"I think we have a lot to talk about."

Harry was livid. "No fucking kidding," He jumped off the couch and began to pace in front of it. His fingers flew up to his glasses, rubbing the frame between his thumb and forefinger. Draco sighed as he recognized the nervous habits. Before he could comment, Harry continued.

"I don't give a shit if my pacing annoys you, I'm doing it anyway. I've done a marvelous job of keeping my countenance since the war, and I bloody well intend to keep it." He turned on his heel to face Draco, explaining in short, clipped sentences, "This isn't my mess. There's nothing for me to talk about. It's all you. So explain."

Draco glanced up at the ceiling, hoping some unknown deity might intervene and allow him to avoid embarrassing himself. "You know I'm bad with stories, Potter."

Harry gingerly lowered himself to the floor, tucked his knees up to his chin, and glared over them at the blonde. "Just. Start."

After clearing his throat, Draco began his tale, continuing to stare at the ceiling throughout the entirety. "Well, I suppose I would start it right after we graduated, when you were working with Dumbledore and his little group. I went back to the Manor and played up like I was going to join the Death Eaters- oh, don't look at me like I killed your puppy, Potter, what did you think I was doing there? Enjoying the Quidditch pitch and drinking lemonade? Of course I was preparing to side up with my father, even if I had no intention of doing so. He was quite pleased about the entire thing- let me marry Pansy Parkinson as a reward."

He snorted. "Some reward. Eventually, my father and his cronies set an appropriate task for my initiation- the discovery and arson of-"

"Of 12 Grimmauld Place," Harry provided, blinking slowly as if the information was difficult to process. "And that's when you warned us about the impending attack..."

"Ten points to Gryffindor," Draco muttered wryly. "At any rate, after warning you, I... it was just bad. I didn't want to go against my father- you knew that, Potter, I always told you that Malfoy pride was the first thing ever whacked into my head and would likely be the last one to leave. But... but then there was you. I didn't know what to do. I knew I couldn't help you, but at the same time I would have rather died than fight you, than know I contributed to your pain in some way. I'm not a Gryffindor; by no means whatsoever do I have any of that bravery or complete lack of foresight that seem to go hand in hand with members of your house. I'm a Slytherin. So I did the most sensible thing possible. I ran off."

Despite his anger, Harry found himself letting his guard down, particularly as Draco rushed through describing how he couldn't hurt the dark haired wizard. "Where did you go, Draco?" he asked softly.

"Oh, France, of course. It made so much sense. My family's French, so fitting in there wouldn't be too hard- et je comprends la langue, peut-être moins que mes parents, mais..." Off Harry's blank look, Draco sighed in disgust. "French. I speak it. Honestly, Potter, you have no culture to speak of. You probably would have adored France, though- Pansy utterly hated it. She wanted to live in Paris, but I insisted on a small home in the south. Much safer, more remote."

"Wait... Pansy was willing to go with you to France?" Harry couldn't help the rancor in his tone- he was jealous that Pansy was able to be bound to Draco, live with him. The other man picked up on it instantly.

"Yes, self-preservation instincts were unusually high in my year of Slytherins- I believe everyone scattered around the globe, just to get away. Pansy was more than willing to come with me- she was pregnant, concerned for our child as well." Draco paused, and looked Harry straight in the eye. "I didn't love her. Not in the least. We... consummated... the bond once, and my daughter was born from that. Pansy died in childbirth, though. So my daughter and I lived happily ever after by ourselves in France until she was ready to start and Hogwarts and Severus contacted me about replacing him, and blah blah blah now we're here."

"We- that was her at the table tonight? But that girl was a Gryffindor!"

Draco smirked, shaking his head in mock ruefulness. "I knew it from when she was young. The clincher was some snowstorm when she was eight, and her kitten was out in it, and she stayed up and snuck out in the middle of the night to find her. Only a Gryffindor would do something stupid like that. At that point I resigned myself to the fact that Harriet was probably the first Malfoy in a century or three not to be a Slytherin."

Harry gasped. "Harriet? You named her Harriet?"

