A/N: And now for Quatre! And before you ask, no, I don't consider either of the characters in this chapter to be OOC. In Episode Zero, we see that Quatre was a brat with low self-esteem as a child, and Draco would hardly be condescending to people he considered his social equal/better. Let's just say that the Winners haven't always been muggles. They haven't always been pacifists, either.

But Magic Doesn't Exist- Chapter 5

Legend:

… times passing, same POV, same scene

change of scene/change of POV

have a cookie emphasis, ie. Italics

/have a cookie/ thoughts

Quatre Winner gazed disinterestedly at the boy before him. They had the same flaxen hair, the same pale skin, and, Quatre thought, probably the same status. The boy certainly looked as if he were the son of the head of a multinational corporation.

The boy stared at Quatre… probably recognizing who he was, which Quatre supposed he should be used to by now, but somehow he wasn't. He'd found, upon waking, that he'd been kidnapped, forced to wear the ill fitting clothes of his captors: a Yuy and a Barton, if the tags were to be believed, though he doubted either of them were related to the Heero Yuy, or the Barton Foundation. The first was dead, and had no blood relatives, and the Barton Foundation would hardly be stupid enough to leave him alive, even if, in some fit of insanity, they'd been stupid enough to kidnap him.

Not that his family would care; if he ended up dead, his father could just take another woman's eggs and 'sire'- Quatre used the term only in the strictest of senses- another heir. With that in mind, it didn't really matter who his captors were, did it? He'd either die, or wouldn't, and if no one else cared, why should he?

The boy glared at him with a haughty sneer, and Quatre supposed maybe his body double (except for the eyes, wrong color altogether) didn't know who he was. The boy confirmed it a second later. "Who are you?" The sneer seemed familiar, but Quatre couldn't remember where he'd seen arrogance of that intensity, nor did he suppose that he wanted to remember.

"I'm Quatre Winner. My father is the head of Winner Enterprises." Quatre said, and recognition flared in the boy's eyes. He smiled, but it was a strange sort of smile, like Quatre had seen in movies, like the bad guys when they think they're going to win. The weighty feeling in his chest twisted and turned, nauseating, and confusing at once. Quatre ignored it. The smile was beautiful, because it was from one equal to another, not those smiles that the populace gave him when they hoped to gain something by being sycophants. The smile was genuine.

"A Winner?" The boy asked. "Where are your parents?" he looked around, as if he'd find them hiding behind some tree with a camera, like the paparazzi used to do.

"I don't know," Quatre said, shrugging. "I think I've been kidnapped."

"Think? Don't you know?" The boy might have sneered, but he didn't.

"I think some of my memories are missing," Quatre clarified, and the boy shrugged.

"Oh. I can't help you then. I know how to obliviate, but I don't know how to reverse it."

"Obliviate?" Quatre asked, "What's that?"

The boy's jaw dropped. "You don't know what obliviate is? What about crucio? Wingardium Leviosa? Alohamora?"

Quatre shook his head in the pause between words, and the boy looked at Quatre like he'd never quite seen anyone like him before.

"A lot of your memory must be missing, then," the boy said, and it occurred to Quatre that he didn't know the boy's name.

"Who are you?" he asked, and the boy drew himself up to his full height, looking regal, but somehow less beautiful, filled with pride.

"My name is Draco Lucien Edric Malfoy. Call me Draco."

Quatre nodded. "Only if you'll call me Quatre." He smiled, and the boy smiled back.

"Don't worry," he said, "my mom and I can refresh your memory. The Malfoys are old friends of the Winners."

Quatre shrugged, not particularly caring, since he had never heard of the Malfoys, nor was he a particularly good Winner. But so long as he could stay with one person who didn't want him to be the 'image of a man', or the perfect heir, or really expect him to know anything, to do anything other than things normal twelve year olds did, Quatre supposed that being with a friend of the family was a good thing.

"So, how old are you?" Draco asked, turning to walk away, holding a stick in his hand.

"Twelve," Quatre said, following. "I just turned."

Draco gave him an odd look. "Are you sure you were kidnapped?" he asked, and Quatre just knew he had said something to throw himself into doubt.

"Well, I'm not wearing my clothes, for one, and for two, I have no idea where I am, and for three, the last thing I remember was taking a business trip with my father, to Milan," Quatre retorted rather nastily, not at all liking that someone had doubted his word. Winners were always good for their word.

