It became sweltering in an attic during the summer months, she had quickly learned. Heat seemed to be funneling into the small room, trapped inside with no ventilation or hope of a draft or breeze. It was midmorning, and no one had come to relieve her yet.

Sweat was dripping down her body, covering her in a sheet that did nothing in the form of relief from the heat. She had been wearing a sweater and trousers, tall black boots, when she had been found by Harry and the others in that muddy field, and now they were nothing but misery. She had shed her boots and sucks almost instantly, and after battling with herself for a few minutes, she shed her sweater as well. The removal of the sweater helped, leaving her in her thin undergarments and trousers. She was tempted to remove her pants next, but was holding off.

She groaned, lying on the floor beneath her cot, cheeks pressed to the dusty floor in hopes of getting some sense of coolness, her tongue seeking out some sort of moisture in her dry mouth. She wanted nothing more than a glass of water.

Thundering feet up the staircase jolted her out of her daze, and she looked up to see Harry standing over.

"Has no one come up to check on your this morning?" He cried, looking horrified. She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Please…water…" she rasped, too hot and weak to even feel embarrassed that she was half-dressed.

"I'm sorry," He bent beside her and conjured a cup, filling it with a water charm and holding it to her lips. "I didn't realize until just now that no one had come for you. Merlin it's hot up here."

She drank down the water greedily and he gave her more. While she was drinking her second cup, he began casting cooling charms around the attic, and she could feel the heat physically dissipating from the room.

"Thank you," she murmured after she had drained the cup.

"Think nothing of it, I'm going to fetch you some food, and then I'll get them to let you shower after that." He stood up, not necessarily looking at her, but she could see the expression on his face incredibly was bothered.

Harry left her then and returned with a plate of food, which she ate quickly, absolutely starved. She was surprised and grateful that it actually tasted really good. He sat on the floor across from her, deep in thought.

"How long am I going to be kept up here?" She asked, pulling on her sweater, finally cooled down.

He hesitated.

"I don't really know, probably a while…we don't really know what we are going to do with you, yet."

"Who is this…we? There's a bunch of you?"

She watched the walls close up at that, and he looked away from her. "You don't remember who you are, but you weren't very…"

"Good?" She asked him hesitantly. He nodded at that. "It's hard to imagine myself as someone bad. Are you all good? You seem good."

"We try to be good," he sighed, standing up. "Come on, I'll take you to the shower. Hermione is going to stand in there with you."

"Okay," she stood up as well.

In the shower, which was warm and efficient, she felt an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. Tears clouded her eyes as the water streamed down on her, and she hugged herself. She couldn't remember anything from before, just random facts and knowledge, and everyone kept telling her that she had been a bad guy.

A bad guy with what?

She didn't understand why they were keeping her prisoner, what they were protecting everyone from…what was she capable of? Who had she been?

A sob escaped her lips and she flinched.

"Er, Pansy, are you…okay?" Hermione asked her slowly from where she stood on the other side of the curtain.

"I don't know who I am," she murmured quietly, loud enough for the girl to hear but quiet enough that it didn't hurt so much saying it out loud.

Hermione was silent.

After Harry's visit that morning, he must have made sure the others were on top of checking on her, because Hermione came later that evening to take her to the loo and to feed her, and they had taken to leaving a pitcher of water and cup with her.

After her shower breakdown, she had spent the remainder of the day lying on her cot, staring a the ceiling, and trying to remember something…anything. In the bathroom, she had looked in the mirror, and had been even more disheartened that she hadn't recognized herself.

Creamy colored skin, a slightly upturned nose, and muted hazel eyes. Her hair was black, and…interestingly enough, had green streaks running through the ends of it. Her hair was cut to slightly below her shoulders, straight, but had a slight wave at the ends. Green. Was that her favorite color? Was there a specific reason she had put the green in? What did it mean?

What did any of this mean? What had happened to her?

Before:

"Pansy will handle it," Draco wrapped his arm around her narrow waist, drawing her closer to him. He reached out and idly stroked her collarbone, his finger dipping low across her chest before twining around a streak of green hair. "Won't you, darling? You'll take care of that little problem, won't you?"

She had trembled at his touch and that dangerous tone he used whenever he was turned on, he knew what it did to her.

"Of course my love," she had purred, feeling almost drunk from his attention, his touch, his adoration, as he nibbled on her earlobe, forcing her to gasp.

"Then go on, I'll make sure to thank you extra well after," Draco had helped her stand up in her delirious lust-ridden state, giving her a swat on the bum. She had smiled, drawing her wand, and exiting the train car as she made her way toward her victim.

