Disclaimer: See Chapter 1. Additionally, I do not own, nor am I in any way affiliated with the nonfiction book, How to Win Friends & Influence People by Dale Carnegie.

Author's Note: …at the bottom.


Wednesday, 25 December

When Christmas day rolled around, Harry took his time making and eating breakfast, took an extra-long shower, then settled down on his sofa with his Gringotts' mail chest in front of him. He highly suspected that he was going to get a lot of presents from people he'd never met before. If people sent him things on a daily basis, it would make sense that he'd get a lot more on a holiday based on gift giving.

It was a relic of the Dursleys, he was sure, but he couldn't help the way his heart beat a little faster and he reflexively smiled every time he received a gift. Even things for which he had absolutely no use. The fact of the matter was that those things were now his. And sure he could probably buy most of them for himself if he was so inclined. That wasn't the point. The point was that it was a present. And it was for him. He knew that it didn't make all that much sense rationally, which is why he was sure the Dursleys were at fault. He hadn't studied a lot of psychology, of course, but he'd read a few sort of introductory books about the subject and he knew that he was messed up. Anyone with half a brain that really knew him would know that.

Which might have been why he took such pains to ensure that no one got to really know him.

Not that that mattered all that much at the moment. He was just stalling. He wasn't completely sure if he was drawing out the anticipation and therefore the enjoyment of his first ever Christmas morning that he would receive real presents or if he was just instinctively avoiding a situation that inspired emotions that made him uncomfortable.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

With that in mind, he leaned forward and spoke the parseltongue password. It was "mail". And, yes, that wasn't the most original password, but if a fraction of what he'd read on the subject was true, then parseltongue was a very rare gift. Add to that the fact that no one knew he was a parselmouth and would therefore have no reason to try to guess parseltongue passwords, he figured he was decently covered. Really, if Voldemort wanted to read his mail, he'd have bigger things to worry about than his password being easily discovered.

Luckily, the mail trunk was magically expanded. Also, he was pretty sure that more mail was being added via the enchantment as he emptied it. He had to take a break come lunchtime, and it took him a few hours more to get through everything he was sent. He wondered if it had always been like this. How many thousands of galleons worth of gifts had Dumbledore stolen from him? It burned something awful, the memory of how desolate and alone and unloved and unwanted he'd felt every Christmas and birthday for the last ten years when he could have been rolling in enough presents to make all of Dudley's combined gifts from his entire life seem pitiful.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. Yes, he hated Dumbledore. Getting mad wasn't going to help anything. Just as he'd done with the Dursleys for so very many years, Harry channeled his rage into the semi-constructive habit of fantasizing the most creative ways of pulling the man apart one tiny piece at a time.

He pictured with as much detail as he could manage just exactly what his face would look like covered in blood and contorted in agony. He imagined the way his screams would ring in Harry's ears as they gradually became more and more hoarse until he was no longer able to scream properly at all because he'd shredded his own vocal chords. He imagined the man's bright red blood flowing from his body – not too fast. Wouldn't want him to die quickly. No, it would be slow. Tiny rivulets trickling from places that the skin had been shaved away one layer at a time. Where the fingernails had been ripped away from the nail beds. Finally, he imagined the way those brilliant blue eyes would dim with defeat when he finally came to terms with the fact that he could not escape. He could not talk or demand his way out. He could not even hasten his death. He could do nothing but continue to endure all the agony Harry wished to inspire until he finally, finally at long last, was allowed the sweet reprieve of death.

With a contented sigh and a small smile, Harry promised himself that one day, it would no longer be mere fantasy, and he turned back to his tasks.

Among the piles of gifts from shop owners, politicians, inventors, and common citizens, Harry did also receive gifts from people that actually knew him. Most of the students in his year at Hogwarts had sent him something – at least a bit of candy. The students that he had personally assisted in some manner gave better gifts, but nothing was actually personal. How could it be when he went to such trouble to ensure that no one actually knew anything personal about him?

There was one exception today. Neville had given him a book on somewhat obscure spells, having obviously recognized Harry's voracious appetite for knowledge. It was a useful and enjoyable gift made less so only for the fact that it did illustrate that the boy knew him a bit. He wasn't entirely comfortable with that fact, though he had known it would happen when he had used the Life Debt and let those two see a bit more of who he really was. Hermione's gift was… somewhat more concerning.

