Every time the holly wand touched his Mark, Draco bristled. All he could smell was rain, thick and musky as it seeped out of the ground to embrace them. In the forest, they couldn't see the castle's lights. It was easy, nestled among the trees, to forget where they were at all. They sat together on the grass, and although it was still damp, they were comfortable enough: Potter had conjured a thick crimson blanket. Potter had taken care of it. Potter took care of everything. Draco stretched out, holding his sleeve up from his Mark even though every last nerve in his body urged him not to. Never mind that it was dark out, that they both had to squint to make out the Mark's inky black form. Revealing it felt like a particularly brutal form of masochism. He had considered, more than once, cutting off his arm, but it wouldn't have mattered. The Mark was in him, in his blood, pumping through his body every time his heart beat.

"Alright?" Potter's voice came from next to him. He was on his knees, gently tracing his wand over Draco's arm. Draco sat cross-legged next to him, looking away stubbornly.

"Malfoy," Potter said, more insistent now. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he snapped.

"Did it feel any different today?"

"No."

"Mmm." Glancing over, Draco saw Potter's brows furrow. He looked as though he was considering a particularly vexing exam question. "It could be a while. The whole year, even."

"Right."

"We'll have to go a lot deeper, I think." Potter gazed up at him—feeling caught, vulnerable, exposed, Draco looked away. "Is that alright?"

"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't." Every time he lashed out like that, he shrunk in shame. But it was as though he couldn't help it. He felt very little these days other than anger, and it took almost nothing to provoke him.

"Okay." If Potter was annoyed with him, he didn't show it. And that was something else that set him off, as well. Potter was so complacent, so unbothered. As usual, Draco felt bested by him: he had been brave enough to face the Dark Lord, had sacrificed himself, had come back to save them all, and now he was unfazed by Draco's snide remarks. Maladaptive and self-sabotaging as always, Draco wanted desperately to find some way of throwing him off course. But nothing he said seemed to make a difference.

"I'm going in now, alright? Three...two...one..."

Draco braced himself as best he could, but it never seemed to matter. Potter's forays into his memory were an onslaught. His Mark burned, and he tried to wrench his arm away, but Potter held him tightly. He peeled through the layers of memories so quickly that Draco felt dizzy. He suspected that Potter found the entire thing just as unpleasant, and that he wanted to get it over with as quickly as he could. The previous two times, Potter had limited himself to rather benign memories: Draco watching as the Dark Lord settled into the Manor, establishing his childhood home as his new headquarters; Draco using his mother's wand, reluctant to take it from her and yet needing to protect himself. Now, however, he dug deeper, unfolding various memories before he stumbled upon a scene at the Manor.

It was springtime. His parents were indoors, preparing the dining hall for another meeting. Draco, foolishly, had decided to meander outdoors, if only for a bit of fresh air. And that was when he came across Travers and Macnair. They were whispering angrily to each other; Draco couldn't hear them. But that didn't matter, anyway, because suddenly Travers had pointed his wand at Macnair and shouted, "Crucio!" Instantly, Macnair was on the ground, shrieking, writhing in pain, and the faint sounds of conversation coming from the dining hall ended abruptly...and Draco, horrified, tripped backwards, heart pounding, incapable of peeling his eyes off Macnair's face as he wheezed in agony...

"You're lucky you have pure blood, Macnair," Travers spat, towering over him. Draco tripped on the paving and Travers turned; as he caught sight of Draco, he frowned, and raised his wand...

Suddenly, mercifully, he heard Potter muttering to himself...and then the scene before them crumbled into a hundred little pieces, tearing at the seams, Travers' face disintegrating...

Draco gulped in the thick, humid air as he was yanked forward. He nearly retched. As best he could, he tried to focus on anything else but the nausea rolling through him: Potter's hand on his back, the musky petrichor permeating the air, the quiet, soothing sounds Potter was making. Better. Better. As his heart settled, he fumbled around for something he could touch, and came upon the thick blanket beneath him. He was in the forest. He was in the forest with Potter. He was not...he was not...where had he been before this?

"I can't remember," he said hoarsely. "Whatever we just saw. I can't remember. I mean, I can sort of..." Draco squeezed his eyes tightly. "If I really think, I can see the outlines. And I think I can hear someone...but not really. Was it...was it about...?"

