Summary: Astoria's memories all disappear, but why, and who stands to benefit. This is an AU fic where I've played fast and loose with all sorts of things, starting with the age difference between Astoria and Draco, moving on to the way in which Tom Riddle is not so nice, and just continuing on from there. Also, I have stopped writing this. There are 8 chapters and after that it stops. Maybe posting it will inspire me to keep going; people often have things to say that kick start creativity. But don't get too attached.

It happened in the hall outside their common room. Draco was leaning up against the wall, bored, half-listening to Astoria prattle on about whatever tedious thing she was planning – one of the endless parties pureblood girls seemed to live to throw, he supposed – and thinking to himself that at least she was pretty and he was reasonably fond of her and how much more that was than so many people got from their arranged marriages when she suddenly stopped talking and blinked a few times.

"You okay, love?" he asked, more out of the courtesy that had been drilled into him from birth than from any actual concern. Astoria Greengrass had never been anything other than 'okay'. She was polished - shellacked to a wholly impenetrable sheen - and he'd never seen her admit to anything being even slightly the matter with her.

"Who are you?" she asked, looking at him.

"Don't play games, Astoria," he snapped. This wasn't like her and he wasn't amused. "You know perfectly well who I am."

"I… no." She shook her head, that perfect hair swinging to and fro. "I'm Astoria?"

Draco studied her and frowned; this really was not like her at all. "I think," he said slowly, "I should take you down to the infirmary. Maybe you aren't feeling well?"

"That… yes." She reached a hand out to the wall as if to steady herself. "That would be very thoughtful of you. Thank you."

He held his arm out and, automatically, she placed her hand over it. So, he mused. Whatever she's playing at, not knowing me, not knowing herself, she still knows her manners. He walked her down the hall, waiting for her to faint or announce "gotcha" or something but she didn't. She just walked placidly by his side, far more subdued than he'd ever seen her and he grew steadily more concerned.

"Astoria," he stopped her right outside the entry to the infirmary. "You know I'll stand by you no matter what, right? That I won't leave you."

She searched his eyes. "That's very kind of you. I just don't know… why."

He tilted his head slightly to the side and eyed her. "Because you're my affianced bride and, despite our mutual indifference to one another, I take my responsibilities seriously. I take you seriously."

"I'm your what?" Astoria pulled her hand off his arm and stared at him, a tide of hysteria starting to rise in her eyes.

"Since you were eleven and I was twelve," he said slowly. "If you've developed an aversion to…"

"I don't even know you," she said, her voice starting to shake.

"Astoria, you do." He reached out and touched her shoulder but she shrank back.

"I don't even know your name," she said, pressing herself into the wall.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he said, watching her carefully. "And something has happened to you. Let's get you into the infirmary and let the Healer take a look at you, see if she can get you feeling more normal." He paused. "Astoria, I would never hurt you. Whatever else you know or don't know right now, hold on to that."

He held his hand out and she nodded, a tiny frightened nod that tugged at his heart, then slipped her fingers into his. He's never ever seen her like this and, however much he's never regarded Astoria as more than, at most, the best among the various poor choices his father deemed acceptable as a bride, he finds himself worried for her. This woman – this scared girl holding his hand – isn't the polished heiress he'd been talking to 5 minutes earlier.

He needs to talk to his father, and now.

He needs to get her in front of Madame Pomfrey and get this fixed.

. . . . . . . . .

"I'm afraid there's no fix." Madame Pomfrey looked down at the girl cowering in the bed, clutching Draco Malfoy's hand like a lifeline. They'd tried to chase Draco away but he'd coolly cited pureblood customs, which had the force of law, and noted that as her fiancé he had every right to sit at her side.

Dumbledore hadn't expected the young Malfoy to be quite so adamant in his championing of Miss Greengrass. By all accounts, the two of them were no closer than any of the other students shoved into arranged marriages by their parents. Dumbledore thought the tradition of hand-fasting barely pubescent children rather appalling, and had been pleased that the number of engaged students dropped every year but he wasn't surprised the wretched Malfoys were still doing it, or that the Greengrasses had leapt at the chance to snare the boy.

"What do you mean, 'no fix,'" Draco snapped, pale and young but still holding on to the girl's hand. She was watching him, Dumbledore noted with dismay, as if he were the only thing she could trust in a world gone mad. "She's forgotten everything."

"Not exactly," Dumbledore twinkled at the boy. "She's only forgotten her personal memories. Who she is, who you are, what she got for the sixth birthday, things like that. She knows how to read, for example, she remembers all her magical training. She's just going to have to re-meet all her friends. I admit she's a bit of a blank slate at the moment but it really could be much worse, my dear boy."

"I think," Madame Pomfrey interjected, "You should let her rest, go back to your classes."

"I will stay here by her side until she asks me to leave," Draco said with a fixed determination that had Madame Pomfrey and Dumbledore exchanging glances. "If you'd ask Theodore Nott to bring me my assignments from today I can start working while she sleeps."

"I'm not tired," Astoria complained.

"Nevertheless," Madame Pomfrey smiled at her, "I think you should stay here for a day or two to recover and for observation."

