Draco Malfoy had lost ten years of his life.

His fingers trembled as he lightly touched the rain-splotched The Daily Prophet. Two people he didn't recognize were featured on the front page, shaking hands and silently chattering to each other. Nothing in the articles made sense.

"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 just reading that." The paper laid where he threw it, the two unfamiliar people on the front eyeing him dubiously and inching away. 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; only 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 him for months.

All four walls were an unassuming white, holding nothing to break the monotony. There wasn't a crack, or a stain, or even a miserable, little cobweb hanging in the corner to ease his need for something different.

The empty shell of a room glared even when he closed his eyes.

He had tried banging on the walls, shouting until his voice was hoarse and knuckles swollen. He hadn't seen anyone since waking up, alone and wearing a thin green robe that was wrinkled and damp on one side. His nose crinkled at the scratchy quality of the material.

The last coherent memory he had was standing beneath a large tree. Professor Snape had been handing him something wrapped in several dead leaves. He hadn't wanted to take it. Professor Snape's dour face had 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.

The date scrawled elegantly across the top of the Daily Prophet mocked him.

November 3, 2007.

It was ridiculous to think that his last memory was not only of being a schoolboy fugitive, but also 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.

But they did have that tendency to cause insanity.

Because where else would he be but Azkaban?

Though 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 that the Daily Prophet made a grievous error on the date of their latest edition.

He sagged against the wall, a hand drooping over his propped knee. He carefully inspected his hands, with their untended skin, uneven nails, and unfamiliar scars. Malfoys, he recited with a moue of distaste, did not appear less than their best.

We are immaculate and superior wizards, the voice of his father sneered, with one of the few unblemished bloodlines left in Europe, if not farther still.

A harsh ringing sound broke his reverie, reminding him of the cauldron sized bell that clanged from the 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 figure stood in a doorway that hadn't been there a moment ago.

Or had it been?

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 familiar voice.

He climbed to his feet, wincing at the stiff pain in his lower back and legs. How long had he been sitting there, watching the wall?

The dark skin, widely flared nostrils, and slight frown 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 Mudblood.

The guard kept his wand pointed at his throat, taking a practiced step back.

Draco followed, he didn't have much of a choice.

They walked for what seemed like miles. Question after question crowded in his mind. How did the trial go? What had the convinction been and who still visited him?

He was the son of an exposed Death Eater, betrayer of Hogwarts' most beloved Headmaster, oh, and a Slytherin.

Professor Snape had only spokenbriefly, memorably, on the harsh reality of becoming a Death Eater. Snape being Snape, the talk was punctuated with expressions of disgust at Draco's stupidity, as well as a few interesting, but impossible allegations about his ancestry.

But Draco hadn't listened, he'd gone headfirst down the road of taking the mark and sneaking a bevy of Death Eaters into the school.

Was he passing by an invisible door that held his father? He had a horrifying image of his father wrapped in the thin robes; domineering face slack, dried spittle crusting his chin, and tangled white hair like the Longbottoms'.

Draco shuddered.

Older Dean Thomas jerked his wand toward a door. Draco gave him a quick smirk as he stepped through.

The color blinded him for a full minute.

Three wizards sat in a row before a long table, the walls a demure blue and bronze behind them. Too much color.

"Draco Malfoy, please have a seat." The older witch gave him a measured look, unreadable. The man to her left was much older, sporting an eyepatch and a scar that nearly bissected his cheek.

The third was Ginny Weasley.

Oh, she wasn't the snub nosed, freckle-faced Gryffindor that, as he recalled, dated the older boys. Her lined face was downcast, reading the paperwork in front of her morosely.

His stomach dropped as he gazed at her.

Then 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 symptoms of an advanced memory charm. Unconscious, convulsions, followed by tremors and chills.

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. If somebody had Obliviated him, a reality of Dark Magic, it didn't cause any of that.

Though a botched memory charm actually damaged parts of the brain, which was also less than preferable.

It was just too much to conceive that ten years were wiped away in the two seconds it took to cast an incantation.

"So you stuck me in another cell. Of course, I wouldn't expect an organization that employs Weasleys to actually be efficient." He sneered.