"Travers," Potter said. "And Macnair."

"What were they doing?"

"I dunno...you sort of crept up on them," Potter said, shifting nervously. "And Travers was torturing Macnair, and he said something about...about being pure-blood, I dunno..."

That word. Pure-blood. Every time he heard it, Draco felt faint. That silly little word contained within it everything that had set his parents off on the course to ruin their family. He couldn't hear it without recoiling, his stomach tying itself up in knots. Aware that Potter was staring at him, a peculiar look on his face, Draco forced himself to croak out, "I can't remember anymore."

"That's good," Potter said. "That's really good. Does it look different at all?"

Draco peeked down at his Mark. As far as he could tell in the dark, there was no change. He shook his head and yanked down his sleeve.

"We've got loads more to do," Potter was saying. "It'll work."

"Yeah." Although he was still dizzy, Draco couldn't stand the thought of Potter comforting him for a moment longer. He rose unsteadily to his feet, pushing Potter's hand away as he reached out for him. "I'm fine. Gonna go...go to the castle."

"Right." Potter was at his side at once, Vanishing the blanket. "Go get some sleep. I'm free this time next week."

"No. Tuesday."

"What?" Potter looked up at him sharply. "That's too soon. You need time in-between, to rest."

"I said I'm fine," Draco snapped, hating himself for it. He had the self-control of a child these days. "Tuesday. Alright?"

Unmoved as ever, Potter shrugged. "Fine. I'll see you then."

Once again, Draco found himself off-kilter as Potter refused to engage him. This was maddening. Still dizzy from having his memory picked through and then erased, Draco struggled with the anger and the irritation boiling just beneath his skin. He wanted to argue with Potter, to fight, to hit him or shove him around a bit, anything to work through the rage. But Potter simply stood there, blinking at him. Incensed, Draco stormed off back to the castle, not checking to see if Potter followed.

***

Pansy huddled close to Draco as she sipped her cup of tea. They sat together on a stone bench by Greenhouse One, watching as a group of Gryffindors trickled by. Draco was supposed to be reading through the third chapter of The Standard Book of Spells Year Seven.

"They're so little," Pansy mused as one of the boys tripped on his cloak. "They make me feel old."

Draco scoffed. "You're hardly geriatric."

"Still. How are we eighteen already? You don't feel like the time just flew by?"

"Not really." He flipped through a few pages and sighed. "Have you finished this paper?"

"Which? For Flitwick?" Pansy frowned at him. "Of course I have. It's revision."

Draco shrugged. "I've read this chapter twice now, and I still can't remember anything."

"Well, maybe you need a break. And anyway, you're supposed to be telling me all the gossip."

"The gossip?" He snorted. "What is there to tell? Everyone's as boring this year as they are every year."

She made a face at him. "Very funny." They were quiet for a moment as two Ravenclaw girls passed by. They were loudly discussing a friend of theirs who had set his parchment on fire in Charms. "Alright, then," Pansy said, turning to him. She spoke in that businesslike tone Draco had come to fear. "I've got a bit of gossip we can discuss. Where are you disappearing to at night?"

These were the moments when Draco was grateful for the training he had received under his father's tutelage. He kept his face carefully disinterested, following the two girls as they wound up the path. In a bored tone, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"For three nights now, Blaise hasn't been able to find you."

"He can't find me?" Playing stupid, Draco glanced over at her, confused. "What does he need me for?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. "He doesn't need you for anything. It's just...he wakes up, and you're not in bed."

"I've probably just gone to the loo."

"But he waits ages for you to get back. And you never do."

Draco shook his head. "I don't know what to tell you. Maybe he's dreaming?"

"Maybe," Pansy said doubtfully. "You're sure you're not going anywhere?"

"You never know." Draco turned back to his textbook. "Maybe I'm sneaking off every night to get buggered around the castle."

He smirked as Pansy choked on her tea. "I didn't mean it like that," she gasped, beating her chest as she coughed. "God, Draco."

"Oh, really? What else could you have meant?"

"I don't know!" Clearing her throat one last time, she said, "I just thought...it would be nice, you know. If you did find someone."

"Pansy," he said drily, "nobody here is lining up to have a turn with a former Death Eater."

