Sleight of the Yen

Draco stepped in front of the Mirror.

The rain was coming down in pressing torrents and lashing as if it were solid upon the windows of the grand sitting room. Draco willed his shoulder blades to relax; he could feel every pellet as it hit the window above him.

He struck a key of fancy and started to whisk slender, pale fingers across the piano. Each note resounded, soft and with a muted quality like the rain outside. There was a point in time where indignation was all he could feel for anything that came his way. Indeed, he had been a petulant little boy. And slightly chubby as well.

Nowadays, however, Draco found that he was much too drained for a front of affectation. He regarded everything as a petty amusement, something that wasn't really half worth his bother but that he spared a thought on anyway. Just because.

He brought his left hand in a single C chord while his right continued hitting sharps and flats and other keys, the same muted glow holding the notes.

So, similarly, was he to view the Mirror as amusement? A joke?

It was blurry and he could make out the blatant fingerprint marks of what he surmised to be months of no one cleaning it. A sudden image of grubby five-year-old's hands and grandmothers with lacy gloves, whose houses smelt perpetually of cats, grabbing at the surface of the mirror crossed his mind. Draco recoiled slightly.

What? So he liked cleanliness, so sue him.

The Mirror had shown him the first image. Yes, there were, unusually, three more to come.

A house elf padded silently across the room, its toga flapping out from behind it. Heaving a footstool that it pushed against the side of the piano, it hoisted itself up, expertly handling the hot teapot of steeped tea, just as Master Draco liked it. Upon the shining surface of the piano was a tray of milk, sugar and an empty teacup that had most certainly been full before. The house elf poured the tea into the waiting cup, its ears perking up to the deep strums of an alternating chord so skillfully played by her master.

"Master Draco, you is playing beautiful."

"Have you kept the milk and sugar?" Draco asked, closing his eyes.

"Yes, Master."

"Very well."

The house elf bowed low and left the room as silently as it had come.

Pushing up the sleeves of his soft, black, cashmere sweater, Draco swiveled gracefully to the tray and the waiting tea. As he poured a little milk into the cup he turned his attention to Potter instead. The Mirror would have to wait.

Draco stirred in his sugar, careful not to let it chink on the side of the cup. That was rude. He spared half a glance at the summer storm, then wandered to one of the sitting room chairs.

After he had returned from school, it had not been his mother who awaited him at the station as he had anticipated. It had been one of his father's advisors, no doubt a dabbler in the dark arts himself. His mother had taken sick.

He had rushed to her bedside and remained there for a total of two weeks while she coughed herself into raspy submission. He clung on to a piece of silken nightdress that poked out the side of the thick blankets that kept the grand bedroom forever hot. He didn't mind the heat. Who else did he have, after all, other than his mother? Draco was not ashamed to admit that he was scared. He had worked himself into an obsessive frenzy, insisting that he check all the food, water, clothing, and healing potions that came his mother's way. Surely, life's supports couldn't all fall away all at once?

Nursing his mother back to health had been as though he himself had gotten up from a head cold. Often times, he awoke, cold on the floor covered in feverish sweat. His mother's hand dangled out of the blanket and he would take it and return back to his fitful sleep.

What did this all have to do with Potter? Patience, says Draco. Patience.

It was during this time that one thought kept returning. He might be an orphan. He might lose his mother. What would it be like to lose parents? To have them and not have them anymore? Were there special customs for orphans? Potter was an orphan. Did he go through day after day of this uncertainty weighing down upon as it did now upon Draco?

After the nightmarish blur of the first two weeks, Draco had spent the better part of the last two weeks with a sole piece of parchment on his desk. It was blank. He was still waiting for a spark of inspiration that would bring him his customary sharp witticism and cutting comments that would actually be asking (like some absurd code) Potter, what the hell was biting his arse?

So far, so bad. It seemed the more he thought about it, the less sense he made. It had dwindled from Draco being able to put it away as Potter's customary insanity to actually questioning and caring why because no one could be that weird, not even Potter. Most importantly it had not been the expression in his eyes nor the tautness of his face but the dread in Potter's voice. The pleading in his voice. When had that started?!

Draco sipped his steaming tea carefully. The blasted house elf had made it too hot again and, since he actually needed his tongue to taste dinner tonight, he drank slowly.

Draco thought it was distinctly unfair. He rather liked his rivalry with Potter; it gave his mind moments to breach the mundane. There was always all sorts of nasty comments to shoot at Potter and the rest of the time could be put into good use with him thinking up those very responses for the next time they happened to meet. Potter had presented a challenge from Day One and now, like some spineless coward, he was stepping down, leaving Draco like a fool. Some Gryffindor, Draco thought.

Who was Potter to just take that away from him? He had no right to coax Draco into something and then pull it out from under his nose. Whatever it may be.

He got up and placed the half empty cup on the silver tray. He absently noted the Malfoy emblem emblazoned on it. Draco hit a high note of the piano in frustration.

And then, in the remnants of the tingling note, it came to him.

* * *

"Happy Birthday to me.....Happy Birthday...Harry..."

Harry whispered these words in the darkness, the tune in time with the ticking of his watch. Hermione had given him one from Swatches London for Christmas in fifth year, after his other one had stopped working at the Triwizard Tournament.

It was twelve o'clock and Harry Potter was seventeen. 17. 1-7.

For one wild moment, Harry wondered and wished his parents were here, and what they would think of him turning 17? He was a young man now, old enough to Apparate and he could drive a car if he wanted. Or a motorbike, Sirius would like that. He wasn't sure, though, that he was exactly the motorbike type.

The cobblestone road gave way to plain, weathered tarmac, as the quaint inns, mouldy shops and aging church fell behind him. A light breeze picked up as the shelter of these buildings faded away and Harry continued down the road, pulling out a hand-drawn map and his wand.

"Lumos," he whispered again. There was no one there for miles but the muting darkness, punctured by only the moonlight, told him he should keep quiet.

The map pointed north, the road he was on taking him straight to his destination. He could see faint lights as the town fell away behind him and the adjoining sectors of settlement began. He peered further down the road and, at the top of a little hill could see a figure standing in long robes with a pointed hat.

Good, thought Harry, he's here already.

Harry quickened his step now, his pulse beating the steady ticking of his watch. What would he see? Would there be anything to see? Maybe, like a fairy tale, the house would be erect again. Or, perhaps, a strange mist would surround it, protecting all the crashed memories within and preserving them like some kind of plastic wrap?

Plastic wrap, Harry mused, was not actually very useful though. It got all over your hands and kept sticking to itself and everything else except the food it was supposed to cover.

Oh my goodness. I'm rambling. Shut Up, Harry.

Honestly, he could be such a ponce sometimes.

He climbed the small hill, the gradation of the slope not very steep at all and was finally there. Harry was so excited, he forgot to look at the person beside him.

"Many Happy Returns of the Day, Harry," said a voice.

Harry jerked and tore his attention away from what he couldn't see. There was an opening to what seemed like a tunnel or a mouth of a cave.

"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore," said Harry, barely able to keep the anticipation out of his voice. "Thank You," he added to the birthday wish.

Dumbledore led Harry through the opening, which wasn't a tunnel at all but a very short enclosed area that opened up to -

"Harry. Welcome to Godric's Hollow."

Harry's jaw opened in disbelief. The non-descript opening of the mini cave had led them to another settlement entirely. There were only three houses, from what Harry could make out, each with ample lawn space and spread far apart from each other. The moon shone more brightly here and, despite the obvious sign of destruction, the trees seemed to twinkle. It was an entirely different place.

He imagined that at one point of time, it must have been rather nice. Now, however, weeds and ivy threatened to engulf most of the crescent.

"This. This is Godric's Hollow?"

"Indeed it is, yes. As you can see, it could do with some weeding. But it still retains its splendor. Only very few people can ever live in Godric's Hollow let alone invoking its ancient magic. Your parents were one of them."

"And the others?" Harry dared to ask.

Dumbledore surveyed Harry for a moment (at which time Harry deliberately crouched to tie his shoelace) then said, not unkindly, "Perhaps you shall find out soon enough."