It was, not surprisingly, a book. But it wasn't a book about magic or the magical world at all, which was considerably more surprising. It was actually a muggle book called How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie. It was a book about how to manipulate people. Well, it may have been written with somewhat purer motives, but it could very easily be applied with less pure motives. It contained some things that Harry already knew and practiced, which just gave him greater conviction that the rest of it was likely worth doing as well.

Some of it was slightly hokey. For example, to make people like you, it suggested that you must become genuinely interested in people, and make the other person feel important and do it sincerely. He could imagine no possible way in which he could become genuinely interested in the utterly uninteresting majority of the world – or so they seemed from what he'd observed so far. Nor could he figure out how to sincerely make someone feel important when he didn't think they were. He supposed, as an alternative, he'd just have to learn how to fake it well.

The book was fascinating and gave him a lot of good ideas for perfecting his own instinctive techniques for manipulating people. It was a book that had the potential to make his life easier on many levels – assuming, of course, that he could do the things it suggested. The troubling part was that Hermione had figured out that he'd want a gift like this.

He set that aside for now. He'd explore the probable ramifications of Hermione's annoying insightfulness later.

Harry had sent out quite a number of gifts, as well, of course. The Boy-Who-Lived was, obviously, generous along will all of his other more than merely human attributes. The vast majority of the gifts he'd sent were things that people had sent to him. Except for the candies he'd sent to a lot of the people he didn't know well. Those, he'd bought. He didn't even want to think about what people would say if he accidentally regifted a box of cauldron cakes that had been spiked with a love potion by some barmy fan. Everything edible that he received went immediately into the rubbish bin. He wasn't taking any chances with accidentally consuming malign potions. Yes, the goblins were supposed to weed any of those out, but Harry didn't feel up to taking chances. He didn't like sweets, anyway, which the vast majority of the food items were, and it wasn't worth it to accidentally poison someone else in the process of giving them away. He didn't even want to imagine what the Daily Prophet would have to say about a mess like that.

To Neville, he'd sent a Scribbelous Companion – a journal charmed similar to a magic mirror, so that it could respond to what you write. They were made to be friendly and encouraging to the writer and he hoped it would help the shy, self-conscious boy to be able to talk out his fears and frustrations with something that wouldn't judge. Harry certainly had no use for such an artifact despite the fact that they were very expensive books, nor had he any wish to be the one on the receiving end of Neville's chatter about his problems.

To Hermione, Harry had sent a gift voucher for two for a day at a wizarding spa, because he didn't care how much she loved books, she was still a girl. …and all the decent books he'd been given, he was keeping, thank you very much. He figured she could take her mum. Bond, and all that. He certainly hadn't been about to use the voucher.

Hermione and Neville had been the only ones to get expensive gifts. Everyone else had received something nice and generic.

Well, not everyone he supposed. Draco had gotten an expensive gift, as well. Harry had sent him a golden hand mirror charmed to give honest, objective commentary in a polite manner. They were made to help prevent people from making fashion blunders as most personal magical mirrors were charmed to kiss your arse. Harry hadn't been able to resist when he'd seen the mirror in the shop where he bought his disguise potions. Draco's constant need to look perfect was something of a running joke in the school, but Harry wasn't sure if the blond boy had any friends capable of telling him what they really thought.

Yes, it was silly, and possibly stupid to get a gift – an expensive gift – for Draco Malfoy when he was supposed to hate him, but he hadn't been able to help himself. When he'd seen it, he'd thought of Draco. And it was the only gift he'd gotten just because he'd wanted to. He'd been berating himself about the idiotic sentimentality for a boy he didn't even really know ever since he'd done it, but that hadn't stopped him from hiring a post owl to send it.

Stupid mirror…

Finally, in the last pile, were the gifts that weren't signed. A few of them were from "secret admirers". A few were sent generically from "The Staff at Flourish and Blotts" or "The Patients of St. Mungo's Children's Ward", the latter had been a collection of hand-drawn "art", which Harry had carefully stored away in case anyone asked about it later. The Boy-Who-Lived certainly wouldn't throw such things away, after all. And finally… Finally, there was one last parcel without a sender at all.

The note read:

Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you.

Use it well.

A Very Merry Christmas to You

Upon opening the package, he discovered an Invisibility Cloak. He'd read about them. He didn't know as much as he would like to now that he had one, but he did know that they were expensive. This was a princely gift. It was given at Christmas, which lends the illusion of a present, yet the note stated that it was merely a return on a loan. And why not include a name? What kind of person would deliberately avoid incurring gratitude for this? Who wouldn't want to get to know the Boy-Who-Lived as a friend of his dead father? Why return the cloak at all? Harry would have never missed it when he didn't know it existed. Even if the individual was entirely altruistic, then surely he would want to get to know his dead friend's kid, right?

