Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Harry Potter series, or anything like that, so don't sue me! I'm poor and I'll cry profusely…

Warning: This fic does contain slash (Harry/Draco), though not extreme or immediate. If that doesn't appeal to you, this probably isn't the fic you should be reading right now…

A/N: So it's here- the moment at least one person has possibly been waiting for: the first chapter of my first fic! Oh, the joy that now lights your face, I can only imagine. So yeah, it's a fairly standard one. There should be a fair few plot holes and mundane bits along the way, but let me get in a bit of practice and all! Don't crush my dreams; this is a labour of love. There'll be four chapters and a mini epilogue, probably, and I'll try to get them up regularly. Don't eat me if I don't though, I promise you I try. All reviews and any fan art (be it scribbles or four panels or anything) would be extremely gratefully received! I am a beginner: give me encouragement.

Day One

Harry pulled himself out of bed, scrabbling for his glasses on the bedside table through a sleepy haze. Muzzily, he padded his way across the cold, wooden floor and into the bathroom, splashing his face with icy water in a vain attempt to wake himself up. Staring blearily at his dazed and dripping reflection in the mirror (which said "you still look like a mess," unkindly), he thought vaguely that it wasn't all that surprising that he was a little tired out.

After the traumatic events at the end of the sixth year, Harry had seemed to become someone else. His mood fluctuated daily, and he seemed to have four default moods: hatred for Voldemort, Snape and all the other Death Eaters; a burning passion to complete the work he and Dumbledore had begun; utter terror at his seemingly futile mission and the prospect of losing more people, and a whole jumble of emotions about Draco Malfoy.

On the whole, he loathed him and thought him a coward, but a small part of him whispered, but he was trying to save his parents. If you had the chance again, wouldn't you? Could you live with yourself if you let them get murdered? Besides, Dumbledore forgave him… Dumbledore was kind, he understood…

Through it all, he felt an underlying loneliness- no, desolation- and cold terror at the idea that what everything boiled down to was murder. He would have to kill Voldemort, or Voldemort would kill him- thereby condemning everyone Harry cared about to death, too.

But right now, he just felt tired. It was quite easy to rationalise; after all, the celebrations at Bill and Fleur's wedding had lasted until the day before last. Then yesterday, while internally nursing a headache and hangover, he'd tried to help everyone tidy up a little.

Of course, Mrs. Weasley had fussed and told him to take it easy, but he had a vague feeling that doing something might make him feel a little less nauseous. Besides, he couldn't tell Mrs' Weasley that his current state was due to six shots of fire whiskey the previous night… how he had survived he may never know. However, when he rushed off to be sick at the sight of the kitchen, she decided he really shouldn't help.

Everything had culminated in Ron proposing the two of them go off to Diagon Alley a few days early. He himself wasn't looking to great either, and Harry was sure he simply didn't want to be around when Mrs. Weasley discovered who was responsible for the utter devastation in the living room- the result of all the gnomes Ron had been dared to catch being released by Fred and George, and chased by an utterly insane Crookshanks. The sofa may well never be the same again, as far as Harry could tell. Anyway, Harry decided that it was a brilliant idea, as he was desperate for a change of surroundings.

However, when they were at the fireplace, just about to leave, Ginny came rushing in. Harry still felt decidedly strange around her, but they'd both been decidedly friendly- and no more.

"Ron," she gasped, "you can't go. It's Hermione- she's ill." Ron's eyes widened.

"Ill? How? Is it serious?"

"We don't know. It seems that she ate something bad just now, like she was allergic to it, and she's gone all odd. Maybe she's gone into anaphylactic shock or something? Or… or it was poisoned?"

Everyone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then Ron said very quietly and steadily, "Harry, you can go on ahead if you want. I'll probably join you in a few hours- it's not like we won't be able to treat her or anything, but I can't just go…"

"I understand. I'll make sure Tom keeps the room for you," replied Harry. Everyone knew how much Ron cared about Hermione- it had been clear for a long time now- and vice versa, and there were even bets on how long it would be before one of them confessed it. Harry had been a good enough friend not to place one, though. However, at this moment he was fighting that loneliness inside himself again. He couldn't forget how Ginny had only asked Ron to stay. It was as if he wasn't needed.

Harry stepped towards the fireplace, and said, "Contact me if there's any change of plan, okay? And… I need to know what happens to her." Don't forget me said that small voice again.

