Fragments of Memory
Three days had passed since Harry brought Malfoy to Grimmauld Place, and a strange sort of routine had begun to settle between them. Harry left for the Ministry each morning at eight, while Malfoy remained hidden away in the old house, emerging only when Harry was gone. The tension of knowing Malfoy was there—lurking in the rooms that held so many memories—never quite left him, even when he was buried in work at his desk.
The workday dragged on, filled with paperwork and the usual monotony of Ministry life, but Harry’s thoughts constantly drifted back to Grimmauld Place. He wondered if Malfoy had remembered anything new, if another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. But he forced himself to focus, shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind until he could get back home.
By the time Harry returned to Grimmauld Place that evening, the sky had darkened, and the chill of winter hung in the air. He stepped into the entryway, the old house swallowing him up in its familiar shadows. Kreacher appeared with his customary bow, and Harry nodded to him in acknowledgment, already glancing down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Master Draco is in the kitchen, sir,” Kreacher rasped, a hint of warmth coloring the words.
Harry made his way toward the kitchen, finding the usual scene: parchments scattered across the table, filled with Malfoy’s tight, precise handwriting. As always, Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, having retreated to the far end of the kitchen while Kreacher busied himself with dinner preparations.
He picked up one of the parchments, scanning the latest notes Malfoy had left. More fragments of memory, more clues that hinted at the nature of his research and the questions his captor had demanded answers to. Harry frowned as he read through them, trying to piece together the disjointed thoughts. He was so focused on the notes that he almost didn’t hear Malfoy’s voice behind him.
“Potter,” Malfoy’s voice broke through his concentration. Harry looked up to see him standing near the doorway, his expression guarded as always. “Take all that to the dining room.”
Harry blinked, glancing between Malfoy and the spread of notes on the table. “Why?”
Before Malfoy could respond, Kreacher spoke up, his voice carrying a note of formality. “Dinner will be served shortly, Master Harry,” the elf announced, shooting a look toward Malfoy that almost seemed... approving.
Malfoy gave a faint, humorless smile. “We’ll go through the notes over dinner. Might as well make it a proper discussion.”
Harry felt a flicker of irritation at being told what to do in his own home, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he gathered the parchments into a stack and followed Malfoy into the dining room.
As he entered the dining room and moved to set the notes down on the table, Harry paused, frowning as he scanned the room. Something was off, a small detail that he couldn’t quite place at first. Then it hit him. “Where’s the mirror that used to hang there?” he asked, nodding toward the space above the sideboard, which now stood bare.
Malfoy, already seated and reaching for his glass of water, glanced up with a mild frown. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Potter.”
Harry narrowed his eyes, wondering if Malfoy was being deliberately evasive. “It’s been there since I moved in. Did you take it?”
Before Malfoy could respond, Kreacher stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Master Harry, Kreacher took it down to clean it. It was filthy, sir,” he rasped, his voice as even and measured as always.
Harry shot him a curious look, but something in Kreacher’s manner dissuaded him from pressing the matter. It wasn’t like the elf to take initiative, but then again, things had been far from normal lately. He shrugged it off, turning back to the table. “Right. Well, just put it back when you’re done.”
Kreacher gave a slight bow, his gaze lingering on Malfoy for a moment before he turned back to Harry. “I will bring dinner shortly, Master Harry,” he said, his voice gruff but carrying a note of formality. With that, he slipped out of the room, leaving Harry and Malfoy alone.
Harry sat down across from Malfoy, setting the pile of notes on the table between them. He met Malfoy’s guarded gaze and tapped the top of the stack. “You said you’d give me all the details, so... let’s hear them.”
Malfoy’s expression hardened slightly, and he gestured toward the scattered parchments. “Most of it is already written down. It’s all there—what I remember, the questions he kept asking, the things I noticed.”
Harry shook his head, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the edge of the table. “I still need to hear it from you. This is an investigation, even if it’s off the record. And I’m going to treat it like one.”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, a faint glimmer of something unreadable crossing his face. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as if weighing Harry’s words. Then, after a moment, he exhaled sharply through his nose, nodding. “Fine. But first, you have to promise me something.”
