Surpassing the Lethe

Chapter 3

Draco made the best of his outing. He flirted with any and every pretty shopkeeper or patron, handled ridiculously expensive items when Baddock glanced away, and then tried to convince him that he needed pure gold two-way mirror. For communication between the Aurors, of course.

He could almost forget that somewhere very close there was his real life, waiting for him. It couldn't possibly be worse than hiding in Snape's hovel, where he anxiously awaited the outcry for his blood to sprinkle the hallowed corridors of Hogwarts for conspiring in Dumbledore's death. Except, he amended, it rather was.
There was a certain irony in that he awakened in a cell for conspiring in another person's death instead of the one he remembered plotting. Not for the first time, he wondered who would have Obliviated him. It was a futile exercise to be sure, because it could have been any number of people he met after the age of sixteen.
He amused himself by imagining the occupations of his former Housemates when Baddock's repeated questions became boring.

Millicent had to have married Crabbe, Goyle, or possibly Flint. She would like Goyle best, he decided, easy to boss but not without brains. Crabbe probably was, and Flint seemed the type to poison a domineering wife.
"No, this place doesn't seem familiar," he said by rote, picking up a tiny bejeweled snuffbox.

"I've never seen it." He brushed aside a journal called Lucilius that Baddock held out. From the cover, it appeared to have articles regarding developmental potions and charms.

Unwillingly, his mind was dragged back to the fate of Hermione Granger. No need for him to speculate her whereabouts now; she was either a fine pile of ashes laying at the bottom of an urn or floating on some far-off winds.

But did she ever have a family? Had she decided to make Potty or Weasley an unhappy, harangued husband? He could remember many hours wasted observing the unbearable trio, and Granger's casual and consistent hounding hadn't escaped his notice. It was Weasley, however, that had been the one to trade jibes and snipes with her, not Potter. Yes, she seemed a likely candidate to spout out six more freckled idiots to pollute the registry at Hogwarts a decade down the road.
"Are you paying any attention?" Baddock was growing annoyed now, snatching an eggshell thin replica of Hogsmeade from Draco's hands.
Draco shrugged as he peered at something else worth more than fifty galleons. "Of course I am," he said smoothly, poking at a little doll that sprang up and began to goosestep around the counter. Baddock seized his arm and dragged him away from the display, his cheeks turning a mottled red.
"This is not for your entertainment!" Baddock said furiously. "This is serious! You as good as killed a person, and now you've pulled a coup and reverted from nasty twenty-six year old Death Eater to nasty sixteen-year-old Death Eater and I say you should still be rotting in Azkaban!" Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth as he snarled.
Draco felt a sliver of satisfaction. He may not have control over anything else, but his Father taught him that controlling a person's emotion is the next step to controlling them.

"Is this a...personal vendetta, Baddock?" he said softly, not bothering to try to escape the firm grip Baddock had on his upper arm. "Did I steal your girlfriend in seventh year? Did I boff your sister? Or were your parents deluded enough to pick the wrong side and are at this very second, rotting in Azkaban--" Baddock looked furious and ready to haul off and hit him.

"Shut up! Shut up, you foul-mouthed, horrible bastard!" He jerked on his sleeve and Draco only had a second of notice before he felt the navel-jerk of Side-Along Apparition.

Draco hadn't been let out of the house for two days after that incident. The Aurors must still be incompetent poofs, because Shacklebolt was gone every few hours to deal with 'a problem that came up,' and no one expected Baddock to go anywhere with him again. His former classmate couldn't even step into the same room without looking as if he was going to have an apoplectic fit. So Draco had peace between examinations, and spent his time reading over his old schoolwork from seventh year.

Whoever was working on his case was very thorough. One hour every two days he met with a St. Mungo's healer who specialized in Magical and Natural Memory Loss, and he was slowly fed scraps of information from the day they pinpointed he lost his memory.
Of course, it was far from the vacation that it seemed to be. He may have escaped the blank white walls, but at least he had his own bed in there. Here, in the dingy, two-room flat, Baddock and Shacklebolt slept on narrow beds with him between them on the floor, his bed a lumpy pillow and an old sleeping bag that smelled like cats.

The timid little healer was the designated grocery shopper, a problem compounded by the fact she was a terrible cook. He suspected that Shacklebolt made sure he had to leave during every meal, because undercooked pork chops and burnt oatmeal was indigestible by half.

After three meals of food no one could choke down, Baddock made her run down to the shop that sold fish and chips nearby. Now the trash was full of empty containers and greasy paper bags. If he ate one more sodden, salty chip, he was going to vomit. So it was with great trepidation that he entered the pristine kitchen with Baddock following dourly.

Yesterday she had tried to cook some unholy 'stir-fry' with vegetables, and they had been black as coal and coated with oil. That truly was the last straw.
Draco went to the cupboards with the intent of explaining to Holcomb that the spices should be added in a dash and pinches, not liberally poured. He grabbed salt, pepper, cayenne pepper, dill seeds, and looked at them all. He opened the cayenne pepper and sniffed dubiously. His eyes filled immediately, and he set that aside. Definitely not what he was looking for.

