Surpassing the Lethe

Chapter 1

Draco Malfoy had lost ten years of his life.

His fingers trembled as he lightly touched the rain-splotched parchment proudly proclaiming "The Daily Prophet." Two people he didn't recognize were featured on the front page, shaking hands and silently chattering to each other. His eyes flitted over the articles, finding nothing to fill in the gap where his memories should be.

"Professor Griselda Marchbanks, CDMG, APMO, fdBB, was moved to Isle of Wight for her burial service. She served over one hundred and ten years on the Wizengamot..."

"Magical Creature Amendment Under Inspection. Dirk Cresswell, new Head of Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures refutes Gawain Robard's allegations that the proposed bill is not only 'irresponsible, but hazardous to the health of...'"

"The highly vaunted Auror Weasley speaks about the latest developments in Magical Law Enforcement, including breakthrough discoveries about Dementors, the former guards of Azkaban. "Even though they will never retain their former usefulness," Weasley explains, "we hope to..."

Draco bit out a curse, throwing the newspaper to the ground. "That miserable, mush-brained sod is a 'highly vaunted' Auror? I bet he wanked off just reading that." The paper laid there innocuously where he threw it, the two unfamiliar people on the front eyeing him dubiously and inching toward the edge of the picture. He was tempted to go kick it for good measure, but what good would that do?
He looked around the room again. There was nothing remarkable in the room, only clean, white walls and a flat mattress in the corner. So this was Azkaban. He had wondered if he would ever see the inside of it after his father was arrested. Dreams of Dementors gliding up to his bed had haunted his waking hours for months.
The empty shell of the room glared at him, and Draco felt as if the weight of his ignorance and confusion was pushing in on him. Worse still, the date scrawled elegantly across the top of The Daily Prophet mocked him.

November 3, 2007.

He couldn't forget it was there, no matter how resolutely he stared at the blank walls. All four walls were an unassuming white, holding nothing to break the monotony. Not a crack, not a stain, not even a miserable little cobweb hanging in the corner to ease his need for different.
He had tried banging on the walls, shouting until his voice was hoarse and his knuckles were swollen. There hadn't been a response from the moment he woke up, alone and in a thin, pale green robe that was a little wrinkled and damp on one side. His nose crinkled at the scratchy, thin quality of the material.
Where else but Azkaban would he be? The last coherent memory he had was standing beneath a large tree with dying leaves; Professor Snape had been handing him something wrapped in several dead leaves. He hadn't wanted to take it, he could remember. He could still see Professor Snape's dour face twisted in an impatient snarl, saying words, cruel words, when something had bludgeoned him from behind.
That was mere weeks after his escape from Hogwarts. His insides twisted sharply at the thought, regret and nausea mingling together to form a tumultuous pit in his stomach. Turning his face away from the wall, he contemplated the paper again.
It was ridiculous to think that his last memory was not only of being a schoolboy fugitive, but that it was over a decade out of date. What little he knew of Dementors could not explain this phenomenon; they may steal happiness and devour souls, but he had never read that a person suffered from memory loss. Ah, but Draco, he reminded himself, they do cause you to go insane.

Besides, the news had implied the Dementors were not the recent Azkaban guards, and had not been for a while. No, there had to be another explanation--
Preferably one that started with "The Daily Prophet" having made a grievous error on the date of their latest edition.

He sat against the wall, his hand drooping over one propped knee. Without his wand, there was nothing to do here but wait. He had already carefully inspected his hands - the untended skin, uneven nails, and several unfamiliar scars knicking his right index finger, left ring finger and the back of two knuckles. Malfoys, he recited with a moue of distaste, did not appear less than their best. They were immaculate, superior wizards, the voice of his father sneered, with one of the few unblemished bloodlines left in Europe, if not farther still.

There was little difference in his face that he could feel, other than the dry skin, and he was loath to peek under his robe. He didn't know who could be watching.
When the white of the wall began to swim before his unblinking gaze, he distantly wondered if he was indeed insane. How could he not be, if this was Azkaban and he had been staring at the same wall for the better part of his youth?

