Author: crimson_stained

Rating: PG

Summary: In the aftermath of Lucius' imprisonment, Draco finds himself with the predicament of restoring his family name. While alienating himself from his peers, he begins corresponding with a mysterious student who seems to understand exactly how he feels. Along comes a tale of confession, discovery, and trust between two adolescent boys. (Post-OOTP AU, but in the spirit of HBP canon.)

Author's Notes: So, so much love, thanks, and appreciation to taradiane for her friendship, encouragement, time, dedication, thoughts, insight, and knowledge. It's hard to sum up everything you've done (otherwise I might be putting out another 50k of words, but because of you I managed to finish this 50k marathon of a story, and with all of your ideas and input, you've given this story life and flair. Thank you ever so much, you are amazing! Also, love to JD Salinger. Because well. You'll see.


June 20, 1996 – Malfoy Manor
His mother is crying again. He can hear her muffled sobs coming from behind the closed door of Father's study. This is the fifth time this week, she has locked herself in there to either cry herself hoarse or until the house-elves carry her back to her room.

Draco Malfoy walks past the study, covering his ears. Stop, stop, stop, he thinks as he tries to block out the sound. Stop.

She doesn't stop. He starts walking faster down the hallway, needing to get away. She sounds as if she's choking, and he should go in there and help her. He should comfort her.

Instead, he sprints up the spiral staircase, taking the stairs three at a time. He runs to his room to barricade himself in there. Throwing himself into his bed, he hides his head under the pillows. Now it is dark and quiet, and for a moment he can pretend that everything is okay. A house elf would come in and ask him to go down to breakfast. Father would be at the breakfast table reading the Prophet. He would look up for just a moment when he greeted Draco before returning to his paper.

Except, Father wouldn't be there, because Father has been gone since Draco returned home. There have been no sounds of heavy footsteps, no rustle of newspapers, and no deep rumble of laughter. Draco hasn't gone down to breakfast in two weeks, because the first and only time he had gone downstairs for a meal, he found that the house-elves had only set two place settings. He feels sick just thinking of the empty space at the table.

Empty. That's how he feels.

He wonders how awful Mother must feel, and quashes down that guilty feeling he gets whenever he remembers that he has ignored her all week, because he's scared that she'll spill a never-ending flow of wet tears and they'll both drown in the flood.

He knows she misses Father. Draco misses Father very much. If he were here, he would tell them both to keep their chins high and that Malfoys' don't cry. If he were here, he could make everything better again.

Enough ifs. Father is not here, so all that is left of the pathetic Malfoys are a crying woman and a hiding boy. And the knowledge that nothing would be better ever again. For the first time in Draco's life, he knows that his father has failed.

--------------------------

The gloominess settles into the Manor like a heavy dust. Everything has been quiet for the past several days. Draco has not heard from Mother yet, but he anticipates her coming to seek him out soon. He stays in his room all day, trying to find distractions without being reminded of his Father's absence, and consequently his father's failure.

Today, he stumbles across an old journal and flips through it. The leather-bound book is old and falling apart, its pages tattered and worn, and he has forgotten the childhood journal for so long that only the handwriting inside proves to him that it is indeed his.

Excerpt from the Journal of a Young Draco Malfoy (June 5, 1991)
Today is my birthday, and I am eleven years old. This year, one of the presents Mother bought me was this leather journal. She wants me to write in it everyday, or as often as I can. She say that I will be an adult soon, and then I will not be able to remember much about being a child anymore. Mother wants me to remember. I do not know what the fuss is about childhood. Gregory and Vincent both talk about how they are growing up and no longer children. However, Father says that I should always act grown up, and that children are foolish.

In less than two months I will be going to Hogwarts, just like Father did. I must not disappoint him. I have made myself a list of things to do: get sorted into Slytherin House, get the highest marks, and be the most popular boy in school. It should be easy. He promises me a racing broom, if I succeed in making him proud.

Tonight, Father says he will show me a special spell. He tells me that the spell is a powerful flash of bright green. I am excited, for green is my favorite color. It's the colors of Mother's gardens, the color of Slytherin, and the color of the Christmas tree.

"Incendio," Draco murmurs, satisfied as the journal lights up in flame. It was useless. A useless container of naiveté.

Of all the times he's disappointed his father, he never knew the day would come when his father would disappoint him. Disappointment leaves a tight and bitter coil in his stomach, and he now knows why Father got so upset with him after yet another unsuccessful school year.

The smoke from the fire burns his eyes and throat, but he doesn't care. It feels better than anything else he's been feeling lately.

He leaves the ashes on the ground, because he doesn't know how to clean up the mess. Someone else will take care of it.

--------------------

July 1, 1996 – Still in Malfoy Manor
Narcissa Malfoy has not seen her son for several weeks. She knows the manor is large, but it is not so large that Draco could become unnoticeably absent. His absence becomes more and more conspicuous each day she does not see a glimpse of her son as he traipses through the house. It is even more noticeable at meal times.

Each meal she asked where he was and a house elf always bowed low and said, "Young Master is eating alone tonight, Mistress."

The day the house-elves only set out one place setting is the day Narcissa knows she must seek out her son. Her conduct lately has been shameful, and she is embarrassed by her own behavior. What had Draco thought of her when he had first come home from school and only the house-elves and the sound of his crying mother greeted him?

She knocks on his bedroom door. Silence greets her. She knocks again. And then again. Perseverance is one of her better qualities.

The door finally opens, and her son stands in front of her. Because she is his mother she can see past his well-pressed robes and neatly groomed hair. She knows that he hides skin stretched thin over ribs. She looks into his eyes and sees the unshed tears that her son is too stubborn to let fall.

"Draco," She murmurs as she steps forward, "May I come in?"

He nods and steps to the side, allowing her entrance. He gestures to a set of armchairs by the window.

When they sit, he bows his head and says in a politely distant voice, "How are you, Mother?"

She offers him a small, gracious smile. "I am fine, Draco. And you?"

"Fine."

She knows they are both lying. But she also knows that it is better to appear strong than admit to weakness.

"I have not seen you since you've been home."

"I'm sorry," he says, but she thinks he might blame her.

She flicks imaginary lint off her robes. "I apologize for not coming to see you sooner. You must think awfully of your own mother right now. That she's frail and weak."

"Never, Mother. I do not think such things about you," he lays a hand on her knee.

She smiles, "That is good to hear, but nevertheless, I apologize. I know that it is difficult with your Father not around, and a boy should not be without both of his parents."

"I'm sixteen now, Mother. No longer a boy." He lifts up his chin proudly, just the way she knows Lucius has taught him. As if such a proud chin can separate him from everything he's afraid of.

"I am aware of that Draco." She clasps his hand and brushes away a stray lock of blond hair off his cheek. He is not too old to deny his mother affection. "But even young men do not spend whole summers in their rooms for no reason. Look at yourself, Draco. You've become so pale I can almost see right through you."

"I have always been this pale."

"But a bit of sun might do you some good. As well as a proper meal."

"I've been eating," he pulls his hand away from hers.

She sighs, but doesn't reach from him again. "You need to be strong, Draco. You need to be strong for yourself and for me now that your father is not here Hiding in here does not make you strong."

When Draco does not reply, she stands up to leave. Before she closes the door, she turns and says over her shoulder, "You know your father would say the same thing."

The next morning, Draco is downstairs for breakfast.

------------------------

Narcissa still goes to Lucius' study everyday, but no longer to cry. She is the mistress of this household and it is time she has started acting like it. Before Lucius' arrest, there was not much for her to do. The house-elves worked without instruction and kept the Manor clean and running efficiently--routinely doing their everyday tasks. She would read books in the sunlight, tend to her personal gardens, and throw afternoon tea parties.

But Lucius was always busy working in his study, He would leave the study for meals or business meetings, but otherwise he stayed in his office pouring over paperwork and making important firecalls. She never knew what exactly all his work was for, but she knew it must be important.

Now, she wishes she asked more often what he was doing in there. Someone has to keep doing his work, and so she tries.

She wants to start with the small and easy tasks first, but even bookkeeping proves difficult. There were too many expenses to keep track of, too many business transactions, and too many charitable checks to write.

Lucius had given her a golden emergency key to a special cabinet should anything ever happen to him. She hasn't wanted to use the key, because that would be admitting that Lucius might never come home. She doesn't want to believe it. Yet, the pile of letters on Lucius' desk continues to grow exponentially, requesting information and donations that she doesn't know how to give. She needs help.

She finds the cabinet easily and fits the key inside, but the contents of the cabinet make her want to cry in frustration. She almost does, but it would not do for Draco to catch his mother crying in the study again.

The cabinet is full of boxes and boxes of paperwork. And for all of Lucius meticulousness, these boxes are unorganized and unlabelled. He must have thought she would never need to open this cabinet; he must have thought he was invincible.

Upon opening one box, she finds piles and piles of old receipts. Never one to have looked at price tags, she discovers the fur-coat Lucius bought her last Christmas was over 1,000 galleons. The necklace she needed to have for her birthday was over 2,000. The amount that she and Lucius spent on Draco every holiday totaled to over 5,000 galleons.

And they donated thousands more galleons away to charities that they didn't even believe in.

Narcissa had known they were wealthy. In fact, they were currently the wealthiest Wizarding family in Britain. They had the best estate, the largest grounds, the most expensive furniture, and the finest robes. She always knew how much money was in the Black and the Malfoy vaults. She also always knew how much money Lucius made each year from his work at the Ministry. The gold that filled those vaults seemed like it was so much. An infinite amount of gold. An everlasting supply of money.

But as she looked at receipt after receipt, even her rudimentary math skills told her that their money could not as immeasurable as she thought. They were burning through it all.

By the time Draco inherits everything, the vaults could be empty.

--------

July 10, 1996 – The Dining Room
There is something wrong with Mother. At dinner, she picks at her plate, pushing the food around in circles. She drinks more glasses of wine than usual, and during dessert, she wrings her hands far too often.

Draco finally sets down his fork and inquires after his mother. "Mother? Is something the matter?"

Her smile is too shaky. She was never as good at hiding her emotions the way he and Father were.

"Everything is fine, Draco."

He can only stare pointedly at her shaking hands. He raises an eyebrow. Malfoy code for 'really?'

Mother clears her throat, "I was just thinking, son. You know how we have always been so extravagant and lavish with our money?"

Draco tilts his head to the side, "Not really. Father always says we should spend money only on what we need. Like, when I needed a new racing broom or you needed a new strand of pearls."

Mother clucks her tongue, "We don't really need those things, Draco."

Draco narrows his eyes. Something is definitely wrong with Mother. Tonight, she seems off. Sometimes he wishes that Father taught him to ask questions bluntly, instead of dancing around in circles forever.

"Mother," he keeps his voice respectful, "I do recall you telling Father that you would die without that strand of pearls. That your life depended on them."

"That was all just dramatics, Draco. I just wanted them very badly."

"But when you want something that badly, don't you need it in a way?"

Mother smiles sadly at him, "I suppose so, Draco." She fingers the pearl necklace she wears. "Did you know that your father spent 2,346 galleons on this necklace for mummy? Each pearl was naturally made. They're very rare, you know."

Draco doesn't know what to say so he just shakes his head.

His mother continues to touch each of the fine pearls. "Would you rather have everything you wanted now, but have nothing left later or would you rather wait for everything you want?

Father taught him patience. "I would be willing to wait."

Mother nods, "Would you really, Draco?"

"I would."

She stops touching the necklace and leans forward in her chair. "Good. Because I'm going to need you to help me with something."

"Anything, Mother."

She settles back in her seat with a tight smile, "I always knew you were a good boy, Draco. Now, I want you to listen carefully to me, because you are going to help me keep our family intact for the time being."

Family first. That's what Father had always said, and since even Mother admits that Father is no longer around, it is Draco's responsibility to listen and do as his Mother told him. Family always comes first. He nods at her dutifully.

"You know that your father has always provided for us. And for what he doesn't provide, our bank vaults seem ceaselessly abundant. However, we cannot rely on our vaults forever. That is old money, savings that have been collected by Malfoys and Blacks for centuries. Your father has never told me what he does to put more money in those vaults. All I know is how much has been going in, and now how much has been going out. Draco, the numbers are unbalanced. For the amount of galleons we spend, we are not putting enough back in."

Draco's throat feels dry and it hurts when he tries to swallow it down. "We're slowly draining all our assets, aren't we?"

