Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or Draco, or anything. Though I would take Draco if he was offered to me. xD;; No money's being made, and yadda-yadda. Don't call anyone, 'cause I will be forced to spork you. xX;

Title: I hate the way you say 'I love you'

Rating: R

Warnings: Slash/Lemon/Boy on Boy ; Whatever you want to call it, I got's it.

Pairing: Draco & Harry

Summary: It's been five years since Hogwarts held their first annual Witch's & Wizard's Magic Fair. On that day, Harry's world changed, from graduating as a real Wizard, to losing Hermione to Ron, and finding that his worst enemy may not be all that scary. Now though, he's living on his own, alone from the wizarding world. But when people start dying Gasp! Harry's brought into the plot... As well as his enemy.


The night went as it always had for Harry Potter. He'd go to sleep late, staying up to watch the muggle news and paid advertisements until at least two am. Then he'd meander around the kitchen, wondering if he should go to sleep. And then he'd finally make it to the room, and stare at the bed. He played his part in his evening routine though, and slowly laid in the bed, on top of the covers, one window cracked for fresh air. Then he'd drift; slowly, not wanting to. For he knew that then the dream would come.

A few nights, he'd be spared. On those, he woke refreshed, and wondering. What had he done differently? Alas – he never could figure out what had changed the formation of his dream. But tonight was not a good night. For as his mind sunk deeper into sleep, the movie played again in his lost thoughts.

The Magic Fair had been the best thing to happen to him; or so he thought, in his young innocence. Though he knew in his future state that he never could've imagined how his life would spiral downward from then on. Him and Hermione had been dating for a while then. He couldn't remember then how they'd ended up together. But they had, and they were content. At least he thought.

The day of the fair, he'd been running back to grab his – scarf? - yes – his scarf. And that's where he'd spotted them. In the crook of a hallway, he'd seen them. Ron, Hermione. He could hear their whispers, the flash of a buttermilk coloured leg wrapped around him.

In an odd sense, that hadn't shocked him. He'd taken it well. He'd walked off, thinking over and over again. The dark corner – the stark white of her leg. The same leg that had been wrapped around him just a night ago. In his dream, he walked around the stalls again, barely remembering the magic that had been laid out, demonstrated. He'd barely noticed as Ginny flirted with Neville – he barely noticed anything. And then the fair had ended. He'd walked past the end of it, and he was walking into the courtyard.

That's where he saw him. The thing that shocked him. Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, sitting, hunched in a small ball, crying. Crying? Yes. He remembered. All too well, he remembered. And he could only wish he hadn't remembered.

And that's where he'd awake. Covered in sweat, a hard on to boot, and tears welling in his eyes. How could he help it? He'd done what he'd thought right, and, well – apparently that'd been the wrong thing to do.

This particular night was no different from the others, in the main sense. He awoke, cold with sweat, a hard on, and tears. Tonight though – something was a little different. He felt worse then he had the other nights. Most of them, he could lay back down, breathe calmly, and his body would stop trembling. But not tonight. He sat up in the bed, the sheets tumbled around his legs as he closed his eyes. His palms were pushed back by the pillows, a street lamp casting faint shadows through the window.

Trying to calm his jittery muscles, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, unsteady still, and shaking lightly. He felt sick to his stomach, and lo and behold, emptied whatever contents it'd contained right there onto the carpet. His head resting between his hands, elbows propped on his knees, he sat, a shudder coursing through him. Draco, there was something wrong? His mind was frantic, running about. Draco? No – Malfoy. Harry reminded himself sternly as he swallowed, a sour taste filling his mouth.

God, he didn't want to deal with this right now. Getting up, he stumbled into the bathroom, balancing himself on the sink. With one hand on each side, his body arched as he leaned heavily, face lifting to look up into the mirror. A five o'clock shadow had etched itself across his face as he had blatantly ignored it for the past day or two. His green eyes had dulled, though the good ol' spark still shone in their depths. His scar remained – a lone reminder of the older, if not better, days.

Harry couldn't figure out how he'd come to be what he was. 23, living alone, with a cat, in a house, out in the middle of nowhere. Well, a small town, but nowhere none-the-less. Maybe it was a pure escape. He knew that was plausible. He had, after all, cut off all attention to his wizard lines. He didn't keep an owl anymore, not after Hedwig had passed the year before. His wand was locked away in Gringots with his money and old books. He'd stuffed everything that even remotely reminded him of his old life into that vault, and locked it.

That meant shutting off many memories he was tempted to remember. When he smelt the roses in the morning after his coffee, reading the paper, too lazy to change into something other then a pair of raggedy boxers, he remembered Hermione. The way she'd laid in his bed, in his arms. Her hair, the softness of it, the silk sheets, the morning rising upon them... And then he'd down his coffee, no longer savoring the moment. Or when he'd wash the dishes – and he'd think of Ron. When they'd messed with his mother's spell on the dishes, and it'd tried to clean them. And after those morning thoughts, everything would come flooding back. Things that he didn't want to remember. So he'd drop the dishes, and read a book – surf the internet (a wonderful thing) or just sit and stare at the cherry tree outside his window.

