Black Sheep

Chapter Two
In Which A New Life Begins

DRACO DIDN'T MOVE. HE THOUGHT. If the night before truly hadn't been a dream, then this must be Harry Potter's home. Godric's Hollow, or so the doctor had told him. Choosing to ignore for the moment how appropriately moronic and Gryffindoric it was that Harry "I was born wearing red and gold" Potter lived in Godric's Hollow, he tried to work out his own situation, forcing himself along a productive line. He was stuck at Potter's. There the line ended.

He hadn't seen the Boy Wonder since they'd both been seventeen. It had been nearly five years. And the last he'd heard of any of it, Harry Potter had disappeared right after the Dark Lord had. Not dead, word had it, and certainly not beaten by Voldemort, but beaten nonetheless.

And yet here Draco Malfoy, without meaning to in the least, had stumbled upon the famous recluse's hiding spot. Here in Wiltshire, just a stone's throw from his own family's manor. Well, a stone thrown by someone very, very strong, that is.

The knowledge didn't give him the thrill it might have once. He didn't want to out Potter to the Wizarding world. If he did so, he'd have to see the git's face on every paper front for the rest of his life. No, he would be perfectly happy to forget that the Boy Who Lived had lived and would not be opposed to having every other wizard or witch on the planet do the same. What he wanted now was to get away from the other man's hideaway and forget about this entire incident.

Listening hard, Draco could hear no sign of another live person in the little house. He slowly sat up, rotating his sore shoulder tenderly. The bed he lay on was covered in white sheets and a white duvet. The walls were also white, with not a single decoration. He got up and opened the door to the hall, peering around it cautiously. The hall was white. Potter's renowned sense of fashion obviously hadn't changed much. At least the place didn't look like a Gryffindor's den, though, since Draco didn't think he would have been able to handle all that red and gold on an empty stomach.

To his left was a closed door, presumably leading to another bedroom. To his right, the hall led straight to the front door. It was tempting to just walk out then and there, but where could he go? He had no money, muggle or otherwise, no wand and now he had no vehicle. He was going to have to ask Potter for help. Draco grimaced unhappily.

Instead of running pell-mell out the front door, he walked into the sitting room. He was not disappointed to find it white. The only furniture in the room was a very comfortable- but tatty-looking couch and a decently-sized television on a table. The other end of the room became the kitchen without so much as a wall or partition and Draco wrinkled his nose distastefully. At the Manor - hell, even at Hogwarts - one would never have even seen the kitchens, would never know they existed but for the food that came from them. They certainly wouldn't be open to a sitting room.

Nonetheless, there was the small table with four chairs, all looking like they'd never been used, and there behind them a bare and apparently Muggle kitchen. He noticed a piece of paper on the cheap table and moved cautiously to pick it up. It simply read, Take what you need.

"What is there to possibly take?" he asked the empty room sarcastically, before he caught himself. He studied the note. That spiky handwriting hadn't changed since their schooldays. Equally unmistakable was the unwritten message: ...and leave.

Draco glanced at the squashy couch. He sat down on it. He looked around the white room. He got up and walked to the window, looking out at a surprisingly vibrant garden. He went and sat back down. He jiggled his foot.

"Oh, bugger."

He stood up again and went back into the hall. The door at the end stood ominously shut tight. Unable to help himself, he snuck up to the door practically on tip-toes and put an ear to it cautiously. He held his breath. There were no noises from within. Still not daring to breathe, he turned the handle and let the door swing open with a gentle push.

In the room was another plain white bed and a single cheap-looking wardrobe. Again there were no photos or decorations. And lying on that plain bed, fast asleep, was the master of the house. Draco felt stupid for his stealthy approach and said snidely (but still quietly) to the unconscious man, "Some honed warrior you are. Don't even notice someone sneaking into your own room."

Draco's hand twitched and a mischievous smile suddenly curved across his face. He held his hands up in front of his body, outstretched as if to throttle someone, and started to slowly approach the bed. In his head, there was a dramatic tune playing. There was often music playing in Draco's head. He loomed over the man on the bed, whose eyelashes curled against his cheeks and who was snoring lightly in his sleep. His hands lowered, inches away from that tawny skin. Harry continued to sleep, unawares. Draco's fingers practically itched with the warmth that he could feel from the skin, just millimetres below. And just before he could have grasped the man's throat in his long, thin fingers, green eyes popped open and Draco found himself staring face-to-face with a very awake Harry Potter.