Mother nods, and Draco feels his heart drop. Were they already poor? Is this why Mother looks so worried? Were they going to have to scrimp and save like paupers?

She grimaces as she continues. "And now, with your father gone, I have been trying and failing in figuring out how to make the money that he has been earning. Your father has left me a key to all of his paperwork and records, but Draco," Mother stares down at the table, a note of pleading creeping into her voice. "I cannot figure any of it out and I cannot head this family on my own. My years of being a wife and mother have not taught me how to look at books and records nor taught me how to make money. I cannot do this alone."

Draco's breath hitches. He refuses to be poor. His family has always had the best, and he never intends for that to change. He is his mother's only son, and he cannot let her down. He is his father's only successor, and he will not let him down either.

"I'll help you figure this out, Mother. You won't be disappointed."

--------

August 10, 1996 – Azkaban
Three months have passed since Father's arrest, and today is the first time they are allowed to visit him. Draco has been restless all week and last night, he had not been able to fall asleep. This morning he anxiously fidgeted throughout breakfast, watching the clock hands move closer and closer to the noon hour, and now nervously paces the halls of the manor until they are able to use the portkey the Ministry owled to them for their twelve o'clock departure.

He has so many questions he needs to ask Father.

A month has passed since Mother asked Draco to help her. From morning until night, Draco has helped his mother dig through boxes and boxes of old receipts, bank statements, and financial records. He stares at numbers all day long and sees them even in his dreams. He looks around during meals and calculates how many galleons the dining table must have cost. How much were the dinner plates? How much was the wine Mother drank? He estimates galleons first and then tries to calculate their worth in sickles, then knuts.

Their effort was useless. Mother had given up long before Draco, telling him that Father would have the answers when they visited him.

But Draco hated to watch his mother come back from shopping trips empty handed and claiming that she had only gone to 'window shop.' He hated it even more when she refrained from going on her shopping trips altogether. So, he never gave up.

Now, the day has finally arrived to go see Father. Mother is dressed in royal blue silk robes. Father always told her she looked stunning in them. Draco guesses that the robes cost 551 galleons, or 9,367 sickles, or 271,643 knuts.

He wears dark green robes, because green is his favorite color. He figures that in Azkaban he will need all the comfort he can get.

Five minutes until the portkey activates. Draco tugs at his sleeves counting the seconds. Mother taps her heels on the marble floor in time with his thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four…

And finally, a familiar pull at his navel.

-------

The visitor's room surprises Draco. It appears to be warm and cozy. The chairs have thick cushions and there is a roaring fire in the corner of the room. A bowl of pomengranates adorns the fireplace mantle. The bowl nervously reminds him of the Persephone myth of a young goddess who eats the pomegranate seed and is stuck in the underworld forever.

The room does not let Draco forget that they are at Azkaban, though. He can feel cold prickles of fear as goose bumps crawl up his arms. He briefly wonders what would happen if the guards decided to keep both him and Mother here forever. He swallows down his panic.

Mother motions him to sit down to wait for Father's arrival. Draco sits, but he perches tensely at the edge of the chair, jiggling his legs.

The door at the far side of the room swings open, and a surly looking guard steps in announcing Father's arrival.

"Lucius Malfoy."

There is the sound of clinking chains as Father shuffles in. At the sight of the man they have both revered for years, Mother gasps and exhales a shuddering moan, as Draco chokes down the bile that rises in his throat.

Father looks dirty and unkempt. His skin looks gray and looks as if it might fall off his bones. His hair has become white with streaks of dirt. He looks as if he has spent three years here. Draco struggles to believe that it has only been three months.


"Lucius," Mother whispers as she stands up. She walks quickly towards him, but can only take three steps before an invisible wall stops her. She tries to reach out to Lucius who is only an arms length away. Her hand splays out against the wall, and she hits it with her palm trying to dispel the magic.

"Sorry," the guard says, not sounding very sorry at all. "We require all prisoners to maintain a one meter distance from visitors. It is for your own safety. He can take a seat at one of the chairs, but we have a very strict no touching policy." He looks at the clock against the wall. "You have thirty minutes. And for security purposes, your visit will be monitored at all times. Again we apologize for the inconvenience."

Draco thinks the guard sounded absolutely gleeful and not apologetic at all. As he stands to greet his father, he paused to give the guard a scathing glare. The guard just shrugs at him.

He bows his head to his father. "Father," he murmurs. Out of filial respect, he pulls out a chair for his father to sit in, remember to stay one meter away. Only when Father sits will he sit.

"Don't forget to pull out a chair for your mother too," Father's voice sounds gruff and unused.

"Sorry," Draco says and pulls the chair Mother was sitting in closer to her.

She nods her thanks and sits down. Draco sits down as well, but still settling only on the edge. He presses his palms down on his legs to stop them from jiggling

"Father," Draco fumbles with his words, "How have you been?" But he knows it is a stupid question. It was a question he had wanted to ask, but now upon seeing his father for the first time, he knows it is a useless question. He only hopes that Father does not get mad.

Father gives him a piercing glare, "I've been in Azkaban, Draco."

Mother cuts in, "Lucius, darling. Your family has missed you very much."

Father just grunts. "Have you both been well, then?"

Mother nods and then looks at Draco. He bows his head again, "Yes, Father. We have."

"Have you been taking care of your Mother?"

"Yes, Father. I have."

Mother's smile quivers, "How long do you think you'll stay here?"

Father sighs, "I don't know. But perhaps it is better that I am here. Better the Ministry punishes me for my indiscretion than…"

Mother shushes him. "Don't say that. Look at you. No one is looking after you here. At least if you were home then…"

Father holds up a hand, "Stop. Narcissa, you mustn't worry about me right now. Everything will be fine."

"How can you expect me to believe that when you're locked up in here like some common criminal?"

Draco's nails dig into his legs. He cannot squirm. He will not fidget. He will sit silently and impassively.

Father chooses to ignore Mother. "Draco," Father begins. Draco's head snaps up attentively. "You are now to be the temporary head of the Malfoy house. You are to take care of you and your mother. You will uphold the Malfoy name. I trust you to do this duty while I am here."

"Of course, Father."

Mother interjects, "And what about the Dar…"

Father glares at Mother before sparing a quick glance at the guard. "I will admit that there are those who are upset with me. But for the moment, you will be safe. I would suggest, Narcissa, for you to go to the French cottage while Draco is at Hogwarts. No one knows where that is."

Mother nods silently and touches her necklace. Draco knows all too well that this is her nervous habit.

He tentatively speaks up, "Father. May I ask a question?"

At his father's nod, he continues. "Is there any work that you have left behind you would like me to finish? I would like to be able to provide for Mother and I the best way I can."

The smile his father gives him is unnervingly wicked. "Draco, you needn't worry about any of those things. All of that has been taken care of."

"But," Draco thinks of the conversation he had with his mother. He wants to ask if they need to be more careful. He wants to know if they've been over spending.

"But nothing," Father's eyes twinkle. "At least let me have some secrets. The Malfoy vault will not dwindle while I am in here. Do you doubt me?"

Yes, Draco thinks. Instead, he says, "No, of course not. If you say everything has been taken care of, than it has."

Father smiles approvingly. "Good, now. Tell me. How has your summer been?"

----------------------

August 25, 1996 – Malfoy Manor
Narcissa worries. Draco continues to spend all day in Lucius' study digging through the dusty old boxes and counting underneath his breath. She peers through the door and sees her son ripping up pieces of parchment before spending hours trying to Spellotape everything back together.

"Mother!" she hears her son bellowing from the study. She sets down her tea cup and calls back, "Yes, Draco?"

"Mother!" She can hear Draco storming down the hallway into the parlor. He looks livid with his eyes slightly crossed and bright pink spots on his cheeks.

"Yes?" Indeed, Narcissa worries about her son.

He clutches a handful of Spellotaped receipts and waves them in the air. "What are these?"

"What are those?" She points at the paper he strews around the room. "Why don't you tell Mother what those are."

"You went shopping yesterday, didn't you," he accuses.

Narcissa doesn't bat an eye. "Yes. I did. Is there anything wrong with that?"

"Yes! You can't go shopping! Not yet! Remember, not until we figure out how to put money back into the…"

Narcissa cuts him off, "Nonsense. Draco, is this what has been preoccupying you lately? Don't you recall what your father has told us? We have nothing to worry about. We have spent weeks worrying about nothing."

"But," Draco spluttered. "How do you know, for sure?"

"Father told us."

And Draco only huffed at his poor, worried mother. "But how can you believe him?!"

"How can you not, Draco? He is your father."

"Didn't you see him, Mother? Weren't you looking when we went to visit? Did you notice what that place has turned him into? For all we know, his mind could be just as decrepit."

"Draco!" How can you say that about your father?" Narcissa stands up. How could Draco say these things about her dear Lucius? Lucius who has always taken such good care of them, and has made sure that they were taken care of even though he cannot be with them.

"I'm sorry, Mother. I'm just trying to be safe. After all, he never told us how he is taking care of things. It would be nice if we found the proof."

Narcissa scoffs. "Your father's word is all the proof we need."

Draco throws the receipts on the ground and marches out of the room. "It doesn't satisfy me, Mother. By the way, I like your new robe. I only wish that it did not cost 456 galleons, 13 sickles, and 4 knuts."

-----------------------

Narcissa raps her knuckles on the study door. "Draco. Open this door."

She waits patiently for the lock to click. When it does, she sighs sadly. Her unfortunate son looks as if he hasn't slept in days. There are giant circles under his eyes, and his hair sticks out in scraggly directions. There is ink smudged on his cheeks. It has only been a little over two weeks.

She had forgotten how obsessive Draco was when he was determined to do something. He gets this perseverance from his mother, only she could not possibly be this severe. Her little boy has always thrown himself into everything he did. How could she forget that this would not be different?

"I have started my own banking book, Mother." He babbles. "I am counting all of our receipts to figure out how much we spend every year. When I figure out that number, we will divide it in half, and that is how much we must spend from now on."

"I thought you said we would not have to live like we were impoverished. You look like a street urchin."

"Mother! By my calculations we can probably still spend at least 500 galleons a week. That is hardly being impoverished."

"Draco. It is still silly to worry about such things. Everything is okay."

"You're wearing another new robe aren't you?"

"Yes, Draco. I bought it this morning. Remember that I invited you to Diagon with me so you could finally get your school things."

"I told you I already owl-ordered everything. I do not have time to wander around Diagon and pander to my shopping proclivities."

Narcissa sighs. Her son must have been reading dictionaries when he was crunching numbers. "At least take a break from all this Draco. You go to school in a week. Either spend time with your poor Mother who will be lonely once you leave or start your summer reading. You haven't started have you?"

Draco shrugs, "Last year it only took me four days to get through it all. You forget about how high my marks are."

"Hmm, I remember that they are not the highest. Probably because you get distracted too easily by petty things like what you are doing now."

Draco stuck his chin out. "This is important. Recall Father has named me Head of House and I have financial responsibilities to take care of."

Narcissa cannot stand it any more. Her patience has been worn too thin. "He put you in charge, because there is no one else! He did not think his only son would take his words to such heart like an insane person!"

"Mother. I am not insane. Certainly not as insane as someone who has been in Azkaban for almost four months now."

But the next day, Draco is not in the study. All the boxes in the study are gone, so Narcissa assumes that Draco has given up and put it all away.

She finds this to be a blessing, until another six days pass and she doesn't see Draco until the last day of August. Something must be done.

-----------------

September 1, 1996 – On the Way to King's Cross Station
Draco's trunks are secured carefully with wards so his mother cannot check what is inside. He plans on taking the boxes full of Father's records to Hogwarts. While neither of his parents would support him in this side project, it is something he must do to ensure that his family does not fall apart. What if Father was wrong? Surely, all the blame would be cast on Draco for not being careful enough. He does not want to disappoint them. Now that he would be at Hogwarts, he has to take care of his mother the only way he knows how.

He sits quietly in the back seat of the family car, watching the countryside blur by him.

"Draco," Mother says for the first time all morning. "I have been worried about you for the past few weeks."

"I'm sorry to have worried you." He murmurs. "It was not my intention."

"Again, I have not been able to see you all week. And now you're going to Hogwarts while I must go to France for the time being."

"I will miss you."

His mother smiles. "Yes, I know you will. But, not only will I miss you too, I will still be worried about you."

"You shouldn't be. I will take care of myself as I have these past years. I've finished my summer reading, and I will excel in my classes. I'll be careful not to get into any quidditch accidents. It is me who should be worried about you."

