Father hadn't heard about Draco's unapproved stay at the Burrow, or he surely wouldn't have granted permission for Draco to spend the night before the Hogwarts Express at the Leaky Cauldron. Or rather, he wouldn't have stopped Mother from begrudgingly granting it. Father probably knew through ministry connections that Potter was staying there, but he didn't intervene.
Draco told himself that Mother's ready acceptance wasn't just because he had claimed- falsely, of course- that he might go to Ollivander's for another try at a new wand, which meant that dropping and leaving him before a visit kept her out of the line of fire.
The brand on her hand hadn't hurt her for weeks, but it hadn't faded, not even slightly.
Draco met up with the others, suffering hugs from Mrs. Weasley and Hermione. The staff said Potter had already left for the day. So Hermione said they'd surely run into him somewhere in Diagon Alley, anxious to secure her school supplies.
Draco managed to sweet-talk Mrs. Weasley into letting the third-years go off shopping on their own, based on the argument that maybe he wasn't mature enough yet, but if the standard was so high, why were Fred and George allowed off on their own, who were eons less mature than him?
Potter was not at Madam Malkin's, nor at Flourish and Blotts. The trip there proved less eventful than last year's, save for Hermione and Ron's purchases of The Monster Book of Monsters, which made Draco guiltily glad he wasn't taking Hagrid's class.
The trouble with walking with Gryffindors was that it encouraged more Gryffindors to speak to you. Longbottom went out of his way to introduce Draco to his gran as Draco, he's brilliant at Potions. Draco could tell from the old woman's sharp-eyed glance that she knew who he was, and probably who his aunt was too. But they exchanged polite nods and went their separate ways.
Lavender Brown already seemed a bit sweet on Ron, to judge by the way she invited him to get ice cream with her and her mother, an invitation Draco was grateful to drag him away from. Finnigan was a riskier prospect given their history in first year, but his best friend was won over by Hermione saying they'd been to a football game together. Apparently, Muggleborn Thomas was a huge fan, although of the Western Ham. When an exasperated Hermione declared she wanted ice cream after all, Thomas followed them haranguing Draco for having decided to support Arsenal.
"Are they rivals?" Draco asked, while Ron brought their cones from the counter of Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour. Hermione preferred listening to football talk over Ron again recounting tales of Egypt. She chimed in now and then in defense of her Arsenal-supporting father, while Thomas ranted about the superiority of his ham team.
Thomas seemed favorably impressed when Draco talked about learning how to play with the Grangers. And Draco drew more attention, when that led to the disclosure that Draco had spent two weeks in the Muggle world with Hermione.
"You?" Thomas asked in amazement. He shook his head when Hermione told him Draco had been there last summer as well. "How was everyone so sure you were the Heir of Slytherin?"
"It might have had something to do with how I cursed this one," Draco drawled, throwing an arm around Finnigan's shoulder. "No hard feelings, eh, Finnigan?"
Finnigan snorted but didn't remove his arm. "We were kids back then. We all did stupid stuff. Make it up to me helping me and Neville more in Potions. He's always giving us tips when Snape isn't watching, Dean. But I bet you could give him some tips on football."
"Hey!" Draco protested. "I've learned a great deal! For instance, I know what we think of when we think of Tottenham!"
"Shit!" Thomas proclaimed happily.
"And what do we think of when we think of shit?"
"Tottenham!" Thomas yelled, while Ron and Finnigan boggled, and Hermione shook her head. But Draco thought she should be proud of him for having found common ground with a Gryffindor, when his new football affiliation could have proved a ground of contention, even apart from blood status, houses, and that pesky issue of Draco having cursed his best friend. Apparently, as much as West Ham hated Arsenal and vice versa, both clubs comfortably hated Tottenham far more.
By the time Draco was near the end of his ice cream, he had secured all four as a rapt audience, telling the story of his visit to Highbury with wide gestures and impressions of various Muggles they had encountered. Thomas nearly fell out of his chair at Draco's rendition of a passing man's advisement not to be a full-kit wanker, while even Finnigan looked impressed when Draco showed them a print he'd made at a pharmacy off his disposable camera.