Harry couldn't think of anything to say to this (even after so many years, he couldn't dodge Dumbledore's knack for posing odd statements) so he contented himself with looking toward the houses. The one closest to him had a small, fenced gate. It opened up to a path flanked by canopied trees, but in the dense darkness, that was all he could make out

Dumbledore went through the gate of the fence and Harry followed suit. He squinted as though the sheer darkness was getting in his eyes. He couldn't see anything yet and Dumbledore seemed in no hurry to explain. Unwillingly, the childhood memory of the green flash of light blinded Harry's eyes, his ears filled with the sound of the high, cold laughter he only used to speculate was there. It was funny how he had never really thought much about that memory until now. He supposed he was too busy trying to fight off Voldemort and avoid detention with Snape to actually worry too much about it.

Ahead of him, Dumbledore stopped, quite suddenly, and Harry was only just thinking how lucky it was that he maintained a fair pace behind the Headmaster or else he would've surely knocked him over, when his eyes fell upon the very thing Dumbledore had silently stopped before.

There was a house, derelict and crumbling. The roof's wooden beams had collapsed in disarray and the glinting of the grass told Harry that window shards littered the unkempt lawn, which, consequentially, was reduced to healthy heap of ragweed and crab grass. The doorway and the left half of the brick-and-concrete exterior were the only things that were erect. The shingles were reduced to mere dust and the entire house was basically a moulding, forgotten ruin. There were cracks running alongside the half that was actually erect though everything looked so close to collapse that he was amazed at the single shred of a curtain that was flying forlornly in the light wind.

Dumbledore said nothing.

Harry interpreted his silence correctly however, and moved forwards not quite in a trance but not quite within the realm of reality. His heart was breaking. Quite literally. He knew he should be feeling...devastated. This was the state that his first home had been reduced to. He supposed he must be happy here and it had been broken in one singular stroke of tempestuous fate.

Yet, as he drew closer, Harry blindly stepped over the broken door that lay on the pathway and stamped a walkway through the dense grass. Moths flew about him in a state of blind frenzy, just like his own mind. He knew that he should be angry, unhappy, any subset of sadness really. But as he crouched down to pick up a piece of unknown cloth, Harry couldn't help but feel elated. He felt lifted and his soul a mixture of wonderment and peace.

How would he ever be able to describe how he really felt? Like the autumn breeze that is allowed to blow after an ever-lasting summer yet unstable like the brief flap of a butterfly's wings whose one movement changes the world, says the Chaos Theory. All around him was all that Harry had ever known. He wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. He wanted to kill and love at the same time. But mostly, as he clenched the cloth tight in his hand now, he wanted to make everything whole again. He wanted to share this with someone.

Bound in time, perhaps by the earlier-thought-of plastic wrap, Harry got up and started roving in the grass. There were many treasures to be found: there were broken wooden handles of a mobile. It had shooting stars and Snitches attached to it. Harry blinked back tears as he smiled fondly. His hands found mulch that had surely once been parchment and burned picture frames. Their inhabitants were no longer present; they were burned to ashes and the glass was smashed to pulp. But the frame still retained the beautiful flowered etching.

Much of what he was looking at was like the frame, Harry thought. Everything was gone yet nothing was lost.

And, in this ruin, maybe he could salvage something of what he could find.

Dumbledore watched the young man, watched as the latter sunk into the grass and indulged himself with the strewn mulch, now only memories of what once were. He watched Harry finally get up and make his way to the house, his footsteps unsure as though he might break something precious in the process. As though there were something left. And Dumbledore smiled at the remarkable boy in front of him, ever lasting and most persistent in his search for love. For even though Harry didn't know it, in his blood ran the strength, the dynamics, and mostly, the love, of his eternal parents.

"Remarkable, Harry," said Dumbledore to himself.

Harry stepped up to what was remaining of the left wall and gazed questioningly at the brick at the very bottom of the structure. It was slightly chipped but otherwise unmarred and looked to be standing of it's own. Scared though he was, Harry put his hand upon the brick.

Nothing happened.

He smiled to himself. What had he expected? A shock of some kind? A whisper of a woman's voice in his ear? A peal of laughter?

Nothing. Harry just shivered at the cold brick and took a great steadying breath. He stepped inside.

Standing upon the threshold of the doorway, Harry felt as though all his life spiraled into that one moment. He could feel the jolt of the shock, the warm lilt of the woman's voice as it soared on the breeze, the peal of laughter that rippled on the lone, ripped curtain.

He wanted to go on. Yet something told him to wait. Wait to step inside until another time. Sometime soon, for sure, but he felt like he was missing something. As though someone or something should be here with him as well. Normally, Harry was a private person, savoring all that he felt by himself. But this, surely, was meant for someone else as well.

And he knew who.

Dumbledore was a little surprised to see Harry's face so soon. He had expected the black-haired boy to take his time. Indeed, so willing was he to give Harry his time that he was perched upon the fence in what he expected to be a long while.

Without a word, Dumbledore produced a sheaf of papers from his long robes, which were an extravagant mustard yellow tonight, and handed it to Harry. Harry hid a smile at Dumbledore's demeanour and asked instead, "So these are the property papers?"

"Indeed, Harry. As you will see, once you have finished sorting through exactly 32 pieces of parchment that there is white paper. Only 28 pieces. These are the Muggle forms you will need to complete."

Harry looked a little bewildered. "But Godric's Hollow -"

"Yes, Godric's Hollow is a Wizarding area however, in accordance with that, you must have also noticed that, upon arriving here, you passed through a Muggle town. It is somewhat like the village of Ottery St. Catchpole. Wizarding, but not quite. Also, if you remember Ms. Granger's words to you, Hogsmeade is the only entirely non-Muggle settlement in Britain."

Harry looked up and thought he saw a twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes. This time he grinned. "So, for Muggle purposes, I'm living around here somewhere?"

"Exactly."

"Professor?"

"Harry?"

"I'll need some time to look at these...and...I'd like to come back another time before..." Harry trailed off as Dumbledore reached into his robes once more and pulled out a thin, rectangular piece of beveled steel.

"This, Harry, is a an Area Key. It works much in the same way as a Portkey but without having to set up a specific time for transportation. You generally have to order these months in advance and they require that the Ministry does a thorough history check on the person in question," he spread his hands out, "But since it was me doing the requesting, it was fulfilled at once."

"You see, the spells around this particular place are still going strong. Though Godric's Hollow is just now deserted, it was a place only ever meant for a select few people. Your parents, being one of them, and now you. It is ancient magic that protects the area and, though it can be sidestepped for a few hours, the bonds between such age-old magic are never really broken. So you can never Apparate in Godric's Hollow. The Area Key shall help you with that."

Dumbledore handed Harry the cold key and he studied it for a moment. There was a dent in the upper left corner that had the rough outline of a feather. "Hey, there's something on here."

"Yes. It is a special encryption. No two Area Keys are ever alike. It is there for security measures as well as recognition." Dumbledore paused for a moment and then continued, airily, "The Triwizard Cup had one as well. The crown of it, in the shape of - "

"A serpent," Harry finished quietly.

"Quite," said Dumbledore, cheerfully. "Ahh, Harry, you see, the danger of being Lord Voldemort is that it must become so terribly predictable."

Harry couldn't help but smile. "But Crouch had said -"

"That it was a Portkey? I must admit that I had the same notion as well. He was mistaken. Voldemort doesn't tell all, everything. Even those who think they are closest to him are sorely mistaken. There is no one he holds close. He is self sufficient."

Harry tucked the Area key in his pocket and transfigured a nearby stone into a large manilla envelope. In this, he put the sheaf of property parchments (and paper) and tucked it beneath his arm.

"We still have a little time. Let me treat you to a birthday drink. I trust it shall be your first." It wasn't really a question, nor a statement and Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in amusement.

"Of course," replied Harry, his lips twitching. "My very first."

* * *

"Drink it! Drink it! Drink it! Drink it!" chanted the large circle of surrounding people.

Amidst the crowd of spinning Gryffindors, a hand with a Marguerita shot out and forced the tangy liquid down Harry's throat. His eyes prickled at the first taste: Ron had obviously gone strong on the level of alcohol. The salt decking the edge of the glass piqued the taste and caused Harry to try and suck his palate and lick his lips at the same time.

Everyone cheered and Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. He looked around and grinned through slightly watered eyes. They had opened the champagne merely half an hour ago and, by the looks of Fred and George's faces, it was all gone now. The crowd of blurry people soon came into focus again as his eyes dried and Harry saw the beaming faces of Ron and Seamus, Hermione's torn expression of joy and disapproval, and Parvati's jangling earrings.