No, nothing about this smelled right. There had to be a reason someone would have given him this cloak anonymously. Maybe they were too moral to keep or sell the cloak, but really wanted nothing to do with a kid. Or him in particular? That was the best case scenario, and even that smelled funny.

With that determination, Harry tucked it into the corner of his general storage compartment in his school trunk and resolved to avoid it as much as possible until he could figure out more about the situation. He'd made due this long without being able to turn invisible, after all. Surely, he could go on surviving in the visible spectrum. And maybe, in a few years, when he knew more magic and had had a chance to research invisibility cloaks, he could dig it out again.

The rest of the day was spent in the tedious process of writing thank-you notes.


As Severus had suspected, it had not been difficult at all to find a telephone directory for Surrey and locate Dursley, Vernon & Petunia at No. 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging. From there, an apparation to a part of Surrey with which he was familiar and a call to a taxi company got him to Privet Drive. He had, of course, foregone his robes in favor of a knee-length overcoat – in black, obviously. A brief trip behind a tree and he was disillusioned.

He really hadn't minded the trip as much as he might have. He'd honestly needed the excuse to get out of the castle anyway. Albus' insistence on celebrating ridiculous muggle holidays always made him particularly homicidal, so he avoided it when possible.

Effectively invisible, Severus walked around No. 4, peering in windows until he located the family room. It was disgustingly cheerful in its Christmas décor. An evergreen was heavily laden with tasteful and impersonal decorations, garland of red and green and gold ringed the room, and some holiday program was blasting from the telly. Beneath the tree, and indeed, around it, were heaps of gifts piled upon gifts in bright, gaudy paper and bows. There was utterly no doubt that this family was quite comfortable in their income. Certainly, Severus had never received so many gifts from his parents as long as they'd lived as these boys apparently did in a single holiday.

He couldn't help but sneer as he watched Petunia – uglier than ever with all the curves of a skeleton – make her way into the room with a silver tray bearing three cups of steaming hot chocolate, one of which was literally dripping marshmallows.

He watched as the family settled down in front of the tree. Petunia and her beast of a husband sipped at their mugs while their swine of a son scooped up the mug overflowing with marshmallows, tipped it to his fat maw, and chugged the entire thing.

"I want another one," he bellowed out before turning his small, beady eyes to the mountains of gifts.

Severus watched, feeling considerably disturbed, as Petunia immediately went to fulfill the demand of the child who most certainly did not need to be imbibing more sugar, and the boy set upon the gifts with glee while the massive man watched with a disconcerting amount of pride – of all things.

There was, of course, one significant problem with this entire scene. That being that Potter seemed to be missing. If not for the fact that he recognized Petunia, he'd have thought he had the wrong house or the wrong Dursleys altogether. Moving around to the next window, Severus paid more attention to the room beyond the holiday decorations and he noticed that there were a large number of photos of the family and of the fat boy, but not even one that could have been Potter at any age.

While the boy continued to make a massive mess of wrappings in his efforts to uncover the dozens of gifts, Severus decided that a closer inspection was necessary. Moving around to the front door, he cast a silencing charm localized on himself, and then unlocked the door. Inside, he went upstairs, observing yet more pictures of a family of three along the way. There were four bedrooms upstairs. One was obviously the parents', another very clearly belonging to the fat child with too many possessions. The next room was, by the bland décor and lack of personal items, a guest room with an eye toward the feminine. The final room upstairs looked to be storage for the spoiled boy's extra toys. Most of them were broken, yet not discarded for some reason.

There was no sign of Potter having lived here at all.

Moving back downstairs, Severus explored the rest of the house – he even peeked into the cupboard under the stairs – there was no sign of anyone else having ever lived here. There certainly wasn't anyone else here now.

By the time he was done with his inspection, the gift opening had concluded. Vernon parked his large behind in front of the telly. The child commenced playing with his new toys, being extremely loud and obnoxious though both parents ignored it. Petunia moved into the kitchen and began cooking breakfast.