The Muggle photo didn't move, but it was still a striking image, and one that must be surreal to see, to boys who'd been so convinced last year he was trying to purge the school of everything Muggle-related: Draco and Hermione in red Arsenal home kits, her parents on either side, with an expanse of red-clad fans and the field beneath, the roof of the other end of Highbury visible from the high angle. The only smile brighter than Draco's was Hermione's.
"I gifted the other copy to the Hermione shrine," Draco told them, and set Hermione in a flustered huff trying to explain to all of them that no, Draco had gotten this all wrong, her parents did not have a shrine to her...
Draco was in the middle of his impression of Mr. Granger's devastated reaction to Coventry's third, all four Gryffindors listening raptly, when a shadow fell over their table that caused Hermione to turn and shriek, "Harry!" She jumped up and embraced Potter, who returned the hug while looking over her shoulder at Draco.
There was a still a touch of the owl about Potter, still some of the angelic cherub to that pale face. But the baby fat was giving way to the beginning of that sharp jawline Potter ended up with, the jawline that made his eyes stand out all the more under those thickened dark brows. He had grown several centimeters, and his face had started to grow into that nose, turning it from childish and cute and dominating his face, to something closer to aristocratic or even elfen.
Elfen was the word for Potter now, standing amidst the hubbub and bustle of Diagon Alley, so ethereal it seemed only right for him to be the one apart, watching but not part of the children's meaningless chatter. Potter'd had a birthday since they last met. The image Draco had so obsessively fixated on over the summer months, Potter wielding the bloodied Sword of Gryffindor, changed to wear this older face in Draco's mind.
"Let's see, we've grown over the summer, haven't we?" Draco drawled. "Let's see who's gotten taller, Potter." He slid to his feet, eating up the last of his cone of strawberry-and-peanut butter. He licked his fingers clean with more relish as he found that as he remembered, he had several centimeters on Potter at the start of the year. "Guess I've grown more, huh? Advantage Slytherin in the Seeker department... Potter? You there?"
Potter blinked. "Er. Yes. Hello, Draco." He didn't seem to have registered Hermione was there, much less that she'd hugged him, as if the months with his Muggles had addled his wits. "You have, er, grown."
"Especially his hair," Ron said, "He looks like Snape now, doesn't he? He says he's gonna keep it that way." Thomas and Finnigan made noises of derision, and Draco tossed his hair showily.
"I would be proud to look like Professor Snape," Draco said loftily, "And I would be proud to follow in his footsteps with potions as well, should fate have not already given the call to vocation to become an Unspeakable. We've been looking for you, Potter. You're staying at the Leaky Cauldron, aren't you? Ron's father told us."
Potter seemed only then to notice the extremely ginger presence of his best friend in the world. "Oh, er, Ron! Hello!" They exchanged friendly shoves. Finnigan and Thomas begged off to go get their potions supplies at the dreaded reminder of Severus, with Thomas shouting as he left about him and Draco keeping each other up to date about the English league results.
"Popular with Gryffindors these days?" Potter asked, and that explained the befuddlement. After last year's exile in the shadows for Draco, the scene of Draco well-integrated must have been too much for Potter's small mind. He was older-looking but no quicker. Perhaps it even made him jealous, seeing Draco the center of attention in a seat that should have been his.
"Don't worry, Potter," Draco sighed as he tagged along Potter's trio, "I'm no Boy Who Lived. I'm just a placeholder till the Great Dread Auntslayer arrives."
"Auntslayer- oh," said Potter, cheeks going redder, oblivious to the stares his mere existence drew as they walked along the street. "I suppose Mr. Weasley told you all about that as well?"
"Did you really blow up your aunt, Harry?" said Hermione in a very serious voice.
"I didn't mean to," said Potter, while Draco and Ron roared with laughter, and Draco wondered how his own father could have been cruel enough not to mention this hilarious factoid to him the first time around. "I just- lost control."
That must be easy to do, when you were powerful enough to kill Voldemort.
"It's not funny, boys," Hermione said sharply. "Honestly, I'm amazed Harry wasn't expelled."
Potter had nearly killed Draco in sixth-year and gotten off with detention. Meddling harmlessly with a Muggle was hardly likely to rate very high, if those were the standards for Potter.
