Refraction

"But I am not my father. I don't have to repeat his mistakes; I can invent bright-new ones."

--Lois McMaster Bujold

* * *

(Hermione Granger, 1994)

Fourth year

The World Cup was horrible. Of course it was. I think I was more terrified than Ron and Harry...but I was more at risk. I refuse to feel a coward. I hope they didn't notice that I was scared nearly senseless. I hope they don't know I still am.

Just to add to the worry, something strange is happening with Malfoy. I was wondering before, but now I'm sure. He's still an unbearable prat, of course, but... well. He spoke to us at the Quidditch Cup. He looked so odd. Almost feverish. "Hadn't you better be hurrying along, now?" he said. "You wouldn't want her spotted, would you?" Honestly, if it had been anyone else, I would have thought he was trying to give me a warning. Or, well, give Harry a warning. He was watching Harry, after all. He usually is. Ron distracts him sometimes, but that's all it is--a distraction.

Harry asked him if his parents were out wearing masks. Malfoy smiled, but it was such a peculiar smile. He said, "Well...if they were, I wouldn't be likely to tell you, would I, Potter?"

This was the strangest bit. I looked over to Harry, and he didn't look angry anymore. He looked...thoughtful? Then he seemed to remember himself, and looked angry again. So strange. When I turned to glare at Malfoy, he was watching Harry. Of course.

"Oh, come on," I said. "Let's go find the others."

I had to pull Harry away. I had to pull Ron away as well, but Ron, at least, was acting as though he wanted to attack. Harry just quietly let himself be pulled, staring back at Malfoy. I don't know what to make of it at all. I don't like it when I don't know what to make of things.

Stupid...confusing...Slytherins.

* * *

(Theodore Nott, 1994)

Fourth year

"Theo! Where have you been? Pansy's been distressed."

Blaise Zabini. Seems very outgoing and friendly, until you look at his ice-blue eyes and hard smile, and realize that he might switch from laughing with you to ripping your throat out on a whim. Takes the shine off, somehow.

"I was looking for Draco. He doesn't seem to be in the Hospital Wing...?"

"Well, of course not," Pansy cuts in. "Don't be ridiculous, Thee. The marvelous Draco Malfoy, admitting to being injured? Never. He'll probably get himself killed that way, someday." The idea doesn't seem to be causing her undue distress. "Professor Snape probably gave him something for the bruises," she decides after a contemplative moment.

Severus Snape is the only person I've met for whom Pansy has any sort of respect. I've met Pansy's parents. Also her therapist. My statement holds. Pansy once told me that Snape was the only man who had made more girls cry than she had. Whatever appeals to you, I suppose.

"He's lurking in our room, then, I take it," I say to Blaise. He grins at me in an alarming manner that might more accurately be described as a 'baring of teeth' than as a 'grin.'

"He's listening to Phantom of the Opera again."

Pansy snorts. "Honestly. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks he is one of the characters."

"Well. The Phantom," I say without thinking. Stupid.

Pansy's eyebrows fly up and she looks me over speculatively, as if she's wondering how many fingernails she'd have to pull out before I'd spill. "Oh, yes?" she says.

Oh, yes. I think the whole concept of being Slytherin counts as a deformity--but I refuse to speculate on other possible parallels. And I could ruin his life, social standing, and future hope of happiness by mentioning even that much to either of these two. It's not my business, anyway, any more than it is theirs. Not my secret to tell. Not even my secret to know, but I can't change that now.

Blaise is still grinning maniacally. "He is wearing a lot of black, lately," he notes. "Hmm. Maybe we should cut up his face, so he'll have an excuse to wear a mask." I try to ignore the deranged gleam in his eye.

"That's...considerate, Blaise. I'll just go ask him what he thinks." I flee to the sound of Pansy's laughter. The thing about Blaise is that you're never quite sure whether or not he's serious. The thing about Pansy is that she's always serious.

Draco's listening to 'Twisted Every Way.' He waves it off as I come in, as though embarrassed that someone would catch him at it.

"Teddy," he says.

Teddy. Theo. Thee. Where do they get these names?

"Don't call me Teddy," I say.

Long silence.

"Does this mean my Animagus form is a ferret?" he asks softly.

