Winter of Discontent

Draco rubbed his chin, tilting it upwards slightly to get a good look in the square mirror. His thumb felt the skin for any remains of stubble, pleased that he'd not drawn blood again. Staring back down into the pristine white porcelain sink, hands resting on each side, he was painfully reminded of the situation he was in. He closed his eyes, setting his jaw and turning to walk away. He wasn't going to shed another tear over it. What was done was done. He shook his head to one side, shoving his bangs out of his eyes as he walked back into the kitchen with more determination than he'd had when he'd first woken up. He buttoned the cuffs of his white dress shirt tight around his wrists as he went, stopping by the tiny table in the corner that passed for a kitchen space in his wretched apartment, taking a drink from his cup of black coffee.

Vaguely, he was reminded of his father's morning rituals back at the manor: coffee being a favorite indulgence he'd always scoffed at, acting disgusted every time his father took a sip. "It's only coffee Draco," he'd reply smoothly. "You don't like it because you think it tastes like the bottom of a shoe...when you've never even tried it." Then with a smug smile, "No, that kind you reserve for potential enemies...over breakfast. Brewed correctly, or should I say, incorrectly, it can be as bitter and as black as the sole of any shoe." and finishing, he'd put the cup down and apparate to work, leaving Draco curious enough to sniff but not enough to taste. "Nasty…" he'd repeat, curling his nose and staring at the spot where his father had stood.

Lately, he'd developed a liking for it; something, he mused, that must be a sign of growing up, getting a taste for dark things you only thought you knew in your youth. He didn't close the top most button of his shirt like he'd always been taught to do, leaving the collar open and loose, not even bothering with a tie. He wanted to appear as 'normal' as he could be; the less he seemed like his old self, the better. His scowl had not been forgotten though, his gray eyes having turned as hard as stone. He banged the empty cup down on the table. It had been almost a year and a half now since he'd escaped, though just barely, with Snape's help. An event he sorely wished he could forget with Snape now six feet underground, as he'd heard Muggles call it.

You heard right: Potions master and Head of Slytherin House at the once mighty Hogwarts would, to most, seem to be lying prone under a monument stone when, in fact, his ashes were in a sealed urn in the hands of the Ministry. He had been a wanted man, after all. The few copies of The Daily Prophet he'd been able to get a hold of, had told him all he'd needed to know: Death Eater, Suspected Double Agent and Murderer, Severus Snape, Dead. Dead and in his shabby, cluttered Muggle house no less, where he thought he'd be safe. Draco felt no guilt about having run away from there after the first month while they waited for almost every witch, wizard and Auror in the country to find them and there was no getting help from the Dark Lord either. Potter and his friends had seen to that.

The squealer? Wormtail of course. That filthy little rat Snape kept as a servant, had snuck off and made a plea-bargain with Fudge in exchange for giving them the location of his house on Spinner's End. To this day, Draco still didn't understand why the old git hadn't hightailed it out of there. Unplottable he'd said. Draco snorted as he pulled his thick wool coat over his shoulders and threw his scarf around his neck. Still, he thought, it was The Prophet, and as much as he knew they were the best source of true news in the wizarding world, he couldn't shake the feeling that Snape might not be dead but if that was so, why hadn't he gotten in contact with him by now? He shook his head, pushing some of his white blonde hair, now down to his shoulders, behind his ears, securing his hat into place. Even though he wasn't in anymore danger of being discovered by the late Dark Lord, he still couldn't go back, yet. There was still the Ministry to contend with.

Winter was in full force by now in the Muggle village he'd found himself in and more's the better for it. With his hat and scarf he would be less easy to recognize if there just happened to be someone from his world that might see him walking the streets. He'd rented his apartment from an all too eager man whose eyes had lit up at the sight of the bag of Muggle money Draco'd filched from Snape's private stash he'd found out about one night, hidden in the most obvious place. That was another thing, too: just because he'd made the Unbreakable Vow, he felt he could trust Draco to not ferret--er, discover his secrets. He was a Malfoy, what did he expect? That he'd end up in Azkaban like his pitiful excuse for a father or dead, like his weak mother?

He was suddenly reminded of his mother; what Snape had told him. His pride would only allow him to grieve once, not long after he'd moved in the apartment and only at night when his dreams could wash the feelings from him. His face was dark as he shut the door and headed outside, hand stuffed into his pocket where he kept his wand, despite the fact that he knew he couldn't use magic. Better safe than sorry, he always thought. Just because he'd neither seen nor heard from anyone in a long time didn't mean they weren't still trying to pick up his trail. He needed food today and always went to the same place to get it but as he strode down the sidewalk, empty, thankfully, of the usually immense crowds of Muggles that made him feel suffocated and sick, he felt a shiver run down his spine.

It wasn't from the negative temperatures either. It was the spark of magic waiting on the tip of someone's wand ready to be cast and he was the only target around. Wrapping his frozen fingers around the hard wood of his own wand, he turned on his heels, ready to face whoever dared have it out with him in broad daylight, only to have his furious anger turn to gut wrenching nausea as a pair of bright green eyes stared him down from behind the reflection of round lenses.

He didn't realize he was holding his breath. When before, he would've had some clever retort or insult for Potter, now he was filled with a seizure of fear, realizing the only reason he would be here. He whipped around, breaking into a run and darting around confused and startled Muggles into an alley up the street, hoping they would serve the purpose of hiding him from sight. Potter's voice, sounding different than he remembered, died an echo on the shrill wind, "Malfoy! Come back!"