He was at Malfoy Manor and so was Hermione. There was something very very wrong with this scene. Yet, it seemed so very familiar. Draco glanced towards Hermione, in the grasp of Bellatrix Lestrange. The love of his life in great peril and he couldn't even will himself to move. He simply stood there.

Hermione was crying, she was being Crucio-ed and he body twisted into shapes and forms that the human body was never meant to be in. Her shrieks were so loud that Draco's ears chose to block them out. In fact this entire scenario was such an assault on his senses that he felt himself distancing from it all.

The only feeling he could feel was the tears streaming down his face. He wondered how they got there, but couldn't be bothered to remove them.

"This isn't real," he whispered to himself. "It's not."

Despite his conviction, there was just something too familiar, too real about the events that were plays out before him.

But Hermione was never at Malfoy Manor during the war, she was with him, at Hogwarts. Wasn't she?

When he finally broke free from that nightmare, he found himself leaping through streams of memories. He had felt this feeling once when he played around in his Great Aunt Black's pensive.

All too soon, Draco found himself in his old dormitory with a very shapely witch in his bed. He inhaled deeply in relief as he believed that the nightmares were over.

However, something didn't smell right. Hermione smelled of citrus and vanilla. This, this wasn't her.

The woman in his bed moaned and rolled over. Draco found himself face to face with Pansy. He wasn't sure if he was shocked or not. Part of him was and part of him wasn't.

This madness did not appear to be ending any time soon as Draco felt his surrounding shift around him and morph into his third year DADA class, the day when he wrote Hermione a line of muggle poetry to woo her. Instead, he sent Potter a crude drawing.

Next came the Yule ball where Hermione was on the arms of a big bulky Bulgarian and proceeded to ignore him all night.

Draco felt like he was going insane, like his mind was being teared apart.

Suddenly his eyes snapped open.

He was in his room, their room, in their flat. He sat up slowly and stared at the door, half expecting Harry bloody Potter to walk in in a negligee. It was one of those mornings.

Downstairs Hermione hummed to herself as she made breakfast. She couldn't be happier today. Last night with Draco was earth shattering. It turns out those rumours about Draco at Hogwarts were true.

Hermione was quite pleased with herself as well. She had thoroughly exhausted Draco that this morning, he was in a coma like deep slumber.

It was another hour before Draco came down the stairs. Hermione as it appears, had already eaten and she had gone off to the Ministry to meddle in some affair or another. He was quite relieved about it since he really did not wish to face her with the dark and morbid images that are currently floating about in his mind.

Hermione's wide smile inevitable turned into an expression of pain as she clenches her teeth to avoid screaming. Her screams of ecstasy, which he so treasures, are not no different, in his mind as those her of in pain.

Despite his belief that those were only nightmares, Draco began to worry about his sanity. Ever since that morning, memories he did not have before began to pop up in his mind. This couldn't be good. He decided to not worry Hermione yet. Perhaps a quick visit to St-Mungo's wouldn't be remise.

He quickly ate some breakfast and immediately headed towards the floo.

Draco burst out of the floo of St-Mungo like a madman, which made it far easier for him to get a very quick consult with the resident neural-psychological mediwitch, Madam Patridge.

"Mr. Malfoy," she stern woman ordered. "Please do come with me."

Draco had the decency to look ashamed of his behaviour. But the moment Madam Patridge closed the door, he lost it again.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with me?" he asked her with quiet venom. It was the tone he learned from his father that meant that if he didn't get this way, someone would pay.

"What do you believe is wrong with you?" she asked him.

Draco wanted to throw a fit. But he was a Malfoy and this woman was supposedly helpful, he might as well humour her. And if they threw him in the psych ward and Hermione had to come get him, she'd be crossed.

"I believe that my mind is no longer sound. I appear to have two sets of memories," he explained with all the calmness he could muster.

"Well that is indeed quite odd," she replied sounding not at all surprised. This woman must have been a Slytherin.

There was a pause in their conversation where Draco tried very hard to analyse the woman sitting across from him. She was not telling him something.

"So which set of memories do you believe are real?" she asked him curiously.

Draco knew at that moment which ones were real. The way she approached this issue, the way she asked the questions, the way his parents treated him, and the way Hermione acted in the beginning. It all made senses. They were all so kind, so sweet, walking like they were on broken glass, carefully and with a grim sense of inevitable doom.

The sound irritatingly loud of the chair legs scraping across the floor signaled to Draco that he was in fact now standing. He glared menacingly at the mediwitch and strode out of her office. He had a few people to talk to.