Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do own a gym membership, which, after Thanksgiving, probably needs to be utilized way more than it is right now, lol.

Author's Note: Bit of a wait for this chapter, apologies. It's a little longer than the others. Plus, Thanksgiving. So for all of you who celebrate, I hope you had a lovely time filled with good food and even better company. And for those who don't, I still hope you had a good weekend. I am thankful for all of you readers, who are so encouraging and supportive. Thanks!

OoOoOoOo

Portkeys.

Portkeys were like teleporters.

There were teleporters in the world, and Draco had no idea they even existed.

In fact, Bill said that the Parseltongue journal was probably a Portkey, and was spelled to keep Draco moving from crowded city to crowded city.

He had said a few other things too, like that it might have been necessary for Draco to move so frequently to avoid detection, but Bill didn't seem entirely sure of what he was saying – like he was making an educated guess, and trying to convince Draco that it was fact.

But still – teleporters!

Or rather, Portkeys. Draco had to completely re-think about the world, and the rules he had thought governed the world. If people could teleport, did that mean they could fly?

Draco looked over at Bill. He was asleep, curled up a little in the train seat, obvious exhaustion written on his face. In fact, most of the passengers on the train looked exhausted. England was in bad shape – financial troubles, weather troubles, food troubles, health troubles, and crime troubles.

If there was some sort of underground war going on, it made sense. At least, Draco could come up with plausible reasons why a secret society having a civil war could create havoc in the larger, host community, but he didn't know if the reasons were accurate, or just guesses. He wanted to ask more questions – he wanted to ask a million of questions, but Bill looked tired. And he was sleeping.

So Draco looked out the window because apparently this was home and tried to find anything familiar. Nothing sparked his memory.

They trained into London, and then took a cab to a generic sort of street. They stopped outside a pub called the Leaky Cauldron – and really, that seemed a little obvious, didn't it?

Draco paid for the taxi. In fact, he'd paid for the train as well, because Bill didn't seem to have a whole lot of 'Muggle' currency, and Draco had a well-stocked credit card. He followed Bill into the pub, a little warily.

Bill looked wary too. As soon as he stepped into the pub, he drew his wand. He scoped the place out, a careful look from left to right, and then back again. Apparently satisfied, he moved towards the back. Draco followed, a little slower, taking stock of the pub and the customers. The pub was dimly lit, and it looked like it hadn't been refurbished in several years. The tables and chairs were worn, a little crooked and warped from use, and dinged up in more places than not. The customers were mostly silent and huddled in their booths, their gazes mostly aimed at the floor.

Bill stopped Draco at the back door. "Wait here."

He left, the door swinging shut behind him, and Draco paused, feeling a little uncertain and oddly exposed. One of the customers, a man huddled in a dark coat, looked up from his pint and glanced at Draco. His gaze widened, and he stared a little, and then cast around, as if he was looking to see if anyone else was seeing Draco.

Draco turned away, uncomfortable at the attention, and then for a lack of anything better to do, walked up to the bar.

The bartender was wiping down the counter, keeping his gaze low, just like the other customers, as if looking at the wrong person was a death sentence. He only looked up when Draco slid onto a stool, and then he started.

"Mr. Malfoy," he said, obvious surprise in his voice.

Draco blinked, also surprised. This man knew him?

"Haven't seen you in a while," said the man, putting down his cloth.

Draco didn't quite know what to say, so he simply gave a nod. "I've been away."

"Whereabouts?"

"The States," said Draco.

The man picked up a clean mug and poured fresh coffee into it. He then stared a little at Draco.

"Work or pleasure?"

Draco was hit with a strange sense of déjà vu. "Work – mostly."

The man poured in cream, a little sugar, and a splash of whiskey. He placed it on the counter in front of Draco.

Draco took it, sipped it, and smiled. "This is exactly what I needed."

"Rough day?" the man asked, continuing to wipe down the bar.

"Rough couple of months," said Draco. "And before that, I think it's been a rough couple of years."

"It's been going around," said the man, and then his gaze latched onto something behind Draco and he flinched.

Draco whirled around just in time to avoid a bright red light. It shot over his shoulder instead, and hit the shelves behind the bar. Glass bottles exploded.