As Draco's cheeks colored, he cupped his face in his hands to hide them. "She looked like you. She had dark hair. I felt it was appropriate. It's not like I didn't miss yours' name, either- Draia? At least Harriet's in good company, about one of every ten children in England has some variant of your name these days..."

Harry shrugged. "Ginny agreed with me on it. She always was so accepting..."

Draco nodded, "Granger told me about your arrangement with her. It took me a while to get over it."

"Granger told you? You've been talking to Hermione?"

"Well, of course I have. After all, she is just over in Hogsmeade. I was shocked that she hadn't mentioned me to you."

It was Harry's turn to blush, sinking once more behind his knees. "I haven't been very good at keeping up with people back home, I'm afraid. Other than a Christmas card once a year with a family picture, I don't owl back home very often. There was just... too much to think about, you know?"

"Yeah. I know."

******

Elsewhere within the walls of the school, Draia Potter was quickly learning that a photographic memory wasn't much of a help in a castle with moving staircases. Lost for the third time in the past hour alone, she muttered to herself under her breath as she glanced at the split stairway in front of her. "Right or left? I came from behind, and then around, then up... or was that down? Maybe horizontal... oh, bother, right..." As she clonked up the stairs, she glared at the paintings who giggled at her. "I keep a container of turpentine among my things," she warned, which promptly shut them up.

At the top of the staircase was a heavy wooden door. Seeing as it lacked any signs suggesting "Beware!", "Turn back now!", or "Flesh eating monkeys with poor taste in clothing beyond," Draia saw no problem with going through the door. She was relieved to find that it let her out onto a balcony, overlooking the Forbidden Forest and allowing a fantastic view of the stars. As she made her way towards the balustrade, she pulled her wand out of her pocket. Mahogany, eleven inches, inflexible, thestral tail hair: her pride and joy. The man at the counter of the small shop where her wand was purchased mentioned that few people had wands with thestral hair, and since then she had developed a strong affinity towards both her wand as well as towards thestrals. She sincerely hoped to find the herd that lived at Hogwarts; she couldn't help half wishing she'd be able to see them.

After the wand, Draia pulled out a pack of cigarettes. A bad habit picked up from a friend at Durmstrang, she had thus far kept it successfully hidden from her father. She pulled out a cigarette from the pack, putting it between her lips. A flick of her wand and a quiet "Incendio" lit the cigarette, and Draia inhaled. Just as she was about to exhale, someone behind her spoke. "I could report you for this."

Draia started coughing, and turned around, frowning. "School hasn't started yet. And my father's a professor, so..."

The other girl stepped out from the shadows into the moonlight. She was the Gryffindor Draia remembered from dinner. Dark brown hair was piled on top of her head in two messy buns, grey eyes flashed in the starlight and glowered at the offending cigarette in Draia's hand. Draia was captivated. "My father's a professor as well, and I can reassure you that it doesn't curtail any sort of elevated status here. And school may not have started, but that's a dirty habit. I'm sure you don't want Professor Potter finding out about it..." Despite being annoyed, Draia couldn't help noticing that the other girl had an accent. She shook her head- not a good time to be thinking about accents or silvery eyes or that smirk that really had no place on a Gryffindor's face, if anything her father had mentioned was true...

Her father! "If you even mention it to him, I'll... well, I'm not quite sure what I'll do, but it won't be good, I guarantee." She paused, and flicked the cigarette over her shoulder and off the balcony, not removing her gaze from the Gryffindor. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Harriet Malfoy. And you're Draia Potter. My father was telling me about yours- he respects him. For now, I'll extend that to you." She turned, walking back towards the castle. Without turning around, she said "Try not to let me catch you out here again. You've already destroyed your hair- it's not necessary to do it to your lungs as well." With that, she walked in.

Draia was left blinking and slightly openmouthed, not used to situations in which she couldn't get a word in edgewise. She was Draia Potter; the advantage was supposed to be hers. Shaking her head in an attempt to clear it out, she lit another cigarette. Hundreds of thoughts flew around her head, yet the only one strong enough for her to voice was, "Bloody hormones..."