Phase Two: A Friendly Face

For the next few days, Draco avoided being alone with the Gryffindor, which was surprisingly hard to do. It was almost as if the Gryffindor could sense his location; however, he managed to steer clear of him. It was too soon for direct contact, and too many polite conversations would inure Potter to his charms. So, whenever he caught the boy's eye in the hall, he gave a small smirk and a nod. At first, Potter had looked like him like he'd grown a second head, but now he was returning the gesture with a smile of his own. Draco had accidently caught Granger's eye a couple of times too, and it was clear from her glare that she knew about the hallway incident and didn't trust Draco or his nods one bit.

Rather than annoy him, this made Draco immensely self-satisfied. He had known that the goody-two-shoes wouldn't want her friend to have anything to do with him. He was a Malfoy, for Merlin's sake! He had the Dark Mark, though the crème Madame Pomfrey had given him had helped with it. He had also known, of course, that Potter would tell his friends what had happened; in fact, he'd counted on it. The mudbl – muggleborn witch would try and convince Potter that Draco was evil and wanted to kill him, but Draco would be there, a small smirk and a nod, a constant for the other boy, until, were he to make eye contact and not respond, the predictable Gryffindor would feel the loss. Potter would associate it with all the negative things that Granger, and therefore the rest of the school, was saying about him, and his Hero complex would force him into action. That was the true brilliance. He had brought himself up from Draco Malfoy: Guy Who I Hate to Draco Malfoy: Friendly Acquaintance with one awkward conversation and a couple of well placed glances.

In Potions that Friday afternoon, Draco felt someone's gaze hit him. He looked up and met bright green eyes in ebony wooden frames. A lesser man would have done a little jig at the realization, but Malfoys could, if nothing else, keep a straight face. He quirked a brow at his classmate in a silent question, 'Can I help you?' Potter answered with an embarrassed flush and quickly looked back to his potion, which, though it was a pretty lilac color, was far from the deep maroon it should be at this stage. Luckily, they were brewing a Pepper Up potion, and that couldn't go too horribly wrong. Draco discreetly watched Potter brew his potion, just in case. Saving the life of the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Save-The-World would certainly be helpful for his reputation and would obviously bring him closer to his mark. When nothing major happened and Potter turned in a burgundy potion at the end of class, Draco wasn't sure if he was disappointed or not. He settled on not, because if Potter was somehow disfigured, there was no way anyone would believe that Draco could be interested in him.

After class let out for the day, Draco walked purposefully back to the dungeons. As he headed for Slytherin territory, he mused upon the situation as it currently stood. Things were moving more quickly than he anticipated if Potter was actively seeking his gaze out. Draco had also noted, with not a small amount of pleasure, that the other boy hadn't turned his glasses back to their original state. This showed that he liked them, and by proxy, thought highly of Draco's craftsmanship. That boded well as, once they were closer, Draco fully intended to and would take great joy in transfiguring every article of clothing that Potter owned. No boyfriend of his would go to class in an ill-fitting, soup-stained shirt and frayed tie.

Draco said the password (Belladonna) and settled himself into an armchair in the common room. The fire was warm and bright and necessary in the cold underground room. It was nearly November now, and the nights were getting longer. Before he knew it, Christmas break would be upon them and Granger and Weasley would have Potter to themselves. It may be lucky indeed that Potter was responding so well to his subtle advances. Draco's whole plan hinged on him and Potter being in a relationship by the time they graduated. Once they were out of Hogwarts, were they not previously involved, the chances of it happening were slim-to-none.

'Yes,' Draco thought, 'it is definitely time to enact phase 2.'

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The next day was Saturday, and everyone knew that the Gryffindor Quidditch team practiced early on Saturday mornings. It was one of the reasons that Draco got up early on Saturday to study. With all of the schools eligible bachelorettes in the stands cheering Potter on, Draco had free reign of the library. It was quiet and peaceful, but he would sacrifice his peace for the plan this week. He went out to the Quidditch pitch at half 5 to practice. He had thought about getting there just before the Gryffindor team showed up, but if he was going to do this instead of writing a paper on the effects of overdosing on bezoar, he had might as well get some practice time in. He dipped and dived and even beat his best time catching the snitch. He even got to sit, still in the air and watch the sunrise, a rare pleasure for the NEWT year Hogwarts student.

