At eleven o'clock that night, when Potter was practically passed out in a pile of research on Draco's couch, Draco realised that Stonehenge was a clue.

After that, it was a simple slide from Stonehenge to the long-speculated mythological gateways to ethereal, strange features... to Fair Folk, and at that point Draco decided it was about time he retrieved the key to his liquor cabinet from behind the armoire.

He brought a bottle of vodka over to the couch and used it to wake Potter by way of knocking it into his ribs.

"Ow!" Potter burst out, sitting up and rubbing his chest. "What the fuck, Malfoy?"

"It's the Fair Folk," Draco said dismally and poured them both a glass.

"The—" Potter trailed off, took the glass, drained it, and tried again. "The Fair Folk? Like, fairies? I thought they were a myth."

"They are." Then Draco grinned. "Do you mean we've really stumbled on something the Unspeakables aren't aware of? Be still my beating heart."

"I'll check the records, but I think so," Potter agreed.

They fell into a strangely relaxed silence, both staring maudlin into their glasses. Mutual failure worked wonders for unity, sometimes.

"We'll have to disarm the second box," Draco said finally. "It's our only clue. It shouldn't be too hard, using our notes—we can just apply the knowledge to the new curse and get back to where we were in a matter of minutes."

"It's a shame we won't ever get our memories back," Potter said, taking another large gulp. "I don't suppose there's any chance that the identification spell will just think it's the same box and pick up where it left off? Since it's the same type of curse?"

Draco shook his head. "It's the same type of curse, but it's still a different curse, just like you and I are both human but different. Unless we can complete the original identification spell, our memories are gone. I'll have to set entirely new wards and change over the Pensieve." He shrugged. "But the curses should look the same at their core, so we'll still see what it looks like, and once we disarm this one, it will be exactly as if we had regained our memories. I doubt anything particularly important happened during the last few days that we didn't record."

A slight frown marred Potter's features, and Draco found himself agreeing. There was something just out of reach, something that made him wish he could trade all the gold in Gringotts for just one memory from the spell. But, it was impossible—the original curse was gone before they could take it apart, and any chance of regaining their memories had gone with it.

Draco caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the sideboard. He looked far thinner than he remembered, eyes heavy with tiredness but brimming with a restless fury. He wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep, but he knew it was far too dangerous to attempt anything tonight.

Then, something caught his eye. A faint, red mark on his neck that he was certain hadn't been there before. He stood up and went to investigate, his eyes widening in shock as he realised what it was.

"Potter," he said, his voice coming out strangled.

Potter's head snapped up. "What? What is it?"

"No, it's—" Draco broke off and swallowed. "I have a hickey."

A dark expression crossed Potter's features before he looked away. "Congratulations? Why the fuck do I care?"

"You don't understand," Draco said in painfully polite tones. "I didn't have a hickey when I woke up this morning—I've had no occasion to get one in an embarrassingly long time. The only possible way that I could have this is if something happened in the last twelve hours and I forgot."

His eyes met Potter's in the mirror as he said that last word, and he immediately saw both understanding and surprise reflected there.

"You mean..." Potter said slowly.

"I mean." Draco agreed with a speaking look.

Potter stood and crossed the room, standing a careful distance from Draco. His eyes were wide and skittish.

"I hardly think, given the urgency of current events, that we would have wasted our precious time within the trance on... this... unless there is something grossly important that we have overlooked," Draco said, refusing to look at Potter.

"We're missing something," Potter agreed.

"We need our memories back."

It was a horrible, useless circle. They couldn't get their memories back without the original cursed item, fully intact. They couldn't get the item without their memories.

"I have an idea," Potter said quietly.

There was something in his voice that made Draco swallow whatever quip he might have made and just listen.

"There's a way you can..." he continued, "I don't know how to describe it—make an echo of an object. So long as you have a residual piece left behind, you can create a kind of pair."

Draco's mind was thrown back to sixth year and the Vanishing Cabinet. He knew the kind of pair Potter meant. He hadn't needed to create an echo from scratch, but he had used one to enhance the attraction of the second cabinet so that they both reverted to using the connection between them instead of Vanishing things to unknown places. He'd made it brighter, stronger, faster.

If they took the second box and fused it with the psychical inhibitor from the original, they could overlay it with an echo so that the spell was just confused enough by the familiarity to let them in like nothing had changed. It would be like using a carbon copy.

He turned to Potter and saw him already holding the inhibitor in his palm, a fierce determination in his eyes.

"Potter," Draco drawled, a slow smile spreading over his features. "I do believe it's time we caught some Fair Folk."

They decided that Potter should be the one to create the echo, since he seemed to have the most experience with it for reasons unknown to Draco. He didn't really care; it suited him. He was far too distracted running his fingers across the mark on his neck to be able to think about spells and echoes and cursed items that never did what you bloody wanted them to.

He kept catching Potter's eyes flicking towards it as well, but neither of them said anything out loud. There was so much between them, Draco didn't even know where to begin. He knew that things had been tense between them over the last few days, and not only out of anger, but the very idea that they had somehow acted on that filled him with confusion. It felt like it belonged to another person, another Draco—one who wasn't so fantastically skilled at building walls and terribly inept at tearing them down.

