A Greedy Man

First Year:

Draco Malfoy was nothing but excited to begin his first year at Hogwarts. After all, this was his first real entrance into wizarding society as the Malfoy heir – his eleven years thus far had all been preparing him for this. Hi father had been hard on him, sure, but he had every right to expect perfection from his heir. Draco had centuries of Malfoy prestige to live up to after all.

Admittedly, he would miss his mother. She had fussed over his hair at the train station, ensuring every platinum strand was in place, until his father had snapped at her to leave him alone. She had straightened up, swiped invisible dust from her robes and schooled her face into an emotionless mask, but when his father wasn’t looking, she had snuck one of Draco’s favorite candies into his robes pocket with a wink.

Yes, he would miss his mother.

When Harry Potter snubbed him on the train, Draco’s mood dimmed slightly. A half-blood, raised by muggles dared to disrespect him – the Malfoy heir? Draco was certain his shoes alone cost more than the boy’s entire wardrobe. Probably more than his and Weasley’s wardrobe combined! Yet Harry bloody Potter dared to look down on him?

At least, this is what Draco told himself. But it was difficult to ignore the swirling unease in his stomach when the other boys had looked at him with something akin to disgust. It wasn’t entirely unlike the feeling he had when his mother had caught him playing with priceless heirlooms.

This was quickly overshadowed by Draco’s pride at being sorted into Slytherin. Of course, he had had no doubts. He came from two very noble and reputable lines of Slytherin ancestors, after all. Within days he was leading other Slytherins his age, and even a few in the year above him seemed to follow him as well. Such was the power of the Malfoy name. With his social standing already on track, and his immediate success in classes, Draco had quickly forgotten about the unease that had accompanied Potter’s snub that first day. It was Potter’s loss. Besides, anyone who would choose a Weasley over a Malfoy was surely no one Draco wanted to be associated with. Quickly, Draco was once again filled with nothing but excitement for his time at Hogwarts.

Then, there was the bushy-haired, know-it-all mudblood. He had no idea how she seemed to know every answer, always had the perfect technique, and always seemed to raise her hand before him. He was certain she was cheating. After all, she wasn’t even supposed to have magic, so it made no sense that she could excel at it. It was against the laws of nature. Draco was determined to discover her secret, find out how she was cheating and turn her in. It wouldn’t do for her to beat him in classes. His father would be furious if he was anything but top in his class. And if his father knew that the person to beat him out had been a mudblood? Draco shuttered at the mere thought.

So, Draco resigned himself to watching her. He positioned himself at the Slytherin table in such a way so that he could watch her. He sat around the corner from her in the library, and between his studying he watched her. He watched her in classes, looking for some tell before she answered a question that she was cheating. Mostly, she just sat alone with her books, appearing to be studying. Although he saw no indication of her cheating, Draco was determined. Of course she would have to pretend to study all the time, or else people would be suspicious that she was cheating.

After a few weeks, he was nearly ready to give up on his mission. He had yet to see any indication that the mudblood was cheating. Perhaps she truly was just an absolute swot. He had decided to drop it, certain that her inabilities would catch up to her sooner or later. Then Potter became the youngest seeker at Hogwarts in a century. His father wrote him when word had reached home. He did not send a howler – that would be entirely too undignified for the elder Malfoy – but he did not need one for his anger and disapproval to come through loud and clear. The youngest seeker in the school in a century and it wasn’t a Malfoy? A half-blood Potter no less. Of course, his father was angry with him, it should have been him that received the title. Draco knew his father’s disappointment would be bad enough the next time he went home without him being second in his class behind a mudblood, so he resumed his mission with renewed vigor.

It was because of his mission that he noticed the mudblood was not at her table on Halloween night. He thought nothing of it, too caught up in his own celebration with his friends. Until, of course, Professor Quirrell burst in yelling about a loose troll in the castle.

Once Draco was safely in his own common room, his fear for his own safety set aside, it became harder to ignore the unease in the pit of his stomach. He told himself it was concern for himself, concern that the troll could make its way into the common room. He told himself it was the remnants of that fear that kept him up at night, tossing and turning restlessly. He nearly had himself convinced by the time he was getting ready the next morning.

It was, however, much harder to explain the relief he felt when he saw the mudblood sitting safely beside Potter and Weasley the next morning. After that, Draco abandoned his mission for good.

