Wishing Upon a Bloody Star

Author's Notes:

Once again, thank you to theEighthWeasley (Alex) for beta-ing this for me. Thank you for your dedication, I really do appreciate it xP

Also, thank you to the readers who reviewed the first chapter and told me that they couldn't wait for Chapter Two. That really motivated me in getting it here for you.

Last but not least, thank you to my friend/muse Rachel because you hurried the growth and development of this chapter. And there's actually a bit of a funny story involved. Ok here goes, one of the wacky things I have done: I was sending this chapter to my friend Rach and in the subject line, I wrote 'DRACO SEX!" and then because this was extremely late at night, I accidentally swapped the '@hotmail.com' part to '@gmail.com' and pressed the 'send' button before realising my mistake all too late.

So yeah, I sent a random guy Harry Potter porn (he actually replied and told me to keep on writing ahaha), and yes. Just some interesting (or not) background info.

Chapter Two: Dumbledore's Army

It's a strange feeling, having somebody that's not yourself inside your head, going through all of your memories. Your life flashes past your eyes quite literally. You see: Goyle crying when was ten; sucking on Blood Lollipops with Pansy as you both skive Transfigurations class; making fun of Professor Lupin's shabby clothes; thinking of the best way to gain Father's sympathy regarding the matter of maniac gamekeepers and hippogriffs; taunting Weasley and watching him grow red-faced and more unattractive as Potter and Granger restrain him.... These are things that you have almost forgotten. You remember that they've happened but you can't recall them specifically. They're insignificant in the grand scheme that is Draco Malfoy.

Suddenly, past Draco stops laughing. Past Draco walks along the hallway to the Great Hall.

Your heart skips a beat. Your blood runs cold. You don't want Snape to see this.

Somehow Snape senses this, and instead of skipping this memory like he does with all the others, he moves in (for the kill) and you find yourself in a three dimensional world, watching yourself stride through, Snape's arm on your wrist.

Oh God. It's like watching a Quidditch accident.

No, that analogy is actually faulty, because you don't really mind Quidditch accidents. After all, they are a source of entertainment - that is, when they're not happening to you.

Past Draco walks, footsteps echoing, and there and then, he comes upon Longbottom. Longbottom is sitting there crying, like the pathetic fat baby he is. His face is streaked with dirt and tears.

Snape cannot see this. You try to push him away. This memory is too... too something. But Snape, sensing the discomfort plunges in, dissolving any weak barriers.

"Please," you whisper to him. "Not this."

"Be quiet, Malfoy," Snape whispers back harshly, and his grip has just got a whole lot tighter, cutting off circulation.

You want to sink in the floor and die. You have never felt like this before. All your life, you have always felt superior to everything. Now....

Longbottom looks up, sniffing.

The Draco back then is smiling, and that smile will only grow wider. "Why Longbottom," he drawls. "Are you crying?" he adds with a mocking smile on his face.

Longbottom glares, eyes rimmed with red. "Yes, what does it look like?"

Past-Draco looks slightly taken aback, but quickly switches tune. "Yeah, I figured that out, I'm not stupid. So, why are you crying?"

"Go away," snarls Longbottom. "Leave me alone.""No." Past Draco looks incredulous. "What, are you kidding me here? This is a show, Longbottom. Well, not really, considering that you cry nearly all the time," he adds as an afterthought. "I guess you have a lot to cry about.""What do you mean?"Past Draco shrugs. "Well, I hate to say this - actually, I don't, but everybody hates you. Even your friends, they're only there because they feel sorry for you like everybody else. I'm just telling you this because I don't think you should be missing out on the fun, but you know just as well as I do, that it's true."

Longbottom makes a sound so animalistic, it's unrecognisable from him. "Shut up, Malfoy," he croaks. "At least... at least I'm not pathetic like you. I don't crawl to my dad like you do, and I'm not an evil, spiteful little git like you."

Past Draco is enjoying this. "Evil is perspective, Longbottom," he says smoothly. "And anyway, please, Longbottom, please don't get angry," he pleads, eyes shining maliciously. "Because at least my father recognises me. It'd take more than a few Crucios to drive him insane."

Longbottom snarls and Past Draco turns away.

Then comes the moment which almost makes your heart stop. The golden moment.

"If I were you, Longbottom...which I hope never happens," Past Draco says very clearly, back towards Longbottom, speaking each word slowly so that Longbottom doesn't miss anything, "I would think of killing myself. Because I would rather die than be you. Don't think I'm telling you all of this because I'm, what was it? An evil, spiteful little git? Because I'm just telling you the truth; because I really don't care whether you're happy or not.

