1  

From his perch on the bed, he studied the ceiling with a sort of detached half-interest. The ornately carved mahogany cast odd shadows. Grotesque, even, if you looked at them in the right frame of mind. When he was small, it had made him nervous, the ceiling. He used to dream about the shadows becoming monsters, Death Eaters, whatever, and attacking him in his sleep. It had gotten to be so bad that he would wake up screaming almost nightly. Now, however, he found it oddly comforting. It provided a sense of constancy. Yeah, it was kind of horrible, but it didn’t hold any shock value anymore. When you can predict the next move, it doesn’t hold power over you any longer, and Draco had watched the shadows shift and undulate from nightfall through sunrise on more than one occasion. Always, he positioned himself the same way. Not quite relaxed, not quite unguarded. Always aware of his surroundings, always prepared for a quick escape if the need presented itself.

"Lo, I lie, / Never to rise again…"

"Oh, really, Draco, that’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?"

He started, but regained composure with unnatural speed, quick to suppress the rising panic in his chest.
He didn’t flee, as instinct would have had him do. He didn’t turn to face his father. He didn’t move, but kept his peripheral vision trained on the figure of Lucius Malfoy propped casually against the doorframe.

"I didn’t know you were there."
Curtly.

The doorway framed Lucius just so, and he appeared the portrait of a cold, regal aristocrat, which, Draco reasoned, was fitting.

"Is everything in readiness for your departure tomorrow?"

"Yes." Leave me the fuck alone.

A barely perceptible nod and he was gone.

"I’ll see you over the holidays, then," Draco muttered, unheard.

He shifted slightly and surveyed the contents of his open trunk. Broom, wand, robes, texts, parchment, quills, ink, dragonhide gloves, cauldron… it was all there. He would have to remember to fetch his eagle owl in the morning before he left for Kings Cross, but, other than that, he was ready for another year at Hogwarts.

He felt conflicted. His role had always been so clearly defined. He was a Slytherin to the core. For all intents and purposes, he exercised complete control over his House. He was vain. He was an aristocrat, like his father. He was a future Death Eater, like his father. He hated mudbloods, Muggles, Gryffindors, and Harry Potter, also like his father. He was a role model, in a perverted way, for young Slytherins and future Death Eaters everywhere—they were, after all, one and the same so far as the world was concerned.

He was a protégé.

He was supposed to be comfortable with that—proud—yet he couldn’t help but want for more. It was a fundamental contradiction that had only recently become clear to him. Being a Malfoy meant being the best, the crème of the crop. Being a Malfoy meant being a leader. It meant a cold, composed veneer at all times. It meant being surrounded by a mysterious, luminous aura of detachment. Above all, it meant exerting the superiority that came with the name and pure blood. And yet, it also meant growing into a carbon copy of Lucius.

He was to be the best, but only on his father’s terms. Draco’s path had been mapped out for him long before, even, his existence. He was an heir above all else—an heir before a son. Narcissa had affairs, and they were consistently far removed from Draco’s own. It was commonplace, really, among all the wizarding families who had respect for the old way. He had meant what he’d said to Harry that first day at Hogwarts. Some wizarding families were better than others. Naturally, being better required sacrifice. Nothing ever came freely. It was the way things were meant to be done. Draco had been passed off into the capable hands of the house elves, preened and prepared, and presented to the world with impeccable manners and a wholly warped perception of what love was supposed to be. It wasn’t such an awful lot in life, really. He had whatever he wanted, the best of everything. He wasn’t really the touchy feel-y type. It was just as well.

He had always assumed it was just as well, anyhow, but, lately, he had had to wonder. That, he bitterly noted, was the problem. He wasn’t supposed to wonder about anything. His future was set in stone… or, assured, rather. That was convenient. It eradicated all of the tiresome uncertainties that his peers were beginning to feel about their fate. He was lucky. He needn’t bother with it.

But he had taken to wondering, which was a monumental mistake.

Why, exactly, did he so fervently endorse Voldemort’s cause? What was it, precisely, that made him hate muggles so vehemently? Mudbloods? Potter? If he wanted to be completely honest with himself—which he did not—he could admit that all could be attributed to his father. Daddy told him to. Daddy led by example, and what a fine example he set. When he was younger, that had been passable, but, now, it was such flimsy reasoning, it bordered on the ridiculous.

He was on the verge of adulthood, and, in all possible senses, he had no idea who he was. Then again, maybe he did. Maybe there wasn’t any potential for substance within him. Perhaps his lot in life really was the one that Lucius had prefabricated. If he discovered that to be the case, so be it. He could live with it—he might be able to be happy with it—but felt it acutely unfair that he didn’t have any say in the matter. After all, it did concern him rather directly.

Some things were entirely his own. He had a love of Shakespeare that Lucius did not share. He did well in school. He got excellent marks, he was an excellent student. He excelled, especially, in Arithmancy. One of the first indications he’d had of his growing discontent had been the dawning realization that he was glad Potions was no longer his best subject. He hadn’t been sure why, until one of his father's prerequisite lectures hinged on his dismal Potions marks. Potions had been Lucius’ own best subject, and—though all of Draco’s marks were as high as ever—was supposed to be second to none. Anything that surpassed it was an unacceptable distraction. The emphasis that his father placed on such insignificant arguing points was a source of constant anger and confusion for Draco. He had absolutely no clue why he wasn’t to do as well as he possibly could in everything that he possibly could.

There were, also, the things that he had most definitely inherited from his father. He was incurably vain. He had an acute appreciation for fine things. He had always enjoyed the air of superiority and importance that preceded him wherever he went. These things were effectively imbedded within him, as far as he could tell, but, of late, their attractiveness had lessened considerably. Especially concerning the latter, which had become a nuisance and an obligation. He no longer relished the feeling of control, as it was tempered by a plethora of nagging followers.

Though Lucius never tired of presiding over lower-ranking Death Eaters at the regular social events he hosted at Malfoy Manor, Draco was already growing sick of the pseudo-groveling of younger Slytherins who looked up to him. Yet another disparity between father and son… a defect, where the father would have been concerned, to be sure, had he known. Luckily, though, Draco was a phenomenal actor. He had grace and poise to a fault. He could fool God himself into believing that he was as sure of himself and his future as ever. It was a fortunate skill. Fortunate and imperative. Voldemort did not look kindly upon those servants who did not appear wholly dedicated to the cause. Draco knew this all too well, had witnessed the boundless anger, and was thankful for his easy façade.

Never did he put that façade to as much use as when he was at Hogwarts. At the Manor, Draco was alone, to his great relief, save during meals and certain social functions that required his attendance. He preferred solitude; relished being alone with his thoughts. Preferred it, though it probably wasn’t the best thing for him, as it was so conducive to all the wondering that had been going on of late.

At Hogwarts, he was never alone. Even time spent in his dormitory was encroached upon by the presence of his roommates. He’d learned to distance himself from the constantly swarming masses mentally, if he could not find a way to do so physically. Crabbe and Goyle knew better than to talk to him when he wasn’t in the mood, the rest of his house was far too afraid to approach him, the rest of the school thought him unworthy of the effort. They thought him cold—he was not in the habit of reciprocating any attempts at interaction that came his way—and often traded rumors of his corruption and supposedly extensive knowledge of the Dark Arts.

So, he all but completely turned within himself. He traded enough barbs with Potter, Weasley, and Granger to keep anyone from truly beginning to wonder—their arguments continued to escalate into physical altercations on a regular basis—and tortured poor Longbottom mercilessly, but didn’t give much actual thought to anything save his studies and himself. He did this out of vanity and selfishness, in part. It was true that he felt interaction with his peers was a step down, intellectually and otherwise, but lately he’d been motivated by a need to be alone in order to sort out his problems…

…Problems that were rooted in wondering…

…And growing.

He wasn’t entirely sure whether he was ready to go back this year. Whether he wanted to. What could be offered him at Hogwarts? He knew better than to argue, though, and so said nothing to anyone of his uncertainty.

There was one certainty, at least. The ceiling held no answers. Draco sat up and let his eyes wander over the rest of his room, taking in the heavy draperies, commissioned portraits of long-dead family members, and the many bookshelves, which he had filled to capacity (Granger, after all, wasn’t the only one to have read Hogwarts, A History). There they rested, and he rose to cross the room.

This term promised to be the most difficult to endure thus far. Draco paced the length of the shelves, fingertips ghosting over each spine. He would bring something to keep him occupied. Something to help him remain centered when things got out of hand… something by Shakespeare as, regrettably, no one had gotten around to writing Upcoming Term Ninth Circle of Hell? How to Cope, so far as he knew.

He would bring Hamlet. A favorite, and probably the only thing capable of seeing him through the next few months. He had always preferred the tragedies, and this was as tragic as they came. And yet, it was imbued with such an abundance of sarcasm and caustic humor… he adored it, really, and Draco Malfoy didn’t adore anything as a rule.

2

The countryside sped past the train, an indistinct blur of greens and browns. Draco sat in his compartment, dividing his time between absentmindedly flipping through Hamlet and glaring at Crabbe and Goyle who snored obliviously on. He shifted impatiently in his seat.

All uncertainties were now worthless. It wasn’t as if he’d seriously considered not coming back this term… even so, he felt incredibly ill at ease. This would be the greatest test his façade had ever endured. The last thing he wanted to do was imagine what would happen if he cracked. Never mind his pride, and the admittedly justified pleasure it would give Potter and his miserable cohorts… Draco had his father to answer to. He had Voldemort to contend with. Things were expected of him—things that could not easily be cast aside…

He shook his head violently, as if to physically free it of this latest, disturbing train of thought. Movement outside the compartment caught his eye—Potter, Weasley, and Granger. Naturally. Well, there was no point in delaying the inevitable. A little petty taunting might cheer him up—after all, it had always been a favorite pastime.

“Okay, Draco, we start small… Phase One. Get Weasley to take a swing.”

“What?”

Crabbe had woken up.

“Go back to sleep, Crabbe…” and, as an afterthought, “Shut up.”

He rose and started after the triumvirate.
He found them in a compartment near the end of the train, and assumed a casual pose in their open door.

“ ‘… We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service—two dishes, but to one table. That’s the end.’ Well, Weasley, it seems that you didn’t really hit the jackpot after all. The Boy Who Lived meets his heroic end as nothing more than The Boy Who Was An Appetizer… right along side you… with the mudblood, here, as a main course,” He said with a nod in Hermione’s direction. “It’ll be a bit disappointing for your rabid fan base, I’m sure, Potter, but, really, I think it’s quite appropriate, don’t you?”

Too easy.

He was out of practice—that much seemed obvious—and, still, Weasley’s face was the same unflattering red as his hair. It was almost disappointing, really, to get that much reward for so little effort. It made the victory an empty one.

“Don’t, Ron. He’s not at all worth it.”

Oh, not at all, Granger, not at all. Splendid job of peer mediation.

“What, Malfoy, can’t wait until we get to school? Have to come and taunt the commoners bright and early this term?”

That’s right, Potter. Come to the rescue.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, so, you admit to your inferiority, then?”

“God, Malfoy. Doesn’t being a complete prat ever get old?”

This was getting boring far more quickly than expected. Draco shot a parting glare at Weasley and Granger, then rounded on Potter once more.

Of course. In fact, it rather has already.
“Of course not.”

He donned his best smirk and began to walk away, caught himself walking and began to saunter.

Back in his own cramped compartment, he wasn’t quite sure how to feel about the exchange. It hadn’t been difficult to carry on—that much was certain and promising—yet he hadn’t gleaned any satisfaction from it. That much was disturbing and indicative of his further disillusionment. Crabbe and Goyle were awake now, murmuring to each other stupidly, in low voices. He refused inclusion in the conversation with a glance. There was another bright spot; comforting if minor. He was still able to communicate his whims to Crabbe and Goyle with the slightest facial gesture. Some things would probably never change. But, he was wondering again. Not good.

He needed a distraction, and attempted to read a bit. Within moments, however, his thoughts were drifting. Since when was his favorite literary work unable to maintain his attention?

Potter and his lackeys passed the compartment again, this time with Longbottom in tow. He glared vehemently at their retreating backs, unseen. Potter was quite like Hamlet, really, Draco realized with no small amount of bitterness. Even in fiction he was not to be avoided.

He was the prince of the wizarding world, endearing and well liked by all. He was in a position to be powerful—God knows he was a living symbol of all that is glorious and good—and he hadn’t the sense to capitalize. Had Draco found himself in such favorable circumstances, he would have taken advantage of all available perks. That was why he was a Slytherin. That was precisely why he wasn’t in such a position. Clearly, he’d made do with what he’d had, and had a splendid go of it. Yes, he’d had a good run as… Lord of Slytherin. And, now, just when he should be enjoying the fruits of his labor, he was beginning to think he understood precisely why Harry kept the attention at arm’s length. It was a strange feeling, being able to identify with Harry Potter. Especially on a point such as this, which, Draco strongly suspected, even Weasley couldn’t grasp.

