Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. One has to be a supremely talented witch to own Harry Potter. I am a mere Muggle with a large imagination. Not quite the same thing.

Chapter Three

Harry could hear voices downstairs: the high nasally tones of Petunia and the heavy, masculine ones of Uncle Vernon. He knew he should be worried, but right now all he cared about was the state of his room.

The only guest room in the house was reserved for Aunt Marge and her infamous bulldog, Ripper, and as usual, Dumbledore hadn't bothered to finalize where exactly in the house Malfoy would be staying. Now that the threat of an intimidating wizard with frighteningly abnormal fashion sense had been lifted, the Dursleys would never agree to giving up the extra bedroom. Not that they needed the room; it was purely out of spite. Harry, long since used to such shenanigans of theirs was still, understandably, frustrated.

Damn it, Dumbledore, why do you do everything by half measures?

He grunted as he singlehandedly tried to move the bed and then his school trunk to the far right of the room, against the wall with the barred window. It took him about six minutes, a dozen painful bruises and a few choice swears to achieve his goal. Wiping a sweat-streaked forehead, he finished hiding his wand under the mattress. It would not do to let the Dursleys see a wand at this point or they might snap. He thought, with trained detachedness, that such a task would have taken him only a couple of minutes if he were at Hogwarts.

He was well aware that his friends noticed his extremely thin frame for a boy their age at the start of each year, especially Hermione, but she either didn't have the nerve to ask, or thought that it was Harry's own business. Whatever the reason, Harry was relieved that they did not interrogate him. There was just too much to hide and he hated lying to his friends.

Lost in his thoughts but constantly working, Harry had managed to move his pathetically empty wardrobe into the center of the room, since he assumed he'd have to share with Malfoy, and picked up the clothes and books strewn across the room. One last adjustment had to be made. Dudley's old playthings and recent additions to the ever-growing piles were crowding up any empty space in the room, where would Malfoy sleep?

Of course, he would have to sleep somewhere else because Harry was not going to sacrifice his bed to the prissy aristocrat, however he may enjoy seeing him squirm under the scratchy, half-worn sheets.

Malfoy can sleep on the floor, he decided, Lord knows it would do him good to learn some humility-

CRASH!

The sudden noise made Harry freeze in total panic for a full second before he ran at the door, pulling it open violently, then rushing down the stairs at full speed. He tripped over the last four and went tumbling straight down to the bottom. Heedless of his growing number of injuries, he skidded to a halt at the entrance of the kitchen, taking in the overturned table, the smashed vase.

Aunt Petunia's favorite vase.

Her only connection to her mother.

Footsteps sounded behind Harry. They sounded like Uncle Vernon's.

'Oh no,' he muttered.

Harry had his back to Vernon. He didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It depended entirely on the older man's mood.

A large hand slammed onto Harry's shoulder and he flinched hugely; he had not been expecting that at all. He mentally kicked himself when he saw Malfoy's eyes narrow in his direction.

There's nothing curious about this Malfoy, nothing at all. And even if there was, then you shouldn't care, right? Turn your head around, good, good, that's it, he said in his head, wondering if him saying it over and over would hypnotize Malfoy like it did in movies.

To his great disappointment, Malfoy did not sway on his feet or even look slightly less alert, and Harry knew that he had to come up with some plausible explanations for the way things were around this house. But that would have to wait till later because right now he was in BIG TROUBLE. First, he'd brought a guest into the house without permission, never mind that he'd been forced into this, and now the aforementioned guest had somehow broken the table and Aunt Petunia's favorite vase.

'Boy,' hissed Vernon, 'You and I need to have a talk. Now.'

No. Not in front of Malfoy. Harry had a bad feeling that this would not be one of Uncle Vernon's normal 'talks'. This would be bloody.

He thought fast. 'But Uncle Vernon, you still haven't had supper. You always do something hasty if you haven't eaten. The food's ready, do you want me to set the table and take him,' he jerked his finger at Malfoy, 'upstairs?'

Vernon's beady eyes narrowed. The brat was right, he was hungry. And all this anger required a full stomach.