Harry silently thanked his two best friends for pulling this off such a grand birthday party. And, moreover, rising to the task of getting him out of Harry-brooding-mode. The loss of those around him hit Harry so hard, it had blindsided him, sidetracked him even. He supposed he was still quite numb but thanked Ron and Hermione for erasing, even if for a bit, that memory.

Even that stupid Potions essay that was remaining couldn't damper his spirits.

This time wouldn't come back, they had told him.

He was sixteen now.

He about to step into his sixth year.

His death was not your fault, Harry. There was no way you could have known, Harry.

Blah Blah Blah.

We love you Harry.

"Yes! The straight-edger remains straight edge no longer!" yelled Seamus.

"Yoos! But we still need to work on his virginity." Harry spluttered his indignation.

"You should start a club, Harry. The Straight edge club," said Ron, a smug expression on his face.

Harry shoved Ron playfully, "It's not intentional, you know."

Seamus snickered. "Yeah, that's what they have on the napkins on the club."

Harry rolled his eyes and accepted a glass of Firewhisky from Hermione who was coming towards them, a range of drinks in her hand. She was holding herself differently, as though she were giddy. Harry guessed that Ron had got to her as well. "What are we talking about?" she said as she set down the tray of differently colored liquids.

"How Harry should start a club," Seamus piped up. "A straight edge club."

Harry looked at Seamus thoughtfully. "You know, that's not a bad idea. Maybe I'll have a wetbar in the back."

Seamus stared at him. ".....Can I join?"

Ron snorted. "Mate? Count me in too."

Hermione just laughed at the utter nonsense coming out of everyone's mouth. Now Hermione Granger was a smart girl and knew that two cognacs and two beers did not allow for anything sensible coming out from her mouth so she grabbed another beer. Ron flung an arm around her and said, "I knew you had it in you, Prefect Granger. Look at her down the stuff! English blood, you know."

"Bah, that's nothing. You're talking to an Irishman here!" Seamus proclaimed with slightly blurred hand movements. He was quite drunk. Harry grinned at him and excused himself to the bathroom. When he returned, Ginny had taken his place: he didn't know if this was the effect of his third Firewhisky but she was looking incredibly....incredible.

"What's going on?" Harry asked as the table burst into laughter and then immediately quieted again.

"Nothing," Ginny supplied. There was a silence around the table (which now consisted of Ron, Hermione sitting on top of his lap, Seamus and Dean on one chair with Seamus taking the larger half and Parvati sitting beside Ginny). Then, "Do you want to dance, Harry?"

Harry said nothing as the waiter plopped a Butterbeer on the table. There was the distinct possibility that he was a lightweight and thus quite drunk. Uh oh.

So he opened his mouth and said, "Sure."

"Why do you wanna dance with Harry so bad, Ginny?" asked Seamus, his speech now thoroughly slurred.

"Duh," said Parvati in a sing-song voice, "She likes him, you idiot."

Oh great, thought some rational part of Harry, we've descended to third-grade shenanigans.

"Grow up, Parvati. I refuse to be a part of this stupidity," Ginny said, not making much sense herself. "Have you never heard of giving someone an incentive to do something?

"You mean, like a bribe?" piped up Teacher Hermione

"Well, if you want to put in such.... unholy terms," Ginny scoffed. "Actually Harry, I heard that you're going to have a wetbar in your Sad Man's Club..."

Ron choked on his drink and Hermione's tinkling laugh was all Harry could remember the next morning.

* * *

Harry shrugged off his jacket and wriggled into a shabby grey t-shirt. Dumbledore had been kind enough to Side-Apparate him to his room. He suspected the older man knew that if Harry tried to get in through the door at this time of night, there wouldn't be much left of him in the morning.

Drinks with Dumbledore had brought him back to this time last year. When Ron and Hermione had organized a big birthday bash. And he'd gotten spectacularly drunk. Ginny had sworn he'd given her a lap dance. Hermione, once sobered, had blandly refuted.

He smiled at the memory. Of course, these rounds of drinks were much more tame. He had quietly ordered a small sherry while Dumbledore downed a generous pint of mead. He yawned widely and glanced at the clock. It read 4:00 a.m. Shaking his head, Harry decided he better try to cram in at least four hours more of good sleep while he could. Sleeping in was not something the Dursleys generally tolerated. Not of him, anyway.

So of course, just as he had decided on this, a soft whoosh through his open bedroom window announced the arrival of Hedwig. If this were all that had decided to fly in through his window at 4 a.m. in the morning, Harry wouldn't have paid much attention. But following Hedwig, Harry saw the outline of another creature soar in.

The thing flew to the darkest corner as Harry cursed and instinctively flew for his wand. It wasn't, however, as far away as he had thought and he ended up hitting his foot by the bedside table. His glasses that lay upon the untouched Transfiguration book came crashing to the floor.

"Christ." Then, "Reparo."

Hedwig hooted, possibly in amusement. The creature in the corner stirred and Harry realized it was sitting on the table he used to do his homework. As it turned, Harry caught sight of bright yellow eyes and had the good sense to whisper, "Lumos."

It was an owl.

It wasn't just any owl. It was a post owl.

Ahh. Yes, that would explain why Hedwig hadn't protested its entrance. Now fully aware of what was in his room, Harry proceeded to flick on the light switch. He heard a muffled groan from the next room and prayed that Dudley was still dreaming of banana split boats and chocolate éclairs.

Harry made his way to the owl perched importantly upon his desk. As he got closer, he saw that every talon was perfectly clipped and the coat of feathers were a glossy array of browns and gold. Taking care of Hedwig as long as he had, Harry knew that this was an eagle owl. And it obviously belong to someone who was either extremely fussy, bored, or rich.

Perhaps a combination of all three.

Attached to the bird's foot was a neat envelope with fancy, neat writing. Harry Potter, it simply said.

Harry sat down in confusion. There was someone who was extremely pompous and rich, sending him a letter at four a.m. On his birthday.

....Had Ron hit the jackpot?

But all the gold galleons in the world couldn't buy you good handwriting, Harry decided, as he surveyed the writing that looked absolutely nothing like Ron's boyish scribble. Even the handwriting seemed to exude opulence.

The eagle owl let out a quiet hoot, as if urging him to open it. Harry darted one look at Hedwig (he was sure that if she were human, she would be smirking right now) and turned over the letter.

It was sealed.

A black-inked crest with trimmed curls around the edge and a forked tongue was shrouded by what was unmistakably a large, heightened "M" on it.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Fingers shaking in trepidation, Harry opened the letter.

There was a quarter piece of parchment and on it was scrawled,

His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad
his hair as dark as a blackboard,
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.

Oh. Bloody Hell.

OK. You're going to be OK. Stop hyperventilating. Get a grip and stop acting like a prat, Potter.

Hands buried in his head, Harry silently cried out in frustration. Stop mind, stop, he willed. There was no need to jump to conclusions. This could be a wide range of things:

Option a) From Draco Malfoy.

Option b) A joke from one of his friends.

Option c) ...From...Draco, er, Malfoy.

Oh for crying out loud!

Harry didn't know what to make of the letter. It could have been a practical joke and, as he had never actually seen the Malfoy emblem for himself, how could he be sure that it wasn't just Fred and George pissing around?

He examined the seal for a good fifteen minutes, running his hands over the depressions and raised edges, trying to persuade some memory of the Malfoy seal to come back.

But never before had Malfoy ever sent him anything.

Could it, then, be that this was, indeed, a joke? And besides, said the part of him that believed in wishful thinking far too much, the emblem was such a cliché. The seal practically screamed out 'Evil-rich-family-alias-death-eaters-purebloods-unite'. Shouldn't Malfoy's sign be more...subtle?

But then again, it wasn't as if anything Malfoy did or said was with subtlety. Oh, the blond git had plenty of tact; he'd give him that.

He might maintain a haughty expression, most of the time, but whenever he acted, it was with grandeur and suave so that everyone in the vicinity knew. Harry sat down on the bed as the realization hit him: Malfoy never did anything out of place, never wasted a single action. Every action, every look, was well placed and purposeful, or else he wouldn't say anything at all. He practically bled aristocracy with every sweeping motion of his hand that was deliberate, or else not performed at all.

