DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. But I am VERY excited about the movies that are coming out soon.

iStat:
Chapter Title - Change My Mind
Word Count - 4,628 words
Rating: PG-14.
WARNING: Malfoy's a sexist prat. XD

Hugs and chocolate bilbies to you all. My bilby of inspiration has struck again thanks to you. In honor of the 10,000 hits mark.

DEDICATED TO:
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And everyone else who dedicated a little of their life to reading this story...I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

bonus chapter:
change my mind
by shu of the wind

Witches were not supposed to wear Muggle clothing. This was something that he'd always taken for granted. He'd never seen a witch in Muggle clothes unless they were a Mudblood or blood traitor, and then that was natural. Witches and wizards were above Muggles; they were not to copy them. Witches and wizards were the superior race. Muggles could dress up as wizards (and fail) but wizards could not and should not dress as Muggles.

Most especially, witches were not to wear Muggle trousers. This was a sin against nature. Not to be done. Verboten, as his cousin from Germany would say. Not allowed. Not even in extreme cases.

And most Slytherin witches agreed (and of course, these were the only witches worth knowing). Most if not all Slytherin witches could see the sense in it. What female would put on a pair of pants that destroyed their femininity and ruin their appeal to any decent wizard? In places like Gryffindor (or, God forbid, Hufflepuff) things like that were expected, but not in Slytherin.

And he'd always seen this as an absolute rule of the jungle. This was the truth. Nobody dared go against it. And once he'd made his own preferences known, then the rest of the House adjusted their own personal opinions to meet his.

Another law of the jungle. Malfoy rules.

It hadn't particularly mattered to him before the opposite sex had become interesting, this issue with trousers; after all, he'd never imagined that witches wore them, not after being initiated into pureblood society where even the thought was greeted with a strange shivery hush. And his mother had never worn them. She didn't have a single pair. It had been an absolute shock to arrive at the school and see that so many little first-year girls were wearing trousers that his jaw had nearly dropped. And since then his opinion of trouser-wearing witches had only decreased. They were revealing, rather than disguising. Tempting rather than intriguing. Simply put, tarts.

And throughout most of his education, this opinion never changed. Nothing could make it change. Because if there was one thing Draco Malfoy refused to do, it was to allow the opinions of others to change his own mind.

So when Astoria Greengrass marched out of the greenhouses one bright Saturday morning wearing a pair of trousers, his jaw really did drop.

Next to him, Pansy stood up straighter, and tittered, flashing a devastatingly vicious smile. "Well, look at you, Astoria. That…garment…really does suit you."

Astoria – Daphne's eleven-year-old sister, a first-year and as shy as her sister was outgoing – blinked a few times. It looked like she'd just wrestled a troll: her hair was tangled and hanging loose around her face; there was dirt streaking across her cheeks; and the heat had flushed color into her normally pale face. She colored hotly, and glanced down at her legs, which were exposed to the air and only thinly clad in denim. She'd even gone so far as to roll up the cuffs of the pants, showing her legs almost up to the knee. More dirt streaked there.

"You're a real niffler, aren't you? Always digging about in the dirt. Can you find the bracelet I dropped last week? You know I'd be ever so grateful." Pansy nearly purred.

Greengrass mumbled something under her breath which Draco couldn't hear, but it sent Pansy – and Daphne – into stitches. Coloring bright red, her eyes going suddenly bright, the younger Greengrass scuttled away, vanishing back into the greenhouse.

What do you think you're doing? A voice whispered in his ear. She's a kid. Nothing more than that.

Draco remained in one place, still too startled to speak. Pansy, Daphne, Theodore walked away. He could hear Pansy's voice echoing over the grounds. "You really must speak to that girl, Daphne. She's an absolute disgrace."

"I've tried, but she just won't listen to me…"

"Draco?" Pansy turned. Her skirt twirled around her knees. "Are you coming?"

"Yes." He said it low at first, and then louder. "Yeah. Coming."

