CHAPTER ONE

Harry James Potter opened his eyes.

He was leaning against the compartment window, and had been resting for a while— he had neglected to get as much sleep as he should have the previous night. It hadn't helped that as his Uncle drove him to the Platform Nine and Three Quarters, his cousin had mocked him about his nightmares. Harry had been only just able to control his fury as Dudley had taunted him, recalling how Harry had often screamed in the middle of the night, reliving the time in the Department of Mysteries where his godfather had died.

It was too much for him. It had weighed him down for so long, all summer, even— Harry felt he could not live as long as the fact that he had caused the death of Sirius remained with him.

Harry ran his fingers through his dark hair and sat up straighter, glancing around the compartment. Hermione sat beside him, Ron on her other side, and then Luna. Across from them was Neville, Dean, and Ginny. Hermione had not yet come.

"'Mione won't be able to sit with us when she comes," Ron admitted, in a rather worried tone. "I hope she doesn't get stuck with someone awful..."

Dean scowled at two passing first years. "The only reason there's no space anywhere is because there's so many first years this year," Seamus commented, as though reading Dean's mind.

"There weren't half as many when we were first years," Dean agreed.

Just then, Hermione burst through the glass sliding door of the compartment, looking rather flustered. "I just made it in time, I was almost late—"She panted, her dark curls tumbling across her face in untamed disarray. Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the compartment.

"There's no room left," Ron stated the obvious.

"Oh..."

Harry looked up and saw Hermione's crestfallen expression. Heaving a sigh, he stood. "It's alright, 'Mione, I'll go and find somewhere else to sit, and you can stay here with Ron and them," he told her, and, before she could protest, he pushed past her and resisted the urge to slam the door after him.

Sirius. Harry shuddered involuntarily. Sirius seemed to haunt his very thoughts, constantly coming up on his mind. If he could only stop thinking of him... Wandering the halls, Harry looked in various compartments. Every single one was full, so far. He didn't exactly mind, but even so, he muttered, "If this goes on, I'll have to sit on the floor of a compartment."

"What was that, Potter?" Harry recognized the voice at once and groaned. He had unconsciously paused in front of Draco Malfoy's compartment.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" he snarled, and even Harry was a little surprised by the bitterness he heard in his own voice. Then again, it was Malfoy he was talking to. Malfoy, whose own father had attempted to kill Harry so many times in the Department of Mysteries, only months ago. Malfoy, with his arrogance, conceit, and pure malice. Malfoy, Harry's archenemy since his first year at Hogwarts.

"Just contemplating why the savior of our world is wandering the halls as though lost," Malfoy smirked. Harry grimaced and met Malfoy's eyes— cold and steely, shadowed over with darkness. The coldest color of gray possible. But there was something wrong...

For as long as Harry had known Malfoy, the blond boy's eyes were penetrating, and at the same time passionate— when he insulted Harry, his eyes would fill with a sort of fire. But now Harry looked at Malfoy, and saw that the cold depths of the boy's eyes were vacant, inexpressive— the only expression they showed was an extreme weariness.

Harry shifted his attention from his archenemy's eyes. Malfoy's hair, pale and silvery, was not slicked back with gel, as it usually was—rather, it was now long enough to be tied back at the nape of his neck.

Lucius. Harry's eyes narrowed as he realized just how much Malfoy looked like his father now. His face was twisted in the usual Malfoy sneer, and with his hair tied back now... Harry shut his eyes in disgust, opened them once more, and then looked back into Malfoy's compartment. It was almost empty, with only Crabbe and Goyle to accompany him.

"So we're lost, are we now, Potter?" Malfoy snickered. But the insulting tone was not as fierce as it had been previous years— "Grieving, are we now, over your godfather?"

Harry's fervent anger must have showed, somehow, because of the slightly surprised look that crossed Malfoy's face. Harry, his heart pounding furiously, stomped into Malfoy's compartment and sat across from him. "What the hell—"Malfoy began.