Potter sounded sincere, though, when he agreed with her. "So am I. Forget expelled, I thought I was going to be arrested." And maybe he should have been arrested when he nearly killed Draco in sixth-year, but again, detention.
Potter looked at Ron. "Your dad doesn't know why Fudge let me off, does he?"
"Probably 'cause it's you, isn't it?" shrugged Ron, still chuckling. "Famous Harry Potter and all that." Draco laughed louder than he should have at that, which made Potter turn red and stare down at the pavement. "I'd hate to see what the Ministry'd do to me if I blew up an aunt. Mind you, they'd have to dig me up first, because Mum would've killed me. Anyway, you can ask Dad yourself his evening. We're staying at the Leaky Cauldron tonight, too! So you can come to King's Cross with us tomorrow! All three of us! Don't know how Draco swayed that with his parents, but he's here to offer a disreputable element to proceedings."
"Oh, you do that well enough by yourself, Cannon," Draco drawled. Ron shoved at him pallishly, while Potter kept staring at Draco like he was trying to figure something out. "His parents have already taken him to Ollivander's for a new wand to replace that hand-me-down one, so he's armed and ready to wreak havoc, make mayhem, and win the ladies' hearts."
Thank Merlin that the Weasleys had gotten the trip to Ollivander's over with before Draco had to make an excuse not to come. He didn't know if his jealous wand would understand he was just going to get a new wand for Ron. And he didn't think the Weasleys could afford to pay for a half-dozen melted wands.
"Look at this," said Ron, pulling a long thin box out of a bag and opening it. "Brand-new wand. Fourteen inches, willow, containing one unicorn tail-hair. And we've got all our books-" He pointed at a large bag under his chair. "What about those Monster Books, eh? The assistant nearly cried when we said we wanted two."
"Two? You're not taking Care of Magical Creatures, Draco?" Potter asked, sounding disappointed. "Which electives are you doing?"
"Arithmancy, Divination, Ancient Runes," Draco recited. "Everything I need to become an Unspeakable. That's what Severus said. Hermione's taking them all, though." He gestured to Hermione's three bulging bags. "She's doing ours and Muggle Studies. Even though her parents are Muggles."
"It'll be fascinating to study them from the wizarding point of view," said Hermione earnestly.
"Are you planning to eat or sleep at all this year, Hermione?" asked Harry, while Ron and Draco sniggered. Hermione ignored them.
"I've still got ten Galleons," she said, checking her purse. "It's my birthday in September, and Mum and Dad gave me some money to get myself an early birthday present." She lifted her bracelet, shining African turquoise in the sun, to make clear what present she expected from Draco.
"How about a nice book?" said Ron innocently.
"No, I don't think so," said Hermione composedly. "I really want an owl. I mean, Harry's got Hedwig and you've got Errol-"
"I haven't," said Ron. "Errol's a family owl. All I've got is Scabbers." He pulled his pet rat out of his pocket. "And I want to get him checked over," he added, placing Scabbers on the table in front of them. "I don't think Egypt agreed with him."
Ron's rat had always been a sorry sort of creature, but now, he had droopy whiskers, sunken eyes, and a kind of gauntness which would have put him right at home hung on the walls of 12 Grimmauld Place. "At least he didn't come back freckled," Draco jibed, and Ron rolled his eyes but grinned at him. "You should see it, Potter. This lot's family are so covered in spots, it's like they've declared war on a bubotuber farm."
"There's a magical-creature shop just over there," said Potter, looking eager to show off his newfound familiarity with Diagon Alley. He had little idea, of course, how many of these shops would be closed and boarded up in the space of a handful of years, but Draco tried not to think about the image of the alley then. Leave that for later, while there was still this sunshine day left.
"You can see if they've got anything for Scabbers, and Hermione can get her owl."
So they crossed the street to the Magical Menagerie, where Draco wouldn't have been caught dead when he was really thirteen. It was overcrowded, smelling, aesthetically muddled as regards to floorplan, and had at once too many creatures and not nearly enough that were anything special, in appearance, species, or attributes. This was exactly why any Malfoy worth his salt would only purchase animals privately from a reputable dealer.
