Surpassing the Lethe

Chapter 2

There was little else to do but wait. Much to his annoyance and relief, the plain room altered to fit his basic needs. Occasionally a doorway slid into place that led to a bathroom, or a table and a wide armchair popped up with food waiting for him.

There were limits. He couldn't will a door that led to that empty hallway into place, and no matter how hard he tried, the mug on the table always contained pumpkin juice or tea. Not only that, but the meals were deplorable. Lean servings of steamed vegetables, potatoes, and a lump of barely adequate meat with a cold dinner roll soaking up the juices on the side came every dinner. His stomach knotted and protested, but after the first day, he was so hungry that it wouldn't have mattered if they had laid out gruel and moldy cheese.
By the time that hallway door appeared and opened, he was very agitated. He had on yet another pea-green robe. A clean one was laid out every time he woke up or made use of the tub. He picked at the sleeve with a sniff. It irritated his skin and left small pink lines where it rubbed most.
After his first refusal to eat, he had been the picture of compliance. He ate when food appeared, showered and shaved when the bathroom appeared, and slept in what he could only guess were decent intervals.
Draco waited patiently until that plain door appeared again. A tiny brunette wearing the St. André-Jacomet's Healer robes came in, followed by a tall figure in crimson Auror robes. Draco crossed his hands over his stomach, surveying them with a bored air.
The little mediwitch had plain, straight hair scooped back in a bun, and wore an expression of thinly veiled anxiety. Her tiny hands incessantly smoothed over her pin-straight robes. His lip curled slightly.
The Auror was as different from her as night from day. He was a large, beefy man with hands the size of Draco's head and his bald head nearly reached the top of the doorway. A smooth, flat badge glittered on his chest; Draco had seen similar ones too many times not to recognize the symbol. Two wands crossed over one upright feather, and a U shaped ribbon bordering the outer edges of the wands. The man had two long scars that bisected his eyebrow and ended at his jaw. They had healed badly; the outer scar was puckered and the skin around his cheek was thick and warped. It was the grotesque mingling of torn flesh and a burn scar--Draco felt mildly repulsed.
"Draco Malfoy, my name is Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Healer assigned to you is Danielle Holcomb." The behemoth moved toward him quietly, holding out his hand. Draco reluctantly stuck out his hand, watching the thick dark fingers swallow his in a brief handshake. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand off on his robe; the man's skin felt dry and scaly, much like a house elf.
Shacklebolt surveyed him briefly, nodding once. "Come with me." He turned to the door, engulfing the empty space in the doorway briefly. Danielle followed quickly behind him after giving him a nervous glance. Not a common name, Holcomb, and Draco thought it sounded like spitting up phlegm.
The corridor was as uninteresting as the last time he was there, except the walk was much shorter. The Auror stopped at another unremarkable door and motioned him to go first, moving his mountainous bulk aside so Draco could pass.
There were three seats by the wall and a long, horizontal pole suspended five feet from the ground. It was smooth and white, with a flat oval width.
"Please stand by the bar and place your palms on it," Shacklebolt instructed, as if strange floating rods were commonplace. Perhaps they were in places like this. Reminding himself that any protest might cause them to reconsider his limited freedom, the youngest Malfoy obediently walked across the room and gingerly placed his palms on the smooth surface. It felt like glass, and an unpleasant tingle shot up his arms.
With a small shudder, he pulled his hands away as soon as Shacklebolt said he could. The large man reached and took something from the end of the rod. It was a wand. Not just any wand, but a twelve-inch wand made from vine wood and a core of a dragon heartstring; it had once belonged to his grandfather. Draco eagerly took it from Shacklebolt's massive hands, all thoughts of being a prisoner flying out of his mind. His fingers stroked the polished wood, thumb brushing against a small scratch near the tip that Abraxas Malfoy had made as a boy.
He was so busy handling his wand with relief and something close to rapture that he didn't notice the large Auror looking at him. Finally, he glanced over - and did a double take. Shacklebolt looked almost uneasy.
Draco gripped the wand tighter, sure that they would snatch it away from him.
"What?" he bit out, willing the man to stop looking at him like that. As if he was to be pitied.
"It's not yours," Shacklebolt said quietly.
"Of course it's mine." The well of frustration from earlier began to crack at the seams. "This was my grandfather's wand. Abraxas Malfoy, I'm sure you've heard? He promised it to me when I was no taller than his knee, so don't tell me that it's not my wand."
The Auror was shaking his head slowly, still watching Draco with that damned expression. "It's a replica; an indistinct wand that you responded to during the core diagnostic." He gestured to the long white rod.
Draco shook his head, fingers still curled loosely around the wand. "It's his. My grandfather's. There's a notch."
Something sharp and painful crossed the Auror's blunt face as he glanced away. "The wand was transfigured, using a process that chose a form you'd feel most comfortable with." He glanced back at him. "They snapped your wand after the trial."
Draco felt the air sway around him, making a loud rushing noise as it went by. His wand? Snapped in half? He barely felt a pair of small hands grasping his elbow and leading him to a chair. The edge bit painfully into his thigh as he half-sat on the seat, but he didn't care. Vague memories flitted across his mind; a tall man with proud features and icy cold blue eyes; his mother's face beautiful with a cool smile he strived to make a single feather float inches from the tip of his wand.
His stomach pitched alarmingly and he gagged. A hand forced him down until his chest was nearly pressed against his knees and he couldn't resist. He heaved and retched, a thin stream of partially digested food spilling out. The mixture of bile and orange coating his throat caused him to gag again, until there was nothing left but air and sore muscles.
Draco trembled as he remained slumped against his knees, not wanting to straighten and look at the two witnesses to his humiliating display. They were probably thinking what a pansy he was being, and at how weak and ridiculous the Malfoy heir had become. Pansy, pansy. What a stupid name for a pureblood. He laughed, and the weak, hysterical sound of it shamed him.