"I...don't know, Draco."

"Because if it is, I'm never becoming an Animagus." Defiant now.

"Alright."

"I hate Moody."

"I'm not surprised."

"I hurt all over."

"Yes."

"Potter was laughing at me."

How is that I'm the only one to have picked up on Draco and Potter? Draco's never been particularly stealthy.

"I know."

"Everyone was laughing at me."

Oh, Draco. "I wasn't."

He pauses, throws me a tight smile. "I know."

Maybe I should say something about Potter--about how loudly false his laugh was--about his worried glance back once his friends had turned away--about the murderous look he had shot Moody, which was almost worthy of Blaise.

I can't tell him. If I did, Draco would know that I know about Potter, and that would make him unhappy, which would defeat the purpose. Well. He'll talk to Potter himself, soon enough.

In the meantime, I can listen to him rant. Might make him feel better. Doesn't hurt anything. It's actually rather funny.

What a start to the year.

* * *

(Neville Longbottom, 1994)

Fourth year

I'm determined to do better in Potions this year. I will. I know I can--I revise for ages, more than Hermione, even. I just get into class, and...and I'm afraid, and then I can't think. Some Gryffindor I am. My parents would be disgusted if they knew. It's the only time I'm glad they're...ill. I never tell them about Potions, when I visit.

Anyway, I'm going to go to class early every day to study a bit before everyone comes in. It's the very beginning of the year; maybe if I start out properly, Professor Snape won't hate me, and then I won't be afraid. Maybe.

Probably not.

I get to the classroom door, but I stop before I open it. There are...voices? There are. Who else would be in so early?

"...after he turned me into a ferret." Malfoy? Is Malfoy in early to talk to Snape?

"Look, I told you I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have said anything about your mother." It's not Harry. Because it can't be Harry. Because there are things in life that are just true, and one of them is that Harry and Malfoy don't talk. They especially don't go to Potions class early to talk. No. Can't be.

"Right, well, Professor Madman shouldn't have tortured a student. Life is all about people doing things they shouldn't have done. If you think I'm going to apologize for mocking the Weasel now, you're wrong." It is Malfoy, though. I've hated that voice too much for too long not to know it anywhere...

"You shouldn't have insulted his family. You pitch a fit when people insult your family. And you shouldn't have made fun of his robes. God knows he was embarrassed enough before."

And that is Harry...but he doesn't sound right. When he talks to me, he's soft. With Ron and Hermione, he's matter-of-fact, or frustrated, or happy-sounding. With Snape he's cold, even when he's angry. Now he sounds bitter--not like he's mad at whoever he's talking to, but like he's mad at the world, and tired. Too tired to hide it, maybe. I've never heard him sound like that, never, not with anyone.

"Potter, if Weasley sets himself up, it's my duty to take advantage of it." I flatten myself against the wall next to the door, because I don't know what's going on, but I half expect a fight to break out inside--because Malfoy and Harry don't get along.

Harry sighs. Not an angry sound. "In this case, he got set up by his mother," he says. "Maroon and lace--honestly. She's not blind." Why would Harry tell Malfoy about Ron's mum?

"I might argue with that statement, Potter. And in that case, I was taunting his mother by proxy." Malfoy sounds a little different too, maybe. Like he's looking for a laugh, and not a fight. I don't think he's likely to make Harry laugh, though.

"Because torturing the hopeless is your job. Of course. Malfoy, sometimes I think you're a living metaphor for everything that's ever gone wrong in my life."

I hold my breath, waiting for the curses to start flying. My heart almost stops from shock when I hear Malfoy say, "The anthropomorphic personification of Harry Potter's Grief? Ah, well. Some days I'm not a great fan of myself either."

"No, Draco, that's not what I meant." Harry just called Malfoy Draco. He did. I heard it. "You do remind me of everything that's gone wrong--bullies, Death Eaters, public opinion--but you're the good side of all of it. Maybe you remind me that things don't have to stay awful."

"Oh, turned out alright, have I?"

"Sure, Drake." Harry's voice has turned warm, now. As warm as Ron and Hermione's warm, and amused besides. "Look at the World Cup. Look at all the fetching of Snape. I couldn't do without you."

