Granger looked like she'd seen a ghost. Even before she told him, Draco knew exactly what she must have seen in the Pensieve. He still had enough memories left to piece together the trail of events that sent him here.
It wasn't Draco who'd purveyed the Soul Catchers; it was Lucius. Hermione had no idea how well they'd been hidden – since the first war, in fact. Lucius has secreted them away and forgot about them, or else he'd imagined no one would be able to find his hiding place. His father could be remarkably stupid sometimes. Draco had never been able to figure out what Lucius had intended to do with half-a-dozen feathery objects, each holding a Muggle soul acquired Gods-knew-how. It must have had something to do with the Dark Lord, like every other misfortune that had befallen the Malfoys in the last decades.
When the craftsmen redecorating the library had found the hiding place, Draco had acted almost without thinking. Lucius wouldn't have lasted another winter in Azkaban, and Narcissa wouldn't have been far behind.
Draco had brokered no opposition from his parents. He'd persuaded them (and himself) that he'd get a short sentence, maybe a few years at most. How was Draco to have known he'd get old Pucey, who didn't believe in second chances (never mind third)? He could still remember his mother's ashen face when the sentence had been read out, and how he'd struggled to keep his face impassive despite facing a lifetime in Azkaban. If this was the last the world would see of him, he was determined to act like a Malfoy.
He'd fallen to pieces later, in his holding cell. Even now he wasn't sure what he'd chose if it had been up to him. At least this way, it would be over soon. He shivered, and remembered that he wasn't alone.
"But you could appeal –" Granger's face was almost as white as his mother's had been in the Wizengamot.
"No." Draco cut her off harshly – this was not the time to chase after lost chances. He'd made his choice, and he wasn't going to undo it now.
He knew when the memory of the night he was branded a Death Eater was removed, because he slept better afterwards than he had for years. The gaps were beginning to be noticeable: he knew what the Dark Mark was, and that he wasn't the only one in his family to be branded like cattle, but he wasn't quite sure why.
Being a Malfoy was important, he remembered that much. He tried not to think too much about being the last one.
It was odd, the way memories worked. As they disappeared from his mind, Draco dwelled on things he'd never known were important until he was about to lose them.
The smell of wet wool and roast potatoes in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, or the wart on the Court Scribe's nose at his first trial. Draco had been petrified then, not quite trusting Potter to bring him off (he couldn't quite remember why) and yet determined not to show it. The night sky at Hogwarts, far from ugly Muggle lights stealing even the starlight.
You couldn't see the sky in here, no matter how you craned your neck.
Draco thought there was something different about Granger, but he couldn't put his finger on it. It could all be in his head, of course – how did he know his latest memory of her was from yesterday? Then he noticed the sliver of lighter skin around her ring finger. He suddenly remembered the ring: a gold band with a poorly cut diamond, not something Granger would have picked for herself. It had obviously been chosen and paid for by Weasley.
"Broken it off with your sweetheart, then?" he asked. "Or did he dump you?"
Granger flinched; it almost made him smile. "Shut up, Malfoy." It sounded like she hadn't slept for days. Draco knew how that felt; some nights he didn't seem to get any sleep at all, just endless hours and minutes of trying to make his mind stop.
"Forgive me if I have limited sympathy for your sufferings. What happened – did Weasley suddenly decide against a life of being dictated to?" It was testament to his witlessness that he'd lasted so long.
"It was you, actually." Once Granger started, she couldn't stop; the words tumbled out of her mouth, seemingly of their own volition. "He couldn't see why I kept talking about it, how I would be so cut up over someone I didn't even like?"
Draco didn't particularly like her either, so he didn't demur.
Granger obligingly kept talking. "To Ron, it's just a job. You do it and then you go home, play Quidditch with your mates and have a few pints. He's no concept of what it's like to be responsible for research that could heal people's minds, or the ethical implications..." She finally caught up with what she'd been saying. "Sorry. I don't mean to trivialise what you're going through – " The earnest gaze had stayed with her since Hogwarts and it had never failed to set Draco's teeth on edge.
