Refraction

"Everyone prefers belief to the exercise of judgment."

--Seneca

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1993)

Third year

So, the new year starts with a bang. Wonder if is tradition? I hear that Sirius Black wants HP dead. Never a dull moment at this school, I tell you. And here I always thought the Quibbler was escapist. Fact is stranger than fiction. Even really strange fiction.

Here's one for you: they let Dementors on the train--and was that ever a fiasco--and there was much panicking. HP passed out. Guess it's not surprising--he's trauma boy, you know. And Draco Malfoy heard about it, freaked, and ran off to find him. Him being HP. I'm sure DM mocked him greatly once he got there and saw HP was okay...but they can't fool me. New school year plan: compulsively stalk HP and DM, see how long I can get away with same. Silence! You're every bit as bad--are you reading my journal or aren't you?

Honestly.

* * *

(Harry, 1993)

Third year

Things started out normally enough between me and Malfoy, third year. I'd failed in my crazy little mission, I guess--but I'd tried. I had thought it'd worked, end of second year. He did sort of warn me about the Trip Jinx. Didn't he?

When he came running over after the whole Dementor thing on the train, I thought he might be worried. He wasn't. Then there were the fainting impressions, and I just gave up. You can't win them all; I can deal with just winning the important ones. So one more person hated me. So what? He'd have to stand in line for a chance to kill me.

Well, I suppose I should say that I tried to give up. I really did try. I ignored all the strange looks and odd words. I snarled at him as usual, and never tried to talk to him properly again. I didn't try to find him alone.

Yesterday, he was putting on the long-suffering airs and making Ron do his Potions work for him, while smirking over how spectacularly sacked Hagrid would be when his father got around to arranging it.

"So that's why you're putting it on," I snapped, as I should have...but I made the mistake of meeting his eyes.

"Well, partly, Potter. But there are other benefits, too." Ron was looking at Potions ingredients. He wasn't looking at Malfoy's panicky face before Malfoy forced it back into a sneer. "Weasley, slice my caterpillars for me."

Am I imagining this because I want it to be true?

We got through the rest of class fairly normally, but he started in again on the way out. He asked if I was going to catch Black--as if I choose to take on murderous psychopaths on a regular basis. I may be a Gryffindor, but I'm not insane. And he said, "Don't you know, Potter?"

Don't I know what?

Curiosity kills.

He and Crabbe and Goyle passed me and Ron after class. I didn't mention to Ron that Goyle had slipped a note into my pocket. Ron would only have been upset, after all. I suppose Hermione wasn't the only one keeping secrets...

But I had to know.

* * *

(Draco, 1993)

Third year

It was all my stupid idea this time, I know. I hate it when I can't blame Potter for something. Everything.

I would have been fine, really--I would have said, My mad relation killed your parents, mwa-ha-ha, and then he would have been goaded into attacking Sirius Black, and then, haha, he would have died--but I started worrying about what he might do to me. Curse the messenger, and so on. Not that I'm afraid of Potter, of course, but caution is an admirably Slytherin trait, and caution says, Only taunt the Boy Who Lived when surrounded by innocent bystanders and referees. It's just good sense.

I could have stood him up. Really, I should have, but...weak! weak! I couldn't pass up the opportunity to get him alone, mess with him, hurt him...have his undivided attention? Change his mind?

Sad, Malfoy. Very, very sad.

Idiocy firmly embarked upon, I came up with another something. No straight-up taunting. Something more subtle. So it was that I stood all alone under the Quidditch stands waiting for the most potentially powerful wizard of my time, with a cunning plan to really upset him.

"You, Draco Malfoy," I informed the doors of Hogwarts, "are an appalling imbecile."

And Harry Potter said, "I agree."

I jumped. And perhaps screamed. It was not dignified--but what was I supposed to do? He'd just appeared. Out of thin air. I'd been watching the doors and he had not come out of them--where in Salazar's name had he come from?

And he was late, too, the inconsiderate prick.

"Nice of you to show up," I said. I tried to look superior, but it's not exactly easy when you've just been leaping about, squealing in terror, is it?

"Yes, well, I'm terribly nice. Haven't you heard?" he replied, doing a much better job of looking superior. After a dramatic moment or so, he toned down the look, and confided, "I couldn't get away from Ron and Hermione."

Now this--this I could mock.

"Still tagging after the Mudblood and the Weasel and kissing their feet, are you, Potter?"

"At least I don't have to pay them to tag around after me and kiss my feet," he replied equably.

Ah. A Crabbe and Goyle reference. Very unjust, too--I don't pay Crabbe and Goyle. If that sort of thing worked on them, I'd have bribed them to leave me alone years ago. Of course, can't explain this to a Gryffindor...and have I mentioned that I hate it when he stays calm?

"I see you're done pretending to be nice to me. That didn't last long, did it?"

"Why? Were you enjoying it?"

I've often thought Potter was a bastard. I've never felt he was a particularly witty bastard--what is this? It's crap, that's what it is; I'm losing a verbal battle to Harry Potter. It's not right, it's not reasonable, and it's not fair.

"Look, I didn't come here to chat with you, Potter--"

"Oh, I'm sorry--was I hurting your feelings?"

"You wish."

"Well. I was supposing you had feelings."

I had never actually choked with rage before. It's painful, if you were wondering. It didn't help, either, that Potter looked like this was the most fun he'd had in months. Pathetic little wanker.

Under the circumstances, I didn't give my lead-in speech. I just shoved the article at him. An old article--I'd found it in my mother's memory chest. A picture is worth a thousand words, they say.

It shut him up. First thing that had gone according to plan all evening.

"This is my parents' wedding announcement," he said at last, staring fixedly at the scrap of paper, at the little smiling human images on it.

"Congratulations, Potter. You've learned to read."

He looked up to glare at me. "Where did you get this?"

I shrugged. "Mother keeps them."

He accepted that. Even orphans understand that the eccentricities of mothers are beyond anyone's ken. Amazing.

He stared at the article for so long that I was starting to have doubts about his reading abilities after all, but he finally asked, "Why is Sirius Black on my parents' wedding announcement?"

He didn't ask very politely, either. Noble Gryffindor, ha.

