Circumpolar

***The Hogwarts Express***

Had the gesture not been leagues below his dignity, Draco would have sighed in relief when he stepped aboard the Hogwarts Express. It was blessedly cool in its hallway, and all around him students were beginning to come out of the heat-induced torpor that had plagued them in the confines of King’s Cross Station. Girls (and Draco) were gratefully pulling their hair from their necks, boys shaking hands in greeting, when physical contact would have been unthinkable minutes before.

Having deposited his trunk and his eagle-owl, Agrippa, outside, Draco was now free to roam the train and indulge in his yearly tradition of hacking off Potter. He had done it every year since they had first arrived at Hogwarts. Admittedly, the first year, Draco had put in a bid for Potter’s friendship only to be utterly rebuffed. Ever since, Draco had made it his personal mission to get Potter on the defensive before school had even begun.

Predictable Potter, Draco thought as he paused in front of the same compartment in which he had found The Boy Who Lived the year before. At this angle, Draco was able to see the dark-haired boy’s reflection against the compartment door. Potter was staring moodily out the window, alone. For a moment, Draco stayed there, out of Potter’s sight, watching. For someone who's supposed to be such a stalwart hero, his moods are as mercurial as mine, Draco thought. Eventually, watching Potter do absolutely nothing became boring, and Draco slid open the compartment's door.

“Out, Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, without taking his gaze from the window.

Draco, of course, ignored him, but took his wand out of his pocket as a precaution before he threw himself down on the cushion across from Potter. He flung his legs out across the entire seat.

Potter finally turned away from the window and regarded his nemesis, green eyes ringed with what appeared to be exhaustion. “Shouldn’t you be at the prefects' meeting?” he asked. Draco noted with some satisfaction the hard line along the Gryffindor’s jaw where he was apparently clenching it to keep his cool. “Or did they kick you out for being a murderous git?”

“Turned in my badge,” Draco replied evenly, ignoring the gibe… for now. “Felt that my position of authority didn’t jive with some of my other interests. Maybe Goyle’s in charge now, I don’t know.” He gave a deceptively casual shrug.

Potter leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Other interests, Malfoy? Like what, recruiting more little murderers for your father? You know, they did that during World War II, as well. Trained little kids to hate so when they grew up-,”

“Whatever, Potter,” Draco brushed him off smoothly. “I notice you’re all alone, as usual. Where’s the bravery brigade? Not keeping their glorious leader company, that’s for sure.” He got no reaction, so Draco kept prodding with cold calculation. “Weasley and the Mudblood would be at the prefects’ meeting, of course, but what about the rest? Girl Weasel, Longbottom, Finnigan… they couldn’t be bothered to spend time with you, eh?” He smiled then, a twisting grin that caused Potter to reach inside his robes. “Or maybe they’re just afraid that association with you will get them killed. Like dear, departed Cousin Sirius.”

Like a striking snake, Harry was suddenly diving forwards to throttle Draco, his hands questing for the blond boy’s throat. Draco had been expecting the violent reaction and got himself out of the way quickly. He got to his feet, wand securely held in his fingers, and rolled his eyes at Potter.

Glass-green eyes seething, spectacles askew, Potter rose so that he was chest to chest with Draco. The Slytherin noted with unwelcome surprise that he had to look up to meet Potter’s glare, but kept his face a mask of careful indifference. “Temper, Potter,” he drawled. “What will the Ministry have to say if you attack a fellow student with your bare hands? I can see the headlines now- The Boy Who Lived- Unhinged! Crazy Harry Potter attacks the son of-,”

“Of a man who has ordered the deaths of hundreds? Of a Death-Eater?” Harry supplied, cutting off Draco’s words. “Get out, Malfoy, before I do something you’ll regret.”

The look in Potter’s eyes was dangerous, and Draco found himself worried for his own safety, but managed a bland smile. “You brave types are just filled with tired cliches, aren’t you, Potter?” he asked, spitting the name out like an epithet. He thought for a moment about the next move in his endless chess game with Potter, but suddenly found himself being hauled backwards roughly.

“Oi, Malfoy!” an angry yell sounded in his ear. Weasley, he identified; the voice certainly matched the freckled arms around Draco’s neck and upper torso. “Leave Harry alone,” the redhead snarled, yanking Draco out of the compartment and into the hallway. “If I see you back here, you’ll be in detention for months.”

"Weasley," Draco said in a nearly pleasant tone of voice. "You're looking more spotty than usual. Hole in your roof?" With an expression of mock sympathy, Draco said, "I hear those can be terribly expensive to fix." Weasley's mouth worked soundlessly, rather like a stranded fish, and Draco turned before the loathsome red-head could think of a retort, letting a small smile cross his face. Another year begun on the right tone: Potter all hacked off and resentful, his little friends squalling about how awful Draco was. As he passed the snack cart, Draco procured several chocolate frogs for himself with a murmured “Accio.”. Munching thoughtfully, he set off for the compartment that would have been reserved for him by his cabal of loyal Slytherins. It was time to check in with them; no doubt their dim little brains were growing worried by now.

