"Just hold still, dear, I'm almost done."

Draco winced as he felt his cartilage begin to realign. Fixing cartilage was a fairly painful process, though it hadn't been nearly as painful as shattering it, for which he was most grateful.

"Alright, that's it," said Pomfrey matter-of-factly. "You're all healed up. It will be tender for a day or two, so just be gentle while you're washing your face."

"Perfect, is he ready to leave?" asked Pansy impatiently. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Yes, you are free to go, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco stood up from the bed and bid Madam Pomfrey goodbye.

"Now care to fill me in on what the hell happened?" Pansy asked as they walked out of the hospital wing.

Draco sighed. "Just a few people expressing their extreme gratitude for my return, is all."

Pansy shook her head. "We need to say something to McGonagall before this gets out of hand."

"Erm, do you want me to have an even bigger sign on my back?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that if we tell, word will get around that I snitched, and I'll become an even bigger target, Pans."

Pansy frowned. "You need to stick up for yourself. And besides, if we tell, she may do something to prevent anyone from wanting to hurt you again. Like threatening to send them home."

"Expel them for harming the big, bad Death Eater . . . Like that'll ever happen," Draco snorted.

"Bullying is bullying," said Pansy hotly. "And I'm not just going to sit idly by and watch you get hurt."

"Well, you're gonna have to, Pans."

"You should want to do this just as bad as I do."

"I just explained to you why I don't."

"It's not good enough."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not changing my mind."

"So they hit you. Were you hurt anywhere else?"

"No, actually, that's what I was gonna tell you. Potter stepped in and stopped the attack before it got worse."

Pansy halted, dark, beady eyes widening to the size of marbles. "He what?"

"Yeah, I was really weirded out by it. I mean, he just . . . Randomly inserted himself and told the blokes to leave me alone. And, of course, since it's Potter, they did."

"You got lucky," Pansy said. "Incredibly, insurmountably lucky. Let's not even mention the fact that Potter definitely cares for you to some degree if he's willing to go out of his way for you like that, but you got so lucky that it's not even funny, nor is it possible to ever get that lucky again. What's the likelihood of Potter being around next time one of those guys has the chance to jump you?"

"Just leave it, Pans."

"No, you're my best friend in case you've forgotten, and whether you like it or not I care about your safety. And I'm not just going to sit by while you get hurt."

"Well, maybe I deserve it."

The words were out before he could stop them, and the look on Pansy's face made him want to immediately gobble them back up.

"Draco. Don't you ever fucking say that again."

"You honestly don't think after everything I've done, after everyone I've hurt, I don't deserve a few good socks to the jaw?"

Pansy scoffed in disbelief. "I think you deserve a fucking break is what you deserve. The war is over. You're free now. Can't you let it go?"

Draco didn't appreciate how swiftly she'd attempted to diminish his feelings.

"Maybe I don't know how, Pans."

"That's not good enough, I'm afraid."

"Well, I'm trying my very best."

"Well, do better, Draco. You don't get to stand there and wallow in self pity while the rest of us try to figure out how to help you. You're growing thinner and thinner, the life has all but drained out of your eyes, and you're a shell of your former self. We're lucky if we get one joke from you a week."

"Do you have a point?" Draco asked dully, letting the hurtful words bounce right off him.

Pansy growled. "You are impossible! Here I am trying to talk some sense into you, trying to make you see reason, and you still find some way to turn it back around on me."

"I'm not trying to turn anything back around on you," Draco said honestly. "I'm just saying I don't want to make a whole spectacle of this and report anybody. The attacks will stop eventually. People will get bored."

"And what if they don't?" Pansy placed her hands on her hips, lips pursed.

Draco sighed. "I'll deal with it when I get to it."

"And I'm supposed to just wait for the next time you get hurt? I don't think so."

"Pansy."

"I'm not doing it, Draco."

