Mask of Innocence

/That bastard!/

Harry was angry. Actually, the word didn't even begin to cover it. Yes, boys and girls, the term 'flaming pissed' seemed to have been coined just for this special occasion.

"Who the hell gave him to right to... ARGH!" The enraged yell blew through the empty dormitory, making the players on various Quidditch posters cower beyond their borders. Unfortunately for Dean's West Hamm players, they had not the same ability to hide themselves. Fortunately for the footballers, they couldn't hear as well.

"He was the one to ki- orally assault me, and then he had nerve to condemn ME for being a - a poof!"

Pacing furiously back and forth between the twin rows of four-poster beds, he ranted to himself in a constant 100 KPH stream of incoherent babble. Not two minutes into his hysterics, Ron burst through the door, no doubt to offer moral support at what he had just heard on the Lavender Grapevine. The Boy Who Lived paused mid-step to fix a deadly glare on the intruder.

The red-haired boy's consolations died on his tongue and instead opted, "Want Seamus and me to corner him and give you all hexing rights?" A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck at the intense stare. "Or we could infect his dorm with Fred and George's super-sized bedbugs...?"

"I want his head on a platter! The bloody wanker!"

More sweat joined the first at Ron's hairline. "As appealing as that is to me, mate, I don't think Dumbledore'd be too happy with a dead body in the halls. Not to mention we'd have detention longer than Nicolas Flamel and his wife's lives combined from Snape for hurting his precious golden boy. Ferret-boy's not worth that much grief."

The fury inside of Harry seemed to have burnt its host out and he sighed a long breath, exhausted. He made his way back to his own bed, with its books scattered on the night table, and collapsed on the crimson duvet bonelessly. "You know what really kills me, Ron? I thought we might have grown out of this childish arch-nemesis business this year. I'm tired. We've been at each other's throats for six years now. Hasn't he had enough?"

Ron puzzled over this silently, then sat down on his adjacent bed. "I'm going to tell you something, Harry, and I'll deny it if you ever try to use it against me."

Lifting his head a fraction off the bed spread to peek at his friend's solemn expression. "Go on."

"You're bigger than us."

Harry laughed. Maybe the hysteria was coming back. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm the fifth shortest boy in our year. You're at least twelve centimeters taller than me. Even Ginny is bigger than me."

"I'm not talking about that. I'm saying that you are the bigger person. Did you hear what you just said about Malfoy? Herm's told me a million times to just ignore the ferret, but I'd never be able to hear his name without wanting to punch out his lights."

"But that's because he's been spouting mud over your family name since before meeting you. And he calls you Weasel."

A look full of disgust came over the redhead's freckled visage. "Don't remind me." Seconds of quiet followed, and thoughtfulness chased away the revulsion as he commented, "He's done the same and worse to you. Potty? Malfoy's bitterly resentful of you, you know, and he's tried to get you in trouble much more than me."

"Hmm," Harry looked deeply in contemplation of what his friend pointed out. "I guess I don't take it personally any more. Used to be that every time his pointy chin showed up my blood would boil." He paused, unsure how to continue but still wanting to get it out. "Then sometimes last school term I realized that maybe an annoying git was all he was raised to act like. I mean, could you imagine having to live with his father for sixteen years?"

Smiling slightly, Ron exclaimed, "See?"

"See what?"

/He's a bloody clueless saint,/ the taller teen mused. "I'll bet that no one else in our house, hell, our whole school, would ever be so sympathetic towards Blondie. I'd never be able to as forgiving as you are."

Harry protested, "I'm not forgiving him. Just, I'm don't want to beat him into a bloodied pulp for breathing the same air anymore."

Red hair shook in the air as Ron chuckled. "That's more than most people who know him would be able to say. Present company included."

"I guess you're right... Thanks, Ron."

Said boy looked up at his best friend, who had stood up from his sprawl, and asked, "What for?"

"For talking me out of premeditated murder."

"Damn, did I? You won't mind if I still take a shot at him later, will ya, mate?"

This time the black-haired boy laughed as well, finally putting to rest the tension that had filled him earlier. "Of course not. Wouldn't want to deny you of your fun... When did you get so philosophical?" Harry asked.

"I might have been spending a bit too much time with a certain know-it-all witch..."

The teens smiled at each other, chatting amiably as they walked out the door to join their friends downstairs in the commons, who were no doubt waiting nervously for explosions and the like.

~*~

On the other side of the castle, Draco Malfoy went about his business of lording over the lower years down in the dungeons, completely oblivious of his painful and embarrassing demise being used as a joking point for his opposing House members. He was living the good life, inflicting terror beyond comprehension upon ickle firsties and anyone he deemed unworthy of his good favor. Which was everyone.

"Would anyone like to tell me why there's no fire going? It's bloody freezing down here." His imperial demand whipped some of his minions into immediate action as he entered the common room, coming out of the subterfuge of his private room for his periodic check-ups on the underlings. Only one student actually remembered to use 'Incendio,' and the rest bumbled about looking for firewood. The new Slytherins were such dolts.

/It's good to be Head Boy/, he decided. The newly obtained solo chamber prevented being wakened by particularly loud snores from Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum. And that he could now hand out detentions and deduct House points did not escape his notice. Nor did it escape the notice of his victims. He had started with the Hufflepuffs and worked up to the lower Gryffindors, picking off the ones that would go without complaint at first.

Sitting down in his favourite chair in front of the feebly crackling fire, he absent-mindedly flicked his wand at the grate and conjured a respectable blaze. A few gasps fringed on his notice, stroking his ego pleasantly. Arrogantly by others' standards, and appropriately by his own, he amended his earlier conclusion. /It's better being Draco Malfoy./