dedication: to leaving high school; to diamonds in the rough; to remembering you were kind of writing a collab last summer... eight months later; to summertime!
disclaimer: We do solemnly swear we do not own any part of Harry Potter; just the plot.

Sonya dances: Tell me something true. For my part, it's been a long time, but I've finished my second year of college & now it's summer, so... hopefully more updates?
selene floats: in my moments of thought, I wonder what possessed tradition to allow people to walk across the stage in garbage bag gowns and call it a celebration of education.

It was making out to be a very good weekend, Draco reflected. It was only Saturday and he had already been accused of two different murders.

Father would probably be so incredibly proud, since at least one of the "murdered" had been an... "undesirable".

(That he was legally married to, so maybe not so proud.)

Despite the slight humor behind the situation, he didn't take the time to feel pleasure at it; instead, he took advantage of the mini chaos to shrink into his Animagus form.

Shrinking down and feeling his entire anatomical structure change to accommodate a tail and claws had not yet become familiar to him, but he definitely preferred gaining that sort of familiarity over that of a jail cell in Azkaban. As soon as the transformation was complete, he skittered under the sink to watch the proceedings.

Hermione had broken off her conversation with Harry in the middle of Ron's frantic planning, and, in a flash, stood in front of him. It almost seemed to Draco that her face contorted in a small grimace of pain at the quick steps, but it was gone with a blink of his attentive eyes.

Then came the crack. He nearly missed it entire, but red quickly bloomed on Weasley's left cheek.

Based on the look on Ron's face, Draco hadn't been the only one surprised. Potter, however, just looked resigned.

Apparently, Hermione was regularly feisty.

(Not that it wasn't something he'd considered when he'd put his plan together - she had slapped him third year, after all.

And last night.)

"Get it together, Ronald," she was saying sharply. When he just gave her a bleary, mildly confused look, Hermione snapped in front of his eyes. "Believe it or not, but I am a witch and I know how to cast spells. You didn't Apparate here when you barged into my flat uninvited, did you? He couldn't have Apparated... Maybe a transformation spell? What do you think, Harry?"

The Chosen Boy (or Man - whatever he was called nowadays - the Savior, maybe) was leaning against the mahogany cabinet, watching the proceedings thoughtfully. At Hermione's inquiry, he took his time answering.

"That, or an invisibility spell. Does anything in this room seem off to you?"

Draco watched Hermione as she warily cast her eye around the room, looking for even the tiniest detail that was out of place. He slinked closer to the wall and a green bucket in the hopes of finding deeper cover just when Weasley made a move in his direction. His hand was outstretched, fingers clenched to snatch something up.

The weasel closed his eyes and tensed, ready to face the Aurors, Veritaserum, and Christina Warbeck marathons...

... only to hear, "I didn't know you kept this! Figured you'd throw it away since it was kind of a gag gift."

Opening his eyes, Draco saw Weasley dangle the lotion he had previously been hiding behind in Hermione's face. Her cheeks looked a little more flushed than they had before as she continued to scan the room, but Draco didn't need to be a whiz at emotions and human reactions to know she was looking for a way out.

"It's decent lotion," she mumbled.

Potter seemed to be uncomfortable as well, and the part of Draco that wasn't systematically looking for a way out wondered what had happened. A tub of lotion, a feeling the Golden Trio had been struck with Third Wheel Syndrome...

He was almost curious to know how it all added up, but the thing about awkwardness was that everyone is so distracted by their thoughts and the atmosphere that escape was easy.

Keeping close to the wall, he used the plants strewn around the window side of the room as cover before making a safe hop onto the windowsill and the fire escape below. He stopped there, listening as they shuffled around the room.

"So what happened?" one of the guys asked hesitantly. As Draco slipped back into his own form, he couldn't tell if it was Weaselbee or Scar Head, but he was pretty sure it was the latter.

"When?"

He hadn't heard the weariness in her voice before, but now, it seemed to seep through the open window, drowning him in its cloying decay. It only sapped the life out of his flagging energy stores after his transformation. No one had told him how tiring it was at first; it was different than Hermione's tired tone, but just as debilitating.

"Just now. Or last night. Start somewhere. Anywhere."

That was Weasley, he thought blearily, sliding a hand through his hair. He knew he had to get out soon, before one of them took an innocent look out of the window and saw him. Draco wasn't willing to test their skills with curses at the moment. Maybe later, though.

Perhaps he should try standing soon. Or crawling.

"I stepped on a broken mug," she said shortly. "He helped clean it out of my foot - finished just as you barged in."

Plastic landed on the ground; he figured she was checking under the sink. Her window would be next.

He had to go.

Slowly, he pulled himself down the stairs of the fire escape, clutching the iron bars with every movement. His knees protested being dragged across the hard metal bars and falling a few inches onto the next one, but he persisted.

It wasn't like he had another choice.

"So he wasn't trying to kill you? But he had so much blood on his hands!"

Draco didn't hear how Hermione responded to Ron. By the tail end of his comment, the blond had already been walking briskly away from the staircase. The sounds of late morning downtown London covered his footsteps as he blended into the crowd of people, most of whom were probably just returning to work after a quick lunch.

His arms were stiff as he kept his palms by his side, hidden from view.

There was only one place left to him, the young man reflected as he looked for a good spot to Apparate among a whole lot of Muggles. His own home was lost to him, and Diagon Alley probably had WANTED posters of him all over the place.

Living among Muggles, without magic? Rather unacceptable.

He peeked down at his hands when there was a lull in the crowd around him.

In more ways than one, Weasley was right, Draco thought cynically.

He had a lot of blood on his hands.