A couple of notes about this little bit of momentary insanity...

1) This is the first (and only) Harry Potter fic I've ever written, so don't expect it to be wonderful.

2) This sprouted from my blind belief that if Draco hadn't been born into a horrible family and been forever compared to Harry he would be a very nice boy, as opposed to the slimy coward that represents him in the books.

3) I never write angst! Waaa! I'm a comedy author! Help! (That means you should expect little tidbits of me trying to see me from myself, i.e., the passage: "Apparently this school was Hogwarts, but Draco had expected something a bit grimier. The name "Hogwarts" brought pig pimples to mind.")

And, 4) Harry Potter and all related characters do not belong to me. I never said they were mine, I don't think they're mine, so don't sue me. (You'll only get a film canister full of Canadian change, anyway.)

***

Draco slumped in his seat, his eyes tracing invisible patterns across the wall in front of him. The same red-haired boy was staring at him. Last time it had been the boy with the glasses and the wild black hair, and the time before that a small-statured girl with bushy brown hair and large eyes. Of course, the time before had been the red-haired boy.

He couldn't remember much past mid-July. It was mostly just a blur, but his father had told him that he had gotten hit on the head by something and that he was going to go to Hogwarts in September whether his memory came back or not. Apparently this school was Hogwarts, but Draco had expected something a bit grimier. The name "Hogwarts" brought pig pimples to mind.

At least the man had said that Draco was his son. Draco furrowed his brow and studied his quill. Malfoy... what an odd name. No odder than Draco, he supposed, but terribly odd anyway. And he was in the Slytherin house! Ridiculous. From what he had learned from his "father" about the houses of Hogwarts, he would much rather be in Gryffindor. He didn't like Slytherin at all; it was slimy and and dark and an awful place to study all of the homework that he had no idea how to do.

Draco picked up his wand again, blankly spinning it in his fingers. It was the bushy-haired girl again. What was their intense interest in him? Had they been friends of his? Enemies? Draco shook his head slightly and looked down at the bubbling cauldron on his table.

The oily-haired teacher stood over a small, quivering boy named... Trevor? Neville? Ah! Neville Longbottom. They had been introduced before, but Draco's memory still wasn't much good, even after the accident. Neville nervously chopped oozing unknowns, sweat dribbling down his pudgy nose, while the teacher (Snake? Snape? Snap?) loomed over him ominously and sneered.

Draco felt a stab of indignation. Neville tried hard, he could tell, and Professor Snape(?) wasn't giving him a chance! It was the worst case of student-teacher prejudice he yet had evidence of, although professor McGonagal (he felt fiercely proud of the fact that he could recall her name) hadn't exactly treated him with amazing kindness.

The professor glanced up at him, and Draco froze. Was it his turn to get loomed over and sneered at? He could almost feel himself wither under Snape's gaze (ha, he remembered the name). The professor glided over to his cauldron and looked down into it, and Draco felt sick to his stomach. He knew he hadn't done it right, he had had to stay up all night to study the stupid potion, and now he couldn't remember anything except how long it should simmer on the embers. A fat lot of good that did him.

Snape winced faintly as he stirred the sloppy potion slowly, gaseous bubbles oozing to the surface and exploding in a cloud of nauseous fumes. Draco watched the teacher nervously, his eyes wide and his feet unable to stay put. Snape looked Draco in the eye, and... smiled? Draco stared at Snape, sure that at any moment Snape's face would crumble into dry, flaky pieces and tumble into his potion.

"That's a very good job, considering," Snape murmured quietly, the awkward smile pursing his thin lips. "But next time remember to put in the slug intestines AFTER you put in the ghotieac scales. You'll find it makes a much better Anti-Gravity potion." The professor moved as if to loom over another student, but thought better of it. "Tell me... Draco," Snape said, moving his lips around Draco's name as though he wasn't used to it. "Do you recall your father saying anything about the Dark Arts position?"

Draco blinked. He looked back as far as he could remember, and worked laboriously to retreive memories that should've come on command. He could remember his father shouting at him, he could remember a rock, he could remember different colored liquids bubbling in beakers, he could remember stock-still meals around the table, completely lacking of conversation or friendliness... but he couldn't remember a thing about any Dark Arts position. Eventually his brain caught up with him, and he wondered what the Dark Arts were.

Draco opened his eyes and looked up at Snape. He couldn't remember closing them. Snape was staring at him, uncertainty and what looked almost like fear written on his pale, chalky features. Draco smiled faintly and shrugged his shoulders.

"I think I've forgotten," he said, looking Snape in the eye and clasping his hands behind his back. Snape nodded quickly and moved away, nearly running in an effort to escape the situation.

Draco turned back to his cauldron and blinked vapidly across it, formless memories fighting for a chance to be seen in his mind. Colors and sounds and smells and tastes and emotions and textures and shapes and faces, hidden and yet not, standing shuffling their feet at the back of his head. Blacks and greens and reds and silvers, accompanied by an overwhelming stab of inexplicable fear, chasing each other in the endless labyrinth that his memory had somehow become, in the accident that had taken everything he had ever had.

Draco heard a soft crunch and looked down at his hand, staring at the remains of a beaker lodged in his palm. Blood slowly wove around the glass and down his sleeve, warm and syrupy against his skin. Here was a memory he KNEW he had never had before. Draco fingered the jagged, broken glass, and his fingertips came away crimson. He smiled slowly, wiping his fingers on his robe as though in a trance. Draco looked up at the room, still smiling his quiet smile.

The red haired boy was staring at him again.