Summary: Abandonment didn't sit well with Harry. Not at all. After the calamity that was the end of the Triwizard Tournament and the dismissal of his friends over the summer, he decides: enough is enough. He's done. Done with it all. He just wanted to get away.
But the Wizarding world, as it happens, isn't quite finished with him. No matter how far he runs, it always catches back up to him. Years after turning from those who left him, Harry is dragged back to that world once more. Many find him far changed from the boy who'd once known. Some - some very few - even like that change.
Draco Malfoy just happens to be one of those chosen few.

Rating: E

Tags: Alternate Timeline - OotF AU, Time Skip, Seventh Year, Post-War, Teenage Angst, Teen Rebellion, Banter, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Eventual Consummation, Bashing (quite a lot, I'm sorry, but vaguely directed), Dubious!Dumbledore, Oblivious Friends, Abandonment Issues, Resentment, Moving On, Alternative Magic, Truth or Dare

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Duh. I don't know why you're reading this if you think I do. I'm simply playing with the characters a little bit. Please don't judge me!
All rights for character discovery and the world I'm frolicking in go to JKR. You go, gal.

Chapter 1: Away

He ran.

Through the darkness of the street illuminated only by the feeble glare of streetlights. Through the emptiness of suburban Little Whinging, roads lined with static cars bereft of passengers and watching him pass with hooded eyes. Through the silence that was broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the sound of his own footsteps.

Harry ran, and with each step he pushed himself faster. His breath caught in his lungs, each gasp muffled in his ears by the rapid pounding of his heartbeat. It was violent, a flurry of shudders in his chest. It almost hurt.

So much of it hurt. So much.

His weathered shoes, old and worn and falling apart at the soles, flapped against the pavement in audible slaps. The sound of a car passing the distant crossroad revved briefly and then it was gone, but Harry barely noticed. He hardly saw anything at all in the second that he squeezed his eyes closed, blotting out the darkness, the emptiness, the entire street he fled down.

Reality nipped at his heels, and it only made him run faster.

He hurt. He hurt. There was so much irrational hurt and pain and – and frustration that Harry could barely think straight. How, within barely a handful of months, could his life have been so horrifyingly turned on its head? How, with the barest utterance of a madman, could the world become so abruptly wrong?

A flash of green. A flare of horror. A missile of hatred and cruelty and malicious intent. It hurt, and Harry couldn't consider the previous year, the previous months – any of it – without his throat clamping tightly and the urge to hurl the contents of his stomach in repulsive evacuation. And then, afterwards, when it had all ceased and school had ended and the world had fallen into maudlin routine once more…

It shouldn't have happened. It shouldn't have been the same. A boy had died, a monster had returned, and the world still acted the same. It wasn't right.

Every passing day had been a trial. Every morning Harry woke, it was to barely a second of reprieve before reality crashed down upon him once more. A boy had died and he'd done nothing to stop it. If anything, he'd facilitated it. It was Harry's fault. At least in part, it was his fault that Cedric Diggory had died. The need to confess his guilt, to tell someone, to apologise for everything he'd ever done that had led to that point, was a weight welling so expansively within him that he almost couldn't breathe.

But there was no one there. There was no one to listen. Not his friends, half a country away. Not his godfather, who was dodging the hounds nipping at his heels like the escaped convict he allegedly was. Not his professors, and certainly not the Dursleys. That Harry had spent most of the holidays until that point locked in his room, back pressed against the door and staring into nothingness, was likely a new habit they wholly supported.

There was no one. No one to listen. No one to hear, and no one to denounce that he was a horrible person, that it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have done anything more. It made Harry angry, because someone should have been there. Angry, and…

Heartbroken. Why wasn't anyone there?

The nail in the coffin, however, had been the letter Harry had received only that night. The letter in reply to his desperate plea that he'd hoped sounded anything but, the demand and urgency he'd sent by owl to Professor Dumbledore when his sanity reached the end of its tether after minimal replies from every other correspondent. Harry had poured everything into that letter – time, energy, desperation, the fervent need to do something to defeat the creature that could so brutally kill someone – and what did he get in reply?

Harry,

I understand your concerns, but know all is under hand. There is nothing that you can do but rest and remain safe these holidays. Your offer of assistance is appreciated, but at present unnecessary. Do you best to enjoy your brief respite.

Yours,

Albus Dumbledore

That was it. That was all of it. Harry hadn't even the presence of mind to tear the blasted letter to shreds. Without thought, with nothing but the urgent desire to get away, he'd left. The parchment hadn't even hit the ground by the time he'd stumbled through the front door.

His breath grew ragged as he left Little Whinging behind him. The glare from the streetlights intensified into greater brightness as the suburbs seeped into thicker congestion. The road flooded with cars, headlights splitting apart the darkness and making a mockery of the night. Horns blared, engines rumbled, and he would swear that even the houses – the closed, warmly lit houses of happy families and oblivious fools – echoed with the sounds of their merriment.