When he started to see crimson and gold clad specks appear on the ground, he knew his time was up. He shot down to the ground in a Wronski Feint, not because he saw the snitch, just because he could. He got off his broom and headed to the locker room with his chin held high, pointedly ignoring the whispers of "what the hell does he think he's doing here?" and "Death Eater scum." It would not do to punch Potter's teammates in the face, at least not this early in their relationship. He did notice that their seeker was not among them, which was irritating. The whole point was for Potter to see all the Gryffindors attack him without retaliation, further promoting the "Draco has changed" and "everyone is really hard on Draco, he could use a friend" thoughts. It also didn't hurt that Draco looked fit as hell in his Quidditch training garb.

Once in the locker room, Draco stripped off his sweaty workout clothes, folded them neatly, and headed to a nearby shower stall. He reveled in the feel of the scalding water wiping the grime from his face and body, staying under the spray longer than was strictly necessary. He wanted to wash off the Dark Mark too, washing all of these stupid, narrow-minded people's opinions off with it. While Draco had always preferred baths, nothing beat a hot shower after a cold morning flying. Something about the spray of water against his cold, aching skin was immensely soothing. He sighed, rinsed out the conditioner, and turned off the water. Draco had neglected to bring his new clothing from the locker he had stashed them in, so when he exited the shower stall, clad only in his small towel, he walked briskly. The locker room had no door, so the room was cold as ice, especially to the wet, naked boy.

Draco shed his towel and leaned over to put on his pants. He heard footsteps coming towards him, but just figured that it was another Gryffindor player, so he didn't bother to look up as he slid the silk pants on or sat down on the bench, assuming that the player would go on their way or insult him; either way, he wasn't going to make the first move. It was only at the uncomfortable cough that he glanced up, and promptly blushed, realizing that the Gryffindor player that had just gotten a full view of his arse was none other than a very gay, very red Harry Potter who was now, very awkwardly mind you, standing in front of Draco.

"Potter," Draco acknowledged, because he didn't know how else to start. Clearly the boy had something to say, or he wouldn't have cleared his throat in such an obvious way. The burden of beginning this conversation should be on him.

"I just wanted to come and personally apologize for the behavior of my teammates. They were still saying things about you practicing when I got here. They were wrong, and the ones who said it are running laps. You have as much right to the pitch as we do." The Gryffindor's eyes narrowed, as though here were, what? Angry at his teammates for being mean to Draco? The Malfoy heir didn't know what to say to that. He had never imagined that things would progress this well, but then again, who knew what to expect with this boy?

"Thanks" Draco replied honestly, still a little shocked at the boy's presence and what he had said. Harry nodded curtly and turned around to head back to his practice. "Potter, I really mean that. Thank you. You don't need to stick up for me. I deserve their hatred. I deserve to be in Azkaban with my father."

At that, the other boy turned around, a dark, piercing look in his eyes. "Did you ask for that?" He questioned harshly, nodding at the fading mark, which Draco hadn't remembered was exposed. "Did you want to kill Dumbledore that night in the Astronomy Tower? Did you enjoy being a member of Voldemort's ranks?"

Draco flinched at the questions more than at the Gryffindor's unusually insensitive tone. He looked down and considered. No. He didn't. And how could Harry Potter possibly know about that night? About his failed mission to kill the now dead Headmaster? He looked down, fighting back the surge of emotion that rose every time he thought about the year he had been volunteered to take his Dark mark. His 6th year at Hogwarts had been nothing short of a nightmare, endless nights and days of blinding fear, interrupted only by pain at the hands of his father and the Dark Lord, and for one day in a seldom-used bathroom, Harry Potter himself.

Apparently, his pause gave Potter the answer he was looking for. "I didn't think so. You asked me before why I helped you during your trial. And the reason is, I don't blame people for being in situations that they didn't choose. You aren't evil Draco, I don't think you're even a bad bloke. You got dealt a shit hand, and played it the only way you knew how. "

Draco was still looking at his bare feet as he heard the footsteps fade away. He cursed under his breath, at Potter for being so perceptive under his deceptive Gryffindor exterior and at himself for not maintaining his composure. What the bloody hell had just happened? He guess that he had accomplished his aim, but at what cost? Potter had defended him, had even sought him out to apologize for the behavior of his housemates, but also had seen the boy behind the mask, if only for a split-second. This could not happen again. There could not be any more such surprises. For him to regain all that he had lost, he needed to be stronger. He must play the damsel, not become one.