She found him lying on the side of an old country road without a sign of life on his face-down figure. It had been a spectacularly cheery day in this part of England, and despite the man's immobile figure, it still continued to seem just as cheery. The clouds were white and fluffy, the sun radiant and lively.

She pulled over her small red car and stepped out onto the dirt road. The man had strikingly white-blonde hair that was matted with blood and dirt. His clothes were just as dirty, though they didn't seem worn-out. Cautiously, she knelt down beside him and stretched out a trembling hand to his right shoulder. The man stirred; his right hand attempted to push his body off the ground, but failed miserably.

"Sir?" she asked tentatively. The man let out a low groan as he let himself sink back into the earth slowly. Deciding to help the poor creature up, she put an arm around his waist and another under shoulder.

"C'mon, sir. We've got to get you to a hospital-"

"No…no hospitals…" he said breathlessly, his voice raspy. He kept muttering hysterically under weary breath.

In attempt to calm him down she obliged to his curious request. As she worked to pull the man to his feet she noticed that her blouse was now smeared with blood as he clung to her for support. The warm blood on her skin did not make her squirm, but rather, it made her curious. What had happened to this man? Or, what had this man done?

"Come on, let's get you to the car and I'll take you my house," she said softly. "I can look after you there."

He didn't object to her offer and continued to try to stay in a somewhat upright position. She hauled him inside her car and laid the seat back so he could lie down and let his blood flow evenly. Making sure he was inside alright, she shut the door and walked around to the driver's side.

"Alright, sir, you're going to be just fine…"

The engine turned on with a faint sputter and the car purred softly. The man in the passenger's seat turned his head to her and shut his eyes. Soon he was lulled to sleep by the soft vibrations from the engine.

~*~

He woke to a soft humming sound and a warm, moist cloth splayed across his naked chest. Upon opening his eyes he saw a large open window with warmly toned drapery pulled off to its sides. He was in a large feather-down bed with the pale yellow covers pulled down to his torso, his shirt removed. He blinked and found that on the far side of the room was an antique, dark wood armoire in the corner and a beautiful watercolor of a lone piano, bathed in gold sunlight, mounted on the wall adjacent to it.

He pushed himself up on his elbows and surveyed the room with a cautious eye. The window to his right, the armoire and painting in front of him, behind him a lovely dark mahogany headboard, and to his left a matching nightstand. There were two doors in the room; one on the wall with the armoire, the other a few feet away from the nightstand. Judging by the sound of running water flowing through the closest doorway, it was a bathroom. And surely there was someone in it for it was the only place the softly humming voice could be heard from.

Suddenly a young woman walked out with a towel, some bandages, anti-bacterial cream, and a large bowl of steaming hot water. She smiled at him gently and walked over to his left side. She was very pleasant looking with long honey blonde hair and soft milky-white skin. Her eyes were a clear shade of riverstone blue and glowed with gentleness.

"Good afternoon," she said as she sat down next to him, setting the bowl on the nightstand. "I'm glad to see you're awake. I wasn't sure how long you were going to be out." She reached to his chest without warning and removed the moist cloth. Without it he was cold and he flinched inwardly.

He watched as she folded the bloodied cloth and placed it in her lap, staining the jeans she wore. Of course, he didn't fail to notice that her blouse was also stained with blood. She softly placed the clean towel in the bowl of water, pointedly ignoring how badly it was burning her hands. After twisting out the excess water she mopped the extra blood off his chest in a caressing manner to minimize the pain it would cause him.

He looked at his chest to see where the blood was coming from and was quite surprised to see about a dozen deep cuts slashed in random directions, still open and fresh. They stung furiously as the hot cloth cleaned them. He furrowed his eyebrows, recalling memories of yesterday and the weeks before.

"Might I ask, sir, who are you?" inquired the young woman. He lifted his eyes to hers and found they had an unusually loving disposition. She waited patiently for his answer, still pressing the wet towel to his broad chest.