Second time. Fifth year. Draco was in the Quidditch stadium, practicing for the next game. There were, as usual, people wandering the bottom – it was the Slytherin team practice, and it had only been barely soured by the fact that the Gryffindor team had been forcefully reconstructed from the remnants of their last game. But Potter was gone; the Weasleys were gone. Slytherin had the Quidditch Cup in the bag this year.

Draco pulled up high, ignoring the bickering of his teammates, and flew over the top of the stadium, relishing the feel of the wind in his face and wondering when they would be able to break. Crabbe and Goyle had done nothing but strike each other with Beater's Bats the whole practice. It was useless. Stupid of them. But, then again, wasn't that why he'd enlisted them in the first place? Any idiot could swing a bat.

That was when he saw the figure darting over the grounds, robe-less, cloak-less, heading for the Forest. It looked like a first-year. Worse than that, there was a gleam of silver and green from around its neck. A Slytherin first-year, heading for the Forbidden Forest. Draco cast a look down at the ground, wondering when the teacher would come blazing out to stop them, or the oaf, but nothing happened.

You're the Prefect. That annoying voice that had appeared in his head a few years before nagged. You go stop them.

I don't obey voices in my brain.

Too bad for you. You know who they're going to penalize for letting a first-year into the Forest on your watch?

The voice made sense. Draco arced and dove for the ground. The Nimbus Two Thousand and One lived up to its name; before the child had even come within ten feet of the trees, he was planted in his way, the leaves rustling behind him.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The words were out of his mouth before he realized that it wasn't a first-year; he'd misjudged. Astoria Greengrass looked back at him, a scowl on her face, and Draco realized that at thirteen she was almost as tall as he was already. Girls should be shorter. He was taller than Potter after all.

"None of your business." She said coolly, and her voice was so close to Snape's sneering, disdainful tone that he nearly flinched. That tone had never been directed at him before.

"Get back into the castle. You're not allowed out here."

"Who says I'm not?"

"I say. And you're not allowed out here. Go back inside and change. You look like a man."

She didn't snarl at him, like Pansy would have done; she straightened and put her hands on her hips and just looked at him. Draco wondered what had happened over the course of the last year or so. She hadn't been quite so…adult…last time he'd actually interacted with her.

Wasn't that when Pansy made her cry?

Shut up.

Silence for a moment. She's wearing trousers again, did you notice?

I said, SHUT UP.

"You have a very funny expression." Greengrass said clinically. "Are you constipated? Or are you just a prude?"

What was it about this girl and her uncanny ability to shock him out of speech? Draco's mouth dropped open; he stared. Greengrass shifted all her weight on one foot, and gestured with her right hand, leaving her left attached to her cocked hip. "I'm not wearing anything indecent. I'm wearing clothes. And a damn sight more than your girlfriend has on at any given time. There's nothing wrong with these. I had them 'specially made at Madam Malkin's. They're perfectly adequate." She tilted her head a little. "And that means you're the one who has a problem with them. Which means you're a prude."

She looked pleased with herself for saying this. Like a cat that had managed to get into the cream. Draco sputtered. "You – Five points from Slytherin!"

He realized the instant after he'd said it that he'd just docked his own House points.

"Fine." She turned around. "I'll go back. I don't want to lose the Cup this year any more than you do. Not that Umbridge isn't making that easy as a pumpkin pasty." There was something strange in her voice, some sort of underlying emotion that made him wary. Hate? "G'night, Malfoy."

"You –" He said again, but she'd already started away, and she ran well. Her arms moved evenly with her strides, and she was well-paced and almost animal-like in her speed.

Why the bloody hell do you keep noticing this?

Furious with himself, Draco mounted his broomstick again and took off, resolving to erase the argument from his memory forever.

Third time. After the Battle. It would have tickled his pride at any other time to know that she'd come running to him, rather than the other way around, and that she'd actually bothered to worry about him, but not now. Not so soon after the trial. Not so soon after the battle.

His bruises throbbed. His burns…burned. It was enough for him at the moment to simply take solace in the Quidditch Stadium with his parents and not have to see all the people staring at him, wondering what he was doing there when the Dark Lord had failed. Strangely, none of them were complaining about it. Draco took his cue from his parents (and from that javelin-eyed phantom that he kept picturing in his mind, and had for days now) and didn't mention anything to do with pureblood supremacy or even his relief at the Dark Lord's demise.

