eyes closed for a moment. "Oh, I promise, Potter," he answered, his voice trembling with feeling. "I'll stay where you tell me to, I'll go meekly to my trial, and I won't do anything illegal in between."
"Good enough," Harry said. "Come on. Let's get you checked out, and you can come and stay at my flat, for now."
Back at Harry's place, Draco showered, and when Harry showed him a bed, smiled like he had gone to paradise, crawled into it, and fell asleep. Harry avoided temptation by leaving the room. It was still short of noon, but he doubted prisoners in Azkaban had much of a sense of time, and that bed was doubtless the most comfortable place that Draco had been in months.
When it was late enough, he ordered take-away from his favorite curry place, and put it under stasis charms. When Draco woke, he had warm food and a chilled white Bordeaux wine waiting.
Draco looked uncertain when he stopped at the end of the hallway. Harry had left him an assortment of clothing, expecting he would choose the robes. Instead, he was wearing too-short sweatpants and a blue oxford shirt with the tails untucked and the top button undone. His hair was clean from the shower, but ragged from lack of care. It fell in his face when he glanced down, and he had to shake it back a little when he caught himself and raised his chin again. Altogether, he looked stunning, and only half familiar.
"Hi," Harry said. "I know you just woke up, but it's evening. Is curry okay? I have tikka masala, and biryani, and three kinds of bread. Oh," he added casually, "and a decent wine." Which might just happen to be your favorite for everyday drinking.
Slowly, Draco stepped forward. "You can't imagine how strange this is," he said. He swallowed. Harry thought his eyes looked suspiciously bright. "I mean, yes, thank you, that sounds lovely."
He swallowed again, and Harry gestured for him to join him on the sofa. It was August, but the night was cool enough for a fire, and Harry encouraged the flames with a flick of his wand.
"Here," he said, nudging a plate and flatware down the coffee table, closer to the far end of the sofa, where Draco had sat. He took some rice and then passed Draco the foil container. "Not classy, I'm afraid, but good."
Draco scooped out the rice, and the chicken with its burnt orange sauce, and when Harry held out a piece of paratha, he tore a piece off of it. He ate a bite of everything, and then, closing his eyes, stopped and breathed. When he opened them again, he looked straight down the length of the sofa at Harry.
"You know those stories in the Arabian Nights?" he said. "Ones in which someone is very rich, and they lose all their money, and then someone invites them to a feast, and everything is more delicious than they remembered?" Tears welled in his eyes, but his voice wavered only slightly before he caught it, swallowed, and continued with careful steadiness. "I feel like that. Thank you."
He covered for the tears by brushing back his hair in an unbelievably wide stroke of his hand, and Harry, in a surge of protective affection, pretended to be too absorbed in opening the wine to notice.
"Here," he said, passing down a glass. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't know you were in prison. I've been busy with my godson, and Kingsley's campaign, and more funerals than anyone should need to attend in a lifetime."
"Weren't my letters censored?"
Harry snorted. "No one touches my mail," he said. "Not even Azkaban guards. I expect they looked, but no -- nothing was ever blacked out."
"But...." Draco twisted the soft bread in his hands -- "why correspond with me? If it wasn't for.... I suppose I thought of it as closure."
"Ah." Harry had wondered about Draco's restrained litany of apology and forgiveness. It made a little more sense that way. Had he made similar declarations in the last world? "Well, how would you feel about a long story? It's in keeping with the Arabian Nights theme, I think." Draco hadn't touched his wine, yet, but Harry lifted his. He smiled. "Oh, my guest!" he proclaimed. "Although your question appears simple, the answer is a tale of marvels to fill a dozen nights! For many places have I been, full against my will, due to but a moment of careless temper!"
Draco snorted. "I admit," he said, in almost his old drawl, "that I am intrigued. Might I trouble you, my illustrious host, to tell me of your marvelous adventures, and how they might concern me?"