He wondered if she was a witch or just a plain, ignorant muggle. Of course, if she was a witch she probably would have healed him with her wand. But she wouldn't do such a careless thing around a Muggle- if that's what she thought he was. But, also, if she was a witch, surely she would've recognized his picture from the 'most wanted' section in the Daily Prophet. He had no doubt the Aurors were out making their rounds on Death Eaters right at that moment. She must be a Muggle or else the Ministry would be here by now for sure. Great, a filthy Muggle was treating his wounds. Had he really sunk this low?

Finding his voice he answered, "Draco…Draco Malfoy."

Fear did not flicker over her face, her jaw did not drop, and she didn't scream with lost insanity. She was definitely a Muggle to be so oblivious to his dark name. She smiled again and rinsed the towel out in the bowl, repeating the twisting process and ignoring the sting it caused her hands.

"I'm glad to meet Mr. Malfoy, though I am sorry it is under such poor circumstances," she said apologetically. Her voice was pleasant and at such a warm pitch that it soothed his aching head a great deal. "I'm Morgan Rainam."

She considered him for a moment before more thoroughly cleaning his wounds. He was an exceptionally handsome man with an aristocratic, pale face, maybe a few years older than herself. His eyes were as dark a gray as storm clouds and held a burden in which, she guessed, no one had helped him carry. It was as painfully written in his eyes as it was across his chest.

"If I may, Mr. Malfoy, how did you become unconscious on the side of an old, forgotten, country dirt road?"

Draco thought hard for a moment, putting together the events of last night. Images of Death Eaters and members of the Order passed through his head. All he could think of at the moment was that he was being forced to choose a side. He figured he couldn't tell the young Muggle this (she would never understand or believe) so he sought after a little white lie to tell her.

"To be quite honest, I don't remember, Ms. Rainam," he said. So it wasn't honest, but he needed more time to think of something. He was glad when she did not ask about it any further.

As she continued to treat his wounds he realized that his wand was in the inside pocket of his long coat. He cursed silently to himself and looked around the room again for some sign of his coat or shirt as inconspicuously as he could. She caught his eyes wandering and placed the towel back in the bowl for a third time. Drying her hands on the knees of her jeans, she opened the nightstand drawer.

"I assume you're looking for this," she said politely as she slid out a long, well-crafted piece of finely polished dark wood. He recognized it immediately as his wand and he tried to hide his surprise.

"I won't pretend to know what this is and I won't ask questions, but I will assume that this is of some importance to you," she said as she handed it over to him. He took it while eyeing her carefully. "I really am telling the truth, sir. I will leave you to your own thoughts; you need to wash up. I've got the tub filling up with hot water right now and I've laid out some fresh towels for you- just out from the dryer so they're nice and warm."

She stood up from the bed and collected the bowl and towel, leaving the anti-bacterial cream and bandages on the nightstand. Walking into the bathroom she talked to him over her shoulder.

"I'll bring you some fresh clothes later as yours are dirty, and not to mention, your shirt is torn to pieces. I'll set them on your bed so you can dress as soon as you're ready." and she emerged from the bathroom and headed calmly to the door. Just as she was about to walk out she turned around to him again. "Is there anything in particular you would like for dinner, Mr. Malfoy?"

Stunned by her blatant hospitality, and by his easiness in the house of a lowly Muggle, he stared at her blankly. Deciding it would be too rude for him to snub her he replied that anything hot and fresh would do. The corners of her pouty lips turned up slightly in a soft smile and she shut the door behind her, leaving Draco alone to undress and bathe.

~*~

He lifted himself reluctantly from the comfortable bed with some difficulty. Once in the bathroom he splashed his face with some lukewarm water from the sink. He stood there for a moment in a dramatic position, leaning on his hands, which were widely spread on the marble countertop; his head drooped down towards the sink and his eyes closed.

He was running wildly across a battlefield. Smoke smothering the once-clean air. Ashes were falling from the sky. Screams and yelps erupted from every direction. Everyone around him was fleeing in any direction they could find. He wasn't, he had a purpose. He had a mission and he was going to finish it.

