Author's Note: Hi everyone! Welcome to Adrift, a new novel-length Dramione story. I've been working on this one for a few months now and I'm stoked to share! Updates will be weekly-ish. I hope you enjoy!

Cover art credit to the amazingly talented Jaxxinabox. Much love and many hugs to my ride or die alpha, Kyonomiko, and my wonderful beta, FaeOrabel. Thanks for all your help and encouragement, friendos!

Content Warnings: This story will contain the following: memory loss; minor character death; moral ambiguity; illness and loss; mental health issues; angst; explicit sexual content. Please take this as your warning for the entirety of the story.

Disclaimer: This story is fan-created content and I do not own any part of the Harry Potter franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Here stands a man
At the bottom of a hole he's made
Still sweating from the rush
His body tense
His hands, they shake
Oh this, this is a mad boy

The War - SYML

"You just sacrificed the lives of three Aurors." Emerald green eyes tightened; taunting, malicious.

Unimpressed, Draco Malfoy pursed his lips. "It was a simulation. You don't need to be so dramatic."

Potter rolled his eyes and released a long, drawn-out sigh that made Draco bristle. "Simulation or not, had you been in the field, your inattentiveness would have cost the lives of your team. The first rule is to always watch every angle. But go ahead, be flippant about it."

"I'm not flippant." Irritation flooded his being, and Draco paced the small space. "It was a bloody mistake. One that I won't make again." He stretched his palm, soothing the stiff muscles of his wand hand after the steady onslaught of wandfire into which he'd been drawn. His lip curled with distaste. "Or am I not here to learn?"

"You are here," Potter ground out, "because you should be further along than this. I don't know why Robards thought you were ready for this phase of training yet. This is a waste of both of our time."

Draco holstered his wand, pressing his fingers into the inside corners of his eyes. He could feel a vicious headache coming on, the second in twice as many days. "Then why don't you throw my training off on someone else. Obviously, you don't want to work with me―and it's mutual, by the way."

Releasing a long sigh, Potter folded his arms. "Look, it is what it is. Robards asked me to work with you on your spellwork because, as of now, you aren't ready for the field, and no matter what else, you'll never pass training otherwise." He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head slowly. "Let's call it a day and come back to this tomorrow, alright?"

Although Draco wanted to press onward and try again, tensions had been running high between them for hours. The last thing he needed was for Potter to give up on him, because if it came down to his word against Draco's, he knew exactly who Robards would listen to.

Despite having spent nearly two years in Auror training, most of the department still didn't trust him. But the road to the full badge and robes was a long one, and he still had at least another year of training. If everything went well—and if he wasn't so bloody discouraged all the time—Draco was certain he wouldn't continue to fumble such simple spellcasting.

The worst of it was that Potter was right. Although Draco had scored impeccably on the theory and written exams, none of that mattered in the heat of the moment out in the field.

Working his jaw, he finally nodded. "Fine. Tomorrow, then."

Potter's face softened a bit. "Get some rest. We'll figure this out, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Failure stung―it always had. And even more so now than ever, when Draco had everything to lose. When he decided to enrol in Auror training, he'd already known he'd be at a disadvantage to his classmates who had applied to the DMLE immediately after Hogwarts. Never mind the fact that his intentions and efforts had consistently been called into question by both his peers and his superiors.

When he'd been assigned to train in fieldwork with Harry Potter―four years ahead of him in the program, but he'd excelled in every aspect―Draco felt as though his worst nightmare had come to life.

Even now, they rarely got along. But over the past few months, they'd developed a sort of begrudging camaraderie. Mostly.

There were days when Draco thought they still might throttle one another.

More often than not, he wondered whether he ought to simply walk away. A former Death Eater acquitted by sheer dumb luck, he didn't belong in the slightest—not in the DMLE, not in the wider Ministry, and certainly not, according to the stares, in the wizarding world as a whole.

But still... it was those same deficiencies that pushed him beyond his limits every day.

Some innate drive to make a difference. To prove that he was more than the decisions he made as a teenager; more than a meagre shadow of his father.