Finally, the shimmering green light settled over the box and Potter stepped back. For several moments, it sat in the centre of the circle, and neither of them dared to breathe until finally, with a little movement like a sigh, it sank into the wood and disappeared.

"I think it worked," Potter said, his eyes shadowed as though he was lost in some awful memory.

Draco stared at him, unable to think what to say or to guess what might have happened to make Potter look like this. He gave up without trying and got to his feet. "Shall we?"

Potter nodded.

*

For several alarming moments, the strange room around them seemed unfamiliar. Draco stared at Potter, seeing only confusion on his features as he looked around at the walls that appeared to contain the contents of every clock known to wizard-kind.

And then, it hit him, flooding back in an awful, painful rush, and before he knew it he was in Potter's arms, his fingers twisted violently in Potter's hair while their lips met furiously, the two of them pushing and shoving at each other like they hadn't yet decided if they were fucking or fighting. Possibly, they hadn't, and it wasn't until Draco's shirt was pushed back off his shoulders and Potter's mouth dropped back to his neck, to that faint mark, that he was certain at all.

Suddenly, Potter drew back, a look of pure irritation on his face. "You did forget a fucking pen!"

"Well maybe if you'd asked nicely instead of accusing me of possessing exactly zero brain cells, we would have realised that a whole lot sooner," Draco retorted after he'd caught his breath.

"I swear, Malfoy, you'd take offence at a brick wall."

"Now, now, Potter, don't be so hard on yourself. You're as smart as at least two brick walls."

It was easy as breathing, fighting with Potter. He'd thought this must belong to someone else, to a different Draco, and the knowledge that it didn't somehow terrified him. The thought that it had only taken one or two moments to change everything—that those moments could so easily have been overlooked—made him feel somehow small and a bit lost, but then Potter's mouth drifted back to his, slow and languorous, and he somehow didn't care at all.

"If I fuck you here," Potter murmured conversationally, "what do you think our bodies are doing back in your workroom?"

"Writhing in paradoxical jealousy?" Draco offered, dropping his hands to Potter's jeans. "But maybe we shouldn't do this. There are more important things. And the anchor!" He was quite impressed with himself that his sentences were coming out with even an ounce of coherency. Ten points to him.

"Don't worry about the anchor," Potter growled, shoving Draco's hands aside and undoing Draco's fly in one smooth movement.

There was a moment when time seemed to slow down, when Potter was looking at him with an expression that Draco finally acknowledged was familiar—was the way Potter often looked at him when he was drunk or a little bit tired or vulnerable for another reason altogether—and he thought to himself: they're all Potter. He was a bit delirious and incredibly tired, but in that moment, it made sense. All these sides of Potter that he kept seeing, kept being confused—or sometimes turned on—by, they were all Potter, none of them more real than the other. It was just that, for some inexplicable reason, Draco was the only one who got to see them all.

Potter dropped to his knees, looking up at Draco with a wicked smirk that he had felt certain only existed in his own fantasies, and pulled Draco's trousers slowly down his thighs. Draco was already hard, and he had to close his eyes when Potter stopped to just look at him, terrified of finishing far too quickly. But it was even more overwhelming with his eyes shut—the sensation of soft lips closing over him, the firm hand circling him at the base, the slow slide of wetness coupled with gentle moaning that hitched whenever Draco couldn't help but thrust forward.

He threaded his fingers through Potter's hair and looked down into eyes that were dark and hooded. Holding him still, he began to pump slowly, rhythmically, until Potter's eyes were closed in unfathomable ecstasy and he spilled over, crying out "Harry" just like he did in his most secret of fantasies.

He allowed himself to be pulled down to the floor, dropping to his knees, held up by a slow kiss and the sensation of strong hands sliding down and gripping his arse.

"Not here," Draco protested faintly. "I want a bed for that."

Potter pulled away with a laugh. "Sorry."

He fell back into easy kisses, light and eager, until Draco was filled again with heat and pushed Potter back down on the ground so he could palm him more easily. They stayed like that for several moments, Potter moaning and pushing into his hand, the layers of fabric between them growing wet.

"Please," he murmured, just when Draco wasn't sure he could wait any longer.

With a triumphant grin, he straddled Potter's thighs and undid his fly. He could feel Potter watching him and he made it as much of a show as he could: sliding his palms over Potter's hips, peeling back the fabric, running his tongue in a slow slide from the base to the tip.

Potter groaned and pushed up into him, and Draco gave up the tease. He hollowed his cheeks and swirled his tongue, and all the while Potter's hands ran over Draco's hair, threading through and falling away like he was too scared to grip tightly. With a groan, Draco reached up and grabbed Potter's wrist, shoving it roughly into his hair, and Potter grabbed hold so hard it hurt and came with a shout.

It was amazing the curse hadn't noticed them—a testament to Potter's strength and skill, to be sure, and Draco didn't even have the energy to be annoyed.

"I think I know why the curse started to play up last time," Draco said when he'd caught his breath.

"Mmm?" Potter asked, running a hand through his hair but continuing to lie back. "Why?"

Draco looked around at the strange walls, remembering all the times they'd commented on how odd it was that they'd appeared inside the curse rather than in front of it.