"I'm not worried about those things Draco. I know you will do fine in school. I am more worried about your wellbeing."

"I am fine, Mother."

"Yes, but we've never really had time to talk about things have we? About how you must feel ever since your father has left. We never had a chance to discuss…"

Draco is easily irritable and not as patient as his mother. "And now isn't really the time to discuss it. Not when we are almost at the train station."

"I know that Draco. Which is why I am suggesting that you go see Lady Agnita."

"The lady in Hogsmeade that heals the woes of troubled youth?" Draco said derisively, recalling the taglines ads he has seen in the prophet. "Why would I want to go there?"

His mother pats his knee, "She can be someone you can talk to about your problems."

"I don't have any problems."

"You can talk to her about anything, you know. It might make you feel better."

"She's rather expensive isn't she?"

"Well, I'll count it into my own weekly expense." Mother smiles soothingly. He is not soothed.

"You're lying. She'll just be an extra expense that we might not be able to afford."

Again, that smile. "See, I thought you'd given up on all this talk of expenses. It would be good for you to talk to her about these worries so maybe you can move past them. You've been acting strangely all summer, and it is time that I help you do something about it."

"But, I'm fine, so I don't need to go. I appreciate your suggestion, but respectfully decline." Draco mutters. He will not talk to some lady about his nonexistent problems. His mother was actually suggesting that he go into therapy. Therapy is for the crazy students that used their potions equipment on their wrists.

His mother's voice becomes stern. "Actually, Draco. I am not really suggesting that you go. I am not even asking you to go. I am requiring you to go."

"What if I don't?"

"Then you'll make your mother very upset."

Draco sighs. Making his mother upset would not be following father's request to take care of her. "How long must I go for?"

"Until she owls me to tell me that are better."

"What if she never owls? She'll want me to keep coming back so she can make money."

"Draco, she is a lady that genuinely wants to help. You mustn't act so paranoid."

But Draco still is paranoid, and he only sulkily agrees to go, because they have arrived at Kings Cross and he doesn't want to make a scene.

"Here is the address. You are to go every Saturday morning, starting the second week of school. I have already arranged permission for you to go into town. Think of it as a special treat. You can go buy yourself candy at Honeydukes afterwards. You love candy."

Great, now all the professors know that Draco Malfoy needs to go to the lady who handles nutcases.

He grabs the address from her and stuffs it into his pocket. "Yes, Mother. I will go. But do not be surprised if she owls you and tells you that I'm perfectly normal and you are the one with unnecessary worries."

She just kisses his cheek and infuriatingly ignores his last comment. "Good luck, Draco. Remember to write."

"I will." He waves goodbye at her and looks for Vincent or Gregory to help him lug his trunks onto the train.

He misses his father very much right now. Father would have helped him with his trunks.

-------------------------------

September 1, 1996 – The Hogwarts Express
"Have you seen Malfoy?" Ron asks him, stuffing a cauldron cake in his mouth.

Harry Potter shakes his head, "No. Why?"

"He looks awful!" Ron says gleefully. "You should go find him. He looks as if he spent the summer inside a dungeon or something."

"Don't exaggerate, Ron." Hermione admonishes.

Ron just huffs. "I'm not exaggerating. Really, Harry. Go take a look at him. I saw him getting on the train and he looks even worse than he did when we hexed him last year."

"He's not a zoo animal," Harry says, but he's amused. Trust Ron to want to cheer him up with something as inane as Malfoy coming back from a summer looking worse than ever. Harry doesn't have the heart to tell Ron that he doesn't care about what Malfoy looks like or what Malfoy's become. As long as the slimy git doesn't bother him, Harry doesn't care.

Harry doesn't care, but he gets up from his seat anyway. "Fine. Anyone know what compartment he's in?"

"The last one on the left," Ron says immediately.

Hermione rolls her eyes, "Really. You can't just barge in there to stare all bug-eyed at him. What are you going to say? That you just wanted to see if he's really as bedraggled as your friends says he is?"

Harry shrugs. Again, who cares? Might do good to let Malfoy know that he's already started the school year off by impressing no one. "Yeah, probably. I'll be right back."

He slides open the compartment door, and walks towards the back of the train. He stops at the last door on the left, and pushes open the door.

Typical. Malfoy is surrounded by all his Slytherin cronies. Crabbe and Goyle stare at Harry menacingly the minute they notice he's standing in the doorway. Pansy Parkinson has her arm looped around Malfoy's and glares daggers at him.

"What do you want?" She demands shrilly.

"Nothing," Harry shrugs as he takes in the sight of Malfoy sitting silently by the window. Malfoy glances over at him, mouth set in a thin line.

Harry realizes that he feels supremely satisfied by exactly how awful Malfoy looks. His hair looks stringier and his eyes are hollow. His skin seems translucent and paper-thin. He looks thinner, but not in a lean way. Harry decides that Malfoy looks ill, and that thought also satisfies him.

"Ron was right, Malfoy. You do look pathetic." Harry grins before turning around. He can hear Pansy tell Malfoy that he doesn't look pathetic at all and Harry Potter was a bloody liar and toad-faced anyway.

It feels good to say that to Malfoy. The other boy deserves it, Harry thinks to himself. Sure, he hasn't done anything, yet. The yet is what hovers there, and it is what drives Harry to think nasty thoughts about the Slytherin. He is glad that Malfoy seems to have suffered this summer.

Let him suffer. He doesn't know what suffering is, Harry thinks grimly. He himself had a terrible summer too and probably for better reasons. At least he doesn't look like hell warmed over. He feels justified in his lack of compassion as he reenters his own compartment.

Ron has another cauldron cake in his mouth. "So? Did you see him?"

"You're right, Ron. He looks like shit."

Hermione immediately whacks him behind the head. "Language, Harry." She sticks a finger in her book and muses out loud, "Why do you think he looks like that?"

Ron grins wickedly, "Probably spent the summer playing servant boy to You-Know-Who."

"That's not something to be fond of, Ron Weasley," Hermione frowns, "It makes a lot of sense. Now that Lucius is in prison, don't you think You-Know-Who would want Malfoy to replace his father? He's probably been asked to do all sorts of nasty things that Lucius does."

Ron unwraps a pumpkin pasty, "Do you think he's marked now?"

Hermione thinks, "Maybe."

Ron begins to gabble. "Do you really think so? Do you think that's why he looks as if he's about to be sick? Do you think he's been torturing Muggles all summer? Do you think Voldemort sent him on all kinds of murderous missions? Maybe he has a murderous mission now!"

Hermione purses her lips together, "I don't know, Ron. I'm not going to ask him or anything."

Harry crosses his arms, "But he could be up to something! That's probably why he looks so sick. He's probably been doing horrible things and might be planning on doing other horrible things."

Ron nods in agreement, "Mum always says that people who do horrible things end up looking horrible."

Hermione sighs, "That's not scientifically true."

Ron shakes his head, "But think about it. You-Know-Who does terrible things and Harry says that he looks some awful thing."

Harry nods, "And Malfoy just looks as if something unnaturally bad happened...or will happen."

"Exactly. Can't put anything past that nasty little bugger." Ron pulls out exploding snap cards. "Now, can we please talk about something else?"

"You're the one that brought it up," Hermione chides.

Harry spends the rest of the train ride playing exploding snap with Ron. In the back of the mind he muses over Malfoy and his possible evil doings.

So maybe he cares just a little bit about what Malfoy's been doing. Maybe he cares a lot. Maybe he should keep a closer eye on the git. Death Eaters shouldn't be roaming the corridors of Hogwarts.

----------------------------------

September 1, 1996 – Last Compartment on the Left Side
"Let go of me, Pansy!" Draco finally pulls his arm free. It feels numb and he tries to rub some feeling into it.

"Sorry," she mumbles, scooting away from him. She shoots him an aggrieved glare before making a show of fiddling with her purse.

He feels guilty for snapping at her. After all, she's only trying to help him feel better. "I shouldn't have snapped at you." He reaches for her hand, and she takes it without quarrel.

"It's okay, Draco," she gives his hand a light squeeze. "Are you mad at Potter?"

Draco's shoulders tense. There are many reasons why he should be mad at Harry Potter. Could he even count them? He hates how Potter simply waltzes into their compartment just to look him up and down. He hates how Potter thinks he has a right to judge Draco. He hates how Potter called him pathetic. And most of all, he hates how its all Potter's fault that he may have become so pathetic. He does not want to blame his own father for what happened in June. It is just easier to blame Potter.

The minute Potter walked into the compartment, Draco had known that he was angry. The tight coils in his stomach that he had thought were anxiety over his father's arrest and over his subsequent responsibility for the Malfoy name seemed to loosen. It feels good to turn the anxiety into anger and concentrate it on one person.

"Yes," Draco says. "I am."

"Are you going to do anything about it?" Grunts Vincent.

"Do you need us to do anything about it?" Grunts Gregory.

Draco had forgotten what its like to not have to do everything himself. "Yes, if you could help me with something later, I would appreciate it.

"Sure, Draco." They grunt together. "Say, did you do the summer assignments?"

Draco sighs. "Yes, they're in my bag. At least this time when you copy my answers, could you at least change your wording on some of the answers?"

They mumble their assent as they paw through his bag.

"Draco," Pansy hisses in his ear. "You shouldn't keep letting them copy your homework. They'll never learn."

"Then, they'll never graduate," he hisses back. And they also wouldn't listen to him as often as they did. They may be friends, but even friends don't give without taking.

She is quiet for a while, so he settles against his seat listening to the scratching of Vincent and Gregory's quills as they write.

Then he feels her tugging on his robe. "So, why haven't you written this summer?"

He bites his lip, feeling guilty again. He usually writes Pansy at least twice in the summer. Sometimes more often than that. She has been his best friend, and he should have written her. At least just to tell her he was okay. Instead, he ignored all her owls inquiring after his well-being. Then again, at that time, he only needed one mother—there was no need to answer to two.

"I was busy," he replies.

"Doing what?" She pouts. "You can't have been that busy with your father…" She trails off.

"I was busy with other things."

This catches Vincent and Gregory's attention. "Busy with what?"

"You-Know-Who?" breathes Vincent with awe.

Draco opens his mouth to tell them no. That he doesn't want anything to do with the Dark Lord anyway, because the madman sends people on stupid missions that get them arrested. And then he leaves them in Azkaban to slowly go insane. He also leaves their families to pick up the pieces and makes mothers' hide in France.

But if he tells them no, he needs to tell a lie about what he really did this summer. He certainly can't tell them he spent the summer worrying that one day he might be poorer than the Weasley's.

He knows it is easier to tell the lie they already expect to be true, than to invent a new one.

"Yes," he tells them. "But I'm not supposed to talk about it."

Vincent and Gregory whistle their respect. "Sure thing. We won't ask."

But Pansy just frowns at him and whispers, "I thought you didn't want to have anything to do with him. After what happened to your father…"

He merely shrugs. If he doesn't say anything, he knows she won't ask any more questions…at least for now.

-------

As the train nears Hogwarts and Draco can see his window growing frostier, he clears his throat.

Vincent and Gregory immediately look up.

"Can you help me with something?" he asks.

They stand up right away. He smiles at them and untangles his hand from Pansy's.

"Pansy, do you think any prefects not already in the front cars would have gone up there by now to help with the first years?"

She looks at her watch. "Probably. Why?"

He smirks. "Excellent. Vincent, Gregory…if you would follow me? I'll be right back."

They follow him out of the compartment and down the hall. He walks past five compartments before turning towards the on the right. This compartment is quiet. He cannot hear any low murmurs of conversation.

He pushes it open quickly, and sneers at the startled Potter. He is alone; the Mudblood and the Weasel are far away herding the wet-eared first years. Of course, Draco is lucky for Potter could have been surrounded by his strange Gryffindor bedfellows.

Nevertheless, Draco is relieved that his plan will succeed. Success is so hard to come by these days.

"Petrificus Totalus," he whispers before Potter can do or say anything.

Potter becomes rigid, unable to move. Draco slinks forward and with just a push with his finger, Potter loses his balance and falls over. He gives Potter a hearty kick in the ribs. It feels good. He wants to give Potter another kick, but restrains himself. He does not want to dirty his dragon-hide boots. After all, they were 2,600 galleons according to the receipts he found this summer.

He smiles down at Potter. "I hope you don't mind. You've been terribly rude lately, and I'm afraid you deserve this."

He turns on his heel to leave and raises his eyebrows at Vincent and Gregory. They already know what to do. They are not as stupid as others believe they are.