"Fine. If you want to turn them in so badly, tell McGonagall yourself. See who she'll believe."

"We have to at least try. Anything's better than taking it lying down. That tells them they've already won."

"Maybe they have, Pansy," Draco said none too gently. "Maybe they have. I'm fucking tired. I just want all this all to stop."

"If you want it to stop, then we tell."

"Telling will make it worse, I can promise you that."

"What makes you so sure when you haven't even tried?"

"Because I know," Draco said.

Pansy frowned. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"You're so stubborn, you know that?"

"Oh, I know."

"Alright, fine, I'll drop it. For now."

"Thank you."

"Now, can we talk about Potter helping you out? How the prick doesn't hate you as much as you think he does?"

"He was only doing what any decent person would have done, he would have done it for anybody. He said so himself," said Draco dejectedly.

"Hey, don't have that attitude," reprimanded Pansy. "Something in him compelled him to do it for you, and that counts."

"He was just telling them not to be like me and bully," Draco replied glumly.

"Well, to be fair, you did bully him for seven years."

"Pansy, can we focus on the present here? The present? Where I feel sorry for all those times and wish I hadn't insulted him?"

"See, this is why I just want you to talk to him. Tell him how you feel."

Horrified, Draco's eyes widened. "You don't mean-"

"Not everything, you dimwit. But the stuff you just told me. About remorse and redemption. You deserve that, even if you don't realize it, and something tells me you won't be satisfied with anybody's forgiveness until you get it from Potter."

"Like that'll ever happen," scoffed Draco.

"You don't know unless you try."

"Why would I embarrass myself like that? He hates me."

"Okay, he clearly doesn't hate you-"

"And he wants nothing to do with me. He glares at me every time I come near him. He's my partner for Potions now, and it was a disaster. He wouldn't even look at me."

"He defended you. That's gotta mean something. I really think you should talk about it to him."

"And I think you've gone mental," said Draco.

"Whatever, we can talk about this later," said Pansy. "Are you ready for dinner? Cause I'm starving."

Draco, not hungry in the slightest, nodded only to appease her, an action he was all too familiar with doing when it came to meals.

"I didn't have the chance to ask you this earlier, Harry," said Ron, "mostly because I was in such a state of shock my brain wasn't capable of producing coherent thought, but . . ." He paused, stirring his mashed potatoes and gravy.

"Out with it," Harry said, cutting into his pork. "What's on your mind?"

"Why the fuck did you help Malfoy this morning?"

"Oh, that." Harry stabbed his pork with his fork, taking a generous bite.

"Harry, I'm being serious."

Once Harry chewed and swallowed, he looked back up at his best friend. "Because he was getting attacked."

"I think you did the right thing," said Hermione. "Malfoy may not be the nicest person on the planet, but he doesn't deserve to be at the receiving end of physical violence more than anybody else."

"Exactly," said Harry.

Ron glowered. "Have you talked to McGonagall about switching out yet?"

Harry sighed. "It's a no go, I'm afraid."

"You think she set you two up on purpose?"

"Wouldn't put it past her."

"I can't believe you stuck up for him," said Ron. "After everything he's done, he let Death Eaters into the school who maimed my brother for Merlin's sake. Fred's gone because of his lot."

"I know that," said Harry. "He's a real piece of shit, no one's disagreeing with you there. But I dunno what came over me. I guess I just reacted reflexively because I'm used to saving people."

If Harry was being really honest with himself, that wasn't it at all. Seeing Malfoy vulnerable and defenseless like that had triggered something within him, something deep, that had nothing to do with heroism at all. A feral urge to defend and protect.

But not because there was someone in trouble. Because Malfoy was in trouble.

Harry had no clue what that meant. And it terrified him.

Hermione sighed. "You really need to get used to the fact that people don't need saving from you anymore. You're a regular person. It's not your job to solve everybody's problems."

"I know that," said Harry defensively.

