Summary: ALERT! This story might not make any sense unless you read this first. I had the idea that those involved with the Death Eaters might have had their memories erased (they no longer know that they had magical abilities and are made to live like Muggles). At the age of eighteen, Draco Malfoy's memory of being a wizard ceases to exist and he begins his life again as a Muggle. Years pass, and he sees a familiar looking girl in a coffee shop.

P.S. His name is no longer the same, by the by. I thought they'd have to change it, so people wouldn't recognize it or think it totally bizarre (know any Draco Malfoy's yourself?)

Started out as a one-shot and I couldn't help it; I had to write out the story behind it. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

He has been to the coffee shop on the corner a total number of five times in his life. He likes this number; it's a factor of his age (25); it's the amount of years he's spent in his flat; it's the time he wakes up in the morning. He has often wondered if he always liked this number, but he cannot remember anything before he was eighteen. He has spent many an odd night searching for photographs that he knows do not exist, picking through his belongings in search of a diary or a letter, for he knows that he must have had parents and he thinks that they must have left him something. But he hasn't found anything yet and he's given up hope of ever hearing from his family.

Today will be the sixth time he's visited that coffee shop on the corner. He does not like the number six very much; he does not know why for he cannot remember an event in his lifetime to make him dislike it so much. Was that a final grade on an exam? Was he sixth place in a race? Was he stood up six times? Did he not get what he wanted for Christmas when he was six years old?

He decides to forget it, because it has aggravated him many times before and he has never been able to recall memories from his past. Instead, he takes the scarf off of the hanger, wrapping it around his neck. The colors are still the same, faded with years of use that he cannot remember, because he's positive that he'd gotten it from someone when he was younger. The ends are unraveling and the green and silver (such unusual colors for a scarf, a girl from work had said when he'd first come in) has lost what he believes was its former luster. But he cannot stand the thought of getting rid of it, thinks that this scarf might be the only thing that his parents or his friends might have left behind, hoping he would one day figure out what it meant.

But Daniel Malcolm is averse to change, and because of this he thinks it would be unlikely of him to leave his home and travel in search of a family he does not remember. He does not see any likelihood in finding people who have never looked for him, however great his hope that they exist. Besides, Daniel likes his routines; he likes waking at five and eating breakfast five minutes later (after brushing his hair and washing his face). He likes walking to work and ignoring the chap who sits next to him. He likes coming home at five and eating Chinese takeout while watching the telly (although he's getting rather tired of that CSI show; it's become predictable).

It doesn't seem to make much sense for him to dislike predictability in TV shows, but he likes his literature and theatre and films to be impulsive. Perhaps it is because he cannot do it for himself. Perhaps it is because they might present insight. Perhaps they will enlighten him, remind him of a moment in his past. Perhaps they will suddenly cut to breaking news, the faces of his family and friends desperate to know where he is.

He's always wondered how a Brit like himself ended up in California, in a sleepy little town on the coast, working at an antiques warehouse where he rarely saw more than three people a day. He has thought up reasons for seven years. As usual, he has never come close to penetrating the road-block in his head that prevents him from knowing his old life.

He walks the short distance to the coffee shop, nearly running into a lanky man leaning against the wall, reading a newspaper. The man looks up and nods at him before returning to his reading. Daniel doesn't know quite what to make of him; he's seen this fellow before and for reasons he can't explain, he feels as though this man is watching him.

Inside, he orders a latte and what looks to be the most fattening thing on the menu, for his sweet tooth is unbelievable. He likes to sit at the table by the window; he has sat there every time he comes in. As he waits for his coffee, he notices a girl sitting at the next table. He has never seen her before. She's sipping a black liquid, most likely coffee, judging by her sleep-deprived eyes and the tightness around her mouth. She looks to be made entirely of the stuff, as if she's been filled to the brim with coffee to keep her afloat. Her limbs are slender and her hair is a mass of russet curls. She has wonderful hands; he notices that she has ink splotches on the pads of her fingers and she is now scribbling furiously into a journal or a notebook. Occasionally she glances up from her notebook to check something in a page from one of the numerous books surrounding her. She looks like a small island floating amidst her ocean of knowledge – ha, he thinks, perhaps that should be my pick up line for this one.

Glancing at the door (it is now seven thirty in the morning; he has normally left by now), he grabs his latte and pastry and walks over to her. She looks up at him and he sees something like recognition and pain in her dark eyes. He does not understand; does he know her? Have they dated? She fiddles with the papers to her right and her entire body is suddenly wound up as tight as a spring. He considers the fact that he should leave, if her body language is anything to go on. But he doesn't want to leave and he can't figure out why the bloody hell not. She's familiar, he's certain of it.

He is still holding his pastry on its plate in his right hand and he feels slightly ridiculous. She is looking at him curiously, her head cocked to one side. He ha a feeling that she understands people very well.

"Hello." He notices that his voice is scratchy – since when has he been nervous talking to a girl? And since when was he only capable of uttering single-word sentences?

"Hello." Her voice is pleasant, lower than he had expected. "Won't you sit down?" She pushes the chair out toward him with her foot and he sits down across from her.

"I've only got a mo' before I've got to run to work, but I wanted to introduce myself. I'm Daniel Malcolm." He extends his hand and she grasps it; her hand is so warm and small in his that he momentarily forgets that he is an amnesiac with a shit job and no recollection of a family.

"I'm Herm - er, Helen. I'm Helen Graves."

He likes the way she sounds, as if intelligence and facts and theories are welling up inside of her. He's only got a few minutes to find out what he wants to know, so he asks her outright if she's single. The shock on her face is almost priceless and before he leaves, he's sure that he's gotten her number. Walking to work, Daniel whistles some annoying new pop song he'd heard on the radio, and he's so deliciously happy that he's thinking ridiculous like Sixth time's the charm.

Behind him, Hermione Granger remains at her table, staring down at her notes with a dogged determination. Finally, she makes eye contact with the lanky man outside the window and realizes that she had not prepared for this.

End Notes: Yep, Daniel Malcolm is Draco Malfoy and Helen Graves is Hermione Granger. Anyone wondering why she lied about her name?