He peeked in the cupboard again. Beef bouillon? What was this? He turned the small jar over in his hands, and discovered a recipe on the back label. Beef stew looked so simple. He decided he would pull out the ingredients and demand she cook that instead of whatever indigestible slop she was planning on tonight.

Draco peeked into the icebox and began to pull out whatever still looked good. A tomato, onion, and garlic cloves came from the crisper, and a hunk of roast. On second thought, he pulled out the last few stalks of celery and some baby carrots from the icebox as well.
Well, Draco thought, he could pull out a pot as well. He searched around for something big enough, and placed it atop the stove. Baddock was probably still watching him, but Draco decided he didn't care. His mouth began to water, imagining the hearty stew he used to eat at Hogwarts. She couldn't possibly screw this up that badly.

Well, he might as well start the water. The instructions said it had to boil, and that could take a while considering. He had never practiced doing a Boiling Water charm, so he decided it had to heat up the old-fashioned way.

He poured water into the pot from his wand, and then lit a fire underneath with a charm.
Draco paused looking around the kitchen. There. Now they might have an edible meal tonight.

Except Holcomb was rather heavy handed with the salt.

He supposed he could just follow the directions and do that for her, the incompetent twit. While he was measuring the salt and pepper carefully, the vegetables sat right in his peripheral vision.

He was tired of reading over his paperwork from seventh year, he told himself, and he began to wash the vegetables with a jet of water from his wand. While searching for another bowl, he found a large, wicked knife from the drawer.

"Dangerous wizard indeed," he muttered, running his thumb along the sharp length. Wand or no wand, he could stab them in their sleep.

He almost set it down, but stopped. He supposed that it wasn't only good for stabbing Aurors with.

The water was boiling already, and Holcomb was still penning a letter about his progress to the other Healers.

Hesitantly, he set one hand over the tomato and poised the knife over it.

"What are you doing?" Baddock asked suddenly, startling Draco so much he nearly sliced his finger.

Draco turned, affecting a haughty expression. "It's not hard to figure out."

"Oh, this is rich. Imagine if your Father could see you now." Baddock's voice was thick with malice, and it was all Draco could do was not to turn around, knife clenched in hand. But he knew who had the wand.

"Tell me, how is mouthing off to your superiors working out for you?" He spoke in a light voice, as if casually amused by Baddock's attempt to get under his skin. "You never were one much for snogging girls. Were you always this obsessed with me, or is this a recent development?"

Baddock didn't say anything for a long moment. Draco risked peeking over his shoulder, the knife still poised over the tomato. His former classmate was scowling at him, eyes narrowed slightly. "Is acting like a house-elf keeping your mind off being a convicted prisoner?"

"Is hovering around Death Eaters bringing you back to childhood?" he quipped as began to quarter the tomato in tiny squares. It wasn't much different than Potions.

He heard Baddock swish out of the room, leaving him feeling triumphant and a little relieved. It took a matter of minutes to dice the celery, onion and garlic cloves. The water was boiling, so he dumped seven bouillons cubes into it, per the directions on the back. Then he looked at the vegetables thoughtfully. How hard could it be?
Draco dumped the entire cutting board full into the water, and watched the vegetables sink. There. He sliced the meat up next, and dumped it into the simmering water.
"How easy was that?" He smirked at the food, feeling inordinately pleased with himself. It took all of a half an hour. S.P.E.W. indeed. This was simple! He set the knife and cutting board in the sink, and went back to the living room to relax.
The room was empty. Danielle probably was still penning her progress reports in her room, and Baddock was undoubtedly sulking.

Draco eyed the front door, but he had seen Baddock place a ward over it.

Slowly, Draco walked back into the kitchen and looked around. There was the kitchen window. He took his wand out, twirling it between his fingers thoughtfully.

The question was, how important was a little glimpse of freedom to him?

He set his wand down on the counter, and watched it roll to the wall. Abruptly he turned away from it, shoved the window open over the sink, and hooked a leg over it.

His feet hit the ground heavily as he landed a story below the window. He brushed off his robe as if jumping out windows was an everyday occurrence, and walked out of the alley to join the people making their way down the street. He was not very familiar with Muggle London, but it looked normal enough. The shops had strange things in them, but the chatter and the smells wafting around were all the same.
No one had raised a fuss or came running at him with wands flashing red lights, so he kept walking. A few people glanced his way, noticing his robe more than him, but didn't seem unduly impressed. The Muggles were wrapped in long coats and scarves, so at least he wasn't wandering around in a black robe in the middle of summer.
Draco switched sides of the walk occasionally, stopping to peer into the window of a shop here and there. The clothes were strange and interesting, and the closest he saw to a robe was a snug overcoat with a multitude of buttons.

He slowed with a crowd of people milling around a tiny restaurant front. An older woman was yelling at a bored looking blonde, brandishing a spatula perilously close to his long nose. With a snort of disgust, the young man jerked off a little square pin on his shirt and threw it on the ground before he walked away. As Draco moved with the slowly dispersing crowd, he heard her mutter, "No respect, these young people today! How hard is it to wait on a bloody table?"
Without knowing why, he stopped, turned, and picked up the pin for her. He glanced at the name 'Darrell' before he held it out to her.