Harry laughed. "As you probably know," he said, in something closer to his usual manner, "I spent much of last winter as a refugee, living in a tent with Hermione and Ron -- and later just Hermione -- hiding from Voldemort's forces. During that time, Godric Gryffindor's sword appeared just when I needed it -- delivered by Snape, I later discovered -- and was of some use."
"I'd heard something about it," Draco admitted, "but not the details."
Harry waved that off. "Another tale for another night, I think. Anyway, it was all rather horrible. At one point, I was holding the sword -- I'd just used it to destroy something -- and Hermione said something about Ron, and we understood, by then, why he'd left us, but knowing what had happened didn't fix anything, and I was miserable.
"So I took this bloody sword -- Godric Gryffindor's sword -- and I swung it into a tree screaming that I wished I had never heard of Horcruxes. And this naked girl shot out of the tree -- she was like a ghost, except when she passed through me, it was warm. And everything went this delicious, slow, summer green, which slowly became darker and darker, until I ... I clicked into place in a warm, soft bed, somewhere with no light at all."
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The darkening green was dreamlike, soothing. Warmth folded lovingly around him until with a sudden, brief displacement, as if he and all the world had fallen a few inches, Harry jolted awake, elsewhere.
He was in total darkness, and certain, somehow, that he was inside a real building. Warm blankets covered him, and a weight rested on part of his hip. He reached up, felt flesh, and, gasping, jerked away.
"Harry," said a sleepy, soothing voice, as Harry groped for his wand. It wasn't near; he was naked -- panic rose in him. Where am I? Who's with me? Where are my clothes? "Calm down." The hand returned to stroke down his side. I am naked in bed with someone -- a man, from that voice. Harry forced himself not to thrash loose of the covers and the touch. What had happened? He had wished he'd never heard of Horcruxes, and the naked girl -- a nymph? No, wasn't it dryads that lived in trees? She had flowed out and through him. He still remembered Horcruxes, though.
"It was only a dream," the voice continued, and that was a long enough utterance that Harry recognized the aristocratic drawl, although he'd certainly never heard it with that reassuring tone, before.
"Malfoy?"
"Oh, Merlin!" His bedmate sighed. "Wake up, Harry. You know me."
"I...." Harry's voice caught in his throat. He wanted to protest that he didn't know Malfoy; not to be reassured by his presence, and certainly not to be lying with him in this intimate manner, which he had never done with anyone. But he needed to work out where he was and what was going on before he stumbled into something dangerous. Could the wish have mistakenly sent him back to Hogwarts? But he was in bed with Malfoy, who was acting like this was all normal.
"Where am I?" he tried, with honest confusion and assumed wooziness.
A warm body curled up against his, one leg -- also bare -- overlaying his own. Something soft -- lips? -- brushed along his cheek.
"In your own bed, in Slytherin," Malfoy answered, his voice still gentle. "Do you need a little distraction?"
Harry was too shocked to answer. Slytherin? He didn't notice the hand trailing down his body until it met his cock like a zap of electrical current. Taken by surprise, his body moved. It might have been a jump if he had been standing, but with Malfoy's leg over him, it just pushed his body into the touch. In the darkness, Malfoy laughed low and soft.
"Well, it seems so," he said smugly.
Harry squirmed back up the bed, alarmed, but Malfoy didn't try to follow him. Instead he moved away. At least, Harry thought he was moving away until something closed wetly around the head of his cock.
"Ah!"
Malfoy apparently took Harry's startled cry as encouragement, because he moaned happily and started to suck. Harry was immobilized by the unfamiliar pleasure.
"Oh." With what of his brain still worked, he remembered that he needed to act like this was normal. That didn't seem as burdensome as it ought to be. "Draco," he said daringly, and a hand stroked up his thigh and settled at his hip, one finger stroking over the dip above the bone. For some reason, this made everything more intense, and more of his thoughts stilled. He knew -- knew -- that if he reached down, and trailed his fingers up Draco's neck and through his hair, until he was tugging gently at the locks of the crown, that Draco would whine with lust, and he wanted to hear that sound.