The elderly witch looked unimpressed. "The room you are in is specifically designed for complete monitoring of dangerous witches and wizards with serious medical conditions. 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, he only scowled more. "What exactly am I being accused of? For all I know, some overzealous Auror overstepped his bounds and tried to cover his tracks. And this 'story' is just a fabrication to cover that up." He leaned forward in his chair, hissing out, "where is my father? I want evidence, witnesses, and not Potter's little girlfriend. I want—"

"Mr. Malfoy!" the white-haired witch snapped icily, lip curled in disdain. "I must ask that you save your outbursts for someone it will matter to."

Draco leaned back in his chair. Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but from the precise snap of her words to the faint narrowing of her pale eyes, as well as the condescension, she reminded him so much of his father that he had to take a closer look. He filed that thought away for later.

"I don't know why I'm here," he said succinctly. "And I want some answers." He glared at her challengingly.

His heart was pounding hard enough to drown out all the other mundane sounds.

What he really wanted was to wake up surrounded by rich emerald curtains with velvety ropes looped on each pillar before any of this happened.

Finally, the crafty, cool-eyed witch said, "Your charges have already been brought before the Wizengamot. 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. "As well as accessory to murder."

"Who? Who did I 'murder'?" he demanded.

The older witch's lips pressed together. "Hermione Granger."

The words died on his lips. For once in his life, he was speechless.

If he couldn't kill a helpless Dumbledore, then how could they imagine he could another?

What a ridiculous idea, he thought numbly.

Professor Snape's words floated back to him. Days after Dumbledore died, he had found Draco huddled in a miserable heap by the roaring 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? At least 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 misery, trying to co-exist between a world that would throw them in Azkaban and a powerful, mad creature that would use them until they die. Think of their meaningless, squandered half-life, such as I have had for over fifteen years. People are dying and more will die, people you know and attend school with.

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. 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 wrinkled, swollen hands over the other. "Now that you are conscious, several mediwizards from St. André-Jacomet's will be attending to you. We want 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. These had plum lining down the sides of their eggshell-blue robes, a small badge emblazoned on the chest, and a neutral 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. 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, outraged.

Draco warmed to the topic, one hand absently brushing aside a mediwizard's wand tip from his face. "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. When that didn't work-"

Ginny jumped to her feet, pointed hat fluttering down to the table.

It was similar the look on her face moments before she put a Bat-Bogey hex on him fifth year, fury and disgust. "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!"

"Auror Weasley, please have a seat," the wizard said mildly, unaffected by the outburst.

His lip curled back in a triumphant smirk. "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 satisfaction. After spending the past several hours feeling helpless and ready to scream, it felt good to cause someone else the same frustration.

"Auror Weasley, please have a seat," the witch said more firmly, 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, she nodded. "Once the results indicate that you are indeed impaired from 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 hope that went through him.

"No, it does not, and indeed you are not. However, it is the fervent stipulation of the world's most accomplished wizards and witches in the field that dealing with familiar surroundings will prove more beneficial than simply removing the charm."

"Aren't you going to remove the charm?" he bit out impatiently. How could they expect him to go to the outside world with no memory of the past ten years?

"It has already been tried."

"What about these 'most accomplished wizards and witches'?" His voice was sharp with disdain. "Has anything been done except let these half-wits poke their wands around my head?" He shoved aside the wand tip of one of the male mediwizards as it brushed his ear.

"Unfortunately, one of the foremost 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 ancient wizard.

"Wait!" He felt a surge of panic, shoving 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 have answered were too much." They swept out.

Good, he was seconds away from pleading with them to come back. Malfoys never begged.

Instead, he clenched his fists, the temptation mounting to knock his fist into one of the mediwizards' face as they filed out as well.

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.

A moment later, the door opened to reveal Dean Thomas, who hadn't aged well in his opinion. He kept his wand trained on Draco.

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.

Dean, however, seemed to have no more interest in him other than the occasional cursory glance over his shoulder as they walked.

Draco hated him, knowing the other boy must be so smug in his false superiority, leading around a captive pureblood. 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?"

No response.

After a mind-numbing distance, Dean turned to him with wand withdrawn and arms crossed.

"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.

Draco saw the glint of pity in the other wizard's eyes as he stepped in the white room.

The next several hours were spent in blissful rage.

By the end of it, Draco was exhausted and the Daily Prophet in thousands of tiny pieces littering the floor.


AN:

This is a previously posted story that is being edited and revised. Eventually will also be on Ao3.