Chapter 6

General Point Of View

Pale haired pure-blood Draco Malfoy, proclaimed the Prince of Slytherin by his housemates, sat in his usual alcove in one of the halls, one that he frequented a good deal his fourth year, and continued into his fifth. It was a good place to think, and keep away from insufferable Gryffindors.

He amended the thought. Not all of the students who wore red and gold were insufferable. There was one girl, Rose Braddock, his only friend before Hogwarts, whom he liked. He still harbored a major crush on her from the year before.

He had acted on that crush after the Yule Ball announcement, asking Rose the first chance he had. She'd accepted, and she wore a deep blue floral dress that was absolutely stunning on her. He'd nearly gotten into a fight that night over her, but it didn't get far; there were too many people. His arch enemy, Blessed Potter; the Chosen One, had taken the Weasely Girl, but Draco knew that Potter had asked Rose first; it would have eaten his heart if she had accepted. After that though, for reasons unknown to either of them, their relationship deteriorated again, except for a short moment the day after Voldemort returned.

He wondered what happened to the very close-nit friendship the pure-bloods once shared, unwilling to admit that it was his fault entirely, instead blaming it on her place in the Golden Quartet, consisting of Potter, Weaselby, the Mudblood, and Rose. He hated seeing her with them, longing to take their place and return things to the way they had been, but he highly doubted that it could happen.

During their first year, he hadn't given her a second glance after they were separated by the Sorting Hat. He had hoped that she would follow him into Slytherin, but when he had taken the time to think about it the next year, he realized that she was anything but a Slytherin. She was far too kind and intelligent, always fair spoken, with hardly a harsh word for anyone. That was one of the things that he liked about her. Even when he was a prick she still seemed to trust and care about him.

The funny thing was that ever since they had arrived at school, she had been avoiding him, even going as far as going down a side corridor to keep from running into him. Why? Why was she suddenly acting as if he was the last person she wanted to see? He didn't think that way about her. One of the reasons that he frequented this particular spot in this corridor was because he could watch her as she went to her near daily healing class with Madame Pomfrey. He had realized that if she caught him he would have to think of something to explain himself, and if he told her the truth that might push her away from him forever. He didn't want that.

He loved everything about her. He loved the way her red hair waved down her back in a waterfall, loved the way that she was kind to everyone even if she was mad at them, even if she had to keep her emotions in check and not show what she was truly feeling. He loved her smile and how she always did better in potions and charms than he did. When it was Granger, he was anything but civil. He especially loved her eyes, a sparkling emerald green that interestingly matched Potter's, but he didn't care: they looked far better on her anyway.

Draco shook his head. "Why can't I get her out of my head?!" he howled, after-wards hoping that nobody had heard him. What would his house mates think? Proud Slytherin Draco Malfoy having Gryffindor's resident Princess on the brain. He would become the laughing stock of the school for sure. He may as well be hanging out with Weaselby.

Potter had been waiting patiently in the corridor for several minutes, waiting for his housemate Draco guessed. It disgusted him that the one girl who put up with him outside of Slytherin house and his nemisis were slowly becoming best friends, a role that he himself had once filled for her. He longed for the days when they would tell each other anything and were inseparable. They drifted apart as soon as they arrived for their first year at Hogwarts but he blamed Potter and the Golden Trio for taking her away from him.

He considered using his powers as a School Prefect to detain or penalize Potter for some obscure reason, but for Rose's sake he decided not to be a total git.

Footsteps that he knew only belonging to her echoed through the corridor, and he quietly looked up to see Rose, her hair held in place with a red and gold headband and cascading half-way down her back the way he always liked it, entering the intersection of his hallway and the corridor that led to Madame Pomfrey's class but was also a side way to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. He as well as anyone else in the room at the time had seen her stick up for Potter, and it made him uncomfortable; he'd meant every word when he confronted Potter on the train platform.

She finally made her appearance, and Rose met up with Harry, chatting idly as they made their way to detention. Draco tried not to snarl and draw attention to himself. Whether he liked it or not, Potter was Rose's friend.

Disgusted, he looked away from the pair, resenting Potter even more for growing so close to Rose. He should be there talking with her, not Potter, not the self-absorbed Chosen One who felt that the entire world should bow down in his presence! Rose deserved better than that. Mostly though, he was jealous that Potter was her new best friend, and that he had been thrown to the curb like a broken trinket no longer of value to its owner. Draco stayed in the alcove – wallowing in his jealous misery.

He heard the two again within sixty minutes. This surprised him, since detention was regularly along the lines of a few hours. Something must have happened.

He heard Rose and Potter arguing, and he was able to catch the gist of the conversation. Rose had finally lost control of her power, and paid the price for its use. He was one of the few people who knew about it, and kept it that way as part of a promise to her from when they were little.

Eventually, he heard her light footsteps echo alone through the corridor. He didn't hear Potter.

