The Losing Side

The Losing Side
A Harry Potter Fan Fiction
Written by Antenora

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Chapter 2
Alone
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"You've picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first day of Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this." He jerked his head at Ron and Hermione. "Too late now, Potter! They'll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord's back! Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers first! Well- second- Diggory was the f--"
Draco Malfoy (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire)
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His name was Harry Potter.

To some people, his very name symbolized their hopes and dreams for a future free of terror and persecution.

To others, he was a threat to their schemes and plans, schemes and plans which had he had ruined more than once in his sixteen years.

As for the boy himself, he thought they were all fools, too blind to see the translucent depths of their own folly. He hadn't always thought so. There had been a time, not too long ago, when he hadn't had much of an opinion on the subject at all. A time when their admiration or hatred had been a bit of nuisance and had seemed more than a bit silly, but that had been before. Now, he was quite certain that the whole lot of them were incomprehensible morons. He was also beginning to suspect that the people who practically worshipped the ground he walked upon were the worst of the lot. Not to mention that they were all a prime example of everything that was wrong with the wizarding world today.

To them, a mere child was responsible for the downfall of the infamous 'You-Know-Who', and they were most glad for it. Case closed. Break out the good china, sit back, relax and have yourselves a nice cup of tea in celebration of the sweet illusion of safety and prosperity. 'To Harry Potter- the Boy Who Lived' indeed.

Now, fifteen years after that noteworthy event, the average wizard was so deeply buried in his delusion that he could not begin to fathom the possibility that the old danger had returned to power once more. It was so simple a thing for them to merely accept the death of Cedric Diggory as a tragic accident. They all thought it was very sad, of course. A young life cut down in its prime, how awful it must have been for his classmates and his parents to endure such misfortune.

The Ministry had been the worst, of course, because they had known the truth. They had heard the story of the graveyard and Voldemort's return, but they had turned a blind eye to it all in favor of preserving their precious illusion of security. He might have been able to tolerate it or at least understand if they'd merely kept their silence on the subject, but instead they'd told placating lies to sooth the masses. Oh yes, they'd been more than willing to comment upon Cedric's untimely demise. All 'oh what a shame' and 'it is a most terrible tragedy' and 'our thoughts and deepest sympathies go out to the family and friends of that dear boy'.

Oh, boo fucking hoo.

They had spent months crying Cedric a river while cheapening his death with their weak excuses and tawdry cover-ups.

Certainly Albus Dumbledore had publicly acknowledged that he believed Harry Potter's story of the return of the dark wizard. However, it was so much simpler a thing to remember that though he was still a formidable wizard, Albus Dumbledore was starting to get on in years. It was a far simpler thing to believe that his mind had been dulled by the years or too many unhappy circumstances. He could hardly be thought infallible.

No one was perfect after all.

The Ministry's official stand on the issue was that poor, young Harry Potter had been so traumatized by Cedric's death that his mind had created this elaborate fantasy to deal with his inability to save the life of his friend. To the public at large, that had been a far more believable story.

Far simpler to believe the possibility that a young boy's mind had simply snapped in face of such unspeakable tragedy.

Far simpler to believe the possibility that a young boy's mind had simply created a terrifying monster to explain the unexplainable.

To somehow explain to himself and others his own inability to save Cedric from his fate.

Oh yes, it had been so much simpler for them all to believe that You-Know-Who had had nothing to do with poor Cedric's death. In their minds Voldemort was dead. Vanquished by the awe-inspiring powers of a one-year-old fucking child. No, in their minds, there was no chance whatsoever that a dark wizard who had held the wizarding world in his grasp for eleven years could have survived an attack by the illustrious Boy Who Lived. Why should they even entertain the thought of danger when they could merely ignore the facts and continue about their simple, pointless lives completely oblivious to the truth? Why bother, when so many who knew the truth would risk their lives and souls in battle to defend them from an enemy they believed dead and gone?

As they say, ignorance is bliss.

