Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Harry Potter. Any of it. Believe me, it saddens me every day...

A/N: Right, so this is my first story that I'm publishing on here...hehe *bit of a nervous laugh*. I've never shown any of my writing to, well, anyone before. So this is a strange and frankly scary thing for me- I'm an incredibly self-conscious person. But anyway, I kind of figure hey- might as well! Oh and also, I had NO idea what to call this story- I'm complete crap at titles. But nevermind, I'll get on with it. Here goes nothing...

Harry Potter was cold, wet, and very, very annoyed. He stood casually against a lamppost, a Muggle cigarette between his fingers- not only because it looked more inconspicuous to have something to do, but because he'd picked up the habit some time ago and frankly rather enjoyed it. He was dressed to blend in with his surroundings: Muggle jeans, a plain grey tee shirt, and black trainers.

The weather outside wasn't cold, seeing as it was mid-July, but as he didn't have an umbrella, the rain had soaked into his skin and chilled him. Now he finally stood under an awning, but he had spent hours under no shelter whatsoever. Luckily, few people were around- it would be quite strange to see a man standing so casually in the drizzle, seemingly content with getting wet. By this point, all Harry wanted to do was go home.

But of course, he couldn't do that. He was on a stakeout- some former Death Eater was suspected of nefarious activities, and Harry had been sent undercover to figure it out. He was in America- Chicago, to be exact- and so far all he had seen were rain, Muggles, and not a single threat to the wizarding world.

He checked his Muggle watch- another disguise, considering how it would look to cast a Tempus charm in the middle of the city- and heaved a relieved sigh. It was midnight, meaning his day was over. He could go back to his hotel, and sleep until he resumed his post the next afternoon (though he hadn't been able to sleep much recently anyway). With the thought of getting out of the wet streets on his mind, he began the short walk back to his hotel.

He never saw the car coming. One minute, the street seemed fairly empty- and the next, a horn blared, and he turned to see a twin set of headlights coming towards him at rapid pace, and he braced himself because he knew it was going to hurt…and then suddenly, everything went black.

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Having nothing better to do on a Friday night, and knowing that his job was better than anything else he could have planned anyway, Draco Malfoy had signed up to work an extra shift in the emergency room- the graveyard shift. He arrived at eleven pm, prepared for stab wounds, heart attacks, street fights…whatever Chicago decided to throw his way.

An hour into his shift, his pager rang. The blood immediately began to course through his veins at an accelerated pace- an emergency. He had come to live for the beeping of the device constantly at his side. It meant he was needed, that he was now responsible for saving someone's life.

After the war against Voldemort had ended, and almost everyone he knew had died or been sent to Azkaban (including his own father), Draco moved to the last place anyone would ever think to find him: Muggle America. He went to school, and eventually became a Muggle doctor- something that came surprisingly naturally to him. It was fairly easy, and he finished medical school early. He threw himself into his work, and found that he actually loved it. It never got old, the fascination of healing people without magic. Sure, he still used his wand at home- but nobody there knew that he was a wizard.

He fit in quite well in the Muggle world- something that, had someone told him so just a few years earlier, he would have laughed at for hours. Imagine: Draco Malfoy, Prince of the Pureblood Wizards, living amongst Muggles…and enjoying it! The idea was hilarious, but nonetheless true.

Of course, his social life was rather stilted…or nonexistent, if he was to be completely honest with himself. Not that he didn't have offers of friendship- and many, many offers of dates- but work always took precedence. He had made a couple of fair friends at the hospital, but everybody knew him as "Doctor Malfoy, the workaholic." The nurses claimed it was a "sin to let something so handsome go to waste." But he never listened. He tried to tell himself that it was only work that made him so opposed to the idea of dating- because he did really love his job- and not the fact that none of the people there even somewhat enticed him. Surgery could be enough for him. He didn't need anything else.

So when, on that rainy July night, he answered the page, he was positively thrilled. The excitement of a new case always gave him a rush that so far, no human had been able to match.

He ran to meet the ambulance, where the EMT stood to give him all the information about the patient he currently pushed on a gurney. "Male, looks to be about twenty-six years old, found without I.D.- hit by a car, resulting in severe internal bleeding and multiple fractures."

Draco nodded at the man's words. He barely looked at the unconscious patient beside him as they entered the hospital, knowing he would examine him once they got into a room. All he saw was that the face was mostly covered by bandages and an intubation apparatus, and black hair that vaguely reminded him of something he couldn't quite place that stuck out on the man's head.

Once in a room, Draco checked the man's torso for signs of any trauma that may need immediate care. He checked the pulse, which was faint but there, all the time barking orders at his staff, who listened to him immediately. After all- he hadn't risen to become one of the youngest yet most capable doctors that the hospital had ever seen by not knowing what he was doing.

Once the John Doe case had finally stabilized, Draco paused for a minute as the EMT's words echoed in his head. "Looks to be about twenty-six years old…"

Draco was twenty-six. He was the same age as this man, who now lay unconscious in a hospital bed. The thought terrified him. He removed the bandages and looked up to see the face of his patient…and nearly fell unconscious himself. Finally, he found his voice enough to choke out, "…Potter?"

A/N (again): So, there's Chapter 1. I've got about 8 more chapters already written, which I'll put up based on if people like. Thoughts? Constructive crit? Should I put more? Tell me what you think...

xx,
JB