"Well, he was the best man, Potter. He was bound to be in the announcement, as I understand these things."

Potter looked a bit faint (haha), and leaned a hand against the stands for support. For just a moment, as he leaned to the side, I could see him falling, see the train barreling forward, see a hand thrown out just in time--you would have let him die. He could have died.

I shook my head to banish the nonsense.

In the meantime, he had accused me of being a liar, a thief, and possibly illegitimate. And here I was trying to do him a good turn. Or at least something that ought to have been mistaken for a good turn.

"I don't need to lie, Potter. Nor steal. As to anything else you might have said--"

"Right, okay. My mistake." He pulled his eyes from the announcement to study me. I had forgotten how much I actually hate having his full attention. It's unnerving, having him stare at me like I'm...like....I don't know what it's like. It's unpleasant, is what it is.

"So. Sirius Black was the best man," he said in a horribly flat voice.

"He was your father's best friend at Hogwarts. I hear."

"And after, apparently. And then--what? He ran off with Voldemort, became evil incarnate, and now wants me dead?"

"Oh, honestly, Potter," I snapped. "Not every homicidal lunatic in the world wants to kill you, you miniature egomaniac."

"Sirius Black said--"

"'He's at Hogwarts.' That's what he said." That wasn't in the papers. It's nice to be a Malfoy--connections, you know. "You are not the only person at Hogwarts, shocking though the idea may seem. Anyway, he may not want to kill anyone. Maybe he just wants a cozy chat." Or not.

"But if he was a Death Eater--"

"He'd have a host of other appealing targets at Hogwarts, I promise you. He's probably so loony by now that he thinks he's going to attack Merlin himself. Anyway, he wasn't a Death Eater." Nerves. Curse the nerves. Curse the way I talk more to cover up the nerves, as if that will do anything but make the situation worse.

"What!?"

"No. No death eating. Disinherited for associating with mudbloods, in fact--disgrace to the family. Not exactly a Death Eater profile." And then I babble on, and on, and on, because I'm nervous and it's so lovely to know things which Harry Potter does not know. Pathetic.

"Malfoy, everyone says he was a Death Eater. What do you know?"

"I know everything, Potter, as I've tried to explain to you before. He was not a Death Eater. The family says so, and I think we're in a position to know best, you miserable little Gryffindor."

There was a pause as Potter digested this--oh, is he actually thinking about something?--then, "Wait a minute ... the Blacks are related to you?"

"Cousins," I said, flicking my fingers vaguely in the air to indicate the tenuousness of the connection.

"Cousins," he echoed in that horrible, flat voice he's never used before. There's nothing more unnerving than an expressionless Harry Potter who's staring at me, and being uneasy makes me irritable.

So you're uneasy ... almost constantly, then, aren't you? said the Pansy-voice inside my head. I firmly told the Pansy-voice to sod off.

"That's right, cousins," I snarled. "Yes, I'm related to a psychotic murderer--maybe. Mother has always said that Black was ... rash. Always got blamed for things he didn't do. Could never prove he'd been doing something permissible at the time. You know."

"So? If he is a psychotic murderer, he's surely the least of the ones related to you."

"Shut up, Potter. The man is a moron--a member of my family would have to be an idiot to openly side with mudbloods. It's just the sort of idiocy that would make him easy to frame. He was no Slytherin. It's perfectly possible that he's done nothing wrong at all--but he certainly looks like the sort of crazed hothead who would."

Potter was gazing at me in ... horror? Fascination? Amazement? "Which house was Black in, Malfoy?"

I scowled at him. "He was your father's lackey, Potter--what do you think?" Do you think?

He opened his mouth, maybe to answer, but I turned and walked away, because I've always been taught to quit before I actually lose. This training could be the source of many of my life's problems, in fact ...

I think all these conversations with Potter are eating my brain.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1993)

Third year

Classes, blah. Brain damage inducing. Shan't discuss them.

Housemates, blah. I sincerely hope that Mandy Brocklehurst develops an unattractive fungal infection on her face. Perhaps I can arrange this.

I'm not bitter, though. I don't mind her and that random Hufflepuff snogging. All the time. Everywhere. In front of everyone.

Anyway. I hadn't been all that serious about my stalking of DM and HP. And then a funny thing happened on the way to...Potions. :) Heard DM talking to goons. Said he wouldn't cover for them any more. Said that even his father's name would only get them so far, and would they please leave Longbottom the hell alone? Only he didn't say hell. Because he's a pureblood. *yawn*

Now, the way I hear it from spectators, DM randomly came up to Longbottom, mocked his family (lack thereof), mocked his Potions ability (same), and had goons rough him up a bit.

?

Were goons attacking spontaneously? Malfoy protecting Longbottom, or goons, or all of the above--steps in, waves daddy's name about like a flag, then flees, bearing goons?

Weird. Perhaps will get serious about watching this boy.

* * *

(Harry, 1993)

Third year

I think I'm afraid I started this. I cornered him after dinner, just, you know, to ask him about...about the Sirius Black thing, and somehow (and, God, I never do know how, with him) it turned into this huge question and answer session on why he hates muggles. It was ridiculous. I think it started when I said Ron and Hermione didn't react to the Dementors the way I did (he never told me anything about what he feels when Dementors get close to him. I guess I didn't tell him about me, either. We spent an hour talking about muggles instead. Why? Anyway...), and he said they didn't react as violently because they were one, an idiot, and two, a mudblood. So I asked why he hated mixed blood so much, and he got all dramatic and put a hand over his heart and swore it was his pureblood duty. Didn't hit him. Didn't. Great, great self-restraint. And...pureblood duty? I said Ron didn't think so. He said Ron--sorry, the Weasel--wouldn't know pureblood duty from Millicent Bulstrode's knickers, and I carefully didn't consider the comparison. But I started wondering. I always get myself in the most trouble when I'm wondering.

"So, let me get this straight," I said. "You have to hate muggles."

"Despise. Say, 'despise,' Potter."

"Whatever. And anyone of mixed blood?"

"May the mudbloods burn in a fiery pit!" I didn't hit him. Didn't.

"...thank you. Poor people?"

