Typical Disclaimers Apply

A/N: Hello all! I apologize for my rather lengthy hiatus, but hopefully this fic, the sequel to And Life Goes On, will make up for it!

Sunday. The day of rest. Children were free from school, adults free from work, and postmen free from obnoxious, yappy dogs. The sun would shine, and the birds would sing. Neighbors would move from house to house, discussing global events and relatives in far off places. Children would frolic about the town, singing songs and eating ice cream.

Of course, none of this mattered to Draco Malfoy, because he understood neither the discussions nor the songs, and he did not care for ice cream. Draco had either the misfortune or luck, depending on to whom one spoke, to have been relocated by the Wizards Protection Program into a tiny, Muggle suburb in an Eastern European country he hadn't known existed.

"Of course," he thought bitterly, "Kingsley would only send me to a country where no one knew a word of English."

That was not true, and he knew it. Nearly all of his neighbors spoke English fairly well; one had even received his medical degree from Pembroke. Most of the children learned English in school and enjoyed speaking it in front of others as though they had a "secret" language. But they were Muggles. Even though he had worked hard to learn to tolerate Muggle-borns—he'd even struck up a relationship he'd tried hard to forget—Draco still held old prejudices.

"They aren't worthy of my time," he'd say to himself whenever one of his neighbors invited him for tea. He didn't need their pity invitations. He knew what they thought of him. To them he was the strange foreigner who barely left his home to go to the market. He was the man who couldn't even muster half a smile when the children waved to him. He was the one who stared straight ahead when pretty women on the streets smiled and asked him his name.

He knew they couldn't possibly understand what he'd been through. These people—these Muggles—couldn't fathom the life he'd lived. They all had safe jobs within a walking distance from their homes. Every smiling man had a stunning woman and a bouncing baby. A man two houses down the street was the same age as Draco, and he had a wife, a dog, a newborn and a little girl who road her tricycle all over creation. They'd live here, perfectly safe, in a country where it never even snowed. And Draco hated them for it. He hated that they would never have to look in the newspaper and see pictures of an old friend still in a coma. He hated the fathers for having normal jobs and cheerfully coming home every night until they retired and took their wives to Paris. He hated the mothers for treating the children like humans instead of show ponies who should only be trotted out when it was time to impress the neighbors. And the children—he hated them the most. They got to attend schools where their lives weren't constantly in danger and the teachers' alliances were never questioned. The teenagers went on dates and their biggest worries were new haircuts or breakouts. They all spent their summers playing in the parks with their friends instead of being locked up in a manor with nothing more than the elves and some distant cousins for entertainment.

Draco was stewing over this as he made his morning tea and glared out at the children kicking a football around in the street. One of them, a little girl who couldn't possibly have been any older than eight, waved at him through the window. He looked at her for a second before he turned away. He wasn't here to make friends. This was not permanent. He was free the moment the Ministry captured his father. And he'd leave this god-forsaken place forever. Not to return to England, of course. He'd never go back there. If Draco Malfoy knew one thing it was where he was not wanted. No, he'd cut ties with his old world. He'd change his name and run to one of the Wizarding settlements in Russia or Canada. Someplace cold where no one cared about his past.

As he was pondering his escape plan, something startled him. He could have sworn he'd heard a knock on the door. But that was impossible. He'd made it clear to his neighbors that they were not welcome in his home. Yes, he'd made that quite clear.

Figuring it must be some solicitor who'd had the misfortune to stumble upon his home; Draco made his way to the door. After all, he was in the mood to verbally abuse some poor man who could barely stumble through an English greeting. Draco smirked to himself as he considered how exactly he was going to tear this poor person apart. Then he opened the door, and his heart dropped straight to his stomach.

Harry Potter was standing at his front door.