Tuesday's Memories

Draco Malfoy + Poppy Pomfrey

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When I woke up on Tuesday morning, I didn't know my name. I didn't know what year it was, though I certainly knew the decade, and I had absolutely no idea where I was or what that awful thing was on my arm. It ached, as if it were a tattoo newly minted, and yet I was loathe to explore it with my fingertips. It smacked of the devil himself, sharp and cold against my tongue, which felt far too thick to fit into the interior of my mouth. It was then that I noticed the painful gashes and marks encircling my wrists and torso, and I realized that something in my life had gone terribly wrong.

A quick look into the mirror over my vanity (as opposed to the one set into the vanity, or the one above my bed, or the one above the headboard, or the one lining a row of closets on the far side of the suite—yes, whoever I was, I seemed to love looking at myself) brought back no sudden rush of memories or infusion of feeling. I was looking at a young man, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three. I suppose you could say that I was handsome; I had a full mouth, a pair of expressive, gray eyes, and a simple, Roman nose, all set upon a pale face with a rather pointed chin.

The red silk robe I wore caught my eye, and I peered with some excitement at the name embroidered on its left breast.

Romilda.

"Romilda?" I said aloud, looking between my reflection and the embroidery, and the mirror once again. Was that a woman's name? I couldn't tell. Good Heavens, was I some sort of... Sort of...

I swallowed. Perhaps... Yes, perhaps it was just an unusual name. A rather unusual man's name. For me. Romilda. I was Romilda, I was sure of it.

"Romilda," I said to my reflection. "Hello, Romilda. I am Romilda. I am Romilda and it is lovely to meet you all. This is a fantastic party, really top notch."

I looked down at my fingernails, which were buffed, even, and clearly done by professional hands. Oh, heavens and stars.

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Despite my suspicions about my sexual proclivities, I was determined to dress according to my sex. And, apparently, my status. When I swung open the doors to those mirror-covered closets, I was dazzled by the array of suits and evening wear lining each row and rung. While astonished (and somewhat impressed by my own incredible sense of taste), I pulled on the nearest shirt and pair of pants, not caring whether or not they matched.

I thought about trying to wash my face or comb my hair, but frankly, these were the least of my concerns. (Also, I looked rather dashing all rumpled and rustled, if I do say so myself.)

After a final glance over my ensemble, I decided to brave the door leading out of the suite. The exit lead to a long, bland corridor lined with beige marble and taupe wall paint. There were other doors studding the walls on either side of the hall. I looked, but there was no one approaching from either side, and so I sprinted off towards the nearest one. I wrapped my perfect hand around the shining knob of the door, taking a moment to admire my reflection, and then turned the handle before cautiously peeking inside.

"Get out!"

"W-who are you?" I stammered.

The man glared at me with an officious expression over the considerable bend and hook of his nose. He was older, perhaps forty-five or so, and clad in billowing black robes. What was more interesting than the man in the room, however, was the room itself: the ceiling, walls, and floors were composed of a dark stone material that glistened as if it were damp. Rows of shelving stocked with jars filled with all manner of substances lined the walls, and the central point of the room was the bubbling, roiling cauldron at which the man stood.

"Who am I? You know who I am! I'm the... I'm the Pr... I am S... I am a teacher," he finished lamely, gazing at me with confused black eyes. "I think I'm a teacher. But there are no students. Are you my student?"

I shook my head slowly as I backed out of the room and gently closed the door. As I walked away, I vowed to myself that I would not enter another one of these strange rooms, but then I heard the telltale patter of small feet. A child? No, it was a strange elf-like creature heading towards me with its arms full of fabric. I did not have time to find out what it was or what it could do to me; instead, I launched myself towards the nearest door and hurled myself into the room with little caution.

Fortunately, it seemed to be empty. "Hello? Is anybody here?" I asked just in case. No one answered, and I relaxed. This room was much nicer than the last; there were lit candles on every available surface; a large bed swathed in a multitude of diaphanous fabrics was at the center of the room. Makeup, beauty supplies, fine clothing, lingerie, mirrors, and magazines were scattered amongst plush, inviting pillows that were strewn liberally over the floor's cream-colored carpet. It was extremely luxurious and sensuous. I heaved a sigh of relief.