A slight pause, then, "Did you just call me 'Drake'?"

"No. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You called me 'Drake'."

"Honestly, Malfoy, go spread your delusions elsewhere. I called you nothing of the sort."

"Go sit on the other side of the classroom, you bespectacled loon, before someone comes in."

"Fifteen minutes before class? Also, 'bespectacled loon'?"

"Granger might come in early to finish memorizing the text. Also, 'Drake'? Shut up, Potter."

"I just wanted to compliment your creativity. I mean, 'bespectacled loon'."

"I hate you, Potter."

"Oh, come on. Can't I sit in your lap for class? Think of the look on Snape's face!"

"To say nothing of the look on mine, if you tried to sit in my lap. Remove your person from the area, and, more particularly, from me. Now, Potter. Stop that. I am more disturbed than you know. Ack! Get away from me! Go, you wretched, crazy--"

"Spoilsport."

"Mad Gryffindor."

I wait for the sounds of quiet laughter and shifting books to die down, then I slip into the room. Harry and Malfoy are on opposite sides, staring at opposite walls. Harry looks up and says hello, softly, with a smile. Malfoy sneers and flips open his text. Everything looks completely normal, except that Crabbe and Goyle aren't here.

Maybe things are normal, I think as I sit next to Harry and open my notes. Maybe they've been doing this for years. How would I know?

I won't tell anyone. No one would believe me anyway.

I'm not even sure I believe me.

* * *

(Draco and Harry)

"So, let me see if I have this straight. The first three magical things you ever did helped you escape, humiliate a professor in public, and talk to a snake?"

"Ah...pretty much, yeah."

"Right. Tell me again, why are you not in Slytherin?"

* * *

(Draco, 1994)

Fourth year

"I hate him."

He says now. Bloody Potter. Getting my hopes up again--and then they'll all be back to gooey friendship in a few days. It never lasts. This isn't anger, this is...disappointment?

"He didn't even listen to me. Didn't even try...didn't even think..."

We're walking around the lake, and every so often he sets a plant on fire. I don't think he realizes he's doing it. Disturbing, that. Just as well the Dark Lord's return is a pipe dream, because if he did come back, I wouldn't fancy his chances.

"I have to talk to Hermione. She's the clever one, right? She'll believe me..."

You see, Weasley acted a twat when Harry was picked as Triwizard champion. Potter's surprised by this because he, unlike everyone else at Hogwarts, has not noticed the years of seething jealousy.

He didn't even ask if I believed him. He just assumed I did. More annoying still...he's not wrong.

"He doesn't trust me."

Why is he telling me all of this? Isn't this the sort of thing he should be whinging to Granger about?

"I should have known better than to trust him, anyway. He didn't know me--I didn't know him--why did I trust him in the first place? Why is he doing this?"

But I'd be lying if I claimed no part of me was enjoying this.

"Potter, honestly--you'd think no one you loved had ever let you down before."

He's looking at me blankly, like I'm speaking a language he's heard before, but doesn't understand. "I've never loved anyone before," he says diffidently, as if he can't imagine another response, but knows that he should have one.

All these things no one should ever confess to a Slytherin. I've never been trained how to react to them. Never. I have to fall back on what I know.

"Well," I say with a sneer, "I hate to horrify you, Potter, but people you love will always disappoint you. It's inevitable. You make them perfect in your head, you think that they'll never do anything wrong, but in the end, they always remind you...that no one's perfect. That's just the way it is. Adapt."

"Oh, how would you know?" He's stolen my sneer. Bastard. "Your parents treat you like glass! They probably think you walk on water or something."

"My parents wouldn't notice if I did walk on water, you idiot!" I shout. "My father doesn't even like me, in case you hadn't noticed."

My voice is shaking. Can he hear how much I want him to contradict that last sentence? I hope not.

I just spilled my most carefully held insecurities to an idiot Gryffindor. Sweet mother of Tom, it's contagious.

"No, Draco," he says, looking bewildered and shaken. At least he's not worried about Weasley anymore. It's an ill wind.... "Draco, I'm sure your father loves you. I mean, he's a bit odd, and he was a Death Eater, and he's pretty much completely evil...but, well, he buys you stuff and takes you places..."

