Draco was so shocked, he fell of the chair on which he was sat. He looked out of his window. A snowy white owl flew in, carefully landing on his bed. The owl made an amusing contrast to his bed. His bed was pink, lacy and flowery. It was horrible. The owl was white, with a faint blue tinge which was the result of one of Ron's failed spells in second year. Draco had to admit, even though he gave them a hard time, the golden trio were pretty cool. In fact, he was jealous of them. They were all so popular.

They all had it so easy.

Harry was the boy who lived. Everyone loved him. He was probably worshipped at home. He didn't need to be smart. He defeated Voldemort in first year! He could get any job he wanted. He could get anyone he wanted.

Ron had a nice family. Even if they weren't rich, they were happy. He was Harry's best mate. His life was sorted. Him and Harry were easily the best looking guys in Griffindoor! They stole a car! When they were 12! They bearly got into trouble!

Hermione was really pretty. And really smart. And really kind. Plus, she had good parents. Draco was jealous. His parents didn't love him. They hated everything he stood for.

But that isn't really important.

The owl stood hopping up and down on Draco's bed. I was holding a letter. From Harry. Obviously. It was Harry's owl. As Draco opened the letter, it flew out the window, in one quick swoop.

Draco

I know we haven't always got along, but I need to show you something urgently. Meet me at the 3 Broomsticks tomorrow, at 9:30.

Harry Potter

Shit. If Draco's parents found out he got a letter from Harry Potter, there'd be big trouble. Draco knew he had to burn it.

But he didn't.

He sat there, starring at it. God, Harry's handwriting was messy, in an oddly charming way. Draco brought the note to his nose. It smelled like Harry. Like a regular, sweaty, Quidditch playing teenage boy. Like the boy who beat Draco every time at Quidditch. Like the boy who defeated the Voldemort. Like the boy who didn't sit next to Draco, even though Draco wanted nothing more.

"Snap out of it!", he thought. He was the head bitch, the fucking prince of Slytherin! What the hell was he doing? Going round sniffing letters from Harry Potter! He'd completely lost it!

Draco slumped against the bar. He was there. It was 9:30am. He had woken up at 6am, just to get there on time. He had shrunk down his bags (he wasn't quite sure why but I made sense to anyway, he didn't want his mother to go through them and him arrive at Hogwarts with skirts instead of trousers), and put them in the left pocket of his black jeans. His favourite green hoodie was ripped from when he jumped out the window to escape the manor. Luckily, it wasn't noticeable, and he fixed it quickly with the repairo spell.

He found a stool infront of the bar. "One butter beer please." He slammed the money down on the table, and surveyed the room. Harry still wasn't there.

10:30: Harry still hadn't arrived.

11:30: Still no sign of him.

12:30: Draco was about to go home, when he suddenly realised. He was soooooo stupid.

Harry meant 9:30pm.

Shit.

He had hours to kill.

By the time Harry arrived, Draco was completely wasted. "What's wrong with you Malfoy?" A genuine look of panic crossing his face.

"He's been drinking since 9:30, that's what's wrong with him!", the bar tender snapped.

Harry looked at Draco. It's funny, Harry thought, he never imagined he would see Draco in muggle clothing, nevermind a beenie, hoodie, jeans and pink, blue and white Converse.

"Anyway, we can't stay here. Come with me, my house is just round the corner. I've got something to show you."

Harry lifted Draco up, and steadied him as he staggered over to the door.