Severus gave the situation a few moments of thought. There was obviously something very wrong with this situation. Not only was Potter not here on Christmas morning, but there was no evidence that he had ever been here. Perhaps the boy had been living elsewhere. Maybe he'd run away to live with friends or maybe Albus had lied and Potter had never been here at all. There was one easy way to get his answers and it only required a few spells. His conscience didn't even twinge at the thought given the… victim.

With a small smirk, he turned and swept into the kitchen. He hit Petunia with a body bind just as she turned to see who had entered, then put a small locking spell on the door to ensure a few minutes of privacy. A quick step forward and he caught her before the teetering woman could fall face-first to the floor. He tipped her easily back and looked into her eyes.

The muggle had no mental defenses or even discipline. He barely had to try at all and he was in her memories. He searched for anything connected to Harry Potter and was immediately inundated with memories. Obviously, she'd spent quite a bit of time with the boy. He went back to the first memories of the boy.

A basket on a doorstep and a letter from Albus, not so subtly threatening that her entire family would likely be tortured and murdered if she didn't accept the protection offered by housing the boy.

He moved forward from there, watching in bits of memories laden with emotions. He watched as resentment toward the boy foisted on them grew into bitterness and then hatred. He watched a toddler smacked around the head enough times it was a miracle the boy hadn't gotten brain damage. He saw a boy of three stuffed into the cupboard under the stairs when he wouldn't stop crying after a nightmare. He saw that cupboard become the boy's bedroom with a tiny crib mattress stuffed into the bottom and the same ratty blanket that had been in the basket Albus had left.

He watched a child of four expected to do chores a boy twice his age could not manage. He watched the same child learn fast between punishments. He saw spankings on a bare bottom progress to a doubled-over belt on the bottom. Then the belt moved onto the back as well. Then there was a riding crop on his back and sometimes his butt and legs.

He saw Harry Potter grow colder. Around the age of six, the boy's obvious attempts to please his guardians changed. Instead of seeking approval, he began seeking only to avoid punishments. His face grew harder. His eyes grew colder. Petunia began to actually fear the way a child of seven would look at her and her family. Instead of placating the boy, she grew harsher, seeming to think she could crush his spirit entirely. And they tried. Merlin, did they try.

Blessedly, there was no sign of sexual abuse, but every other conceivable form of abuse was apparent.

Her last memories involving Potter included the invasion of Hogwarts' letters and their mad attempt to escape them. Potter seemed curious about the letters, but he never made any overt attempt to claim one. Finally, Hagrid tracked them to that ratty little house on the sea and confronted them. Only that idiot would be fool enough to not see the blatant signs of abuse – namely the way Harry's eyes had tracked the gun Vernon had held as though he wholly expected the first shot to go through him.

When they got up the next morning, Harry and Hagrid were gone. That was the last time they had seen the boy. He'd never come back from that trip and when a few weeks had passed with no sign, they'd celebrated – literally celebrated – being free of the freak. Then Petunia had cleaned out the cupboard under the stairs, scrubbing at the floor and walls as though the boy might be contagious. They'd thrown away everything of Harry's that had been left behind and they'd happily proceeded to pretend that he'd never existed.

When the neighbors asked after their nephew, they answered that the boy had been taken in by some members from the other side the family who had finally turned up. Everyone in the neighborhood seemed satisfied to see the boy gone. Apparently, he had quite the reputation as a deviant, though Petunia's memories confirmed that she had spread most of those rumors herself.

Severus drew out of Petunia's mind and his fist collided with her face before he'd even processed the need to hurt her. She was lucky that he was as controlled as he was or he'd have used his wand instead of his fist. She was unconscious before she hit the floor and Severus shook his head in disgust as he removed the body bind. He used his boot to turn her enough to see her face and was quite pleased to see that her nose was certainly broken. After a quick obliviate to remove him from her memory and make her think she'd merely slipped and hit her head on the way down, he left the house as unobtrusively as he'd entered and promptly apparated back to Hogwarts.

First, he needed to question Hagrid to see if Potter had said anything to him about going anywhere except back to the Dursleys when they'd parted ways. Severus rather suspected not, but there was no point in neglecting an obvious source. Particularly not when Hagrid was so disgustingly easy to question.

Once he was done with that, he was going to have to try to figure out where Harry would have gone if not home. It would be infinitely easier if he could just legilimize Hagrid, but being a half-giant, he was naturally resistant to most magic imposed on him. Even standard healing spells would have little effect, which is why there were spells of that sort specifically designed for half-giants. Sadly, there was no means of legilimency known to work well on them. Well, it wasn't as if he couldn't get into the man's mind. He just couldn't do it without being extremely obvious about it and possibly damaging Hagrid's mind the process.