Harry hated them. He was angry, and he hurt, and he hated them. Staggering to a brief pause in the centre of the footpath, chest heaving with the effort, that thought recurred again and again and again. Glaring at the house to his left, the front window open and curtains spread to allow the hint of a breeze to enter through the opening, Harry turned sharply aside from the familial beauty confined by the frame A hand wiped sweat from his forehead, his throat convulsed with something – a need for company, a need for air – and he was running once more.

How long he managed, Harry didn't know. Where he was going, he didn't know either. All he knew was that Away had never been more appealing in his life, and Harry kicked himself for not considering it sooner. Why had he stuck around? The Dursleys despised him. The sorry excuse for classmates from his Muggle schooling days had never been incentive to attend. Ron and Hermione were ignoring him when he needed them, Sirius was gone, always gone, and the professors that were all he could have turned to were so close-lipped as to be absent entirely.

Why had he stayed? Harry didn't know. It somehow seemed the most logical thing in the world to decidedly not stay.

When he staggered into the stuttering light of a bus shelter, it was to bend double and pant for breath. Hands on his knees, Harry bowed, eyes closing and knees trembling. Everything hurt, aching and protesting for their sudden abuse, muscles sobbing their protest. But it was a good hurt. A different kind of hurt to how Harry had felt consistently for weeks. The pain in his chest was somehow lessened when everything else ached too.

There was a woman sitting in the shelter. Elderly, with a cluster of paper bags propped against her legs, Harry detachedly noted that she hunched on the bench and watched him. He didn't spare her a glance in return. He didn't even care that she watched with a frown visibly deepening as he sunk onto his haunches, forehead pressing into his knees. Harry's breaths didn't really ease any for his slump; if anything, they hitched into gasps that sounded eerily like sobs. His fingers curled into the fabric of his slacks, stretching already worn material, but he didn't care for the risk of a tear. He needed something to hold onto.

"You alright?" the woman asked after a long pause. There was almost real concern in her voice, almost compassion, until, "Are you a nutter?"

Harry didn't bother to reply. He didn't care if she cared about him or, more likely, if she was concerned he was crazy and thus for her own wellbeing. What was she to him? If he'd learned anything over the past days, weeks, months, it was that people – everyone, even those he'd previously considered friends – couldn't be trusted. They didn't care. Why would a stranger possibly care more?

Harry blinked rapidly. His eyes stung. He felt angry, but beneath that feeling was something else, something more, and he hated himself for feeling it at all. Eyes continuing in their pointless blinking, increasingly blind to the blurriness of his vision, Harry curled only more tightly upon himself and waited.

Only when the bus finally drew to a halt alongside him, huffing like a weary beast with fluorescent lights glaringly brightly through its muggy windows, did he straighten. He sniffed. He still ignored the woman as she struggled to lift her paper bags into her arms, and he turned towards the bus. He rubbed briefly trembling hands behind his glasses, smeared a palm over the foolish wetness from his cheeks, and then he straightened. His calves protested each step as he climbed onto the bus.

The driver was a weedy-thin man that reminded Harry just slightly of Ernest Pang, driver of the Wizarding Night Bus. Except that this man was bored. Was disregarding. Was so obviously Muggle it was almost painful to behold.

"Where you headed?" he asked in a tone as bored as his expression.

Harry paused with his hand on the assisting rail, pinned beneath that disregarding gaze. With a swallow, he dug his hand into his pocket and drew forth what could only be described as pathetic: the nib of a quill, a crumpled square of blank paper, some petty change amidst scraps of miscellaneous grey fluff. Harry held it out to the driver, feeling nothing if not pathetically like a child offering a worthless contribution to a charity organisation. Except that his efforts weren't quite so altruistic; that fact only made Harry all the more disgusted with his situation.

"How far can this get me?" he asked.

The Ernest lookalike sighed long-sufferingly. Ignoring the grunt of the woman with her bags waiting on the bottom step of the bus, the man leaned forwards and poked briefly through the change before snatching it with deft fingers. "Find yourself a seat," he said, jerking his head to the rear of the bus. "I'll boot you off when your time comes." The sound of change clattering into his makeshift till was oddly final and depressingly brief.

The bus itself was dingy. The seats sticky from some unknown substances, the floor even more so, clinging to the trudging steps of every alighting passenger. Gum painted the backs of each headrest in colourfully faded mosaics and the tinny music of some oldies radio channel whined overhead.

The bus was nearly empty – and Harry found himself blessedly relieved for that fact.

He found his seat – the back seat, and wedged into the shadows so deeply he thought maybe, just maybe, the bus driver might overlook his presence of a time. Maybe it would take him further than his scant change allowed. Maybe, hopefully, he might be ignored enough to be taken far, far away. Harry had been ignored enough that summer already. Why shouldn't it work in his favour for once? For this once, to get away, to thrust behind him the misery of the past year that no one seemed to care about. To…

To do something. To stop all of this and end it all. To… to…

To find him. And stop him.

