A/N: YES, this fic is based on the movie The Bourne Identity. Its one of my favorite movies and I absolutely love the books. With the new movie coming out I felt inspired to write this. I hope you like it!
"What the hell are you doing here?"
That one question was like a trigger, and the past two weeks seemed to flash back before his eyes.
*Flashback*
COLD….DARK…..PAIN…..Its overwhelming, like I was being born, only wrong. There was no warmth, there was no light. There was only the dark and the cold and the pain.
He opened his eyes. It was still dark, but the lightening provided intermittent flashes for him to see by. 'The storm,' it was a fleeting thought that surfaced for a fraction of a second before being stripped away by the pain. The hand gripping the cold metal table was covered in blood. "What's happening to me?" He croaked into the night air.
The sound of running water came from the next room, snapping Him out of his daze. He melted into a shadowy corner, pain lacing its way up and down his spine. Biting his lip to stifle his flesh's protests, He palmed a scalpel from a nearby tray. An old man, slightly bald with graying hair stood in the doorway, too preoccupied with something in his hand to notice the missing body.
A large wave rocked the boat, causing the man to pitch precariously and making his eyes widen when he spotted the bare table. He sprang from the shadows. Twisting the man's arm behind his back, He pressed the scalpel threatening into his hostage's neck. "What the hell are you doing to me? What are you doing? Where am I? Who are you?" He had so many questions and he just couldn't ask them all.
Another wave struck the boat, and He stumbled backwards into a nearby cabinet. Pain exploded in his back, and he released the man. "You are safe," he spoke in a thick accent, reaching out a hand to steady Him. "What's your name?"
"My name," He gasped, doubling over in another fit of pain. "I don't know my name." The floor underneath Him rolled, sending him stumbling into his savior.
"What about his?" The man held out his hand. "Do you know what this is for?"
Reaching out, He took the object. It was a key, made of dull metal, with carvings engraved into it. "What is th….." and His world went black once more.
* ,*, *, *
Warmth, He was finally warm again. Instantly His eyes popped open, searching the room till they found the man. "What am I doing here?" He croaked His throat sore from disuse.
"I was hoping you could tell me," The old man replied, carefully cleaning his glasses with a nearby towel. Placing them carefully back on the bridge, he once more turned to his patient. "We pulled you out of the ocean two days ago. You were, still are, in pretty bad shape."
"What's wrong with me?" He asked, seeing the bandage on his hand and feeling the tape pull across his back as he sat up.
"You were badly injured, wounds I've never seen before. Come, look for your self," he gestured towards a cloudy mirror mounted on one wall.
He carefully got to his feet. The pair of jeans he had been dressed in threadbare and a tad bit too big. Taking careful steps, he paused in front of the mirror as the doctor (from this point on to be referred to as Doc) removed the bandages from his back. Angry, red welts crisscrossed down the length of his spine, and other red marks spidered out towards his ribcage.
"What happened to me?" He asked as Doc applied a fresh salve and new bandages.
Doc was silent as he rinsed and dried his hands. "I have no idea. As I said before, I have never seen marks such as these, and I can assure you I've never seen anything like this," he said, handing over the key from earlier.
"It's a key," He said taking it to examine.
"It's not just a key," Doc cleaned his glasses against. Obviously this was a nervous habit. "I found that key melted into the flesh of you hand. Well, not exactly melted as the key is in perfect condition, more like fused."
He looked at the bandage surrounding his left hand, as he turned the key over and over in his right. Once again he felt the engravings. "There's something on here," He said, squinting his eyes to get a closer look.
"Ah, here try this," disappearing into another room for a second, Doc came back with a magnifying glass in his hand.
One side of the key was covered in what looked like ancient runes. Removing the bandage from his hand, He saw that some of these runes had been branded into the skin of his palm, on either side of a jagged, uneven incision.
"I had to cut it out of your skin," Doc said gruffly over his shoulder.
Turning the key once more, He found actual letters inscribed in the other side.
Gringchaft-42 Gemein Lane
Zurich Switzerland
000-7-17-12-0-14-26
Grabbing a pad and pencil He quickly wrote the address down. Pinching the bridge oh his nose, He willed himself to remember something.
Taking the key and pad from Him, Doc rubbed his back comfortingly. "Rest now, it will come back."
* ,*. *,
"Hey Dorian," a deckhand called out.