"He buys me things so he can tell me how indebted I am to him. He takes me places so that he'll have more time to tell me what a failure I am. I'm not what he wants. I never will be." But thank you, Potter. Thank you for trying.

"But how could you not--"

"Oh, don't be stupid, Potter. You have relatives too, haven't you? If you were a good boy and cleaned your room, would they think you were great?"

"Well, but...they don't even want to be seen in public with me..."

"Oh, no? When was the last time you saw my father with me in public?"

"Beginning of the year?"

I wave my hand irritably. "Politics. Even Mother had to come. Before that."

"Well, Second year. I suppose."

"Yes. I think that was the last time."

"Oh..."

"It's not fair that I care so much about what they think of me. Especially not when I have reason to think that they don't think of me at all."

"Draco. Your parents suck."

"Oh, shut up, Potter. You have a fit when I go on about your parents; why should it be any different for me? You don't even know them." And I love them. Which is sick and twisted.

"Oh."

"And shut up about the Weasel already." And change the subject, before more incriminating information burbles out beyond my control. "He'll come around eventually. Or I'll kill him for you. Anyway, aren't Granger and I good enough for you?"

He looks gobsmacked. It's very unattractive, I note happily.

"Er..."

He's lost all ability to speak, and possibly to process thought. Draco Malfoy, you are a genius.

"Don't fret about it, Potter. Wouldn't want to sprain something. Practice hexes with me."

"But..."

"Now."

"Okay."

He's so much more docile when he's confused beyond bearing. I like him that way. I'll have to keep this firmly in mind.

* * *

(Draco and Harry)

"Yes, I had everything a little rich kid wants. Ponies, servants, expensive trinkets--"

"Massive psychological trauma..."

"Oh, that above all. Makes the less fortunate pity and coddle you for absolutely no good reason."

* * *

(Draco, 1995)

Fourth year

Harry Potter is whinging on about Granger to me. What am I, his bloody confidant? Strangely, the idea doesn't please me as much as it probably ought to--as I've noted before, I was never trained for this sort of duty.

"...and she says I have to learn the theory."

Even more disturbing than the confidant aspect: thus far, I haven't disagreed with Granger's instructions once. Now I'm going to have to admit this to Potter. Oh, the humiliation. "She's not wrong, you know."

"Oh, come on!"

"But since you're too stupid to pick up theory from reading, I'll just tell it to you, shall I?" It's worth saying these things to watch him struggle between being offended and grateful. Gryffindors. They're every kind of weakness.

"I suppose you picked it up from reading."

"Lord, no. Pansy told me." Bless her deviant little soul.

"Pansy? Pansy Parkinson? She has a brain?"

"What, has she not verbally assaulted you lately?"

"Well, yeah..." Of course she has. I told her to. We can't let the Slytherins start to suspect something...and besides, it's fun.

"Well, verbal assault takes a lot of wit, observation, and research to be really effective."

"Stalkers."

"Shut up. Do you want to learn this or not?"

He looks ashamed and repentant. I wonder if that pitiful expression fools his little Gryffindor friends. I'd like to think better of them, but, well...Gryffindor.

"Sorry." Right. "Please tell me, Professor Malfoy."

I don't strangle him. I don't.

"Picture what you want to Summon."

"Okay."

"You're picturing it?" No, he isn't. He's thinking vaguely of it, but he isn't doing it properly--he hasn't had time.

"Yes, Draco."

"Good. Draw it." Haha, weasel your way out of that, you bad visualizer, you.

"Draw...?" Mwa-ha-ha.

"From memory. Right now."

"I can't do that!"

"I thought you were picturing it."

"Erm, yes, but--" No wonder he drives Snape insane. Simple instructions are utterly beyond him.

"But not well enough, Potter. Draw."

"Hermione isn't nearly as crazed a slave driver as you."

Was I just compared unfavorably to the mudblood? Of course, being called a slave driver is hardly an insult...but Potter would think it was. I'm not going to stand for that.

"Well, that's why I'll be the one who takes over the world and eats her little muddy-blood babies." Watch him open and close his mouth like a fish out of water.

"Oh my God, Malfoy..."

"Just draw, Potter."

* * *

(Draco and Harry, 1994)

Fourth year

"I give up. Really, I'm not trying anymore. I can't do it."

