Author's Note: So, this is chapter two. I sincerely hope that you enjoyed reading chapter one more than I enjoyed writing it (I had some trouble finishing it), and I also hope you like this chapter. In particular, I had great fun writing the first sentence of this chapter. Oh, and pardon the time lapse later in this chapter. The story, thus far, is being told exclusively from Draco's POV, 3rd person, so bear with me, please. Please note that all reviews are appreciated, whether they be flames, short, one-line notes, or long, detailed constrictive criticism and praise, but I would definitely prefer the latter. When it comes to reviewing my story, my motto is this: If you don't have anything nice to say… Tell me what sucks! Okay, Go ahead and read now.

When the violently purple Knight Bus stopped in front of Draco Malfoy's house, he looked around warily before he stepped off, convinced, for some reason, that he had been followed and was about to be attacked by a horde of bloodthirsty Death Eaters, even though he had the word of Albus Dumbledore, a man who had never lied in his life, that no one who would use the information to harm Draco could have possibly been present. Of course, his mind was playing tricks on him; there was no mob waiting at his front door to destroy him. It was still relatively early by Draco's standards, only nine o'clock, and his father wasn't due home for quite a while. He decided to take advantage of the peace and begin faking his death.

The potion was one that he had found during his seventh year at Hogwarts; Snape had assigned his NEWT class to locate a Level 3 potion, one that only certain Ministry employees had permission to make, and write a 4 foot essay on why the potion was forbidden to the general public. Draco, however, had done more than that. After finishing his essay, he decided to make the potion; he had no right or reason to at the time, nor did he have any special purpose to save it, but now he was glad that he did.

Draco knew that in order for his death to be convincing, it would take more than just drinking the potion; and that was why he was grateful for the fact that his father was never home. He walked through the giant house into his bedroom, which he unlocked with a special charm of his invention. He went without hesitation into his bathroom, where he charmed open a hidden panel next to the sink. He thought for only a moment about which potion it was; the panel housed many illegal objects he didn't want his father to know he had. He quickly remembered which potion was the proper one, and took it out, muttering the incantation which kept it hidden.

He paused a second, thinking of how he was to do it. The potion would stop all of his bodily functions; breathing, heartbeat, metabolism; everything that kept him alive would be shut off for a full week, then turned back on. He decided to make it look like he gave himself an Avada kedavra to the chest. He pulled out a piece of parchment and his best quill, and began to write.

Father

I told you that I would never follow your Lord. You made your mistake years ago, and I'm not making the same one. I refuse to die by his hand, or any hand other than my own. My decision will never change; I refuse to serve under anyone's name but my own. With my death, you are finally free of your family for good. Make your own choices, and make them wisely, for now there is no one to clean up your messes for you.

Draco

Draco didn't have much experience in writing suicide notes; after all, most people only have the chance to make one. But he thought it sounded good enough. Now, to the really hard part; fooling the Ministry into thinking he was dead. He would, of course, have to perform Avada Kedavra at the precise time he drank the potion. He knew that if he 'killed' himself in his bedroom, the 'body' would most likely not be found until after the potion wore off. He didn't want to go into the entrance hall, because someone might see him. He had a stroke of brilliance: his father's bedroom. He remembered reading that, after the potion had been drank, the user had precisely one minute until the effects fully kicked in. In that one minute, he would have to dispose of the empty bottle and perform the curse. He called a house-elf, Slinky (a/n: I couldn't resist) into his father's bedroom. Holding his wand, the note, and the full bottle of potion, he told the house-elf to dispose of the bottle in a place where it would never be found, and gave it a direct order to tell anyone who asked that he had performed an Unforgivable on himself.

He set the note down on a bedside table, weighing it down with the paperweight he had instructed Slinky to bring. Forcing himself, he opened the bottle and quickly swallowed the entire contents in one foul-tasting gulp. Feeling a tad dizzy, he dropped the bottle and pulled out his wand. Willing the room to stop spinning, he pulled out his wand and aimed for a fly that was buzzing around annoyingly.

"Avada Kedavra!" he half-yelled, half-stuttered, hoping to God that he had performed it right. Making sure his wand was still being held firmly in his hand, he gestured clumsily for Slinky to leave with the bottle, and saw the elf bending over to reach it before everything went black.

"I'm starting to get worried, Vernon," said a voice that sounded like it was miles away. "It's been almost two weeks now, and he's still out. According to Harry, he was supposed to wake up a week ago." There was a quiet reply, and what sounded like a door closing. Draco tried to clear his mind; something wasn't right. Where was he? And he had been gone for almost two weeks? That couldn't possibly be right…

Groggily, he opened his eyes slightly. The room he was in was completely white, and so clean the walls shone. The whiteness was too bright for the eyes that had been closed for so long, and he groaned slightly, shutting his eyes tightly in an effort to block out the light.

"About time," said the voice again, now completely devoid of any emotion besides annoyance. "You were supposed to wake up six days ago. What took you so long?"