(Dorian means 'From the Sea', I just thought I should give him a name for at least a little bit, b/c I was kind of getting tired of calling him HE all the time, and I figured the people on the boat had to call him something. I hope the whole 'He" thing wasn't too confusing, if it was I apologize)
"Doc wants to see you below." The deckhand waved him over.
Dorian stowed the cargo net he had been repairing and went below.
"What is this?" Doc asked when he saw Dorian. He was pointing to a stack of papers left on the table. Words were written haphazardly over the pages. Alohamora, Ridikulus, Expelliromis. On one page there was even a sketch of some strange stick creature (BOWTRUCKLE!).
Dorian rested his wait on the door frame and ran his fingers carelessly through his hair. "I don't know."
"I see it begins to come back," he was cleaning his glasses again.
"No it doesn't come back," Dorian hissed, slamming his fist into the doorframe. Taking a few long strides across the room he snatched the papers off the table. "This means nothing to me," He said in a low, cold voice. "I did these just like I do everything else. Just like I read, just like I write, it has no meaning to me." Dorian enunciated each word with a rip of the paper.
"It will come back," Doc rose to his feet. "We will arrive at port tomorrow." And he ascended the stairs.
Dorian slammed his fist down on the table in frustration. Turning on his heel, he headed after him. "When we get there tomorrow, I don't have a name, I don't have a home. What am I supposed to do?"
"It will come back," Doc said one more time, cryptically, before turning and staring out into the wide open sea.
*, *, *,
The train ride to Zurich was a long one. Many of the passengers slept, but not Dorian. What little rest he had was laced with strange images, a castle, a house, a cliff, all of which had him jerking awake covered in sweat, and none of which gave him any clue as to who he was.
It was dark once again when Dorian first set foot on Swiss soil. The trek to 42 Gemein Lane was a long one, Dorian's hole ridden sweater wasn't much protection against the harsh Swiss evening. When he arrived at his destination he found an old dilapidated tavern. Hunching his shoulders deeper into his sweater, Dorian took off to find a safer place to get some rest.
The park bench was uncomfortable, but it was better then sleeping in the snow. He was just drifting off, into what appeared to be a dreamless sleep, when he heard two people come up behind them.
"Oi, move along there," one of them spoke in heavily accented English. His partner was poking Dorian with his night stick. "Move along, this is private property, no sleeping."
His back stiff with cold, Dorian struggled to sit up. "I just needed a place to rest," he tried to explain.
"No sleeping, papers?" The patrolman had his light shining directly into Dorians face.
"I…I don't have any papers," Dorian struggled to say, the light was lancing into his eyes, and his headache was returning with a vengeance. For a second, Dorian thought he was even hearing a ringing in his ears. "I've lost my papers; please I was just trying to rest."
"Non, move along," The second patrolman tried to prod Dorian with his nightstick, but was stopped.
The ringing in Dorian's ears had intensified. He hadn't even realized he was gripping the patrolman's nightstick. The ringing, that had been steadily growing louder, ceased, and in that instance, Dorian's body expanded into action.
Dorian used the second man's weapon against him, rendering him unconscious. Turning with the grace of a cat, his elbow caught the first patrolman across the face, and followed up with an uppercut to the chin, rendering that guard unconscious as well.
Looking down at what he had done, Dorian inhaled a few deep breaths. The ringing had returned, and his headache was slowly worsening. Dorian lifted his hand to try and massage the pain away when he noticed the gun. Clasped tightly in his right hand, was the guard's side arm. Instinctively, his other hand went to clasp the barrel, and in a split second, the gun was laying in the snow in two pieces.
On the verge of hyperventilating, Dorian turned on his heel and ran. He spent the rest of the night sitting in the snow on a darkened doorstep in front of the tavern. As soon as the tavern became partially crowded, Dorian entered.
The bartender was situated behind the counter, cleaning a dirty glass with a questionable rag. A fire was burning brightly across the room, and the people who had entered were scattered throughout the sitting area. A hallway in the back led away from the main room of the tavern. A sign hanging crookedly over the archway read, Gringchaft, so Dorian headed that way.
No doors branched off from the hallway; in fact, there was nothing there except for an old chalkboard hanging on the far end wall. A small sign was hanging next to the chalkboard, asking for an account number. Feeling foolish, but having nothing better to do, Dorian picked up a piece of chalk and scratched the number from his key onto the board. 000-7-17-12-0-14-26. As soon as he finished writing it, it erased its self, and more words reformed: Do you have your key? Not knowing what else to do, Dorian drew the key from his pocket.
