(Author's Note: Hi, everyone! If you'd like to join my mailing list, please email me at or leave your email address in a review and ask to be sent an invitation. Thanks! I hope you like this chapter! Note: this chapter is really PG-13 because of a bit of angry language. Just thought you ought to know.)

The Worst of Two Evils

Chapter Three

"From below, in my seclusion

look up to the sky to see paper wings

and watch them burn…

Dancing in the rain of descending ash,

dancing in your dust.

- AFI

It's a strange sensation, looking down upon the one person in the world you hate most…that is, the one person in the world you hate more than yourself. Draco had never been one to express his feelings in a way other than with hexes and curses, cruel sneers and smirks, cold tones and acerbic insults. However, as he sucked on his lemon-flavored lollipop, he couldn't help but feel that he'd like to smile.

But he didn't of course.

He merely tried to ignore the weird feeling of the edges of his lips curving upwards, and he tried most of all to ignore the green gaze that was trained so fixedly upon him. Swallowing and relishing the sour taste of lemon on his tongue, Draco scrunched his face up at the flavor of his bit of candy.

At the softest of giggles, Draco turned to look at the little boy whose face was sticky with lollipop goodness. "You're disgusting, Potter," drawled the older boy.

Potter blinked at him and his smile soon faded away when that was the only response he got. Harry sighed and looked at his lollipop stick, which was now just a damp little stick. He could still taste the tangy flavor of the orange sweet, and he sighed in reminiscence. His mind drifted to the fact that this stranger seemed to know his name. He didn't think they'd met before…The man didn't seem to be that old…younger than Uncle Verwon surely, although at one point, his stranger seemed so mature, so experience in life. Just this night, his stranger had stood up to Angel's father.

Harry warily turned to look at the blonde man beside him. "What's a twit?" he asked softly.

Draco's eyes turned towards Harry's sharply. "Pardon?" he replied automatically, his surprise overriding any biting remark he might have made.

"A – a twit?" repeated the little boy, his voice growing softer with increasing uncertainty.

Draco's eyes narrowed and he felt a surge of momentary satisfaction when Potter shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "It's not a word you should repeat," he said.

After that, neither spoke a word, although Harry was very curious as to where his stranger was taking him. Were Uncle Verwon and Aunt P'tuna calling the policemen to chase after him? Was Dudley sad that he didn't have anyone to taunt anymore?

He looked down at his sticky hands and licked his sticky and orange flavored lips before thinking, no – they wouldn't be worried about him at all. He was a freak, wasn't he?

Before he knew it, his fingers were being pulled from his mouth and a handkerchief was being wiped all over his face. Harry glanced up and didn't know how he was supposed to feel about the scowl on the stranger's face. However, despite the annoyed expression, the his stranger's touch was oddly gentle.

Draco looked at the tiny face that held eyes too green and too big, sighing as they met his own gray ones. Potter's face was scrunched up as the elder boy scrubbed his face clean and when it was over, he giggled. Draco rolled his eyes, and he wondered at the light feeling in his chest that threatened to explode – he had never felt the urge to laugh so insanely at so random a time before.

He kind of liked it.

He stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and felt his fingers brush something cold and smooth. Oh, yes, he'd forgotten. He pulled out the tiny ceramic unicorn and looked at it for a moment. When he glanced over at Potter, the boy was looking at it wide eyed. Draco pushed it at the boy. "Here," he snapped, "it was a bloody mess – what with one of its legs missing. I fixed it, so don't break it again." And with that, he crossed his arms over his chest irritably.

So there.

Harry stared down at the unicorn in surprise. The leg was as perfect as the rest of the creature and when he touched it, it was actually real. How did his stranger fix it so well?

Finally, when he glanced back up at his stranger, the older boy was scowling with his arms crossed before him. When Harry murmured a soft, "Thank you," the boy's head shot towards him.

He seemed surprised and Harry wondered now if he shouldn't have said anything. He didn't really know who his stranger was, really. Not at all, except that this strange older boy took him away from Privet Drive in the middle of the night and now all he was wearing were his tattered night clothes. He wondered if maybe they could go back for just a little bit so he could get some regular clothes, because he was getting a tad cold.

Harry glanced over at his stranger only to find that the boy had his arms crossed over his chest and a formidable scowl placed firmly upon his face.

He pulled his knees up instead of speaking, for fear of dreadful retribution, and leaned his head against the window. Now that the adrenaline had worn off from earlier tonight, he suddenly felt tired. He was tired and cold, but he figured that he could ignore it for a while. He normally did so back at the Dursley's anyway.

As his eyes drifted to a close, he remembered the sweet taste of his orange lollipop and felt the corners of his lips turn up in a small smile.

Draco didn't really know why he was fighting so hard to be angry. He hated being angry. He hated the way the anger ate at his chest and made him feel guilty afterwards. He hated how his magic sometimes went haywire when he was positively furious.