Other than the mudblood’s annoying presence in classes, Draco succeeded fairly well in blocking out the Gryffindor trio. He certainly didn’t notice their sneaking around the castle all the time. He most certainly was not curious what they were up to. And he absolutely was not jealous of the way the three were always together, always whispering and laughing. He was quite satisfied with his friends who respected him and did as they were told, no questions asked.

When he went home for the summer, his father was very disappointed. Not only had Draco failed to gain the title of youngest seeker in a century, failed to be the top in all his classes (his father didn’t care that he was top in potions), but Slytherin had also failed to win the house cup. Draco had tried to explain that it was rigged, that the sod Dumbledore had given the Gryffindors bogus points at the last minute, but Lucius Malfoy would hear no excuses. Draco had not lived up to the Malfoy name, and he would show Draco his disappointment until Draco was forced to do better. His mother had begged him to show Draco some leniency, but Lucius had told her that Draco was a man now, that he had a duty to uphold the Malfoy name and he was failing. His mother had reminded Lucius that Draco was only just twelve. But a swift hand across her face had been the only response, and Draco was once again left alone with his father to receive his punishment.

Draco spent the rest of the summer stewing in his resentment for the Gryffindor trio. If it hadn’t been for Potter’s special treatment getting him put on the Gryffindor team, for the mudblood’s insufferable swottiness putting her ahead in all their classes, and for Dumbledore’s clear favoritism just gifting them the house cup, then Draco wouldn’t have been punished by his father. He could have been enjoying his summer. Perhaps his father would have even been proud of him.

Second Year:

By the end of summer, his father’s mood had improved considerably. When he accompanied Draco to Diagon Alley to purchase his supplies for his second year, Lucius had been nearly as happy as Draco had ever seen him. Perhaps it had something to do with their run in with Potter and the Weasley’s in Flourish and Blotts. His father had always enjoyed making fun of Arthur Weasley. Draco hadn’t missed that the mudblood was there as well, with her muggle parents. He watched them stand with her as she browsed the books, her mother laughing with her while her father put a gentle hand on her shoulder. It was disgusting that they would even be allowed into wizarding London, Draco thought. But he struggled to look away from the picture the small family made. And as Lucius snapped at him to come along and rapped his cane against Draco’s leg to get his attention, Draco couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have parents who showed that kind of affection.

His miserable summer was nearly forgotten when Draco returned to Hogwarts and was approached by the Slytherin quidditch captain, asking him to be the team’s new seeker. He didn’t even need to try out, which wasn’t surprising – surely everyone knew what a talented flyer Draco Malfoy was. When he wrote home about his new position, his father had written back saying that he would buy the entire team new brooms. Only the best for a Malfoy after all. If Draco was disappointed that his father’s response lacked any praise or congratulations, he did not dwell on it. Lucius Malfoy did not show praise. Besides, he was buying the whole team new brooms to celebrate Draco’s position. Surely that meant he was proud, Draco convinced himself.

As he dressed for his first quidditch practice, Draco’s pride continued to swell in his chest. This year would be different. This year he was on the quidditch team, he would be top in all his classes, and he would help Slytherin win the house cup. He would make his father proud.

When his least favorite trio accused him of only being on the team because his father bribed them with new brooms, he did not think before he called Granger “mudblood.” He was surprised to see the look that crossed her face, as though he had slapped her. Afterall, she was a mudblood. He knew it was an insult, he wasn’t dumb, but the look of hurt, the tears that instantly sprang to her eyes, caught him off guard. His family used the term mudblood freely. There was no other word to describe someone of her blood status in his home. It was just a word.

He laughed with his team when Weasley’s wand backfired, causing him to spit-up slugs. He enjoyed his first quidditch practice, greedily ate dinner with his friends and enjoyed sweets in the common room after. But when he laid down at night and closed his eyes, he could not escape the look of hurt and disgust that had filled Granger’s eyes when he called her a mudblood.

When the Chamber of Secrets was opened, Draco put on his best Malfoy heir show, pretending he knew more than he did, that he didn’t have a care in the world. But at night, alone in the dark, he allowed the mask to drop. Fear settled in. Pureblood heir or not, bloody messages on the walls and petrified students were frightening for any twelve-year-old boy. When he broke down one day and decided to write his father to ask what he knew about the Chamber of Secrets, he received no response. His mother sent him his favorite chocolates the next day with a note saying his father was terribly busy at work and not to disturb him. Draco did not write him again.