"Every other record of this spell had the wizard appearing in front of the curse. The fact that we were always inside it was the final clue," Draco explained. "It told us the curse's purpose, though we didn't realise it. The whole thing was made to trap someone inside and then disappear—when it became aware of us last time, right at the start of the session, instead of going into an intruder-induced craze and eating us, it assumed it had succeeded. It was getting ready to take us away."

Potter sat bolt upright. "If it started to leave, it might have left behind a clue as to where it was going."

Draco caught his eyes. "Exactly."

Potter began to mumble a number of charms under his breath, firing off tests across every inch of space he could reach, and Draco followed suit. Before long, a picture began to emerge. It wasn't a map, like Draco had hoped, but he hadn't really expected one.

"Did you study Ancient Runes?" Potter asked, leaning closer to inspect the shimmering symbol that was hovering in the air. "I didn't, but I've looked into them since, and I don't recognise that."

"That's because it's not a rune," Draco said quietly. His voice had taken on a faint, distant quality that he didn't seem able to shake off. "There's an old fairy tale—it has a few translations, but the most common one is called Sweetheart Roland. I won't bore you with the details, but a witch sets out to murder her step-daughter, but the step-daughter foils her and runs away with her magic wand."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the slowly rotating symbol that pulsed with a golden light.

"I had an illustrated version, you know. She and her sweetheart—the aforementioned—escape her by transforming themselves into all manner of things: a lake and a duck, a rose and a fiddler. It's all very romantic and intense, and they defeat the witch, but her lover is ensnared by another and soon forgets her. The original translations skip over this part, but Pureblood memory is long."

He suddenly longed for a cigarette; it had been years since he smoked.

"See, the witch's wand was never hers in the first place. There are many stories that like to claim our power came from the Fair Folk, that the first wizards and witches were immortal, and when we turned our backs on them and ran off with the gift we had been given, they cursed us with mortality and left our world forever, retreating back beneath the hills and forests. In the fairy tale, the witch's wand was one of the stolen, and when the Fair Folk realised it was in the hands of a weak child, they took their chance to regain it."

He nodded at the symbol, lips twisting wryly.

"That symbol was etched into it as a kind of repellent to the Fae. They can't pass through doors where it's written, or hold objects that are etched with it, which is why the witch carved it into the wand when she stole it. They tricked the step-daughter into scratching it against her thorns while she was an enchanted rose and stole it then, condemning her to live out her days trapped there while her lover married someone else. Of course, the enchantment was broken and she won back her beloved Roland, but I'll never forget the faces of the Fair Folk in the story as they taunted her and stole back the wand she'd tried to hide from them."

Potter frowned, seeming unwilling to speak and break the strange spell that had descended over them. "So, this is some kind of fairy entrapment curse? It pulls the fairy inside and then makes sure they can't escape?"

"It seems that way," Draco acknowledged reluctantly.

"What do you think it means?"

Draco took a moment to be annoyed that he couldn't even properly savour the fact that Potter was, for once, asking his advice instead of jumping to infuriatingly correct answers.

"I honestly don't know, Potter," Draco admitted. "Morgan made it sound as if it was the Fair Folk behind this curse, but why would they use symbols designed to trap and ensnare them?"

"It could have been meant for Morgan," Potter suggested.

"Something doesn't fit." Draco trailed off.

The room was silent, filled only with the sound of gently whirring gears as they ticked steadily around.

Potter suddenly frowned and looked around the room. "Why would a curse that was bound to an ancient symbol manifest as something modern and mechanical?"

Draco's eyes widened. "You think it's been modified?" He lurched forward, hunting through the pockets of his toolkit for the magnifying glass he knew was there. "Then there'll be a signature."

Potter came to stand beside him, hand resting on Draco's shoulder. It was warm and comforting, and he had to fight the urge to just close his eyes and lean into it. His fingers landed on the small piece of glass, and he took it out and whispered the charm over the top.

It floated up from his hand and hung, poised, in the centre of the room. Then, it gave a little shudder and descended into the furthest corner, to the one gear that hadn't lit up in their diagnostic paths: the tiny gear that moved steadily around on its own. Draco leaned over and squinted into the glass; he could just make out a tiny name.

"Kalen O'Fearadhaigh?" He read out. "Ever heard of him?"

"I think Morgan's surname is something like that," Potter said slowly.

A sudden and disturbing thought hit Draco. "She said her brother likes to tinker."

Potter's eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't question it.

"Do you know where he lives?" Draco asked.

Potter shook his head, but there was a curious gleam in his eye. "But I can find out pretty quickly," he said with a grin.

Draco couldn't help smiling back. "Then let's get out of here and get our memories back."

The grin on Potter's face faltered. "We still don't have a pen."

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. "Well, we're not in quite the same rush now," he said faintly. "I'm sure we can think of something."

Potter's eyes slid to his, and he took a step forward, wand raised. "I have an idea," he said, cheeks slightly flushed. "It's a... er... spell that..." he trailed off and gestured helplessly to Draco's arm.

Slowly, Draco held it out and watched as Potter pushed up the sleeve and let his wand trail across Draco's skin. Something that looked like syrupy ink dripped onto Draco's skin, spelling out the words "Sweetheart Roland". It tingled faintly in a nice sort of way.