No, Weasley was envious. Amend that… insanely jealous… it was absurd. Draco, who had zeroed in on this knowledge early on, had wasted no time in using it to get a rise out of him. Not even insulting his poverty could evoke such a brilliant shade of red… well, nothing short of insulting Granger, but he saved that for special occasions.

Draco was perceptive—he felt himself capable of sensitivity, but had never had an opportunity to find out whether this was so or not—and Potter was one of the few people he was unable to read. Most of the time, Draco resented being unable to outdo him even in this, but, in his quieter moments, almost respected him for it. A master of deception is not easily fooled, as he himself, in all likelihood, uses all of your tricks. Potter, however, had something up his sleeve that Draco could not fathom.

Just how akin was he to the Prince of Denmark?

In the end, Hamlet loses his own life and that of both of his parents to the wickedness of Claudius. Harry seemed poised for the same fate. He couldn’t escape the will of Voldemort indefinitely. If his schoolwork was any indication, he was certainly prone to procrastination, although, it was Weasley who took it to new heights. His rashness, too, was obvious. So often, bravery and impulsiveness go hand in hand, Potter being a classic example.

He was brave and he was loved, but was he happy? It was something Draco had often pondered. Lately, he’d been inclined to say no. The blind jealousy he used to feel had been replaced by a bitter comprehension. After all, in some ways, being a hero and being a Malfoy wasn’t so different. People assumed things about you. They thought they knew when they could never understand what it was like. They saw the well-crafted exterior and thought it effortless. They would never understand what must be sacrificed in order to live up to expectations. Never.

Harry was a hero, a miraculous incarnation of pure goodness.
Draco was an aristocrat, cold and selfish and untouchable.

The public couldn’t be bothered to look deeper.

Draco possessed more passion than seemed possible. He was quick to anger, quick to fear, quick to any extreme… but quicker to hide what seethed beneath the surface. It was barely but completely concealed, and no chink in his armor had yet been found. He’d often wondered what might have become of him under different circumstances. Who would he have been without the expectations his father had placed upon his young shoulders? Without the beliefs that he had been force-fed and unwittingly latched onto? It was so incredibly difficult now to tell where he ended and his father began. He had no grasp on how much of what he believed to be a part of him was inherent and how much was inherited. It was frightening, not knowing who you were, and Draco was just beginning to square his shoulders and face that fear.

He was curious.
And terrified.

And he was beginning to think that maybe Potter felt the same way. Who was to say how much of him was real and how much was an emulation of the ideal hero? Perhaps he was scared and confused and alone as well. Perhaps he was scrambling to live up to his own image, because Potter was the clear protagonist in whatever twisted drama Voldemort was weaving for the wizarding world. He must know that.

Most strikingly, Potter’s life was consumed by revenge. Hamlet had the burden placed upon him by a ghost, but Potter must be buckling under the weight of the expectations of an entire world. They all look to him to vanquish the Dark Lord, once and for all. Factor in the personal stakes—he, after all, would also be avenging his parents’ murder—and the anger must be unfathomable. But anger for what? For being an orphan? For circumstances out of his control? For the responsibilities he had to contend with but didn’t want? For being kept in the dark for so long?

There was so much to be angry about. Draco had his father, Potter had his heroism… everyone had something, but they seemed to get an unusually large portion. It was unfair. It was something else to be incensed over.

The train was beginning to slow. Draco rooted around for his school robes and roused Crabbe and Goyle—they had slipped back into sleep at some point, Draco hadn’t noticed—with a sharp kick in the shins each.

3 

The train, indeed, pulled into Hogsmeade in seemingly no time at all. Now donning their school robes with a prominently displayed Slytherin crest, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle made their way off the train and through the throng of students. After much shoving—which was both necessary and for sport—they reached the carriages which would take them up to the school, the feast, and a most dreaded term, at least where Draco was concerned.

He must have looked particularly pensive, judging by a few quizzical looks from his cohorts. He paid them no mind, however, and focused, instead, on steeling himself for the task at hand. Draco realized that he was probably being a bit fatalistic. It was, after all, only school. True, he was nothing short of miserable in the months he spent under the watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore, but there were certainly several, far worse alternatives—many of which Draco could readily visualize. He cringed involuntarily. When looked at from a wholly rational standpoint, this was rather valuable training. If he couldn't find the strength to fool sycophantic Slytherins who were inclined to look up to and romanticize him, he wouldn't last five seconds under the scrutiny of the ever-skeptical Dark Lord.

Draco scowled as the carriage careened over a particularly large rut. One thing he might never be able to rid himself of was an utter incapacity for discomfort. In this respect, his aristocratic tendencies were completely imbedded. Draco Malfoy did not deal well with anything that displeased him in the slightest.

He sighed resignedly as the carriage finally came to a faltering halt in front of the main entrance. Crabbe and Goyle once again shot him half-veiled glances.

"Oh, for the love of God, you two. Mind your own damned business before I make you."

They said nothing, opting, instead, to exit the carriage with as much bumbling and little grace as could be deemed humanly possible. Out of habit as much as anything else, Draco clicked his tongue in disapproval at their retreating backs. He himself stepped out with considerably more poise. Just ahead, he could see the Trinity ascending the staircase and making their way into the Great Hall. Yet again, he could not help but let his thoughts wander to Potter's unusually well honed shroud of secrecy. It seemed rather disingenuous, having a hero whom you could not read like an open book. Then again, Potter never asked to be a hero. He had been super-imposed into that role, and everyone else seemed well and truly fooled. Draco was suddenly struck with a sense of wonder and simultaneous disgust at having nearly felt sympathetic toward the git. This did not add up at all. For once in his life, he felt fully justified in remaining selfishly consumed with his own well being. He didn't have the time or energy to suddenly take an active interest in deciphering what seethed beneath the surface of The Boy Who Lived.

Without even having noticed, he'd already made his way into the Great Hall and over to the Slytherin table. Auto-pilot was a blessed thing, and Draco breathed a barely audible sigh of relief after recovering from his moment of disorientation. Admittedly ruffled, he attempted to assume his usual post between Crabbe and Goyle as inconspicuously as possible. He surveyed the commotion around him with intense distaste that was—for the moment, at least—entirely genuine.

As the first years were finally herded in as a collectively terrified mass, he took to studying the table and feigning boredom in order to avoid any possible forthcoming conversation. Actually, he could barely believe his luck in having avoided it for this length of time. He had no qualms about ignoring them utterly, but was rarely successful in doing so. After all, they were entirely capable of thinking up decidedly nasty things to say about each first-year who was sorted into a house other than their own without him. He found the whole business crass and juvenile, and wasn't afraid to tell them so if anyone dared question his lack of interest.

No one did.

So, Draco was allowed to endure the sorting and subsequent start-of-term feast in sullen silence. It was much to his housemates' credit that they had enough sense to leave him be. At times, they found it fun to bait him into a state of agitation so great he would berate whoever had the unfortunate luck of being nearest. His deftness at using words to reduce his enemies to nothingness was unrivaled. It was sadly fitting that the Slytherins would find taking witness to Draco's art entertaining. Of course, he was always well aware of what they were trying to do. It was nowhere near that easy to use Draco Malfoy, even in matters of no great importance. He was an excellent judge of the general disposition of those that surrounded him at any given moment, and knew from the instant the thought had entered their heads that they would try to set him off. He had allowed it to happen out of personal pride in his cutting wit, and, perhaps, out of a ridiculous need to be admired and accepted. A need he would certainly never admit to having, even to himself.

Speaking of which. He could not deny himself a bitter glance at the Gryffindor table, where the golden children of Hogwarts sat—tittering happily about nonsense—confident, happy, and blissfully unsuspicious in each other's company. Draco felt a sudden pang of resentment at the back stabbing and sniping that swirled around him. When half of the members of one's house are already keying up for careers as Death Eaters, one is ever-mindful of letting slip potential blackmail material. It was like a bloody mantra. In his younger days, Draco had done all he could to encourage this atmosphere, considering it profoundly useful to his own ambitions. He had been foolish, to be sure. He hadn't considered what it would really mean. However, following in his father's footsteps was one of the only choices he had left in an exponentially shrinking array of options for his future. Perhaps if he'd done more, sooner to disqualify himself, unfit for Voldemort's service. The Dark Lord was selective, and, though it would have been more difficult for Draco to safely count himself out of consideration than the child of a less prominent Death Eater, it was possible. He had been so desperate to be worthy in his father's eyes. The desperation had blinded him. It had been the most important thing, and he had failed, even, to consider considering what he might see for himself in the future. It had been an opportunity to cheat destiny. An opportunity missed, and perhaps the only one that would ever come his way.

Dumbledore's commanding voice startled him out of his reverie.

"As always, just a few start-of-term notices need announcing before I send you all off to your dormitories. We all have a big day ahead of us tomorrow, I realize, so I will be as brief as possible."

Draco rolled his eyes at the Headmaster's assertion.

"Brief? I should hardly think him capable of brevity. Pity. 'Brevity is the soul of wit, / And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes.' The bumbling old fool might want to consider it in practice, rather than just in theory."

Pansy snickered into her plate across from him. He shot her a venomous look. That shut her up quickly enough. Leering bitch.

"I should hardly think, Parkinson," he spat out her name with all the disgust he could muster, "that you have any reason to deign yourself privy to some private joke."

It was Crabbe and Goyle's turn to laugh. It seemed that they had somehow gotten the notion that they were allowed special dispensation in laughing at those struck down by Draco's quick temper. They were sorely mistaken.

"Shut up. The both of you. I'm in absolutely no mood to put up with shit from either of you, and have absolutely no qualms about hexing you both from here until Christmas. I wouldn't push to discover whether it's an empty threat, either."

Dawning realization. Dumbledore's voice no longer droned in the background. Shit. He must've raised his voice in that latest tirade. He chanced a veiled glance at the staff table. The headmaster was looking down on him with a rather imperious, if not unkind expression. It was too subtle to be sure, but he imagined he'd seen a slight smile tug at the corners of the old wizard's mouth before he continued, undaunted, on whatever tack he'd been speaking. Draco was slightly bemused, but hardly grateful for the lack of reprimand.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding—since when was he afraid of getting in trouble?—and retreated within himself, content to be left perfectly alone to seethe until they were dismissed to the dormitories.

4 

He was wandering the corridors, aimless, errant...
... in search of a way up.
Always up.
Up until there was nowhere left to go.

... except through a trapdoor in the ceiling and onto the roof of the North Tower.
He could see the whole world from up here... past the Forest, the lake...
He was face to face with the mountains.

And there was Potter.
Standing on the peak of the roof, deadly precarious.
Deadlier calm.

He heard himself call out.
"What keeps you from doing it?"

Empty green eyes, and then...
"... That the Everlasting had fix'd his canon 'gainst self-slaughter."

And Draco pushed him.
He watched as Potter, falling as if through water, became a hundred golden snitches, a thousand of Niobe's tears, a million shards of glass.
It was merciful.
Utterly merciful and beautiful.

Draco woke with a start within the now-familiar confines of his bed-hangings. He was more at peace than he had been in weeks. What had he been dreaming of? He remembered raining glass, wind... As he pursued the details, they evaded him—teasing at the edges of his peripheral consciousness only to fade promptly into nothingness.

He sighed.

His mind was, clearly, unwilling to conjure obscure, half-remembered details this early in the... Christ, was it really only 5 a.m.?

Unable to reclaim sleep—though not quite awake, either—Draco dressed and went down to the common room with Hamlet in tow to idly pass the early morning. He settled into one of the green velvet armchairs. The morning light that filtered through the windows had a newness to it. The silence enveloped Draco and cushioned his fragile aura of peace, so recently and conditionally acquired.

A few—all too short—hours later his house awoke. They elbowed their way into his pocket of content—prodding and consuming it—and Draco took up the lead of their routine procession to the Great Hall. They walked in a collectively organized group. Like troops, almost. Like a dress rehearsal for war, ascending from the dungeons into battle. Draco didn't have to go first to be the leader. He didn't have to assent to it, either. He simply was. Saddled with another duty, gifted with another inheritance. He was not grateful.

Not for the first time in the past few weeks, he marveled at how alone he was capable of being amidst his hovering rank and file. Though it was a relief to be mentally divested of his hangers-on, he was beginning to suffer for it. A profound loneliness was surfacing from his deeper spheres—nothing new, but suddenly impossible to ignore. Draco Malfoy, quintessential spoiled brat, needed the one thing he'd never had: an equal. Well, that and to be loved-but he was far from ready to even consider breaching that particular subject.

He slid into his usual perch at the Slytherin table—sandwiched rather inelegantly between Crabbe and Goyle—and stole his requisite glare at the Gryffindors. God how he hated Potter, his friends, his infuriating mirth, his ability to be what Draco never, ever could.

Perhaps hate was merely privative. Perhaps it was, better yet, a perversion.

Best not to think on that now.

The same inane, hateful chatter diffused among the Slytherins like a sickness and it made him decidedly nauseous. All of it: Crabbe and Goyle stuffing their faces on either side of him like savages, Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini giggling into their plates like idiots... Over what, Draco couldn't possibly imagine. He arched an exquisite, disapproving eyebrow at their ridiculous antics.

