The Gift Of My Thoughts

The echo of his footsteps seemed to reverberate endlessly as he walked, without purpose, through one of the many cavernous hallways that found residency in the Manor. The sound was not familiar. He pondered, as he had taken to doing of late, whether he had always been aware of the vast emptiness of this house that seemed to swallow him. Had it ever bothered him?

The footsteps slowed to a stop just outside the entrance to the expansive Dining Hall. Empty. Just as all the corridors had been, just as the library and main living areas had been. Empty.

This was how it had been for the last two days. Empty. He was not sure which part he was referring to - merely the house? Or his life? The greatest tragedy of it all was that he could not answer that question. He truly did not know.

It had been a week to the day since his 'awakening'. Five days of staring blankly at the wall opposite his bed. Wondering. Two days of walking listlessly through a house, that could well have been someone else's. Pondering. Seven days of questioning.

And to no avail. His questions only ever served to deliver more questions. None it seemed, that anyone was willing or able to answer. Sure, he still had a sense of self; essentially, he knew who he was, who his family were. Yet there were many pieces that seemed not to fit.

The healer had informed him that he was experiencing a form of 'trauma-induced amnesia.' According to the bumbling fool's diagnosis, it was likely he had experienced something far too painful for his mind (and body) to cope with, and so he had created a mental block of sorts.

He had also been told, in a patronisingly comforting tone, that he need not worry and push himself too much, that there was a very high likelihood his memories would begin to filter back of their own accord.

His mother had been suitably and duly concerned, sitting, at times, in a chair near his bed whilst he was still immobile. She said very little in those hours. Her relief, however, had been clear. The loss of both husband and son would have been too much to bear.

Raking a long-fingered hand through his platinum locks in agitation, he wondered, and hoped, really, that this was not all there was for him. His gaze swept the expanse of the lavish décor of the room he had just entered; his bedroom. The room was sparsely furnished; the wooden frame of the bed was richly dark and complimented by black bedding and curtains each lined with green satin. The Malfoy crest had been cast into the centre of the fabric like a tattoo. It was a quintessentially Slytherin room.

Oh yes, he knew he had been a Slytherin. All the Malfoys had been. And yes, he had known all about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - at least on paper. It was almost as though he had read the book of his life through someone else's eyes and discovered whole chapters missing; pages here and there which had been edited out in a screening process.

He did not feel as though he himself had lived that life. Things that should have given him comfort, people that he knew, that he remembered; seemed out of reach. He felt as though he was drowning in the watery unfamiliarity of this new world and his head could not break the surface. He felt no air in his lungs.

He was just walking. Just walking in this empty house; this empty life.

The boy was tired of waiting for distant memories to resurface. Tired of wanting to know what had happened. It had been just under three months since the 'incident' - or so he had been informed. That equated to nearly two and a half months of his life that had been surgically removed without remorse or concern for the shell that was left behind.

Lashing out in frustration, he kicked the dark wood of his armoire, succeeding in nothing more than to injure himself and only increase his level of infuriation.

He needed to get out. He had to escape the house with its dark shadows and empty corridors. He needed to gulp in a long lungful of fresh, clear air; air that was not polluted with reminders of what he longer knew.

*

Several hours later, he wandered the cobblestone path of Diagon Alley. It had not been difficult escaping the confines of his prison; his home. His mother had become somewhat reclusive and, after she had ascertained that he was indeed alive, had gone into hibernation somewhere within the Manor.

He remembered Diagon Alley. He could recall strutting down its length with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle; his goons, he supposed they would be called. And Parkinson. His expression turned somewhat distasteful as he recalled the girl's increasingly irritating attraction to him. That term, however, could have been deemed too tame to be accurate.

They had been his friends; his minions - had there been a difference? He thought it unlikely.

It was barely still daylight and the shopkeepers were preparing to close their stores as a sleepy lull settled over the normally bustling bazaar. A sliver of sunlight fought in a feeble attempt to break its way through the darkening cluster of clouds, which had begun to form overhead.

