Shattered Memories
Disclaimer: Characters and places are owned by J.K.Rowling. The name Ditty and the plot belong to me. The Latin phrases used belong to the Ancient Romans.
A/N: 236 reviews! Thanks to: lil kawaii doom, silverhair, MoonDancerCat, Lauren, The Dragon Guardian Of The Sea, MaliShka, Lady Raven, KAOS, Rebecca, rubberducks, C, dixiedogbud, anon, JoeBob1379 (x2), paper star, JAMTillDawn, Queen Li, Seisui Megami, lexi wood (x2), Saotoshi Hatsuma, angelumpcioous, Sanaria, Madizon, aliveforever83, kei-chan, Draco Lover, hyper_shark, Romantic Fool, anon, mya14, mutsumi, Lulu81, KeeperOfTheMoon, willowfairy, Myrrdin, Emyrs, Katrina, danapotter, AideeEight, angkat14, Xtreme Nuisance, Akira Gown, dragon eyes, Hp1fan, Italia12, MoonTrail, heavengurl899, animegirl-mika!
This is longer than normal, but not as long as the other chapters. The anti-block has worn off, and as most of this chapter is focused on one character with very little dialogue, it was hard to write. It was intended to have another flashback on the end, but I decided to leave it off in the interests of getting it up on time.
Some Latin is used in this chapter. The translations are at the end. (And if anyone needs things translating into Latin for a fic, mention it in a review – I'll be glad to help!)
I break up for the holidays on Wednesday! Finding writing time shouldn't be too hard, but I'm also going to attempt the beginning of my book. Those of you who remember the Laekalia, the sections from that were based on the book. Wish me luck everyone!!!
This chapter is dedicated to Kaitee/Jesse, or JAMTillDawn as she's known on here. She's a brilliant friend, a fellow D/Hr lover, and a wonderful writer. And I should be tortured by Lucius for lying to her. Jesse, you're a mate in a million!
~*~
Draco lay, sleepless, on his bed in the Slytherin dormitory. The moonlight seeped uneasily through the window to reveal his blankets, pulled so far up that he was in danger of suffocation if he slid down an inch. He was curled into a position that could have been described as foetal.
When he was a child, he had slept stiffly: flat on his back, arms straight out by his side. It had been the Glacios curse which changed that, as it had changed so many other things in his life. He remembered that first night under the curse: pulling the blankets tightly around him even though he knew they did no good, curling up almost involuntarily, shuddering every time he touched his own icy flesh. Even after the curse had been cured, he still slept in the same way.
But Draco wasn't thinking about how he slept. As he stared at the wall with unseeing eyes, he was replaying endlessly the scene in Dumbledore's office. Hermione believed now. He had read it in her eyes, seen the slow change from denial to belief. But with the belief had come horror. Horror, and fear, and a little revulsion.
Had she really hated him that much? Had he really been so cruel to her that the mere thought of loving him sent her running from the room?
Yes.
He had. He had been horrible to her. Image after image chased through his mind: calling her a Mudblood in second year, and laughing at Ron as he burped up slugs. The anger in her eyes when she'd slapped him in third year. Taunting her at the Quidditch World Cup. And the more he remembered, the more it seemed she would hate him forever. How could she choose to even try to get her memory back? He didn't deserve her, not after everything he had done.
But he still hoped. Hoped with the grim determination of someone who has no reason to hope, no way out they can see, no solution to a seemingly impossible problem. But what else could he do?
~*~
The common room was empty when Harry and Ron entered half an hour later. Dramatic shadows were cast onto the ceiling from the low fires. The vibrant crimsons and golds had acquired a more subtle tone in the dim light, seeming richer and somehow grander than usual. An unnatural silence hung over the place, like that which settles in a library or old house. It was like a spell, capturing and holding the room in a single moment, like a fly caught in amber.
They found Hermione sitting alone in front of the fireplace, staring absently into the flames. Without speaking, Harry and Ron sat down next to her. She gave no indication that she had noticed.
'Are you alright?' Harry asked, his voice breaking the spell of silence. No one spoke for a while, but the weight of the quiet had gone. Some indefinable quality had made the silence into a simple pause. Now, there was something coming, an anticipation hanging in the air, an answer to the question.
Eventually, in a very small, quiet voice: 'Yes.'
Pause.
'Do you know what you're going to do about it?' asked Harry, his tone of voice indicating that Hermione need not answer if she didn't want to.
'Because we've talked about it, and we're going to go along with whatever you want.' Ron added quickly. 'We're not going to go on at you about all the good and bad points, or try and bias you at all, we're just going to let you decide.'
Hermione smiled at his awkward assurance: the first change of expression the boys had seen since she ran from Dumbledore's office. 'Thanks.' she said in the same small voice. Then she sighed heavily, rubbing the knuckle of one thumb with the other hand – a habit she had when worried. When she spoke, she didn't look at them, not moving her eyes from the feeble fire.