Suddenly, he felt trapped, feral, as though he was drowning. A wild panic was building in Draco's chest, unbidden. He had to get the hell out of there. His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he mumbled something about "getting a decent fucking seat in Potions for once," rose stiffly, and all but fled from the Great Hall.

****

The damp air of the dungeons felt deliciously cool on Draco's panic-flushed face. The echo of his even footsteps was hypnotizing, calming—it allowed his breathing to return to normal and the oppressive tension in his chest to ease slightly.

Once, they had been a daily occurrence—cause for Draco to fear that he was falling into insanity—but he hadn't had an attack like that in quite some months, and Draco cursed himself for failing in his vigilance. He should have felt it coming on, paid attention to the telltale signs—the sweaty palms, that dull headache—and taken control. That morning, though, he had felt almost peaceful, had awakened in a deceptive, dream-induced calm. He couldn't allow that to happen again. He couldn't allow himself to be so effortlessly disarmed. It was dangerous to give anyone anything to wonder about. Word might get back to his father.

Draco shuddered involuntarily as he dropped into an inconspicuous seat at the back of Snape's classroom. No way in hell was he doing any active potion-making today. Not with the way this morning had gone. Instead, he flattened his palms against the cool wood of the tabletop and pressed his forehead to the edge. Tuning out the sounds of other students filtering into the room and taking their seats, he concentrated on breathing—in, slowly, out, steadily, in, shallowly, out.

From snatches of Professor Snape's lecture, he gathered that they were to make a Truth Serum—one of Veritaserum's weaker cousins. He twirled a Jobberknoll feather between his thumb and forefinger and cast a wandering eye about the classroom. He allowed himself a small smile as Neville Longbottom blundered hopelessly, his puffer-fish eyes flying in all directions. Granger hovered annoyingly over the daisy roots Weasley was chopping, buzzing in his ear ceaselessly for a few minutes before finally wresting the knife from his grasp entirely.

"Oh, really, Ron. Just let me do it."

Weasley looked slightly indignant, but wisely said nothing. Instead, he turned to Potter, at the adjacent cauldron. In no time they were snickering together about God-knows-what, and Draco felt a pang. Of jealousy? He quickly shifted his attention to Pansy, who looked like she'd rather die than touch the rat spleen she was supposed to be simmering. God forbid she soil something. Snape was weaving between the desks, robes billowing, descending on easy prey. Draco watched, amused, as Dean Thomas tried to keep it together—and avoid cutting his fingers off—with the Professor looming ominously over his left shoulder. Finnigan was standing stock-still and tense beside him. Draco doubted he was even breathing. Nobody could intimidate the way Snape could; Draco would give him that. It probably had something to do with the hair. And the black robes. And the filth.

There was, of course, also the inexhaustible ire. Ire that—Draco was fairly certain—would never dare touch him. He didn't miss the pursed lips and furrowed brow. Left well enough alone, however, Draco hardly cared. The thought of Snape doing anything to anger Lucius—higher-ranking Death Eater that he was—was ludicrous. And so, Draco was content to trace the grain of the table with the tip of his feather and forego class altogether.

****

The Great Hall at lunch was still worse than breakfast. Midday gossip was a formidable force.

Professor Sprout caught Justin Finch-Fletchley snogging some Ravenclaw skirt behind Greenhouse Four right in the middle of Double Herbology. It had taken him all term to coerce her into skipping class for such deplorable extracurricular activities. The first years were learning Wingardium Leviosa in Charms and someone had levitated Professor Flitwick on the sly. Again. Millicent Bulstrode's mother was a giantess. Potter had spent summer break curing cripples, giving sight to the blind, and having afternoon tea with Christ and they still couldn't stop talking about it. Rumor had it that McGonagall was going as a man this Hallowe'en. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher had a thing for nipple clamps. Snape was planning to poison them all. Draco was finally a Death Eater-Mandy Brocklehurst had seen the Dark Mark when he rolled up the sleeve of his robes in Potions not more than three days ago. Never mind the fact that Mandy was a Ravenclaw and that Slytherin and Gryffindor had Potions together on Thursdays, today—not Mondays—it was irrefutable proof. Filch was having a torrid affair with Mrs. Norris. Gryffindors were still despicable, Ravenclaws prude, Hufflepuffs ridiculously stupid gits. And could Susan Bones' acne possibly get any worse? Honestly. It looked as though a potion exploded near her face. Or she'd gotten in the way of a bad Furnunculus curse. Fred and George Weasley would have enough alcohol to last all night this Saturday behind the Quidditch pitch on the north end. Everyone was to sneak out and meet at eleven. Of course Dumbledore knew. Of course he wasn't going to stop it. Quite on the contrary, the twins had his blessing. Hermione Granger was a closet dominatrix. Ronald Weasley secretly delighted in this. Some terrible virus was circulating in the waters of the lake. The giant squid had taken ill and was tainting them. One toe in, apparently, and you were a goner. It was transmitted by absorption through the skin and human immune systems were helpless against it. Terry Boot fancied Pansy Parkinson fancied Kevin Entwhistle fancied Ernie Macmillan... and, my, but what a scandal that was...

... And Draco didn't care. Couldn't care less, in fact. The whole thing gave him a massive headache, and he wasn't quite able to decide whether to seek out a cure from Madame Pomfrey or hex Pansy's mouth off to shut her up. Either required entirely too much effort, so he settled on scowling and massaging his temple fiercely.

This day stretched on forever both behind and in front of him. Draco felt lost in it, direction-less and floating outside of time. He willed night to come faster so that he might escape into sleep and darkness where it was safe and perfectly alright to be alone.

5 

Finally—though by early evening Draco had begun to fear that the sun might have actually stilled in mid-orbit just to spite him—night fell. In the darkness and relative solitude of his bed, he was usually able to relax. Yet, to end a perfectly awful day perfectly awfully, he felt himself panicking instead. The darkness that ordinarily comforted and cloaked him was choking and oppressive. Draco's shuddering breaths began to hitch in his chest.

"Oh, Christ, I know I haven't been minding the symptoms, but twice in one day? This is fucking ridiculous," he whispered, stricken, into the deaf night.

****

Something had snapped. Insomnia descended on Draco. He hadn't slept for three straight nights, and there was nothing for it. Sleep wouldn't come, and Draco Malfoy wasn't one to sit idly by and let himself become either hysterical or bored, sitting up all night again. Instead, he dressed in full school uniform—if he was going to be caught, he sure as hell wouldn't be caught in pajamas like a common fool—and a heavy, hooded black cloak, and left with a soundlessness borne out of years of practice at being inconspicuous.

Wandering the halls at Hogwarts was an entirely different experience than doing so at the Manor. There was no fear for him here. If he was caught, no consequence beyond detention and a point penalty awaited him. He could easily handle that, Draco mused as he plodded quietly along the drafty corridors that led up from the dungeons. Their slow incline was causing a slight burn in his calves. The sensation made him feel alive and grounded. Why hadn't he thought to do this before?

Some minutes later, roaming leisurely where he knew the Gryffindor common room to be located, Draco heard voices. He ducked into the shadows behind a suit of armor, poised to make a run for it if he hadn't been quick enough. The voices, however—hurried whispers that sounded distinctly distressed—retreated along the corridor.

Interest piqued, Draco followed, wondering if he might somehow be able to tip Filch off—without incriminating himself, of course—and land a Gryffindor or two in detention for being out after hours. God knows he deserved it. Three fucking nights, and not more than a quarter of an hour's slumber to speak for them. His days became a waking nightmare. He couldn't concentrate, he couldn't feel anything but anger and hollowness, and his patience was paper-thin. He'd no appetite, despite the gnawing pain in his gut, and in the past day he'd even fallen mute, refusing to speak to either housemates or teachers. He knew he was but a breath away from being called to Dumbledore's office. Snape had made that abundantly clear. Though it was the last thing he wanted, the last thing he could handle, he simply could not bring himself to speak. It wasted too much of what dismally scarce emotional energy he had left.

He pursued the disembodied voices, gaining on them steadily and surreptitiously, to the library. A brief silence and a rapid whisper—almost certainly a spell—and the heavy wooden doors opened of their own accord. Still no sign of the lurking Gryffindors as the whispered conversation drifted away from him and into the library. Nonplussed, Draco delayed a moment before following.

He slipped inside just in time to see the air near the Restricted Section displace itself, followed by the appearance of Potter, Weasley, and Granger seemingly from thin air.

Potter was clutching an invisibility cloak in his hands and looking distinctly pained.

"Bloody figures," Draco muttered under his breath.

Rather than stage an obscure exit and make for Filch, Draco decided to eavesdrop on his most hated peers. A little information gathering always proved more useful in the long run. Always. He crept toward the trio, thankful for concealing shadows cast by the bookcases. He settled into a table cattycorner to the Restricted Section and partially obscured by shelves. From there he could hear snatches of anxious conversation with little chance of being seen.

Potter was clearly distressed about something. He couldn't seem to stop wringing that damned cloak. Truth be told, he looked near tears, but Draco passed it off as a trick of light. The thought of a weeping Potter unsettled him more than he would have liked. It was rather… gloomy… in there after all. He couldn’t be seeing properly. Weasley was trying desperately to calm Potter down, and Granger appeared to be attempting the same by doling out pragmatic orders.

"… Harry, I'm sure he's fine, mate. Don't worry."

"Ron's right, Harry. Now, if we're going to find him we'd better get down to business. Ron, go pull all the books you can find on Detection Spells and Location Charms. I'll start here and find out all I can about using dark arts for incarceration and binding purposes. You can help me, Harry… Harry?"

Potter barely nodded, but it was enough of a response, it seemed, to throw all three of them into action. Draco watched with interest, as they worked. A seamless unit. It would have been fascinating if he wasn't so disgusted.

Once they'd heaped a table with more texts than Draco could count, they sat. Granger checked her watch.

"Alright, it's about one. Let's keep at it for four hours or so. We should turn in by five. Two and a half hours with that Deep Sleeping Draught should be just enough."

They'd only been "at it" for five minutes, though, before Potter dropped his book on the table with a dull thud and started to—for lack of a better phrase—flip out.

"I just know he's hurt… what the hell good is reading supposed to do? How can I sit here while Snuffles is out there, maybe dying… maybe dead already… Why the fuck did…"

"Harry," Hermione cut in sharply.

He just looked tired now. He continued his rant, but his voice had traded its desperate edge for weariness. Draco was just beginning to become annoyed by the smooth quality that seemed to emerge from Potter's voice when it wasn't laced with anger when…

… the library was suddenly blinding and his neck hurt like hell.

"Mr. Malfoy, I hardly know what to say."

What the fuck was Madame Pince doing, looming over him like that?

"May I ask you just what you presume to be doing in the library at eight thirty in the morning?"

Oh, fuck.

He'd fallen asleep…
… Wait… He'd fallen asleep?

"Well, Mr. Malfoy? You haven't lost the capacity for speech, have you?"

Ironic that you should ask....
"No, ma'am. I must have…"

"Breakfast is nearly ended, Mr. Malfoy. I suggest you hasten unless you'd like to endure morning classes on an empty stomach."

"Yes, ma'am."

Draco collected himself and fled. He felt like kicking something—someone—how could he have fallen asleep in the library like that? He felt like crying for relief. Thank God, he'd finally slept.

He felt—incredibly, finally—almost like himself again. He smoothed out his robes, arranged his hair, and regained his untouchable exterior for the first time in four days. As he sauntered into the Great Hall—owning it, disdaining everyone else inside—all lingering traces of his hysteria melted away. Within seconds, they were a shadow of a memory. He was Malfoy again, and he wasted no time in making sure everyone else knew it.

He scoffed at Pansy, reprimanded Crabbe and Goyle, belittled Hufflepuffs and sneered at Gryffindors. He was in top form again, and his housemates weren't quite sure what to make of it. Everything was back to normal, and Draco refused knowledge that it had ever been otherwise with a few well-timed, quelling glares. It only took a moment for the rest of the Slytherins to surrender and forget as well. His influence was that pervading. The implied power of it was almost frightening.

Draco risked a glance at the Gryffindors. Potter looked better than he had last night, and the Trinity as whole appeared rested as ever. Must have been a damn good Deep Sleeping Draught to diminish a full night's sleep by that much. Ten points to Gryffindor for Granger, who had undoubtedly concocted it. Potter looked better than he had last night. Draco cringed inwardly to realize he'd never found out what they'd been doing in the Restricted Section so late. Damn him for being so weak as to nod off in the face of such a rare opportunity. Potter looked better than he had last night.

Draco returned to his breakfast, picking at his food a little listlessly, considering the possibility of further eavesdropping to see what more he could find out, when the mail arrived.

He watched, disinterested, as one of the family owls deposited the Daily Prophet and a care package from his mother at his plate. The same rehashed, hysterical nonsense about the coming war and chocolates, no matter how expensive, were want to hold his interest lately. The subsequent approach of his father's personal owl—a huge tawny—with a letter in its beak, however, was enough to make Draco bolt upright in his chair. He extended his hand to catch the parchment, watching it fall into his grasp as though in slow motion. His father never sent him messages with this owl… his father never sent him messages at all. The slow burn of fear started to descend on him. Despite appearances, Draco had hardly made any move toward actual recovery from the stress of the past four days. He was just this side of another breakdown. Thankfully, no one was paying him any attention at the moment.