"I brought you this um, box," Harry said several days after coming to her rescue with the water. He was standing awkwardly, holding a box in his arms and shifting from foot to foot. She lifted her head from her pillow, eyeing him blankly. All of her time was trying to desperately remember anything of her past, and it was wearing down on her.

"What's in it?"

"Some old books, and I think some pencils and papers and maybe some other stuff. It's some of Ginny's old things," he explained, sitting it on the floor.

"Ginny?" She asked, confused.

"A girl that lives here, she is the daughter of the man with the red hair that…er, talked to you." She expected him to leave, but he sat on the floor against the wall like he had before.

Curiosity got the best of her and she slid off the bed, sitting beside the box and opening the lid to peek inside.

Books, bits of paper, and some colored wax bits she recognized as crayons…a pallet of water color paint.

Paint.

Her brain itched at that.

"I…I used to paint," she breathed, holding up the set. He stared at her. "I just remembered…I remember…sitting by some water and painting on a canvas. I don't remember where, though. It's like, that one moment…no context."

"What else have you remembered?" He asked her quietly, fiddling with his glasses.

"That's the first memory I can remember," she said, running her fingers across the paint set container. "I've been trying so hard, and it just came to me now, and it's not even anything significant."

He was silent, watching her mull over the new development.

"Harry, did you know me before?"

"Yes," he sighed. "We went to school together."

"The school name?"

"Hogwarts."

She thought for a moment. "Nothing. That name triggers nothing." She sighed, setting the paint set back in the box. "I suppose we weren't ever friends."

"Not ever," he agreed, wincing. "I never knew you to paint either, but then again, we didn't talk much, and if we did…it wasn't exactly friendly conversation."

"That's a pity," she wandered over to the window. The pane was so reinforced and thick she couldn't see outside, only knowing it was daytime by the filtered light that forced its way through.

"Why?"

"I like you, you're nice to me, even though we were enemies. We were enemies, right?"

"Yeah, I guess we were," he stood up. "This box should help keep you entertained, Hermione will be by later to check on you."

"Sure," she shrugged. "Thanks for the stuff."

"What are you painting, now?" Harry stood over her. She was sprawled across the floor, working on some of the last bits of paper she had left. It had been a couple days since she had been given the box of junk.

"I'm painting Hermione," she answered, not looking up. "I can't remember landscapes or anything else of relevance, so I'm painting what I have seen so far. Which is up here, the hall and the bathroom, and you and Hermione mostly."

"Can I sit with you for a while?" He asked her and she nodded. He sat in his usual spot.

"Anything troubling you?" She asked after a moment. His silence was tense, thoughtful.

"There's just, uh, a lot going on. A lot of pressure from different places all at once." Harry answered finally. She flicked her eyes over to him at that, studying him. He did look worn, like he hadn't gotten much sleep. Like usual, she was drawn to his eyes, brilliant green…absolutely beautiful.

"From the outside world?" She ventured and he nodded. "Is there…is it a war?"

"Yes," he said. He watched her close her eyes, trying to see if that information would trigger anything for her. She opened her eyes after a moment and said nothing about it.

"Is your side winning?"

"No," he ran his hand through his already messy hair. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The shirt was black and had some sort of white symbol, "Anarchy" printed underneath it.

"Is…is it my side that you are opposing?" She put her paintbrush down and went to sit on the seat under the window, her stomach in knots.

"You really don't know who you are," he breathed, staring at her, not a question, but a realization that still, after all these days, she was yet a blank canvas.

"I don't remember who I was before," she corrected from her spot beside the window, "I only know who I am now." The light, warped as it was, was filtered through the panes of glass and if she squeezed her eyes shut tight enough and pressed her temple to the enforced barrier, she could almost feel warmth pouring in.

"I know I am here with you, with all of you, though I don't know how many, and that you are hiding from something. Something that I was connected to," she looked to him for confirmation and he nodded before she continued.

"I know that I like you, and Hermione. I like your light, the way goodness seems to pour from you." She smiled despite herself. "I know that I am a prisoner, I don't pretend otherwise, and that I do not deserve this kindness given to me, but I just can't remember for the life of me why I don't, why I shouldn't."

"All humans deserve kindness and compassion," he told her uneasily, continually unnerved by her honesty, her blankness…newness.

"Would I have been given it, if I really could remember?" She asked innocently. He had turned from her then, unable to meet her eyes.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I would like to think so, but…"

"Not all things are easily forgiven," she had finished for him quietly. There was no pain in her voice, nor her murky hazel eyes, but her words haunted him all the same.