Chapter Text
Opening song:
Living On Memories of You by Dolly Parton
My days are as dark as my nights
And I see no sunshine in sight
Your memory keeps blocking my view
And I’m living on memories of you
Can’t eat when I’m hungry
Can’t sleep when I’m tired
And all of these tears
Can’t put out this fire
Your memory just won’t turn me loose
And I’m living on memories of you.
~*~
Silently, she pulled her dress over her head, stepped carefully into her knee-high boots, and wrapped her over-large coat around her shoulders. She cast a spell to keep her movements muffled as she slipped through the door, taking one last look at the man she was leaving behind.
In a moment, she was on the dark and deserted streets of London—the sidewalks wet and sparkling under the street lamps from a rain that had passed through hours ago. The sun wouldn’t be up for another hour—the city slept on and it felt like she had the entirety of it to herself.
Gathering her coat more tightly around her waist, she made her way down the abandoned streets. It wasn’t a night for a quick apparition but for a slow walk of self-reflection.
She walked somewhat aimlessly, her arms wrapped around herself, reliving every moment of her evening. She felt both wonderfully overwhelmed with how exquisite she had felt and haunted that it would never happen again. It couldn’t happen again.
Still, she kept a small, secret smile across her lips as she remembered—his hand curled against the base of her skull, the possessive feeling of his arm wrapped around her waist, the sound he made, almost in relief, when their lips finally met.
She walked and walked, the lights of the night fading as the clouds began to lighten to the east. She turned and walked away from the light, heading west toward a park on a hill not far from her flat, hurrying a little to catch a clear view of the sunrise.
The orange light of dawn was nearly neon as it broke above the skyline. The gleaming rays notched up and down over the high rises of the city. The first light of the day lit the city on fire—and so too, her heart.
She knew she would continue to burn, especially after last night. Her heart would smoke and char and crack in the heat of the memories. But she would let it burn and burn until the fire turned to embers.
All she could keep were the ashes.
That, and her memories.
***
07:37, SATURDAY. SEPTEMBER 20, 2008.
Draco woke slowly, feeling as though his head was filled with a swarm of bees. He rolled onto his back, cracking his eyes slightly open. Soft morning light was creeping up the white-washed walls—the worn wooden beams, still dark, criss-crossed over the ceiling like tattersall.
“Gods, I slept great,” was Draco’s first thought, closely followed by, “What is that delightful smell?”
His next thought, more lucid this time, was simply, “Where the hell am I?”
His eyes fully opened, and he tilted his head up to look around the room, taking in the scene around him. The bed was mussed, his various items of clothing strewn haphazardly about the room as though he had taken them off in a rush.
He heard the sounds of a bustling kitchen below him, and he suddenly realized where he was.
A room above the Leaky Cauldron.
He scooted up the bed, fully sitting up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with the heel of his hand and letting the dizziness of his head subside. It was around this moment that he noticed he was completely nude. His body felt unusually sated and relaxed.
I…got laid? He looked around the room more carefully now, looking for any indications as to what the hell had happened the night before. Pulling on his briefs, he entered Auror mode, assessing the room for clues.
All of the clothing laid about the room belonged to him. The adjoining bath was empty. No note. No sign that another person had been there at all besides his lack of clothing and a satisfied feeling deep in his gut.
Shrugging, he pulled on his trousers. This wouldn’t be the first time he had had a drunken one-night stand. Though, it would certainly be the first time he had absolutely no memory of it. He wasn’t one to black out when he drank, not even when he tried to match Theo or Blaise shot for shot.
Memories, distorted and disjointed, began to take shape in his mind. He had been at the Leaky Cauldron last night for a work party celebrating Robards' retirement. The place had been packed with Ministry employees from the DMLE, Potter and his swarm of sycophants—Weasley, Weasley's brother, George. He also recalled a few Unspeakables—at least, he thought he had seen Luna Lovegood there, and he definitely remembered Theo buying him a round.
*
Draco arrived fashionably late, on the cusp of rudeness, heading first to hand off a fine bottle of scotch to Robards. After a respectable amount of glad-handing, he bellied up at the bar next to his reluctant ally, Harry Potter.