He opened the letter—hands shaking—covertly underneath the table.

Draco,
I have greatly displeased our Lord. I must pay for this transgression with my life. I am writing to you now to ensure that, in my wake, you will do everything in your power to uphold the integrity of the Malfoy name. Though I hardly think you ready for such responsibility—nor any responsibility at all, for that matter—I have no choice but to turn our household over to you upon my death. I trust that you will not add insult to injury by doing anything less than serving the Dark Lord to the fullest extent possible. If you cannot make me proud, Draco, at the very least refrain from besmirching my name. Narcissa will have complete control of your funds until after graduation.

-L

A smear of dark red mottled the initial. The sight of it made Draco vaguely nauseous, though he wasn't entirely sure why. Oh, yes. It was blood. Most likely his father's. Little bursts of color began to explode behind his eyes. He had just slipped the letter into the pocket of his cloak before blessed darkness overtook him.

Across the Great Hall, Harry Potter jumped to his feet in alarm.

Draco Malfoy slumped onto the Slytherin table in an uncharacteristically disordered heap, unconscious.

6

Draco woke in the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night, utterly disoriented. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. He began to panic. He was alone.

No, not alone.

There was someone among the trees. There was no moon, no light, yet he could still see a man or, rather, the ghost of a man, standing there, leering at him, motionless. Draco tensed, weighing his options. He was in the middle of this damned forest. Lost.

He couldn't very well turn and stroll off in the opposite direction, in any event. Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd, he thought with a shudder, and called out to the ghost.

"Who are you? What are you?" He had to take a moment to steady himself before continuing,
"I'm a powerful wizard. There's no telling what I may do to you if you attempt to harm me, you bastard. Don't even try it." Draco projected a supreme confidence he was far from feeling.

It would be impossible for the ghost to tell from this distance that he'd clenched his hands to keep them from trembling. But fear was unacceptable. He set his jaw and narrowed his eyes in challenge. This, too, would be impossible to see, but it gave him a flicker of conviction, and that was enough. He found his voice once more.

"Answer me, you prat! Speak, I am bound to hear."

"So art thou to revenge when thou shalt hear." Draco froze. That voice.

"What?" But he knew what was coming, and the anticipation of it was so overpowering that he could not help but shrink back.

"I am thy father's spirit,
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
And for the day confin'd to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature
Are burnt and purged away…"

Draco felt himself take a step forward. Then another. And again. His feet were carrying him toward his father. Step. Toward the ghost of his father, Draco reminded himself. Step. He reeled at the thought and felt, for a moment, as though he might pass out once more. Step. But he did not. Step. There was no escape, it seemed, from the specter of Lucius Malfoy—Step—which continued to speak those familiar words—Step—to recite them like a prayer. Step. Hail Mary, full of grace. Step. Draco almost laughed aloud at the thought of his father in a church, of how incongruent that would have looked. Step. But sobered instantly upon realizing how incongruent he looked now, right in front of Draco, radiating an oddly bluish light, his visage wavering a little as if unsure of its own existence. The one thing Lucius had ever been was palpable—in his rage, in his violence, in his obsession with material things—and Draco was unable to fully grasp this shadow, this whisper of the man who had exerted unshakable control over his whole life for his entire life.

"… If thou didst ever thy dear father love—"

And did he? Had he ever loved Lucius? He didn't know.

"O God!" he managed to breathe.

"Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder."

Draco could not find the voice to respond (Murder!) as he knew he ought. He stood frozen, trying desperately to look impassive but only managing abject terror. In life, Lucius would not have been pleased with this lack of fortitude. His ghost, however, seemed not to notice, and continued still.

"Murder most foul, as in the best it is,
But this most foul, strange and unnatural."

Draco had another line. He knew what it was.

Haste me to know't, that I with wings as swift
As meditation or the thoughts of love
May sweep to my revenge.

But he had no voice for those words. Worse yet, he had no belief in them. He would not avenge his father. He could not, and the knowledge of it swept through him as crippling fear. He was a failure.

Lucius would have then said, "I find thee apt."

He would have looked down upon his son, not in disgust, but in approval. Approval, which he had not offered in life but would suffice in death. Yet Draco could not speak, and so would not have it even then.

****

Draco woke in the infirmary in the middle of the night, utterly disoriented. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. He began to panic. He was alone.

Sluggish realization as he took in rows of empty beds and Madame Pomfrey's unoccupied desk. It had been a dream.

Moonlight sliced through the windows all along the west wall, casting the empty infirmary an eerie blue. It was all too reminiscent of the way his father's ghost had… glowed.

But it was only a dream.
Only a fucking ridiculous dream, and Draco was not a child. He had the power of perspective on his side and this would not scare him.

Madam Pomfrey was nowhere in sight, but his clothes and cloak were laid out on the cot next to him, as though poised for his escape. He dressed quickly and quietly and left in the same manner, making sure that his father's letter was still in the pocket of his cloak, undisturbed. It was, to Draco's great relief. He had no idea how late—or early—it was, but instantly disregarded the possibility of going back to Slytherin. He would simply wait morning out, sit somewhere and clear his head. Draco knew without a second thought that sleep was a hopeless cause.

Instead, he made for the East Tower. There, at the top, was a leaded glass window, set far back in the wall. He had often gone there in search of solitude. It wasn't as high as the North Tower—where Trelawney's perch encouraged the coming and going of students—but there were no spying portraits, and it still afforded a decent view of the lake and the north end of the Quidditch pitch. As he made his slow assent, Draco thought back to the Weasley twins' party. Their alcohol.

"Enough to last all night," Pansy had said, "Saturday behind the pitch on the north end. Everyone is to sneak out and meet at eleven. Of course Dumbledore knows. Of course he isn't going to stop it. Actually, the twins have his blessing."

He had watched it all from this window, feeling a vague sorrow at his isolation underscore his pervading distaste for their plebeian revelry.

Plebeian revelry. Those were his father's words. But his father was dead now…

… and that party had been—Christ—only two days ago. It felt as though a gulf of years lay between Then and Now—between being practically fatherless and actually fatherless. In theory, it didn't seem like much of a leap, but everything was different.

Draco sat on the window sill, tucking his legs beneath him. This way, the leaded pane bit into his thigh, but the discomfort made him feel solid, it kept the flickering image of the ghost's face at bay, and he did not want to move.

Dreamed or not, Draco retained the lingering knowledge that, if called upon, he would not avenge his father. Couldn't. Of course, he wouldn't be called upon, but the knowledge was enough. The only thing Draco had ever known to be true was his fidelity to his father and, by extension, his family. He had lived by that fidelity, having henchmen instead of friends, taking a leadership position over his housemates that he did not want—that he had never wanted—and allowing himself to be molded in the likeness of his father.

"How am I supposed to be the protégé of a fucking ghost?"

But there was no one to answer him, not even Filch or Mrs. Norris on patrol. For once, Draco needed to be caught. But there was no one. There was no one to trust, either, and so he was utterly alone.

He would fashion his isolation into a shield. He would not be vulnerable, he would need no one. Draco settled for self-imposed alienation. Lack of vulnerability was not the same thing as strength, Draco knew, but, desperate times…

It was close enough.

****

Dawn came and went, and Draco made his way to the Great Hall for breakfast. He was determined to continue business as usual, despite the minor detail of refusing human interaction. Crabbe and Goyle had left his usual seat unoccupied. He breezed by without so much as a glance, and sat apart at the far end of the Slytherin table. When he stole his routine glare at Potter and Co., the bastard was looking back at him. With no energy to sneer, Draco looked away at once and contented himself with studying his breakfast—eggs, toast, pumpkin juice—as it was suddenly terribly fascinating.

The morning post came and, when he felt his stomach twist with dread, it was coupled with a pang of self-loathing. It was only the fucking post. Moreover, his father couldn't possibly send word of his death twice. Ridiculous. Draco could not let something like this affect him.

He did receive mail, however, in the form of a curt note from his mother.

Draco-
I regret to inform you that your father has, indeed, died. I do not know what has been done with the body, however, a monument will be erected in his honor at the mausoleum. There will be a service and wake some time in the coming week. Your attendance is not required.
I do hope your studies are going well, dear.

-Narcissa Malfoy

His mother's lack of emotion was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

He had only just finished ripping the parchment to shreds when Snape approached, billowing robes and all.

"Mr. Malfoy, the headmaster would like to see you in his office as soon as you have finished eating."

Draco looked up, the ghost of a smirk on his face, "But I have Arithmancy this morning, Professor. Right after breakfast."

"You will not attend."

Snape's sneer didn't reach his eyes, and Draco felt sick at the realization that they knew. What’s worse, they knew and they pitied him.

****

Dumbledore's office made Draco uncomfortable precisely because it was so damned cozy. It was the kind of place that invited you to feel safe, to let down your defenses. The wood paneling, odd trinkets, and dozing portraits of Hogwarts has-beens were perfectly suited to the mild-mannered wizard that faced Draco now across a huge, cluttered mahogany desk. It was so easy to forget just how powerful Albus Dumbledore was, how dangerous, with that pitiful looking phoenix gazing over his right shoulder. But Draco forced himself to remember, and his defenses would not be tampered with. He sat stiffly upright in what was, probably, the most comfortable, worn-out armchair in the entire school. Dumbledore steepled his fingers and gazed benignly at Draco over his half-moon spectacles, ostensibly casting for words, but Draco knew—assumed—it was all part of the plot to disarm him.

"Mr. Malfoy," the Headmaster began, and Draco fixed him with his best mien—coolly impassive with just a touch of disdain around the edges. Draco knew he looked exactly like his father this way.

"I understand that you left the infirmary last night without notifying Madame Pomfrey. I'm sure you know that I cannot allow such behavior. It is retrograde to your self-interest, Mr. Malfoy. We had no way of knowing whether you were well or in danger."

His pause was pregnant with anticipation. If he expected Draco to express regret, to assure that it will not happen again, sir, he would be disappointed.

"Madame Pince has also recently brought it to my attention that she found you asleep in the library yesterday morning."

Draco narrowed his eyes slightly, the only indication that he had heard. Dumbledore looked at him discerningly, openly studying him for the first time. Draco couldn't help but squirm a bit under the scrutiny.

The Headmaster sighed.

"That will be all, Mr. Malfoy."

He suddenly looked very old.

Draco rose from his chair and turned to make for the door, but—"Draco…"—the Headmaster stopped him.

"… I understand the loss of your father must be very difficult for you and that you feel there is no one capable of understanding that difficulty. However, I think, you would not be so hard-pressed as you might imagine to find a kindred spirit."

Draco simply stared, emotionless. Perhaps he'd inherited more from his mother than he thought.

"I am simply worried for your well-being, Mr. Malfoy, whether you believe that or not. This solitude may bring you more ill than good."

"I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit," Draco replied quietly, steadily.

He left without another word.

7 

He left without another word and barely spoke to anyone for nearly two months. For the first week or so, the other Slytherins—those in his year, particularly—had found it rather hard to accept.

"Talk to us, Draco." Pansy would say. "You have to fucking talk to us."

After eight days of that grating voice constantly plaguing him, he'd had to respond just to shut her up. The whole school thought he was losing his mind, and if he'd let her keep it up, he would have.

"Have I in me something dangerous, / Which let thy wisdom fear. Don't push me, Parkinson."

Draco spat the words at her. She looked genuinely frightened. It had been enough to get them to leave him alone. He didn't entirely understand her concern. They didn't like each other, few Slytherins did. They allied, they socialized, but to like one another—in the true sense—they would have had to know each other in the true sense. And to let anyone get to know you was to let yourself become vulnerable.

Though ambition was not, in fact, synonymous with evil, as the other Houses seemed to believe, many Slytherins felt it in their best interest to maintain a certain measure of distance from their peers, for whatever reason. Draco was certainly no exception.

So, they wouldn't be concerned for his well being. But he supposed it might be rather alarming for the de facto leader of your House to suddenly cut you off and shirk all knowledge of his position, no matter how arbitrarily gained. He could only imagine the chaos it would cause at Gryffindor if Potter decided to shut himself off one day without warning. They'd run screaming to Dumbledore within five minutes, absolutely sure that Voldemort had somehow taken over Potter's body. Possessed him. They'd demand an exorcism now, get Trelawney involved… but, then, Potter had hardly gained his leadership position arbitrarily. Being an invincible infant, after all, was an acquired skill.

In any event, it was the only reason he could come up with for the slightly hysterical edge to Pansy's voice when she implored him. Fucking talk to us, Draco. You have to.

But he didn't have to. He'd made a conscious decision that this was the way he would cope. Dumbledore didn't know what the hell he was talking about, the senile bastard, trying to tell Draco what was best for him as if it was his place, as if he'd know. He built it up, day by day, in walls around him—a false fortress. It was only a semblance of peace, he knew, and one rife with loneliness, but Draco let himself think he was protected.

