Disclaimer: The best things in life are free, but you can give them to the birds and bees. I want money, that's what I want. . . Your love gives me such a thrill, but your love won't pay my bills. . . Money don't get everything it's true, but what it don't get I can't use. . . Give me your money, just give me money. ("Flying Lizzards", but possibly not originally.) Alas, I am making no money, though I just had a job interview that went well, perhaps I will be making money soon. Just not from indulging my perversities through creative writing.

Ch. 12: When Old Behavior and New Times Collide

Both Hermione and Harry watched with interest the next morning when Malfoy strode in to the Great Hall with Parkinson at his side and flanked by two rather pleased looked bodyguards. The group proceeded to set up court in the center of the Slytherin table. Though a number of the snakes still looked wary and uneasy, the house hadn't seemed so much like. . ., well, their normal, happily wicked selves in almost two months now.

Hermione gave Harry a look. "I hate to say it, but I think that bout of electroshock therapy really did the git some good."

Ron, who was sitting across the table from his two friends, his back to the Slytherin table, asked after a moment, "So are you going to explain L-ectro shock therapy to us ignorant of muggle ways?"

Hermione gave her explanation, which left Ron looking thoroughly horrified. "That's. . . that's barbarous. That's exactly the kind of shit that will drive people to become Death Eaters."

Both Hermione and Harry looked a little taken back by his comment, though it wasn't too difficult to recognize the validity of his argument. It just wasn't one that would have jumped to the mind of anyone raised by muggles. Hermione finally responded by saying, "Yeah, well, history is full of behavior that can only be chalked up to ignorance."

Ron's reply was stalled by his need to swallow, so Harry took the relay baton. "Yeah, but you should see what kind of damage we can inflict with only a little bit of knowledge."

Again, it was not a truth that would come naturally to Hermione, but she was willing to concede to it's validity. "Fair enough. So, shall we just admit that ignorance is bliss and give up on progress all together?"

Ron and Harry smiled at her sarcasm. The latter let his attention wander (what were the Slytherins smirking at over there?) a bit while Ron and Hermione engaged in a bit of passive aggressive (and barely recognizable) flirtation. Eventually, his realized that he had forgotten his DADA homework in his dorm room, so he made his excuses to his friends and got up to leave.

Over at the Slytherin table, Malfoy was letting his housemate's dominate the conversation. He really didn't have anything so say (which would certainly have been uncharacteristic of his old self), but the Slytherins seemed content enough with his cooperative presence. He couldn't have known, as he hadn't been paying attention is over a month and a half, but the house tension was the lowest it had been since the academic year had begun.

An idea came to mind, and (as was newly characteristic of Malfoy) he impulsively voiced it. "We should have a party. . . it's been a while."

Immoral and lascivious grins suddenly lit up the table. It had been a while, as the debacle at the beginning of the year had offset the opportunity for the usual back to school party; and if there was one thing that the Slytherin knew how to do, it was how to have a REALLY good time.

Once it became clear that Malfoy wasn't saying anything else, the Slytherins took the idea and ran with it, eagerly brainstorming and assigning responsibilities. Malfoy's thoughts were following their own track, eventually resulting in his thoughtless utterance, "We should invite members of other houses."

It was only at the incredulous and slightly betrayed looks of his fellow Slytherins that Malfoy realized that his suggestion might not be the most acceptable by their standards. He mind quickly reeled over both his own logic behind the idea and any logic that might appeal to his housemates.

"Networking," he blurted out. "As long as we stay true to our own interests, it can only help to have friends in high places from all houses and on. . . both sides."