"Look, Malfoy..."

"You told Cedric Diggory about the dragons. You told Diggory--I can't. I just can't. I don't know what to do with you, and I don't know what to think of this, and I don't understand how I always manage to lose when we're competing because you seem to be criminally stupid--"

"I just wanted to make it fair."

"Fair. Yes, fair. Good. Fantastic. That's sort of like saying, 'Oh, a Death Eater came after me, but he dropped his wand so I gave it back so it was all fair,' isn't it?"

"Maybe you should calm down."

"I'm calm. I'm completely calm. What makes you think I'm not calm? It doesn't hurt my soul that you throw away opportunities to win like a brainless freak--"

"Don't call me a freak."

"Don't be one."

"Look, it wouldn't have been any fun to win if I knew I'd cheated to do it."

"What are you talking about?"

* * *

(Pansy Parkinson, 1994)

Fourth year

Everyone hates the Slytherins, but that's okay, because I hate everyone. No, really, I don't mind. I'm used to it. Well, not so used to it as Thee, who seems to enjoy being universally despised, but, well, comfortable with it. It's fine. I never have to behave in public. The Gryffindors will hate me regardless, because I'm a Slytherin. As will the Hufflepuffs. And most of the Ravenclaws. And most of the Professors.

I. Don't. Care.

The point is, Slytherins ask each other to things like Yule Balls, because no one else would have us--and we would have no one. Draco took me. It was his Slytherin duty, so he did it, despite the fact that he is--I hate to say it--enamored of a Gryffindor. Don't know which Gryffindor, and, of course, he'd die before he'd admit I was right on the house. Or even the attraction.

Thee probably knows. Thee always knows everything. Sadly, wringing information out of Thee is like squeezing tears from a basilisk. Let's just say, I've never seen it done (and nor has anyone else).

Based on observation, I'd say he seems to look toward Mudblood Granger most of the time, but...I refuse to believe so ill of him. No, I won't believe it.

I like Draco, don't misunderstand. He's quite attractive, in a vulpine sort of way, and there's a certain pride of place in being trusted by him. Maybe Greg and Vince beat people up for him, but I verbally abuse. I am the verbal abuse queen. Sometimes a well-placed cackle is enough to reduce a Hufflepuff to tears. Draco will point and say, "Get him, Pansy," and then watch in proud amusement as I destroy someone's self-esteem. It's gratifying to have my work appreciated.

The Yule Ball was basically good. Our idiot mothers were somehow loosed into the wild and permitted to buy clothing, with disastrous results. Draco's collar made it look as though his head was mounted in preparation for being set on a plate. As for my wretched pink frills, the pain of humiliation is a wound too great to be rubbed with salt at present. Mother should be hexed. Fatally.

Granger looked fantastic. Bitch. Fortunately, she was dancing with a beetle-browed, Bulgarian duck whose only positive point is that he happens to know what to do with his stick--although not around Granger, I trust. I hear she isn't all that interested in sticks anyway--queer, since her two favorite boys are, well, obsessed. With their sticks.

So sorry, I'm losing the point...ah, yes. The Yule Ball. In summary: the Mudblood is a miserable whore for daring to tame The Hair of Death and squeeze her foul body into attractive robes. May she fall headlong down a flight of stairs and die.

Draco can't dance. I spent all evening trying to hide this fact from the casual observer. We did have a few entertaining moments, though, watching a Patil manhandle Potter around the floor until he fled to the corner to hide from (eep!) girls. He really is so socially inept it's funny.

Other than that? Blaise didn't kill anyone or seduce any professors, so there's a highpoint for the night. Also, I think someone spiked the punch, because my memory of the late evening is disturbingly hazy--or maybe I was just very tired, and am now being paranoid. Possible.

The exciting life of a Slytherin: if there is no conspiracy, invent one.

So, overall...the Yule Ball sucked. There. I've said it. Next time Draco takes his little Gryffindor lover, and that's final.

* * *

(Gregory Goyle, 1995)

Fourth year

Draco doesn't tell me anything anymore. Me and Vincent, he used to tell us everything. When we were little, he used to talk to us for hours and hours, all about what he was going to do and what we ought to do, and just everything. Everything we ought to know, I guess. Draco told us.