Not that it would be entirely likely that anyone would notice the difference…

Severus didn't doubt for a moment that Harry was better off almost anywhere than with the Dursleys, but that didn't mean that he was safe. And he didn't dare tell Albus. He was virtually certain that the old man would immediately send Harry back to the Dursleys given the chance. No, if Albus didn't know that Harry was missing, Severus would not be the one to enlighten him. As far as he was concerned, the boy was safer on his own than he was under Albus thumb if the old man was going to send him right back to his abusers.

Severus just hoped that the blasted boy was somewhere safe and warm over the holiday. He could no longer even resent his concern for the boy. Apparently, he was the only adult alive who did worry about Harry Potter.

He did find himself wondering, as he crossed the grounds toward Hagrid's hut, just how the boy had managed to lie about looking forward to seeing his relatives when he must hate them so much, Severus could not imagine. Unless the boy had known to lie without lying, in which case he'd arranged the scenario in his mind in such a way that he was thinking about some situation in which he'd actually like to see them.

Merlin, how could the boy possibly be that clever? How could he know so much about magic and the wizarding world if he'd truly only known of it for half a year? Judging by the memories he'd viewed today, he couldn't really doubt the boy's ignorance. He'd seen his very muggle childhood.

He could only imagine then that the child was receiving coaching from someone. How else could Harry even know about the mind arts, much less how to counter them? Harry Potter had entirely too many Slytherin traits for a Gryffindor.

He heaved a sigh as he approached Hagrid's hut and transfigured his coat into robes to minimize the stupid questions he'd have to endure. Bracing himself to deal with the bumbling fool and his excessive cheerfulness, Severus knocked on the door, smothering a sneer when that insipid hound began baying.

So much for the rest of his holiday.


Sunday, 5 January

When he made his way into King's Cross Station to return to Hogwarts, Harry found himself almost wishing he didn't have to go. The holiday had been so wonderfully peaceful. He didn't look forward to returning to the constant scrutiny he endured at the school.

Of course… he did miss the library. And Salazar a little bit. He really couldn't hope to learn a fraction as much through self-study as he could from the ancient portrait. The classes were mostly annoying. With the exception of Potions and Herbology, he had little doubt that he could master most of his classes without actually bothering to attend them and wade through writing dozens of redundant essays. But if that was the price he had to pay to be able to use the library and take lessons from Salazar then it was unquestionably worth it.

He had just passed through the barrier and begun to make his way toward the train when he heard an enthusiastic, "Harry!" By the time he'd managed to track the source of the call on the crowded platform, he was being nearly bowled over by an unnervingly excitable muggleborn.

Harry stiffened at the feel of arms wrapped tightly around him, her body flush against his own. He fought the very real urge to body bind her and toss her under the train. His skin positively crawled at every point of contact. It was the first hug he'd ever received and he found that he hated it. Gods, why would anyone willingly subject themselves to this? Or touching each other at all, really. Why couldn't people just be content in their own skin and keep it away from each other?

Well, he supposed that the human race would have gone extinct a long time ago if people refused to touch each other at all, but surely casual touch was unnecessary.

Mindful of the fact that he was on a busy platform surrounded by people that were all now looking at him thanks to her shrieking his name, he shoved her away from him as gently as possible and forced a tight smile onto his face.

"Let's board the train, yeah," he said quickly, taking up his trunk and starting away immediately.

Hermione looked a little hurt, but she said nothing as she followed him onto the train. They closed themselves into an empty compartment and Harry stowed his trunk while she put up hers. Her parents had paid for a permanent featherweight charm on her otherwise mundane trunk, she had confided in him on the ride to London, because they knew that she'd fill it with so many books that no one would ever be able to lift it otherwise.

"Are you okay?" she asked hesitantly as he took his seat and opened his book.

He looked at her stonily as she slowly lowered herself onto the bench opposite him, a book clutched in her hands. "Don't hug me again. Ever," he said as neutrally as possible. "I don't like to be touched. And, yes, that is a secret."

She reddened and sunk lower into her seat. "Sorry." Her voice was very small.

"It's fine," he forced himself to say.

She bit her lip and opened her book.

Harry likewise turned his attention to reading, though he did notice that, in the time he read three pages, she turned not one and she was usually almost as fast a reader as he was.