When they canceled quidditch and exams due to the attacks, Draco found himself beginning to truly worry. He hoped they wouldn’t close the school. He remembered how his summer had been, and, although his father had been in a better mood over Christmas holiday, Draco was not ready to go home early.

The day he found out Granger had been petrified, Draco could not sleep. Like the day he called her mudblood on the quidditch pitch, he saw her eyes filled with tears, hurt, and hate each time he closed his eyes. When he finally managed sleep, he dreamed of her petrified with that look on her face. For weeks this continued. Try as he might, he could not stop the images from flooding his mind each night.

His classes seemed entirely too quiet. At least, the ones he shared with Gryffindor did. He knew he should take the opportunity of the swotty mudblood being gone to take over as top in the class, but he could not find it in himself to raise his hand. He had trouble focusing.

After dinner one evening, he told Crabbe and Goyle he was going to the library – the one place he knew they wouldn’t follow. He was being dumb, he knew that. He was violating every Slytherin rule for self-preservation. Hell, he was acting like a bloody Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. Whether or not whatever was petrifying students was targeting mudbloods, he knew it was still a risk to wander the castle alone. He knew this, yet his feet still carried him toward the hospital wing.

He peeked in the door, making sure Madam Pomfrey was nowhere in sight. When he felt that the coast was clear, he crept silently into the dark room, shutting the door noiselessly behind him. Granger was not hard to spot in the room, her bushy hair standing out starkly against the white pillow. His feet seemed to drift toward her of their own accord.

He didn’t know why he was here. He had no idea what he hoped being here would accomplish. All he knew was that he could not lay down another night and have the ghost of her eyes staring at him in the dark.

Peeking around once again to make sure there was no one else in the room – no one awake, anyway – Draco crept the last few feet to her bedside. Peering down at her frozen features, her unseeing eyes, was far more unsettling than Draco had anticipated. He hoped he would not create a new ghost to haunt him in trying to banish the first.

Steeling himself, he spoke. “Granger.” His voice came out hoarse. He felt ridiculous, talking to a statue. But again, he was desperate. “Granger,” he tried again, “I’m sure you cannot hear me, so I don’t know why I bother. Or maybe I’m only here because I know you cannot hear me.” He swallowed, gathering his courage, and telling himself to get this over with. “Regardless, I’m here to say – to say, well, I’m sorry.” He was no longer looking at her, and the last words came out in a mumble. Not that it mattered since she couldn’t hear him. “I’m sorry I called you a mudblood. I don’t understand why it upset you quite so much. I’ve called you a swot and a know-it-all nearly a hundred times and you’ve never looked that upset. I don’t quite know what was different, but I – I am sorry I caused you such pain.” His words went against every Malfoy instinct instilled in him since birth, and he didn’t even want to think about how his father would react if he could hear him now, but he found he didn’t not mean his words. He may have had to force them out, but they weren’t insincere. Finally, he returned his gaze to her still form. He had been whispering before, but he dropped his voice even lower. “And I am sorry this happened to you.” As soon as he spoke the words, he knew it was the truth. He understood then why he was there, why he had been haunted by images of her these past few weeks. He knew people believed he was the heir of Slytherin, the one causing this. He knew it wasn’t true, of course, but some small part of him felt responsible. It was ridiculous, he had no reason to, but as soon as he realized it, he was able to recognize that small bundle of guilt eating at him. For some reason, he was unable to shake the feeling that he was at least partially responsible for Granger being petrified.

With his words, he felt the knot of guilt loosen slightly. He stood there another moment, looking at her features, frozen as they were when she encountered whatever creature had done this to her. He was surprised to see they didn’t appear afraid, or even surprised for that matter. Actually, as he looked at her, he began to recognize the expression she wore from his days studying her. It was the same one she wore in class when they had a particularly difficult assignment. He had seen it on her many times in the library. It was the face she wore when solving a puzzle. Of course, she would be a swot even when facing down a monster, Draco thought.

As he turned to leave, something caught his eye. There was something clutched in her hand laying on the bed in front of him. He had heard she had been found with a mirror – Pansy had made a joke about no mirror helping her appearance – but this was something else. It appeared to be a slip of paper.

Curiosity rose in him. Draco peered around again to make sure he was still alone. Carefully, he reached into the slightly closed hand to retrieve the paper. His hand brushed hers. He expected it to burn or feel gross or something. But it felt normal. Her skin was cold, due to the petrification, but it was soft. No burning, no marks left on Draco’s own pale skin. Hastily he finished retrieving the paper. He unfolded it, and nearly dropped it.