"Die, die." I started wondering just how serious he was about all this. I was afraid he was pretty serious.

"What? Even pureblooded poor people?"

"Inferior purebloods must, of course, also die."

"Oh, of course. So, have I missed anyone?"

"Non-humans. Anyone involved in law enforcement. The press--good for use and abuse only. Anyone more powerful than you are. Homosexuals. The poorly dressed--"

"Why homosexuals? And the poorly dressed?"

"Homosexuals, because they are not producing pureblooded babies. How then shall we conquer the planet? Perfectly acceptable to be married with babies and have a same-sex lover on the side, of course. So, really, it's just non-fecundity that's bad."

"Fecundity?"

"Yes, Potter, it means--"

"I know what it means, thank you, Malfoy." Bastard bastard bastard.

"Fine, fine. It's not really the right word, anyway, because they might be fecund, but not producing. Proliferousness? No, that's not a word at all, is it? Maybe--"

"Malfoy."

"Shut up, Potter. We must despise the non-producing. Or whatever. Unless they are mudbloods or muggles, in which case, we hate them less. And the poorly dressed, because no one wants to sleep with them...coming back to the baby-making thing, and, again, only applying to purebloods. As all the important rules do. All very logical."

He cannot believe this. No one could. It's...insane doesn't even begin to cover it. But he looks blank. I can't read him. Of course, I can't read anyone. I wish Hermione were here.

"I think I feel sick," I inform him.

"Well." He looks disdainful. How unusual for him. "Vomit away from me."

Vomit away from me. Non-fecundity. Who says things like that?

"You're a freak, Malfoy." That old word. Old, old word. And I finally get to use it on someone else...

"Whatever, Potter. I suppose you like people vomiting on you, do you?"

And he doesn't care. Malfoy. Always stealing my victories. Bastard. "Anyway, I refuse to believe Voldemort was that logical about it all."

He tips his head to the side, looking thoughtful. In an annoying way. "Difficult to say. Him being dead, and that."

"You could ask your father." He just stares at me. I stare at him. It could have gone on for some time, but I was struck with a thought--curiosity kills, indeed--and interrupted us.

"Wait...so, this is your father? Your father's logic?"

"Hmm."

"You buy into this? Really?" Do you? Can you? Would you? Are you really that bigoted/stupid/arrogant?

He stares at me again, and I begin to think he's not going to answer. I wouldn't have answered, if I were him. He doesn't look happy, from what I can tell. Unhappy staring. God. But then--

"Opinions vary."

"Oh. Whose opinions?"

"Mine."

"Ah."

That's what I thought. Hoped? Why? Don't know. Am confused. Am going back to bed.

"Good," I tell him. He raises an eyebrow at me.

"Well, it's been charming, Potter. And I didn't even have to hit you." He stalks off. He's running away. Ha, scared him! Wish I knew how I'd done it...

Wait, he didn't have to hit me? Bastard. Bastard bastard bastard.

Did I accomplish anything? God, I still can't decide if I want to accomplish anything. And I'm only getting more confused as time goes on. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I don't know how I meant it to be. It's not like I expected him to stop being a bastard. Did I? Idiocy.

That's it. Bed. Beating self up over Draco Malfoy? A sign of insanity. Tired. Also confused. And irritated. Why am I doing this?

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1993)

Third year

Watched DM. DM watches HP. Not a little. A lot. Constantly. I would even say, obsessively. Think am intimidated. My stalker tendencies have no hope of equaling his.

And Crabbe and Goyle (goons), I don't think even DM realizes quite what they're doing. Always supposing I understand what they're doing. Every time McGonagall takes points off of DM, C and G hurt a Gryffindor. Every time Fred and George Weasley pull a prank on DM, every time Ron Weasley insults him, when HP beats him to the snitch, when Hermione Granger gets a higher mark...retaliation. Not necessarily the person, but always the house. Longbottom just happens to be an easy target. Poor him. When Cho and Padma insult DM's intelligence, a Ravenclaw gets hurt (usually Terry Boot). You'd think someone would have noticed this by now.

So, C and G, hidden depths. Not the brightest, certainly, but...loyal, save us all. Why aren't they in Hufflepuff? Eh. I guess their retaliation could be called an ambitious plot. Hmm. Slytherins. Very interesting. Much more than, say, Ravenclaws. Yes, I am seething.

But HP...he watches DM too, you know. Almost as interesting as a Slytherin, HP. He plots, my word. He doesn't watch DM compulsively, but the frequent glances are certainly there. Almost...nervous? How very interesting. Snicker, snicker.

And, yes, I am a bad and evil-minded youngling, and I'm going straight to hell.

But it would be SO FUNNY! Maybe I should suggest something...?

Ahem, no. That would be wrong. Plus, I'm too scared.

* * *

(Draco, 1993)

Third year

I'm sitting in the hallway on the seventh floor next to the dragon vase. Sulking. I'm sorry, brooding. Yes, that's much more dignified. In any case, the last thing I expect or wish to hear is Harry bloody Potter's voice saying, "Malfoy," in that particularly nasty tone he only uses on me. Used to use on me. Had recently stopped using on me. Don't know what I've done to irritate him now.

Well. Maybe I do.

"Potter." Maybe if I sound dull enough, he'll just go away.

"That dragon is hideous." Of course not. He never goes away when he should.

I look at the vase, resigned to conversation. He's right, of course. I've often wondered whether the creator (the potter, ha) was dropped repeatedly on his head as a small child. The dragon has odd lumps on its cheeks, its feet are deformed, its wings are twisted oddly, its teeth are crooked, and quite a lot of it is chipped. By whatever fluke or mad genius, though, the potter managed to make the eyes particularly realistic--and very sad. Poor dragon. He knows he looks a fool.

"I feel a certain...affinity," I tell him. "Why are you here? How did you know I was here?"

"Why didn't you tell me what Black went to Azkaban for?" Doesn't answer my questions, you see. Never does, Potter. Bastard.

I blink at him, trying to look innocent. Doubtless failing. "Well. I reckoned at that point you would probably stop listening." I just used 'reckon' in a sentence. I sound like sodding Weasley.