'I still hate Lucius. I still remember that. I remember him kidnapping me, and hurting me, and hurting others. I can't remember who he hurt, but it was Mal – Draco, wasn't it?' She didn't pause for confirmation. She seemed to be speaking more to herself than to Harry or Ron. 'And now he's doing it again, with my memory. It's like… a violation. Of me. He's stolen that part of me, and…'
She shuddered in spite of the flames. Then she straightened up, gaining an air of determination and confidence. For an instant, her eyes seemed to reflect the fire. 'I've decided. I'm going to get my memory back.'
Harry and Ron nodded. She stood up, seeming suddenly filled with willpower.
'I'm going to bed. If you want me in the morning, I'll be in the library researching.'
The two boys watched her disappear up the stairs, inwardly relieved. In their estimation, a Hermione who was planning to go to the library for any reason whatsoever was definitely back to normal.
When she had gone, Ron tuned to Harry and asked, 'So what do we do to help?'
Harry frowned. 'First things first. Let's send an owl to Draco, tell him what she's decided. He might have an idea.'
~*~
Fifteen minutes later, at the opposite end of the school, Draco was broken from his gloomy thoughts by the unmistakable sound of someone tapping on glass. Cautiously, he threw the covers back and peered around the silence-charmed hangings.
A large white owl hovered at the window. A snowy owl? Who did he know with a snowy owl? Of course. Memories of breakfasts, watching the Gryffindor table, and seeing that same snowy owl swoop down on the table… It must belong to either Harry or Ron. But why would either of them be writing to him?
About Hermione. The thought propelled him out of bed, and silently across the cold floor, bare feet making no noise on the stone. The darkness was almost complete, apart from the rather pale moonlight. He almost slipped on the edge of his robe, left untidily on a chair seat and trailing onto the floor. Normally, he made sure all his clothes were put away neatly. But today had been… a special case.
He reached the window and pulled hard on the stiff catch. It eased grudgingly open, and the white owl soared into the room. It seemed to regard the dormitory with contempt from its perch on Draco's bed.
He untied the letter, his fingers suddenly refusing to obey him properly. They kept slipping on the knot as he tried impatiently to undo it. At last, the string fell away, and Draco unrolled the parchment.
The letter was neither addressed nor signed, save for a hastily scribbled 'Draco Malfoy' on the outside. Like most of his conversation with Harry or Ron, it was short, to the point and somewhat uncomfortable.
Hermione decided she wants to get her memory back. She's going to the library tomorrow to research it. Is there anything you can think of which would help?
Draco read the letter again, checking automatically for any indication they were lying. There was none.
The letter was irritatingly devoid of information. He wanted to know everything. Why had she decided to get her memory back? Was she alright? Was she miserable, shocked, angry, upset…
He read through the letter a third time, as if new meanings could be derived from the same words. Hermione was going to the library? Why? If she was going to the library, then he could rule out shock or misery… but he still didn't know why she was doing this. From her point of view, he realised, he was nothing more than a cruel bully. Hermione shouldn't want anything to do with him. Even if he did love her. Even if he missed her so much it hurt – and he had never missed anyone in his life before. He didn't deserve her to remember.
But if that was what she wanted to do, he could only really be thankful. And try to help, as Harry and Ron suggested. There had to be something, something he could tell her, something he could give her…
The answer, when he came to think of it, was obvious. Draco slid soundlessly off the bed and crossed the moonlit floor to his trunk, which squatted at the end of his bed. He undid the catch, and paused before pushing the lid open. The trunk was old, almost antique, heavy mahogany with metal hinges, which had a tendency to squeal loudly when opened.
Draco grabbed his wand from the bedside table, and pointed it at the trunk. He didn't actually know an anti-squeaking charm, but he did know a bit about creating spells. Most spells were based on Latin or Greek, and while there were lots of obscenely complex rules about changing the words around, simply saying something in one of the dead languages had a mild effect. Enough to quiet a squeaky hinge, anyway.
'Cista, non stridebis.' he tried, and a feeble beam of light shot out of his wand and hit the hinges. Carefully, he lifted the trunk open. There was a very faint, almost silent squeal of protest from the hinges. No one awoke.
He lifted a blank piece of parchment carefully from the top of his trunk. Almost as an afterthought, he took a long piece of string, another piece of parchment, and a matching quill and inkpot. He eased the trunk closed, noticing that the effects of his impromptu spell were already lessening, although thankfully the tiny squeak produced was nowhere near loud enough to wake anyone up.
He sat on the end of his bed, next to the rather irate owl who eyed him with a baleful stare. He ignored it. Instead, he placed the first piece of parchment carefully onto the bed beside him, and lifted his wand. 'Redite.'