To end it all. I just want it to be over and… and to get away.

Harry's head jostled slightly as he rested it against the grimy window when the bus kicked into motion once more. Staring at his own wan reflection until his eyes – infuriatingly, incomprehensibly – began to blur again with miserable, pained determination, Harry went away.

For a time, no one missed him.

Silence flooded the basement kitchen. Utter silence but for the hollow ticking of the wall clock, with not even the horrified breaths of those present audible enough for notice.

The overhead light was dim. The walls, once pristinely white, were grey, mottled with some pervasive darkness that wasn't dirt or filth but left shadows of its presence as good as. And the smell – there was something about the smell of an abandoned kitchen that never truly went away. Even scrubbed, Scourgified, swept countless times, and playing host to dozens of meals, the smell lingered.

Abandonment. Regret. Shame, even. It was oddly reminiscent of the pervading ambiance hanging over all members of the room. The Order of the Phoenix had been in a sorry state for many years, but never quite as it was then.

"What do we do?" someone finally asked.

The room shifted with a hint of motion as life was breathed into its occupants once more. "We have to find him, surely."

"We don't even know how long he's been gone."

"Or to where."

"We don't know if he – if he's –"

That particular voice choked off and more than one pair of eyes closed. In regret. In so much shame it was almost nauseating. How had no one noticed? How had no one seen him go?

"It doesn't matter," someone said curtly. "We'll search everywhere. He will be forever in danger as long as he's without our protection."

"He should never have been out of our protection to start off with," a voice growled, furious and mournful and demanding all at once. "He should have been here, with me."

"Oh, a marvellous idea, Black. Put the boy with a wanted criminal to learn the truly important values of –"

"Severus, please."

"Why is he even here? Get the fuck out of my house!"

"Sirius –"

"I would, but the topic of interest lies in tracking down your utter imbecile of a godson and I, unfortunately, am required to be a part of the search."

"You've always been a bastard, Snivellus –"

"So mature of you, Black."

"You think you can just waltz in here –"

"Believe me, I wouldn't if I didn't have to –"

"Stop."

The voice, firm and pervasive yet quiet, sliced through the bickering like a hot knife through butter. Silence fell once more as all eyes turned towards the elderly headmaster.

His expression wasn't sad, but thoughtful. It wasn't concerned, but frowned in consideration. That, in itself, was reassuring, if only mildly. Since the Order had discovered Harry Potter's absence, he'd been all but silent in his contemplation, staring detachedly across the room as though he were regarding an image upon the far wall. He was about the only one present who seemed collected at the turn of events.

Each of those seated at the table took the situation differently; Sirius exclaimed his horror and demanded leave to search for his godson. Molly shrieked of the foolishness of 'abandoning the poor boy' before dissolving into regretful tears. Hermione fell into wide-eyed silence, and Ron hadn't held a hint of colour in his cheeks since word of his best friend's disappearance had been declared.

Alastor Moody cursed the boy.

Remus bowed his head and murmured apologies beneath his breath – to Harry, to James and Lily, to everyone.

Severus sneered and rolled his eyes, but the tightness drawing lines about his lips was telling.

Not a person was unaffected by the news. Not a single person wasn't struck, personally or otherwise, by Harry's disappearance. Except, perhaps, for Albus Dumbledore, but then, it took a Herculean effort to faze him. Not even the loss of the hope for the Wizarding world seemed to truly concern him.

"We will search for him," he said, his voice low and soft, as contemplative as ever. "We will have all eyes open and all feet to patrolling every region. But." And then he paused.

For a moment, all eyes rested unblinkingly upon him. All watched and waited and many – Minerva, Remus, Arthur – closed those eyes in acceptance of the inevitable. They knew when sacrifices had to be made, even if Dumbledore didn't seem particularly concerned for the possibility.

"But?" Sirius asked, his voice dangerous.

"But there is a war encroaching," Dumbledore finally continued, and somehow, his voice only hinted at graveness. Somehow, he was composed. "Priorities must be addressed. Harry will be found, I assure you, but the greater threat of Voldemort's return is of paramount importance."

It didn't go over well. Not with Sirius or Molly, nor with the Weasley children or Hermione, even if they didn't have much of a say in the matter. Not with Remus, though he held his tongue, nor Minerva, whose lips tightened so severely that they disappeared entirely. Not even Severus, who knew that to shunt Harry's importance to secondary position was to all but give the boy a death sentence.

But the words of Albus Dumbledore were final, and the decision was made. They would search for Harry Potter, but some things were more important.

Harry stayed disappeared. He stayed disappeared for a long time.

A/N: So... what do you think? I know this is a bit of a downer chapter, but I swear it picks up both pace and brightness in those that follow. Promise. Harry's a little bitch, and Draco's an asshole, so... enjoy!
Please let me know you're thoughts. I'd love to hear from you, and I'll be posting again very shortly. Thanks for reading!