Returning to the Auror offices, Draco hung up his robes, grabbed his satchel from his desk, and studiously ignored the stares of the other trainees. Then he slung the pack over his shoulder and made for the atrium. He emerged onto Whitehall, feeling his stomach curdle at the early dismissal.

Overhead, the sun shone as though mocking him. He slipped a pair of dark glasses onto the bridge of his nose and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets as he walked down the road.

The last place he cared to go at the moment was his small flat, its white walls closing in on him increasingly day by day.

He could feel his goal slipping from his grasp like grains of sand; it had begun slowly at first, and now the grains slid with abandon, falling to the floor before him. It was the only thing he had cared about in years—this need to prove himself as something more than he was.

Draco wrenched a hand through his hair, despair and disappointment co-mingling as one in his veins.

Ducking into the nearest Apparition point, he Apparated across London. Pacing down the pavement, he hesitated outside of a small Muggle cafe that looked respectable enough. He usually kept a few Muggle notes on him, and he could use something to steady his nerves, so he slipped in the front door.

A chime sounded over the door as he entered. The place was small but tidy; only a handful of patrons lingered in the middle of the afternoon.

A teenage barista at the counter fixed him with an expectant stare.

"A pot of your finest Darjeeling, please," he muttered, throwing a few notes on the counter.

The girl pursed her lips and spoke in a thick Northern accent. "We've only got the one."

"The one will do," Draco clipped, leaving his change behind as he selected a booth by the window; he hated carrying Muggle coins. Several minutes later, the girl delivered a pot, and he nodded in acquiescence before pouring himself a cup of black tea.

Stewing in his own melancholy and fixating on a plate of sugar cubes atop the finely crocheted tablecloth, he sipped his tea.

One by one, he placed several of the cubes in a row, then stacked one fewer atop them until he'd constructed a pyramid of sugar.

He poured another cup.

By the time he finished his second, the tea in the pot was over-steeped and lukewarm, and he didn't even know how long he'd been sitting there. He debated ordering another pot, at last glancing up from his sulk.

And froze.

Another barista stood with the first behind the counter, her face remarkably familiar, and Draco looked harder. It took him a moment; it had been a few years since he'd last seen her, and her hair was different than he remembered.

He'd recognised her, thrown at his feet on the floor of his ancestral home, and he recognised her still.

But Hermione Granger had been presumed dead years ago.

Instinctively, his hand shifted towards his wand before remembering himself, and he merely sank a little deeper into the booth, eyeing her from across the shop. He could scarcely remember the articles, and he hadn't been with the DMLE yet so he hadn't ever seen the reports. From what he could remember, she had left London shortly after their eighth year ended, and no one had ever seen or heard from her again.

So what was she doing working in a tea parlour in Muggle London?

Surely he ought to report he'd seen her. Or at the very least, mention it to Potter. Unless Granger had her reasons―and if she wanted to reach out to her friends, that was her prerogative to do so.

He took a long sip of tea, nose wrinkling with distaste as the water grew colder.

It had to be Granger. The rich brown curls were tamer and a little more controlled, and she wore a fringe across her brow, but her face was unmistakable.

The last thing he needed was a run-in with Granger, and he decided against the second pot.

Grabbing his satchel, he slid towards the edge of the booth, casting another furtive glance her way, when her gaze slid over to him and their eyes locked.

A banal smile pulled at the corners of her lips; the polite smile of customer service. No surprise flitted across her face. Not the slightest hint of recognition. And surely, if Draco had recognised her after a handful of years, she must have done the same.

He waited on the edge of the bench, heart racing and mind whirring, and before he could decide if he was going or staying, she walked over.

"Hi there," Granger said mildly, eyeing his teapot. "Would you care for some more tea?"

It had to be a lark.

His fingers loosened from the strap of his bag, and he narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Granger blinked, startled, and offered a bit of an uneasy chuckle. "I work here, sir. Can I get you anything?"

For a long moment, he eyed her with caution, sinking back into his seat. "Sure. The Darjeeling."

"Coming right up." She flashed him a grin, her teeth straight and white, and collected the empty pot. A breath caught, frozen, in his throat as she walked towards the counter and vanished behind an adjoining wall.