It was a page from a library book, torn hastily out. The page was describing a creature known as a basilisk – a giant snake-like being that killed its victims by looking them in the eye. An indirect look, say through a mirror, would only petrify. On the page in neat script, Granger had written “pipes.” This confused Draco for a moment, until he realized. She figured it all out, even down to how the creature moved around the castle undetected. For the first time, Draco understood why people called her the brightest witch of her age. She had figured out something none of the professors here could.

The question was, what was Draco to do now? How had no one seen the paper in her hand? He knew that Weasley and Potter had surely been visiting her. Surely those two weren’t that unobservant. Draco knew the answer as soon as his mind formed the thought: yes, they were.

Draco could take the paper to a professor. He could even take the glory for solving the mystery. But what if they didn’t believe him? Or asked him how he figured it out? Many believed he was the one at fault here, the heir of Slytherin himself. Would his knowledge only fuel their accusations?

What would his father think? Would he accuse him of saving mudbloods? Being a blood traitor? Or would he finally be proud of him for the glory he would receive for saving the school? Draco let himself picture it for a moment, let himself imagine his father saying he was proud of Draco. Patting him on the shoulder, just as he had seen Granger’s father do to her over the summer. The image made Draco smile, but he knew it wouldn’t happen. He thought of his father not congratulating him about his position on the quidditch team. Thought of his response over Christmas when Draco had told him he was top in his classes: “I understand that is only because the mudblood girl is in the infirmary. Really, Draco, I expect more of my heir.”

It was there, in the dark and silent infirmary, standing over Hermione Granger’s petrified form, that Draco realized his father would never be proud of him. He would never pat him on the shoulder the way Granger’s father had. He would never congratulate him for a job well-done because it would never be enough. He could spend the rest of his days resenting Granger for being a swot and a know-it-all, and Potter for his hero status favoritism, but it would never change the fact that Lucius Malfoy would never be proud of him.

So, he could bring the paper to a professor. He could even explain that it was Granger who made the discovery, let her take the credit. But then he remembered last summer. His father disappointment. His mother silently healing his wounds in Draco’s room while he held back tears, because Malfoys don’t cry. No. His father may never be proud of him, but he would not let himself disappoint his father like that again. He couldn’t. And he knew in his gut, somehow, that if he were to turn this in, his father would be very disappointed.

He was left with one option then. He slipped the paper back into Granger’s hand, leaving it sticking out nearly all the way. Surely Potter and Weasley weren’t so daft as to miss that.

The next morning, as he walked out of the Great Hall after breakfast, he passed the two boys on their way in. “Potter,” he drawled, “gone to visit your precious mudblood yet?” He ignored the way the word seemed to stick in his mouth.

The two boys stopped to scowl at him. “What’s it to you, Malfoy?” Weasley snapped.

Draco shrugged, trying to appear completely indifferent. “Just wondered if whatever it is running around came back to finish the job yet.” Without another word or look back, he walked out of the Great Hall.

Weasley must have drawn his defective wand again because he heard Potter say from behind him, “He’s not worth it, Ron. Come on, let’s grab some food and go check on her.”

Really, Draco thought, Gryffindor’s are simply too easy to manipulate.

Draco kept his eyes down the entire day, looking no further than the front of his shoes as he walked between classes. He expected an announcement at dinner that night that the creature terrorizing the school had been discovered. None came. Perhaps the professors were waiting until the creature was captured to tell the children so they wouldn’t frighten them? But then why wouldn’t they at least take protective measures, now that they knew what was causing this? Surely Potter and Weasley weren’t so dumb they couldn’t have seen the note. They must not have visited the infirmary after breakfast. No matter, Draco knew they would soon.

When a week passed without any announcements or news, Draco had convinced himself that Potter and Weasley were that dumb. He would have to go to the infirmary himself to investigate he decided. Once again, after dinner he found himself sneaking to the infirmary alone. He had found an old hand mirror and was using it to look around corners, still keeping his eyes low. As much as he hated to admit it, Granger had a good idea.

When he approached her bedside in the silent room, he fully expected to see the note crumbled in her fist exactly as he had left it. But her fist was empty. He checked the floor beneath her bed. Perhaps it had fallen out?

Nothing.

Had Madam Pomfrey taken it? No, the older woman was smart. She would have known what it was had she read it, and he doubted she would have just thrown away something Granger was clutching.