Oh, bugger.

Back-pedalling both physically and verbally, he stammered, "Oh, no. It isn't what - I was just - bugger." He stopped when he hit the wall behind him and gave a weak smirk. "Can't you take a joke?"

The silence stretched and Draco prayed for the other man to say something. After an agonizing ten seconds, which felt like ten minutes to Draco, the black-haired man sat up and narrowed his eyes in feigned confusion. "What are you doing here?"

Draco waved one hand airily and said, "I seem to recall that you brought me here."

"No, what are you still doing here?"

"Ah." Draco repeated the inventory that he had come up with earlier: "No money, no magic, no motorcycle."

Harry dropped back onto his bed and ground out, "So if we find your wand, you will apparate back out of my life?"

It was with a very sincere face that Draco promised, "I would love nothing more." He didn't mention, though, that it was categorically impossible.

"Fine. Shove off and I'll come find you to have a look for it." And with that encouraging statement, Harry rolled over and buried his face in his pillow, trying his damnedest to fall back asleep.

Draco seriously considered continuing to pester the dark man, but chose the smarter course of backing out of the room. He had already seen about everything the house had to offer and so he walked out the front door and into the garden he had glimpsed before. Draco was more familiar with the well-ordered and manicured gardens that were found at the Manor and other fine places, but he found that the wild raucousness of flowers and shrubs around him was also strangely appealing. The plants seemed to be dripping off of one another, cascading from the stone wall that cut most of the garden off from the lane and barely missing the rough stone path that led around the small house, in streams of bright colour. Completely undignified yet somehow... attractive.

Having caught a glimpse of the lane, though, between all the splashes of blooming colour, he made for it. It was a regular unmade road, common in little villages like this. As he walked up it, little puffs of white dust kicked up around him and immediately began to dull his black shoes and lighten his pant-cuffs. Godric's Hollow... Why was the name familiar? He felt sure that he had heard it sometime before the previous night.

Draco started up the lane, still chewing on the name, and arrived at the next isolated lot. At first he thought that it was undeveloped wilderness, but then he saw the doorstop nestled among the weedy grasses. Once he'd recognized the flat piece of stone that represented a home, the remains of beams and crumbling bricks walls, half-hidden beneath the wild growth, suddenly popped out at him like a trick picture. The ruins of a house... Godric's Hollow... of course!, he realized with a start. It was part of the legend. Godric's Hollow was where Lily Potter, James Potter and Voldemort himself had all met their fates, over twenty years before.

Bit morbid, he thought to himself, living next to the house where your parents were murdered. The sooner he was out of here the better. He didn't want to deal with losses of the past.

He continued down the lane, occasionally passing a quiet house. But he saw no one else and nothing was familiar. He massaged his shoulder. He wanted to be at the Manor. There was security there. Dependability. Even though it was those selfsame feelings that had driven him out on his motorcycle the previous day. He sighed and flopped down into the grass next to the lane. Nothing would ever feel right again. He knew it. After all, what could be right when he had-

"Malfoy!" An irritable voice called out to him. Draco popped up from the grasses that had hidden him. He sat there waiting, the waving grass up to his shoulders and his tousled head sticking out like a dandelion puff. Harry was standing far down the lane, clothed in a pair of scruffy jeans and a faded t-shirt that might've once been crimson. He noticed the blond and started up the lane, saying, "Let's go then. The sooner we get this over with, the better."

Draco stood up and dusted off the legs of his trousers. He waited for Harry to draw parallel to his resting spot and then stepped out into the road, easily pacing next to the other man. "So is it very far, then?" he asked casually. Harry's only response was a glare and so he exclaimed in a slightly affronted tone, "What?"

"I think that's my line," Harry said, glaring down at his dirty trainers. He turned purposefully on the blond and gave him a searching look, "Are those drugs still affecting you?"

Draco held his fingers up to his face and wriggled them experimentally. He held his arms out next and took turns touching his index fingers to his nose, never missing a beat. He declared, "No, I don't believe so."

Harry continued to look at him askance, seeming even more unhappy. "Then this is normal?"

The blond shrugged. "'Fraid so."

Harry seemed to be struggling with something and he finally forced out, "Don't you hate me?"

Draco pursed his lips and thought long and seriously about his answer as they continued to trudge along the lane. "I suppose so. But what does it matter now? I don't know you. And after today we may never have to meet again."

What does it matter...?

Harry wasn't used to being so casually dismissed and Draco could see that he was having trouble with it. He told the other man, "Look, Potter, it's been six years since we both left school. That's as long as we were even at Hogwarts. It's been a long time and believe it or not, my life is no longer centred upon quidditch wins or potions grades."

"I wish mine still was," Harry murmured and then blinked when he realized he'd said it aloud.

"Yeah. Me, too," Draco admitted easily. "Things seemed much simpler back then."

"But then... what do you do now? After we..." Harry trailed off and then his tone suddenly changed as he said brusquely, "Never mind." He picked up his pace, leaving Draco in his wake and the blond let him.

Harry didn't understand why he was talking to the Dark wizard. He had lived for nearly five years here in Godric's Hollow, the Muggle village his parents had stayed in. And in all that time, he hadn't contacted anyone from his old life, hadn't kept an owl, had no fireplace for floo. It wasn't that he didn't practise magic. He still did, when the occasion arose. But he had no desire to be part of the magical world.

His only contact with another magical being for years had been his sporadic visits from Ginny. Every couple weeks or months she'd pop by. Sometimes he would see her but most times he would not. As far as he could tell, no one else knew that he was here.

And he'd been happy like that. Or at least he'd been used to that. He lived a modest life, spent his days cooking and gardening and cleaning and walking. He'd enjoyed flying around the countryside in his vintage car, but that wouldn't be happening anymore, he supposed. Still, he'd been satisfied with how his life worked. So why did he now have the urge to chat with Draco Malfoy about the past as if it were the most natural thing in the world?

He needed to get rid of the other man. He didn't want any ties to the Wizarding world. He didn't want to remember the past. He didn't. Did he?

Shaking his head at himself, as if his life would fall back into place with the movement, he led Draco through the village square. Or actually, he charged through the village square and left it up to Draco to follow if he would. They drew quite a bit of attention, as no one had ever seen the reclusive Potter with another person and because, as happens in small communities, everyone already had heard about the mysterious accident and Mr Potter's shocking behaviour at the doctor's surgery.

Not slowing down for a moment, Harry stalked down the high street and Draco ambled along behind him, smiling genially and examining the curious bystanders with as much frank attention as they were giving him. He couldn't help thinking of how anywhere that Potter had gone at Hogwarts, he had been followed by a chorus of greetings (or jibes, depending on popular sentiment at the time). Now no one called out to him, friendly or otherwise.

They left the village behind and headed out on the empty road where they'd met, as it were, the previous day. As they passed out of view, Draco turned around and waved broadly to the village. Harry didn't turn around, but Draco knew that the other man was on the edge of an angry outburst. This was the most fun he'd had in years. He'd nearly forgotten how much he loved attention, of any kind. Back at the Manor, the only attention he got was from Merry, the house elf.

He turned back to following Harry along the winding road. It wasn't very familiar yet and they kept trudging along. Draco bit down on the urge to whinge, "Are we there yet?" He wasn't sure that he liked having Potter ignore him. He started to sing, instead. It wasn't anything that bad; an old chart-topper from their school days. And Draco had a decent enough voice, though he surely wouldn't win any awards for it. Still he could see Potter practically twitching with annoyance, his shoulders hitching up a notch more with every verse. Finally Harry burst out, "God, what is wrong with you?"

He had whirled around to give Draco the full brunt of his ire, but the blond just shrugged and kept walking, forcing Harry to pace along backwards as long as he wanted to continue his glare. Draco said, "I've lived for five years alone with a house elf, Potty. And I have to say that I'm just tickled to be among intelligent creatures." He eyed Harry with something akin to his old sharpness and amended to himself, "Well, semi-intelligent, anyway."

Once again Harry had no way to respond and so Draco continued blithely, "You know, your rapier wit seems to have suffered much more than mine over the years."

Harry continued to stare, then blinked several times and muttered weakly, "Perhaps I need a house elf, too."

Draco grinned and applauded him mockingly. "Spot on, Potter. That was almost a retort. A couple more hours and you may be back to form."

Frowning in confusion, Harry turned back away and walked forward again. Draco resumed his song. They arrived at a more familiar stretch of road, with telltale tire tracks and bits of broken glass. Harry stopped at the first collection of metal bits and glass pebbles. Both vehicles were gone, presumably towed off while the two of them had been lying in the surgery.

