A/N; ah, yeh, I know, I should really stop writing on these things and continue with veela genes. Well don't worry, I haven't stopped with that one, it's just that I've been writing this for months (my muse keeps visiting and then running away just as suddenly) so I'm glad to just have it done. Enjoy!

Disclaimer; you know the deal – I don't any of this stuff, so it's best not to sue. Please don't sue. Please?

Warnings; slash, bad language…and that's about it.

This story is finished, and is three chapters long. However, I'm going to post one a day – just because!

XXxxXX

Today is a good day. Today is a good day. Today is a good day. Today is a great day.

Okay, so maybe I was embellishing the facts a little.

Today is a shit day.

From the very moment I woke up, it has been an all round shit day. All right, so it's only breakfast at the moment, but as I sit here, quietly nibbling on my unusually burnt toast, I'm positive that today will continue to be a shit day.

When I woke up, I immediately noted the lack of Slytherin green that used to surround me. I've been noticing it a lot recently, which is to be expected, but I just can't seem to get used to it. I can't seem to get used to the pale cream paint that covers my bedroom walls, and it depresses me.

I've been living in this goddamn flat for two months and I'm still not used to the colour. It sends shivers down my spine, and I end up missing the dark, Slytherin green bed hangings that used to surround me as I slept peacefully in the seventh year dormitories. In Hogwarts. I'm not in Hogwarts anymore, and the pasty cream which now surrounds my bed is a constant reminder. It's depressing.

So, I threw back the covers of my bed, and put my feet onto the floor.

I instantly had a small inkling that it wasn't going to be a very good day. The floor was cold. Carpet simply shouldn't be cold, but the heating has gone in my flat and I can't use magic in case it's traced.

Now that's a depressing thought; I'm living in a bloody muggle flat in the middle of muggle London. I hate it here. In my old dormitories, it was never cold; ever. The heating charms were constantly in place, and we could walk around in our boxers if we wanted to – we rarely did, but that's not the point. The point is we could. Now I'm lucky if I can get away with two thick woolly jumpers at eight o' clock in the morning. It usually heats up around nine, and then off come the jumpers.

But that's a little off track. Anyway, so the floor was cold this morning, and I quickly pulled on some socks. Then I traipsed across the room and out into my living room so I could take a shower; the bathroom is on the other side of the living room.

And that thought's depressing too; my living room is the main room of this little flat, and every door opens onto it. As you walk in through the front door, the couch is slightly to the right and ahead of you, with its back to the counters which separate the living room from the kitchen. There's this thing called a T.V in the corner, which I've only just learnt to use, and a fireplace directly opposite the couch. There's a small coffee table and a thing called a phone which I don't really know the point of yet.

To the left is a door which leads into my bedroom and on the opposite side of the room is the door which leads to the bathroom and a window to the side of that. That's it; that's the vast expanse of my flat. Back at the manor, we had a bathroom on every floor (there were five floors that I had access to, plus a basement, my parents' floor and one which I was never allowed near. Probably Voldermort related or something stupid like that) and the rooms were large and far apart. It took half an hour to walk from the bottom of the house to the top (because you just couldn't help but stop and look at the many portraits and other interesting artefacts on the way) and I was never, ever bored.

My flat is just about as boring as they come. Granted it's larger than others I've seen (I admit I haven't seen many), but it's no where near the size of the manor. Though, thinking about, I definitely prefer living here.

So, I crossed the living room and entered the bathroom, and couldn't be bothered to shut the door behind me. Big mistake. I had my shower (which was cold, because the water hadn't had a chance to heat up yet) and I came out, wrapping a towel around my waist. I stood in front of the mirror which was on the wall above the sink, and crossed my arms. I looked awful. Dark rings under the eyes, pale skin and an all round ghastly appearance. And I would have to do something about my hair!

I then got a face full of feathers as my owl swooped in; he's getting old, and his eyesight isn't what it used to be, so I ended up shooing him away before picking the feathers out of my hair.

