Chapter One

Draco Malfoy had a tradition: Every year on the drive to King's Cross, he made a plan for the year ahead – where he wanted to be in his life by June, and what he needed to do to get there.

Part of that forward-looking introspection included getting back in touch with his real self.

No one really knew Draco Malfoy. Not that it bothered him. On the contrary, he had worked very hard to cultivate the image everyone – particularly everyone at Hogwarts – so willingly bought: the cold, dastardly, bigoted heir of a cold, dastardly, bigoted house.

But a good many things about the "real" Draco, as he liked to think of himself, would have shocked the stuffing out of his classmates and teachers. For starters, Draco didn't dislike Harry Potter. Oh, he didn't like him, either; in point of fact, Draco was quite ambivalent toward Potter and didn't waste energy on admiring or loathing him. Being Potter's nemesis was part of a role, a role Draco's father Lucius certainly expected him to play, and a role Draco admittedly took some pleasure from. At least do-gooder Potter always made an easy target.

Topping Draco's list of most-hated things were self-styled heroes like Potter. It wasn't a personal dislike for The Boy Who Lived, and it certainly had nothing to do with loyalty to the Dark Lord. That was another revelation for Draco's schoolmates: His interest in You-Know-Who's doings extended only so far as they affected Draco's own life.

This summer, he had to admit, that affect had been greater than usual. Ever since Lucius Malfoy had landed himself in Azkaban with a dozen or so other Death Eaters, a huge spotlight had been shown on the Malfoy family. Draco's mother, Narcissa, had retreated into the Malfoy mansion in June and wasn't likely to emerge from her self-imposed hermitage until the glare of public scrutiny had significantly dimmed; she prowled about in black robes and sobbed continually into lily-white handkerchiefs, behaving quite like the widow Draco suspected she would have preferred being. At least widows, unlike the wives of convicts, were afforded some respect.

Draco didn't have the luxury of remaining hidden, at least not if he wanted to finish his education. Narcissa had mentioned once, rather tentatively, enrolling him in Durmstrang – this had been in mid-July, when the editorials in the Daily Prophet had become particularly vicious in their calls for punishing Death Eaters – but Draco had immediately refused. He had a plan for his life that only the respectability of a degree from Hogwarts would make possible, a plan that again didn't fit with the persona he'd created for himself: Draco Malfoy wanted to be a healer.

It didn't carry the noble weight he supposed his teachers would give it. Draco wasn't altruistic; unlike those would-be heroes whom he despised, he didn't imagine a golden soul caged in his chest or a path to glory lain before his feet. He was fascinated by the healing arts, plain and simple. From childhood he'd enjoyed the intellectual task of diagnosing magical maladies and determining just what potion, counter-jinx or tincture would correct it. His mother's uncle, Lynus Black, Draco's great-uncle, had been a renowned healer before his death, and Draco had spent many afternoons trailing behind Uncle Lynus at St. Mungo's. The fact that Draco had shown a natural aptitude for potions and charms commonly used by healers had mostly escaped notice by his professors, except for Snape, of course, who had been surprisingly supportive of Draco's career choice in their advisement session before the O.W.L.s.

So Durmstrang, where he would have been championed as a hero, was out, and a brutal sixth year of gearing up for the N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts was in. Whatever spotlight Draco had sweated in over the summer would, he knew, only intensify the moment he stepped onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

His reception at Hogwarts would be mixed. Some, like that sniveling groupie Pansy Parkinson and his faithful cronies Crabbe and Goyle, would see Lucius's incarceration as further reason to worship Draco; others, particularly his Slytherin housemates, would pointedly distance themselves from him to decrease suspicion on their already-suspected families; the rest, like Potter and Granger and Weasley, would use the sins of the father as further excuse to despise the son.

All of that meant this would undoubtedly be Draco's most complicated year at school yet. On the one hand, he'd have to dodge the watchful eyes of professors like McGonagall who would be looking for any reason to expel the children of Death Eaters. On the other, if he wanted to retain any semblance of dignity, he wouldn't be able to hide in a hole, like he was either ashamed of his father's crimes (which he wasn't, though he wasn't especially proud of them) or afraid of Potter and his ilk.