"Malfoy's more than just a piece of shit," seethed Ron. "He's Malfoy. He's the Death Eater. And you just . . . defended him, like it was nothing. Next thing we know, it's going to be the entire Slytherin house you're sticking up for."

"Not all Slytherins are bad, Ron," said Hermione. "Generalizing an entire house like that is exactly the sort of mindset that You-Know-Who had with his prejudices."

Ron's mouth plopped open. "Are you really sitting there and comparing me to You-Know-Who?"

"I'm not saying you're like You-Know-Who, Ronald," said Hermione. "I'm saying that you can't be prejudiced against an entire house and then be angry at other people for their prejudices."

"Malfoy's the most prejudiced person I know. He hates all Gryffindors, and so do all the Slytherins. They started this conflict, not us."

"Just because they started it doesn't mean we have to continue it. Don't you want to be the bigger person? Don't you want to be better than that?"

"Please, we're plenty better than that all on our own."

"This conversation's exhausting," said Harry. "Can we please drop the Malfoy situation already? I already told you I dunno what came over me this morning. Must've been a fluke. I can tell you for a fact that I'm not keen on helping him again."

"Would it be such a bad thing if you were?" asked Hermione. "You've seen the state of him, haven't you? He looks like a wreck."

Harry couldn't lie. He had seen the state of Malfoy. He'd noticed how his cheeks had sunken in, how the colour had drained from his pale cheeks, and how his eyes no longer seemed to hold any life.

The fact that he noticed Malfoy's eyes of all things was concerning in and of itself, but that was a separate issue.

"I just don't think he deserves any extra damage than what he's already inflicted upon himself," continued Hermione.

Harry secretly agreed, though he couldn't exactly voice this aloud to his friends, now could he? Lest they began to suspect it meant something more.

"Whatever," was what he settled on. "Can we drop this now?"

As Ron, Harry and Hermione continued to talk over dinner, Harry's thoughts began to drift back to his messenger friend. Or acquaintance. Or . . . He didn't know what the fuck he was, because he was a complete mystery. All he knew was that it was a boy. Here at Hogwarts. Some boy who, for whatever reason, wanted to get to know him better.

Harry wondered if perhaps he'd been too harsh with the boy earlier. He found himself itching to contact him again, mainly because he'd just defended his arch nemesis and didn't feel entirely guilty about it, and he needed to seek some advice. Ron and Hermione certainly weren't helping. It was time to swallow his pride.

Hey.

Wasn't expecting to hear from you again.

Harry supposed he deserved that.

So, I did a thing.

See, if we were friends, this would be the point where I'd ask you what you did. But since you made it perfectly clear we are not, I'll go back to leaving you alone now.

No, wait, please. Listen, I'm sorry about earlier, alright? I didn't mean to snap at you. I was angry that you, as always, had the upper hand in the conversation. It felt like you were taking me for a ride without telling me where I was going, and I didn't like it. But this is . . . I did something really unusual today, and I don't know who else to talk to about it.

What makes you say I always have the upper hand?

And that was the part this mystery man was choosing to focus on?

Nevermind. Forget I said that. Just . . . Do you want to hear about my problem or not?

You are impossible. Yes, I'll hear about your bloody problem.

You see, I have this . . . person, in my life. Who I really don't like. And who really doesn't like me back.

Ah, an enemy.

Less than that. More like a rival.

Why don't you like this person? More importantly, why don't they like you?

It all started when I was eleven, at Madam Malkin's. He was getting his robes tailored, and began insulting my friend, who's a half-giant. Didn't exactly leave the best taste in my mouth, if you know what I mean.

That's not a very nice thing to do. Have you ever stopped and thought about why he might do something like that?

No, because there's no excuse to treat another person that way. He's the kind of person who mocks anyone who's different from him, who doesn't follow his racist set of ideals related to blood. It's disgusting, to be frank.

That sounds absolutely vile.