They exchanged a tense hello. The serial killer the papers were calling the Brighton Beach Butcher hadn’t struck in several weeks and they both were feeling on edge—waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The killer had been targeting Muggles in their 20s and 30s, exclusively women, primarily Caucasian, typically students or young professionals. The killer, presumably male, dumped their bodies on the beach near the Brighton Palace Pier.
The victims’ cause of death was currently undetermined, other than categorized as magical, even after bringing in an expert from the Department of Mysteries. No signs of spell damage, no traces of potions, poisons, or other foreign bodies, not even a clean avada. All they had determined was that these young, healthy victims showed signs of a heart attack.
Given the general lack of harm done to the bodies, the moniker Butcher would not make sense, except that the killer wrapped the naked corpses in brown paper and twine the way a butcher packaged raw meat.
Magical serial killers attacking Muggles with dead bodies repeatedly turning up in Muggle spaces caused a huge coordination headache with the DMLE and the Obliviation Department in the Improper Use of Magic Office. Potter had been caught in the middle of that effort while Draco and his partner focused on finding the killer in consultation with the Department of Mysteries top Unspeakable.
At the bar, Potter had ordered a couple of shots and slid one over to Draco. They both silently threw them back, then talked business.
“How’d that last lead from Proudfoot turn out?” Potter had tersely asked.
“Dead end.” Draco had responded curtly.
“A lot of those lately.”
Draco had simply nodded, then gestured to Tom for two pints.
“I thought we’d have made more progress now that—”
Draco’s memory suddenly turned fuzzy—he could remember Potter’s face as he spoke, but the words were muffled—as though mumbled through several layers of thick glass.
After a moment, the memory in his mind turned clear again.
“Don’t worry, Potter. We’ll get him, of that I’m certain.” He slid over one of the glasses Tom had set down. “Oh, and have a pint on me. After all, this is as much a celebration for you as it is Robards’ retirement.”
“Cheers, Malfoy.”
Draco watched as Potter left to join his merry band of minions, passing by Theo who was heading his way. Theo turned to admire Potter’s backside for a moment, and Draco rolled his eyes, returning to his beverage.
Instead of a greeting, Theo launched straight into it, slamming his hand down on the bar for emphasis. “That’s it! I am convinced. I fucking knew that was Potter under polyjuice.” He signaled to Tom for three shots of firewhiskey, settling next to Draco.
“Alright, go on, then. What’s your newest conspiracy theory, Theo?” He nodded in thanks to Tom while Theo was busy pretending not to watch Potter but definitely doing nothing but watch Potter.
“Not a conspiracy. Not this time.” Theo tossed back one of the shots, then slid another to Draco. “I’m now certain that it was Potter at the club in Soho last Friday.”
Draco snorted. “You think Harry Potter, father of two—”
“ —recently divorced father of two,” Theo corrected.
“—Head Auror and second in command of the entire DMLE—the fucking Chosen One—let you give him a sloppy blowie in the toilet of a gay bar while in disguise.”
“No. I don’t think that. I know that. Or at least, I’m about—” he tipped his head side to side as he considered “—99.7 percent certain.”
Draco sighed, downed his shot, and then chased it with a hearty slug of his lager. “Give me one reason, Theo. Just one, and I’ll let it slide.”
“Easy. Just now—as we passed each other. He could barely look me in the eye.” Draco scoffed. “And—AND, Draco—he blushed. Not just a tinge of pink. He was positively crimson.”
Draco let this fact sink in. Stranger things had certainly happened. It was true there had been some whispers and speculation about the reason for his messy divorce from the former star Chaser of the Holyhead Harpies, Ginny Weasley. Most of those rumors were quickly and decisively cut down by the Weasel, still Potter’s best mate and lackey, and lead instructor for Auror trainees. Long story short—if you didn’t want the ginger brute to threaten to punch you in the throat—you kept your theories about the Potters’ divorce to yourself.
“Even assuming that’s true—” He gestured to the waifish creature with long blonde hair at Potter’s table, now putting some stupid-looking sunglasses on George Weasley’s face. “—what about Loony?”