Gabriel – my owl – isn't allowed outside during the day in case muggles see him, so he gets a little bored during the day (he hardly ever sleeps, bloody bird). He likes to fly around a lot, and often gets in my way, but I just didn't have the heart to abandon him. I've done a lot of bad things in my life, but being cruel to sick animals isn't one of them.

After I finally managed to get Gabriel out of the bathroom, I finished up in there (I refused to look in the mirror again, so my hair was left unchecked) and went back to my bedroom. I opened my wardrobe and pulled out a pair of torn blue jeans and a long sleeved green t-shirt – there's another thing I hate about my current lifestyle; the clothing.

Muggles have absolutely no fashion sense, and the clothing I do have is old and torn in many places. Some it is fairly reasonable, considering it's muggle, but, like this pair of jeans that I'm wearing, some of it is simply crap. I'm used to expensive robes and hand embroidered shirts with the Malfoy crest, not jeans and a fucking t-shirt.

I must admit, however, that muggle clothing is much more comfortable, and has kind of grown on me these last few weeks. Don't tell anybody!

Besides, I look stylish in anything!

Anyway, so after that I went out into the kitchen to make breakfast. I stubbed my toe on the way, dropped a glass on the floor (successfully smashing it into a thousand tiny pieces which I will probably have to sweep up later seeing as there is an annoying lack of house elves in this place) and spilt water all down my jeans (don't ask). Then I burnt the toast, and put way to much butter on it to compensate.

So far, it has been a shit day. I haven't even gotten around to brushing my hair yet.

XXxxXX

Someone is knocking at my door.

I look at my piece of burnt – and by now cold – toast, and wonder if it could have poisoned me. I glance over at the door, and the knock sounds again.

Someone is knocking at my door.

What the hell?

I begin to panic, instantly dropping my toast to the plate and placing it on the coffee table before grabbing my wand from out of my bedroom. The knocking sounds again, and by now I'm pissed off too. No one knows I'm here – or at least, they're not supposed to know – so who the hell would be knocking on my door?

I shake my head, absently placing my wand in the back pocket of my jeans. It's probably just some stupid muggle, I mean, not one wizard on earth has a single clue where I am. I was clever; I'm hiding out in the heart of muggle London. I think it's ironic, because it's the last place they'll ever look for me; I mean, come on, me, a Malfoy in a muggle flat? They probably think I've gone to hide out in some wizarding community on the other side of the planet, not to live in a flat barely a half hours walk away from the Leaky Cauldron. Sneaky, no?

They're still knocking, you know.

I sigh, picking up my plate and taking it into the kitchen; if I ignore them, maybe they'll go away. I throw the leftover toast into the bin, and place the plate quietly into the sink before bending down and scooping up the larger bits of glass into my hand, cursing softly as one particularly sharp piece cuts into my hand. I deposit the glass into the bin, and jump as another knock sounds against the door, this time harder and more insistent.

"I can wait all day, you know," I know that voice "It's not like you're going anywhere!"

Oh shit. Oh, that's bad. I think…I think that, standing right outside my door and knocking upon the hard wood, Potter has come to pay me a visit.

My eyes grow wide, as I curse again, this time a little louder. There's no way he could have found me this soon! How the hell did he do that? Two months with no word at all from the wizarding world – not one single tracking spell placed upon the area – and all of a sudden Potter turns up on my doorstep? How the hell?

I go into automatic, looking about for the bare minimum things that I will need to take with me. Yes, I am going to bloody run. There's no why in hell I'm facing Potter, not after all the lengths I've gone to just to stay in hiding.

Why am in hiding? Well…it's rather a long story.

For the Christmas of my seventh year, I returned home to the manor as expected. Only my mother was there, and for the first week we spent lots of time together, talking and laughing and generally having a good time. I love my mother very much, and she really is a sweet and gentle person; when Lucius isn't around.

Then my father showed up, and I went into automatic 'git' mode as I like to call it. Alright, I admit, I am a bit of a bastard at times, but mainly it's just to please my father. I had been thinking, and I knew that Voldermort was just some power crazy twat who was using blood as an excuse to kill people.

