Edited 20th February 2014 to remove review responses and superfluous author's notes.

3. Dirty Blood and Deadly Rivalry

As it happened, settling in to the first year of the NEWT programme distracted Harry from any unsettling thoughts he might have had about the dark, brooding figure of Fletcher. He was naturally distrustful of the boy: he was a Slytherin; he had a frightening amount of power locked in his slight frame; he was effortlessly charismatic - charisma is a much valued quality amongst dictators – and he was a Slytherin. An enemy. He had much the same eyes as Malfoy, and from snatches of conversation overheard, much the same manner of speaking. Maybe it was a pure-blood thing.

The object of Harry's perhaps irrational anger and hatred was currently lounging in the Slytherin common room, a cool, heartless place, suiting the tone of most of its occupants. Daniel Fletcher sat in a green armchair, watching the pale yellow fire flickering gently. He had an affinity with fire, despite his icy reserve that some people, observing from a distance, might mistake for cruelty or snobbery, right up until the point when they spoke with him and were lost.

He never asked to have such power over people given to him. He had never wanted people to open their minds to him after a short acquaintance. It made manipulating people all too easy. He was a Slytherin because, as the saying goes, he could resist anything, except temptation. The pure power afforded him by his charm created far too many temptations for a young man who just wanted to be normal and good.

There were only a few people in Slytherin House immune to the draw of his personality. One of these, whom he regarded with something approaching hatred, was Draco Malfoy. He would naturally have sympathised with Draco – after all, Fate had provided him too with far too many temptations – had the young Malfoy not treated him like dirt, and all for being what the arrogant silver haired son of a Death Eater termed "dirty blooded". He was emphatically not a pureblood. He disliked most of them - pure-blood mania struck him as unhealthy. Whilst his father came from an old line of wizards, his mother was a 'Mudblood' in Malfoy's terminology, as was his grandmother. Among his friends, it was said, jokingly, that Daniel had "the dirtiest blood in Slytherin".

Much to the young Malfoy's irritation, many of his cronies had fallen sway to the Fletcher charm. Not, obviously, the pureblood snobs like himself - Fletcher could comfort himself with the thought that he was possibly the only young man in Slytherin safe from the clutches of the repulsive, insinuating Pansy - but enough to make Draco feel undermined. He ground his teeth in a murderous way as he sat at the opposite end of the common room, alone but for his brick wall henchmen, watching Fletcher closely. It did not help that the accursed half-blood Blaise, whom Malfoy had kept in check by making him believe that a pureblood's companionship was truly an honour, was now fast friends with their new Head Boy. It irritated Draco, not least because he had no true friends himself. The draw of the Malfoy name seemed to be fading. And it had gone so well for five years…

Harry was standing outside the classroom with his friends, waiting for the previous class to finish, when he heard a familiar voice.

"Well, well, nice to see you all survived the holiday," drawled Draco Malfoy, cold eyes flickering over the trio. He mocked their friendship, because it was something he had never experienced, and given his father's plans for him, he never would.

"No thanks to your daddy's dearest friend," snapped Harry. He was in no mood for this.

"You remind me, Potter," said Malfoy, with a repulsive smirk that might have been intended to be a grin. "'Daddy's dearest friend' has been a big help recently." He held up that morning's Prophet.

Dementors Desert Azkaban: You-Know-Who's Faithful Freed read the grim headline. A sneering picture of Malfoy Senior was included among the faces underneath. "See; I told you he wouldn't be inside for long."

"He's still on the run, Malfoy," Ron snarled, though his heart was sinking slowly into his boots. "And everyone knows what he is now."

"Why not go off and celebrate with your Death Eater friends?" Harry asked, half turning his back on his enemy. "Have a couple of drinks with the new Head Boy, isn't he right in Voldemort's pocket?"

Malfoy flinched at the name, but snapped, "Fletcher is no friend of mine! That sneaking little filthy blooded excuse for a Slytherin…"

He got no further. Standing right behind the hapless Draco was the Head Boy himself.

Daniel Fletcher cleared his throat audibly, but looked surprisingly amused, possibly at the sight of Malfoy's sneer vanishing, to be replaced with a frightened, pleading look. Harry wanted to laugh himself. That was a true Death Eater's expression.

"Go on, Draco, tell these people how I'm a disgrace to the house of Slytherin, to wizards everywhere, to my ancient and noble blood line - though surely my father and grandfather were the 'blood traitors', as you people so elegantly put it." The Head Boy did not seem offended in the least, but he was enjoying Malfoy's inarticulate struggle to escape the embarrassing situation. He failed, and fled.

Fletcher laughed at his departing back. "What an arrogant little git. Some Slytherins really are awful. And what he said is true; he and I aren't friends, and never will be. I don't know why he thinks calling me "half-blood" is an insult; the Dark Lord is one from what I've heard, so surely mini-Death Eater Malfoy should keep his lip firmly buttoned. Oh well, some people don't know what's best for them." Harry, to whom these last words were addressed, tried to suppress a smile. The Head Boy really was human. And he hated Draco Malfoy. Harry was half won over already.