Thank you! I feel like no one understands just how valid my hatred toward this person is. And get this, you're not going to believe it- I share a room with him now.

You have to admit, that's sort of funny.

It is not funny in the slightest! I don't want to be anywhere near the prat, and I have to share a living space with him for the entire year.

So you guys were eleven. That was a long time ago. Something else must've happened that caused you to continue to hate him for so long.

It got worse. I met him again, on the train to Hogwarts that same year, where he insulted my best friend because his family's poorer than his was. He actually wanted to be my friend, can you believe it? He had the audacity to insult my best friend, and then offer me his hand in friendship. So I did what any sensible person would have done- I rejected him. And he's never let me live it down. All throughout my years here he's been constantly at my throat, insulting me and my best friends, calling them Mudbloods and blood traitors. All because he's a pureblood, supremacist piece of garbage who can't see two feet in front of him because his head's shoved so far up his own arse I can see his hairline behind his eyes.

He sounds like an utter prick.

He is an utter prick. I knew you'd understand.

But I have to ask. Have you ever stopped and thought about it from his perspective?

"Harry, is that person messaging you again?" Hermione asked, cutting into their conversation.

"Yeah," said Harry, not seeing the point in lying.

Ron shook his head. "This is a dangerous game you're playing. It could be some random fangirl who wants to get in your pants."

"I already told you, I barricaded my messages," said Harry. "And I found out that it's a boy, actually."

"What boys do you know what would play this trick on you?" asked Hermione.

"I don't think it's a trick," said Harry, all the while wondering who this person could be. Whoever they were, Harry was beginning to feel the smallest bud of curiosity bloom inside him.

Have I ever thought about it from his perspective? The answer is no, because his perspective is so warped it's impossible to wrap my head around it let alone get inside it.

No, what I mean is, have you ever considered what made him think that way in the first place?

What do you mean?

Like, for instance, his upbringing. Do you think that had anything to do with the way he turned out?

He's his own person. He's responsible for his own thoughts, and actions. And if he decides to be a racist bully, that's entirely on him. Non-negotiable.

Right, I understand that. But what if he had . . . Say, strict parents. That were controlling. Very controlling. And sort of . . . imparted those racist values onto him at a very young age, so young he didn't know any better?

Are you speaking from experience?

No, my parents were lenient. I can't tell you too much about my familial background, but I had no issue with racist ideals.

You seem awfully perceptive on this issue for someone who doesn't have experience with it.

I'm just trying to see it from his point of view.

Why should you? The bottom line is he's a bully, and he grew up to do terrible things in the war. You know what, screw it, let me tell you his name. I'm sure you know who he is, and I'm sure once I tell you you'll want to take back everything you just said. His name is Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy? Wow. Yeah, that's . . . Okay, you got me there. He's about as rotten as they come.

See? I told you.

"You think they genuinely want to message you and get nothing in return?" Ron asked. "You sure it's not some lad who fancies you?"

"I'm sure," said Harry. "They already said they don't fancy me, and I believe them."

You're absolutely right. What he did was inexcusable. He may have been only a kid, and his parents may have drilled unhealthy ideals onto him from an early age, shaping him into the person he is today, but that doesn't make any of what he's done okay.

Wait a minute . . . You're saying his parents drilled unhealthy ideals into him? What do you mean by that?

I mean that maybe, hypothetically, he's not as bad of a person as we think, but you can never know for sure.

I never thought about it that way before. I actually always just assumed he was bad. Maybe there's more to him than I thought.

Harry couldn't believe it. This . . . person was making him think things about Malfoy he'd never thought of before. Did this person know Malfoy?

Do you know him personally?

No. I've seen him around. And I dunno if you've noticed, but lately he isn't doing so hot.

He got off basically scott-free, when he could have gone to prison. I actually testified for him and his mother at their trials since I owed her a life debt. I wanted that to be the last time I ever saw Malfoy, but life decided to torment me a little bit longer. Why isn't he doing so hot if he has his freedom?