He knew then that Potter and Weasley were far dumber than he had ever expected. They had found the note, but they had chosen to go find the basilisk themselves rather than inform the adults. Bloody Gryffindors.

Draco began the careful march back to the dungeons, trying to think of a way to question the idiotic boys without getting himself overly involved. When he checked the corner near the infirmary, however, he saw a crowd reflected in his small mirror. Tucking it away in his bag, he rounded the corner. And immediately froze.

Another message had been left on the walls. “Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.” He caught enough of the conversations around him to understand what had happened. Ginny Weasley had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets. Well, Draco thought bitterly, maybe that will teach those idiotic Gryffindors not to bite off more than they can chew. But his heart wasn’t in it.

The castle was put on lock down. They would all be sent home within the week. At least, that was what they had been told the night before. However, when Draco woke the next morning, Snape was gathering everyone in their common room. It seemed that once again Harry bloody Potter had saved the day. Though Draco was sure there wouldn’t have been a need if he had just told someone about the basilisk when he found out, like a normal person.

The castle slowly found its way back to normal, though quidditch and exams were still canceled. A month later, the mandrakes were mature enough to revive all those who had been petrified. Draco nearly gagged up his breakfast at the reunion that took place when Granger rejoined the Gryffindor table. When he looked up at the absurd noise level, he found her looking at him. It wasn’t the normal glare he received from her, but much softer. She looked mildly perplexed even. Confused himself, Draco couldn’t help but to look back. Their gazes held for only a moment before someone spoke to Granger and tore her attention away again. Draco blinked back down at his breakfast, but found he no longer had an appetite.

His father was disappointed again this summer, but it was even worse. Underneath his disappointment was a fury, barely kept in check. Draco had no idea what he had done wrong this time. He had made the quidditch team, and it wasn’t his fault it was canceled. Although it was partially due to Granger spending most of the year in the infirmary, he had gotten top marks in all his classes. Gryffindor had won the house cup again, thanks to Dumbledore’s near obsession with Potter, but that was hardly his fault either.

He never found out what he had done so wrong, and it didn’t matter. Or perhaps everything he did was wrong. It seemed that way sometimes.

Dobby left them that summer too. Another thing to thank Savior Potter for. Draco shared in his father’s fury over the loss of the elf, particularly over Potter’s role in the matter. But alone, at night, Draco could admit to himself he was at least somewhat glad Dobby would never have to be on the wrong end of his father’s cane again.

Third Year:

Draco once again made a vow at the beginning of third year that this year would be different. He would not face another summer like the last. If he couldn’t make his father proud, at least he would try not to make him so angry.

So, he became who his father expected him to be. When Potter fainted on the train at the sight of the dementors, he made fun of him ruthlessly. He told no one that he himself had hated every moment the dementors were near and had nightmares that night.

When the game keeper made a big fuss about Potter showing off with the oversized bird, he stepped up to show that whatever a Potter could do a Malfoy could do better. And when that backfired, and the bird injured him, he made sure everyone knew his father would be hearing about this. He wanted to remind them all what the Malfoy name meant and the power it held.

When Sirius Black broke into the castle, he did not scream or cower in fear. He regaled his friends with tales of the Black family and the power behind that name, his mother’s name. He did not let any of them know he was unable to sleep that night.

He called Granger mudblood and pushed himself harder in school and quidditch. When he went home for the holiday, his father didn’t tell him he was proud, but he did tell Draco he was glad to have an excuse to have the oaf of a game keeper fired. His time home was bearable, and Draco knew it was working.

When he returned to school and Professor Lupin had them demonstrate their bogarts, he jostled in line as eagerly as the other students. He was thrilled when he never got his turn. He had a good feeling he knew what his bogart would be. The stain that seeing his father’s figure standing before him would create on the Malfoy name would have undone all of Draco’s hard work this year.

When the hippogriff’s execution was announced, he scoffed at the game keeper’s tears. He was unable to eat dinner that night.

When Potter raced him to the snitch for the quidditch cup, he did whatever he could to win. He yanked Potter’s broom back. All he could think about was how disappointed his father would be if he lost to Potter. But it wasn’t enough, and it seemed he would find out just how disappointed Lucius would be.

When Granger moved to punch him, he couldn’t help it. He flinched. He knew what it looked like before someone struck you. The look in their eyes, the tensing of muscles before the wind-up even began. Her fist had been cocked, ready to strike, and then she met his eyes and froze. Like that day at the end of second year, they stood there, gazes locked. He didn’t understand why she froze, but something shifted behind her eyes and she dropped her fist. She leaned toward him instead hissing, “You are vile,” before stomping away.