What will we do now? That was the question, wasn't it? What would the Malfoys do now that Voldemort was dead? He felt his mother touching him, saw her mouth shaping words, but he couldn't hear them. He was staring at his father.

"What do we do?"

"What do you mean, what do we do?" Lucius said, and there was a spark of the old Father, the one who had never given in to half-blood oppression. "We go back. That's what we do. We go back and we rebuild and we return to the way it was before. That question is beneath you, Draco."

It felt like something was boiling inside him, some creature writhing and snarling in a cage that was fracturing. He pulled away from his mother, furious, feeling like hell, like he hadn't had a chance to bathe in days and like he'd just been through a war. All of which was true. "What the hell are we supposed to rebuild?"

Narcissa gasped. "Draco!"

"It's true." He didn't look at her, stared at his father. "What the hell are we supposed to rebuild, Father? The Manor? I wouldn't give a damn if the whole place burned to the ground. Are we going to turn around and say that we were all under the influence of an Unforgivable Curse again this time? I don't think the same excuse will wash twice."

"Draco." His mother put a hand on his arm. He pulled away. "You're speaking to your father."

"And what the hell does that even mean anymore!" He was breathing hard, like he'd just run a marathon, and every thought that he'd had over the past year and a half was pouring out of him. "I was the one who was trapped in that place with those people all year. I was the one who let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts! And I was the one who kept trying to save us by getting Potter. What did you do! Either of you! What did you do to keep us safe other than hide from the Dark Lord!"

"Draco." Lucius's face was filled with something terrible, like his favorite dog had turned round and bit him. "Stop talking."

"No. You can't cow me anymore, Father. I'm not an infant anymore. I'll say what I like." This was insane, what he was saying. This was more of Greengrass spilling out of him. "Did you ever help someone?"

"What?" If he had started speaking Greek, he couldn't have shocked his father more. "Did I what?"

"Help someone." This was dangerous territory. "I broke a blood-traitor girl out of jail." No need to say which girl. An image of her – tall, thin, cold, overwhelming, proud and determined – burst into being in his mind. "I broke her out of Umbridge's custody. I saved someone." And there was a pride in it that was undefeatable, a pride that wouldn't have been there a year before – a pride that meant he'd changed. Whether he liked it or not, she'd changed him, just like she had wanted. "Did you?"

"I won't listen to this." Lucius said, and turned away. "I won't listen to this."

"You'll listen to it and you'll damn well like it!" Draco snarled. "We can't go back. We can never go back. None of us can. There's nothing left for us there! Like it or not, they've won, Father, and you have to understand that. There's nothing we have to go back to."

"I won't listen to this." Lucius repeated.

"You will."

It was Narcissa. Both of them turned to look at her.

"No." There was so much authority in that word that Lucius seemed to wilt, like a stuck balloon. "I'm tired of this, Lucius. I'm tired of wondering if my husband and son will make it through the next few hours. I'm tired of fighting. Draco's right," she added, and touched his cheek lightly with her fingertips. "There's nothing in that house that I care to return to. We'll find a new place. We won't return. We'll rebuild. And we'll endure whatever punishment the government decides to give us. We'll cut deals, and struggle, and scream our hearts out if we have to, but I know that I'm not ever allowing either of you into the danger of this life of ours again."

"Narcissa –"

"I lied to the Dark Lord." She said, chilling in its simplicity. "He asked if Potter was dead. I lied to him. I wanted to find Draco and just…get out. And if I had a second chance to do it, if it meant that Potter would die and that we would win, then I would still lie to him." Her eyes were sharp as glass. "Because I want this done."

She turned away from both of them. Draco looked at his father. Wondered what to say. If he spoke they would start arguing, he knew it, but at the same time, he had to say something.

"What are we going to do, Father?" he asked again, and this time, Lucius mumbled something and didn't seem to have an answer.

"Malfoy."

That voice. Greengrass. He couldn't turn. Couldn't look at her. What is she doing here? He could hear voices. His mother and Greengrass, arguing. The clearness of her voice. The almost-caress of gentleness in it. He wondered if she was real.