Magic, Draco thought, even as he grabbed his barstool and flung it at the man standing in the middle of the room. He'd been a customer, one of the pair in the far corner, but he was dressed differently now. He was wearing a black robe with a hood.

The man flicked his wand, and the barstool – which had been hurtling towards his head – was whipped to the side and splintered on the wall.

Magic, Draco thought again.

And then the man's friend got up, and his clothes changed as well, morphing into a similar dark robe and hood. He slashed his wand, and Draco leapt up and over the counter.

A blue curse shot over the top of the counter. Draco ducked low as more glass shattered and threw up his arm to protect his face. Glass shards peppered him. He turned his head and saw the bartender huddled in the corner as well.

"I can't help you," the barkeep said. "I have to stay neutral. You understand."

Draco didn't understand. He didn't understand a lot of what was happening, but he could adapt.

This was a magical battle. Draco didn't know any battle spells, but Bill had shown him a few tricks. Lumos for light. Nox for dark. Wingardium leviosa to move objects. It appeared a lot of spells had a Latin base, and Draco knew Latin.

He pulled out his wand and gripped it tight. He hoped this worked.

There was a break in the spells. Draco jumped up, wove his wand, and yelled out, "Ventus!"

A huge gust of wind tore from his wand. Draco could see the ripple of the spell as it flung out across the pub, picking up chairs and tables, as well as the two attackers, and one stray customer that hadn't run out with the rest. It threw them all against the back wall, which cracked under the force of the spell.

Draco stared for a moment, stunned at the result, and more than a little surprised that it had worked, and then Bill ran in, wand drawn. He skidded to a stop when he saw the damage, and then he turned to Draco. He let out a choke of laughter. "Only you, Draco," he said, shaking his head.

Draco looked back down at the wand in his hand. "Apparently this will take some finesse." He put it back into his jacket pocket, a little unnerved.

There was a tinkle of glass as the bartender stood and surveyed the pub.

"I assume you can bill me for the damages," Draco said, and then, "I also assume that I can pay for them."

He shook a few remaining pieces of glass from his clothes, and then walked around the bar, rather than jumping over it. "I also assume we should get out of here?" he asked Bill.

Bill held up a brick triumphantly. "Found the Portkey, and it was only slightly booby-trapped."

Draco didn't quite know what that meant, but Bill held it out to him. "Hold on."

Draco reached out and took hold of the brick, and then they were Portkeying again, a truly uncomfortable sensation of someone hooking him and yanking him backwards, and then he was falling through space, and then he was simply falling backwards.

He hit thick green grass that was warmed by the sun.

He sat up.

There was a very large manor that was stretched out before him. It was constructed of gray stone so pale it looked silver in the sun. It was several stories high, and sprawled out in several different directions, as if someone had started building, and then didn't know when to stop. The architecture was intricately detailed and ornate.

A soft breeze blew across the large lawn, bringing the pleasant scent of flowers and freshly tilled earth. Draco could see the upkeep of a rather large vegetable garden on the side of the manor.

"Welcome home," said Bill, gesturing at the mansion. "We've set up headquarters here. Hope you don't mind."

He started for the house, leaving Draco to wonder why the hell he should care where their headquarters were set up? Also, were people living at headquarters? Did he live at Headquarters?

Didn't he have a home?

He pushed himself to his feet and followed after Bill, who was heading towards the main doors. "Are we still in England?" he asked. "Isn't it a little… hot?" London had been gray and cold, cold enough for a jacket. In fact, all of England had been unseasonably cold for the summer. The news stated it had broken records.

"The manor and grounds have weather charms," said Bill.

Draco canted his gaze up, and then turned a quick circle, trying to tell if the wards were visible. They weren't. But he did see what looked like a rather large stable across the lawn, and there were several gardens dotted throughout the carefully kept grounds. Not like the vegetable garden to the side of the manor, which looked like almost amateur, but flower gardens with carefully cobblestoned paths leading up to fountains and sculptures.

He jogged a few steps to catch up to Bill. "I can't help but think that this is a little obvious for a Headquarters. It's so… big. And exposed. And… well, obvious."