Oh god, you know Malfoy's hand movements? That's it, Harry boy, you might as well pack it in altogether.

The carrier owl had distracted him at that point by a little tiff that Hedwig and it were having over the water dish.

God, even the owl was a brat.

And as he looked at the crisp handwriting and glanced at the eagle owl's tantrum, he was sure. Certain, even. Who else could it belong to?

The question was, why? Why had Malfoy written to him? No, that was not exactly what he had done because writing to people constituted someone writing something that was theirs to share, a brief update, a short note. This was - what was it..?

This was a challenge, Harry decided that night. Even in the darkness of his room, Harry could see Malfoy's face jeering out of his words. The very fact that the Slytherin had decided to use Ginny's poem (her disaster, more like) was proof enough that he was mocking Harry.

Well, fine then, if he wanted to play this stupid game in the middle of the morning, Harry would be a good opponent and comply. If this was some stupid show of literary witticism and that's all, he would write back and tell Malfoy exactly what he thought of him and where he could put the piece of parchment once he was done reading it.

Harry scribbled a response, then crossed out his name and wrote Malfoy's. He secured it to the post owl and shivered a little, thinking about the Mirror. He had taken it as a sort of warning: stay away from Malfoy, or something terrible would happen. But what if Malfoy replied?

No, thought Harry. He wouldn't reply. He was just trying to get back at Harry for that stupid snake incident.

Even in his head, the words held an empty promise. This was something else. Question was, what?

Harry sighed tiredly. He was exhausted and felt weary and tomorrow spelt another day.

In any case, he knew exactly what was going to happen to Malfoy's next letter. If he answered that is.

Straight in the garbage, that's where it was headed.

Finished with securing the letter on (Malfoy's?) owl's leg, he finally crashed into bed.

Mr. Sandman, however, had other ideas.

Harry turned to his side and refused to look out the window. He angrily shoved his blanket to one side and stared at the desk by his bedside.

The Mirror of Erised showed a person their deepest wishes, their most profound desires. Malfoy was so deep, then, that he must have fallen out the other side, for Harry roved and roved and found no place that held any desire for Malfoy.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. This couldn't be right. He hated Malfoy. Absolutely loathed him. Malfoy was hostile, biased, errant, and the one of the few people he consciously hated. Harry never made it his job to force Malfoy into a position of discomfit but was always the first to laugh at him.

In fourth year, while facing the dragon, all he could think about was what Malfoy would say if he failed. All he could see (when he was supposed to be summoning his broom) was great big badges of "Potter Stinks" and the amount of variations that Malfoy could manufacture if he failed.

But to be the object of his desires, Malfoy would have had to change somehow. Because he sure as hell was never appealing before, according to the dratted Mirror. How had he changed? Had he even changed?

OK. Example, thought Harry.

Sixth year (last year), breakfast before the Gryffindor/Ravenclaw match. Malfoy casually saunters past and picks a fight with Ron. His hand (Harry later realizes) deftly pops a packet of Dogone - Diarrhea (courtesy of Zonko's) into Harry's pumpkin juice. Gryffindor had to forfeit the match and Ravenclaw won by default. All those days of hard work and practice in the pouring rain all down the toilet.

Quite literally.

No, he hadn't changed.

But then Harry remembered that, the day before, he had slipped a Nose Biting Teacup into Malfoy's lap. Maybe Malfoy would only have one child in the future.

But instead of loudly complaining to Snape later, Malfoy shut up about it and stumbled from the infirmary to the Slytherin Table that evening in complete silence. He shot Harry one contemptuous look and settled to having Pansy Parkinson fuss over him.

He hadn't said a word.

OK. So maybe he had changed. For starters, he wasn't a loud, obnoxious drama queen anymore. And Harry, after all, was the one who had started it.

Uh oh.

This wasn't looking good. Change of scenario, Harry thought. There are loads of things he's done!

Er....

Crude insults thrown at Ron and Hermione were always in surplus. This particular trait of Malfoy's got under Harry's skin; the ability to know exactly what to say to piss with Ron or Hermione, which in turn, wound him up. The way that Malfoy never gave up on the chance to trip Harry up.

Like in fifth year. Boys' Prefect bathroom. Malfoy hires Colin Creevey to take pictures of Harry backing away from Moaning Myrtle while in the bathtub. He then enchants said pictures with the wording "The Boy Who Scores something other than a Quidditch Goal" in the corner. He then proceeds to sell them, actually making profit out of the pictures as they circulate through the castle like house elves spotting a mess.

Harry felt triumphant. See? He's such a git.

Ahh, whispered his traitorous conscience. What about the time that Malfoy proved everyone wrong? What about the Gryffindor/Slytherin match last year? Harry closed his eyes and he could picture the scene perfectly.

It was the last match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Somehow, it always managed to be like this.

There was no uncertainty, however, when Harry Potter played. Harry had been sickened as he looked around and realized that no one really paid attention. No one underestimated him, there was never a moment of 'what- if?' when he played.

No doubt.

He thought he knew what they must have all been thinking: Harry Potter would win the match. There was no surprise in that. It wouldn't matter if the team played brilliantly or terribly for Harry Potter would save the day.

He always saved the day.

That is what heroes do.

And Harry had turned away from the offending Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. The Slytherins were cheering like mad but that flat look in Blaise Zabini's eyes as he huffily watched the match told Harry all he needed to know. Even the Slytherins knew they would lose.

Only because of him. Harry Potter.

Halfway through the match, however, Ginny's broom started to vibrate. Harry was so busy looking for the Snitch, he hadn't realized what was going on. Out of the corner of his eye, he was watching Malfoy swoop deftly over the goalposts and knew that his eyes must be searching for the Snitch as well.

There was a shriek on the other side of the pitch and Harry saw Ginny trying desperately to hold on. All thoughts of the Snitch now gone from his mind, he raced toward her.

But he never made it.

The very same second, beater Lucas Chase hit a well-aimed Bludger at Dean. Of course, it hit Harry first.

As Harry was hit in the side of his head, his vision blinded, but not before he saw Malfoy racing in Ginny's direction. Vaguely, a moment before he fell, he realized that Malfoy must have spotted the Snitch. The sheer irony of his bitter thoughts before on Gryffindor winning circled around his head.

This match was Slytherin's.

But someone would have to save Ginny.

When he woke up, Hermione had been hovering anxiously by his bedside. She had told Harry everything. The way that Malfoy had raced towards Ginny just as she could hold on no longer. He had apparently caught her, placed her on the ground, then, without a word, soared to the Slytherin stands and knocked out Blaise Zabini in a single punch.

"I said NO. BLOODY. CHEATING. You deaf ARSE!"

Blaise Zabini had placed a nifty hex on Ginny's broom and though it wasn't too powerful, it had shaken her all the same. Harry was inwardly ashamed that he had recognized the telltale look in Zabini's eyes but hadn't thought further.

The match was a draw.

Malfoy had never acknowledged what he had done for Ginny. And Harry was just as pleased because he thought he'd rather eat one of Hagrid's stoat sandwiches than thank Malfoy.

Harry shut his eyes tighter. So Malfoy wasn't that bad. He was like a Flobberworm without the slime.

Ahh. Is that the smell of an epiphany?

Malfoy had never exhibited extreme affection for Harry and his friends but, reasoned rational Harry, could you blame him? It wasn't as though the Gryffindors and Slytherins were chummy-chummy. Sure, Malfoy worked hard to keep Harry as miserable as possible but didn't Harry take pleasure in doing the same?

And despite everything, all the name-calling, the fistfights, the sneers and rude hand gestures, he could never see Malfoy handing a mere child a book that would take over her very mind. Oh, he could see him kicking a house elf around, but couldn't imagine him taking pleasure in screaming torture.

And Malfoy had saved Ginny.

Oh, he had joked about St. Mungo's in front of Neville. But he looked nothing more than bewildered as Neville had tried to launch himself upon Malfoy. No retaliation. And did Harry honestly think that a boy who would be the first to run away from Blast-Ended Skrewts could be a Death Eater?

Harry sighed in irritation and snapped his eyes open. Bah, OK, so he wasn't a cruel murderer. So? That didn't mean he wasn't a right pain in the arse.

