The Best of His Life
Disclaimer: I would be thrilled to have my dear Draco in my possession. But unfortunately, JK Rowling owns everything.
A billion thanks to my lovely beta Blissfulnightmare , the piece wouldn't be done without you!
Chapter 2
Harry Potter didn't like Draco Malfoy. He never did, and supposedly never would. He didn't hate him though, but years of torment definitely did something. He couldn't just say it was water under the bridge and forget about everything, like Hermione did, yet he couldn't continue seeing him as an enemy, as Ron did, either. Draco was...just Draco. A Malfoy and a cunning Slytherin- at least that was how Harry preferred to see him.
But he did indeed respect him for his contribution to the war, no matter what his motivation was.
There were so many people wounded by the war, and Draco was no exception. Fortunately, he was not among those who were broken; he was strong, and for that Harry was very grateful.
During their sixth year, Draco's parents were killed by Voldemort. Butchered actually, for their bodies were barely recognizable. When the news reached the school, Harry couldn't help but empathize for the other boy. In fact, he of all people could understand what he was going through. If there was anything he knew about Draco, it was that he loved his parents, no matter how much of a bastard Lucius was.
Harry still remembered that tragic morning. Draco was sitting at the Slytherin table amongst his friends, chatting amiably. Then the Daily Prophet came swooping in by owl, with his parents' mutilated bodies covering the front page. Gasps immediately filled the air. Everyone's gaze shifted to Draco, who lost all the blood in his face, his lips trembling. He seemed very calm though, given the situation. There wasn't any crying, or shouting, or drama- his expression had become deadpan, unreadable. He then stood up in silence, and left the hall in the heavy wake of countless scrutinizing eyes. Snape attempted to reach him, but the distressed blond recoiled and stormed out of sight.
After that, no one saw him for an entire week. There were even rumors stating that he'd dropped out of school. Until one day, he finally showed up at breakfast, alone, and requesting for the headmaster.
Harry noticed him the second he walked into the hall. It was almost as if he were subconsciously waiting for him, though he would never admit that. Looking at him, he could tell that the blond had lost a lot of weight. His already slender form had become gauntly, left with only skin and bones. His eyes, however, shone brightly, making his face appear more alive than usual. When he left with Dumbledore, Harry released a breath he didn't realize he was holding, and felt relieved for the first time in a week.
The war was soon declared. Despite everyone's reluctance, Draco moved into Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place with them. He turned out to be a huge asset to the light side, to the Order's surprise. His knowledge of potions and the dark arts, as well as his cunning mind, saved numerous people in the war, including Harry himself.
He was very distant though, and quiet. Even while living in the same house, he hardly exchanged a word with the others except for when it came to work, and mostly remained silent even when Ron would deliberately provok him. Harry often saw him sitting near the window, holding a picture of his family and staring out for hours during the short peace between battles.
Harry felt sorry for him, like he did for all the people wounded during the war. But Draco was different. He knew what kind of person the blond was, yet he had changed so much that Harry sometimes thought the boy he despised was only a figment of his imagination. He was concerned for him, because he knew, he just knew, that the only thing keeping the blond alive was revenge. When the war was over, he was almost afraid that Draco might commit suicide; he didn't. Instead, tears streamed silently down his face as he looked upon Voldemort's lifeless body, the first tears Harry had ever seen him shed. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, those tears should have come out a long time ago.
He was glad that Draco had finally moved on.
Or maybe he hadn't. Now sitting behind his table, Harry mused. Draco lived alone in his ridiculously huge Malfoy Manor after the war. He didn't work - though truth be told, he didn't really need to. But he barely had social life. Harry had thought about visiting him from time to time, but was incapable of finding a good enough excuse to convince himself to go. He blamed himself for that. If he had, he might have been able to stop whoever kidnapped Draco. In fact, if not for Draco's house elf coming to the Ministry and reporting that he hadn't come home for two days, Harry wasn't so sure they'd have noticed his absence at all.
'There is no time for regretting,' Harry said to himself. 'We found him after all.'