He knew that she would be in sight in a moment or two, and he wanted her to explain herself. He wanted to know why she was letting Potter take his place in her life. He slipped out of his hiding place and started walking toward the intersection. "Rose." He called bitterly, more so than he would have liked. He hadn't planned to use that tone, but his resentment and jealousy towards Potter was getting the better of him and he struggled to rein it in.

He apparently failed to keep the emotions off of his face, or maybe she was just livid, because the instant she made eye contact with him, staring at him with angry emerald orbs, she snapped, "What is bothering you, Draco?" a scowl on her face. She sounded incredibly annoyed.

The jealousy and resentment that he harbored and the pain he felt because Rose had been avoiding him caused him to lose the ability to articulate sentences. "You..." He started, only to find out that he couldn't finish. He cursed himself as his jumbled brain tried to sort itself out so that he could voice his mind. As he fought an internal war, he looked down.

His mind went blank and all of his anger and negativity left him as he pulled her hand up and examined that cuts that marred the soft, delicate, pale flesh that sheathed her dainty hand. Even though her gift had obviously tried to heal her, he could easily make out the words spelled out by the gashes.

I must not tell lies now burned themselves into his mind. Had Umbridge done this to her? Had the former Slytherin tortured her in other ways? Was this why the girl in front of him was acting the way she was? Was Rose in more danger?

As these questions bounced around in Draco's head, he tried again to say something. "You..." Again, he couldn't finish; he wasn't used to having all of these foreign emotions in his head, and he was confused besides, but his tone of voice did change as he felt his malice ebb and be replaced with concern and worry for the beautiful girl whose hand he examined.

Rose, too tired to really notice what was going on inside the head of the Slytherin, demanded, "Just spit it out already."

He looked away from her hand and up at her, his cloud gray eyes peering intently into her jewel-toned ones. She was somewhat startled by all of the emotion that lay in his gaze.

Unable to bare the tension between them, Draco dropped her hand and turned away from the green eyed beauty, walking down the hall toward the Slytherin Common-room, but not before an emotion that not even he understood flashed across his face.

He stalked into the Common Room, seething. The green cast of the light gave his skin and hair as sickly color, so that he looked somewhat like a zombie. He should have felt like one, having spent the time before detention in Quidditch practice with Potter, but he was too angry at the new Ministry appointed Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for hurting Rose and too startled by the emotions he had churning inside him because Rose had been hurt to act accordingly.

Blaize Zabinii, a dark haired Italian boy who was kind - for a Slytherin - was lounging on one of the couches reading the latest edition of the Daily Prophet when the blonde walked in. No one else was in the room, and it was probably better that way, because when Blaize looked up and saw Draco's face, he knew that something had happened to his friend that would be best kept from the rest of his gossip-spreading house. Concern shaded his face as he spoke. "What happened to you, Draco?"

Draco looked at the boy peeking over the back of the sofa. Blaize was one of Draco's only two true friends within his house; Crabbe, Goyle, and Bulestrode, whom he rather disliked when he thought about it; were more his cronies than friends, and he never told them anything they didn't need to know for one thing or another, but Blaize and Pansy knew Draco inside and out. They were Draco's confidants.

"Something I have to take care of." Draco answered curtly before striding over to the writing desk and penning a missive to his father. Blaize put down the dog-eared paper and walked over to the fuming wizard, glancing over his shoulder and reading what his friend was writing. Draco was too furious to say anything about it.

"Dear Father,

There is something of vital importance that you must take care of as soon as possible. I discovered today that the detention our new teacher gave to Rose included torture, specifically with a Blood Quill. For Rose's safety, please address the matter.

Sincerely,

Your Son." Blaize read quietly. Draco ignored him and folded the paper into an envelope, sealing it with wax from the green candle that burned brightly beside him. He would send the letter as soon as he could make it to the Owlry.

"I knew that Professor Umbridge was a piece of work, but she... Rose?!" Fumed the dark haired boy. Draco looked over his shoulder at him finally, but no jealousy roiled within him like it had at Harry. Blaize had been the last member of the Pure Quartet, along with Draco, Rose, and Pansy. Blaize treated Rose as a sister, and her kindness seemed to have rubbed off on him before Hogwarts.

Draco was silent as he pulled himself out of the chair and whipped out his wand. "Duel?" asked the blonde. He wasn't threatening Blaize; they practiced their dueling skills together when there was no one else around, and it was a good way to relieve frustration.

"Sure." Answered Blaize, casting a sound-proof shield.

"What has gotten into you Draco?" asked Millicent as she sat across from him at breakfast the next morning. Draco ignored her and Millicent turned her head to stare at the object of her house-mate's fascination. She smirked and turned back around.

Draco's face fell. He'd been watching Rose too closely, and now Millicent knew about it. If the circumstances had been the least bit different, Draco would have cursed her for even having the notion that he might fancy someone, but, even though Draco's hand still itched for his wand that rested in his pocket, he did not act on it. He continued to ignore her and stare at the red-haired Gryfindor. His fury rose again when he saw her absentmindedly rubbing her sore hand.

He had sent the letter to his father earlier that morning, and he only hoped it would reach him as soon as possible.