The Mists of Memory

Chapter 1: The Fugitive

Written by: Giulia "Kagome-sama" (now JuliaFC on Ao3 or GiuliaClifford0 on Wattpad)

Beta-read by: Chibisarel and Porlock (in 2003); Silver1119 and MysticRaven20 (2022)

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A phrase said by a character in this story is quoted from the Japanese Comic "Fruits Basket" by Natsuki Takaya, but this is NOT a crossover with Fruits Basket.

Note: I started writing this story in 2002, during the hiatus between book 4 and book 5. When book 5 came out, I edited the first few chapters and made it compliant to the new canon. However, books 6 and 7 have taken a route that I couldn't integrate in this story. Therefore, the story is Canon Divergent from book 6 onwards. I thought I had lost this and many other stories, but recently I found an old CD and all my fiction related files were in it, stories as well as the outlines of what was going to happen next. So now I can pester you with it again. Hope you'll like it!

***

Chapter 1: The Fugitive

Draco ran, without a destination, through the dark and lonely streets of Muggle London. The rain hit him and wormed itself everywhere: under the neck of his shirt, down his jeans. Shaking from the cold, he took the first street to his right, then quickly turned left and continued to run, trying to find an opening where there were people, where he could vanish into the crowd.

His heart was bursting out of his chest, and his breath echoed throughout the deserted alleyways. The Muggle clothes that he wore were completely soiled and soaked. They stuck to him and greatly annoyed him. His feet were frozen inside his wet shoes that squelched with every step he took. His fists tightened and felt like blocks of ice.

How he hated having to dress like a Muggle, having to constantly mix with them, having to sleep in hotels that were smelly and too full, often sharing the room with someone. Not because there was no space. Nor because he didn't have money...but he had no choice, to hide himself from the Dementors.

He couldn't carry on like that. Why had he been so bloody unlucky?

"Mr Malfoy, good evening. Mr Malfoy?" The smiling face of a girl with brown hair appeared, urgently, in his mind.

No, it's impossible, it can't be. Go away! Don't follow me! As he continued to run, Draco brought his hands to the sides of his head. He didn't want to remember!

"Mr Malfoy, look...it's snowing!"

Quick! He had to find a shelter, a place where he couldn't be found, a place where memories wouldn't attack him.

Damn, why did the Dementors have to find him? Why was it that today he didn't get a bedsit in one of the many hotels and hostels in London? Why couldn't he find even a single bloody person on the street to be confused with?

"I've always loved the snow, Mr Malfoy. But my family moved to Miami, in the last few years. This is the first time that I've seen snow in a while!"

Turn right, to the lef—no, a blind alley! Go straight. They can't catch me...they can't catch me...they can't catch me! Draco's heart echoed his thoughts with tumultuous beats and seemed to want to establish itself in his throat while his knees began to buckle. His legs felt heavy; he wavered.