Before he leaves, he waits for the satisfying sound of knuckles hitting bone followed by a groan of pain. He mutters a "Silencio" before the compartment doors close.

When he sits back down next to Pansy, she immediately rests her hand on his knee. "Where did you go?"

He knows she only asks because she wants to hear the answer for herself and share in his quiet jubilation. "I was upset with Potter, so I did something about that."

"Good."

They sit together in silence as the train pulls into Hogsmeade station. Draco allows himself to enjoy his victory. It is long deserved.

----------------

September 1, 1996 – Late Evening, Gryffindor Tower
Harry wishes he had a dartboard with Malfoy's picture on it just so he can throw things at that stupid, pointy face anytime he wanted to.

He finds it miraculous that Crabbe and Goyle did not break any of his bones. He feels tender bruises all over his skin, and knows without a doubt that his face must be swelling up. His eyes must be puffing up as well, because it hurts to blink. They left enough marks on his body that Harry misses dinner because he doesn't want anyone to stare. It's only the first day of school and he's already injured.

He doesn't go to Pomfrey; he doesn't want anyone to know. He wants to limp his own way to Gryffindor Tower. He will let Ron and Hermione fuss over him later tonight, but for now he will heal himself.

Everything hurts. He realizes now that they must have made sure that they left his entire body aching, but not enough that he needed the help of others. He curses them under his breath. The trouble he would endure to turn them in is not worth it. He is not a tattler and imagining all the fussing that would entail makes his stomach turn. He wonders if they knew and did this on purpose. He doesn't want to give them that much credit.

He props himself up against the sink in the bathroom, peering into the mirror at all the damage. Yes, he can heal some of this and yes, he can cover most of this up. And yes, tomorrow it will still hurt.

---------------

Ron finds him after he has already crawled into bed.

"Harry?" he peeks through the curtains.

"Hmm?" Harry tries to remain nonchalant.

"Where were you during dinner?"

"Oh, I just came up here. I'm exhausted." He fakes a yawn. He is glad that it is Ron that finds him and not Hermione. Ron is easier to fool. He does not pry the way Hermione does.

"Everyone was worried about you at the Sorting. You sure you're okay?" Ron peers questioningly at Harry, disbelieving that Harry could be tired enough to miss the feast.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's rather tradition now to miss the Sorting," he jokes. "Did I miss any important announcements?" He feigns another yawn. Let Ron think he is really tired.

"Nah, just some extra safety precautions now that everyone knows that You-Know-Who is back. You sure you're okay?"

Harry suddenly finds an easy excuse to hide in his bed undisturbed for the rest of the night. "My head just kind of hurts," he says pointedly.

Ron's eyes predictably widen. "The scar?"

Harry just shrugs. "Can you just tell the others that I'm going to bed early? I'll be fine in the morning."

"Sure, Harry. Just let us know if you need anything. Better get your energy up for breakfast tomorrow."

Harry laughs, "I will. 'Night Ron."

"Night Harry. I'll go tell Hermione you're okay. She's been pulling her hair out with worry." He lets the curtain fall back and leaves Harry in the darkness.

Harry doesn't feel as bad about lying to Ron as he knows he should. He just does not want to tell Ron and Hermione about what happened on the train. Hermione will want to report the incident right away to McGonagall or Dumbledore. Ron will want to give Malfoy a kick in the ribs himself. They will both want to help him fight his battle.

Harry does not want to be like Malfoy. He will seek his own vengeance independently.

Starting tomorrow, he will be watching Malfoy like a hawk. The minute the slimy git slips up, Harry will be there to crow at him. And if Malfoy is up to anything, Harry will find out.

Malfoy will be his own independent project. His downfall will be Harry's personal victory.

---------------------------

Throughout the week, Harry learns Malfoy's schedule. He doesn't care to know Malfoy's classes, but cares to know when Malfoy is free—free to do all his Malfoyish activities, unbound from the scrutiny of a professor's eye.

Harry finds the Marauder's Map. He hides the map in his textbooks to study it during the day, and he hides the map under his covers to study it during the night.

Malfoy goes down to breakfast at 7:00 AM every morning. He takes his time, because he does not leave the Great Hall until ten minutes before the first class. Harry begins to wake up earlier than Hermione to watch Malfoy pick at muffins and scones while reading the morning newspaper. Nothing dastardly, but Harry wouldn't put it past the bastard to be trying something sinister at breakfast time.

Sometimes Malfoy eats lunch outside, which frustrates Harry. He cannot follow him outside without being noticed by friends and foe alike, so he worries that Malfoy might poison the Giant Squid or torch Hagrid's Hut.

After the first week, there are no red flags. All Malfoy does is study, sleep, and spend time with Pansy and his two goons. Even on the weekends, Malfoy is sin-free. Harry can't find any evidence that Malfoy is up to anything unpleasant. Yet, he refuses to believe it.

His patience pays off. During the second week of school, on a Thursday, Malfoy does the unthinkable and vanishes off the map at precisely 8:00 PM.

----------

September 12, 1996 – 8:00 PM, Room of Requirement
He found it. Almost two full weeks trying, and he finally found the perfect place to hide the boxes he'd taken from Father's study.

The past week had been torture. During the days, he'd had no time to himself. Pansy had been especially clingy at the start of this year, because he'd been foolish and didn't write her all summer. She claimed to miss his company. Deep down, he thinks that she only misses him because there is no better company.

Vincent and Gregory were already struggling with homework and he has already spent too much of his own time trying to help them. He is usually ahead in his schoolwork when it is so early in the year, but he has spent all his extra time away from Pansy trying to explain Transfiguration theories to them.

The whole time he kept thinking of his family. His friends are his family at Hogwarts, but his blood family is more important. They come first. And he is letting them down with each minute he spends not finding the solution to their monetary problems.

There is no way that he believes his father has taken care of anything. He loves Father very much, but he thinks Father lies to keep Mother happy. He does that a lot. Either that or Azkaban has wasted his Father's brain. Both options are equally likely.

Draco won't let anyone find out that he could possibly be poor. During class, he worries that someone will have found a way to break through the wards on his trunks looking for valuables to steal and will find all of Father's papers instead.

He needed to hide them.

Today, he found a moment's breath away from everyone. Pansy was with Daphne Greengrass gossiping about…well, likely gossiping about Draco. Vincent and Gregory had given up on Transfigurations early.

He grabs the shrunken boxes from his trunk and stuffs them in his robe pockets. He can feel their weight as he walks, but he feels better knowing they are in his pockets. The weight is less heavy there than it is when thoughts about Father's paper weigh heavy on his shoulders.

Being alone is refreshing. There is more air to think. He paces in circles on the seventh floor with his brows deeply furrowed in concentration. What should he do with these boxes? Where would he hide them? Where can he sit down and start sifting through them again?

A door of opportunity appeared before him. Literally. Oh thank Merlin. The Room of Requirement.

Desperate, Draco had immediately reached for the doorknob and found a giant room packed from floor to ceiling with…junk.

Slytherins are opportunists by nature, and Draco was by no means about to turn down this heaven sent answer to his questions. Quite literally, this room was The Room of Hidden Things, and Draco had plenty to hide. He quickly shuts the door behind him and wandered through various aisles, all full with heaps and heaps of things.

As he wanders, his eye catches a black cabinet with gold enamel. It reminds him of the cabinet in Father's study, only more beaten and broken. The wood is splintered and the doors are barely hanging on the hinges. Nevertheless, this is an ideal place to store the boxes. At any rate, it is a better hiding place than under his bed.

He pulls the boxes out of his pockets and restores them to their natural size. With a grunt, he lifts them and shoves them one by one into the cabinet.

He is tempted to begin looking through the boxes right now, but he knows that he needs a better system than random searching. The project should be more organized, and he needs his own quills and parchment to make his own records and document potential clues.

Draco is determined to find evidence that money is flowing into the Malfoy vaults. And maybe, if he finds out how his father is doing it—if his father is doing it—then maybe he can put more in.

-----------------------

On Saturday, Draco prepares for his first appointment with Lady Agnita. He stares at himself in the mirror while brushing his teeth and realizes that he can't very well walk into his appointment looking like one of the kids that splices themselves on purpose with potions equipment. Not if he wants to prove to the woman that he doesn't need any help. As he squints at himself in the mirror, he blanches. Stress really has done terrible things to his appearances.

Using a mixture of gels and spells, he attempts to give volume to his thinning hair. He pinches his cheeks to give them extra color. To fill out his robes, he wears extra layers underneath them. He makes sure that he looks immaculate. The woman will have no reason to judge him poorly.

As he leaves his room to slip out of the dungeon, he stumbles upon Pansy already awake, working on a Charms essay. Blast that girl for being an early riser.

She turns around at the sound of his footsteps. "What are you doing up?" she asks, eyes already narrow with suspicion.

He winces. "I have somewhere to go this morning."

She purses her lips and looks him up and down. "Well, you're looking very well, this morning Draco. Where are you going so early on a Saturday?"

"Um." He used to be quicker at thinking up lies.

"Are you going on a date?" And Pansy used to be better at not offering him these freebies.

"Actually, yes. I am. I'm meeting someone for breakfast. And I'm late. So…I'll see you later."

Her speculating glance turns into an icy glare. "Oh. I see." She whirls back around towards her essay, and seems to hiss when she tells him to 'Have fun.' She doesn't bother saying any other sort of farewell.

He doesn't understand why she got so huffy all of a sudden, but shrugs it off. He really is late, and he doesn't want Lady Agnita to think he's late because he doesn't want to be there…even though it's true.

---------------------

Draco decides that Lady Agnita's office is very blue. He tells her so, and she replies that blue is the color of stability and truth. He can't decide if the blue calms him or depresses him.

The session begins as he thought it might. He rehearsed answers in his head on his way to her office hoping that she would be predictable. She is predictable…for a little while at least.

She is also very short and has a tightly coiled bun on the top of her head to give her a few extra inches. Her glasses balance precariously on the tip of her nose, and she blinks owlishly at him when he takes his seat. He stares at her silently, counting her blinks as he waits for her to start.

One. Two. Three. Four. "You're late," she says. "By seven minutes and fifteen seconds."

"I'm sorry. It took a little longer to walk here than I thought it would."

"Did you not plan ahead?" She asks as she pulls out a notebook and a quill. He hopes it's not a Quick Quotes Quill.

"I underestimated the distance." He assumes she accepts his answer, because she does not write anything down.

"So how are you, Draco?" Her quill is poised and ready again.

"Good."

"Just good?"

"Never better," he smiles winningly at her.

She flips through a folder and speaks softly, "Your mother tells me that you've been very reserved this past summer. Not like your usual self."

"My usual self is reserved. My mother knows that I am quiet."

"She thinks that you were more than just quiet. She says that you were practically silent."

"I didn't have much to say." He wonders if Lady Agnita was a Slytherin, because she asks questions like a Slytherin does. Always questions that go around in predatory circles, like a vulture circling its prey.

She cocks to her head to the side. "Why wasn't there much to say? You usually have a lot to tell her, don't you?"

Draco wonders if his mother had sent this lady a complete biography on her only son. "There was less going on."

She tuts and writes something down on the parchment. "Actually Draco, wouldn't you agree that there was more going on in your life than usual this summer?"

He shakes his head, "No. There was less to do."

She smiles eerily at him. "Really? Why?"

Draco thinks she sounds like a four year old, asking why over and over again. "I don't know. There just was."

"Maybe because your father wasn't around?"

The circling vulture swoops in to attack the prey. He didn't think she would bring up his father, but she does. He thought she would tiptoe around the subject so she didn't upset him. Isn't that the proper decorum when around possibly fragile souls? He suddenly feels nervous around her, and resists the urge to dig his nails anxiously into the chair's premium Italian leather by folding his hands in his lap.

He counts her blinks again. One. Two. Three. Four. "Well?" she finally prompts him.

His two hands grip each other tightly. "Well, what?"

"How did you feel with your father being gone?"

Lost. Lonely. Scared. Anxious. Angry. "I don't know." A steely edge begins to creep into his voice and he struggles to keep it out.

She 'hmms' and clucks her tongue before writing something down in his file. "Maybe we should try a little game to get to know each other more. I would like to get to know you."

Fat chance. "Fine," he says.

She smiles approvingly and pulls out a deck of cards. "Now, these cards have some pictures on them. When you see the picture, tell me the first thing you think of."

The first card is of a dragon. "We'll start off relatively easy."

