Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or worlds of Harry Potter or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I do own other stuff. But you can't have it. It's mine.
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RESEMBLANCE
For his failure to kill Dumbledore, he would die; but then again, he would die for even trying.
When he ran that night or, more honestly, was dragged, still dazed from the events on the Tower, he didn't know where he was going or what was going to happen to him. His only concern was for his parents, but he could still see Dumbledore, lit green and falling. He let Snape's harangue about 'stupid, reckless children' wash over him, harshly panted as it was.
They hadn't gone back to Voldemort, instead Snape had taken him to Spinner's End, a dilapidated hovel but paradise still because, for the moment, he could stop running. He didn't even feel the ground as he fell to the floor, exhausted.
When Draco woke hours later, still on the floor but covered with a soft, if moth-eaten, blanket, he saw a small satchel with a note pinned to the top.
In Snape's rigid hand, it read, "They know this house. I ran to distract them. I suggest you show your appreciation for this act by taking the opportunity I am giving you. Draco, your father is dead. Nothing could be done. In truth, he died months ago, raving in Azkaban, but the Dark Lord did not trust you would fulfill your mission if you knew.
Narcissa is still alive. She is hidden somewhere in Paris. As you know her better than I, you will better be able to find where she has gone to ground. There are muggle clothes and money in the bag; you will be safer hiding amongst them now, away from everyone."
A few lines down, and in a shakier hand, Snape continued, "I do not know if we will meet again. What I have done is truly unforgivable, more so than any childish spell. I have never had the chance to start afresh. Doomed from birth by blood and circumstance, then what the follies of youth did to taint the man I became… You have that chance now.
Amongst muggles, you may recreate Draco Malfoy, and become the person you were perhaps always meant to be. I hope we do meet again, someday, so that I may see the man you will become.
Sleep well and be safe,
Your Godfather."
Cursing his own weakness and sentimentality, Draco brushed tears from his eyes and gently folded the letter, wrapping it in the ragged blanket he had been covered with and tucking it deep inside the bag. The muggle money was paper, he couldn't imagine any proprietor preferring it to gold, and the clothes felt strange, accustomed as he was to loose robes and more luxurious fabrics. Still, they fit well enough, and seemed sturdy.
Hiding his wand down the front pocket in the dark blue trousers, he hefted the bag and left, not noticing the house fading from sight as he walked away.
Draco Malfoy didn't look back.
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Living in a cold water flat in Paris wasn't what he was used to, but it was better than what he would probably have had staying in England, which would be a quick and painless death if he were lucky.
After three months, he still hadn't found his mother, but he hadn't given up hope. Every day he found new rumors to follow, even hints that she might not be alone, but in the company of a tall, austere, greasy haired man.
In the meantime, he almost enjoyed living amongst muggles. Once he got the money and technology thing figured out, it was… restful. There was no pressure, no expectations.
In case anyone was looking for him, he gave up magic completely, locking his wand in a drawer in his desk so he got to experience the day to day life of regular muggles. He'd found a part-time job in a small book shop and was enjoying a mild flirtation with a clerk in a boulangerie that he knew would never go anywhere, and things began to feel almost normal.
He was lonely, having no close friends for their safety and his own, but that was nothing new. Spending his youth surrounded by Death Eaters-to-be had made him wary of personal associations, but it wasn't that bad, and every few weeks he made his way to a small nightclub and danced with the entire room.
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He'd followed the rumors here, a pretty young man with a tongue like a knife, bleached blonde hair, dressed in black, and more attitude than he could afford, and there he was, writhing in the middle of the dance floor.
Spike.
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Note: So here we have the first chapter of a new story. This one is going to be very dark and I can't make any promises regarding pairings because there is a lot of drama before we hit any fuzzy feelings. There will be sex scenes and a rape in the next chapter or two. So if you can't read that sort of thing, you might want to skip a few chapters and come back in about a month.
Please review. I won't be updating this regularly until I have finished one of my other incomplete stories, but I want to know what you all think.