Learning to Live

Chapter Ten: Unconscious Memories

His form shimmers in his mind.

A mental imprint.

Darkness engulfs him, and he tries to swim in it. And then...and then...

"Crucio!" He's reliving it, what he hopes to ignore, what he wants to put behind him. Why can't he let this part of himself go? He has said no to so many things about himself, that self-rejection has become second nature. It has given him nothing of his hopes. "You still won't tell, Malfoy?"

There, that dry voice, hoarse from silent screaming, replying, "no." So this is the first few hours, when he still had a voice to not scream. Later on, he knows he will not have a voice to repress, and then his worries could pass on. "Crucio!" He can't see himself, but he sees dim candlelight, gleaming chains, the face of Avery. He can feel the spell rip through him in this coming darkness, and he still remembers it, remembers every small fragment of it. The night comes again on his thoughts even as he knows the sun rises on the fourth day in this recall.

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There weren't even two rings before Hermione picked up on the other end, eager to know when her husband was coming back home. Another long night in the office after the parade attack, and this time with two disappearances from somewhere in Knightsbridge, a wizarding couple in civil services organisation for the Ministry.

"Hermione?" So it was Harry. It was hard not to smile at his voice, especially because it hadn't changed in such a long while. It was still that ready, determined tone, the one that cared about you and tried so hard to do what was asked of him.

"Harry! You finally rang!" she teased, because he never called when he could see her every day in the office anyway. "Are you and Draco okay?"

"Yeah, er, when I got home from Hogwarts, Draco wasn't there and I think he might be lost in Muggle London," he said haltingly. "He said he could make it back on his own, and I guess he walked or Apparated to my flat, but he's not here and I've no idea where he's gone, so d'yeh think you can help me look for him?"

"You think he got lost, in Muggle London, with robes on? Harry, I really don't think he should be that difficult to find--"

"He changed before he left. There are his ceremonial robes on his bed and some clothes are missing from his wardrobe." Then, with a slight edge in his voice, "and my only nice black coat."

"Harry, now is not the time to be worrying about your clothes. Did you give him a bit of a tour around the city when he first arrived?" she asked, warming up Ron's dinner for the ninth time as the clock set Ron's hand to "travelling". She really hoped it wouldn't go back to "at work" again.

"I did! But it was at night and I think he was a little confused by all the electric lights," replied Harry.

"Okay, calm down, Harry. Do you know where you took him that night? Do you think he might have gone to any of those places?"

"Well we went into a Marks 'n Sparks for a bit, and I showed him around Leicester and Piccadilly and Trafalgar, and other touristy spots, and even a bit o'Soho for some food but then it was too late so we went home. I'm sure he doesn't recognise my block of flats, and I don't think he knows how to use the tube..." he trailed off, realising he'd made a mess of it.

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A dim, invisible light comes on again in his mind, and he's no longer drifting in nothingness. He takes a breath, or at least he thinks it's a breath, and finds he can't look around very well. The same dream again, only it is feels so real it can't be a dream. Things are getting more definite as time passes, something he fears.

"Now, ickle Draco, this is growing so very tiring for me, as I am sure it is growing so very tiring for you as well, hmm?" Avery. It is getting harder to focus now. All he can think about is how much everything hurts. Everything gets him the Cruciatus, and those are the words that circle in his half-conscious mind. He's afraid of doing anything. His limbs shudder involuntarily, getting ready to perform their duty of writhing and twitching in their cloud of confused suffering. He can't even remember what it is he is not supposed to do.

"I'm not giving you anything," he mutters in the driest of whispers, but it is more like a prayer. He doesn't know what it means anymore; he is only speaking in tongues. The fire spreads through him, burning up his soul. There doesn't seem to be anything left of him, his bony elbows knocking against the floor as his body convulses. Dark, howling blood is running from his mouth, and even if he wants to scream, his throat wouldn't manage it.

There is nothing but the pain, nothing but that infinite and eternal circle of suffering that has made up his life to this point. Still, he does not plead. He does not break. He does not know where he is, but then it all stops. Little bites of agony creep up through his nerves. He is in those chains again, on that cold dungeon floor, he realises too late, as the wall meets his back quicker than he would have liked when Avery kicks him in the ribs. There is something dried on his lips, and he moistens them best he can, the acrimonious, metal taste of his own blood sinking into his pink, parched tongue. How does a dream still make pain?