He stood up, checking his watch. It was time.
Draco was extremely bored. As it turned out, he was very susceptible to being bored. He had examined his body during his stay, though he didn't find much. He knew he was doing sports regularly, for his thighs and arms were well toned and firm, but his skin was a different matter. It was fine like an infant's, without so much as a scar, so he found it safe to assume that the sport wasn't too dangerous. His hands smelled faintly of herbs, and he could accurately classify what trees were planted outside of his window, so he suspected he was working with medicine, or perhaps the environment. Besides these theories, he knew nothing.
He managed to figure out how that black box, which was called a "TV", worked though, and was amazed by the moving people inside it. Then he spent three whole days watching it until the nurse forced him to turn it off. He was extraordinarily curious about this world.
It excited Draco every time he discovered new things, but he soon became restless. He hadn't seen the detective for two days and he was desperate to know more about himself. The doctor, whose name turned out to be Dean Burke, came to check on him every day, but told him that nothing had come up yet.
"How are you feeling today?" Dr. Burke came into the room, interrupting Draco's pity party.
"As usual," answered Draco dully.
The man rolled his eyes. "Come on, don't brood! Everything will be fine! The wound is healing nicely, and you could be out of the hospital in a few days!"
"Leave?" Draco raised his head sharply. "Where I am supposed to go then? You aren't sending me to some mystery institute for research like on TV, right?"
The doctor rolled his eyes again. "Don't be rediculous. We contacted the Social Work Department yesterday and they are sending a social worker to help you settle down."
"But..." Draco opened his mouth, trying to argue, but was distracted by the man who just stepped into the room at that moment.
"Find anything?"
"Recall anything?" Draco and Sam asked simultaneously. They both paused then, staring at each other, and waited.
After a few minutes, they answered in unison once more. "Sorry, no." "No."
Dr. Burke burst into laughter at the awkward spectacle.
Draco nearly screamed "Nothing at all? I thought detectives were supposed to solve mysteries. What if my parents are worried sick and die from a heart attack? I wouldn't even able to attend their funeral!" Sam suspected even the patients five rooms away could hear the man's hysterics.
The investigator blinked, and then turned to Dr. Burke in question. The latter shrugged. "He is a bit...emotional today."
"Emotional?" Draco yelled in outrage, "I am not emotional!"
"Whatever." Sam waved his hand tiredly, apparently unconcerned. "I'm just here to ask you to go to the crime scene with me, if you agree of course. Maybe you will remember something."
The doctor's lips thinned. "But he is not fully recovered."
"I'm fine. You just said the wound was healing nicely," replied Draco eagerly, intending to leave right away. He felt trapped in the hospital, and was willing to do anything to have his memory back. "I will go."
This seemed to brighten Sam up. After giving Dr. Burke a smug look, he then turned to smile at Draco with sincerity. "Thank you for your cooperation. This is greatly appreciated." He thought he kind of liked this boy, despite his eccentricity. Sure, the mystery young man was arrogant like hell, but in a strangely endearing way.
"Oh! I almost forgot!" Sam suddenly announced, taking out a piece of paper and a pen from his pocket and puting them on the table in front of Draco. "Here, sign your name."
Draco stared at him for a few seconds, mouth slightly open. "I lost my memory," he said to him slowly, as if to a three-year-old child. "You know, as in not remembering anything."
The detective growled. "I know. But I read a report saying that, even without one's memory, people can sometimes continue to do what they've done countless of times before. It's called...anyway, the point is, your muscle may actually remember what you've forgotten."
Draco looked at him skeptically, saying nothing. Instead, he turned to Dr. Burke, seemingly asking for advice.
"It is possible," said the doctor dryly. "Anyway, I'll leave you two on this."
"Come on, give it a shot. You have nothing to lose anyway," Sam urged.
Draco scowled. "My time, perhaps? Or hope?"
Sam glared. The boy could be so impossible!