Anyway, dear old father brought home with him a special guest one night, and Voldermort himself informed me I was to take the mark as soon as I left school at the end of the year. You can imagine how well my mother took the news.

I have never, ever seen my mother cry. Not when my grandfather died, not when Lucius was nearly killed by Voldermort for not completing a task and not when Lucius told her I was to follow in his footsteps.

My mother didn't cry when she heard the news; she wept.

I, however, managed to stand straight, tall and proud, forcing a smirk onto my face as I bowed to the man my father called master. For the rest of winter break I attended any and all death eater meetings that were held, and it was during this time that I realised that I kiss no ones ass. I refuse to grovel to a man that can't even stand up to a white haired old guy in a star printed robe and who was killed – even accidentally and temporarily – by a one-year-old baby.

Before I left home to return to school, I bade farewell to my mother with tears in my eyes. She smiled at me – truly smiled – and hugged me close, telling me she was proud of me. She knew what I was going to do. She knew that I planned to run.

So, whilst at school, over the next six months I made all of the arrangements, and as soon as school finished I left most of my belongings and fled without a trace – I had thought. Potter is currently proving me wrong.

But I had fled. I had loaded all my things onto the train, made sure to be seen on the platform, and then left. I hope it looked like a kidnapping of some sort, as I had also dropped my wand on the platform where I was hope I was last seen standing.

This wand? This wand is my wand, the one I dropped on the platform is a replica. I spent a lot of money getting a wand like mine (whoever said no two wands are the same has never had access to any real amount of money), and a great deal more to keep the bloody man quiet. I then had to add to it my own magical signature; that took me simply ages to figure out how to do, and left me exhausted for days.

Potter is still here you know. He's knocking again, but this time it sounds desperate.

"Malfoy, please. I'm begging you to let me in!"

I stop what I'm doing, dropping the t-shirt I had grabbed to stuff into a bag. Is Potter pleading for me to let him in? What, does he think I'm stupid or something? Maybe he thinks I actually have a conscience! What a joke!

"Malfoy, I'm bleeding! There was a death eater attack…I'll do anything, just let me in!"

Damn it, maybe I do have a conscience. I'm actually walking towards the door and, oh shit, I've opened it.

Holy crap! Potter really is bleeding!

He stumbles into my flat, nudging the door shut with his foot before leaning up against it. He's panting heavily, and I have absolutely no idea how he managed to keep his voice steady and uncaring for so long. He's quite the actor.

I can see the damage already; I know the curse. I never heard the name or incantation, but I heard my father mention it before at one of the meetings. The curse creates a small – almost unnoticeable - cut, making the victim think they've had a lucky escape. They leave the fight feeling victorious, thinking they are unharmed, whilst, over a period of time, the small cut begins to get bigger. The cut begins to bleed, and the victim looses blood at an alarming rate; so quick you can't even get to a bloody hospital. Eventually it ends up as one very large, very deep wound, and can cause the victim to bleed to death. It may sound a pretty light curse at first, considering they're death eaters that deal with black magic, but imagine that curse hitting your neck.

Potter got it on the arm; lucky for him. I don't ask questions and neither does he as I direct him to the couch, and demand he pulls off his shirt. As he does so, I quickly grab that t-shirt I was going to pack off the bed, along with the muggle first aid kit and a bowel of water from the kitchen. From under my bed I also pull out an old box, and take out various potions and salves from within it that Severus had given me in case of emergency. I'm pretty sure this counts as one.

Walking back into the living room, I dump everything down on the coffee table. Potter has his eyes closed and is leaning back on the couch, his t-shirt is flung carelessly to the floor. I take the shortest of moments to note his well defined chest before shaking away the thought and tearing up the shirt.

Sitting down beside him, I dip the strip of cloth into the water, and gently dab at his wound. I'm not really careful about it – he's still my enemy after all – and he hisses in pain. His eyes snap open and he glares at me, so I raise an eyebrow in reply.

"Serves you right for coming here," I snap, frowning as the wound continues to bleed.

"I mean, talk about bloody foolish," I continue, reaching for one of the potions "I could kill you right here and now. I'm the son of a death eater, one of your worst enemies, remember? Here, drink this, and be quick about it."

