Chapter 3
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Three years in Professor Sybil Trelawny's class had taught Harry one thing: Divination was for the birds. That was why Harry found his dreams and nightmares so odd.
Voldemort had been frighteningly quiet since the "incident" at the end of fourth year. This was actually more of a concern than a relief, because it meant Voldemort was planning. And, he was taking his time. Both thoughts worried Harry.
Voldemort, however, was not what was currently keeping Harry awake at night. His dreams had been uncannily realistic lately, and when his dreams had gotten *this* realistic in the past, they had usually come true. What this meant, to the disgust of this devoted non-believer of all things divination-related, was that his dreams were sometimes really premonitions. Of course, Harry had tried to pass the dreams off as being just strange coincidences, but one can only delude oneself so long before one is forced to see the truth.
Once Harry had been forced to accept this fact, he found his dreams that much more disturbing. He began wondering which dreams would eventually come true and which were *just* dreams, influenced by the scraps of food the Dursley's fed him. Given the nature of them lately, he was seriously hoping it was the latter.
Harry stroked Hedwig's chest as he stared out the window of the smallest bedroom of the house at 4 Privet Drive. He had dreamt of Draco. And just when had he become Draco and not Malfoy? Harry figured it must have been sometime after fourth year, when petty schoolboy rivalries had begun to seem so trivial. Not just think, but dream. Dream about Draco Malfoy. His biggest enemy and rival at Hogwarts. Or was he?
In the years following Cedric's death, many of his classmates had become more subdued, and Draco had been no exception. His normally haughty personality began to seem less so. Harry didn't want to admit he had noticed, but Draco had changed. Not entirely of course. But still he *had* changed. The taunts during 5th and 6th years had slowed to a trickle and their sting seemed to fade. At first Harry believed it was only he who had changed, that he had somehow become immune to Draco's harsh words, but Hermione had noticed as well. And, though he would never admit it, they both knew that Ron had noticed, too.
Rumors started surfacing during the last part of their 6th year concerning Draco's altered behavior-- it had finally caught the attention of the other students. It had finally caught the attention of the other students. People blamed the drastic changes on Cedric's death. But Harry knew better. Cedric's death had not affected Draco. He had heard a 3rd year Slytherin telling a 1st year that his father beat him, but Harry didn't believe that either. Draco was simply too proud to allow that. Pansy went around telling everyone that Draco hadn't changed at all, he was just misunderstood. Ron, Hermione, and he, had all had a good laugh at that. Draco had definitely changed, but what was not clear was what the change meant and why it had even occurred.
They had ignored it for the most part. They were too busy enjoying life. They all knew that Voldemort was back. They knew he was gaining followers and planning. But for the moment it was quiet and they could just enjoy themselves.
So now, as Harry sat here contemplating his latest 'Draco dream', his mind wandered back on the others he had had earlier this summer. They were not the porn-like fantasy type dreams that *some* people would believe he was having about Draco. But instead, they were dreams he found disturbing on a whole other level. His first dream of Draco had consisted of Draco protecting him from inside a magical shield, something that had only just learned during 6th year. Harry had blamed *that* dream on the spoiled anchovies Mrs. Dursley had put in his salad for dinner that night. Three weeks later Harry had dreamt that Draco was helping him run down the hall in the midst of five other boys Harry didn't recognize. When he woke he realized that food was not the cause of his dreams.
He had sat up the night of that dream and tried to remember every detail. He had tried to blow the five unrecognizable boys off as Slytherins he just didn't know. But deep down inside he knew that wasn't true. He may not know their names but he *knew* every Slytherins face. He knew that in all his years at Hogwarts he had never seen any of those five boys. But what did that mean?
As disturbing as that dream had been, the one he had woken from tonight was by far the worst. He had dreamt that he was lost, not lost in any physical sense, but lost from his goals, his purpose. Then Draco had appeared, and held him, and comforted him. In his dream they had talked as if they were very close friends. That bothered Harry more than the other dreams. Why would he ever let Draco get that close to him? He most certainly couldn't trust the cold-hearted Slytherin, could he?
The dreams made him wonder.
Dreams, or premonitions?
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"Are you sure about this Albus?"
"Yes, Minerva."
"The ministry has very strict rules on this for a reason."
"But it must be done."