Theo let out a remorseful sigh, then drank the third shot. “She’s moved on. Apparently, I wasn’t enough people for her. Literally. She dumped me to join some sort of sex cult. She’s going to Amsterdam for their annual orgy next month.”
“Oof. Sorry, mate.” He patted Theo on the back. “But, do we think The Boy Who Lived is the best choice for a rebound?”
Theo looked mildly offended. “Who said anything about a rebound? Man of my bloody dreams, Draco, remember?”
Draco remembered. Theo had been more or less obsessed with the speckled git since they were thirteen. He had thought Theo had moved on after it was clear Potter was spoken for but with recent relationship upsets, apparently old feelings had resurfaced.
Something or someone caught Theo’s eye behind Draco and he let out a low whistle. “As for a rebound, have you seen…” he nodded in the other direction.
Draco’s memory grew fuzzy again. There was a witch, he supposed, on the other side of the room—but he couldn’t make out the details—like he was looking down the wrong end of a telescope that was actually more of a kaleidoscope. Again, the sound of Theo’s words was deadened, impossible to catch. Draco shook his head to rid it of a twinge of pain between his eyes, trying to recall what happened next.
“—Well, if you’re not going to—” Draco remembered cutting Theo off and standing abruptly.
“I never said I wasn’t.”
Theo had tilted his head back and laughed. Making haste, Draco grabbed his pint, then headed toward the witch before some other lesser wizard made their move.
At least, he thought that’s what happened next. The night grew fuzzier and fuzzier from there. Soon, all he could conjure in his memory was nothing more than a vision of pale smoke.
*
Clearly, Draco had drunk a few firewhiskeys, probably several lagers. But he didn’t remember getting particularly wasted. Given how little he remembered of the night, and the confusing wooliness of his mind, Draco gave it up as a sign that drinking to excess became less prudent the nearer one approached turning thirty.
He finished buttoning his oxford and then looked around for his socks. He found one inside a shoe, the other was missing in action. He kneeled on the floor to look under the bed and spotted it—right next to something distinctly feminine.
He reached his hand, avoiding a cluster of dust bunnies, and pulled out his sock and…Yes, those are definitely knickers.
They were not much more than a scrap of fabric, black and lacey, and though he had no memory of the person wearing them, merely holding them sent a rush of blood somewhere south of his belt.
Stuffing them in his pocket, he finished getting dressed, brushing his fingers through his messy pale hair, then rustled through the bed linens to find his discarded wand. As he adjusted the quilt, another wave of the lovely scent wafted from the bed. It was a perfume, or maybe a shampoo.
It was a warm vanilla, with a tart and acidic combination of bergamot and ink, with just a hint of an earthy scent of…vetiver, maybe? It was intoxicating and almost familiar. He rose from the bed abruptly when he realized he was holding the bedclothes tightly and breathing the scent in deeply.
Someone had clearly done a number on him.
Had she stayed the night, whoever she was? Then crept away in a walk of shame? He began to grow concerned. Was it someone he worked with? Would this encounter make things awkward at the DMLE? Draco wasn’t one to shit where he ate, to put it bluntly, but he supposed it was possible.
He began to create a list of suspects as he threw his outer robes on and crept quickly down the back stairs of the inn to avoid any looks from Tom, the barkeep.
Let’s see, there’s Alicia Spinnet in Forensics. But she’s gay, isn’t she? Draco had regularly flirted with the receptionist, Mildred, but she was going on eighty. He racked his brain to remember who else had been there last night who would have been giving him any signs they were interested in a casual shag.
Suddenly, a vision of a familiar curly-haired swot swam into his mind. He scoffed loudly, startling a group of pigeons on the London sidewalk.
Surely not.
Hermione Granger was an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries and occasionally consulted on cases with the DMLE. Her brain, of course, outmatched every other person in his department—even his, which he was not too proud to concede.
In fact, they had been working together fairly closely on the Brighton Beach case for the last three months. They did not always see eye-to-eye though they were able to be productive without too much conflict. Truth be told, they made an excellent team. After the initial awkwardness of realizing they would be collaborating, she had seemed pleased to discover he was not a colossal idiot. As for Draco, he appreciated that she had turned into less of an annoying know-it-all and more of…a quietly confident woman well aware of her worth.