Potter drank the potion in one gulp, grimacing at the taste before replying.

"If you were going to kill me, Malfoy, you wouldn't be helping me now."

I frown, but don't reply, quickly changing the topic as I reach for yet another potion.

"Why the hell couldn't you just use your wand to heal yourself?" I ask irritably, pouring a little of the potion onto a cloth before adding some salve and applying the mixture to the wound. Potter moans softly, and I can't help but wonder why he isn't screaming in agony.

"Well…"he shifts uncomfortably, and I snap at him to stay still "I kind of lost it."

"You what? HOW?" He jerks his arm away as I press down too hard.

"Watch it!"

I snarl at him, grabbing his arm back – gently mind. He sighs, collecting his thoughts as he winces again in pain.

"The Death Eaters took it."

"You're unbelievable."

Finally, the bleeding's stopped. Sheesh, I'm covered in blood! And just look at my sofa! I clean away the blood from around the wound, and Potter closes his eyes again. I can tell he's about to pass out, I just know he is.

"Potter, if you pass out on me now I'll…"

But I can't think of anything that I'll do, so I shut up. I continue cleaning the wound before applying another salve, and don't look at the ex-Gryffindor's face. He's smirking, I just know it.

XXxxXX

It is now Midday. This morning was unbelievably shit, and now Harry Potter, the famous Gryffindor Golden Boy, is sleeping in my bed. What. A. Fucking. Prat.

I mean, why me, God? Do you do this to everyone or do you just have some sort of sick fascination with my life? Or is it a game; see who can ruin Draco Malfoy's life the most? I'll kill you, god, just you wait.

I have managed to brush my hair though, thank heavens. I'm not so sure about the sofa though; I don't think it'll ever quite be the same again, seeing as I can't use my wand to clean it (I really don't fancy being tracked down by the ministry, thank you very much). Just bloody typical!

I have to wonder though; how on earth did Potter find me? I bite my lip, sipping at my glass of water as I lean up against the kitchen counters. I realize that hoping to remain undetected was pushing it a little, and I had begun to think about moving out and onto some place else but, even so…I had kind of figured that neither side would be too worried about finding me. The deatheaters would consider me a traitor, but wouldn't really actively seek me out, and the light side would have considered it as a case of 'good riddance'. As far as they're aware, I don't have a wand, and am therefore no longer a threat, right? So why the hell is Potter here now?

And what was with this 'death eater attack' thing anyway? I've been keeping track of the news on that stupid T.V thing, and as far as I'm aware, the only attacks on the muggle community have been relatively far from here.

What was Potter doing here in the first place? Visiting Diagon Alley? Well, surely he would have just apparated. And where are his guard dogs anyway?

I can't stand still, and begin to pace, drink still in hand. This is bad. This is very bad. This is so very, very bad.

I sigh dramatically. I just knew this was going to be a shit day.

XXxxXX

"Ah, finally, the hero of the hour has awoken," I sneer as Potter walks out my room, yawning and still topless "get dressed," I tell him "I want you out of here as soon as bloody possible."

Potter looks around my flat, picking up his discarded t-shirt and pulling it on, before heading towards the kitchen – making sure to keep his injured arm very, very still. I can't imagine how much pain he must be in, but on the other hand I don't really care.

I watch with a raised eyebrow as he opens my fridge, frowning as he finds it empty of anything except milk, a bag of grapes and a few other small items, then peers into my cupboards to.

"Don't you have anything to eat?" he asks, turning back around to face me. I roll my eyes, and point to the breadbin on the side.

"There's some bread in there, I think. There should be some butter in the fridge, though I'm not so sure about that one, and that's about it."

"That's it?"

I cross my arms, scowling at him. "What did you expect, a bloody welcoming feast? There are some biscuits in the left hand cupboard, and the cups are on the counter there."

"Malfoy, why is there no food in this place?" He asks, pulling out the bread. "I mean, what do you eat?"

I shrug lazily, looking anywhere but at him. "Money's tight." I reply simply, not offering an explanation. "What the hell are you doing here anyway?"