A door materialized out of thin air next to him, and for a moment Dorian was unsure whether he wanted to enter or not. The temptation to know about his past was to strong however, and he found himself turning the knob and stepping through.
The room was quite bare. A wooden chest was situated in the middle on an old water marked desk. Dorian inserted the key in the lock. It turned smoothly and with an almost inaudible click, the chest opened. It wasn't a very deep chest. All it contained was a few personal items, a small stack of papers, and a passport.
Dorian pulled out the official document and flipped to the picture. His own face looked back at him, underneath was printed the name, "Draco Malfoy," he read out loud. "So I'm Draco Malfoy," tucking the tiny book into his back pocket Draco pilfered through the rest of his belongings.
He found a watch, a really nice watch. 'I have good taste,' he thought to himself as he fitted it on his wrist. Flipping through the papers, Draco found a few bills with his name on it, and an address slip: Draco Malfoy
104 Rue Du Jardin
75005 Paris
Last but not least, Draco found a wooden stick, about 9 inches long. Touching caused a tingling sensation to flutter through his hand, not unlike a small electric shock. Upon closer inspection, Draco saw that there were words carved into the wood, "Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandos?" he read out loud.
As the words left his lips, the side of the chest slid open revealing another compartment. "What the hell?" Draco wondered as he tipped the contents out onto the desk. More passports skittered across the service, along with numerous stacks of various currencies, and a gun. "What the hell?" Draco said again.
Rifling through the passports first, Draco found they all bore pictures of him. Finally he came across a single marker void of passport. Ryu Kale (Dragon Man) it read. This was getting too weird. He wished he had a something to carry the passports and money in, and out of no where one appeared. "What the hell?" Draco said a little louder.
Checking to make sure he wasn't seeing things, and finding that the bag was indeed real, Draco didn't look a gift horse in the mouth and hastily shoveled the passports and money into the bag. Caught in the flow of currency to stick got dumped into the satchel as well. Not bothering to seal the chest, Draco quickly left the room and headed back into the tavern.
Once again out on the street, he had no idea where to go. Not wanting to stay in one place too long, Draco began to aimlessly walk down the street. After a few blocks, Draco felt an unnatural chill run up his spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed two men, dressed just like the patrolmen from the night before, tailing him from a distance. Looking up, he found another one standing on the far street corner.
Taking the next right, Draco saw the British flag flying proudly over a gated door. Fishing his passport out of his back pocket, the guards let him in without even batting an eyelash. Following the flow of traffic, Draco found himself heading upstairs and standing at the back of a long line.
He found himself constantly surveying the room. Locating where all of the cameras were positioned, and which doors the employees used. As he was scanning, he spotted a woman at a nearby counter. She had long curly red hair, which somehow seemed familiar. Draco strained his ears to hear what she was saying, but only caught a few words before he noticed the drastic increase in guards throughout the room.
Pulling the bag closer to his body, Draco broke away from his line, and headed through a set of wide double doors he saw many of the people exit through. He found himself in another room, just as wide as the first, only instead of the many lines; there was just a large central desk. Draco was heading for the stairs when he spotted two more armed guards ascending towards him.
"You, with the bag," Cocking his head to the side, Draco saw a suited man clutching a pair of hand cuffs pointing at him. By this time, the two guards had topped the stairs, and the nearest one reached out a hand towards Draco. The same ear splitting ringing from the night before and engulfed Draco's mind, and before he was aware of what he was doing, he had grabbed a hold of the guard's wrist and was ramming his fits into……
End Flashback
*, ,*, *,
"Excuse me?" Ginny snapped in hopes of drawing him out of his daze.
Shaking his head to clear it, Draco noticed that the red head was a lot closer then she had been a second ago.
"I asked you a question you know," She huffed, once again backing up a safe distance away from him.
"I'm sorry," a faint tinge of red touched his cheeks and he ran his fingers through his hair absent mindedly. "I have a proposition for you…."
A/N: Ok, let it be known that this chapter is on its seventh page. I don't think I have ever written a chapter that long! Secondly, I know its another cliffy, but I just feel like if I left it off at a dull moment, what would prompt you come back and read any more. Although, I guess if you have seen the movie, you know basically what is going to happen, but anyway. Its late, I stayed up way too long writing this, because I wanted to get his whole memory sequence done, and not leave you hanging in the middle of a flashback. Enjoy, I shall try and write more tomorrow !!!