Neville arrived a few minutes later. Thankfully, he felt no need to touch anyone as he stowed his trunk and sat down with a book of his own – about Herbology, it seemed. He glanced between the two of them as though he could sense the tension that Hermione was still radiating, but he didn't comment on it.

"How was your holiday?" he asked after a minute.

Hermione latched onto the subject with zeal and began describing her trip to Italy in exhaustive detail that Neville listened to politely.

Harry kept half an ear on them, following the explanation enough that it wouldn't be foreign to him later, but most of his attention drifted to his own considerations. Namely, just how awful that hug had felt. He recalled the scene from the mirror for the millionth time and he recalled the way the boy who looked like Draco had been hanging on him. He'd seemed to like that. Of course, it may have been that he desired to be able to enjoy that when he never actually could.

It bothered him a little bit to realize that the Dursleys had ruined him in yet another way.

He knew that he had no interest in being touched casually, but for the reaction to be so strong… It was difficult to describe how her touch had made him feel. He supposed disgust would be the most succinct. It had felt entirely disgusting to be touched by her.

But an inability to tolerate touch… That seemed distressingly like a weakness. He didn't care for discovering personal weaknesses, though he knew that ignoring them would only make him weaker. After all, a weakness could not be overcome until it was acknowledged.

Was it actually just him that caused the feeling though? Was it all in his messed up head? Or was it more magical than psychological? Hermione was a muggleborn, after all. Would it feel different to be touched by someone whose magic was truly their own?

He wasn't entirely sure that it was worth it to feel like that again just to test the theory.

He gave a moment of thought to touching Neville, just to see, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Not so soon after having that horrid sensation wrap itself around him with Hermione's unwanted affection.

"What about you, Harry?" Hermione's timid question interrupted his ruminations. "What did you do over the holiday?" she clarified when he looked up from his book.

Harry shrugged minutely, "Did some shopping. Explored London a bit. Mostly I stayed in and did some reading."

"Did you like my gift?" she asked hopefully.

Harry nodded thoughtfully, "It was quite an interesting read. You did get my thank-you note?"

She smiled hugely and nodded her head rapidly. "Yes, I got it. And thank you so much for my gift. Mum loved it. We went together yesterday and it was ever so lovely."

Harry hummed noncommittally and was just about to go back to semi-ignoring her when she was cut off by the rasp of the compartment door sliding open.

Harry lifted an eyebrow curiously when he saw that their visitor was none other than Draco Malfoy, his cronies flanking him from behind, as always. Harry was surprised the blond boy had been brave enough to come back after the way he'd gone running last time. After just a brief pause, Draco stepped into the compartment and closed the door behind him, leaving his henchmen outside.

"Can we help you, Malfoy?" Harry asked politely enough.

The other boy stared at him for a long moment, his expression vaguely frustrated. Then he glanced at the two on the other bench and his nose crinkled as though he'd smelled something foul. Finally, he seemed to steel himself. He straightened his back even further and lifted his chin, looking at the wall over Harry's head as he spoke stiffly, "I came to thank you for the gift, Potter. It was… unexpected, but appreciated."

Harry stared at Draco, feeling unnerved and intrigued and excited and a little bit scared all at once. There was no doubt at all in his mind that Draco didn't want to be here. In fact, he rather doubted those were even his words. He'd been forced to offer his gratitude in person, and there was only one person that Harry could imagine forcing Draco to do anything against his will. Lucius Malfoy, the boy's idol.

Harry's mind spun with the possibilities that had just opened before him. Lucius had seen the gift as an olive branch, and he'd accepted it. He wanted to forge a friendship between them. Or he wanted Harry to think that that was what he wanted. But really, Harry had never met the man. Odds were good that he would be underestimated. Adults always underestimated the intelligence of children. Of course, most children deserved such slight estimation, so it wasn't surprising.

This could be the beginning of an alliance with the Malfoy family. It may be his last chance at that, as well. Harry had already thrown an offer of friendship back in Malfoy's face once. He highly suspected that a third offer would never come if he disdained this one. It was clear that that was what the boy expected to come of this. But could he afford to publically befriend the Malfoys?

Harry had had time to better understand the situation since September. Only a small faction of the population of Wizarding Britain actually thought the Malfoys were "evil". Most of that faction was Dumbledore's lackeys and former Gryffindors, Harry had discerned. Officially, Lucius Malfoy was just one of many unfortunate individuals who had fallen victim to Voldemort's regime, having been Imperiused and forced to take the Dark Mark. Salazar had been kind enough to confirm that Abraxas Malfoy, Lucius' father, had been one of Tom's closest confidants, which rather suggested that he had ended up a follower and not a victim.