He stripped himself of what clothing was left on him and turned off the spout hanging over the Victorian, claw-footed bathtub. Steam was lazily floating off the water's surface, swirling and twisting its way up to nothingness. One foot after the other he sunk down into the boiling depths. He laid his head back on the edge of the white porcelain and stared blankly at the ceiling.

This would turn his whole life around. This would change the views of others. He would no longer be looked at as weak or spoiled; betrayer or villain. This was the night in which he would step into a new light. Tonight, he would show the whole of the wizard world who he really was and what he really wanted. He had already murdered his father (accidentally of course) and disowned his mother. He walked out on his family in hopes of finding a place among the rest of the world.

Reaching for the soap he worked on scrubbing old blood from his legs and arms where it had clotted itself into flaky, dry knots. Ample black and purple bruises infected most of his body, especially along his shoulders, torso, and arms. The soap he was using must've been a special therapeutic sort because of the calming affect it was having on his mind, not to mention a clearing affect. He recognized the scent well; it was lavender.

But he would have to earn his place among them. They were the ones who didn't trust him. They would test him and prod him and tease him; test his limits. He had to prove to them who he really was, who he really wants to be. Tonight, he would show them. Tonight he would hold his head humbly in his task. So he ran across the battlefield. Through bodies and fire and smoke and ash; dodging curses, hexes, and spells. He started to cough as the smoke slowly consumed his lungs with black sickness. His dry eyes burned against the ashy wind. His head pounded with the helpless cry of the innocent as they were murdered by the skeletal figures in black. And despite the danger he must face, he would complete his mission and earn his place amongst those who sought to test him. He would do it tonight.

He watched the blood swirl in the water as it left his body. The soap stung as it entered his wounds. Holding in a hiss, he continued to wash out all possibly infected blood from his chest. Once that was done he judged it would be alright to wash his hair with some of the shampoo sitting next to the soap bowl. He lathered it in his hair and rinsed it out, once again turning on the hot water spout. He watched the shampoo foam run through his fingers and out of his hair- it too was mixed with blood. He opened the drain and let the dirty water wash down the pipes only to close it and fill the tub with more hot water.

His wand felt assuring in the grasp of his bloodied hand. Right now, it was his only friend and his only protection. He was near to his task; he could feel it in his bones. Every part of him was on alert. He was ready. But something unexpected happened. A curvy figure clad in black robes blocked his path, her black eyes burning with rage and pleasure. He simply stared at her, challenging her to fight him. She only smiled.

Once again the hot water was pouring onto him. He waited for it to fill the tub. Picking up the soap he resumed his scrubbing, not even bothering to keep it out of his eyes or mouth, no matter the burn. He looked to his forearm and scrubbed even harder. He knew it was a feeble attempt to try and remove it, but it made him feel better to have something clean running over that forsaken black mark that so forcibly burned in his skin. Tears mingled in with soap and water down his hollow cheeks.

"Well, if it isn't little Draco. My, you've grown up quite a bit haven't you?" she teased. He knew he shouldn't let her get to him, but it was so hard. "Tell me, Draco, did you kill your father out of anger, or was it just the fear you hold in his presence that you so miserably try to hide?"

He simply stared at her, urging himself to keep calm. He mustn't fail. Not now. Not at his last chance at retribution. His fingers tightened around his wand. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Lestrange, but it was unintentionally out of justice," he spat. He then lifted his wand to her and shouted numerous curses and hexes. He was only taunting, really; in a few minutes, after he'd had his fun, he'd kill her.

He shut his eyes and continued to scrub his forearm viciously. His skin was being rubbed raw. He hated the mark with everything he had and with everything he was. He hated it because he was afraid. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to remember more.

Finally, he had caught her off her guard. She was on the ground, wandless. Blood poured out from her nostrils and ears. Turning on her side she coughed up blood and her chest wheezed forcibly for oxygen. He stepped closer to her and knelt down to look her in the face. She tried to scramble from him towards her wand, but he grabbed her throat and pulled her face close to his. Her hands automatically flew to his iron grasp. Blood was now sputtering from her mouth. Her eyes were wide.