Suddenly, something ahead of me moved, but when I looked closer, nothing was there. A strange sensation came over me; it was as if I was being watched. Slowly, I turned, and then I saw her.

She might have been beautiful once, but her face and what I could see of her chest was scarred as if by the claws of an enormous beast. There were teeth marks around her jaw, but despite the pink and red tissue marring her face, there was some feminine quality about her. Her golden hair fell in curly tumbles over her body, which was wrapped in a sumptuous maroon evening gown. The girl was a frightening sight, but at least she wasn't screaming. This was not nearly as bad as the angry, confused man in the previous room.

"Hello?" I asked. "What's your name?"

She simply stared at me with large blue eyes. She seemed impossibly melancholic, and I wondered how old those scars were. "Can you talk?"

As I watched, tears gathered in her eyes and then fell in large, round drops down her mutilated cheeks. I had been wrong—this was so much worse than the man in the other room. I had to leave, strange creature or not in the hallway. The girl did not follow me as I left.

The hall seemed bright after my time in the dim den. Fortunately, the little gremlin-thing was not around. The corridor seemed endless, but I was anxious to escape this particular version of Hell, and so I began to run.

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It didn't end with the scar-faced girl. I saw a rather handsome man (though not as handsome as I am) surrounded by enormous piles of letters that he was signing; he didn't even notice when I entered, ate one of his biscuits, and left.

There was a girl who screamed and never stopped; I saw an older woman in a strange vulture-topped hat who was sitting in a rocking chair in the middle of some domestic living room. She offered me some tea, but only if I combed my hair.

A stout, red-haired man was wheezing through his laughter, surrounded by toys and mirrors. He had only one ear, and whenever I tried to speak to him, he looked up at me only to double up once again in hysterical giggles.

What was this strange place? I didn't belong here; I was incredibly handsome and charming, I'm sure. I was... I... I didn't know who I was. And, apparently, my name was Romilda.

I was not any more upset when a large, strong woman appeared out of nowhere and wrapped her arms around my middle than I had been earlier throughout my strange day, and when we disappeared with a light popping sound, I honestly can tell you that I was not surprised.

We appeared back in the quarters in which I had awoken, and the woman released me. I staggered, disoriented, and the backs of my calves hit the frame of my bed; I tumbled onto the covers and then sat up, trying desperately to hold onto whatever dignity I had left. Above all else, I wanted to be calm and rational—the other people that I had seen inspired me to try my hardest to be sane.

"I... Am I in Hell?" I asked the woman.

She clucked her tongue at me. "It's funny, lad, that of everything you remember, it's a religion you don't even believe in."

"I don't?"

"No! Goodness me, no. It's certainly interesting, though. I always do find these chats with you quite fascinating."

I couldn't help but feel annoyance. I wanted answers, not chit-chat or muddled words! "What is your name? Can you at least tell me that, or is clarity a rare commodity these days?"

She smiled at me warmly. "Oh, dear. I'm Madame Pomfrey, but you can call me Poppy. You've been calling me that for a few years now. I'm the woman who has been taking care of you since you've come here."

It took a few moments, but then her message sunk in. Suddenly, some of what I had experienced was clear to me: somehow, I had sustained some kind of memory loss. I was relieved—even if I didn't remember who I was before, surely I could begin to build my life anew now that I was functioning correctly.

"Fantastic. Alright. Lovely. Well, I'm here now, and I'm ready to do whatever it takes to get back into my old life—or a new life, really, any kind of life. Well, not any kind—"

Poppy shook her head. "No, dear."

"But... If something happened to me... What happened? Why am I here? Can't I leave?"

She reached out and took my hand in hers; her skin was thin and wrinkled, and it felt like crinoline to me. This was strange; it was very odd—though I didn't remember much, this felt familiar to me. "Please, Poppy, tell me what happened to me."

Poppy pursed her lips. "There was a war, dear, and you were part of it. It was like any other war: there were some bad people and some good people and they couldn't live in the same world, so they had to fight."

"So... A bad person did this to me?"

She was silent.