"But what about…"
"Yes, I know…"
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Draco loved his father. For all the reasons a son should love a father. Draco loved, respected, and admired his father. This did not mean he wanted to *be* his father. He took this as a sign that he had matured over the years, despite what his rivals said.
At the age of 11, everything Draco had ever known was what his father had taught him. And his father was never wrong.
So, when his father told him that Harry Potter would be a powerful political ally to have in the future, it didn't occur to Draco to doubt him. After all, his father was never wrong.
It wasn't hard to want to be Harry Potter's friend, for every one of his peers wanted that very same thing. At 11, the lure of power and fame can be ever so enchanting… Who wouldn't want to be known by everyone as the closet friend of the Boy-Who-Lived? Fame by association.
Part of him didn't need his father's prodding; he *did* want to be Harry Potter's friend. Because he was just like every other 11 year old. Harry Potter was a legend. Everyone knew his name. Everyone knew his story. Harry Potter was a children's fairy tale. How could he not want to be close to someone like that? To be that close to someone so famous, it was everything a boy of his position deserved.
He had dreamed and fantasized about how great he would be, how famous *he* would be once Harry Potter was his friend. He had pictured all that fame and glory. But then, it all went *horribly* wrong. Harry didn't want to be *his* friend. He wanted that rotten, no good, *poor* Weasley.
The rejection had stung more than anything else in his whole life. Mostly because he had never been denied anything before, who would dare? He was a Malfoy, born into one of the most privileged families in all the wizarding world. What had sprung from that rejection was nothing less than pure anger. Pure childish anger. Anger at Harry for rejecting him, anger at Ron for stealing his place at Harry's side, anger at Hermione for gaining access into that glorified circle that he had been denied, and anger at himself for being so effected.
That anger festered, leading to four years of bitter arguing and ruthless boyhood rivalry. His pride hurt and so he lashed out at the cause, Harry. Harry, and his friends. It was Harry's fault that his father had been disappointed in him. Harry's fault he never got any of the fame or glory. Harry deserved everything he got.
But something else had also sprung from that rejection. Curiosity. Curiosity, not for the famous Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, but for Harry, the boy who had chosen the person over the family. Who chose friendship over wealth. Draco wondered what it would be like to be valued not by what his family had but for who he was.
Four years he spent facing off against Harry, angry at him for rejecting his offer of friendship. Four years he let that fester and brew inside him, becoming ever more hateful as the years passed. But facing off with Harry also allowed him to feed his curiosity; to learn about the boy that no one told fairy tales about.
Harry wasn't just the boy who saw the person over the family. Or the boy who chose friendship over wealth. Harry was also the boy that laughed at all their jokes, even the bad ones. Harry was the boy that told his friends his own deepest, darkest secrets, and trusted them to keep those secrets safe. Harry was the boy who helped his friends with their homework, even when it was for his least favorite class. Harry was the boy who fought for his friends.
How would that feel? To be that close to someone? Draco could only imagine. Crabbe and Goyle were certainly nothing like Harry. They never got his jokes. They never worked on their homework together. And they certainly wouldn't risk their lives for him.
After Cedric's death he had tried to continue that boyhood war, but too much had changed. He tried to find that anger inside him, but strangely he found that the curiosity had taken over. He spent all that summer prior to 5th year examining himself. He couldn't understand how the curiosity could have become such a large part of him. Ha hated Harry Potter, didn't he? Harry had hurt him. Wronged him. So why couldn't he find that anger anymore? Why was the curiosity he felt so over powering? He wanted nothing more that the worst for Harry. Right?
Somewhere deep down inside him, hidden in a place he couldn't find, was something that he wanted more than he wanted the worst for Harry. What Draco Malfoy wanted was to be friends with Harry Potter. Not Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, but Harry, the boy who choose friendship, over wealth and family ties. Harry, who gave his trust, with ease, to his friends. Harry, who fought for his friends.
Draco had tried to break his old habits; to bury the old feud. But old habits die hard, and Draco found himself falling into those old taunts, sending hurtful jabs at Harry and his friends. Fifth and sixth year passed and he was no closer to being Harry's friend than he had been 1st year. His failed attempts to bury the feud had only worked to show him that he would never be worthy of Harry's golden friendship. Too much time had passed, too many hurtful words had been spoken.
But part of him still hoped.
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