Slight changes to the canon timeline. Nothing too drastic!

The Day Before

"Malfoy isn't a master of anything," Hermione said. "Even if he's learning occlumency, he hospitalized himself with it. It's remedial."

"Not like any of us know much about it," Ron said.

"I certainly do," Hermione said. "And Harry practiced it last year."

"Some good that did," Harry said, fighting the urge to look across the Great Hall. He must have checked a dozen times since they sat down to eat, and Malfoy hadn't made an appearance. The whispers traveling around the room carried word of his hospitalization, and the most common reason for it being occlumency training. The story was more accepted than Malfoy running into a cockatrice in the prefect's bath, or the one about him falling four flights down the moving steps.

Harry listened to every rumor that crossed their table. The only thing each had in common was the fact Malfoy was in hospital.

"Exactly," Hermione went on. "He likely had an acne flare up and is hiding out until it passes."

Hermione's willingness to carry on a conversation with both Harry and Ron had dwindled this year, and Harry sensed her nearing the end of her patience. The mounting tension between her and Ron took up all the energy in their infrequent group discussions, so until Harry had concrete proof that Malfoy was conspiring, he kept his suspicions to himself.

No one had a chance to change the subject before Lavender rushed over and threw her arms around Ron. When Ron turned to kiss her, Hermione closed her book and pushed back her plate. The times the three of them could sit together were growing sparser and sparser. With a war mounting outside the safety of Hogwarts, Harry had hoped for a respite here.

He didn't know what to make of Lavender Brown.

"Did you get your Hogsmeade slip?" Lavender asked.

"Had it a while," Ron said.

"Perfect. I've got all my holiday shopping to get done, and I'm guessing you've put off yours?"

She flicked his nose, and Harry looked away.

Hermione left without comment.

"I've made a list," Ron said.

"Oh Ron. You're hopeless."

Harry tracked Hermione's path out of the Great Hall, debating the level of awkwardness should he drop everything and rush out after her. He wasn't the only one eyeing the door, and after exchanging an uncomfortable glance with Neville, Harry soldiered on through his meal.

"—and don't tell me that's all you've eaten, Ron," Lavender was saying. "You're a twig as it is."

Lavender arched down to murmur into Ron's ear. Her voice was indiscernible, but the movement of her hand down the red trim of Ron's robe interpreted. Harry found himself remarkably invested in just how many bobbles the elves managed to fit on the wreath floating overhead.

The pent-up tension outpoured when Neville dared to ask Dean a question about a class nether of them chose for a NEWT. Unwilling to count the bobbles a fourth time—seventeen—Harry met Neville's gaze. In it, he found a silent pact being passed around. A shifty glance to the exit. Another to his watch. Pointed glances to Dean and Seamus.

Alliance made, Harry sipped at his lemon-ginger tea until receiving the signal. Neville paired him with Seamus, who loudly announced he'd be leaving with Harry. No reason was given, but Ron's focus was lost to Lavender's whispers.

After breaking away from Seamus, Harry ran upstairs to grab his cloak from his trunk, and considered checking in with Dobby and Kreacher to see if they'd caught Malfoy slinking off to any mischief. But he knew they would have reported if they had spotted anything unusual.

Harry put on his cloak straight away, and worked his way through the halls at the risk of bumping into the students on their way to their next class period. He weaved around them, rushing to get to the infirmary before Pomfrey decided to release Malfoy. Magic meant almost anything could be healed and over with quickly.

The cloak kept out some of the chill permeating the castle. Harry shuffled-stepped to the infirmary wing, slowing when he neared any groups of students. Their conversations helped muffle his steps and his breath, but it was the students walking alone that gave him the most wariness. Once, he had to cast a drizzle charm over a Ravenclaw, so they would pay attention to the source of the water, not him creeping by.

There weren't many paintings down the hospital corridor, but the frames mounted on the wall were filled. The paintings gossiped, constantly checking down the hall for movement. After the chaos of last year, they must've been desperate for conversation topics.

