New Page 1

This upcoming weekend has been announced as a Hogsmeade weekend. I know that he will be at the Three Broomsticks sometime around early-afternoon tomorrow. I overheard him talking about it with the Mudblood and Weasley. I will stay away from the area, as I promised.

On Saturday morning, Draco was awake before dawn. He'd barely slept that night, tossing and turning in anticipation. All Hogsmeade weekends had been cancelled so far that year, due to the threat of Voldemort hanging over everyone's heads. But there had been no attacks, no violence, no disappearances since the previous spring when Voldemort's return was recognized, and Dumbledore had reluctantly agreed to allow students to visit Hogsmeade on this, the weekend before Halloween.

But the outing itself wasn't the cause of Draco's excitement. The rest of the students were awaiting a carefree day of Honeydukes' chocolate, Zonko's trinkets, and pints of foamy Butterbeer. Draco had more important things on his mind. He knew what was really going to happen that day.

Draco could feel his heart beating a bit harder and faster than usual as he rummaged through his wardrobe in the semi-darkness and dressed quickly. Today, he had more important things to worry about than clothes. He was on a mission.

With the Dementors absent from Azkaban, Lucius had easily escaped less than a month after his imprisonment. It was Lucius who had then suggested to Voldemort that Draco was ready to act as a spy, and since then, Draco had been more than happy to stalk Potter. His mission was to provide one simple piece of information; he was to tell his father of the first occasion that Potter would be away from the school.

As usual, his father wouldn't give him any official word about the Dark Lord's plans, but it was painfully obvious that there would be some sort of attack. If Draco had learned anything about the Dark Lord's methods by listening to his father, it was that Voldemort himself would not come to Hogsmeade. He'd send someone to capture Harry for him. It would probably be a subtle attack. There would be a diversion, then one, maybe two Death Eaters would strike, and Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world, would disappear right from under Dumbledore's nose.

He should have felt nothing but delight about Potter's impending downfall, but Draco couldn't suppress a degree of irritation at the arrangement. Potter was his, nobody else's. He wanted to exact his own revenge, and the knowledge that he'd never have a final jab at Potter was maddening. Potter was not merely the Boy Who Lived, not just Voldemort's target, but Draco's own personal rival: the flesh and blood, pain-in-the-arse Gryffindor who sat two benches over in Potions class, with his mocking glares, that infamous scar, and those god-awful glasses.

Draco knew all about Potter. If he'd spent half as much time practising Quidditch as he had dwelling on Scarhead, he would have beaten the prat long ago. It was a grand hobby, studying Harry Potter. Draco knew exactly where Potter and the Weasel would wait for their Mudblood friend in the corridor after Arithmancy, which Draco took with Granger. He knew that Potter had a peculiar aversion to shrivelfigs, a dark green quill he favoured, and a nervous habit of chewing the corner of his left thumb during classes when bored. Draco was even aware that whenever Harry was confused, he would tilt his head to the right and look up to the left. It was a wonder that Potter didn't have a permanent kink in his neck.

Draco had also noted, with no small amount of amusement, that Potter had been growing increasingly edgy since the start of the term. Not merely edgy, but also agitated, irritable, distant, and moody. Draco didn't even need to pester the boy directly; it was obvious that Potter was doing a fine job of that himself.

In class, the boy would sit ramrod-straight in his chair, as if ready to leap out of it at any moment. Then, as though unable to pay attention to reality any longer, he would look away from his work to stare into space, or gaze out of windows. Not that Potter hadn't gazed off into space before, but in the past, Draco had thought him the perfect image of a blank-minded Gryffindor, unfocused eyes glazed over as the world passed him by. Now it was different. Lately, he seemed to be staring at something, eyes focused on some unseen point.

The only class in which this never happened was Potions, where Potter had begun working with feverish intensity. Granger had gushed over Harry's new-found work ethic, and his performance had even persuaded Snape to stop harassing the boy, but Draco knew something else was brewing. Harry wasn't merely focusing for the sake of his marks. He was trying to distract himself, to escape something.

He was far more curious about this than he should have been. Although he constantly reassured himself that we was merely fulfilling his duties as a spy to the best of his ability, his careful cataloguing of everything-Harry-Potter had gone far beyond simple spying. Draco was in over his head, and underneath his denial, he knew it. Since the start of his father's imprisonment, his old fixation on Potter had developed into something far more severe. The ongoing rivalry, the malicious glares, the blatant competitiveness of the past: that had been intense, but now the stakes were higher. He was thoroughly obsessed.

But relief was in sight. He would finally be rid of the root of his obsession. The defeat of Harry Potter: just what Draco had been waiting to see for years.

There was no way in hell Draco was going to miss this. Not even a raging Hippogriff could keep him away, much less his father's warning. He'd been trailing Potter incessantly since the first of September, and Draco not only felt it his duty and a moral imperative to see this mission through to the end, he was truly looking forward to it.

Harry Potter would fall by the end of the day, and when he did, Draco would be sure to somehow let Potter know who had put him there. He, Draco Malfoy, had finally beaten Harry Potter. And Potter would know, damn it. He would realize he should never have snubbed a Malfoy; he should never have ignored Draco, written him off. He'd realize his mistake, but it would be too late for him.

And Draco would be there to see it, regardless of his father's instructions. Dangerous? Only to Potter. Draco Malfoy could take care of himself.

Draco took a quick glance in the mirror to make sure he hadn't put his robes on backwards. They were adequate. No time to fuss today.

He stepped into the boys' bathroom, shut the door behind himself, and began his usual morning routine, hoping the familiar repetitive motions would calm him, but he couldn't calm his nerves. He forced himself to breathe slowly, even as he hurriedly rinsed his face, scrubbed, and rinsed again, scowling about the fact that he still had no excuse to shave.

The only part of his routine he refused to rush was his hair. He toyed with his best charmed comb until he was satisfied. He liked perfection; it was the one thing he had over Potter, if only in matters of his hair.