It took energy to maintain. He had to throw himself into it and concentrate. Years of being an out-spoken brat when he was away from the Manor had made passing insults second nature. He had to struggle to keep them from spilling out unconsciously. Even so, all of that silence became almost comfortable after a while.

They all thought he was losing his mind, and maybe he was. What did it matter?

The insomnia stayed with him. He had gone four more consecutive, sleepless nights before giving in and going back to the library. The triumvirate was there again, to his great relief, speaking in low tones, pouring and re-pouring over text after text after text.

This was the only way he could sleep. He would sneak in after them, moonlight perpetually pouring through the windows, throwing intricate patterns of leaded glass into distorted relief across round tables. Every night without fail, for nearly two months, he would skirt around the section on Divination, the shelf on Scrying, and sit at the same table—half in and half out of shadow—spying on them.

Sometimes—when they thought they were onto something, when Granger would give a strangled little gasp and frantically beckon to Potter and the Weasel—Draco would quietly slip into the restricted section and have a look around. He'd become obsessed with all manner of magical communication and the potions, curses, and spells described in the dark arts books always proved the most interesting. There were potions that would allow you to hear another's thoughts for a time. There were ways to charm your own desires into someone else's mind, superimpose them, and make them the recipient's own. If Potter, Weasley and Granger were having a slow night, however, Draco would have to satisfy himself with the contents of the general library so as not to give himself away. There he found more benign, less invasive, and, thus, less interesting methods. Most of the potions were comically weak. As they only incorporated legal ingredients, human blood—the most potent known magical medium, as well as the most receptive to dark enchantments—was out of the question. He found a way to charm two pieces of parchment to transfer written messages to one another, which had potential despite seeming rather well suited to schoolgirl gossip. He absently tore pages out of the books whenever he came across something he liked, and stowed them in a small mahogany box under his bed.

He had followed them on their nightly sabbaticals for nearly two months, it was the last night of term, and Draco was following them again. Every night he skulked behind a suit of armor until the portrait of the fat lady would open and close, seemingly of its own accord.

… how is't with you, / That you do bend your eye on vacancy, / And with th'incorporal air do hold discourse?

Every night he followed them. Silence in pursuit of invisibility down damp, dark corridors toward the library. Every night followed every morning by blinding light and a stiff neck and Madame Pince looming over him with pursed lips and a curt send-off to the Great Hall for breakfast. He never lost a single house point, got a single detention. Draco thought of that flash of sickening pity he'd caught in Dumbledore's eye just before he'd turned—I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit—and left.

Every night a whispered spell and heavy doors that swung open by themselves and the silence slipping in behind. Every night a faint rustle of cloth and Potter would materialize from thin air, patterned by glass shadows and moonlight.

Sometimes they researched with an enthusiasm borne out of hope. From bits of their hushed conversations, he had pieced together that this Snuffles—and if there had ever been a more daft nickname, Draco had no knowledge of it—was Potter's godfather, that he hadn't been heard from in over three months, and that Potter feared the worst. Sometimes they seemed to think they were on the verge of locating him, but mostly, they seemed to come only because anything was better than waiting for news doing nothing.

Behind the Divination section, past the shelf on Scrying, and Draco settled at his usual table.

The last night of term, and they hadn't made any substantial headway to speak of. Granger had her mouth set in a very straight line. Potter looked on the verge of tears and Draco averted his eyes. Weasley looked pissed off.

He slammed his books on the table.

"Ron, you're going to get us caught," Granger hissed.

"Oh, I will not, Hermione. Dumbledore has probably known for a long time, now, and he hasn't ever stopped us before. Why tonight just because I drop a goddamned book?"

Granger looked crossly at him, but said nothing. Potter had his fingers laced together so tightly that his knuckles looked blue in the moonlight.

"I can't fucking believe this…"

"Ron. Language."

He ignored her.

"… How long has it been… two months of coming here? And nothing to show for them. Sirius could be anywhere…"

"Snuffles, Ron."

"… could be dead…"

"Ron, don't."

"Well he could be. I think it's time we faced that."

Granger turned to Potter imploringly.
"Harry, he's not dead. We'll find him, yet."
She sounded as though she hadn't quite managed to convince herself of that, yet.

Potter sat, head bowed, and said nothing. It hurt Draco to see him like that, defeated. He wasn't sure why.

"Look, Harry, I'm sorry. Hermione's right, he's not dead. It's just… I can't believe it's the end of term. I can't believe mum wouldn't let me stay. I can't believe you're going to be alone for all of Christmas break, and I've been saying it since day one. We've got to bully Malfoy into telling us where he is."

Potter's head snapped up sharply. So did Draco's.

What the hell?

"What good would that do, Ron? He doesn't know."

"Harry. Of course he does. He's Malfoy. Think of what a rich, spoiled bastard he is…"

So full of artless jealousy is guilt / It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

"…think of who his father is…"

Think of who my father was, you mean.

"Think of who his father was, you mean?"

For a moment, Draco panicked, thinking he had spoken aloud. But then Potter continued, voice deafeningly quiet.

"You actually want to go to Malfoy and bully him into admitting that his dead father had Sirius locked up somewhere in that fucking mansion and he's inherited the key?"

"Well… yeah, if you want to put it that way, I guess…"

"Are you serious? Nobody, not even Malfoy, deserves something like that."

"It's not as if he'd care. Who would miss Lucius Malfoy?"

… was your father dear to you? / Or are you like the painting of a sorrow / A face without a heart?

"That's so ridiculous, Ron. First of all, Lucius Malfoy or not, he was Draco's father. Secondly, he hasn't so much as spoken to anyone since he died. I don't think I'm alone in assuming that that means that he was a little rattled by his death. Not that I would expect you to understand what it's like to lose a parent. Two, even."

"So, you have a few weird dreams and the little bastard passes out in the Great Hall and you're suddenly defending him?"

And it was true; Potter was defending him. More specifically, was out of his chair and leaning aggressively over the table as he glared at Weasley, his voice still dangerously low.

"How can you still find the energy to hate him, Ron? If half the things I dreamed were true…"

"Look, Harry… I'm sorry, it's just…"

Well, Malfoys defended themselves, for fuck's sake. So Draco stood and strolled out of the shadows and into the moonlight.

"The head is not more native to the heart / The hand more instrumental to the mouth than is the hatred of a Weasley for a Malfoy. He doesn't know any better, Potter, you can't fault him for his ignorance."

Granger had her wand pointed at his heart in a split second, the Weasel looked simply petrified, and Potter as though he might faint. They were all agape for a long moment while Draco basked in the sheer shock value of his entrance.

"Christ, Malfoy, what are you doing here?"
Potter, it seemed, had recovered first.

Draco looked him squarely in the face.
"… in my heart there was a kind of fighting that would not let me sleep."

He bristled at the sincerity he heard in his own voice, hoping the others wouldn't be able to detect it. Granger lowered her wand arm and looked at him curiously. Apparently, she had. Potter, too, looked completely bemused, though not hostile. Weasley, on the other hand, turned an angry shade of red.

"Malfoy… what the hell does that even mean? And what are you… spying on us?"

Draco looked at Weasley sharply, putting up the wall of silence he'd crafted and strengthened so diligently over the past two months.

"Malfoy, you're bloody mad. Seriously insane. Have you considered a short stay in St. Mungo's? It would probably be for the best."

"Ron, don't…"
Potter again.

"… if words be made of breath, / And breath of life, I have no life to breathe / What thou hast said to me. "
Draco sneered

"Really, Weasley, you wound me."
But he looked at Potter when he said it.

He left without another word.

8 

Draco stormed through the corridors, back to Slytherin, horrified with himself. He could hardly believe he'd blown his own cover like that. It was preposterously stupid. No more spying on Potter and his twat cohorts meant no more sleep. How could he have been so shortsighted?

He reached the statue that concealed Slytherin House and entered the common room—purus sanguini—in seemingly no time at all. Draco was numb with shock, with the possibility of serious consequences for what he'd done. There were no windows in the dungeon common room, and the pleasant orange glow of dying torches was gratuitously incongruous with the cold fear washing over him.

Draco dropped heavily into a black leather armchair in front of the fire. He forced himself to take a few calming breaths as he stared, unseeing, at the glowing embers. This was ridiculous—the library, the last two months, all of it. He was succumbing to a tendency for melodrama, a penchant for barely concealed hysteria. So his father was dead. He could handle it. So Dumbledore seemed to want to make a charity case out of him. He could handle it. So he had possibly put himself in a very bad way with Potter, Weasley, and Granger. He could handle that, as well. What could they really do, after all?

This madness was an indulgence. It was weak. He could have silence and dignity—would have it, from that moment on.

So he was suffering insomnia. He hadn't packed yet, and would be returning to the Manor early the next morning. He'd do it now.

Christmas hols.

Draco shuddered involuntarily at the thought of going back there, but held himself stiffly upright and went to collect his things, resolutely ignoring the dull ache at the base of his skull.

He entered the seventh year boys' dormitory, cast Lumos and began to gather his things. There was an angry grunt as either Crabbe or Goyle—it was hard to tell which—tossed in his bed, but no one dared stop him.

Draco packed meticulously and without magic to kill time. He enjoyed the feel of expensive dress robes in his hands, the unmistakable shift of fine fabric through his fingers, of intricately wrought silver clasps, of wool trousers. It was calming, though Draco couldn't help but notice that the panic—which had seemed to underscore his every thought, his every movement, for the past two months—was not gone.

Packed within a few hours, he found that he was deathly afraid of the empty gulf of time that stretched between now and sunrise. The disgruntled, half-asleep groans of his roommates weren't helping his jumpiness any, so he went down to the common room to sit—or, rather, pace—and dwell.

His mind was fractured, warring with itself, at once panicking and rationalizing that panic as utterly baseless. He fingered the letter in his pocket, brought it out and unfolded it again. It had been handled so much that the parchment was getting a peculiar sort of softness to it. Draco ran his fingers lightly over the words.

I must pay for this transgression with my life… uphold the integrity of the Malfoy name… upon my death… you cannot make me proud, Draco…

Well, now he wouldn’t even have the chance to make a decent go of it, would he?

Draco sneered down at the letter, disgusted by his own sentimentality. Hufflepuffs took comfort in carrying around the last words left to them by their dead fathers. Slytherins did not, nor did Malfoys, for that matter. Draco turned the worn parchment over in his hands, toying with the idea of throwing the letter into the common room fire, or maybe casting Incendio and watching it—you cannot make me proud—blacken, whither, and turn to ash within the palm of his hand. He gazed at it and imagined that the pain of the fire would be worth it. Maybe it would scar him, bringing everything inside to the surface and branding him. Maybe the words would etch themselves across his palm in scars that were the same sickening pale as Potter's. An ugly, livid blemish, but a testament to the fact that he'd survived.

****

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, glaring daggers at his own hands, but as a few second years walked by—presumably on their way to the Great Hall for breakfast—Draco realized he'd survived the night.

He got up slowly, and ambled after them. He'd be leaving in little more than an hour, but couldn't quite stomach the thought of loitering in Slytherin for all that time. Maybe the nauseating panic swirling in his stomach was just hunger…

… and maybe Potter was a Eunuch.
One could only hope.

Familiar dungeons, familiar passages, suits of armor and statues, portraits… Draco wondered when Hogwarts had come to be more of a home to him than the Manor. He felt comfortable here—safe. Fucking Dumbledore. God, how he hated the man. Damn him for making Draco feel safe. Didn't he know how dangerous that was?

A cold knot of dread twisted his stomach at the prospect of returning there. Somehow, Malfoy Manor without Lucius Malfoy to exercise dominion over it seemed worse than the dominion itself. Draco had always felt a coldness there, one that went deeper than his father's proclivity for heavy draperies, dark wood, and marble. It was only after Lupin had made a passing comment in third year that he had realized it must be the residual effects of Dark Arts. They permeated the place. It didn't help that the whole household existed in either of two states: in terrible thrall of the Dark Lord's presence or holding its breath in horrible anticipation of his imminent return.

The chatter of students lifted Draco from his reverie, and he approached the Great Hall. Just as he reached the double doors, however, McGonagall unceremoniously stepped into his path. In his shock, Draco could only splutter indignantly.

"Professor! What the…"

"Mr. Malfoy, the Headmaster would like a word with you in his office. I realize you are to return home in a matter of minutes, however, the matter is urgent, and you will see him."

At his look, the Deputy Headmistress drew her mouth into a very thin line and added, "Now."

It was amazing how she managed to be so intimidating, what with all the tartan plaid and that ridiculous bun.

"Yes, Professor. Right away."

And Draco made his way to the Headmaster's office in a terrified stupor.

****

Potter was there.

Fuck.

Draco should have snarled reflexively, but imagined he looked quite like Longbottom at wand-point.

"Draco, do sit down."

Oh, thank you, Professor, but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather hex that benevolent smile right off of your ancient fucking face.

Draco sat without a word, studiously not looking at Potter.

The silence lengthened. They expected him to break down and ask what this was all about. He would do no such thing. It wouldn't do to give them that satisfaction. He imagined his own anger was palpable, coming off of him in waves. Damn Potter for being such a goddamned tattletale.