The sixth years – the most loyal to Malfoy – seemed willing to accept his reasoning. Some of the seventh and fifth years looked a little certain, especially that. . . Derek Vilborne character. He was tall and broad – too big to have been selected for quidditch (and that was saying a lot, considering the presence of Crabbe and Goyle as beaters) – and he leaned over Goyle to hiss down the table at the Slytherin Prince. "Those sound like the words of a traitor. . . or a coward. Is that it Malfoy, too afraid to choose sides? Your father would be-"

He wasn't given the opportunity to finish his words, as Malfoy had (despite still being somewhat weakened) inelegantly scrambled over Parkinson and Goyle tackle the huge Slytherin in a sudden uprising of rage. He was screaming barely understandable obscenities; and while it took Vilborne a moment to react, Malfoy was probably spared a rather harsh beating by Parkinson and Crabbe, who grabbed either arm to haul him off of the giant seventh year, and by Goyle who simultaneously and instinctually acted to protect the boy he had admired and protected for years by hammering his own meaty fist into Vilborne's vicious face.

The fight didn't even last a full minute before their head of house was at the scene demanding poisonously, "Just what do you think is going on here?! I could have sworn we had a protracted and very clear conversation about the consequences of such behavior only a few weeks ago! Your behavior is of course no surprise, Mr. Malfoy, but the rest of you-"

Parkinson rather audaciously dared to interrupt and pointed accusingly at Vilborne, "It wasn't Draco's fault! It was him!"

Snape glanced at Crabbe and Goyle, who were nodding vigorously, then at Bulstrode, Blaise, Nott, and several of the other Slytherins, who all began nodding too (though less certainty). Finally, he looked at Malfoy, who was panting heavily and clearly trying to get his emotions under control.

"Very well. Vilborne! Twenty points from Slytherin and three evenings of detention for you." Snape spared a moment to glare at them all, especially Malfoy, then stalked wrathfully back to the teachers' table.

Malfoy couldn't help but feel a rush of vindictive pleasure, and a physiologically familiar smirk made its way unbidden to his face. Then an abrupt recognition of old feelings and old behavior made him feel suddenly ill, and he blanched noticeably.

"Are you okay?," Parkinson asked supportively, taking hold of his arm.

Malfoy nodded weakly, then tried to mask his emotions as he looked around his watchful. . . followers. Fucking Merlin, he was going to spew. He hadn't really considered that attempting to reintegrate into his Slytherin posse would require a certain resumption of past behavior, and the sudden realization was staggering. He didn't want to go back to doing what he had done, to being who he had been – he would rather die.

He managed to keep his act together by sheer force of will. "I'm fine. . . I didn't want that to happen. I've just been. . . on a short fuse lately. I'm going outside to get some fresh air."

Crabbe and Goyle made to follow him, but he gestured for them to stay. He knew for past experience that the two would stand by him against anything short of him attacking their persons, but (unlike his earlier persona) Malfoy really did want to be ALONE alone; and the Slytherins knew, for their part, that – old Malfoy or new Malfoy – he wouldn't react kindly to any of his gang forcing their presence on him.

Unfortunately, Gryffindors didn't suffer from the same compulsion. Harry, who had halted his departure to watch the unmistakable developments at the Slytherin table, was standing by the exit of the Great Hall when Malfoy hurried by. It wasn't hard for him to inconspicuously follow, and quickly found himself outside looking from side to side for a sign of the blond. It took a moment, but there he was, leaning his forehead and palms heavily against the dark stone of the castle wall, and his rib cage heaving heavily.

Harry approached slowly, cautiously, as one would a spooked animal, and for a moment he could make out Malfoy's mumbled words, "I'm not him, not him. I have a choice. . ."

Then he fell to his knees and wretched up his breakfast. Harry allowed a disgusted expression to screw up his face. "Malfoy. . ."

Malfoy jerked back and fell on his ass; he tried to scramble to his feet, but his arms shook too much, so he buried his head between his drawn up knees instead. "Don't call. . ."

Breathe, breathe, breathe, get yourself together.