Just because he isn't in Azkaban doesn't mean his life's a party. I'm not saying I know what's going on inside his head. I'm just aware that there isn't a lot of space in this society for former Death Eaters anymore.

As there shouldn't be. They're evil, sniveling cowards who fought alongside Voldemort, who killed thousands of innocent people, including my parents.

I know. And that's horrible. Death Eaters deserve to pay for what they've done.

So we're in agreement, then?

You're right. Malfoy may have only been a kid, and he may have had parents who imparted toxic ideals onto him, but the bottom line is he was still a Death Eater.

Wait a minute, wait a minute. You're making me . . . Think things again, things about Malfoy I've never thought about. You really think he had a toxic home environment?

How else would he have turned out so despicable if he weren't a carbon copy of his own father?

And Harry gasped, because it suddenly all made so much sense. Malfoy was a carbon copy of his father.

"What is it? What did he message you?" asked Hermione.

"I told him about the Malfoy incident."

"And what did he say?" asked Ron.

"He said that Malfoy isn't so bad, because he was just a kid when his parents imparted horrible ideals onto him."

"Sounds about right," said Hermione.

"Sounds about right?" exclaimed a flabbergasted Ron. "That doesn't make any of what he's done okay. He's a bully, and in case you've forgotten, Hermione, he's called you a Mudblood for seven years straight."

"I'm aware," said Hermione. "I also think his father had a large part in that."

Harry refused to accept this. He couldn't accept this. Malfoy wasn't . . . some victim of poor parenting. He was a bully through and through, nothing more and nothing less. Harry absolutely refused to see otherwise. It simply wasn't true.

I've got to go. I'll talk to you later.

Okay.

Through the rest of dinner, their conversation played on repeat in Harry's head. After an exhausting few hours of studying in the library, he was ready for bed. Hoping he wouldn't have to interact with Malfoy, he opened the door to their room and walked inside.

No such luck.

Malfoy was standing in front of the mirror on their shared dresser, combing his damp hair.

"Potter," he greeted coldly.

"Malfoy," Harry said in return.

As Malfoy continued to comb, Harry studied him. He had dark rings under his eyes, and his hand shook ever so slightly as he raked the comb through his impossibly blonde hair.

"How's your nose?" Harry couldn't help but ask.

"Fine. Better now."

If Malfoy was going to be terse, then Harry didn't want to talk to him. Sighing, he grabbed a change of clothes and a bathrobe to head to the showers.

"You know, this is your room, too," came Malfoy's voice, surprisingly soft. "You don't have to do that. You can change here. I won't bother you."

Harry's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. Where was the Malfoy who'd practically push him out of the room and tell him he hoped he'd slip and fall in the showers, cracking his head open on the bathroom tile?

The messenger's words rang through his head over and over. Maybe he was onto something.

Maybe Malfoy wasn't who he thought he was at all.

"O-Okay." Harry placed his pajamas down on the bed, along with his bathrobe. Feeling self conscious, as though Malfoy's eyes were on him even though they weren't, he began to strip.

Once he tied on his bathrobe, he heard Malfoy's voice.

"See? Nothing to worry about."

"Whatever."

"I didn't thank you properly." Malfoy set down his comb and approached Harry cautiously. Harry gripped the material of his robe tightly.

"For helping me out. I know you want to dismiss it and act like it never happened, but . . . Thank you. For that."

The words sounded like they caused Malfoy great pain to say, so Harry decided to cut him a break and accept his gratitude.

"You're welcome," he said gently.

He may have been imagining it, but he could have sworn he saw the slightest traces of a smile form on Malfoy's face, before he blinked and it was gone.

Malfoy cleared his throat. "Well, then. I'm going to bed. Good night, Potter."

It was all Harry could do not to chuckle at his haughtiness. "Good night, Malfoy."