'We will talk, boy. You are not getting out of this one that easy.'

'Of course not, Uncle Vernon,' said Harry with a certain amount of sarcasm.

Vernon growled.

Harry took Malfoy by the collar and raced upstairs.

Draco was getting dragged up a set of stairs. By his collar. By Potter! Oh, how he wished he was still the Malfoy heir. He'd make sure to test out the dungeons in the Manor with his very first victim…

'Potter,' he said with gritted teeth, 'do you think I am bodily disabled?'

'Huh?' Potter's blank face strangely did not remind him of his fat relative downstairs.

'I have legs, Potter. I can and will walk up this measly flight of stairs on my own. I do not need you to carry me like some punished house elf!'

Understanding dawned, and Potter blinked behind his huge glasses, which were horribly fixed with bits of Spellotape and thread. Draco was repulsed. Why didn't Potter get his spectacle frames mended? Surely he had the money, many a time had Draco seen him spending on behalf of his Weasel friends.

'…sorry about that, I didn't think. I just wanted to get upstairs.'

Wait, what? The casual apology threw him completely off guard.

Potter was impatiently gesturing at the door, so Draco followed him inside what appeared to be Hero Potter's bedroom.

Aforementioned hero was already looking at him oddly, but when Draco actually winced, he gave up the attempt at silence.

'What is the matter with you, Malfoy? Why are your eyes closed? You're going to be living in here remember? It's not like you can avoid seeing it all summer.'

At his words, both boys groaned in unison, looked at each other in disgust and turned away. No one needed to be reminded how long they would have to put up with each other, especially Malfoy, for whom this was the greater ordeal.

As he turned, Malfoy got his first glimpse of the room. He saw grey.

And more grey.

Thinning white paint on the walls, uncomfortable looking bed sheets, scruffy, broken and creepily staring stuffed toys, Potter's trunk leaning against the wall.

Draco didn't believe it.

'This is your room? But Professor Snape said… If you're pulling my wand, Potter, I'll make you regret it.'

Potter looked at him in aggravation. Draco cursed himself. He'd meant to be prepared and on his good behavior but the state of what he assumed was Potter's room had tripped him up. He'd lashed out in the only way he knew how: threats. Even if they held no power now, oh Merlin, it was his first day and he'd already seen so many things he didn't want to.

Damn it, Mother! Even Parkinson Manor would have been better than this!

'You actually believe what comes out if Snape's mouth? No wonder you're all such prejudiced arses. Let me set this straight out for you, Malfoy. Snape doesn't know a thing about me or my family. He's a greasy, twisted old bat who wouldn't know a joke if it spat on his face, am I clear? I am not the stuck up hero you all so desperately want me to be, so just shut up!'

His eyes were ablaze with anger and Malfoy, despite his indignation about the comments against his mentor, thought it best to direct it away from him.

'Where am I to sleep, Potter? That bed is awfully small and the sheets look awfully dirty. Unlike you, I need my beauty sleep.'

Potter's face morphed into a grin and he pointed to the floor with unnecessary force.

'Seems like you'll have to do without it then.'

'What?'

'That bed is mine, Malfoy. You're sleeping on the floor. And those sheets are not dirty. I washed them myself.'

No way. Never.

'Potter.'

A huge, satisfied, utterly content grin. 'Yes?'

'A Malfoy never sleeps. On. The. Floor.'

'Ah, but you're not a Malfoy now, are you? You're in my house, and you have to do what I say or I might kick you out. Then where would you go?'

Suddenly, it was all too much and Malfoy slid down the wall, onto the very floor he despised sleeping on. His head was in his hands and his entire countenance radiated misery.

He distantly heard Potter say something that was probably stupid, so he automatically insulted him. He wanted to be left alone.

Seeing Malfoy so out of it was healing for Harry's heart, like ambrosia, but it was also disturbing. Malfoy wasn't supposed to look like an injured puppy, it was wrong. So without meaning to, Harry tried to offer some words of comfort. It was ridiculous that the blond felt something simple was so degrading. Just how pampered a life had he lived if he thought it would always be in his favor? If just sleeping on the floor was so difficult, what would he do if he knew what sort of things Harry had gone through?

