As usual, none of this is mine. Sb211, thank you very much for being my beta for this. Your comments made for a much better story!

He'd expected a window. It was the view that took him by surprise: a tree covered in pink blossoms in a neat little courtyard, framed by three brick walls with large windows. Draco tried to peer through the glass to whatever was on the other side, but all he could see was the reflection of his own wall.

Either they were playing games with him – which could not be ruled out – or he'd been brought somewhere else. He wasn't foolish enough to hope he'd been given a reprieve. If this wasn't Azkaban, it would no doubt prove to be worse.

"Right, then." A brisk voice heralded the arrival of a middle-aged wizard, dressed in dark red robes clashing violently with the bits of his beard that were still ginger. "Let's get you settled in. Here's your bed– " A flick of his wand revealed a sturdy mahogany piece, complete with inviting white sheets. Draco looked at it with acute suspicion.

"A chair, perhaps?" the unknown wizard asked, producing a winged armchair. As an afterthought he added a chest of drawers, a shelf and a washbasin. "Mustn't forget the necessities, eh?"

Draco was finally moved to reveal his ignorance. There didn't seem to be much to gain by pretending to understand what was going on.

"What am I doing here?" he asked. "Where are we, anyway?"

"In the Department of Mysteries, of course" the wizard said promptly. "As to your purpose here, I believe that will be determined in time. We're not quite sure ourselves, yet."

While they figured out what to do with him, Draco tried to get used to not being haunted by Dementors while shivering in the relentless cold of the North Sea. He was under no illusions of the ultimate unpleasantness of his fate, but there was no use taking it out in advance, was there?

When someone knocked on his door it sent his heart racing and his mouth invariably went dry, but so far they hadn't asked him to do anything worse than testing spells.

He was even allowed to use a wand. Under strictly controlled circumstances, of course, but still. The grey-haired witch who collected him from his room didn't let her gaze leave him for a second before they reached the airy hall where he was handed a slender walnut want with intricate carvings. It seemed very old, but as soon as he touched the wand the familiar tingle of magic made him feel alive again. He'd sent sparks flying in the air, just like at Ollivander's so many years ago.

The witch had waited until Draco remembered he wasn't eleven anymore, and then she had explained what he needed to do. Even Longbottom would have got the hang of it after the first five times. They must be testing a new spell for Ministry approval – otherwise he could think of no reason why they'd get him to repeat the same spell three-hundred times every morning.

Draco didn't mind the monotony, or his aching elbow. He knew it could be much worse.

Usually the corridors were empty, except for the occasional portrait. The route looked slightly different every day, as if Hogwarts wasn't the only place where walls moved of their own accord. Occasionally Draco caught a glimpse of Ministry employees hurrying past, but it was never anyone he recognised – not even the wizard he'd met the first day.

Not until he ran into Hermione Granger.

She'd been making her way down the hall with long, mannish strides, her robes flapping. Behind her trailed a pile of reference books and a teacup, miraculously staying upright despite its bouncing progress. Draco was still trying to decide whether it would be demeaning to flatten himself against the wall to avoid detection when something furry escaped from her pocket.

Granger dove after it and almost collided with his escort. "So sorry," she said breathlessly while trying to wrestle the little orange kitten in her hands back into her pocket. "He will insist on coming out at the most inconvenient –" Then she noticed him.

"Draco Malfoy," she said blankly, like she didn't know what to say. She looked like she'd been hit by a Bludger, but she wasn't surprised. She must have known he was at the Department of Mysteries, but mustn't have expected to actually run into him.

Draco made a mock bow in an attempt to make her as uncomfortable as possible before the witch accompanying him made a tiny movement in the direction they'd been going.

Granger seemed to register it straight away: "Yes, of course, Amanda. You must be going," she mumbled, absentmindedly patting the pocket she'd stowed the kitten back into. "Where – ?" she asked vaguely, but the other witch seemed to understand her well enough.

"414," she answered in her dry, precise voice. It was the exact same voice she used when instructing Draco to tilt his wand hand an infinitesimal amount further to the right.

"Right," Granger said, and that was that.

Except it wasn't, because that afternoon she showed up at his door. A knock at the wrong hour spooked Draco, and he greeted Granger icily to conceal the fright she'd given him.

"Come to sneer? It must be quite the treat for you, to be able to rub it in my face at last. All good things come to those who wait."

"You must know I wouldn't do that," she said, and with a sinking feeling Draco realised that he did. His latest misfortunes must have brought him so far down that he now ranged as one of her causes, Gods help him.

"I don't need your – your benevolence, Granger," he warned her. "I'm not a house-elf, and I won't be pitied."

There was an odd look in her eyes as she inspected his room, and, lastly, its occupant.

"It never made sense to me," she told him. "Why would you risk it, after Harry got you off after the war? You were never particularly stupid, I'll give you that."

