Malfoy sat huddled in a corner of the silent room. The Pensieve lay innocently on the table beside him, casting an eerie light on the ceiling. His arms were clasped tightly around his knees, his head tucked tightly into them as his shoulders shook silently. The crash of the door as it rebounded off the wall jolted him back from his misery. He leapt into a defensive crouching position, terror written across his face. When he saw Hermione’s shocked face, he relaxed a little and struggled to his feet. He took a step towards her, but she drew back, clutching her wand tightly in her quivering hand as she pointed it shakily at him. An expression of hurt and sorrow crossed his face, and he halted.
“Hermione, I-” he began, and then cut off to furiously brush away the tear tracks across his face. She stared at him incredulously. Malfoy never called her by her first name. A terrible suspicion awoke in her.
“Malfoy, do you… remember?” she asked hesitantly. He looked at her, fresh tears brimming in his grey eyes.
“Hermione, I- I’m so sorry,” he whispered. His voice broke suddenly and he dissolved in to tears. Huge sobs racked his body as he sank to the floor. Hermione looked at him, appalled. She knew now that her suspicion was correct. Malfoy never apologised if he could help it, and he certainly never displayed his emotions so clearly. It had not worked. He still could not remember
She knelt on the floor beside him, wondering how she could get him to stop. Gingerly, she reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder
“Malfoy?” she said tentatively. There was no reply; if anything, he wept harder. She cast a glance of helpless despair to Harry and Ron, who were standing in the doorway, in shock at the sight of Malfoy crying. They backed off, with expressions that clearly said: you’re on your own here. Sighing exasperatedly, she turned back to Malfoy. “Draco?” she whispered gently. That seemed to do the trick. His sobs gradually abated as he sat up properly and turned to face her.
“Sorry about this,” he muttered, scrubbing at his tear stained face. “It’s just kind of a shock, you know, to find out that I’m “ I’m… not a nice person,” he finished lamely. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but then realised that he was right; Draco Malfoy was the furthest from being a nice person as it was possible to be.
“I can’t believe I would do anything like that. I’m a bully, and a coward, and-” He broke off suddenly and took a few deep breaths. Hermione could see he was on the verge of tears and hurriedly forestalled him.
“No, no, you’re not,” she said in what she hoped was a consoling voice. He threw her a disbelieving glance. “Well, maybe you were. But not now! Since you’ve lost your memory, you’ve been so much better. Isn’t that right, Harry?”
“Oh… oh yeah, definitely,” Harry said, still staring in incredulity at him. He and Ron had edged inside the room and were staring at Malfoy in horrified fascination. Malfoy took a deep, shuddering breath and stood up. He turned to Harry and looked him straight in the eye.
“I just want to say that- that I’m really sorry for all the things I’ve done to you. To you both,” he added, glancing at Ron. “From what I just saw, I’ve done some horrible things to you all. But-” here his voice became pleading “- please believe me when I say that I’m not like that now. None of that seemed familiar to me at all!” Hope suddenly lit up his tear stained face. “Are you sure it’s me? Couldn’t it be someone who looks like me?” His face fell as they all shook their heads.
Low, worried voices drifted in from outside the room. They rose suddenly in a sharp crescendo as the open door came into view. Lupin’s worried face cautiously emerged into the room, his wand held at the ready. His eyebrows flew up as he saw all four of them standing together in the middle of the room.
“What happened to not coming into this room?” he said, folding his arms and glaring at them sternly. Hermione shifted sheepishly as Ron and Harry shot her pointed stares.
“Well, you see, I…” her voice trailed off as Lupin waved his hand impatiently.
“You can explain later. I presume Mr. Malfoy has not recovered?”
They shook their heads mutely. Lupin nodded curtly and strode out of the room. Hermione heaved a sigh of relief as he left. Something must have gone wrong. Lupin was never so abrupt with them. Her brow furrowed in worry as she followed the others out of the gloomy room.
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Draco stared at his pale reflection in the dusty mirror before him. Steam still filled the air from his recent shower, misting over the smooth glass. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he swept his damp hair back from his face. Pale grey eyes stared back at him mockingly.
“That can’t be me,” he whispered despairingly, his breath clouding the glass. A week had passed and still he could not accept his identity. He couldn’t really be who he had seen in the Pensieve. But identical features looked back at him in the mirror, daring him to believe otherwise. He groaned miserably. No wonder Hermione avoided him. No wonder the twins had tormented him. No wonder he had been met with hostility and hatred wherever he went.
“I don’t want to be you,” he said in a low voice to his reflection. “I don’t want to be Draco Malfoy.” Inspiration came to him suddenly. He might not be able to change who he was, but he could alter his appearance so that he no longer looked like Draco Malfoy. He hunted about for a moment in the small, if immaculately clean, bathroom. After several minutes intensive searching, he leapt up, triumphantly brandishing a pair of scissors.
“Malfoy, what are you doing?” said a puzzled voice from behind him. He turned slowly to see Hermione standing in the doorway, a quizzical expression on her face. He felt suddenly awkward and lowered the scissors.
“I was going to…. I was going to cut my hair,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing slightly. Hermione was still staring at him, but this time with amusement. He wished he could be wearing something other than Harry’s grubby t-shirt and a pair of jeans he had borrowed from Ron. What does it matter anyway? he thought gloomily. She hates me already. “I just want to look different. Every time I look in the mirror, I see him - I mean me “ doing something horrible.”
