Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter! If I did it probably wouldn't be called fan fiction.

Author's Notes: This is my first fan fic, so I hope you like it. Reviews would be greatly appreciated! Thanks!

"Find another place to feed your greed, while I find a place to rest, you try to take the best of me, go away." A Place for My Head, Linkin Park.

Chapter One

Into the Night

In the dark no one could see the small figure curled in a tight ball in the dimly lit pub, and if anyone saw, no one really seemed to take notice. It was, for better or worse, usually this way for the tight curled up ball. No one noticed the fear or the bruises, no one could see that he was dying on the inside. Right now, however, no one noticing was a good thing. As long as he was never discovered, he was safe, or so he would figure.

Would being the key word. Right now the figure took little notice and had few real thoughts. He was falling into a world that was his own nightmare. Hiding, fearful, horrid nightmare, where all that was real was the shadows, approaching feet, the drunken conversations that fortunately, did not mention him, and the fear of him finding him here, disobeying. Always disobeying.

The dark was welcomed here at the pub, the smells of beer and sweat mixing into an almost unbearable odor. Tonight, the dark was also welcomed by the figure, or it would have been, had he the ability to think clearly. As it was, he was quite too terrified to think of anything outside the boundaries of the surrounding footsteps on the hardwood floor.

As it was it was very dark. Inside as well as out. Outside it was the most utter dark that could be experienced. The kind of dark that could only be experienced in the middle of winter in the dead of night. Even the lights of the pub seemed to dim only a few yards away, and become nearly impossible to spot. The small village, if ten or so houses and one pub could be called a village, would almost be impossible to find in the dark.

Only hours before, in the fading light of evening that came oh too soon, the figure had been lost, frozen, and near death before luck, something not well known to the person, had befallen him, and he had spotted dim lights of the village. At the end of his rope, had he even missed the village by more than two hundred feet, he would never have seen the village, and in the growing cold there could be no doubt that he would not have survived for another hour had he not discovered the village when he did.

Discovering the village would not be enough to save him however. If he had thought about what he was doing before he had thrown himself to face the bitter cold, before having to face an even colder figure, he would realize that he was trapped. He would have realized there was no escape, or at least not this way, not this time. Maybe never. There was no escaping his own fate either.

But enough of the figure in the corner. The man whom the pub belonged, a pub by the name of Grayson's Pub, not original, but quite appropriate, attended to the fairly crowded place. There was a big game of football that night, and every man able to drink had headed down to the pub to be able to watch the game away from the burdens of their normal, everyday lives. They were here to get drunk and perhaps win a brawl or two before the night's end.

Tonight there seemed to be little arguing over which team was the preferred, and it also appeared to be doing the best. This was lucky for the man named Robert Grayson, the quite lenient pub owner. He knew everyone in town, and allowed many things to go unnoticed under his nose, even though he was, in reality, quite aware of them. Too many brawls meant having to throw valuable customers in a town where there was only a certain number of people upon which he could get on the bad side of. He had to keep his business from going under and yet some how keep a good reputation. Unfortunately, he was failing miserably, at least on the reputation, but he had returning customers, and he made a fair share of money. Enough to make up for sacrificing the pub, and more than likely, his 'good' name.

He kept the pub open late that night. It was only when the light outside outweighed the light emitted from the inside of the pub did he begin to close up and throw out what was left of the football party, namely, drunks in such a stupor as to not remember the direction to their house, if not out of habit. When he finally kicked out old Jerry, whom was asleep, almost drowning in his own drool, it was nearly noon.

His bar had a reputation alright. A reputation for dirt and grime, cheap beer and brawls. Despite this, he actually did wash his pub, keeping the tables clean, and most things neat. This effort was unnoticed by the majority of people. This pub was his one and only child, his true beloved, and what kept him alive. If he had to sacrifice his reputation to keep it above water, than he would gratefully due so.

It was as he was finishing washing and clearing off the last table, one by the wall, in the middle, did he notice the small dark figure, covered in what looked to be a black blanket, shivering and trembling in the corner. He felt a sudden dread in his breast, wondering how long the young minor had been in there and what a child so small was doing away from his family.