Life had been grand when everyone thought Potter was psychotic. Look! The Boy Who Lived has gone loony! Thinks that You-Know-Who is back! He killed Cedric! But now, everyone liked Potter again. And then, just last week, Draco had overheard some Hufflepuff third-years giggling over his "adorable" hair.

Adorable! Potter's scruffy mop! Not likely! But as much as he loathed to admit it, Draco could see why Potter appealed to some less intelligent students - which only made Draco more furious with him.

Quickly brushing aside any further thoughts of Potter's merits, Draco tried to placate himself with the reminder that Potter would be gone soon. It would have been better if the bastard had never been around in the first place. Then Draco would never have met him. Would never have been antagonized by Potter's mere presence. Would never have spent sleepless nights contemplating how incredibly irritating and infuriating the boy was.

He was doing it again. Growling, he hurled the comb at the washbasin. The comb bounced off the ceramic and ricocheted into a corner. Draco started to reach for it, then decided that it was beneath his dignity to bother picking it up. A house-elf would do that later.

He left the bathroom, tiptoed noiselessly through the dormitory, and snuck off for an early breakfast on his own. It wouldn't do to bring Vince and Greg with him today. He wanted to be silent, unseen, stealthy. He wanted to relish his view of Potter's impending humiliation in blissful solitude; just himself, and one oblivious Harry Potter.

So he'd told his friends that he would be sneaking away to shag a bloke he'd had his eye on lately, a fifth-year Ravenclaw who had some seductively Slytherin traits, and the goons had bought the story. But no other girl or boy at Hogwarts occupied nearly as much of Draco's thoughts as Potter did.

The corridors were silent as Draco made his way to the Great Hall. Everything was shadowed in the dull grey tones of early morning and suffused with a slight chill of autumn. The sound of his footsteps echoing in the corridor was peaceful, and for a brief moment, Draco's excitement over the impending violence of the day was almost forgotten.

Harry's scruffy appearance was a stark contrast to Draco's slick hair and expensive robes. Clad in a worn red jumper and a faded pair of denim trousers, he looked like a Muggle pauper. Draco blamed that on the Weasley influence. It was only then that he registered the fact that the Mudblood and the Weasel were nowhere to be seen.

Not likely, Draco thought to himself. With one smooth step, he centred himself in the doorway to the Great Hall and folded his arms across his chest, blocking Harry's path.

"And where are the Weasel and the Mudblood this morning, Potter?" He carefully injected a tone of mock-pity into his words. "Don't tell me that even your most loyal fans are sick of you?"

Harry didn't miss a beat. "I got hungry early and decided to let them sleep." He took a measured step towards Draco. "And where are the brainless trolls you call friends, Malfoy? Ha. It's no wonder you crashed into me. Without one fat training wheel on each side, you can't even walk straight."

Training wheel? Draco couldn't hide his bewilderment, and in that momentary lapse, Potter pushed past him, bumping hard into his left shoulder.

Draco spun around to glare at the back of Potter's head, his mouth hanging open as he searched for a good insult to hurl, but Harry didn't so much as spare a backwards glance as he took a seat at the empty Gryffindor table. Draco fumed silently himself.

Harry had already poured himself a cup of pumpkin juice and was reaching for the toast without showing any signs of looking back when Draco finally gave in, placating himself with the reminder of what the rest of the day would hold. He'd have the last laugh. But still, Draco hardly noticed what he was eating as he continued to stare intently at the back of Harry's head. When other students began to trickle into the Great Hall, Harry made a hasty exit, and Draco immediately abandoned his breakfast (which he'd barely touched) to follow at a careful distance.

Draco watched as Harry slipped out the main entrance and shut the door behind him. Swallowing, Draco crossed the foyer and nudged the door open.

Outside, the sky was slate grey with a threat of rain, and a sharp breeze rippled the grass. Harry wrapped his arms around himself as he made his way across the grounds towards Hogsmeade. The wind cut through the doorway, and Draco shivered.

Miserable day, thought Draco sullenly as he pulled his cloak tighter around himself. But it's just as miserable for Potter, and it will only get worse for him.

As Draco watched Harry, he found himself curious about why he would be leaving so early for Hogsmeade, particularly without his ever-present sidekicks. Very unusual. Harry was never seen without his Gryffindor entourage. But then, Potter had been acting strangely lately, even for him. Considering his recent behaviour, Draco could almost believe that Harry wanted to escape from them.

Draco waited until Harry had almost reached the edge of the grounds before slipping out the door himself. Checking repeatedly over his shoulder, he hurried across the grass, then traced the perimeter of the Dark Forest, using the shadows of the woods for cover until he reached the path to Hogsmeade. On the path, not terribly far ahead of him, was Harry. The boy was walking slowly, as though lost in thought, and certainly not paying the least attention to his surroundings.

Hogsmeade was just starting to come awake as Draco passed the first small shops. He paused randomly to browse in shop windows, doing his best to look casual, waiting to see which shop Harry would enter.

The scents of morning in Hogsmeade were beginning to waft through the air. Fresh baked breads and cakes from Terrence Truffle's Pastry Shoppe, coffee brewing at the Three Broomsticks, melted chocolate from Honeydukes, all interspersed with the tangy overtone of smoke rising from chimneys. Draco's stomach growled, a harsh reminder that he had barely touched his breakfast. He shot an irritated glance at Harry's steadily retreating back.

Would he just stop already? As soon as he stops into a store, I can backtrack to the bakery for a scone and then catch up with him easily.

Draco shivered as the wind bit through his cloak again, and added a cup of coffee to his mental order. He kept casting longing glances back over his shoulder at the Pastry Shoppe, mentally demanding that Harry reach his destination quickly, but no such luck.

Harry bypassed Zonko's Joke Shop and ignored The Golden Snitch Quidditch Supply and Broomstick Repair. He didn't even turn his head at the sound of glass shattering inside the Apothecary, or the muffled explosion, flash of orange light, and loud cursing that followed.

Draco eyed the settling smoke in the doorway of the Apothecary warily, then put it out of his mind as Harry continued to walk steadily away. The wind gusted again, bringing another shiver with a burst of coffee aroma, and Draco whimpered to himself, sniffing the air wistfully.