He smiles at her, "My namesake." But really, he thinks of the Tri-Wizard Tournament two years ago and the dragon that almost turned Potter into burnt toast. He wishes he could turn into a dragon sometimes. What if it were his Animagus form?

Lady Agnita clears her throat. He realizes she's already holding up the next picture. A book.

"Studying." Studying to be better than everyone else, but always coming second place to the Mudblood.

She holds up a picture of a broomstick. "Quidditch." Second-place.

"Good. Now we'll move on to some more abstract things."

He tries not to grimace. His brain has suddenly chosen now to be extremely imaginative and was already thinking up idiotically complex things to idiotically simple things. She holds up a stormy sky.

"Lightning." Scar. Fuck. Harry Potter. He is glad she asked only for the very first thing he thinks of.

An oyster. "Pearls." Mother. Father spending money on Mother. Receipts.

A tower. "Hogwarts." Azkaban had towers too. Tall, unsturdy towers that sway in the wind. He thinks of Father swaying away in a tower. Draco squirms in the chair, and the leather squeaks.

She keeps going, showing him these pictures and expecting him to give her answers that shed light on his soul. She expects too much, and she tires of the game before he does.

"Well, this is insightful."

He knows she's lying.

"One last picture, Draco." She holds up a picture of a man with blond hair.

Father. But of course, he's not going to hand her that one so freely. "Professor Vector. He's my Arithmancy teacher."

She sighs, "Does this picture make you think of anyone else?"

He shakes his head, but she just frowns and writes on the parchment.

Draco cranes his neck, wanting know what she writes about him. She is probably already writing down all the wrong stuff anyway. Probably writing about how he is being difficult or how he isn't opening up because he is hiding ten cauldrons worth of anxiety. All this false, fake, arsey psychoanalyst babble. He reminds himself of how much his mother is paying for this woman to not help him.

"It's not true you know." He blurts out.

She stops writing. "What's not true?"

"That stuff you're writing about me."

"What do you think I'm writing about you, Draco?"

He hates when she used his first name. "Whatever you're writing, its not true," he mutters.

She sets down her quill very slowly, and steeples her fingers together. "Why can't it be true?"

"Because you don't know anything about me. You don't know what to write down."

"Well, let me try to get to know you, Draco. I'm trying, and to be honest, you're being counter-productive."

He doesn't say anything. Why should he? She hadn't asked a question. He decides to only answer when she asks a question, save for his outburst a moment earlier. And he'll only give her a good answer when she asks a good question, which hasn't happened. The only questions she's asked regard his thoughts or feelings. How does he feel today? What is he thinking about now? Why is this? Why is that?

Those are bad questions, because it doesn't matter what he feels or what he thinks. Not to her.

She sighs, "Let's just go back your father. Your mother thinks that his absence is what has been bothering you."

He shrugs, "She could be wrong."

"Do you really believe that? That she's wrong and you're not bothered by your father's absence?"

Squeak. He squirms in his chair again, "No."

"So you are bothered by his absence?"

And there she goes. Putting words in his mouth before he really has a chance to say anything. What's the point of talking to her about his thoughts if she's just going to think her own?

"That's not what I said."

"So what were you trying to say?"

"I'm saying that I could be bothered by his absence. But most people are bothered when their father isn't there for a whole summer."

She leans forward in her desk and he scoots his chair back just a little bit. "Your mother tells me that you have extra responsibilities now that your father is gone. How do you feel about that?"

"Well, that doesn't really matter does it?"

"And why not?"

"Because responsibilities are responsibilities. I have to do them regardless of what I feel."

"But it matters how you feel. Someone as young as you being burdened so suddenly with responsibilities."

"I would have eventually been given these responsibilities. Now or later, it doesn't matter. There aren't even that many things to do." Except find time to start going through those boxes even though he also has to play tutor with Vincent and Gregory and then study for himself. And make sure he's spending enough time with Pansy. And maybe its all a little overwhelming, but he isn't about to tell Lady Agnita that.

He can't tell her that he could one day be possibly be poorer than Weasley's if he doesn't take care of family business. He can't tell her that his mother doesn't believe that he needs to be doing anything at all so that's the real reason he's here in this stupid blue office. He can't tell her that he doesn't believe his father, and that's why he's doing everything in the first place.

"Are you okay?" The voice cut fuzzily through his thoughts. He realizes he's clutching the arms of the chair so tight his knuckles are snow white.

His exhales. "Yes," he whispers.

"Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"

"I said that nothing was wrong."

She smiles sympathetically at him, pretending to believe him. "I've got an idea." She searches through the drawers of her desk and pulls out a quill and a thick sheaf of parchment. "Why don't you take this, and write down everything you would like to tell someone."

He stares dumbly at the parchment she's pushing towards him. "About what?"

"About how you're feeling. Write about everything important and unimportant, but write about what matters to you."

"What am I supposed to do with it?" He asks skeptically. He had asked this mother the same question when she gave him that journal on his eleventh birthday.

"It doesn't matter. It's up to you. We can talk about what you've written or not. The point is, it's your chance to get your feelings out. Sometimes its difficult to talk, but writing gives you a chance to tell a story about yourself from your own point of view, instead of letting people write it for you."

"Why would it matter if no one is going to see it?"

"But maybe it'll matter to you." She pats the parchment and smiles winningly at him. "Take it and give it a try."

He picks up the quill and parchment, but sticks out his chin defiantly, "And what if I don't?"

"Then you never tried, did you?"

He leaves her office and takes the longer way back to Hogwarts. He stops and stares in the windows of Honeydukes. He contemplates going in and buying a box of his favorite chocolates. The window display looks bright and colorful, and he thinks about how Father had taken him to a candy store in Diagon Alley when he was little and let him buy out the entire store.

He doesn't go in. It would just be another receipt he'd have to keep track of. Yet, if Lady Agnita asked him what he feels right now...it would be yearning.

-----------------------

His mother owls him the next day.

September 15, 1996
From the Desk of Narcissa Malfoy, Undisclosed Location
To Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts
Dear Draco,
How are you? France is delightful, and while it gets lonely, I've been able to entertain myself easily. The shopping district is wonderful. I could spend weeks and weeks browsing the stores. France has so much more elegance and class than Britain. You will love it when you come by this winter. We can search for the perfect winter cape together.
I hope classes are going well. You are a good student, and I know you will make me proud this year. You always do.
How is Pansy doing? She is a lovely girl. You should have invited her to come by more often this summer. Perhaps you should ask her out. A little bit of romance never hurt anyone, and it was in sixth year when your father and I met.
Also, I must ask, how was your meeting with Lady Agnita? Is she as wonderful as claimed? Did she help any? I hope you were agreeable with her.
Now, I must go, because this wonderful boutique is having an afternoon sale. Write soon. I miss you!
Love,
Mother
P.S. Do not worry too much.

September 15, 1996
From the Desk of Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts
To Narcissa Malfoy, Undisclosed Location
Dear Mother,
I am well. I am glad you are enjoying France. I hear France has beautiful beaches and other scenic delights as well. Some of the best things in life are free, you know.
Since classes have just begun, everything is easy. I have been trying to get ahead in my studies.
Pansy is fine, and she and I are just friends. Just because I took her to the Yule Ball does not mean I am going to ask her to go steady. I will tell her you asked after her, however.
Also, I was perfectly agreeable with Lady Agnita. She has given me homework. Maybe I should not have to go to her. I cannot accept extra homework on top of my studies. It would make me worry too much.
Kidding.
I miss you too.
Love,
Draco
P.S. What have you bought? Did you remember the keep the receipts? Father always says that keeping the receipts is a very practical thing to do. If you did, perhaps you can owl them over and I can keep them safe.

And after he's written back to her, he pulls out another sheet of parchment to try writing down his feelings or whatever gibber the woman wanted him to write about.

He hunches over his desk, tapping his quill against the desk.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Swish. He can feel the eagle feather tickling his chin with each flick of the wrist.

He tries. He really does. He sits at his desk with his brows furrowed, trying. But what does one write to absolutely no one at all? When he used to write in the journal Mother bought him when he was younger, he would pretend he was writing to an older version of himself, just as Mother told him to do. His own childhood memoir about nothing with insignificant details crowding the page. He had always thought that maybe one day those details could be important and groundbreaking material.

Well. If Draco is to write to nobody about the insignificant details leading up to this very point in his life…then he should start with a proper address. After more sitting and many tentative scratches and blots on his paper, he begins to write. He thinks the Lady would be proud.

To Anonymous,
I have been instructed today to talk about my feelings with you. Since I do not suppose it is a very masculine thing to do, the other recourse of action is to tell you a story about myself. Not a particularly interesting venture, but one can hope that something fascinating can be discovered along the way. I wonder if I should start at the absolute beginning of everything. Though I usually prefer things in neat chronological order, I should warn you that my story may skip around quite a bit, taking you across many surprise twists and turns (probably not that many as you will come to realize that my life seems to be set on a very straight path). And so, we begin.

I was born into what is believed to be fortunate circumstances. Both my father and mother loved me very much. Contrary to the old therapeutic fall back, I was not mistreated as a child. I was quite happy. My mother doted on me excessively, and my father taught me extensively. Neither of their affections were ill intended. Perhaps it is the fate of a son to be indebted to his parents love. For all their unconditional love, he must put the weight of unfortunate and accidental misgivings upon his shoulders. I find this to be natural. Regrettably my mother did not (hence, my writing to you). I cannot help but overachieve in all my endeavors…I have been taught to try my hardest in all that I try to accomplish. Lately, my task has been my biggest endeavor of all with the most to gain but the most to lose as well.

If I fail, then I stand to lose everything. My family, my fortune, perhaps my friends. Here some might argue that if my friends left me at the moment of my failure then they were not really my friends at all. These people do not understand the nature of friendships formed on a foundation of strategy. I must hold my head above water at all times and give to my family everything they have given to me, and then more.

Although, between you and me, sometimes I blame them for taking it all away at the moment and leaving me in this predicament. I am not sure if it is fair for me to think that, and it seems so much more accusing to write it down on paper. But. Sometimes, I wonder about their decisions and if the path they chose for me was the right one, or if I am already doomed for failure.

Draco begins to worry. He contemplates the vastness of everything he has to accomplish and the impossible obstacles that stand before him. Currently, he is the sole keeper of the Malfoy fortune. Father is slowly going mad in Azkaban. Mother forgets about the mortality of their fortune. And that leaves Draco—the only one who cares and the last one who is fit to do anything.

He wonders if he punishes himself with this pressure. After all, nobody has asked very much of him. Yet, his status as an only child and his ambitious nature require him to take on his familial burdens. He thinks of Lucius rotting away in Azkaban and his mother cavorting around in France. He thinks of why and how both his parents have ended up where they are, tarnishing the Malfoy name.

Here is Draco holding the polishing rag. It scares him that he begins to question if the Malfoys are worth saving.

--------------------------

Sunday afternoon, Draco finds time to slip back into the Room of Requirement. He keeps his hands in his pockets, sweaty palms crumpling the parchment in his fists.

He has got to hide these. No, it would absolutely not do for anyone to ever read these when they were under his possession. Or ever.

Wandering the aisles of junk, he comes across another cupboard hidden behind a rusting cage. He shoves the papers inside that cupboard. He takes a step back and looks around at the towering mess surrounding him. Perhaps he should mark the location. He grabs a hideous bust of a long-forgotten warlock and places it on top of the cupboard. On top, he throws a wig and what looks to be a discolored crown. He admires his landmark crafted from all the rubbish. Another perfect hiding spot.

He makes his way out of the room and down the corridor, feeling lighter as if heavy stones had been lifted from his shoulders. His feet no longer drag the floor. He could have whistled, if he hadn't collided into Harry Potter.

Everything crashes down.

----------------
September 16, 1996 – Seventh Floor Corridor

"Potter," Malfoy nods and tries to side step Harry. Harry finds himself looking down at a head of white blond hair. He wonders if he had gotten that much taller, or if Malfoy had simply shrunk.

He blocks Malfoy's path, not letting the other boy get away so easily.

"Malfoy. You're looking awful chipper." He narrows his eyes accusingly, an edge of suspicion in his voice.

Malfoy crosses his arms across his chest. "Problem? You make it sound as if that's against the rules."

"Depends on what you're so cheerful about. Found some first years to kick?"

Malfoy rolls his eyes and tries to step away again. "Yes, Potter. I'm ecstatic that I've met my daily quota in pummeling small children."