A short, harsh ringing sound broke his reverie, the resonance reminding him of the cauldron sized bell that clanged from the wooden Wizard's clock that had been planted in the foyer of the Manor for as long as he could remember. He rubbed one ear, shuddering more at the similarity than at the volume.
"Up and at 'em, Malfoy." A tall, wiry figure stood in the middle of an open doorway that Draco knew hadn't been there a moment ago. Or was it? Was he already deteriorating down the slippery slope of madness that his Father had claimed failure would earn him?
"Come on Malfoy." It was a sharp, familiar voice that he knew would belong to someone loathsome, and yet, he was still irrationally pleased to hear it after all that intolerable silence. He climbed to his feet, surprised at the stiff pain in his lower back and haunches. How long had he been sitting there, watching the wall?
No matter. He walked slowly, with dignity that hid a limp he desperately wanted to fall back on, eyeing the older man. The dark skin, the widely flared nostrils and scowling mouth were all familiar. He could have been Dean Thomas's father, but if he recalled correctly - and he always did - the black Gryffindor was a complete mudblood.
The man had a wand pointed at his throat, taking a practiced step back as Draco approached. A head jerk indicated he should go left. Draco stepped to the left and followed him without protest, unwilling to goad an armed man who had to be a guard of some sort. The corridor was nearly as uninteresting as the room he had been in, and he daren't peek back to see if his door was still there. He didn't want to know.
They walked for what seemed like miles, and impatience crept up. He had to bite his tongue to keep from venting his frustration that he would be treated in such a manner. But what did he expect?

He was the son of an exposed Death Eater, betrayer of Hogwarts' most beloved Headmaster, oh, and a Slytherin. No one outside the four Death Eaters witnessed his duplicity and subsequent failure, but who would believe he was innocent?

Professor Snape had only spoken once on the harsh reality of becoming a Death Eater, punctuated with expressions of disgust at his stupidity - as well as a few interesting, but impossible allegations about his ancestry - but they had been ignored and forgotten by the headstrong sixth year. Who, far too late, deteriorated into an anxious, desperate child that began to forget why family honor was so important.
Now where was he? Was he passing by an invisible door that held his father? He had a horrifying image of his father wrapped in thin, lime green robes, his domineering face slack with dried spittle crusting his chin, his hair sparse and white like the Longbottoms'. Draco shuddered, almost missing the end of the hallway.

The older version of Dean Thomas jerked his wand toward the pale door, eyeing him with basic disinterest and an undercurrent of disdain. Draco gave him a quick smirk as he stepped through the widening gap in the door.
The color blinded him for a full minute, swimming together in a way that made his stomach drop. His vision cleared to display three wizards sitting in a row behind a wooden table. The walls were a stark white. He gave another imperceptible shudder, but he refused to sit in the lone chair to the door's left, or make any move at all until someone explained to him what was going on.
"Draco Malfoy, please have a seat." The witch who spoke was an older woman, only vaguely familiar. She gave him a clear, measuring look that gave nothing away. The man to her left was much older; he had a sky blue eye patch that matched his robes firmly pressed over one eye. He was even more familiar. Was he that old Auror that eyed father suspiciously when they went out on walks? But that Auror had not been this old.
Unless it was true that ten years of his life were missing. This thought made him remember his stiff muscles, aching now with some indefinable tension as he eyed the witch in the third seat.
Ginny Weasley. Oh, she wasn't the snub nosed, freckle-faced Gryffindor that, as he recalled, dated the older boys. She wasn't laughing or scowling now, which Draco had formerly taken to be her only two forms of expression. Her longer, older face was downcast and she appeared to be reading the paperwork in front of her morosely. Only a hint of her chin jutting out gave evidence that she was more than just moping.