Vincent says he doesn't tell us what we need to know anymore. Vincent asks him questions, but I would never do that. Even if he doesn't tell us anything. Because he always tells us what we need to know.

After the Yule Ball, Vincent asked him where he'd been. He was late coming back, see. He was really late--everyone else had been back for ages. Vincent asked where he'd been, and he said he'd only been trying to learn something. He does that sometimes--he goes places to make sure the Gryffindors aren't up to things. Vincent didn't believe him, though. He thought Draco was lying to us. They were shouting at each other. Not really, because Vincent never shouts, but they were mad--I could tell, because their foreheads were all wrinkled up. Draco says that's how you tell when someone's really mad. He said I should know that, because then I'd know that people were about to hit me. I'm not as stupid as he thinks, though--sometimes they don't wrinkle their foreheads. Sometimes their lips go all thin. I noticed that myself.

Anyway, I don't know what they were talking about, but Vincent said, "Harry Potter," and that's not ever a very good idea. Draco hates Harry Potter a lot, and he always goes all mad whenever we talk about him.

He did this time even more. He said he didn't want to hear about Harry Potter. He said it wasn't our business, but he didn't say what it was. He said we shouldn't ask him questions. He said we were stupid. He never, ever says we're stupid.

Vincent is worried that he's mad at us now, but he's never mad at us for very long. He'll just frown for a while, but then he'll forget because he'll want us to do things for him. That's what he always does. Not even Harry Potter fights can change that. I'm not worried.

* * *

(Harry, 1995)

Fourth year

"Wait. . .you were naked in the bath, and Moaning Myrtle helped you figure out the clue?"

I nodded, cautiously. Draco bowed his head, sighed, and rubbed his temples. "Oh, Potter," he said. "Every time I start to think I'm not embarrassed to know you..."

* * *

(Harry, 1995)

Fourth year

It was just before the third task, fairly late at night. I was sprawled on the grass next to Draco Malfoy, and realizing with some amazement that this wasn't even the most unlikely thing that had happened to me during the week.

"Why can't life be normal, Draco?"

"You would be miserable if your life were normal. Besides, I told you to stop panicking about this maze thing."

I sat up and turned to him, indignant. "I wouldn't be miserable! I always like it best when things calm down. I like normal. Normal is my friend."

"Yes, normal's your friend," he agreed, idly shredding a leaf. "You like calm because it gives you time to get ready for the next crisis. I'm saying that you couldn't handle it if there were no next crisis."

"Thanks for that."

"Admit it, Potter. You have a bizarre love for tight spots. You never perform as well as you do when you think you're about to die. You're just designed for war."

"Designed for war?" I asked, frowning and feeling vaguely ill.

He looked at me sidelong, dropping his leaf shreds. "There are people who are, you know," he said.

I studied him, thinking about tight spots and getting out of them. I considered the utter emptiness of a future with no tight spots. He might be right, but...I wondered what it would be like to kill someone, to see life draining out of the body in front of me, to see the intelligence slipping away from behind the eyes, and to know that I was the cause of that. Designed for war?

"I don't think so," I replied slowly. "I like rescuing people. I like knowing people are alive because of me. I don't think I'd like knowing people were dead because of me. I don't think I would handle it well at all."

He sighed at me, and turned to pick up another leaf. "My knight in shining armor. And what if the only way to save hundreds--thousands--of people was to kill one person?"

I shook my head at him. "You know," I said. "You know perfectly well. I'd do it, of course." I paused briefly, considering. "I'd hate myself, though. I would hate it even more than I already do when people called me a hero. I think I'd probably go mad."

He was focused on me intently, the way he looks when we're dueling. "Harry," he said, and all the humor had dropped from his voice. He carefully placed his leaf on my knee, laced his fingers together, then looked back to my eyes. "If you mean to live until you're twenty, you'd best be saying 'I will,' not 'I would.' And for both of our sakes, I hope you don't get crazy, killing. Of our generation, all but a handful will be murderers by the time we die, on one side or another. You'd best face it now: neither of us will be among the innocents. You know we won't."

I did know it, and he was right, of course. He usually is. A horrible thought, but true.

