Disclaimer: You know it. You hate it. But JKR does own it all.

Draco Malfoy stared dully out at the pouring rain as it splattered against the enormous windows of his room. The weather was nothing compared to what was going on inside the Malfoy Manor. The return of the Dark Lord weren't going nearly as well as the Deatheaters had planned. In fact, it wasn't going at all.

After he had been restored to his body, Voldemort had dropped out of sight, gone into hiding. Only Lucius Malfoy and several other close followers of Voldemort knew where he was.

The manor door slammed shut and angry shouts could be heard ascending the stairs. Draco ignored them, hoping they would do the same, and continued sitting on the stone windowsill, staring bleakly out at the rolling gray acres.

The shouting was getting louder now, and Draco was sure that they would be outside his door in minutes. Let them go by. Please, for once just let them go by…he thought, squeezing his eyes shut.

The shouting was between his father and someone else. It sounded like Macnair.

Draco shuddered. He hated Macnair. He was almost as bad as his father, when he was like this. Key word being almost. No one was a meaner drunk than Lucius Malfoy after a Deatheater meeting with Voldemort.

The heavy oak door flew open, and Draco cringed. He forced himself to look at his father, swaying with his hand on the door jamb for support.

"You, boy! Come here!" Lucius demanded.

Draco stayed where he was.

"Come here, now!" Lucius shouted. "Imperio!"

Like a marionette, Draco stood, pulled by invisible strings to his father, Macnair right behind him, smiling stupidly.

Draco froze before the two, and felt his knees give way as he was forced to kneel. He hated himself for it. Why did he have to be so weak? Why couldn't he fight?

"Why don't you fight, boy?" Lucius voiced his son's thoughts. Draco stayed silent. The beating was usually less severe if he didn't rise to his father. "Too weak? To gentle? How are you supposed to honor my name if you can't do anything right?" Malfoy's voice rose to a scream. "You are worthless! I should kill you now!"

Lucius kicked his son in the collarbone as hard as possible, and he was rewarded with a loud snap as it shattered under the steel toe of his boot.

Draco screamed silently, biting his lip until he could taste his own blood. But he remained silent. He couldn't have answered if he wanted to. Macnair had him under the Imperious Curse. They often did this, double team him when he wasn't able to fight back.

His father's foot smashed into his stomach a third time before he paused, a mad glint appearing in his cold gray eyes, so much like his son's.

"Macnair," he said softly. "Perhaps…perhaps we ought to show my son true respect for his superiors."

Not again…

Macnair had pulled out his riding whip. Draco didn't know why he needed one, Macnair had never even seen a horse before. He supposed he kept it for purposes like this.

Lucius tore the thick cloak off his son's shoulders, laying bare his back covered in a Muggle T-shirt.

It was only the first impact that hurt. After that, it was almost mind numbing with its steady beat against his pale skin. He kept his face pointed at the floor. He didn't want to look up at the person who was holding his hands forward, making the skin on his back tense and stretch so it hurt worse than before. He didn't want to see the sadistic smile on his father's face.

And Potter thinks I have it easy…he thought nastily.

"You're worse than a Mudblood. At least they have an excuse for being so miserably pathetic." His father taunted him, the smell of alcohol on his breath strong enough to taste.

"At least I'm better than you," Draco snapped back, on a moment of inspiration. "I'll never be worse than you."

His father released Draco's thin wrists from his grasp out of shock and Malfoy bolted upright. He spun on his heel and smashed the heel of his palm into Macnair's nose, firmly breaking it. Then he ran. He could hear his father screaming for him to come back. The Cruciatus Curse and the Imperious had no hold on him. He was down the stairs and out the door faster than seemed possibly with the pain radiating up his leg and in his chest.

He burst out of the heavy front doors into the sheeting rain, the cold shock of it reviving him. Draco didn't look back to see his mother staring at him sadly from her room. He didn't see his father curse and threaten him from his own window. He didn't care.

His feet carried him over the wrought iron gates with the M for the Malfoy family engraved in it and dropped him on the other side, landing heavily on his injured leg. But he couldn't stop. He couldn't go back. His father would kill him.

He felt in his pockets and cursed, kicking at the muddy streets. His wand was in his robe, back at the manor. It would have to stay there. Draco held his wand hand out, checking if the Knight Bus would come if he wasn't bearing a wand. After a minute, he lowered his hand dejectedly. Apparently not.

Draco started walking up the washed out road. Even though the Malfoys were an important family, they didn't live on a paved road. They never used it anyway. Everyone except Draco knew how to Apparate or went by broom.

Within minutes, he was soaked to the bone and freezing, though he thought of it as a blessing more than a problem. It made the pain in his back and collarbone ease slightly. Because of his collar, he couldn't turn his head to examine how bad it was, or, for that matter, move his arm. It just hung limply at his side. Draco couldn't even bend his fingers.

He stared up at the black clouds, rolling with thunder and the occasional bolt of lightning as the chilling rain swept across the fields on either side of him. There was nothing around for miles, just rolling acres of barren moors.

"I hate this place…" Draco grumbled, trudging along. If he had his cloak instead of this Muggle clothing, he would be happier. Warmer and dryer too.

His almost white hair was clinging to his scalp, and rivulets of rainwater were dripping into his gray eyes.