His stomach dropped as he gazed at her; if that was Weasley, the youngest of them, then he really had lost years of his memory. A parchment can be enchanted and lie, but he could hardly refute the evidence of aging classmates.
With his eyes still on Ginny, he demanded, "Where am I? Why am I being held here?" The cheap robe made a dry, rustling sound as he crossed his arms.
The man spoke in a dry, unaffected voice. "You're at the Parkhurst Medical Penitentiary. You were in a cell in Azkaban when you began to display several genuine symptoms of an advanced memory charm. You appeared to be unconscious, but executed several convulsions, punctuated by severe tremors and a sudden drop in temperature."
Draco said nothing. What he wanted to do was burst into movement: scream, yell, throw the chair at them just so they understood that this made no sense to him, that they only added to his confusion. If somebody had Obliviated him - a reality of Dark Magic, though he had never considered the implication toward himself - any number of things could have gone wrong. It could have been a botched memory charm that actually damaged parts of his brain, or a very thorough charm that had shut his memories away forever.
It was too much to conceive that he could have lived, truly lived all those years only to have them wiped away in the two seconds it took to cast an incantation.
He fell back on habit. "So you stuck me in another cell. Of course, I wouldn't expect an organization that employs Weasleys to actually be efficient." He sneered, eyeing the two older ones, the obvious points of authority. If only they knew what it cost him to sit here and be patient with them, wait for them to execute all their little procedures so he could find out the important facts - such as what year it was.
"The room you are in is specifically designed for complete monitoring of dangerous witches and wizards with a serious medical condition. Despite what you may have heard in the past about conditions of Azkaban, we do not abuse our inmates. Your condition was stable, the diagnostic spells were inconclusive, and you are considered a dangerous wizard, Mr. Malfoy."
Despite the queer little thrill that gave him - not entirely unpleasant - he only scowled more voraciously. "What exactly am I being accused of? For all I know, some overzealous Auror botched a memory charm and this 'story' is just a fabrication to bring down the Malfoy name." He leaned forward in his chair, the vicious hiss trickling out like a broken spout. "Where is my Father? I want evidence, witnesses - and not Potter's little girlfriend - and I want--"
"Mr. Malfoy!" the woman in the middle said, a pristine witch's hat perfectly balanced on her snow white head; he met her pale blue eyes and was once again struck with a peculiar sense of familiarity. "I must ask that you save your outbursts for someone who it will matter to."
Draco leaned back in his chair, not quite stunned but taken aback. From the precise snap of her words to the faint narrowing of her pale eyes, as well as the hint of condescension twitching the side of her mouth, she reminded him so much of his father that he had to take a closer look. There was nothing in her stern, wrinkled face that actually resembled his father; her mouth was full and lined, face short and a touch of sagging skin just over the cheeks.
"I don't know why I'm here," he said in a slow, succinct hiss, "and I want some answers." He glared right back at her, challenging and instinctive. Inside, his heart was pounding so hard that the small sounds of parchments rustling and sleeves rubbing together were lost to him. He didn't want answers. What he wanted was to wake up surrounded by rich emerald curtains, ones that were thick and smooth, with elegant thick ropes holding them closed. He certainly did not want to be here.
For a moment, he thought none of them would respond. Finally, the crafty, cool-eyed witch said, "Your charges have been tried in the Wizengamot as an accessory for facilitating murder. We found you guilty of conspiracy against the Ministry of Magic as well as possession of more than one documented item of Dark Magic." Her voice was flat, near emotionless except for that hint of cold superiority that grated on his raw nerves.
"Who? Who did I 'murder'?" he demanded, at once struck by the necessity of this answer.
The older witch's lips pressed together. "Hermione Granger."
The words died on his lips. For one of very few times, Draco could simply not conceive of anything to say. What a ridiculous idea, he thought numbly. If he couldn't kill a helpless Dumbledore, then how could they imagine he would point a wand at Granger's snotty little face and--
The full impact of her words hit him. His lips drew back from his teeth in a quick grimace, before it faded into a tight, blank look. Granger? The uncouth, show-off mudblood who clearly had an inferiority complex? Professor Snape's words floated back to him, days after they fled from Hogwarts. He had found Draco huddled in a miserable heap by the fireplace one chilly morning, unable to get warm no matter how long he sat there.