To say that Harry Potter was bitter regarding his current situation and the current situation of the wizarding world at large would be a bit of an understatement. He was, in fact, furious most of the time. It was hard not to be when he actually had time to sit and think about it. As such, it was a rare occasion when he allowed himself that particular luxury. There were simply too many other things to worry about without working himself into a snit over idiots who would refuse to believe the truth until the dark mark burned over their own houses. And, of course, by then it was too late to make a difference whether they believed or not. The deaths were covered up by the Ministry or, more specifically, by Cornelius Fudge, who was proving he could shove his head in the sand with the best of them when given the chance.

Only Hogwarts was quiet and peaceful in these dark times, which was probably why Harry longed to leave the Burrow and return there as soon as possible. He needed the familiar walls and corridors of Hogwarts. He needed classes and homework and tests; anything to distract him from thoughts of Voldemort. Thoughts of the death and destruction Voldemort would bring, and the fact that he would no doubt be expected to, at the very least, participate in the defense against Voldemort's attacks. More likely than not, he would be the one expected to bring about the death of Voldemort, if such a thing were even possible.

And so here he was, on the last day of summer vacation, surrounded by almost the entire Weasley family, and, to be completely truthful, Harry Potter had never felt more utterly alone. He glanced towards them, all seated around the low table bickering back and forth over a game of Scrabble. He bought the game for them last Christmas. Mr. Weasley had been thrilled at the prospect of playing a Muggle game. The rest had been thrilled at the prospect of beating Mr. Weasley at a Muggle game. From what Ron told him, Mr. Weasley demanded that they play it once a week at least during the holidays. A faint smile curved his lips as he watched Fred grin and set out half his tiles on the board.

As another barrage of bickering broke out, Harry turned his gaze back to the fireplace, settling deeper into his chair. He loved them. All of them. They were, after all, the only real family he'd ever known with the exception of Sirius. If for no other reason than to protect them, he would go off and confront Voldemort and his own inevitable demise with a cheerful smile and a skip in his step. Still, just being around them sometimes was hard. Watching the way they smiled and joked and argued with each other as if they hadn't a care in the world, Harry almost wished he was back in the smallest bedroom at the Dursleys' house.

Almost.

Going back to the Dursleys' house still ran a close second to jumping off a bridge, which was an idea which had actually begun to seem sorely tempting these days. It would be easy enough, a few moments of falling and then his troubles would be gone forever. Unfortunately, that was the coward's way and, though Harry had been many things in his short life, he was not a coward.

Yes, there was simply nothing worse than being in a room full of happy people when you yourself were absolutely miserable. Especially if those happy people were people you loved.

Harry sighed and slipped down further in his chair, desperately hoping that his misery would continue to go unnoticed and undisturbed. He was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to stand another episode like what he'd gone through at the end of last summer. The Weasleys had all gone out of their way to treat him with kid gloves and had made absolutely certain that someone was always about to keep an eye on him. He'd felt like he'd been on suicide watch the entire last month of summer vacation, despite his friends' best intentions. This year was better, but he still wasn't certain that he wouldn't scream the house down around them if any of them dared ask him if he was all right even one more time.

After all, it was pretty obvious he wasn't all right. Harry thought it awful unfair that he was expected to be. Things would probably never be all right for him again. He had accepted that fact almost a year ago and couldn't quite figure why they couldn't accept it as well. He was as fine as he would ever be so long as Voldemort lived, and that was quite enough for him, even if he was completely miserable at times. There were worse things.

'Kill the spare.'

Yes, there were far worse things then just being a little miserable.

"All right, Harry?" Ginny's sweet voice piped up over the din as the red-haired girl came to peer at him over the top of his chair.

Harry looked up at her and smiled weakly, swallowing his urge to scream with some great difficulty. "I'm fine, Ginny. Really. I'm just a bit tired. I think I'm going to go up pretty soon. Who's winning?"

"Fred and George are in last place because they keep making up words. Ron keeps accusing Percy of cheating and Charlie is clearly in the lead with Mum and Dad trailing just behind him." Ginny smiled, clearly happy with the game's progression. "I'm glad Professor Dumbledore let you stay for us for a little while, Harry. If Bill were here, we'd have the whole family with us today."

"Too bad he wasn't able to get away," Harry replied.

"Yeah, but it's probably a good thing for him that he wasn't since he'd have had to share a room with the George and Fred." Ginny responded, grinning impishly as she took a seat on the footstool in front of him.