"Maybe you just forgot a lot more than you think you did. You don't look twelve, you look my age, and I'm sixteen."

Quatre frowned. It was true there was a great gaping hole in his memory, but surely it didn't span four years.

"And that would explain why you don't recognize even first year spells. I hear Middle Eastern countries don't start training until puberty, thirteen at the latest."

"I haven't hit puberty yet," Quatre murmured, agreeing, "At least, I don't remember it."

"Well, there you go. And here we are!" Draco pointed up at the great house, large even by Quatre's standards that stood before them. In the garden little creatures like Christmas elves worked, planting strange flowers, watering, pruning, pulling up weeds, and generally making themselves useful.

Draco strode in like it was his house, which it probably was. The rooms they past through were elegantly decorated, though the colors seemed restricted to green, silver, and black. Quatre rather thought a dash of red, blue, or gold might brighten the house, but he said nothing, since it wasn't his house, and maybe the Malfoys liked the color scheme. He couldn't imagine why.

A tall man, like an adult Draco, entered the dining room at the same time as Draco and Quatre. Draco ran to his father's embrace, while the man gave Quatre a speculative look. "Who is this, son?" The man asked, and Draco answered, while Quatre did his best not to quail in man's gaze.

"One of the Winners, father. He's been obliviated, so he only remembers up to being twelve."

The man's mouth moved, and though Quatre couldn't hear his response, he knew what the man was saying: "Just far enough back to forget magic."

"Yes," Quatre said. "And I wondered if I might be able to contact my father."

The man looked at him speculatively again, and Quatre stood proudly. He was a Winner, and even if his father didn't really care, Draco seemed to care, which meant Draco's father probably cared, and since Quatre's father wasn't here, he supposed what his father did or didn't care about didn't matter much.

"Yes, of course," the man said, and held out his hand. "Lucius Malfoy."

"Quatre Winner," Quatre shook his hand, and looked for a phone.

"Do you have your wand with you?" Mr. Malfoy said. "Although," he frowned "I'm sure your captors wouldn't allow you to keep your wand, if they went to such lengths to erase your memory."

"I don't think they would," Quatre smiled wryly, "Of course, they might have. I woke up in the woods, so it might be there, and I just didn't see it."

"How do you mean?" Draco asked. "A wand isn't just a stick."

Quatre turned back to the boy. "I can't even remember ever being told magic existed, much less having a wand, or learning spells or anything like that. How would I know what a wand looks like?"

"Surely your father had one. Or your mother." Quatre shook his head at Draco's exclamation. He didn't remember anything like that.

"My mother's dead, and my father couldn't care less about me. I'm not a natural child."

The Malfoys looked between each other, and a strangely dark look overcame their features. "If I may," the older of the two began. "May I look at your memories? It's a simple process, and painless."

Quatre blinked. "Of course."

The man raised his wand- at least, Quatre supposed that's what it was, and he had to agree it was different from a stick- and muttered 'Legilimens'. Quatre went back through his memories, one at a time, each one carefully perused as if it might hold some clue. He didn't resist, because really, his life wasn't all that interesting: a test tube baby, and replaceable.

Abruptly, as his memories came to the point where he awoke in strange clothes with a boy very similar to him in appearance standing over him, Quatre found himself staring, calmly, at Lucius Malfoy, who was laughing as if he had heard a particularly funny joke.

When his laughter died down, Lucius favored Quatre with an indulgent smile. "Your memories have clearly been altered. The Winners, a pacifist muggle family?" He and Draco burst out in laughter, and Quatre even found himself chuckling along, though he didn't know what a muggle was, and he didn't see anything wrong with being pacifist. Of course, if his memories had been altered, he wouldn't.

Lucius continued. "Draco, take young Quatre shopping. I will contact the Winners and explain the situation."

"Of course, father." Draco smiled, and grabbed Quatre's hand. "Well, come on! Let's go!"

Lucius Malfoy entered his study, lighting the fireplace with a twitch of his wand. He would deal with this immediately. He was glad that he and the Winners kept such close contact. Waiting for the besieged family to respond would be such a bother, especially since he, out of courtesy, would not be able to mention the precise reason for the call.

He tossed a handful of floo powder into the fireplace, and stepped into the green, flickering flames. "Achmed Winner residence." It was a gut wrenching experience, flooing, and he tried not to as much as he could, but both of the families' residences were warded against apparition.