But Harry didn't stop. He didn't even spare a sideways look as he walked solemnly past the Stone Troll Tavern and Inn, the very last building on the main street of Hogsmeade.

Now, not only was Draco hungry, but he was also quite confused. The only thing beyond the edge of the village was the Shrieking Shack.

Draco ducked behind a shrubbery at the corner of the Tavern and watched in horror as Harry made a beeline for the Shrieking Shack.

He's not... he can't be... he's stark-raving mad... loony, that one...Bloody Merlin's beard, he's really going to do it...

Harry didn't slow until he was standing at the front door of the rickety little house. With a flick and swish of his wand, the door swung open, and Harry disappeared. The door swung almost shut, then wavered on its hinges and opened just a crack, taunting Draco with its frightening invitation.

Like all other children, Draco had grown up hearing stories of young witches and wizards who dared to enter the Shack. They would be trapped in the darkness and tormented by mad ghosts, strung up by their toenails by murderous ghouls, surrounded by Boggarts, and finally eaten alive by things too hideous to consider. Once, after seven-year-old Draco had thrown a tantrum in public, Lucius had told him that if he ever embarrassed the family name like that again, he would find himself locked in the Shack for a week. That was the last time Draco ever threw a tantrum.

And there was Harry Potter, strolling in like it was merely the Hogwarts broom shed. That was just too much. Draco balled his fists and screwed up his face.

Swallowing against the growing uneasiness in his stomach, Draco marched stoically down the path. The Shack loomed forebodingly over him, silhouetted against the miserable grey sky, as though even the weather was trying to help the Shack intimidate him. He wouldn't let it. He had to go in. He had planned to follow Potter all day, and may he be damned if anything was going to stop him. That, plus he was dying to know why in the name of hell Potter had entered the Shrieking Shack in the first place.

With a deep breath and a wish that he wouldn't die, Draco slowly pushed the door open and entered the most violently haunted building in Britain.

Inside, every shelf and surface was covered in a thick layer of dust. Motes swirled lazily in the air, looking dull and foggy in the dim light that leaked through the cracked windows. The sitting room to the right had two chairs and a small couch with ripped and torn bupholstery, and a half-burned log still sat in the fireplace. To the left was a dining room with a table in disrepair surrounded by mismatched chairs, one of which was overturned, while another was missing two legs. In fact, the legs appeared to have been chewed off.

Shuddering, Draco focused straight ahead on a set of stairs of questionable safety. The only thing that gave Draco any reassurance that the steps wouldn't collapse under his weight was the trail of fresh footsteps in the dust; Potter had already gone upstairs.

Every nerve Draco possessed was wired alert, and every shred of common sense he'd once thought he had was telling him to turn around and run. It was somewhat crazy to be following Potter all day in the first place, but to follow him into the Shrieking Shack - upstairs - was sheer madness.

As he set his right foot on the first stair, however, the wood creaked loudly. Draco's heart caught in his chest, and he stared up at the top of the staircase, too startled to move, expecting Potter to come running down the stairs screaming at him at any moment. But several seconds passed with no sign of Harry. Then a few more. When it became obvious that nobody was coming, Draco managed to pull his heart from his throat and breathe again.

Harry's tracks led down a short hallway to a door on the right. Hardly daring to breathe, Draco tiptoed to the edge of the doorjamb. Harry had left the door ajar, and slowly, cautiously, not knowing what to expect, Draco peeked in.

Harry was lying face-down on the bed, his head buried in his arms. Dust swirled thickly in the air, and Harry's clothes had light smears of dust all over, causing Draco to wrinkle his nose in disgust. Positively filthy.

The dust was quickly forgotten, however, when Draco heard a small whimper. He blinked once to be sure his eyes weren't fooling him. Harry's shoulders were shaking.

Draco's mouth fell open - whether in amusement, shock, or amazement, he didn't know - and he stared, captivated, as the shaking steadily grew worse. The bed frame creaked, and occasionally a muffled sob escaped Harry's shivering form.

What the hell is going on? Draco puzzled to himself, authentically confused. Don't tell me that Potter - the famous Harry Potter - doesn't have everything he could possibly want? Boo-hoo! Crying scared of Voldemort, I'd wager. That would serve him...

No... it would be fitting, but that doesn't seem right. Perhaps... maybe it IS because he's alone today! HA! I was right! The Weasel and Mudblood DID desert him!

No, that's not it, he reasoned. Not at all. He wanted to get away. He's been wanting to escape for days. Weeks, even. I should have realized... but why? What's he crying about?

A strange sensation gripped Draco. Something like curiosity, but not exactly that. He wanted - no, he needed - to know. It was personal, more so than any previous tugging of his obsession with Potter. It scared him.

On the bed, Harry moved. Draco tensed, making ready to retreat from the door, but Harry didn't look at him. Instead, Harry's feet pulled up, tucking his knees towards his stomach, and his arms drew in, clenching tight across his chest. He shifted halfway onto his side, giving Draco a partial view of his face, and Draco felt his chest constrict.

Harry's glasses were gone (Draco only then noticed that they were folded on the bedside table) and his eyes were hidden under puffy eyelids. His cheeks were blotchy and red, shining with moisture. More tears slowly dripped down his face as his shoulders continued to shake. Every few seconds, his breath would catch, followed by a choked sob, then a cough and a sniffle.

Draco watched in scant amazement. Two conflicting thoughts simultaneously flashed through his mind. I have NEVER had a better opportunity in my life to embarrass Harry Potter, and, I can't blow my cover yet.

He was deliberating over those thoughts when a third invaded his brain. He's really... really hurting. He looks so small... The unwelcome thought was accompanied by an unfamiliar sensation: anguish. It took Draco a split second to realize what he was thinking, and he was immediately shocked and appalled by his mind's betrayal. He clamped his teeth onto his lower lip, trying to block out this unfortunate side effect of his obsession.

This wasn't Harry Potter. At least, it wasn't the Harry that Draco had been studying, stalking for months now. This was a person that Draco didn't know, had never met, and found distinctly unnerving. Not the hero, not the bastard in Potions. This was a real person, real tears, and Draco didn't know what to think of him.