"Oh, absolutely," said Bill. "The Death Eaters know where we are, but the wards here are too strong for them."

"Yes, but you said you'd lost other places. The Ministry and Hogwarts, and I'm assuming those had wards as well."

"Yes, but they were also infiltrated by Death Eaters. It's easy to take down wards if you have someone on the inside. We're a little more discerning about who we let in here. Don't worry." Bill turned and shot him a smile. 'We kept it safe for you."

Safe for him? That was an odd way of wording it, but before Draco could ask what he meant, the main doors flew open and a woman ran out. She looked to be middle aged, or slightly past, and she was also slightly frazzled looking. She had Bill's red hair.

"Oh, sweet Merlin!" she exclaimed.

Draco slowed his steps, expecting the woman to run to Bill, but she headed straight for him, and then suddenly he was caught up in her arms.

"Oh, you're alive! You're alive and safe!" she babbled, squeezing him tight. Her arms were soft, but also strong. She smelled like apples and vanilla. And then she pulled back and cupped his cheeks. "And look at you!" She petted his hair, and patted his cheeks, and hugged him again, tears choking up her words. "You're here. You're safe. We were so worried!"

This was obviously not his mother. They looked nothing alike – and yet, Draco knew that this was how mothers greeted their children after they had been gone for long periods of time, and it felt good to know that he was missed, and that he was welcomed back, so he returned the hug and basked in the attention. It felt good to be cried over, and for his face to be patted, and to receive all her smiles.

She finally stepped back, tears in the corners of her eyes. "I swear you must have grown since I've seen you! And you're more handsome than ever! Just look at you!"

Draco felt his cheeks go red. He ducked his head in embarrassment, glancing up to give her a rather bashful grin. But then her face went cold. She suddenly had her wand in hand, and it was pointed at his chest.

Draco took a hasty step back, all happiness forgotten. What had happened? Was she actually a Death Eater?

"Bill," she said, voice clipped. "Who did you bring back?"

Bill stepped between them, and placed a gentle hand on hers, lowering her wand. "It's Draco."

"That's not Draco," said the woman, still staring at him with that cold expression on her face.

"It's Draco," Bill insisted. "It's just Draco without any memory."

The woman paused. "What?"

"He doesn't remember us. He doesn't remember anything. He's been completely wiped."

"Death Eaters?" the woman asked, her expression falling from cold to concerned.

"No," Bill said. "I think… I think he did it to himself, but naturally he has no idea why or how."

And now the woman looked horrified. "Oh, you poor dear," she said, and then she reached out for him, expression warm, but Draco jerked back, unsettled.

Her expression softened even further, but she didn't look offended. If anything, she smiled at him, fondly. "Well, don't you worry. We'll figure it all out. For now, we'll get you a cup of tea. And how about a sandwich? You must be hungry."

And she gestured for them to follow her into the house, but she moved so quickly that she'd completely disappeared by the time they reached the front doors, and then Draco had to stop and stare.

The front entry, it was… well, it was grand. It was huge and marble and gold and utterly opulent. Draco turned in a circle, trying to take it all in, and then noticed that Bill was watching him with an expectant sort of expression.

"Well?" Bill asked.

Draco didn't quite know what to say to that. "It's… nice?"

He didn't quite get why Bill burst into laughter, but then there was clatter on the stairs and two young men appeared. One had red hair and freckles, obviously another of Bill's family, and the other had dark messy hair, green eyes, and a scar on his forehead.

"Harry Potter," Draco said, because he remembered the description.

"Draco Malfoy," Harry returned with an easy sort of grin. "You've been away awhile. Glad you're back."

"Thanks," said Draco.

Bill clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going to say hello to the wife. But find me when you're done catching up." And then, grinning a little wickedly, he headed down the front hall. Draco turned back to the other two.

"Oh, man," said the red-head. "My sister is going to kill you."

"Sorry, what?" Draco asked.

"You've been gone five years," said the red-head. "Five years. What the hell have you been doing?"

"Translating the Merlin tomb, or so I'm told," said Draco. He stuck his hands in his pockets, not quite knowing what else to say. He rocked back on his heels. "What have you two been up to?"

