Hi. Captain K here, with another sad attempt at the idea that's been plaguing me for years. This story is about what would happen if Harry got drawn into the world from which I only recently escaped. There will be eventual slash (HP/DM) and drug use, violence and immediate, constant swearing. Enjoy! -Kinna

PS... I do not own even a smidgen of the rights to Harry Potter. JK Rowling does, and she makes hella money from it. This is completely not-for-profit, just-for-shits-and-giggles. I do appreciate reviews, though.

Chapter One. Good-fucking-bye.

"There was another one like us, like you and me, Harry," Draco whispered frantically. "You know what they did to him? They beat him bad, they... they did nasty things to him... and they burned him."

He paused, glancing his lover's face, which was frozen in an expression of stunned disbelief. "Harry! I was there! I saw the whole fucking thing! They'd do worse, too! I can't stand it! They suspect something. You have to get out of here, take the next train, never speak of it again."

"Aren't you coming with me?" Harry said softly.

"I can't. Don't you get it? We can't disappear together. They'd hunt us down. You... they'd think you were too weak, or something. Couldn't stomach the life, they wouldn't go after you. But both of us, together... I can't."

Harry glared at Draco for a few seconds, then stood and stalked away, towards the trees beyond the gang's fire. Draco made his face impassive and joined the circle of people ringing the fire.

"Oi! Scar-face! Where do you think you're going?" a heavily tattooed man shouted at Harry's retreating back.

"Fuck off, Jim. I gotta piss," he shot back.

He didn't stop walking for what seemed like ages. Past the hole the gang used as a latrine, past the clearing in which he and Draco had first discovered what they shared, past the edge of the trees on the other side of the forested strip in which they camped. The tracks lay there, gleaming in the moonlight, endless ribbons of shining metal that led away forever. Harry continued, parallel to the rails, mumbling to himself, cursing Draco Malfoy.

'Doesn't bloody care about anything but saving his own skin, filthy fucking hypocrite...'

The dark form of a coyote ran across his path, just at the edge of his sight. It paused and looked at him, eyes glowing eerily in a reflection of the moon, and scampered into the trees again.

Harry picked up a heavy spike that had come loose from it's tie and hurled it back the way he had come.

"Fuck you, Draco. Rot in hell. I don't give a shit about you."

Harry Potter had been young when things at home became too much to bear. He had lived, then, with his horrible uncle, his anally-retentive aunt, and a particularly loathsome hulking beast of a cousin. Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley. They owned a modest, but well-furnished house in the suburbs of a small, mid-western town. Vernon and Petunia slept in the largest bedroom, Dudley in one slightly smaller, and Harry in the closet under the stairs. They resented having him around, this was painfully clear from the start. Vernon was constantly giving Harry grief for having been forced upon them.

Harry had never understood how exactly it was his fault his parent's car had crashed through a guard-rail and plummeted into an icy river, seeing as how he hadn't even been with them at the time of the accident. He had been at the sitter's, babbling at the Sesame Street characters on her small television in his high-pitched toddler voice, when the call had come. He could just barely remember the wail of shock and terror that had emanated from the gawky teenager who was sometimes his caretaker. Both of his parent's were dead, whether drowned or killed by the trauma, he never knew. He had been sent to his only relatives, and they had not been kind.

Over the years, they had neglected him, shut him away, punished him for things he had control over. He was never fed as richly as the prodigal son, Dudley, who, being the size of a young grizzly bear, could have stood having a bit less. Vernon was generally abusive, whether it be with words or belt or flying fist. He didn't ever need a reason to be cross with Harry. Petunia, who was obsessed to the point of mania with cleanliness and purity, had tried to exorcise with bleach and prayer whatever demon she fancied was in him, that caused his hair to be untidy and his instant obeisance to falter.

On his eve of his eighteenth birthday, Harry was resolved to leave and never come back. He sat on his cot in the dusty, spider-infested closet beneath the stairs, waiting for the antique cuckoo clock on the mantle to chime midnight. His rucksack, not even half filled with everything he could legitimately say he owned, sat between his knees. He had already pulled on his worn sneakers and jacket, and counted the seconds impatiently until he was allowed to go. Where? He didn't really care. He had seen homeless men sleeping in doorways and wrapped in cardboard on his infrequent trips to the big city, those times when the Dursley's had flat out refused to leave him to his own devices in their precious house with their precious knick knacks. He could manage. He was tough.