Confidently sexy, he could admit. Obviously, she was an attractive witch—she always had an appeal from her eviscerating intellect alone—and now that her craze of curls had relaxed into more controlled waves, he was able to notice other things like the roundness of her lips, the gold glint in her brown eyes, the soft swell of her shapely backside...
But sleeping together? A one-night stand no less?! No. Impossible. She’d sooner get the Dark Mark tattooed on her forehead than jump into bed with Draco Malfoy.
The idea of it was so laughable he immediately put it from his mind and continued compiling his list of suspects. His list of women from work was a bit limited but the Leaky Cauldron was a popular spot, and he didn’t think the DMLE had rented out the entire bar for the gathering. If that was the case, the list would be substantially larger. He might never know what happened.
What a shame.
Given how oddly wonderful he felt that morning, notwithstanding his fuzzy head, with the thought of those sinful panties in his pocket, and the stirring scent that had been imbued in the sheets and pillow next to him, he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.
Another mystery to solve, he supposed. After all, second to Potter, wasn’t he the most successful Auror at the DMLE? Wasn’t he Lead Auror with some of the most complex cases in the Homicide Division? If anyone could figure it out, it was Draco Malfoy.
***
01:07. EARLY SUNDAY. SEPTEMBER 21, 2008.
THIRSTY THESTRAL. WIZARDING BIRMINGHAM
Draco was busy the rest of Saturday on the job. After returning home for a shower and a change of clothes, he and his partner, Neville Longbottom, tailed a suspect for a double homicide, with their appearance transfigured to look like a pair of random middle-aged Muggle men.
The suspect was boring, doing nothing out of the ordinary besides placing a few bets at an illegal underground fighting ring—that warranted some follow-up—finally ending his evening drinking himself into a stupor at his favorite watering hole. When it was clear the man wasn’t capable of anything but passing out in the booth in the pub, Draco grabbed a couple of pints for himself and Neville.
“Thanks, mate.” Neville took a long drink of his ale, then gave Draco an assessing look that Draco had learned meant he was drawing some conclusions.
Neville had been an unexpectedly excellent partner. When Potter first assigned him to Draco, he had assumed it was for Neville to keep an eye out to make sure Draco wasn’t up to any of his old dark tricks. But Neville had approached their partnership with an open mind and a good nature which Draco met with a lengthy apology, handshake, and respect. As an added bonus, they soon discovered their strengths were extremely well counterbalanced.
Draco was methodical and calculating—moving through crime scenes with precision and care. He excelled at strategy, thoughtful and deliberate in his delegations and assignments as Lead of his division, which had earned him a large amount of begrudging respect at the DMLE. He was a nearly unbeatable duelist and an aggressive interrogator—which didn’t require much effort as his imposing figure and shady past put any suspect on edge. Simply sweeping into the interrogation room, leaning over the table with his typical Slytherin sneer, Dark Mark visible with his rolled shirt sleeves, and his suspects began to sweat.
Neville, on the other hand, was quiet and observant—perhaps overlooking the small details that Draco hardly ever missed, but he could read people better than anyone. He was quick to identify threats and quicker to draw his wand. His spell work was surprisingly impressive—Neville disclosed to Draco that he was rubbish at school, but the year under the threat of torture by the Carrows and now being in the field—under the pressure of the moment, adrenaline coursing through his veins—everything had finally clicked.
And, as an important counterpart to Draco, Neville’s interrogation tactics were calm and polite—taking advantage of the weaknesses Draco’s aggression had flushed to the surface, then prying secrets out easily as if extracting highly potent ingredients from one of his many dangerous magical plants.
Draco drank his beer and waited quietly for his partner’s assessment.
“Something happened last night, then?”
“Robards’ retirement party. Weren’t you there?”
“No, I was covering for Jones, remember?”
“Right. You’re overdue for a day off. Don’t come in tomorrow. I’ll cover the paperwork.”
“Thanks, but you’re not off the hook yet. Who is she?”
Draco cracked a grin. He was damn good, he would give him that. “I don’t know what to tell you, mate.”
“Aw, come on, you’re always forcing me to tell you about my awkward dates. Return the favor, would you?”