I wish I could be in Potter's place right now, Draco thought bitterly, surprising even himself. He never wished to be Potter. Ever. It just proved how bad things were. Draco looked down the road and his heart gave a leap. He could see the town! He'd been walking for three miles and he hadn't even noticed it. He hurried faster.

Twenty minutes later, he stumbled into a pub, which he knew was filled with wizards and witches. This is where his father and Macnair came, and they never went near Muggles. He ignored the stares he was receiving from the occupants and made his way to the bar.

"Excuse me, sir. But could you call the Knight Bus for me? I seem to have lost my wand, and I need to get somewhere without walking," Draco asked politely.

The bartender looked at him carefully, assessing his condition. "What happened to you?" he asked.

Draco was taken aback by the concern in his voice. He had suspected as much, that he would ask, but had planned on it being more of a command.

"Um…I slipped on the mud outside and landed on a rock wall. Now can you call the bus?" Draco lied smoothly.

The bartender shrugged and stepped out from behind the counter, leading Draco back through the crowd of people. Draco was careful not to bump his arm against anything.

They were soon out in the rain again and the barkeep held up his wand hand and stepped back. The Knight Bus screeched to a stop seconds later out of nowhere and opened its doors to them.

"Thanks," Draco said, and climbed the stairs to the bus.

"No problem. If your father asks, should I tell him where you are?" the barkeep asked.

"I'd prefer if you wouldn't," Malfoy replied bitterly.

"Right then. Happy traveling," he said, and disappeared back into the bar.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"Do you know where Harry Potter lives?" he asked. He didn't know why that was the first place out of his mouth. He just had a sudden urge to go there. A gut feeling.

"Sure, I know where Harry Potter lives! You a friend of his or something?" the driver asked happily, flooring the bus into motion, almost throwing Draco into a seat nearby.

"Yeah. That's it," Draco replied, watching as the scenery blurred outside the window.

The driver looked at him in the review mirror. "There's a blanket next to you, if you need it."

Draco picked it up and draped it carefully across his shoulders. The blanket was light enough not to weigh too heavily on his injured one. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

Next thing he knew, the driver was carefully shaking him awake. "Hey kid, we're here. You want to get off?"

Draco blinked his eyes open and stared out the window at the lamp lit street outside. It looked like a mirror was placed opposite every house, there were so similar. It was almost disgusting.

"So this is where the Boy Who Lived lives…" he muttered to himself. "Thank you," he said, and left the blanket on the chair as he exited the bus.

Draco heard it roar away behind him and knew it was gone. Number four, Privet Drive. He knew that much after listening to his father complain about the protection spells on it.

He carefully approached the door to number four and peered inside. Draco knew he wouldn't be seen because it was so dark outside, and the light from within would reflect enough to block him out.

There was nothing inside, except a very boring, unexciting living room with an enormous boy the size of a hippogriff was watching the television.

Harry Potter was no where to be seen. Draco stood there for a minute, and was about to turn away when he heard a muffled cry from an adjoining room.

Harry suddenly came tearing into the room like Voldemort and the entire Deatheater army were after him, skidding on the wood floor as he tried to stop in his socked feet.

Draco saw why. Thundering after him was a man about nine times the size of Harry's thin frame, waving what looked like a walking cane with a brass knob at the top at the dark-haired boy.

The sight of Harry was shocking. He was thinner than normal, by almost twenty pounds off what was an already too skinny frame, his face was a mass of bruises and his arm was clutched tightly to his chest as if it was injured. He wasn't even really running. He was hobbling and it looked like he had broken his ribs. Draco recognized the look on Harry's face because it was often on his own.

Harry couldn't run fast enough to escape the large, fat man chasing him and was caught across the back of his knees with the cane, and fell to the floor. However, he was not immobilized and crawled backwards with his one good hand dragging himself.

Draco couldn't move. He was paralyzed with shock.

Harry's uncle (Draco presumed, since that was whom Harry was supposed to be living with) brought the cane down again and again on Harry's legs, and Draco realized what he was doing. He was preventing Harry from being able to run from him.

After about fifteen whacks with the cane, Harry's uncle grabbed Harry's injured arm and pulled him upwards, Harry screaming in agony and protest. His uncle dragged him down a short hallway and opened the cupboard under the stairs, throwing a broken and bleeding Harry into it and locking it behind him with a dead bolt.

"That's where freaks like you belong! One sound out of you and you'll get it even worse when you come out!" the uncle shouted, and stormed out of view.

Draco formed a half-assed plan in his mind, knowing full well he didn't know what he was doing, and opened the door as carefully as he could. He tiptoed to where the cupboard was and unlocked the door, peering inside.

"No…please…I'll be quiet, Uncle Vernon…just…no more…" a soft voice pleaded, as a shadow cowered in the corner.

"Come on Potter," Malfoy hissed, and grabbed his uninjured arm and pulled him to his feet. "We're leaving."

As Harry was pulled into the light, he immediately tried to pull back, whimpering in terror.

"What is wrong with you? I'm trying to help y-" Draco stopped in mid sentence as he felt a huge hand clap down on him with bruising impact.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, breaking and entering my house?" a voice roared in his ear.

It was Vernon.

Shit.

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