"Whatever, Malfoy. What are you doing up here?" Harry taps his foot impatiently, not in the mood to play any of Malfoy's games.

"Again, you make it sound like wandering around the school is against the rules."

"Well, history shows its hard to believe that you're ever doing anything other than breaking rules."

"Your history or mine?" Malfoy smirks and elbows past.

Harry grabs Malfoy's elbow. It is like wrapping his fingers around nothing but cold bone. "Your history, Malfoy. You're up to something, I know it. Don't think I'm not going to find out eventually."

Malfoy doesn't turn around. "Suit yourself, Potter. Waste your time, but don't waste anymore of mine."

Harry watches the other boy disappear down the hall, the clicking of Malfoy's shoes fading as he walked farther and farther away. Harry kicks the wall in frustration and paces around the corridor in circles.

What was Malfoy doing up here? This was the second time in three days that Malfoy had ventured up to this floor, and also the second time in three days that Malfoy had vanished off the Marauder's Map only to reemerge moments later in this very hallway. Harry isn't a genius but he isn't an idiot either. He had sprinted to the seventh floor the moment it happened. Except, by the time he was upstairs, Malfoy was sashaying down the hall looking very smug about…something.

Malfoy is up to something, and Harry is going to find out what it is. He had as good as promised.

Now, if only he could find out where Malfoy had gone. He circles around in frustration. Where could that slimy git have disappeared? If he were some evil doing Slytherin hiding something where would he go? Where does one go to hide?

Hogwarts never fails to disappoint the curious. A door emerges on the wall. Harry's eyes widen, and he can feel the gears in his brain click into place. Click. The Room of Requirement. Of course. He could hear a miniature version of Hermione exclaiming the elusive room was probably Unplottable.

What the bloody hell is Malfoy doing in the Room of Requirement? Did he require extra Dark materials?

Without hesitation, he pulls open the door. There are teetering towers of things as far as his eyes can see. Aisles of junk that has probably been collected for decades, if not centuries. An absolutely useless room unless one had a lot of things to put into storage.

What could Malfoy be doing in here? He wonders if the room had taken him too literally. He had wanted the room where Malfoy was hiding, not a room for hiding…stuff. Such is the plight of the Room of the Requirement.

Harry picks up a random book and throws it in frustration. How will he ever figure out what Malfoy was doing in here if he could never find where here was?

He begins to aimlessly wander the aisles. He could at least try to find something interesting. Perhaps he might find an ancient Sneakoscope to use on Malfoy in class.

He sees a worn book lying in the middle of one of the aisles and picks that up, ready to throw this one as well. He flips through it quickly, before recognizing it as the potions textbook…full of hints and notes. Well. It could be helpful. He pockets the book and is about ready to give up on the room all together when an ugly sculpture with an old tiara on it catches his eye.

Though the artifacts looked old artifacts, this sculpture seems to be oddly dust free. The sculpture rests on a decrepit cupboard, and Harry notices pieces of parchment sticking out. There are only two. Curious, he pulls them out.

They seem to be letters. He wonders if the writer painstakingly crafted these notes since the handwriting is fine, with a flourish to each letter. Every line looks straight and evenly spaced.

The date startles Harry. This letter was written today.

September 16, 1996.
To Anonymous,
I apologize for my melodrama at the end of yesterday's trial letter. Sometimes, my mind gets carried away, taking my quill with it. You might be confused about what exactly I am undertaking. I had stopped my narrative too soon in order to indulge my own emotions.

Lately, I feel orphaned. No, I do not doubt the love my parents have for me. However, I doubt the support they give me. Mother refuses to listen to my reason. Father…he no longer counts. They have left the survival of our family up to me. Yet, they have given me no guidance and no help. I am left stranded—left to figure out destiny on my own. Fate becomes a secret burden.

Do you ever feel like the fate of everything important is in your hands? That the things that are expected of you weren't things that you even expected of yourself? That what they want from you seems impossible? The feeling that everyone is pulling at you from every direction, and if they started pulling any harder you might just fly apart?

I do. And on top of it all, I feel utterly alone in feeling this way. I often wonder if anyone could or would ever understand how it feels to almost fly apart.

Yes. Yes, they would understand. Harry sets down the letter. It seems as though whoever wrote this letter had written down all of Harry's own thoughts. Or rather, whoever wrote this had managed to make sense out of all the overwhelming and frustrating thoughts that Harry had never really figured out himself until now.

At first, he feels relieved. It is nice to place words on the jumble of things that were in his mind. Finally, some way that made sense of all the pressure. A way to describe the tension he constantly feels from the expectations placed on him that he was going to save the world one day…that he was going to save the world single-handedly one day with nary any help. Relief that after all this time he had thought that no one else would ever understand the weight of the impossible, that someone else might know an inkling of what he feels.

Then Harry feels curious. Who could this someone be? Who else has been here? Who could be writing all of this? What else, other than threats of Voldemort, could make someone feel like this? And finally, Harry feels perturbed. He skims the letters again, slightly suspicious. As if these letters were purposefully planted for Harry to find.

Questions stir in his mind long after he has left the Room of Requirement. Just for now, this is enough to make him forget about Malfoy.

------------

September 17, 1996 – Slytherin Boys Dormitory

There is no time to go back to the Room of Requirement today. This morning, Pansy had wanted to go for a walk around the courtyard during break. In the afternoon, both Vincent and Gregory needed help understanding the new Charms theory. Tonight, it is Blaise Zabini who wants something from Draco.

Draco has not talked to Blaise since the end of fifth year. The last time he talked to Blaise was before the Week Where Everything Went to Shit. The last time he talked to Blaise, there had been a falling out.

He could have talked with Blaise since then. Blaise might listen, might even help. Then again, Blaise might laugh, might even tell everyone. His friendship with Blaise has a history of instability. Blaise is not as loyal a friend as Vincent or Gregory. He is too smart—always calculating and thinking with his long eyelashes that shutter his eyes.

Draco was almost as close with Blaise as he is with Pansy. Maybe that was only because Blaise had wanted the same thing from Draco that Pansy does. Things that Draco doesn't want to give.

He knows the rumors about Blaise Zabini. Blaise Zabini lifts shirts and bites pillows. And at the end of last year, Blaise Zabini had hinted that he wanted to lift Draco's shirt.

…Hence, the falling out.

He does not know what Blaise wants from him tonight. He hopes it is not what Blaise used to want. He does not have time for that.

"Yes?" Draco stares up from his textbook at Blaise. He cranes his neck. Had everyone gotten a growth spurt over the summer but Draco?

"Can I come in?" Blaise fiddles with the side of the curtain.

"What for?"

Blaise shrugs. "Just wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm doing fine. How are you?" Draco looks back down at his textbook. His neck is getting sore from looking up.

"Good." Blaise begins drumming his fingers on the bedpost. "Are you doing potions?"

Draco nods, eyes skimming the text, but not really reading anything. Behind the page he was reading was the journal entry he had begun to write. Granted there was only one word on the page, but his mind had already started drifting far away, until Blaise had startled him back.

Blaise's other hand produces the thick potions text from behind his back. "I'm just about to. Care to study together?"

Draco purses his lips and stays silent. He feels a nudge on his shoulder and finds Blaise starting to climb in the bed anyway without an invitation. Just like last year.

He is about to push Blaise off, but the other boy holds up the textbook like an offering of peace.

"We can go over the potion's theories for next week like we did last year. And guess what happens when you change ingredients or combine potions elements."

Draco allows a small smile at this. "Ah. No one else is willing to do that with you are they?" He scoots over just a little bit.

Blaise flips open the textbook. "You're more of a potions nerd than I am."

Draco scoots over even more. "Only because I'm better at it than you."

Tonight, it is easy to get along with Blaise. He abandons the journal entry that is slipped in between the pages of the book in favor of trading fantasy potions theories.

He isn't being fussed over the way Pansy did this morning. He isn't being stared at blankly the way he was with Vincent and Gregory this afternoon. He isn't thinking himself to insanity the way he has all week.

He doesn't say anything when Blaise touches his wrist too much or when Blaise sits too close. This is okay for now.

------------

Pansy is upset with him the next morning. He notices the way her knife screeches against the plate that Pansy is just an inch away from screeching herself.

"What did you end up doing last night?" The pieces of toast she has been cutting look microscopic.

Draco shoves his own toast into his mouth and smiles appeasing at her around chews. He swallows. "Study."

"You said that we were going to do Transfigurations together after you were done with Potions."

"Potions ended up taking longer than expected."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "You were studying with Blaise. In your bed."

He frowns at her, wondering how she always knew exactly what he was doing.

"Teddy Nott told me." She sets down her silverware. "I thought you were no longer friends with him."

Draco just shrugged and shoved another piece of toast in his mouth.

She tugs on his robes and hisses, "You know what they say about Zabini."

"Yes, I know."

"You know what you say about Zabini."

"Said."

"Called him a fudge-packing, pillow-biting pouf."

"Did I?"

"Yes. You did. So why are you even talking to him again for?"

"We were just doing potions. Relax." He wonders if she will fuss over him every morning. The thought alone irritates him.

"Potions in your bed. People will talk. You don't want people to talk about you and Blaise Zabini in bed together. They'll think you're a pouf too." She stabs a piece of her toast.

"No one is going to think I am a pouf." Does she find a new thing to fuss about every day? People never fuss over the right things.

She turns to glare at him with her mouth open. He can almost taste the poisonous comment that is about to come out of her mouth. He can almost see it on the tip of her sharp tongue. He waits for it, but she snaps her mouth shut.

"What?

"Nevermind, Draco." She slams down her fork and grabs her bag, as she storms out of the Great Hall.

There will be no morning walk today.

-------------------

September 18, 1996 – The Great Hall

"Wonder what's up Parkinson's arse this morning," Ron mumbles around a mouthful of eggs.

Harry glances up to see Pansy Parkinson stomping out of the Great Hall. His eyes trail back towards the Slytherin table where Malfoy sits looking bemused and slightly affronted.

He scoffs, "More like, I wonder what Malfoy did to her."

Hermione sighs and sets down the morning paper. "Honestly. Harry, are you still trying to play pin the blame on Malfoy for everything?"

It is Harry's turn to look insulted. "What do you mean?"

"I just mean that ever since the school year started, it's like you've been obsessed with trying to catch Malfoy at doing something. It's like first year all over you. You trying to get him in trouble for nothing."

Ron nods, "It's true. I'm all for getting that slimy git in trouble, but you, my friend, are taking it to a whole other level."

Harry restrains himself from throwing his toast at both of them. "It's not nothing. He's up to something. In fact, I found him outside the Room of Requirement the other day. Tell me what anyone who isn't up to something is doing up there."

"Tell me what you were doing following him," Ron snorts.

"Because, he's up to something!" Harry picks up his bag and to make his own dramatic exit out of the hall.

Unfortunately, Malfoy had left just moments before.

"Stop following him," Hermione tuts. "People might think you've got a crush."

"Actually, I'm just going to the library, thanks." Harry rolls his eyes. Defensive, he feels wrongly accused of this obsession. He hadn't even thought about Malfoy until this morning. Draco Malfoy hadn't even been crossed his mind since he found those letters. Malfoy isn't even a priority at the moment. Right now, all he wants to do is find out who had written those entries.

He had gone back up to the Room last night, but there had only been the same two notes peeking out from the statue. Maybe he had gone there too early. Maybe the writer had snuck up there late last night to hide their entries.

It wouldn't hurt to go check again this morning.

He takes the stairs two at a time to the seventh floor. As he rounds the hallway, he sees a familiar and unwelcome blond head.

Great. Now he's following Malfoy even when he doesn't want to. He tries to stop running so maybe Malfoy won't see him, but his shoes squeak too loudly on the stone.

Malfoy whirls around. "Potter!"

"What?" Harry shoves his hands into his pockets, feigning nonchalance.

"Why are you following me?"

"What makes you think I'm following you?"

Malfoy looks at him as if he were dumb. "Because this is the second time I've seen you up here when I was here first."

"What are you doing up here anyway?"

Malfoy crosses his arms, "Maybe I just like coming up here to be alone. Evidently, it's not working."

"Really? Just to be alone? Pull the other one, Malfoy."

"Whatever. Choose what you want to believe. But just between you, me, and the rest of the world, I'm getting sick of seeing your ugly face so up close and personal over and over again."

Malfoy shoves Harry out of the way as he disappears down the hallway towards the stairs. For someone who was there first, he is awfully quick to also be the first to leave.