Not that Harry was going to vilify them based on having been Death Eaters. He didn't have anything against Voldemort, so it would be rather hypocritical of him to have something against the man's followers.

Of course, what he thought wasn't really the point. This was about what everyone else would think. Could the Boy-Who-Lived befriend a Slytherin? Particularly a Slytherin for whom he had always displayed a considerable dislike?

Well, of course he could. The Boy-Who-Lived was better than such pettiness, wasn't he? He could befriend even his greatest rival.

He let the hint of a smile touch his lips. The silence was bordering on too long and Draco was beginning to look even more frustrated. Turning his attention to the Gryffindors, he said politely, "Would you two give us a minute?"

Neville and Hermione exchanged bewildered looks and Hermione looked vaguely betrayed, but, happily, she seemed to be yet too cowed by her blunder on the platform to directly challenge him. They each closed their books and made their way out of the compartment without a word.

"Please, have a seat, Malfoy," Harry said once they were alone together. He was grateful now for the etiquette lessons Salazar had been forcing on him. He couldn't use too strict of forms, of course, because he wasn't about to give Malfoy all of his secrets, but he could use a semblance of them to put the pureblood more at ease. "I'm glad to know you liked the gift."

Malfoy sat down, but was staring at him with frustrated confusion. "Why did you send it?" he blurted.

Harry couldn't help but think the Slytherin wasn't all that good of a Slytherin. He had an appalling lack of subtlety that probably reflected on the fact that his family was nigh on untouchable. Didn't make it okay, but Harry supposed he might grow out of it. "I was raised in the muggle world," Harry chose to start, ignoring the way the other boy sneered. "You recall the first day we met, I'm sure. In Madam Malkin's. That was my first day in the Wizarding World. I knew nothing about it. My first impressions of it were shaped by Hagrid and by Ron Weasley on the train."

Draco stiffened further at the mention of Ron and the insinuation toward their second meeting.

"Needless to say, they painted your family in a… unfavorable light. Since then, I have learned a great deal about our world and the people in it. I've learned, for example, that Hagrid and the Weasleys are poor choices when one is seeking character references. I wanted to apologize for the way our second meeting went, and maybe try to start over?" It was slightly unnerving just how few lies were actually in that.

Draco looked both surprised and somewhat smug by the time Harry had finished his "explanation". Harry hadn't actually considered anything that far when he'd sent the mirror. He'd just wanted to give it to him, so he had. This could work out for the best though.

Draco huffed a small laugh and a smug smile curled his lips, "I told you that some wizarding families were better than others, Potter." He hesitated for a moment and then stuck out his hand expectantly.

Harry smirked a bit in reply and swallowed his misgivings about engaging in physical contact as he reached out and grasped the other boy's hand. Curiously, it didn't feel bad, his hand against Draco's. It didn't feel bad at all, really. He could actually kind of see why people would want to touch each other if that's what it felt like. He wondered if it was because he was a pureblood or because he was Draco, the boy that Harry had been slightly obsessed with since that stupid mirror.

He carefully concealed any reaction as he gripped the warm, dry hand in his own, "It's Harry," he corrected.

Draco's smile turned a bit more genuine as he reciprocated, "Draco."

The strange moment passed as Draco released his hand and took a step toward the door.

Harry lowered his hand and clenched it into a fist, struggling to categorize what he was feeling about it. His attention went back to the blonde when he paused and turned back.

"Why do you hang out with the blood traitor and mudblood?" he asked as though the question had him painfully perplexed and he just had to know the answer.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Why do you hang out with Crabbe and Goyle? Judging by their performance in class, they're idiots. They can't possibly be stimulating conversationalists," he challenged.

Draco shrugged, "Their families swore fealty to mine like three hundred years ago. They do what they're told."

Harry smiled amusedly at the symmetry. "Hermione and Neville both owe me a Life Debt."

Draco blinked and his brow rose. After a moment, he just nodded and left without another word.

Harry frowned after the other boy and sank down into his seat again, ignoring Hermione and Neville's return. He couldn't figure out why he'd told the boy the truth. That was a disturbing amount of honesty to hand over to a Slytherin with little attachment to him.

"What was that about?" Hermione finally mustered the courage to ask.