"Potter," he said with a frown, suddenly realising why the strange ink looked familiar. "Is that chocolate?"

Eyes remaining fixed on his work as he added a passable recreation of the symbol, he nodded.

"Why would you—oh." Draco felt his cheeks heat as he realised exactly what the spell was for.

"Yeah," Potter agreed, smirking a little even though his cheeks were still pink. "We should try it some time."

Draco felt his stomach flutter pleasantly, and he bit back what he sure was an embarrassingly giddy smile.

Potter finished writing Kalen O'Fearadhaigh's name on Draco's arm, and then he stood back and retrieved the amulet from his shirt.

"Anything else I need to add?"

"If you wrote anything more, I'd have no room left for my skin," Draco said drily.

"I see no problem with that," Potter said, giving him a heated look that went straight to Draco's cock.

"Right," he said faintly. "Let's get out of here then."

*

"Why the fuck is my arm sticky?" Draco snapped, and then he saw the words printed onto his skin, smeared beneath his shirt cuffs.

He rolled them carefully back and stared in horror for several moments. He could feel Potter shaking with laughter beside him.

"I bet this was your idea," he said savagely, then he sniffed, a familiar scent catching his attention. "Is that... is that chocolate? Potter, where the hell did you get chocolate from?"

Potter's eyes widened and his face turned carefully blank. "Pays to be prepared," he said, a touch weakly.

Draco shook his head. "You're mad. I think we should commit you once this is all over." He squinted at the words. "Kalen O'something—sounds Welsh, but it's too smudged to make out. Actually, no I can read it. It's Kalen O'Fearadhaigh. Followed by the profound words: Sweetheart Rolex. Roland." He froze, recognising the next symbol just as the words clicked in his mind.

He looked over at the box, sitting innocently in the circle. "Right," he said. "So that's what it is."

"Care to enlighten me?"

"Since this is written in your chicken scratch, I'm guessing I already have. Rather than waste time, let's just get our memories back."

They came to stand on either side of the box, on the rim of the protective circle.

"What do you need me to do?" Potter asked.

"At this point, just let me concentrate."

Potter fell blessedly silent, and Draco closed his eyes, feeling out with his magic for the edges of the curse. He always preferred to do the actual disarming wandless—he could feel all the little changes in the curse that way, all the ways it tried to push back or get around his defences. His mind drifted back to the first time he'd tried this, when everything had been confusing and nonsensical. He remembered his irritation and panic, and it was a relief to feel it all drift away now. He'd seen this before, even if he couldn't yet remember it. It was all there, just as predicted in his notes: a line of mercurial for the explosion, a hint of psychical to compel the victim closer—and there, something strange and unknown that the bizarre note on his arm told him would trap and ensnare one of the Fair Folk forever.

He wrapped his magic around each part, carefully separating them from each other, and with the precision of many years of training, dismantled them piece by piece. The final part—the entrapment spell—proved the most difficult of them all. In the end, all he could do was make it go dormant, but so long as no one reactivated it—and there would be few people alive who knew how—it wouldn't be a danger to anyone.

Sensing the successful dismantlement of the curse, the wards and the Pensieve began to glow, and the last lingering remnants of the connection between himself, Potter, and the curse ignited. No longer in danger of being pulled in by the curse—no longer needing to disguise themselves as part of it—he felt a burning rush of emotion as the wards came down, tore away the barriers keeping them separate from everything that happened inside the trance, and returned his memories to him.

He stumbled and felt warm, strong hands steady him. Potter had crossed through the circle and was holding onto him, his full weight falling forward into Draco's chest as if he could barely hold himself up.

"Fuck," Draco breathed, feeling the conflicting rush of memories slotting back into place.

It felt different to how it felt in the dream state—sharper, almost painful. He opened his mouth to say something, but found himself choking a little, unable to speak.

In the end, he just dropped his head down onto Potter's shoulder and held him close.

After a long, long time, Potter lifted his head. He reached out and picked up the box from the table, turning it over in his hands and studying it.

"We'd better find this Kalen O'Fearadhaigh then," he said after a moment, slipping the box into his jacket pocket.

"Can we get help from the Aurors?" Draco wasn't sure how they could possibly find him otherwise.

To his surprise, Potter grinned.

"No need. Unspeakable, remember? Uninhibited access to Ministry records."

With that, the mystery of how Potter had remained so silent for the last ten minutes was revealed as his Patronus scampered back into the room, whispered something into his ear, and disappeared. Then, he caught Draco around the middle and Apparated them straight to Kalen O'Fearadhaigh's address.

*

Draco didn't recognise the area they landed in. Even if he could have, the snow was falling too thickly for him to read the street sign. They were surrounded by neat townhouses, a little run down, but certainly not dilapidated. Brightly coloured lights twinkled softly from fenceposts and roofs, making their path a little easier to see in the weak moonlight.

Potter opened the gate, which creaked quietly, and they walked up the path.

"The light is on upstairs," Draco whispered. "And I can see movement."

After sweeping his hand in a wide arc, which seemed to Draco as though it did nothing but send faint sparkles floating up into the sky, Potter slowly turned the handle and opened the door.

"There's no one downstairs," Potter said, and Draco noticed his hand still glowed with a soft, golden light.

Bloody Unspeakables.