Draco's eyes were fixed on Harry's face. Unwilling or unable to move, he finally knew for certain that he'd got himself in too deep.

Harry suddenly moved again. Draco was at once fully alert, ready to run lest he be caught, but this time, Harry rolled away from Draco. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat, hunched over, with his hands in his lap. Draco craned his neck, but could only just make out a quarter-profile view of Harry's face. As he watched, Harry reached into a pocket and pulled out a small flat object and held it up in front of his face. It was a small mirror, square and plain, which fit neatly in the palm of Harry's hand. Draco narrowed his eyes, trying to see it better. It looked as though it had been shattered once before and then inexpertly mended, with a few spidery cracks running through it, and an uneven surface.

What's this? Is he checking to see if he smeared his mascara? Draco attempted to override his confusion by mentally insulting Harry, but he realized it wasn't working when his burning lungs told him that he was forgetting to breathe.

Harry had been staring into the mirror for at least a minute, maybe two, when he finally sighed deeply and whispered, "I guess you're really gone."

Who the hell is he talking about? Draco felt his eyebrows furrow together only a split second before a sharp snap sounded through the still room.

Draco's eyes widened in shock. In one hand, Harry had squeezed the mirror from the sides until it cracked, and the largest fragment sliced deeply into his palm. The pieces of the mirror fell to the floor as blood welled up in his hand, dripping steadily onto the shards below.

Draco felt himself pale - he hated the sight of blood - but Harry didn't even seem to notice that he had just severely injured himself. He sat there, staring at his hand as though he could see right through it. The blood trickled down his wrist and began to stain the edge of his jumper from faded red to dark maroon. Harry's shoulders were shaking again, but Draco knew it wasn't from the injury.

Draco swallowed against the nausea churning in his stomach as he felt himself being pulled in two directions. He wanted to stay and continue to stare, completely fixated on the grotesque scene in front of him. But he needed to run, to get away from it all for the exact same reason. The blood dripping to the floor, the boy sitting there, bleeding, seemingly unaware of the world around him... it was all so terribly wrong, and Draco felt a sudden urge to step into the room and fix it. To clean the blood, to ask Potter what the hell was going on, and to... to...

Draco wrenched his eyes from the scene, turned, and fled down the hall. Thankfully, the silencing charm on his shoes had not worn off, and he could only hope that his ragged breathing and pounding heartbeat weren't too loud. He half-ran, half-fell down the stairs in his haste, and burst out the door.

The cold bite of the wind on his face felt good, like a slap, bringing him out of his near-hysteria. He stumbled around to the side of the building and slammed his back against the wall for support, not quite trusting his legs to hold him. For a few moments, he sucked in great gulps of air, trying to make sense of what he'd just seen, or more importantly, what he'd just felt. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the images, but they only appeared more vivid behind his closed eyelids. He wrapped his arms around himself, not because of the cold, but to stop himself from shaking. His cheeks felt hot against the biting wind, and with a flush of embarrassment, Draco realized he'd been crying, too.

Draco opened his eyes again, staring out across the field that surrounded the shack; at the Dark Forest in the distance, the slate grey clouds beyond that. He felt strangely detached from it all, separated by an impenetrable fog that was surrounding him, seeping into his chest. Draco had never before spared an ounce of consideration for anyone's privacy, but now he was cursing himself for having spied on Potter. Not for Harry's sake; no, for his own sanity, he never should have seen that.

Potter was supposed to be little more than a chess piece in this great feud between Dark and Light, albeit a particularly valuable one, a figurehead since the age of one. He'd been objectified, discussed, and plotted over. He was supposed to suffer and bleed at Voldemort's hand; to cry for mercy before the Dark Lord snuffed the life out of him. He wasn't supposed to inflict the damage himself.

To the wizarding world, Harry Potter was practically immortal. Even Draco found it difficult to look beyond that image. A legend, on a par with Merlin himself. But legends didn't cry, and immortals didn't bleed like that. They weren't painfully human, small and vulnerable. They weren't boys, bleeding and crying, alone in an old shack.

Draco couldn't reconcile what he'd just seen with the image he'd always had of Potter. It didn't fit, it made no sense whatsoever. The whole thing was twisting his mind painfully, and he needed to vent all these inexplicable aches he was feeling, caught in his chest, making him choke. He needed to march back up those stairs, into that bedroom, and demand that Potter explain what the hell had just happened. He needed to get away just as much, to run back to the Slytherin dungeons and hide in his bed under his self-warming quilt. But his legs wouldn't obey him. So he sat there, letting the frigid wind seep through his cloak, hoping that if he stayed there long enough, he would simply go numb.

He'd lost track of time when the creak of hinges and the heavy bang of a door pulled him to his senses. He almost jumped to his feet, but quickly got himself back under control. Keeping his head low, Draco crept slowly to the corner of the building and peered through the branches of a small, scraggly bush.

He needn't have bothered to hide after all, though. Potter was walking steadily away from him, his face downcast, and his arms swinging limp at his sides. He looked broken somehow, but at the same time, the nervousness that had clung to him for weeks seemed to have drained away. Squinting, Draco could just see enough to tell that Potter's hand was no longer bleeding. He must have used a healing charm, but the image of the flowing blood was still quite fresh in Draco's mind. He shuddered as he continued to stare at Potter, who was already almost halfway to the village.

The village... back to the village... I was going to follow him today, Draco thought vaguely. Sometime today... yes, the attack. I have to follow him.

Draco's thoughts were muddled as he picked his way back towards Hogsmeade. He was completely in the open; if Potter turned around, he would have nowhere to hide, but somehow he knew that Potter would not be looking back again.

As he passed the Stone Troll Tavern, Draco caught the aroma of coffee and fresh baking. Farther down the street, a few Hufflepuffs were browsing Zonko's window. Two Ravenclaws were entering the bakery. Herman Honeyduke was placing a sign in front of his shop advertising a sale on Cockroach Clusters and Toothflossing Stringmints. Draco felt some sense of normality return with the familiar sights and smells, as though everything that had transpired beyond the edge of the village had been an illusion.