"Fine!" Draco threw his hands in the air, scowling. "I will try, but not because you asked!" He picked up the pen, tip touching the paper, and tried.
Nothing came up for a while. Draco bit his lips, restraining the strong urge to blast the whole table away.
"This is completely insane!" he growled irritably, "I can't believe I'm actually doing this!"
"Try again," said Sam calmly.
'Okay, stay cool,' Draco told himself, as if having done that for millions of times. Then he took a deep breath, relaxed a little bit, and tried again.
For a moment, Draco thought he failed. But when he scribbled on the paper in frustration, his hand moved of its own volition.
Sam's eyes literally gleamed. "See! I told you!"
It actually worked. Draco was so shocked that he didn't even react to the smug grin on the detective. He squinted at the paper, studying the handwriting.
"What's your name then?" asked Sam expectantly.
Draco hesitated. "Um...I'm not sure," he said, "I can't really recognize it."
"You're not sure?" Sam frowned, taking the paper from Draco. "Let me see." He examined it for a few seconds and then concluded, "Seems like D...something Malory, or Melville, or Milton. Hmmm…."
Draco made a face. "Yeah, you're very helpful."
Sam ignored him. "Anyway, I'll check the names with abbreviations as DM in the system later. Now get ready. We are going to the crime scene."
Just at that moment, someone knocked on the door. The knock was soon followed by a man stepping into the room, holding a file. He scanned the picture in his hand, and then looked at Draco. "Um...excuse me?" he said, "My name is Harry Evans. I'm from the Social Work Department. I've talked with Dr. Burke before regarding your situation, and I'm here to help you out. Nice to meet you."
He stretched forth his hand, which Draco immediately took. The scene stirred some strange emotion inside him. But Draco didn't take it to mind.
"Oh," said the blond, a little surprised. "You're here already? But I haven't checked out of the hospital yet."
"I'm just here to discuss a few things with you for preparation - if you feel okay, that is."
Draco glanced at Sam, who shrugged. "I'm heading to the crime scene right now. Come back tomorrow, please."
The commanding manner of his request made Sam roll his eyes, but it seemed to amuse Harry.
"Alright," Harry smiled, "I'll see you tomorrow then."
He walked to the door, and then stopped, turning around. "Oh, one more thing. How should I address you?"
"DM," answered Draco firmly. "Call me DM."
The visit to the crime scene turned out to be a disappointment. Draco found nothing even remotely familiar.
The murder happened in a dark alley near a commercial district. It was early, only five o'clock, with only a few vagrants and prostitutes wandering around, yet there was no witness. The victim's name was Jack Harrington. He was supposed to meet a client that morning and went to the office early to prepare for the meeting. His suitcase was intact. His £5,000 pounds watch remained completely intact on his wrist, as well as the money and credit cards in his wallet. Apparently it was not a homicidal robbery.
The surveillance camera of an ATM across the street obtained an image of the victim going into the alley. Something appeared to have caught his attention, for he was suddenly running towards it. There was no sign of Draco or the killer ever entering the alleyway as well. But the alley had two ends, so that factor held little importance.
"Seems like the target of the killer was actually me, and this poor guy just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time." said Draco dryly.
Sam nodded. "Yeah, that's our theory as well." He pointed at the holes with markings nearby them, signaling Draco to come closer. "We found five bullets: two in the wall, two in the ground, and even one outside of the alley. The shooter was clearly not experienced. The gun was most likely bought in the black market. No record, paid by cash. Can't trace it."
Draco was a bit lost. He didn't exactly understand what Sam had said, but decided not to show his confusion. Examining his surroundings more closely, he noticed that the scene had not been well preserved. The investigators obviously had already collected the evidence.
"Was there anything unusual found here?" he asked distractedly.
"Why?" queried Sam immediately, suddenly interested.
Draco shrugged. "Nothing - just a feeling. But judging by your reaction, I suppose you did find something."
"Actually, I was wondering whether you would ask." Sam took a transparent bag out of his pocket, gazing at Draco intensely. "We found this, a broken, wooden stick."