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"I see," Draco said coolly. "Do I have extra duties to stay out of prison?"
"Hush," Harry said, but he didn't take offence. He'd known when he had started the story that it might come across that way. "I gave you all my terms in Azkaban, I promise. I wouldn't harp on the sex, but-- Well, it mattered. I'd stop ... stop thinking, and when that happened, then I was more the person who should have been there -- Harry One, let's call him." Harry hesitated. "Muggles have found that memory is physical, you know. It's actually part of the stuff in the brain, somehow. I think I had my memories magically, and his memories physically, but I could only get to his when I -- really, completely myself -- stopped thinking."
Draco nodded. He tore another piece off the paratha. "That makes sense. It was his body, but your soul. Was it his body, though?"
"Not entirely." Harry bit his lip, remembering how frightening it was to discover that in the light of day. "It seemed to be a combination. I was taller there, and not as skinny, but...." He held his hand out. "This scar. I saw it the next morning, although it was fainter. I cast a glamour while Draco was in the loo. I doubt a Slytherin would have that."
Draco examined the scar. "'I must not tell lies?'" he read with a sneer of disgust. "Did you do that to yourself?"
Harry felt his face twist in wry humor. "Not willingly. Umbridge made me write lines."
Draco's eyes widened. "With a Blood Quill?"
"Because I said Voldemort was back."
Draco snorted. "Oh, that! No, a Slytherin wouldn't get into that situation." Draco smirked. "But if we were really lovers, I think I would notice more subtle differences." He straightened from where he had leaned back against the sofa cushions. "That is, I expect my counterpart -- Draco One? -- would."
"Oh yes. He did."
"Your complete lack of subtlety, perhaps?"
Harry laughed uncomfortably. "My complete lack of experience."
Draco's eyebrows shot up. "Complete?"
"Well, I knew how to kiss. Not that I'd done even that with another man."
Draco snorted.
"Well then," he suggested, reaching for the wine, "do tell me more about the sex."
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After Harry climaxed, in an explosion of pleasure like nothing else in his experience, Draco crawled up his body and kissed him deeply. With a strange, possessive excitement, Harry licked his taste from Draco's mouth, and when Draco rubbed his cock against the back of Harry's hand, Harry took the cue and began to pull on it with little hesitation. It felt different from touching himself, but Draco was close to his own climax, and Harry didn't have to work out what to do next; that was enough. They kissed back into stillness and fell asleep in a tangle.
Harry woke to a slap on his bare hip.
"Better get a move on, prince!" Malfoy said brightly, as he stepped out of range. He was already dressed, but his hair was still tousled. Between that and his smile, he looked like a stranger. "Crabbe and Goyle may start devouring firsties if you make them wait too much longer for breakfast." With that, he tripped away, leaving Harry gawking behind him.
Rubbing his eyes, Harry sat up. He was in a Slytherin bed -- one with rumpled and skewed bedclothes, he noticed, his face heating as he remembered the night before. The next bed over appeared not to have been touched. Was it cheating if you were in another world? he wondered. Well, he supposed that it wasn't anyway, since he had technically broken up with Ginny, but would she think it was? He wouldn't be angry if she found someone else, in theory -- part of why he had broken up with her was so she could live while he was gone -- but she hadn't said that about him. On the other hand, this was war, right? He couldn't tell Malfoy he didn't belong here, when that would leave him in the hands of enemies.
Everyone else seemed to have left the room, fortunately. Harry found a wand on the table beside the bed, and lifted it. It had a bright, wicked feel to it, like an eager knife, but when he waved it, sparks shot to the ceiling. Some of them still hung there as he got up and went around the curtains to the wardrobe set at the foot of bed. The brass plaque on the door was long and bright. Etched into it was the name "Harry J. P. Prince". He stared at it, his stomach twisting.
