See that young man over there? No...not that one. The pale one, slightly twitchy. Watch him peer around him. What is he afraid of? Mm... That young man is Ambrose Pierce, one of the protagonists of our story. Known in a former life as one Draco Abraxas Malfoy. Son of a Death Eater in the wizarding world, and a Death Eater himself. But he knows none of this. Why, you may ask. Well...that is long and complicated. Simply, his memory was erased for his protection. But that is not overly important at this stage. He also had his Dark Mark removed, affording him anonymity. Well, as much anonymity as an extremely pale individual can achieve. Let's join him, shall we?

--

Ambrose shook his head, sneaking glances out of the sides of his eyes as he hurried into the bathroom. He stared in the mirror, hardly seeing himself. He splashed water on his face, barely registering the trembling hands. He'd lived in a state of constant fear for so long his body's betrayal barely surprised him.

'What are you doing Ambrose?' he whispered to his reflection, searching the grey eyes staring out for an answer.

He sighed, not receiving one, and flung water on the mirror. He left the bathroom and perched on the edge of a chair, trying valiantly to ignore the voice that was hissing in his ear he'll find you...wherever you go. He was clutching his plane ticket in one hand and a small carry-on bag – his only luggage – in the other, both held tightly as though he was afraid he may lose them. His gaze was a little too wild, a little too frantic. He shuddered, trying to calm himself. He was fine. There was no way he would think to look for him here. His leg jiggled up and down, up and down, up and down as he imagined people staring at him. He turned his head to look behind him, exposing the faint purple of a fading bruise covering his eye and cheek. He turned back.

'Come on...' he whispered.

His back was growing sore from the tensed up position he was holding it in, but he couldn't relax. He chewed the inside of his cheek until the reassuring copper tang og blood let him know this wasn't a dream. Finally he heard his flight called and rushed over, perhaps a little too quickly, to check-in, only allowing himself to relax when the plane was in the air. He sunk back into his seat and turned his iPod on, drifting off to the tunes of the Beatles.

--

Ambrose yawned and opened his eyes to find a small child sitting in the previously empty seat next to him, staring at him intently with big blue eyes. He paused the iPod and sighed, turning to the child.

'Yes?' he asked.

'Who's Harry?' the child asked.

'I don't know.'

'You were crying out "Harry" while you were sleeping.'

'Well I don't know anyone called Harry. Don't you have parents?'

The child wrinkled his nose.

'Jeez you muggles are touchy.'

'What is a muggle?' Ambrose asked, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

'Wait...you look really familiar...'

'We've never met.'

'No...that's not it! We learnt about you at school.'

'Impossible.'

'Yeah, you are- mph!'

Ambrose looked up to see the child yanked away by a woman he could only assume to be his mother. He sighed with relief. What on earth was that child on about? I don't know any Harry...so why would I be calling out his name? And what on earth is a muggle? He yawned and turned his iPod back on; there was still a long way to go to leave his old life behind.

--

And now we will meet our other protagonist; Jacques Lamar, also known in a previous life as Harry James Potter. Of course now he is minus the glasses and the infamous scar, that is the least they could offer him. He too had his memory erased for his protection.

--

Jacques awoke slowly, the heat surrounding him pleasantly sticky as it always was. He stretched languidly, arching his back and yawning in a rather cat-like manner.

'Cherie, if you continue to do that I am unsure of my ability to restrain myself.' a soft voice drawled from the doorway.

Jacques looked up and grinned at his best friend, room mate, coworker and everything in between.

'Claude...what time is it?' he asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

'4.30. Dinner time...or, well, breakfast.'

Jacques yawned and stood, smirking as Claude's eyes trailed over his bare torso to the jeans slung low on his hips.

'Now now,' he whispered, casting his gaze over the room in search of his book.

'Looking for this?' Claude asked, dangling the book in his hand.

Jacques' eyes lit up, as they always did around books. Claude chuckled softly.

'Perfume: The Story of a Murderer?'

'Yeah. It's amazing. It's about Jean Grenouille, who made the most beautiful perfume in the world from red headed pale skinned young virgins.'

'Like Jeanette?'

'Well...I suppose. Although the fact that she works in a brothel may call into question the matter of her virginity.'

'Hm. I do suppose that may be an issue. Why did you choose to read this, out of all of the books in this library?'

'Perfume.'

'Perfume?'

'Yes. Everybody has an innate perfume that is simply...them.'

'Really?'

'Yes.' Jacques muttered, reaching for the book.

Claude held it out of his reach and smirked.

'I'll give it back if you tell me what I smell like.'

Jacques sighed.

'Sweat. Musk. Aniseed.' he stepped closer, breathing in deep, closing his eyes. 'Smoke from the kitchen. Warmth.'

'Warmth? What does warmth smell like?'

Jacques shrugged, grabbing his book and stepping nimbly from Claude's reach.

'I need to shower before we leave for work. Give me a few minutes.'

Claude watched as his friend left, chuckling softly to himself. After a few minutes Jacques returned, smelling of soap and in clean jeans and a t-shirt.

'Ready?'

Claude looked his friend over, smirking softly.

'Mercy Cherie... If you weren't my friend I would jump you right now.'

Jacques blushed, looking down at his feet.

'Come on Claude. Let's get going.'

Claude grabbed Jacques arm and tugged him out of the door and into the sticky heat of New Orleans.

'God I love this town.' Jacques whispered, grinning widely.