Neville huffed slightly as he crested the slope just to the north of Hogwarts Castle porper, where the clipped lawns straggle into dense forest fringe at the foot of the surrounding mountains. Sunset and curfew were but a few hours away, but with their day off tomorrow, the Gryffindor common room was the site of the typical weekend revels. Usually content to sit on the fringes of the action, tonight Neville had felt the need for solitude. So he had stuck a piece of parchement in his Advanced Herbology textbook, tucked quill behind his ear, and slipped quietly passed the Fat Lady.
He was heading for a retreat that he had discovered two years ago, in his fifth year, on a scavenge for plant samples. It was the overgrown ruins of some forgotten outbuilding, now standing unroofed to the sky, vines and sapling slowly crumbling the stones, the pavee buckling and cracking as green sprout wormed up from beneath. It was always deserted, and Neville doubted anyone else even knew - or cared - about its existence. That's why he was surprised to see a robed figure sitting in the arch of an empty window. Neville's surpise increasing tenfold as the figure turned to look at him, brushing platinum blond hair away to reveal none other than Draco Malfoy.
Neville froze, six years of pranks and insults flooding back, reverting him almost instantly to the cringing, hopeless first-year he had never been proud of, clutching his hapless frog. Hoping against irrational hope, Neville began backing away slowly, praying the Slytherin hadn't seen him.
No such luck.
"Longbottom?" that aristocratic voice called out.
Neville steeled himself and stepped out into the open, mentally calculating how long it would take someone to find him if Malfoy put him in a Full Body Bind. "Malfoy."
A sneer was fixed on Draco's face, his mouth half-open as if to deliver some scathing insult, when abruptly the light died in his eyes and the sneer fell away. He turned his head away without speaking, seeming to return to his contemplation of the school and lake below.
Neville was confused. Draco had never missed an opportunity to torment a Gryffindor, especially one so universally looked down upon as himself. And the strangest expression on his face, like a mask being dropped abruptly. Briefly he considered his options. He could a) leave, b) confront the blond boy, or c) continue with his original plans. The first was cowardly, the second impolite, unnecessary, and possibly dangerous, so he went with the third. Finding a convenient tumbled stone block, Neville flipped open his textbook and began making notes on the local species of plants used in sleeping potions, quickly losing himself in the intricate diagrams and details.
Only when he realised that the greying light had him with his nose almost to the page to read did Neville snap out of his scholastic daze and glance up to see the sun blazing red over the mountains to the west, only moment from sinking - bringing with it the schoolwide curfew. Quickly, but being careful not to rumple the pages, he packed his notes away and stood, cracking his back. Suddenly he became aware that Draco was still there, and hadn't appeared to have moved in the last three hours, sitting in the shattered window. Neville was about to leave without speaking, but on sudden impulse called out, "You should start heading back. Curfew's soon."
Draco didn't look at him, and his voice was quiet, which not hint of derision or scorn in it. "I like watching the sunset," he said simply.
Neville pondered that as he hurried back towards the castle. While practically, sunset-watching wan't a viable pasttime due to their curfew, Draco probably had Snape wrapped so tightly around his little finger that curfew-breaking would go unpunished and probably unremarked upon. Neville, on the other hand, was already in danger of losing points from McGonagoll if he didn't pick up the pace. Added to the fact that Draco wanting to watch something so poetic as a sunset was anomalous in and of itself. And alone, for someone who seemed to constantly surround himself with flunkies and admirers.
Seamus glanced up as Neville walked into the dormitory, his forehead creasing briefly. "Neville? I thought you were already in bed."
Neville just shook his head, but as he shrugged out of his robes muttered, "Thanks for missing me, guys."
The next evening, after a boisterous trip into Hosmeade, the Usual Suspects were grouped about the fire in the common room, most people reading or making a half-hearted attempt at homework. Harry and Ron were playing some obscure Muggle drinking game with a case of contraband Butterbeer, involving much fist pumping and flinging of fingers, with shouts of "Even!" and "odd!" interspersed at random intervals. Thoma was stretched out on the floor, working on the latest in a series of comics detailing life at Hogwarts. Neville was going over his Herbology assignment, checking the list of samples he had to collect and where he could get them. He was just getting up to grab his bag when Hermione snapped her Ancient Runes text shut decisively and announced, "Anyone for a game of Exploding Snap?"
"I'm in," Harry announced, breaking off the game.
"Me, too," Ron said, taking his final penal swig.
"Can I play?" Ginny chirped up, marking her page.
As Hermione dealt out the cards, she paused as Neville padded by her, as if reminded of his presence. "You want to play, Neville?"
Usually when asked to be the third/fourth/fifth wheel, Neville would regretfully decline and seek more solitary pursuits. Tonight, however, he remembered his search would bring him back to the ruins. He surprised himself by turning and settling on the rug between Ginny and Harry with a muttered acceptance.
The game turned into best two out of three after Hermione beat the pants off of all of them (sadly, not literally), then into best four of seven, then into seven of thirteen. By the time they finally gave up and admitted defeat, it was far too late to go out.
