Every bone in Draco's body cried out in pain as he rose. The dim light within the drawing room was blinding, like little nails stabbing his eyes. The Dark Lord preferred his meetings to take place in darkness, and perhaps this was why. A small mercy for those who'd earned his displeasure. Draco scrunched up his eyes, but bowed low, keeping his posture as composed as ever. He'd heard his mother cry when the Dark Lord had raised his wand against him, but Draco was fine now. Mother mustn't worry. It was only a crucio, he was perfectly unharmed.

But why wouldn't his hands stop trembling already?

"Rise boy," the Dark Lord rasped and Draco obeyed. "Despite your family's failings, I might have use for you yet."

"A-anything, my Lord." Dammit, stop shaking, voice. Draco's heart drummed into his chest like a wild beast as the other wizard's lips stretched into a smile.

"I have been told you had quite a friendship with Harry Potter."

Friendship wouldn't be the word Draco would've chosen. Yes, the two had been quite close their first two years, but now…now the mere sight of Potter makes him want to hex him. However, this was not a question by his Lord, but a statement Draco could not refute.

"Y-yes, my Lord." There was that damned stutter again. "But it was-was years ago."

The other wizard tapped his bone-like wand against his knee and Draco couldn't suppress a flinch. "You must earn his trust again."

The boy looked up, brows raised in confusion."My Lord?"

The man entwined his spider-like fingers, resting his chin upon them. "Yes…yes, earn his trust. Become his friend…" His eyes shone with a malicious gleam. "Lure the boy to me by next June."

Draco's heart skipped a beat. Lure Harry Potter, the boy who hated him with a roaring passion, to his home or wherever else the Dark Lord wanted? After all that had happened between them, after that fight the fateful day when Potter had set their elf free, after the brawl in the Quidditch pitch a few months ago? Potter might be an idiot, but even he would foresee this.

Yet with his father in Azkaban and his family's honour—no, their lives, Draco shuddered— hanging by a thread, refusal was not an option. Not even for the most impossible of tasks.

"Yes, my Lord. It-It will be done." He bowed low again.

Harry Potter would become his friend this year whether he liked it or not.

"Ah, but Draco, your assignment is not quite complete." And now truly did the Dark Lord smile, sending shivers down the boy's spine. "There is also the matter of one Albus Dumbledore…"

"You go on," Draco told Pansy, who was waiting for him with her hand held out as though hoping he would hold it when the Hogwarts Express reached the Hogsmeade station. Not in a million years. "I just want to check something."

Harry Potter was in his compartment, he knew it. He'd heard Goyle's trunk hit something, and a white flash in the air when Zabini had come back. It must be Potter. No one else had his damnable curiosity and Draco himself had been under that cloak more times than he could count, chasing one dangerous clue after another in his first two years at Hogwarts.

A headache pounded into his head as Draco marched over to the door and let down the blinds. He must begin the mission as soon as possible, and now was as good a time as any.

"I know you're in here, Potter," he said, and thought he heard a small gasp. Absolutely no sense of stealth as always. "Let's talk."

But aside from the chitter chatter coming from the students outside, the compartment remained quiet. Did Potter hope Draco would just leave assuming his suspicions were wrong if he stayed quiet? Just as foolish too. Draco turned around suddenly, wand pointed at the luggage rack. "Come out before I hex you."

First his head emerged, green eyes narrowed with apprehension, then he removed his cloak fully, wand pointed at Draco. "How did you know?" He asked, hopping down from the rack.

"I observe, Potter. You should try that sometimes." Draco said, thinking back to the days when they used to banter. Back before it had turned to biting insults.

Potter steeled his eyes and Draco had a feeling he was about to do something absolutely foolish and Gryffindor. "You're a Death Eater," he said, and it wasn't a question.

Draco's heart skipped a beat, his eyes widening in shock. He knew? Of course, he knew! How was he supposed to convince Potter to befriend him again if he knew? "Yes." Draco nodded, for what was the point in denying it? "I am."

The other boy froze, as if not having expected such a candid answer, then gripped

his wand tighter. An expression of something—anger of course, determination, but also, was it… disappointment?— flashed across his features as he attempted to come to terms with his reply.

"Why?" He asked finally.

Why? Draco had asked that himself several times. Yes, there were the pureblood values he ought to protect, values his father had told him from a young age that he must preserve. But not one day since becoming a Death Eater had any of the old traditions seemed to have mattered. His own family, one of the oldest Wizarding families in Britain, now stood in shame in front of the Dark Lord. And for what? Why? Draco still didn't know.

But what answer would satisfy Potter best?

"I had to." As soon as the words left his lips, Draco realised it was the truth. "I had to," he said again, sinking into the carriage seat, his wand lowered, almost forgetting Potter was there. An overwhelming force of emotions threatened to break through Draco's occlumency shields but he gritted his teeth and held them in place. So what if he breathed a little faster, a little louder? So what if the weight upon his shoulders broke him just a little bit more? What did it matter if he wanted to go back home, back to the times when he'd spend his days with his mother, plucking apples in the orchard?

He had to.

Something engulfed him and he nearly raised his wand before realising what it was. Arms—Potter's arms. He was doing something absolutely foolish and Gryffindor again—hugging him.

Draco yearned to lash out and throw the other boy away. To tell him off for his pity, his disgusting assumption that he needed any comfort at all, much less from the likes of him. But he held his tongue, forcing back his instincts, his pride. He had a mission to do. "Get off, Potter," he said, trying to keep it half-hearted.

"Malfoy—Draco," He looked up as Potter said his first name again, something that he hadn't done since second year, and let go of him. "if…if they're forcing you, know that I will always help you. You are not your father, Draco. I'll help you get out." His eyes shone so earnestly, he could tell the other boy believed every word he was saying, believed those words were what he needed to hear.

Draco wanted to laugh.

What did Golden Boy Potter know, protected as he was by his precious Dumbledore and his cronies? Did Potter ever have to hear the screams of torture day in and out? Did he ever need to kneel and kiss someone's feet to earn the right to not feel excruciating pain every night? His very muscles flinched at the reminder. Did he need to save his own parents by accomplishing the impossible? But no, Potter thought he could just waltz in and save the day as usual.

Then he extended his hand, just as Draco had done his first year, back when the world was all about Quidditch, the sorting and new friends. "What do you say we make a truce?"

Draco wanted to scream.

How could Potter be so naive? Walking into the Dark Lord's trap like a meal on a golden platter? So utterly foolish and Gryffindor. But then, wasn't this the same boy who went after a troll because a girl he didn't even like might be nearby? The same boy who rushed into a Basilisk's den to save a girl he barely knew?

Except this year, his luck might run out.

As much as Draco tried to be jubilant about it, relieved that at least one of his plans fell into place so quickly, so perfectly, something stopped it. Something that writhed and hurt when he looked into Potter's trusting green eyes, at the boy who was willing to save even those he hated most.

"Truce," Draco said, shaking his hand for the second time.