Author's Note: If you are one of the 27 people who read the previous chapter immediately after it was posted, you should go back and give it another look-at. I have added a scene for the free period between Charms and Theory. If you have read it more recently than two hours after it was posted, then you're all set. :)

When Life Overwhelms

But, of course, there was a Quidditch game on Saturday.

Harry didn't know how he'd managed to forget, but even if Ravenclaw vs Hufflepuff was of limited direct importance to him, absolutely everyone would be there anyway. They had to get a read on their opponents, for Slytherin would face both of them in the coming months.

So, naturally, doing any homework or practicing anything productive was out of the question. It wasn't until Harry woke on Sunday morning with his entire plan for Saturday completely unfulfilled that he began to feel trapped by the weight of social obligation.

He didn't want to be a recluse, didn't want to drive people away. He wanted to be part of the group, part of Slytherin House, to be relevant to their lives and value them in turn. But balancing everything was too precarious. Pansy's schedules were wildly optimistic. Things never went according to plan.

Harry yearned to join the group, to mold himself until he fit in with them perfectly. To be able to laugh without pausing to think about it first, to casually mock Gryffindor with the ease of long practice, to be just one of the guys.

But he wasn't.

If Professor Quirrell was to be believed, Harry was an Heir of Slytherin. He had potential most wizards couldn't dream of. Already he saw the difference, his strength growing with Quirrell's tutoring; when his spells did work, they worked stronger than all but a handful of his yearmates'.

He felt the internal tension between the two paths, the two futures. Did he want power, or friends?

Why can't I have both? If he had more time, if he weren't so far behind …

But he didn't have more time. As long as he tried to chase two different ends, he would continue to lag further and further behind. Excellence in spellwork meant losing touch with his group of friends; pursuing acceptance meant lackluster progress in magic.

Professor Quirrell would chose power.

Pansy Parkinson would chose friends.

Draco Malfoy somehow had it all. Because he was rich, because he'd been trained since he was a child, because everyone knew his family.

If Harry were a different sort of person, that could be him. If he hadn't been locked away from his true potential, thrown to muggles like so much unwanted refuse, only to be reclaimed at the whims of the Watcher, it could have been him sitting at the center of everything. Didn't he have as much claim to fame as Draco? Even if he often forgot about his bank account, Harry was wealthy too. Didn't the name Harry Potter carry as much weight, perhaps more?

So why was it so hard? Why did it feel like Harry had to fight and struggle just to make it through the week, while Draco was always at ease, always calm, always in control, effortlessly juggling social requirements and magical studies.

Part of Harry wanted to beg Draco to teach him how to be like him. Part of him wanted to punch him in his smug, controlled, self-confident face. Why should he be the king of their year? Wasn't Harry good enough?

He stared up at the dark lakewater above him, his angry mental tirade reaching an abrupt stop.

Of course he wasn't good enough. He never would be.

Draco was pureblood, from ancient families with untouchable power.

Harry was a halfblood nobody, famous for a fluke of power that just happened to end a war, a burst of vengeful accidental magic that any toddler could have exhibited at seeing his parents murdered.

Instead of wondering why he couldn't have both, Harry should be marveling that he even had the opportunity for either. People like Cole Spencer had to scrape and claw their way to acceptance; people like Reiko Sibazaki had to study tirelessly to keep up.

Even if Harry's instinctive grasp of magic put him above the rest, even if his unearned fame gave him an automatic presumption of value, it was still up to his actions whether any of it would matter.

Give a useless freak every possible advantage, and he'll still be a useless freak.

Harry didn't get up.

There were no classes.

The knot in his stomach wasn't hunger.

He wished he could go back to sleep, but too many years of precise demands had worn his mind into grooves that he couldn't so easily slip out of. Even now, he woke each morning feeling as though he should be preparing a meal, or throughout the day a vague uneasiness often came upon him unawares, the certainty that he'd neglected some essential chore.

He hated the Dursleys for that. Hated how thoroughly they'd shaped him to fit into their designs. Hated how hard he had to work every day to convince himself that he deserved better. Professor Quirrell said he did, and Pansy still hung around with him though he didn't have any idea what value she could possibly see in him. But some days, he just couldn't see it, however hard he tried.

Get up, lazy! Layabed, there's work to be done.

Ungrateful. Useless.

Worthless.

Things were supposed to be better here. He was supposed to be able to start over, not drag all the worst parts of his past with him.

He rolled over and closed his eyes, trying to convince himself that it was defiance and not retreat.

"Your girlfriend is looking for you."

Draco's bored drawl woke Harry from an uneasy haze somewhere just shy of true sleep, and he sat upright, startled.

"Oh, right. Pansy." Harry considered getting up, then lay back down and pulled his blankets up to his chin.

The door clicked shut.

Harry felt utterly exhausted, emotionally spent. He didn't think he could face Pansy without saying something he'd regret.

"I can't help but notice you're unhappy." Draco's voice startled Harry; he'd assumed the other boy left after delivering his message.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't. But there are those who do. So when I tell you that you're behaving like a child and need to get over yourself, know that it's not for your sake."

Harry laughed, shortly. "No one really cares."

"Perhaps. So you'll prove them right in their disregard?"

Harry clenched his hands into fists. "No," he growled, low, a buried spark of defiance glinting in his heart.

Draco didn't answer for a time, and Harry wondered if he had slipped out. Then he spoke again.

"What is your ambition, Potter?"

Power. Freedom. Respect.

Love.

"I want everything," Harry whispered. "I want what you have. I want what Headmaster Dumbledore has. I want what no wizard in living memory has attained."

Heir. Sliizashisa. Master of serpents. Slytherin.

Again, Draco waited a long time to finally answer. "Power and influence like my family's do not come easily for the taking."

"I know." Impossible.

No. It would not be so.

He would make it possible.

Harry sat up, no longer wanting to conduct so serious a discussion while hiding under his blanket.

"So are you a dreamer, or a schemer?" Draco asked.

"Neither. I'm a hatchling, still trying to learn how to slither. My scales are soft, my fangs haven't grown in and I can't spit poison yet. But any who try to step on me will learn that I do not forget. My bite may be weak now, but it won't always be." Harry trailed off, feeling suddenly foolish.

"Interesting," was all Draco said.

Harry pushed aside the curtains and found Draco reclining on his own bed, lying on his back, legs crossed above him, a picture of casual relaxation. He looked over at Harry, his quick glance taking in the crumpled blankets and rumpled sleepwear.

"You're a bit pathetic to be my rival, at present. Maybe in a year or two." Draco smiled thinly. "Once your fangs are grown and your scales strong enough to resist the flame."

In a year or two I'll have already surpassed you, Harry promised himself, resolve firming. Equaling Draco Malfoy was the least of his ambitions.

Professor Quirrell was right. He could do so much better.

He didn't need respect to gain power, but he wouldn't long retain respect without power.

Pansy was playing a different game. Harry needed to play to his own strengths, not try to emulate anyone else. Well, except Professor Quirrell. He seemed like an excellent person to model himself after.

"Thank you," Harry said, inclining his head.

Draco nodded in response. "That's twice now you owe me."

Harry didn't try to dispute the fact. If Draco hadn't intruded, hadn't forced his thoughts along this different, safer route, he might have lain mired in despair and apathy for the rest of the day.

Perhaps he would come to regret the trade, but for now it seemed invaluable.

He nudged a silver-scaled snake out of the way with one foot, then set about washing up and dressing for the day. Draco nodded, stood, and departed without another word.