The infirmary doors were closed. It was impossible to know who might have been watching from the other side. If he tried to slip in using the cloak, at least Malfoy, and possibly an entourage, would see the door open.

And despite his impatience, Harry stood near the door and waited for it to open. Patience had never been his strength, and knowing an answer might finally be at hand made him shift from side to side, gaze unbreaking from the heavy set doors blocking his way. Someone had to eventually come or go. Harry hadn't heard of anyone else being in hospital, but certainly there were students in need of medication or those with smaller injuries.

Someone would come out.

And eventually, after Harry was certain he'd missed the start of his Herbology class, Snape and McGruder came out of the infirmary. They weren't speaking, and Harry didn't linger.

Passing through the door, Harry ignored the pain in his scar in favor of searching out the cause. The first step into the infirmary brought on heat and humidity that fogged his glasses. He froze until they cleared enough for him to see.

The infirmary was empty, save for Malfoy. He sat up in bed, wearing the white-on-white robes that were standard for overnight stays. Harry logged it as a clue and pressed on, taking in every detail he could. He thought the scentless herbs drying over Malfoy's bed had to be unrelated, although, he couldn't recall them having been there during any of his stays.

A table of cauldrons gurgled in the corner by Madam Pomfrey's office. They bubbled and spat flecks of their contents, filling the room with the scent of peppermint—strong enough Harry could taste it in the back of his throat, and felt confident it would linger well into next week—grass, and a murky, woody smell Harry might have been able to identify if he paid more attention to the Potions lectures.

Malfoy's bedside table was covered with empty, but unlabeled phials. The shape of them might have told an experienced potioneer what they once held. Besides them, someone had brought Malfoy's homework, along with class notes written in perfect handwriting.

Malfoy wasn't reviewing the notes. He stared idly at the far window, where they had an ideal view to watch the falling snow melt before reaching the ground.

Harry took in Malfoy's appearance for signs of his illness. His bed rested below a window, and the natural light proved he wasn't wearing a glamour. He checked Hermione's acne theory off his list. But Malfoy was starkly pale, with heavy bags under his eyes. The veins under his skin stood out, prominently blue. He hadn't styled his hair, which Harry couldn't recall having ever seen loose.

Harry searched for any sign of injury. He found no visible wounds, no stains on his robes, and no dampness on the sheets to indicate sweat. Malfoy kept his hands folded on his lap, nails perfectly groomed, save one bitten-down thumbnail.

After a quarter hour, Harry shuffled backwards. He found nothing, and watching Malfoy sit there didn't help him. If anything, it proved the case he had only overexerted himself with occlumency. The answer frustrated him, not only because of the simplicity, but because it meant Malfoy had managed occlumency when Harry couldn't even scratch the surface.

Harry bit down the anger and began to turn, but caught a glimpse of something underneath Malfoy's bed. A quick glance around the room showed empty space under every other bed, and with no other leads, Harry crept back over, kneeling slowly, and reaching out for it, ensuring he remained covered by the cloak. It took a full minute of maneuvering to get the paper underneath the cloak. Harry half crawled, half scooted back until he felt safe to stand, and without hesitation, looked at what he'd found.

Eating Disorders

Harry nearly stumbled. He read the title of the pamphlet again, then once more, trying to accept what he'd uncovered. Eating Disorders.

This wasn't occlumency. This wasn't some plot from Voldemort.

Malfoy had withdrawn this year and stopped picking fights. He hadn't been spending as much time with Crabbe and Goyle.

But he had skipped meals. Harry saw him in the Great Hall less and less, and even then, he could only see his back. Malfoy hadn't been eating. Malfoy had gotten himself hospitalized, not from pushing himself in occlumency, but from starving himself.

Under the cloak, the thrum of his heart echoed his guilt. What had provided safety now boxed him in. The cloak fed his own exhales back to him, stale and warm and not enough. Harry couldn't stay any longer. He retreated to the door, and when Pansy came in a while later, he slipped out before the door swung closed.