Despite Slytherin’s loss of the house cup, and Granger’s seemingly impossible marks in more classes than Draco thought you could take, that summer was much more bearable. He and his mother did not need to hide in fear of Lucius’s wrath. Admittedly, this was partially because his father was gone a large portion of the summer with meetings. He never told them who these meetings were with, and Draco found he didn’t much care. He had found a way to make this bearable, and he would keep to his path.

Fourth Year:

When Lucius asked Draco to join him for the Quidditch World Cup, Draco was shocked. He had begged to go in years past, but his father had always told him he would spend the time discussing business and politics and it was nothing a young boy wanted to be a part of. This year he told Draco that he was finally becoming a man, and it was time he became more involved in the family business.

Draco should have known there was more to it than talk of investments and trades. His father’s meetings only became more frequent in the week or so leading up to the match. Finally, the day before the match was to begin, Draco was invited to sit in and listen. Lucius had hissed at him to sit down and stay quiet. So, Draco merely sat, listening. He knew what was planned after the match. He didn’t understand why the Dark Lord’s followers would band together now, when he had been dead and gone for years, but it was not his place to question. Draco was too young to take part in the “action,” but he would watch, and his father told him, learn.

Draco had long begun questioning the things his father preached about muggle-borns. He himself had spent an entire year confirming that Granger was not cheating, so he knew her natural gifts were stronger than most purebloods he knew. He knew purebloods could be wild and reckless, like Weasley, and weak and timid, like Longbottom. But this was not his place to question. So, he sat and went along with everything like a dutiful pureblood heir. He planned to do the same when it came time after the match.

But then they arrived, and he saw Granger walking with the Weasleys. Without meaning to, he froze in his steps. He knew the plan was not to kill anyone. He knew the plan was merely to torment muggle-borns. He had no reason to fear for Granger’s safety. Yet he could not get the image of her out of his mind, the tears that filled her eyes when he called her a mudblood second year. He saw her lying on the cot in the infirmary, frozen and lifeless. He saw the look in her eyes when she decided not to punch him – something that had almost looked like compassion.

“What are you doing, Draco?” his father asked. When he followed Draco’s gaze and saw the Weasleys, he smirked. “Ah, come along now. This should be fun.”

Draco followed over to the Weasleys, forcing himself to wear a smirk. He hardly listened as his father and Arthur Weasley exchanged words, clearly pushing each other’s buttons. He thought Potter may have said something to him, but he didn’t respond. He was trying to think of what to do. There had to be some way to warn her, some way to get her to understand, but his father was next to him. What could he possibly say that would make her see she was in danger without alerting his father?

His father turned to leave. He was out of time. “Granger,” he called. She turned back to him, already glaring. He forced himself to match her glare. “Your kind don’t belong here. You should leave.” It was pathetic, there was no way she would understand. He forced the glare to remain on his face, but his eyes bore into hers, willing her to understand his meaning. Potter and Weasley were yelling at him, but he kept his eyes on her. They were going to drag her away, it hadn’t worked. She was still glaring daggers at him –

And then she wasn’t. Something clicked behind her eyes and her glare softened into an expression of confusion. She was studying him, brow furrowed. It wasn’t understanding, but it would have to do. He had to leave before his father thought something was amiss. He turned his back on her, silently begging her to leave, knowing she wouldn’t, even if she knew exactly what was to happen. Stupid Gryffindors.

Draco could hardly even enjoy the match. When his father and his colleagues left Draco afterward, he had to stop himself from pacing, lest he accidentally wander off to find the stupid Gryffindor herself. His father returned not much later, looking triumphant and exhilarated. Draco tried to copy his mood, but he didn’t have much success. In fact, he found himself unable to relax for the remainder of his time home. It wasn’t until he was on the Hogwarts Express, making his way to his normal cabin when he spied a mess of brown hair sitting in the corner of one of the cabins that he finally felt himself relax.

He knew he had strayed off course. If he kept this up, he was sure to have another hellish summer ahead of him.

So once again he molded himself into the perfect pureblood heir. He made friends with Durmstrang students. He made “Potter Stinks” badges. When Mad-Eye Moody turned him into a ferret, he told his father, expecting him to bring down the power of the Malfoy name. He didn’t. Perhaps even Lucius Malfoy was afraid of the nearly insane ex-auror.