Draco really didn't want to be questioned. The room was spinning, and his thoughts were… fuzzy. It felt like he had just taken the potion again, but in reverse; the room was slowing down, and his mind was regaining its usual composure and straightforwardness. Suddenly, his first clear thought in over a week came to him.

"Who are you?" He sat up straight in the bed. The effort was almost more than he had, and it made his head throb.

"None of your business," she snapped. "Suffice it to say I've been taking care of you these past eleven days. Now lay down again, you haven't the strength."

He ignored her command. "Well, what are you then?" He was going to get some answers. "Are you a - a muggle?" he asked cautiously, not wanting her to be.

"I'm no witch, if that's what you mean. I believe the term you use is squig."

"You mean a squib?"

"Oh, yes, that thing. Whatever you call it. Come from a rather long line of these – what do you call them? Squibs?" He nodded. "My sister was a witch, though, first in generations. And she married a wizard and had a son, and he's a wizard, too now, so I guess your word – squib – would be better suited than muggle." Her voice had lost most – if not all – of its harshness. Draco could tell she hadn't spoken about her heritage in years.

But there had to be some reason why she was deemed trustworthy enough to care for him. Even if he was Draco Malfoy, son of a Death Eater, he had been promised protection. "This son you spoke about – your nephew – did he go to Hogwarts?"

"Of course he went to Hogwarts. About your age, I would guess."

"W-What house was he in?" He was dreading the thing he thought must come next. Sure enough, he was right.

"Gryffindor, just like Lily and James." Lily and James? As in, Lily and James Potter? Parents of The-Boy-Who-Lived-Just-To-Piss-Me-Off? This cannot be happening. "Surely, you've heard of my nephew Harry?"

He tried to hide his resentment, and did fairly well at it. "Yeah, I've heard of him."

"You didn't like him, did you?" she asked in a way that made it plain she knew the truth.

"I didn't like him. Despised him, actually."

"That's okay. I didn't like him either." She paused a moment, then suddenly, "Until now, of course. Oh yes, I do love him now. My favorite nephew, don't you know? Love him dearly." She added in an undertone, muttering wildly more to herself than to Draco, "Have to love him, must be good. Must behave properly, treat him like a prince, then they'll leave us alone, and everything will be-" She stopped dead, as if finally remembering Draco was there. "Sorry about that. Don't pay attention to me. Sometimes, I just start talking, and… well, it's nothing," she laughed nervously, making it obvious that it was, indeed, something; Draco had no intentions of finding out what it was, though. He simply rolled his eyes at her madness, wondering why he couldn't have been watched over by someone more… sane.

"Er – yeah." He changed the subject. "So what happens now?"

"I'll have to send Vernon with an owl to Dumbledore, letting him know you're awake. Actually, that's not necessary. When he came by six days ago and you weren't awake, he just said he'd come back again in a week, which would be tomorrow. So you'll stay here for another day, until you recover completely, and then Dumbledore will be by to get you." Draco sighed. He had to spend a full day conscious in this insane woman's care? But there was nothing to do about it.

"I'm hungry," he declared suddenly. It was true; he had naught to eat in two weeks, since breakfast the day of his meeting with Dumbledore.

"Well of course you are. Wait a minute, and I'll be back with some food."

He waited. He waited for about an hour, actually, until he could wait no longer. He got out of the bed (which was surprisingly hard to do) and walked to the door on shaking legs. He stood for a moment, listening at the door for signs of life, but there were none. Cautiously, he opened the door a crack, waiting for some admonishment to come. None came.

Slowly, carefully, he put one unsteady foot down in the hallway. Still, no noise, no voices. He did the same with his other foot. He was standing full in the hallway now, in clear view of anyone who walked by or through it. But there was no one. This can't be good.

As quickly as he could (which was not very), he walked down the hall until he came to a staircase. He looked around and behind him, wondering where his caretaker was, faintly smelling something burning. No one was in sight. He began his slow descent down the stairs.

He arrived in what seemed to be an informal living room. He was so worried at the lack of people that he forgot to sniff in distaste of the (to him) cheap furnishings. If he had been almost any other person, he would have been calling out for signs of life, but he had not survived being the son of a Death Eater by being incautious. His footsteps, slow as they were, were also soft and noiseless. His eyes were constantly darting around, not focusing on anything but the room as a whole. Still, no sign of anybody.

The smell of burning grew distinctly stronger. He turned around in a full circle, making sure no one was following him, and put his ear to the door in front of him. The warm door. No sounds. He slowly pushed it open and swore.

In front of him lay a too-familiar scene, one that had been shown in newspapers, both muggle and wizard, for years, one that he knew his father had created many times over.

The woman, the aunt of Harry Potter, his mad caretaker, lay flat on the ground, a surprised look on her face that had been in the process of changing to one of fear; next to her lay who Draco assumed to be her husband, and from his expression it was obvious he had been hit from behind. On the stove was the source of the burning smell, what had once been a pan of food and was now little more than ash. In the air above them was the most frightening, disturbing of all; the Dark Mark, a skull with a serpent through the mouth.

He swore again and, realizing there was no other way of leaving, apparated straight to the person of Albus Dumbledore.