Shrugging, Harry makes his way to the center of corridor so he can find the Room of Requirement again.

He immediately seeks out the statue with the letters. There is nothing new there. He slumps against the cabinet disappointed. With two notes one day after the other, Harry had thought the writer must be on a once-a-day habit.

Slumping against the cabinet, Harry wonders if he should write something for the author to find. Maybe a short note of support? A quick greeting? If he does that, he wonders if he would ever hear from this author again—not that the author knew he or she had an audience now. Or maybe the writer would be just has curious about a note Harry leaves as Harry is curious about the writer.

He rips off a piece of parchment out of his bag and pulls out a quill.

I understand. You aren't alone.

He considers leaving an initial, or maybe a hint. He stops himself however. This note is bold enough. Let two anonymous people try to find each other.

There can be enough comfort knowing that the other exists.

-----------------

September 18, 1996 – Slytherin Common Room

Dusk falls on Draco tugging furiously at the lock of his trunk. He flings the top open and shoves his arm towards the bottom. He hears the clinking of glass bottles and he wraps his fingers around two small vials. Self-procured gifts from his father's potion's cabinet.

He heads down to the common room, and sees two first year girls giggling in a corner. He approaches them and pulls a hair from their heads.

"Ow! What are you…" They trail off and stare wide-eyed at him.

He smirks. "First years aren't supposed to be down here."

Tucking the hair into his pocket, he finds Vincent and Gregory squabbling over a game of Exploding Snap.

"Oy." His foot taps impatiently on the stone. They are still bickering. He clears his throat again before exclaiming, "Shut up!"

They look up without batting an eye.

"I need you to do something for me."

"When?" Vincent asks.

"Now." Draco nods and begins to walk brusquely out of the Common Room. He doesn't need to turn around to know that they're following him.

In the dungeon hallway, he thrusts a vial in each of their hands and hands them each a delicate hair. Desperate measures for desperate times.

"I have something I'm working on in the seventh floor corridor. Except, Potter keeps following me around everywhere. I'll need you to stand guard for me now."

They peer at the vials. "What's in this?" Gregory asks.

Draco takes both hair and vial from his hands. He drops the hair in and watches it bubble. "Hair."

Gregory grimaces, but takes it anyway.

Draco smiles. Loyalty is his most valued virtue in friendship.

-----------

Two young girls follow Draco up to the seventh floor. He leaves them behind as he disappears into the Room of Requirement. He only has one hour.

He casts an alarm charm and spends forty-five minutes poring over and organizing Father's files. He creates different stacks and labels them. As he skims through the papers, he makes notes on a piece of parchment.

When the alarm alerts him of the time, he stretches and looks over his work feeling accomplished. At last, a moment of productivity. Sure, there is barely a dent on any of the papers, but finally there is visible evidence that he has been working.

As he heads out to reach his door, he glances at the other cabinet where his papers are stored. Something looks amiss. A frayed piece of parchment juts out of the cabinet.

He feels his heart freeze and his throat close up in panic. He doesn't know how he ends up clutching the piece of paper in his hand.

The words echo in his head like a taunt. You aren't alone. He looks around frantically.

"Hello?" He calls out, wondering if this mysterious note writer was hiding in one of the aisles.

His voice reverberates off the walls. Hello, Hello, Hello. But you aren't alone.

He pulls a quill out of his pocket and scratches on the back, Who are you?

With his eyes closed, he counts to ten as if expecting an immediate answer. When none comes, he just shoves the paper back in the cabinet. He paces in a circle for a moment. Who the bloody hell has been up here?

He can't check this room every hour like he wants to now in order to see a reply that may or may not alleviate his nerves. Potter might follow him up and he can't make Vincent and Gregory Polyjuice into preteen girls for an entire day.

Finally, he just stalks out of the room. Fifty-nine minutes gone, and all the good feelings from this first forty-five minutes have evaporated.

He sees two young girls pulling at each other's pigtails and slapping each other next to an abandoned game of Exploding Snap.

Let them make their own way down to the dungeons.

---------

Draco can't sleep tonight. He feels like someone is lurking right outside the curtains. He thinks about the Room of Requirement and imagines shadows chasing him up and down the aisles. The dark bed canopy looms down on him and in the black, he can picture Potter's face smirking at him out of the cabinets and throwing all of the files in the air and saying, "Caught you."

The tossing and turning feels like hours, and he hopes that he might just close his eyes and it would be morning again. Anxiety coils up in his belly and tightens.

Finally, he rolls out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.
The water stings his cheeks and leaves an icy trail down his neck.

A hand squeezes his shoulder. The brief contact sparks an immediate reaction. Reflexively, Draco elbows backwards and hears a loud grunt of pain. He whirls around to see Blaise doubled over.

"Bloody Hell, Malfoy. What are your elbows made of?"

Draco just blinks and shakes the water out of his eyes. "What the bloody hell did you surprise me in the middle of the night for?"

Blaise shrugged, not looking very apologetic. "You woke me up. Sounded like you were jumping on your bed."

"That loud?"

Blaise grinned, "You'd think that you weren't just trying to sleep."

Draco glares. "Pervert."

Blaise just grins some more. "So. Want to sneak out?"

Draco lifts himself up and perches on a sink. His brows pucker together. "Out where?"

"Just outside. We can go for a run around the lake."

"What would be the point of that?" Draco asks apprehensively.

"It'll make you tired. Then I might get to say I wore you out."

Draco grimaces. Blaise used to joke like that last year. He hadn't thought anything of it until he finally understood that the double entendres were directed purposefully at him. "You're not very humorous."

"Ah. But you'll still come for a run?"

"I don't run." Draco points out.

"Walk then." Blaise continues to grin like a Cheshire cat.

Draco wonders about how wise it really is to go out for a run on Hogwarts grounds in the middle of the night. A stupid decision, especially if he considers that it'll be Blaise Zabini that he'll have for company.

But. He is too restless to go back to bed. Too uneasy. The anxiety from discovering that note in the Room of Requirement keeps his body itching to run all the way up to the seventh floor. The apprehension has settled uncomfortably.

And for some reason, he knows that middle of the night runs with Blaise Zabini might piss Pansy off. He imagines her snapping her silverware in half at breakfast and wagging all ten fingers at him disapprovingly. There would probably be no morning walk. A fair exchange: midnight run to substitute those morning walks.

"Fine. I'll come." He swings his legs off the sinks. "Let me change."

Teddy Nott can tell Pansy in the morning.

---------------------

September 19, 1996 – Midnight on Hogwarts Grounds

He slips through the hallway in his Invisibility Cloak. The thick socks he wears are silent on the stone as he tiptoes up the staircase to the seventh floor.

Harry couldn't sleep tonight. He thinks about the mysterious author—an unknown companion. Has the person written back yet? The anticipation makes his heart pound, and the excitement keeps his eyes wide open. He can't wait.

The door to the Room of Requirement swings open quietly and in the dim light, Harry makes out the statue on top of the cabinet. He snatches the paper out.

Who are you?

His spine tingles, he's thrilled to have gotten a response. He knows he should be more cautious. Experience has taught him that nothing good ever came out of strangers writing each other messages. The situation seems too perfect…too timely. Yet, his curiosity and sense of kinship with the writer compel him to reach for the quill.

Who is he? Harry finds that he likes the anonymity and namelessness. He is an enigma who someone knows nothing about. The obscurity provides an outlet for honesty.

The quill tickles his chin as he considers a reply.

Someone who knows the heaviness of fate and the impossibility of expectations. I am not as good with words as you, but if I had been able to turn my thoughts into words…I could have written chapters about being left stranded to figure out destiny on my own. I didn't know that the world could weigh so much on another person as well. Who are you?

Perhaps the stranger would be just as curious about him as he was about them. He imagines the other person reading his reply, be it boy or girl, struggling to determine the person responsible for writing back. How equally intrigued the person would be. Did they have the same questions? How long could they remain anonymous? Would they even reply? If they did, would they eventually want to meet?

He lingers on his own note and hopes that it is equally part enigma and part explanation. That the other person would know that he was sincere in his understanding and interest. That the other person would know that Harry expected a reply.

His own expectations make him impatient as he makes his way back to the Tower. He almost doesn't see Draco Malfoy slipping through the front doors into the cool night air.

Yet, there is no mistaking the flash of white blond that glimmers in the beams of moonlight stretching across the floor. The gleaming hair is too noticeable, even from Harry's position two flights of stairs above.

Harry doesn't hesitate to follow him. He hasn't forgotten his mission to find out what Malfoy is up to. His suspicion flares when he sees Malfoy's dark companion slinking alongside the git. What are Malfoy and Blaise Zabini doing at midnight on the Hogwarts grounds?

Maybe Zabini was an accomplice in whatever dark deed Malfoy has been planning.

He takes the stairs two by two, and by the time he reaches the main doors, Harry is sure his loud panting is bound to give him away. The invisibility cloak is hot and he feels his glasses slip down his sweaty nose as he chases the Slytherin phantoms across the grounds.

-------

They end up by the lake. Harry props his body against the tree, hugging the drunk as he leans forward to listen. He tries not to breath, since he is sure that if he does, his breath would slice through the quiet.

Malfoy looks strangely smaller tonight when contrasted with the tall frame of Zabini. He is hunched with his arms around himself, looking as though the lake is about to swallow him whole. The lightest breeze could blow him away.

"So what kept you up tonight?" Zabini murmurs, looking confident with his hands in pockets.

Malfoy, on the other hand, looks vulnerable, his arms shielding his chest against an invisible offender. He merely shrugs, "Just couldn't sleep."

Zabini turns and narrows his eyes. "You 'just couldn't sleep' since the semester began?"

"You've been noticing?"

"It's hard not to wonder what's been keeping you awake at night. You know, your eyes are so sunken that they're disappearing into your face."

"Thanks for that visual, Blaise. May I ask why you've been pondering so much about my sleeping pattern?"

There is a long pause. Harry holds his breath. Literally.

"I've been worried about you." Zabini finally says.

"That's quee…strange of you."

"Yeah, well. I remember the end of last year wasn't the best for you. And then the start of this year doesn't seem to be the best either."

"And what's it to you now?" Malfoy seems to hunch over more, like he's about to be sick over his own shoes.

Zabini grabs Malfoy's shoulder. "Look, I'm sorry about what happened at the end of last year."

"It's not your fault." Malfoy shakes him off.

"Not...that. The thing that was my fault."

Malfoy grimaces. "So are you over…that thing?"

Zabini is quiet for a long time again. "Start over with me as friends."

Malfoy picks up a stone and throws it into the lake. "What makes you think I forgive and forget so easily?"

"I'll just take another guess here and say that you might have bigger things on your mind about last year than…what happened between us."

Malfoy grimaces again and tosses another stone. He turns and looks up at Zabini. "Fine. Friends."

Zabini's grin looks brighter than the moon. "Good. So, now will you tell me what's been keeping you awake at night and distracted during the day?"

Harry leans forward anticipating Malfoy revealing his laundry list of crimes from this semester. 'Tell him!' Harry urges telepathetically. Yet, as he inches towards them, his foot catches on a tree root.

"Umph!" He tumbles down toward the reeds, clutching his cloak around him desperately. The reeds rustle violently.

"What the bloody fuck?" Malfoy spits out. He chucks a huge stone into the tall grass. Harry winces.

He can hear them muttering curiously and tossing several more pebbles in his direction before the fast fall of running footsteps announce their departure. He remains lying in the grass, breathing in the cloak material.

What was Malfoy up to? The other boy must be so preoccupied with something that he wasn't even sleeping at night. It was taking some kind of toll on Malfoy that was wearing him out so much that even Blaise Zabini had taken notice. And this something was so secretive that Zabini didn't even have any kind of clue.

And then he wondered what the hell happened between Malfoy and Zabini at the end of fifth year that they might have fallen out over.

The thick cloak covers his mouth and his glasses begin to steam as he continues to think, the minutes ticking by.

------------

"Guess who I caught sneaking around last night." Harry announces at breakfast.

"Who?" Ron asks.

"Yes, Harry. Who?" Hermione doesn't sound nearly as thrilled.

"Malfoy." Harry triumphantly stabs a sausage.

There is silence.

"How did you go about catching Malfoy?" Hermione finally asks.

"I was walking back to the tower and I saw him and Zabini head out into the grounds. So I followed them.'

"Why were you wandering around Hogwarts?"

"Looking for Malfoy, probably," Ron mutters into his eggs.