"What have we been up to?" the red-head demanded, tone incensed. "What the bloody hell do you think we've been doing?"

"Ron," said Harry in a reproving tone. He reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, but the red-head, Ron, shrugged him off.

"We've been fighting a war! We've been fighting battles and saving lives and you asked what we've been up to? Where the hell have you been?"

"New York City, most recently," said Draco. "Before that, Toronto, Moscow, Seattle, Sydney, Boston, Chicago, Berlin, and -,"

"Well, maybe we should all go on vacations while the bloody world is ending!" Ron exploded.

"Ron Weasley," scolded a female voice. Draco looked up to a see a woman with thick curly brown hair descend the stairs. "You could at least ask what he was doing in a those cities before assuming it was for pleasure." She looked at Draco and smiled. "I am glad to see you. We were all worried that perhaps – well, perhaps you had been killed."

"No, still alive," said Draco. He spun around to survey the entryway once more, because it was really that grand, and then turned back to the three. "So…," he said.

Harry raised his eyebrows. Ron tipped his head to the side. The woman frowned. "Are you feeling okay?"

Draco shrugged a shoulder. "Hard to say. The trip here wasn't bad, but it's all a little…,"

"Hard coming home?" the woman asked, sympathetically.

And Draco didn't know if he'd use that word to describe a war headquarters, but he shrugged again, rocked back on his heels, and forced a pleasant smile. "Sure, something like that."

The woman paused. Ron reached for his pocket where his wand was sticking out. Harry's was already in his hand.

Draco took a step backwards.

"You aren't really Draco, are you?" Harry asked.

Draco narrowed his gaze, feeling slightly irritated. "You tell me."

"Is it polyjuice?" the woman asked. "Some sort of shape-shifter?"

"Shape shifter?" Draco asked. "You have… there are… shape shifters? Really?"

"Your cousin's a shape-shifter," said Ron. "What are you playing at?"

Draco raised his hands in a helpless gesture and dropped them again. "Apparently I'm playing a very bad game of catch-up."

"How do you now remember metamorphmagi?" the woman asked.

"Imperius curse," said Ron, drawing his wand.

"That wouldn't make him stupid," said the woman.

"Not stupid," Harry corrected. "Memory loss. You have no idea who we are."

Draco flashed him a quick grin. "You're sharp." He pointed at Harry. "You're Harry Potter." He looked at Ron. "Red-hair and pale and freckles. You must be a Weasley." He looked at the woman. "No idea who you are."

"You don't remember Hermione?" Ron spluttered.

"If he didn't remember his own cousin, he's not going to remember me," said Hermione. She held out her hand. "Hermione Granger."

Draco shook her hand. "Draco Malfoy. But you already knew that. Nice to meet you, or should I say, meet you again. I don't remember the first time."

He stepped back and did another turn around the entryway, because he kept noticing new things – like the chandelier. Was it actually crystal? And was it really gold, or just gold overlay? Surely some of it must be glass, or else the whole thing would be worth… well, it hurt Draco's head to think about it.

"This is a ridiculous place to have a Headquarters during a war," he said, and then turned back to the other three. They were looking at him rather oddly.

"That's why you're acting so bloody weird," Ron breathed out.

"Weird?" Draco asked.

Ron stepped forward and poked him in the shoulder. "It's like… it's like you're a real person."

Draco batted his hand away. "Of course I'm real. What the hell does that mean?"

"How much memory did you lose?" Hermione asked. "What happened? Was it a memory spell? Was it Death Eaters?"

Draco shrugged. "I know my name is Draco. And Bill filled me in on the whole - ," he wriggled his fingers in the air – "magic thing."

"Oh, Merlin," Ron groaned.

"That's… alarming," Hermione said.

Harry said nothing, but his face tensed. Draco watched his jaw work, and then Harry forced a smile on his face "Well, I'm sure we'll figure it out, right?"

Draco smiled back. "Sure, why not?"

No one felt comforted.

OoOoOoOoO

Severus strode through the manor, silently cursing the fact that it was so inefficiently large. He had to ascend from the dungeons, where his potions were brewing, walk through the entire East Wing, which was functioning as the temporary housing for displaced families of Order members, and then passed through the grand entryway and into the informal dining room.