He rushed breathless down the hall, clutching the pamphlet close, afraid he would lose it and instantly doubt what he had seen. Harry had no experience with this sort of thing, and had no idea where to start. Instinct told him to ask Hermione, but a new rush of guilt consumed him at the thought.

This wasn't his secret to tell, and if Malfoy needed help, spreading rumors would interfere.

Harry had been so caught up in everything going on with Voldemort, with everything that had been building since Sirius's death, that he assumed the worst. But the last Malfoy had lashed out at him had been after his father's arrest.

What might have happened since then? Lucius had been in the graveyard and the Ministry, which meant the Malfoys were right in the midst of Voldemort's ranks.

It had to be the reason for his withdrawal, and also for his avoidance this term. Even though Harry couldn't make sense of a reason, he knew things like this weren't always rationalized.

Harry skipped his next class, and found an empty corridor where he could read through the pamphlet, hoping to understand what might have led Malfoy down this path. He could understand stress as a factor, but this talked about genetics and biology as main factors. Harry skipped over those bullet points and down to the ones covering psychological and social factors. It mostly discussed peer pressure or outside expectations, and Harry tried to apply those to someone living with Death Eaters.

But hadn't Malfoy wanted that? With all his prejudices and his hatred for muggles and muggle-borns, joining the Death Eaters should have been an achievement.

Malfoy withdrew. He avoided fights. He went out of his way to keep out of trouble. And layering an eating disorder on top of that, Harry began to think Malfoy realized Voldemort wasn't all he'd claimed to be.

Harry read through the pamphlet twice. He thought the second read might reveal something he missed the first time, and that clarity would strike and explain everything. But nothing he read gave him an answer. It didn't even help him establish a path forwards.

He only knew that he couldn't continue following Malfoy like he had been. Malfoy didn't want conflict, and Harry would stop finding him with it.

He read the pamphlet again.

"The party isn't for another—" Harry began to argue, and then realized the excuse didn't work this close to Slughorn's party. After Hermione told him she found a date and therefore wouldn't be able to go with him, Harry had postponed asking anyone else. He was out of time.

"No one's saying you have to go with anyone," Ron said. "Old Slug doesn't strike me as the dancing sort."

"I can't go alone."

"You could take…" Ron paused and looked down the Gryffindor table, straining his neck when he didn't see anyone acceptable in their year. "Maybe Gin's got an idea?"

Harry sighed and pushed around his mash. His plate was still full after half an hour at the table, and he found himself checking across the Great Hall too many times. Malfoy had been released from hospital the day before, and now sat with his back to Harry. Harry constantly wondered if he was eating. Even thinking about it felt like an overstep. It wasn't his place.

And at the same time, he felt like he owed Malfoy for harassing him this year. Of course he had quit as Seeker. Of course he wanted to avoid Harry when they spent five years keeping tabs on each other's every action.

"Nothing wrong with going solo," Ron went on. "Course, if I'd been invited, me and Lav might have a go at dancing. Even if there wasn't any music."

"I'm sure there'll be music, even without dancing."

"D'you reckon he throws a good party?" Ron asked. "What do people that age consider a good time?"

"Drinking and blathering about the glory days?"

Malfoy seemed to be in a conversation with Goyle. They kept leaning in close as if to speak over the rumble of voices in the hall. But with how often they were leaning together, Harry couldn't tell if they were eating.

Shouldn't the other Slytherins have noticed him avoiding meals? Meals were usually half an hour, and that was a long time to pretend. Malfoy never went anywhere alone. Why had no one noticed?

Or had someone noticing been the reason he ended up in hospital?

"This isn't fourth year," Ron said. "Or last year, when people thought you were the First Liar of the Wizarding World. Ask anyone."

"That's not grounds for a good night."