His concession to this didn't mean that Harry didn't think that Malfoy was the most frustrating person he'd ever had the misfortune to come across. He didn't see how he could suddenly desire the cretinous prat.

Harry sat up in bed and straightened the blanket, which was curled up in a ball. One look at Malfoy could send Harry's brain into overtime.

A rush for the first insult.

A rush for the first spell.

A rush to get in the first punch.

Fighting Voldemort he could deal with. What he couldn't was allowing Malfoy to be one up on him. Couldn't bear Malfoy finding out he had fainted on the train due to Dementors. Couldn't let Malfoy beat him in Quidditch. If we get detention for being out of bed, Professor McGonagall, then Malfoy should too!

Sixth year, Dumbledore's office.

Harry was in here, yet again. Dumbledore was out of town, on Order business no doubt, but McGonagall had summoned him every few days to make sure that there was nothing bothering Harry.

No bad dreams, Harry? No. No sudden visions, Harry? No. Classes not making you feel ill, Harry? Are you sure you can go to the fucking bathroom alone, Harry?

He was so sick and tired of seeing everyone either flinch or worry as they looked at him that first term. Undoubtedly, the appalling events over the summer had had everyone on edge and unsure of where they stood. But, of course, Harry Potter was singled out.

Somewhere down the line of the first three months, his feeling of immense sadness and loss had changed rapidly from numb reality to bitterness and anger. And welled up inside of him, as even he didn't realize it, all it had taken was a smooth comment from Malfoy when Professor McGonagall left the office briefly, to spark Harry's reaction.

From mere insults, all wands forgotten, the start of a scuffle turned to a full-blown fight. Harry kicked and punched blindly, not knowing, not caring, where his fist connected. Malfoy, of course, fought just as dirtily, perhaps even more so, as he seized one of Dumbledore's ornaments and knocked Harry over the head with it.

And that was how the Headmaster had found the two boys: bloody nosed, broken lipped, dirty, hair and tie and robe in disarray.

As Dumbledore drew himself to his full height and spoke gravely, Harry remembered feeling angry, upset, in a wild rage with his heart thumping painfully fast and his chest hurting hard.

But it was different.

He could feel.

Harry got out of the bed and groped in the darkness. The waning moon had hidden behind passing clouds and it was dark all of a sudden. First it had been Cedric's death. Harry hadn't known how to handle it. The guilt. The grief.

He was alive. But he had forgotten how to live.

The summer after fifth year. The death of Charlie Weasley. Percy screaming that it should have been him. The flames. Ron's pain. Hermione's screams. Mrs. Weasley's anguish.

Everything.

It had all come bearing down upon Harry like a vicious Dementor, sucking out every happy thought that had ever filled his heart. And it had only disheartened him more to realize that he didn't have many memories to spare.

But during all the retrospective trips he took back, Malfoy had made him feel. An insane well of frustration, anger, sheer irritation, hatred, loathing. Everything so startlingly clear and intense in emotion that he was surprised that he hadn't burst during those moments of....well, those moments of being alive.

And Malfoy had made it so.

His desire. What did he want most? Harry prodded himself.

He wanted....he wanted to kill Voldemort. Wanted him to suffer as he had made everyone around him suffer. He wanted to fight back. Most of the time, the sheer incapability of not being able to do anything to help, drove Harry out of his mind but it had an adverse effect on him: instead of causing him to fight back even more, it repressed him. Memories loomed over him. He became numb.

But times that he felt the pure unfairness of it all, times that a sleeping monster within roared for action had been all the times he had seethed with rage at Malfoy.

Being able to see that maniacal glint in Malfoy's eyes, to know that he caused a reaction within Malfoy so great that the sophisticated brat could be reduced to something as primal as fighting, gave Harry a rush of sorts.

A high.

To realize that he really did wield power, if only acting as a catalyst to Malfoy's anger.

At least he could prod something other than pity, he could manifest something other than worry in Malfoy's eyes.

And that was power. That was when he felt alive. That was when he felt...capable. Free. Unrestrained.

Harry shivered though it was quite a hot night. The sun would be up in a few hours. As he leaned on his window ledge, a slight breeze graced him. Hedwig hooted and Harry was now bathed in moonlight.

He looked up. Realizing it now didn't make things any better though. It seemed that he now invested his life in moments where he sustained physical damage (thanks to Malfoy) and a wide variety of insults (also thanks to Malfoy). Somehow, this obsession to create a reaction in Malfoy, to receive one, to engage in something that allowed Harry to feel something, had taken over.

This had become his deepest desire: the creator of this feeling. It had surpassed his love, his want, for his own parents.

Life, it seemed, had come to a degrading standstill and the stopper in the bottle was Malfoy.

Malfoy was what Harry wanted. Malfoy was...important to him. He desired, needed, Malfoy.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Harry blinked tiredly. To desire something that he formerly hated...somehow, Harry couldn't stomach this. What kind of person was he becoming?

But everything made too much sense now. It was as though he had ventured into dangerous territory after being warned against it. But there was no turning back and every thought, every step, brought Harry closer.

To its acceptance.

And possibly its solution.

He had to figure Malfoy into all of this.

They had to talk.

If Malfoy was what he wanted...then he wasn't going to let go so easily.

* * *

"So why are we going down to Diagon Alley, again?"

"I told you already, Dray, the French Wizarding book suppliers are on strike. So Flourish and Blotts is basically supplying the books for two schools. Beauxbatons and Hogwarts. Do you want to use second-hand books?"

Draco wrinkled his nose at the prospect. "How is that you know the most mundane, pointless of things, Pansy? And don't call me Dray."

Pansy pulled on Draco's arm as they fought the crowd at the entrance of the bookshop. "It's a gift, I suppose."

Draco snorted. He didn't doubt it was. But Pansy, of course, was right. The store was extremely packed, mostly with mothers grabbing like Veelas at shiny new books for their precious children. Clearly, no one but the Weasleys actually wanted second-hand things. Draco smirked.

"Where's Blaise?"

"Sick," said Pansy distractedly as she consulted her book list and thrust two books into Draco's unwilling arms.

"This is slave labour," he whined. "Why didn't you bring one of your house elves along?"

"Draco! Just shut up. I'm fighting crazy old women here!" Pansy sighed in exasperation at the bratty expression on the blond's face. "Ugh, forget it. Look, just go to the back and get us a place in line. I'll be there soon. And give those to me," she added, seeing Draco's arms droop further and further.

Shooting him a nasty look (which Draco returned with one of his most dashing smiles), she left and Draco pushed his way to the back of the store and secured himself in line. He loved the sound of his own whining voice, he reflected with a small grin. It invariably reminded him he was a spoilt brat and loved it.

It was quite noisy and, frankly, being the start of August, quite hot. Draco pulled off his robes and relaxed in the cotton shirt he wore underneath. Honestly, aristocracy must have originated in Siberia or something. Why else would good robes be so heavy?

The crowd behind him pushed Draco and he lost his balance. He turned sharply around in protest and was only pushed further, so much so that he almost pummeled some girl ahead of him.

Who had a lifetime of bullying experience, Draco asked himself. Well, actually that would be Crabbe and Goyle. But he always initiated it, didn't he? So Draco pushed back amidst squawks of protest and resumed his spot in line. Unfortunately, he could now hear every word of the conversation the girl ahead of him was having.

He didn't particularly like eavesdropping.

It reminded him of himself.

" − don't understand why you didn't go in?"

Draco then froze as he heard the voice of the responder. He would know that voice anywhere.

"Oh forget it, 'Mione. I'll go in next time."

"Oh, Harry. I'm so happy. You better give us a good house warming party."

A low laugh. "Opportunist."

"I learnt from Ginny and the Sad Man's Club."

A louder laugh.

Sad Man's Club? House warming party? Draco supposed it was some stupid inside joke. Of all the places for Potter to be, it had to be here. On this very day. Draco could almost swear that the dark haired boy was stalking him if it weren't for the memory of how clearly Harry had wanted to get away from him on the train.

He wondered if Potter had gotten his little missive. Allete hadn't returned from the trip yet, so either she had only just arrived and Potter wasn't in, or she was returning, currently in mid-flight. Draco turned away from the duo, hoping that his hair and height wouldn't give him away. He was a good four or five inches taller than Granger but Potter was almost his height. The dark haired boy was wearing a worn out bomber jacket and jeans. Jeans, Draco noted idly, that actually fit him for once.