Tonight, thankfully, he had not done anything he would later regret. Well…he glanced down beside him where Potter had fallen asleep leaning against the window of the train car. He frowned. Well…he hadn't really don't anything that he couldn't undo. He wondered vaguely if the hex he had cast upon Potter's relative…Dursley, Sr., was permanent. A part of him didn't really regret it for a moment.

What kind of a man locked up children in cupboards under the stairs?

He had heard that Potter had lived in something like that somewhere – oh yes, at school from Professor Snape. Merlin, did that man have a grudge against Potter!

But Draco had rolled his eyes dramatically and ignored it. How could Bloody-Saint-Potter ever have lived in such a place. The boy was worshiped by the entirety of the bloody magical world and he lived in a fucking cupboard for his young life? Nobody with half a mind would believe a bloody crock like that.

And then Draco wondered if anyone in the world actually had a half bit of sense.

Draco laughed mirthlessly to himself. What kind of world would spawn fucked up monsters like him if not a world run by half wits?

What kind of a world forced a race of people to hide their existence from others?

A random voice coughed from around him suddenly, breaking his train of thought. "…last stop…I repeat, all passengers must exit to the doors on the left."

Draco didn't really register what it was that the voice said, but all that was left of the occupants of the car stood up and left through the designated doors. He scowled and turned to Potter who was happily snoozing in the most uncomfortable position known to man. The boy's leg had fallen from it's propped up position on the chair and the child's arms pillowed his head on the window.

Rather uncertain as to how he was supposed to around a sleeping toddler, Draco tapped the boy's shoulder. "Potter, wake up," he commanded. He got an odd stare from the last passenger and shot the old man his coldest glare. That got the old coot scooting quickly from the tube car. Draco shook the boy's shoulder harder. "Wake up, damn you!" said the head boy in a demanding tone.

Potter squirmed away from the other boy's touch murmuring pleadingly, "Just – just a bit longer…please…"

And somehow, to Draco's bewilderment, the boy managed to fall asleep once again, curled up in the seat of the train like a kitten. With an aggravated sigh, Draco gingerly picked the child up. He was shocked and utterly disgusted when the boy's arms snaked around his neck and his legs instinctively wound around his torso. Draco swallowed in horror as he looked down at the tiny head that buried itself into his neck.

What the fuck was going on?

He couldn't help it, but he needed something to distract himself. In the midst of this strange world, he felt unhinged and frightened – though he would never actually admit this to anyone, let along himself. That bloody muggle loving fool Professor Nolan didn't teach them anything about this stupid place. He barely recognized anything from his Muggle Studies text book!

Something tickled his neck and Draco looked down at the mop of messy black locks under his chin. How was this boy so little? He was nothing compared to the older pompous pouf he knew at Hogwarts.

In fact, they really didn't seem much alike at all.

He had no doubt that the boy that he carried down the white walkway was The-Boy-Who-Lived, but it was only the resemblance to Future-Potter that assured Draco that this was Past-Potter. If not for the face, Draco would never have guessed that this was the thorn forever poking his arse.

Finally, after a bit of walking, Draco found someone he deemed worthy to talk to – for a muggle of course – and strolled up to the woman casually. "Pardon me, ma'am," he said in his most cultured tone, "but would you happen to know where I might find a decent hotel in this area?"

The woman turned to speak to him and her eyes brightened as she looked him over and heard him speak. "Well what a charming young man!" She caught sight of Potter who had positively wrapped himself around Draco like a parasite and exclaimed. "Aw! He's darling!"

Draco cursed old women and their sweet-talk.

"Um, I'm sure there's a rather nice inn just two blocks down that way," the woman told him with a smile, pointing further down the street. Circe, did he want to curse her smile to Hades.

He nodded to her and without another word said, turned and walked away. In his haste to get away from her, he stumbled on an uneven block of the white walkway and cursed – a long stream of often repeated profanities flying from his lips. He heard a slight gasp and saw the woman walking quickly away, glancing behind her in consternation as she muttered about young men now-a-days. Draco regained his balance and ignored the faint warmth that touched his cheeks as he pointedly ignored her.

This was most definitely not his night.

Draco stood up and found that his arms had instinctively found a place wrapped around little Potter's waist. He frowned down at them as if they had done him a great wrong, but he shook his head and made no move to change their position. The brat, however, shifted in his grasp and let out a small sigh before further burying his head in the crook of Draco's neck.

The head boy refused to say that it tickled. Apparently, in the Malfoy Code of Conduct it says that Malfoy's are not ticklish. Nor are they tickled by Potters – Future ones or Past ones.

After a few more minutes of walking – Draco vowed to never tell anyone he was forced to belittle himself by walking to his destination in the muggle world – they finally arrived at the inn. He walked in and walked up to the counter where the man sat up to greet him with a strained smile.

