Confidences

Draco inhaled sharply, seeing the one person that he was obligated to loathe enter the very same bus for stranded witches or wizard that he was traveling on. And he could in no way call himself very dignified, sprawled as he was between the couple of beds that he had fallen between. Why on earth was Potter calling himself Longbottom? Draco had no inclination towards the Boy Who Lived, in fact despised him and all the uncalled for attention that he received, but at least Potter was not that simpering excuse for a boy who jumped at his own shadow. Draco had to at least gave Potter one thing: He had balls.

The warm light in the front of the bus played across Potter's features as he conversed rather awkwardly with the young man that had greeted him. Potter kept tugging at his unruly hair, as if willing it to grow longer and encompass him, instead of making sure it just served to hide the scar that glared an angry red across his forehead. Draco felt a smirk tug at his lips. Aren't I the observant one, he thought, moving back up onto the bed and settling back into the shadows. Though often Draco was noticed for his own unique features, with the shimmering pale blonde hair and his piercing gray glare, now was not a time for him to stand out. What was it his father said about enemies? Something about the more you knew of them, the better equipped you were. And Malfoys always have the upper hand.

He undid the coverlet on the bed, and slid himself under, grimacing at the discomfort of not removing his shoes. The bus shuddered as it changed gears and pierced forward into the dark night. Chuckling as he watched Potter knocked back on his arse, he noticed that the young man with the protruding ears was just as amused as he was. They began to talk quietly, and he really didn't care what was said. Draco quietly appreciated the warmth that permeated the calm interior of the Knight Bus, and settled in with covers to his nose.

Why is Potter all about anonymity all of a sudden? Draco mused to himself, stretched in the comfortable bed. The object of his thoughts looked remarkably similar to a cornered rabbit. Potter still tugged at his hair every now and again, as his eyes often flitted back to the window, even though he was talking to the men sitting at the wheel. They didn't need to speak over loudly, as Potter was sitting on the bed immediately behind the driver.

Silently, Draco took in his classmate's appearance. His hair looking like he'd gotten caught in a windstorm, just like always. It was more his clothes that Draco raised his eyebrows at. Potter was not underfed, by any means, but his clothing swallowed him. The sweater he wore, a sick powder blue that washed out his already pale skin, was slightly frayed at the hem. Along with being about ten sizes too large. His slacks, a dark gray, were of a nice material, but similar to the sweater, entirely too huge for the Gryffindor. Smirking, Draco realized that he expected bad taste out of such a nitwit as Potter. But at the same time, he thought that at school Potter seemed to pay a little more attention to his attire. It was almost as if he was taking a page out of the Weasley's book and wearing hand-me-downs.

After a few dark thoughts about the best friend of the boy now reading a newspaper and not noticing Draco's close scrutiny of him, Draco's thoughts once more went to his archenemy. Since when was Potter poor? His aristocratic nose fairly wrinkled at the thought of poverty being in the same vicinity as him. Shaking that idea off nearly as soon as it entered his mind, Draco decided that something had to be wrong with Potter's home life. It didn't add up. Potter always appeared to be of comfortable circumstances, nice clothes and a nice broom, second only to the Slytherins' since the beginning of second year.

He closed his eyes, pondering Potter's financial state, coming again to the conclusion that this new getup he was in had to be linked to his home life. Draco probably drifted to sleep for a few minutes because when he opened his eyes again, the bus had stopped, with the driver looking ahead, an expression of boredom set on his face, Potter as well as the rather verbose young man exiting the bus. He tossed the covers aside and slid out of bed, and looked for a means to follow Potter without him noticing that he had a stalker.

Draco chuckled under his breath as he darted for the back exit of the bus. The day I stalk Potter... Waving at the driver in the rearview mirror, Draco threw open the back door, and hopped into the middle of Diagon Alley. The young man had entered the bus once more, this time assisting the driver with Potter's trunk. Harry and Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, were conversing. It was obvious that Potter's weak cover was blown. The Boy Who Lived was fidgeting nervously as he spoke. He and Fudge entered the Leaky Cauldron quietly and Draco Malfoy stood watching the Knight Bus disappear with a bang.

Though his curiosity was peaked by Potter's strange behavior, Draco chose to not follow the boy into the inn. As a Slytherin, Draco Malfoy knew how to be sneaky and conniving. Sitting at the bar as Potter discussed whatever with the Ministry of Magic was a little too conspicuous for him. Instead he turned heel and chose to just think about his enemy.

Diagon Alley was a gorgeous place at night, and he appreciated things of beauty. Rich people usually did. He noted that the main part of the wizarding world of London died in the late hours. A hum of activity resonated from Knockturn Alley, but he knew better than to go there. The possibility of running into his father's friends was entirely too great. So Draco contented himself to leisurely walking through the closed shops, the charmed torches following him.

Shivering, he sighed, knowing that he couldn't use magic to even mutter a warming spell. If I was at home, he thought to himself as the cool summer air caressed him a little too roughly despite the black sweater that he wore. There was nothing at home for him, except the Dark Mark ready and willing to be cut deep into his skin, his very own essence. He stopped suddenly. If Draco had been on that bus because of his wretched home life, was Potter there for similar reasons? Draco might be all about the big bad, but he was nowhere near stupid. Potter was upset enough to be prepared to leave his home. He had his trunk all packed. The Boy Who Lived wasn't going back to wherever he left.

Why is Potter all of a sudden interesting to me? His own voice bit at him, harsh even in his own head. Know your enemy. Good enough reason, he supposed. Draco walked more, pushing Potter from his current thoughts, wondering where he could possibly stay for the night.

He nearly fainted when a hand wrapped around his wrist and yanked him into a dim corner. A wicked smile was all he saw, but it was enough. Draco recognized a Malfoy smile. "Boy, you'd have done yourself a bigger favor if you had gone to a relative's," Lucius Malfoy hissed as his hand near crushed the delicate bones in Draco's hand as the boy struggled, in a very un-Malfoy-like way.

"I didn't know you cared, Father," Draco smiled coldly.

His father stepped from the shadows, the expression on his face mirroring his son's. Draco spared a glance at their reflection in a shop window. They were pretty, delicate with a dark and sharp edge. "Your mother was worried. I thought I'd escort you home safely."

Lucius apparated, his son with him, back to the Manor. Draco clenched his teeth, a thought of Harry Potter flashing suddenly into his mind even though Draco really should have been thinking of the punishments awaiting him for his own latest acts of disobedience.