"Not just former," she said at once, as she always did. "Defected. You saw what the Prophet wrote about you and your mother." She hesitated, and then asked in a quiet voice, "How is she, by the way? Your mother?"

"I don't know." Draco avoided her eyes, wishing they could go back to their previous discussion of what he got up to at night. "Fine, I guess. I think my parents' marriage is in shambles, though."

"Isn't everyone's?" Pansy muttered.

"Meaning what?"

"I don't know," she sighed. "It's just odd, now that everything's over. A lot of people, a lot of families, are falling apart, now that they've..."

"Lost?" Draco supplied.

"I guess so." She looked down at her half-finished cup of tea. "We were never involved, not really. But after what I said last year...I don't know, it's...I still feel like everyone..."

"You're fine." Draco reached out and held her wrist. "You spoke to Potter, right?"

"I did. And he said it's alright. But that's just him, isn't it? That's the way he is." Pansy gave a loud sniff. "Actually, he didn't really seem to want to talk about it at all."

"Right." Uncomfortable, Draco pretended to suddenly become interested in his book again.

"And what about you? Did you ever talk to him, after your trial?"

"Who? Potter? Ah...yeah. I guess." Avoiding her eyes, Draco looked out at the grounds. Already, the trees were changing: the giant oaks had turned the most brilliant shades of orange, red, and yellow, the pines had begun their gradual shift to a darker green, and the birches were ornamented with strips of peeling bark. In his mind, autumn always meant the start of a new school year. It would be very odd, next year, not boarding the Hogwarts Express come September.

Aware that Pansy was staring at him, he gave a short cough. "It was fine. I think you're right. I think he just wants to forget all of it. Can you blame him?"

"Of course not," she said promptly. Since the Battle, Pansy had been very careful about toeing the line when it came to Potter. "I just thought he might have said something, you know, about what your mother did, or what happened at the Manor."

"Nobody wants to rehash that old rubbish," he said. Before Pansy could press the issue, Draco snapped his book shut. "Let's get inside. It's cold out here."

She looked as though she wanted to argue, but Draco turned away. Pansy was absolutely relentless in insisting that the events of the last two years had not played out as he remembered them. But she was wrong. In some places his memory was already crumbling, but even through the rubble he could piece together truly awful remnants. Pansy's unwavering trust in him was the bedrock of their friendship, and to splinter that trust would leave them...where? He didn't know. So he forced a smile onto his face and pretended that everything was fine.

***

If the dense darkness of the forest was disconcerting, Draco drew comfort from the familiar sound of dried leaves skittering together as the wind whipped through the branches. To his mind, the leaves sounded like hundreds of ghosts whispering together, discussing the scene unfolding on the forest floor: he and Potter, sat as closely together as they dared, Potter examining his arm while he stubbornly looked away. He wondered what the forest thought of their intrusions.

"Does that hurt?" Potter asked him, rubbing his thumb along Draco's Mark.

It did hurt, of course—the pain was like an icy jolt, ripping through his skin. But Draco grit his teeth and shook his head.

"I'll wait a bit, give you time to adjust."

"Get on with it, would you?" Lashing out at Potter should have made it better, but instead he felt worse. He looked away as Potter pressed his wand against his Mark, twisting the tip so that it dug into his flesh. Draco nearly gasped from the fresh stab of pain.

"Right. Here we go." Potter took a deep breath, and then, "Three...two...one..."

Draco was shrouded in darkness. He could hardly see his hands as he slid them down the door, reaching for the knob. Slowly, very slowly, he opened the door just a crack. Just enough to hear the conversation downstairs. Several people were shouting—he heard his father bark at someone to sit down. Heart racing, Draco strained to hear, but there was no need, because the Dark Lord's voice cut through the din.

"We have a guest."

Jeering, laughing, taunting. They had a Muggleborn in the dining hall. Draco abruptly pulled back and made to shut the door, but it was too late—even though he had been expecting it, he jumped at the sound of the shriek cutting through the Manor. Whoever it was, they were begging...begging to be allowed to live, and then begging to be killed quickly, painlessly...