Draco ducked into the doorway of the Three Broomsticks, leaned against the wall, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He knew perfectly well how real it had been, and though he hated to admit it, it had scared him. He forced a slow breath, then turned his attention back to Potter, who seemed to be deliberating in front of the Apothecary.

Nobody but Draco was paying the slightest attention to Potter as he crossed to the next building over, and, with one last glance to be sure he wasn't being watched, let himself into The Broken Quill, the local bookshop. The door swung back into place behind him with a muffled thud, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts and the scent of coffee wafting past his nose. He was quite sure Potter would be in there at least long enough for him to get a coffee, and now he definitely needed the drink. Although he almost wanted something stronger than coffee. With a sigh, he pushed his way into the Three Broomsticks.

The pub was empty and quiet, with the exception of a few clinking dishes from the kitchen. Draco shuffled to the counter and leaned heavily on it, letting the warmth of the indoors seep through his robes.

"My dear, you look pale as a ghost! Tell me, child, are you ill?" Rosmerta, always motherly, bustled over from the kitchen, wiping out the inside of a glass with a cloth.

Draco wanted dearly to snarl at her; he did not need a doting parental figure right then, but any argument would just prolong the encounter, and he needed some coffee. Plus, she was his second cousin, once removed. No need to risk this getting back to his own mother.

Rosmerta set the glass on a shelf and tucked the cloth into her apron. "Ah, there seems to be a stomach ailment making the rounds in the village. You won't be wanting coffee with that, dear."

"No, no, child. I won't be hearing of any such thing. Dear Miss Ferrous over at the Apothecary concocted a tasty little brew just the other day for this exact ailment." She bustled over to a large urn that was spouting steam on the back counter. "Trust me, you'll like it, and you'll be feeling right as rain in no time."

The door to the Three Broomsticks opened, letting in a gust of cold air, and Draco growled in irritation at both the intrusion on his quiet space and the goose bumps that raised along his legs and arms. He straightened and turned to glare at the intruder, only to see that the day had become even worse.

"Well, you could just kick him out on his scrawny little arse and solve the problem," Weasley said as he folded his arms across his chest.

Draco knew he should bite his tongue, but he couldn't let it go. "And where's your third wheel today, Granger? The Boy Wonder himself?" As if I didn't already know.

Draco sneered contemptuously. "Lost him already, have you? Careful, Granger. If you don't keep a close eye on him, he might disappear." Draco dropped his voice to a whisper. "The world is a dangerous place these days."

Draco narrowed his eyes at him, even though Weasley was nearly a head taller than him. "Of course not, Weasley. Just an observation. I wouldn't want to see the saviour of the wizarding world get hurt."

Even as he was saying it, Draco couldn't understand why he would give them even a hint of a warning. It wasn't the first time, either, and on each occasion he'd wondered exactly why he'd done it in the first place; to what extent it was a sarcastic attempt to demonstrate superiority, and to what extent a genuine warning.

He glanced from Weasley to Granger, and tried to reassume his best look of disdain. But this time, he felt his scowl falter.

For a split second, Granger's face lost some of its malice, as though she had realized that something was amiss in Draco's usual threats.

She opened her mouth to say something, but Rosmerta cut the conversation short. "Here's your tea, young man. You can take the cup. Now, run along."

Draco quickly paid her, took the tea, and exited the restaurant with the requisite scowl back over his shoulder at the two Gryffindors. He sipped the herbal brew Madam Rosmerta had given him; she had been right, it was quite tasty, like mint with a hint of liquorice, but he still wanted his coffee. The street was now beginning to look alive with students, mostly at the end where Zonko's and Honeydukes were situated, and Draco had no desire to be caught up in that. He crossed the street quickly, making sure he was unobserved, and opened the door to The Broken Quill.

A string of chimes on the door jingled lightly as Draco entered, but the sound was quickly swallowed by the almost unnatural stillness that seemed to pervade every bookshop he'd ever entered. He automatically sniffed at the dry scent of old parchment and leather bindings as he looked around. Basil Plume, the shop owner, nodded at him from behind the counter before sticking his nose back into the book he was reading. Otherwise, the shop appeared deserted.

Draco walked silently between shelves, peeking carefully around corners and looking through gaps between books. Finally, as he peered around the last bookcase, there, in the back corner of the shop, sat Harry Potter.

Harry was slouched in an old armchair with his back towards Draco, his legs hooked over the arm of the chair. Draco ducked back behind the bookcase, sidestepped several feet, put his tea on the shelf, and slowly pushed two books apart for a better look. From there, Draco could see the profile of Harry's face. He was chewing absently on the end of his quill, staring at a small book which was lying open on his lap at a blank page.

While Harry began to scratch a few words with his quill, Draco fumbled through his robes for his wand, then realized he had no parchment. Trying not to curse out loud, he scanned the shelves desperately until he found a stack of journals with a sale sign.

Grumbling, Draco tucked the book under his arm and hurried to the front of the shop to pay. Mr. Plume rung up the purchase, muttering to himself about his excellent sale idea, then went back to his reading.

By the time Draco made it to the back of the shop, Harry had filled half a page with deep burgundy ink. Draco opened his journal and balanced it against the crook of his left arm. He took out his wand again, and aimed it carefully through the gap in the books, directly at Harry's journal.

This was one of his favourite charms. He'd used it to do everything from passing notes in class to peeking at Granger's homework and exams. This was much better.

He whispered the charm under his breath, waited for a count of three, then tapped the open page of his own book. Immediately, ink blossomed across the parchment, forming letters and scratches that resembled red squished bugs.

Draco clenched his teeth together to contain his excitement as he closed the book, picked up his tea, and hurried to the other back corner of the shop. An armchair with a sagging seat cushion was pushed against the wall, next to a small table covered with random books. Draco scowled at the condition of the furniture, but it would have to do. One candle was hovering a foot above the table, not nearly enough light to pierce the gloom of the morning. A quick Summoning Charm fetched an extra candle that had been hovering above a nearby bookshelf, which brightened the corner to a comfortable glow. Finally, Draco set his tea on the table, hauled the chair around to hide his face from any casual shoppers, and settled himself with the journal open in his lap.