"I already told you, death eater attack," he replies, struggling to butter the bread with only one useable arm. I roll my eyes at him and, fed up of watching him struggle, push him out of the way, picking up the knife.

"That's not what I mean, and you know it, Potter."

The dark haired teenager – man? – sighs, running a hand through his hair as he watches me butter the bread.

"It was the only place I could think of that was close by."

I glare at him, and he rolls his eyes at me.

"Alright, alright," he says, putting his good hand up in defence "if you really must know, I'm the only one that knows where you are. I think. When you disappeared, it was a big thing for a few days but, after the initial shock died down, nobody really cared."

I pull down the biscuits for him, and grab a plate. "Good." Is all I say.

"Most people thought you had been whisked away by the death eaters or something," he continues "but others figured you had been captured and were being held prisoner somewhere. I was really shocked because…nobody even seemed to care."

I snort, shaking my head at him. "As if anyone could give a shit about what happens to me," I mumble, passing him the plate with a sandwich and three biscuits upon it.

"Well…I didn't think it was right. I don't care who you are, nobody deserves to just be forgotten about like that." He stated as we sat down on the floor in the living room. Neither of us really wanted to sit on that couch, no matter how uncomfortable the floor is.

"Anyway, I guess a few people were looking for you, out of obligation rather than anything else, and I began to get restless. 'Mione said I have a saving people thing…"

"Smart girl, that one," I comment, leaning up against a clean part of the couch, facing Potter. He nods his head in agreement, blushing a little.

"Yeah, so, anyway, I decided to do a little of my own research. And I found you. Once I found out you were safe, I kind of lost interest; I mean, we are enemies after all. I figured that you had run away from the war, and it was easier for me if it remained that way seeing as I had never particularly looked forward to fighting you out there."

"What, scared to face me, Potter?" I sneer, crossing my arms over my chest. He takes another bite out of his sandwich and nods, making me raise an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, actually, I was. Because, in the end, I knew that I could never kill you. If I ended up facing you out there in a battle, you would win, because there's just no way I could kill you."

I'm intrigued now, and I cock my head to side a little as I contemplate his statement.

"Why not?" I finally ask.

He doesn't answer for a moment or two, eating instead, and I begin to feel a little impatient.

"Well," he starts, shrugging carelessly "let's face it, it's not like I'm the killing type, is it? I don't think I could kill anyone I know, and you…" he sighs, putting his plate down in favour of picking up his drink "I've known you longer than I've known any other wizard. You were the very first wizarding child I ever met and…" he shrugs again "you're significant in a really weird kind of way."

I think back to the day we first met, standing in Madam Malkins…ah. I can't say I made a very good first impression. No wonder he never shook my hand on the train.

"Ah…" I reply, taking a sip of my own drink "I don't suppose you thought very highly of me back then." I pause for a moment "I was a little bit of a brat, wasn't I?"

Potter looks at me strangely, and then bursts out laughing, shaking his head at me as he grins widely. I fight back the smile that's tugging at my own lips, and watch as he leans back, using an arm to support him, still giggling with that silly grin on his face.

And I realize something. Harry Potter - the supposed saviour-to-be of the wizarding world and the man who is destined to defeat Voldermort – giggles like a girl!

The thought allows that careless smile of mine slide neatly into place, making me look just as stupid as him.

"Yes," he finally manages to say, still laughing a little "you were."

I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything.

"I never understood you,"

The sound of his voice startles me a little, as I hadn't really expected him to say anything else, but I raise an eyebrow in question to his statement anyway.

"I mean, back at school. I don't suppose I actually understand you now, either. Why did you run away?"

I look away from him, turning my gaze instead to the world outside of my window as I contemplate his question. I don't really want to be talking about this with him, and I can't think of a good lie that will suffice. I scowl, stand up, and walk back into the kitchen.

"You can leave whenever you're ready," I say, re-filling my glass from the tap "don't let the door hit you on the way out."

XXxxXX

A/N; second chap out of the three will be posted tomorrow. Reviews are appreciated!