Disclaimer: Yeah, I TOTALLY own this.

NOT.

A/N: Look, this is a special case. It's a rewrite of a story I wrote that was never EVER intended for eyes other than my own. Let me put it this way… I'm not even storing it on this computer for long. It will be updated AS I CAN. Meaning if you like it, favorite it, alert it and you'll see it as it comes. It could be as slow as once every two weeks or as fast as once a day. It may vary and fluctuate, all I know is a little voice is telling me someone out there might like it. And yes, for a couple suggestive scenes, this is rated 18+.

SO DON'T SUE ME MOTHERS.

The blonde was in complete awe of himself, in as self-absorbed way as usual. The only difference was he had a right to this time. He was currently engaged in something which should be completely out of bounds not to mention impossible for a pureblood; speeding down a muggle road on a muggle vehicle which had been enchanted by a blood traitor. What's more surprising than that was his target destination.

Draco Malfoy was securely on his way to Number Four Privet Drive. Speeding the cycle down the road, he briefly wondered if he could find a way to make the enchantment giving him the ability to drive this thing permanent. It was liberating, almost like flying only stranger, shakier, it was like riding an old Comet that had the speed of a Firebolt.

It was liberating, and exciting. He was truly out on his own. No Snape… no father… no Voldemort… he was free in this moment. A wall of water rose on either side of him as he ran through a puddle which just couldn't have been big enough for that big of a splash. It was almost as though he could forget what he was doing. A Malfoy groveled to no one, thus why he was in this situation; but begging… that was something that Draco was resigned to doing at this point. This was his final choice.

He turned a corner at the bike's prompting and found himself staring down row after row of small, cookie cutter homes. One stood out. This one was also his destination. This one stood out for a multitude of reasons. A new coat of paint, a clean driveway, the eyes of a middleaged woman staring out of the window at him, and most importantly, the form of a tall, gangly boy unconscious on the front lawn.

He pulled into the driveway and kicked the kickstand down. As soon as he stood from the bike all knowledge of how to drive it, how to get where he was, all of it, vanished completely. On the other hand, the feeling he had had in his mind a moment ago—frustration, confusion—remained well intact. Ignoring the muggle eyes peering out at him, the blonde came to the form on the ground. Sure enough, it was his target.

The-Boy-Who-Lived.

Sprawled out on the ground in an exceedingly unbecoming manner, Harry Potter's head rested on a stone, one hand comically planted on the side of his face as if he'd fallen asleep that way, and the other holding a death grip on a bottle. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on there. It was, however, exceedingly troubling. He couldn't continue with any of the plans—his or other peoples'—until Potter slept it off. What a waste of time.

But at the same time… what better way to begin one of his plans… what better way to win Potter's trust? What better way to start on the road to making him believe? When Potter believed, the others would too, and he wouldn't have to deal with anything like the impromptu duel in the House of Black in which he managed to disarm two Weasleys and survive the third. He wouldn't have to deal with Granger's consistent drilling of questions… wouldn't have to dodge them.

He wouldn't have to lie.

Six long years of lies, be it to the public, his father or himself. All of them wasted because of one single fact: he could never lie to Voldemort. One meeting was all it had taken to ruin his façade, to bring the walls crashing down. He was forced to remember that he was NOT a slytherin, he was a failure as a Malfoy and hated the Dark Lord more than he should. And what was more, Voldemort had seen why.

Six years of being a complete ass or pretending to be one.

Six years of regret.

Potter was covered in dirt and blood, Draco discovered as the front door opened, expelling light. Black and blue, too. He had been in an intense physical fight, the kind Wizards rarely had unless they had no wand.

"Get off my lawn this instant!" The man in the doorway was wide, with an unpleasant face. That's not to say that he was ugly… well… he WAS, but the unpleasantness came from the face that the man seemed as if he could never be pleasant a day in his life unless it immediately served his purpose. This was in some ways similar to Draco's own father. He was also a completely expected obstacle, from what Granger had prattled on about. Thus, never one to be outdone by Granger, he had come up with a foolproof method of dealing with the man.

"Move." There was power laced into those words, it was one of the few things he had received from his father that he truly appreciated. The power of Suggestion. Only a minor ability, he knew his commands were laced with magic as if they were spells, and to the weak mind—like a muggle, a squib or a particularly easily controlled wizards who had no proper will (Let's say, half of Voldemort's servants)—they could be irresistible. He also knew that Voldemort had the same ability. He knew it because Voldemort could control his more devoted men completely without the Imperius even when they normally would refuse. The less devoted he either threatened or tortured or whipped out the Imperius. There were some to who his voice was so influential that he controlled every part of their lives. Draco was almost one of those people and he was only in Voldemort's presence for five minutes.

With a shudder, the blonde watched the muggle turn aside, blubbering and attempting a rebuttal. Draco, finding he was going to have trouble, crouched down and brought his hands under the prone form. The first was under the neck and the second under the legs. He quickly found that attempting to balance someone who was taller than you across your arms was a pain. He moved toward the door determinedly and then turned to the muggle as he entered.

"Take me to his room." He had no remorse using this ability on this man, he'd heard enough about him to know he didn't deserve remorse, not even more than Voldemort. With the graying man leading the way, he followed, keeping his body as upright as possible with Potter forcing him to contort in odd ways to climb the narrow stairs. They found a landing soon enough and the muggle pointed toward a door.

Built into the outside of this door were seven locks… a stange piece of plastic over a hole that was like a larger version of the smaller piece of metal on the outside of the door, something Granger had called a Mail-flap, it was used to let something inside without having to open the door. If this had a similar purpose, what did that mean? He quickly realized that the door opened in and after turning the handle just enough—somehow—he kicked the door open.