That was when he saw her. For reasons unknown to him, the girl's face sharpened in focus whilst all others seemed to dissipate in the picture before him. She looked up and her almond eyes widened. She stopped still, as though afraid to move. Clearly, she knew him. Whether he knew her, he was not sure.

He must have. The sweep of her neck and the untamed spirals of her hair seemed familiar - as though from a dream or a photo he had once seen. Did he know her?

Quite suddenly, and without any real understanding of why he did so, his lips mouthed one word.

Mudblood

He must have known her, why else would he presume to call some stranger on the street a mud blood when they could easily have been as pure as he?

But no. Her face had crumpled, her lip trembling. The delicate skin of her eyelids slid down to shield her gaze as her lashes cast shadows on the hollows of her cheeks. She seemed to suck in an inordinate amount of oxygen.

He felt ill. He did not know why, but something had clenched in his stomach. Guilt? No, Malfoys did not feel guilt - at least he himself had always refused to. Yet this strange girl made him almost want to repent for any and all crimes (had he committed any - in truth he was not sure) just to stop the moisture from building behind her dark and haunting eyes.

However, she fled.

He stood there for a while longer; staring at the spot where she had been standing, long after she had departed. He ignored the darkness, which had enveloped him, holding him in its soothing embrace. He ignored the splash of liquid silk, which danced on his shoulders and melted into pools of moisture between the cracks of stone at his feet.

That strange girl... who was she? And more importantly still, who was he?

****

She was running. Where? She knew not. All she could do was focus on the slap of her feet hitting the pavement, the erratic beat of her heart, which for a while stopped entirely. She could not breathe.

Coming to a ragged halt, the dark haired girl pressed her open palm against the side of the building she stood before. Not recognising it her head snapped around in search of any identifiable landmarks. There were none as far as she could see. Blinking profusely, she tried to hold the salty tears at bay.

She was lost. More lost than she had ever felt before. Panting for air, she felt her body slide down the side of the decrepit building. She stared straight ahead after having calmed her body into breathing properly once more.

To observers it would seem as though she was in a trance of sorts. But no. She was watching all those moments roll by on a ream of old film. Black and white. It was a montage of every key point in her life, which had led her to where she was seated - on the footpath. It was the last scene, she knew, that would haunt her forever.

Mudblood

She shivered visibly. She had been so shocked to have seen him vital and alive and sharing the same space, the same oxygen as her. Yet they were worlds apart.

She knew not what to think. Did he remember everything? If he did and that was his response... the thought crushed her. She could not bear to think that he was somewhere out there thinking badly of her.

Yet if he did not remember, if he recalled her only as Granger and not as Hermione then maybe it was for a reason. Maybe after everything that had happened, he could not stand to think of her, to revel in their memories. Such a notion was ripping her apart.

She had not even known that he was awake. The Daily Prophet had not reported anything at all about the Malfoys other than to note the death of Lucius, renowned Death Eater.

How long had he been conscious and walking around? Oh, Lord. She could not handle the gut wrenching and twisting tremors that echoed through her body. Clearly, it was what he wanted. No more of them. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. Over

Truly over this time. She knew that she had been the one to break up with him, to deny her feelings, to lie. And because of her stupidity, her naivety and pure selfishness he had been injured in the first place.

Sighing deeply she let the last pearls of moisture roll gently down the contours of her cheekbones. She would let him go. She would let him live his life; knowing that he would walk the same stretch of path as her and look at the same sun streaked sky each evening before it melted into inky blackness.

She could not touch him, kiss him, or merely stand in his presence. She would not feel his warm breath on her neck or hear his over confident drawl hang in the air once more.

Shaking the reminiscent thoughts, which could well have signalled her end, from her head, she stood up and after receiving directions to Kings Cross, she headed on her way.

She had not decided what she wanted to do with her life. Although she had finished school months ago, she had not found it in her self to make that decision. It was so lazy and so unlike her. However, she had been quite numb not knowing.

But now she knew. She had to get away. Away from everything that was the same. Every shared space. She had to get away.