But he was here now. Alone in his house, with Cat twirling around his ankles, a pile of vomit on his bedroom floor, and the dawn arriving slowly. Rubbing his forehead, he scrounged through the cabinet, finding some ibuprofen, and downed three of them. Shifting his hand to massage his neck for a brief second, he removed his other hand from the sink counter. His legs felt a little steadier now, though he wasn't ready to trust them. Meowing at Cat as he always did, he pushed the little beast out of the bathroom while he took a quick piss. Damn cat.

After he'd finished his business, he sought out his coffee machine, and started that. This was his morning, and that was all he'd known for the past two years. Things went about normal from then on, as he watched the dawn from a comfortable spot on his sofa – a cup of coffee in his hand, and a purring fluff ball in his lap.

And that's when it hit him.

He was going no where. There really was no reason for him to exist. For the past two years, he'd woke up from nightmares, thrown up at random intervals, made his coffee, and watched his days pass him by. Two full years he'd wasted... And there was nothing he could do about it. And in this spiral of downward emotions, he didn't notice the light, curious knock at first. But then it sounded again, and he caught it. Well, Cat caught it. And at that, the rather large black and white tuxedo cat perked his ears up, looking towards the door.

Standing up abruptly, Harry worried. Nobody in their right mind would be up this early – the sun had barely risen! Pacing for a quick second, he looked at Cat, who was busy composing himself in a different spot on the sofa. He didn't look exactly pleased by Harry's decision to move, and pounded that idea home with a loud meow. Harry rolled his eyes, looking again to the door as another knock sounded again – this time a little louder, the person getting a bit more confident.

Swallowing hard, Harry took a step towards the door – and another. His hand hovered over the knob, his throat seemingly dryer then he'd thought it could get. Who could be here? Pushing his thoughts aside, he decided that it was most likely just a tourist who was lost, or something of that sort.

Pulling the door open a little too quick, he had the last fading thought that he really should keep his wand around, just in case. But this thought was pushed aside as he choked out, his eyes wide. "Hermione?"

Yet again, he blinked. Then again, just to be sure. She hadn't moved, but that didn't mean anything in Harry's book. Reaching out, he touched her cheek lightly, and she only stood there, silent still – he brown eyes looking at him. Finally he snapped out of it as she started, "Harry – let the pregnant woman sit." Her brow was raised, and as Harry's vision fell down, he was surprised to see she was pregnant – very much indeed. Pushing down his slight twinge of anger, he replied indignantly.

"And what if this pregnant woman was inclined to explain a few things? A few rather important things?" The anger in his voice was soon replaced by a cracking hint of despair. The whole world of wizards and witches had just been pushed right onto his doorstop at – 6 am? Oh God, he thought. This was going to be a bad day.

"I'll explain as much as I feel like. Now if you don't move, I'm going to fall over dead, and Ron will be after you." Her look was that of genuine weariness, and as such, Harry sighed, opening the door. As she waddled – yes – waddled – past Harry, she added, "You look like shit."

Harry's mouth remained open, working for a retort. It'd been a while since he'd seen Hermione – a good four or five years. But could she of really changed that much? Or was it just the angry pregnancy speaking for her? And Ron? That was Ron's kid? Covering his forehead with one hand, he swung the door shut, his hand falling down to rest on his eyes. Maybe if he kept thinking this was a dream, he'd wake up, and see that the only thing sitting on his couch was an agitated, if not amused, fat cat.

But no. He opened his eyes, and there was Hermione. Her hair was cropped straight across, just below her shoulders. The pregnancy had seemingly only affected her stomach, as the rest of her remained just as petite at before. Standing at her all time height of 5 feet, 6 inches, she'd never been one for height. Though into the 6th year, she'd made up for that greatly with her personality. Sure, she still knew it all, but at least she had some attitude packed in with her. That one smack to Draco's ego hadn't been the last attempt she'd made at defending herself for once.

Then the thing with Ron had cut them apart. And here she was. Sitting in his living room. Petting his cat. Staring at him. Waiting.

"What?" He blurted, looking exasperated.

"Aren't you going to sit?" She asked, her voice the ultimate calm.

"How-" He stuttered, his anger rising again. He hadn't felt this much pain and anger since... Since, well, since Draco. But he couldn't think of that now. Finally straightening out his apparently useless mouth, he nearly shouted at her. "How am I supposed to take this? The woman I damn near worshipped for years shows up on my doorstop, pregnant with the child of a man who she cheated on me with! And, to top it off – he was my friend! My best friend! And-and-and-" He dropped then, into the old chair that had been pushed off to the side of the door. Harry's hand came up then, covering his eyes, his other hand shaking slightly as it rested on his leg.