Potter saw Draco wrinkling his nose and sighed. "Not to your taste, Draco?" he asked. "Hagrid bought me my owl here, you know."
If Draco could slum with the Muggle proletariat at Highbury, he could surely slum a bit in the wizarding world, whatever the smell. "The scent is just a bit... vibrant," Draco said diplomatically, and earned stares from all around by casting himself a Bubble-head charm. But it did the trick, and let him keep up a face like he wasn't appalling his ancestors, setting foot in a place that smelled worse than the Burrow.
Did the animals have to be so loud? There were spells for these things.
Draco hung back and let the three examine the cages while he examined Potter. He caught himself wondering what Potter had thought of his birthday letter and presents, told himself he couldn't care less, and went over to watch the sleek black rats on the counter instead, whose tails were long and bald and as hideous as everything else in this dump.
Finally, the witch at the counter was available. Draco chose to charitably assume she was underfunded and that this was the best she could do. Otherwise, he wouldn't have trusted her to assess a fly, let alone Ron's beloved old family pet. "It's my rat," Ron told the witch. "He's been a bit off-color ever since I brought him back from Egypt."
"Bang him on the counter," said the witch, pulling a pair of heavy black spectacles out of her pocket.
Ron lifted Scabbers out of his inside pocket and placed him next to the cage of his fellow rats, who stopped their skipping tricks and scuffled to the wire for a better look. They didn't seem very impressed by the secondhand, battered rat, and Draco was struck unpleasantly by the thought their dumb sneering faces might bear a certain resemblance to his own.
"Hmm," said the witch, picking Scabbers up. "How old is this rat?"
"Dunno," said Ron. "Quite old. He used to belong to my brother."
"What powers does he have?" said the witch, examining Scabbers closely.
"Er-" said Ron, and Draco felt embarrassed for him, all the worse when the witch looked at Scabbers the same way Draco had been looking at her shop.
"He's been through the mill, this one,' she said.
"He was like that when Percy gave him to me," said Ron defensively.
"An ordinary, common, or garden rat like this can't be expected to live longer than three years or so," said the witch, which sounded to Draco's ears like this rat must have special powers of longevity if nothing else. "Now, if you were looking for something a bit more hard-wearing, you might like one of these..."
She indicated the black rats, who promptly started skipping again. Ron muttered, "Show-offs." Draco was inclined to agree. The albino peacocks of Malfoy Manor would have happily pecked them to death for their gall.
"Well, if you don't want a replacement, you can try this Rat Tonic," said the witch, reaching under the counter and bringing out a small red bottle.
"OK," said Ron. "How much- OUCH!"
A great massive orange furball propelled itself from the top of the cages, further proof of poor storage structure in this dump that had the gall to be both shabby and have its staff sneer at Ron, a furball that seemed to have it in for Scabbers as much as Egypt had. Draco hoped the feline would do in for Scabbers, and then maybe as a belated birthday present- Draco and Ron hadn't been speaking on his thirteenth birthday in March- Ron would allow to hook him up with a discreet luxury private dealer to secure a superior replacement.
"NO, CROOKSHANKS, NO!" cried the witch, which gave the interesting information that the creature was called Crookshanks. Crookshanks served to show how very much life was left in Scabbers after all, as he made like a bandit for the exit, and Draco hoped that if he was not summarily devoured by this Crookshanks, named less appropriately for a pet than a pirate, he would run away into Diagon Alley and never be seen again.
"Scabbers!" Ron shouted, pursuing him, and Draco watched them go rooting for Scabbers to elude them. Hermione, though, was quickly off too, in pursuit of the more impressive Crookshanks, who proved to be a cat of a very large kind, with a smushed face not unlike the house elves on the walls of Grimmauld Place.
"What a hideous beast," Draco said, wrinkling his nose at the fluffy ginger nightmare in Hermione's arms. "Take care he doesn't scratch you. He might have all kinds of diseases. Really, Hermione, if you're looking for an owl, might I suggest a more elevated variety of establishment..."
Hermione was paying no attention, petting contentedly at the great ugly head of the beast, who seemed to have been calmed by her embrace, as if it sensed a sucker in the making. The old witch was clearly thinking the same, at the sight of the sighing young witch with voluminous bushy hair almost as broad as Crookshanks.