"No! I couldn't sleep so I was just walking. It was happenstance that I stumbled across Malfoy."

"Planned happenstance," says Hermione, rolling her eyes.

"He and Zabini might have been up to something really strange so I decided to go see…"

Ron begins to snicker.

"What?"

Ron only snickers more. Hermione hides a giggle behind her hand.

"What? What's so funny?"

Ron clears his throat. "What strange things did you catch them doing?"

"Well, they were just talking. But, Malfoy was about to tell Zabini what nasty, criminal acts he has been committing…but…"

Ron spit out his orange juice. "Malfoy was about to tell Zabini what nasty…acts…"

Harry stares at Ron strangely as Hermione began to giggle again. "But what Harry?"

"But. I fell and they heard so they left. And I didn't find out. But now I know for sure. Malfoy is up to something. And why are you laughing?"

"What kind of nasty acts do you think Zabini and Malfoy might have been up to at night?"

Harry blinks as Ron's innuendo begins to dawn. "Okay, that's sick."

"Why did you follow them?" Hermione tuts.

"Because, Malfoy is up to something," Harry grumbles.

"Up Zabini's shirt." Ron amends.

"Where do you even begin to get that?"

Ron rolled his eyes and rips off a piece of toast. "Everyone knows that Blaise Zabini likes the gentlemen more than he likes the ladies. He is a pants-not-skirts man."

Harry gags on the scone.

"Exactly. Imagine what you could have seen last night and be glad you saw them talking."

"Malfoy's a pouf?!" Harry exclaims.

Heads turn.

------------------

September 20, 1996 – The Great Hall

Draco hates Harry Potter. He hates the idiot's big mouth and loud voice and he hates the hundreds of little heads that turn and stare him smugly. He also hates the silence. The quiet acceptance. He hates that he chose to sit next to Zabini this morning. He hates Pansy too for staring at him and mouthing, 'I told you so.' He hates how he can't say anything at this moment, because everyone will just think that denial is not just a river in Egypt and poor Malfoy is becoming delusional about his own identity.

But most of all, he just really hates Potter.

"He's such a sodding idiot." He says as he stands up to leave the Great Hall. He motions for Vincent and Gregory to follow him.

He feels mildly better when he hears their thundering footsteps following and then the crack of Vincent's knuckles before Potter's consequent groan of pain.

His anxiety had not abated from last night. In fact, it had increased since he heard that unnatural rustling in the weeds. He can't shake off the feeling that someone keeps following him. His strides are long as he heads toward the seventh floor, and he can hear Gregory gasping for air as he stumbles behind.

In a deserted hallway, he hands them both a corked vial.

"This isn't that vile tasting stuff is it?" Vincent sniffs it.

Draco glares before stomping around in circles to access the room. "Just take the bloody thing."

Two meek-eyed girls blink at him by the time he yanks open the door.

-------

"September 19, 1996
Someone who knows the heaviness of fate and the impossibility of expectations. I am not as good with words as you, but if I had been able to turn my thoughts into words…I could have written chapters about being left stranded to figure out destiny on my own. You intrigue me. I did not know that the world could weigh so much on another person as well. Who are you?"

After pocketing the note, Draco nibbles on the end of his quill, gagging as he accidentally tastes the bitter ink. For someone who claimed that they aren't eloquent, this mystery invader certainly has a style. This reply leaves Draco still anxious, but with a modicum of curiosity. However wary Draco is over the motive and the anonymity, he also feels a small degree of comfort in thinking that perhaps someone might know how he felt.

You've made it awfully clear that you think you know exactly how I feel. Except, I wonder, can you know exactly how heavy the weight on my shoulders has become if your own circumstance is different? Bear up. Everyone has their own burdens to carry. Some of us are just more entitled to dramatics about it than others. But, in the case that the expectations placed on you are just as heavy, and your journey just as forcibly straining, then tell me. Why? What burdens do you carry that are so heavy you are trying to seek out the companionship of a stranger? Until then, I won't tell you who I am. You probably wouldn't believe me anyway.

He tucks his reply into the cabinet before seeking out his other storage place. For the next half hour, he sorts through the boxes trying to figure out what may become of his family's fate.

---------

Saturday morning, he wakes up to go to Hogsmeade to meet Lady Agnita. He slinks out of the building, not wanting to run into anyone. He isn't breaking any rules, he just doesn't want to run into anyone that would ask him questions.

He must have forgotten to knock on wood, because just as he is about to escape the building unnoticed, he spots Potter going up those last flight of stairs. He tries to slip into the shadows to wait for the other boy to leave, but Potter seems to have him on radar. He wouldn't be surprised of Potter had some magical device specifically designed to locate Draco.

"Malfoy. What are you doing up so early?"

"It's nine, Potter. Hardly early. Except, I should ask you the same. What are doing tainting the world with your presence so early? Shouldn't you Gryffindor lions be lazing around until the afternoon on weekends?"

Potter ignores his question and narrows his eyes on him. Draco thinks its because Potter can't think of any witty comebacks. Shame, really. He had so been looking forward to a vigorous verbal sparring.

"Don't think you can just slip out of here so easily. I see you trying to sneak out. Where are you going?"

"I'm not trying to sneak."

"Then why were you hiding from me?"

"Gee, I don't know. Maybe to avoid one of the lunatic firing squad of questions? To avoid seeing your ugly face? Pick one."

Potter moved to block the door. "Where are you going?"

"Outside."

"Why?"

"Because, contrary to popular belief, I like the sun."

"I don't believe you."

"What do you want to hear then?" Draco is frustrated and exasperated. He doesn't have energy to deal with Potter's paranoia.

"Where you're really going."

"Fine. To Hogsmeade."

"That's not allowed."

"You're not allowed. I am. Special permission. Go ask Dumbledore if you don't believe me."

Potter blinks fish-eyed at him. "Maybe I will then."

Draco stares at the other boy with disbelief. "Bloody hell. Don't you have anything better to do?" He shoulders past Potter to push open the main doors.

Annoyed, he kicks every stone in his path on the way to Lady Agnita's office. His toes hurt by the time he arrives at her office.

He thinks about coming here every Saturday morning. It is only the second week, and the dread he feels on his way over hurts his stomach. He can't possibly imagine waking up early, trying to escape Pansy's suspicions and Potter's interrogations. Leaving the castle alone makes the journey to her office wearisome enough. He cannot and will not do this for the rest of the term.

--------------

The blue walls seem to fold in on him as Lady Agnita peers at him over her glasses. He feels inspected. Like a bug pinned in a big blue box. She twirls a quill in her hands.

"Did you try what I suggested last week?" she asks him.

"Yes." And fat lot of good it did him. He addressed some of his private thoughts to the imaginary unknown and ended up with a real unknown person trying to reach out to him. Instead of merely telling his side of his story to himself, he now has more anxiety about writing letters to an anonymous student.

"Did it help?"

No. It made everything worse. "Yes."

"Do you want to share anything you wrote?" She sounds eager. And her quill is poised as she waits for him to recite private thoughts for her scrutinizing and judgmental ears. Unfortunately, he has already shared those thoughts too much with someone else.

"No."

"Why not?" She is disappointed now. Maybe as annoyed with him as he is with being here in her blue office. He has decided that the blue is depressing.

"It helps just writing." He folds his hands in his lap. "Actually, just writing works just fine. It was an excellent idea, and I don't believe I'll need your services any longer."

She laughs, an eerie sound. "Draco," she attempts a placating voice. "I'm glad my suggested exercise helped, but ultimately the decision to stop treatment isn't yours. Remember that your mother requested that you come here. You are to continue these appointments until we both feel that you're better."

"I was fine to begin with."

"We both know that's not true." She reminds Draco of the calm before a storm.

His hands clench. So what if he isn't completely fine? No one ever is. That doesn't mean everyone who isn't completely fine needs therapy. Besides, therapy doesn't make anyone completely fine anyway, because it doesn't change any of the 'not fine' things happening to the person.

"Even if I wasn't fine, coming here isn't going to make anything better. Coming here to these appointments doesn't change anything."

"That's not true either, Draco. Things can be changed, starting with changing how you feel."

He stands. "I can do that on my own. I can't be forced to come here and forced to talk."

She stands as well, and glides towards the door, blocking it with her body. "No one is forcing you to do anything."

'Yes, they are!' Draco screams silently. His mother forces him to come here. His father's absence forces him to take care of the family. Pansy forces him to behave a certain way. Potter forces him to stay awake late at nights. He is forced to hide in the Room of Requirement. Forced towards anxiety. Forced to uphold family honor and tradition. Forced to lie. Forced towards his father's path. Forced towards a million things he never wanted to do in the first place. People need to just stop pushing and pulling at him.

"Then don't make me stay." He reaches for the doorknob, relieved when she doesn't try and stop him. If she kept pulling at him too and forcing him to stay, he might have just lost it. And then he really would seem like a troubled adolescent in dire need of therapy.

He kicks stones on the way back to the castle again, until his toes are numb. He's never going to go back there again. Ever. Sod her and sod his own mother for forcing him to go there. Mentally, he declares this his last visit ever.

-----------------

September 21, 1996 – Afternoon in the Library

Harry can't stop thinking about Malfoy. Malfoy is a mystery and now Harry can't control his curiosity. After his encounter with Malfoy in the morning, he had rushed back into his room to grab his invisibility cloak and Marauder's Map.

Ron had groggily asked him where he was going, but Harry just sprinted out the door. As he scampered through the hallways and down flights of stairs, he had tapped the map to find where Malfoy was going. When he finally caught sight of the other boy again, he threw on his cloak and followed Malfoy into Hogsmeade.

The only sound on the way to wherever Malfoy was heading was the sound of stones skittering across the path. Harry noticed that Malfoy seemed to drag his feet when he walked, unusually different from his normal swaggering gait. It seemed as though Malfoy didn't want to go wherever he was going.

Malfoy's destination shocked Harry. He imagined Malfoy slipping into a dingy store or bar for a meeting of criminal minds with one of Lucius Malfoy's associates. He didn't expect Malfoy to slip into the office of Lady Agnita, a witch reputed to "heal the woes of troubled youth" according to the adverts she took out in the Daily Prophet.

Disconcerted, Harry had wanted to sneak in after Malfoy to find out why Malfoy needed to see her. Unfortunately, the door slammed shut in Harry's face and the door was charmed to let in only those who had scheduled appointments. Even Lady Agnita had followed the strict ethical policy of patient confidentiality.

Harry thought about Malfoy all the way to the library, and now that he is trying to study with Hermione and Ron, he continues to think about the other boy. What troubles and woes could he possibly have? Maybe he is finally getting therapy for his bullying tendencies. That thought amuses Harry. Or maybe he is being forced to go to therapy by Dumbledore as a disciplinary measure. That thought also pleases Harry. Yet, maybe Malfoy has to go to therapy because of what happened to Lucius at the end of last year. This thought bothers Harry just a little bit.

He asks Ron and Hermione what they think.

"Have you ever heard of Lady Agnita in Hogsmeade?"

"The lady that treats crackpots, queers, and delinquents?" asks Ron.

"Er. Yes. Her."

"Why?" Hermione leans forward, concern written all over her face. "Are you thinking about going to her? Because really, Harry. If you are that worried about anything you know that Ron and I…"

"No! I'm not thinking about going to her. I was just wondering." He scrambles to think of an excuse. "I saw something about her in the Daily Prophet and was just wondering who would even go to her."

"Crackpots, queers, and delinquents," repeats Ron. "The type that use potions equipment on their wrists."

"Ron!" Hermione exclaims. "That's terrible."

"But true."

"It's just for people who need someone to talk to."

"About being a crackpot or a queer." Ron shrugs. "Mum says that no one ever wants to go there, and if they're forced to nothing good comes out of it anyway, because they didn't want to go. So what we're left with is confused madmen running around."

"Oh," is the only thing Harry can think of to say before biting his lip and thinking about Malfoy again. He remembers what Ron told him Friday morning at breakfast. Maybe Malfoy had to go there, because he was…queer.

"Why do people go there if they're queer?" He asks.

Hermione purses her lips. "Parents send their children to her, because she thinks they can change them. A lot of families don't want a gay child because the wizarding bloodline is already declining. Plus its generally just frowned upon. It's the same in the Muggle world." She closes her textbook. "Why are you so interested?"

"I was just curious."

Hermione raises her eyebrows. A classic signal that she doesn't believe him. He just shrugs her off and stares fiercely at his textbook, but not reading it at all.

He wond