Harry found himself grinning in response. He'd always genuinely liked Ginny, but he had to admit to himself that he liked her much more now that her crush on him had diminished. She was just a lot easier to deal with now that she'd finally accepted that they weren't ever going to be more than friends. If asked, he was certain he'd never be able to pinpoint the exact moment when Ginny's affections had faded and she'd begun to speak to him without stumbling over her words and blushing. Probably some time during his fifth year. A lot of things seemed to have changed during fifth year.

"Ginny, it's your turn! Or aren't you playing anymore?" Percy called, shoving his glasses up further on his nose with one hand as he tallied points on a roll of parchment with the other.

They'd all been somewhat surprised by Percy's presence when Harry and rest of the Weasleys had returned from a trip to Diagon Alley earlier in the month. Percy, who'd been promoted to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement not long after Mr. Crouch's untimely death, had moved to a flat in the city and seldom wrote much less visited. However, when asked, Percy had simply shrugged in a very un-Percy-like manner and informed them that he took some time off of work to visit simply because he'd missed them.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had accepted Percy's explanation as truth and gone about their business as usual. Ron, Harry, Ginny, Charlie, and the twins all found the entire situation highly suspect. Unfortunately, two weeks of subtle (and not so subtle on the part of the twins) inquiry had gotten them absolutely nowhere in their attempts to discovery Percy's true reason for returning to the Burrow.

"Yes, I'm still playing." Ginny grumbled, sticking her tongue out in Percy's direction before turning her attention back to Harry once more. "Want to help me? Ron's supposed to be on my team, but he's really bad at this game."

"I heard that!" Ron exclaimed, glaring at his younger sister. "Besides, you're the one who's no good at the game. You keep making three letter words and that's not getting us anywhere fast."

"As if you're doing any better, Mr. I-Can't-Spell-'Chronic'," Ginny countered.

"How was I supposed to know that there wasn't an 'a' in it?!"

"Well, I knew there wasn't an 'a' in it, but you didn't ask me."

"Ginny! Ron! Knock it off or I'll send you both off to bed right this instant!" Mrs. Weasley bellowed, glowering at her two youngest children. Ron's mouth shut with an audible snap and Ginny looked sufficiently cowed as she slunk off the stool and returned to her brother's side. "Now, if you would please take your turn so the game can continue."

"Yes, Mum," Ginny murmured, examining the tiles laid out before her before finally choosing a few and setting them out on the board. "Turncoat."

"Well done, Ginny." Percy commented, smiling at his sister as he tallied the points. "You're ahead of Mum and Dad now."

"I'd never have thought of that," Ron commented, giving his sister a tentative smile which looked a bit like an apology.

Ginny smiled brightly, "Well, that's why you wanted me on your team, right?"

"Right," Ron agreed, his smile just as bright as hers now.

Harry sighed and shook his head dismally. He couldn't stay in this room any longer. "Right then, I think I'm going to turn in," he commented aloud. With a yawn, Harry pushed himself up from his chair and turned to give the Weasleys a somewhat forced smile. "Good night."

A chorus of "Good night, Harry!" followed him as he trudged up the stairs to the room he shared with Ron.

The room hadn't changed much since the first time he'd seen it before his second year at Hogwarts. The entire room was still incredibly, undeniably orange complete with the now somewhat time-battered Chudley Cannons posters which took up ever last bit of available wall space. He could even hear the faint sounds of the family ghoul prowling about overhead. To this day he still rather thought it was the best room he'd ever been in. Not as familiar or comfortable as the room they shared at Hogwarts, but something about Ron's room simply screamed safe. As if nothing bad could ever happen in such a bright, animated space.

Harry had already packed his truck, leaving only his pajamas sitting atop the locked box. Ron's truck was open at the foot of his own bed; his clothes and books strewn haphazardly across the room. A pile of tattered Quidditch books and magazines were piled next to the crooked bedside table. On the table itself were a clutter of photographs in chipped wooden frames.

Distracted, Harry wandered to the table and leaned down to examine the moving pictures more closely. Hermione and himself waved frantically at him, smiling and pushing at each other playfully. They looked so alive that he almost waved back.