Hermione took a few steps closer to him. His heart started to beat faster in his chest at her proximity. “You don’t need to cut your hair to look different,” she told him. She was breathing quickly from suppressed excitement. He looked at her, puzzled. “Your hair,” she explained, stretching out her hand and touching a lock of his hair gently. He started at her touch and she withdrew her hand quickly, her cheeks colouring slightly. “Look!” She pushed him over to the mirror.
“What? I can’t see anything different.” He peered at his reflection, but everything was depressingly the same. She sighed impatiently.
“Look at your roots!” she exclaimed. Deciding he would humour her, he scrutinized the roots of his hair.
“What about them? They’re-” He stopped suddenly and looked closer. That couldn’t be right!
“They’re dark,” she said, with some satisfaction. “Your hair is bleached! I noticed it last week when we were waiting for the Order to decide what to do with you. Turn around.” He obeyed, turning to look her in the face. She took out her wand and rapped him hard on the head with it, muttering something under her breath as she did so.
“Ouch!” He leapt back, crashing painfully into the washbasin behind him. “Why did you do that?” he asked reproachfully, rubbing his aching head. There was no answer. He glanced at her, preparing to reiterate his question.
Hermione was staring at him as if he had grown an extra head. Shock and sadness shone in her brown eyes. He turned apprehensively to the mirror to see what horror had occurred.
His eyes widened. Instead of the usual blonde, his hair had turned black. The paleness of his face contrasted sharply with it, making him appear almost ghostlike.
“What did you do?” he asked her in delight. “I look completely different.”
“I…” Hermione shook herself, trying to regain her composure. “I restored the natural colour of your hair. But why did you change it’s colour at all? Since when do Malfoys have black hair?” She frowned, perplexed.
Draco shrugged unconcernedly. “You’re asking me? I can’t even remember my parents’ names.”
“Lucius and Narcissa,” she mumbled distractedly, biting her lip as she stared at him. He shook his head despairingly.
“What is it with my family and strange names?” He smiled at her hopefully, wishing she would smile back. He didn’t know why she had suddenly become so important to him. After all, she’s just a Mudblood. He caught his thoughts suddenly, anger rising in him. He hated these half-remembrances, taunting him with mysterious snippets about his unwanted past. Especially now that he would never find the full truth about himself. Not that he wanted to; he never wanted to become that person he had seen in the Pensieve again.
“Hermione,” he said, steeling his nerves. “I was thinking, would you- could you call me Draco instead of Malfoy? I mean, I’m never going to get my memory back now, and it would be another difference between me and him- I mean the other me,” he finished hurriedly, shaking his head in confusion.
He eyes widened. “I suppose so,” she said uncertainly. “I’ll tell the others to, if that’s what you want.” Something he had said seemed to strike her suddenly. “Wait, Mal “ Draco, did you say you’ll never get your memory back?” He nodded, wondering why this was suddenly significant. “That’s not true. You could remember your life at any time. The smallest thing could jolt it back. Apparently, you performed the charm with strength, which is why all your memory is gone, but without precision or technique. Basically, it won’t take much to bring your memory back. The Order is surprised it hasn’t happened already.”
Draco stared at her, horrified. A cloak of dread settled on his thin shoulders, fastened with bonds of grief. He was living on borrowed time. At any moment he, the person he was now, could be lost as memories came flooding back. He would lose his identity; he would lose all he had learnt in the past nine days; he would lose Hermione. For some reason, everything else paled before this last.
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Hermione led the way down to the crowded kitchen for dinner, frantic thoughts clamouring for attention in her muddled brain. Behind her, Malfoy - No, Draco, she reminded herself “ trooped after her a little reluctantly. He constantly sought out her company, avoiding everyone else since he had made an apology to each and every one of them the day he had discovered the monster he had been before. She had difficulty now in reconciling the Draco she had known before, and the person he had now become. They were so inconceivably different.
You’re just trying to avoid the real issue here, a frenzied voice screamed at her. She winced; even in her own head she wasn’t safe from interruption. She hurried on in to the noisy kitchen, Draco trailing after her.
The noise vanished as if cut by a knife. Across the room, heads turned, bodies froze, faces fixed in sudden disbelief as everyone’s gaze was wrenched to Draco. A fragile atmosphere of tense shock existed momentarily in the soundless room, an atmosphere which even the most daring would hesitate to break, for fear of the tumult it could cause.
Draco looked at all the dumbfounded faces staring at him intently.
“What?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders self-consciously.
At once, the atmosphere was shattered. A buzz of excited conversation sprang up once more. Hermione slid into a seat next to Harry, Draco taking the seat next to her. The tension in the room was dissolved completely as the food arrived, and ravenous hands began ladling it out onto waiting plates.
“Hermione, why is everyone still staring at me?” Draco muttered, picking up his fork and gazing suspiciously around the table. “I know my hair is different, but it’s not that big a deal.”
“You “ you look a little like someone we used to know.” Hermione glanced at Harry beside her. His face was pale, and he was stabbing his food as if it was in league with Voldemort. Sympathy welled up in her. She switched her stare to Draco. It was uncanny how much he now resembled Sirius. It wasn’t an exact likeness; Draco’s face was too pointed, his skin too pale; but with similar black hair and grey eyes, they looked enough alike that Draco could pass for a younger Sirius.
Hermione sighed, poking listlessly at her laden plate. Nothing had gone right for her this summer, from fighting with Ron to unwittingly causing everyone extra grief by providing a constant reminder of yet another lost friend.
My Name is Draco Malfoy... I Think by mooncalf
Chapter Notes: Sorry everyone for yet another long wait.This is going to be the last chapter until at least June. I have exams coming up and also this story is driving me mad at the moment, so I'm going to give it a rest for now. I will continue it eventually.