"And why should I listen to you? Who are you to know whether he's guilty or not?" Ah. He does righteous indignance so well. Pity that it's wasted on me.

"I told you. I'm family." I sound irritated now, but I can't help it. He's such a git.

"Well, the rest of your family obviously doesn't care."

The anger drains away as quickly as it appeared. I just don't have the strength for this. Not right now.

Alternatively, maybe I'm becoming schizophrenic. Pleasant thought, that.

I sigh and rub my face. It's amazing how often I suspect I'm insane when I'm around Potter. Potter, who is now staring at me. Tired of living is not my usual style, I guess. It's all your fault anyway.

"Your intelligence just abandons ship when you're angry, doesn't it?" I ask.

He sneers, sneers at me. "It must--I'm here trying to get answers out of you, after all."

"Look, Potter..." how to explain this to an idiot orphan Gryffindor? "My family sees Black as a traitor. It doesn't matter what your beliefs are--some of my cousins argue with Father all the time--but you can't, well, publicly disagree. We're a unified front, the Malfoys. No matter how bad things get, the family is there for you. Even if they hate you. Because you're there for the family. Black turned, but that isn't what matters, he...oh, I can't explain this to a bloody Gryffindor! He cast us off, alright? It wasn't the other way around. The family doesn't care about him because he doesn't care about us."

I look up at Potter, and, once again, he's staring at my face. It's creepy. Like he's trying to see inside my head. I look away, shuddering a little. "What?" I snap.

"Why do you care, Malfoy?"

I turn back to him, surprised for the first time in this conversation. "What do you mean?"

"Why do you care if he's innocent? If he's not family anymore."

"Oh." My eyes drop back to the floor, as if it has an answer. It's a fair question, that. Do I know why I care? (Because I know exactly what his childhood was like. I know why he wanted to escape, even if he was an idiot to do it.) "He is still family, I guess, for all he's not on the tree, and wouldn't want to be. I mean, the family raised him. It's not that he couldn't be loyal--he was loyal to your father. We must have made a mistake with him, somehow. Someone should make up for that, for what we did wrong...oh, shut up, Potter!" I'm convinced Potter's laughing at me. He must be. I would have been laughing at him, had he been pouring out his inner musings to me. "I don't have to explain myself to you, of all people!"

No answer. I wait. Still no answer. When I finally look up, Potter's gone.

Bloody typical.

And tomorrow...tomorrow I have to go home.

Fate spits in my cauldron yet again.

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1993)

Third year

So amused!

Made Prof. Snape nervous. Do so love doing that. Poor dear takes everything I do so seriously. Takes everything seriously, to be honest. No sense of humor, you know. Most sad.

Anyway.

Wore necklace of butterbeer corks today. Why not? Had them. Their shape is kinda neat. Off-chance of getting weird (and amusing) sidelong glances. Anyway, I felt like it. You know.

Snape flipped.

Couldn't figure out why I was wearing them. This really bothered him. Told him they held deep personal significance for me. "Oh, do enlighten us," he said. I gave him my favorite vague-yet-pleasant look and said, "It's very personal, you know."

He tried to sneer, but I could see him panicking behind those little beady eyes. He was twitching, twitching I tell you! He said, "Let us hope, then, that nothing untoward happens to them." Indeed. Let us.

I win I win I win!

I will wear that necklace until I graduate, by Josephine!

Considered dashing up and squeezing his ickle yellowy cheeks and telling him he was adorable, but I don't want to send the poor bugger to St. Mungo's. Well. Not yet, anyway. Merry Christmas, Professor.

Promise new stalker report on HP and DM after first of the year. Am falling woefully behind on stalker duties, yiss.

* * *

(Harry, 1994)

Third year

Today was the day of the Dementor Thing. It's the first Malfoy Thing of the year--like the Handshake Thing and the Dragon Thing and the Slug Thing and the Train Thing ....

I'd told him that I was practicing a spell with Professor Lupin, because he has panic-attacks if he doesn't know where I am. He's so weird. I'd refused to tell him which spell, on the grounds that, borderline-polite or no, Draco Malfoy was Draco Malfoy, and there was no need to be telling Death Eater spawn anything I didn't have to.

Of course, Draco Malfoy disagreed. Violently. Hence the Dementor Thing.

After it was all over, I told him just what I see and hear every time one comes near me. I told him more than I've told Hermione and Ron, because ... because I was so pissed off. He just ... even now--no, especially now--he can just look at me, and he gets that sneer and it's like he's saying, "Oh, are you upset? Good," and how dare he and I just want to beat him senseless. So I had to tell him because I really wanted a reaction, wanted him to feel guilty--I don't know. I wanted some kind of human reaction. Something.

And he said, "Honestly, Potter, it's not as if I brought a real Dementor onto the pitch. You wouldn't tell me what Lupin was teaching you--well, I had to find out somehow, didn't I?"

Of course. Of course he did. 'S perfectly reasonable. And it will be perfectly reasonable when I rip his tongue out with a toasting fork. PERFECTLY REASONABLE.

"If you're just going to stand there with your mouth open, I've got things I ought to be doing," he said. "Besides, I wouldn't want anyone to see me with you," he said. He left. I stood and made angry incoherent gurgling noises that he would have mocked if he'd heard.

He's...just...insufferable. I always thought I would get past that in time, but no, it just gets worse.

* * *

(Draco and Harry, 1994)

Third year

So.

I hear that a vicious mass murderer forced his way through both Hogwarts and Gryffindor defences, savagely attacked some curtains, and then was frightened off by the cry of the Weasley.

Sounds quite the fierce, unprincipled fellow.

Incidentally, why have you allowed Longbottom to live this long?

D

. . .

D--

Yeah, smirk, but have you considered that it might have been so long since he heard a human voice that he doesn't know how to react to them anymore? He could be guilty and insane.

And don't talk about Neville like that.

H

. . .

I considered that. Than I considered that he had seemed perfectly normal talking to Fudge, and I considered that to seem normal talking to Fudge, one must have an above average tolerance for the human voice.

Those rumors about you and the cupboard aren't true, are they?

D

. . .

I had forgotten Fudge. I can't explain anything about it, then.