"Are you so sure?" Avery sounds surprised, but he is not the only one. His captive has never thought to sacrifice himself like this, for the sake of a cause, for the sake of people he doesn't even know, for the sake of Sirius Black. It is easier than he thinks, dying, but somewhere deep inside he knows he is far from it. It is not a comforting thought.

The worst is still coming, and for some reason he remembers it as if it has already happened. Time has already blurred together for him, swirling around his consciousness. For a brief moment he wonders if he has gone mad, but then concludes that since he wants to die so much right now, he must still be grasping at sanity.

He wants his mother, but she is colder than even he is right now, both of them beneath the ground, she in a wooden box, he in the trap of his own mulishness. Both ends are his fault, her death and his capture, but he longs for her aloof embrace anyway, or even a quelling look from her beautiful eyes would be nice. He considers it no weakness; every living creature, at some time in their life, must long for a certain figure. He has only given it a name, because he knows even Narcissa could not make him feel any better than this nadir of despair that traps him. Avery does not relent, but paces before his broken body, thinking of new ways to break him. He recognises it as the end of the first week now, no doubt, which means the fire crabs have savaged his aching skin already. He has been forced to heal the wounds by himself, if he can manage to sound out the words, but his wand has been taken from him yet again.

"Mobilicorpus!" Spikes of pain ripen and explode against the back of his head as Avery throws him against the stone wall. In a crack from within, his teeth knock against each other, fresh blood blossoming into his mouth like primordial soup, regurgitated in a flurry of kinesis. Tears rise in his eyes involuntarily, but they're gone as soon as they come, confusing him. Time is being strange again, but he reassures himself of his sanity, because he still wants to die. He cannot continue with this struggle for much longer.

The dimness comes, but it exits stage left too quickly for him to comprehend. He is bare-chested for some reason, a panel of his Auror robes thrust aside as a jade athame comes down. The flash of green against his flesh. The crimson mixing above his heart. Someone grabs his life, tugs at his heart strings. This is a new part to his memory, one it has never known before. Fingers crudely enter his chest, feeling around his thoracic cavity with surgical yet blundering precision. He should be dead now, but it is only a fondest wish. He will live through this strange thing. There is a voice far off but he can barely recognise anything. All he knows is the pain and the darkness. His mind is dulled, working slowly. This is a ritual. He cannot stop it.

With a gasp, his heart is withdrawn. He cannot stop it. Something is being done, because he can feel it. He is still magically connected to this vital organ of life. It throbs like a flush of shivering grapes, the blood dripping down onto his cheek. His life pulsates in midair, and his body gives a shudder as another hand descends upon it. He does not even see the hand, only the heart that glows and continues on to himself through those tortured veins and arteries gasping for re-entry. He does not know what it means. There is no relief when the heart is placed back, the wound sealed up. It is the same scar shape as his current memory, but this dream has given it a cause, a reason. When he wakes up, he will not know. He does not want to know what it is, because he cannot stop it.

If he could only have a wand it might be nice, and as soon as he wishes it it is with him. He feels it around his fingertips, in his side pocket, which is strange because in the memory he is wearing Auror robes. The same ones the Dark Lord saw him wearing before he was knocked unconscious by the burst of wild magic. In his haste, he grabs at it, only to have another hand hastily push it away. Ink stains his vision again, and he slips backwards.

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"You let him go back to your flat without knowing how to get home, without even knowing how to visualise your house so he could Apparate? Harry how could you be so irresponsible? Do you know the risks he could bring to a Muggle population the size of London's? And with his new mental problem, what's going to happen? What if he has a seizure and falls into the bloody Thames and drowns?" demanded Hermione quite shrilly. "Hi, honey, dinner's on the table, I'm fine, how are you, good, good. Ron's home, Harry. He'll be having his dinner, but I'm sure we can both go up and see what we can do. Try thinking of some places where he could go, and just sit tight."