"You see, Mr. Malfoy, this is not an afternoon diversion that you can amaze and awe your friends with. When you took the title of Death Eater, your life became reliant on your adherence to the Dark Lord's every wish. Do you suppose that we call him the Dark Lord on a whim? Your predictable and foreseeable reaction earlier this week had one desired effect: the Dark Mark has not been seared fully into your flesh. Despite what desperate Death Eaters might claim with the thought of a Dementor's kiss on their mind, it is impossible to force the Dark Mark on an unwilling victim. To fully bind it, you have to take the life of another.
"The more you flaunt that twisted fealty of loyalty on your arm, the higher the likelihood of someone dying is. Imagine your fellow Slytherins, condemned to a life of miserable anxiety, trying to co-exist between a world that would throw them in Azkaban and a powerful, mad creature that will use them until they die. They will have only a meaningless, squandered half-life, such as I have had for over fifteen years now. People are dying and more will die, people you know and attend school with, and though you may consider yourself superior, Mr. Malfoy, their face will haunt you long after their death."

He could see her eleven-year-old face in that moment, the small, snooty face surrounded by a mass of unruly curls and he could recall unfavorably comparing her likeness to a giant capybara. How Pansy had howled and then cast venomous little smirks toward the Gryffindor table.
"I don't remember any of this. How can you hold me in a cell for a crime I don't remember committing?"
"Lack of memory does not constitute rehabilitation, Mr. Malfoy." The witch placed one of her small, swollen hands over the other as she anazlysed him. "Now that you are conscious, several mediwizards from St. André-Jacomet's will be attending to you. We wanted to discern for ourselves the extent of damage, if any. Now, can you please tell us your last memory?" As she spoke, the door opened again. Three people stepped inside, wearing modified versions of the St. Mungo's robes, except these had soft, plum lines running down the side of their eggshell-blue robes. A small badge was emblazoned on their breasts, and each had a neutral, clinical stare as they approached him, wands withdrawn.
Draco instinctively drew back, eyeing the group with suspicion. "My last memory is fleeing from Professor's ramshackle little hut in the middle of nowhere," he bit out. "The last thing I remember is him shoving me out of the way while your Aurors attacked us from behind."
The two elder adults glanced at each other, but said nothing. "I spent weeks trying to escape from him, and the moment I break free I get ambushed by your bungling, inept excuses for wizards you call Aurors."
This strange adult version of Ginny Weasley lifted her head quickly, but he could only read a faint trace of surprise. Again, the other two said nothing but glanced at each other.

Draco found himself warming to the topic, one hand absently brushing aside wand tip of the mediwizard as it strayed too close to his line of vision. "I can only imagine how quick you were all to accuse me of wrongdoing, just because I'm a Slytherin and a Malfoy. I never wanted to 'follow in my Father's footsteps,' I was under a great deal of pressure from You-Know-Who to join his ranks. I resisted, naturally, and Professor Snape had spent all school year trying to persuade me, and when that didn't work--"
At this point, Ginny jumped to her feet, sending her pointed hat fluttering down to the table. For a brief moment, he could remember the look on her face moments before she put a Bat-Bogey hex on him - the furious, untamed frustration that was about to burst. "Why, of all the despicable, rotten, lousy lies to ever spew out of your mouth! Do you expect us to believe that you didn't buckle under the pressure the moment Voldemort threatened your oh so fine skin? Better wizards than you, Malfoy, gave into his demands and--"
"Auror Weasley, please have a seat," the wizard said mildly, looking highly unaffected by the outburst.

Draco felt a moment's vindictive exultation. "Auror Weasley, is it? 'Highly vaunted?' Tell me, did your brother ever escape the mediocrity of being Potter's sidekick, or has he been overshadowed by his little sister as well?"

