A/N: Next chapter is up! Thank you so much for all your reviews, they really do a lot to encourage me to keep writing! For clarification: Draco's runaway thoughts are in brackets, e.g.: (Potter is so hot), the story is written from his point of view though, and he's usally talking to Potter in his head, which is why Blaise and Pansy are addressed as "he" and "she" and Harry is addressed as "you". Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.

Chapter 2: An insightful monologue

Finally, the school day is over. One would think that after a year of war and general mayhem the teachers would lay off a little on the schoolwork. Especially for us Eight Year students, since, really, this year is merely a necessary evil in order to get our NEWTs (and for me to gain any chance at redemption). I'm not sure if I resent the Wizengamot for ordering me to repeat my seventh year of school as part of my sentence or not. While it gives me a short reprieve from the realities of the world outside of Hogwarts, it has also condemned me to return to walking the halls wherein I committed my greatest sins.

As Pansy, Blaise and I make our way towards the Great Hall, I can't help but notice that more than the usual amount of people seems to be staring at us.

"Pansy, darling, is it me or have we suddenly become the target of Hogwarts' latest gossip? "

Pursing her lips, Pansy takes a quick look at the people walking beside us. "It appears to be so, honey. And what exactly might warrant this sudden increase of interest in us dastardly Slytherins? Anything you want to tell us, Draco? Or should I be asking you, Blaise?"

Blaise just snorts and rolls his eyes. "Darling, the most interesting thing I did today was eating two pieces of toast instead of my usual one for breakfast. I hardly think that is the cause for all this nonsense. But if I were to guess, the rumours going around might have something to do with the fact that our dear Draco here was saved from being pummelled into the wall by none other than our almighty Saviour, Mr. Potter himself. "

"What? How come I'm only hearing about this now?" Pansy shrieks.

"Well, if you hadn't dropped Potions after our OWLs in fifth year, you would have had a front row seat to Potter's timely rescue of yours truly. You have no one to blame but yourself, Pansy," I quip back. "And there was no risk of me being pummelled into any wall, I can look out for myself, Blaise. Or do I need to remind you of what happened the last time you tried to "borrow" my Potions essay?" I can't help but smile (slightly evilly) at that particular memory (Blaise had to wear a hat for weeks, it was glorious).

"Be that as it may," Blaise responds, scowling, "it doesn't change the fact that Potters little outburst spread around the school like Fiendfyre."

I wince at his mention of Fiendfyre (I will never be able to unsee Crabbe's untimely death, or forget Goyle's subsequent descent into madness at losing his best friend, his brother-in-arms). Having realized his blunder, Blaise pales and hangs his head in a silent apology.

None of us feel like continuing our usual banter (the memories, the guilt, the pain…it's too much; funny that it took death and destruction to finally unite the three of us in true friendship).

As we enter the Great Hall, I throw a quick look at the Gryffindor table (I might be looking out for a messy head of black hair). I see Longbottom trying (and failing spectacularly) to fend off Brown and Patil, Granger and Weasley fighting (is that their own particular brand of foreplay? Ugh, now I need to obliviate myself), Girl-Weasley talking to Thomas (judging from the smiles on their faces they might be the next Gryffindor power-couple), and, oh, there you are, Potter, sitting next to Finnigan, at the end of the table.

Satisfied (and no, it's not because your seat is facing the Slytherin table, making it possible for a certain someone to indulge in their Saviour-staring), I take a seat at the end of our own table, Pansy seating herself right across and Blaise taking the seat right next to hers (he has appointed himself her own personal protector this year, the school has not forgotten her little outburst on the eve of the Battle of Hogwarts).

Once I've filled my plate with a generous helping of mashed potatoes and an exquisite cut of beef sirloin, I let my eyes wander while I eat. Seeing you though makes me frown. After seven years of fighting evil and finally winning, you just look defeated. Not all the time, you mostly maintain the image of the strong war hero successfully, but then again, most people see what they want to see (and don't I know it). You merely show glimpses of weakness, caught only by those who observe you closely (and just what does that say about me?). Your shoulders slump and the expression on your face reveals a kind of exhaustion that doesn't stem from a lack of sleep. It's not hard to understand why: Harry Potter must be strong, for the Wizarding World relies on him to lead us to a brighter future. But how does the boy that was forced to grow up way too fast, who has seen way too much, heal from the horrors of war while under the pressure and expectations of everyone around him?