"I'll have young Mr. Nott bring you your books, then," Dumbledore said with a small frown, watching Draco nod and turn from him, stroke the girl's hand to reassure her. Who would have thought he'd be so devoted. It seemed out of character but, Dumbledore supposed, he probably thought she'd be better in a week and he'd have won all sorts of points he could use to manipulate her.

"Astoria," Draco said as the two observers left, "other than the memory loss, how do you feel?"

"Terrified," she said with a forced little laugh. "I don't remember anything before I was looking at you in the corridor. Other than the nurse and that man, you're the only person I know in the world."

"Well," he kept petting her hand. "Theo will be here soon and you can meet him."

"Do I like him?" she asked.

"Well enough, I guess," Draco shrugged. "Though, I'm starting to think it might not matter who you liked yesterday."

"I guess a better question would be, does he like me?"

Draco laughed. "Well, he's more my friend than yours, so he's never crossed any boundaries because, well…"

"Fiancé," she said and tentatively grinned at him. "Tell me about myself. What am I like?"

"You're…" Draco looked at her and sighed. "You're pretty, you have excellent grooming, you know how to throw a party. My mother says you'll be a renowned hostess by the time you're 20 and she has high standards so that's quite a compliment. You're an indifferent student and you're always surrounded by a group of girls who giggle a lot."

"No... what am I like." She looked down at the blanket that the Healer had firmly tucked around her and pushed it aside with a grimace of annoyance. "We're to be married. Surely you know more about me than that I dress well."

"Not really," he admitted and flushed when she looked at him, a rather incredulous expression on her face. "You're a tad opaque, Astoria. Very… you have an excellent presentation but I'm not sure we've ever had a conversation about anything more personal than things like what you're going to wear to a party so I know what color corsage to get you."

"That seems a little depressing," she stood up. "Let's go for a walk or something." He glanced up towards the door and she rolled her eyes. "It's not my legs that are broken, it's my brain. Are you really such a rule follower?"

"Hardly," he snorted and held out his hand. "Milady, let me lead you over to yonder window seat."

"Not much of a walk," she complained.

"Yeah, well, I'm still a little afraid you might suddenly collapse, plus I'm waiting for Theo to show up with my books. Humor my selfishness and settle for a trip to the window."

She took his hand and let him lead her across the room to a small niche with a padded seat and a window. He carefully settled her down and sat across from her; the bench was so small their knees touched and he took her hands in his. "Why are we engaged," she asked him, "if you don't know anything about me other than what colors I wear?"

"Arranged marriage," he said with a frown.

"Then," she dipped her head down rather shyly, "why are you here? Sitting with me, talking to me. We obviously don't really do this if don't know anything about me. Why not go back to your friends and dinner and…"

"Because you're going to be my wife," he said in frustration. "I don't have to like you, though I do – did – in a rather idle way. I have to honor you and what kind of an utter arse would I be if I left you alone right now?"

"I think I'd rather be liked," she muttered and, at his sharp look, sighed. "Not something I'd say?"

"Not really." He bit the inside of his cheek. If this didn't get better, if Pomfrey was right – and for all he didn't like the old biddy he had to admit she was a damn good Healer – he was suddenly engaged to what seemed to be a totally different person. More open. More… likeable, though probably less to his father's taste. He had trouble imagining this vulnerable girl coolly presiding over one of her parties.

"I know more about you than I do about myself," she said, running her fingers through his and sliding them up and down his arms, a kind of girlish playfulness he's never seen from her before. "You're older than I am – "

"Yes," he nodded. "One reason we're not that close, really."

"You have a heavy sense of obligation, of doing what you're supposed to."

He snorted at that but at her look shrugged and nodded. "I guess."

"You're kind, kinder than you'd like to admit I suspect."

"That I'm not."

"Kind to me," she insisted. "You're sitting here."

"The fiancé thing, you know, puts you in a bit of a category by yourself. I assure you, no one else would call me 'kind'."

Even as he was smiling at her, rather liking this new world where he actually spoke to his future wife, she was going on. "And you have some kind of a scar on your arm." She pushed back his sleeve and exposed the Dark Mark and stared at it. "What is that?"

He yanked the sleeve back down again and pulled away from her. "Nothing you need to worry about. Nothing you should mention to anyone."

"A secret," she grinned at him, that thing where she really was younger than him bubbling to the top and he pressed his lips together; this could be bad.

"I mean it, Astoria," his voice was low. "You can't tell anyone about that."

She looked at his arm then back at his face and, watching her assess him he was struck by how much more perceptive this memory-less Astoria seemed to be; he realized, with some shock, that she must have always been that way, she'd just hidden it so well under her sleek and shallow image that he'd never noticed. "I think," she said, "you should explain why."

"I told you," he sounded desperate now, "it's nothing you need to worry about."

"Then explain it to me and I won't worry." She paused, "Otherwise I might have to ask someone else about it. Like that deceptively nice Dumbledore."

Draco paled, then laughed. "Your brain gets fried and you're still a Slytherin."