It was almost funny how happy they all looked in those pictures. Pictures that chronicled their friendship through the first four years at Hogwarts. There was only one picture of him from fifth year and the Harry in that picture did not wave and he did not smile. He simply gazed out blankly from the frame. If Harry hadn't known better he would have sworn that it was a Muggle photograph.

"What are you doing, Harry?" Ron's voice inquired and Harry started, turning guiltily to find his best friend standing frozen in the doorway with the strangest expression on his face.

"Nothing, I was just..." Harry paused, glancing thoughtfully back at the solemn picture on the table. "I'm pretty obvious, aren't I?"

"About what?" Ron inquired, his expression slipping into a more familiar half-smile as his gaze settled on the picture. "Oh. That. I was wondering when you were going to notice that. You weren't yourself last year."

Harry wanted to ask if he should have been, but instead he merely sighed. "It was a hard year."

"I figured. You want to talk about it?" Ron offered, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Ron had never been the sort of person who was comfortable having deep, heartfelt conversations with others. It meant a lot really that he was even willing to make the offer.

"No, that's okay. I'm over it, I think," Harry lied smoothly, a crooked smile lifting his lips.

"Oh, thank god," Ron commented, breathing a very obvious sigh of relief. "I was afraid you were going to say 'yes' and I wouldn't have had the foggiest idea what to do."

"Didn't really think that question through before asking, did you?"

"No, but it seemed like the right thing to say and I was the only one here to say it. Really, it's a good thing you didn't say yes. Hermione would have killed me if I stole that particular touching moment from her and then somehow made a right cock-up of it." Ron replied, swiping a hand back through his hair.

"I'm sure you'd have done fine." Harry laughed, patting Ron's shoulder before crossing the room to search through his trunk for his pajamas.

"Nice of you to say so, but we both know that's complete bollocks. I'm not great for this sort of thing," Ron sighed.

"You're a good friend, Ron."

"So are you, Harry."

Harry smiled weakly, but chose not to comment as he shed his clothes and pulled his pajamas on. Behind him he could hear Ron doing much the same, but with far less care since this was his room and he could leave his clothes anywhere he pleased. Harry winced as one of Ron's shoes came soaring past his head to land with a loud thump on the desk.

"I'm exhausted." Ron stated, flopping down on his bed as Harry did up the last buttons on his pajama top. "Can't believe we have to go back to school already. I could do with a few more days of vacation, couldn't you?"

Harry chuckled softly, "I happen to like school."

"Well, so do I, but the holiday always seem to go by a bit too fast, don't you think?"

"Not really, but than I live with the Dursleys."

"Point. Schmidt," Ron commented and the hovering lights which lit the room went out as he snuggled down into his bed. "Good night, Harry."

"Good night, Ron." Harry replied softly as he slipped into his own bed and pulling the covers over him. He yawned as he laid back to stare up at the slated ceiling overhead.

Tomorrow they would be returning to Hogwarts.

Tomorrow he was going home.

Harry smiled softly. He truly enjoyed his time with the Weasleys, but no matter how they had embraced him into their family, Harry still felt that Hogwarts was and would always be his true home. Despite all the terrible things that seemed to happen to him there, he still felt safest when he was in his dormitory at Hogwarts, lying in bed and listening to the snores of the other boys.

That was not to say that everything about Hogwarts was all fluffy bunnies and pretty cakes. Even when there were no evil plots running amuck, there was still Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy, who always made it his business to be the be-all and end-all of Harry's troubles at Hogwarts. Each year Malfoy seemed to go out of his way to be even more obnoxious and irritating than he had been any previous year. This past year had been particularly bad, as if he were trying to take up the slack for the lack of death plots and evil doings. Or perhaps he was just a prick. Both options were quite within the realm of possibility.

Whatever the reason, Malfoy had spent the majority of the last year tossing insults at Ron and general insults in the direction of Gryffindor house from behind the safety of the human barrier he called Crabbe and Goyle. Curiously, he hadn't had much to say to Harry and Hermione at all, at least not directly. Quite the change of pace from fourth year. Apparently, Malfoy was moving up in the world and simply hadn't the time to single out more than one person at time. Instead he'd let his lackeys' fists take care of most of the harassing for him. It became a well known fact among Gryffindors that meeting Goyle or Crabbe in a deserted hall was worth at least a nasty bump if not something worse. Hence the reason Gryffindors had begun moving in packs through the halls instead of going it alone.

