Disclaimer: Need I really say this? I'm sure you lot all know perfectly well I'm not jkr. Cause I'm not, you know. No really.

A/N:  coughs erm… cookies? I never said anything about cookies. You're gonna have to wait for Firry's next chapter if you want cookies.

 backs away from glaring reviewers

okay, okay. Lady Vader, JJLL, Zahrah Radcliffe and Squiggles here are you're cookies. I ain't given them to anyone else though.

HA! Jking. Now please let go of my throat…

Anywho… This is the ultra-amazing and super riyna*riddle writing this chapter. Forfirith did the last one. PLZ review, or else I shall cry very hard indeedly.

Firry: DICTIONARY!!!!!!!

Riyna: Shut. Up.

Firry: HA HA HAA!!!

Riyna: attacks Forfirith with those ol' rotten tomatoes

Firry: AAAAAAAAAAAH!!! runs away

Riyna: cackles madly

'But mother,' whined Draco, totally not caring that he sounded like a spoilt 5 year old. 'I don't want to! I don't like him, and- and- and…' He trailed off, noticing the look his mother was giving him.

'It's not a matter of what you want, Draco,' she snapped, eyes narrowed at her grumpy son. 'It's a matter of what is best for you. And what is best for you is chosen by me'

'But it's not fair.'

'Life's not fair,' murmured Narcissa Malfoy. 'But I don't want anything bad to happen to you.'

'I know, mother,' Draco sighed, pushing open the car door (A/N: hey, Narcissa is smart. She ought to be capable of driving a car…). 'Love you.'

'Love you too.'

Narcissa waved at her miserable son one last time, and drove away.

Draco blinked. He was all alone now, and could only assume that the house he stood in front of was actually Potter's. He groaned, counted to 10 under his breath, and rang the doorbell.

~*~

The house, number 4 Privet Drive, was indeed the home of Harry Potter. Unfortunately, he didn't know just how damn much Draco Mafoy was going to appreciate that seemingly small fact.

A pity, as it would've surely brightened his otherwise totally crappy day.

Or maybe not. The point is, Harry was not in a good mood.

'Oh God. Not you!'

He had a headache.

It had all started this morning, when he'd gotten that stupid letter…

Flashback

Harry heaved a sigh of relief as the front door slammed. It'd been getting worried they'd never leave. Uncle Vernon had spent so long yelling at Harry about what'd happen to him if the house blew up, Harry had began to worry he'd forgotten all about the Exclusive Business Party and was just going to spend all weekend inventing various ways to torture Harry if the house did indeed collapse.

Then Dudley had spilt tomato sauce all over his freshly cleaned shirt.

But finally the front door had slammed, and Harry was free to do what he liked, which was more or less slobbing around watching TV. But at least he could have fun if he wanted.

And then the letterbox rattled. Harry blinked, and peeled his eyes away from Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. A letter? At this time if day?

'Is that your final answer?' warbled Chris Tarrant on the TV.

Harry yawned and padded out of the living room. Indeed, there was a letter lying on the 'Welcome' doormat. He picked it up, and turned it over. It was addressed to him. Who did he know who sent letters by the post???

Carefully opening the offending article, Harry turned and walked back into the living room. Or didn't…

'Ouch!!!' yelled Harry, rubbing his nose and cursing the closed door under his breath. 'STUPID USELESS…!' He glared, and went upstairs instead.

 Harry- Expect a visitor for the final week of the holidays.

I suggest you keep him hidden, as your relatives are well known for their

dislike of wizards.

'Oh great,' muttered Harry. 'Just what I need. An unexpected visitor. Yay.'

It was than that the doorbell rang. And rang again. And again.

Harry, cursing and tripping over his trainers, ran out of his bedroom (for once remembering to open the door…) and towards the stairs, in a desperate bid to put a stop to the ringing.

But…

'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!!!!!' Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived and Wombat-Juggler-Extraordinaire (don't ask…), screamed in pain, surprise, pain and anger as he trod on one of the many discarded tacks that littered the stairs.

~*~

Draco Malfoy was having the time of his life. He'd never rung a doorbell before, and the experience was very exciting. So who could blame him holding his finger on the buzzer for a couple of minutes?

'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!'

He paused, staring at the smoky window of the front door, and slowly removed his finger from the buzzer. That was the 3rd time today he'd nearly had a heart-attack, the 1st being when he discovered it was to the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Irritate he was heading, and the second being when his mother had told him he couldn't fit a Nimbus 2004 in his suitcase. A struggle began, resulting in the afore-mentioned broom being thrown through the vastly expensive window.

(For anyone who's interested, the broom drifted several miles and happened upon a burning building. After saving 5 children, a cat, and an automated piano, it went on to become mayor of a nearby village. A folk hero, it is now known as Brave Ol' Bill, and is seen as a legend throughout the county… But that's another story.)

And so he decided it would maybe be best if he sat down for a couple of minutes. Or until his heart started beating again. Which ever came sooner.

~*~

'Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit…' exclaimed Harry, wobbling on the top of the stairs with one foot (in immense tack-pain) waving in the air. And with several curses, a lot of grunts, and a small scream, Harry crashed, head first, to the foot bottom of the stairs. It hurt. Like hell. With a big car, and a very loud engine. And some kegs of beer. Which might've explained why he felt so amazingly drunk as he pulled himself to the feet.

The doorbell still hadn't stopped ringing. Or Harry's ears were ringing. It was hard to tell.

So, at last, the door was pulled open, and Harry saw who was waiting on the wall.

'Oh God. Not you!'

End Flashback

Draco Malfoy blinked up at the teenage boy who had just opened the door. It was indeed Potter (sigh of relief), and it probably him who had given Draco his 3rd ever nearly-heart-attack considering the state of the boy.

'Look, I'm as annoyed to be here as you are to see me, so let's just skip the feeble insults and get to the point…'

Harry Potter, Master-Conversationist, blinked. And swayed slightly.

'You're Malfoy. You (sway) don't live her. Do you? (sway)'

'No, Potter, I don't.'

Harry nodded slightly, and stared in a most bemused way at the boy who sat on the wall before him.

'Potter?'

'Yeah? (sway)'

'You're bleeding.'

'I am?'

'You are.'

Slowly, Harry digested the new information. Several seconds passed, and Draco whistled a little tune (We All Live In A Yellow Submarine (by The Beatles) for anyone who's interested). Finally, Harry's brain clicked, and he reached up to touch his forehead. The slow trickle of blood seeping from under his hair got smudged and smeared down the side of his face. Harry carefully inspected his bloody fingers.

'Oh yeah,' he mumbled, smiling in a slightly confused manner, and he blacked out.