Probably run away screaming like the coward he is, he thought with satisfaction.

'It's really not that hard, Malfoy. If you don't think too much about it, you'll be fine.'

He felt so mature as he reassured his enemy, that he was very insulted when Malfoy vaguely told him to get lost. He rolled his eyes and left to make supper and confront his Uncle.

Supper was a quiet affair. The Dursleys were tense and Harry was too anxious about the 'talk' to pay mind to his grumbling belly.

After washing up, he went to the sitting room without being called.

'You're here, good, and without being called. A step up from your performance this evening, I'd say.'

Harry lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise.

Vernon laughed. Harry's eyebrows came down with frightening speed; Vernon never laughed during one of his angry moods. He was a temperamental man who knew nothing about intimidation that required more than raw anger and, as such, the laugh didn't fit with the situation.

'Petunia and I have put up with you for fifteen years now, and our patience is wearing thin.'

'Technically, that's fourteen years.'

'DON'T INTERRUPT ME, BOY!'

Harry involuntarily flinched, then looked down. It was never good to rile up Vernon Dursley and he was doing a fantastic job of it. Vernon, on the other hand, was taking calming breaths and finally spoke again.

'We took you in, fed you, gave you a roof over your head, woke up in the dead of the night to stop your wailing and change your filthy, soiled clothes…'

Harry could hardly contain his embarrassment at being told about his babyhood helplessness, but he resolved to keep his mouth shut.

'Well, they wouldn't be soiled in the first placed if you'd…'

He could have kicked himself.

Vernon's meaty hand came crashing on to the glass table. It cracked under his fist, causing him to let out a roar of pure anger as he shook it out.

Horrified, Harry watched as Vernon got up and stalked toward him, eyes full of pain and hatred. This was his Uncle's breaking point, he realized. Until now, Vernon had been tolerant at least, but he'd just snapped and Harry was scared of what he could do.

He won't hurt me, he can't hurt me, he chanted fruitlessly in his head.

But who was here to stop the giant of a man form harming him? He couldn't use magic and there was no one in the house that would stop him. With growing alarm, and a certain amount of resignation, he understood that he was all alone, just as he understood that whatever went on in this room today would never be revealed to anyone else. Harry was so busy preparing himself that he never saw the blow coming.

It swung his jaw toward the wall, where his head knocked against the plaster.

When Vernon, drunk on rage, bent down and pulled him up by his hair, banging him against the unyielding wall again, the plaster actually came loose, flakes floating down gently in a cruel contrast to the violent scene they landed on. A bruise was forming on Harry's face and a lump on the back of his head.

Looking at his battered arm in delayed shock, anger gripped Harry. He was a Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake, why was he surrendering to a Muggle? Uncle Vernon was afraid of magic; wouldn't that save him? He had never been hit before and it all felt a bit surreal, but the finger-shaped marks on his arm hurt like crazy. He pinched himself, just to be sure, right on the bruises and let out a surprised cry.

It all came crashing down then: this was real and his Uncle was actually doing this, and oh my God, Malfoy was upstairs!

Harry thought that this was a good time to go into panic-mode. When his Uncle advanced, Harry fought like a wild cat, struggling and flailing against the older man's mightier grip. When the next punch fell onto his knee, however, he crumpled on the floor. Using that as an advantage, Vernon, his face set in cruel glee, dumped his considerable bulk onto Harry's weak frame. Thankfully, his stomach was too empty for Harry to throw up, but since his bones were sticking out from the lack of food, the heavy pressure was transferred straight to them. The air whooshed out of Harry's lungs and he could barely hear what was being said over and over.

'What's the first rule in this house, boy? What's the first rule?'

As breathing became tougher, he struggled not to gasp or scream. Nothing to give his Uncle the pleasure, but all such bravado left him when Vernon took Harry's neck in his hands. Panicking, Harry choked out the words: 'No magic.'

Vernon gave a squeeze, delighting in the gasp that resulted and hissed, 'What's the next one?'

'Always come when you're called.'