In his rush, Draco hadn't paused to consider what he might find in Harry's diary. It was enough that he'd hit the jackpot: access to Harry Potter's journal, his most private thoughts. But even if Draco had stopped to think about it, he couldn't have been prepared for the words appearing on the page.

It didn't hurt. I'd expected it to hurt, but it didn't. I guess I wanted it to. Like some sort of punishment for everything I've messed up.

Messed up. Heh. I am. I just stared at it, dripping like that. It didn't even seem like my hand. I've seen plenty of my own blood, but that was different.

had intended to hurt myself. Because I'm not supposed to think like that. It doesn't matter who I lose, or what happens to me, I'm supposed to keep being hopeful because every bloody idiot is looking to ME. As though I have the answers. As if I AM the answer.

Harry Potter's spidery script glistened like fresh blood on the parchment, nebulous thoughts interspersed with scratches, blotches, and crossed-out words. Draco could almost feel the bleakness spilling from Harry's quill through to the book in his lap, one word at a time. Yet at the same time, he didn't really understand any of it. Potter was obviously talking about the events which had just taken place in the Shack, but it didn't explain anything. If anything, it only made Draco more confused. None of it fit in with everything he'd always thought he knew about Potter.

Where was the overconfident, spoilt Gryffindor bastard? Where was the obnoxious rival Draco had tormented in Potions class, duelled in front of the school, and struggled against on the Quidditch pitch? Where was Potter?

Draco waited for more words to form, but nothing came. He started to panic. Details! Where are the details! Potter is supposed to spill his thoughts to his journal. That's the POINT of a damn journal! And then the journal should -

A splotch of water suddenly appeared on the parchment, soaking through from underneath, and then another a few inches away.

The journal is supposed to write back to him! Sympathize with him, get him to share his thoughts, dig for details! That's the way journals work!

Then it hit him. Harry hadn't asked the clerk to activate the charms. It wasn't as though the clerk was paying all that much attention to anything other than his book. Perhaps Potter had never bought a journal for himself before, and had assumed that the charms were already activated. He was probably just waiting for the journal to write back now.

He reached into his cloak and withdrew his wand. He hated using a wand for something so menial, but he didn't have a quill available, and he wasn't about to waste time hunting for one.

"Scripto!" he whispered. He tapped the tip of the wand against his finger, and was rewarded with a tiny dot of green ink. If nothing else, wand-writing always produced smooth, excellent script with no drips or splotches. It was probably better in this case than a quill.

Draco tapped the handle of his wand against his chin thoughtfully. If sympathy would convince Potter to spill the beans, then Draco would fake it, even though the mere thought of sympathizing with Potter turned his stomach. Finally, he hunched over and put his wand to the parchment.

A sudden yell from the other corner of the shop startled Draco only an instant before he heard the sound of a book slamming into a wall, then falling to the floor. Draco quickly laid his journal aside and peeked around the edge of the nearest bookshelf. He could just barely see Harry using his chair like a shield, semi-crouched, with a look of utter alarm plastered across his face.

Slowly, Harry stepped around his chair and bent down for his book. Draco took this as his cue to return to his own seat. He placed the book back in his lap, and waited. He certainly hadn't anticipated a reaction like that, but then, he hadn't anticipated anything correctly so far that day; why should that change now?

Of course, that left him with one problem. If a charmed diary didn't sit well with Potter, how the hell would he get the boy to talk?

Draco's wand was poised over the parchment, searching for words, when Harry's scratchy writing began to scrawl across the surface again.

Draco's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Who!? What the... Potter thinks there's a real person writing this? Okay, so in this case he's right... but really, has he never encountered a charmed journal? Is he really that stupid?

Yes, he really is that stupid. Draco chewed furiously on his lower lip, racking his brain for something a journal might say to that.

Safer? What, was Potter once attacked by a talking diary? What a laugh. Draco could see the headlines already: "Boy Who Lived Scared to Death by Talking Diary. Bookshop Owner Refuses to Comment."

Draco waited several moments for Harry to begin spilling his life story, but nothing came. Impatience began to mount, and finally he wrote for himself, So, what's wrong?

Draco folded his legs underneath him and readjusted the book, settling in for what promised to be some interesting reading. He reached over to the table and took a sip of his tea while he waited for Harry to divulge his innermost secrets.

Draco nearly choked on his tea. He sat bolt upright in his chair, sputtering, all thoughts of comfort forgotten. He wasn't sure why he was so taken aback by that revelation, after everything he'd seen that morning, but there it was, in glistening red ink.

I thought my childhood was bad enough, but then I knew, at least, that when I reached adulthood I would be able to move out, get away. But no. I had to get "saved" from my miserable aunt, uncle, and cupboard, and brought to this wonderful world of magic, only to almost get myself killed at least once a year! And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I have no personal life, people keep dying all around me, and the whole fucking world expects me to save them.

By the time Harry's script reached the bottom of the page, it was almost illegible, but Draco couldn't look away. He wanted to sneer, gloat with satisfaction at finally seeing proof that Scarhead was miserable, but he couldn't. He'd always figured that Potter had everything he wanted; fame, friends, and a winning Quidditch record. It was easy to hate Potter when it seemed he had everything. The discovery that he did not felt... odd.

Oh yes, that. It was my bedroom for more than a decade. Lovely accommodations. They actually installed a light bulb when I was eight years old, but it burnt out when I was nine and a half, and they never replaced it.

The cupboard under the stairs. It was the best place for my aunt and uncle to keep me out of the way, so they didn't have to see me. They're Muggles, and to say they aren't fond of magic is a disgusting understatement. Therefore, I'm a despicable creature that must be caged in a small, dark place. It wasn't too bad, really. The spiders were never a problem, but I didn't deal well with the ant infestation we had in 1989. I hate ants.

They kept you in a cupboard? Draco briefly considered putting the book down and beating his head against a wall until his brain started working again. Or until he knocked himself out.