"He's been in here for ages," the witch sighed tragically, tone going far sweeter than during her inspection of Scabbers. "Half-Kneazle, you know, but no one's ever wanted him. You're the first who's even had him out of his cage to look at him."
"Oh no!" Hermione cried, and it seemed her passion for befriending the unfortunate did not merely stop at house elves and, well, Draco himself, if he were to be honest. It extended even to unfortunate-looking cats, who Draco would bet were completely incapable of carrying anyone's letters besides. "Poor baby! His name is Crookshanks, you said? How fascinating!"
"He's only four Galleons, you know," the witch said eagerly, with a face like she would have paid Hermione four Galleons to take him off her hands.
"Oh, I bet you'd like it in Gryffindor Tower, wouldn't you, Crookshanks?" she cooed in a nauseating baby-talk voice he'd never heard from her. "Nice and warm and cozy, all red and golden like you!"
Crookshanks could only be called orange even by the most charitable, but he knew better than to get in the way once Hermione had gotten an idea in her head. "You think Ron is going to be okay with this?" was all he confined himself to saying, as she paid the witch for the cat and the rat tonic. Hermione ignored him, actually nuzzling at the head of the flat-faced creature, whose large dark eyes had a certain craven neediness that reminded Draco of Pansy Parkinson.
They were met at the door by a panting, dusty Ron and Potter, who had unfortunately managed to recover the mangy old thing. That made them all the more nonplussed to see where Hermione's do-gooder ways had taken her. "You bought that monster?" said Ron, his mouth hanging open.
"And here we thought Potter had slayed the monster of the Chamber of Secrets," Draco drawled. "See if rooster calls work on this one."
"He's gorgeous, isn't he?" said Hermione, glowing.
Potter examined its legs, definitely noticing how bow-legged it was, but if it had been Draco, he would have been smug to be the only one in his friend group with a half-decent animal. Ron and Hermione's made that snowy owl of Potter's look like a king's pet.
"How could you let her buy that thing?" Potter asked Draco, sighing as Ron and Hermione behind them began to predictably bicker on their way back to the Leaky Cauldron. "You're usually so critical. Well, when it comes to me at least..."
Draco shrugged, resisting the urge to reach over and straighten Potter's glasses for him. He had to look away from that distracting sight. "What can I say, Potter? You're more fun to spar with."
"Oh, am I?" said Potter. "Guess you'd rather be sparring with Cedric Diggory right now."
Oh yeah, that was Diggory and chums over there. "Sparring is not exactly the word I'd choose for what I'd be doing with Diggory given half a chance." Draco made a show of raising a hand to wave at the Hufflepuff Seeker, who returned it bemusedly, then with more enthusiasm towards Potter. "No, Potter, you're still the most fun to rile up."
"Oh, is that why you got me that music box for my birthday?"
"Gryffindor ingratitude, Potter," Draco sighed. "You beg me so much for a letter, and then when I send you one, all you do is complain about what comes with it-"
"I was glad to get a letter!" Potter protested. "And I- I really liked the snow globe, Draco, it made me miss Quidditch and Hogwarts so much- well, I mean it helped with it, but- the music box killed Aunt Petunia's plants!"
"Good. It was supposed to."
"Draco," Potter said, making a clear effort to sound the reasonable one, "Why did you get me a music box that kills plants?"
"Did you read my letter?"
"Yes, Draco, I read your letter. And I still don't get it. I dropped it in my room at the Leaky Cauldron, and all the plants on the balcony withered right away. One just fell straight off the balcony. Why would you give me something like this?"
"Well, if it's so horrifying, Potter, why would you bring it with you anyway?"
Potter didn't seem able to answer that.
They found Mr. Weasley sitting in the bar, reading the Daily Prophet. "Harry!" he said, smiling as he looked up. "How are you?"
"Fine, thanks," said Potter, as they joined Mr. Weasley with all their shopping, only Draco and Hermione to exchange glances when they saw Black on the front page of Mr. Weasley's paper. The others were oblivious enough that Draco was glad Hermione had convinced him to keep their adventure at Grimmauld secret. He didn't relish the idea of letting Potter know that raving lunatic on the cover was Draco's cousin. Granted, he could drop the bomb that the lunatic of the hour was also Potter's godfather, but if Draco wanted to stay to the blue loop this year...