He instantly wondered to whom the child belonged, certain it was someone who had been at his pub. If the he found out to whom he belonged, and he discovered they had brought him here, they would no longer be welcome, people who were drunk enough to neglect their family in such a manner were not welcome in his pub, let alone leaving the minor here. He sighed, knowing he'd have to approach the frightened child.

Slowly and carefully the Mr. Grayson approached the figure. While he could not see the face covered by the black material, he noticed the figure inch further toward the corner, pulling himself into a tighter ball. He doubted that this was a good thing.

When he was finally close to the figure, he got to his knees, and started to lift the blanket. Pale blond hair, shimmering, almost white, was all he could see. Mr. Grayson's brow knotted in confusion, not knowing any person in town whose child had such delicate and fine colored hair. It was long, but the length of a small boy's, not girl's.

He heard the child quietly whimper, but the boy still refused to look at him. Grayson had a feeling of foreboding. Something about this small boy just wasn't right, something was terribly different. He feared that perhaps the boy had come from a home where the parents were more than just stupid drunks. Of course, that was really none of his business, he knew. His business was running the pub, and he had made his business on the foundation that whatever was going on outside the pub was none of his business. After all, perhaps the child was just a lost and frightened, not necessarily in any real trouble at all.

"Hello, it's okay, can you tell me you're name?" Grayson asked as kindly and calmly as he could muster.

The child shook his head, and tried seemed to try to withdraw further into himself. Grayson would have sighed again, had he not wanted the boy to hear. This was not going to be easy.

"Can you tell me where you come from, who you're parents are?" he asked.

Again the boy shook his head slightly, and wrapped his limbs closer to his body. Grayson knew that he was going to have to gain enough of the boy's trust for him to say anything.

"Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?"

At this the boy did not respond. Then, ever so slowly, he lifted his small head and looked at the man who's hair was a dark musty brown and for some odd reason, and looked as though it should contain mothballs. Dark brown eyes met silver-gray ones with just the tiniest hints of blue. The boy, eyes large and frightened, nodded even more slightly than he had before.

"Well that's good, because I have a ton of food I've been needing to get rid of," he said standing up straight, before continuing. "It's perfectly fine, not stale or nothin', just that nobody really comes here for food, and it just piles up, and if it's not eaten it'll go stale, and it's not like I can eat it all myself."

He went to the back of the pub and got a few treats for the boy. He had looked so pale and small he was afraid that if he even spoke too loudly that he might crumble and break. He called from the back, "You like chips and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?"

He realized the boy was not going to respond to that with more than the nod of his head. He grabbed the supplies and went to the table. He looked at the boy, and he nodded. "Good, because I'm not much of a cook honestly."

He then proceeded to make the sandwiches. He looked down at the boy. "If you're going to eat, you're going to have to eat up here at the table, okay?" he asked.

This time the boy didn't nod or refuse. Rather, with cold and stiff limbs, he slowly lifted himself up and silently sat down and began to eat. When he was done he looked guiltily at the food.

He looked at the man with those same shocking eyes. The grey seemed so cold, so distant, but the hint of blue making him look real, innocent, vulnerable. It was an odd mix, to be sure. But the boy appeared to be odd as well.

Finally he managed to whisper, "Thank you."

It was barely audible, but Mr. Grayson caught it. "Your very welcome. My name's Mr. Grayson. You look cold, would you like a blanket?"

The boy nodded, he tried to say thank you again, but his throat was burning, and his voice was scratchy which rawness and fear, and he tried to word it but nothing came out. Grayson put up his hand and said, "It's no problem, you're welcome."

Mr. Grayson left for a moment, and went upstairs from the back room of the pub and into the flat that where he lived. He grabbed one of the warmest blankets he had that wasn't in use or need of washing. He went back downstairs and gave it to the boy who nodded appreciatively, for he couldn't do much else, and wrapped it around himself.

"Does your voice hurt? Would you like some water?"

The boy nodded again. Mr. Grayson, again, responded in accordance to the boy's need. He gave the boy the water, and he managed to sip on it, his throat burning.

"It seems you're coming down with something, I could get the doctor - " Mr. Grayson said, but the boy shook his head so viscously Grayson was surprised his neck didn't snap.

"Look, I'm sorry, but you can't stay here, and I can't help you, since I don't even know your name…" Mr. Grayson said.

"Draco," the boy whispered, to quiet for Grayson to hear properly.

"Drake?"

"Draco."