He realized he was still holding on to the hated thing, the false wand, and threw it away from him furiously.
He could hear Shacklebolt walking toward it, stooping miles down to pick it up. He could see the lower half of the deep red robes coming toward him. Finally, he dragged his gaze up. The man held the wand out in his thick fingers. "It does have spell restrictions on it, but it has plenty of other necessary capabilities."
Draco looked at the wand for a long time. Finally, he reached out, curled his fingers around it, and pulled it to his lap. With thoughtful deliberation, he turned his head and spit out some more of the bile from his mouth.
The first order of business was to buy something he could wear. Shacklebolt gave him his thick, dark cloak to cover his prisoner robes, and he was only minimally glad at the loan when they walked out into the blustery day. He had to ride a child's side-along broom out of Parkhurst until they reached another facility, a minor branch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There, he was told to keep the large cloak as he waited for a quarter of an hour in a small room with a narrow table and a mug of coffee. He sipped the dark brew with some distaste, but he was far more thirsty than finicky.

He had thought a while about this. If they intended to 'release' him under supervision, he might be able to get more answers about his past out than in custody. However, Shacklebolt seemed like a tough nut to crack. That mousy little mediwitch, she should prove easier to break.
When Shacklebolt reappeared, Draco crossed his arms. "I hope you're not thinking of taking me to Madame Malkin's. If I'm going to be 'anonymous, it'd be ridiculous to in one of the most highly populated areas this side of London and Oxford. "

Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow. "I have no intention of taking you to a highly populated area your first day out." Draco paused at this, and he almost missed the smirk on Shacklebolt's face as the Auror turned away. "Besides. Madame Malkin isn't too fond of convicts in her shop."

Draco turned his head away, and ignored him as he left again.
His father would tell him that a Malfoy did not hide. His father would stroll into Madame Malkin's with the Auror and mediwitch in tow, curl his lip and treat them like peons, all while reassuring the Madame that her continued loyalty was greatly appreciated and, in time, this little misunderstanding would be resolved. He would keep a stiff upper lip and face down all of his naysayers. He wouldn't approve of his only son meekly huddling in the corner of a shabby little Ministry waiting room.
Yet Draco couldn't tear himself from the shoddy, wooden chair. He took hold of the wand gingerly, reluctantly tapping the side of the cup. "Aguamenti." A trickle of water spurted out unsteadily, and he dumped the first cupful on the other side of the table. Who knew how long it had been sitting there, or who had touched it last. Even an added Scourgify did not completely satisfy him, and he finally drank with the air of someone expecting poison.
The door opened slightly and the little medimouse assigned to him scurried in. The witch approached him with some hesitance, wand loosely posed in her fingers. He found it just as irritating that when she wasn't quaking in trepidation, she looked as if she were itching to poke her wand by his head. He had never enjoyed hospitals; each visit that he could remember was filled with brisk and haughty men clinically prodding and poking his arms and chest while commenting to his father how small he was for his age.
Instead of answering her inquiring look, he propped his chin on his elbow and stared at his cup of water. He ignored her wand waving and focused on what he had seen and heard so far. However paranoid the Aurors were - one just had to remember Mad Eye Moody's long stint as one - they were a tenacious lot. There wasn't much to examine.

