Hey! Sorry it took so long to update, but life is... well, life. Anyway, it's up now, even if it's short. This fic is not really about any kind of interactions. It's more of an essay using the Harry Potter characters, actually. It's not intended to be fun or funny or anything, so if you don't like that kind of stuff, stop reading. I've got other, different fics.

Anyway, here ya go!

"Here we are." Madame Pince handed him a book, different from the one Potter had. The cover was a thick kind of paper, with "1984" written across the top in bold, colourful letters. Draco flipped to the opening chapter, skimming over the first few lines.

"Thank you most kindly, Madame Pince. I shall have an enjoyable time with this book."

She tapped the novel with her wand, and the his name appeared on the ticket in the inside cover. "The book is due in three weeks, Mr. Malfoy-"

"Madame Pince, I was wondering if you had anything on the uses of-" It was Hermione Granger, of course. Really, she ought to know the library well enough to be the librarian herself. But she did cause a decent enough distraction so that Draco could slip away without any more prying questions.

Settled comfortably on a couch in his room (as Head boy he had his own), Draco began to read the book. It started off rather slow, telling the story of a man inside a rather restrictive government.

"Muggles are so stupid," he noted aloud, "allowing one man to control every aspect of their lives. I don't understand how they can live like that."

Harry was curled up in a chair in the common room long after everyone else had gone to bed. His book was held closely to his chest, leaving an imprint on his black jumper. He'd read the book so many times he almost had it memorized, but he still had no answers to his questions.

He was exactly like Winston Smith, for the most part. Oh, sure, he had no vericose ulcer on his leg and he wasn't a thirty odd, balding man, but the similarities were there all the same.

And he had a feeling that he would end exactly as Winston did.

The portrait to the common room slid open smoothly, revealing a shadowed form. "Who's there?" he called out with no real interest; he wasn't a prefect and he wasn't about to wake Hermione so that she could take off House points.

"Interesting book you were reading, Potter."

"Malfoy?"

The blonde stepped into the dim light of the fire with his customary smirk fixed on his face. "I didn't know you had an interest in Muggle literature, Potter."

"I don't." Harry turned his face away, not wanting to talk to anyone, let alone Malfoy.

"Did you like it?"

Harry turned back, blinking in surprise. "What do you care?"

Draco shrugged noncommittally. "I don't particularly. But I read it, and I've always liked discussing the books I've read. As you're the only one I know who has read it, I figured that we could talk about it."

Harry's eyebrows rose in doubt. "You read a Muggle book?" In response, Draco lifted his own paperback copy. "I've got to be insane."

Draco settled down on a couch, looking not at all uncomfortable in the midst of all the red and gold. He crossed his legs neatly under him and propped his elbow on one knee, using his wrist to support his head. "So, why did you read it?"

Harry gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I found it in my cousin's room two summers ago. It was something to do."

"Two summers ago? And you're still carrying it around? It was a decent enough book, but hardly that good."

"What did it make you think of?"

"It made me think that Muggles are stupid, of course. Allowing themselves to be controlled like that."

"And how is that any different from Lord Voldemort?"

"The two have nothing in common!"

"I can't prove it or anything, but I swear that George Orwell was a wizard. It makes sense, doesn't it? Big Brother, he's the Voldemort of his time. He controls everything to the point where even the resistance is set up by the government."

"That's preposterous!"

Harry cocked an eyebrow. "Is it?"

Draco's mind spun, thoughts racing in directions that had previously been barred. Harry continued speaking, sending his thoughts in increasingly hectic paths.

"What are we supposed to believe in? Prophecies and fate? Those can all be rigged and faked. How do we know that Dumbledore isn't really just a sham?"

"You're a Gryffindor. Dumbledore is your God. How can you even think that he's wrong?"

"How could stuttering, timid Quirrel be a Death Eater? How could your father evade capture for years despite concrete evidence that he was serving Voldemort? Nothing makes sense in this world, Malfoy, nothing at all.

"Except for this. There's some of us who are caught in the middle. Me. Winston. Julia. How do these people choose which path to go down?"

"You pick the winning side, of course," Draco responded with his typical arrogance.

"How do we know there are any sides at all? In the end, their little rebellion merely ended up furthering the goals of the Party. How do I know that's not what I'm doing?"

"You don't."

Miserably, Harry nodded.

After his late night talk with Malfoy, Harry dreamed. His scar was an ulcer in the shape of a ghastly lightning bolt. Posters were plastered over every flat surface, depicting a snake-eyed Voldemort captioned with "The Dark Lord Is Watching You".

Ridiculously, he was wearing the same tattered gray robes that Sirius had worn the first time Harry had ever seen him. In his hand was a package of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans, which he ate with obvious relish.

Suddenly Malfoy appeared behind him, pecking him on the cheek with soft lips and holding out a grease-stained hand. Obligingly, Harry poured a handful of beans into his palm.

"It's so hard to find real candy these days," Malfoy commented. "The only way to get it is on the Black Market, from the Muggles. However did you manage?"

Harry shrugged, popping a coffee flavoured bean into his mouth. "I found this shop outside of Diagon Alley. It's a Mug shop, but I don't think it was watched. It's safe enough for now."

"You're brilliant, Harry," Draco complimented, smiling widely.

The scene shifted, leaving Harry alone in a dingy apartment. On his lap was Tom Riddle's school diary, which he wrote in with a black Phoenix feather. "Saw Dumbledore at work today," he mouthed along with his writing. "He had that look in his eyes. I think he's good. I should try to talk to him, see what he knows. Maybe he has Flamel's book. I want to rebel; I don't like the Party. But I could get caught. But maybe it's all worth it."

Suddenly, Death Eaters burst through the door, dragging him off to face Dumbledore. "You wrote in your diary that you could trust me, Harry. Can you?"

The rest of the dream dissolved in frightening images, crushing paperweights, Dementor-shaped rats and rat-shaped Dementors.