Listening to Malfoy's forced inhalations, Harry felt bad about interrupting his moment of weakness, and sat down next to Malfoy (but as far away from the puke as he could), tentatively placing a rough hand on the thin shoulder. It tensed, but Malfoy didn't pull away; instead, he looked up, revealing a slightly sick looking pallor and two distrusting eyes.

"What do you want, Potter?," he rasped irritably. "I won't bargain away allegiance, as I've already told Granger. Now that father is dead, I get to be loyal to me," he continued with emphasis, then looked away into the distance.

Harry nodded guiltily, his dark hair falling messily over his eyes. He knew what it was like to be a pawn, to have his "side" chosen for him, to feel as if his whole life had been laid out before him by someone else. Harry stood and looked down at the pale scalp that could be seen peaking out between blond rows of hair. He felt unwanted pangs of empathy and sympathy and extended a hand to Malfoy. "Well, let me help you up at least. No strings attached, I swear."

It was a thin attempt at a joke, but after gazing appraisingly at Harry, then at his hand, for a moment, Malfoy revealed a rare (if faint) smile. If Potter was offering his hand to him, for whatever reason, maybe he could trust that he really wasn't the bastard he used to be. He took the proffered hand and let the Boy-Who-Lived help him up.

For his part, Harry could sense the strain and weakness of Malfoy's muscles through his grip, as he could tell how light Malfoy was by how easy it was to pull him up. Malfoy released his hand quickly, though he reached his other arm out to steady himself on the castle wall. Harry's hand found itself tingling regretfully at the loss of contact, and his lips found themselves wanting to respond to Malfoy's smile. In fact, he had to fight back the irrational urge to grin widely.

"What are you looking at?," Malfoy asked nervously.

Harry's mind felt blank, but he forced himself to grasp for an answer that wasn't "you."

"If you don't want to go by Malfoy, what should I call you? Draco?" Uh, where did that come from?

Malfoy looked sharply at him to see if he was making fun of him, but the green eyes seemed earnest. "I don't know," he finally responded tiredly. "Both Malfoy and Draco are gone, the name don't mean anything anymore. And there are no names left for me."

Harry couldn't help feeling that there was some logic to Malfoy's ramblings, something besides madness, but the puzzle pieces just weren't coming together. "Well, do you have a middle name?," he asked helpfully.

Malfoy snorted distainfully, before answering vehemently,. "Yes. Lucius. But there's no way I'll ever answer to that bastard's name!"

Harry studied Malfoy sadly, inexplicably wishing he could ease the other boy's anger and pain. "What about your initials? D.M.?"

Malfoy looked pensive for a moment. D.M. It retained parts of both Draco and Malfoy, who (though he hated to admit it) were part of whatever he was. D.M., like Diem, the day. Carped Diem. Seize the day. Malfoy smiled faintly at the little rush of pleasure and self-love that came from suddenly being able to label himself that way. It made sense really; as thinking of himself as Malfoy filled him with fear and self-hatred, while thinking of himself as Draco filled him with grief. DM, Diem – it was a name that filled him with hope.

He abruptly turned to Harry, finally releasing himself from the wall's support, and, in a impulsive flush of gratitude and benevolence, said,. "Thank you, Harry. You're the first one who has asked me what I wanted to be called. And I like your idea I doubt my recently reacquired and still tenuous claim to sanity could survive me trying to convince everyone to call me anything besides Malfoy, but it doesn't matter as long as I don't have to think of myself that way."

There was a long, awkward moment of staring searchingly into each other's eyes and faces. DM reluctantly found himself wanting to trust the persistent Gryffindor, and Harry Potter found himself wanting to lean in closer. . . to smell the ivory flesh and feel the breath from enticing lips. . .

Harry jerked back suddenly. What the hell?!

DM looked a little startled, but not offended. Had he not noticed? (No, apparently not.)

"Come on," Harry managed hoarsely. "We're late for class already."