Only at night. Or when I was in trouble. Which happened a lot, actually. It's funny, the whole world thinks I'm some spoilt sort of hero. Irony is a lovely thing.

I could say it's because of people like Rita Skeeter. I could say it's because people like gossip and scandal. But honestly, I don't know.

A moment passed, then another. It wasn't until nearly a minute went by without a response that Draco realized he might have said something stupid. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, thinking quickly, and added,

Another long moment passed, and Draco was acutely aware of the thudding of his heart, his own breath in his chest, and the elaborate string of silent curses he was mentally throwing at himself.

Sure. Yeah. My fault. There would have been one very easy way for me to avoid all this trouble in the first place, had I known at the time.

Although Draco knew exactly what Harry was talking about - like everyone else, he'd grown up hearing the story - it was different to read it like this, written in such a crude manner from the source. He also couldn't let slip that he really did know.

Oh yes, that's right. You wouldn't know. That's a relief, somehow. It's nice to be able to talk to someone who doesn't think he already knows everything about me.

Someone tried to kill me when I was a baby. A Dark wizard. My parents died, I lived. The wizard who tried to kill me ended up as the victim of his own curse, and even though I don't remember a bit of it, people decided that I was a hero. I was still wearing nappies, and they wanted a hero. Things would have been easier if I had died. And now, the wizard who wanted to kill me is back to finish the job, if he can. But he hasn't managed it yet. Instead, he's murdering everyone else in his attempt to get to me. I keep living, and everyone around me keeps dying. I don't want to see anyone else die. And now, I'm just waiting for my turn. I don't want to keep living if this is all I have to live for. Why can't they just come for me, and leave everyone else alone, if they want me so badly? I'm tired of fighting.

Draco had thought it would be fun and easy, listening to Harry Potter pour out his thoughts onto paper for easy reading, but the actual experience was not what he had expected. It was almost as though he could hear Harry's voice bleeding through the paper with the ink, talking in his ear, invading his personal space, just as surely as he was invading Harry's privacy. Harry's tone was cold and bitter, his words harsh and sarcastic. Although Draco knew Harry, or felt he did, it was sobering to realize that after only a few minutes of direct access to Harry's personal thoughts, he had uncovered a whole new layer to Harry that he'd never noticed before. Even more sobering was his suspicion that Harry was still hiding several layers, masked beneath his bitterness.

I don't think I'm ready to talk about that just yet. Not completely. But I lost something very important to me, and I've never felt so alone. I feel like I don't have anyone who really cares for me, for who I really am, nobody I can lean on, nobody I can trust. I just can't take it anymore.

My aunt and uncle don't exactly count as family. The way they treat me, I'm sure they'd be happy if I died. When I go to their house for the summer, I sometimes think I'd rather face Voldemort again.

Draco quickly averted his eyes from the name on the page. Nobody even dared to speak the Dark Lord's name, let alone write it... Potter had some level of audacity, or stupidity. Words were magic; written words were power. His father had always told him that. Always be careful what you write on paper, because you never know what effect it might have.

Suddenly, Draco's mouth went bone dry. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue felt like lead. With a shaking hand, he reached for his tea and took a small sip, but found it difficult to swallow.

Words were power, and here he was, staring at the text that was a window into Harry Potter's soul. This wasn't the Harry Potter he thought he knew. This Harry was small and vulnerable, cold and bitter, hurt and angry. Apparently, this was the real Harry, the one that nobody saw. Draco could feel his stomach working itself into a knot, and he started to wonder with some trepidation how much he really didn't know about Harry Potter.

Oh yes, I do. And they're the most important thing in the world to me. Which is why I'm sure that they'll be the next to die, if things keep on like this. I'm almost afraid to be close to them anymore. Everything important to me is taken away. Everyone I care about dies.

I can't. They've been through so much because of me. They could have died last spring because of me. And it wasn't the first time. They're in danger because they're my friends. Maybe, if I keep them just far enough away, I can protect them. But I don't want them to know this. I won't force them to carry this burden too. Everyone has a burden to bear, I've learned. This one is mine.

Something caught in Draco's chest. Harry Potter was opening up to him. Not to the Weasel, or the Mudblood, but to... to the damn journal. Not to him. To an impersonal, mindless journal. For some reason, that thought left him feeling a bit hollow.

That's alright. For now, you're the best thing I've got. That's why I bought a journal in the first place, because I didn't want to unload this on my friends. I know you're only a book, but for now, I'll just pretend.

There was a long pause. Draco was itching for something to write, but he couldn't think of how to react to that. What was he supposed to say? Harry seemed to believe that the journal was nothing but a simple wizard's journal, but he wanted a person to talk to.

I think... The red text came slowly and deliberately. You said you could be more personable. Can you do that? I think I'm ready for that now.

That's strange. I don't know what to ask for. Just a teenage boy like me, I guess. Someone who I can relate to. I don't want sympathy, though. At least, don't be falsely kind to me. I don't think I could handle doting.

Be sarcastic, if you can. Willing to banter with me. Something to take my mind off of everything. Everyone tells me things they think will protect me, things they think I want to hear. I don't want that anymore. When people try to handle me with kid gloves, that's what seems to almost get me killed. So... be brutal, be honest. Give me hell if you want to. Fuck, just act like someone who doesn't want to treat me any differently than anyone else.

Draco stared at the response, torn between disbelief at Potter's reaction, and amusement. Carefully, he drew a smiley face to match Harry's sketch, and then added a tongue.

Draco found himself stifling a chuckle, and through the quiet of the bookshop, he could hear Harry laughing softly. He couldn't help but smile at the thought. It took him a moment to notice that words were scrawling beneath the mismatched face.

There was another short laugh from the other side of the shop, and in hastily scrawled red ink, Harry proceeded to explain the rules of hangman.

About five minutes later, Harry had gone through the letters R, S, A, E, P, D, I, N, C, M, N, G, and O, and Draco had determined that the boy had the analytical skills of a first-year Hufflepuff.

It took all Draco's self-restraint not to write, I know. Instead, he quickly added some finishing touches to his hanged man: X's for eyes, and a tongue hanging out of a squiggly mouth for good measure.