Fit him quite well.

He didn't know what exactly has possessed him to write those exact words. He just wished he were there to see Potter's reaction. What would it be? Would the idiot even be able to figure out it was him? He supposed the seal was a dead giveaway but he wouldn't ever put stupidity past Potter.

What kind of answer could he expect from this? All possible answers to his letter seemed to be past him as well so if Potter could manage more than a "fuck off, Malfoy" he would be impressed. He was careful not to let his hopes soar too high, though.

Just then, Pansy decided to make her entry and be very loud about it. Draco cringed as he simultaneously heard her yell out his name and, from the corner of his eye, saw Hermione Granger spin around.

Harry whipped his head around so fast he was amazed he hadn't gotten a crick. Oh fuck. Of all. The bleeding. Places.

Malfoy.

Pansy huffed and dumped some of the books in Draco's hands. "OK," she announced, "that's everything on the list. I got yours too. There had better be ice cream in this for me."

Draco bit back a smile as he hoisted the books higher. When she was finished checking the book list, Pansy looked up and caught sight of Hermione. "What are you looking at Granger? Haven't you ever seen two people that aren't the Weasleys talking? They seem to be everywhere. Oh wait, that's because they are," she sneered.

Oh, spot on. He had taught her so well, Draco thought. Two birds with one stone. He looked up (down, rather) at Granger and smirked in silence.

Harry narrowed his eyes. Jerkoff, he thought automatically, though Malfoy had said nothing. Just his mere presence spelt trouble. He gave Pansy a withering glare and turned Hermione away from them. He was damned if, after last night, he had to put up with anymore of Malfoy's shenanigans. And Hermione had done nothing to deserve this either.

"Oh, what's wrong, Potter? Can't think of a good comeback?" jeered Draco.

"Oh I can," he answered dryly, not turning around, "I have a standard rule though. I don't answer back to people with ugly faces and low IQ's. Oh Malfoy, that must mean you."

"Really?" countered Draco. "Well thank you, Potter, for correcting me. And here I was thinking that was your stupid boyfriend, Weasley."

Harry punched Draco so fast, the taller boy didn't have time to react. Within a split second, Draco felt the side of his mouth give way and warm blood in response. There was a loud gasp from the rest of the crowd as they parted to let the Boy Who Lived and some blond kid, fight. All the books that Draco was holding toppled on his bloody lip and Pansy swore, trying to get them off him.

Harry stared down in seething rage at the ridiculous form of Malfoy underneath all those books. When Pansy had pushed the books off his face, Harry could see that he had succeeded in giving the boy a bloody lip and a cut under his nose. Fists clenched, and ignoring Hermione's screams of, "No, Harry!" he leant down on one knee and pulled Draco up by the collar.

"Get off him, jerk!" yelled Pansy.

Harry's face inched as close as he could get to Malfoy. There was something oddly satisfying getting him to shut up and completely vulnerable like this.

But it was also horrifyingly out of place.

That moment of satisfaction passed and Harry wished that Malfoy would punch him back so he could get all his feelings from last night out too. If Malfoy punched him back it would prove that Malfoy was the one in the wrong and Harry could go on hurting him without any of the guilt factor.

Was that what he was looking for, a justification?

Malfoy said nothing, but sneered through his bloody lip, that was now dripping onto his bruised cheek, courtesy of several falling books. His hands were cold and clenched around Harry's fist that was clutching his shirt. Harry willed all his anger to pass through to Malfoy, hoping that the latter could feel how very serious he was. How he didn't want to be ever be fucked with again.

Draco looked at Harry with a blank expression on his face, but eyes narrowed in dislike. He loved getting a rise out of Potter like this. It was some sort of sick pleasure and he usually, he would fight back but the mere rage emanating out of Potter kept him at bay. He was good at his spellwork, but not foolish.

"Draco Malfoy." Potter's voice was low and cutting. "I've had just about enough of your shit. I don't particularly like getting dirty by punching you all the time, but if you ever insult Hermione, Ron or any of them in front of my face again, I. Will. Pull out your fucking intestines and feed them to dragons, got it?"

There was a cruel smile beginning at Draco's wounded lip. Harry roughly let go of Draco's collar.

He was scared he knew that expression all too well.

Harry pulled Hermione, ignored the staring bystanders, slammed some money on the counter of the aghast bookstore owner and left as quickly as he could.

Well, that had gone badly. At least one thing was established. He couldn't go anywhere now, without Malfoy, or one of his signatures, popping up. Would he have to spend his life like this? In constant fear of being ambushed? Oh, it was all that sodding Mirror's fault! Dumbledore, what was he thinking whipping it out like that?!

Yes, he had meant to talk to Malfoy. But he wasn't ready.

Not here. Not now.

Especially not with Pansy Parkinson and Hermione right there.

And he was starting to have second thoughts. Granted, last night his theory made sense. But this morning, in the light of Hermione's warmth and comfortable company, Malfoy didn't seem to factor in so much.

It suddenly didn't seem so important to figure out what was going on. If he could push out the feeling of unrest, maybe he didn't need to ever think about the stupid old Mirror again.

"Harry, wait up, will you?" Hermione rushed beside him and forced him to give her half the books.

"Please don't lecture me, Hermione. Not until we get something to eat at least."

It was silent.

"Let's do Italian," Hermione answered simply.

Harry stopped suddenly. He carefully put the package of books on the ground and, in the crowd of hot, grumbling people, he hugged Hermione. "I love you very much," he whispered fiercely.

Hermione leaned into the embrace. "I know, love. I do too."

"So pasta or pizza?"

Harry picked up the books and started walking again. He looked fondly at Hermione at his side. "Whatever you want. My treat." He might have understood if it was Hermione staring back at him from the Mirror. They were always lovely friends...suddenly turning into his desire would mean he felt something more?

But in a way, he was glad it wasn't. He wouldn't have Hermione any other way.

Still, it would be understandable. Not as crazy as Malfoy.

Malfoy.

"Pansy, gimme a break, its ice cream!"

"Exactly! It's cold, you dolt! It'll help the swelling go down and then I can heal it. So stop squirming so much." Pansy and Draco had hauled their purchases out of the bookstore and were now sitting outside of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor.

"If you think I'm letting you come near me with a wand, you're daft," Draco said thickly. There was ice cream dripping down his cut lip. It stung the cut, which Pansy had cleaned of blood, but tasted good nonetheless. Bloody Potter had really got him hard. He could feel the beginnings of a headache.

"Fine, do it yourself, what do I care! You can't go home looking like this, we both know your father will flay you alive if he knows you've got into another fight."

"As if that keeps happening," scoffed Draco

"Uh, excuse me!" said Pansy as she withdrew the ice cream.

"Hey! I was enjoying that!"

"You're not supposed to be eating it!"

She began counting on her fingers. "Let's see, there was the time in the Potions storeroom, beginning of term. Professor Snape kicked your arse so hard, you were thanking your lucky stars you weren't Potter. Then, there was the snowball fight that turned the freaking snow red − "

"Exaggerator. It was a few drops, from Potter's nosebleed, nonetheless."

"−and," continued Pansy loudly, "there was that time that you were both left in Dumbledore's office. Two weeks detention from Dumbledore himself! Need I go on?"

Which left a very unhappy Draco. "Oh just shut up and let me eat your ice cream."

Pansy huffed and obliged. There was a silence. Which was all the better, Draco thought, since his headache was turning to brain freeze.

"Draco?"

"Yes?"

"Potter seemed really angry."

"Wow, what a wonderful observation, Pansy. Order of Merlin, First Class, if I can wrangle it."

"Oh shut up, plebe. What I meant was...well, he's never that...well...usually you fight back."

"Oh!" exclaimed Draco, clutching at his heart. "I am hurt. Wounded. Did my frail ears correct? You called me a plebe! That was below the belt Pansy."

Pansy huffed again. "You're such a bloody drama queen."

"Mmmm..." Draco had gone back to licking the ice cream.

"Don't think I haven't noticed that you didn't answer my question."

Draco opened his mouth, no doubt equipped with a sharp remark, but Pansy was too quick for him. She clapped one hand over his mouth and swiftly took back her ice cream. "Just shut it," he growled in his ear.