"I... I wasn't a bad person, was I? Was I? Is that why I'm here? Is this some kind of punishment?"

"Oh, no, darling, you weren't a bad person. Things happened on both sides—"

"It's because of this, isn't it?" I ask, brandishing the arm with the insidious tattoo. "It's this thing—"

"No! No, child! It was years ago that this happened, and you were another person. You're not that boy anymore."

"No, I'm not whoever I used to be; I'm some freak in a nuthouse!"

Poppy sharply sucked in her breath. Apparently, I had offended her. "You are not a freak, and this is not a house of crazy people. It is a haven for people who had tough luck and hard times, who need the comfort of things that this new world can't provide."

"The girl with the scars?"

The woman shook her head. "She needs to feel beautiful, but she can't be anymore. So we made the room beautiful. She seems to like that."

"And the man in the dungeon?"

"Ah, Severus. He was your professor; he was a double agent in the war. He can't take noises, or people, or mentions of anything that can't be categorized and stuffed into a jar. It's quite sad; he was possibly our greatest hero."

"And now he's in the cra— The haven."

"Aye, boy."

"So why am I here? What does this room give me that I don't have?"

Poppy smiled sadly. Her skin was nearly translucent; she must have been seventy years old. "You need to be in control."

I laughed; it came out more as a bark than anything else. "Control? How does this room signify control?"

"It was designed to make you feel wealthy and powerful. The mirrors, the closets. It's quite luxurious. It's meant to make you feel like you're lounging in bed all day because you can and you want to. You never had much control before your accident; now it's all we can give you."

"But not today."

"No, boy, not today. Not some days; you wake up and wander about. You don't normally get as far as you did today, though."

I looked down at my feet. Though I was fairly tall, they dangled several inches off the floor. The bed was expansive and covered with the finest of fabrics. Even now, though I knew it was a trap, I wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep the day away. Still, I wasn't sure how long this scrap of clarity would last, and I wanted to take advantage of it. "Do I have any family?"

"Yes, your father and your mother."

"And do they..."

"No."

I clenched my fists. "You could lie, you know. You could tell me that they come and see me every day, and that everybody misses me."

"It wouldn't matter, boy. It never matters."

"And why is that?"

She cocked her head to the side. "Because you won't remember this tomorrow."

"Are you sure?"

"You've never remembered any other time I told you."

"Well, then. Is there anything else I should know?"

Poppy reached out to ruffle my hair. I jerked away, and her hand returned to her broad lap. "You should know that in the end, you did the right thing. That's why you're here, Draco."

"Draco?"

"That's your name, love."

"I thought it was Romilda. The robe—"

"Oh, no, darling. The house e— The laundry must have gotten mixed up. That's a new one, though. Romilda... All the times I've done this, all the times we've had this chat, you've never thought you were Romilda Vane before."

"I'm glad I could amuse you," I said wryly.

"I'm glad you're handling this well," she replied. "Now, I'm going to go get you some replacement robes. I'll be back soon, and then we'll chat some more and I'll fill you in. Until then, you can take a nap. You must be exhausted, poor thing. Is that alright?"

We both knew that she wasn't going to come back while I was still this difficult boy trapped in the fog. She would come around later, when I'll be stupid and ignorant and there will be no part of me that reminds her of all the loss in our lives. But I nodded, because she was right; I was awfully tired. She stood up, leaving behind a deep imprint in the bedspread, and walked over to the door.

I bit my lip. "Wait... Before you go, Poppy, would you... Would you do me a favor?"

She paused before turning, and when she looked at me, I saw pity in her eyes. "What is it?"

"Next time I... Next time that I wake up, would you please... Tell me something different. Tell me that I was a good guy, that I'm going to be alright. Tell me that my family is coming for me, that they've visited every day."

Poppy nodded. "Aye, Draco. I'll do that. Sleep well."

With that, she closed the door behind her, and I laid down on the bed and pulled the covers up over my chest until I was cocooned in warmth and comfort. Several soft notes of music began to play as if by magic, and I settled in against the pillows, waiting for sleep to take me to a better place.

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A/N: This is dedicated to Shaleice. You wanted Draco, you get Draco. I hope you like it. :P