He dueled Potter in the halls, and when his densaugeo hex accidentally hit Granger instead of Potter, he laughed along with his classmates. He pretended not to notice that she had Madam Pomfrey shrink them back to a smaller size. Just like he pretended he hadn’t noticed that she had learned to tame her curls much better this year.

When the Yule Ball was announced, he asked Pansy Parkinson to accompany him, a perfectly suitable pureblood girl.

He tried – and failed miserably – not to notice Granger that night, the way her dress showed she had begun to develop a figure, the way her eyes sparkled now that her hair wasn’t distracting from them. The way her pink lip gloss shined on her lips. Pansy had pouted half the night after she caught him staring at her.

It was because Pansy was sulking in some corner that he decided to leave early, and it was because he decided to leave early that he found Granger crying alone on the stairs. He froze in place. He had no idea why she would be crying. He had seen her earlier with Viktor Krum, and she had seemed nothing but happy. Had he done something?

Despite Draco’s position at the bottom of the stairs, Granger hadn’t seen him yet. He could turn around, go back to the ball. Or find another route. He knew he should turn around or mock her – it’s what the perfect pureblood heir would do.

Instead he fetched his handkerchief from his jacket pocket – he was raised a pureblood gentleman after all – and slowly approached. She did not look up until he was right in front of her, holding out the handkerchief and looking above her head. Although he was avoiding looking at her, he could sense her staring at him. Likely waiting for the joke or hex. He gave his outstretched hand a little shake, as if to say, “here, take it.”

Slowly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her reach for it. Their gazes locked for just a moment, both still holding one end of the cloth. He took in her red nose and puffy eyes. Her makeup had smudged slightly. He tried to ignore the part of his brain that whispered, she still looks beautiful.

Draco dropped his hold and continued up the stairs as though nothing had happened. He ignored the way his heart beat faster than normal. When he was a few steps away, she said, “Malfoy.” He ignored the way his heart skipped at the sound. Her voice had grown softer, more graceful this year. He turned to look at her, not responding. He wasn’t sure he could. Her gaze held his again. “Thank you,” she said quietly. He got the sense that hadn’t been what she wanted to say.

He nodded once, then turned and continued on his path.

After his slip up the night of the ball, Draco did a remarkably better job staying in his role of the perfect Malfoy heir. He had asked Pansy on a date after the holiday, to make up for the ball. The perfect pureblood girl for the perfect pureblood heir. Pansy was a good friend, and when he kissed her after their date it wasn’t terrible. He convinced himself he could play this role as long as he needed. Things could be much worse. Sure, Pansy could be possessive and overbearing, but at least his father would approve.

He dreamt of Granger that night. He dreamt of her on the stairs at the Yule Ball, but instead of walking away he had sat beside her and wiped away her tears.

He kissed Pansy and held her hand in the common room and forced himself to imagine her before bed each night until he stopped dreaming of Granger. He was using her, he knew, but he was sure she didn’t mind the attention. After a month with no success, he gave up and let the dreams come freely.

In his conscious mind, he stuck to his path much better. Until the second challenge.

He had subtly scanned the crowds for Granger, a small concession he occasionally allowed himself. He thought it was odd when he didn’t see her up front with her Gryffindor friends, but he didn’t think much of it. Perhaps she was with Potter until the last minute. He was fairly sure that was what she had done for the first task. Then he overheard what the challenge was. Each competitor was to retrieve something – someone – valuable from the bottom of the lake. He overheard his house mates say that Krum’s person was Granger.

“Really,” Draco snapped, “does he not have anyone more valuable here?” It was out before he could stop himself. Crabbe and Goyle laughed, thinking he was making a joke about Granger’s lack of value. But Blaise Zabini narrowed his eyes at him and looked at him suspiciously. Draco met his gaze with a glare of his own before the darker boy turned around with merely a quirk of his eyebrow.

The hour went by agonizingly slow. Draco knew they would never put non-competitors in real danger. He knew it. But it didn’t stop the breath he released when Granger’s head finally bobbed above the surface beside Krum’s. He barely followed the rest of the competitors’ finishes, watching Granger swim to the dock. Watching as she was tucked into a blanket, shivering. Would no one cast a warming charm on her? Did she not have her wand? It was ridiculous.