"Obviously it's nothing compared to the challenges you're facing on a daily basis."
"Well, you did ask," she muttered and turned to her preparations. "Shall we get started, then?"
Potter's face. The scorn was still there, the dislike that rose as soon as Draco pictured the unruly black hair and the stupid glasses. He wasn't quite sure why. Something about Quidditch, probably – he definitely remembered racing against Potter on a broom quite recently. There had been flames, but he couldn't recall why. Surely the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch hadn't caught fire?
He often dreamt of drowning, of drifting slowly downwards in deep dark water. Bubbles of air, bright and light like memories, would slip out of him and rise to the surface. He would watch them floating up as he was dragged inexorably downwards by the current.
After a while he forgot to fight against it, and simply watched the bubbles float upwards.
"You look like you've been sat on by a Hippogriff, Granger." That was putting it mildly. The dark circles under her eyes looked like they'd been etched there, and her hair was in a deplorable condition. His mother wouldn't have been caught dead like that, not even by the house-elves.
Draco watched her with mild repulsion as her face turned an ugly red colour when she descended into a series of sobs. "You- You said the exact same thing yesterday," she eventually managed to get out.
The little part of Draco that remembered that he had a past and a future, albeit an unpleasant one, turned cold. "I didn't!" he said, mostly to have something to say. He tried to remember how to breathe. "You're lying," he squeezed out, and took a pathetic pleasure in seeing her cringe.
"You did," she protested, but not vehemently – maybe some of his own dread was showing. Draco tried to make his face look impassive, but he seemed to have forgotten how to move, never mind control tiny facial muscles.
"You told me..." she started, and even though the sobbing had stopped tears tumbled uncontrollably from her eyes. Granger didn't even bother to wipe them away, and Draco watched in horrified fascination as one landed with a splash in one of her precious vials. "You told me you forgive me. That you understand. It's not my decision, not my fault what will happen to you afterwards..." She did notice the snot running from her nose then, but wiped it away with her hand as if it didn't matter that she was making a spectacle of herself.
Draco must truly be losing his mind if he'd said that. "And you – You truly defy belief, Granger. It takes a special kind of nasty to look to the man you're slowly draining of his own memories for absolution. I always knew you didn't have any scruples, but that – " Granger hadn't had any qualms about sending Umbridge to the Centaurs, had she? And that had been while they were still at school. He should never have –
But he couldn't remember what he never should have done, only that he'd almost started trusting Granger. The betrayal didn't shake him so much as the realisation that this was it – he'd reached the endpoint. There was no going back. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Draco's mind back together again.
He distantly became aware of Granger saying something.
"Draco? Draco, look at me!"
"Go to hell," he snarled, but even Draco could hear the defeat in his voice. All he had left was his anger, and he clung to it like a drowning man. "It doesn't matter what I say while you're tearing my mind into pieces. I can never forgive this – never. I will curse you until my last word – but I can't do that, can I?" he asked, and Granger looked like he'd hit her. "You took even that away from me."
"It wasn't – " she started protesting, and suddenly Draco couldn't bear to hear another word from her.
"I hold you personally responsible," he told the table holding Granger's collection of vials. "Seeing as you believe in justice and free will and all that. I hope it chokes you, your self-righteousness."
He cast one last look on her before he sank in the sea of missing memories, and was satisfied. At least he'd made sure Granger would feel guilty until her dying day.
There was a tree in the courtyard, full of ripe red apples. He stared at it, content to placidly observe it for hours.
The young witch with the thick brown hair – how long had she been there with him? He couldn't remember – didn't seem to care about the tree. She was looking at him instead, and there was something familiar about the expression on her face. Grief-struck: the word came to him like a log floating to the surface of a river. It was odd. He didn't know her; he couldn't remember seeing her before.
The witch didn't say anything. She just stood there breathing heavily, as if she'd been running. She must have left later, because the next time he looked away from the tree she was gone.
-oO THE END Oo-