He turned.

She was wearing trousers.

The memory of the forest surged back to him, and he wondered why it hadn't before. He had always hated trousers.

Maybe this time they weren't so bad.

The voice in his head purred.

Months later, he found them working in the garden. Astoria and Narcissa. The old Malfoy Manor had been torn down, set to the flames, after his father had been released from his three-month stint in Azkaban, and now they were out of Wiltshire where it had all happened. They had even left the county, and moved – of all places – to Northumberland in the north. It was colder than Wiltshire, and had more snow, and this wasn't necessarily a bad thing. The bad thing was he was getting an accent. Astoria laughed whenever she heard him talk. "You sound like a Scot." She would say, and nudge him with the end of her broomstick. "Ye cannae do that now, lassie. Ye're not from 'round here, are ye?"

Her accent was better – and far stronger – than his was. He wondered if she knew the Scotland branch of the Greengrass Family. Half a Welshwoman and part Scottish. What a combination. If there's Irish blood there too, Father will have apoplexy.

It was summer now, though, and the garden was growing. It was, technically, Narcissa's garden, but Astoria was here so often that it had transformed into theirs, and Draco wasn't certain whether he was pleased with that idea or not. He wasn't sure if he was pleased with her or not. There was no way he could ever let her go – not now, not after everything – and even though she was the one thing that could really calm him, that could keep him sane, having her being friends with his mother was…odd. Something else verboten.

But all of Narcissa's old friends had abandoned her after the new regime had begun, and even Draco could tell that his mother was lonely. That she lit up whenever Astoria Flooed into the kitchen. That Astoria, whose mother had died and whose father had let go of her the instant he had married Niobe, needed the companionship that Narcissa offered. Daphne was still under review in London, and they were still estranged; it would take another year before Astoria and Daphne could talk, really talk, the way they had before Hogwarts. So even though he wasn't quite certain about what it meant, Draco let her and his mother spend time together – though coming down for breakfast and finding Astoria already in the kitchen pouring over a photo album that should have never seen the light of day, or laughing at a story from Narcissa's school days, was disconcerting to say the least. At the very least, it meant that he had to accept certain truths about his mother that he had never dared think about before. And those truths were…frightening.

They were both in the garden, and both of them were in trousers. Draco saw them out of the window on the second floor, and he wondered how long it had taken for Astoria to convince Narcissa to wear it. His mother didn't seem embarrassed by it; she was listening intently to Astoria's instructions, obeying to the last letter. As a Malfoy she'd never sculpted her own garden before. Astoria (for some reason) had, and she was teaching Narcissa about all the different kinds of soil and perennials and annuals and the kinds of fertilizer to put on certain kinds of magical plants, and Draco remembered – suddenly – the first time he'd seen Greengrass outside of the common room, ducking out of Sprout's greenhouses, covered in dirt. You learn something new every day.

Still. Seeing his mother in trousers – the one thing he had never imagined occurring – made him clatter down the stairs and burst out of the double doors. "What are you doing?"

"Hm?" Astoria sat back on her heels, cocked her head to one side. "What are you talking about, Malfoy? I'm showing her the snapdragons, just like I said I was going to. You liked the idea this morning."

"You're…you're not –" He couldn't spit it out. "Where did you get those clothes?"

He didn't like the smirking look that was growing on Astoria's face. His mother looked puzzled, and then glanced down at her legs. "Oh, these? We bought them last Saturday, Draco. I told you we were going out to Diagon Alley, remember? You declined the invitation."

Yes, he'd known they had gone out to Diagon Alley, but not to buy trousers.

"Aww." Astoria pushed her lips out in a ridiculous expression. "Poor babwy Malfoy's still a bwoody pwude."

"If you keep talking in that absurd voice I'll hex you."

"See how mean he is to me? Make him stop, Mrs. Malfoy." She said. She turned back to him. "And in front of your mother, too. Shame." Astoria waggled her eyebrows, and in a sing-song voice, chanted: "I have a witness, I have a witness."

