HISTORY REPEATING

If they do not learn from the past, one generation will follow the last, making the same mistakes over and over again…

He knew this was happening again. He looked at the note in his hand: the resemblance was remarkable.

He'd seen many notes like this before. He had his own secret stash of similar notes in his bottom desk drawer. He recognized the tiny curl of the h, the lengthened stem of the y. He even recognized the meeting place; it was the exact same. History repeating itself in an endless vicious cycle; like father, like son…

This one wasn't as yellowed with age as the previous ones. Fifteen years had taken its toll on his most treasured possessions; but his excuse for keeping the notes was that he needed a reminder every now and then. That's what he told himself, anyway. He didn't know if he really believed it or not.

It was strange that, in a manor full of exquisite and rare items, his most prized object was a small carved box filled with tiny scrolls of yellowed parchment. The parchment itself wasn't important; it was the memories they held. This… This was painful.

He should've thrown the accursed note into the fireplace, but instead he crumpled the tiny square of parchment in his hand, the words etching and burning themselves into his mind as he dropped the screwed-up ball on the floor.

'Meet me in the Astronomy Tower after Quidditch practice.'

He reached into his son's schoolbag and pulled out a similar note.

'Same time and place.'

The shorthand language of lovers – how like his father he was! He tilted his head to his side, remembering. Remembering the pain, the loss that nearly destroyed him, ate him alive.

"Father?" the haughty voice echoed throughout the huge study, demanding all of his attention. "What are you doing with my schoolbag?"

"Who gave you these?" he hissed through gritted teeth, although he knew perfectly well who the writer was. He watched with satisfaction as a cloud passed over his son's arrogant face – he'd inherited all the trademark family features – and turned even paler than usual.

"It's from a – a girl," he choked out. "It's a girl from – school."

"No, it's not," his father snapped. "Who is it, really?"

"Harry Potter," he whispered. "For five months now."

Lucius, his proud, cold father, raised an arm and slapped him across the face.

"How dare you," Lucius hissed, glaring at his shaking son. Draco unconsciously put a hand up to his stinging cheek, tears welling in his grey eyes. He grabbed his schoolbag from his father and ran out the room, slamming the door behind him.

Lucius wondered how this could be happening again. It seemed like a nightmare: the supposedly irresistible Potter charm had hooked not only one, but both Malfoy men…

"James, this has to stop."

"It can't stop, Lucius."

"I don't care, James. It has to." Lucius narrowed his eyes in a manner that would become familiar to both Potter men in two generations; father and son from the rival families.

It was strange that, of all the boys in Hogwarts, it would be these two that ended like this: the respective captains of the Slytherin and Gryffindor Quidditch teams. Lucius counted himself lucky that James noticed him during a rare and short hiatus from torturing Severus. Lucius thought that he was wonderful.

"Can I help you, Malfoy?" James had called, glaring daggers.

"Wizards' Duel, Potter," Lucius had replied, before he could think. If they'd stopped kissing for just a second and started dueling, James would've won. Lucius didn't want to take that chance. So, during the day, they were rivals, and at night, the most passionate of lovers.

But now it had to end. Both boys were nearing the end of their final year at Hogwarts, and both had to go their separate ways. Unbeknownst to them, James would marry Lily Evans, and Lucius would find someone to marry – maybe a Black. Both would produce children. Both would eventually forget about their former rival. Their sons, their only children, would become the fiercest of enemies – and the fiercest of lovers. But James would never live to see his only son happy.

But right now, they lived only for this moment, and James didn't want it to end. He sighed and ran a hand through his messy dark hair – the hair that would become one of the trademarks of the son he hadn't had yet; the son that would defeat Voldemort for the first time before his second year of existence, the son that would capture the heart of the Malfoy heir, as his father did.

"James…" Lucius whispered. "It's for the best, I promise you."

"You'll have beautiful children," James whispered back. He didn't know how true this was. For now, he only knew Lucius Malfoy: his one love, his only love. His eyes threatened to overflow with unshed tears.

"Keep in touch," Lucius said, getting to his feet. James immediately grabbed his hand and pulled him back down next to him. He leaned over and kissed him – somehow they both knew that this would be the last kiss they would ever share. He poured all that he felt into this one final bruising kiss.

They didn't know that James would be dead within three years.

Exactly fifteen years after that fateful day, Draco sat in his room, hugging his schoolbag to his chest. His tearstains were drying on his cheeks.

It was a mistake, coming back home. It was a mistake to leave his open schoolbag sitting in the Entrance Hall, expecting a house-elf to get it. He certainly should've restrained from admitting to his father that Harry had indeed written those notes.

But by far his biggest mistake was falling in love with Harry. Vaguely he wondered how his father knew it was Harry's handwriting, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He had to get back to Hogwarts as soon as he could.

He had to get back to Harry.

He didn't know what drove the unknown hand of fate that made him feel this way… But he was certainly thankful for it.

It'd all started in detention. Draco still claimed that it was Harry's fault, anyway. That part of him would never change.

"Detention, Potter," Snape drawled, pushing his greasy hair back with barely suppressed glee.

"What!?" Harry cried, shoving his chair back and jumping to his feet. He ignored the Mudblood's restraining hand on his arm and Draco sniggered.

Well, it was kind of Harry's fault that his cauldron had exploded unceremoniously halfway through the lesson. Pity that it was only half-done; therefore, Weasel had only half-turned into a flamingo.

"Nice feathers, Weasel," Draco said. "They match your hair perfectly."

Weasel had squawked indignantly and stalked towards Draco on his long pink legs, his wand arm shaking. Draco couldn't even stop laughing long enough to Expelliarmus the ridiculous-looking pauper-flamingo.

So maybe Harry had been right in tackling Draco to the floor in a distinctly non-sexual manner. But it didn't help that he'd gotten them both detention – a double detention, in his case.

But it'd all worked out fine in the end, hadn't it?

Draco was pulled from his reverie as the door to his room swung open silently and his father entered.

"You must stop seeing that Potter brat," he hissed, slamming the door shut behind him.

Draco could almost hear the house-elves' protests: slamming doors was not a thing to be done at the Malfoy Manor. But courtesy was not exactly the first thing on Lucius' mind at this point in time.

Draco remembered the last time he'd seen Harry…

"I can't remember the last time I saw you this beautiful."

"Could it have possibly been the last time you unceremoniously pulled me into your room and shagged me to within an inch of consciousness?"

"Could do," Draco sighed. "But you like it."

"No, I don't. I love it. And I love you."

"I have to leave tomorrow morning, you know."

"That's fine. It's only two weeks, Draco."

"Only? That's enough time for me to meet a lovely Pureblood and arrange a marriage proposal."

"You wouldn't dare." his green eyes had glinted dangerously in the candlelight when he'd said this. Bloody possessive Gryffindor.

"Wouldn't I?"

"No, you wouldn't."

"And why not?"

"Because you love me…"

"When did I ever say that?"

"You don't have to."

And Draco knew, he just knew, that he couldn't walk away from that.

"You don't understand it," Draco snapped at his father.

Lucius paused in thought; a miniscule part in the back of his mind argued that he understood more than his son did at this moment, and quite possibly ever would.