Okay so what if Harryâs just different after the war. But itâs not the different people would expect. Itâs not trauma and pain and silence and loss ⌠Itâs this strange sort of normality, where heâs Harry ⌠but not quite Harry.
At first Draco canât pinpoint what it is. He can see Granger and Weasley havenât figured it out either, from the way the former always has a little worried half frown when she sees Harry joking or laughing with that slightly wrong expression. Weasley on the other hand seems to be hurt by Harryâs ability to carry on life like none of it had ever happened. His face darkens when Harry casually skips past mentions of the brother he lost and Draco canât help thinking the behaviour is very ⌠un-Harry.
It takes him two months to figure it out. Two months of watching Harry - watching almost everyone around him accept this new smiling, laughing - shallow Potter. Itâs not just that heâs happy ⌠he doesnât have the same sarcastic quips. He doesnât eat his food so fast youâd think someone was about to take it from him. He doesnât have that same razor awareness of his surroundings ⌠he barely ever catches Draco watching him.
Itâs the fact that they share a common room now that leads him to the secret. He sees Harry come out of his room one night, sadness floating across his face in a way Draco hasnât seen all year - that depth of world weariness in his eyes. Heâs got his cloak over his arm and the moment he leaves the room, Draco slips into his bedroom, determined to find whatever it was that had brought back a trace of the old Harry.
It takes half an hour of searching and multiple spells before he finds the chest hidden inside the window seat. He hesitates before opening it. He doesnât really have any right to be spying on Harry ⌠but this isnât Harry. Not really. And he needs to know why.
When he cracks it open, he just stares, breath caught in his throat. Itâs bottles ⌠hundreds of tiny bottles, each glowing blue with a whisp of curling memory. He picks one up to read the tiny tag.
The words make his breath catch.
Punishment for ruining shirt. Iron burns. 8 yo
He puts it down as though itâs burned him and picks up another.
Locked in cupboard. Three days. No toilet. 7 yo
He feels bile rising is his throat as he picks up another.
Dropped breakfast. Ate off floor. 4 yo (?)
He scans the bottles. There are twenty or thirty of similar ages and he feels a horrified shock running through him. He wonders distantly if Weasley and Granger know this. Then he looks again at the bottles, more labels jump out at him.
Burned Quirrelâs face - first meeting with V. 11 yo
Accused by school. Spat at and hexed. 12 yo
Hunted by Basilisk. Bitten. Thought I would die. 12 yo
Draco feels a gut wrenching sadness run through him as he looks over the bottles. There are so many more. Years worth. He sees a larger one, the size of his clenched fist and picks it up, cradling it. At least twenty memories swirl around inside, mingling and then separating.
The tag simply reads, Sirius.
Heâs sitting there when Harry comes back. The bottles are placed neatly around him and heâs seen the spread of Harryâs fear and doubt and sadness and loss and pain. He feels paralyzed by the magnitude of it.
When Harry asks what heâs doing, he doesnât look up from the tiny vial in his hand.
The tag reads, My death, seventeen years old.
Harry doesnât shout or hex him or do anything Draco would expect. Instead he picks his way through the bottles to sit down beside Draco, leaning back against the wall.
âItâs better this way,â he murmurs.
Draco does look over then, and Harryâs face has that look heâs had all year. And Draco realises why it bothers him so much. This is Harry without his childhood, without the trials heâs overcome, without the losses that have shaped and forged him. He still has shadows of the memories, sure, but he doesnât feel them anymore.
âItâs not better,â he says, voice intense, not even questioning why he so suddenly needs to convince the boy in front of him.
Harry frowns then, breaks Dracoâs gaze. âIt hurts too much to hold all of that,â He gestures at the bottles that litter the floor and his voice holds a trace of bitterness.
Draco doesnât know what to say to that. Who is he to ask Harry Potter - Saviour of the Wizarding World - to live with the trauma the wizarding world forced on him.
Then he thinks of the bottles he could make - the memories he could shed. He thinks of the Mind Healer his mother arranged for him over the summer break. He rubs his forearm absently as he thinks of tears and rage and shame ⌠and the beginnings of healing.
He looks across at Harry. âThis,â he says with the same gesture at the bottles. âAll of this - is you. You overcame it. You grew from it. You learned from it. You - you probably wouldnât have done what you did without it.â
He looks down at the bottle he still holds.
âRemembering is hard,â he says looking across at the bottles marked Sirius, Fred, Lupin, Dobby, Hedwig. He remembers what the Healer told him as heâd mourned his father.
âForgetting the bad bits though, means you forget the good as well ⌠it means you forget the person.â He looks at Harry and sees the same sadness from earlier echoed in his eyes.
âI know itâs none of my business, but I donât think you should forget them.â
Harry reaches out with shaking fingers to stroke over each of the bottles in turn. âIâm scared to remember,â he whispers.
Draco looks at him and the words are on his lips before he can think.
âI could help you?â he offers.
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