Grey light filtered dimly through the thin curtains, illuminating a narrow, poky room where three boys slept. Draco rolled over, keeping his eyes tightly shut. He shifted his position, trying unsuccessfully to find a spot on the floor that wouldn’t afford him so much discomfort.
He gave up at last. Every bit of the floor was as hard and unyielding as the rest. Sighing, he swept his hair out of his eyes. Dark hair. He had found it slightly disturbing when Hermione had told him about his uncanny resemblance to that dead person, who had another strange name “ Siriun, or something like it.
For the umpteenth time, powerful curiosity overwhelmed him about the boy whose body he shared. He could no longer reconcile himself to the fact that they were one and the same person. Their personalities were completely alien. There were absolutely no similarities between them. None at all.
He had so many questions about the other boy. Why did he bleach his hair? It didn’t make any sense. What was that mark on his arm? He looked at it again, the black skull grinning at him, taunting him for his ignorance. None of the memories in the Pensieve had explained that. But the question that puzzled him more than all the others was: why did he hate Hermione?
Draco couldn’t see how anyone could hate her. She was funny, kind, patient and beautiful. All right, she wasn’t beautiful, but her smile was. Hermione was the only person he felt he could really trust, in this world which was so unfamiliar to him. Part of him wanted to tell her this, but he was too afraid of her reaction. What if she just looked at him, with her brown eyes full of revulsion? It would ruin everything. No, he could never tell her. It was all the other boy’s fault. If it wasn’t for him, then Hermione wouldn’t already hate him, before she had even met him. And the thought that one day he, the person he was now, could just vanish and be replaced by him… it was unbearable. He felt as if a death sentence had been imposed on him, but he had no way of knowing when it would fall.
Further sleep would be impossible, with these disturbing thoughts. Stretching his stiffened muscles, he reached up to the camp bed by his side and poked Harry’s sleeping figure. No reaction. He poked harder. Harry grunted and rolled over on the camp bed. Rolling his eyes, Draco punched his arm.
“What?” Harry finally opened his eyes and looked at Draco, frowning sleepily. Draco rolled his eyes again and pointed to his throat. Silencing Charms may have made everyone else happy by guaranteeing them a night uninterrupted by screams, but they were just a pain for Draco.
Grumbling, Harry climbed out of bed and began scrabbling about for his wand. Draco waited impatiently. He wondered suddenly if he had a wand, and if so, where it was. He would have to ask Hermione later. He heard a Harry mutter a spell, and a second later his throat tingled, telling him the Silencing Charm was gone.
“Thanks.” In the near-silent room, this came out much louder than he had expected. A pillow hit him in the back of the head.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Ron moaned as he burrowed still deeper under the blankets. Draco threw the pillow back at him.
“Shut up yourself! Come on, we’ll miss breakfast.” As he trooped down the stairs ahead of them, he reflected on how his relationship with Harry and Ron, and indeed everyone in the house, had changed so much after the Pensieve incident. For some reason, his apologies had made them realise that he wasn’t the other boy any more. The twins still didn’t like him very much, but they no longer took every opportunity to make his life miserable.
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Hermione scribbled furiously on the parchment, her attention fully on the essay she had nearly completed. Intent on her work, she hardly noticed Draco slipping into the room.
“What are you doing?” Hermione jumped, knocking the bottle of ink over the parchment. Sighing in exasperation, she began to siphon it off with her wand. Draco sat down in the armchair opposite hers, watching her silently. Rain spattered fitfully against the window, the whistling wind giving it little chance to truly drench the outside.
“What are you doing?” Draco repeated. Hermione finally managed to get the parchment tolerably clean.
“This is homework from the summer. Or at least, it was.” Draco looked suitably remorseful at this, so she forgave him.
“I thought you weren’t going back to school.” He leaned over and began to flick through her Advanced Guide to Transfiguration. “Ron told me,” he added as she looked at him suspiciously.
“Just because I probably won’t be attending school in September doesn’t mean that I should slack!” she informed him, seizing her book back He stared at her, eyebrows almost disappearing into his dark hair.
“So you are doing extra, completely unnecessary work,” he said slowly, as if trying to comprehend this.
“Some of this is very important! What if we were fighting You-Know-Who and we needed a spell like -”
“Like a Hair-thickening Charm?” Draco leaned forward, trying to read another book upside down. “I can see how that would be useful against a bald man.”
Hermione slammed the book shut. “If you want something, Draco, spit it out. Otherwise, let me study in peace.” Her voice could have frozen the sun.