Harry frowned, his suspicion immediately on high alert. “What?”
Malfoy’s gaze turned steely, his voice low and unwavering. “You don’t tell anyone I’m here. Not Weasley, not Granger. No one. Not until I say otherwise.”
A shadow of reluctance flickered across Harry’s face. “That’s a lot to ask, Malfoy. Ron and Hermione—they could help.”
Malfoy’s jaw tightened, and he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “This won’t be forever, Potter. Just until we know who we can trust. It’s not just for my sake—it’s for theirs too. You don’t know how far this reaches, and until we do, the less they’re involved, the better.”
Harry hesitated, the weight of his words settling heavily on his shoulders. He thought of Ron’s unwavering loyalty, Hermione’s relentless logic—how they’d both throw themselves into this mess with him without a second thought. But the thought of putting them at risk, of dragging them into a web of unknown dangers, held him back.
After a long moment, Harry let out a slow breath and nodded. “Alright. I won’t tell them... for now.”
Malfoy’s eyes sharpened, his expression serious. “Not until we both agree it’s the right time, Potter. This has to be a mutual decision.”
Harry held his gaze, weighing the demand, and then finally gave a reluctant nod. “Fine. Not until we both agree.”
Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a battered quill, setting it down alongside the parchment on the table. He leaned forward, focusing on Malfoy with a sharp, assessing gaze. “You obliviated yourself. Do you have any idea when was the last memory you erased?”
Malfoy’s expression tightened, and he drummed his fingers lightly against the edge of the table, as if trying to steady himself. “I started erasing memories dating back to 2001,” he said evenly.
Harry’s brow furrowed, the surprise evident in his voice. “That far back? What you found must have been dangerous enough to make you erase nearly seven years of your life.”
Malfoy gave a tight, humorless smile. “Turns out I had a knack for Obliviation. I perfected it while working in the Department of Mysteries. Learned how to target specific memories—erase only what I wanted without turning my brain to mush.” His expression grew distant, the tension in his posture easing just slightly. “It’s disorienting, sure... like walking through a fog. But I managed. I can still function even if some things are just... missing.”
Harry watched him closely, quill poised over the parchment, before narrowing in on the key detail. “If you started erasing memories from 2001, what were you doing before then? That could give us a clue—maybe even a direction for what came next.”
Malfoy’s brow arched, and a flicker of surprise crossed his features. “You know, Potter, I’m almost impressed. The bastard never asked me the right questions, but you’re getting closer already.”
Harry snorted, but a hint of satisfaction flashed in his eyes. “I am an Auror, Malfoy. Investigating things like this is my job.”
Malfoy leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk. “It’s still a mystery to me how you managed to become an Auror, though, considering you were absolute rubbish at Potions. I remember you barely managing to keep your cauldron from exploding.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but there was a faint, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Somehow, I got by without your constant critique, Malfoy.”
Malfoy's smirk softened, just a touch, but there was a glint in his eyes. “Yes, well, let’s hope your investigative skills are better than your brewing, for both our sakes.”
Harry shook his head, but there was a momentary ease in the tension between them, a glimpse of something lighter amid the weight of their circumstances. He tapped the quill against the parchment, bringing them back to the matter at hand. “Alright, then,” Harry said, his tone sharpening with focus. “What were you doing before those memories were destroyed? You said it started in 2001—what was going on before that?”
Malfoy’s expression grew contemplative, as if sorting through foggy recollections. “I remember finishing my thesis. It was about emotion manipulation... but that wasn’t the original plan.” He paused, a faint frown creasing his brow.
Harry jotted down the notes quickly, then glanced up at Malfoy. “Explain this thesis of yours—about emotion manipulation. What exactly did you discover?”
Malfoy leaned forward slightly, his expression growing more animated, despite the shadows lingering beneath his eyes. “It’s... think of it like a Calming Draught, but more targeted. Instead of ingesting a potion, you’d cast a spell to regulate your emotional state. If you need to be alert, you could sharpen your focus. If you need to calm yourself, you could turn down the dial on your anxiety. Dimming anger, amplifying joy... it’s all about adjusting the balance.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. “That’s... really interesting. Why wasn’t that your original thesis then? Sounds like a breakthrough.”
