Chapter 12
Draco stared openly at the large house situated in an expansive field, its weathered façade a stark contrast to the vibrant green grass that surrounded it. The sign outside, chipped and faded from years of exposure, read "St. Joseph's Children's Home" in bold letters, evoking a sense unease.
"This is very strange," came a voice beside him, breaking the silence. He turned to face Alina, who wore an expression of confusion and concern as she asked, "Now what?"
Draco pondered her question, his mind racing with possibilities. "Well, usually, you just think of the memory, and it should pull to the forefront of your mind," he explained, his tone contemplative. His gaze drifted back to the house, the air thick with an unsettling energy. "This is not normal," he trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What do you mean?" Alina asked, her voice tightening with nervousness as her eyes darted around.
"I mean," he began slowly, as if trying to puzzle it out himself, "this feels more like a mind using advanced Occlumency skills," he replied, pausing to assess the strange atmosphere surrounding them. He took in the twisted branches of the nearby trees and the overgrown weeds that seemed to creep closer to the building. "Just," he continued, his brow furrowing in thought as he looked around again, "not very well."
Alina scoffed in offense. Together, they walked toward the house, pushing open the creaking front door to step into a large, open foyer. The space was sparsely decorated with outdated furniture, the faded wallpaper peeling in the corners. A few cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly in one corner, as if forgotten long ago.
Draco’s sharp eyes roved over the space. "When you are thinking of a memory, a really good one that you want to remember vividly, what's your thought process?" He asked absently, still surveying the room.
"Um. I don't know. I just……. keep it." She said hesitantly.
Draco turned to her, incredulity etched across his features. "You just... keep it." He sighed, muttering, "Brilliant," under his breath as he moved toward a door on the far side of the room. The room was small and cluttered, filled with a haphazard assortment of cardboard file boxes stacked precariously. Draco, unable to curb his curiosity, opened the nearest one. A ghostly apparition emerged from the box, swirling into a vivid memory. It was a little girl with white-blonde hair, her tiny face pressed against a windowpane as she gazed longingly outside.
"Is this you?" Draco asked, his voice calm but probing.
Alina stepped closer, her breath catching as she peered over his shoulder. Her eyes softened, glistening with unspoken emotions as she took in the memory. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I used to stand there a lot. Looking out, waiting for someone to come and take me out of there." Her voice cracked, the vulnerability evident in her tone, but she quickly shook her head as if to dispel the weight of that moment. Draco didn’t press her further, respecting the fragile silence that hung between them. Instead, he gently replaced the lid on the box. He could sense the tension coiling within her, the formidable wall she’d constructed around this part of her past. It was only the beginning, but he could tell: this house, these memories, were going to be much more than just a simple search.
As he examined the box in his hand, he noticed they all bore the same faded label, the name of the orphanage scrawled across them in a hasty script. "Is there something significant about these boxes?" he asked, curiosity driving his inquiry. Alina glanced around at the sea of boxes, her expression shifting as she reflected. "Yeah, they are the boxes they would give us to keep our stuff in. At the end of the year, if it didn't fit in our 'keep it' box, we had to get rid of it. I guess there's just not a lot of room for stuff when you have a bunch of kids running around," she explained.
"Keep it box," Draco repeated dryly, giving her a pointed look.
"What? It's not like I did it on purpose." She said defensively.
Draco sighed. "Ok so we just have to find the right box." He returned to the foyer and faced her again. "This is your mind so subconsciously, you know where to go. Just try to clear your thoughts and concentrate on the memory of the men from the coffee shop. Then just let the feeling lead you."
Alina stretched her hands nervously, shaking them out. "Ok, so easy, no pressure."
She closed her eyes and after a few moments tilted her head in curiosity. Eyes still closed she started going up the stairs so Draco followed behind her. She turned right and then stopped in front of the third door, opening her eyes again. "Huh."
"Huh what?" Draco asked her.
"This was my old room," Alina answered, staring at the door with a strange mix of hesitation and recognition.
Draco pushed the door open and stepped inside, his sharp gaze sweeping over the space. It was dimly lit, with faint light seeping in through dusty, cracked windows. The walls were bare, save for faint outlines where posters or pictures had once hung, now long gone. The air inside felt heavier than it had in the rest of the house, almost suffocating.
Alina lingered near the door, her expression unreadable as she stared at the neat stacks of boxes lined up against the walls. Draco noted how this room seemed to hold far more boxes than the other one, and how these boxes were different. Unlike the others in the foyer or the first room, these were meticulously arranged, each one labeled in neat handwriting, the dates spanning years.
"No," Alina said abruptly, blocking Draco’s path to the nearest box. Her breath quickened as panic flickered in her eyes. "Don't open that."
Draco stopped, arching a brow. "Why not?"
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “That’s not... I don't think these are those kinds of memories. They’re... bad ones.” Her voice trembled slightly, her hands curling into fists at her sides.
Draco straightened, studying her carefully. “Bad ones?” he repeated.
She nodded, swallowing hard. “It feels like things I don’t want to remember. The things I’ve buried.” Her gaze dropped to the floor as if the weight of those memories were dragging her down. “I didn’t even realize they were here.”
Draco hesitated, his hand hovering over the box. He could sense her discomfort, the unspoken fear radiating from her like a palpable force. But this was her mind, and if they were going to find the right memory, they couldn’t afford to avoid parts of it.
