Naturally I don't own crap. I mean, would any of us even be here if we owned the stories? No! We'd be on beaches in Sarasota with a notebooks and pens, playing with the stories we owned while attractive topless men brought us ice creams and sodas, am I right? Of course I am. Anyway, you read the summary so you know the deal. Now read the story, and be sure to review it in the end. I might even leave a note for you in the next chapter, so get excited.
Draco lay on his back, staring up at the drab, white ceiling. Before he'd hated muggles–but now he pitied them as well. To live in such a boring world, stuck in such an unchanging environment day after day . . . he was starting to understand why so many of them chucked themselves off bridges. He missed the use of magic–but funnily enough he missed the unpredictable, fast paced wizarding world even more. To live with this constant tedium! Staircases and rooms were stationary, people did not apparate and disapparate with the blink of an eye–even the TV shows muggles were so fond of played the same episodes over and over again. In less than a week he'd seen the same bloody Seinfeld story three times! Whatever the hell a Seinfeld was. He still hadn't figured out if it was an actual person, or merely some cock brained title meant to confuse people.
Six full days of confinement in a hotel room from hell had left him sick, sick and bloody tired of the muggle world (or at least, even more disdainful of it then he had been) but there was no alternative. If he left, the Death Eaters would find him and slaughter him before he reached the ripe young age of seventeen. Pity he'd gotten into such a predicament. This really wasn't how he'd expected to spend the summer holidays, with no company and no real life left in the wizarding world, at least, not until it was time to go back to Hogwarts, his last safe haven. In all actuality, he'd rather fancied spending time at a resort in France, away from home and his parents, relaxing for once in his damn life.
It was probably the seventh hour he'd spent on his back that day. Earlier in the morning he'd gone to the pool (an over chlorinated puddle of water to the right of the lobby) and done laps to work off some energy. And he had ventured out into the street around noon, to get a sandwich. But beyond that there was only the ceiling, and plenty of quality time with his thoughts.
Though truly, he was waiting for the mail. He wasn't expecting anything specifically . . . but he was hoping for some word from Dumbledore. Something about leaving the hotel, perhaps, moving on to some place a little less solitary? God, how he longed for a letter like that. It was all he thought about–when he wasn't busy thinking (or dreaming fitfully) about what had landed him in this prison.
And that's exactly what it was. A prison. Dumbledore tried to tell him that it was for his own good that he stay hidden, that he was protected as long as he was away from London, and the wizarding community. But Draco knew better. This was punishment. This was what he deserved. This is what happened to people who killed their fathers.
Not that he wanted to think about that at the moment. Or ever, for that matter. Yes, if he could just avoid thinking about it for the rest of his life, that would be excellent.
Another hour passed, but there was no flutter of wings outside his window, no clicking of a beak on glass. There was no post today, and he would spend another day in the miserable place, and probably several days after that. He was trapped.
Springing up from the bed, he could sit no longer. The walls were closing in, not just in the room but in his mind. He couldn't leave the street he was on, he couldn't venture into the magic realm of things but he could at least get out and have a walk, get some air. Maybe stop at the café on the corner, even if the place reeked of tourists . . .
Pulling on a black overcoat, even if it was the bloody summer, he closed the door to his room behind him and stepped quietly down the hall. He did not like to draw attention to himself. Eventually the management would become curious as to why he'd spent six days camped out in their crap hotel. Dumbeldore had warned him of this. People would start to think he was one of those muggle crooks, one of those "drug dealer" blokes, or a killer, maybe.
And he was a killer. But not the kind in a trench coat, brandishing a rifle like on the TV. He was a killer the muggles had yet to fathom. A handsome, sixteen year old boy who'd murdered his own father–his own flesh and blood!–with a ten inch long stick made of willow.
He was in hiding, not only from the villains of his world, but from the meddling muggles, too.
The night air was cool on his face, which was flushed from the stuffy hotel room. He set off in the direction of the café, feeling a little upbeat just to be out for no good reason other than he damn well felt like it. There were a few other people strolling about, shady looking characters mostly, who made Draco glad that he'd carried his wand with him. Yes, he'd sworn to Dumbledore that he wouldn't use magic as it would only draw unwanted attention to him. But he felt safer with his wand and if the need arose . . . he wouldn't hesitate, even for a second, to defend himself.