DM nodded and appeared to shake off his nausea and weakness as they re-entered the castle; Harry was expending quite a bit of energy trying to ignore the blond and to not think about his own sudden lapse of sanity. They had not gotten very far before DM stopped abruptly and stated, "I'm not up for this shit right now, I'm skipping."

He immediately turned down a hallway leading to the dungeons, leaving Harry to quash the desire to follow. "See you later!," he called, but there was no reply.

DM lay in bed trying to sort out his thoughts. While the Potter issue certainly deserved some pondering, and the whole Diem thing probably should receive more analysis than he was willing to give, the real problem that occupied his thoughts were the Slytherins.

He wanted their support, and for the most part they wanted his leadership; but it wasn't that simple. While he could count on the loyalty of most of the sixth year Slytherins, the other classes were less certain – and of those classes, the fifth and seventh years were of particular concern. He knew exactly which ones supported Voldemort; he even knew that two of the seventh years were already marked Death Eaters. He was safe for the moment, as there was no way for Voldemort to send messages to Hogwarts without a high risk of interception by Dumbledore's crowd; but after the winter holidays, there would be at least two – and probably more – Slytherins returning with orders to kill one Draco Malfoy. Time was running out. . . to do what?

He hadn't been thinking much until recently, he had been feeling: feeling angry, hurt, frustrated, desperate, impulsive, and out of control. . . But now ideas were coalescing more readily, concentration was not so fleeting, and thoughts on the future were manifesting. He knew he had to neutralize the threat, which was going to require two processes: on one hand, he would have to orchestrate a change in the direction that he had been pushing the Slytherin house for five years; on the other hand, just as there had been some Slytherins couldn't be previously swayed to Voldemort's views, there would be some students who couldn't be dissuaded from them now. These were the students that would have to be neutralized in a different, more serious way. Both groups would require sensitive manipulation.

DM groaned and rubbed his temples vigorously. He was just going to have to face the fact that though it was his Malfoy persona that had been placed in Slytherin, he had inherited the house and its most Slytherin environment. Returning to previous behavior – to an extent – would be necessary just to maneuver in such a medium. He wondered briefly if it would be easier if he was in Gryffindor, and his mind flickered to Potter and Granger for a moment.

Elsewhere in the castle, Harry was sitting in DADA not paying any attention at all (Granger was there too, but she was paying avid attention). His mind was fluttering about, as though slowing down long enough to focus on one topic would inevitably permit the invasion of unwelcome thoughts. Well, they weren't entirely unwelcome, more like unnerving; and the prospect of investigating them made him feel jittery and excited, and made his stomach clench fretfully. He wasn't thick about such matters – he was, after all, a sixteen year old boy – so he was pretty sure he knew how to interpret such symptoms.

Still, he told himself that he couldn't afford to indulge his infatuation (if it could even be called that; really it was just an interest), then proceeded to convince himself with the following reasons: firstly, it was only a mild and transitory infatuation (interest!) on his part, not unlike his whatever with Cho, and involved neither strong emotion or even any real element of attraction (supporting evidence: sixteen year old boy!); secondly, Malfoy was neither interested nor in any position (or condition) to indulge Harry's infatuation (interest!).

Thirdly, Malfoy was an unpleasant, crazy, scrawny little shit. Not even attractive. Too pale, too thin, too pointy, too . . . Okay, so Harry didn't have as much success convincing himself of the last point, but it didn't matter, because point number four suffocated all the others: Harry really really had more important things to focus his on, like training DA, and occlumency, and the War, and Voldemort, and Fudge, and Sirius' death. . . all the stresses of his life that demanded attention, the list of which went on and on. A couple minutes of thinking on these traumatic topics and Malfoy was long forgotten. Indeed, by the end of an uneventful class, Harry had done quite a mental number on his so called interest, and had succeeded in scaring himself away from the anything to do with the blond Slytherin. For the time being anyway.