"Go ahead," she whisperedd, "kill me. See what you really are? This is what you didn't want to be…I knew you wouldn't be able to escape it."

She laughed at him only to cough up more blood. His grip tightened as the warmth of the blood oozed lazily over the back of his hand and between his fingers. "Killing you is a service to the innocent. I am not like you Bellatrix Lestrange, you are not innocent." With a final pulse of his hands, her eyes bulged in disbelief and her throat collapsed and blood gushed from her mouth for a final time.

He stopped abruptly and reclined in the water, his head resting on the curved edge of the antique porcelain. Ragged breath escaped his lips and his hands trembled with the memory of the murder of Bellatrix Lestrange. But he soon remembered all the killings he'd seen her perform with a devious grin on her hateful face, all the murders she'd had a hand in, the pride she took in her hunts, and the way she relished in the pain and agony of others. Suddenly all sense of remorse fled his body. He opened his eyes.

He stood and continued toward his mission. He had to finish it. He had to prove himself. If he didn't, if he failed, everything would go so horribly wrong, leading to the world's destruction by mortal means. He continued to run. The blood on his hands began to solidify and chafe against his knuckles. Soon it would fall of, leaving only a memory. He ran as fast as he could, breath tearing from his lungs. His feet finally crossed the city limits- he was half way there now. He kept going.

He began a breathing exercise to calm his fearful heart. Taking slow breaths in and out, he let himself remember. He needed to remember. There was no doubt he would have to testify in the presence of the Wizengamot, and quite possibly the whole world, for redemption or forgiveness of any kind. He needed every detail he could attain.

His feet were sore and bruised. If he could've spare the precious few moments it would take to stop and check, he was sure he would find blood befouling his feet in warm, liquid slime. Despite the intensity of his wounds, he pressed on through the night, the sharp breath escaping his lips cut a path through the air for him. One foot in front of the other he trampled across the countryside, entirely ignorant of the shadow that tailed closely behind him.

He could see a faint light glowing on the horizon as the dawn was approaching. Time was running out. No! That was impossible. He knew when to strike. How could he possibly have lost track of time? No matter, he was close. It had to end tonight. He would complete his mission tonight.

There! There it was, off in the distance; the tree-line of far side of the Forbidden Forest. So many Hogwarts students had spent time wondering where the frightful cluster of demonic trees ended. And here he was, about to charge through them to the Apparation point set up weeks prior to tonight by the Order of the Phoenix.

While continuing to breathe he furrowed his eyebrows, his mind now as clear as glass. He didn't want to remember but he had to. He would force himself to. As horrible as it was, he would make himself remember.

He Apparated to the graveyard. It was very picturesque with the low-lying fog hovering only inches from the muddy earth. He could see a good ten feet in front of him before the haze took over. Curses and hexes were flying everywhere in the distance. He ran to his left towards Tom Riddle's grave.

Upon his arrival he saw the Dark Lord himself, wand raised and eyes murderous. The slits of what was left of his nose flared with pleasure as curses were hurled at him. Several Death Eaters were charging on Order Members. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hermione Granger fending off two men cloaked in black, their skull masks bathed in blood. She was badly hurt; a nasty burning hex had clipped her right side and she was barely able to hold up her wand. He rushed to help her.

She was surprised to see him, but held her composure; she couldn't lose focus. He gave them everything he had. The nastiest curses he knew he flung at them, aiming for their face and heart. Gaining strength, Hermione began to fight back on her own. As he Stunned one of them she took care of the other. As long as she wasn't left on her own she would be fine. He only stayed with her long enough to ensure her safety.

Next, he made a mad dash to help McGonagall and Lupin fend off Death Eaters. There were three of them surrounding the pair from the Order. He leapt in and wasted no time in shouting hexes. A particularly nasty one hit a familiar Death Eater Draco recognized as Rubard Raspmen that caused his face to boil. Raspmen's face was covered with boils that popped and oozed fresh, crimson blood and stinging, putrid pus.

