A/N.

I've actually got another fic ongoing right now (Not Like This) but… well, the idea for this was derived from that fic, so I'm writing it right now while I still have time. I'll update Not Like This as well, of course, but I'll be writing this too. It's a little dark, and a little depressing, and definitely not a typical Dramione story. But I hope it's all right. I'll try to make my chapters longer, too (the usual complaint about my stories). My apologies for the inevitable infrequent updating in the future. As an architecture student, I'll be having very little time to myself when the first semester really rolls in.

This story is set post-war, OoC the seventh book. I'll be altering a few deaths and events in the final battle. Somewhat AU.

Disclaimer: the last time I checked (10 seconds ago), Harry Potter still belonged to JK Rowling. Since my 18th birthday's coming up, maybe if I ask nicely enough, she'll give it to me.

xxxxx

The sun was barely starting to rise when a lone figure stepped out of the fireplace. Save for the crackle of the flames and the sounds of soot being dusted from cloth, St. Mungo's lobby was quiet. The mediwitch sitting behind the welcome desk barely looked up as the visitor strode toward the stairs. By now, they were all used to him.

His footsteps rang out in the empty stairwell, echoing slightly off the walls. He didn't know why he took the stairs every time, when the elevators were always empty at this hour. Or perhaps he did know, but refused to admit it to himself. It was probably the latter. He took each step deliberately, setting each foot down as if scared the cement would give and he would fall. (Scared, or perhaps hopeful.) His hand clutched at the banister like his life depended on it. Reluctance. He could feel it dragging him down, weighing him like an anchor. Reluctant to see her again.

Would she remember him this time? Would today be one of her better days? He hoped fervently that she would be lucid, that she would not lash out at him, clawing at herself in search of her wand. It hurt to see her, it always did. It hurt to be able to remember when she would always forget. It hurt to see her like this when no one knew what had caused it. He knew she couldn't help it. But it hurt.

The floors crawled by, one, two, three. As he reached the final landing before the fourth floor, he stopped and steadied himself. Suddenly, each step seemed as big as a mountain. His feet seemed made of tons of lead. He looked around, desperate to distract himself. The hospital had been decorated for the holidays. Red and green tinsel were woven around the banisters, with fairies in baubles hanging from them at regular intervals. Magical snowflakes fell from the ceiling, fading before they reached the floor. The portraits around the walls had obviously been celebrating holiday cheer; one monk was snoring in his cauldron, the hand dangling over the rim clutching at a mug of what must have been ale. A Christmas tree stood at every mid-floor landing, each decorated differently. The one he stood in front of now had real candles, red tinsel, red-and-gold ribbons tied in bows, and small red stars. The branches had small amounts of snow dusting them. Another glowing fairy in a bauble rested at the top. Touching a star gently with the tip of his finger, he found they released small amount of gold dust when moved. Wreathes hung from doors, the big bows hanging from them a different color for each. The holiday happiness felt wrong, all the way up here. It contrasted with the hopelessness.

Finally, he reached the fourth floor. Part of him wanted to continue, to go to the top floor and sit in the tea room and pretend he was visiting someone else, someone with a much more hopeful case. But he couldn't. And so his feet dragged on the floor and his heart sank lower and lower as he got closer and closer to that dreaded ward. And when he finally stood outside it, his heart was thudding in his chest so loud he was sure it would wake up the entire hospital. He forced his hand to reach for the doorknob. It seemed to turn so slowly. When it finally clicked open he was sure his heart had stopped. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door, glancing at the plate on it as he did so.

With an almost ominous snap, the door of the Janus Thickey ward closed behind him.

xxxxx

There was a new Healer in charge of the ward today. She'd introduced herself as Healer Hornby. Normally, he'd have snickered and made jokes about her name behind her back, but that would have been the old him. Being who he was now, he simply forced a smile and wished her Happy Holidays. He hoped she wouldn't be as nosy as the previous Healer in charge. Thankfully, she didn't seem to be.

He carefully made his way to the door at the end of the ward, passing by beds, some with curtains drawn and some not. This part had always made him shudder –seeing all the incurables. He could hear moaning and muttering, creaking and scratching. Some rocked back and forth; others simply stared at the ceiling. It felt like it had taken forever, but finally he reached the door. His fingers briefly touched the nameplate on it. It was cold to his touch; cold, unforgiving brass. His fingers traced the letters, feeling the grooves that spelled out this fate. Finally, knowing he could not delay this forever, he stepped inside.

She was sitting up. That was not a good thing. His right hand immediately went to the wand in his pocket. Slowly, carefully, he took a few tentative steps forward. She did not look at him. Instead, she drew her knees up, the blanket wrapped protectively around her. She was looking at the curtains covering the window. He could hear her ragged breathing. Maybe it was a good day. He paused, a few feet away from her bed. Called her name. She did not look up.

Cautiously, he took a few more steps toward her. Her hands tightened around her knees –a protective gesture. She knew he was here. His eyes on her the whole while, he gently put his free hand down on the bed. Her head jerked around, suddenly, angrily. Her eyes flashed with fury and he hastily retreated, but too late. She was out of bed, thrashing, reaching for him. He backed up toward the door. She had her hand at his throat. He offered no resistance. She was screaming.

What have you done to me? Where am I? What had he done to her? More like what hadn't he done. He hadn't protected her, hadn't saved her from this. Hadn't known what she had done to cause this. She was throttling him, he was banging on the door, trying to attract the attention of the Healer. Above the din of her screams he could hear footsteps outside, a door closing. Someone getting help.

Answer me, you filthy little pureblood. Where am I? Where's my wand? Why am I here? Why was she here? What had happened to her that would land her in this ward, this cold, depressing place of the forgotten? Why was she, of all people, here, raving at him, delirious and forgetting, unable to remember how she had gotten over her hatred for him, how she had fallen in love with him? Why was she here? Why her?

Fists were hammering at the door from the outside. He grabbed her wrists, forcing her away. She had wounded him. He could feel the blood trickling down his cheek. Healers ran into the room, wands at ready, bottles of potion in hand. One of them shot a binding curse at her, and ropes quickly encircled her body. She fell to the floor, cursing him. The other Healers forced open her mouth and poured a foul-smelling concoction down her throat. Immediately she quieted. The Healers gathered her up, placed her back on the bed, started straightening the room. One of them turned to him. Perhaps it's best if you leave, Sir. Today doesn't seem to be a good day. He nodded and stepped out of the room. As the door closed behind him he heard her voice.

It was the voice he remembered, not the hoarse, frightful voice that had been tearing out of her throat just a few seconds ago. The gentle voice, the sweet voice, the reasonable voice. Her voice, her real one. But instead of warmth or friendly annoyance, it only held immeasurable sadness and uncountable tears, and it broke his heart again, it did. It only spoke four words, but it broke his heart.

Why can't I remember?

Why can't you? thought Draco Malfoy as he sank down to the floor, sobbing, the brass plate above him gleaming, the words Hermione Granger Malfoy glinting in the harsh fluorescent light.

xxxxx

A/N.

For those of you who can't remember, the Janus Thickey ward, located on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's, is the ward for permanent residents –those with ailments that cannot be cured and/or figured out. I had to double-check this in book five. Neville's parents reside here, as does Lockhart.

Reviews will be much appreciated.