BUt Neville still wondered if a certain Slytherin was up watching the sunset, brooding alone above them all.
Neville avoided the ruins for the next few days, seeking refuge in the library (too loud - strangely), the greenhouse (too hot), and sometimes even in the Owlery. But nowhere was as calm and soothing as his green-choked haunt on the hill. During Potions, still being held with the insufferable Slytherins, Neville surrepitously watched Malfoy for any indication that Friday night would be repeated.
He found none. Draco seemed the same arrogant bastard he had always been, surrounded by toadies and hangers-on. Crabbe still loomed like a misshapen boulder at his side, but Goyle had dropped out before the end of sixth year. Pansy still simpered and clung, but she had coloured her hair an unnatural black, and it hung is craggly, unkempt tresses down her back and shoulders like the vampire queen in old Muggle movies. She seemed to have conceived the notion of what an Evil Overlady should look like and then crammed herself into it.
Slytherin House had sharply polarised itself, following Voldemort's rise two years ago. The Dark Lord had been moving quietly since then, most believed to rebuild his power base. The Ministry was slow to accept his return, but everyone else wasn't. His eventualy coup was given as a matter-of-course. And people had adapted accordingly. Roughly a third of the Slytherin students overnight became as good as Junior Death Eaters, and everyone knew it. But because Voldemort was still officially dead, no one could prevent them from being treated like any other Hogwarts student. And one could readily identify the leader of this small band - Draco Malfoy, son of one of Voldemort's lieutenants, the 'bad guy'.
Who sat in broken ruins to watch the sun set.
But despite this exceedingly grim background, the politics of the school had changed very little, except that there were now five warring groups rather than four - Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, 'Good' Slytherin, and 'Bad' Slytherin.
Neville mulled all this over in his mind as he laboured under the baleful eye of Snape in an attempt to keep his cauldron in one, preferably solid, piece. He had been overjoyed upon returning in the sixth year to find a portly, middle-aged Potions Mistress in his place, and not so overjoyed when Snape had returned six months later to resume his position.
By the end of class, Neville had come to the conclusion that their meeting had been a random fluke and Malfoy really was a shallow, arrogant bastard with not scruple or higher feelings whatsoever. And then, as Malfoy led his henchpeople out of the dungeon, deliberately brushing past Neville and shoving him against the wall, the Gryffindor felt a slip of parchement drop into his hand, and he automatically palmed it. Then the Slytherins had breezed off down the hallway and Hermione was patting his arm in a concerned kind of way.
"All right there, Neville?" she asked, glaring down the corridor.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he muttered somewhat vaguely. "C'mon, we'll be late for lunch." The edge of the parchment was digging into his palm.
It wasn't until halfway through lunch that he worked up the nerve to look at it. Scrawled there at an angle was the message, 'Didn't mean to scare you off. I won't be there again. DM.' Immediately Neville felt a wave of guilt. It was entirely possible that Draco was looking for the same thing Neville was - a quiet spot away from people. And now Neville, by being a bloody coward, had deprived him of that. And now there was no way he could communicate this. It sunk him into a pensive funk for the rest of the day - not that anyone notices - and drove him out of the castle immediately after supper that night. He tramped through the high grass and the fringes of the Forbidden Forest, muttering a quick preseravtive spell over each clipping he carefully extracted from the various plants, noting each location and species as he worked.
His final stop was the ruins on the hill. He trudged up to it cautiously, but found it empty, bringing back the faint feeling of guilt. With a sigh and a business-like shrug, he set down his bag and hunted down his last two specimens.
It was as he was drawing a diagram of a delicate purple five-petalled flower that the sound of a twig snapping made him jerk upright, eyes wide as he hunched over and twitche his hand towards his wand. Standing there, framed by the crumbling remains of a wall, was Draco, his dark robes almost blending into the forest scrub, his grey eyes almost hidden in the shadows. There was a moment of tense silence, which Draco broke suddenly, his voice neutral.
"Sorry. I thought I'd just -" he paused. "Nevermind. Goodnight." Abruptly he turned.
Tiny demons of guilt attacked Neville with very pointy pitchforks. His work tumbled to the ground as he jerked upright and took a few steps forward. "Wait!" he said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud. Draco froze. Neville swallowed. "I don't have any more right to this spot than you do," he said quickly. "So . . . you can stay if you want to."
Draco was silent. He nodded curtly and, not quite looking at the other boy, walked over to his perch, swinging up and settling into place with fluid grace. Feeling slightly self-conscious and awkward, Neville gathered up his papers and set to work again. Again as the sun began to set he left the Slytherin boy to his contemplations and trudged back down to the school. Thus began a strange nightly ritual. Neville wasn't sure why he felt drawn to return night after night to spend a few silent hours with the growing enigma that was Draco, but he did, sometimes bringing a book, sometimes not. During the day, Draco seemed unchanged. At first, Neville thought that Malfoy was still taking every opportunity to insult Harry and his gang, but he soon realised this was not the case. If attention was brought to the Gryffindors, Draco would launch some verbal attack, but no longer did he deliberately provoke. They never spoke in these nightly meetings, barely acknowledged the presence of the other.