"Prince," he muttered. "Only know one of those." In nervous twitches, he opened the door and found neatly creased dark trousers hanging beside white and silver-grey dress shirts and black school robes. A few brighter things were pushed to one side. On the shelf under the trousers was a shiny pair of low black boots with thin laces, and on the door, Slytherin ties and scarves hung softly next to stiff leather belts in black and grey. Shuddering, Harry took enough for an outfit and sat on the bed to dress.
While he was drawing on clothes, an explanation for the name occurred to him. Perhaps he was actually in the body of another person, someone who didn't exist in his world. That would explain how he could be related to Snape, and also why he had reacted so strongly to Malfoy. It wasn't just that Malfoy was talented; it was probably that he was in the body of someone who was gay, so really, nothing he did could count. Nodding to himself, Harry stood and found that the trousers were slightly big at the waist, and pooled slightly over the boots, but only slightly. Definitely someone else, then. He tucked the shirt in and added a belt, for appearances. Knotting a Slytherin tie shouldn't have been any different than knotting a Gryffindor one, but the green flashed oddly in his vision, and his hands shook. He sat for a moment to breathe and look at them, and it was then that he saw the scar. I must not tell lies.
When Malfoy returned, a minute later, Harry was just pulling on his robes.
"Honestly!" Malfoy exclaimed. "Your hair! Go and freshen up. Everyone knows what we do all night; there's no need to look like it." With a smirk, he pushed Harry towards the door he had just come out of.
Harry took in the toilet and the bath, but what he was looking for was the mirror. It was on the back of the door. A glance was enough to dissolve any residue of hope he was possessing some Snape cousin, and the curse scar had come with him. He didn't look exactly the same -- a bit less thin, perhaps, although certainly not too heavy, and a bit taller -- but he still looked like James Potter's son. His eyes were still green, and the scar on his forehead, while not at all irritated, was blatantly there. He made quick work of using the loo, but he had to look at his reflection again to neaten his hair. Straightening his green and silver tie was even more disturbing when he could see his own face above it. After a quick, bracing breath, he emerged. Malfoy thrust a school bag in his arms and they were off through the Slytherin common room, where Crabbe and Goyle fell into step behind them, and then it was up -- up! -- to breakfast in the Great Hall.
Walking up stairs, even if from the dungeons, was a familiar activity, and Harry's mind started to put things together as he climbed. He had to be in some alternate timeline, in the life of some poor sod who probably didn't know what Horcruxes were -- not that it helped him at all. If he was a Slytherin and sleeping with Malfoy, and had Snape's mother's last name, he couldn't count on anything about this world. He was going to have to listen carefully and react as little as possible until he discovered how to get home. Fortunately, Malfoy didn't seem to expect him to be chatty. Probably he wasn't a morning person in this world either.
Once they had sat down and there was food on his plate, Harry sat and listened to the conversations -- mostly about school work -- and tried to pay attention, but he couldn't keep from looking at the Gryffindor table. Ginny was laughing with some sixth-year boy. Hermione was there -- and Ron, with his arm around her shoulders. Ron looked up, and, by chance, their eyes met. Ron scowled and flashed an obscene gesture at him, and Harry quickly looked away.
"Weasley is such a vulgar excuse for a wizard," Malfoy drawled. He nudged Harry. "Though I admit it is rather darling the way he protects the Mudblood -- like a six-year-old with a pet beetle."
Harry thought that he was expected to laugh, but he couldn't manage it. He forced a sickly smile and stuffed some toast into his mouth to obscure his dismay.
Lessons were horrible. Transfiguration was all about things that he had never studied. That made sense, of course -- this was a seventh-year class -- but it was humiliating, and Malfoy was looking at him oddly by the end of it. Worse yet, it was still taught by Professor McGonagall, who regarded him with cool contempt even before he started making mistakes. ("If you would kindly do the reading tonight, Mr. Prince?") After that, they went to Potions. Harry had expected Snape, but the class was taught by Slughorn, and Harry managed to bluff his way through it by watching Malfoy closely.