He looked around frantically for someone else to help in this awful war. But for the moment all he saw were limbs severed from bodies, pools of blood tainting the black earth, lifeless bodies frozen in shock of their death, Order members desperately trying to defend themselves and one another, Death Eaters either running or fighting in their own miserable cowardice, and the Dark Lord smiling with pleasure as he surveyed his troops with the glow of cockiness burning brightly from his ugly red eyes.

Something hit him from behind and he fell to the ground on top of a dead body. He'd been hit with a powerful kinetic spell. He didn't waste any time pulling himself back to his feet to face his attacker. His gray eyes widened with both disbelief and fear, for before him stood Severus Snape holding his wand at chest-level.

It seems as though dear old Snape had finally chosen a side- Voldemort's. The Potion's Master sneered with pleasure as he descended upon his prey. He would finally make the boy choose; the Dark Lord or the Muggle-Loving Order of the Phoenix. But before Snape got the chance to play mind games with the two rivaling sides of this bloody war, the Dark Lord appeared at Draco's back, his wand held high.

"Well, it seems my most trusted servant has finally caught the traitor. Shall we kill him together Severus?" the Dark Lord hissed.

Snape, with his malevolent sneer, replied with a single word, "Yes."

Simultaneously, as the Dark Lord shouted the Killing Curse aimed at Draco, Snape also shouted the Killing Curse, changing his aim midstream at Voldemort, Draco ducked and rolled out from between the two and aimed his hex at Voldemort as well. Unfortunately Draco's hex had intercepted Snape's curse and prevented it from reaching its victim, ending in the death of Severus Snape.

Draco watched the dark man fall. Severus harbored no surprise in his features. His black eyes were deep with knowing and his pale complexion unchanged by untimely death. Perhaps he knew he had escaped it for too long already.

The Dark Lord was pleased with himself, the traitor was finally dead at last, and young Malfoy had assisted him, playing the role of innocent suspect quite well. He walked with his bare feet to the body of the fallen Potion's Master.

"My, my, what a pity. So talented and so misunderstood. If only he had kept his loyalty to me his talents would have been put to better use than teaching to mudblood brats at that nasty school…" drawled the Dark Lord. "Thank you Draco for assisting me in this-"

He never got the chance to finish for he was ordered by some impertinent fool to drop his wand. But when he turned to see who it was he found, instead, two impertinent fools with their wands pointed faultlessly back at himself.

"Why, Harry, haven't you grown handsome? I do think you're beginning to look more and more like me every day…" the Dark Lord teased. He wanted Potter's blood to simmer, to cloud his mind, muddle his thoughts, confuse him, to break him. He turned his attention to the second fool who dared threaten him. "Really, Mr. Malfoy, I certainly didn't expect this from you. Not after all that trouble your father went through to procure you such a promising future."

Harry and Draco simply stared at the Dark Lord's snake-like face unblinkingly. Harry was dripping blood from his left arm and shoulder; several cuts delved deeply into his face. Voldemort could see the fire burning in the boy's emerald eyes and he smiled to himself knowing that the boy's anger would be his undoing, but the Malfoy brat he wasn't so sure of.

"I am going to kill you Tom Marvolo Riddle and I am going to kill you tonight." And those were the last words uttered from Harry Potter's lips, aside from curses, that night. The Dark Lord's face grew, if it was possible, even more murderous at the casual mention of his forgotten name.

Hexes and curses flew from every wand. Taking cover behind Tom Riddle's colossal gravestone, Harry worked together to wear Voldemort down. An unexpected hex singed the side of Draco's face, smearing his dirty skin with hot blood as he helped the other Order members keep Voldemort's followers at bay should they seek to interfere with the final battle. He'd hit Voldemort with a few good hexes and could see that he'd weakened him significantly. It was time to move from their safe-hold and step out into the open.