"Neither's schmoozing Slughorn. Who'd have a go at that?" Ron said, then set down his fork. "Isn't Hermione going? Just go with her."

Harry broke his gaze away from Malfoy, and looked at Ron. He'd been trying to keep out of whatever was going on between him and Hermione, but at times like this, involvement was unavoidable.

"She already asked someone by the time I suggested the same thing."

Given everything with Lavender, the shock on Ron's face felt undeserved. Why would he care if Hermione had found a date to an event he hadn't been invited to? He hadn't seemed nearly as surprised back when she revealed a date to the Yule Ball.

"She has?" he said, and made a grand show of plating another helping of mushy peas. "She say who with?"

"You know Hermione."

"Right. Right."

Ron pushed the puddle of peas side to side on his plate, and chewed at his lip. Harry might've pointed out the obvious, but spotted Malfoy and Goyle getting up. He couldn't see Malfoy's plate from his angle, but strained nonetheless. What Malfoy had or hadn't eaten was as much his business as who Hermione had asked to Slughorn's party, but the weight of potentially being the only person who knew the truth had gnawed into his mind.

"I've got to be seeing to a date myself," Harry said. "I'll catch up with you at supper."

Harry stood before Ron could form another question that wasn't really a question about Hermione, and when he eyed the fruit bowl in the center of the table, grabbed an apple from it. He had a half-formed plan building somewhere in the recesses of his mind, and didn't pause to think whether it was wicked or reckless.

But he spotted someone else leaving the Great Hall, and the distraction let Malfoy slip out of sight. Stalking Malfoy could wait, because Luna was the perfect solution to his Slughorn problem.

"Luna!" Harry called out, and chased after her before she could get too far ahead.

"Harry," she called back, rising up on her toes as she turned to face him. She wore a row of butterfly clips in her hair, all of them enchanted with fluttering wings. "Do the wrackspurts have you frantic?"

"What's a—never mind. I actually was wondering if you'd like to come to Slughorn's holiday party with me?"

Harry had caught up with her in the entrance hall. Luna served as a shield, with most people giving her a spacious berth as they passed. It wasn't entirely private, but a good deal better than being pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the bustle to the next class period.

Her dreamy expression never shifted. "Do you think he only means Christmas, or that he is celebrating the solstice as well?"

Harry couldn't fathom it mattering. "I imagine it's a catch-all."

"As much as I enjoy the appearance of Christmas, other holidays are too often overlooked."

Harry nodded, although he just realized people actually celebrated the solstice. "So, you'll come if he mentions the solstice?"

"I don't think you can ensure it," Luna said. "But I'd love to come. I hear he serves the best finger sandwiches."

"Who's been saying that?"

"That's just the talk," she said. "There is very little accuracy in what is said during morning showers."

"Oh, brilliant," Harry said. "I look forwards to it."

For the first time, it was the truth. Luna never allowed anything to be boring, and she was the perfect counterweight to Slughorn. Her theories and ideologies would keep him talking should Harry run out of topics.

"Professor Trelawney told me last year I'd need a party dress," Luna said. "Prophecies are so funny, aren't they?"

"I've never given it much thought."

"I'd think at the center of one, you'd be the most curious."

Harry's unformed reply came out clumsily, a mess of excuses and defenses for his lack of knowledge on the subject. Thankfully, Luna never allowed awkwardness to linger, and she smiled brightly before turning heel and going on her way. Harry clicked his tongue, checked over a shoulder to make sure no one else had seen the spectacle he'd made of himself, and he went back to looking for Malfoy. He'd lost track of him during the conversation with Luna, but Malfoy was never difficult to find. With his hair and the usually posse around him, he had a penchant for sticking out.

But this time, Harry couldn't spot him. He again wished for the map, and made more plans to nick it from Snape's office. It would have to wait, like it had all term.

Harry managed to search one hallway, then make plans to find him on rounds, before McGonagall found him.

"Professor Dumbledore would like to speak with you," she said, and raised an eyebrow at the apple in Harry's hand.