I saw Ginevra try (and fail) to help you, and I see Granger and Weasley growing increasingly protective of you. Yet, they have each other (as they make disgustingly clear at pretty much every meal in the Great Hall, thank Merlin she insists on behaving properly during classes). Who do you have? Who do you share your burdens with? Who is there for you when you get lost in the bloodcurdling screams of death, the smells of burning flesh or the anguish drowning your heart in darkness? (Oh sometimes I wish it could be me, but my demons would rip you apart, I have no power over them. At times, the hope of leaving behind the mess I created, to, yes, run far away from my problems, is all that keeps me going. Once a coward, always a coward.)

In a way, you are just as alone as me I suppose. Surrounded by friends who mean well, but can't possibly understand.

Taking a sip of pumpkin juice, I shut my eyes and force myself to clear my mind of the increasingly morbid thoughts that plague it.

"I'm off to the library to get a head start on this essay. I will see you two in the dorms later," I inform Pansy and Blaise. "Don't get into trouble."

They both nod while rolling their eyes, but we all know that as of late trouble has a way of finding us wherever we go.

Grabbing my bag, I stand up and make my way towards the door, carefully watching out for anyone that might want to follow me in search of payback or any other such nonsense. Placated, I look at you one more time and promptly stop walking.

A couple of first-year students, easily identified as Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws by their colourful shawls, is standing around you, accosting you into posing with them in front of that horrible Muggle contraption that used to hang around Creevey's neck.

My amusement at seeing you in that particular predicament takes a quick turn into anger, as I see equal parts of annoyance and dismay shine through the smiling façade you put up for them. It is clear to see that the whole situation is uncomfortable for you. But do you say no? Do you turn them away with a firm hand? No. You just let them do what they want (since when are you such a pushover? It's frankly maddening).

And before I can properly register the movement of my wand, I've already (non-verbally, because, yeah, I'm that good) cast the first spell that came to my mind. The single jet of water manages to hit its target perfectly: a couple of sparks erupt from the chimera (or was it camera… whatever, I don't care about Muggle stuff, their pictures don't even move) and your adoring fans let out a collective gasp at seeing their tool of torture drenched in water.

I make my escape as quickly as I can, destruction of property would not do my probation any good. But not quickly enough for Gryffindor's best ex-Seeker. As I let the door to the Great Hall fall shut behind me, I see your green eyes stare into mine for a fleeting second. (Crap.)

Accelerating my steps, I practically run to the library. But, alas, it's too late (why must you always be faster than me?).

"Malfoy," you grunt, wrapping a hand around my upper arm and thus preventing my escape into the relative safety of the library. "What is your bloody problem? I thought you were done terrorizing first-years?"

(Has anyone ever told you that despite the horribly self-righteous tone and intimidating stance you assume in full Saviour mode, that you look quite hot?)

"Manners, Potter," I respond, whirling around and dislodging your hold on me. "And I only did what you lacked the courage to do. Or did you gain a taste for fame at last? Do not tell me you were posing with those first-years willingly, my faith in the great but humble Harry Potter might just fade."

Turning red, in embarrassment or anger, or maybe both, you hiss, "Do not put words in my mouth Malfoy, what do you know about me?"

"I know that you absolutely hate the way everyone worships the ground you walk on. I know that you can't sit with your back to a door, not knowing who might come barging in. I know that you force yourself to smile and act as if everything was fine when all you want is to just have some peace and quiet in which to sort through your own thoughts, to work through your grief. I know you carry an enormous amount of misplaced guilt on your shoulders. I know that sometimes all you want to do is cry and scream at the world for being so incredibly cruel to take away the people you love over and over again. And most of all," I whisper, approaching you slowly while you stare at me in shock, "I know that while everyone around you is steadily moving on from the war, you just feel yourself sinking into despair a little bit more with each passing day."

And now we're standing toe to toe, you with your eyes wide open and frozen on the spot, and me gazing into your eyes while breathing heavily after my little monologue. The tension is palpable; something has to give. When I see colour fill your cheeks and your eyes narrow into a glare, I prepare myself for the worst and you don't disappoint me.

A shove and two drawn wands later, we're standing in a stalemate, both daring the other to be the first one to make a move.

"Expelliar…"

"Stupefy!"

For the first time in our long and convoluted history, I am the one to cast faster. And just like that, I have Harry Potter's unconscious body lying at my feet. Could this day get any better?

A/N: Thank you so much for reading. This one was a little more introspective, and we get to know a bit more about the situation we find ourselves in. Next chapter should be up within this week. All mistakes are my own, if you see any, fell free to point them out! And please do leave me a review, they so make my day!