It was perhaps a fortnight after that Potions class when the first game of the Quidditch season was played, Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw, with a very close finish despite Harry's spectacular capture of the Snitch. There was, of course, the requisite house party following, into which Neville was irresistably drawn, until early in the morning when Ginny actually fell off her chair, asleep.
Neville found himself formulating excuses as he trudged towards the ruin, finally discarding them all with a snort. Bloody arrogance, thinking he'll even care, Neville though to himself, then blinked in surprise as he stopped dead by the entrance arch. Draco was perched in his normal spot, but at Neville's approach jumped down with a catlike grace and stalking towards him, stopping a few feet away and glaring, arms akimbo.
"You didn't come last night." The growl was not a question. Neville suddenly realised he had at least six inches on the other boy.
"The Quidditch match," Neville began, then stopped. Curiosity made his bold. "Why does it matter?"
Something fell in Draco's face, closing it off. He began to turn away. "It doesn't."
Neville lunged after him, grabbing him by the arm. "Oh I think it bloody well does," he retorted. "You've had nothing but contempt for me since the day we met, and now suddenly you respect my privacy, seem to note my presence, and quiet reflective thought doesn't exactly seem like the Malfoy cup of tea."
Draco snarled, shrugging off Neville's hand. "What would you know, Longbottom? At least you -"
Neville could almost hear his jaw snap shut. "At least I what?"
"Nothing," Draco replied shortly, turning away and marching determinedly back to the window.
Neville was not to be deterred. "Why do you come here, Malfoy?" he asked, genuinely curious.
Draco sighed, as if unsure how to answer. "Because I like the quiet," he said finally, pugnaciously, daring Neville to contradict him. "That damn castle has too many people in it. Isn't that why you come here?"
The Gryffindor neatly sidestepped the diversionary ploy. "I thought you liked people," he said, settling on an outcropping. "Your droves of cronies and hangers-on."
Draco laughed, a short bark of scorn. "Just because I have them doesn't mean I want them. Bloody peons, the lot of them. You are the lucky one. No one cares about your comings and goings. You've got some peace."
Now it was Neville's turn to laugh. "You envy me? Being socially invisible is no cakewalk, you know."
Draco's brows knit in confusion. "Cake . . . walk?"
Neville flapped a hand. "Muggle terms I picked up from Hermione. It means 'really easy'."
There was a strange flicker in Draco's eye when Neville said 'Muggle', then the wall came down again. He turned away again. "Why am I even telling you this?"
"Because you can't tell anyone else?" Neville offered. "Happens to me a lot. Even though, I have to say that introspection is horribly out of character for you."
Draco leaned his head back against the rough stone. "I wish it was. Life would be much simpler if it were."
Neville waited. He could tell the Slytherin had more he wanted to say, but couldn't find the words.
"We all have roles to play," he said finally, flicking a stray hair out of his eyes. "Potter gets to be the Hero, Weasley is the Sidekick, Granger's the Brains. Me? I'm the Bad Guy. The Villain." His voice had an ironic, self-mocking twist to it. "Sometime I even envy POtter. He had eleven years of being normal, not being the Hero. But my father . . . my father has drilled into me since birth the Malfoy family values. Ruthlessness, Power, Breeding . . . and unswerving loyalty to the Dark Lord. Dear Daddums made me his successor, with all that entails. A perfect little copy." The mocking tone seemed to drip acid and self-loating. "My father's son."
Neville was silent, his mind racing as he tried to reassembled his mental picture of Draco with all the new pieces. "What role do I play?" he asked finally, his tone light.
Draco looked at him in surprise, his eyes narrowing as he looked him over. Draco had thought of him as the pudgey, quailing little boy he had been, but now saw that he was wrong. The young man gazing calmly back at him was tall, shoulders broadening to accomodate. His hair was short and slightly unruly, his face square, and he radiated a kind of quiet, competant strength. "Ask me a few years ago, and I would have said Cannonfodder," he said slowly. "Now, I'm not so sure."
A grin slid across Neville's face. "Brutal honesty. Was that in character?"
"I don't know," Draco replied, frowning. "But you're quick, Longbottom."
Neville ducked his head in acknowledgement. "I try. So what else is 'in character' but 'out of role'?"
Draco gave him an odd look. "Why do you care?" he asked, not scornfully, but curiously.
Neville frowned. "I don't know. Inherent curiosity? Masochism?"
Draco snickered. "I think a trip into my psyche definitely counts as the latter." He sobered. "It might be nice, to take the mask off for a bit. But -"
Neville shook his head. "You have a reputation to maintain, I know. I won't say a word."
Draco shook his head emphatically. "You make it sound juvenile. If word got back to my father that I wasn't the little prick he knows and loves, life could get very dangerous for me. And you."
It was the haunted look in his eyes more that his slightly melodramatic statement that made Neville soberly agree. It was almost as dangerous, he realised, to be Draco's friend as Harry's. They spoke no more that night, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable, as each boy pondered the implications of this new not-quite-but-almost-friendship.
Go read part II!