“We don’t have a choice, Alina,” he said, his voice steady but not unkind. “The memory of the men might be here, mixed in with the others.”
Draco moved toward the nearest box, his curiosity piqued. “These seem… more organized,” he observed, his hand reaching out and opening a lone box on the empty bed. A new memory surged forth, draco watched with confusion.
It was Hogwarts—children disembarking from boats, their small figures framed by the towering silhouette of the castle. Draco spotted a head of white blonde hair in the sea of eleven year olds. The memory flashed forward and they were standing on the front steps of the castle, Draco recognized the Carrow twins and his stomach dropped. His seventh year. Alecto Carrow leaned over and in a fake nice tone said "Welcome to Hogwarts, we are so glad you are here." Draco realized Alecto was speaking to a young version of Alina, he recognized the likeness from the earlier memory he saw. The memory surged forward again to a young Alina hiding behind a tapestry near the great hall entrance. After peering around and checking that the coast was clear, the child darted from the hiding spot and bolted out the front door of the castle.
“No,” Alina said quickly, slamming the box shut. “I don't want to do this anymore.”
Draco’s temper snapped. "What the hell? You were at Hogwarts?" he demanded.
“NO!” she shouted back, panic lacing her voice as she lunged for the box. Her hands clawed at it, desperate to wrench it away from him, but Draco held firm, his knuckles whitening as he fought to pry the lid open. He needed to see it—needed to finish the memory.
Alina’s fingers gripped his wrist, nails digging into his skin in a frantic attempt to stop him. The intensity of her panic seemed to pulse through the room like a tangible force, crackling in the air. And then, as if the tension itself had reached a breaking point, something snapped.
The room around them seemed to shatter like a mirror hit with a hammer. The air rippled, and in a blink, they were somewhere else entirely—somewhere cold, dark, and deeply unsettling.
Draco staggered back, clutching his head as a flood of images assaulted his mind. His breathing quickened as he registered their new surroundings. The room was grand, its high ceilings oppressive, its wood-paneled walls polished to an eerie shine. A crystal chandelier hung above them, its gleaming beauty marred by the suffocating sense of dread that permeated the space.
“No,” Draco whispered hoarsely, the blood draining from his face as recognition hit him like a freight train.
They stood in his memory now.
Alina gasped, her chest heaving as her surroundings morphed into something out of a nightmare. She took in the ornate furniture, the dark wood-paneled walls, and the suffocating air of dread that seemed to press against her chest. Everything about this place felt wrong—hostile. A scream pierced the heavy silence, shrill and agonizing, making Alina whip around in alarm.
Her eyes landed on the source of the sound. A young woman—Hermione—lay crumpled on the floor, writhing in pain as a tall, sharp-featured woman loomed over her. The woman’s face was alight with sadistic glee, her wand pointed mercilessly at Hermione.
“Crucio!” the woman hissed, her voice dripping with malice, followed by a chilling, unhinged cackle. The curse illuminated the room with a sickly red glow, bathing everything in its horrifying light.
Alina’s stomach churned, bile rising in her throat at the vividness of the scene. The agony etched on Hermione’s face, the heartless laughter of the torturer—it was too real, too visceral.
“What… what is this?” Alina stammered, her voice trembling and barely audible. Her wide eyes darted around the room, desperate for an answer. “Draco, what is this?”
Draco didn’t answer. He was rooted to the spot, his face ashen and his grey eyes wide with horror. He wasn’t looking at Hermione or the madwoman torturing her. His gaze was fixed on the far wall, where a younger version of himself stood stiffly, watching the scene unfold. He looked almost unrecognizable, his expression a perfect mask of anguish and fear as he watched. His hands were clenched at his sides, his knuckles white, but he made no move to intervene. Draco remembered everything about this moment with excruciating clarity. The way his heart had thundered in his chest, the acidic taste of helplessness on his tongue, the crushing weight of knowing he could do nothing—would do nothing.
“You’re going to tell me how you got that sword, Mudblood!” the woman screeched, her voice a venomous whip that cut through the air.
The slur shattered Draco’s paralysis like a slap to the face. Rage and shame surged through him as he reached out and grabbed Alina’s arm. His grip was firm, almost desperate. “We’re leaving. Now.”
With a sharp pull, he yanked them out of the memory and back into the present with such force that they both tumbled out of their chairs and onto the floor. The sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing over Alina, and for a moment, everything blurred.
“Alina! Draco!” voices clamored around them, a mix of alarm and confusion.
Theo was the first to Draco’s side, gripping his arm to steady him. “What the hell just happened?” he demanded, his voice uncharacteristically shaken.
Hermione was already at Alina’s side, kneeling next to her and gently shaking her shoulder. “Alina, are you okay? Can you hear me?” she asked, her voice tight with worry.
Draco shoved Theo’s hand off as he struggled to sit upright, anger blazing in his stormy eyes. His piercing gaze snapped to Alina. “You were at Hogwarts?” he barked, the accusation sharp and unrelenting.
Alina, her face pale and her eyes unfocused, blinked up at Hermione, clearly disoriented. “Mudblood…” she murmured softly, the word falling from her lips like a question. She looked at Hermione with a mix of confusion and dawning horror, as if she didn’t fully understand why she’d said it or where it had come from.
In all the commotion, no one in the room had heard the floo network roar to life or the witch that stepped into the room behind them. Everyone was silent for a moment until finally Pansy Parkinson shattered it, expressing the sentiment for all, as she said. "What the fuck."