Draco covered Harry as spells went flying by, protecting him as best he could from the worst of the carelessly thrown spells from the Death Eaters. Voldemort had been persistent in teasing Harry, trying to coax out his recklessness- but Harry had learned his lesson well and did not succumb to his enemy's cheap jibes.

Most on the battlefield now were either dead or dying and a few were just injured. The last of the Order standing now were Granger, Lupin, a few Aurors, Tonks, and the Weasley girl. The Death Eaters outnumbered them, but not by much. The two sides still fought, but not as intensely as when they had first started out. Everyone was beginning to tire; sunrise couldn't have been more than a half-hour away.

Draco was wearing down fast, but he dared not show it. He watched as the final battled unfolded before him; a story that would one day, thousands upon thousands of years from would, would be but a legend.

The only two keeping up their speed were Harry and Voldemort. Neither of them were willing to back down in the slightest, both of them giving everything they had. Suddenly in the split second it took for Harry to catch his breath, he gave his enemy a miniscule advantage. Voldemort took his precious half-moment of opportunity to bellow out the Disarming charm, knocking Harry onto his back a good few feet away from his initial standing point, and his wand even farther, out of his hand. Harry pulled himself to his feet wearily, but as fast as he could manage. He didn’t take his eyes off of Voldemort, nor did he try to salvage his wand. Just as Voldemort opened his mouth to take Harry's life with a simple phrase, Harry lunged to Voldemort's throat, knocking the enemy's wand out of his hand. Both murder and justice burned nefariously in his eyes.

Draco watched the rest of the battle through glazed eyes, but what he saw was well worth the effort to keep his eyes open. Harry proceeded to kill the world's greatest threat by means of his own hungry, bare hands. The two wrestled together grabbing each other's throats. Fists and blood were flying.

Harry stood from Voldemort's body a while later after crashing his head against a jagged tombstone that was inscribed with only a few visible words; "we wish we had known him better". Draco watched as Harry's triumphant figure turned to face his fellow fighters, tears making clear paths on his face through the dirt and blood.

Before anyone could really acknowledge his presence, he picked himself up, pocketed his wand, and made his way out of the graveyard. He didn't really know where he was going, but as long as it was away from the blood-tainted battlefield, he didn't care.

Making sure he had everything stored in his memory, he lifted himself from the tub and opened the drain. He dried himself off and walked back into the cozy bedroom, toweling off his wet hair. On the bed was a fresh set of clothes still warm from the dryer. He took a deep breath and wondered to himself how he was supposed to regain connection with the magical world now that he was caught in a Muggle's house under a Muggle's care.

Draco dressed himself slowly, savoring the warmth of the fresh clothes against his skin. His damp hair hung lazily over his brow, amplifying his rugged persona. Upon opening the bedroom door, he noticed that his room was one of three in a lengthy hallway. There was a door across from him, and another at the end of the hall. Between the single door at the far end and his own, was an open archway to what appeared to be a living room.

Aromas of a spicy origin filtered through the hallway as he shut the door behind himself. It brought him a sense of invitation as he let it glide seductively past his nose. Curiously, he stepped into the living room that was more lavishly furnished than his bedroom.

There were two heavy chocolate brown leather sofas facing each other with an equally heavy wooden coffee table separating them; both were draped in variously colored throws. The legs of the table were carved intricately with vines and plant leaves and such; made with elegant curves and twists. It stood no more than two feet high so as not to be the envy of the proud sofas. It was cluttered with books, coasters, and recently pawned through magazines. A glass of chocolate milk stood lonely on a coaster at the end of the table next to an open magazine, lying forgotten in the middle of an article.

A grand fireplace backed into the wall of the hallway. Its mantle was of a dark stained wood and was just as uniquely carved as the coffee table. Crimson bricks summed up the hearth. Above the fireplace hung a good sized piece of parchment with the words "In this place I do fear that my fears do not exist, and in that truth I have only to fear my freedom, which is now unlimited" painted in a precise calligraphy across its surface. He studied the phrase mockingly.