"They still haven't caught him, then?" Potter asked.
"No," said Mr. Weasley looking extremely grave. "They've pulled us all off our regular jobs at the Ministry to try and find him, but no luck so far."
"Would we get a reward if we caught him?" asked Ron, and Draco watched Hermione's grip tighten on her bags. He could practically read her mind sometimes, especially in moments like these- After everything I've done year after year to try and keep these boys alive, they just have no regard for their own safety! "It'd be good to get some more money-"
"Don't be ridiculous, Ron," said Mr. Weasley, who looked no happier than Hermione at the thought of Ron playing rogue vigilante. "Black's not going to be caught by a thirteen-year-old wizard. It's the Azkaban guards who'll get him back, you mark my words."
Mrs. Weasley came in with the twins, Peter, and Ginny, which got Potter hugged, back-slapped, inspected with hero worship, and in Peter's case, greeted as pompously if he had just been granted an audience with the Muggle Pope. Potter's keen eyes, though, followed Draco's interactions with the twins. It was hard to hide Draco had stayed at the Burrow, with how much had things improved for him with these Gryffindors as well. It was a pendulum: things had swung so far in one direction last year with Draco falsely vilified, that everyone who had believed him diabolical was now compelled to overcorrect and make the mistake of believing him good.
No one in this group seemed likely to overestimate Peter, though. When Mrs. Weasley proudly showed off the poser's new Head Boy badge, calling him the second Head Boy in the family, Draco had to bite back a laugh when Fred muttered, "And last."
Ron, who'd also heard, grinned at Draco. He grinned more broadly when Draco leaned in and whispered, "Not according to the Mirror of Erised," and poked Ron in the chest.
Draco stopped smiling when he saw Potter watching the two of them, and all the green in his eyes looked to be from the envy simmering on his face.
It was rich, the thought of Potter envying him, when his friends all patently loved him a thousand times more. And there wasn't a thing in the world that Draco could genuinely beat him at, save perhaps a spelling bee. But whatever problem Draco posed seemed to linger through dinner, with all five delicious courses marred by periodic bouts of staring. As if Draco needed to be made any more self-conscious, making a spectacle of himself dining in public with the Boy Who Lived, a Muggleborn, and seven, count them, seven whole Weasleys.
The Ministry was providing cars for them to go to King's Cross, which Draco thought only the usual sort of treatment that Famous Harry Potter would receive, until he caught that uneasy look on the unassuming Mr. Weasley's face and remembered, Oh, right, everyone thinks Potter's godfather wants to kill him. Except Potter didn't even know that yet. It was annoying, having everyone not just one step behind but three or four. He would have to take care not give anything away without meaning to. It gave him a great temptation to invade Potter's room that night and go, Okay, here's the story about my cousin Sirius...
Though it would take some doing to explain how he knew what he knew, let alone make Potter believe him.
Come to think of it, why had Sirius Black been trying to get into Hogwarts and break into Gryffindor all this year, if not to kill Potter? Just to meet his godson and tell him the truth, before perhaps enlisting the help of Famous Harry Potter to prove his innocence? It felt a bit thin, but Draco couldn't think what else. Black couldn't have actually been trying to kill him, or Potter wouldn't have been as devastated as Aunt Bella had used to brag, to see his 'beloved' godfather die. But it did make Black look guilty from the outside.
Draco should have spent more time reckoning this out in the months he had to prepare, but he'd wasted a not inconsiderable proportion of the time trying and failing to learn the Patronus charm. A great deal of his correspondence with Severus had been comprised of pleas to advise him about the charm, with the claim he could guess the school would have Dementors guarding it after Black escaped. Severus had admitted in writing that he could cast it, and sent books on the subject, but been conspicuously silent on Draco's requests he instruct him in it once the school year started. You would think a man who'd wanted the Defense position so badly would have been more excited to be quizzed on this instead of Potions for once, but Severus had left him no wiser in any of the gaps in his knowledge.