He kept his cool: the last thing he wanted Hermione Granger to do was to start investigating his case. The consequences may have been far more calamitous than he'd expected, but his motive hadn't changed. If she started questioning things, it would all have been in vain.

Finally she gave up her scrutiny. Draco's relief was short-lived, however, as Granger proceeded to make conversation: about the weather in the courtyard outside and about the books that had appeared in the little bookshelf next to his chair. When she ran out of smalltalk she bid him goodbye, but he learnt to expect her knock in the coming weeks. She didn't turn up every day, and he hated how it kept him on tenterhooks, wondering if she'd come by.

The spells kept him going until May, when the grey-haired witch suddenly stopped turning up. After three days stuck in his room, Draco considered asking for something to do: anything would be better than this intolerable tedium. Later he'd be aghast at his own naivety, but at that point being bored to death seemed a realistic prospect.

The familiar, jaunty knock had been absent for a few days – not unheard of, but still unusual – and he was fool enough to actually be smiling at the Bushy-Haired One as she stuck her head through his door.

"Hello? Mind if I come in?" She'd never asked before, and his sharp eyes noticed the way her knuckles were turning white, clinging on to her wand. There were deep shadows beneath her eyes, and her deplorable hair looked like it was considering independence.

"Not at all. Please enter my humble abode," he said from his chair, pointedly refusing to make any flourishing gestures to accompany his words.

"Thank you," she mumbled and shuffled in, closing the door behind her. Draco's curiosity intensified. Either her cat had died (or Weasley had broken up with her), or it was something to do with him that bothered her. He tried to shake off the lethargy he'd sunken into after days of idleness – he'd need his wits about him now.

"How are you getting on?" she asked, as if she couldn't think of anything better to say. It didn't sound like a real question, which probably was fair enough considering that he was stuck in a room smaller than his closet at home.

"Splendidly. I've come up with a thirteenth use of dragon's blood, and yesterday afternoon I threw a cocktail party for all my friends. You should have been there."

She rolled her eyes at that, and silently conjured a chair to sit on rather than plonking herself on his bed like she normally did.

"You know I work here," she said, and Draco had to restrain himself from pointing out this was the most obvious statement since Godric Gryffindor pointed out that Scotland gets cold in the winter. "I've been working on a project," Granger continued, eyes fixed on her wand which was tracing little circles on her thigh. She was wearing Muggle clothes today, something blue and tight-fitting. It almost looked indecent to Draco, who quickly turned his gaze away. "About memories," she added.

The silence sat heavy between them, as Draco considered all the questions he didn't want to know the answer to. Eventually, Granger ploughed on: "I applied for a test subject years ago, and today I found out my request had been granted."

Draco stared at the window. He wasn't going to make this any easier for her.

"I will – " She swallowed loudly. "I've been given permission to use Legilimency to extract your memories, to study the impact of missing memories on the brain."

Draco would have given anything for a wand right now, so he could give the bitch what was coming to her. "You're going to steal my memories, one by one, and watch me turning into a gibbering wreck. To the victor, the spoils, eh? So much for your fine morals, then."

Granger's voice was shaking, but she did reply: "You will be helping people. Like the Longbottoms, remember them?"

"I was only a baby when they were attacked. Is this your idea of justice, to visit the iniquity of the dead on the living?"

"What about my parents, then? I had to hide them from you and all the other idiots who couldn't wait to pledge their allegiance to Voldemort, and now they can't even remember who I am." There was an undignified sniff, as if she was fighting to hold back her tears, but her voice was steady and clear.

"I'm not responsible for your mistakes," Draco said, pressing on before she could turn an indignant breath into a torrent of self-justification. "Do you really think this is a fair punishment?'

"It's not up to me to decide," she replied. There was a quiver to her voice and he could have pressed home his advantage, but it suddenly occurred to Draco that he had far more important things to do than arguing the limits of justice with Granger.

Responsible; now, that was an odd word to have picked. He was responsible for both more and less than she could imagine. Realistically, Draco had no way of preventing Hermione Granger from turning him inside out and laying what was in his head bare for everyone to see. Trying not to imagine the effects of depleting his memories until there were none left, he forced himself to consider the key issue at stake he still could influence. He simply couldn't allow Granger to spoil his plans.

Summoning all the Malfoy haughtiness he could command, he looked her in the eyes for the first time since she'd told him what was going to happen to him. "Swear to me, Granger. Swear that you won't reveal what's in my memories, not to a single soul." His voice was hoarse; he hadn't intended it that way, but clearing his throat would be a sign of weakness. She looked uncertain.

"You owe me," he pressed. Draco knew she'd see it that way: Hermione Granger's morals were almost painfully transparent.

"I suppose I do," she sighed. "I take it you want an Unbreakable Vow?"

"That would be preferable." The relief almost made him forget what he hadn't yet considered: that regardless of what secrets he managed to keep, there would be no Draco Malfoy at the end of this.