The café was quiet but rich with the vibrant aroma of coffee. Draco liked coffee, liked a strong brew. His mother had always hated that about him–but of course, he was trying not to think about her.
He got a mug full of the darkest looking stuff he could find and settled at a table near the window. The view was different here than from his hotel room, and the café was not the same drab white. Draco felt he could spend a good deal of time just sitting there, enjoying the change. It was so good to be away, unbelievably good.
But the café, like any normal establishment, had closing hours. And at midnight he and three others (a girl pouring over text books, periodically raising her drink to her lips, and a couple drinking nothing at all, but chattering animatedly the whole time about art, literature, music and politics). Draco rolled his eyes at the opinionated, self righteous pair, ignored the all too Granger-like student, and felt much, much older than sixteen. In fact, for a moment he felt as though he were in his fifties with his whole life behind him, someone so hopeless that he had to watch others for entertainment.
Damn. And he'd felt so good sitting there, too. Shame he'd had to spoil it with the realization that his life was, in fact, ruined.
The street was dark, just a single light still lit, illuminating the gray, story book cobble stone that paved the way. As he made his way back towards the hotel he realized that his surroundings were becoming seedier–he was staying in the trashiest joint in town.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, something caught his attention. It was a cardboard box with the word "Kittens" scrawled across the front in black magic marker. But there were no kittens left. The box was empty. Or at least, that's what Draco thought until a fuzzy black head breached the box's walls and proved otherwise.
He stared, surprised and inwardly delighted at the little thing. True, he'd never liked animals but this was so unexpected that, after almost a week of absolute monotony, he found himself approaching the box, crouching down, and looking the cat in the eyes. It was scrawny, and it's fur was gone in some places, like maybe it had been the subject of kitten litter bullying. Highly unattractive, with greenish yellowish eyes too big for it's skull, Draco realized that this cat was the runt of it's family, and had been deemed undesirable by all passers by. It was unattractive, weak, and malnourished and he liked it right away.
Because this cat had nerve contradictory to it's status. It did not cower at his approach, it did not hiss with feigned bravery. It merely stared back at him calmly, knowing that maybe the boy watching it would show kindness, and maybe he would not. And if the boy did not, the kitten knew, he would become acquainted with a set of sharp claws.
Draco smirked, still watching it with some admiration. "You're an ugly little thing, that's for certain. But it would be a pity to leave you here in this alley, alone in the dark."
He was aware that cats were nocturnal, that the kitten would not mind the dark in the least. But his own fears of the night drew sympathy for the creature from the back of his heart and without thinking more on the matter, he scooped up the small animal and dropped it carefully into his overlarge pocket.
The cat, which was entirely black, blended well with Draco's coat and rode quietly, not drawing any attention to itself as they passed through the lobby, past the night clerk. This, too, was to be admired, Draco felt, and he scratched the cat affectionately behind the ears as they took the elevator to the second floor. What a waste of machinery and time, Draco thought of the elevator, when one could just apparate.
He pulled his key from his jeans pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed inside. He was hit with the all too familiar smell of old cigarette smoke and cleaner, and his stomach twisted with agony. He could not wait until school started up again. His appreciation for Hogwarts was mounting with each passing day. After all, it did not stink nearly this abominably . . .
He realized, with some shock, that he was actually quite tired. The kitten needed food, and water and care . . . but it was not long until the morning and the cat was purring quite contentedly from his pocket, like maybe it could wait.
He scooped it out and set it rather clumsily on the bed spread. Then he stripped down to his boxers, and fell onto the mattress, next to the cat.
His mother, Narcissa, had always been fond of cats, particularly white ones. But his father hated them and if there was ever a litter . . . they would be disposed of. So aside from the spoiled, pampered felines his mum had kept, he did not have much experience with the species. Why had he brought the thing back with him again? He shrugged, not really knowing. At least it would provide something to think about and tend to. It could be weeks before he got out of this wretched place and it would be nice to have company, even if the company was small, furry, and ragged looking.
Scooting towards the pillow Draco closed his eyes and began drifting off to sleep but before he slipped entirely into the unconscious he felt a warm ball of fur press against the back of his neck, burying it's face in his hair. He chuckled, stupidly tired by now, and slept at last.