"How may I help you, sir?"

"I need a room please," said Draco, "preferably a suite."

"Yes, unfortunately without a reservation, all that is left available is a single room on the second floor. However, it's very well furnished with a queen sized bed for you and your…" he trailed off in question, but Draco ignored him.

"How much, please?"

The man pushed on the little buttons on the desk. Draco pulled out his money pouch and looked at the wad of bits of paper. Now what exactly was he supposed to do with this? Stupid muggles and their muggle paper money. He shook his head and pulled out a few bills.

The man at the counter stared incredulously at him as he took the offered money. He stared down at the bills for a few moments before handing back five of them. Draco took them back as well as the coins that the man forced towards him. With a frown, Draco accepted the proffered key and made his way to the steps.

Third floor…room 304…

At least the key system was the same around this place.

He finally stepped into the room and a bed had never looked so good as it did then – despite its being a bit smaller than his four poster at home or even at school.

And then it hit him that it wouldn't be his alone at all. He spotted an armchair next to the picture box that Professor Nolan had told them about. However, he doubted that Potter would be comfortable enough sleeping there for the night. Draco walked over to the bed and tried pulling the boy from his torso.

He had tried this immediately after Potter had attached himself around Draco's neck, but the result had been the same. It was as if the boy's arms were permanently glued together.

Bloody hell.

Draco bent over enough that Potter was half lying on the soft mattress and that seemed to do it. The boy's arms and legs let him go and the child curled up comfortably against a pillow.

Draco made as if to cover the little creature with the blankets, but caught himself quickly and took a few steps backwards.

This wasn't what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to dispose of the boy. Everything was supposed to change it was supposed to change tonight. But he had botched the job and here he was, babysitting Potter in the past.

Hide the body.

That's what the letter said. He was supposed to kill Potter and hide the body. Just the thought of burying this tiny four-year-old's body made bile rise in his throat.

He hated it and he swallowed the burning feeling back down, but the fire didn't fade away.

The stupid boy really had no idea, Draco thought, as he felt the smooth wood of his wand in his hand. He looked down at it.

It was strange how such a simple thing could bring about so much destruction. Just the mere utterance of a few words and something as great as a life could be easily extinguished.

Suddenly, he didn't feel so tired anymore. Rather, he felt mentally exhausted and sat heavily onto the armchair, facing the bed where the little boy lay curled up.

He didn't know why it was so hard. He'd learned all about death and how to wield it with magic. He had learned to hate with such intensity that, combined with magic, it could destroy life.

Most importantly, he'd learned to hate Harry Potter – and he'd learned to hate him most of all.

It shouldn't have been hard, killing him now. There shouldn't have been any doubts or excuses. There shouldn't have been a moment of hesitation. No one even knew he was here in this timeline.

Biting down fiercely on his lip, he stood up and carefully aimed his wand down at the boy. Gods, did he hate the young man this boy grew up into. He hated him with a passion that had been fueled for seven years. He'd forced himself to relive every insult and every humiliation caused by Potter in order to prepare himself for this moment. He'd forced himself to look past his shields and see what he could not ever be…

And that was the worst thing of all.

But somehow, staring into the innocent face of this child made Draco feel sick with shame.

For Merlin's sake, Potter didn't even have a clue! Here he was just a child, a little boy who knew nothing about magic and evil wizards with grudges the size of dragons that would make up the world in the future. Now, all he was was a neglected child who lived in a shabby cupboard.

At that moment, Potter squirmed and turned over on the bed, his face burying itself into a pillow.

Draco found himself stumbling backwards as if he had been hit by a curse, and he fell back into the armchair. He looked at Potter in fear before he buried his face in his hands.

It shouldn't have been this hard.

Harry felt his eyes flutter open, but he quickly shut them again when the light blinded him. He shifted and turned onto his back so he could push himself up to a sitting position, and he noticed how soft his mattress was. When he finally got accustomed to the light of the room, he found that he wasn't in his cupboard.

He rubbed his eyes to get wipe the sleep from his eyes and he found that he still wore his glasses. He pushed them back to their position at the bridge of his nose and looked around the room.

He spotted his stranger in an awkward position on the armchair, fast asleep. Harry looked down at himself and found he was still in his night clothes. He remembered being awfully cold because his stranger hadn't let him take any other item of clothing but his shoes. Now, as he looked down, he noticed that he was covered in blankets and had been tucked in tightly.

Harry couldn't remember a time he'd felt so comfortable…and so safe.

He pulled himself from the bed and jumped off of it, down to the floor. He spotted shoes a bit away, as if they'd been tossed carelessly aside last night.

Silently, he trotted over to the armchair and sat down cross-legged at the foot of it, staring up at his stranger curiously. Why was he here? What did this young man want with him?