"Your life isn't worth anything, Longbottom. You're some fat, useless boy who's only good at Herbology. Herbology. Nobody cares. You should go drown yourself or something," Past Draco adds, brilliant smile on his face.

Past Draco walks away, triumphant, man of the match. Neville Longbottom runs in the other direction.

*

Snape looks grim, but you suspect that underneath the black, black eyes he is triumphant. About what, you don't know. Because he has nothing to be triumphant about.

"Is that the day Longbottom died?" he asks.

You look anywhere, but him. "Yes," you murmur softly.

"And how did he die?"

You glare at Snape for making you relive this. It was bad enough first time round. Is he trying to lay on the guilt? You mumble something.

"What was that?"

"He..." You find your voice. "He drowned himself. In the lake."

"Did he now? You gave him the idea, didn't you?" Snape smiles strangely.

"Of course not," you snap. "I'm not a murderer."

"Then why were you so reluctant to show me this memory?"

"I--" You falter. "I didn't want to give you the wrong impression. Sir."

"Because you feel guilty," he states emotionlessly. "Is that why?"

"This memory means nothing to me!" you persist stubbornly, trying to convince the both of you that Longbottom's suicide had nothing to do with your taunts. You hate Longbottom for being so weak and for being a coward, and for dying in such a stupid way. You hate Snape for digging into your memories, pervading your thoughts. You even hate yourself and your stupid fat mouth, and the verbal diarrhoea that you spew.

Snape gives you a look, and that feeling of dread which has hung over you ominously like a fat storm cloud cracks and rains upon you. You know that you're doomed. You know that look well. You've seen it so often that you dream about it; you see it every time in the mirror, staring right back at you. It's that look of superiority, like everything else in the world deserves to kneel and kiss your feet.

"You're right, Draco. It means nothing. Which is why you will not object if I take it to the Headmaster?"

Your mouth turns dry at the thought. You can't even feel your tongue anymore. "Why would you?" you laugh, trying to turn it all into a joke. "Why would you, Professor Snape, head of Slytherin House, do such a thing?"

"Do not tell me what I can and cannot do," Snape hisses dangerously. "I am not Mr Goyle, nor Mr Crabbe. I am not your House-elf, nor your mother. Do not think you can influence me to do your bidding. I live for myself." He glares at you. "But I am a reasonable man."

He stands up. "Draco, I am one who believes in fairness. Thus, it is only fair that I demand a price for what I am going to teach you. I want something in return."

"But I didn't even ask for your help!" you cry out, stung by the whole injustice of the situation. "I'm not sure whether I even want to learn," you add petulantly.

"Oh, I will teach you regardless of whether you want to learn," sneers Snape. "It is a debt I owe to your father, and I intend to repay it, good as my word. But that memory of yours.... Interesting, isn't it? I'm sure Augusta Longbottom would pay good money to see her grandson's murderer behind bars. In Azkaban where he belongs, with the rest of his family."

"I'll pay you," you say hoarsely. "How much? I have money. I come of age this year. Plus, I didn't murder Longbottom. He left a suicide note."

"If you didn't taunt him, he wouldn't have done it," states Snape flatly. As usual, he drives the knife to the point and twists it. "And anyway, I do not want your money. Call me deranged, but there are other things I prefer."

"What do you want then?" you ask fearfully. What does he want? the little voice inside your head hisses. To be the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor? Sex all day and night long? Potter's head on a platter? The world?

Then he says something totally unexpected. "Your obedience."

"My what?" you squawk, somewhat taken aback. "You want my what?"

"Your obedience," he repeats, looking faintly amused. "You must follow my instructions, do what you're told. If I told you I wanted you to go jump from the Astronomy Tower, what would you do?"

"Jump?" you offer hesitantly. But surely he's not implying...

"Of course I will not ask you to jump," he goes on, quelling your fears. "It is merely an analogy. Let's try again. If I wanted you to drink poison, what would you do?"

Technically you'd refuse and then dump the poison over his unreasonable head, but that doesn't seem to be the answer he's looking for, so you just settle for a vague "I'd drink it".

"You have got the idea, I see," says Snape heavily, with the air of a martyr. Some martyr.

"You will give me your full obedience. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," you murmur. With a proposal like that, how could anyone refuse?

"So what if I asked you to join Potter's DA group?"

"Dumbledore's Army?" you ask incredulously. "I mean, yes sir, I would join, but seriously, you want me to join Dumbledore's Army?"

