Author's Note: This story is categorized as humorous, and I promise you, we'll get there. This chapter is a little somber, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel. This story won't get too angsty on ya.
Chapter Two
Hermione Granger had been one of the first to suggest that the Malfoys – and those from Pureblood families – live amongst Muggles. She was reluctant to admit it, but she relished the idea of it; the arrogant Malfoys stripped of their magic and forced to work in restaurants, waiting on people they once thought were "filthy". Ron told her the idea wasn't healthy; Harry told her that everyone had already lost enough. But Hermione ignored their misgivings; she was so consumed by her sick form of vengeance.
As months passed, the Ministry rebuilt itself and with it came the Committee for the Reconstruction and Betterment of the Wizarding World, led by Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom. Her aspiration to eradicate any remaining prejudice came mainly from the fact that her parents' memory of her had been irretrievable. She'd called upon dozens of Healers, Muggle doctors, hypnotists, potions masters, but nothing had worked. Throwing herself into the committee had been her only way to heal.
Unsurprisingly, when Hermione brought up the idea in a meeting, the committee had needed little convincing. Composed of old members of the DA and a couple of Ministry veterans, they all thought it would be beneficial for Purebloods to understand how Muggles lived. Some even went so far as to suggest that ex Death Eaters observe Muggles they had tortured, but even Hermione's zealousness stopped there. Instead, it was decided that every Pureblood convicted of a war crime be made to live as a Muggle for several months. Every participant was to be monitored regularly by an overseer and they would be temporarily stripped of their wands.
In the first month, the families were brought to the Ministry and given basic training; Ron had laughed himself hoarse when he'd heard that Malfoy had been subjected to an hour long lecture on Muggle cooking techniques. Hermione often attended the classes, interjecting when she saw fit. She noticed how strangely Malfoy would look at her, as if every ounce of his arrogance had fallen at her feet, as if he was telling her that she now owned it. He no longer sneered at her and she often wondered why. After all, she was in control of his life now; she would be the one to decide what was right and wrong of him to do. And yet he never mustered more than a lazy look of boredom, watching her take away his life.
It was late spring when the committee casually suggested temporary memory loss. They said that the experience could be richer; no prejudices to cloud their Pureblooded perception. The Purebloods would simply be in a world they had yet to uncover, a phrase that exploded across pamphlets and newspapers and journals around Britain. Hermione shot the proposal down instantly, but that did not stop word from spreading. It wasn't long before influential Ministry workers believed wholeheartedly in the idea and before Hermione quite understood how it had happened, she was performing memory spells around the clock.
It made her sick, knowing that her idea had created this. She realized too late how quickly she had fallen into her own trap; her prejudice and grief had blinded her and she was powerless to stop what was already so far in motion.
On the day of the Malfoy's appointment, Hermione shuffled and reshuffled the papers she had prepared. She had her statement; after she'd said that, all she would need was their signatures and then she'd be off. She thanked an extraordinarily diverse amount of gods that she was not the witch performing the Obliviation spell this time. She wasn't certain as to why, but the idea of erasing Malfoy's memory of magic did not give her any satisfaction. The idea that he would no longer be whole because of something she had done nearly made her vomit over the edge of her desk.
A knock at her door alerted her and the Malfoys walked in, looking so strange in dark, albeit wealthy and well-made, Muggle clothing. They sat across from her, their luggage conspicuously in the corner. Every few seconds, Mrs. Malfoy would glance at it, as if the trunks might swallow her whole.
"Will we at least be together?" she had asked. Hermione said yes, for she could see no cause for separation. This was the only thing that any of them asked. She remembered Malfoy looking at her again, in that odd way of his he had adopted ever since the war had ended. She kept thinking that she wanted to sit down and talk to him alone.
"We've arranged for you to live in California. Funds have been set up in two bank accounts – one for Draco and one for yourselves. If there is any reason that your adjustment to Muggle life is going anything other than smoothly, Ministry officials will be there to assist you. No one will perform magic in front, near, or around you. No one will mention anything related to our world. After you have fulfilled your allotted time of seven months, your memories will be restored to you. We here at the Ministry hope that you will present a statement explaining what you learned from your experience." Hermione paused, carefully examining the looks on their faces. All of them looked annoyingly and frighteningly calm. "Healer Davies will be in shortly. Good day."
She locked eyes with Malfoy before she left. She wouldn't see him for another seven years.
Present
Hermione had suspected for a long time that Draco Malfoy was never "recovered" from California, as the Ministry officials so eloquently stated several years ago. In a shoddy report written by Draco's ex-overseer, the man stated the Malfoy had wished to remain in California, even though his memory had been restored. Draco's parents, who apparently had never traveled with him, had died shortly after their appointment seven years ago, killed by extremist supporters of the new Ministry. The report explained that Malfoy had not attended their funeral or been knowledgeable of their death due to the threat against his own life were he to show up.
As she stares down at the report, a scant six pages long, she takes a sip of coffee. She feels as though she hasn't slept in weeks. She's tracked Malfoy to this town, one that is hundreds of miles away from his original drop off. There is no name under Appointed Apparator, and she's so frustrated that the Ministry could let something like this happen that she nearly throws her mug across the café.
Or you're just frustrated by the fact that you've mucked this all up, too. If you hadn't collapsed the committee, files like his would be easier to come by. He might not have been so easily dismissed.
She checks a witness statement for the third time, jotting down a note to ask Ron if Draco had shown any signs of recognition. Looking around to see if Ron's inside, she finds herself staring up at none other than Draco Malfoy himself. Her heart slams itself against her ribs so forcefully that she's relatively surprised that it didn't pop out of her chest. She can't remember how to close her mouth and she's both terrified and strangely relieved that he's standing in front of her.
He doesn't look anything like the Malfoy she knew in school and after the war. For Merlin's sake, this Malfoy is wearing a flannel shirt underneath a jacket that might have been salvaged from a fucking thrift store. This Malfoy is wearing jeans. He's got at least a week's worth of stubble on his face and he's bloody smiling at her.
"Hello."
He's wearing his old scarf and she swallows at the lump in her throat.
"Hello." She's sure that she's dazzling him with her knack for conversation. "Won't you sit down?" As graceless and impolite as a cow, she kicks the chair across from her toward his feet. He sits, still smiling, and tells her his name, even though if he took the time to glance down, he'd notice it written all over her notes.
He asks her if she's single and she wonders if it's possible to have the wind kicked out of you while sitting down in a café. For a moment, she has no idea what to say. And then, like a thing possessed, she says no, and suddenly they're exchanging phone numbers and she's lying about her name and then he's gone, out the door and on to work.
She looks down at her notes and considers following him to the antiques warehouse. Thinking better of it, she begins to gather all of her things into her bag, glancing up at Ron outside. He stares back at her solemnly and she mutters "shit" under her breath before stomping out of the café.
End Notes: If you like, hit that button!