"Now?" he asked, confused, because Dumbledore normally only wanted to meet with him after supper.

"Run along," she said, and went on her way.

Harry pocketed the apple and rushed upstairs.

Harry sat on one of the plush armchairs in Dumbledore's office, the one that didn't bite, and considered the memory he had just seen. Every time he saw one of the memories of Voldemort, he faced it with silence, trying to process what had been a seemingly normal life. Every new memory became harder to reconcile. Voldemort, Tom Riddle, had been a child. He had been a teenager in search of a home. He had been an adult searching for a place in this world.

The more Harry saw, the more he related.

Harry didn't know how he was supposed to process the information Dumbledore continued drip-feeding him. Would it be any easier to get through all the memories at once? What was Dumbledore building up to?

"Something on your mind, Harry?"

"Something Luna said to me earlier," Harry said. He crossed, then uncrossed his legs. "About the nature of prophecy."

"I'm afraid that is a subject man might never understand," Dumbledore said. His hands were folded behind his back, and he stared out his tall windows towards the Forbidden Forest. "Many have studied prophecies and the creation of them, but there are so few answers available."

"My prophecy isn't as definitive as I might've hoped."

"As are all the prophecies I have had privilege to hear."

"Then, how can we really know what it means? What power do I have that Voldemort doesn't know? And neither can live while the other survives? What does that really mean? We're both surviving now. At what point does that change?"

Dumbledore nodded as if he was deeply considering the question. He returned to his seat across the desk before answering. "Prophecies are never so clear as one might desire. If, perhaps, those who speak prophecy remembered their telling, we may have more answers."

"What if we're interpreting it the way we want? What if it means something different?"

"There is always a chance you're right. Though, parts of the prophecy do seem to be conclusive. Born at the end of July to parents who have thrice defied him."

"The prophecy didn't even name him. How far out are prophecies told? What if there is another dark lord coming a century from now? What defines defying him? And it was born as the seventh month dies. Seventh month according to which calendar? Does it all depend on who speaks the prophecy?"

He had hardly been able to get it off his mind since Luna brought it up earlier. Dumbledore, and Harry as well, had been basing so much off the assumption they perfectly understood the prophecy. Harry had only heard it once.

"Is there something specifically troubling you?" Dumbledore asked.

"What if we've got it wrong?"

"One can only do their best with the information provided to them."

"He didn't mark me as an equal."

"Perhaps not at the time he acted to prevent the prophecy from occurring," Dumbledore said. "But one could argue that him returning in physical form by use of your blood completed that portion of the prophecy."

Harry shook his head. "Where did she even get the prophecy from? Is there some oracle out there, transmitting visions to various Seers?"

"That is another question we have no answer to. The prophecies come, and it is our choice whether to embrace them."

The nervous energy built, and Harry stood to pace back and forth in front of Dumbledore's desk. He shoved his hands into the outer pockets of his robe, and stilled them when he felt the apple, not wanting to bruise it.

"So what exactly does she see? She gets a literal vision? Pictures that she interprets? It can't be, or she wouldn't know about the month of my birth. And if it's just words without a source, then it still might be anything."

"I have never experienced a vision," Dumbledore said. "And for as extreme some of Sybill's daily predictions are, her visions have proven reliable."

"But think about how vague they still are," Harry said. "I was there when she had the prophecy I thought was about Sirius. But it wasn't. I interpreted it how I wanted to."

"Until the true meaning came to light."

"Neither can live while the other survives. I'm alive. He's alive. If that prophecy could be fully trusted, then one of us would've killed the other in the graveyard. But the opposite happened. My blood gave him life."

"It gave him physical form. Blood cannot return life, Harry."

"We're missing something," Harry went on. The candles on the desk flickered as he paced. "You believe I have to kill him. But what if the vision is actually images? What if she just saw me right before his death?"

"As we've discussed, Harry. Even if the prophecy had an entirely different meaning, you couldn't rest until Lord Voldemort has been defeated. It isn't in your nature."