"All the other are full," Harry muttered, not meeting Malfoy's eyes. Fury was still coursing through his veins, and he knew for a fact that looking at Malfoy would only fuel his anger.

The train ride to Hogwarts seemed much longer then usual.

(Draco Malfoy's POV)

I had never seen him display such anger before in my life.

I was surprised to begin with when I had first seen Potter at the open door of my compartment, and even more when I met his eyes for the first time since last school year. He was different. When I mentioned his godfather his eyes darkened, if possible, and filled with an intense fury— such passion I would not have expected from Potter. But it was more then that. Much more. Behind that anger there was an unmistakable sadness, almost guilt. At first I couldn't understand what it had to do with his godfather, until it came to me. The boy thought it was his fault his godfather, perhaps the only remaining link between he and his parents, was dead.

I didn't mean to make the guilt appear on his face, in his eyes— I've made a point of tormenting him every chance I get, but even so--- I don't know why I bother about Potter. For the longest time he's been the bane of my existence— honestly, he managed to land Father in prison.

But then I think back to that time in Madam Malkin's, the first time I ever met that boy... I suppose I felt bad for him. There he was, obviously on the unwealthy side, in baggy, rather unfashionable clothing, almost timid— I was only being kind, or as kind as a Malfoy may be, by making conversation with him. It was an honor for a Malfoy to talk to you. He was going to Hogwarts as well, and I suppose I thought I could mold him into a sort of follower for me. Who would not want to be behind a Malfoy?

But, despite what I considered shyness, as I spoke to him, I could see the obvious dislike in those shockingly emerald eyes of his— and perhaps I should have given up there.

It was to my ultimate shock when I realized who this boy really was— he was not someone I could sculpt to my liking, but none other then the Boy Who Lived, the boy who had defeated the Dark Lord. It just so happened that Father had urged me to befriend Potter, with the knowledge that being on such a famous boy's good side would bring me higher up in status.

Malfoy's are never rejected. I still don't know what came over Potter when he decided to deny my offer of friendship. Who in their right mind would refuse such an proposal? But, then and there, I decided that I would make the life of the boy who had rejected me hell.

At the rise of the Dark Lord, of course, Father decided against the idea of befriending Potter, which was lucky. I was perfectly content in insulting him any chance I had. The price to pay for rejecting a Malfoy. But then, at the end of the fourth year, everything changed. The sight of Potter, stumbling with Diggory's dead body in his arms, was too much. Even I could not wish that upon Potter, I could not help it. I almost considered befriending the boy— until I remembered that I was a Malfoy, and he was my archenemy. And then I came close to that decision again when he had, in his fifth year, writing about it in the Quibbler— trying to make everyone see what had happened—what was happening.

Of course most of the Slytherins knew the truth. Many of us have parents who are Death Eaters— now in Azkaban, of course—and we would laugh at the gullibility of some of the Ministry fools. But, of course, we had no wish that they come to know the truth.

Now that everyone does know the truth, I know it isn't long before the Dark Lord attacks again. I also know, as a fact, that there will be another mass breakout from Azkaban soon.

I can only hope that when it happens, the Boy Who Lived will be ready.

(End of Draco Malfoy's POV)

Harry caught up with Ron and Hermione as they slowly walked to the Thestral- pulled carriages. Rain pounded against the cobblestone path that led to Hogwarts, leaving Harry feeling number then he had felt in the first place.

"So you found another compartment, mate?" Ron inquired of Harry as they climbed into the warmth of one of the carriages. Harry sank down into the cushioned seats, obviously exhausted.

"Wh— oh, right," he replied quickly, nodding at Ron. Remembering Malfoy, Harry scowled. "Malfoy's compartment was the only one with a space," he told his friends.

"You're joking!" Ron was, understandably, outraged. For years Malfoy had tormented he and his friends, and Ron was not a forgiving person. "The bloody git. Did he bother you, Harry, 'cause if he did, I'll— I'll—" Ron trailed off, falling silent as his temper slowly cooled down.