“I give you advice, Nev, I don’t pry into your personal life. By the way, how’s it going with your mystery witch?”
“Now that is prying. Not to mention pure deflection. I tell you what—I’ll cut you a deal—a detail for a detail.”
“So quick to cut deals, aren’t we, Longbottom.” He drained his glass. “Fine. You go first.”
Neville lifted an eyebrow. “She stayed over last weekend.”
Draco nearly burst into applause. This man was historically terrible at flirting. Whoever this woman was, she could see through the bumbling and saw him for who he was, a genuinely good man. Draco was pleased for his little protégé, clapping a hand on his back. “Well done, Neville, well done! Will there be a repeat performance?”
“Ah-ah-ah. Detail for detail. Your turn.”
He let out a puff of air. “Honestly, and I’m not trying to be difficult—I don’t remember who it was. I definitely got lucky but the night’s a bit fuzzy. Too many whiskeys, I reckon.”
Neville looked surprised, then took a moment to process the information. “Huh. Unusual.” He gave Draco a sort of tentative look, then returned his gaze to the bowl of peanuts he was working through. “Hermione show up?”
“Granger?” He racked his brain, trying to place her there. “No, I don’t remember seeing her.” Draco’s eyes narrowed at the look on his partner’s face. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason—she just told me she was planning on going, is all. And, I guess…well, never mind.”
Draco scoffed, then pulled out a few sickles to pay for their drinks. “If you’re suggesting Hermione Granger was my mystery one-night stand, I would recommend you take a moment to clean your glasses. And your ears while you’re at it. I’m fairly certain she is the last woman on earth who would give me the time of day.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Simple: Potter and the Weasel.”
“You think her friendship with Harry and Ron means she hates you.”
“More than friendship with them, isn’t it? Lifelong, platonic soulmates, or whatever the fuck? And no, I don’t think she hates me. We get on fine, we’re working well together on the Butcher file. But, yes, romantically speaking, I think her loyalty to them means she could never see me as anything other than the arrogant bigot she slapped the shit out of in year three.”
Neville finished his drink, then shook his head. “Stupid.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“I wasn’t just talking about her.”
“Careful—I’m not above a little legilimency to figure out who your mystery witch is.”
“Empty threat. You’re a terrible Legilimens.”
They laughed, then stood to settle the tab. After giving the bartender a few extra sickles to make sure the nearly passed-out suspect Floo’d straight home, Draco headed to bed, practically collapsing into it, and fell into a deep sleep.
His dreams were troubled.
He remembered the feel of his hands moving up her smooth legs, over the roundness of her hips, across the notches of her spine. Memories surfaced of the softness of her lips, the dance of their tongues as she eagerly, almost desperately kissed him.
He could recall with almost perfect clarity the shape of her nipples hardening against his lips, her scent as he kissed down her body, her taste as he brought his mouth between her legs for the first time. Burned into his brain was the overwhelming sensation of finally sinking into her, filling her completely.
Why had it felt so charged, so magnetic? So unexpected yet inevitable?
So. Fucking. Good.
Every time he tried to move his head to glimpse her face, the dream shifted—not a single hair on her head, not a flash of her eyes. Not even the sound of her voice, other than her gasps as he moved against her, inside of her.
He remembered the sensations building slowly and powerfully as they moved together, heady and intoxicating, until finally, they had broken together, gasping each other’s name.
It felt like it was on the tip of his tongue. What was it? What was her name??
He yelled in his dream, “WHO ARE YOU???”
He woke with a start and sat up in his bed, out of breath, hard as a rock, his sheets tangled around his legs. His brain was reeling—he felt like he was losing his mind.
Fuck. He ran his hands through his hair, then fell back onto his pillows, moving his hand under the waistband of his joggers.
Don’t worry, Draco, he thought as he grasped himself firmly. We’ll get her, of that, I’m certain.
~*~
Closing Song:
Memories by Marvin Gaye
What can I do now that your love is not my life?
My dreams were cut to shreds by a jealous hateful knife.
The knife was made of lies and schemes that were used so well
to turn our glowing love into a cold and empty shell.
Leaving me with memories, girl, that haunted me
Memories of how love ought to be.