Harry ran his thumb over the waxy surface of the apple, trying to give himself something tangible to focus on in the middle of a discussion about the intangible. It gave him a moment to catch his breath.

"This prophecy never says I will kill him. I have the power to vanquish him, sure. He marked me, whether with the scar or by taking my blood. Don't you think we should try to learn more? That maybe our efforts are in the wrong place?"

Dumbledore folded his hands together, and the spindly black fingers seemed worse than they had been the last time Harry visited. If they pained Dumbledore, he never let on.

"I have been unconcerned with Sybill's prophecy for many years now. These memories I am showing you will lead to Voldemort's undoing."

"But you're showing me because of the prophecy."

"I'm showing you because I trust you, Harry. Is my faith misplaced?"

"No," Harry said, returning to his seat, elbows to knees, chin raised. "I'm not looking for a way out. I just…" he paused, scanning the twinkling ceiling while searching for the right words, "I feel so outmatched. I'm no lord of anything."

"Neither is he. He's merely a man, albeit a powerful one."

"Why are you showing me these memories of him?"

Dumbledore unwrapped a piece of candy from his bowl, and put it in his mouth before answering. Harry felt certain the gesture was meant to reassure him. There was no rush to answer and no urgency in the reply. But it turned out only to frustrate him.

Only when the candy dissolved did Dumbledore answer, "I am painting a picture of what we are up against. There will come a time that knowledge may turn the tides."

"So why not tell me all right now? Why bring me up every few weeks?"

"We have time. I have it on good authority that Voldemort will not be taking major action for some time now."

"Which means we have time to get out ahead of him."

"You need to prioritize your education."

"And get close with Slughorn?"

"Yes."

Harry wanted to press. But like everything happening this year, he knew better than to approach it head on. Dumbledore would tell him nothing until he was ready. Ron and Hermione would have to come to terms with their situation of their own accord. And Malfoy.

"This would be simpler if I could only be more involved," Harry said, giving his final effort.

"As you will be. For now, try focusing on your studies."

"Voldemort won't be overcome by a sixth-year spell."

"Voldemort has many weaknesses, Harry. His arrogance may yet be his undoing. Do not let impatience become yours."

It felt like a dismissal, so Harry stood without waiting for confirmation. "Until next time, Headmaster."

"Until next time, Harry."

Harry didn't immediately set out to find Ron or Hermione. He knew they would both have questions, but he would have to answer them separately, and he wasn't up to the conversation twice. He walked through the halls, torn on what he needed to devote his attention to first. The memories of Voldemort, of Tom Riddle, were first on his mind, the freshest concern having only left Dumbledore's office minutes before. Seeing the man who killed his parents painted in such a light was troubling. They had too much in common, and Tom, while clearly always plotting, had been essentially the same as anyone.

The same as Harry.

Then there was Slughorn to think on. Harry didn't know why he was tasked with getting close. If Dumbledore had given him a reason, Harry might've known how to pursue a relationship. But that was just another cause without answer.

If he'd thought Dumbledore's absence last year was frustrating, then this only amplified it. He had the same number of questions as before, despite no longer being shunned.

The weight of the apple in his pocket also reminded him of Malfoy. He finally found the answer to that question, and it only brought him guilt. Harry had constantly cornered him, goaded him into a fight, or generally antagonized him for his distance this year. What had that been like on Malfoy's end? Being taunted for an eating disorder?

Or had he been worried over being found out? There had been moments of panic across his face, particularly when members of his house had been nearby. Harry had threatened his public image.

But could they really not have known? Pansy had been visiting him in hospital. Crabbe and Goyle constantly followed him around. They all sat together at meals. How could he have hidden from them all?

What did he think would happen if Harry learned the truth? That it would blow up in his face? Had he left Quidditch for discretion, or because he no longer had the ability to fly?