"Draco, I'm sorry to have called you here at the last minute. I don't wish to delay the start of your holiday any more than necessary."

He glanced at Potter here, and Draco watched that stupid, insolent smile become rather fixed.

"However, Harry, here, has brought some… matters…. to my attention. Matters of which I feel you have a right to hear, but, more than that, that it is my duty to tell you."

Draco stared at the Headmaster stoically. This was not the preface to a punishment for eavesdropping on the Boy Wonder; a Boy Wonder who, now that Draco thought about it, was looking extremely grim. He glanced from one to the other, bewildered, but staunchly determined not to let them see it.

"Mr. Malfoy, I think it goes without saying that what I am about to tell you is privileged information. I ask that you not speak of it to anyone."

He barely paused, taking for granted that Draco consented to secrecy. Assuming. He would, wouldn't he?

"You see, Harry has, for several years now, been plagued by dreams of Voldemort which are accompanied by intense pain in his scar. As Voldemort grows stronger, as the war progresses, they have become more frequent, more vivid," a quick glance at Potter, "and more painful."

"The killing curse, the scar. It seems to have connected Harry to the Dark Lord. At first, he was only able to see Voldemort, to feel the pain, when the Dark Lord was feeling particularly wrathful or violent. Now, however, it seems the visions come entirely at random."

Now we come to the part where we find out why this would having anything more than fuck all to do with me.

"Mr. Malfoy, for the past few months, Harry has seen several exchanges between Voldemort and your father."

Draco's jaw clenched imperceptibly. As if it wasn't common knowledge that his father had been a Death Eater. What point was there in throwing it back in his face now? He was dead.

"Being that your father has supposedly (been murdered in a horrible, horrible way) passed on, this raises a curious issue."

Draco had no idea what the fuck he was getting at.

"As much as I appreciate your mastery of the art of circumlocution, Professor," Draco said through clenched teeth, "what are you meaning to imply?"

Draco's voice was full of quiet venom, laced with every bit of resentment he could muster for the presumptuousness, the idiocy of the fool in front of him.

"Harry?"

Dumbledore looked to Potter. The boy looked appropriately scandalized at having to handle the accusations all on his own. Good.

"I… uh… I don't think… your father's not dead, Malfoy. I saw him… I saw him planning it with Voldemort… to go into hiding. I don't know where, or anything, but…"

Malfoy rounded on him, irate. Potter flinched and trailed off.

How dare they. Just because Potter has a few fucked up dreams and a twinge in his scar. If his father had faked his own demise, he surely would never have let his only son and heir think it to be real.

"Mr. Malfoy…"

Draco nearly hissed at kindness in the Headmaster's voice—pity disguised as bloody understanding. He looked very serious. Potter looked very pale.

"… As much of a shock as this must be, however unbelievable, I think it best that you let me have a look at the letter your father sent you. It might hold some key to unraveling this mystery."

Oh, you'd like to have a look, would you? Well, No. Fucking. Way.

He narrowed his eyes at the Headmaster in unabashed contempt.

"Thank you for your time, Professor Dumbledore. However, if I'm late in returning to the Manor, my mother will start to worry."

Draco's voice crackled in quiet rage.

He stood, abruptly, and turned to leave.

Dumbledore only sighed. Smart of him. Potter, however, wasn't so apt.

He had made it to the revolving staircase when, "Malfoy, they're prepared to kill you."

Draco froze at the door.

"… They'll kill you if they think it will avert suspicion. You might be in danger if you go home, Draco. Don't go home."

Draco snarled, but didn't turn around, didn't correct him. The Manor was not his home. Home is where the heart is, or so the Muggles say. If that was the case, Draco had none.

"Professor Dumbledore, Potter," he nodded at the door in mock courtesy, "I trust you will both enjoy your holiday."

He stormed out of the office, and made for Slytherin. Anything to be away from Potter and his baseless fucking accusations. He was still twenty minutes early, but no matter. The portkey would have been activated already, and Draco was going to be away from Hogwarts as soon as possible. He might as well have been running down the corridors, he was stalking so fast. Draco couldn't quite bring himself to be concerned about how that must look. Instead, he ignored Pansy's indignant squawk as he charged past her on the way through the common room and into his dormitory. From under his bed, Draco fished out a mahogany box. It was simple, stained a rich brown. It was the only thing he owned that was entirely without airs. He kept everything that held any importance to him inside. One hand on his trunk, Draco rooted around for a few minutes until his hand clutched around a galleon at the bottom.

He felt a familiar, sickening tug behind his naval as the dormitory swirled out of sight.

9 

He landed in his bedroom with such force, it nearly knocked him over. Draco had never enjoyed travelling by portkey and tossed the galleon aside with disgust.

Back at the Manor.

He suppressed a shudder at the thought. Between an ashen Potter and condescending Dumbledore and the weight of foreboding that had settled in his chest… well, Draco supposed he may have made been rash.

This was his bedroom, for Christ's sake. He'd spent most of his life within these four walls, but the bed, the bookcases, the family portraits… they looked utterly foreign to him as he peered about. He had the most peculiar sense of hovering just outside his body, detached but unable to escape and float away.

Draco's mouth tasted vaguely of bile and he swallowed thickly. This must be what madness felt like… vision slightly blurred around the edges, knowing and yet not recognizing anything of the world around you. He reflexively reached for the letter that was in the pocket of his cloak, running his thumb absently along one tattered ridge of parchment.

He turned Dumbledore's words over in his mind, Potter's.

Then the night before came flooding back to him.
It didn't make any sense.

Draco staggered at the realization of what Potter had done…

Last night, Potter is hissing in his best friend's face about how terrible it must be for me, how tragic, to have lost my father…

… and then the next morning the dreams are all about the fact that the whole thing is an elaborate hoax?

What the fuck was Potter on, anyway?

For not the first time, Draco was completely at a loss for what made Potter act the way he did.
The stupid git wouldn't lie to his best friend, he was too Gryffindor for that, and he certainly wouldn't lie to Dumbledore…

He drew the letter out of his pocket slowly, suddenly afraid for some inexplicable reason that it might be somehow dangerous.

How dare they do this? What reason had he to question his father? It wasn't something Draco believed he could handle.

He spread the letter out on his desk, carefully flattening out the creases, and took a step back.

Draco,
I have greatly displeased our Lord. I must pay for this transgression with my life. I am writing to you now to ensure that, in my wake, you will do everything in your power to uphold the integrity of the Malfoy name. Though I hardly think you ready for such responsibility—nor any responsibility at all, for that matter—I have no choice but to turn our household over to you upon my death. I trust that you will not add insult to injury by doing anything less than serving the Dark Lord to the fullest extent possible. If you cannot make me proud, Draco, at the very least refrain from besmirching my name. Narcissa will have complete control of your funds until after graduation.

-L

He knew it off by heart, by now, right down to the pattern of blood that mottled the initial. When Draco closed his eyes, he could see it blotted behind his eyelids. He gazed at the defiled, looping line of ink.

This was the last thing his father had ever written.

He had no reason to doubt that. His father had not been a compassionate man, by any means. Draco had no delusions about the kind of man that had raised him. Lucius Malfoy had not loved his son, but he had unflaggingly endeavored to instill within him, above all else, a sense of loyalty to the Malfoy name, to his superiors.

Draco would not doubt his father, he was incapable of it.

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, brow furrowed, Draco picked up his wand.

He looked at the parchment for another long moment, before closing his eyes and drawing in a halting breath.

"Fuck you, Potter."

And he tapped the stain of blood three times before…

"Aperi caedem."

He barely whispered the spell, but it was enough. The blood promptly turned a sickening, acidic green—the color of Avada Kedavra. Draco clenched his jaw tightly. It had been taken from a victim of the killing curse. It shimmered oddly, an effect that he hadn't known the spell was supposed to have.

…thou hast thy father much offended.

He tried to stop, to convince himself that this was proof enough that Potter was wrong about this, about everything…

He pointed his wand at the tip of his index finger.

"Scindite."

Draco held his hand out over the parchment and allowed a drop of blood to fall from his finger onto the sickening green stain. The letter might give him the scars he'd wanted after all. How pleasant.

"Aperi stirpem."

He waited. Nothing. Draco remained perfectly still.

"Aperi stirpem."

A little louder. Another long moment.

Nothing happened. This was not his father's blood. Draco felt completely hollow for a beat, like an empty shell. Then the anger came, blinding and insistent. He wanted some goddamn answers. Now.

****

Draco stormed into his mother's chambers. When Narcissa—sitting at her vanity, as always—turned her head to the intrusion, looked only mildly shocked to see him. If she noticed his face, twisted into a rather dangerous looking snarl, she didn't show it.

"Dear, you're home early."

He waved the letter in her face angrily.

"What, is going on, Mother?"

"And what is that, Dear?"

He blinked at her incredulously for a moment.

"A letter from father, kindly announcing his imminent demise…"

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

"… It also happens to be covered in blood that is not his. So, I ask you again, what the fuck is going on?"

Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

"Don't be ridiculous, Draco. This rash anger is entirely…"

Draco had her at wand-point in an instant.

Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue

She regarded him coolly.

What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me?

"What do you think you're doing, exactly, Draco?"

"I want answers, Mother, and, at this point, neither expulsion nor Azkaban are consequence enough to keep me from getting them."

She sighed quietly.

"You look just like your father."

Draco took two quick steps forward, pressing the tip of his wand to his mother's neck.

"And what do you think Father would do in a situation such as this?"

Her expression didn't change, but Draco caught the flicker of fear behind her eyes. He'd made his point.

"One of your father's friends in the Ministry confirmed that that despicable Weasley man had gathered enough evidence against us to bring a team of Aurors into the Manor."

She looked fleetingly at Draco's face, but then fixed her gaze somewhere just over his right shoulder.

"Go on, Mother," he urged her to continue.

"You know full well what would happen if they were to discover how to get into the dungeons, Draco. It would be grounds to administer the Kiss. Your father and the Dark Lord were unwilling to take the chance, so he opted to go into hiding."

"By faking his own death, yes. How dramatic."

Draco pressed his wand harder into his mother's neck. She flinched.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"They… Your father didn't feel you would be able to effectively deceive Dumbledore."

"You mean, they didn't trust me."

She closed her eyes briefly, then glanced down at the parchment clenched in Draco's fist.

"Do you keep that with you always, Draco?"

His silence affirmed it.

"You shouldn't. There is… Your father hexed it, Draco…" she paused.

It seemed Narcissa Malfoy was capable of some remorse or, at the very least, discomfort at having to be so straightforward. She wasn't used to the practice.

"… The Dark Lord felt it would be most convincing if you were to… have a severe reaction to the news. Your father cast animo linqui on it."

Draco was agape. The lengths at which they had gone to deceive him… to use him in order to deceive Dumbledore. He was the key player in their little show. Potter knew.

"… I do believe there are residual effects to the curse, Draco…"

"I know. 'Animo linqui may be infused into any dark medium and, through initial visual or tactile stimulation, releases a burst of dark energy, thereby rendering the receiver unconscious. Extended exposure to an object upon which it has been cast may result in paranoia, hysteria, and eventual madness, from which there is no hope of recovery.' They teach Defense Against the Dark Arts in school, Mother. Or had you forgotten?"

The anger drained away as fast as it had come. Suddenly leaden, he let his wand arm fall limply at his side. He placed the letter on her vanity. Narcissa looked up at him, slightly paler than usual.

"Draco, I…"

"Don’t. Incendio."

Watching the letter burn, watching the parchment curl up and die was watching the madness bleed out of him. It did nothing, however, to mend what felt like a gaping hole in his chest or the odd stinging behind his eyes.

"If I hadn't found out about this, do you realize that I may have lost my mind and never recovered…"

It was not a question.

When sorrows come, they come not in single spies, / But in battalions…

"… I'll be spending the holiday at Hogwarts."

After one last hard look at his mother, Draco left.

****

Back in his room, he gathered his things.

A galleon to portkey to the Manor, a knut to return to school. There had been a time when Draco had appreciated his father's subtle gesture. He set his jaw in anticipation of the nauseating journey, grasped the coin, and watched another room swirl out of sight.

****

An instant Draco was flung back into the empty dormitory, reeling, he was on his way out the door again.

He found Potter, who looked decidedly stricken, in a corridor near the library.

"Potter."

He looked up, startled and, upon recognizing Draco, had the audacity to look relieved. Draco grabbed him by his robes—by fistfuls of the heavy black material—and slammed him up against the wall.

"What the hell did you think you were playing at?"

Potter's eyes flashed in anger.

"… Who are you lying to, Potter?"

"I'm not lying to anyone, Malfoy. Let me go."

Instead of complying, Draco pressed him still harder into the wall. Their faces were inches apart now, and he could feel Potter's heart pounding beneath his right fist.

"You told Weasley he was dead, you told Dumbledore he's alive. You're lying to someone, Potter. Why did you lie to the Weasel?"

"I… I didn't know you were there when I said that, Malfoy. I didn't think you'd hear."