"What do you mean, a prude?" Narcissa hadn't really noticed the bickering. She'd lost touch with it. "About what?"

"You never heard?" When Narcissa shook her head, Astoria said, with relish, "Draco doesn't like it when women wear trousers."

If he could have shriveled up, crawled into a corner, and died, it would have been infinitely preferable to seeing that expression on his mother's face. As it was, he could feel his cheeks burning with heat. "Very funny, Greengrass."

"You never mentioned this to me." Narcissa said, and she didn't sound angry; she sounded shocked. "Where on earth did you get such a bizarre idea, Draco?"

"Thank you. I love hearing my ideas are bizarre."

But she didn't ask again. Her mouth tightened. "Lucius. He had this too, you know." She added absently, to Astoria. "It took him weeks to speak to me after I first showed up in front of him in a pair of trousers. It's something the Malfoy men seem to have in common. They're old-fashioned, you know."

"And the Blacks aren't?" Astoria asked, in the sort of voice that meant pure cheek was on the way.

"Well, of course we were, dear, but not about clothes." Narcissa said, and fluffed the ends of her hair. She'd cut it short a month before, and it only brushed her jawline. The black streak down her bangs was thrown into prominence that way. "As long as we were decent when we went out the door my mother never much cared what we were wearing."

He couldn't speak.

"Look, Mrs. Malfoy. Look how pale he is." The minx. Demonic little witch. He would have to deal with her later.

"Oh, my." Narcissa was already on her feet. "Are you all right, dear?"

"I'm. Fine." Draco said through gritted teeth.

"You don't look fine." Astoria said, in that sing-song voice. She beamed at him. No girl had the right to show quite so many predatory teeth when she smiled. "I think you've shocked him senseless, Mrs. Malfoy."

Narcissa's expression passed worried. Went to exasperated. "I thought I taught you that there's nothing a man can wear that a woman can't. We just choose depending on our personalities. And as it happens, I like this side of my personality, and nobody has any right to judge me for it."

He remembered her saying that once or twice, but he hadn't thought she actually meant it.

"You'd best sit down, Draco, before you lose your breakfast." She pushed him back into the living room chair and darted into the kitchen, still talking. Astoria trailed after her, shooting him triumphant, mocking, almost flirty looks that were driving him mad. "Your father reacted the exact same way when he first saw me wearing something like these. They had much bigger bottoms then, of course. But it was the same thing. I refused to speak to him when he finally came back and explained why. I was so furious. I was quite the feminist, you know, then."

"You still are, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Really?" Narcissa paused. "Well, I suppose so. At any rate, it took him a very long time to realize that I wasn't about to change the way I dressed simply because he fancied me, and when he finally managed to get that through his skull he stopped talking about it. I'm under the impression that he even likes them, now."

His father? He felt all the blood that had been filling his face drain away.

Astoria looked like she was struggling not to laugh as she came back into the living room and d prodded him in the shoulder, mouthing, Hah-hah, you lose. Draco scowled at her.

"And you won't believe what he thinks about skirts, Mrs. Malfoy." Astoria said, her voice loud enough that it could have carried through the whole first floor. "I could tell you stories about what he did at school that would make your hair curl."

Narcissa said something, but he didn't hear it. Astoria was within reach. He grabbed her arm, yanked her down, and kissed her hard on the mouth, the only way he knew about that could get her to shut up and stop being a prat.

She bit him.

"Nuh-uh." Astoria said, when he yelped and yanked himself away, gingerly touching his lip. "I'm not letting this one go, Master Malfoy."

He studied her for a second. She looked at him. Then she steadied her hand on his shoulder, leaned forward, and kissed him, lightly, on the mouth. She pulled back before he had a chance to grab her.

"There." She said, and touched his lower lip with her fingertips. "Better."

Narcissa came back in with the tea before he could reply. As Astoria leapt up to help her with the cups, he realized – while watching her as she darted across the room – that maybe trousers, on the right girl, weren't as bad as he'd thought after all.

"Malfoy." Astoria said, setting a teacup down in front of him. Narcissa was back in the kitchen. "I know I have a nice arse, but you don't have to stare."