"You're a bit off, today," Malfoy said, as they made their way up to lunch. Harry shrugged.
"I didn't get much sleep," he said blandly, and as he had hoped, Malfoy sniggered.
While dishes were appearing, Harry looked up at the high table. Snape was there. It took a moment before Harry realized what was wrong; Snape was in the headmaster's seat. Maybe some things about this world were like his own. Though now that he thought about it, he hadn't heard anyone mention Voldemort, by any of his titles. He wished he had thought to look at the Daily Prophet, that morning, rather than setting it aside in favor of listening to conversations. The paper would have had hints to the current state of the wizarding world. He was starting to think he might need to claim memory damage. Of course, that wouldn't help if Snape looked in his head, as he well might. It isn't as if I can stop him, Harry thought bitterly.
After lunch, they had Defense Against the Dark Arts, which wasn't too bad. Harry didn't know the professor, of course, but he was perfectly comfortable with the sort of battle hexes under discussion. Better yet, no one seemed to find his proficiency worthy of comment. Charms was a little more difficult, but not as incomprehensible as Transfiguration.
In the afternoon, they went back to the Slytherin dormitory, where a wave of Malfoy's hand sent the other seventh-year students scattering to suddenly remembered study sessions. Malfoy put a mild hex on the door and turned back to Harry.
"Enough of this school crap," he said, prowling forward. "You were too sleepy, last night. I want a fuck."
Arousal and panic collided in Harry's mind. He would have no idea what to do. Surely Malfoy would be able to tell. "I-- I'm not feeling well," he protested.
Malfoy stared. "You-- Do you need to go to the hospital wing?"
He looked utterly bewildered. Harry wondered if his counterpart was always up for it, or if, conversely, this was an unusual offer from Malfoy and one he was expected to jump at. For that matter, which end of the stick, as it were, was he expected to be on? A half-second's thought was enough to convince him that it didn't matter; he didn't want to attempt either with someone who didn't know it was his first time.
And I sort of have a girlfriend, he thought belatedly.
"Please no," he said. "I ... I mean, something's wrong, but I think-- I think it may work out."
Malfoy leaned back against his bed. "Explain," he said.
"I think I've been cursed," Harry said. Certainly he must have enemies here, even if they weren't the same ones? "I don't exactly remember things."
"Like your lessons?"
"Right. But I'm close. I know who the professors are. I know who you are, although I can't--" He spoke through Malfoy's gasp -- "I couldn't tell you an actual story about us; I just have a general sense of it. And I don't remember any sex other than last night."
He stopped, not bothering to hide his trepidation as he looked up to meet Malfoy's eyes. That was right, wasn't it? If he'd truly been through that sort of curse, he would be feeling just as vulnerable as he actually did, right now.
"Merlin!" Malfoy exclaimed. "We should talk to your father-- No, wait." For a moment, he just stood, bending back his fingers as he thought, while Harry wondered frantically who Malfoy meant.
"Perhaps one of those girls was a witch," Malfoy said. "Do you remember the girls? Saturday night?"
Harry shook his head.
"Do you remember leaving the grounds?"
"No." Harry bit his lip. "Do we often?"
"Yes," Malfoy said, his tension abating slightly. "And you knew that, really, and you knew it was us, so the memory block can't be that deep. On Saturday night, you were feeling edgy. You do, sometimes. So we went to a Muggle town, and found two girls who were out walking together, and you took them for ... you know, sport."
Harry felt his blood run cold. He wasn't sure if the euphemism was for sex or murder or something else, but it was clearly something horrible.
"Muggles," he said, trying to piece things together. He was Malfoy's friend -- no, lover -- and apparently didn't mind Hermione being compared to an insect -- what was he like, here?
"Well, so it appeared," Malfoy continued, "but one of them looked rather foreign, and if she was Muggleborn and not yet in Britain when she turned eleven, she may never have been detected. Even trained witches can manifest accidental magic when taken by force, and if she didn--"
"I raped a witch?" Harry asked incredulously.
