Vonne: I've been a bit inspired lately and so this is what I've come up with around two in the morning to cure my insomnia. I hope that this picks up, and I'm excited to hear what you think about the very first chapter of a story that is brand new. This chapter is on the shorter side, only because it is the first of many. My plan is to have long chapters, and to work on this while I'm working on 'Cellar Door', as well. As always, this story will stick around as long as I see that it is liked, so please don't hesitate to let me have it- tell me what you think, the good, the bad, and everything in between. I'll include a longer summary of it below. Thank you!

Summary: Something has happened to Draco Malfoy. Five years after the war, he is found in his bedroom, bruised, bloody, and unconscious. There is sign of a struggle, yet to the surprise of the Ministry, the boy is alive. Having been Obliviated, he cannot remember much of anything about the War or the people in his life. The case of his parent's murder and the mysterious sightings of surviving Death Eaters has gone ignored- seems as if Draco Malfoy is not the true priority for the rest of the Wizarding World. However, when Draco is dropped in the care of Hermione Granger, it appears that all hope for the boy is not lost. Can Hermione help Draco to cope with the realization of his part in the War? Or will the last remaining Death Eaters get to him first?

"How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd. "

Chapter One:

They'd find him on the floor of the Manor, alone and bruised.

He'd be stung out along the ground in a desolate and broken manner with his blond hair strung across his face and his eyes swollen for good measure. His wand would rest only inches away from his fingertips- musican's fingers that would appear lifeless and unclenched as if he had only just given up. And, until they'd turn on the lights of his room, they'd find that he was there in the blackness, swallowed by the greed of the merciless night with nothing but the wind at the curtains for company. Then they would lit the tips of their wands and near with caution, allowing the bulbs of their weapons to lead the way to the man of twenty-two, who looked more like a boy than he ever had in his entire life.

They would find his mouth to be agape, allowing flow for a trail of bright crimson blood to tarnish the translucent front of his pale and battered flesh. His head would be split, and his hair would be matted; everything about him would be twisted as if he had taken a fall that may have left him forever crippled. And they'd notice he was without shoes, socks, and a proper coat, despite the winter weather in the world outside him. There would be slight sign of a struggle and the way in which the windows were open gave the idea of someone having fled. A group of Ministry Men would come and search the scene; though they would explore every inch of the Malfoy's mansion, they would soon discover that there was no body left to find.

Yet the presence of an intruder was not the only absent being in the house. Sooner or later they would notice that the two eldest Malfoys had been gone, as well. There would be no note, and no bags would be packed. In the large room that the couple had slept in, everything would appear to have been perfect. The beautiful clothing belonging to Narcissa Malfoy would remain untouched; a lovely emerald green outfit would be lying on the surface of the massive bed as if it had been planned for the next day. They'd fish through the drawers and peer under the bed, and finally they'd come across a silver twinkling object in the darkness. Lucius Malfoy's discarded walking stick would be slanted across the center of the closet, his own wand completely gone from it. Blood would be on the corner of the white walls, in the cracks of the tile, and the depths of the carpet. It would be dried and crusted for they would find that it had been that way for weeks without disturbance. Only a fraction of the mess seemed to have been washed, scrubbed away by hand as if desperate and hurried. It was a job that had not been finished, only completed half-way for reason that they were not quite certain. And all would lead back to the boy, the Malfoy son, the only sole human in the house whom appeared just as dead and gone as the rest of his family.

Upon further inspection, however, they would find that he was breathing. Covered by a thin and buttoned pyjama shirt, his chest would rise and fall with the intake of consistent shakes. Though unconscious, he would appear to have trouble with doing so, uneasily drawing in air into his lungs in a way that made him suffer. His pulse would be slow, and his face would be blue; they'd find that it had been only hours since whatever it was that had occurred, but their arrival could not have been any later. His heartbeat would signify to them that he had been fading, barely hanging on through his haziness of subconsciousness. Thus, they'd gather around in inquiry and pick him up with their hands in a hopeful effort not to move him too harshly. And his head would lull backwards, his unkempt blond hair would dangle in a way that was just as lifeless as he. He would not make a sound when lifted. Rather, he would only hang in a faint manner in which his arms and legs could sway over the floor and his bare feet would do the same. They'd exchange looks and head nods, muttering the standard report back and forth to one another in a form of awful cliche. Then, they'd carry on with their work, their investigation; though moving the fragile boy would come as an instinct.

They would take him away from the bedroom filled with juvenile posters of Quidditch stars and Slytherin flags, lead him through the marvelous hallway of family portraits that had adorned the walls as a document of his childhood existence. He'd be carried through the living room that once looked dazzling and magnificent, but then would only appear rugged as if torn apart. However, they would not remain within the confines of the Manor for much longer; the boy would be delivered out into the cold, presented to the rest of the Ministry that would gather just before the gates in the form of a massive cluster. There, from his view on the lawn, Kingsley would watch the pale white figure of the boy as he was brought forth and he would wait until the others had made their arrival to permit that he finally be removed from the scene.

