*A/N: Thank you for reading! I don't own any recognizable material, just the plot. And it's rated M for later chapters

I look over…well…I glance over really, at the man who has captured and claimed my heart for the past few months. It's probably a good thing

he doesn't know considering I'd have to obliviate him if he did. I watch as he rubs at his eyes, pushing his glasses towards the top of his

head. It makes my heart kick and sputter in my chest.

"What are you staring at Malfoy?" he asks coldly. I shake my head; he had startled me out of a daze, and then place a carefully

arranged sneer on my face. I pause… I can't think of a witty response. So I just shake my head and stare down at my Transfiguration paper.

There's a snort and then silence and I have to fight to not stare at him again. I can't afford another slip up. The war may be over, but I'm still a

Malfoy and I do have a rep to keep.

There are times when I'd have a retort, but when I'd look up to fling it towards him the words would die on my lips. It's infuriating.

For a while I was angry that I was in love with him. I was angry at myself, in denial about it. It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I finally

learned to accept myself, realizing that accepting myself is what separated me from my father. Of course, the fact that I wouldn't need to tell

anyone this, and could die an old man with my dignity still intact, helped loads.

"Ey, Malfoy time to go," Pansy chirps, placing a light hand on my arm. Instinctively I jerk away, ignoring the hurt look on her face. I

mutter an apology and shove my stuff into my bag. I veer through the traffic of students being handed out from the classrooms and run full out

towards the next class. I've learned that the faster I get to class, the less jinxes thrown my way. It's harder to hit a moving target.

"What's his problem?"

"Watch where you're running!"

Shouts follow me down the corridors as I sprint towards Potions, just one level below me. I run down a nearby staircase, taking the

stone steps two at a time, and tear through various hallways before slowing down in front of the Potion's classroom. Looking around I see no

one and run a hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face. I've given up slicking my hair back in an attempt to appear less intimidating

to everyone.

My internal clock says I'm about five minutes early. A few months ago I would have used this time to think. These days I don't spend

much time thinking because quite honestly I'm scared of what my subconscious will bring up. I slide down the wall and pull a thick book from

my bag, just a little light reading to keep my mind busy.

Two sentences in, "Draco, a bit early aren't we?" The oily voice of Snape slides into my ears, like a potion gone horribly wrong. I sigh

and pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger and slam my book shut, looking up at Snape. From here on the floor he

looks like a monster. It's not that I'm not fond of my godfather, he's just a tiring person to be with.

"Yes Uncle," I sigh and slide my book back into my bag. Really, can't he go and sort his closet of ingredients or something?

"I've read that one," Uncle says, toeing the corner of the book with his boot. I fight to not roll my eyes. Of course he has, he's read

every book in the whole damn wizarding world, "Of course, only when I was trying to keep my mind busy. I'd ask, but I'm afraid your love life is

of no interest to me," He speaks slowly, each word punctuated.

I raise my eyes to look at him, as I had been staring at the floor, with ferocity in my gray eyes. Uncle merely raises his black brow.

My anger flares and my hand twitches towards my wand, stuffed into my robe. Perceptive as always, Uncle sees this and the corner of his

pencil-thin mouth quirks upward, amused. With the strength only Slytherins seem to possess, I swallow my rage and stand up.

"That's not your business," I hiss and trod away towards the classroom door, my robes swinging out behind me. I smile and shake

my head. I always have had a flair for the dramatic.

In Potions, he's sitting across the room, looking over the mudblood's shoulder, probably copying her notes. It helps a little that he's

so far away, but it doesn't keep me from staring. Uncle's eyes keep flitting over to me at, in true Snape fashion, regular intervals.

I try to focus on my potion, unsure what we're even doing. Look up to the board. Right, Draught of Living Death, I try to focus on my

potion, I really do, but just minutes later thick white smoke is filling the classroom, strangling the air that's in here. I groan as I recognize my

mistake, using Billywig Stings instead of Valerian root.

The smoke finds its way down my throat and I gag. It tastes like it smells, bad. Almost like rotten fruit and sour milk. Choking on the

thick smoke, I double over and begin coughing. Faintly, I can hear the other students coughing and retching, but it's very soft, like when my

ears are stuffed with cotton wool. I realize that the smoke had drifted into my ears, making everything hard to hear.

The smoke begins to swirl, lazily, as soundless words tumble from my Uncle's mouth. A pain begins behind my eyes as the smoke

clears itself from my head. Slowly, I regain my hearing. There's a stir amongst us, I can feel the frantic energy building, like a nervous Cornish

pixie. The usual reaction when something out of the ordinary happens. Over near the Gryffindor side of the room, people stand about, looking

around with narrowed eyes for the cause.

My tie strains uncomfortably against my neck as I fight to look over the throng of people. I can't help but look for him, make sure he's

okay. I see messy black hair and let out a breath I hadn't been holding. I curse myself for making such a foolish mistake and then again for

caring so much. Watching out for the boy-who-lived will be the death of me someday.