What Draco needed was one good public stunt, one heart-stopping showdown with Potter that the entire school would know about yet the teachers would be unable to prove occurred, to firmly establish himself back on top of the Hogwarts heap this year. Quidditch was too visible; besides, much as he hated to admit it, Potter could fly circles around him – Lucius's money could buy his son a spot on the team but not the necessary talent to excel there, Draco had long since accepted. And even Snape's classroom wouldn't be particularly safe for spats this year, since everybody already assumed Snape worked for You-Know-Who and would be quick to haul him off to Azkaban if he allowed harm to come to the precious Harry Potter.

The car suddenly slowed, interrupting Draco's thoughts. The driver – who was normally a stable-hand for the Malfoys' many horses but also drove their black luxury sedan for forays into the Muggle world – turned and declared, "We're here, sir."

Draco waited on the curb while his trunk was unloaded. He caught a few stares from passerby; he looked thoroughly Muggle in loose-fitting, faded jeans, battered trainers and a plain black tee-shirt, but his pale skin, ice-blue eyes and white-blond hair always attracted lingering looks, especially from girls. Draco ignored them all. He couldn't imagine the scene his parents would make if he ever brought home a Muggle girl.

He left the driver outside the station, loaded his trunk onto a trolley, and walked briskly through the busy station. Rarely if ever did his parents see him off at the school train; most of Draco's life had been supervised by maids and butlers of some type, a fact for which he was actually thankful given his mother's dramatics and his father's temper.

He was just another teenage boy hurrying along to make a train, likely meeting up with his parents at the track, until he crossed through the barrier onto Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters.

Then, he was infamous.

No one, adult or teenager, had the courage to say anything to him, though Draco couldn't help but notice the eyes following him warily as he moved quickly through the throng. These stares were decidedly different from those on the Muggle side of the barrier: wary, disdainful, frightened, even reproving. Anyone who remotely approved of the Malfoys' connection to the Dark Lord was careful to avoid looking at him entirely.

It was disconcerting to be the object of so much disdain, to say the least. Draco was nothing if not proud, however, so he held his head high and marched purposefully onward. In fact, he was so determined to ignore everyone around him that he quite forgot to pay attention to where he was going and barreled shoulder-first into a girl who had stopped abruptly with her back to him.

"Sorry," he said automatically, reaching out to steady his trunk before it toppled off the trolley and attracted even more unwanted attention.

"No probl-" The voice stopped in mid-sentence, bringing Draco's eyes up from his trunk.

His heart did a funny leap. Was that…Hermione Granger?

She was tanned a deep brown, likely from another summer on the French coast, and slightly taller than he recalled, or maybe that was only because he was half-crouching beside the trolley. The butter-yellow sundress she wore suggested a few new curves as well. And her hair was certainly different: a layered, shoulder-length bob had managed to tame the once-bushy curls, and months of sun had brought out definite blond streaks in her normally nut-brown hair.

She looked, in a word, amazing.

With a rather embarrassing effort – this was Hermione Granger, the disgusting little know-it-all – Draco pulled his eyes away from her and glanced around for Potter and Weasley, who never seemed to be far behind her. Sure enough, they were only a little ways ahead, saying goodbye to the horridly frumpy Mrs. Weasley and her equally dowdy husband.

"Watch where you're going," Hermione snapped, amending her earlier warmth to a decidedly haughty annoyance.

A witty comeback simply didn't present itself. Only a supreme force of will kept Draco from blushing; he might have thrown himself in front of the Hogwarts Express if that had happened.

"Sorry," he managed again, much more coolly this time. "Don't know how I missed you in that dress."

He'd meant it as a slight about the color, yet it came off sounding far too suggestive. Hermione flushed (rather attractively) to the roots of her hair, and Draco fought down the urge to abandon his trolley and bolt back through the barrier. Was it too late to enroll in Durmstrang?

