At first Harry (for who else could it have been?) could not believe it was really Draco Malfoy standing not far from him. Then he realized this was not a vision of any sort, and that the blond ex-Slytherin was really there, in flesh and blood.

They had not seen each other for five years, ever since they graduated from Hogwarts, but Malfoy had not changed much. He was still tall – though shorter than Harry by a few inches – and slender, and he had grown his hair a little so that the fringe flopped over his eyes. His eyes were narrowed slightly in the usual, haughty manner, as though challenging Harry to come closer.

Harry didn't accept this challenge – he didn't want anything to do with his former – or was it only former? - enemy. He simply slid off the dance-floor, and when Hermione and Ron, who were by the table, threw quizzical looks at him, he gestured at the veranda.

It was cold outside, but Harry felt the sudden need for fresh air. The late autumn night was dark, and the moon was half-covered by the leaden clouds, but Harry loved this weather. He had always preferred late autumn and winter to springs and summers. Didn't know why, but the fact was that he always looked forward to the cold.

He closed his eyes, trying to steady his erratically beating heart. Why had seeing Malfoy affected him so? This was reunion night, so all of Harry's year was there, and he had greeted and spoke to almost everyone – so why was he so shocked to see Malfoy? He couldn't understand – yet.

The door opened again, and Harry's eyes snapped open. "Think of the devil and he's here", Harry thought, as he saw Malfoy himself appear on the veranda.

'Avoiding me, Potter?' Malfoy drawled, pulling on his jacket as he approached Harry.

'Like I've got nothing better to do,' Harry snapped. Malfoy was still, it seemed, the arrogant little jerk he had been in Hogwarts.

Malfoy took out a Galois and a lighter, and lit the cigarette.

'You smoke?' Harry asked, surprised.

'Since sixth year, Potter,' Malfoy replied, smoke swirling in the air, 'just shows how much you don't know about me, doesn't it?'

'As if you know anything about me, Malfoy,' Harry said, indifferently.

'I know a lot about you, Potter,' Draco said, gracefully lowering himself onto a wooden chair, 'you became an Auror when you were eighteen, took out six Deatheaters in the last year, working in a team with the mudblood Granger and Viktor Krum.'

Harry winced when Malfoy referred to Hermione as 'mudblood', but he said nothing. What Malfoy had said was true – he had indeed killed four and put two Deatheaters in Azkaban in the last year, and it was also true that Hermione (who had passed the Auror examination a year after him) and Viktor (who had decided to give up his Quidditch career and also become an Auror, so he could work with his fiancйe Hermione), worked together and were called one fo the best teams in the history of the Ministry. He did not know if this was true, but they were still alive,and that must have meant they were good.

'You're also single,' Draco continued with a sneer, 'judging from the fact that you were dancing alone.'

Harry looked up, suddenly angry.

'Why did you come, Malfoy?' he asked, and his voice was a hiss, 'didn't you have enough of making my life a misery in Hogwarts? Want to continue it now, too?'

'I actually came because Pansy begged me to,' Draco shrugged, tossing the cigarette into a puddle, 'but I couldn't find her anywhere.'

'She left with Zabini an hour ago, I think, ' Harry informed him.

It seemed as thought the blond did not really care.

'Is it true?' Harry asked suddenly, 'about your parents, I mean?'

It was only momentarily, but Harry saw pain flash across Draco's face, but a fraction of a second later, the mask of coldness was back on once again.

'Yes,' Draco said, shortly. 'Murdered. Why, you glad?'

'No,' Harry said, softly, 'did you forget the same person killed my parents, too?'

Draco looked at him.

'They were crap parents, Potter. But they were my parents. No matter how screwed up they were, I never wished them to be killed. Never!'

His voice rose so that he was almost shouting, face flushed with fury – but Harry knew that anger was not directed at him. Anger at Voldemort, perhaps, at his parents for joining the Deatheaters, but, for once, not at Harry.

'I know how you -' Harry began gently, but a high-pitched scream interrupted him.