In fact, if Harry remembered correctly, the worst Malfoy had done to him specifically was to spread nasty rumors behind his back. Rumors that half the people in school had quite happily believed. That he'd sold Cedric's life to save his own. That he had actually killed Cedric out of pure jealousy. Or, his personal favorite, that the real Harry Potter was dead and he was actually the Dark Lord in disguise.

'Kill the spare.'

Harry let out a bitter laugh, which caused Hedwig to turn on her perch and shoot him a concerned look which he failed to notice. Ron mumbled something irritably and turned in his sleep, but that too was lost on Harry, as he was far too wrapped up in thoughts of Malfoy to be bothered by the world outside his own mind.

Those rumors had hurt him probably more than anything else Malfoy could have said or done to him. And what hurt the most was that people who knew him had actually begun to believe them. People from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had begun to avoid him, giving him a wide berth in the halls and whispering as he passed them by. Of course, he didn't really know what they were saying, though he'd overheard brief playbacks from his housemates. None of which had been particularly flattering.

It had been surreally reminiscent of fourth year, when Rita Skeeter had spent the months telling nothing about lies about him and second year when everyone had been convinced he was the Slytherin heir. The year had been a seemingly unending series of new rumors and walks down corridors with the stares and the whispers swirling around him.

And always during those long walks through the halls all he could hear was Voldemort's terrible voice hissing in his ear, 'Kill the spare.'

And all he could see were Cedric's dead grey eyes staring up at him.

And all he wished for was silence.

And all he wanted was peace.

But even if he lived to be a thousand he'd probably still hear those terrible words in the back of his mind like the echo of a past life: 'Kill the spare.'

Harry sighed raggedly, dragging a hand back through his tousled hair. What was wrong with him tonight? He'd barely thought of any of this since summer vacation had begun, and now here he was rehashing it all again. Soon he'd start replaying the feel of Cruciatus and wondering exactly how Malfoy would like it if he were to feel its effect for even a moment.

Malfoy.

Again.

Harry closed his eyes against the bright moonlight with another deep sigh. All his thoughts seemed to lead back to Malfoy in some way. It was always seven degrees of Draco Malfoy no matter what he was thinking. Especially now, and he knew perfectly well why that was. It was all because of the last night at Hogwarts. All because he couldn't sleep that night either.

It always seemed as if the last night at Hogwarts was the longest and he seldom slept much if at all on those nights. His dread of returning to the Dursleys was always enough to keep him from sleep just as it had that night. He spent hours it seemed staring up at his ceiling before he finally resolved to go out in search of better scenery.

He'd snagged his Marauder's map from its place near the bottom of his trunk and headed out of the Gryffindor tower with a light step as not to awaken his housemates. He'd had no true destination in mind, only the hope of wandering somewhere interesting where he'd be able to pass a bit of the endless night in solitude. He'd arrived at the dungeons almost by accident and was about to leave when he heard the sound of a hushed voice speaking from the darkness of the depths of the dungeons. Glancing down at his Marauder's map, he noticed a small dot marked `Draco Malfoy´ within a large square marked Slytherin common room. A secret passage to the room was highlighted on the map, the entrance of which was just a dozen steps down the corridor to his left.

Though curiosity had killed the cat, it had yet to kill Harry Potter, or so Harry had reasoned as he'd crept down the corridor and tapped three times on a statue of a rather ugly wizard (who, in his honest opinion, had looked more than a bit like Professor Snape) as the map instructed him to do. The statue had slid away to reveal a narrow passage before which Harry hesitated only the barest instant before stepping inside.

He'd not gone two steps when the statue slipped back into place behind him, plunging the passage into total darkness. Wariness crept into Harry's step as he felt his way down the passage, ignoring the lacy spider webs which brushed his face in the darkness. He didn't dare use his wand to light up the space, in case it gave him away when he reached his destination. But, as it turned out, light wasn't needed for he soon heard voices ahead. As he neared, he was finally able to make out Malfoy's icy tones.