"Okay. I'll have Hedwig send you directions to my flat. Thanks," Harry said before he put the phone back on the wall. "I'm in so much trouble." What if something happened to Malfoy? It would be Harry's fault entirely for letting him go back to the Muggle world with barely a working knowledge of its components. Why couldn't Malfoy take care of himself? He was a fully-qualified wizard and Auror; Harry found it difficult to fathom that he couldn't do something so simple as find his way back to the flat. Silly Malfoy, to be so impractical at times. With a sigh he sat down and started making a list of all the nice and quiet spots in London Draco might find useful for moping and sulking.

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A crimson flower decorates his arm, next to the blisteringly hot Dark Mark. It is only another knife wound, nothing more, and yet he wants to cry at the sight of it, to shudder in some dark corner where he can die, as befits someone as useless as himself. He does not know why he keeps dreaming of this, or living this, or maybe seeing into the present past a future that is beyond his understanding. He only knows he wants to get out of it, but Fate has different plans. Arrogant git of a god.

Avery gives up on obtaining information, and toys with Draco. Cruelty does not begin to describe it. He cannot imagine what he could possibly do to avoid the Cruciatus. He is sore all over, his mouth slack and drooling slightly. He can barely control himself, barely think. He stinks with bile and blood and fluids. They did this to the Longbottoms too. Will he be in St Mungo's, unable to recognise anything or anyone? Of course, that is if he survives this. The defeated dragon curls up against itself, shuddering with fear, with confusion, with hurt. He breathes, and gets the Cruciatus. He stays silent, and gets the Cruciatus. This will take time. He must say the right thing.

Darkness passes over again, Time loses meaning and elopes with sanity. He knows this. This has happened before. This must be a dream. Unless it is all his life in one quick, hot flash. He cannot understand his captors. Silence reigns in his mind, and the dragon curls up even closer, meaningless suddenly. Words have no meaning for him. Nothing he says can ever be right. Forever the quiet, the dark dark sound of pure silence. Avery is gone, but his limbs twitch in his memory, muscles spasming involuntarily. The Cruciatus is not a temporary curse, nor a forgiving one. For a moment he thinks he will finally die, and still not know the meaning of it.

Nothing has meaning, it seems. There is no point. He has no witty things to say. In the past few days he has been taught that he is not worth anything, that nothing he says has any value, that even his suffering is inevitable, his pain ignored. Anything he does will get Cruciatus. He is worthless. He is downtrodden. He can be no son of Lucius Malfoy.

A stinking mess when the Dark Lord comes striding in, fury emblazoned in those eyes which he doesn't see. Those grey plates see nothing as they look blankly at the floor, his knees drawn up to his hollow, starved chest. A mimblewimble passes his lips, but it's only breath blithely passing through, and he wonders if his mind has finally been freed. There is nothing in there of use to anyone. He is far away from it, which is why little nonsense sounds escape, to make up for the emptiness inside. The Mark burns more deeply, but it must happen. It is happening. When there is no future the past does not matter so much either.

Bones grab his chin and force his gaze upwards. The red fires burning into his vision awaken something in him, a quickness, but he draws back with a sharp cry. Breaking from the icy grip he holds his hands over his head as he quivers, but no tears fall. All he can do is hide and fear and despair and shake, blindly groping for something he can do to get rid of the pain and the memories. Death looks very friendly now. The dragon is a broken thing. He hears words spoken, words of disgust and pride mingled in one as Avery bows somewhere, but he is no longer listening. Simply do not let it come again, not the pain. He will do anything to stop it, but he no longer has anything they want.

He no longer has anything anyone wants, when sleep overtakes his dreams again. It is no relief to find out his present is not real, because he knows it is only the all-too-vivid memory of his past. A memory he neatly locks away again.

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"Well, if Malfoy really just wants to be alone, I think we can try these spots," Ron said, circling the areas he mentioned with a blue marker. They clustered around Harry's kitchen countertop, a map of the Underground before them, Zones 1-3. Harry swung his legs as he sat on the stool, watching as his strategic friend circled areas, in red, where Draco might want to have fun. Dismally enough, they included several museums and theatres Harry himself had never visited, reminding him just how little in way of Muggle culture he actually had explored.