His eyes swept the room. Bill was there, as well as Molly Weasley and the three Gryffindor golden students. And there, at the table eating a sandwich, was Draco Malfoy.

The pressure that had been building in his chest for every year Draco was gone eased slightly. Severus let out a breath. "So pleased you've deigned to return to the fold, Mr. Malfoy," he drawled, and continued into the room.

Draco looked up. "Uh, thanks, I guess."

Severus stopped, and then his wand was out and leveled at the impostor. "This is not Draco Malfoy."

The impostor dropped his sandwich back onto his plate. "Seriously? You too?"

"Severus, it's okay," Bill said.

Severus wanted to say it wasn't okay, because he knew Draco, and that wasn't him, but the impostor spoke up first.

"Okay?" he demanded, with far too much expression in his voice. It was easy to pick out the emotions, exasperation, irritation, and confusion. "Okay? How is it that I can be perfectly normal, even polite, and suddenly people are threatening me with wands? What the hell? Why does no one think I am who I am?" He pushed off from the table and stood. His hands were clenched by his sides. "Is there a code word I should be saying? Should I be speaking a different language? I know a whole bunch."

Severus lowered his wand. He studied the young man. It was Draco's form; he was sure of it. But none of his mannerisms. He was too normal, too expressive, almost as if he'd never been indoctrinated in Pureblood society.

"Ah," he said, reaching the correct conclusion. He lowered his wand. "You appear to be missing vital memories of your childhood, Mr. Malfoy."

"He's missing all of his memories," said Bill.

"I remember most things, if you want to get technical," Draco bit back, and yes, that was Draco. "I remember several languages, the physical principles of the world, mathematics, biology, chemistry, and a whole lot more. And yet, apparently, I'm not myself."

"You're too expressive," Severus told him. "The Draco we are familiar with is much more… contained."

"Frigid," Ron chimed in over him.

"Ron!" Hermione hissed, and then to Draco. "You're usually a little more… well, civil. And… aloof."

Severus watched the interplay of emotions of Draco's face. It was startling to see how easy he could read him now.

"I do hope your memory loss doesn't also encompass why you felt the need to leave for five years?" Severus asked, claiming a seat at the table and accepting a cup of tea from Molly.

His question was met with silence. Severus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache starting to bloom. He looked back up at the table. He was, not for the first time, startled to see that people were looking at him. No, not at him, to him. Ever since Dumbledore died, he'd been the de facto head of the Order. The reluctant, de facto head. Thankfully, and Merlin knew that this was a strange thing to be thankful for, but thankfully Potter had done a good deal of stepping up. Him and Bill Weasley, who had a decent brain in his head.

"Well, it goes without saying that the first mission is getting Draco his memory back," Severus said.

"Agreed," said Bill.

"The first question is, why did you go away in the first place?" Severus turned to Draco.

Draco groaned and dropped his head onto the table. "I don't know!"

"Second question," Severus followed up with, steadfastly ignoring the theatrics. "Where have you been?"

Draco picked his head up. "Where haven't I been?" he asked, and then shook his head. "Actually, before we even do this, is this everyone? I do not want to keep repeating myself over and over again, and I'd really like not to have people threaten me with magic and hocus pocus and whatever else simply because I'm openly expressing my state of confusion and frustration."

There was something derisive about the way he referred to magic that had Severus's expertly honed instincts screaming that this was trouble.

"Hocus pocus?" Molly asked.

"Ah, about that," Bill said. "So, when I found him, he didn't know what magic was."

There were a couple of shouts from those at the table. Draco thunked his head down on the table again, narrowly missing his sandwich. Severus considered all the ramifications of the fact that Draco, mastermind, skilled dueler, dark magic expert, and perhaps one of the greatest threats to Voldemort in the war, had no idea what magic was, and considered thunking his head onto the table as well. Except someone would need to keep all of their brain cells functioning and not give into theatrics, and it looked like it'd have to be him.

"Call an emergency meeting," he said.

OoOoOoOo

Please leave a review! I will hope to get another chapter up by next weekend.