"Is that good?"

"Normally I'd say yes but given how serious this is…"

She put her hand over his. "I wouldn't, Draco, I was just teasing; I can tell you're… this is something… it's not a joke, is it? But, please, just tell me. You're the only thing I have, the only thing that's not some kind of abstract knowledge floating around in my head with no context. I know how to read, but I can't remember learning how. I know in what order I should greet people at a party, but I can't remember anyone ever telling me that. It's… it's very…"

"Shh." He brought her hands to his lips. "I'll take care of you, Astoria. It'll be okay."

"And you'll tell me?"

"I will," he sighed. "But not here. Someplace safe." He eyed her. "What did you mean, 'deceptively nice'?"

She shrugged, "He was hiding something, and he wasn't happy you were staying."

. . . . . . . . . .

She finally did chase him away; Theo, the mysterious Theo, never had arrived with the books and she could tell he was getting grouchy. "Go eat," she'd said. "Track down your friend. Get your books."

"I'm coming back after dinner," he'd said, watching her with narrowed eyes. "I'm not leaving you alone in this place. Something's wrong. You shouldn't have just lost all your memories like that."

Now she sat, having pushed the bland hospital food away, and stared at the window where they'd sat earlier from her bed. He was right. Something was wrong, and it wasn't so much that she'd lost her memories but that no one seemed that concerned about it. That Healer had done very little more than pat her on the head and tell her not to worry, sure, it was a permanent memory loss but she'd be fine. No calling in of specialists, no research to find other, similar cases to see if there were any treatments she could try. Nothing. And that Headmaster, he'd looked at Draco like the boy was in his way and that made no sense at all. Why wouldn't he want her to be comforted by her fiancé; as surreal as the idea she was engaged seemed, no one appeared to question Draco's claim so she guessed he was telling the truth. And it would be normal for her fiancé to sit with her if she were injured, wouldn't it?

Draco was the only one she'd interacted with in her entire conscious life, all several hours of it, who didn't seem to have secrets. Well, he had secrets. Whatever that thing was on his arm he absolutely wanted that kept hidden, but that wasn't about her. The others, they had secrets about her.

"I'm Astoria," she said to herself. "And I'm engaged to a boy a year older than me who has a mark on his arm he doesn't want to talk about but who seems to be the only person I can trust."

It wasn't a lot of things to know about one's life.

"Hey," a girl stuck her head around the door and then tiptoed into the room when Astoria looked at her. "I'm not supposed to be up here but I heard you'd gotten sick and I wanted to see if there was anything I could bring you."

Astoria smiled at her, dredging some kind of social mask up from someplace. "That's so nice of you. I'm afraid I seem to have gotten hit with a memory curse of some sort, though, and I don't remember you. You're going to have to remind me of your name."

The girl took that as permission to come over and sat down on the foot of the bed. "That's awful, Tory." She frowned. "I'm Ginny. We're… kind of friends."

"Kind of friends?" Astoria looked at the pretty red head and waited for an explanation, wondering why, out of the four people she'd met, three of them seemed to be lying to her.

"Well, inter-house friendships are sort of frowned on, especially between Slytherin and Gryffindor but we've been kind of chums since we started using the same table in the library to study at."

"Oh." Astoria slumped in her bed. "Maybe you could tell me about myself, then. I don't remember anything. I mean, I remember stuff like potions and what year it is, but not… people stuff."

Ginny leaned forward, a little too eagerly, and said, "Oh, well, you're really popular. You have a lot of friends, and being engaged to Malfoy doesn't hurt, not that you're all that thrilled about that but he's kind of a king of the hill sort, so…"

"I'm not happy about that? What do you mean?"

Ginny shrugged. "You've just said a couple of times that he's… you know… he's a bit older and he's kind of dismissive of you. Thinks you're an idiot, stuff like that. And he's not that nice. I mean, it's Malfoy." She shrugged again. "I mean, Harry thinks he's a Death Eater and, even if he's not now he probably will be soon."

"Harry?"

"Harry Potter." Ginny's eye widened. "You don't remember Harry? He was the one who said he'd get you out if you ever wanted to escape, that he'd…"

"Escape what?"

Ginny lowered her voice. "You said you didn't want to be trapped in that pureblood, Death Eater thing, that you wanted to get out but that you were afraid, that you had nowhere to go. He said the Order would take care of you, that no one should have to marry Malfoy, of all people."

"The Order?" Astoria shook her head. "I… this is so confusing. Ginny… I don't remember any of this."

Ginny looked around nervously. "Look, I have to get out of here before Pomfrey catches me. But I'll come back, we can talk some more. Just… you have friends, Astoria, and not just that bunch of Slytherin airheads you hide behind. Remember that."

The girl disappeared and Astoria looked at the indent where she'd been sitting on the bed. Why had this girl come all the way up here and talked to her, every line of her body screaming, "I'm lying." What did she want?

She thinks I'm a pawn, she thought, on someone else's board; she thinks to play me. She wasn't sure whether Astoria-Before had minded being manipulated but she was quite sure that she, Astoria-After, did.