Malfoy’s gaze turned thoughtful, his fingers drumming absently against the tabletop. “I don’t remember the details of my original paper—I made sure of that when I erased it. But I’ve been thinking... if I take into account the thesis I do remember as a starting point, then I think my original research could have been about something even more ambitious.”
Harry arched a brow, leaning in slightly. “Go on.”
Malfoy hesitated for a moment, as if weighing how much to share, but then he spoke, his words slow and deliberate. “The paper I remember was focused on controlling emotions, like I said. But if I think about what fascinated me back then—about the gaps in our understanding—I think my original paper aimed to explore the emotional component of memories. Not just manipulating how someone feels in the present, but understanding how emotions are woven into the memories themselves.”
Malfoy’s eyes took on a brighter gleam, a trace of passion coming through as he spoke. “Most people think they decide their actions logically, that they weigh facts and make choices with their heads. But that’s not entirely true. In reality, emotions drive nearly everything we do. You feel hungry, you eat. You feel threatened, you fight or flee. But it’s not just survival instincts—it’s more complex than that.”
He spoke faster now, words spilling out with an enthusiasm that Harry had rarely seen in him. “Take memories, for example. The strongest ones, the ones you can recall with vivid detail, are almost always tied to some sort of emotion—fear, joy, guilt. It’s not the memory itself that lingers, but the way it made you feel. And if you can control the emotions tied to those memories, you can influence how a person perceives an experience. Not rewriting the memory, but changing how it feels.”
Harry listened intently, trying to keep up. He wasn’t used to hearing Malfoy speak like this—so animated, so deeply invested. “So... you’re saying that if you change how someone feels about a memory, you could change their behavior?”
Malfoy nodded, a faint, almost eager light in his eyes. “Exactly. Think about it—if you could take the fear out of a traumatic memory, you could help someone heal from it. Or if you could remove the attachment to a harmful habit, you could help them break free from it. But…”
Malfoy’s words trailed off, the spark of enthusiasm dimming as his thoughts shifted. He hesitated, as if reluctant to voice what came next, but Harry pressed him with a single word. “But?”
Malfoy’s expression grew darker, a crease forming between his brows. “But... if someone had the knowledge and the skill, they could twist it into something dangerous. They could take a memory of joy, of love, and turn it into something that disgusts you. Make you recoil from something you once cherished. Or they could manipulate a traumatic memory, not to heal but to amplify the fear—control you through your own past.”
He leaned back, a shadow passing over his face. “It would be subtle, insidious. Unlike the Imperius Curse, the person wouldn’t even know they’d been manipulated. They’d believe their feelings were their own, that they’d always felt that way. Imagine what someone with power could do with that—how they could shape a person’s entire perception of reality, without them even realizing it.”
Harry absorbed that, his jaw tightening as the implications sank in. He could see the potential—and the threat—in Malfoy’s words. A spell like that could change everything, turning trust into fear, hope into despair, all without a trace. “You think you were trying to understand how to do that? To control the emotions tied to memories?”
Malfoy nodded, a shadow passing over his expression, tempering the earlier enthusiasm.
Harry’s expression grew more intent, his focus zeroing in on Malfoy’s face. “But why would you keep going with something like that if you knew how dangerous it was? Why risk it?”
Malfoy’s mouth snapped shut, his gaze dropping to the table. For a long moment, he was silent, his jaw clenching as if struggling against words he didn’t want to say. But he didn’t have to. Harry saw the way Malfoy’s hands trembled slightly, the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes.
Then it clicked.
“Greg,” Harry said quietly, the realization settling over him. “You did it to help Goyle. That’s why you kept going, even when you knew what it could become.”
Malfoy’s shoulders tensed, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t look up, but the silence that filled the space between them spoke volumes. Harry didn’t push further—he knew better than most what it meant to make impossible choices for the sake of someone you cared about. If it had been Ron or Hermione lying broken in St. Mungo’s, he knew he wouldn’t have hesitated, no matter the risks.
They sat there, unspoken understanding passing between them, the room growing still. The only sound was the crackle of the fire in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls.