Chapter 1-Familiar Stranger

Red and blue lights swam in the periphery of his vision. Silently, he thanked Mother Nature for the pouring rain that created a watery curtain around him. Only one more block and he would be safe, ensconced in the sanctuary that was Saint Michael’s Church without having to worry about silver cuffs being clapped around his wrists, again.

It was only a candy bar, he rationalized. Less than a pound’s worth of sugar and he was being hunted down like some sort of animal. Not that he wasn’t used to it. He just didn’t fancy spending another night in a cold, dank cell with smelly old drunks and half-dressed prostitutes. The first two times were enough, no use adding a third to the list.

“STOP!”

The officer’s amplified voice rang out on the quiet street but he ignored it. He could see the shadowy shape of Saint Michael’s right ahead and picked up his pace, foot catching on the uneven pavement. He went down hard, knees slamming into the ground with brutal force. He climbed shakily to his feet and winced as the rain fell on his scraped knees. Ignoring the pain, he began to run again.

“STOP OR I’LL SHOOT!”

A car door slammed and a second later the slap-slap of the officer’s shoes echoed against the wet pavement. He slipped his pistol from the waistband of his jeans and cocked it. If they wanted to start a gunfight, he’d be ready. A bullet whizzed past his ear as he navigated the steps. Miraculously, he managed to duck inside the massive wooden doors just as a second shot rang out.

Draco Malfoy slumped against the heavy doors of the church, panting. So much for staying out of trouble, he thought wryly. Soaked head to toe, it was nearly impossible to stop the shivering that engulfed his body but he fought against it and stood. He would park himself on one of the pews and rest for a couple hours. It wouldn’t be a comfortable sleep, but at least he’d be warm and dry.

He made his way out of the vestibule and into the main church. The area was dimly lit, prayer candles casting the only light in the ancient building. Quietly, he crept across the back of the church, ears peeled for any sound. He had seen no one so far and for that he was grateful. Being engaged in conversation with a priest or some friendly Christian was not what he wanted at the moment.

And then he heard it. Barely audible and almost imagined: a sigh. He would have discarded it for his own breathing if a small clink if a glass hadn’t followed. Draco gripped the pistol and held it low heading in the direction of the sound. No use starting trouble if he didn’t have to.

The man stood in front of a table of candles, arm extended over the sea of flames. He touched the tip of the match to the wick of one of the unlit candles and watched as the action produced a flare of light and then died down. He blew out the match tip and placed it on the table before clasping his hands behind his back and turning his face upward. His lips moved in a silent prayer, eyes fluttering shut, and a shot of recognition rushed through Draco. He had seen someone do that once, a long time ago.

In a darkened hallway, bathed in moonlight, he had watched a raven-haired boy stand in that same position and pray. The awe he felt at watching The-Boy-Who-Lived in such a private moment overcame the hate that had raged inside him only moments before. If he had been smart, he would have made his move then, knocked him out and brought him straight to the Dark Lord, but something stopped him. Something undescribable, something so foreign that he found himself rooted to the spot. And that feeling, whatever it was, was back now.

Draco cleared his throat and raised the pistol. Slowly, the man turned around and the blond couldn’t help the gasp that escaped him. Haunted was too weak a word to describe the man before him. Death may have been more appropriate. His eyes were still the emerald green they had always been, but as they stared at him now, there was something darker hiding just behind them, something that said “I’ve killed before and I won’t hesitate to do it again.” But that wasn’t the only difference. Gone were the nerdy glasses that he was never seen without and the messy black hair had grown to his shoulders in soft waves. And though he matched Draco in height, his build was strong and muscular, making the blond feel dwarfed in his presence.

"Potter?"

He breathed the name so low, it came out as a whisper. The man's brows furrowed in concentration before recognition dawned on him.

"Malfoy?"

He raked a hand through his dark hair and the long strands parted, giving Draco a clear view of the infamous lightning scar. Unconsciously, his eyes were drawn to it and he thought it odd that he had never, in all his years of knowing him, truly looked at it. It wasn't until Potter's next words that he drew his eyes away.

"You're supposed to be dead. They held a funeral for you and everything." There was a look of utter desperation on his face and Draco had no idea what to make of it.

“A funeral? What are you on about, Potter?”

“There was a funeral for you, Malfoy. At Hogwarts . . . What happened?” There was a pleading note in his voice as he stepped forward.

“Don’t come any closer, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes clouded over for a moment and then the darkness Draco had seen in them when he had first turned around was back.

“Why? Scared, Malfoy?” he challenged.

“No,” Draco spat. He glared back at his former nemesis knowing that it was a lie. Indeed he was scared. Scared of finding out what had happened to make them all think he was dead, scared of what he was feeling right now just looking at Potter, scared of what he would feel if he stayed here any longer. Everything he had felt, everything from that night of spying on Gryffindor’s Golden Boy, came back in full force.

“Forget this ever happened, Potter. Forget we ever saw each other.” He started to back away, gun still pointed at the other man, when his vison began to swim in front of his eyes. He clutched at the pew beside him in an effort to steady himself, but it wasn’t working.

“Malfoy?”

Potter’s voice sounded so far away. He fell to his knees, the pistol landing on the floor beside him with a clang. He blinked, trying to set the world at rights but nothing was helping.

“Malfoy? Are you all right?” Harry’s voice was panicky.

“I’m fine,” he spat but immediately burst into a serious coughing fit. His chest was burning and he shivered. “I’m fine,” he repeated weakly, but instantly he knew it was a lie. Before he could help it, he felt himself falling into blackness as Potter’s arms reached out to grab him.