Now I look around the Great Hall and wonder how many of the people eating there will kill other people eating there. Whether any of them will have been friends, before the killing started.

But maybe Draco's wrong. Maybe Voldemort won't rise. Maybe Draco and I won't end up on opposite sides of a war. Maybe I won't end up in St Mungo's. Maybe one day we'll be old men, sitting on the front step of Malfoy Manor, arguing about purity of the blood.

Maybe. Maybe the sun will rise in the west tomorrow.

* * *

(Draco, 1995)

Fourth year

This is the first time I've seen Harry since before the third Task. Since before Cedric Diggory died. Since before the world changed.

"Potter," I whisper. I wonder if he'll talk to me. To a Slytherin, to a Malfoy, to the son of a Death Eater. I really wouldn't blame him if he refused.

"Draco," he whispers in response. He sounds relieved. I can't imagine why he would. He slips into the prefect's bathroom, closing the door behind him. "I was afraid you wouldn't come," he says in a more normal voice. "I was afraid, after everything..."

"That I'd be pulling away?" I ask, the reason for his relief suddenly becoming clear. For some reason, I can't seem to force my voice much louder than a whisper. "That I wouldn't want to associate with the boy who made the Dark Lord look a fool again? Or with the boy who brought him back to life?"

He shrugs. "Whichever," he says, studying my face.

"I thought you wouldn't come," I say. He looks surprised. "Son of a Death Eater, you know."

"Ah," he says flatly. "I do know, actually. It doesn't change anything. Does it?"

"I don't know." This is not a time to be less than perfectly honest. "Is our deal still on?"

"Deal?" he asks. I can't bring myself to remind him. He must remember. "Oh," his eyes go wide, "that deal. Yes. In fact, I think our deal is more serious than it ever has been. Isn't it?"

Once upon a time--seems like such a long time ago, but it really wasn't, was it? It was only...a month ago, a lifetime ago--we agreed that, after the hypothetical war, the winner would do his best to save the loser. If Dumbledore won, Harry would plead my case in front of the Ministry, bail me out of Azkaban if necessary. If Voldemort won, I would get Harry away from the Death Eaters. It had seemed funny at the time. It doesn't seem funny now.

"Yes," I breathe. "That's...rather how I saw it."

He smiles at me, still subdued. "Have a nice summer, Malfoy," he says.

I smirk at him. "I'm sure mine will be at least as pleasant as yours."

"Always a difficult call," he says, sounding truly amused now.

I grin at him, then feel my smile fade. "You know we can't write over the summer, Potter."

"I know. At least we've got a week, yet."

"If my father found out I was writing you, you'd be reading about my mutilated corpse being found in an alley somewhere." I thought about it. "No...they probably never would find a body. He'd burn it, like he does the house elves...." I looked to Harry to find him looking back at me, impassive.

"Love nothing because we'll take it away from you, right?" he asks, blank-faced.

I feel my smile edging back onto my face.

"Right. Also, You are Miserable Scum, Not Worth the Cost of Upkeep."

Harry smiles back. "I'm glad to find our guardians had such similar values. Doubtless this explains our deep understanding."

"Oh, doubtless. What's our motto? Stay alive and kill all the bastards we hate, right?"

Harry's smile becomes a grin. A real grin. "Exactly. We can have a miserable summer competition in the fall."

"In the fall, Potter. Do try not to get yourself killed in the meantime."

He rolls his eyes. "Right. Well, at least I have you and Snape to watch my back for the next week and a half."

"Honestly, Potter, aren't you Gryffindors all about gratitude and that sort of nonsense? Where is that happy tendency lately?"

"Have I hexed you? No. I call that gratitude."

"Next time I send Trelawney."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, no? Just keep pushing me, Potter. Go on. House of the brave, right? Let's see what happens."

"Aw, Malfoy, you're just a big softie deep down."

"You will die horribly for that, Potter."

He shakes his head at me, smiling, then turns and slips out the door. The spike of fear I feel when he does is normal enough for me to discount it as irrational.

* * *

(Harry, 1995)

Fourth year

Malfoy. He's so odd.

This is the beginning of the end and things are all going horribly wrong, and instead of thinking about any of that, I keep thinking...Draco Malfoy is so odd.