He fingered the wand with distaste. Its well-polished surface still felt familiar and comforting no matter how many times he reminded himself it was not his wand. In all his years, he had never heard of any prison issuing neutral wands with restrictions laid on them.

Draco mused on the workings of it. If that strange device did possess the ability to find a suitable wand to complement his own unique ability, then it was a far more advanced charm than he had ever heard of. There were ways to examine spells active and spells lingering in an area, one could evoke former incantations from a wand itself, and from what he could recall, there were diagnostic spells that would appraise the extent of outside magic in the wizard's body.
To be fair, though, he had never finished his schooling. He was worse than Marcus Flint. His eyes closed, and for a moment, he could hardly bear to breathe. This was no dream - the inside of his elbow was covered in thin bruises that still ached - but that didn't rule out a hallucination or worse. What could anyone hope to accomplish by fooling him so completely? Humiliation? Information? Yes, the scenario would encourage him to confess to a betrayal that he thought was ten years old.
Who had been accused of Dumbledore's murder? There was only the word of four Death Eaters and a crazed werewolf murderer. Had Professor Snape taken the fall? An image of the Potions master's sallow face, always framed by dank, black locks wearing a dour sneer came up suddenly. His eyes opened and he shot a glance at the intent Healer.
"Who came up on charges for Dumbledore's death?" His voice sounded harsh and raw, even to his own ears. Holcomb seemed startled to find her patient aware and glaring at her. She fumbled briefly with her wand, and Draco had a sudden vision of snatching it from her fingers and pressing it against her throat, demanding answers. He would be in control then.
"I do not know. I was just starting Beauxbatons when it happened." She inched back from him slightly, as if sensing his thoughts. Or perhaps it was the malevolent glare on his face. It could have been that.
"Every imbecile and twit would have heard the news, especially if they were in another magical school." His father's voice flowed through him effortlessly, and he leaned forward. Every muscle was tense, and the urge to seize the wand she was rapidly twisting in her fingers grew.
Her eyes were wide, and she was breathing fast. "I had heard, but there were only rumors and half-formed ideas on the culprit. Please, not even your news reported much fact, Monsieur, I--" He jerked over the table and swiped toward her hands, but his fingers only met air. She was backing up quickly, babbling in such rapid French that he could barely understand the English parts.

He lunged again, missing her wand but so close it nearly brushed his forehead as she cried, "I'm sorry, Monsieur Malfoy! Stupefy!" He didn't even see the red flash before blackness descended on him.

The scent of blueberries and something sharper, like a dirty feline, reached his nose. His head throbbed, all he could see was a blurry light, and he was afraid the occasional sound of sniveling was coming from him. Unsteadily, he lifted his head from a particularly lumpy pillow, the wash of colors clearing slowly. Shacklebolt was sitting next to him, arms crossed over his barrel of a chest. Behind him, Holcomb was dabbing at her eyes and glancing nervously between him and the third figure in the room.
If the female Weasley was easy to recognize, then Malcolm Baddock was even more so. He remembered him as a promising first year, a wily second year, and then a third year that had yet to be caught by a prefect during the weekly after-curfew patrols, including himself.

