Shattered

Chapter II: Home Sweet Home

By: Magical Mister Mistoffeles

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Thank you to my reviewers! I'm sorry I haven't updated before this, but my computer internet kept going out. Glares at computer

SHATTERED..shattered..SHATTERED..shattered..SHATTERED..shattered..

I wasn't quite sure why I said what I did to Malfoy, but I did mean it. I wanted to help him. I had a feeling that he's been through worse than I had. After all, I didn't flinch when someone touched me, and I wasn't claustrophobic.

I went back to the compartment I was sharing with Ron and Hermione, and found myself alone. It was a few seconds before I realized that they were in the Prefects compartment. Good, I decided. I needed some time alone to think.

He'd told me to go away. It wasn't in the demanding, cold voice that he would have said it only a few months ago. His voice… that was what affected me most before I left. When he'd told me to leave… he'd sounded confused, and defeated. There was also a touch of pleading and despair in that voice.

That two-minute conversation I had with him changed my views considerably. I could no longer even pretend to hate him. At the end of last year, I realized that it wasn't his fault—the way he acted and thought about everything. It was the way he'd been brought up. That was all he knew how to do, I guess. Be hateful and negative.

But, for the sake of Ron's sanity (and perhaps my own), I needed to hate him. I needed to have at least the constant hate of Malfoy in my life, otherwise I would go insane. As I sat there in the compartment alone, staring blankly out the window as Malfoy had, I thought I already was insane. Why else would I be feeling this determination to help Malfoy—a Slytherin, the child of a Death Eater, my rival.

He wasn't all of that anymore, I realized. Sure, he was a Slytherin and the son of a Death Eater, but he wasn't my rival. He had given up. Truthfully, it scared me. It scared me that the Malfoy who had been determined to beat me at least once was gone, replaced by this stranger who had given up on life. It truly scared me. In a different way than the thought of having to kill Voldemort scared me, but it was scary all the same. It was like waking up and finding that the sky turned yellow. A constant thing in your life suddenly changing.

I decided then and there that I would do everything I could to help him, but I wouldn't tell Ron or Hermione about it.

The first step? Make him feel comfortable around me. Well, I doubted I could do that, but at the very least I could make him realize that I wasn't going to use any of this against him, and I wasn't going to hurt him. The way he flinched whenever anyone touched him was slightly disturbing—even I didn't have that problem. It always made me wonder what had been done to him to make him react to everyone like that. Every time I thought about it, and tried to imagine what had happened to him, I felt furious.

I had calmed considerably when Ron and Hermione came back.

"The ferret didn't come by here while we were gone, did he? It wouldn't surprise me if he came by even though he said he wouldn't mess with us anymore," Ron said. I sighed, and decided that there was no way I would talk to Ron about it. He might have been my best friend, but he was also a stubborn prick a lot of the time.

"No," I answered honestly, "Malfoy hasn't come by here."

"He wasn't in the Prefects' carriage," Hermione said. "Maybe he's not on the train." I shrugged, and Ron began talking about Quidditch. I focused on that, happy to find something that could distract me from my plans to help Malfoy. Hermione—as usual—was reading a thick book.

The train ride seemed to take a lifetime, but finally, Hermione was leaving the compartment so we could change into our robes.

I didn't pay attention to the conversation inside of the thestral-drawn carriages. I just nodded when everyone else did, and smiled occasionally, and everyone left me alone with my thoughts. Only Hermione and Ginny seemed to realize that something had me preoccupied.

Finally we were inside of the Great Hall, and I didn't have to pretend to pay attention to the conversations of my friends anymore. I listened attentively to the Sorting Hat's song, but I completely missed Professor Dumbledore's speech. Of course, it didn't matter. It was the same "the forest is forbidden, no fighting in the corridors" speech of the last five years.

It pleased me to see that Remus Lupin would be returning as our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor this year. It seemed that Dumbledore wasn't going to concern himself with the opinions of parents any longer. I heard Hermione say that he just didn't care what they thought, and he was going to try and give us the best education he could to prepare us for the upcoming war.

I found myself watching Malfoy during the feast. He didn't talk much, and there was a few inches of space between him and the people next to him (Blaise Zabini on his left, Theodore Nott on his right). He didn't eat much, either. He kept his eyes on his hands or the table for the most part, not looking at his friends.

"Harry?" I turned to Hermione. "The feast's over." I stood up and followed her out of the hall.

"Come with me," She whispered, and pulled me aside, into the kitchens. "What's wrong, Harry? You've been acting oddly ever since Ronald and I got back from the Prefects' compartment. You aren't still upset that he got it and you didn't, are you? I thought we settled that last year!" I shook my head.

"No, it's not that," I assured her. "It's just… I found out some stuff today. You know I don't hate Malfoy—I told you that last year. Now I'm going to try and help him. Would you do me a favour, and keep this from Ron?"

She nodded. "I don't understand why Malfoy would need help, or why you're trying to give it to him, but you'll explain it when you're ready." I smiled at her, and hugged her.

"Thanks, 'Mione," I told her. "You're a great friend."

"You're quite welcome," she answered. "Now get your buttocks up to bed, Mr. Potter!" I laughed. It was funny, although slightly disturbing. Her imitation of Professor McGonagall was so realistic it was disturbing.

With a groan, I started back up the stairs to the Gryffindor dormitories, Hermione next to me. I entered it, and bid goodnight to Hermione. I stumbled up the staircase to the sixth year dormitory, and smiled. It was exactly the same. Neville snoring softly, Dean and Seamus spread all over their beds, and Ron murmuring quietly in his sleep.

"Home sweet home," I muttered, and collapsed onto my bed. I didn't even think to change out of my robes before I slept.