Five Ways Harry Potter's Life Could Have Gone Terribly Awry

03. Draco Malfoy's Best Mate

"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." Draco held out his hand to shake Harry's.

Harry glanced at Ron, who was glaring furiously at Draco Malfoy. Ron's red hair was cut slightly raggedly, as if his mother had done the job at home. Harry should know. How many haircuts had Aunt Petunia given him? Ron's robes were ragged at the hem, his wand was admittedly second-hand, and his rat was at least third-hand.

When he looked back at Draco, the differences were obvious. Draco's robes were pressed crisply, not wrinkled or frayed, and the black hadn't faded almost to gray like Ron's robes had. Draco had the look of someone whose mother never, ever made him corned beef sandwiches he didn't like, and gave him all the money he wanted to buy pumpkin pasties on the Hogwarts Express.

Best of all, Harry would bet that no one ever made fun of Draco Malfoy. His friends Crabbe and Goyle--the Dudley Dursleys of the wizarding world--seemed to make sure of that. Sorry, Ron. Harry took Draco's hand and shook it firmly. But I'm awfully tired of being picked on.

Seven long years later, when Harry was flying Seeker with the Slytherin Quidditch team, he saw Ron in the Gryffindor stands with that messy-haired, know-it-all Head Girl, Hermione. They looked awfully chummy. Then Harry glanced over at Draco, who'd been playing Keeper for the past six years. Maybe he wasn't exactly chummy with Draco or his family--or any of the other old wizarding families. Maybe he'd had to play second fiddle to someone who wasn't as good a wizard, or a Quidditch player. And they never let him forget that his mother was from a Muggle family. But at least he hadn't taken the torment that House Slytherin gave out to Mudbloods like Perfect Prefect Hermione Granger every year. And that was worth something.

04. Voldemort's Pawn

There wasn't a witch or wizard gone bad that didn't come from House Slytherin...until Harry Potter. Of course, Harry hadn't had much choice in the matter. Ron and Hermione were huddled in cages amidst the splintered bits of their wands, hostages for his good behavior. Remus Lupin's skin was tacked on the far wall, forever frozen mid-transformation. Harry stroked the soft wolf pelt every day and gazed with hard eyes at the Death Eaters surrounding him. Every day he promised Professor Lupin protracted, bloody vengeance.

There wasn't enough left of Sirius to promise vengeance to, but Harry promised it anyway.

He hadn't any hope of rescue. Dumbledore was dead, killed by Voldemort in a surprise raid on Hogwarts during the summer holidays. McGonagall had died six months later, just before the winter holidays and Christmas. That was when the Death Eaters had captured Hermione and Ron and brought them to Voldemort. They lived on sufferance now, trapped in cages for any passing Death Eater to taunt.

Hermione had opened their cages once. She and Ron had escaped for an hour. Their punishment had lasted days. Harry had been punished too, held under the Cruciatus curse, his screams echoing along with Ron and Hermione's.

"I hate you," whispered Harry.

It was going to end tonight. Late at night, in whispered snatches, he and Hermione had worked out a new spell, a variation on the Killing Curse. It had been Unforgivable before Voldemort destroyed the Ministry of Magic. Now it was merely a tool of the Death Eaters. Hermione had figured out a way to target the spell to an area, rather than a person. She'd spent hours teaching it to Harry, who still had his wand only because it amused Voldemort to force Harry to serve him.

Harry's wand. Hermione's spell. But Ron had been the one to tell them where and when to cast it. His strategy made it all come together.

Tonight.

Neville Longbottom was the leader of the students who'd escaped Voldemort's winter raid on Hogwarts, the one where Professor McGonagall had died. He'd found out where Voldemort's headquarters were. He'd sent in his frog, Trevor, with a note in his mouth. Owl post was expected. Hedwig had died in a snowfall of white feathers while trying to get a note to Arthur Weasley, but no one had thought a frog could carry messages. Somehow, Neville had figured out a way, and Hermione was able to scribble responses on the back of his notes. She cried silent tears, choking on her sorrow as Ron whispered the weaknesses of Voldemort's fortress to her as she wrote with the charred splinters of her wand.

Tonight.

The Death Eaters would meet. Neville and the students would ring the building and attack, not letting any Death Eaters out, and not going inside either. At that instant, when Voldemort was distracted, Harry, Ron, and Hermione would trigger the location-based Killing Curse. They would join hands and the building would flash with a sickly green light. Their rage at Voldemort, their pain, it would all coalesce into one spell that would end it all. Everyone inside it would fall dead--including Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

Harry wasn't going to escape this time. He didn't want to. He glanced at the Muggle watch Trevor had smuggled in to him. "Now," he said quietly.

Hermione and Ron glanced at each other and stood up, their faces calm. Voldemort shouted in the background and Death Eaters raced to do his bidding. Harry could hear the faint sounds of the attack.

"It's time?" asked Hermione.

Ron nodded, but his eyes were wide. They took each other's hands through the bars and reached out to Harry. He ignored Voldemort calling for him and stepped forward.

"Now," he said, and took a deep breath.