The next week, he happened across Granger in the library. He was looking for a book on broom maintenance, and he turned the corner to find her alone. The library was quiet, no one around thanks to the lack of exams that year and the early hour. Before he could think better of it, he drawled, “Granger.” He had meant it to be in passing, he had told himself he would keep walking and not even spare her a glance. But then she whipped her head up and looked around frantically, shushing him. He was so distracted by her odd behavior he forgot to continue walking.

“Shh!” she hissed. “He’ll hear you.”

Had she hit her head? “Who?”

She looked around and continued whispering. “Viktor!”

Since she was whispering, he drifted closer to the table to hear her better. “Trouble in paradise?” he mocked.

She rolled her eyes. “No.” She blushed. “I mean, there is no ‘paradise,’ we aren’t dating despite what everyone says.”

Draco was standing behind the chair opposite her now. “Then why don’t you want him to know you’re here?” He remembered suddenly her tears outside the Yule Ball. Had he done something? Draco felt his fists clench around the back of the chair.

Granger rolled her eyes. “It’s silly. He likes – well, he likes to watch me study but it’s very distracting.”

Draco relaxed. Was that all? “Why are you studying? You do know we don’t have exams this year you swot.”

He expected her to bristle at the name-calling, but she merely rolled her eyes again and muttered something that sounded like, “boys.” More loudly she said, “Yes, but we still have classes, Malfoy. And there’s always next year to consider.”

“Of course,” he said with mock seriousness.

She turned back to her books. Why was he still standing there? He was far too off path. He quickly turned, meaning to walk away, but her voice pulled him up short. “Malfoy,” she called.

He turned to see her holding the handkerchief he had given her. It was folded neatly into a square. She thrust it toward him, a light blush on her cheeks. He quirked an eyebrow. “What’s that for?”

She thrust it toward him again, seeming impatient. “It’s yours,” she stated obviously.

He shook his head. “Keep it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I washed it, if that’s your concern.”

He scoffed. “Keep it.”

Now she was fully glaring at him. “I see. You won’t take it back because a filthy mudblood used it? I’ve tainted it and it’s ruined forever.”

Draco felt himself pale. “No,” he rushed out, his voice cracking. “No,” he said more firmly. “That isn’t it.”

Her eyes remained slits, clearly not convinced. “Oh? Then what could be the issue?”

Now Draco felt his cheeks flush. “A gentleman never asks for his handkerchief back,” he murmured. When she didn’t say anything for a moment, he added, “Besides, I have several. I don’t need it.”

She lowered her arm and ceased glaring daggers at him. “Oh,” she said. “Well, thank you.”

He nodded. Neither of them said anything for a moment, and he turned once again to leave.

“Malfoy?” she called, stopping him once more.

He knew he should have left long ago, never should have stopped at all, but he found himself turning anyway. “Yes, Granger?”

She chewed her lip for a moment, then seemed to gather her Gryffindor courage. “Did you know the Death Eaters would attack that night?”

He froze. This was a mistake. A big mistake. He tried not to let his features give anything away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

If she didn’t believe him, she played along. “At the Quidditch World Cup?”

He brushed non-existent lint from his sleeve. “I heard there was an incident afterward, but I wouldn’t know about it. Father and I left early.” His face was a mask, cool, expressionless. The perfect Malfoy.

“Oh,” she said. “I just thought, well, it seemed like perhaps you were trying to tell me something before the match. Warn me, maybe.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he snapped, harsher than he intended. “Even if I had known of such a thing, why on earth would I warn you?”

He expected her to become angry, to glare at him again. Instead, she just nodded. “Of course you wouldn’t. I don’t know what I was thinking. Well, thank you again.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, and he saw in her eyes that she knew. She knew what he had been trying to tell her. She was thanking him for his pathetic attempt to protect her. He had been a coward and she was thanking him. He felt ill.

Without another word, Draco turned on his heel and left the library. He had strayed very far from the path. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever be able to find it again.

He avoided her the rest of the year. He did not allow himself to search for her in the Great Hall or watch her expression in classes. He would not speak to her, and if he felt her gaze on him, he would ignore it. He still dreamt of her, but he supposed that was out of his control.

When Potter landed in that field, gripping Cedric’s lifeless body and screaming about the Dark Lord, Draco knew. He knew suddenly and very clearly that his father’s meetings the previous summer had not all been merely planning the raid after the world cup as he suspected. He knew the raid had not been some whim. He knew no matter what he did now, this summer would be the worst yet. He knew his life would never again be the same.

Because no matter what anyone else said, Draco knew. The Dark Lord had returned. Without meaning to, his eyes found Granger in the crowd.