“Okay, sorry, I’ll be quiet.” He grinned at her impishly as she threw him a sceptical look. There was silence for a few minutes, and Hermione tried to concentrate on work. It was almost impossible when she had a bored Draco sitting across from her, swinging his legs idly. His foot kept hitting the leg of the chair with an irritating thud. Hermione felt ready to scream with frustration.
“I’m bored.” Hermione slowly breathed out, carefully releasing her fingers from her now badly crushed quill. Draco was sprawled in the chair, looking glumly at her.
“Hey Hermione, Draco, the rain has stopped. Want to come out for a game of Quidditch?” Harry called from the doorway, Firebolt slung over his shoulder. Hermione almost collapsed with relief; even though she knew that Harry was only teasing her, it at least meant she could get rid of her companion. Draco looked at Harry quizzically.
“What’s Quidditch?”
Harry looked aghast. “Quidditch is…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Hermione rolled her eyes. The disbelief in Harry’s face that anyone could forget about Quidditch was evident.
“Harry, if he can’t remember You-Know-Who, how can you expect him to remember a ridiculous sport?” Harry frowned at the jibe to his beloved sport, but accepted what she said.
“I’ll show you, if you want,” he offered. Draco shrugged and followed him outside.
Hermione heaved a sigh of relief as the two boys left. The atmosphere in the Burrow and certainly relaxed a lot since Draco had made his round of apologies, but it was still a little uncomfortable for her to spend a lot of time with the former bully. She certainly preferred the ‘new’ Draco; he could be very sweet and - What?. She caught up with her own thoughts. Draco might have changed, but she needed to keep in mind that it was only temporary, however much she wished it wasn’t. She buried herself in the books, drowning out the rest of those disturbing thoughts.
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Draco eyed the broomstick Harry was proffering him apprehensively. Its remaining bristles were frayed and broken, and he could see splinters lurking in the old wood, just waiting for an unwary rider.
“So you want me to sit on that… thing… and fly it around the house, at dangerous heights, with only your guarantee that it won’t collapse while I’m up there?”
Harry nodded, his own glossy, top-of-the-range broomstick resting on the damp grass beside him. Draco scowled at him. Shoving the broom into Draco’s hands, he slid astride his own with a practiced air.
“I don’t even know how to fly!” he protested.
“’Course you do. You are “ were “ the Seeker for the Slytherin team,” Ron called as he alighted from his slow loop of the field. “Ready to go?”
Draco watched, nervousness building in the pit of his stomach as Harry kicked off, with Ron in hot pursuit. Cautiously, he swung his leg over the rickety broom, his hands tightening until his knuckles were white. Gritting his teeth, he launched himself into the air, expecting the broom to careen downwards at the first opportunity.
Incredulity spread through him, as the broom drifted gracefully upwards. His body adjusted automatically as he soared through the air. It felt natural, as if he had been doing it his entire life. For the first time that he could remember, all uncertainty left him. He knew who he was, where he was what he was doing. He was Draco, on a broom, flying. That was all that mattered right now.
“Not bad,” Harry called. “See if you can catch this!” He tossed a tennis ball towards him. Barely thinking, Draco turned his broom and dived downwards, coaxing speed from the decrepit broomstick that it didn’t know it had. Bits of twigs snapped off as he went, but he continued regardless, and caught the ball three feet from the ground. Ron gave an admiring shout, then sped off as Draco flung the tennis ball past him.
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Hermione ate her dinner quietly, only half listening to the Quidditch debate that was raging over her head. Draco and Ron were engaged in a friendly argument over the merits of side braking, with Harry interjecting knowledgeably every few minutes.
Fred and George arrived in halfway through dinner, their faces uncharacteristically grim. Hermione’s eyes followed them as they spoke to Mr. Weasley, who was slumped in a chair at the end of the table, exhaustion evident in his worn face. However, fatigue was soon replaced by alarm. He sat up straight and began talking in a low, urgent voice to the twins. Hermione gathered from their intent expressions that this was no trivial matter. A Mr. Weasley got up from the table and followed the twins out of the room.
“But if you do it like that, you can slew sideways and crash!” exclaimed Ron, growing more passionate as the argument escalated. Harry protested loudly, thumping his fist on the table for emphasis.
“I wonder what’s going on,” Hermione mused aloud. The three boys’ heads turned as one, faces knitting into almost identical expressions of puzzlement. She sighed in exasperation.
“Weren’t you paying attention?” Their sceptical looks clearly said: do we ever? Ignoring them, she continued, “Something is obviously wrong with the twins. They left to talk to Ron’s dad.”
