"This is so boring..."

He was doodling loops all over the three-hole college-ruled paper she had given him, and dropped his eyes from Mr. Gregors (who was enthusiastically quoting Voltaire) to look at Heather. She had to disagree.

For the past three bells she had been watching him, staring at the way his broad shoulders tugged at her brother's gray t-shirt, the strangeness of the visitors' badge clipped over his heart, watching the florescent lights glint off his golden hair, staring in awe at the way he filled the small doorways as she showed him through her school.

"I'm sorry I'm not entertaining you, Mr. Malfoy," she murmured back. He raised an eyebrow.

"I'm having a bad influence on you, aren't I?" he asked, his British accent sounding glorious to her ears. A pink flush raced across her cheeks. She would never get used to him, not if he stayed forever.

"What would give you that impression?" she replied.

"You don't seem to be the type to talk in class," he responded. His expression became slightly ironic and focused on something over her shoulder. "And Mr. Gregors just asked you a question."

Heather turned red. Indeed, the entire class was staring at her.

"Didn't he believe that all humans were influenced by their environments, thus all man was a tabula rasa?" she replied, answering the question posed, realizing that her history teacher was now discussing John Locke. Mr. Gregors acknowledged her correct answer and continued the lecture.

"How did you do that?" asked Draco, surprised. He was staring at her. Actually staring. Draco Malfoy. Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were silvery and glinting and gorgeous. She breathed in, then out. It was just Draco. Draco, who had never showered, who had hugged Mr. Bunny and slept on her desk chair.

"Mr. Gregors goes by the chapter," she replied. "He always quizzes us on the bold words, so I just figured..."

She had never had anyone to explain her little secret to. It was strange, sharing it with Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.

When the bell rang she didn't notice; she was too busy staring at the way his large, strong hand dwarfed the number two pencil.

"Shall we?" he asked politely and stood. He then had the decency to pull her chair out for her.

"Thank you." She sounded genuinely shocked.

"It's the least I could do," he answered. "I am making you schizophrenic, after all."

"I don't mind," she replied, biting her lip shyly. He grinned.

--

By the time seventh bell rolled around, Heather had completely forgotten the absurdity of the whole situation. She sat down at the square of four desks, smiling and talking to Draco, when Louis Christianson walked into the room.

"Excuse me? Heather Westerton?" Draco was waving a hand in front of her face. Mid-word, she had frozen to watch the entrance of her favorite boy. She blinked, and turned back to him, her face that doe-like surprised look that she had given him just the other night when he had materialized in her room.

"That's him," she whispered.

"Who?" asked Draco scathingly, scowling.

"You!" she replied.

It took a moment to explain so that he could understand. "I based you on him. I mean, I suppose you aren't really... but when it was you, I was thinking of him." She said it reverently, like he was a god or something. Draco stared at him incredulously. That wanna-be jock who wore his hair purposely sloppily, who kept rolling his sleeves up to expose his – not that impressive – arms? That fool who walked with forced casualness, nodding his head to acknowledge everyone as though the country were passing to be reviewed? That idiot whose expression seemed to say, "You think I'm hot – and I know it!"? Draco glared.

"He's a jackass."

Heather stared. "No he's not! He's gorgeous."

"Whatever – he's a douchebag."

"Anachronism," Heather replied.

"What?"

"The term douchebag wasn't used in the 90s."

"Whatever." He turned away in his chair, pouting, disgusted. For once, Heather didn't care.

"Hey Heather," Louis called. "About the essay..."

Heather ducked into her backpack, her face burning. Draco was forgotten. He was speaking to her! His very voice made her heartbeat quicken, made the pulse rush through her veins.

Brad glared at Draco.

"That's my chair," he growled. Draco glanced him over, looking unconcerned, eyebrows raised. Brad, Mark, and Louis quickly converged over the paper to write their names in the upper left hand corner.

"Excuse me," Draco interrupted – the words were polite, but his tone was condescending. The three boys turned to look at him, and their faces were smug – three against one, odds they liked.

"Did Heather write that?" he asked. All three boys assumed defensive positions, crossing their arms in a way that said, "Yeah, what's it to you?"

"We had basketball," Mark growled.

"Yeah, she said she would, isn't that right, Heather?" asked Brad.

Heather nodded mutely, her eyes on Louis although he hadn't spoken.

"You got a pen?" asked Mark, scribbling to try to get his pen to work.

"Yeah." Louis handed him one. This, too, did not write anything. Mark attempted a pencil; the tip snapped.

Heather glanced at Draco, looking angry. His hand was in his pocket, clutching his wand, and his lips were moving quickly, silently.

"Here, Louis," she murmured, holding out her pen and simultaneously sliding between Draco and the boys to cut off his line of vision, so he could not maintain the eye contact necessary to perform the hex.

The three boys wrote their names. Mrs. Flett collected the papers, looking disappointed.

–

"I can't believe you!" Draco exclaimed.

"What?" asked Heather. They were walking to art class together,

"That guy is a complete tool."

"Who?"

"Louis what's-his-face."