What rumors?

H

. . .

No, you can't explain anything. And neither can I. I just note that it's something to consider before you, ah, savagely attack my wayward relative.

About the cupboard...Blaise (or someone) might, conceivably, have been left alone in Dumbledore's office a while ago--in his youth!--and he might, purely by accident, you understand, have flipped through some student files. And he might have flipped through yours. And he might have found your address listed as "The Cupboard Under the Stairs." I mean, theoretically, he might have. Because clearly he would never have participated in the extreme violation of school rules and even laws of privacy that that would entail, just as no other Slytherin would have, and, anyway, is it true?

We always figured it couldn't be, because we always figured that Dumbledore wouldn't have left you in a cupboard if he'd known. But it begins to seem that he would have. Doesn't it?

D

. . .

MMT at 830.

H

. . .

See you then, Cupboard Boy.

D

* * *

(Draco, 1994)

Third year

Moaning Myrtle's toilet. Are great stealth operations carried out in a toilet? No. Boy in Charge of Stealth Operations evidently doesn't realize this, however.

At some point--and I'm sure I missed just exactly when it was--I agreed to practice Defence spells with him. Why? I don't know. I'm telling myself it's because I want to know what the opposition is capable of. That's what I'm telling myself, and myself is telling me that's the saddest excuse ever invented.

Anyway, that's definitely what I'm telling Father, when he finds out.

Potter slips quietly into the room. Ever since the whole Chamber of Secrets debacle, he's been slipping in doors and checking rooms for people and exits before he's properly inside. I doubt he's even aware of it. It makes me nervous.

"Should we start with Stupefy and work up, then?" he asks, holding his wand awkwardly to one side and refusing to look at me. Hah. As if I would just let it slide.

"In a moment. Let's talk about your exciting childhood, first. Spent a large part of our youth locked up in a cupboard, did we?" It's beautiful. It's so rare for me to have something real to taunt Potter with--this year has been a goldmine.

His legs just gave out. I mean it--he hit the floor. It's brilliant.

It's not quite right, though, because he's not angry. He's...embarrassed? Why? He's not glaring at me, either--he's still looking at the floor. This isn't normal.

"How did you know it was true?" he asks dully. Dully? That isn't Potter.

"I just doubted you had the imagination to come up with Black being afraid of voices unless you'd gone without people speaking for a long time yourself." I try to make it come out venomous, but I'm too confused. I think it comes out a bit flat, instead.

He musters a weak glare, and I'm a bit relieved. Only because it's hard to taunt someone who's being pathetic--not because I'm worried or anything. "I could've just thought about it!" he snaps.

I shake my head. "No. I could have just thought of it--and, in fact, I did--but you don't think abstractly. Too Gryffindor." Or too busy trying to stay alive. Something like that.

He glares at me properly, and I almost smile before I catch myself. The horror, the horror. Smiling at Potter, what next? He says, "I was never locked up anywhere long enough to be afraid of voices!"

Honestly, he just walks right into these things.

"But you were locked up."

He's still glaring, and all is right with the world. "Well, I suppose your life is perfect," he snarls.

I stop for a moment, thinking of my dear family. But I recover admirably, and say, "Yes, perfect," in a very convincing tone.

"Really?" he asks, eyebrow raised.

Fine, so maybe it wasn't convincing enough. I hate perceptive people. And, hey, since when is Potter perceptive?

"At least I was never locked in cupboards," I snap, and that's as far as that conversation is going; I don't care how much he stares. "Stupefy first?"

He just nods. And looks at me.

* * *

(Luna, 1994)

Third year

Stalker report:

They're meeting in Moaning Myrtle's toilet. She told me. See? Listen to a little whinging and lo...the information flows. She won't actually tell me what they say--"how rude!"--but she says it's nothing much. They argue over people she doesn't know and they both had miserable childhoods and so I should leave them alone. RIGHT.

They talk about their childhoods? I mean, technically we're all still children, so I suppose it's really just pre-Hogwarts but that's certainly not my point at all. At all. They won't talk about home life with anyone; that's my point. So...do they trust each other? How? When? Where was I? Must reflect and review...

* * *

(Moaning Myrtle, 1994)

Third year

"Well, that was petty."

"Of course it was petty, Potter. Petty is the only way to live."

"Funny, I was always taught that petty was not the way to live."

"Yes, yes, but who were your teachers? Those hopeless bastards going on about truth and light and justice and other things that have nothing to do with human nature. I think you can safely ignore them."

"Malfoy--"

The boys are back in my toilet--Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Enemies in public, friends in private--and I'm the only one who knows. They don't even trust their friends not to tell. Only me.

I'm not even going to tell Luna, and she's the only other one who's nice to me. Even she doesn't tell me her secrets. Even she doesn't really like me.

I don't know why my boys keep secret. It's not like they really talk about anything; they just bicker. Like me and Olive Hornby, only not as mean.

They talk about homework and bicker and talk about Sirius Black and bicker and talk about cupboards under the stairs and bicker...

"Why are you being such an idiot?"

"Charming, Potter. I'm so glad I sacrificed my Saturday night for this."

"Well, likewise. If I'd known I was going to spend half of my evening watching you froth at the mouth about my friends--"

"Froth at the mouth? I made a reasonable point, Potter. A series of reasonable points. If you can't respond reasonably--"

"Reasonable points? You mean like, 'oh, I sort of like you, pity I'll have to kill you when the war comes'? Was that a point, Malfoy? Because, if not, I think we've had this conversation about five times before."

See, when it was me and Olive Hornby, we would scream at each other and be really upset. The boys only seem to fight as an afterthought. It's a pity, really...I wouldn't mind if they killed each other. They could stay with me. They could die, and then they could stay and keep me company and argue over me...

"Well, I may have to kill you, yes. An unfortunate result of one of my points, rather than the point itself, but there it is."

"So you brought me here to tell me...what? That it's been nice knowing me, but you can't speak to me anymore because I'm a mudblood?"

