One

"Thank you," said Pansy, not sounding grateful at all. "I can handle my own luggage." Draco didn't protest. The girl grabbed the trunk he had been trying to lug into the empty compartment and began struggling with it herself.

Draco sighed and took a seat next to the window. Normally, when Pansy talked to him in such a way he'd bite back with a nasty remark. Normally, he thought, I wouldn't even be trying to help her with her trunk.

But Draco said nothing. Instead, he gazed out the window at the mass of students who were chatting, carrying luggage and boarding the train. He spotted Ron Weasley standing beside his similarly redheaded sister and was in the middle of sneering at them when Pansy sat down next to him.

He tensed. What was she doing? He certainly hadn't expected her to sit next to him. Was she thinking of making up with him? The blond didn't think he could handle it if that was the case. In fact, he felt it only fitting that the pug-faced Slytherin girl had been acting the way she had.

It was understandable, the way she was acting made sense. Draco didn't want to be forgiven. He didn't deserve to be forgiven.

Chancing a sidelong glance, he saw that Pansy was staring straight ahead. So that was it. She didn't want to have to sit across from him. She didn't want to have to look in his direction, didn't want to have to look at him all the way to Hogsmeade.

Draco's shoulders slumped. He took another look out the window and saw that the Weasel and his sister were gone.

After a moment of quiet, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping. It was from the front page of last weeks Daily Prophet issue.

He unfolded and smoothed out the article. It was severely creased and wrinkled and looked as if it was ready to fall apart. Draco thought he'd probably read it a hundred times over. He'd memorized every word.

Pansy shifted nervously beside him and, suddenly, he could feel the heat of her gaze. She was watching him. He ignored her.

His eyes roamed over the prominent black and white picture of a tall, blond, sharp-faced man in his forties before reaching the all too familiar words:

MALFOY GOES ON KILLING SPREE

Lucius Malfoy, 43, who was revealed to be a Death Eater two years ago and sentenced to life in Azkaban, escaped from the prison last night and was declared dead, along with his wife Narcissa Malfoy and family friends Peter and Sally Parkinson, early this morning inside Malfoy Manor. Authorities stated they have reason to believe both Mrs. Malfoy and the Parkinsons were killed by Malfoy because they had joined an organization working against the interests of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. A thorough investigation of the murders is being conducted. No other details were released by authorities. The Parkinsons leave behind a daughter, seventeen-year-old Pansy Parkinson. The Malfoy's leave a son, seventeen-year-old Draco Malfoy. Both Pansy and Draco are currently preparing for their seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and were not available for comment.

Draco's lips moved as he read the last few words of the article. He ran slim fingers over the small picture of his mother, Narcissa Malfoy, looking superior and regal. In the picture the blond woman kept patting at her hair and sitting up straighter. His eyes were roaming over the equally small pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson when the article was suddenly snatched away by a furious Pansy.

She crumbled up the newspaper clipping and stuffed it into her own pocket. Draco was opening his mouth to protest when he heard Blaise Zabini's voice coming from right outside of the compartment.

He shut his mouth.

He could hear Blaise's raucous laughter and Crabbe and Goyle mumbling something. Next came the sound of Millicent Bulstrode - she was laughing even more violently than Blaise.

Pansy was tense. She was gripping her seat so tightly her nails were digging into the material. What was she trying to do? Hide the headline? It was unlikely... No, it was impossible their fellow seventh year Slytherins didn't already know that Narcissa and the Parkinsons were traitors to the Dark Lord. Or that they had been traitors...when they were alive.

The familiar voices faded into the distance. Pansy sighed and sunk back into her seat. She closed her eyes.

Draco knew the relief wouldn't last. Sooner or later (more likely sooner) he and Pansy would come face to face with the other Slytherins. Draco didn't fancy imagining what would happen then. He knew it wasn't going to be good.

"Maybe we should change into our robes now," said Pansy, breaking the silence. She stood and went over to the trunk she'd stuffed into a corner of the small compartment. After some shuffling she managed to retrieve one of her school robes. Before pulling on the robe she spared Draco a glance, her eyes narrowed in what now seemed to be ever present contempt. And why not?

"Well? Aren't you going to put on your robes?"

The blond teen blinked. "Robes? Oh. Yes, I will." But Draco didn't move from his seat.

Pansy shrugged and pulled the dark robe she was holding on over her clothes. She sat back down next to Draco.