Uncle is watching me carefully, worry in the cardboard creases of his face. He knows I wouldn't usually make a mistake like that. I

steadfastly ignore him.

"What's wrong Malfoy? Can't make a decent potion?" Harry calls from across the room. Ouch. That one hurt. Not because I can

actually make a potion, probably far better than he, but because of the venom in his voice. Again, I glue on a carefully arranged scowl and

open my mouth to say something, and again, nothing comes out. I fix him with a half-hearted dirty look and shut my mouth. Next to me, Goyle

lands a meaty hand on my back, a Neanderthal attempt at comfort, and I jerk away, turning back towards my cauldron. My cauldron is a

melted pile of rubbish. It doesn't even resemble a cauldron anymore! How can such a small mistake make such a disaster?! I scowl at the lump

of black pewter.

"Harry leave him alone," A high voice trills. In shock, I turn around, my features arranged in a scowl. The youngest blood traitor

Weasel is tugging on his arm, her red hair flying behind her. Harry is standing behind her, mouth half-open, like he was going to say

something. For just a second, my mask of anger, my safety net, falls and for the heartbeat that my eyes meet his, longing floods my face. But

then I'm back behind my mask of hatred, where I'm safe.

"Got something you want to say, Potter?" I hear Goyle rumble, again stepping up to flank me. Really, I think he does this out of

instinct now. As Harry opens his mouth, confusion in his eyes, Goyle decks him, his meaty fist landing square on his nose. There's a crack and I

wince as I hear his nose break. Blood begins flowing as he hits the floor. I know Goyle may not be the brightest person in the world, but

decking someone in the middle of class is just stupid, even for him. Uncle rushes towards him, his black eyes on Harry.

"You idiot!" I scream, turning to fling my rage at Goyle. Before I can land my fists on any part of Goyle, Uncle heals Harry silently with

just a wave of his wand, apparently finding the "Episkey" spell too simple to utter, and helps him stand. I take a breath, he's alright. Everyone

looks at me with pure rage except for Harry, whose emotions flicker between confusion and anger. Of course they're all angry with me; I'm the

former Death Eater. When anything goes wrong it's my fault in their eyes. I didn't even touch him yet it's my fault.

"Draco, walk with Harry to Madam Pomfrey," Uncle says loudly, somehow even turning those few words into an obnoxious

statement. I roll my eyes, a practiced motion, and then arrange my features into a scowl. I know he just needs the cause of the excitement,

Harry and I, out of the classroom so he can get everyone calmed and back to normal.

"Professor," I hiss, false venom in my voice.

"Mr. Malfoy, you will do what I say," Uncle says slowly, as if I'm stupid. I open my mouth about to whip out a witty comment that

would earn me a detention, but then I see the look in his eyes and I'm stumped. I can't place it. It's a mix somewhere between bemusement

and irritation, like he's amused by the entire situation. In my peripheral vision I see Harry groan and throw a scowl towards his friends.

"As for you Mr. Goyle, fifteen points from Slytherin and a month of detentions," Snape growls somewhere behind us.

It's an awkward walk and the silence between us is filled with tension, mostly from Harry's side. Usually there are other students in

the halls to provide noise and diffuse the weight of the silence, but classes are going on and it's empty, making the quiet between us even

more pronounced.

"What? No smart comment? No jibe at how I can't take a punch?" Harry jeers. It's as if I can see the gears working in his head,

trying to subtly figure out a way to get under my skin. I run a hand through my hair, a nervous habit I've grown.

I imagine going up to him, kissing him long and hard, then telling him I love him, how I've always loved him. Key word: imagine.

Malfoys don't work like that. We stand dignified and wait for things to come begging to us, falling on their knees. What a stupid way to go

about things. If you want something badly enough, you fight for it.

I realize that Harry's silent. Madam Pomfrey's is still a ways away and I figure he's trying to think of something to say that will get

under my skin.

"Why do you hate me?" I hear myself ask. I slam my mouth shut and immediately stare at the floor. I didn't mean to say that; it had

simply slipped out. How could I be so stupid? Fighting the urge to curl up in one of Hogwarts various corners and die the death a Malfoy

doesn't deserve, I glance over at Harry. Maybe he doesn't hate me, I think to myself. But, he hasn't answered yet, which is a bad sign. Glance

number two, there's no emotion on his face. He's as blank as a new sheet of parchment.

I shouldn't have said that. It's such a vague question. Not that any of my others are much better, but with this one the number of

responses he could have simply explodes.

"Because you're an ass….Draco," Harry says simply. I replay his voice in my head over and over again to make sure I'm right. There

is no sarcasm and he did not call me Malfoy. This is a victory in my books.

I could scream with joy, but I don't. Malfoy's stand dignified and we nod. So that's what I do. That is to say, I nod.

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