Draco felt Potter's hand on his back as he retched onto the grass. Nothing came up. The scream still echoed in his ears, but it was already fainter, as though slowly siphoning down into a funnel. Draco pressed his palms into his eyes and tried to recall what he had just seen. After a moment, he let out a deep breath.

"I-I don't remember. Not really. It's...it's just about gone."

"I'm going to check your Mark. Alright?"

He nodded. Potter pushed up his sleeve, examining his arm. Draco flinched as he felt warm fingertips brush against his skin.

"It's paler, I think," Potter said quietly. "But I can't be sure. What do you think?"

Draco pulled his hands away from his face and glanced at the Mark. His heart stopped. It was a bit fuzzier than it had been—the outline was blurred, as though someone had rubbed at the inky lines. As calmly as he could, Draco said, "Yeah. It looks...better."

"Lumos."

Draco winced as Potter's wand suddenly came alight. "Fuck off, Potter," he growled, throwing an arm over his eyes.

"Sorry...sorry..." But Potter was hardly paying attention to him. Instead, his eyes were roving over the Mark. "It's definitely less solid. Definitely."

"Yeah." Uncomfortable, Draco pried his arm away. As he pulled down his sleeve, Potter seemed to come to his senses. Abashed, he extinguished his wand, casting them again into darkness. Draco didn't know what to do. He was still too lightheaded to stand up and head back to the castle, but he had no interest in sitting with Potter longer than necessary.

"How do you feel?"

Draco rubbed at his forearm. "Alright."

"Your Mark hurts?"

"A bit."

"Sorry."

"It's fine." Another flash of anger shot through him. He couldn't stand Potter's sympathy. He just couldn't. Still dizzy, Draco forced himself up. His knees nearly buckled, sending him wobbling dangerously in Potter's direction, but he managed to right himself.

Potter fumbled to steady him in the dark. "Malfoy, careful!" he warned. "You need to sit down."

Draco couldn't even bring himself to reply. If he opened his mouth, he might be sick. He pulled his cloak tightly around himself and strode back to the castle. As he walked, he tried to recall the memory that had just been stripped away from his consciousness. A scream was still ringing in his ears; perhaps he would never be rid of it. Maybe it had permanently marked him. He no longer remembered who it belonged to—perhaps he had never known—but it was etched into his soul, preserved there among the other marks he couldn't seem to shake.

***

He never had much to say during Transfiguration. Pansy and Blaise kept up a constant stream of conversation, nattering on about their relatives in far-flung places. For his part, Draco listened absently, watching as the mouse he had transfigured from a toad sat atop his textbook and groomed itself. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his crossed arms, as the little gray mouse wiped its face. Carefully, Draco held out his hand; despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch as the mouse sniffed along his palm.

"Draco, you'll be coming with us this summer, won't you?" Pansy's voice startled him. He glanced up at her, annoyed, and then looked back at the mouse, hoping they would ignore him if he didn't respond. No such luck. "We'll all be staying by the Elbe."

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

"Last time we holidayed in Germany, we couldn't have been older than seven or eight," he heard Blaise say. "My mother was dating that awful man. God, I hated him. What was his name? The one with the beard."

"He was awful," Pansy agreed. "So rude. I don't know why your mother kept him around."

"He had loads of money. Worked abroad, some sort of shady business with broomsticks...I can't remember his name, though, it's on the tip of my tongue..."

Draco rolled his eyes. The mouse was scurrying down the side of his textbook and onto the desk. Pulling back his elbow, Draco granted it access to the parchment on which he had been writing his notes. It started to nibble the corner. "Are you hungry?" he murmured, reaching out to stroke it. Its short, bristly hairs were rough against his fingers.

"We'll be going to the theatre," Pansy went on. "My father's gotten us all tickets." Draco grimaced. Pansy, catching sight of him, said quickly, "Don't worry. He's sure your mother will be able to leave the country by then. Everyone says so."

"Yeah."

"There we are!" Blaise sat back happily, watching as the white mouse he had just transfigured darted across his desk.

"Careful," Draco grumbled, picking up his own mouse and placing it on his other arm, away from Blaise's.

"But I don't think we'll spend the whole summer in Germany," Pansy said. Her toad sat before her, croaking softly. "Do you, Blaise?"

"I doubt it. I know my mother wants to see some family in Malta...I hope we