The sun that filtered through the window fell scattered on the two distinctly different figures. One – the woman – full of life – hers and another. She was holding herself proud, intelligence and joy showing in her eyes, even at a time such as then. She held herself with dignity that was learned through the hard and good times of life. And the man, crumpled – a broken one at that. Weighted down by the memories that he'd chose to ignore for the past two years. Two years of sorrow had been drawn onto his face, proved by the lines that marred around his eyes.

"Harry..." Hermione's patient words sent his emotions tumbling again. She'd used that tone other times – at more personal moments... And that just stung more.

"Don't use that tone with me, Hermione. I'm not falling for your feminine wiles again. Not this time around." The last bit was added after a brief stutter. He'd fell last time, hard, too. And he'd learned something from it, fortunately. Though Hermione must've had something on him, because after her rather sharp look, he calmed down a bit. Just a bit though, for he was still shaking lightly.

"Harry." Hermione was beginning to lose her patience. This was the man who she'd learnt to respect through their years at Hogwarts, who she'd sat in the rain for hours on end, waiting for him to catch the snitch, for who she'd risked her life for, and so many other things. And there he was. Sitting in a ragged pair of boxers, looking at her with more anger then she could ever recall. "Harry, listen to me."

A retort immediately flew up to the top of his mouth, but he bit back, deciding he might as well hear her out. His body still felt like jell-o from the rush of everything. It was like learning about the wizarding world all over again. And he didn't think he could put into words the betrayal he felt after all that time.

"Harry..." Her voice fell off towards the end of his name, her eyes not meeting his vision. Now she had one arm resting on her stomach, one hand lazily scratching Cat, who was purring like a motor in the early frost. "Snape's dead." She didn't know how else to put it. She couldn't be any blunter then that, and, if she figured correctly, beating around the bush wasn't what Harry was looking for at the moment.

Green eyes snapped up, locking onto the brown ones that still wouldn't look at him. "What?" His voice was hoarse. Snape – the one who'd gone through so much for the Order, the one who kept him after class, the one who taught him not to doubt potions, the one who told him more about his parents then anyone else ever had... Was dead? That couldn't be right. "He-he can't be. There's no way." Hermione only nodded, her shoulders falling in slightly. "Who? Who? Why? When? Where? Why wasn't I told? Why didn't anyone stop them? What's wrong with the world!?" He was yelling by the last one. Over the years Snape had become sort of like a replacement Sirius. He was no where near as kind, but, he had a rough side that made his affection something to be taken with happiness and a full heart. He was the closest thing to family he'd had in the last few years he'd been at Hogwarts... Even if they hadn't always agreed.

His legs no longer felt like they'd collapse. Pure rage had staggered through his body as he jolted up, swinging around, his foul language showing up as he paced the room. Though when he stopped in front of the window, he only looked out it, the anger in him boiling in the pit of his stomach. His hand was against the glass, his fingers spread out evenly. The reflection was flat and unmoving as his forehead hit the cool glass. His eyes were closed as he listened to Hermione.

"We don't know who. Why is obvious. He knew things. He was reporting back. It was a week ago. I found him... I found him in his study. And you weren't told because nobody knew where you'd wandered off to. And nobody was there to stop them. The magic trails left around the room showed Snape put up quite a fight... But he lost in the end. Horribly... As for the world..." She only shrugged, leaving her sentence hanging in the air. By then, Harry's body was shaking with rage.

"You found me." His words were calm, which in a way, scared Hermione.

"No. He did." Her words were light, and airy. After they sunk in, Harry turned around slowly. Hermione's eyes were still locked on Cat, who now looked at Harry with a gaze of amusement, and pure content.

"... He's a cat." Harry's confusion was only temporary, as before him, Cat, his lovely tuxedo coat, and his staring green eyes, melted away. The form that replaced cat shook his head a bit, falling off the sofa with a solid thud. "Oh God." The day just got better and better.

"You can just call me Dannie." Came a deep voice. "God's much too impersonal." The figure was a black male, topping six feet at least. Harry blinked. Great. Now he had a naked random guy sitting in his living room, who he'd thought until then was his pet. Alongside that, he had Hermione. His ex, who was pregnant with his best friend's child. This was not a good day for Harry Potter. And, to top it off, Snape was dead. He groaned, leaning against the window.

Dannie coughed lightly, holding a pillow over himself. "This may seem odd," he started, "But after all that time naked and furry, I really would like some clothing." His British accent hadn't faded even an inch as he spoke. Hermione chuckled, finding this part quite comical. And if Harry wasn't having the shittiest day in the world – he'd probably agree on that note.

"You've lived here for just as long as I have. Go get a robe, something. Anything." Harry's hand rested over his eyes then. He felt a headache coming on. "And grab the ibuprofen."

End Chapter 1

So, how was it? This is my first attempt after my horrible other fic, which I really do hate with a passion. xX; I hope this one works out better! Where should the story go? Dun, dun, dun!