"He could go for these; he might have wanted to get some more Muggle clothes," Hermione pointed out with another marker.

Nevertheless, it felt as if they were Hogwarts students again, just the three of them, working out the latest mystery so Harry wouldn't be murdered. Hermione was at hand with the latest showtimes, new openings and parties, while Ron tried to figure out a best plan of action.

"Here, I think if we all handle a category it won't take us any time at all. Harry, you look in these blue areas, see if Malfoy would want to be alone in there. I'll take these red sections, see if he wants some fun in the pubs, the cinemas, maybe a club or two. Hermione, you can check these green places. They're department stores and boutiques, plus a few cafes and libraries, but I don't think you'll find many open today. And then we'll all come back to Harry's flat within the hour. How does that sound?" Ron asked them, and was answered with nods. It sounded like a very good plan to Harry.

"Malfoy better've not taken a train out of London or something!" Hermione muttered as she put her jumper back on. It wasn't exactly a warm night-after-Christmas.

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When the pine fresh, the cool air and the light stream into that death hole, they unlock something deep in his mind. For the past days and nights he has lain here, inert, quiet as death, hoping to be passed over for suffering. All his life has been filled with pain, all his life is in here. Words are spoken, misunderstood, but within a first few hours of his life the walls nudge him towards the centre of the pit. The walls of the well are moving slowly towards him, and will not stop their inexorable path until they crush him to death. He is less than a child. As a child he was proud still. Innocent, but proud. This new life has gifted him with new innate qualities. What he is now, worthless, mindless, insane, is what has always been for his new memory, his new brain, his new consciousness. So he remains unchanged from his new history, whimpering like a wounded animal as he futilely pushes against the stones before dropping back down, his mind softened, rendered puerile by the constant pain, the torture, the brainwashing.

So when the light comes he is so disoriented he pushes all his feelings down, leans against the wall, bloodied fingernails wedging into the smooth stone, and stands up hesitantly, looking up at the rope before him. Rope must mean a hanging, but then a familiar voice shouts. As if on instinct he grabs and is pulled into the light. He is a small trembling bit of a man again, with his wand, and he still needs help to rise properly. The words that leave his mouth must not be his, yet they are. He has thinned to skin and has been stressed to bone, and he is weak, his mind struggling to work again. But their faces make it easy, yes. Somehow it is so easy to talk around these people. He desperately wants to be a part of them again, these functioning beings, and he knows to do that he must be without the new life his Dark Lord taught him in such a short time. A spurt of wild magic escapes with this desperate desire. All of his new life is locked away now. He can barely remember what happened in his second life, what he did, what he didn't do, but the feeling is still inside him. His actions are still governed by them in some small way. And because he cannot remember these details, he cannot know this.

The darkness passes over him again, carrying him on its tidal wave away from his dream, away from his memories of being broken, of being brainwashed by pain. His eyes open and words leave him again.

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"Harry, what's this?" Hermione had just opened the door and stepped out into the stairwell, since she wanted to keep her body in shape despite having a child on the way.

"What?" he asked, poking his head into the hallway to look at what she saw. "Oh. Er, that might help, yeah." He bent down to pick it up, and realised it wasn't moving. "Do you know where Colin Creevey is?"

"Oh look! There's a telephone number on the back, Harry," she pointed out, and they hurried back into his flat before Ron could even close the door.

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Of course there are no words for what he feels. Father knows exactly what has happened to him, exactly what has saved him, exactly how he feels. He still knows Draco so easily, at least this new Draco, refashioned by Avery and the Dark Lord, beaten down and melted in a cruel crucible of unbending will. He has done nothing to help. He knows Draco needs his opinion now when he has never needed it before, and it is just the way he has planned it. He knows the war will not be won the way anyone wants it. Father knows best. What does Father want with him now? Draco's heart's desire is to forget everything. Draco would cast Obliviate on himself if he had the courage. His mind wakes, slowly, and he closes his lips, smoothing them into a thin line as his eyes continue looking upwards.