Luckily – and he didn't miss the irony in the situation – Potter and Weasley rescued him from the impossibly awkward moment. They stalked over, Weasley in the lead and looking anxious for a brawl; he had certainly gotten taller over the summer, and broader through the shoulders, Draco noted with some trepidation.

"Back off, Malfoy," Weasley snarled, positioning himself firmly between Hermione and Draco. Potter, Draco noticed, hung back slightly, watching.

Fame apparently didn't sit well with Potter. He looked thinner, paler, more somber even than at the end of the previous term. For the first time, it occurred to Draco that losing Sirius Black had probably carried all the punch of losing his parents all over again for Potter. He felt a twang of sympathy and promptly quashed it – heroes were known for getting themselves killed, usually with all the glorious stupidity Sirius Black had displayed.

"Relax, Weasley," Draco rejoined smoothly. "I'm not interested in your girlfriend."

Weasley's face turned such a bright red it appeared nearly purple. Hermione, glaring daggers at Draco, placed a restraining hand on Weasley's arm and muttered something about finding a seat before the train filled up entirely.

But Weasley, typically, couldn't walk away without the last word. "I'd be more careful if I were you," he warned Draco. "Seems like you don't have quite so many friends around to watch your back this year."

The obvious lack of reception from his fellow Slytherins – especially Crabbe and Goyle, who were usually waiting like well-trained dogs at the barrier to the platform but this year were nowhere to be seen – was already smarting for Draco. He seriously considered pulling his wand from his pocket and hexing Weasley right there, but getting expelled before he even got onboard the train struck him as a ridiculous thing to do.

"What's the matter, haven't you heard?" Weasley pressed, disregarding Hermione's insistent tugging on his sleeve. "Your cronies Crabbe and Goyle ran off to Durmstrang. Guess they didn't bother to send you an owl to say good-bye, huh?"

Draco was careful to keep his face expressionless. He didn't particularly enjoy the company of Crabbe and Goyle; they were witless morons, in fact, who routinely grated on his last nerve. But they did have their uses, ones like crushing skulls which he had been counting on to help him stay in one piece this term.

Weasley seemed to read Draco's mind. "Looking a little paler than usual, Malfoy. Afraid you can't back up that fat mouth of yours without a few mates around to help you out?"

A fleeting fantasy of hexing Weasley into a puddle of goo crossed Draco's mind. The threat of expulsion still rang loud and clear in his mind, however, so instead he answered haughtily, "I don't need protecting from you, Weasley."

"Would you like to test that theory?"

Hermione's grip tightened on Weasley's arm. "Ron," she hissed through clenched teeth, looking at Draco as if she hoped he would explode, "stop being a prat. It's time to get on the train!"

It was, in fact, four minutes until eleven. The last mad rush of students was pressing forward around them. It would have been the simplest thing in the world for Draco to smirk, shove his trolley past them and hurriedly seek out an empty compartment – except Weasley's hot-headed challenge had just presented Draco with a remarkable idea for proving himself to his classmates without calling down the professors' wrath.

"All right, Weasley," he agreed, drawing even fiercer glares from Hermione. "But you wouldn't be much of a challenge for me. I hear that Potter's becoming quite the experienced wizard – maybe he's up for a duel?"

Potter arched an eyebrow. He looked, Draco thought, rather bored with the situation. "You must think I'm pretty stupid," he replied. "Or have you forgotten about the last time you challenged me to a duel?"

Actually, that long-ago incident in which he had challenged Potter to a duel and then tipped off Filch that Potter and Weasley were out of bed after curfew had slipped Draco's mind. But he played it off, determined to make his newly-formed plan work.

"If you're afraid, Potter, just say so."

Hermione was physically dragging Weasley away. Steam billowed from under the train; if they didn't leave immediately, they would be left on the platform. "Come on, guys," she pleaded. "We're going to be in so much trouble if we miss this train!"

Potter held his ground for half a moment longer. Looking directly into Draco's eyes, he said, with no emotion whatsoever, "I accept."

A funny tightness lodged under Draco's heart – whether it was excitement, fear, or something else altogether, he couldn't tell. He kept his voice equally emotionless as he answered, "Good. See you around."

With that, they both turned and rushed aboard the train.