And, for once, Draco obeyed, a small smile playing on his lips. As much as he could with a cut lip, anyway.

* * *

You're a sick bastard.

Do you get some sort of sick pleasure at people's pain?
I think you've been spending too much time being tortured in your dungeons.

Must be all the fumes.

What the fuck is this supposed to mean?!

Allete had just returned with a reply. From Potter.

Just as his letter had been, the piece of parchment wasn't signed. Neither of his parents were home, so Draco had gotten away with answering any awkward questions about one cheek being bigger than the other. The swelling had gone down considerably and Pansy had been able to mend his split lip but his cheek was still smarting from all those books.

What would he say to his father? I was standing and suddenly books fell from the sky and one hit me on the face.

He could see himself being disowned for being stupid.

Allete hooted and Draco turned to her. "You up for another trip to Potter's hovel?" he asked as he stroked the glossy feathers. Draco had received Allete after his old owl had died. Eli was an extremely reliable eagle owl but had died suddenly in Draco's fourth year. Allete had been a gift from Draco's aunt, Adriatis, and had made some of Draco's more urgent posts.

Draco cared for her immensely.

Allete cleared her beak with a drink of water and hooted again. With a small pat, Draco tied the new letter to her foot and watched her leave once more. For a while, Draco stared at the setting sun and all of today's events. He found himself awaiting Potter's reply with some impatience. He blinked and realized that it was Potter's odd behaviour on the train that had led him to all this.

He had better not get in over his head.

As it happened, Harry was packing his trunk when Allete arrived with Draco's reply a day later. She hopped through his bedroom window and Hedwig clicked her beak as if in announcement. Once Harry had relieved the eagle owl of her letter, she promptly flew over to Hedwig.

From downstairs, the commotion of the television and Uncle Vernon's exclamations about his work, floated up stairs. Harry took one look at the familiar owl.

The Gods were punishing him, weren't they? This was because he had laughed at Eloise Midgeon's acne with Ron, wasn't it?

He ran his hands over the fresh envelope with the new scrawl. He turned it over and remembered his promise.

Harry glanced at the garbage can, now full of the junk he had cleared out of his trunk.

But the waste paper basket looked so...well, so daunting and it was so far away from where he was sitting. It would take so much effort to get there. Since the basket was overflowing with rubbish, he would have to make sure that the letter was thrown so it wouldn't knock over the dust bunnies (from under his bed) and so that it didn't fall over because of broken quills that littered the top.

Yes. So it just made sense if he opened it, right? Yes, of course.

It would save the world from the Great Garbage Precision Crisis. Or GGPC for short.

Aunt Petunia would be proud.

Harry shifted his weight on the bed and opened Draco's letter. He thought that the events at Diagon Alley, the day before yesterday would dispel the blond from writing.

Yes, but did you actually believe that?

Oh, his mind was a treacherous place.

The meaning is clear Potter. My apologies if your addled brain doesn't let you decipher it.

Are you sure that when the Dark Lord tried to kill you, he didn't take your brain with him?

Harry scoffed. Oh yeah, because that was such a witty answer. "Fool," he whispered softly. Crossing the room, and very aware that Allete the eagle owl was watching him intently, he picked up a quill and scribbled on the back of the parchment. No way he was unpacking his trunk for his spare parchment to write to Malfoy, of all people.

Once he was done, he carelessly stuffed it in the envelope. Allete hopped expectantly to him but Harry moved to Hedwig. The snowy owl held out her foot obediently. "Never mind," he said brusquely to Malfoy's owl. "Hedwig will take this one. Bloody Malfoy has no doubt sent you on two direct flights."

Allete glared at him reproachfully.

Harry was good at ignoring. Years of Snape had given him good practice.

"Hedwig, don't linger. Make sure Malfoy gives you a response, then leave. I'll be at Ron's. OK?"

Hedwig clicked her beak smartly in response and, in a flurry of white, was off.

Harry watched her until she was a speck on the horizon. The, he turned to Allete. "You're going to have to come with me. We're going a little East of here. Once Hedwig comes back, you can return."

* * *

Draco complacently sipped his tea. He rifled through yet another book and added it to the mountain beside him.

Long legs were swung over the arm of the cushy chair he was in. He picked up a book from the stack he had randomly compiled to his right when a soft whoosh from the entrance of the library announced the arrival of a post owl.

Draco smirked. "I knew Potter wouldn't be able to resist," he said to no one in particular. "Stupid sod, no self-control. Must be a Gryffindor trait." He held out his hand expectantly for the incoming letter but, instead, received a sharp nip on his palm.

Blood seeped slowly, as if creeping from the wound.

"Fuck! Allete!" Draco turned in the armchair and saw that the owl was not Allete.

The owl was large and snowy, with specks of black sprinkled on the topsides of the wings. The breast was a pure white and each of the offending black spots seemed to bleed into the pristine white background. Large yellow eyes held a steady gaze and Draco felt his breath hitch.

It was a magnificent creature and Draco prided himself on being somewhat of a connoisseur of fine things.

He realized his palm was bleeding and began to suck on it as the initial admiration for the creature wore out and was replaced with something akin to annoyance. Stupid thing had nipped him! And it probably wasn't even for him.

"Lucius Malfoy isn't in," he told the owl. "Just leave it there and he'll pick it up." Draco waved a hand at the large oak table in the middle of the library.

But the owl hopped from the top of his armchair to the armrest. It dropped a crumpled piece of parchment and looked at Malfoy once more. Sucking his right hand, Draco folded his legs beneath him on the chair. He picked up the parchment.

Of course.

Potter.

This was Potter's owl.

This was Potter's owl?

Draco looked back at the snowy owl and, forgetting his wound, he gingerly stroked her feathers. The owl made no protest but did not seem to warm up to the touch either. "Aren't you a beauty? How did Potter ever get you for an owl?"

The owl glared at him, sticking out her head a little and clicking her beak. Ah, yes. That would explain the sharp nip on his palm: it was in response to his insult to Potter.

Draco relieved the piece of parchment of its crumpled misery and read with great fervor, as he absentmindedly sucked on his wound once more.

Why don't you say his name, you stinking coward? Scared of your master, are you? Typical, bloody, bastard you are.

It was amazing, really, the way that three simple lines, consisting of blatant insults nonetheless, gave Draco such a buzzing thrill that he could feel it in his very fingertips.

He stared at the letter.

When had this all started?

Back on the train. Potter had been all...weird. Weird, even by his standards.

Or, perhaps, it had started the last day of school?

Or maybe it happened during that fight in Dumbledore's office?

Or - Christ, he could go on forever.

If he was really honest with himself, this very crossroads had been waiting to jump up on him from the moment he had met Potter.

The moment that he had extended his hand of friendship.

The moment that he was being sincere in.

The moment he was snubbed by Potter.

I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.

The blood pounded in his ears as Draco relived the memory. Even today, after 6 years, it stung in the same way that it had when he was eleven. OK, so intimidation didn't work on Potter. But how was he to know that? Couldn't Potter have cut him some slack.

And the lame of excuse, 'but Potter was eleven too. What did he know?' was not going to work.

In the rage of the moment, Draco forgot about his wounded palm. He thought only of his eleven year old self and his wounded pride. His ego. His heart.

Not that he had really possessed one at any point of time, according to everyone who was not a Slytherin.

He seized a quill from the oak table and wrote swiftly, never one for messy handwriting. He would show Potter. He would mess with him as Potter had, so long ago.

Draco finished the letter and neatly sealed it once more.

To Scarhead, he wrote with a flourish. Yes, he would resort to childishness if need be. He really was a spoilt brat that way.

"Screw what it says on the front. Deliver to Potter and Potter only." Hedwig did not say anything. She merely accepted the letter in her beak and spread her wings for the return journey.

Could it be possible that Potter was dead? Because his owl seemed to be channeling his spirit.

* * *

Harry awoke with a start.

It was morning and he was sweating like hell.

This dream had been particularly violent. Harry couldn't recall any of the details. As usual, it was a jumble of heightened emotions and a torrent of yelling.

It was agonizing.

Harry looked over to the other bed; Ron's snoring seemed to soothe him. It was familiar. His breathing slowed as he remembered he was at the Weasley's.