Ginny flushed a mottled red, her fists clenching.
He didn't bother to hide his satisfied smirk as she reacted to his words. After spending the past several hours feeling helpless and ready to scream, it was satisfying to cause someone else the same frustration.
"Auror Weasley, please have a seat," the witch said more firmly, and then fixed her gaze on him. "If you are finished goading one of your very few supporters, please let me speak." After a moment of silence while Ginny regained her composure and sat, she nodded. "Once the results indicate that you are under the impairment of a well executed memory charm, you will be released for a limited time."
"I thought memory loss didn't mean I was rehabilitated," Draco said rather smugly, hiding the small thrill of fear and hope that went through him.
"No, it does not, and indeed you are not. It is the fervent stipulation of the world's most accomplished wizards and witches in the field of Divination that dealing with surroundings familiar to the buried memories will prove more beneficial than simply removing the charm."
"When can you remove the charm?" he bit out impatiently. Suddenly, finding the missing gap in his memory became important, no, tantamount, to every fiber in his being. How could they expect him to go to the outside world with no memory of the past ten years?
"I do not know. We have already tried."
"What about these 'most accomplished wizards and witches?' In Divination, no less?" His voice was sharp with disdain. "Have they tried, has anything been done but let these half-wits poke their wands around my brain?" He shoved aside the wand tip of one of the male mediwizards as it brushed his ear.
"Unfortunately, one of the leading witches in our branch of has recently passed away," the older witch said coolly, pressing her fingers together. "Obviously, we will not be releasing you without accompaniment. One Auror and one trained mediwizard will be assigned to you at all times. They are there for your protection as well as others'." She rose to her feet, followed by the red-eyed, ashen-faced Weasley and the dried up old wizard.
"Wait!" He felt a surge of panic, which was interrupted by a surge of annoyance as he shoved an errant wand tip away again. "I still have questions! You can't just leave without telling me what I've missed! You can't do this!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but it is out of my hands. Even the questions we did answer are too much." They swept out as he stared after them, torn between seething and pleading with them to come back. But a Malfoy never pleads. Instead, he clenched his fists, the temptation to knock his fist into one of the mediwizards' face as they filed out increasing. Of course, Malfoys did not employ fisticuffs either.

His Father had not condoned physical violence from one wizard to another; it was such a lowbrow Muggle resolution. Like a pig pushing its snout in the mud, rooting for a solution to a problem that could be handled with finesse and elegance.
He rushed to his feet, left alone in yet another white room, only a plain table and three other chairs his companions. A moment later, the door opened to reveal Dean Thomas - who hadn't aged well, in his opinion - who kept his wand trained on him. Draco stepped toward him, eyeing him with more disdain now. Disturbing as it was to see a classmate ten years older, he covered his rising dismay by noting the loose threads hanging down from Dean's sleeves, the broad forehead that gave him a prematurely balding look, and the old, scuffed shoes that flashed beneath the hem of his robes as he walked.
Dean, however, seemed to have no more interest in him than the occasional cursory glance to check if he was still following.
He hated him, knowing the other boy must be smug in his false superiority, leading around a captive pureblood. All he could think of as he stared at the back of his head was how Dean must be remembering every slight Draco had dealt him and all his Housemates. How the tall boy must be gloating, he thought furiously.
"How does it feel to see your old girlfriend, Dean? I've always wondered, did she start snogging Potter before or after she dumped you?"
Dean didn't respond. After a mind-numbing distance, Dean turned to him with wand withdrawn and crossed his arms over his chest.
"You know, I never liked you when we went to school. I thought you were smug and arrogant, and I never started liking you after we graduated." He paused a moment, and used his wand to tap the side of the wall. "But to be honest, Draco, I stopped hating you a long time ago. I grew up," he said simply, and gave his head a small left twitch. All Draco saw was the glint of pity in Dean's eyes before he was back in his white, bland room.

The next several hours were spent in blissful rage, by the end of which Draco was exhausted, his throat sore, and the forlorn "Daily Prophet" was in thousands of tiny pieces littering the floor.

Author's Notes: Thanks to my lovely and brilliant beta, Divine Delacour. This wouldn't have been submitted without her. I would adore reviews, but if you don't have anything nice to say, don't send it.