Diffraction Patterns (I Don't Know How to Forget You)

Chapter 1: Superposition

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...