And the boy would lie in a room alone in St. Mungo's, stuck in a form of comatose that would last a matter of a week. He'd be unconscious when the paper ran the next morning and the headlines would scream out the night's disaster in black bolded letters. He'd never hear the break of the news on the radio or talked about in the nearby pubs. However, the rest of the world would be buzzing; the Malfoy family had been murdered, every last one of them expect for the youngest- the boy who had never really stood a chance in the first place.

Then they would talk about the severity of it all, the way they suspected the surviving Death Eaters to have come back for revenge on the family who had escaped court, Azkaban, and the like. It would be a common belief, too, once sightings of those that had gone missing had just... shown up. First it would be Alecto Carrow and her brother, Amycus. The two stout siblings would be spotted in their hooded cloaks, wearing broad smiles as they strode in solitude through the streets of Hogsmeade in the dead of the night. And the next would be Antonin Dolohov, who, along with Augustus Rookwood and Avery just would not be able to keep themselves hidden for much longer. And as the seven days passed, the likes of them would show up as ghosts, specters in the night that stood among the shadows of the universe around them.

But the unconscious boy would be, of course, left only to his own thoughts. He remained unaware of the events that had sparked around him. However, the accusation of Death Eater involvement would remain a suspicion. Their reemergence into the Wizarding World seemed unlikely to the rest of its inhabitants, and in reality, no one really cared much about the blond boy after all. As an ex Death Eater, he had gotten what he'd had coming to him. And he had almost not received a single visitor, aside from the stunning Pansy Parkinson and the plump Gregory Goyle.

In pairs they'd arrive at his bedside, their backs stiff with the suspicion that someone was watching. The girl would complain that he was not tended to and the boy would only sit there in thought, his meaty hand pressed up against the boy's clammy forehead as if to feel for a fever. He'd bring the boy his things in collective packages, dropping them off at the foot of his hospital bed proudly as if the newest artifact he'd arrived with would bring him out of his delirium.

However, it would be on the seventh day that the boy would finally wake up. In the darkness, it would be Goyle who would notice his eyes flutter open first, weakly as is too lazy to do so properly. With a hoarse intake of rattled breath, he'd gaze upon the pair of them before crying out. Horrified, the boy would break out into a panic, at a loss for words until he was heard by the Healers in the room nearest him. Too weak to move, he would only be able to lift himself slightly, sufficient enough to cower away and hold his arms out in defense over his blond head. He'd sob, "where am I?" and "please don't come near me," through a fit of tears that would shake him and make him weaker.

And Goyle, stunned by his best mate's instant action of unfamiliarity, would sputter forwards, and Pansy would too. She'd cry out longingly, "please, Draco! It's only us!" To which the hysterical patient would respond, only by cries. And, try as they might, they would not be able to calm him. The Healers would come together with their wands outstretched and their feet against the tile in motion that was fast paced and determined. They'd keep him calm with silent hexes and send him back to the world of dreams so that he no longer had to suffer the pains of being awake.

Yet they would not be able to keep him under for long, and sooner of later, the task of arousing him would arrive. Thus, he would awake the second time in the same manner, alone despite the presence of the Ministry and a few select Healers that could keep him guarded. They would tell him that he was safe, unharmed, and being looked after, inform him that something had happened and it had been a tragedy. Kingsley would start with what they'd knew, how his mother and father had been dead and how he, Draco, had been found alone in the bedroom of his house in the night. He'd tell him of the overturned living room, the way that his mother's things had been left, and that his father's wand had been taken. He'd tell him that the Ministry suspected the Death Eaters, but the lead was not for certain, and for the most part they remained uncertain. However, the lack of recognition in the boy's eyes told Kingsley otherwise.

He would appear to have not remembered. Though he broke down at the mention of his parent's death, he would not connect their information as a recognizable tale. And, upon further questioning, they would find that he did not remember the War, the Death Eaters, or the man that he had known as the Dark Lord alone. Pansy and Goyle were nothing but a glisten in his recollection. Eventually he would remember their faces, though nothing about his relationship with the two of them would match up. Still, in due time the Ministry would find him to have been Obliviated, the vast majority of his memory gone completely.

He would be found to have been barely able to speak or move. Walking would be a task, everything would have to be relearned, reprogramed. And so, he would lie in the sheets of his hospital bed as a blank slate; his mind buzzing with the loss of some of the only two people he could really ever remember loving at all. He would remain nothing but a body, a being without substance or anything really at all. He would refuse to eat, and sleep during the day and look at photographs of himself with his mates while trying desperately to remember what had happened in that day, that time, that moment.

Nothing, however, would ever come to him. Though the others would come to him with cards and images and planned out lessons. They'd teach him how to speak again, and help him move his feet when he would not properly be able to use them on his own. Then they'd shove a wand in his hand, tell him it was his, and recite a list of spells that he found almost impossible to remember. He wouldn't be able to help the desire for his mother's warmth or his father's safety, would remain helpless to the difficulty that reprogramming himself would come. And a Healer with a young face and a floating quill would come into his room every evening to say, "hello, Draco, do you remember what my name is?"