Harry shook his head, "We've declared a truce, I suppose."

"What? Why?" Hermione demanded, clearly aghast at the idea of anyone not hating Draco Malfoy. "He's absolutely foul!"

"No more than you," said Harry bluntly.

Her jaw dropped and her eyes immediately sparkled with tears.

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. Merlin, he hated girls! "My point is that you're both opinionated and prejudiced, Hermione," he said firmly before she could start crying or leave in a snit or anything else that would cause him more trouble later.

"I'm not-!"

"You are," Harry interrupted before her righteous indignation could get much traction. "You are prejudiced against the Wizarding World in general."

"I'm not-"

"You are," he cut her off again. "I've heard you make a thousand little comments that illustrate your feelings on the matter. You think the Wizarding World is archaic and stagnant. You see their traditions as outdated and barbaric."

"They are," she muttered petulantly.

"Exactly," Harry sighed. "Malfoy's not that different from you. He'd prejudiced against muggleborns because they come into the Wizarding World looking down their noses at it. You go ahead and join the world and expect to be treated equally even as you're disdaining everything in sight because it's different from what you've always known. You think yourself above people raised in the Wizarding World because the muggle world is so much more advanced."

"Isn't it?" she challenged, her chin tilted up defiantly.

"No," he said bluntly, internally wincing at his harsh tone and scolding himself to be careful. This was a subject about which he felt strong and he could easily go overboard. Hermione, like Draco, was extremely opinionated. If simply told she was wrong, she was likely to clam up and stubbornly believe what she wanted to believe. The truth had to be spoon-fed to her in order for her to absorb it. "You think cars and computers and airplanes make the muggles advanced? Honestly?

"Wizards have been capable of nearly instantaneous travel over thousands of miles for more than six millennia since the portkey was invented. Prejudice against homosexuals doesn't exist in the wizarding world because the process of combining genetic material from two individuals of the same sex and forming it into an embryo that can be grown in the uterus of a surrogate was perfected eight thousand years ago. Cancer doesn't exist in the Wizarding World because it was cured eight thousand years ago. Our healers only see it now in muggleborns, and it can be cured with a single potion. The Wizarding World has been civilized for over twenty thousand years. We lived in sprawling cities while muggle tribes still followed herds on yearly migrations."

There was a long moment of silence in the compartment while Hermione stared at him in shock and Harry silently told himself to shut the hell up, already. The arrogance of the muggleborns just pissed him off, and Hermione was one of the worst.

"The reason that the Wizarding World seems outdated to you is because, over the last three hundred years, since the Statute of Secrecy was established, the Wizarding World has tried to blend into the muggle world. Bit by bit, they've done so, but they're not very good at keeping up with the constantly changing trends in the muggle world and therefore they seem outdated. You took one look at them and made up your mind without ever paying attention to the fact that the muggle world's 'civilization' is an infant in comparison."

There was another drawn out silence before Hermione quietly said, "I thought you said you weren't racist."

Harry blinked at her, "What did I say that led you to believe I was racist? What I just told you were facts. I don't hate anyone because of them."

"You hate the muggleborns for not learning more about the Wizarding World," she said with certainty.

"Well, if that's true, then I'm not racist. It's not racism to dislike someone because of their actions. I only dislike the ones who exhibit that behavior."

"So you admit that you dislike me," she said, her voice quavering on the point of a sob.

"Technically, this whole conversation started because I was explaining why I didn't hate you or Malfoy. I dislike some of your behaviors and opinions just as I dislike some of his. Doesn't mean that I can't be friendly toward you both."

Hermione sunk back in her seat, wrapping her arms around her knees and looking both sad and conflicted. Neville had been quiet through it all and he now looked very thoughtful. Harry was curious what the pureblood boy thought about that conversation, but not enough to actually ask him, which would certainly result in more conversation.

He already missed the relative solitude of his Abode.


Author's Note: (FYI) How to Win Friends & Influence People by Dale Carnegie is a real book, originally published in 1936 and revised in 1981. What I wrote about it in this chapter is not intended as a review of what I think about the book. It's what I imagine my Harry would think about it if he read it. Personally, I think it's an excellent read and the world would be a much more pleasant place if everyone were to read it and try out the techniques. (And do note that I stand to gain nothing by endorsing it.)

As always, thank you so much to my reviewers. You guys make me want to keep pushing out these chapters even when I'd rather have a nap or read a book.