Disclaimer – I don't own HP, any of the canon characters, concepts or settings. Don't sue.
II
The darkness disoriented him. Thick, stifling, overwhelming, there was nothing to hold on to, nothing to anchor him and tell him what was real and what was not.
He could not remember.
He could not…
He was…
The rush and mayhem of St. Mungo's was all too familiar to Ginny Weasley. She'd spent the last eight years as an emergency medi-witch, racing to treat an endless succession of curses and horrific wounds, inflicted with growing savagery by Auror and Death Eater alike. The longer the seemingly endless war dragged on, the worse the retaliations and reprisals became, until there was no longer any real difference between either side.
And tonight was just another example: a major Ministry offensive that had turned into a blood bath. She'd been up for nearly forty hours, operating on men, women and children alike, most of them innocent civilians caught in the crossfire. She'd treated a six-year old girl, earlier, her sight ripped away by a savage blinding spell that had ricocheted from an Auror's spell shield…
"Ms. Weasley, may I speak to you for a moment?"
Ginny looked up, jerked out of her reverie. Pushing her sleeves back up impatiently, she focused her attention on the speaker, a blank-faced man in anonymous black robes. "What is it?"
"Moody would like to speak to you," he said, his voice full of official self-importance.
She sighed. Alastor goddamned Moody. "What, has another poor prisoner hanged himself in his custody?"
The messenger frowned, clearly not appreciating her bitter temper. "It's important, Ms. Weasley."
"It's always important to him," she muttered. Taking off her healer's smock, she washed her hands and headed towards the door. "Come on, then. Let's go."
The messenger led her to a room in the High Security area of St. Mungo's, where the most dangerous patients were kept separate from the rest of the hospital. There were Unspeakables everywhere: grey, anonymous, and completely impassive, they watched her with avid, calculating eyes, and it sent terrible chills down her spine.
Swallowing, she moved into the room, automatically noting the hospital bed with its lone, still patient, surrounded by beeping monitors and machines.
"Come in, Miss Weasley," Moody's gravelly tones ordered. "Do you recognize this patient?"
No stranger to sick patients, she moved closer, curious, and then gave a harsh, choked off cry –
"So you do recognize him," Moody growled, satisfaction oozing from every pore.
There was no mistake: it was Draco. The pale, overbred face, once so mobile and cynical – yes, she could see the remnants of it now, the ruins of his vital, shifting intelligence.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked hoarsely, unable to hide her reaction.
He watched her, that rolling, blinking eye cold and cynical, his face hard and determined. "June," he said, "2006."
She froze. He knew.
"I was in Florence," she answered, trying not to sound defensive. "Working at San Giovanni hospital."
"Yes," he agreed, "and you were also fucking the most vicious young predator of Voldemort's new generation…"