"No, I--"

"Oh, no, it's so that you can tell me how much you hate all my friends because they're mudbloods, because I definitely didn't know that. Why am I even talking to you? Why are you even talking to me? Aren't you afraid you'll be contaminated? Aren't you--"

"Look, this is exactly what I'm talking about--and don't interrupt; it's rude--you think this is all about blood? That's crap. This isn't about blood; this is about culture. I apologize for not making that clear to you in our previous discussions, Potter. The first time I met you, I told you people from the Muggle world shouldn't be allowed at Hogwarts because they don't know--they disrupt everything with their prejudices and ignorance and odd backgrounds. You must see that."

"I see that this category still includes me."

That's it, there--the little catch in the voice, the little change. It makes it different from me and Olive Hornby. Olive hated me and I hated Olive, and we didn't worry, really, what the other one thought. We didn't worry. We only got more angry. The boys are different. That's why I think they're really friends. Besides, it wouldn't make any sense to meet all the time and argue about nothing if they weren't friends, would it?

"The category doesn't really include you--you're the Boy Who Lived, Potter. You had to know something."

"I knew nothing."

"You're lying."

"As you say, I don't need to lie."

"Not unless you were trying to make me warm up to your little mudblood."

"Getting her to warm up to you would be more trouble, I promise. The muggles told me my parents had died in a car crash. Apparently the scar came from the same crash."

"Sure, Potter. And then you could do magic--how did they explain that?"

"I was a freak, Malfoy. There was no explaining what I was. Unnatural."

Yes, Olive Hornby used to call me a freak, too. A freak with ugly glasses. Harry has ugly glasses, but I haven't told him. I'll never, ever call him a freak, either. It would be best if he would just die and stay with me. We have so much in common! But I suppose it would impolite to just suggest that he kill himself. Honestly, I don't know what he's living for--from the sound of it, not much.

"I don't believe you, Potter."

"Hmm. They told me my parents were worthless layabouts, but that they were going to beat it out of me. That's why the cupboard under the stairs. You wanted to know, didn't you? There. Beat down that freakish behaviour. Tell me, Malfoy, am I hurting the cultural norm at Hogwarts? I promise the spiders in the cupboard taught me good manners. Speak only when spoken to, and so on."

"You can't be serious--you're the Boy Who Lived! There's no way Dumbledore would have let you...let you rot like that. No way."

"I see. That's right--that's why you didn't believe the cupboard. Well, take it up with him. Damaging the Wizarding Icon, honestly. Silly man."

They're having an awkward silence. Again. They have a lot of awkward silences. I think about talking in them sometimes, but, really, the boys might tell me to leave. Well, Harry wouldn't. Harry likes me. But Draco might. You can't tell with him. So I'm just quiet instead.

"You're serious. You really are."

"I told you I was."

"But I didn't believe you."

Another awkward silence. Really, they do it all the time. They can hardly get through a conversation--argument?--without at least one.

"Well, don't change your mind about mudbloods or anything, Malfoy. You might hurt yourself."

"It's no laughing matter, Potter. I very well might."

"Hurt yourself?"

"Yes. And then I would blame you."

"Of course you would. Anyway, this theory of culture clash doesn't exactly match up with your...er...pureblood breeding program, does it?"

"Yes it--pureblood breeding program?"

"Hmm? Oh. What do you call it, then?"

"Shut up, Potter."

"Oooh, are you offended?"

"I hate you, Potter."

"I understand, of course. I suppose you don't like to think of yourself as the product of selective breeding--like a really special sort of show dog--"

"Potter!"

"Oh, sorry."

"Yes. You are. In any case, it all fits with my theory because you're breeding--trying to get--you want everyone to be the best sort of pureblood. And you want fewer inferior bloodlines and cultures."

"Bloodlines?"

"Shut up, Potter."

"So you're proposing to do...what, with the muggle-borns? Let them run free? Let the wild magic flow? Has it occurred to you that they would just band together, and, eventually, there would be more of them than of you perfectly inbred folk?"

"Kill them."

"Well, that's practical."

"What? What's wrong with it?"

"What do you mean, what's wrong with it? Aside from the fact that it's genocide, which obviously doesn't phase you, after you wipe out about the first three families, the rest are going to catch on, you know. And how are you going to find them then? What if they find you faster? Even if you trace the wild magic, even if the muggleborns don't manage to hide their children from you, even if the muggleborns don't manage to kill you off first, how many deranged bastards can you find who would really like to slaughter babies? Oh, wait, we found that out, didn't we? They're called Death Eaters. There were fifty of them at the height of Voldemort's reign? Fewer now. Hmm. Looks bad for you, Malfoy."

"Look, Potter--there should just be more separation between muggles and wizards. That's what I mean."

"Yeah? Tell Mother Nature. You don't like reality, do you, Malfoy?"

"Oh, come off it, Gryffindor. Where did you learn cynicism?"

"Realism. In a cupboard."

Yet another awkward silence. I feel like I should bring popcorn to watch the show--sometimes it's even better than the Prefects' Bathroom. See, Draco pretty much lost that argument (and you can tell he knows it, because his face goes all pink), but he'll never, ever admit it. Now he'll back down while pretending not to back down.

"So. I'll see you next time someone tries to kill you, Potter?" (See? See? That wasn't even his sneakiest backing down.)

"Sure. I guess you don't want to do my Potions homework for me."

"You guess correctly."

"I would do your Defence for you..."

"Gryffindor, House of the Immoral. I'll remember this."

"Oh, come on--"

"Never. Professor Snape would never forgive me."

"Spoilsport."

"Cheater."

"Point."

"Anyway, I'd have to start from scratch and teach you basic Potions. You obviously don't know the first thing about it."

"Would you really?"

"You're not serious."

"You keep saying that."

"Well."

"Well?"

"This is ridiculous, Potter, I hope you realize that. I'm no Potions prodigy, I just have a basic understanding of the subject, which--"

"Is more than I have?"

"Yes....I hate you, Potter. Tuesday nights, then. Here, I suppose."

"Quidditch?"

"Is your problem. Meet me after."

"Someone will notice."

"Of course they will. Because you're always so forthcoming about where you'll be and what you'll be doing, aren't you? Yes, Harry Potter, boy of full disclosure..."

"Well..."

"Look, it was your idea, anyway."

"Fine. Remedial Potions it is."