"Mmmm. Yeah," Heather agreed to him without know to what she was acquiescing. Anytime she heard the name Louis the answer was yes.

"Heather!" Draco grabbed her by her shoulders to try and hold her attention, but she was staring off down the corridor: Louis Christianson, flanked by his basketball goons, was walking past. She seemed to visibly melt, her usually-formal posture weakening as she sighed longingly. Draco strode off in the opposite direction.

For a moment, Heather was conflicted. Should she follow Louis? Maybe fabricate an issue with the paper, which she knew was A+, or should she follow Draco Malfoy? Draco Malfoy.

She probably would have stood all day in the hallway, debating, but Draco returned.

"I can't believe you!" he exclaimed.

"What makes you so much better than him?" she inquired, her eyes drifting to watch as Louis disappeared around a corner.

"I don't know," he replied scathingly, "maybe I'm not a jerk?"

"Aren't you?" she asked. He stared at her. True, many writers did view him as horrible – rude, selfish, pessimistic, self-involved...

"They why do you like me?" His voice was harsh. She blinked.

"You remind me of him."

"Then why do you like him!?"

She stared at him and crossed her arms. "Because."

"It's ridiculous. What one nice thing has he ever said to you?"

Silence. Heather tightened her arms across her chest, looking betrayed.

"What has he ever done for you?"

Heather bit her lip, looking upwards as tears collected in her eyes.

"What makes you think that he will ever in a million years like you?"

Heather swallowed.

"And you're worse," she whispered, her voice thick with tears.

She marched off to art class.

–

Heather had planned on using that art class to cry. To wallow in her own feelings of mediocrity and self-disgust. She was half-way to working herself into a true emotional breakdown, tears and all, when she saw Louis walk past the open door of her art class. His strong arm – the same strong arm she had fantasized about for too many sleepless nights – snugly fit around the hips of some other girl. This may have pushed poor Heather over the proverbial cliff, but instead she was strangely calm. The tears she had been summoning for the past five minutes (to drown her feelings in self-pity and promise herself the validity of her own convictions) suddenly evaporated. She blinked, amazed at her own dry-eyed-ness. It suddenly made sense.

Draco was right: Louis Christianson was never going to like her, not in a million years.

–

Draco decided to give her fifteen minutes to cool off. He paced down the hallways, agitation in every line of his perfect figure, in the way he shoved his hands deep into his jeans' pockets, in the way his forehead crumpled in the all-too-familiar scowl. Finally he determined he had given her enough time. Of more import, however, was his own calming: he knew he needed to be level-headed enough to not pursue his own beliefs further. If Heather wanted to frustrate herself further over this jackass, he told himself, then there was nothing even a Malfoy could do.

When he came into the art class and slid onto a stool beside the girl, he stopped himself from opening his own mouth to apologize. Heather Westerton was looking at him differently. It wasn't the lustful, hero-worshiping, puppy-dog eyes she had been giving him for the past day, but rather a grateful look, appraising, of respect. She smiled a tiny smile. And suddenly words weren't necessary.

–

They didn't talk during the rest of the school day; they were silent for the busride back to Heather's house. Draco followed her up to her bedroom awkwardly, and changed back into his clothing. What more was there to do? Heather didn't want him anymore.

He was poised, one hand on the closet door, when Heather stopped him.

"Draco," she murmured. The way she said his name was different. It made him feel sad and happy at the same time, the disconcerting feeling of missing a stair or thinking you missed a stair or wondering if you will miss a stair. Heather didn't want him anymore. Both of him. Wonderful and terrible.

"I have an idea," she continued. He nodded, unable to speak.

--

Heather sat down at the computer as Draco stepped cautiously back through the closet and the mirror. When he saw what was on the other side, he fought the instinct to turn around and flee back towards Heather's room.

The hallway was still charred with the remnants of the tragic fiendfyre, wrote Heather.

Draco looked around, confused. He tried to get his bearings –

and coughed, as he scanned the hallway, his silvery eyes bright in his ashen face. He couldn't breathe the air. He barely felt his head swirl without the oxygen he needed. He didn't even realize his knees buckled beneath him until –

Draco trusted her. He let himself fall to the stone to Heather's voice.

Suddenly he felt gentle hands turning his face to clean air.

"Are you alright?" came a melodious voice.

"Yeah," he managed to cough out.

"I'm Astoria Greengrass," the gentle, beautiful voice continued. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

--

Epilogue – Nineteen Years Later

It was as if no time had passed. There was the Hogwarts Express, the same scarlet engine wreathed in smoke. But so much had changed. Astoria reached out and squeezed her husband's hand without removing her other from Scorpius's shoulder. Draco smiled at her, and his eye caught Harry Potter's across the station. They had not spoken to any of the other students about the strange occurrence with the narration. Only he, Harry, Hermione, and Ron seemed to remember it, and all had wished to forget sooner rather than later. Harry nodded covertly, and Draco returned the gesture, then returned to say goodbye to his little son. But he wasn't worried.

Narration had not bothered Draco Malfoy for nineteen years. All was well.