Winter of Discontent

Draco had already rounded the corner and stopped for a heaving breath before sprinting down further, not hearing Potter behind him anymore. He could see the snow swirling downwind almost as if pointing, telling him which way to go, but before he could decide, he was already skidding, his shoes sliding on a patch of ice, sending him falling hard onto his backside, his hat tumbling off his head onto the ground between his feet. When he looked up, willing the sudden pain to subside, it was as if history had decided to repeat itself.

Potter, standing several feet away, wand out, with that smile on his face at knowing the charm he’d just used had worked so well, throwing him onto the floor of the dueling stage, back into his corner, then Snape, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him up, shoving him forward to defend himself again.

But Snape wasn’t here, Potter wasn’t attacking and no one had cast anything... yet. He was just standing there, looking for a moment as if he would move to do something but didn’t. He tried to glower as much as possible after grabbing his wool hat, snapping it firmly back onto his head and standing, not giving in an inch. He plunged his hand casually back into his pocket, but he knew Potter would know. Didn’t matter now; there was nowhere to go. He was suddenly seized by fear again, creeping over the top of his hatred.

Scenes of being Petrified and dragged by Potty and the Aurors back to Azkaban, or to an even more humiliating trial now that Snape was supposedly dead, had no appeal at all. He looked the Gryffindor up and down, noticing for the first time how different he was. As different as he probably seemed. He rubbed his thumb back and forth against his wand and gave a sweeping glance around the alleyway just as Potter had begun to speak "Listen--" but cut him short instead. "So, where are they?"

For a moment, he seemed confused, then set his face again, not buying into it. "Who? Malfoy, there's no one else here."

He narrowed his eyes, not buying into Potter’s words either. "Why should I believe you?" He made a gesture forward with his head. "You’ve probably got seven Auror’s waiting behind you." Then the old familiar sneer crept up on his face. "As if you haven’t noticed, Potter, I've got a price on my head, so I’m sure the only reason you’re here is to collect on the fame... or the money. Though I’m sure you’d turn down the money in favor of having your face on the front page for--"

"Shut up, Malfoy." Harry’s voice was dark, with irritation seething to the forefront. "We’re not in school anymore." He strode forward across the windy gap between them. "And I didn’t come here to--"

All the past year’s anger balled up tight into Draco’s fist, a red hot mass that he reared back and shoved onto Potter’s nose with a loud crack, watching him fall backwards onto the hard concrete, flashes of memory sparking behind his eyes.

He was leaning over the sink basin in the empty girls' bathroom, face soaking up tears. There was a quick, hot light as Potter shouted "SECTUMSEMPRA!", coating Draco's face and chest with more blood than he thought himself capable of losing.

Sure he hadn't known. Innocent mistake. Draco's knuckles stung from the impact. Innocent as sin. Living around Muggles for a year, after curving his distaste enough, had taught him a few things about self preservation without the use of magic that were showing signs of being more and more beneficial everyday. "You're right, Potter, we're not in school anymore. That means there's no one to run to or any of your friends around to do the fighting for you."

A smirk formed at the corner of his mouth but faded just as quickly as he saw his chance at a getaway. Racing around Potter’s stunned form, that he could vaguely hear shuffling back up again in the distance behind him, he ran all the way to his apartment, unlocked it and shut himself inside. Leaning, breathless, back against the door, he groaned in frustration. "Now I’ll never get anything to eat." He knew he would have to find a new place to live since he’d been outted in plain sight. Otherwise he’d stay stuck indoors, starving to death because no amount of concealing magic could keep those determined to find him away. He cursed Potter silently, taking off his hat and tossing it down.

It just wasn't his year but the fading pain in his bones from using such dirty, but very Slytherin, tactics, on his greatest enemy, was enough to turn part of his day around. He would try to go out later, after sundown, when he really would have less chance of being seen. Be his luck, Granger would be hiding out there as well and accidentally bump into him. He snorted and strode across the room, sliding down into his most comfortable chair, knees spread casually apart. He scuffed his heel against the carpet, ruminating. There was no one to go to now. No ungrateful relatives to aid him, no mentors, none of those people he'd once called friends. His snapping words to Potter couldn't have been more true for him, too. He hated it. He hated them all, even Crabbe and Goyle, the closest things to friends he ever thought he'd had. His mood was fast deteriorating just as the light was fading, turning various shades of ugly pastel.

Then came a knock at the door, and Draco froze in mid-movement, about to rise. He kept still, figuring whoever it was might go away if they thought no one was home. His first thought was of earlier: had Potter followed his tracks so easily? Maybe he shouldn't take him so for granted; he had, after all, done one thing right, even though on good days Draco was loathe to admit it: Destroying the Dark Lord. Having spent a short time in his service was plenty to figure out that he liked killing for sport, and making pure-bloods kneel on the ground, and if his father had taught him anything it was that a Malfoy never put his knees in the mud unless he was going to get back up again and defend his honor. Too bad Father didn't take his own advice, he thought darkly.

There was another knock, louder than before, and Draco got the distinct impression they weren't going to go away. He crept up to the door but didn't touch it, squinting through the peephole that turned his normal vision into a fisheye swirl of colors and shapes, until he could finally make them into a recognizable form. There was a hidious creature doing backflips in his stomach, he was sure of it, as he bit down on his tongue, pulling back from the peephole, his good hand clenched tight into a fist. Two dirty fights in one day, and maybe this time he'd get a chance to use his wand without fear; this was a record, even for him, getting into so much trouble, hiding among filthy Muggles. He reached his hand out to turn the knob on the door, his thumb pushed hard against the top of his wand, still inside his pocket.