"Draco." The back of fingers caress his cheek, inspecting that of his own creation. How many of his own flaws does he see in Draco? How much of his own potential wasted? "Wake up." Strange, how familial duty can be stronger than the Imperius in these cases. He breathes a little better, and his senses become more aware. His mind clears. He is on a cot. He is awake. He sits up.

"What are you doing here? If you wanted to talk you could have just owled." The words are tight. He has not expected to speak with him until his deathbed, at the last moment, when all would be revealed, the farce played out. They are in darkness, a candle casting a sphere of light around their two figures, almost mirrored.

Almost. Father is always colder, more refined, more sophisticated. He will always be elegant, even in his worst moments, even in the most undignified positions. (He has seen enough of Father's elegance in undignified positions, in the Lockhouse, and he hopes he will never see them again.) He will always be subtler than his son, sharper in moderation. Draco has a boyishness around the eyes, for all his blond hair and aquiline nose, the little nub at the tip with the elf-like ears forever making him seem too young for his age. Whatever his possible future might be, he will never know. He can be bitter and witty and cruel but he will always be a little slenderer, a little gentler, a little more interested than his aloof patriarch might like. Being too interested and involved makes him a better target than even he himself would like. Deep down, Draco has always cared too much. It is one of his prime vulnerabilities.

"Silence, you fool." The words are rebuke, but they are without heat. There is no time for emotion at the moment, when Lucius has had to come to such extreme measures as to hire alchemists to alter Draco's Muggle drink. So much for Auror training. "I can hardly believe a son of mine could be so ill-aware. You are being carefully monitored, Draco, and your letters would have no doubt been already intercepted by those idiot Aurors. I would not break tradition for secrecy and relinquish the Malfoy family seal. You cannot stay at Potter's flat forever, nor do I expect you to teach at Hogwarts for the remainder of your natural life. What plans have you made for your career and image?"

"Nothing. I thought staying at Hogwarts would not be a poor idea," replies Draco honestly, confused. Is his mind still working? His father drugged him and dragged him to this anonymous place to ask him about his future? The man must be more insane than he thought. He wants to ask Lucius how he escaped from the Lockhouse when the Dark Lord can't even take one extra molecule than he's allotted, but he feels, somehow, that it is not a question to be asking. It is something else he tells himself he probably does not want to know.

"Ridiculous. You will carry out this new plan, Draco, whether you like it or not. I certainly shall not fade from memory so easily, and you cannot. Is it possible that you yourself don't know what happened? Did your self-Obliviate work that well?" Confusion. What has happened? His unconsciousness is a faint memory, his knowledge without himself. Father has cast no spells on him; it would have been too much of a risk, so what is the wizard speaking of? The elder Malfoy sighs. "Never mind that, Draco. It is better that it worked so well, and less of a risk. This is what you must tell Potter, Draco, when you see him again. Listen closely."

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"Well Harry, I brought him up to the flat and by Merlin, he really has thinned now, hasn't he? That is, I thought he looked a bit thin and peakish, you know, just about the eyes, but I suppose he's always been that way and you know how it is, that is, well, I think he was fine when I said good-bye. Said something about cooking dinner for you two, I think. Rather quaint idea, innit, Draco Malfoy cooking dinner, don't you think? Seemed rather pleased about it, but you know how he's always been, don't you? I mean, that sort of, that sort of regality, you know, it's excellent really, and he sounded like he was really going to have a good go at the whole Muggle cooking idear," Colin's voice managed to sound chipper even over the telephone line. "He's not in trouble or anything, is he?"

"Draco isn't here, Colin. We found your photo on the floor, on a landing in the stairs. There was some blood, too," said Harry worriedly, looking at the photo. Draco seemed pretty dazed in it, no doubt surprised by the flash, but there were no hints about trouble or even health problems. "Well, at least we know what he's wearing. I'll ring sometime to let you know when we've found him. Thanks."

"No problem! Say, Harry, could I come up to your flat sometime and--" Colin began, but Harry had already put the receiver back down. He turned to face his friends. "Here's what he's wearing. I guess we can start looking in those blue places then. I don't expect him to be on a pleasure romp if he's been attacked." Without much further ado they went out of doors again.