Unforgiven

"Draco Malfoy!"

The voice was squeaky, and snapped the name with a hint of annoyance. It seemed to be attempting a stern overtone, but failing, as though strength and authority weren't qualities it genuinely possessed. Draco jumped, startled, and tore his gaze from the window.

Professor Flitwick was peering down at him from over the top of his desk. In one had he held his wand, polished and shiny as always; from the other dangled a locket, black with tarnish, the filthy chain wrapped around the dwarf's thick, stubby fingers. On the dusty board behind the Professor, the words "Sentimentality Charms" had been written. Draco realised with a jolt that the lesson was halfway over, and he hadn't heard a single thing that Flitwick had said.

"Yes, Sir?" He sat up guiltily, trying to cover his bare parchment with his arm surreptitiously.

"I said, Mister Malfoy, we are waiting for you. The rest of the class has taken their objects from the box. You still haven't collected yours. We are waiting for you."

He pointed at a cardboard box on the floor by his desk. Quickly, Draco stood and strode to the front of the classroom. Bending down, he dropped his hand inside the box, closed his fingers around what felt like old parchment - not more, he thought - and pulled it out. Without looking at what he held he moved back to his seat, knocking into Millicent Bulstrode on the way as she tried to force someone to swap objects with her.

As he sat down, he looked at the parchment. It seemed to be an old photograph, but the figure inside was barely moving, and so faded it could barely be seen. Draco sighed. He seemed to have an attraction to old papers recently. He looked back up at his teacher.

"Now," Professor Flitwick said squeakily, "you are all going to perform a Sentimentality Charm on your object. Remember what we said about - No! Miss Bulstrode! Stop that at once!"

A few desks away, Millicent was hitting Blaise Zabini about the head with her object, which seemed to be an old mirror. Blaise was trying to fend her off with the Furnunculus curse, although it was hard to tell if it had taken effect or not over Millicent's normal complexion.

As Flitwick scurried to Blaise's rescue, Draco quickly turned to Goyle, sitting next to him.

"Give me your notes," he whispered urgently, and without waiting for an answer he shot one pale arm across the desk and pulled them towards him. Goyle's irregular, heavy writing lay across the page, barely legible. Swiftly, querying the odd word, Draco began to read.

Sentimentality Charms. Basically, if someone had made, worn or written something that had sentimental value to him or her, they left that mark on the object. If the object then became old or disfigured in someway, a witch or wizard could use a Sentimentality Charm to restore it for a few seconds.

Draco had a sudden thought. The diary entry - what if he attempted the Charm on that...?

Flitwick moved back to his desk again, looking flustered. Wearily, he scrambled back onto his pile of books, and looked around the class.

"Right then," he squeaked nervously, "off you go. And be careful," he added pleadingly, as Millicent began eyeing Blaise threateningly once again.

Draco picked up his wand and looked down at the photograph on the wooden desktop. Cautiously, he blanked his mind of everything except the photograph, closed his eyes, and whispered the incantation.

He opened his eyes. There, on the table in front of him, where there had been nothing but faded ink and decaying parchment, was the photographic version of a beautiful young woman standing on a beach. Rich mahogany coloured hair fell luxuriously to her waist, and she was smiling shyly at the camera, smoky eyes framed by long black lashes. As he watched, incredulous, she turned to look at the rolling sea behind her, before glancing back, laughing, at Draco once more -

And then it was just old paper again.

"Well done, Mister Malfoy," squeaked Flitwick behind him suddenly, making him jump again. "Perfect first try!" And then the dwarf scurried away to help Goyle, who was attempting to beat his object into submission.

Draco looked at the photograph. The charm would only last for a few seconds, but maybe he could uncover something important in the diary with it. Unless -

"Sir," Draco called, looking up, "Sir, would there be any way of blocking an object against a Sentimentality Charm?"

Professor Flitwick paused from confiscating Goyle's wand to look across the desk.

"Yes," he said, "but it would be difficult. It's an Objectivity Spell, but they're awkward to cast, and they aren't very lasting. They decay with age much more quickly than most other spells."

"Oh." Well, Draco thought, it still sounded promising. The diary was old, after all - an Objectivity Spell could easily have decayed on it. He could try it, anyway. He had nothing to lose.

That night, he waited once again until the rest of the dormitory's occupants were asleep, before taking out the diary and placing it delicately on his pillow. The musty smell of old parchment drifted up to him, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. He looked with disquiet at the diary's flaked edges - they seemed to be more worn than he remembered. He really ought to learn that Renovation Charm, he reflected.

Still. Draco had another trick tonight.

Pulling his wand out from under his pillow, he carefully blanked his mind, concentrated for a moment, and whispered the incantation.

Immediately, a passage cleared, the ink shining and new. Draco began to read, as quickly as he could.

...I keep going over her life in my head, I can't stop, it's driving me mad...Only yesterday I remember her playing with her brother in the garden by the lake, she said there were merpeople down there, and that one day she would swim down to them...Christ, that was only yesterday, and now she's gone...oh God, Helen, what have I done? I am so, so sorry...

And there it ended. Draco stared at the paragraph for a second more, and then it faded away, the ink all but vanished, and the parchment thin and worn once again.

Breathing deeply, he sat back against his pillows, shaken. Whoever had written the diary had been eaten up with guilt, that much was obvious. But despite his scorn of the weak emotion, Draco couldn't help but feel sorry for the Author. He tried to imagine how he would react if he killed someone, and then kept remembering him or her alive. Had the Author even wanted Helen dead? Had it been murder or an accident? Although Draco felt he knew the answer to the last question without being told.

And then there was the memory itself. "Playing in the garden" suggested to Draco that Helen had been young, a child, when she died. He now knew she'd had a brother, also. How had he taken Helen's death? Draco wondered. He seemed to have been close to her. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine what that scene by the lake must have been like-

It was summer. He was sitting by the lake in the grounds of the Malfoy Manor, throwing stones into the mirror-like water and making mesmerising concentric rings. Hearing a musical laugh behind him, he turned and saw Helen running toward him, her hair streaming behind her like silver, her eyes lit like diamonds. She wore a pale blue dress, but the hem was green with grass stains, and it caught at her child's legs as she ran. In her hand she held a glimmering turquoise shell, gleaming in the bright sunlight. She was beautiful.

Reaching the bank, she dropped down next to him, out of breath, and held the shell up for inspection.

"It's for the Merpeople," she gasped, gazing rapturously at the lake. "It's a gift. Then they'll know me when I see them."

"When will you see them?" he asked, jealous in spite of his admiration.

"When I learn to swim," she told him. "One day I'll swim down to them..."

Draco sat bolt upright.

Where in the world had that come from? All he had done was try to visualise the scene, but it had arrived with shocking clarity. It had been so real, as though it was not his imagination, but an actual memory, as though he was recalling an event that had actually happened to him. And yet...

That couldn't be right. How could it? He had viewed the scene with such accuracy; surely, then, he should remember Helen dying, as the death had occurred so shortly afterwards? But he could see nothing of scene. And besides, the parchment was so old. It couldn't possibly be a record made during his lifetime. That was only seventeen years, after all.

But the detail...

The Dream was back again that night. Draco stirred in his bed, fretfully, as though fighting to break free from an assailant only he could see. The bedclothes swiftly became entangled about his legs as he fought, making him panic even in his sleep and fight all the harder. Beads of sweat formed on his pallid skin, only to be wiped onto the sheets as he turned over and over. But this time, he did not wake, and as the dawn light began to creep in from the picture window, still he slept.

And this time, he dreamt of the memory.