Draco shut the door carefully behind him and sealed it with a little spell he'd learned from his Aunt. No one was leaving until he said they could. Potter raised his eyebrows at him.

"You've got your way," Draco hissed, lips curling into a sneer. "I've got mine."

An indignant shriek from upstairs had them both turning and breaking into as quiet a run as they could manage.

"You're being totally unreasonable!" Morgan's voice reached their ears as she began to shout. "What do you think he's going to think of you now? Going to welcome you into the family business with open arms, you think?"

Someone stuttered in reply, a strongly accented voice carrying into the hallway as they reached the landing and stopped by the open door.

"It's not—It wasn't—Oh Christ, I've ruined everything!"

Draco wrinkled his nose and turned to Potter, who looked just as confused.

"No, you bloody haven't!" Morgan yelled back. "Just give me the box and I'll let him out back home. I told you not to come near me, Christ, I knew it was going to end up like this somehow."

"I can't! He'll—"

The words broke off as Potter, obviously having had enough, stepped around the corner and caught him in an Incarcerous with ropes that were a deep midnight blue. They wrapped around the startled boy in the corner—he looked about twenty years old, with a head of fiery red hair—and pulled tight.

The boy—Kalen, Draco presumed—gaped in horror, and then closed his eyes and froze. Draco glanced at Morgan, who was looking between them all in shock.

Kalen's eyes snapped open. "I'm stuck!" he yelped. "I can't get away! They've caught me, Morgan! Help!"

Potter grinned. "Works on Selkies; I figured it would work on fae as well."

"Half-fae!" Morgan snapped, though her eyes had taken on an expression of fear. "How did you—?"

"Not the time," Potter snapped. "Did you know about this?"

Draco knew with sudden certainty that he never wanted to be on the other side of Potter during an interrogation.

"No!" Morgan shot back. "Of course not!"

"You just said you knew this would happen!" Potter roared, his face lighting up with fury.

"I didn't know specifically! Look, he's just a kid." She waved her arm in exasperation at Kalen. "He was trying to impress George, and now he's scared. He's an impulsive little brat, but he's not a danger. Just let him go, please."

"He put Ron in the hospital."

"I know." Her voice broke a little. "He won't do it again."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "If he was trying to impress George by trapping him in a box, why is he suddenly afraid to let him go?" he snarled. "Wasn't this the whole purpose of the exercise?"

"It wasn't meant to go on so long!" Kalen whimpered. "It was meant to spit him straight back out, not bring him to me."

"Why the psychical inhibitor then? Why the explosion?"

"It was just meant to be exciting—a big explosion—and then the inhibitor was part of the original design. I thought I weakened it so it just made you a bit sleepy and more likely to open the box, but it must have revived."

Draco's head hurt. He was just a kid; it was clear in every part of his body language that he'd had no idea what he was doing. It was familiar, and it made his heart ache.

"He's telling the truth, Potter," Draco muttered. "He's in over his head."

Potter's eyes flicked to Draco's, and whatever he saw there made him pause. After a moment, his shoulders slumped and he visibly deflated.

"Kalen, just open the box. You're not in trouble." Potter flicked his wand and the ropes disappeared.

Kalen froze still like a rabbit, and for a second Draco thought he might bolt. Then, he slowly reached over to the box that had fallen when the Incarcerous hit and opened it up.

George emerged and stumbled to his feet, looking around incredulously.

"Merlin's saggy tes—"

"George!" Morgan interrupted, and he spun around to her with a grin.

"Morgan! My love! My one and only! I thought you were dead!"

He swept her into a crushing hug.

"Dead? Why would I be dead?"

"A broken heart, of course. How long was I gone? A year? A decade?"

Morgan glared at him. "Three hours."

"Longest three hours of your life, I'm sure." He pulled her into his chest and patted her hair consolingly.

His eyes fell on Potter and Draco, and they shared a grim look which removed all doubt from Draco's mind that George wasn't aware of the seriousness of the situation, even if he didn't know the details.

"What happened?" he asked, and then Kalen shifted awkwardly and George's eyes were drawn to the fifth person in the room.

They stared at one another for several moments, guilt written all across Kalen's face. Before they could speak, a whirring sound filled the room. Draco looked over at Potter, and saw him staring at his pocket in alarm. Draco realised what was happening a second before a brilliant white light filled the room and everything disappeared.

*

"Not again," George muttered, as Draco's eyes slowly adjusted to the light.

They were in a dark room, lit by a soft, white glow from somewhere Draco couldn't see. The walls were covered in thick black curtains. When Potter saw these, he stiffened, and Draco unconsciously reached out to run a hand along his back, though he was unsure what had happened.

"Sirius," Potter muttered, cryptically, but that was all he would say.

"This is what it looks like inside?" Draco asked, still running his hand along Potter's back but turning to George. "The first box must have triggered the dormant spell in the second—I should have thought of that." He grimaced, silently cursing his own stupidity.

He noticed, then, that George's expression had lost the casual humour from seconds ago. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, and when he looked around the room, his movements were stiff and jolted. It struck Draco that he had never before seen him afraid.

"It will change in a second," George said, and before Draco could ask what he meant the curtains fluttered and the room turned to stone.