"Well, you wouldn't have if you'd known she was a witch, of course," Malfoy said soothingly. "And any real witch would know that. It's the right sort of curse, though, isn't it? I mean, if you remember some of your lessons, and less about your usual companion, and nothing at all about sex?"
"I...." Harry swallowed hard. He had seen himself in the mirror, and he seemed to be almost the same person. But somehow, here, he had taken to assaulting Muggle girls for kicks .... with Malfoy as a voyeur, it seemed.
"So you're right about waiting," Malfoy continued, nodding decisively to himself. "Your father will scold about the potential scandal. Let's see what comes back on its own, first. You should be able to shake off a curse from an untrained Mudblood." He stepped closer, his face lighting with a seductive charm. "The first technique, of course, is to immerse yourself in familiar, but forgotten, activities."
"Er, I--"
"Oh, don't worry," Malfoy soothed. "You can trust me; you must know that much. And we'll take it slowly." His smile took on a wicked edge. "It was a gift, really. You get to have another set of first times ... and I get to teach you."
"Oh." Harry swallowed hard. He couldn't object to this. His self here wouldn't object. There wasn't any reason to, was there? "Um...."
"We'll start slowly, I think," Malfoy said, with a satisfied smirk. "Hm. Just with ... touching."
That couldn't be too bad, Harry thought, but then Malfoy began to look him up and down like he was for sale. Harry wondered if he would be told to strip.
"I will start with my clothes off," Malfoy said thoughtfully. "You should take your robe and shirt off -- and shoes, of course -- but you can leave your trousers on, for now." That decided, he began to undress. Harry both admired and resented Malfoy's blasé grace as he fumbled with his own clothing. He managed not to look too closely when Malfoy dropped his trousers, but he caught a glimpse of a pale, quiescent prick draped down over moderate bollocks. When Malfoy turned away, Harry dared a longer look, and caught himself studying a neat, muscled arse. He swallowed. Malfoy lay down on his stomach with his legs almost together.
"Now come here," he said, over his shoulder. Harry approached cautiously. He couldn't see Malfoy's mouth, but his cheek lifted with a hidden smile. "I just want you to touch me," Malfoy coaxed. "Sit on the bed. Long strokes, everywhere. Don't worry about pleasing me, yet. Just explore."
Trembling, Harry sat on the edge of the bed. Malfoy's body was stretched out before him in clean lines of fair skin -- skin that looked frighteningly perfect. Tentatively, Harry reached out one hand and stroked the fingers from Malfoy's shoulder to the small of his back.
"Mmm," Malfoy said. "That's right."
Emboldened, Harry opened his fingers for a longer touch, enjoying the smooth warmth of skin under his fingertips. He traced down Malfoy's sides, and then his spine, lifting his thumbs before they met the top of the cleft between his buttocks. He swallowed and stroked down Malfoy's sides again, skirting his buttocks to continue down his legs. Malfoy had nice muscles there that felt good against Harry's palm. Harry backed up and stroked down again, this time over the firm curves of Malfoy's arse. He bit off a moan.
"Is anything coming back to you?" Malfoy asked smugly.
"No," Harry answered. "But...." He couldn't quite say, you feel good.
"Straddle my thighs," Malfoy suggested, and Harry did that. He returned to his exploratory touches, but the position pulled his trousers into contact with his bollocks and the base of his cock, which was definitely responding to the activity, or possibly just the view. Malfoy moved his head slightly, brushing the back of his hair across his neck, and, impulsively, Harry leaned over and kissed there, where the soft, silver strands started.
"Mm," Malfoy said. Harry froze. The position had brought his erection against Malfoy's arse. He thought he should be jerking back, but it felt too good. Then Malfoy rocked his hips back and forth, and it felt better. Harry ground down, pressing his clothed shaft into Malfoy's crack.
"Merlin, yes!" Malfoy said. "Get those trousers off -- please, Harry."