"This is where your bike seems to have gone down and then you were thrown into the hill. So start looking."

Draco gave a Gallic shrug and set off into the scrub, knowing full well that he was looking for something that couldn't be found. But Harry seemed fixed on this whole "find-the-wand-and-apparate-the-hell-out-of-my-life" idea. So Draco let him run with it.

They searched arbitrarily, starting at the base of the gentle hill, right on the edge of the road, and fanning up and out. The sun climbed higher in the sky and beat down on their backs as they bent over the wild grasses. Very occasionally, a small car would potter by. Draco was beginning to feel distinctively grubby in his clothes, which had already been rolled in this dirt yesterday, been slept in, and now were being sweated upon above all that. He sat down and declared, "We're never going to find it. I want a bath."

Harry, about three metres to his right, also flopped down in the tall grasses. He admitted, "You're right. We'll never find it like this." He seemed to think about the problem for a long while and Draco happily laid in the grass, staring up at the sky, for that long while. The former Gryffindor finally seemed to arrive at an idea and asked, "What does your wand look like? Precisely now."

Draco felt a surprising pang in his chest, but his voice came out casual. "Let's see... it was the palest of birches, nearly white. About eleven inches long, just as long as my forearm. The grain was even - no knots or whorls. The tip came to a fine point and the handle was inlaid with purest platinum, fine as a veela's hair."

"I need you to be more specific. Did it form some kind of pattern? And how wide was the wand around?"

Draco tried to remember and was surprised to find that he could, as if he really had just held the wand yesterday. It had been just a bit wider than his thumb, he told Harry, at its base. "And I already told you that it tapered to a point. The inlays did form patterns. They started from a solid platinum base, capping the wand, and shaped like a pentagram or a flower. Lines extended from each point of the pentagram and spiralled around the wand shaft..." He broke off and swallowed, smiling tightly.

The other man had drawn his own wand and had his eyes closed in concentration. He waved his wand and called, "Accio Malfoy's wand." They both waited for several tense moments, but no slender piece of wood come whizzing at their heads.

Draco sighed and laid back against the hillside. "Why don't you do something useful with that thing," he said, "and summon us something to eat?"

Harry didn't want to be taking any orders from Malfoy, but he was also damned hungry, since neither of them had had anything to eat since the previous afternoon. He tried to recall what was in his pantry at the moment and then with a moment's concentration, summoned up a loaf of thick country bread and half a wheel of some mysterious white cheese that he'd picked up at the market the week before. He tore a hunk of bread off the loaf and then, after only one doubtful look, lobbed it at Draco. He rather hoped it would strike the blond man, but with a Seeker's instict, Malfoy shot one slender hand out to grab the missile out of the air.

Feeling childish, Harry kept the cheese for himself, deciding that Malfoy would have to ask him for it if he really wanted any. He broke off a piece of the hard cheese and shoved it in his mouth with a too-large lump of bread. He realized his mistake a moment later, when the pain in his jaw came shooting back to life, sparking off fireworks in his skull. As he stubbornly chewed on the mass in his mouth, he watched Draco out of the corner of his eye. The other man had torn a more moderately sized piece of bread from the loaf and was chewing it thoughtfully.

They really needed to find that wand, Harry decided.

He swallowed his wad with only the slightest appearance of discomfort and tore off another, more reasonably sized piece. He looked down at the cheese in his hands, then glanced at Malfoy again. The blond was still tearing off little balls of bread and popping them in his mouth. Harry's fingers dug slightly into the dry cheese. He chewed his food furiously and tried to think of other spells or charms that might locate Malfoy's wand in this mess of weeds and grass.

What if they couldn't find the wand? Could he just hire a taxi for the other man and send him off? Would that be enough to pay back his debt? If he was even acknowledging that he had a debt to the other man. Why should he, after all? After everything that Malfoy had done to him during their six years at Hogwarts, why should he owe the other man for just one night?

As if he could read Harry's mind, Draco stopped tearing off pieces of bread and asked into the warm, silent spring air, "So, Potter... I've been wondering for quite a while now. And since I've got you here and all..." He looked over at Harry with those inscrutable grey eyes and asked mildly, "What ever happened after you left me for dead?"