Draco felt a flood of fear course through him as he recognised Hogwarts on the night of the battle. Screams and explosions sounded from all around them, and on instinct he ducked just as a giant's arm crashed through the window above his head.

The same terror that had filled him that night returned, wiping away all the years between that boy and the man he had become. He found himself searching for an exit, a way to get out of this horrible mess that he knew deep down was partially his fault, just like he knew he would never escape the guilt of it, no matter how many times he tried to make amends.

He saw Potter and Morgan and George and Kalen stumbling and grabbing a hold of the walls and each other to steady themselves, and he suddenly felt the weight of the space between them—all the things he couldn't brush aside.

A brightly coloured head of hair caught his attention, and for a moment he thought Kalen had been hurt and was lying on the ground. Then he thought it was George.

Then the horror of the situation truly hit him, and he watched, numb, as George fell to his knees, hugged his dead twin, and sobbed.

Morgan and Potter rushed to him, holding him, telling him it was over, long over, but when George looked up and met Draco's eyes, they were cold and empty. Nothing like this was ever over, and they all knew it.

Draco remembered the night at the Leaky, where he had finally known what it felt like to be a part of that strange Gryffindor camaraderie, and wondered if he would ever get that back.

Then, there was a fluttering in the corner of his eye, like fabric, and the scene changed. He closed his eyes and heard water dripping onto tiles. Darkness faded away as light filled the room, and he didn't have to open his eyes to know where he was.

He felt again that overwhelming certainty that no one in the school knew how he felt, that he was alone, completely alone. He felt the cool grip of the sink beneath his fingers and thought about how he had never been offered a turning point, and even if one came now, it was too late. He had been led down this path from birth, and by the time he had realised how to think for himself it had been too late. No one had cared enough to question it, to think of a way to offer a child a solution that hadn't meant disowning his family and everything he loved. No one had cared enough to try.

He heard a choked sob and opened his eyes to see Potter staring down at a ghostly image of Draco's own prone body—he looked so young, lying there—covered in blood on the bathroom floor. The guilt and regret of a teenager looked strange on an adult's face, but just as Draco's shame and hurt still lingered, he knew that Potter's would never be far from the surface either. Even after all these years, that pain was raw.

It was a strange sensation. It made him feel stronger, more certain of himself, just as he had done then even as he was breaking apart. With an objective clarity he could see the steps of his life that had led him here, and he knew that there was more to him than his past, just as he knew how few people would ever see it.

He thought it now, and he had thought it then. But of course, back then, that was when Potter had burst through and sliced him into pieces, proving everything that he had just been thinking.

Potter's eyes lifted to his, and the anguish between them felt distant, like he was viewing it through a pane of glass. How were they going to get out of here? Did the curse show them their worst moments until they broke down under the pain and were no longer capable of fighting back?

The walls flickered black, and suddenly they were standing on a hill. It was the kind of night that was icy quiet, and as Draco's eyes adjusted, the dark shapes of the giant rocks emerged. Morgan and Kalen walked slowly forward into the circle of stones, their faces upturned to the moon and their eyes reflecting midnight. Draco felt a chill run up his spine, and George staggered backwards, a hint of fear in his expression. Before now, Draco wasn't sure he had truly believed Morgan and Kalen were half-fae, but he believed it now.

And then they were at the Burrow, the entire Weasley clan laughing and singing, and both Potter and George's faces relaxed into the kind of easy familial affection that Draco didn't understand. He felt the distance between them grow stronger, not just between him and Potter, but between Morgan and George as well, as if the curse was trying to not only break them apart on the inside, but to push them away from each other as well.

But it didn't make sense. It wasn't only showing their darkest memories but their happiest as well. Scene after scene flittered past: Draco as a child, laughing with his parents; Morgan and Kalen running through the forest; Potter opening presents at Christmas. It began to feel as though Draco couldn't possibly exist with all these sides to him. How could he be strong when he had been so weak? How could he be at peace when his life was paved with such tragedy? And yet, there he was—there they all were—memory after memory, broken one moment and happy the next. It didn't make sense, and it felt like it was tearing him apart.

Then, the Curse Breaker in him woke up and began to analyse. Drawn by something he couldn't explain, he focused on Potter, watching only his face as the scenes around them changed. The expressions on Potter's face moved as quickly as their surroundings, and with each passing second, he grew more agitated, more confused by all the conflicting memories. In some moments, he was almost unrecognisable, and in others Draco was drawn to him so powerfully he had to fight to remain still.

Draco remembered only a few days ago when he had thought Potter was hiding something, or a few weeks before that when he had thought simpering heroism was all Potter was capable of. He knew that wasn't true now; he knew that Potter was complex and flawed, and that, somehow, it made Draco want him more. No matter the emotions he saw on Potter's face now, he didn't feel afraid or rejected or unsure—he just felt certain that this was the man he wanted. They didn't always match, but nothing ever did.

The scene changed, showing Draco as he had been just the other month, laughing over dinner with Pansy and Blaise. He felt a flood of peace course through him, and the rising agitation of the curse began to fade as he accepted the ways he didn't make sense and saw through clearly to what was there underneath. There was a power in that, in knowing that he was more than the sum of his parts.

He wondered if, when this was all over, he might get the chance to spend years with Potter, working to find the many ways they fitted together and the many ways they could overcome it when they didn't.