With a loud whistle, the train started up. Platform nine and three-quarters was left behind, and Pansy's hand strayed to where the clipping was crammed into her pocket.

But she didn't take it out. And she didn't give it back.

"So. Do you believe it?"

Hermione dropped the fork she'd been eating with onto her nearly empty plate and pushed the food away. They were sitting in the Great Hall. The sorting was finished, Dumbledore had made his usual beginning of year speech and now students were finishing up their dinners or eagerly awaiting dessert. "I mean, it was in the Daily Prophet. We know from personal experience that their news can be less than...reliable."

"Yeah," replied Harry. "But why would they lie about this? We got them to admit that Voldemort was back after what happened fifth year." He paused, as if trying to compose himself. He was probably thinking of Sirius.

"The reason they were trying to keep Voldemort's return under wraps was to prevent a panic. And writing about Lucius Malfoy the Death Eater escaping from Azkaban, committing multiple murders and then killing himself isn't exactly something they would write about if they were still trying to prevent one."

"True," replied Hermione, not sounding entirely convinced.

Ron was trying not to look at her. He was trying not to notice how nice her hair looked, or how the necklace she was wearing (though obviously cheap costume jewelry) complimented her eyes. He was trying not to notice how both Hermione and Harry were sitting across from him; how very close they were sitting.

He wasn't doing too swell a job of not noticing.

"So you believe the Prophet, Harry?" asked Hermione. "You think..." She trailed off before leaning closer to Harry. Her voice was a whisper when she next spoke. "You think Narcissa Malfoy was a good guy? Er...lady?"

Neither Harry nor Ron had an answer to that. The trio turned to the Slytherin table. The members of their rival House were all there. Crabbe and Goyle were chuckling loudly at something a tall, dark haired boy was saying. Ron couldn't quite remember the teen's name. Was it Blaise Something-Or-Other? Draco Malfoy was off to the side, poking at his food with a fork and looking superior.

Prat, thought Ron before turning away.

But once he'd turned away he wished he hadn't. Hermione had casually encircled her fingers with Harry's. They were - albeit loosely - holding hands.

They haven't said a thing to me yet. Why haven't they told me they're together? Are they afraid I'll be upset?

Feeling suddenly sick, Ron stood. And just as he did the dinner plates and dishes disappeared from the House tables. They were quickly replaced with various delicious desserts. A first year Ravenclaw squealed in delight.

"Ron? What's wrong? Where are you going?" Hermione seemed then to realize that she was holding Harry's hand. She tore her own hand from the grip quickly.

"Just tired. You won't mind leading the first years to the dorms yourself will you Herm? Being Head Girl and all, I think you can handle it." At this, Ron fiddled with the Prefect badge decorating his robe. He most definitely didn't want to wait around just to lead some kids to the Gryffindor Tower.

He glanced at the small pack of eleven year olds sitting at the other end of the table. Had he really been that young once?

"Okay Ron," Hermione agreed, giving him a measuring look.

"You've been kind of quiet, Ron. You all right?" Harry said this while giving him a very similar look.

"I'm fine," answered the redhead. He shrugged. "I mean, I would tell you if something were up. You know. Because friends don't keep things from friends. No matter what it is."

With that, he flashed a smile and walked away.

He never saw the nervous glances Hermione and Harry exchanged.

Usually, it wasn't until Dumbledore himself had dismissed them that the students would leave the Great Hall and head for their dorms. Ron didn't care. Hermione could handle leading the first years up, no Professors had spotted him taking his leave and he couldn't stand another minute of watching Harry and Hermione's subtle flirting.

Thinking that perhaps he would take a quick peek at his schoolbooks (apparently Hermione had managed to rub off on him a bit) and pin up his new Chudly Cannons poster, Ron ascended the marble staircase that led down into the entrance hall and started toward his House.

He was attempting to remember which classes he had signed up for that both Harry and Hermione were in with him (he really didn't want to have to deal with their lovey-dovey crud all the time) when he tripped.

"Aw shi-" He landed hard. He lost his breath and took a moment to catch it. Noticed a slight pain in his right knee.

"I know you're a stupid oaf, Weasel," said a voice close to him. The owner of the legs he had just tripped over. "But I was fairly certain you had at least mastered the difficult art of walking."

Ron raised his head to see Draco Malfoy leaning against the stone wall. The blond was smirking.

"Oh," managed the dazed redhead. "It's you."