Draco was lying in bed struggling with those gaps, when a knocking forced him to drag his body vertical again. "Hermione," Draco whined, "If you're here to yell at me for something, can it wait till tomorrow?"
"Why do you always think it's Hermione when I come to your door?" asked Potter, and leaned into the doorframe with a troubled look that made it impossible not to let him in. "I know you'd rather it be her. Or Ron or one of the other Weasleys, but it's me, sorry, can I come in?"
"You already have," Draco drawled. "Make yourself at home." Potter's gaze went over Draco, though he'd seen these same Slytherin pajamas more than once. Draco rolled his eyes at Potter before he went and got his dressing gown to pull on. "I'm sorry, does my attire offend you? I was trying to sleep."
"Sorry," Potter said again. Draco felt a rush of self-consciousness that made him try to button up his pajama shirt to the top, though his growth spurt had made that difficult, the silk gone tighter. Draco hadn't been able to remember whether he'd bought a new set of nightclothes the first time round at Madam Malkin's, but maybe he should have. Except Potter surely wasn't here to judge Draco's sartorial choices.
"You might as well sit down," Draco said. Potter hesitated before gingerly perching himself on the edge of the bed beside Draco. "Relax, Potter, I'm in no danger of mistaking you for Theodore Nott. What is it, then? More opinions on my birthday present-"
"Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban to try and kill me," Potter blurted. The dim light of Draco's room at night made Potter almost look a fugitive himself, as if his famous title of the Boy Who Lived was one that could be contingent. "You aren't surprised?"
"I'm surprised you know," said Draco, sighing at the thought that Potter had caught up one of the three or four or five steps to what Draco knew. He'd come straight to Draco after, as if aware on some subconscious level that Draco was the one who could give him the most answers- if Draco was weak enough to once again disrespect the blue loop.
Draco's spur-of-the-moment decision to turn Riddle's diary in had done nothing more than worsen things, turning everyone against him and putting Luna in Ginny's place. He'd done no more than break even, in the most generous reckoning, and he'd had more a privileged vantage point last year given his father's role. This year was even less likely to work out if he went active. But there was some graveness to that face that made Draco want to tell him everything- at least, everything his tongue would let him before Langlock.
"I overheard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley talking," Potter said, scooting closer once Draco sat up. "Apparently everyone in the Ministry knows- is that how you know? Did your father hear too?"
Draco nodded automatically at that ready-made excuse. "Were you going to warn me?" Potter whined. "Just- never mind. Apparently, Minister Fudge told Mr. Weasley that Black kept muttering 'He's at Hogwarts, he's at Hogwarts', over and over before he escaped. And Headmaster Dumbledore agreed to let them station Azkaban guards at Hogwarts-" A chill went down Draco's spine at that reminder. "And Mr. Weasley thinks that Black wants me dead to bring Voldemort back to power, or as revenge... it explains everything, Draco. Why the Minister was so lenient with me about my aunt- he was just glad I was alive. It's why he made me promise to stay in Diagon Alley, where there'd be wizards to keep an eye on me. And that's why they're sending cars to take us to the station tomorrow."
"So, you're in on the secret, Potter." Draco was unable to hold back a yawn that looked to offend Potter. "Leaves me with two questions. One is why you aren't more afraid a deranged killer is after you, and the other is why I'm the one you've come to confide in, when so many of your actual friends are just a hall down."
Potter looked as defensive as Draco had known he would. "I don't know, Draco, do you think I should be afraid? I'm not going to be murdered. Hogwarts is safe. Everyone is scared of Dumbledore, even Voldemort. I'm most worried that I won't get to go to Hogsmeade this year, if you want to know." Draco opened his mouth to comment on this astonishing lack of perspective for even a thirteen-year-old, but Potter plowed on. "It's annoying that they're all so worried about me, and they won't just tell me what's going on. Do they think I can't look after myself? I've escaped Lord Voldemort three times, I'm not completely useless... why are you laughing at me?"
"What do you want me to say, Potter?" Draco shook his head. "You're still a child. You couldn't beat me in a duel even if your life depended on it, let alone an actual Death Eater-"
"As I recall," Potter interrupted, "Both times I dueled you, I've won."