"Oh, Ron, don't talk like that," Hermione rolled her eyes and glanced sideways at Harry. "I know, I know— we all dislike Malfoy strongly— I know he's not the nicest person..."

"Oh, is that it, 'Mione, he's 'not the nicest person', huh? That's it?" Ron fell into huffy silence once more. Hermione noticed that Harry was oddly silent. She turned to him and saw his dark eyes staring off into the stormy night, deep in thought. For perhaps a moment she saw pain in his eyes, for just a moment— but then it passed and his face was unreadable, and she promptly forgot she had seen anything at all.

"So, Harry," Hermione decided to engage him in conversation, "How many passing OWL's did you receive?"

Harry blinked as though coming out of a reverie, and then realized that Hermione had spoken. "Oh, er— nine, I think."

Ron's head whipped around and he stared at Harry openly. "You git!" he exclaimed playfully, "I got six! Mum was ready to kill me an' all. I think I'll stay at Hogwart's for the holidays."

Hermione nodded. "Oh, Ron, it's not so bad. Fred and George got three of them each, remember?"

"Yeah, I thought Mum'd disown them for sure..."

As Hermione and Ron chatted on about Fred and George, Harry lapsed into silence, his attention wandering. His eyes looked back into the dark, cloudy sky from which rain splattered onto the windows of the carriage, and his thoughts strayed to Sirius, which Malfoy had been so tactful to mention. Grateful for the change of thought, he seized Malfoy as an excuse to not think about Sirius. Malfoy...

(Harry Potter's POV)

I will never dislike anyone more then I dislike Draco Malfoy.

I honestly don't understand why he feels the need to make my life Hell— what did I do to him? Of course, ever since I met him at Madam Malkin's, I could see his personality was not one I would want to deal with— haughty, disdainful— everything I dislike about him.

He thinks it's easy being Harry Potter. He thinks I enjoy the attention— when it's good attention, at least. Did he consider thinking about the times the bloody Prophet has slipped in a few snide remarks about me every few days last year? How the Prophet, when proved wrong by Dumbledore, instantly changed its opinion on me and my sanity, as though it did not matter that it had been insulting me for at least a year? As though it could erase everything it had said, every lie it had told, just by one or two articles?

No, Malfoy is wrong. It is not easy being Harry Potter, a boy who many people have varied opinions on. Some may look up to me, others may hate me— either way it's the attention I despise.

I don't deserve to be famous. Sirius... Sirius would be alive if it weren't for my 'saving people thing' as 'Mione would put it.

I don't deserve to be the Boy Who Lived.

Malfoy would never, never know.

But, despite my loathing for this boy, this future Death Eater, I cannot help but wonder what has changed him so much, over the summer. I had never seen him like that before— his eyes so empty— so void of any emotion— was it his father in prison that had changed him? But it couldn't be, because surely he does not admire his father— and anyway, if he does, surely his father will break out of Azkaban soon enough, because of Voldemort's gaining trust of the Dementors.

Malfoy should be happy. He has everything he could ever want, and even if he does not, he would not know it, considering his arrogance. He is practically rolling in money, come his birthday he will receive his Dark Mark, and join his father in their slavery to Voldemort— is that not what he wants? And then he will be with all of his Slytherin friends, all Death Eaters, and torture Muggles, and Muggle-borns, and do all of the awful things that Death Eaters do in their spare time. All of the awful things that Voldemort does in his spare time. Surely Malfoy looks forward to this.

Then why is he not happy? I know that Voldemort is gaining power. I can sense it— my scar certainly warns me of it— and, though my strange dreams have ceased for the time being, I know it will not be long until I have to start up Occlumency lessons once more. As long as Professor Snape does not teach me it, I'll be content. Of course, Dumbledore wouldn't be much better— considering he treats me like a child, and might even be using me as a weapon against Voldemort. For I know that Voldemort is planning an attack very, very soon.

I can only hope that when it happens, I'll be ready.