"Yes, I want you to join it, whether or not you like the name. After I dismiss you, you are to go and confront Potter. You are to convince him to let you join and if you press the correct buttons, it will not prove to be too difficult. You are then to attend every meeting, pay the strictest attention to all detail and then report back to me when I next call for you. Do you understand?" Snape says this all smoothly, as if he has done this so many times, it has started to bore him.

Cold realisation enlightens you, resulting in your mouth closing. "I understand," you say, brusquely. "Sir," you add, just so you don't sound rude.

He is using you to be his spy. Ingenious. Then you remember that your task is to grovel at Potter's feet just so that you're granted VIP entry into his stupid club.

Oh, shit.

Snape notices the disgusted expression on your face. "I told you to empty your mind!" he snaps.

*

Harry was in the boys' changing rooms, showering after a particularly gruelling practice. As usual, it had been terrible. He couldn't figure out what was wrong. They were all at the top of their form but somehow, they just couldn't play together.

Being Captain was not a glorious job. Harry had no idea how Oliver Wood made it look so easy. Of course Wood was crazy to boot, so that might have been an... what the hell was Malfoy doing here?

"What the hell are you doing here?" he yelped, suddenly very conscious of being covered only in a towel.

"Keep the towel tighter, Potter," sneered Malfoy. "Otherwise I might be scarred by what I see. Scarred as in mentally traumatised, not scarred as in having a disfiguring freakish lightning bo--" He stopped himself, and Harry could only blink at the sudden change of tone.

"I mean," said Malfoy in a restrained voice, "I was thinking."

"That's wonderful," said Harry slowly. "And what has it got to do with me?"

"Well, I was thinking about you," pointed out Malfoy.

Harry felt his cheeks burn. "Um?"

"No, not about you!" began Malfoy furiously. "Gross! No, I was thinking about, uh, Dumbledore's Army, my God that's the stupidest name ever, who named it, by the way?"

"Ginny," said Harry, automatically putting the blame on where it belonged. His mind was spinning, little unseen wheels revolving making click-click sounds. Wow. Malfoy wanted to join the DA? What? WHAT? Malfoy wanted to join HIS DA?

"NO," said Harry loudly. "No," he added, to bring strength to his argument. Emphasis was always good, in case it didn't get through Malfoy's thick skull the first and second time round.

"No?" echoed Malfoy.

"No," repeated Harry sternly.

"NO?" Malfoy was determined to serve as a Greek chorus.

"No," reiterated Harry. Quite frankly, this was getting quite ridiculous. But it was the most civil conversation he had ever had with Malfoy.

"You total discriminating bastard!" cried Malfoy.

Okay, so maybe not the most civil conversation in history.

"Why this sudden desire to do the right thing?" Harry asked suspiciously. "Why the sudden urge to break tradition? What would your father say? Oh sh-- " He realised his error.

"My father's dead," said Malfoy flatly. Then he stopped, and an unreadable expression came over his face. "Yes..." He paused slowly, looking as if he was thinking about something. "My father is DEAD!"

"I know," said Harry. "I heard you the first time. I'm sorry, okay?"

"He's dead," continued Malfoy blithely, sounding way too upbeat given his situation. "My one and only father is gone. And it is all the D--Lord...Thingy's fault. I want him to die. I want him to pay for my father's death. My father died a horrible, horrible death. Eviscerated. Coagulated. I must get revenge for my father's death." He took a deep breath and Harry had a niggling feeling that he was being joshed.

"Okay..." He frowned. "But Hermione told me that he died peacefully. In his sleep. It was in the Daily Prophet."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I thought you would know better and not trust everything you read, Potter," he said acidly. "Do the words 'Rita Skeeter' ring a bell in your thi--head, Potter?"

"And whose fault is that?" Harry felt pissed off, all of a sudden. "Do you really think I'll welcome you with open arms? This is you, Malfoy. In my first year, you set Filch on me and got me a detention. Remember the Forbidden Forest and how you screamed like a girl when we saw Quirrel? In my second year, you were an utter git and you wanted one of my best friends to die. In my third year, you tried to get Hagrid sacked and Buckbeak executed. In my fourth year, you made badges about me and then told nasty little stories to the press so that the whole world could laugh at me. In my fifth year, you joined Umbridge and formed your nasty Inquisitorial Squad that made life hell and you got...." At this point, Harry decided to stop ranting and instead fixed Malfoy with a nasty look. He had a feeling that his passionate speech hadn't gone through Malfoy's thick head, for the other boy was staring at him with a misty-eyed expression.

"Yes," Malfoy began, "I did all those things. Except for the screaming like a girl bit."