"I'd rather flail the skin from my own back." Malfoy hissed, startling Harry slightly.

"That could be arranged, Draco." Growled a deep, angry voice that Harry recognized as belonging to Draco's father. Lucius Malfoy had the type of voice that one didn't forget easily if at all. He hadn't heard it in nearly a year, but he recognized it all the same.

Curious, Harry crept closer to the wall before him, peering through a peephole which offered him a surprisingly good view of the Slytherin common room. He'd seen the room only once before, during his second year, but it hadn't changed much. It still looked cold and uninviting. He was still glad he'd only seen it once, well, twice.

One of the tall, stiff wingback chairs which populated the room had been dragged before the fireplace. It was in this chair that Draco slumped, his arms crossed over his chest as he glared into the fire. His pale, pointy profile was as serious as Harry had ever seen it. His lips were twisted into a grim parody of his customary smirk as if the expression were a mask he'd slipped on just for this occasion. In the depths of the roaring fire, Harry could just barely make out Lucius Malfoy's head. He couldn't see his expression clearly, but he would still swear the man was smiling.

The kind of smile sharks gave hapless swimmers just before they became a meal. All teeth and deadly intent.

If Draco Malfoy noticed that smile, he gave no outward sign. "What? Are you going to curse me through the fire, Father? That should be something to see. You're welcome to try it if you think you're able."

"I hardly need to do anything so drastic as that. After all, why curse you today when you'll be home tomorrow? Or had you forgotten about that?"

Malfoy sobered instantly, obviously recognizing the threat for what it was. "Well, it's too late to do a thing about it now, isn't it? You want that git's blood? Feel free to come down here and get it yourself."

"You do know the consequences of refusing me, don't you? Why risk that for someone you hate?"

"Because I hate you more." Malfoy ground out, almost shaking as his hands reached out to clasp the arms of the chair in a white-knuckled grip. "I would have thought that much was obvious. You only ask me to do this because there is no other option and once summer has arrived no one can touch him."

"You will do this or..."

"Or what? You'll hurt me again?" A smile curved Draco Malfoy's features and in Harry's eyes it made the slim blond look a bit deranged. "Another bruise? Another wound? After last summer, what makes you think that such threats frighten me?"

"Your punishment last summer was necessary, Draco, as well you know. Unless you would have preferred punishment dealt out to you by the Dark Lord?"

Malfoy laughed roughly, his fingers digging into the chair. "So you did it for my sake? That makes me feel so much better."

"It wasn't meant to make you feel better, Draco. I do not covet your love or your forgiveness, only your obedience. You will obey me, Draco. It would go quite badly for you if you did not." Lucius smiled as he said those words and his smile turned Harry's stomach. "Do we quite understand each other, Draco?"

"Yes." Malfoy whispered, bowing his head in defeat.

"You still refuse to do as I have instructed?"

"Yes," he muttered, but his voice wasn't angry or defiant now. Just... tired.

"Right then. You will come home immediately from the station with Crabbe. I would come to fetch you myself, but I simply haven't the time at the moment. Preparations are in full swing, as they say. We shall find another way to fulfill our needs, and I shall deal with you when you arrive. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Father." Draco murmured softly.

"Good. Sweet dreams... Son." With those words, as if on cue, the fire flared brightly. Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden brilliance of it, turning his face away from the peephole. When he looked back to the room once more the head in the fireplace was gone, leaving Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter alone with the crackling of the dying fire.

Hours seemed to pass as Malfoy stared into the fire and Harry stared at him waiting for some reaction. Waiting for... something.

"Bastard," Malfoy hissed suddenly, erupting from his chair and throwing the closest object, a rather expensive looking candy dish, into the fire. It shattered against the stones, glittering pieces of glass raining down across the hearth. The crash was too loud and the silence that followed seemed deafening by comparison. Harry stood for a few moments more in silence, too afraid of being heard to move.

So instead he watched.

Watched Malfoy's narrow, heaving shoulders and pale angry features until he saw a single tear slip unbidden down Malfoy's pale cheek.