Harry did, and they tilted to the side so he could wrap a hand around Malfoy's cock -- and god, but even that felt good -- and he rubbed up against him and pulled him off until they both came -- not together, but not awkwardly far apart.
It was brilliant.
Eventually, the silence eased into contented sighs, and then Malfoy -- Draco -- rolled over and stroked a hand over Harry's hair, following it with a kiss.
"Remembering anything?"
Harry's bliss evaporated into anxiety. He had forgotten that he was trying to be someone else. "No," he complained, and then rolled on his back to sigh up at the canopy. "Well, yes, but it was all, well physical memory. I knew certain things would please you, and how to do them, but I still don't remember doing it before." He turned his head to look at Draco. "When did we first do that? Was it like that?" Why you?
"It was...." Draco thought. "Well, we've always been good friends--"
"Always?" Harry asked skeptically.
"Since we met. Severus had brought you to Diagon Alley to get your school things, and the two of you joined my parents and me for ice cream, and you and I were the best of friends by the end of it. I was worried about Father disapproving of your mixed blood, but he reassured me, that evening, that as your mother was at least a witch, and as Severus would provide you with an appropriate developmental environment, your social status far outweighed that unfortunate blemish." Draco smirked. "Don't scowl, Harry; this is my father I'm quoting, and he was not yet aware of the breadth of your power and skill. Severus had just told him about rescuing you from those Muggles."
Harry turned the words over in his head. "The Dursleys?" he guessed.
"Exactly," Draco said darkly. "Them. Do you remember?"
"They weren't all that dangerous--"
"Harry, they were keeping you in a boot cupboard! And letting their son abuse and isolate you. And they tried to prevent you coming to Hogwarts -- they might have managed it if McGonagall hadn't told Severus about how she was running out of parchment, and it was your letter count that was rising in the ledger."
It clicked into place. Snape had come looking for him before Hagrid was sent. But it had to be more than that, didn't it? His last name was Prince.
"I don't remember that, either," Harry tried. "What happened?"
"You don't?" Draco frowned. "Maybe it affects all family?"
"I remember the Dursleys."
Draco waved that off. "I can't see that they count. They're Muggles, after all. But Severus adopted you. My father helped him move the application through before old Dumbledore found out."
"Oh."
"Of course, as Dumbledore had clearly placed you in an abusive environment -- Father saw to it that Aurors examined the house before the traces faded -- his opinion in the matter wasn't worth much after that report."
"Ah." Harry wanted to ask how Snape had kept his job after that, but that would give away that he knew more than he was letting on. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore had lost his position in the following scandal. Lucius Malfoy could certainly have developed it into a scandal. And he had been raised by Snape, and made to fully understand how much he had been wronged.
"So...." Harry's voice caught, and he had to clear his throat. "We were friends...."
"Of course! And then Severus adopted you, and you Sorted into Slytherin, which was perfect--" Draco cocked his head and lifted his eyebrows. "Well, except for you being a better Seeker than me, but that was probably for the best. Chaser is a more exciting position anyway."
"Um...." Harry was unconvinced, but Draco had apparently expected this. He smirked. "Actually, it was after a game at the end of sixth year -- when it changed, I mean. We lingered in the showers, and ended up pulling each other off -- very juvenile and clumsy and quick...." The smirk shifted briefly to something softer. "But for all that, so good that we couldn't not do it again. And we learned together -- some from first principles, and some from other sources -- but equally innocent." He leaned over and swept his tongue around the inside of Harry's ear, making Harry squirm in equal parts ticklishness and arousal. "To equally depraved," Draco whispered. "Having the experience to appreciate you as an innocent ... I can't explain what it does to me, my love."
Harry shuddered, and hoped Draco would resume his experiments.
Draco, however, pulled away. "Unfortunately," he said, "I do have an Arithmancy essay to finish."
"I don't take that, do I?"
Draco laughed. "There! Definitely not too deep. No, you use me when you need numbers work -- one of the many things that makes me indispensable to you. Here! I have an idea."