"Please," Draco said, and settled back down under the covers to show Potter he was giving him the minimum attention possible. "The first time, you cheated, and the second time was ended by the teachers. Face me honestly, you and me, magic versus magic? I'd wipe the floor with you."
Potter leaned over. "What, is that a challenge? I'm ready whenever you are, Draco. You and your big talk and your music boxes don't scare me. I could take you down as easy with my wand as at Quidditch."
Draco could still not wrap his head around why Potter was in his room in the middle of the night, by choice, like Draco somehow was where he instinctually turned now when he was in danger. "Did you see what I did with that giant spider in the Forbidden Forest, Potter? Could you have done that?"
"Could you have done what I did to the Basilisk?" Potter countered, vibrant and alive with competitiveness. Indeed, no one had ever looked less in fear of his life.
Draco gave Potter his most unimpressed look, as if that Basilisk-slaying image didn't haunt so many of his nights. "Don't be worrying about Death Eaters yet, Potter. You should be scared of the Dementors first. All a Basilisk can do is kill you. I'd take a Basilisk over a Dementor any day."
Potter's cocky look dropped off his face. He always did seem to hate it when Draco knew things he didn't. "What's a Dementor?"
"You said it already," Draco sighed, "The guards of Azkaban, they're going to be at Hogwarts. They're the most awful creatures in the entire world, I'd have them all killed if I could." He snuggled the covers tighter around himself, to keep insulated in that feeling of temporary warmth. "You don't know what a Dementor is?" Potter would soon find out. Draco would never forget Potter's susceptibility to the creatures the first time around. It had been like Christmas come early. Yes, it had given him material for weeks, which friendship with Hermione would sadly prevent him from utilizing. At least he knew better than to pretend to be one for Quidditch gain this time around.
To think he had ever willingly pretended to be a Dementor.
"No," said Potter, and propped up his head on his chin, leaning down to watch Draco, as if his face would give away more than his words. "See, this is why I came to you. I knew you'd know all about it." Draco opened his mouth, and Potter predicted his rejoinder as he hastily added, "Not because of your family, or because you know about dark magic and all that." Though of course that was true. "Just because you're really clever."
Hermione was cleverer, but Draco wouldn't turn down the compliment. His real third-year self would have probably taken a Dementor's Kiss to have Potter sitting on his bed with him like this calling him really clever. "Sure, Potter. We can go with that explanation. Well, Dementors are dark creatures. The darkest of dark. Silent and hooded and faceless all in black. They're sort of like ghouls, they're very cold. And they feed on human souls."
Potter started to laugh, until Draco yawned and pressed his face into his pillow. "Wait, you aren't joking? They seriously feed on souls? And they're coming to Hogwarts?"
Draco yawned more forcefully, stretching his jaw wide like a lion, and found himself too drowsy to care if it looked undignified in front of Potter. "Yes, so worry about that first, and then worry about Black, Potter. It was a long onerous summer, and it's going to be a long onerous year."
"But do you think the Prisoner of Azkaban is after me?" Potter pressed, seeming desperate for Draco not to overtly banish him. "To bring Voldemort back?" He winced before saying in a lower voice, "I know you don't want to hear this, but has your father heard or said anything?"
Draco opened his eyes wider, regarding Potter with the baleful stare that deserved. "Potter, I want as little to do with my father, let alone with any Death Eater or dark wizard or Azkaban business as possible. Seriously, any evil-battling you do this year, count me out of it, on the light or the dark side. I have two goals for this year- to do well enough in my studies to one day become an Unspeakable, and to end your pathetic existence at Quidditch. For anything else, Draco Malfoy is not at home. Capiche?"
"I don't know," Potter said softly, "Looks to me like Draco Malfoy is right here," and flicked at Draco's hair playfully where it lay across the pillow. "And he's got hair like his godfather now."
Draco pushed his hair back, long enough to tuck a bit back beneath the top pillow and keep it out of his face. "If you mean that to be an insult, Potter, you should know I would only ever take that comparison as a compliment. Compare me to a Dementor if you really want to hurt my feelings."
Potter's fingers traced over Draco's hair on the pillow. "Are Dementors really that bad?"
Draco snorted. "Wait and see, Potter," he told him, before closing his eyes and turning his face away. "Wait and see."