Harry thought quickly, but he couldn't think of any special qualities that he had that would make someone want him. He thought about it some more and remembered that the stranger didn't seem to want him at all, really. He didn't have any parents, and the Dursleys weren't particularly fond of him, so he didn't think that he was here because of a ransom.

So why would this stranger want to steal him? He was only a freak whose parents had had died in a car accident.

Harry stood up and brushed off imaginary dirt from the pants of his night clothes – it was really a habit from when he sat on the floor of his cupboard. Sometimes he accidentally killed spiders when he sat down, despite his trying to avoid it. The light wouldn't turn on sometimes.

He looked at his stranger curiously. The older boy had a healing cut lip and the knuckles on one of his hands were green and brown – recovering bruises from something awful, thought Harry. He'd seen enough of those on his own body to know how soon it would take for them to go away. He gave it a couple of days, three at the most.

The clothes his stranger wore tonight were a lot different from the nice ones he had worn yesterday. Harry tentatively reached out a hand to touch the soft fabric. It was the softest thing he'd ever touched and it seemed light and airy for the season as well. His stranger must be really rich, then, thought Harry. He'd never in his life seen or felt anything so nice before.

Harry's eyes went back to the healing bruises on the other's hand. Where had those come from? One time Uncle Verwon had punched a door and his hand had looked much the same. Maybe the stranger had done something of that sort?

He glanced back up at the man's face and made a sound of surprise as he noticed his stranger staring down at him. Harry jumped up quickly and snatched his hand away from where it had gently touched the bruises. He stumbled back and landed on his rump, his eyes never leaving the icy cold gray ones that bore into his own.

"See something interesting, Potter?" drawled the stranger. The older boy sat up and stretched, graceful as a cat – or a powerful panther. In response, Harry stood up quickly and ran to the other side of the bed, well away from the stranger. The man seemed to find this oddly amusing and said as such, which only made Harry duck slightly behind the bed.

When the stranger actually stood up, Harry, seeing no place else, dashed under the bed.

Draco felt a slight pain in his neck and slowly blinked his eyes open. The first thing he saw was a mop of untidy black hair and he felt the faintest touch on his hand. Careful not to move, he watched as Potter leaned over the arm of the chair and peered at the bruises on his hand.

Then the boy had glanced up at him and started back quickly, as if fearful of harm. Draco almost frowned at that, but kept his mask in check. He was quite good at it now.

The boy had positively scurried away and Draco resisted the urge to laugh when the klutz had fallen on his behind. "See something interesting, Potter?" he had asked, to mask his wonder. The pain in his neck had not receded yet and he stretched, trying to get the ache to recede. It didn't quite work, but now it was more bearable.

The boy ran behind the bed and scampered under it. Draco didn't laugh, but he smirked as he looked down at it.

And then he remembered that he had slept in the armchair.

Potter…you manipulative little leech, thought Draco, but it lacked the usual malice that accompanied his insults. Instead, there was a bit of misplaced approval there.

He decided to let Potter stay under the bed. It probably wasn't too comfortable and that thought at least made Draco feel a bit better as he walked to the window.

Last night had brought a torrent of emotions that Draco had never thought he could feel. Sure, he'd felt fear before, but the kind he felt last night was not born of something life-threatening. It was born out of something somehow more monstrous than that which would extinguish a life with the utterance of two words. It was something that made him question what exactly he was doing here, and why he came here in the first place.

And it was something that had him staring at Potter's slumbering form for the better part of the night. It had him walking over to the bed and pulling the boy's shoes from his feet. It had him pulling the covers out so he could cover the child's shivering form when earlier that day, he wouldn't have cared if Potter had frozen to death or not.

It had him feeling more things that he didn't want to feel, never thought he could feel.

In the end, it was what brought a grim half-smile to his face.

He stared at his light reflection in the window and took in his eye bags, his ruffled blonde hair, his all around disheveled appearance. For some reason, he didn't really mind it. It made him feel relaxed despite the fact that he was exhausted.

After a short moment, he turned and knelt to look under the bed. Potter's eyes stared at him fearfully from beneath it and Draco felt that half-smile threatening to emerge again. He quelled it down, but he didn't care when he heard it arise in his voice as he said, "Come out of there, Potter – you don't expect me to go into public with you in those awful rags, now do you?"

He even stretched out a hand, in the hopes of beckoning the child out, but he was completely astonished when, after a moment, a tiny hand slipped into his. Potter used it to pull himself from under the bed and when he stood, he didn't let go of Draco's hand. He merely stood there, staring up at the older boy with his head cocked to the side curiously.

Then the boy looked down at the hand in his and touched the knuckles. Draco too looked down and felt himself stiffen ever so slightly.

The bruises were gone.

And Harry smiled up at him.