Footsteps had thundered down the stairs above him and when they reached the landing, a loud knock had sounded on the closet door.

"Boy! Get up, get out here. I know you're awake." It was Vernon. Harry sighed, having half-expected not to be left to leave in peace. He rose and opened the door. A fist immediately materialized in front of him and sped toward him, faster than he could react. It landed squarely in his face, and he fell backwards into darkness.

When he next was aware of himself, he was lying splayed on the walkway that led from the Dursley's driveway to their front door. Everything hurt. Especially his face. He pulled his hand from his side with great effort and felt his throbbing forehead. It was wet, and his fingers came away red. His cheeks were tender and he knew he must be heavily bruised. Of course the bastards would want to give him a good a long lasting reminder not to come back. He lay for several more minutes, thanking a god he didn't believe in that he was free.

He got to his feet, turned and raised his middle finger at the house and shouted for the whole respectable neighborhood to hear, "GO TO HELL, YOU DUMB FUCKING CUNTS!" and limped down the driveway into the night.

He walked as well as he could, as far as he could, down the roads he knew led to the highway before collapsing and crawling under some convenient thick bushes and passing out.

When he woke the sun was bright and there was a foot prodding his ribs.

"Leave me the fuck alone," he muttered, and footsteps retreated.

'I'm not dead', he thought cheerfully, as he sat up and rubbed his filthy glasses with the hem of his tee shirt. Looking around, he saw that he had made it to the very edge of town during his nighttime wanderings. He could hear the sound of hundreds of cars and eighteen wheeled semi-trucks zooming across asphalt off to his right. He stood, pulled his pack over his aching shoulders, and set off towards the cacophony of noise.

He had been walking slowly backwards down the shoulder of the highway with his arm out and thumb extended for over an hour before anyone stopped. The car that pulled onto the shoulder was old, rather rusty, but still recognizably pale blue, and was driven by an matronly woman who seemed rather shocked that she had pulled over.

"What on earth happened to you?" she asked him, as soon as he peered into the open window.

"It doesn't matter, honestly. Are you going toward the city?"

"It does matter, young man. Get in, I expect you to tell me the whole truth before we're there." She tried to smile and he nodded and slid into the padded seat gratefully.

"I would never pick up a hitchhiker, usually," she stated, breaking the initial uncomfortable silence. She had gray hair that was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and a rather stern face. "But you just looked so... needy, that I couldn't go by. What on God's green earth beat you up so bad?"

"My uncle. Maybe my cousin, too. It's really not a big deal. I'm never going to see them again..." Harry trailed off.

She looked at him sharply, one eyebrow raised. "Child abuse, my dear boy, is a very big deal."

"I'm not... not a child. I just turned 18. That's why I'm leaving, you see?" Harry stammered. "I guess they wanted to tell me in more than words never to set foot on their property again."

They spoke of more pleasant things during the next hour of the commute. The woman was called Mrs. McGonagall, and she taught physics at a high school in the city. She complained of obnoxious teenagers and low pay, but Harry rather thought she didn't mean the things she said.

They finally stopped at a filling station just inside the city limits, and she bought a first aid kit inside, then took Harry to the restroom and washed the blood from his face. He protested, telling her he could manage himself, but she insisted. When the grime and bodily fluids were gone, he looked at himself in the cracker mirror and nearly fainted. His face was almost entirely bruised, complete with black eyes and a fat lip. But what was worse was the deep, jagged cut that ran from his temple to his left eyebrow.

"Fuck..." he breathed.

Mrs. McGonagall shook her head and squeezed his shoulders.

"You'll need stitches, I think. Oh... you poor thing..."

Harry stared at his reflection as long as he could stand it, then followed the woman back to her car.

"I sincerely hope you're destined for better things, good luck, Harry," she said gravely.

Harry grimaced and thanked her, before saying goodbye, and watched her drive away. He looked around at the tall, grey office buildings and masses of people hurrying to and fro in the bright morning. He chose a random direction and fell into step behind them.

...

More to come if interest is shown. Hell, even if interest is not shown. It's about bloody time I cranked out this story.