Ron nodded, and Harry smiled at the two Weasleys as he stepped into the green flames and shouted "Diagon Alley!" The spinning of the flames did little to settle his stomach, and Ron's arrival later that night hardly calmed his spirits, either.

Or rather, Ron's head's arrival.

Harry got the shock of is life when he heard Ron say, "Oi! Harry!" and he turned to see merely his friend's violently orange head in the grate (clashing horribly with the flames).

"Jesus!" he exclaimed.

Ron looked puzzled.

"Who?"

"Uh, never mind." Harry replied, before continuing, "I take it you're not joining me?"

"Um, no. It's okay; Hermione did only have an allergic reaction, to one of the more unusual ingredients in one of Fleur's dishes. She was eating some leftovers for lunch and… yeah, you get the picture. She's fine now. Mum fixed her up with a really nifty spell, and she's taking all these potions."

"So if she's alright, why can't you come yet?" asked the lonely, slightly selfish and afraid part of Harry.

"Well…" Ron looked a little bashful. "She's a little bit fragile- it must be an effect of the treatment, she's not normally like this- and she kind of mumbled to me that she really wants me to stay with her and that she, um, kind of likes me and stuff." Harry internally wondered who'd won the bet. Ron continued, "Like I say, it must be the potions."

Forcing himself to smile, Harry said, "Oh, great! Hey Ron, didn't I tell you that you had nothing to worry about with her?"

"Yeah, I guess you were right," came the bashful reply.

"Look, I don't mind. Really. There's plenty to keep me occupied here for a good while, and I've already unpacked- I'm not coming back Ron! It would be stupid, as everyone's coming here in four days anyway."

"I suppose," replied Ron, uncertainly. "Well, if you're sure…"

"I am," said Harry, firmly, "and I'll see you in a bit. Bye!"

"Okay. See you, mate. Bye!"

Ron's head disappeared from the fire, and Harry went to his room for an early night. He passed his still unpacked suitcase, and sat on the bed.

As if he'd wanted to go back to a house where everyone was still celebrating a marriage, and hang out with a brand new couple. It wasn't that he wasn't happy for them- quite the opposite- but it just felt like the world was rubbing it in his nose a little. You can't have this, it was saying. You can't have this in case you hurt the one person you most care about protecting. Can you honestly think of anyone you would wish that on?

There was no way Harry could have that, he knew- there was no-one with a life so bad it couldn't get worse and more dangerous with him in it. His mind flashed back to Ginny, and he ached at the memories he had. She was too good for him, too happy, and too easy to hurt.

He pulled off his glasses, lay back on the pillows and fell asleep, without even changing welcoming even the temporary release of sleep.

That morning, after changing and grabbing some tea and buttered toast for breakfast, Harry strolled into Diagon Alley. He wasn't quite sure what he should do with himself, so strange was it to be there, knowing he wasn't returning to Hogwarts after a few days. It got even stranger when he met people who would be.

He was just wondering whether he should drop by Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and say hi- Fred and George had had to return almost immediately after the wedding- when he heard a familiar voice behind him calling, "Hey! Harry!" He turned around and saw Parvati Patil running towards him.

"Oh, hi," he replied. "How've you been?"

"As good as can be expected, I guess," she said, smiling weakly. "I mean, given the… circumstances."

"Is everyone okay?" Harry asked, struck by how standard this question had become now Voldemort had returned. Parvati smiled again.

"Yes, they're all fine. My dad was hexed a few weeks ago, and he had to stay at St. Mungo's for a while, but he's fine now. They're all waiting for me, actually. I'd better go. But, well, it really was great to see you, Harry. Padma would say hi, too, except she's not with us at the moment." She gestured at a nearby shop.

"Yeah, it's great to see you. Have a good day, okay? And say hi to Padma from me."

"Alright. I guess I'll see you around then, Harry. And…" she spoke now quietly, unable to meet his eyes. "Thank you. For everything." She smiled at him once more- a real smile this time- and ran back to join her family. Harry could only think to himself how glad he was that she hadn't said 'see you in school', because he wouldn't know quite how to reply to that.

They walked off, and Harry couldn't help but notice the slight limp her father now had. He hadn't been able to stop Voldemort yet. He felt responsible in some small way for her father's misfortune. And yet, she had thanked him.

Suddenly, Harry didn't feel like entering the joke shop. He had to do something.