He helps me train. He duels with me all the time. Hours and hours critiquing my form, teaching me new and nasty spells, laughing with me at the unsuccessful attempts. Why?

He carried my broom to the front door of Hogwarts during the First Task so that it would be easier to Summon, then struggled to hold onto it long enough to make it seem a realistic amount of time for it to have traveled through the castle. Funny that no one questioned why it hadn't broken any doors. I asked him why he'd done it, and he told me he would miss having such a rewarding person to taunt. Sweet. He'd miss me if I were dead. He told me that, once.

He refused to help me with the second task. Apparently he'd figured out the clue quite early on, but felt it wasn't in his best interests to share. "There was an off chance one of your groupies would drown," he said afterwards. "Why would I want to interfere with that?" Still such a bastard.

He and Hermione (and, of course, Little Crouch) are the only reason I made it through the Third Task. Malfoy insisted I learn how to dodge curses before he started teaching me new ones. He was right.

He needs to stop sending Snape after me. This time, I admit, it was pretty useful...but Third Year was just embarrassing. Horrible, in the long run. This time ... Draco hadn't thought much of "Moody" since the ferret thing--understandably. God, he was covered in bruises. I should never have mentioned his mother ... but, anyway, I asked him, couldn't he find someone who wasn't Snape to rescue me? And he said that Snape was the only one he trusted. Crazy paranoid Slytherin. But, well, after the ferret thing ... like I said, I can't blame him.

Snape flinched when I said Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater. Why? Did he think his name was next? Does he like Lucius? (Does anyone?) Or was he worried about what the announcement might mean for Draco? What the reality might mean for Draco? Lucius is a Death Eater again. It's not like he was a pleasant person when he was having to play nice for the benefit of the public. Now...well. No matter. No one believed me anyway. Of course they wouldn't. No one does, because I'm just a useless, freakish drain on everyone's lives, aren't I? The Boy Who Attracts Evil. I should have Malfoy make badges.

If Snape was worried about Draco, I could almost trust him too. Draco is ... someone to worry about.

It's been a week since Cedric Diggory died. A week since Voldemort came back. Just one week. You live ten petty, miserable years, and then suddenly you're the hero of the wizarding world. You live for four years in an almost-paradise, and then suddenly the Ultimate Evil is killing other people and tying you to a gravestone and taking your blood and coming back to life and changing the shape of the world. Fits and starts.

Sometimes, I have nightmares. Most nights. The usual sort of thing, I guess, for people who let people die right in front of them. Cho throwing Cedric's head at me. Voldemort tying me to the gravestone and force-feeding me bits of Cedric, and Cedric begging me to stop eating him. Me managing to save Cedric, only for him to turn into Wormtail who turns and kills the real Cedric and then Cedric's parents are there and they're crying and his mother hands me the Snitch and tells me she wants me to have it now and the Snitch is covered in Cedric's blood and I scream but I can't let it go and she says I have to keep it and Crouch is laughing and Voldemort is laughing.

That sort of dream.

Sometimes I tell Draco my dreams. I can't tell Ron and Hermione because then they'd be ... dirty? Tainted. Like me. It's too late for Draco, though. His father belongs to Voldemort. Can't get more tainted than that.

The first time, I just told him the whole dream through and I couldn't stop talking and I couldn't look at him. He had turned away by the time I finished. His fists were clenched. I thought, I was sure I'd lost him. I was crazy on him, and he wouldn't, no one would want that. No one. But then ... he turned back, and he looked like he was in pain, and he pulled me to him, and he hugged me. No one hugs me. I don't let anyone. Lately, though? Molly Weasley and Draco both. With them, I don't feel ... trapped. I do, normally. With them, I feel protected. Makes sense with Mrs. Weasley, but why on earth would I feel protected by a Malfoy?

I started shaking. My whole body was shaking, and he was the only thing holding me up. He didn't say anything.

I didn't have any nightmares that night.

He never speaks after I tell my dreams. Sometimes he holds me, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he looks like he's paying attention, sometimes not. It doesn't seem to matter. I never have nightmares the night after I talk to him. Sometimes I wonder if he casts a spell on me. But why would he bother?

No. Malfoy's the strangest person I know.