Long time no see…?

This is an edited chapter. It's very, very different from the original chapter three posted. This story is going in an entirely different direction than it was originally going, because I had a change of heart about the plot and what I wanted to do to this story. If you're looking for fluff, this fic will likely not have it. The direction I'm going is very dark. It's a war fic. And it's definitely Dramione (I wanted to dispel any concerns about the pairing early).

Thanks for being patient, my lovely readers.

Reviews are like shoes; I can't get enough of them. So, please, feed my addiction.

It was clear from the start that Draco was nothing like the other Slytherins.

He didn't ridicule and shun those from other houses. He didn't have clever, devastating comebacks at a moment's notice to use against anyone who insulted him. He was also somewhat... meek. It was without a doubt his intelligence rivaled that of Hermione's, but he didn't have the courage to stand and strike back when someone antagonized him.

Which, of course, made him the perfect target for most of the Slytherins and many of the Gryffindors.

Draco spent most of his time in library, especially during meals. When Hermione and Harry asked him why he never ate dinner with the rest of the Slytherins, he shrugged it off. He didn't tell them about some of the bullying that went on in the House (and outside of it). The two of them were really his only friends, and he wasn't about to make him think he was weak.

By the time second year rolled around, they still had no idea what was going on. He didn't share many classes with them, and any time he spent talking to them was spent in the library.

It wasn't until Hermione caught him in the hospital wing with a giant red welt on his neck that he thought she was starting to suspect something. He immediately claimed that this was the first one, a little prank between Slytherins. Luckily, Madame Pomfrey wasn't there to inform her that he had, in fact, been in the hospital wing numerous times due to stinging hexes.

She let it go relatively quickly.

But it didn't stop happening.

It escalated from stinging hexes. Draco was fairly good with a wand, but there was sometimes simply too many of them. And he had gotten used to using magical glamours on the bruises on his face and body.

The Slytherins loathed him because, somehow, they knew that he was a traitor to the pureblood cause. His best friend was a Muggleborn witch. The Gryffindors hated him because of his family, because of his father's obvious support for Voldemort. Everyone knew that there was no one to protect him. He became the one person that his classmates could take their anger and resentment out on.

And Draco endured. He didn't utter a word about what was going on throughout second year. He learned how to layer the glamour charms so there wasn't a hint of damage to any visible part of his body. He watched Harry gesture wildly as he spoke animatedly of all his adventures at Hogwarts. He listened to him call the school his second home, the one place he felt like he mattered.

Draco understood. People loved Harry here. They worshipped the ground he walked on. They were jostling in line to only speak to him.

Harry never noticed anything. Neither did Hermione. But every once in a while, when he rubbed the back of his head because someone had slammed it against the wall the night before, she'd stare at him. She'd look at him, her gaze piercing and intense, and then she'd turn her eyes away as if it had never occurred.

It hit a boiling point in April. Draco remembered it was a Friday, and the three of them were going to Hogsmeade the following morning. He was walking down the main hall, only a hundred feet from the dungeons.

He felt a Full Body Bind stop him in his tracks.

It occurred to him, as they hurled curse after curse and blow after blow at him, that there was no way he could cast enough glamour charms to hide the damage. He'd only had to cover a few bruises here and there. Magic only went for so far.

But, as he drifted into unconsciousness, he wondered exactly how long he had thought he could hide what was going on.

He woke up in the hospital wing, the bright sunlight lining the insides of his eyelids, making it impossible for him to sleep. His mother was seated beside the bed, her hand holding his, looking at him as if she was afraid to believe he was there at all.

"What's wrong?" he asked her, feeling like his mouth was stuffed with cotton.

She looked at him disbelievingly. "You... there were Healers everywhere. They brought you and had to inflate your lung because someone kicked you so hard that it collapsed." She turned her back to him, speaking to the room as if someone else was there to hear her. "Six broken ribs. You couldn't breathe. Your arm broken in three places. A concussion."

He listened to all of this in silence, remembering the few Muggle books he'd gotten his hands on. A concussion was a major injury to the head.

It couldn't have been that bad.

"I saw the bruises, Draco," she said.

He looked at her. Her eyes were searching his, as if she was trying to find an answer.

"Not all of them were from two nights ago. This has been happening to you for a long time."

He stayed silent, his eyes now on the floor.

"I am your mother and you will be honest with me," she continued, her voice miles away. "You are going to tell me exactly who keeps doing this to you."

And, finally, he shrugged. He ignored the searing pain it caused throughout his entire body. "There are too many to name."

She was silent for a moment. She didn't say another word as she swept out of the hospital wing, her robes billowing behind her.

Draco laid his head down on his pillow and allowed himself to sleep again.

He woke up to the sound of shouting. It was clear to him that Hermione and Harry were having an argument. And since he wasn't ready to face them, he kept his eyes shut, hoping that they'd go away eventually.

"How dare you?" he heard Hermione say, her voice hushed now, as if suddenly aware of Draco's sleeping form. "As if I could have done anything to prevent this."

"Neither of us had any idea about what was going on. That's what makes it worse."

"He never told us."

"We're his best friends, Hermione!" Harry countered, his voice rising in volume. "He shouldn't have had to tell us. It should have been obvious to us." And his voice cut off, the only sound the clicking of the old Muggle clock in the corner of the wing. "Every fucking day he was targeted at this school and I couldn't have been bothered to look closely enough to see what he was going through."

"I know you think you can save everyone, Harry, but not everything can be avoided."

"You don't get it," he responded, his voice quiet again. "I can't even save my best friend from school bullies. If I can't protect him..."

"This is not about you," Hermione said, cutting him off. Her voice was cold and unforgiving, although Draco wasn't sure which one of them she refused to forgive. "This is about him."