“Fred and George were here? When?” asked Ron, ginger eyebrows shooting up. Hermione nearly screamed in frustration.
“Just… oh, boys!” she huffed. She stood up, almost knocking over her chair, and marched out of the room. Behind her, she heard Ron say, “What’s wrong with her?” Sudden tears sprang to her eyes as a sense of unassailable loneliness came over her. Why couldn’t Harry and Ron just listen to her? She hated feeling like this, as if she was in a different world to the two boys. They were her best friends, of course, but she just wished they understood her better.
She stepped outside into the cooling air. The sun was setting, casting a strange half-light over the area. Even the gnomes were silent, sleeping in their burrows after a hard day avoiding hurtling tennis balls. Hermione leaned against the rough wall of the house and gave herself up to a bout of self-pity.
Eventually she stirred, hearing footsteps approaching the door from inside the house. Feeling much calmer after allowing herself that piece of melodrama, she quickly wiped away all traces of misery as best she could, before turning to meet whoever it was.
Draco’s grey eyes met hers, full of concern. She tried her best to smile, but she had a feeling that he saw through it.
“What’s wrong?” he asked simply. Hermione laughed humourlessly.
“What’s wrong? Apart from the fact that one of my best friends is being hunted by the most feared Dark wizard of all time, who is also attempting world domination and a reign of indescribable horror and cruelty, people being murdered every day and my worst enemy suddenly turning up, everything’s wonderful! Just perfect, Malfoy!” He winced at the name, but said nothing. For a few moments, there was silence, each person battling with their inner demons. Finally, Draco began to speak.
“Hermione, I want you to know“ ” he began falteringly. She started to speak at the same time, and he inclined his head, indicating that she should speak first. She smiled tremulously at his gentility, and continued.
“Everything has changed so much. Less than three years ago, I had so few worries. Even last year, after You-Know-Who had come back, wasn’t as terrifying. It was a heartbreaking year, but I actually felt at the end that we had a chance. Ron hurt me so much that year, but I thought, at Dumbledore’s funeral, that he really did like me. I knew I liked him. But then we had to break up. We did have to, so we could help Harry properly. Wasn’t that the right thing to do?” She turned to him, painfully aware of the desperate appeal in her voice.
The look on his face took her aback. He opened his mouth a few times, but closed it without saying anything. She wondered worriedly what had upset him so much.
“Draco, are you all right?” she asked with a frown. He visibly took hold of himself, and regained his composure.
“What was it you were going to say to me?” she inquired, suddenly full of curiosity.
“We’d - we’d better go inside,” he managed eventually, suiting his words by hurrying in the door. Hermione thought he almost ran.
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Draco avoided any invitations to talk, wanting only to be alone to order his thoughts. The stairs creaked and groaned as he ascended them slowly. He could hear voices downstairs calling out to each other, their happiness in antithesis to his mood. He prepared for bed mechanically, refusing to let a single thoughts enter his head until he had lain down in his sleeping bag on the rigid wooden floor. Only then did he open the floodgates and allow the torrent of thoughts to enter his mind.
He had been so close to telling her; just a few more words, and she would have known. He had felt so close to her, out in the garden. She had taken him into her confidence, spoken to him as someone she trusted. It had overcome his reservations in the end. He had been prepared to let her know her how he felt, but then providence had intervened. How could he have been so stupid? Of course she liked Ron. He was just thankful that she had interrupted him, or else he was sure his worst nightmare would have come true. It was ridiculous to think that she could ever feel that way about someone who used to be her worst enemy.
But what if my memory comes back, and I never told her? The thought wormed its way into Draco’s troubled mind. What if he acts as he used to before, and treats her badly?. In his mind’s eye, he could see his sneering self shouting at a bewildered and hurt Hermione. I have to do something…
Inspiration struck him like a bolt of lightning. He held his breath, trying to find any flaws in the plan. But no; it was perfect. He resolved to carry it out the very next day. His mind made up, he rolled over to sleep, for once not caring about the discomfort.
My Name is Draco Malfoy... I Think by mooncalf
Chapter Notes: Sincere apologies for the long wait; it was caused by a combination of post-exams exhaustion, writer's block and laziness. Unfortunately, updating will now be even slower (yes, that is just about possible), because I have started another fic, Let A Serpent Sting Thee Twice. I will also be away for the next few weeks, and won't be able to reply to reviews or update.
As some of you may know already, this story was plagiarised by someone on HarryPotterFanfiction. Do not plagiarise my fics. I work very hard to write these, and I don't appreciate other staking the credit for it. If anyone sees another version of this elsewhere, please tell me. Mugglenet is the only place I post this.