If Muggles knew anything of freedom, they wouldn't really believe that, he thought with a sneer.

The rest of the wall accommodating the fireplace was devoted to polished dark wood shelves and cabinets stuffed with books and pictures. Of course he recognized none of the books for they were all of Muggle origins. He browsed through some of the titles; he recognized none of them.

Behind the farthest sofa was a wall of windows, each reaching from ceiling to floor with lengthy deep red curtains. The wooden blinds were pulled up, allowing the last of the daylight into the coziness of the secluded room. A set of French doors were set next to the windows. They were open to reveal another living room, far more relaxed than the first. From his viewpoint all he could see was a large leather chair and a box of moving pictures mounted in another armoire (this one without doors on it) next to another door; it faced the leather chair for clear viewing.

Looking straight ahead, Draco could see into a small portion of the kitchen, accompanied by a non-formal dining area. It was a small wood table with four chairs and a simple arrangement of flowers in a blue glass vase.

He walked past the sofas towards the beckoning smell of lively spice. Through the archway to the informal dining area was a sumptuous kitchen with white-washed cabinets and glossy brown marble countertops. Morgan was busying herself with variously sized pots and pans. She seemed not to notice him.

There was a loud banging sound coming from Draco's left. When he turned to look, there was only another door. Then suddenly a loud buzzer went off, and the banging sound slowed to a stop. Draco had jumped excitedly at the unexpected sound.

He heard Morgan sigh under her breath as her back was turned to him. "There goes the laundry again…" she muttered absentmindedly. When she turned around from the stove she gave a sharp start of surprise at his presence.

"Are you feeling better Mr. Malfoy? You were in the bathtub for almost five hours," she said after recovering from her shock.

"I'm much better."

"Good. I hope ziti al forno with a side of lamb is alright with you- I wasn't really sure what to cook," she admitted half-heartedly.

Truth be told, Draco liked lamb, though he'd never had ziti al forno. He may have lived in high society, but he was not accustomed to an overwhelming choice in foods. He nodded in response as she whisked past him through the door on his left.

He watched over her shoulder as she bent down to retrieve a bundle of clothes from a white metal box. She then put the bundle on the table, carefully avoiding the vase of flowers, and returned to take a pile of wet clothes out of a second white metal box, and into the first one. Now Draco was thoroughly confused. What the heck was she doing? The last thing she did before leaving the small room with the two white metal boxes in it was turn a dial on the thing with the wet clothes after putting in a thin sheet of something she had gotten from the cabinets above the white box.

Morgan hurried back into the kitchen as a pot of something started to boil over. She pulled it off the gas burner and ran to the sink to pour the contents into a strainer already set up for it over the sink. A plentiful amount of ziti noodles spilled over the edge of the pot, steaming profusely as they did so. She dried both the noodles and the pot and placed the noodles back in the pot, covering it with a lid.

Rushing to the oven with a thick oven mitt, Morgan pulled out a large pan with something wrapped in aluminum foil. It smelled delicious and almost brought Draco to his knees. It was a lamb rack; a delicious, succulent lamb rack.

"Alright," said Morgan to herself as she pulled two teal plates and matching teal bowls from the nearest cabinet. She took them into the room beyond the kitchen, one Draco hadn't explored. Morgan appeared through the swinging doors and grabbed a few knives and forks from a drawer nearest to the cabinet that kept the plates and she disappeared into the other room again.

When she came back through she asked Draco if he would like anything to drink. "I have white tea, green tea, peach tea, raspberry tea, brewed tea, iced tea, milk, orange juice, sodas, red wine……"

"Just water, thank you."

And Morgan rushed to another cabinet, retrieved two clear glasses, and filled them both with ice and cold water from the freezer. Then once again she took them back to the room beyond the swinging doors.

"You can go ahead and have a seat in there if you like. I'll bring the food out in a second," she instructed.