Now bereft of his burden as Potter laid on his bed, Draco looked for one last thing the mudblood had described; a small, plastic protuberance on the wall, which would flood the room with light. It took him more than two minutes in total, but he found it, wincing as a strange round object flared to life with what seemed like the intensity of a thousand candles.

Wincing against the light he took some time to stare out the dark window until he knew it was safe to look around. Instantly he regretted it. Long frozen heartstrings were tugged as he examined the form on the bed. Dirty, bloody, and battered, Potter was unconscious on the bed, his face red and a fever evident. Dried vomit caked the front of his shirt, almost enough to make Draco gag himself. All in all, the boy was a mess. The source of the blood seemed to be his own nose and a cut down the length of his arm that had caked over and scabbed up. The bare chest was almost completely lost to normally colored skin. Whatever had done this had been brutal, but most likely not wizard. Some of these marks looked as if they were made by neither spell nor hand. A muggle had done this.

That settled it. After checking and finding only dried blood on his own shirt—no vomit, thank Merlin—Draco descended down the stairs. He needed to be perfect here, he needed to be an actor like he had been for years, but now he had to imitate not his father or his father's friends, but the mudblood Granger.

He descended the stairs and turned into the kitchen, having seen the door on his way up. Pushing it open forcefully, he found the family gathered in it, whispering darkly. There sat the man from before, a similarly looking boy Draco's age, and a lanky, angry looking woman who gave off an air of pettiness that reminded him of most of Slytherin's girls. The boy opened his mouth to speak when Draco called, "SHUT UP!"

He stepped forward, mimicking Snape as best as he could as he walked, sneering down at them with every inch of contempt. "I demand to know what caused him to be in this situation, physically. I don't care how he got pissed, I want to know who did that to him. NOW!" Lacing his voice with Command, he stopped short, sneering down at the man whose name he finally remembered from Granger's useless rambling. "Vernon Dursley. You're a big enough man…" he gazed around the room for a sign of abuse. Nothing except… the man's right hand was broken. "Picking on defenseless children is how you get your jollies, isn't it?" He could remember violently his young childhood.

"Now you wait right there," the woman called out, and she sounded so much like his own mother that Draco turned on her and yelled.

"You're not in this! You're next!"

He whipped his wand out, purely a bluff. "Y-You can't do magic outside of school, boy, we know that."

He turned on Dursley. "Do you know that in all technicality, I am now hated by most of the world Potter and I come from? Do you know that in all technicality I am aligned with Potter's worst enemy and Marked as his enemy? That to be completely truthful, I'm already a wanted man? No, I don't think you do." How would they know he was bluffing and hadn't already taken the Mark? "Being expelled," he lifted the wand, "Is a minor care compared to what I already have to deal with."

With a barking laugh, he turned on the boy. "And you, judging by how smug you're looking, you were part of it too, weren't you?" The boy paled immediately and sank back into his seat, so much so that the tipped the chair over backward. "Now, listen here. What did you all use? Was it your hands, did you enjoy the personal feeling of making him hurt by your own two hands?" Draco stalked closer to Vernon, now using every inch of his Snape imitation to his advantage. "No, it's obvious you did use your hands. What about you, fatass? Or were you too scared to even get close?"

There was no damage to the boy's hands, it was obvious to Draco that the marks he had seen were this kid's work. "What did you use? Did Potter have a Beater's Bat on him somehow?" No… it was too… oddly shaped for that. A mumble came from the shaking form on the floor and Draco crouched, his wand still on Vernon as he drew close to the fallen form. "You. Were. Saying?"

"Boxing gloves," the boy announced in complete fear. "I was wearing my gloves!"

Draco was clueless as to what they were.

"Explain what those are, what are they made from?" There were several things that if they got inside a wizard's body could do intense internal damage.

"They protect your hands when you're fighting," the boy offered, seemingly willingly, as if proud of his idea. "Mine are leather, speed gloves."

Leather. Rarely used for magical weapons, and unless enchanted not particularly fatal on its own.

"Fine," Malfoy said, moving over to the kitchen counter and finding a knife. The boy, looking up from his space, whimpered. "Oh relax," the blonde muttered, and began looking for the device Granger had described. And there it was. He moved across to the other side of the room and plunged the knife into the wall, severing the line on the TellPho. That was it right?

Whatever it was, it was now disabled. "Alright now. Tomorrow you'll go on about your days as per usual, and as soon as Potter is awake and not vomiting, we'll be leaving. You can expect no legal issues to come to you as long as you cooperate."

"The same can't be said of you, boy!" Vernon roared. "Breaking and entering, destroying my property, threatening my son with that knife."

"I threatened no one, yet," Draco's eyes narrowed.

"Not the way I saw it."

"Shut up you blubbering moron. I've had enough of people like you." It was true. Crabbe… Goyle… morons, horrible lackeys. What a waste of time. "Woman, what's your name?"

He was willing to be courteous to her.

"Petunia Dursley," she finally answered, seemingly unable to find the gumption to rebut him.

"Alright Mrs. Dursley," he said, attempting to sound half mannerly. As he pocketed his wand he let his thumb touch a spot on the inside of the pocket of his robes, activating a ward that he had been given by the werewolf. "If you could, please find a washcloth and some fresh clothes for Potter."

He was just about to continue when a roar caught his attention. Vernon, charging at him at barely more than a waddle, was looking angry. Slow enough that Draco could avoid him, he was also blundering into a trap that Draco couldn't resist letting him set off. There was a rumble in the kitchen as the man lunged at him, and hit thin air. Suspended for a moment, Vernon was able to see the flash of white as he was flung backward, through the kitchen table. At the same time the Ward established a silencing charm around the house, casting the spell he needed most but had been unable to cast.

Good. He was safely established.

Draco Malfoy had set up base in the home of The-Boy-Who-Lived.