"You've humiliated me, hurt me, humiliated my friends, hurt my friends, been really, really annoying..." Harry started to tick off all the grievances Malfoy had done him over the span of six years. "So, do you see why I hate you and why I refuse to let you into the DA?"

Malfoy shrugged. "You let Zacharias Smith - that Hufflepuff Quidditch player -- in, and the other day, he said some really unkind things about you."

"He was first batch," said Harry. "And he's just a jerk. He doesn't support Voldemort, though."

"I don't support him," said Malfoy quietly, looking thoughtful.

"Who? Zacharias?" Harry asked, feigning ignorance.

Malfoy looked annoyed. "No. The--You-Know-Who. I don't support him." He bit his lip.

Harry surveyed him with hawkish eyes. "Say his name," he said suddenly. It was the perfect test, and he was rather proud of himself for thinking of it.

"What?" snapped Malfoy, caught unawares. "Don't be stupid. Nobody says his name, not even the Slytherins. And some of them openly support him."

"Say his name and I'll know that you're ready to fight him. Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself," persisted Harry. He turned to leave.

"Wait. V-v-volde-mort."

Despite himself, Harry found himself thinking of Malfoy in a new light. And actually, if Malfoy had changed, IF he had changed... then he would be useful. He could help, give the name of Slytherins that supported Voldemort, be a spy for the Light Side. And if Malfoy was faking... well, he'd find out soon enough.

"I'm sorry," said Malfoy, sounding sincere. "I, uh, my father, and I'm all, you know, lost..." He sounded very small, very young, and Harry's resolve melted a fraction of an inch.

"All right," Harry said coldly. "Meet us on the seventh floor, at the tapestry showing Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls to dance the ballet, at eight o'clock tomorrow."

With that, he tried to walk away in a dignified way, which was more difficult than it sounded due to him being wrapped up too tightly in his towel. This was terrible. How would Malfoy take him seriously if he waddled instead of walked?

He didn't see Malfoy smirk.

*

You smirk. Really, that was revolting, crawling to Potter and pretending you were sorry when you weren't. But using your father's death... now that was genius. And how ironic was it that Potter gave you the idea first place?

Potter really believed that you were sorry. Oh please, as if a person really could change that quickly.

But you're in. You're in Dumbledore's Army.

As you enter the Slytherin common room, triumphant smirk on your face, the other inhabitants turn to look at you.

They're sitting around the fire, and you feel sorry for them, because you have a promising future ahead of you and they don't.

"Draco, we were wondering whether you're all right?" shrills Pansy Parkinson. She sounds as if she's scolding you, but you know her well enough to know that that's her concerned voice.

You survey your Slytherin housemates. Pansy is sitting next to an empty chair meant for you. She's sharp and caustic and not pretty, but you feel almost fond of her. Her eyes are very bright, you've realised. Pansy. She wants you, and money, and fame. Full of ambition, that one.

You move your gaze to Blaise Zabini, tall and dark and intense, sitting there sullenly. You know he doesn't want to be here but he wants to stay in the good graces of his housemates. He also wants Zacharias Smith and gay sex, judging by his lurid collection of magazines.

Tracey Davis, her mousey-brown hair limp on her shoulders. She wears too much eyeliner, would like to think of herself as a rebel. She wants attention. Her best friend Daphne Greengrass sits next to her, looking very bored. Daphne is from a blueblood pureblood family. Daphne wants... well, Daphne wants everything.

Millicent Bulstrode, as corpulent as ever, face expressionless. She wants to be thin and pretty. Poor girl, never going to happen.

Vincent and Greg, always together, always with you. They only want security.Theodore Nott. He watches you watch him. You don't like him. He unnerves you because you cannot read him like all the others. You don't know what he wants.

And yourself. Draco Malfoy, last piece of the Slytherin jigsaw. You used to want your father's approval, but now you're not sure what you want. You settle for Snape's approval.

"Draco?" prods Pansy.

You think. "I'm all right," you say honestly, feeling something strangely like a connection with your Slytherin housemates, and a sudden affection for them. "Yeah, I'm all right."

Tomorrow, you will go back to being nasty. But for the rest of tonight, you'll settle for games of gobstones and Sutra Tarot Cards. As you suck on a sugar quill Goyle stole from a first year, you reflect. You're secretly sorry about Longbottom, that he can't be sitting with his friends consuming purloined sweets. And you hope that wherever he is, he's doing okay, and, well... happy.

But that's only for tonight. None of this complacent shit tomorrow. Tomorrow, you're back to business.