"He wouldn't tell his mother any names. We have nothing to go on. We have no idea…"

"Oh, come off it, Harry. We've seen evidence of this sort of thing before. People were bothering him. We were just too stupid to take it as it was."

"We don't know who actually attacked him. We can't just get back at everyone we saw calling him a silly name-"

"Of course we can," she replied, lightly, as if they were discussing the menu at dinner. "It's called blanket revenge, Harry."

The conversation lapsed between them as they walked out of the hospital wing.

When he was finally cleared to return to class, there wasn't a single word spoken against him. Not one Stinging Hex. He wondered briefly if Dumbledore had caught the perpetrators, but dismissed the thought immediately. No one cared if he was hurt, especially not the teachers.

He wasn't approached all day, in fact, until a first-year Hufflepuff boy scurried up to him, staring at him in fright.

"How'd you do it?" the boy whispered.

"Pardon?" he asked belligerently, uncharacteristically.

"Terry Boot!" he said, his words slurring together in an attempt to explain.

Draco's eyebrows rose. Terry had been one of his most aggressive tormentors, and he was relatively sure he was part of the small group of boys to attack him. "I'm sorry?"

"Boot was caught with a cheating quill on his Potions Exam. Snape caught him, told him to hand him the quill. But it was stuck to his fingers." The boy's eyes darted towards him, and then back to the ground. His voice shook slightly. "He wouldn't even defend himself. It was like he was under the Imperius or something." The boy paused. "He got expelled. You made an example of him, didn't you?"

He didn't answer, and the boy disappeared as quickly as he had come.

And it suddenly occurred to him that he might have someone that cared after all.

Draco had been trying to get his Patronus for approximately six months.

Harry had had it since third year, and though both were excellent at Charms, Draco could never seem to get that bloody spell. Remus had helped him some, but every time he tried they both got too frustrated to continue. He would not let Harry suffer through the job of teaching him, either.

He just needed to find the memory. The perfect point in time, the point where everything was lovely and it filled his heart with such joy it radiated throughout his entire being.

But he simply could not think of anything.

He put it aside for the time being, determined that this problem was not going to persist. He was a superior student. He would figure it out, and in the meantime he would help the other wizards and witches defend themselves. Their professor this year for Defense against the Dark Arts was, predictably, incompetent. Snape would have probably been the next teacher following the horrid Dolores Umbridge. But now they were stuck with Professor King, an old man who had little interest in anything besides old British literature.

"I asked… well, I asked Luna to help us," Harry said as they entered the Room of Requirement.

Draco raised his eyebrow curiously. "Really? And why would you do that?"

"She's sharp and good at defensive charms, that's why."

"She is also very likely to talk more about "Nargles", or whatever the hell she calls those things, than actual spells."

Harry rolled his eyes as if he was tired of Draco's excuses. In reality, Draco knew he had no defense for his choice. Luna was one of the more strange people he'd ever met in his life.

And, as if by apparation, she appeared behind them.

"Luna!" Harry exclaimed, jumping back. "I didn't think-how exactly did you get in here…?"

"It's amazing what you can get away with when you're quiet," she said neutrally, her lips curved up in a serene smile. Her robes were bright purple, and she was wearing glittered sneakers. Her hair was tied up into a long braid down her back, and her head was tilted in a way that suggested innocence and yet a vast array of knowledge beyond the others around her.

"Um," said Harry in response, clearly flustered. There was a light blush on his cheeks, barely visible from the dismal light in the room.

Draco rolled his eyes and sighed. "The students will be getting here any moment, Luna. You know you can handle this?"

Her eyebrows drew together in genuine confusion. "Well, we can't know anything until it happens, can we?"

He supposed she had a point.

And, as it turned out, she was quite helpful. So helpful, in fact, that Draco's presence was mostly unnecessary. Once he was sure that Harry and Luna had it all under control, he retreated to the back of the room to work on his Patronus.

He closed his eyes and let himself slip into the past, the smooth waves of his memories pulling him under. He remembered nothing particularly pleasant about his childhood; he recalled nanny after nanny taking care of him when his mother went out to her societal functions and long vacations. His father rarely visited, perhaps once or twice every few years. More often than not he was alone by the time he was ten years old. He pictured the day he met Harry and Hermione, his first friends, the only people who really had stood up for him.

But none of it worked.

"Don't look for a moment that made you happy," Luna said, his voice startling him.

He whirled around. "I'm sorry?"

"Look for that moment that made you content and at peace. I find it works better than delirious joy," she continued. "Especially when you don't remember anything that fills you up with such happiness."

And, throughout the day, he tried. He sifted through his memories, trying to remember something that had put him at peace.

It didn't come to him until late at night, when he was in his bed and he should have already been asleep.

He remembered that day specifically, down to the clouds in the sky and the cold that seeped through his bones. He had wrapped his outer cloak around her to keep her warm, he recalled. And she had smiled up at him in a demure fashion, her long eyelashes brushing her cheeks. He wasn't sure why she had asked him to take a walk in the gardens in such harsh weather, but he hadn't questioned it; he had never questioned anything when it came to Hermione.

They hadn't spoken, not once. Not until she turned to him, her eyes looking up at him. Her gaze hauntingly beautiful. Her smile suggested playfulness, but in that moment, her eyes were wide with a heavy somberness.

"It'll be summer someday," she had said to him, quietly.

"Sooner than it seems right now, I think," he murmured.

And that made her smile, genuinely, as if he had given her hope. And she leaned forward to brush her lips against his, softly, then firmly. Her hands had cupped his neck, frozen fingers against feverish skin.

He pulled himself out of the memory abruptly and shut it away. That was never going to be revisited. Not even if it worked.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift away, refusing to think of anything at all.