The parchment shook a little, and then seemed to multiply, doubling by the second until reams of parchment were stacked in a neat pile on his bed. Ink appeared like miniscule rivers of black blood, and spread across the parchment to form neat rows of Hermione's tidy handwriting. Memories flooded back, as the letters she had sent him over the summer appeared before him.
Dumbledore had decided that he couldn't possibly go to Malfoy Manor for the summer holidays, in light of his father's actions in the attack. There had been nowhere for him to go – Hermione had campaigned to let him come to her house, but her parents had been extremely uncertain about allowing their daughter's boyfriend to spend the summer with them, especially one they'd heard so many bad things about previously. He had spent the summer months at Hogwarts with those teachers who preferred to live at the school rather than at home.
It had been a lonely summer, with no one to talk to but grownups and house elves. He and Hermione had written to each other every day, often more. This mountainous pile of letters was her half of the communication.
The main problem, when school started again, was what to do with the letters. He didn't want to risk one of the Slytherins finding them. And so, he had Transfigured them into an inconspicuous piece of parchment.
He ran a finger down one edge of the pile, remembering all the letters – the stories she'd told him, the jokes they'd shared. Nostalgically, he picked up the quill and the second piece of parchment, which unlike the first was completely normal and ordinary.
It felt like a century later that he finally decided what to say, how to say it.
Harry and Ron owled me to let me know that you had decided to get your memory back. I thought these might help.
The words on the page didn't say enough. He wanted to tell her everything, to tell her that he loved her. But he didn't know how she would react. He didn't know how she felt or why she wanted her memory back, and for the first time in what felt like forever there was something he couldn't tell her.
He placed his letter on top of Hermione's, and tied them together carefully with string. Then he turned to the owl.
'Take these to Hermione.' he said, tying the package tightly to the owl's leg. It gave him a particularly mutinous glare. 'Take them to Hermione, and don't glare at me like that.'
The owl's beak twitched menacingly, as if making clear that in other circumstances it would fly at him and remove a large quantity of skin from his hand with that cruelly curved appendage. It turned towards the window, and flew off into the cold night, seeming glad to be away.
Draco watched it fly away for a moment, realising with some part of his mind that a large amount of his hopes went with it. Still, at least now he had something to hope in, a chance to get her back. Over the past few days, his world had been shattered into tiny pieces that hurt to touch, like shards of broken glass. But now he had a reason to hope, and it was like a cornerstone, promising that something new could be built, a phoenix could rise out of the ashes.
He turned to more practical things. Casting an eye around the lifeless room, his gaze came to rest on his robe, spilling from the chair onto the floor like a black waterfall. Draco couldn't stand mess. He padded softly over and picked up the garment, folding it neatly to hang it over the back of the chair. As he carefully folded the robe in half, he heard something unexpected: a sound of parchment folding from one of the pockets, sounding almost ominous in its abrupt crinkle.
He knew what it was before he took it out, but stared at it anyway. His father's archaic handwriting stood out against the smooth parchment, mocking him. The letter that had been a Portkey, that had caused him to go running off without thinking, had caused Hermione, brave, caring Hermione, to follow him into danger. It was a reminder of all he had lost; the very curves of the lettering seemed to have a mocking flourish, proclaiming their victory.
No. He mouthed the word, silently on the night air. No, father. You haven't won. You'll never win.
His instinct was to crumple it into a ball, throw it away or burn it. But something made him stop, made him glance again at the letter. It shivered in the cold breeze flowing through the window. Something appealed to that part of Draco that made him Slytherin, and he frowned. It could be useful, having a Portkey that would take him directly to the Manor. A direct route, in case he ever needed to get there fast to rescue some captive or conduct negotiations with his sadistic father…
He transfigured the letter, a simple transfiguration into a blank piece of parchment. It was an effective technique that granted it some safety. Not wanting to risk opening his trunk again, he left it inside one of his schoolbooks that rested on the small table by his bed.
He lay down in bed, closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But all he could think about was Hermione. Images seemed to be imprinted on his eyelids, as though he were watching a Muggle movie: Hermione happy, Hermione sad, Hermione laughing, Hermione bent over her books, Hermione concerned and afraid for him when his father tortured him during the attack, Hermione the last time he had seen her, realising the truth and running from Dumbledore's office in shock.
Love did make you weaker, his father had been right in that respect. But it also made you stronger, in a way. It wasn't the strength of solitude, the cold and Slytherin strength of needing nothing and caring for nothing. It was the strength of always having someone to care for you, of knowing that however bad things got there was someone to fall back on who would listen. Until, of course, this kind of thing happened.
Draco stared at the deep green hangings of his bed, sinking ever deeper into memory.
~*~
A/N: The Latin translations: 'Cista, non stridebis' – Chest, you will not squeak. 'Redire' – Return.
I know this chapter was a little boring, but it's a transitional period. There's lots of exciting things planned, I promise!
Review! Please, review!