"Potter," he said quietly, ignoring their surroundings when the scene shifted again.

Potter turned to him, and as their eyes met, the harried irritation on his face suddenly melted away.

"Anchor us."

Potter slowly nodded. Behind him, Draco could see a strange silver arch and a messy-haired man standing in front. The man's eyes widened, but even as he cried out, Potter stayed looking at him, green eyes fixed to his.

He reached into his shirt and drew out the anchor. With a slow grinding sound, like sand caught in gears, the room returned to how it had been at the start.

Draco closed his eyes and focused. He could feel the curse working against them, trying to disorient them until all the parts of themselves had fallen away and were lost, no longer able to remember how they ever fitted together.

He honed in on the centre of the curse, grappling it with a brutish spell that he normally reserved for sluggish psychical curses that presented no danger of explosion. But sometimes, you really just needed to hit something.

He strode forward, pulled back the largest curtain, and slammed his fist straight into the wall. With a shattering like glass, the room crumpled away.

For a moment, it felt like they were floating. The world around them was full of shadows, and Draco realised with a sudden rush of euphoria that he was looking straight out into the Ether. Glittering dully in the dim light, broken gears floated upward, some still ticking faintly around, searching for their partner.

It felt, for a second, like something was watching them—an invisible eye scouring the darkness. But then, they were gone.

*

The first thing Draco noticed, when everything came back into focus, was the sound of carollers coming down the street. He wondered who the fuck would be singing carols in the middle of the night, and then he registered the light coming around the curtains—it was the middle of the day, and they had been stuck inside for hours.

He could see his own weariness reflected on all their faces, and he wanted to speak, to make sure Potter was all right, but he knew that this part wasn't for him.

George eyed Kalen, one arm hooked around Morgan's shoulder. His face was unreadable, which was surely not a good sign.

"What was the box meant to do?" he asked, his voice sounding harsh in the silence of the room.

Kalen cleared his throat, looked at his feet, and then forced himself to look up and meet George's eye.

"It was meant to be a pocket world," he said, lifting his chin. "I made it look like our, er—" his eyes darted to Morgan, but she just sighed and nodded. "Our grandmother's," he finished. "But I guess I shouldn't have used the fairy boxes. The magic was too strong. It took over."

George nodded slowly before tilting his head down to look at Morgan. "And you didn't want me to meet your brother because you didn't want me to know you're fae?"

"Half-fae," she said, but she didn't sound angry anymore, only tired. "And yes. He's not very good at keeping secrets." She smiled wryly.

George stared at the ground, his eyes distant. He muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?" Morgan asked tentatively.

"A pocket world," he repeated, looking up with a strange gleam in his eye. "That's wicked."

Kalen's eyes widened and Potter looked suddenly like he was fighting the urge to laugh.

"I haven't thought of anything like that since Fred was around," George continued, stepping away from Morgan and gesticulating widely. "Do you think if we did away with the fairy boxes and based it on Undetectable Extension charms instead, it might hold better?"

Kalen nodded eagerly. "We could cross an Undetectable Extension charm with a Portkey—I've been working on something similar."

Morgan made a faint sound in the back of her throat that sounded like a strangled scream.

"But," Kalen hunched a little. "You're not upset about the whole box thing?"

George waved a hand in the air before slinging his arm over Kalen's shoulder and steering him away.

"Magical mishaps are a bit of a rite of passage with us—welcome to the family, little brother. Now, what if—"

Draco tuned them out as they started down the stairs. He turned back to Morgan, who was looking equal parts relieved and terrified.

"Would either of you like some tea?" she asked.

Draco opened his mouth to answer, but Potter was already firmly shaking his head.

"We've got to get back, Morgan. We'll leave you to it. I'm glad you're all safe."

Then, before he knew it, they were Apparating back to Potter's flat.

Back at Kalen's house, Draco had felt like he could sleep for a thousand years, but now he was suddenly wide awake. Potter went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, and Draco tried to find a piece of furniture to sit on that didn't look like it had once been a packing crate.

He decided the stool at the kitchen bench seemed safest and sat down.

"You got us out of there," Potter said, just when Draco thought the silence was never going to end.

"You helped," Draco admitted.

Potter huffed a laugh. "No," he said firmly. "I didn't know what to do."

He seemed strangely fragile, hunched over the kettle, his back to Draco. It was yet another side to him that Draco hadn't seen before. He wanted to get to know this side too, all of him, every part of Potter.

"When I looked at you, though," Potter continued suddenly, standing straighter, "that's when I knew. I feel whole when I'm with you."

Draco stood up and came around the other side of the bench, running his hands across Potter's back and around his waist so he could draw him close. Potter was just a little shorter than him, the perfect height for Draco to lean in and breathe gentle words into his ear, soft words that Draco had never known he had in him.

He felt Potter melt back against him, and then he was turning, and Draco was pushing him back against the bench and kissing him.

It occurred to Draco that this was the first time he had kissed Potter in reality, outside of the trance, and he wanted to savour it but he couldn't seem to slow himself down. It was different out here. Potter's stubble felt rough against his cheek, and they kept catching their hands in each other's clothing, fumbling and eager whereas in the trance everything had been as smooth as a dream. It was better out here.