Not to be outdone, Harry had to have his say. In glistening red ink, the name "Draco Malfoy" appeared next to the stick figure, and just to be sure there was no doubt about the reference, Harry drew an arrow from the name to the sketch.

A rush of emotions hit Draco. He felt a momentary flash of panic that Harry knew who was writing back through the journal, but common sense quickly told Draco that if Harry knew, he would have stopped writing. Next came the shock of seeing his name written there, out of nowhere. Finally, he noticed the heat that was seeping into his cheeks, and realized with a start that he actually felt hurt.

He'd hurled insults at Potter plenty of times, and likewise, Potter had usually met him verbally blow for blow. But those were public spitting matches, swathed in house colours and done, Draco had assumed, as much as a social display as for the actual value of the insult. The constant banter, each trying to go one-up on the other - it was just how things were.

But this was a whole new forum. Here, Draco had essentially forgotten to whom he'd really been writing. Here, the exchange had been personal and almost intimate. Draco might have thought that only Harry was dropping his shields, but somewhere along the way, his own barricades had fallen without him noticing.

He wanted to bite back, but he couldn't. A journal would agree with the owner's opinions. He wanted to retreat and simply stop conversing, but he couldn't do that either. With a flash of dismay, he realized that by writing to Harry in the first place, he'd practically committed himself to continuing to write back.

When Harry solved the puzzle with three letters to spare, Draco made his best attempt to sound happy for Harry, in the sarcastic manner that had been requested of him.

You couldn't figure out "shrivelfig," but you got "Norwegian Ridgeback?" Maybe you're not so dim-witted after all. Nice job, genius.

Maybe Harry was ready to leave, but Draco wasn't ready for him to go. He still didn't know what the hell had happened earlier, in the Shrieking Shack. There were lingering questions about Harry himself, things that Draco had never even wondered about before now. And mostly, Draco just didn't want to stop talking. Even though the conversation wasn't easy, and even though it was Potter, in some strange, masochistic way, Draco was enjoying this. Too much.

No, I'm not going to tell them. That's why I've been away from them this morning. I really don't want them to know. And I don't think I'm quite ready to meet up with them yet, actually, so I'll probably do some other stuff first. It's nice having some quiet, personal time for a change.

No more red script appeared on the page. Draco leaned back in his chair and listened. There were still no other customers in the bookshop, it seemed. From the far corner came some muffled sounds, and the top of Harry's head appeared above one of the bookcases, moving steadily towards the door. A moment later, the door chimes jingled.

With a deep sigh, Draco stopped the ink-flow from his wand and slid it into his pocket. He closed the journal and tucked it under his arm. When he stood, his legs and back protested the movement, and he wondered just how long he'd been sitting there. A small sip of his ice-cold tea confirmed it had been quite a while. He left the almost-full cup on the table and followed after Harry.

Outdoors, the day had improved just slightly. Instead of cold, windy, and dark grey, it was now cold, windy. and bright grey. Along the street, there were more students than before, but still far fewer than usual for the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year.

Draco looked quickly and caught a glimpse of Harry slipping into the Honeydukes. Draco might have imagined the whiff of chocolate, but it was enough to set his stomach growling, and he quickly decided that Harry's sense of timing for sweets was excellent. A moment later, he was pushing past two Hufflepuffs into the shop.

An empty stomach is the quickest way to make a teenage boy forget about anything else, and Draco made a beeline for the stack of plain chocolate bars on the nearest shelf. As he reached for the top bar, his hand collided with someone else's. He turned towards the owner of the offending hand to tell him off, but the comment died on his tongue as he stared into a pair of unnaturally green eyes framed by the most hideous glasses. Those eyes immediately narrowed.

Draco tried to respond, he really did, but the combination of Harry's eyes drilling directly into his own and the events of the morning - events that Harry had no idea Draco had seen - had caused Draco's voice to lock in his throat. Only a short while ago, he'd been sharing a surprisingly personal moment with Harry, and now he couldn't separate the Harry in the journal from Potter glaring back at him with that very journal tucked under his arm. The retort Draco had started to snarl a moment before finally came out as a strangled squeak.

Draco could feel his cheeks burning furiously. He might have come out on the losing side of an argument before, but never in his life had he lost the ability to start one. Harry's eyes were boring holes into him, and he couldn't think. There was a subtle shift, and Harry's face lost its angry edge.

Draco never found out what Harry was going to say. Chocolate forgotten, Draco turned on his heel and dashed outside, nearly trampling a couple of Gryffindor third years in the doorway. Out on the street, he forced himself to slow to a brisk walk to avoid the stares of other students, numbly moving away from the main crowd, towards the edge of town. Just before the Stone Troll Tavern, he ducked into a small alley between the buildings and collapsed to the ground.

He pulled the journal out from under his arm, realizing from the slight ache how tightly it had been clenched between his elbow and his ribs. Clinging to it. Like a lifeline. It had been a childish mistake to follow Potter all day in the first place, letting his obsession override his judgment, but like all mistakes, this one had certainly escalated. He should have listened to his father, but instead he was crouched in an alleyway, like a commoner, clutching the book that was his unlikely tie to Harry Potter.

If he had any sense, he'd throw the book into the dustbin behind the tavern and be done with it. He'd incinerate it with a quick spell, and let Harry wonder why the hell his journal had deserted him, too. But then Draco would never know what on earth had happened that morning in the Shrieking Shack.

Of course nothing would come. For that to happen, Harry would have to write, but he was back in Honeydukes, stuffing his pockets with Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott's beans. While Draco was sitting in a cold, windy alley, shivering, waiting for any sign of Harry's terrible handwriting.

He wanted to smack himself. He briefly considered ironing his hands, house-elf style, as a suitable punishment for his sheer stupidity. For what specific act of stupidity, he wasn't exactly sure, but for him to feel so idiotic, he must have done something wrong. But even so, he knew he couldn't quit now.

Draco closed the book, carefully crept to the front corner of the tavern, and tucked himself behind a couple of barrels. From