Since the lightening incident, DM had actually managed to avoid getting a detention every day of the week. Skipping DADA, however, had earned him a detention, and so it was not until 12:40 that he made it back to the common room, to be greeted by the sight of Pansy Parkinson asleep on the couch. He allowed a tired smile to make its way to his lips – he liked Pansy; it wasn't her fault that she was the pawn of her parents, that they were betrothed, and that he too had used her. He felt guilty for turning on her – and on Vince and Greg too. They were close friends of his Malfoy persona, but that wasn't reason enough for abandoning and hurting them.

He carefully sat down next to her and gently ran his fingers through her thick golden locks. After a couple of silent minutes, she began to stir and eventually blinked lazily up at him.

"Draco," she purred sleepily. He smiled down at her. "I've been waiting up for you."

"Waiting? Is that what you were doing so unconsciously?," he teased gently.

Pansy sat up, crawled onto his lap to straddle him, then gave him a long, forceful hug. DM allowed it, even allowed himself to enjoy the feel of human touch. The only physical contact he had had since the summer started had been in the form of violence or medical attention. A little affection directed at him – even if it wasn't directed at the real him – did miracles to sooth the pain in his soul.

"I've missed you so much," Pansy murmured into his neck.

"I'm sorry for leaving you," DM whispered back.

Pansy let go of him and leaned back to look at him. She had an odd expression on her face and DM realized that his apology was out of character.

Parkinson didn't know what to make of the new, unpredictable Malfoy. She had spent her childhood being trained to be the obedient wife, then she had spent years trying to be everything her intended wanted; now she didn't know what her role was. Still, she hadn't been put in Slytherin for no reason – it was time to test the water.

She slid down him so that she kneeled down between his legs. His eyes went wide and lips twitched distastefully, but she didn't see it: her hands were finding their way under his shirt and she was rubbing her mouth and face against his crotch.

DM was on his feet in a split second, Pansy's arm in a vice-like grip, holding her up on her knees; she cried out more in surprise and fear than in pain, and a long moment passed in which they stared uneasily into each other's faces. Finally, DM released Pansy to collapse to the carpeted floor, and backed up to drop onto the couch.

He didn't feel nauseous this time, but it had been a thrill of horror and panic that had prompted his abrupt actions. He was well aware of the power games he (no, not him! Malfoy!) had played with Pansy, and others, in the past, and that was one activity to which he would not return. His body had been the vehicle of much pain, and had used sex as a weapon, and such memories now elicited fear and self-hatred and guilt, and he would not be part of that ever again! No more hurting people! Not like that! Not cruelly, purposefully, maliciously. . . not through sex, not through torture, not with slow deaths. . .

DM rubbed his eyes for the millionth time that day, and took a steadying breath to push back the memories that had been haunting him for months, memories that were not his, but that he was only now being able to resist.

"Panse. I'm sorry for scaring you, and I don't want to hurt you, but I can't do that. That's not who I am anymore."

Pansy nodded warily. She had known going in that he might not react well to attempt, but it still hurt, and it made her afraid for her future. "Are you still going to honor our engagement?," she asked in a warbling voice and a purposely (yet still authentically) pathetic expression.

Again, they looked at each other studiously, then DM nodded. "If, when the time comes, and you are in full possession of all the facts, and you still want to get married, then I will marry you." Pansy smiled brightly with relief. "But, Panse, I'll never be someone I'm not, and who I am may not be who you want me to be."

Pansy actually looked as if she was about to cry as she threw herself into another embrace. "I don't care who you are," she sniffled. "You'll always be Draco Malfoy to me."

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Well, that was a long chapter! So you should reward me with reviews! I know the story is dragging on a bit, it's just that I don't feel I can proceed until I flesh out the characters and their relationships with each other.

Poll question: How should I make the War manifest? I know I have neglected that part of the story, and I need to play some catch up there. I have some ideas about the final stages of the War, but what to do now? Terrorist-like attacks to create fear? (It's a good idea, but it has been done an awful lot. . .)