And with an overwhelming sense of difficulty, the boy would respond in a voice that was rough, swollen, and unprepared before he was whisked from the mattress and helped through the rest of the day. They would help him with food and dressing, listing off phrases or spells that they would try and help him to recall. It would be two full weeks before they would decided that he was ready, as as ready as he would ever be, and they'd help him with his things before contacting the likes of Pansy Parkinson and Gregory Goyle to work out the rest of the boy's arrangements.

It would run in the paper that the Malfoy boy had been released, and they'd do so in the dead of the night so that he could escape the reporters and their questions that he would not remember the answers to. He'd be scuttled to Goyle's, where Pansy and her chubby mate would sit on the couch opposite the blond and rest a hand on his knee before handing him scrapbooks and journals and photographs. They'd tell him that, if he wanted, he could stay in bed all day, and that's all the boy really wanted anyway. So they'd discuss his condition in the late night and decide that he could not return back to the Manor, so he would stay at Goyle's, who decided he would keep the morning newspapers out of sight for the time being.

But then the boy would start to want to leave the house, and his desire to walk the streets that he did remember would grow. Much to Goyle's dismay, he'd wake to find the boy staring out the window or struggling to read the books on the town and everything interesting about it. He'd invite Pansy and the two would give the boy a hooded jacket so that he was barely recognizable, and they'd talk loudly over the hisses from the others that still did not like the boy and what he did five years ago in the War that had shook the foundations of their world forever. Someone unseen would levitate an apple in the air and direct it promptly at the boy's covered head, yet he would not connect the reason as to why he was so disliked and, after all, both Pansy and Goyle would have a very hard time telling him.

Then the nightmares would start coming in and he boy would not understand the image of the face that was dead and rotting in his dreams of a man that would appear pale and gray, and speak in a voice that was snake-like and high pitched. He'd sit up in bed and pant and Pansy would appear at his door with a look of concern while Goyle would prepare tea that the boy would not want at all. They'd coax him back to sleep but all the boy really wanted to know was why. Why was it that he couldn't remember anything at all, while everyone else seemed so reluctant to fill him in on the details? He'd cling to Pansy's dress robes, beg her mercilessly to tell him, but she'd only pant a soft kiss on his forehead and wait there until finally he fell back asleep.

Eventually, the Malfoy son would give up. He'd stop asking about his past and all the people that were in it. He'd stop questioning them about his connection with the three they called Harry James Potter, Ron Billus Weasley, and Hermione Jean Granger. He'd stop asking and he'd let them put him back together, and eventually he would be just another numb soul in the darkness that did not leave the house and would not say much at all.

And then the boy would become nothing but a charity case, a broken toy that was in need of heavy repair. Pansy would write angry letters to the Ministry and the responses that would come back in were formal and unsympathetic. So, as a last ditch effort, Pansy would write one last letter to Hermione Granger, the biggest know-it-all that Pansy Parkinson could remember in all her years. She'd demand he be put back together, because she would be certain that Hermione would know how to do it, and she'd state that she would expect a reply as soon as physically possible. She'd send it off in an owl who would place the thing at the Granger girl's doorstep, and she would read of Parkinson's utter desperation. She missed the old Draco Malfoy, that was something that she would make undeniably clear.

Too bad Hermione did not. Thus, she'd toss the letter and would not bother to return back any sort of note. She'd think Draco's memory loss something suitable, proper even, as if he were better off. She would ignore the follow up letters that Pansy would send, growing angrier and angrier as each of her notes would go without response. Rather, she'd read the paper about the boy and stare at his face on the front cover, watching his story fall from the top spot, to the second page, the obituaries, and then vanish from the post completely.

Sure, she would feel a bout of sympathy for the boy, but the feeling was common for someone like Hermione, who would always tend to see both sides of every situation. Nonetheless, she would keep herself rooted, and she, just like the rest of the world, would move on.

Thus, only Draco Malfoy would remain, perched on the end of his bed, clad in his pyjamas with nothing but a wand and the posters that had been brought from his old bedroom as company. He'd reside that way until Pansy Parkinson would realize that she was absolutely certain she could not take it anymore. Then, forcefully, she'd whisk the boy up from his mattress and direct him across the room to his dresser where she'd thrust a heavy coat in his hands along with the rest of a thick winter outfit. She'd help him with his shoes and tie a scarf around his neck and yank him out of the house, down the stairs, to the very person that she'd been trying to contact for days.

Her high heeled shoes would clip-clop against the stone earth and she'd let him dangle in silence at the end of her arm, Gregory Goyle sputtering nervous objections to her plan in her ear. She would, however, ignore him. Pansy Parkinson would know what had to be done. Still, in the dead of the night, she'd see the outline of Hermione's small house, they one she'd shared with Potter and Weasley, and she'd stomp up the rugged path to find the front door and listen in as she heard their chatter beyond the thick walls.

Then, she'd lift her fist and pound in a hurry, rattling the foundation of the house and the three beings inside of it. She'd decide that this was it- everything and anything would end here with Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. She would hear the footsteps from inside the house and listen to the three playfully argue about who's turn it was to get the door. Then she'd roll her narrowed eyes and think about how much she bloody well did not give a damn about who opened it.

She knew exactly who it was that she wanted to see.

Vonne: Please do not hesitate to review! Thank you!