As Malfoy swiped irritably at the tear, Harry suddenly felt like the worst sort of a voyeur. Horror coiled in his stomach and he realized somewhere deep within his soul that he had born witness to something he never should have seen.

Shocked into action and shivering with some unnamed emotion, Harry had backed slowly down the narrow corridor until he reached the passageway's entrance. Once in the open, he'd broken into a run, his bare feet slapping noisily against the stone floors. He didn't remember the frenzied journey from the dungeons to the tower. Nor did he have but a fuzzy memory of leaping into bed and burrowing as far beneath his blankets as he could.

When he'd awoken the next morning he'd said nothing of his experience the night before to anyone. When the Hogwarts Express had arrived at the platform that afternoon he'd bidden a soft farewell to his friends and disembarked silently to face his Dursley summer without ever once laying eyes on Malfoy.

For three months, he had refused to think of that night. He could contemplate his own death without the slightest hesitation, but for some reason he had not been able to bring himself to think of Draco Malfoy's moment of weakness. If such a thing were possible, he probably would have gone the rest of his life without ever again dwelling upon that moment again.

But it was not possible.

He would return to Hogwarts in the morning and Draco Malfoy would be there as he always was to torment him and his friends, and Harry found himself completely unprepared to deal with the little twit.

Five years they had been enemies at war with one another and after what he had witnessed, Harry found he wasn't at all sure he would be able to fight back anymore. He still hated Malfoy, of course. He'd hated the vindictive little bastard for far too long for that to change overnight. He hated Malfoy just as much as he was certain Malfoy hated him.

But... but for some reason he'd always thought of Malfoy as something other than human. Some strange creature that looked an awful lot like a person but somehow lacked the emotions that were required to be a real living, breathing human being. He'd spent so much time the previous year searching for a chink in the bastard's icy armor, and now that he'd found it he couldn't bring himself to even think about using it to his advantage.

Of course, Malfoy would have no such reservations. He'd be out in full force just as he was every year. What was his problem anyway? Every year it was the same thing. Insults, pranks, general vindictive bullshit, but why? Why did the stupid prat have to go out of his way to be so damn nasty?

Harry frowned, thinking back through the years to when he'd first met Malfoy on the train on their first day at Hogwarts. Malfoy had walked in as if he were the Lord of the Train, flanked as always by the brute squad, to come find the famous Harry Potter and then...

Then he'd offered his hand in friendship and Harry had refused him.

Could all this pain and suffering really lead back to that one moment? Could it have all been caused by that one fateful rejection?

It certainly was possible. Malfoy seemed the type to hold a grudge. Where would they be if Harry had taken his hand? Given friendship with him a go? Would they still have ended up making each other miserable day and night for five years? Suddenly the answers to these questions seemed of the utmost importance when, only three months ago, they hadn't mattered a bit.

Harry sighed and pushed himself up from the bed, crossing the room to stare out the room's single window. Why was he even bothering thinking this way? Why couldn't he just forget what he'd seen and go on as before? Even if Malfoy did have a bad time of it, did that really change anything? He was still Malfoy. And yet...

'Kill the spare.'

These days it was rather difficult to dismiss such things. It was difficult to hold grudges without reason, not that he didn't have plenty of reason, but how was he supposed to fight with Malfoy now that he felt sorry for him?

Maybe I don't have to fight with him.

The idea had formed unbidden in Harry's mind and his frown deepened. He didn't like it, but it was probably the only answer. Malfoy would quite happily continue to lead the Harry Potter Hate Brigade forever if he didn't do something to bring the little snot down off his high horse. So that's just what he'd do. If he couldn't fight with Malfoy, he might as well try and befriend him and see what happened. It wouldn't hurt to try. Harry laughed a bit at that. It probably would hurt. It would probably hurt a lot, and no doubt he'd probably regret it later, but it was worth a shot. If for no other reason than to have a chance to bring himself and the other Gryffindors a little peace and quiet.

With that, Harry turned from the window and returned to his bed, feeling more at ease now that he had a plan of action. Tomorrow he would return to Hogwarts and somehow learn to play nice with the devil that was Malfoy; and, if he were lucky, maybe the devil wouldn't stick a pitchfork in his back when he wasn't looking.