*** ***

Harry was shaking with rage as he thought of Draco’s casually cruel mention of his godfather. Someday, Harry knew, he and Malfoy would meet in battle, and Harry would take great pleasure in ripping the Slytherin’s silver-blond hair out strand by strand before killing the little monster. So intent was he on his anger that he didn’t notice that Hermione had filed in and sat down next to Ron.

“Careful, Harry, you’ll break your wand,” Ron said cautiously, having noticed that the fingers of Harry’s right hand were curled in a death grip around his wand. He and Hermione exchanged a Significant Look that they thought Harry didn’t see, and then turned to their friend with identical expressions of concern.

“Come on, Harry,” Hermione cajoled in that tone that set Harry’s teeth on edge. “Don’t let Malfoy get to you, he’s just pushing your buttons.” Her face, surrounded by her bushy dark hair, was so earnest that he wanted to hit her. This new tactic she had taken with Malfoy, ignoring him, was driving Harry crazy. Why couldn’t they see?

“Yes, Harry,” Harry mimicked, rolling his eyes. “Don’t let Hitler get to you, he’s just pushing your buttons. He’s just a genocidal maniac, nothing to get yourself in a tizzy over.”

*** ***

Draco pushed the door to his compartment open and strode in, hoping he presented the air of a successful general. His three henchmen (Bulstrode having giving up any hopes for femininity) eyed him with concern, apparently unable to operate without instruction from Draco. He ignored them for the most part, and settled himself on the seat saved for him, nodding at the girls.

Pansy Parkinson should have been beautiful. Taken separately, each of her features (thick mahogany hair, snub nose, full lips) were charming; placed together, they didn’t quite jive. Looking at Pansy’s face was like taking in a Picasso painting; disparate pieces forced together to make an unsettling whole.

She looked up from her sketchpad and met Draco’s contemplative gaze, catching his eyes with her own. Pansy’s eyes were her claim to fame. A true violet that had been bred into the Parkinson family through selective breeding, they were gorgeous and nearly as familiar to Draco as his own quicksilver grey. Now, though, her gaze made Draco distinctly uneasy. Something skittered along the paths of his memory, but when Draco tried to capture the thought, it was gone.

His remaining lieutenant, Blaise Zabini, had seemingly gotten into Slytherin for her ambition to sleep her way to the top. The Zabinis were nouveau riche, and nouveau mauvaise as well, having only been established as an important family in the last few years. Still insecure about their rank, Nicolo Zabini had given his tacit approval for his daughter Blaise to snare herself an advantageous marriage… by any means possible.

She was a true beauty, which got under Pansy’s skin to no end. The thick white streak falling from her brow and down through the rest of her auburn hair had given her her name, and her eyes were so dark as to be almost black. Aside from Draco, who disdained to touch the castoffs of the likes of Marcus Flint (that troll), few had been able to resist sampling the charms of Blaise’s perfectly proportioned body. She was sidling closer to Draco even as he thought about her, but he ignored the warm pressure of her thigh against his own.

“I just got back from Potter’s compartment,” Draco announced with a feral smile. “Got him worked into a right state, I did. Seems my cousin Sirius Black is quite the sore spot.” Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other significantly, and Pansy buried her gaze on the notebook in her lap. Puzzled by the lack of reaction from his cronies, Draco cocked his head to the side. “Well?” he demanded of Blaise, who looked almost disdainful.

“I just thought that-” she trailed off under Draco’s hard gaze and cleared her throat before continuing, “That with all the new responsibilities our parents gave us this summer, picking on Potter seems, well, childish. I mean, not that you’re childish, Draco, I’m sure you have good reasons, maybe orders from your father…,”

Draco’s brain was racing, he barely heard Blaise backpedaling from her disapproval of Draco’s actions. New responsibilities? Are they taking part in Death-Eater stuff?

“But my father told me to leave Potter alone, at least until, you know,” and Blaise dropped her voice to a whisper, “the Plan.” To Draco’s everlasting astonishment, everyone else in the room, even Crabbe and Goyle, were nodding in agreement. Why don’t I know about this? What plan?

Draco found himself nodding as well. There was no sense in letting the Slytherins know that their leader was out of the loop. Doesn’t Father trust me enough to let me take part? I’m a Malfoy, dammit!” Draco resolved to owl his father first chance he got, and find out about this Plan (he had practically heard the capitalization of the word in Blaise's voice) that everyone else but him seemed to be aware of. It was unthinkable that these scions of lesser families should know more than he; if Crabbe and Goyle's little lizard brains could handle Death-Eater responsibilities, then why wasn't Draco involved?

***
TBC