What a prat Harry had been, regardless of Malfoy's reasoning. If Malfoy had wanted to put an end to the fighting, then why did Harry continue pressing him? Harry had gotten in the last shot on the train. Malfoy refusing to fight back must've been a blow to his pride.

And Harry had kept swinging.

On his walk down to the greenhouses, the wind chapped at his lips and cheeks from the moment he stepped into the courtyard. The gale tunneled through the stone arches, brisk and carrying the smell of incoming snow. Harry adjusted his collar, bracing himself for the frigid air, and hunched his shoulder to face a march against the wind.

To Harry's amazement, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were talking underneath one of the arches. Harry said nothing as he passed, although the heat of a warming charm explained how they could bear to stay outdoors. Goyle had elbowed Harry, but also repositioned himself as a blockade, moving to match Harry's position.

Harry exhaled a misty breath, and secured his grip on the apple, pressed deeply in his pocket. The apple bore the weight of his guilt and the weakness of failing to form a true apology. Although he knew it was a fragile step in the right direction, it was the only step he could take from here, except for turning away and forgetting.

"Oi, Malfoy!"

Harry twisted back around and threw the apple. He never threw things—he was a Seeker; he trained the opposite—but Harry was pleased with the accuracy of his aim. It flew in a straight line, and would have sailed over Malfoy's shoulder.

But Malfoy caught it, seemingly before recognizing what had happened. When he faced Harry, nearly dumbfounded, the shimmer of a glamour reflected under his eyes. Magic lost to the sunlight.

Harry bobbed with each step backwards, refusing to stall in his escape even for a moment, but also refusing to look away. Not yet.

"So it wasn't the reflexes," Harry called out. When he took the step off the worn stone of the courtyard and onto the cobbled path to the greenhouses, he made himself turn back around, fighting the desire to glance over his shoulder for a final look.

And over the next several days, it became something of a game. Harry would grab whatever round food was available at a meal, and then give Malfoy little warning before throwing it. Although it wasn't the reason for the game, Malfoy certainly proved reflexes were not a playing factor in leaving the Quidditch team. He often grabbed the apple, satsuma, or wrapped sweet from the air without looking up from his book or conversation. In fact, he only seemed to look up to sneer at Harry for interrupting him.

If Harry believed the sneers were borne of actual anger, rather than annoyance, he might've stopped.

The morning of the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff match, Harry woke in good spirits, which only lasted until he entered the Great Hall. The hush over the room had him on edge, because certainly there should have been talks and bets over the outcome of the match, but instead, there were only whispers.

He went to sit beside Hermione, rather than across from her like he usually did. If everyone else was whispering, he wouldn't be the one talking over a table.

"What's happened?" he asked.

She pushed him a copy of the Prophet.

"There's been a break out."

And there it was, splashed across the front page, images of Azkaban with a hole in the side. Reports of who all had been broken out. Harry knew most of the names. Death Eaters.

Lucius Malfoy.

Dumbledore had assured him not a week before that Voldemort wasn't planning anything big, and here was the biggest prison escape in the country's history, splayed out in print.

"This is…" Harry said, but there really wasn't a word for it. Voldemort was gathering his forces. Everyone arrested at the end of the last school year had escaped. The fight in the Ministry had almost been in vain.

"I suppose most of them forgot what's happening outside," Hermione said. "It's startling even with it on my mind."

"How can people escape a supposedly impenetrable prison so often?"

"Tales of its security must have been overplayed all this time. Although, it might be hard to defend against an explosion taking out a fourth of the structure."

"Even in a world with magic."

"When we all have it, the effect of it is certainly lessened."

Harry couldn't tear his gaze away from the paper. He read over the article and then studied the pictures. He knew there was nothing to be gained from reading an article in the Prophet, but he wanted to commit it to memory. If Azkaban wasn't secure, where would they send the Death Eaters when caught? Was he meant to kill everyone?

"They'll work on repairing it right away," Hermione said. The assurance felt forced, and when Harry met her gaze, even she seemed to realize.