The woman took it from him with a bewildered, grateful smile. "Thank you. Wasn't that awful? Right in front of our customers to boot."

He nodded politely, glancing longingly down the street. Toward freedom. He knew they'd catch up with him and there'd be hell to pay, but what did it matter? He hadn't taken a leisurely stroll alone for ages. Literally, he was sure. "I myself was shocked to see such uncouth behavior." He gave her his best smile. "The younger they are, the worse they are." He raised a hand to pontificate, enjoying this foray into adult Draco. "I myself was a bit of a hellion at one time, but I've matured, and now understand how important being an upstanding citizen is."
The woman looked at him a little strangely, and Draco took out the time to peek at the pin on her shirt. It read Madge. A horribly common Muggle name, he thought.
"Right. Say, what's your name?" She smiled at him in a friendly way, and he blinked. "Well...coincidentally enough, you have it right in your hand." The woman blinked at the pin in her hand as if she had forgotten it was there.

"Oh! Really? What a strange thing!" Madge beamed at him, and gestured him to follow her. "Let's have a cuppa for the mature gent."

He followed her inside the shop, which was no more than a small breakfast bar and a few tables squished together. Taking a seat at the breakfast bar, he waited until Madge produced a steaming cup of tea seemingly out of nowhere.
"Tell me a little bit about yourself, luv." She began piling food onto two plates. He watched her with avid interest, trying to see what the dishes were.
"Well, I'm twenty-six and just...pissing the time away. Not much to tell, really." He took a sip of his tea. Madge continued talking to him when she returned from serving two customers.

"Trust fund, huh? That must be nice. I've owned this restaurant for five years, son, and let me tell you, I wish that I'd of spent less time romping around Europe and more time building a fat little nest egg."
"Mmm," Draco responded, having no idea if either of his parents were alive, or if he had any inheritance left to spare. He took another sip. "I agree. I wish I had spent my youth more wisely." All things considered, he supposed that was an honest statement. Memory loss, he was beginning to realize, did not revert the world to ten years ago. All it seemed to mean that was he was lost in it now.
Madge had to serve two more customers, and he watched her. Her crimped hair was escaping from its messy bun, and the few frizzy strands sticking up reminded him, most uncomfortably, of Granger. He couldn't bring himself to ask the memory healers if she had left behind a husband, or worse, any children. They wouldn't answer him anyway. She must have accomplished something more than brats; she was too intelligent and bossy to submit to being a housewife for the rest of her life. Perhaps she had been an Auror?
Draco shook his head and pushed the tea away. It sloshed in his stomach and he couldn't stand the smell of food any longer. "I had better go." He rose to his feet, trying not to notice Madge wiping her greasy hands on her apron.

"Well, come again, won't you? I always appreciate a pretty face around here."
He smirked as he walked out, winking at a random customer and watched her blush. He was good looking, wasn't he? True, he had a moment of adjustment when he first looked in the mirror. He saw his father's eyes and nose, his mother's elegant brow and bowed lips, and something very sudden to him: age. It was impossible to describe how his sharp, pointy features had firmed into what he had now: a stronger jaw, a nose that actually fit his face, and a forehead that was broader, or longer, or something.

Draco turned down the street to head in the direction of the flat. Now was his opportunity to search for the answers he was looking for, and gain a little of his own back.

All was quiet as he went up the stairs and paused outside the front door. He traced a finger over the invisible ward that Malcolm had put up, and then plunged his fingers into it, grasping the doorknob. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Baddock looked like he had been pacing the floor anxiously, and whirled around as the door opened. "You--" he snarled, reaching out to grab Draco's arm. Draco moved out of his reach quickly, checked out the red-eyed Healer, staring at him with shaking hands.

"Yes?" He looked up at the furious Baddock. "You know, you used to be such a quiet, cunning boy. Was it the Auror training that turned you into a Weasley?"
Baddock's jaw clenched, and Draco swore he could hear his teeth grinding. "Shut UP! I am so tired of hearing your stupid little quips and insults! Do you realize what could have happened while you just decided to stop for a cup of tea with the Muggles?!" He brandished a wand a moment later, the point trembling slightly.

Draco smiled, ignoring the wand. "Oh, did you follow? Couldn't make a scene in front of the Muggles, could you?" He smirked. "Imagine what Shacklebolt will think when he discovers that the front door ward was tripped from the outside. He'd be knocking on the door of the Head of the Department so fast, you'll be reporting Monday to...what department is Arthur Weasley working in now?" He was feeling practically gleeful. Finally, things were looking his way.

Author's Notes: Thanks to my understanding and thorough beta, Divine Delacour. This wouldn't have been submitted without her. I would adore reviews, but if you don't have anything nice to say, don't send it. Everyone who sends something nice will get a little Chapter 4 spoiler in the email box. :D