Draco huffed a sharp exhale, dropping his head back against the booth.

There was absolutely no rational explanation for why she had completely disregarded who he was. Maybe she knew he'd been working with Potter and had given up on the old grudge that had once existed between them.

A minute later she returned, setting the new teapot down carefully. Her eyes lingered for a moment on his pyramid of sugar cubes, another just-below-sincere smile pulling at her lips before she planted a slice of pie in front of him.

Draco's eyes slid towards her.

"The pie's on the house," she said, her voice bright and cheery. "Something tells me you could use it."

He cleared his throat, attempting to remove the thick lump lodged in his trachea. "Is this apple?"

"It's today's special."

Scrubbing at his face, he blew out a breath. "Alright. Thank you. I can pay you for this―"

"Nonsense." Another of those vaguely friendly smiles crossed her face and irritation flared within him. It was one thing to make an effort at civility, but to completely act as though they didn't know one another at all felt like an insult. She began to walk away before turning back for a moment. "Whatever's got you down, I'm sure it's about to get better. Just you wait."

Draco gaped after her as she retreated towards the counter again.

The last thing he needed was greeting card wisdom from Hermione bloody Granger.

But the encounter had left him unsettled, as though he were missing something. And one thing he had always been able to rely on was his instinct.

As he poured a fresh cup of tea, he eyed her from across the shop. The way she interacted with the other patrons; how she went about cleaning the vacated tables with a practised surety. As she gossiped and tittered with the other girl on the shift.

Draco couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. Because surely Granger wouldn't have settled into a job as a barista in Muggle London; she'd been the most promising wielder in their entire class. None of it made any sense, not least of all the fact that she appeared to have virtually no memory of him.

He sheared a bite from his pie with the edge of his fork, chewing a careful mouthful, and her eyes landed on him again. Quickly, he glanced away, but she'd already begun walking over.

"How's the pie?"

Draco forced a thick swallow. "It's great, thanks." He took a sip of his tea before drawing a deep breath. "So are you just―you know, ignoring me or something?"

Her brows jumped up, mouth parting. "I'm so sorry―do you need something? More sugar, perhaps?"

They both knew he'd wasted the sugar that had already been on the table.

A furrow knitted his own brow as he leaned forward and dropped his voice. "I don't mean the bloody sugar. I mean me."

She sucked in a breath as though taken aback. "Have I done something to upset you?"

Draco simply took another long sip of his tea, shaking his head.

"Perhaps you have me mistaken for someone," she offered, edging back from the booth; alarm flitted through her eyes, and Draco sank back into his seat, raising his hands in supplication. "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

He dragged a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "Come on, Granger."

"I'm not quite certain," she breathed, "who you think I am, but that isn't my name." She offered a thin smile that didn't quite live up to the ones from before. "My name is Melody."

His heart plummeted into his stomach, shallow breaths slipping from his lungs. "Melody."

"Right." Her smile brightened a little as she nodded. "Perhaps this is all just a mix-up."

"A mix-up," Draco echoed, alarm bells flaring in the back of his mind. "Of course. My apologies, Melody. You just... you look like someone I used to know. My mistake."

His gaze drew slowly to her forearm nearest him. He could see the faint pink lines of scarring on the inside of her arm, carved there by his sadistic aunt.

His brain darted from one possibility to the next with frightening speed as he took another sip of tea. "Pleasure to meet you, Melody. The pie was excellent."

For the first time, the smile she offered him looked a little less posed and a bit more genuine. Never before had he seen her look at him like that. But apparently, the woman before him didn't remember him at all.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said at last. She took a step back, then another, but before she turned around, she added, "I meant it―I have a feeling that something good is coming your way."

Draco ground his jaw, forcing a thin smile in return. "I appreciate the confidence. Enjoy the rest of your day, Melody."

"You too."

The headache from earlier crept back in, insidious and haunting all at once; a dull, insistent throb behind his temples. He finished the last of his tea, grabbed his bag, and threw another paper note on the table.

Draco couldn't get home fast enough.