"Only for O.W.Ls and N.E.W.Ts. You still have to be stupid in class, or we'll be caught."

"I can do that."

"And may Salazar save us both."

Oh, good. They'll be in my toilet for ages, won't they? I mean, I certainly have nothing against Harry, but he's really awful at Potions. Really awful. Even Lavinia Nott was better, and she was a fool.

This is fantastic.

* * *

(Harry, 1994)

Third year

"You're an idiot."

I sighed, closing the door to Moaning Myrtle's toilet behind me.

"So I hear," I said. "From Snape and Lupin and now you--even Ron admits it's true. So. You told Snape to punish me for my stupidity?"

"No," he hissed, looking rather frightening. "I told Snape because I had just seen your decapitated head floating around Hogsmeade, Potter. I thought you were dead, or possessed, or--"

He stopped mid-sentence with his mouth hanging open when I pulled on the invisibility cloak. No sense in letting him run on. He looked like an idiot. It was very gratifying. I pulled the cloak back off and waited for him to pull himself together.

"An invisibility cloak?" he asked in a hushed voice. "You have an invisibility cloak? Potter, who did you have to kill to get that?"

"My father," I said, smiling tightly. Another conversation stopper. Well done, Harry.

"Oh," he said finally. "Well. That makes sense. Everyone always said he was ridiculously spoiled."

I opened my mouth to--I don't know--scream at him, probably, but he carried on, blithely unrepentant, "Anyway, you can see why I told Snape. Because you never tell me anything. Then you threw mud at me--honestly, Potter--and you have some map-thing that insults Snape. Potter. Do you just not want any friends? Even the poor mud-I-mean-Granger isn't safe from your scorn. Tut tut."

"You're a friend?"

He scowled at me. "Potter."

I shifted uncomfortably. "Um, Hermione's not really my fight. And you so deserved the mud. You're doing your level best to get Buckbeak killed, and--"

"No, I didn't deserve the mud, actually. That hippogriff's quality of life is inversely proportional to mine, just now. If it has to die so that I can live in peace this summer, then so be it."

For a moment, I was disgusted. For a moment. Then I made the mistake of wondering what I would be willing to do to get away from the Dursleys. Would I sacrifice Buckbeak? Yes. Of course I would--in a heartbeat. I just wouldn't be as open about it. I could see it all in front of me: Oh, I'm sorry, Hagrid. I just don't have time to help. I wasn't agreeing with Malfoy, Hagrid, I just didn't want to get into a fight. Oh, were we going to do research yesterday? Must have forgot...

Oh, I could see it. And the disgust was all for myself. I wouldn't even have been honest, because I couldn't stand Hagrid looking betrayed, or Ron and Hermione looking sick to know me...

"It's all so simple for you, Malfoy, isn't it?" I snarled at him. He could afford to do all these things--could do them and get heaped with praise by everyone except me...

He blinked at me, impassive. "Yes, Potter. For me, it's simple."

...so why did he choose to help me?

"Are you going to tell me about this map-thing or not?"

I did tell him. I told him because he'll never be horrified by any terrible thing I do. I told him because he chose me. I told him because, though I can't be certain, I think he might help me out of something like understanding. Something like loyalty.

* * *

(Hermione, 1994)

Third year

I can't be certain, but I think Malfoy's actually getting nastier. He's always been an insufferable brat, of course, but lately...well, he's just gotten more offensive.

I suppose the problem may not be entirely in him. It could be me. Conceivably. In part. Me, and the Potions practical I haven't started revising for and the History of Magic essay I'm completely making up because I don't have time for proper research and the Charms class I missed, and the 50 pages of Transfiguration reading I'm behind on and DEAR GOD I'M GOING TO FAIL ALL OF MY CLASSES AND END UP LIVING ON THE STREET IN A CARDBOARD BOX WITH A SIGN THAT SAYS "WILL TRANSFIGURE FOR FOOD."

It could be that.

But I'm going to blame Malfoy, because it pleases me to do so.

* * *

(Draco, 1994)

Third year

"It wasn't my fault I lost," I was explaining to Potter. "I was still disoriented from the head wound I had suffered at the hands of the rabid Granger. You need to keep a leash on her, Potter. She's getting dangerous." Potter was laughing at me. Bastard.

"Shut up, Potter."

He bit his lip, still sniggering. "I wasn't laughing," he said.

"I hate you, Potter."

He put a hand to his chest as though mortally wounded, then collapsed backward, giggling like a fool. (Like a fool, ha.)

"Potter, much as I value the blackmail material I'm getting from this, I didn't come here to hear you giggle inanely. I thought you had some cunning plan? Concerning a certain murderous family member of mine, possibly out for your blood?"

He sat up, seriousness dropping over him like a lead blanket. "I'm going to talk to him."

"Amazing. Potter, you've finally proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are more of an imbecile than Goyle. Congratulations."

"Look, Malfoy, it was your idea--"

"My idea! My idea was that you should stay well away from him, first, because he might be innocent, and second, because he might not be innocent, and is, in any case, a crazy man fresh from Azkaban! My idea was to run rapidly in the opposite direction!"

"Why would he be dangerous if he were innocent?"

Normal humans can't achieve this level of idiocy. It takes a Gryffindor. "You tell me, Potter. You're the one with the dramatic reaction to Dementors. What do you suppose you'd be like after twelve years surrounded by them?"

He shuddered. Could it be that I was getting through to him?

"Doesn't matter. I have to know. I have to talk to him."

Apparently not.

"Potter, you don't have to know. You could easily live out the rest of your life in happy ignorance, I promise you. You're so Gryffindor sometimes it's painful to watch."

"If I see him, I am going to talk with him."

"Then I hope you don't see him, Potter, because, despite myself, I'd miss you if you were dead." And I would. Curse it. "So this was your cunning plan, was it? 'Talk to him'?"

He sighed, looking put upon. "Well, what would you suggest, Malfoy? Kill on sight? I thought you were trying to tell me not to do that."

"How about finding a clever way to flee?" It's always worked for me.

"No. He'll just come back. I say talk to him, and if he's innocent, we're good, and if not, well, then we call the Aurors. Or kill him. Or something."