Draco's only reply was to walk through the kitchen and through the swinging doors. What he saw surprised him, yet again. There was a fairly good sized dining table of another dark, polished wood with a crystal vase filled with exotic flowers sitting at the very center. There were eight chairs in all. The six chairs without diner plates looked terribly lonesome to Draco. How nice it would be to have them filled.

Also in the room was a large window with extravagant drapes on the opposite wall. To his left a right was a large china cabinet, and to his left a large bureau with a matching mirror mounted above it. Sitting atop the bureau were two candelabras and several picture frames filled with unmoving, smiling faces.

Suddenly very self-conscious, Draco took a seat in the closest chair with a dinner plate and waited patiently- a new characteristic, he noticed. Maybe the Muggle was wearing off on him- No Draco! Don't think that way…


~*~

"My oh my…" muttered Morgan under her breath as she fixed up the food into proper serving dishes.

All day she's done nothing but worry about who this stranger was. He had a most unusual name and was covered in blood- not exactly the best impression to make on someone.

She'd tended his wounds and gave him fresh clothes, but she couldn't let her guard down. There's no way to know who he his or what he's done. He could be a runaway, or an escaped convict. But surely if someone had escaped from prison it would be all over the newspapers and she'd seen none of it.
So she sighed and did the best she could to make her guest comfortable.

~*~

The two had eaten dinner in the longest and most awkward of silences. Setting down his fork from his last bite of food, Draco started to pick up his dishes when Morgan insisted that he needn't bother with them. So she had craftily hoisted all dirty dishes into her arms and carried them to the kitchen sink and loaded them into the dishwasher. Poor Draco, not knowing what to do, set into the kitchen to offer some assistance.

"Dinner was very good," he said modestly. Modestly? That's a new one too. Alright, maybe his head just hadn't cleared yet.

"Thank you," she said.

Okay, now what? Doesn't the woman talk? Don't all women talk? A lot? Maybe Muggle women don't talk as much as witches. Or maybe it was his presence that scared her into such prolonged silence.

Morgan, now finished with the dishes, washed her hands in the sink and dried them off with a dishtowel, wondering what to do next. His bandages probably needed to be checked now.

Turning around to face her guest she asked politlely, "Would you like me to check your bandages? I'm sure they need changing again."

He shrugged in response and followed her to the more relaxed of the two living rooms. Draco sank into the plush sofa, relieved to be doing something, and unbuttoned his shirt. Morgan sat down next to him with a yellow tube and an extra roll of bandages in her hand.

Before he could stop himself he asked, "What is that?"

She gave him a funny look and responded, "It's Neosporin," and when she received no reaction from his stony face she added, "It fights against bacterial infections in the wound."

He lowered his head again and let her set to work.

"So, how's your memory?" she asked politely.

"My what?"

"Your memory, Mr.Malfoy- about what happened to you? Or perhaps you've been able to come up with a convincing untruth for me?" she sniggered.

Draco frowned indignantly. How dare she make such assumptions! She's even smirking! Wait, I'm the one in her house, under her care, and under her observations. She has every right to make assumptions.

"Well…neither."

"Really?" she asked only half-sarcastically. "You're not even going to try?"

Alright, now it was time to tell her something convincing, something she'll believe and won't ask questions about. A dog attack? No, not in the middle of the countryside on the side of the road. Mugged? Again, in the country on the side of the road? No. Maybe it's time to resort to 'vague' but 'enough for now'.

"I think that even if I did remember, and if I did tell you the truth, you wouldn't believe me. Besides, I need time to come up with a lie that covered all my tracks."

"Alright, so you can either demonstrate your poor storytelling skill for me, or you can tell me the truth."

"I pick storytelling- I was attacked by a wolf." What was that?

"You're not very good at this….you're supposed to elaborate. Make it sound believable."

Draco just gave her a blank stare. Morgan sighed and wrapped some gauze around his chest.

"I think you'll be alright. It still looks really bad, but at least it's stopped bleeding."

"Thank you." Since when does a Malfoy say 'thank you'?