Potter pushed away from the bench and grabbed a hold of Draco's white scarf, leading him into the bedroom. It was bizarre—he shouldn't have the space to think of anything else—but even as he followed, hands running inside Potter's shirt, mouth leaving a trail all across his neck and shoulder, he found himself noticing small details about the flat and thinking about how he was going to change them the second Potter gave him free reign.

The upturned crate that served as a coffee table was going to go—Draco was going to burn it. He was going to burn it and dance around it and laugh. Then he was going to eviscerate the moth-eaten curtains into tiny shreds. And after that, he was going to throw every piece of transfigured furniture into a huge pile in the middle of the road and hail the Knight Bus to run over it.

Then he was going to give Potter the flat he deserved. He was going to purchase light curtains for the windows and a big, cushy sofa for the living room. He was going to commission artwork for the walls and buy stupid Muggle appliances so that Potter wouldn't have to use the same pot for every single meal.

Potter opened the door to the bedroom, and Draco took it all back—first, he was going to buy a bed. He was going to buy a king-sized four-poster bed with thousand thread count sheets and the softest duvet money could buy.

"Potter," he said, spinning him around and pulling him into a bruising kiss. "I am going to spoil you," he whispered against his lips.

Potter's eyes widened, confused and surprised, but there was a hint there of what Draco had known he was going to see: disbelief and hope—hope that he meant that much to someone. Draco kissed him again, soft and slow and full of promise.

Then, they fell back onto the worn sheets, and Draco let Potter take control.

The gentle kisses they had been trading gave way to something rougher as Potter began to take him apart. He pulled Draco's shirt over his head without even bothering with the buttons and vanished his trousers with a wave of his wand. Then, he dropped his head to Draco's neck, kissing and biting while Draco tried futilely to drag Potter's leather jacket off.

Eventually, he gave a snarl of irritation and smacked Potter on the shoulder. Potter pulled back with a smirk and slowly dropped the jacket off his shoulders, throwing it onto the floor and pulling his tight, white shirt over his head in one smooth move.

Draco's breath caught in his throat, and he was so fixated on the look in Potter's eyes that he nearly missed the moment he pulled off his trousers. Then, his brain caught up with him and realised what he hadn't noticed in the dream-state.

"You weren't wearing underwear," he said, his voice huskier than he meant it to be.

Potter gave him a wicked grin, and he nearly died.

With a flick of his hand, Potter summoned a jar of lube from the nightstand and slicked his fingers before slowly starting to work Draco open. He closed his eyes and tried not to embarrass himself, but before long he was gripping the headboard and writhing beneath Potter's skilful hand.

He heard Potter give a soft laugh and withdraw his fingers, and then he could feel Potter's cock pushing in. Strong hands gripped his ankles, massaging gently and pulling them up so they were braced firmly on the bed. He gasped as Potter lifted his hips, propping him up so that his arse rested on Potter's thighs. It was a more intense angle, and when Potter started to move in a slow, controlled slide, his hands fell away from the headboard to cling to the sheets beneath him and he bit down on his lip to keep from crying out.

Potter's chest was slowly turning flushed, and there was a small furrow between his brows as he tried to maintain a steady, controlled rhythm, but before long he propped himself back on his left hand, slid his right palm across Draco's aching cock, and began to thrust properly.

"Fuck," Draco breathed, pushing up into Potter's hand.

Potter was groaning now, breathing unintelligible noises and panting as he thrust into Draco. His head dropped back, and he stopped teasing and gripped Draco's cock, sliding his hand roughly up and down so that before long Draco was whimpering, begging him for more. The ancient bed creaked beneath them, and Draco half thought it might fall apart, but Potter didn't seem to care as he suddenly sat up on his knees, grabbed Draco's arse, and pulled him closer.

Draco's hand fell to his cock, wanking himself as he watched Potter fuck him. He couldn't look away from the heat in Potter's eyes, the almost disbelieving lift of his eyebrows as he got closer, and then Draco couldn't help it—he was coming, long strips painting his stomach while Potter closed his eyes and followed with a moan.

Potter dropped down beside him, pulling the threadbare duvet over them, and Draco decided, fuck it, the bed could go right now.

"Binky," he murmured, snapping his fingers lazily.

A house-elf popped into existence beside the bed.

"Yes, Master Draco?" He bobbed on his toes, waiting for direction.

Potter yelped and scrambled backward. Draco waved his hand vaguely, his words failing him and leaving him with nothing but a woeful, defeated expression.

"Fix this," he pleaded.

"Right away, Master Draco."

The elf blinked, and with a sharp crack the bed disappeared. There was a brief moment where it felt like they were falling, and then there was another crack, and Draco sighed in relief at the familiar feeling of Egyptian cotton.

"Thank you, Binky," he muttered, ignoring the faint squeak and pop that signalled the house elf's departure, and pulled Potter close to him.

There was a brief struggle, like Potter was trying to find some reason to refuse the gift, on the grounds that he only deserved to sleep on nails or some other such rot, and then he felt him give in and just let Draco hold him.

"I like Earl Grey with breakfast," Draco informed him, and then, just as he could feel Potter's lips curving into a smile against his forehead, he fell asleep.