"Right. Carefully plotted out, indeed. And you'll find out he's guilty before or after he says 'Avada Kedavra'?"

"After, probably."

"You're just as much of an idiot as Snape says you are."

"Ah, but for different reasons."

I snorted at him. I tried to think of some way to dissuade him, but how do you deal with this willful disregard for personal safety? I can't understand it. Is this bravery, this brand of selective stupidity? No wonder the sorting hat practically shoved me into Slytherin.

"So. You'd miss me if I were dead?" he asked a bit shyly after a moment.

I glared at him. "Don't get a swelled head over it, Potter."

He grinned at me. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Bastard Potter. Why couldn't you have just stayed hateful?

* * *

(Theodore Nott, 1994)

Third year

I'm glad I was placed in Slytherin. So many of us aren't--glad, I mean. We all pretend to be, of course, because house solidarity is all we can rely on. Still. I suppose most of us dislike that near-universal hatred that comes with being Slytherin. I suppose that's reasonable. For myself, I find that warmer emotions aimed in my direction make me nervous. I think that means I'm unbalanced. Ah, well. I would say that it's all in what you're used to, but I doubt that many Slytherins have very affectionate families.

Take Draco Malfoy. He wants so badly to be loved that it sometimes hurts to watch him. I haven't yet decided whether I find him admirable, pitiable, or only pathetic. How does he keep it up? Indifference is wildly easier. In a family like his, I would think it the only way to stay sane. Of course, there's no hard evidence that he is sane. Rather the contrary, actually.

He cares intensely. He burns. He hates with a passion, or turns sick with worry, or laughs wildly when amused. Sometimes I envy him. I wonder if he can still feel because he's somehow stronger than I am? It must be a brave thing, to walk out of his room every morning caring desperately about everything outside of it, and feeling he must prove himself to everyone he meets--a conflicting goal, at best.

I haven't felt the need to prove myself to anyone for a long time.

That's something people fail to appreciate about Slytherin--that unless you're insane Draco Malfoy, you don't need to prove yourself to anyone, because you're already condemned. This is a luxury the other houses don't share. Take the shining example of the shining example: Harry Potter in Gryffindor.

Harry Potter is another who cares beyond reason, but it's more dangerous for him, because everyone is watching. He has to care, because any failure on his part is discussed and gossiped over and tutted about all over the wizarding world. Draco wouldn't survive it. To be honest, I don't know how Harry Potter does. He is a Gryffindor, and maybe that's enough to bear him up. Still, it surprises me...mostly because I'm sure he should have been a Slytherin. After Blaise found those notes on his relatives...no. Before that. I had first suspected it when he refused to talk about the Chamber of Secrets. He certainly did something heroic--Dumbledore was eyeing him in a gleefully calculating manner that was frankly disturbing. A true Gryffindor would have told everyone what had happened. I'm not sure whether the telling would have come from a desire to brag, a desire to teach others how to survive similar situations, or an odd combination of the two. My understanding is irrelevant: I have observed Gryffindors, and I know that the telling would have come.

A Slytherin, however, would not wish to draw attention to himself. He would not wish his enemies to know the extent of his abilities. He would not wish for others to depend on him, whether for leadership or salvation. He would not have told anyone anything beyond the necessary. As Potter did not.

Therefore, I say he is a Slytherin, and that his ability to care and survive the interference of others is even more surprising than Draco's ability to care. Draco, at least, doesn't have anyone trying to kill him--and I believe his mother capable of some sort of inept affection. Potter is not so fortunate.

Draco and Potter. Two boys from hateful families, desperately trying to win the love of someone, everyone, anyone. Anyone at all. You see? Their little secret meetings make sense, after all. They must know what the cost would be if they were caught...but it's worth it, to have someone who understands. I suppose it must be. I don't really know.

I won't be the one to ruin their arrangement. As I say, I don't have anything to prove. Besides, there's no point. Someone else will catch them eventually.

To extend the thought, we all die in the end anyway, so there's really no point in doing anything, is there? And yet, here we all are.

* * *

(Draco, 1994)

Third year

I'm basically selfish, and I don't feel particularly guilty about it. I identify with cats. I never took people seriously when they said they were more concerned over the welfare of someone else than they were over their own. I didn't believe it was possible.

Leave it to the sainted Harry Potter to ruin my life view.

I'm getting sick of this. I worry about him nearly constantly. Far, far more than I worry about myself. My only consolation is that this worry is a twisted form of self-interest. I would be miserable if he died, so I worry about his safety. For my own sanity. Makes perfect sense.

I would be miserable if he died. Why?

Leaving that aside, what was the fool DOING, going off to see Sirius Black on his own? I see now that sending Snape after him might have been overreaction, but, well, I didn't want him to die, and I certainly wasn't going to face possible death-by-lunatic-family-member for his sake (you see? haven't entirely lost my mind. Still have sense of self-preservation. All is well), so Snape was pretty much my only option.

Potter had the nerve to say I nearly got his godfather killed. I knocked him down. He gave me a bloody nose. Then we sat up all night glorying in Sirius' escape and wondering how he would feed the hippogriff.

I don't understand our relationship.

Summer and holidays are always the hardest. Time to think. Time to listen to Father go on and on about the Glory Days. I retaliate by going on and on about Potter. We drive each other slowly insane.

Wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick. Everyone thinks he's so perfect. That's what I tell my father. Repeatedly. Still. I never mention that he's not perfect. I never mention that he's reckless and crazy and funny and angry--and that that's why I like him so well. I don't trust my father enough to tell him. What does that say?

Still, I keep trying to impress him. I can't, of course. Not even Potter could. But I keep trying, like throwing myself into a brick wall. Where's the self-interest in that? How about the self-preservation?

At least Potter can't impress his relatives either. That's one consolation. We can be disappointments together, the Golden Boy and the Death Eater's son. At least he's clever enough to have given up on the relatives. The same cannot be said of me, though clearly I'm heading in that direction. After all, I choose to spend time with Potter. Father would not approve.

However, as I say, Father never approves. Will it be enough if Potter approves? I doubt it.

I wish he hadn't managed to save the hippogriff.