He grabbed Harry's hand and pulled him over to a desk. From the center alcove, he drew out a large box and set his wand to the top, murmuring a password. It opened to show a pile of newspaper clippings. On the top one, Harry saw a picture of Lucius Malfoy, walking in consultation with someone. "These are all articles about you. Reading them may help jog your memory."
Curious, Harry reached for the article, but Draco held his hand back. "Wait. One more thing. Top right-hand drawer, now -- the password is 'mastery', but you have to say it."
Harry suspected that Draco's friend and lover would say that word rather differently than he might. He repeated it with a confidence he didn't feel as he touch his wand to the front of the shallow drawer. It glided open to show a stack of cut parchment and a few scrolls.
"This is your current project. I've had very little to do with it, and you've been obsessing over it, so it may be a more accessible memory."
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"Project?" Draco asked.
Harry let out a breath. He wondered if he sounded as if he was laughing. Maybe that was the best way to handle it.
"Um, yeah. That was disturbing."
"Oh?"
"Apparently, I --- or, he, that is, Harry One -- was your father's protégé. He was Minister for Magic, there, by the way -- that Lucius Malfoy -- but he often advanced legislation written by Harry. That gave them both more clout, I think."
"So this was ... proposed legislation?"
"Exactly."
Draco studied Harry for a moment. "Having brought it up," he said dryly, "you might as well explain."
Harry grimaced. "Sorry. I'm not quite sure how. It was a proposal to magically damage the fertility of Muggles, but presented as an environmental measure."
Draco appeared to be trying very hard not to laugh. "Environmental?"
"Yes. As in 'save the Welsh Green! Limit Muggle encroachment on the habitat of our native magical creatures!'" Harry made a face. "The idea was to add a potion that damages female fertility to the water supply -- initially in key areas, and then extending the reach all over Britain. Snape had calculated a fifteen percent resistance rate, so the effect would be enough to reduce the population substantially in a generation, even with immigration changes. And I -- well, my analog -- had little notes in the margin: 'present as a humane means of achieving necessary population control' and so on."
Draco bit his lip. "I imagine that was disturbing for you." He hesitated. "At the risk of offending you, however, it doesn't seem like an entirely bad idea."
"Except that Muggles are human," Harry objected. "They are just as capable of abstraction and thinking about the future as witches and wizards, and this would be heartbreaking for them. And as Hermione pointed out later, we'd be messing up international politics if one nation had that sort of sudden population decline."
"But the Muggle population is too large," Draco noted.
"Right. And if we want to do something about it, why not increase the reliability of Muggle contraception? That eliminates some accidents, rather than punishing people who want children. Or we could magically enhance campaigns encouraging people to have fewer children or to limit changes in land use. But this was just playing God with potions."
Draco shrugged. "I can see your point. Anyway, what happened? Did you give yourself away?"
Harry looked away. He poured himself some wine. "Not over that," he said. "And not over the news clippings. I'd been preparing myself for something offensive, because of that Draco's jokes. He said later, though, that he'd become suspicious during sex, because I was so quiet. His Harry had been loud their first time, he said, so it shouldn't rely on memory."
"He didn't let on, though," Draco said, with a trace of pride.
Breaking into a smile, Harry finally looked at him again. "No. He had a Plan, of course, with a capital P."
"Of course," Draco answered. "So what gave you away?"
"Er..." Harry grinned. "Um, the next time he went down on me, he tried a finger up my arse...."
"And you went through the roof?"
"God, no." Harry had to close his eyes for a moment, remembering the first press of Draco One's fingers inside him. "But he decided I was far too tight to have ever...." Harry laughed uneasily. "Not that he said so then, either."
"Oh ho! Then what did he do?"
"Oh, he talked to Snape -- Headmaster Prince, rather; your father helped him claim his mother's name as part of the adoption, so I could still grow up with a proper Wizarding one. Then he led me into a trap."