His countenance darkened. He would have to punish Draco, as soon as the boy returned. He knew he was restricted from going to that area of the forest: the magic was twisted, and the wards refused to function properly. As such, he'd blocked off the area so that only the head of the Malfoy family, Lucius himself, could enter or leave that section of property. Clearly, the boy had found a way to manipulate the wards around that area of the forest, so that he might come and go as he pleased, and bring guests with him.

Stupid boy! Didn't he realize the wards were there for his protection? If Black, or some other blood traitor were to stumble upon the manipulated wards, the entire house's security could, would be compromised.

Resolutely, he put such issues from his mind, in order to deal with the matter at hand: the boy named Quatre Winner. Abdul, Achmed's cousin, was well known for the way he had taken Muhammad's teachings to heart, especially the one stating that a man could take as many wives as he could support, and also for some of those wives being foreigners- so long as they were pure bloods. Achmed would never stand for a mudblood relative, and at least Abdul had the sense to submit to his brother's authority in that case.

But if the boy's memories had been altered, he might not really be a Winner; the situation merited a visit to Achmed, who would certainly know if any of Abdul's children had gone missing. Achmed was at his desk when Lucius strode in.

"By Allah!" the Arabian householder cried. "Lucius it has been too long!"

"Indeed," Lucius shook the man's hand, and sat in the guest's seat. "You have been busy." He looked meaningfully around the study, covered in maps of the area, and lists.

"Yes, I'm afraid that the Al Khaers have not taken the merger with our family well, they have been attacking us on a nearly daily basis."

"Have they kidnapped anyone?" Lucius asked. Achmed looked grim, and nodded.

"Yes. Many of Abdul's children have gone missing. Or so he says, but my cousin has so many, I'm surprised he noticed. How goes the infestation?"

"Well enough," Lucius said, "our order has made many inroads against the mudbloods, thanks to your support."

"I'm only sorry I couldn't give more. But, you know," he ended the sentence there, gesturing around him as if his study was a metaphor for his family's plight.

Lucius gave him a tight smile. "We do not need you that badly," he glared.

Achmed raised his hands in apology. "I did not mean to suggest that you were any less or a wizard. I only wish I could do more, because… well, you know my position on mudbloods." The last was hissed, and though Lucius enjoyed listening to how that stupid woman, Achmed's mother, had nearly ruined the Winner reputation, and more particularly of her fate, he didn't have the time. He held up a hand.

"I'm here on business, Achmed." He admonished, and the Arabian's whole manner changed. His back straightened, and there was shrewd look in his eyes.

"Go on."

"How many sons does Abdul have?"

"Five, and a multitude of daughters."

"What are their names?" Lucius pressed.

"Abdul, first born, named for his father, Muhammad, second born, named for the prophet, Rashid, third born, named for a friend of the family…" he stalled. "And two others, born to a Chinese woman, and an American; I never bothered to find out their names. At least one of them, thankfully, has Abdul's looks. The other is the spitting image of his mother, blonde hair, blue eyes and all."

"Might the boy's name be Quatre?"

Achmed rolled a glass of wine between his fingers. "It might, the woman is French ancestrally, if I recall. And he is the fourth born." Achmed sneered. "It sounds like something Abdul might do." His gaze focused on Lucius. "What is this about?"

"My son found a child on my property. He claims to be a Winner, but his memories have been altered, so the details of his blood are… circumspect."

"Altered?"

"Yes, he's around my son's age, but believes himself to be twelve, and believes the Winners to be a Muggle pacifist family." Lucius couldn't keep a straight face, though he tried. Achmed was in tears, he laughed so hard.

"Altered, indeed," he gasped out. His smile faded. "I wonder what Quatre is doing in England."

"At the moment? Shopping. I had my son replace his wand."

"Ah." Achmed nodded, taking a swig of the red liquid in his glass. He didn't offer Lucius any, not out of discourtesy, as some might have thought, but out of consideration. Lucius would have to floo home, and the last time he'd flooed with alcohol of any amount in his system, he'd vomited upon arrival. "I would hesitate to ask, Lucius, if we were not such good friends, but… it might not be safe for Quatre to return. Might-"

"I would be happy to care for him, if his return would be unsafe," Lucius did not force Achmed to finish his request.

"Thank you, my friend, that is most kind of you." Achmed said, and then turned to more light hearted matters. Their conversation lasted long into the English night.