Harry walked into Borgin and Burkes, hoping against hope that his simple glamour had worked sufficiently. The Ministry had bigger concerns than underage magic in these sorts of times, but Harry wasn't going to return to school anyway- besides, he would be seventeen in a couple of weeks. He sincerely hoped no one would call him up on his use of magic; a court order would be most inconvenient at this time.

His mind turned to more important matters. For example, why was he even doing this? It was so risky, and he didn't even know if it would be at all useful. But he had to try something, anything, to get some information, even if it was just looking around to see if there was some object which could give him a clue as to what one of the remaining Horcruxes was, or hoping vainly that he would be able to inconspicuously ask the shopkeeper if he knew anything about Draco Malfoy. Harry hadn't forgotten that Slytherin's locket had been sold to Burke by Riddle's mother, Merope, either.

So, he entered the shop, allowing the bell to tinkle quietly- and, Harry didn't know how, somehow menacingly- as the door closed behind him. He was certain it wouldn't alert Mr. Borgin to his presence for the simple reason that he wasn't there. After a moment of puzzlement, it occurred to Harry that he would probably be in the back room. As if to prove him right, the man's oily voice suddenly emanated from through the half open door behind the counter.

"You do realise what you could be doing by coming here, I assume. I could turn you in to either side, and I assure you it would be for an extremely inviting number of galleons."

Harry tried to keep up his appearance as a customer, perusing the shop for any potentially enlightening items. However, when he heard the voice that replied, he couldn't help but freeze where he stood, breathing fast and shallow, heart somewhere in the region of his throat.

"Of course I am aware of the risk, Mr. Borgin" the slow, drawling voice was saying, "But I am also not a fool, or as outright stupid as you appear to think I am. I know very well that you cannot ingratiate yourself in that manner with either side. If you offer me to the Dark Lord, and the Ministry find out, I'm sure all the favours you've accumulated will suddenly and miraculously disappear; your shop will be closed down, all its dark objects confiscated. Guidelines have been awfully strict recently, wouldn't you agree?

"However, offering me to the Ministry or suchlike would be very foolish indeed. When the Dark Lord found out- as you're doubtless aware he would- he wouldn't be best pleased with you, now would he?"

Harry grasped the side of the cabinet in front of him, struggling to take in the fact that he was here, the person Harry had thought about almost non-stop over the previous weeks.

The familiar voice continued, "So obviously, the wisest choice would be to pay the highly reasonable sum I've asked for this exceedingly rare object, and pretend you never saw me."

Seized by a sudden need to see him, to make sure, Harry swung his invisibility cloak out of his bag, pulled it close about him, and surreptitiously entered the back room. The greasy Mr. Borgin was on one side of the small space, and Harry tuned into his speech mid-sentence.

"-well, I shall pay you 125 galleons for it, and not a knut more. Don't even consider haggling; you situation is still precarious."

The pale, sharp-featured boy who handed over the antique-looking crystal bracelet with an amused sneer could be no one but Draco Malfoy.

He took the bag of money Mr. Borgin had just counted out with a smooth, "Pleasure doing business with you," sweeping out of the room as though the conversation he'd just had had been entirely natural.

For his part, Harry was stunned. He'd assumed he'd have to search for weeks to find any trace of Malfoy's whereabouts, yet here he was. But what was he doing, selling jewellery at such a time? Mr. Borgin was, surprisingly, the one to answer that question.

"I can sell this for a bare minimum of 150 galleons, after haggling," he murmured, privately. "That's a 20 profit. Money does indeed make the world go 'round…but even that sum won't let you run far enough, boy. No amount will."

Suddenly, Harry realised: why Malfoy needed the money so badly; why Borgin had threatened him with being "turned in"; why even now Malfoy was pulling his hood close about his face, hiding his easily recognisable features.

He had run away.

But what were the implications of this? He would have to join their side, obviously. Harry shuddered, with surprising emotion, at the memory of Lupin's cold reaction to the death of the deserter Karkaroff, who feared each side too much to join either. "I'm surprised he stayed alive for even a year after deserting the Death Eaters; Sirius's brother Regulus only managed a few days." How long had it been now since Malfoy had fled Voldemort?

Harry rushed from the room, causing Borgin to turn in surprise at the sudden draft. By that time, Harry was pulling himself through a closing door behind Malfoy, with a surprising sense of urgency. Of course, he reasoned, he couldn't just let Malfoy go. That was it. He wasn't worried or afraid for him in the slightest.