Ron is here. Hermione came last night. Mrs. Weasley makes the best treacle tarts in the world. I'm OK.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Harry jumped but Ron, through all his snoring, didn't even budge.

Harry rolled his eyes and swung out of bed. He groped for his glasses but couldn't find them. Oh, screw it. You're not that blind, Harry.

He opened the door to a red-headed blur. Of course, this wasn't very helpful, as all the Weasley's had the same identification trait. All he could really vouch for was this was not Hermione.

"Harry?"

Harry peered and leaned through the doorway. Of course. It was Ginny.

"Morning," Harry said sleepily. Ginny stared at Harry's form holding the doorframe for support. He was wearing a shapeless grey t-shirt and striped pyjama bottoms that definitely clashed.

"You're...you're not wearing your glasses," Ginny managed. It was not that she hadn't seen him without glasses before. It was that she had never seen him without glasses looking quite this adorable. Harry was two inches taller than her and though his body didn't exactly scream "Macho man!" it was lean all the same. His slight build contributed to the way he looked so deliciously handsome this early in the morning.

Harry stifled a yawn with difficulty. "Couldn't find them."

"Why?"

"Couldn't see."

Ginny giggled. Harry smiled. "What's up?"

Ginny jerked herself back to reality and remembered what she was holding. "It's a letter. I think it's for you. Ginny chose her next words carefully. She didn't want to alarm him. "I think...it may be from Malfoy."

Harry's eyes immediately focused on Ginny. They seemed to become alert and guarded at the same time.

"Malfoy?" he asked in an inscrutable voice. "Why do you say that?"

"It's written To Scarhead on the front. Who else calls you that?"

Harry stared stupidly at Ginny. He couldn't see her but he could make out her expression. It was slightly bemused. What the hell did Malfoy think he was playing at, addressing a letter like that? Sure, Harry wanted to confront him. But not at the expense of everyone knowing! And Malfoy was going to ruin what he himself had started.

Idiot.

Ginny looked in confusion at Harry as he slowly took the letter from her. He seemed to be in deep thought and absentmindedly bit his lip, as he always did when he was thinking hard.

He glanced at the letter. Then, he started smiling. "This isn't from Malfoy. It's from Seamus. He said he'd write to me over the summer 'cause his mother's gone to Ireland and he's stuck in London."

Ginny stared in confusion. What? "To Scarhead?"

Harry gave a nervous laugh. "Yeah. Reckon he thinks its funny. You know Seamus."

But no, Ginny didn't know Seamus. And she didn't think Harry was telling the truth. "Well- "

"Thanks for this Ginny," he motioned to the letter. And with that, Harry shut the door.

Leaving a very confused Ginny.

Once inside, Harry slid under the covers and tore open the letter as quietly as he could but trying to make it fast. He checked that Ron was still snoring then finally got letter out. Golden sunlight streamed through the room so Harry could read despite the blanket on his head.

Now, now Potter. Just because you hate my guts doesn't mean you go past the boundaries of pleasantries. I know that being around Weasley has made you vulgar, but don't subject me to that. If you hate me that much, why the hell are you still writing to me?

He bolted out of the room and downstairs.

Ginny whipped around from making coffee and saw Harry race by. He had a quill in his hands and he ran outside. What on earth was going on?

Harry ran to the back and saw Hedwig perched upon the back door. Quickly he scribbled a response. In all his running, he had forgotten that he would have to send the reply back with Allete.

"See ya, Hedwig," he called and barely heard her hoot in response. Harry made a mad dash to his room and opened the cage he had hidden with a cloth. Allete slowly hopped out and took the letter dutifully in her beak.

Just as Allete left in a flurry of feathers, Ginny entered the room with Hedwig on her arm. Hedwig promptly flew over to Harry but Ginny stayed, slightly unsure, where she was. She looked at Harry, whose breath was faster and with a strange look in his eyes.

"Hi, er, Ginny," he greeted.

"Harry. Are...are you alright? You seem so...jumpy."

A little too quickly Harry said, "Fine. I'm fine. I'm good."

"If you're sure..."

"Sure. Sure I'm sure."

Hedwig hooted. Possibly in mild amusement.

* * *

It continued like this for the rest of August.

The strange correspondence initiated by Malfoy seemed to keep both boys on edge and on their toes.

Often, in disgust, Draco realized he searched the skies for the telltale form of Harry's owl or his own that would bring a fresh new challenge. A new way to break the monotony. He had never written anyone the way he had Potter and he was slightly surprised the amount of aggressiveness each of Potter's words seemed to pack.

Not that Harry was having a better time of it. Soon, he found he had just wanted to forget all this Mirror nonsense. This strange communication with Malfoy seemed to have lulled him into a false sense of security: his focus was now so much on the notes that he didn't want to look past them.

Of course, Malfoy had no clue about the Mirror. And Harry wanted to, no, needed to find out why Malfoy of all people affected him so.

Names were never signed, just envelopes bearing their names, and that too, for the owl's sake.

Draco regarded Harry's latest reply.

I used to look at your face and think that something went terribly wrong but now I have written proof. You were dropped as a kid, weren't you? Just admit it. If I were there, I'd kick you so fast for that comment on Ron, you wouldn't know what hit you, you freak. I'm writing in hopes that maybe you'll drop dead and stop answering. But I know miracles don't happen everyday.

Surprise, surprise. Did you think I had died? Was Malfoy's late response.

Drats. I'll uncross my fingers now, Harry wrote back

There was a point in time that Draco thought of Potter not as a boy anymore, but merely as the incoming notes. He seemed to be lured into something that he didn't know the way out of but he didn't mind that very much. There was something here, he realized. Potter's words bled something though he couldn't make out just what.

The notes to each other were blatant insults but slowly, they started backing off. Oh, there was nothing half-hearted about it. But it eventually evolved into something less vicious.

Potter, if even a hair on my head comes to harm because you were counting on my death, my lawyers will sue you for every Knut you have.

Pun intended.

Get a life, Malfoy. You were always a hypocrite: don't tell me my language is vulgar when your innuendos are sleazier than a sales wizard at the World Cup. And I bet your hair is fake.

I'll have you know, every inch of my hair is very real. And your grammar is terrible, I would think seven years of schooling would have taught you that.

Piss off.

Gladly.

You're a real arse, you know that?

Yes, you mention that about once a week. Honestly, Potter, you need better insults. I could teach you. For a price.

I'll eat Bobutuber pus before I pay you to teach me anything. How about I teach you how to shut your mouth?

In case you haven't noticed, Potter, I'm not talking. Nor are you. Be-cause. We're. Wri-ting. Let-ters. Is that OK? Have I put it in the stupidest terms or does your Gryffindor brain need it more simplified? After this, all I can do is point and grunt.

So that's where Crabbe learnt how to speak. From you. Well it all makes sense now.

Good to see something does for you.

Oh, sod off Malfoy.

Get bent, Potter.

It was now the night before September the 1^st.

Potter had not responded for a whole week now.

Draco was sitting with his mother eating dinner.

He watched the clock, the way it slowly ticked, each movement drawing out his penance. Oh, what was Potter playing at? Why didn't he just hurry up and respond, didn't he realize Draco had better things to do with his time?

After dinner, Draco refused to go upstairs and brood by the window like some crazy lovesick idiot. He had much more important things on his mind.

Like.

Hmm.

Surely he could think of something more important than going upstairs and sitting by the window hoping that his death wish of Potter's reply arriving would be fulfilled?

He watched as his mother silently made her way to sitting room with a book. She had been very quiet after she recovered from whatever she had contracted. Lucius had been in the Manor for a total of two weeks before he'd had to leave again. I, Draco realized, should be spending my last evening with Mother.

And so he picked up a book from the library and followed his mother into the sitting room. He was not, actually, thinking of where Allete was at this point in time. Nor was he thinking about what Potter was doing.

And certainly, a witty response was the last thing on his mind.

Nobody, Draco countered, was that important so as to stay on his mind for longer than 5 minutes? That Potter should have taken the better part of three days worth of thoughts in Draco's subconscious was absolutely unacceptable.

Really, he was very good at denial.

Like, no, Pansy, that top does not look hideous on you. Or, yes, Crabbe, 3 plus 4 is 34.

Eyes narrowed. Bloody Potter.

Draco would set him straight tomorrow.