Harry hated him, hated the world, hated Dumbledore, hated his Aunt for not doing a thing as she heard the suspicious sounds from the sitting room. Then it hit him and his green eyes widened.

'Your coat!' The words came out raspy and with difficulty.

The man looked satisfied. 'I told you, boy, there is a line in this house. You cross it, you get it. Got it?' He laughed at his own words, pulling his battered nephew off the floor.

Harry looked like a character from the horror films Dudley sometimes watched. His body was damaged and injured only from one side. Vernon had carefully left the other side unharmed.

'You won't get away with everything like you do in your freak school, by rights they should have expelled you! You step one toe out of line - one! - and I'll do the same to your other side, understand boy?'

At Harry's unresponsive face, he shook the small teenager mercilessly. 'UNDERSTAND?' he bellowed. Harry winced at the loud noise and, for fear of Malfoy peeking in, replied.

'Yes, Uncle Vernon.'

'Good,' said Vernon and released the boy with a push, causing him to stumble in his haste to get out of the room.

Once he was gone, Vernon heard a sound like a body falling to the ground.

He shook off any lingering doubts, stroked his mustache and smiled like a child who'd gotten a new toy.

And perhaps he had.

Outside the room, Harry failed to keep balance on the fourth step and fell onto the stairs in a heap. After a few seconds, he hauled himself up and with immense will power, managed to reach the door of his room.

Just as he readied to enter the room, he remembered that Malfoy hadn't had anything to eat yet, and Harry wasn't going to give him a clue about what went on here. Harry himself was suffering punishment for emptying the salt salt shaker in Dudley's 'Smelting's Coffee'. It had been funny to watch, but it had had consequences which made him wish he hadn't done. It was so funny, though, that he could barely restrain himself. He was allowed to do so little which didn't result in the threat of getting kicked out of Number 4, Privet Drive, that he couldn't let an opportunity to baffle Dudley pass by like that.

Shaking with silent laughter as he recalled the expression on his cousin's face, Harry collected what little food he could from the refrigerator without making it seem suspicious, and headed upstairs. A calm had settled over him and Harry was in no mood to break out of it.

He met no one on his way.

At his door, he inhaled deeply, tried to disguise his trembling legs and harsh breathing into a confident demeanor and entered the room at a slight angle. Malfoy was sitting two steps from where he'd left him but in the exact same position. When Harry came in he didn't lift his head, but in a voice slightly muffled by his hands, he said, 'There are bars on your window.'

Harry groaned. He was not dealing with this now. Turning exactly so that his wounded side would be hidden, Harry put the plate in front of Malfoy.

'I'm tired and exhausted and in no mood to answer your questions, Malfoy. Just eat and go to sleep. Ask me whatever you want tomorrow.'

To his intense surprise, Malfoy didn't react, simply reached out and as Harry watched, delicately ate his way around the plate. His mannerisms were so proper that it made Harry self-conscious about the way he ate whenever he was allowed some food. Compared to Malfoy, his etiquette was like a caveman's.

Without looking at him, Malfoy finished his food, placed the plate gently on the floor beside him and resumed his position on the floor. Knowing this was his way of dealing with the humiliation of sleeping on the ground, and because he was too achy to make fun of him for it, Harry quietly picked up the plate, washed it, stowed it neatly on the drying rack and crept back upstairs. He switched off the lights and pulled up his sheets, hissing involuntarily at the searing pains that assaulted his sore limbs.

Without meaning to, his thoughts turned to his conversation with Dumbledore. He'd tried to do what the wizard had said, going easy on Malfoy, but it was harder than he had expected. Today had been a day of unpleasant incidents, probably one of the worst he'd ever had, so rekindling his rivalry with the pale ferret had been quite low on his list of priorities. It would be different tomorrow, when he'd have to fend off nosy questions from the slimy Slytherin.

Oh, how he hated his life.

His last thought before drifting off to an uncomfortable sleep was that his unwelcome roommate curled in an awkward position on his bedroom floor, though wide awake, hadn't insulted him once.

A/N: The review button needs clicking. All feedback is appreciated.