To Harry's surprise and relief, Malfoy made for Diagon Alley. When they were in the open Harry removed the charms and pulled off the cloak, careful no one saw him materialise out of thin air.

Suddenly, he saw his chance. Malfoy was just passing the mouth of another small, hopefully empty, alleyway. Harry rushed forward and grabbed him, pulling him away from the crowds.

"Wha-" gasped Malfoy, before Harry clamped a hand firmly over his mouth, holding his wrist with the other so he couldn't reach his wand. When far enough down the alley, he let Malfoy go- who promptly turned to face his kidnapper, hood falling back to reveal that familiar face, now masked with fear.

"Don't worry, I have no plans to harm you, Malfoy," Harry said at once, holding his wand out to the side, in plain view Malfoy looked understandably suspicious.

"What do you want, Potter?" he asked, highly wary and evidently confused.

Never letting his gaze drop, Harry said simply, "I was on the tower. I know you weren't going to kill Dumbledore. I know he was going to help you, and though a large portion of me still wants to hurt you very badly for what you let happen-" he paused momentarily, "I know you need a lot of help right now."

He tensed, expecting Malfoy to attack him, or at the very least to question him, or refuse his help. Instead, his silvery eyes widened. Then, he appeared to relax, and said, "Whatever else you may be, Potter, you're not a liar. Moreover, I don't suppose I'm in any position to refuse any help. I assume you've figured out what I've done, then."

"Basically. In the last five or so minutes." Harry drew a breath, and said, "You've left the Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and you're on the run. You're by no means therefore 'good', of course, but I have to tell you that your best option is to join us. We can protect you, and without any protection you'll probably be dead in a number of days."

Malfoy nodded, and what little colour there was in his face drained from it. He stumbled forward, and Harry grabbed him to hold him upright. This close, Harry could see the dark rings around the usually composed boy's face, the greyish tinge to his complexion. He couldn't have slept well for quite a while, and the constant exhaustion and fear must have been making him act out of character.

"Come on, I'll get you a room in the Leaky Cauldron," Harry said, pulling Malfoy up so he could almost stand by himself. "Most people there are in the Order- you should be pretty safe. I'll try to make sure no one asks any awkward questions."

With his arm around Harry's shoulder, Malfoy could walk, and they headed towards the Leaky Cauldron. When there, Harry called to Tom that he needed the room next to his for a friend he'd just run into, and the bald man led them, up to it- blessedly asking no questions- before leaving them be.

Laying Malfoy down on the bed, Harry realised he'd never seen him so helpless- except that time Harry had performed Sectumsempra on him, unaware of its effects. He suddenly remembered something: "There's a chance it may leave a scar." Had it? He needed to know.

You look exhausted," he ventured. "Uh, I guess you'll need pyjamas. You can borrow some of mine. Sorry if they're a bit big or anything." He went off to fetch some, as Malfoy mumbled some all but incoherent thanks.

He obviously kept his back turned as Malfoy changed, except when he glanced shortly around- as subtly as possible- to see the damage he'd done.

Across his perfect, creamy skin, Malfoy had a long, jagged scar. The flesh was even paler than his own, and it ran in an uneven line across the whole of his torso. Now he was looking, Harry noticed the much fainter path of a similar wound across Malfoy's face. It felt almost like sacrilege for some reason, and Harry could almost taste the guilt that was filling his chest and throat as he remembered the anguished screams, and the blood. He hadn't really known a person had that much in them.

"Hey, thanks Harry," Malfoy mumbled slowly, sleepily, "For paying for my room and for lending me these and stuff."

"No problem- Draco," replied Harry, wondering why they were suddenly on first name terms. The timing of that thank-you was so ironic, he almost laughed. He continued, "I'll just leave you to sleep, then. Sorry, I don't really know any protective charms or anything. I guess it's better than sleeping rough, and the last place anyone would expect to find you is sleeping next to Harry Potter. Well, next to as in, uh, next door to, obviously…" He tails off, lamely, and Draco gives a quiet, oddly endearing laugh, quite unlike his usual cruel, condescending one. Harry, taken aback once more, leaves for his own room in a state of contemplative confusion.

A few hours later, unable to sleep, Harry found himself back in Draco's room. He seemed unsettled in sleep, as though having a nightmare, and kept opening and closing his mouth, as though silently crying out for help. It reminded Harry of someone.

TBC