"That doesn't answer my question. He knows about the dreams, but not the truth. Why?"

Potter looked away.

"I… he…"

"Stop stuttering, Potter, and spit it out."

His head snapped up angrily. Draco hadn't known Potter could snarl.

"Because he doesn't need to know every last goddamn detail of my life, Malfoy. I can't very well hide from him the fact that I break my own Silencing Charm almost nightly, these days."

Draco loosened his grip on Potter's robes.

"Why didn't you tell me before, you bastard? Why would you let me believe it this whole time?"

He took a step back and let his hands fall to his sides.

"You're no better than they are."

Potter's expression softened. Draco let himself sag against the wall beside him. He had little pride left to defend, little confidence to display.

"I told you, Malfoy. They were prepared to kill you if they thought anyone was suspicious. Dumbledore didn't think it was safe to tell you. But since you decided to go home (there was that word again…thrown around so carelessly) for the Christmas… I thought you needed to know."

"God, you really just had to tell him, didn't you?"

Draco passed a hand over his tired eyes.

"I'm sorry. I've been reporting all of my visions to him since the beginning of term. I trust him, Draco. You can trust him."

Draco snorted in reply and shook his head sadly.

"I guess I should thank you now, shouldn't I? That’s what you'd expect…"

"No, I just…"

Draco pushed himself off the wall…

"How dare you, Potter?"

… and began to walk away.

10 

Draco had never spent the holidays at Hogwarts. He had often wondered what it might be like to remain here—where the castle, with its garish decorations, was fairly drowning in Christmas cheer—rather than return to the pristine apathy that was Christmas at Malfoy Manor. There were twelve Christmas trees in the Great Hall. Draco Malfoy, of all people, could appreciate such excess. Under the circumstances, though, he seemed quite immune to the atmosphere.

Draco didn't know of anywhere—or anyone—to turn to, and so, much of the time, he concentrated on his studies. He spent the handful of days leading up to Christmas Eve holed up in the library or the blissfully empty Slytherin common room. He emerged only for meals—spent diligently ignoring Potter, the idiot, who repeatedly tried to catch Draco's eye—or for the odd midnight stroll. It was cathartic, in a way, to turn out scroll after scroll of parchment, crafting immaculate essays. Draco's intelligence was not his father's doing, and that helped.

It also helped that working kept his mind occupied and at a safe distance from the thoughts trying to push themselves to the forefront of his consciousness: his father, his mother, betrayal, lack of trust. Thoughts of Potter's involvement in all this didn't seem to make him feel bad, per se, just puzzled.

But when his hand grew too tired to write, Draco contented himself with rifling through the mahogany box. After nearly two months of nights spent skulking around the library and eavesdropping on Potter and his lackeys, it was overfull. Draco perused page after pilfered page on communication potions, charms, and spells and allowed himself to dwell—if only a little—on Harry Potter's daftness.

Going through them was comforting. He didn't know why, but Draco wasn't in the habit of questioning the few things that had made him feel sane of late. His father's letter was gone and, along with it, the after effects of Animo Linqui, but Draco felt far from normal. Once he'd resigned himself to the fact that eavesdropping on Potter in the library helped him sleep, Draco had surrendered to it. Now, he simply needed to surrender to this, too.

Sitting in his dormitory, on his bed, the hangings drawn—though there was no one around to disturb him—Draco ran his finger down a list of ingredients on a page he'd stolen from Moste Potente Potions. Two-thirds of the items on the list were illegal. He smirked. Potter had an uncanny affinity for being a meddlesome bastard, but not even Draco could blame him for having visions of Voldemort. He was able to sympathize more than he would like with Potter, with being far too involved with the Dark Lord through no fault of his own. Draco raked a hand through his hair, frustrated, and narrowed his eyes. It always came back to Potter, somehow, didn't it?

But it was time for dinner. Draco closed the box rather more forcefully than he intended, and slid it safely beneath his bed. As he drew back the hangings and stood, a loose page crumpled under his foot. He bent to retrieve it. It detailed the Colloquium Membrana charm. Draco scanned the page, recalling how it had intrigued him, well suited as it was for schoolgirl gossip. He shoved it into his pocket and made his way to out of the dungeons.

****

As Draco entered the Great Hall, he once again found himself a little unsettled by its emptiness. He hadn't fathomed how different, vast it could feel, with less than a hundred students to fill it.

Perhaps all those trees were meant to somehow compensate for the emptiness.

Potter craned his neck in that infuriatingly conspicuous way. Ignoring him utterly, Draco looked straight ahead as he walked to the Slytherin table, where no more than a dozen students sat, not one of whose names he knew.

And like a neutral to his will and matter / Did nothing.

He found it incredibly hard to eat with Potter glancing across at him every five seconds in a would-be discreet manner from Gryffindor's table.

But Potter was hopeless at being discreet, and this left Draco torn between the urge to laugh and the urge to hurl his plate across the Hall, directly into that leering face. Rather than do either, he kept his gaze fixed on his plate, picked at his food disinterestedly for a few minutes, rose, and left—all the while not looking at Potter.

****

… Peace, sit you down.

Draco retreated to the library (past Divination, behind the shelf on Scrying). Even during the day, he gravitated toward the table from which he'd spied on Potter. It looked less surreal in the absence of an intricate play of shadow and moonlight, but he found residual comfort here and accepted it without question. Draco drew the Colloquium Membrana page from his pocket and flattened it atop the—his—table with the heel of his hand.

He considered the page for barely a moment when, almost without thinking about it, Draco summoned two pieces of fresh parchment from Madame Pince's desk and—with a flourish of his wand and a quiet "colloquium membrana"—performed the charm. Both pieces were momentarily suffused by soft light. Draco gave a small smile. Success.

There was a quiet cough somewhere in the vicinity of his left shoulder.

"You spend more time in here than Hermione, these days, you know."

He looked up, too startled to sneer or resent comparison with a mudblood.

"What are you doing here, Potter?"

He raised and lowered his left shoulder by way of an answer.

God, he was so…

"God, Potter, you're so…"

Draco gave up with a little shake of his head. Potter stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. He was shuffling his feet a little, either uncomfortable with Draco or unable to stand still… probably a bit of both.

"Damnit, Potter, go away… sit down… just stop fidgeting for Christ's sake."

He sat. Draco cursed under his breath.

"So, uh…"

Potter began to drum his fingers absently on the tabletop, looking anywhere but at Draco. So much for getting him to stop fidgeting. He spied the newly enchanted parchment.

"… what're those, then?"

Draco gave him a look.

"Parchment, Potter," he drawled slowly, "I know you routinely skive off on your homework, but I should think that even you would have encountered it by now."

Potter laughs—actually laughs—softly.

"Touché."

And now Draco has no idea what to say, but he opens his mouth, anyway.

"They're charmed, Potter. You do know what that is? A charm?"

Apparently, now Potter can smirk, as well. Draco grimaces and looks away.

"Colloquium Membrana, Potter. You've heard of it?"

A blank look, and a small shake of his head. Back on familiar ground.

"I'm shocked, Potter. Really." Draco doesn't bother mentioning he'd only discovered it himself by stealing pages out of library books in the middle of the night whilst spying on a certain Boy Who Lived. "They can talk to each other."

"… Talk to each other..."

Potter repeats it slowly and the role-reversal throws Draco entirely for a loop. Harry Potter should not go around doling out disdain, of all things and Draco Malfoy has never, ever said anything so appallingly stupid.

"Of course not," he snaps in a last ditch attempt at maintaining the upper hand. "They transmit messages, you git. 'Talk' in the proverbial sense. But I suppose heroes are only capable of thinking literally? After a long day of shameless attention-seeking and martyrdom, metaphor taxes you something fierce, doesn't it?"

"Oh, stuff it, would you, Malfoy?" Draco watched Potter's jaw tense up, just a bit, in anger. "Learn to take some of your own goddamn…"

"Look, Potter, do you want yours or not?"

Christ. He certainly hadn't planned on saying that. Potter looked rather as taken-aback as Draco felt.

Where be your gibes now? Not one to mock your own grinning?

"My what, Malfoy?"

His what, indeed.

"The parchment, you imbecile," as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "One piece is for you."

"For me…"

Potter was looking at him with an expression that quite surpassed confusion.

"Do I sense an echo, Potter?" Draco was sneering for fear of letting his features arrange themselves into a more telling—misleading—expression. "Consider it a Christmas present. You and I both know that I'm fairly swimming in Yuletide joy." He waved a hand carelessly, as if to clear the air of it. "The season never fails to get to me."

He chewed on his bottom lip, and allowed himself to look at Potter—not too expectantly—who had seemingly become entranced by his cuticles.

"Why," he asks his hands, and Draco feels the most ridiculous compulsion to be honest.

"Because."

But he has to do better than that. There is a pause, pregnant with anticipation, and by now Potter must have taken to memorizing the grain of the tabletop. More than anything, Draco wishes he would look up. It might not be so hard if he did.

"Because, Potter, I had a father, but that didn't work out so well. I thought I may as well try having a friend."

Potter's looking at him, now, and Draco was wrong. It's much, much harder this way. He should look down again.

"You want to be friends with me," Potter says flatly and, for some inexplicable reason, Draco's stomach is at his feet.

"Look, Potter, fucking forget it. Terrible idea… even Malfoys have them on rare occasions. I should have known…"

"No! No," Potter's voice sounds curiously shrill, "that's not what I meant. It's not that, it's just… this is dark magic, isn't it?"

Draco has to bite down on his lip very hard, in order keep from laughing, but—thank Christ—his stomach has returned itself safely to his abdomen. Potter is glaring at him, now, cheeks slightly flushed.

"I just don't like… I don't like not knowing where something keeps its brain."

Draco does laugh now—softly, genuinely amused for the first time in what seems like years.

"Oh, sod off, Malfoy," he glowers and snatches a piece of parchment from beneath Draco's hands. "How does this ruddy thing work, anyway?"

"Whatever you write on your piece, miraculously," Draco sweeps an arm through the air in a grandiose, mocking gesture, "shows up on mine." A dramatic pause. "And vice versa. It's just like magic, Potter."

"You're such a bastard. Why I want to subject myself to your company is completely beyond me."

Draco's expression suddenly turned serious.

"My company? Not a chance, Potter. I will not be talking with you in any manner that supercedes this," he nodded toward the parchment. "Whatever misguided notions you had about chatting in the Great Hall like lifelong chums or partnering up in Potions…"

Potter was visibly seething, but he had to understand.

"What the hell, Malfoy? Then why bother with 'this,'" Potter waved his parchment wildly in Draco's face, "at all?"

"I'm serious, Potter. As far as everyone else is concerned, nothing between us changes. I loathe you, you loathe me, the world keeps turning."

"Oh, really. I know you haven't had much experience in the field, Malfoy, but loathing doesn't generally factor into friendship."

"If it means my life, Potter, it will."

"Your life. Oh my God. How melodramatic are you?"

"How thick are you? Must I spell it out for you? If my father is still alive, if he's so worried about tipping Dumbledore off as to use and deceive me… Lucius has eyes and ears in more places than you could possibly imagine… and the Dark Lord…"

The Dark Lord… horridly tricked. With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, / Baked and impasted with the parching streets, / that lend a tyrannous and damned light / To their Lord's murder. Roasted in wrath and fire, / And thus o'ersized with coagulate gore, / With eyes like carbuncles…

Draco had to look away from those infuriating green eyes and take a steadying breath in order to continue.

"… I won't give them any reason to think I'm a liability, Potter. You of all people should understand that. Clearly you thought they were a danger to me in my own home. Why shouldn't they be a danger here, as well?"

"Voldemort wouldn't dare attack the castle with…"

"Dumbledore. Yes. Your faith in him is rather stupidly unflagging, I know. But I haven't any reason to trust him." Draco forced his eyes up. "You don't have to take it, you know, Potter. Don't take it, if you don't want to. But we do this my way or we don't do it at all."

Potter looked at him stonily for a moment and Draco tried to pretend that his heart hadn't, in fact, taken to performing acrobatics.

"Jesus, Malfoy, you are such a bastard."

"Yes, I think we've established that already."

Potter exhaled harshly, stood, and stalked off. He took the parchment with him.

In his most simpering, Hufflepuff voice, Draco called "Happy Christmas!" to his retreating back.

Harry made a decidedly rude hand gesture by way of an answer. A grin spread across Draco's face, unchecked, and he was quite powerless to get rid of it.

11

Things looked rather different the next morning at breakfast, however. Draco had overstepped a boundary, and found himself entirely unsure of how to act. He ate his breakfast methodically, deliberately and did not look up at Potter who had taken, it seemed, to redoubling his efforts to catch Draco's eye. Unable to bear it any longer, he stood up sharply and made for the entrance hall. A walk would be pleasant; a walk would make him feel less of a prisoner within his own mind.

The lawns were slick with dew as he made his way down to the lake. In the distance, the forbidden forest stood ominous and black, even mid-morning. It was no wonder how deeply it disturbed Draco, evocative as it was of the northern part of the Malfoy Manor estate. Many of the most horrifying rites of his life had taken place among the trees there—where Death Eaters were hidden away in Unplottable cottages, amongst altars and runes and the lingering shadows of centuries of dark magic. He shuddered involuntarily.