He had been a sly, handsome child, and he had grown into a stoic, handsome man. Draco's gut twisted. He had just seen him less than a month ago, barely growing into his gangly figure and an appreciation of his female classmates.
Now he was sporting the deep red robe of an Auror.
Draco let out a brief chuckle, which turned into a wince. Pain clanged around his head lazily, and his vision swam briefly. Shacklebolt stuck his massive fingers against one eyelid and pushed up, much to Draco's irritation. "It's not enough that my Healer tries to knock the rest of my memories out, now you're sticking your dirty fingers in my eye?" His father's voice seemed to have abandoned him for a papery croak.
When the giant finger was removed from his vision, he could see Malcolm studying him with no expression on his face. It was like looking into the face of a stranger. It was the face of a stranger.
This world was a stranger, and his own life would be unfamiliar and surprising. "I want to know what happened. What happened to my father and Professor Snape? Why am I really being locked away?" He stared at Malcolm, willing him to give him an explanation and prove he was on his side.
Malcolm watched him for several long moments. Slytherins respected power, but Draco had to appeal to him without any power, and without any knowledge. He could offer nothing but a possibly tarnished name and whatever possessions he might have left. It seemed implausible that it would be enough.
Malcolm turned to Shacklebolt. "How could you leave a Healer alone with him? It was pure luck that he hadn't grabbed her wand, murdered her, and escaped."
Shacklebolt barely glanced at the younger man. "Everyone was under strict orders not to enter the room without supervision."
"Then you should have placed sensors to alert you when someone entered the room. The name Malfoy is still a power to be reckoned with, and anyone could have been persuaded to assist him in escaping." Malcolm's eyes swept over the cowed Healer in contempt before shooting back to Shacklebolt.
Shacklebolt didn't so much as lift an eyebrow at the rebuke. "I suppose," he said very mildly, "that you would prefer the assignment?"
Malcolm shot the older Auror a wary glance, full of shrewd calculation. "I know that if the Daily Prophet hears that we've let a high-profile Dark wizard escape just after being convicted, we will never live it down. I prefer that we treat him like a very dangerous Dark wizard, and not an errant student who was nicking goods from the kitchen. Without any conclusive evidence of this memory loss, I find its longevity doubtful at best. Even if it is genuine, he was a Death Eater at age sixteen. We can't afford to be lax, no matter his condition."
Draco couldn't quite pinpoint if Malcolm was attempting to hinder or improve the situation. He suspected the former. Shacklebolt only looked thoughtful, placing his fingers underneath his chin and stroking. "You're right. We've been reluctant to expend precious resources on what appears to be a queer case. Could you imagine what the Daily Prophet would say if they found out only one Auror was minding the treacherous Draco Malfoy? In fact..." he stroked his chin again, giving a faint, innocuous smile, "...who better than to guard him than an increasingly prominent and accomplished young Auror?"
Malcolm's lips tightened briefly, before he returned a bland smile. "Despite my recent good publicity, I'm afraid my past connection with the convict could easily be distorted by one scandal-greedy article."
"Nonsense." Shacklebolt smiled wider, "nobody would place the blame on you if your former classmate were to escape under your nose. In fact, I think this puts you in a unique situation to more fully understand our amnesiac schoolboy."
Malcolm opened his mouth to protest, but Shacklebolt cut him off. "Now, please send an owl back to the Department to let them know of your assignment change. I will await your return quite anxiously." The younger man whirled on his heel, causing Draco to wonder dimly if Professor Snape and the Magical Law Enforcement employed the same tailor. He had always wanted his robes to billow like that.
Despite the headache and general agitation, Draco had watched the interaction silently. Waiting and watching. He had resolved earlier in the day that he would be the picture of silent scrutiny. While internal strife between the Aurors might not reveal the information he was seeking, it could be valuable later.
Shacklebolt motioned to Holcomb, who to her credit, only cringed slightly. "I must ask that you heed my orders better in the future. Auror Baddock is correct that you could have been killed long before we arrived. It was little more than chance that you managed to stun him; he won't be so slow-witted in the future."
Draco bristled at that as Holcomb tentatively inched toward him, sweeping her wand above his forehead. It took a great deal of self-control and self-reminders that being hit by Shacklebolt would be a lot like getting bludgeoned with a medieval hammer to keep still. He had respect for a man with the most influence in any situation.
"When will someone answer my questions? I would even settle for a few scandal-hungry Daily Prophets about now. They may lie, but at least its information," Draco said cuttingly. Surprisingly, Holcomb's brown eyes filled his vision briefly, as she looked down at him.

"If I were you, Monsieur Malfoy," she said primly, "I would be very careful to separate the lies from the truth."
And for the second time in this strange world, Draco did not know how to respond.

Author's Notes: Thanks again 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.