There was a cold wind coming off of the lake that lifted the hair away from Draco's neck and face. The water looked dense, teetering just on the edge of freezing, as if the molecules had huddled together in fruitless pursuit of warmth. The winter sun, naked and bleak, diffused across the surface of the water, which Draco half-heartedly scanned in case of an appearance from the giant squid.

"Do you want it back?"

Startled, he whirled around too quickly. He flailed, and Potter had to clutch at his arm in order to keep him from falling in. Draco made a show of regaining his balance, and only after he had stilled completely did Potter drop his hand.

"Christ, Potter, you scared me."

"Did I?"

The corners of his mouth quirked upward.

"Shut up."

His cheeks were raw and red, eyes clear and hard from the cold, hair standing alarmingly on end. Potter must have noticed Draco's gaze lingering there, for he tried to flatten it in vain. Draco smirked. Potter looked affronted.

"You still haven't answered my question, Malfoy."

"Oh?" Draco arced an eyebrow and was pleased to see how rapidly Potter was angering.

"So, do you want it back or what?"

He extended his hand—the one that hadn't encapsulated Draco's arm in a death grip mere moments ago—and in it was his piece of parchment. Draco narrowed his eyes at it.

"Why… do you want to give it back?"

"Not necessarily. You just… you seem pretty freaked out."

"Malfoys don't freak out."

The words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop himself and Potter gave him a look that seemed to encompass all evidence to the contrary from the past term. How very succinct of him.

"Even so. Other than your epicenter-of-the-wizarding-world complex, what makes you think it has anything to do with you?"

"Oh, so you weren't ignoring me twice as hard as usual this morning, then?"

Draco snarled, unsure of when Potter had started giving back as good as he got.

"God, Potter, what happened to you?"

They both bristled at his frankness. Draco resumed his walk, trying to leave the words behind, abandon them on the shore where, with its soft, insistent rhythm, the lapping water could coax them out of existence. When Potter fell into step beside him, Draco cleared his throat and tried again.

"I don't know how to do this, you know."

"Oh, and I do?"

"So I was mistaken in assuming Weasel and the mudblood are your friends, then?"

"Malfoy," and it was clearly a warning, "you're not Ron and Hermione. Not by a long shot."

A hot spike of anger lanced through him.

"I hardly want to be."

"You're not."

"You've made you're point, Potter."

He had to force the words between clenched teeth.

They fell back on silence for a time.

"Malfoy, maybe this was a bad idea."

"No one's forcing you into anything."

"I know that."
Quietly.

And there was that weary voice; the only means by which Draco had been able to find sleep for months, the skeleton key to his frighteningly tenuous hold on sanity. He owed more to Potter than he dared admit, and the sudden rush of gratitude was overwhelming.

They came upon an outcropping of rock. Draco had seen Potter sitting here with his owl on more than one occasion. Wordlessly, they began to scale it together. Potter picked his way between boulders with a speed borne out of familiarity. Draco wondered how he must look, wind-tossed and freezing, scrambling after Harry Potter. The mental image didn't become him, and he consciously slowed to a more dignified pace. Let Potter wait on him when he'd gotten wherever it was they were going.

Potter had settled himself into a small depression, partially sheltered from the wind, which looked back at Hogwarts across the lake. Draco sat down beside him and hissed at the cold.

"Mind your arse, Malfoy."

He shut up quickly enough when Draco gave him a look that brooked no further comment.

They sat for a while, and the silence was surprisingly companionable.

"Clearly we only have trouble communicating when one of us tries to speak."

Potter looked at Draco askance and rewarded him with a small smile for his efforts.

Heartened, he got to the point.

"It was a gift, Potter. I wouldn't have given it to you if I didn't want you to have it. But you're under no obligation to use it."

Potter only nodded.

"They're coming back in a few days, Malfoy. My friends, the rest of the school."

"So they are."

"And you're going to refuse to 'supercede this', aren't you?"

He waved the parchment mockingly—or was it tauntingly—before Draco's face. His smile was mirthless.

"Look, Potter, if you can't understand the necessity…"

"No, I do. It's okay."

Potter's ready acquiescence caused some indiscernible, dark emotion to flit through him—gone in a flash but undeniable.

"Alright, then."

"Alright."

"I'm freezing."

"Well, I'm not about to offer you my cloak, Malfoy. Buck up."

"I should be getting back to the castle."

Potter nodded again, looking very much the forlorn hero, gazing out over the lake as he was.

Draco cleared his throat—"I'll be seeing you, then, I suppose"—got up and began to make his way back to the castle.

He hadn't made it far when, "Oi! Malfoy!" Draco turned to look at him, puzzled by his grin—so suggestive of the way Potter had looked in happier days. "Happy Christmas!"

Draco smiled too, without really realizing it, and made the decidedly rude gesture that was expected of him. Potter's soft chuckle was lost to the wind coming off of the lake, but Draco saw him shake his head in amusement.

He picked his way over the rocks and back across the sloping lawn; unable to feel the cold any longer, unable to keep his mouth from turning up into the ghost of a smile.

****

And then the rest of the school returned.

The next time he saw Potter, Granger had him in a crushing hug and Weasley had a hand on each of their shoulders. It was a sickening display and it filled Draco with jealous anger. He'd grown used to the castle, empty and yawning as it had been over break. Now it felt overfull. The crush of students was stifling, and he cursed them for coming back all at once, for coming back at all.

Draco continued to refuse to speak to his housemates. Once or twice, he'd reached into the pocket of his cloak to run a thumb along his father's letter only to find it gone. Each time his fingers closed around nothingness, he felt a little piece of himself slip away. In the interest of self-preservation—or so he told himself—Draco took to carrying around the piece of enchanted parchment in its place. He hadn't yet tried to write to Potter, but the knowledge that he could was a source of abstract comfort.

****

Draco's first class back was History of Magic, cursed with a double period of Binns' monotonous droning. It was desperately unjust. Not more than twenty minutes into the lesson, Draco was dangerously close to nodding off. On a whim, he brought the parchment from his cloak and smoothed it over the top of his notes. He glanced up at Binns, floating at the front of the classroom, seemingly oblivious to the students who gazed back in various states of catatonia. His voice was dry and brittle as bits of old chalk. Draco, quill inked and poised over the parchment, was at a complete loss for what to write. "Hello" would sound ridiculous, "Potter, I'm bored" was rude even by Draco's standards…

He'd put down his quill, resigned to defeat, when Potter—stupid Gryffindor—proved brave enough to make the leap. Draco silently applauded his impeccable timing, read the words and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing aloud. Binns hadn't the presence of mind to notice, but the other Slytherins certainly would have taken it as another notch in the log of Draco's supposed madness. I fucking hate Divination scrawled itself across the page.

After that, it was easy.

****

Draco had never been one for conversation—insults and orders, surely, but never simple conversation. In writing, though, he found his sense of vulnerability dissipate into nothingness. At times his hand could hardly keep up with the words that spilled forth from his brain. He was being wildly reckless, far too honest, but couldn't bring himself to care. It didn't seem real enough to be dangerous. And then, it was more real than anything in his life had ever been. Either way, it was only Potter. Potter was a Gryffindor. Potter wouldn't even know where to begin to betray Draco's trust… that is, wouldn't have if Draco knew how to trust anyone.

****

Draco liked especially, for reasons he didn't quite understand, to write to Potter during Care of Magical Creatures and Potions. These were the classes Slytherin and Gryffindor shared. He made a game of distracting Potter's attention away from Weasley and Granger, seeing how long he could sustain it.

They were sitting Indian style in the grass outside of Hagrid's hut, huddled around crates full of Billywigs, ostensibly taking notes. Hagrid lumbered around in their midst, looking particularly ominous, towering over them as they sat. Occasionally he'd comment on the creatures' eating habits, their preferred climate, something to that effect… Draco wasn't paying much attention.

They're really very blue, aren't they?

Quite. Too blue, in fact. They're beginning to hurt my eyes.

Jesus, Malfoy, don't be so fragile.

I'm not fragile, Potter.

Draco could feel eyes on him, could hear him snickering a few yards away.

Sure you aren't.

Draco sneered, but his heart wasn't in it.

Do you ever wonder why this is so easy?

What, Care of Magical Creatures?

No, Potter, you idiot… talking this way as opposed to… talking.

Why he even bothered to broach these subjects was beyond Draco. He wrote without premeditation. Reckless. Stupid.

You don't want to know what I really think.

No, I'm sure I don't. Forget I brought it up.

Potter never dropped anything, though. Draco knew that well enough.

Partly because you can forget who I am and partly because I can forget who you are.

Draco grimaced.

I thought I told you to forget it.

It wasn't so hard by the lake, anyway. If it weren't for your father, who knows.

Draco glared at Potter, hard and pointed, oblivious to the classmates that milled around and between them. Potter was the first to look away, ashamed.

I'm sorry.

Draco wasn't much for conversation after that.

Hagrid continued to move among the students, checking on their progress, pausing to gaze fondly at each crate of Billywigs.

Dare you to let one sting you.

Malfoy!

Oh, come on. Live a little.

No way.

God, you're such a Gryffindor.

Thank you.

Draco glanced surreptitiously at Potter, eyebrow raised.

Yes, I'm well aware that it wasn't meant to be a compliment, Malfoy.

A perceptive Gryffindor, then. Well done.

Hagrid approached and leaned over to peer into his crate. Draco instinctively shied away from his hulking form.

Oh my God, Malfoy, you stupid sod. You're scared of Hagrid!

Draco fixed him with another glare—reckless—going for crippling ire, but Potter only began to laugh. Heartily. At his expense. His friends were staring at him, utterly nonplussed. Weasley touched his shoulder, asking for an explanation. Potter only shook his head, shrugged him off, and continued to chuckle.

Draco left Care of Magical Creatures in an unusually good mood.

****

The following Thursday, Draco settled himself at the back of the Potions classroom, apart from his housemates and in full view of the back of Potter's ridiculous head.

Do you even own a comb?

Very original, Malfoy.

Draco grinned in spite of himself. He'd been doing that a lot lately. It was rather alarming.

Professor Snape swooped in like an overgrown bat, per usual. Draco's running commentary over the lecture had Potter convulsing in fits of silent laughter. He lost fifteen points for Gryffindor.

Dammit, Malfoy, that was low even for you.

Low, but effective. It's all in a day's work.

Slytherin.

Half-breed.

"… the necessary ingredients. Do mind your work, as you will be testing the results at the end of the period," Snape paused here for dramatic effect, "by means of ingestion."

Draco thought there was something seriously lacking in the performance—the ruthless smile devoid of its usual sadistic edge—but Potter looked positively stricken.

Holy shit, I don't even know what potion we're supposed to be making.

Isn't that what you generally use Granger for?

Use your eyes, Malfoy, she's sitting on the other side Dean and Seamus with Ron.

So she was. It struck him as odd that the triumvirate's usual seating arrangement had been fractured.

Seriously, Malfoy, I'm fucked.

He looked it, and Draco took pity on him.

I must be going soft in my old age, Potter. Calm yourself, you sod. I'll walk you through it.

Thank you.

And Potter hurried to the back of the classroom, practically tripping over himself in haste, to gather ingredients.

These are Hagrid's Billywigs, aren't they?

Growing sentimental are we, Potter? You need to take off the stings and powder them. Unless, of course, you'd rather take pity on their poor, dead, dried souls.

Alright. How many?

Thirteen.

Set your leech juice to simmer. It needs to be bubbling, but don't let it come to a full boil. And then what? This bit of horn?

Draco smirked. It was knotgrass next, actually. The Erumpent horn wouldn't agree with the leech juice before it had been diluted.

Yes. The bit of horn.

Oblivious, he dumped it into his cauldron. The explosion was spectacular. Leech juice, thick and green, was everywhere. Potter, naturally, had gotten the full blast of it, and the boils springing up on every inch of exposed skin were an angry red. There was a bit on Draco's right boot, but he was otherwise unsullied. He mused at the obvious perks to lurking in the back of a Potions classroom. With a simple scourgify, he was right as rain. Snape, on the other hand, had taken a generous dollop to the face. There was a rather large boil upon the end of his hooked nose. It was swelling even as Draco watched. He looked livid. Draco was delighted.

"Potter! You may actually be growing less competent with each passing year. Fifty points from Gryffindor and detention. Directly after dinner, I want you back here to clean this mess up. No magic. You'll be organizing the potions cupboard as well." As he spoke, Snape produced a phial of violet liquid from his desk. He tipped his head back and applied a drop to the boil on his nose with great care, which promptly shrank and disappeared. "Everyone else, line up in an orderly fashion so that I may rid you of your boils. No marks for today's work, Potter, deplorable as it was, and you're at the end of the line. Perhaps the discomfort will serve to encourage your diligence in the future, though I hardly dare to hope."

Potter shot a long-suffering look at Draco over his shoulder. Covered in congealed leech juice and boils, he looked a right mess. It made Draco almost regret what he'd done.