"Not if they're the ones running it."

How else could this have happened? How else were the Dementors called off? How else did the Death Eaters reach a prison in the middle of the sea?

Harry gave up reading the paper. He didn't have much of an appetite after the news, but forced down a few bites of porridge, almost good enough for him to power through the news-induced nausea. The next time he checked in with Dobby and—

He had to call off Dobby and Kreacher. There was no reason for them to keep following Malfoy around, and there never had been one. If Malfoy ended up discovering them now, it might only make matters worse.

"At least we know why things have been so quiet out there," Hermione said. "It's worse, in a way, not knowing what they're planning."

"It only means they'll start up the next plan," Harry said. "And with full forces."

Although, something about a drastic breakout did strike Harry as being odd. From everything he had heard and learned, Voldemort preferred to work in the shadows. He moved in secret, never wanting anyone to know where he might appear next. Something on this scale wasn't like him. Had he really ordered an attack so grand? Had he changed tactics?

"Maybe it means a quiet holiday break," she said. "He's struck once, and now they need time to recover and plan."

"I suppose as much," Harry said, if only to agree.

"You know we're gathering forces, same as him," Hermione said in a hush. "It isn't like nothing is being done."

"I'm having breakfast and preparing for a Quidditch match. Hardly Order-worthy."

"No one can fight all the time."

But he hadn't been fighting at all. He was studying and seeing memories that didn't make sense and talking to Slughorn about everyone except Tom Riddle. Did they all really expect him to carry on as if a war hadn't begun?

"What can I do?" Hermione asked. "I dislike waiting as much as you."

"I don't even know what I can do. Feels like we're stuck until told otherwise."

"Well, it could be worse," Hermione said, and didn't wait for Harry to ask how before continuing, "We could have Umbridge as the Defense professor."

Harry smirked, then laughed with Hermione. Even softly, the laughter rippled through the Great Hall, and it brought out louder voices from one table to the next. Soon after, the whispers ceased and conversation returned to regular volume, even if lacking the excitement a Quidditch match normally brought about.

Harry did end up finishing his meal, and afterwards, began heading towards the pitch along with everyone else.

But he spotted Crabbe and Goyle walking alone, and it made him skim the other green-trimmed robes for Malfoy. Harry didn't see him with Pansy, Thomas, and Daphne, or a ways ahead with Blaise and Theo. It was one thing for Malfoy to not play, but to skip the matches?

Harry realized and then rolled his eyes at how daft he'd been. Of course Malfoy wasn't going to the match. He'd just received word his father broke out of Azkaban. Had he gone to the owlery? Back to his dorm to celebrate? To sulk?

Harry didn't know the cause of Malfoy's disordered eating, but if his best, and most hopeful guess was right, Malfoy wasn't skipping out to rejoice.

"I'll catch up," Harry told Hermione. "Forgot my scarf."

"I'll save you a spot," she said, and jogged ahead to walk with Parvati.

Harry found a quiet corner of the first corridor he came to, and said, "Dobby?"

With a crack, Dobby appeared, always delighted at being summoned.

"Harry Potter! It is most good to see you."

"You too, Dobby. I was actually wondering if you knew where Malfoy'd got off to."

Harry promised himself that this would be the last time he asked.

"Dobby has been following like Harry Potter asked. Dobby just saw him on the third floor."

Harry knew the spot. He'd found Malfoy there before.

"Brilliant. And Dobby? I'm sorry about having asked you to do this. I don't need you to follow Malfoy any longer. Could you tell Kreacher the same?"

"Harry Potter needs not be sorry. Dobby is always happy to be helping."

Dobby's willingness to accept Harry's request didn't mean it had ever been okay.

"I'll be sure to visit with you later. Without the expectation of anything."

"Dobby is looking forwards to it, Harry Potter. Very much."

The moment Dobby left, Harry rushed up the stairs. He stopped mid-step at the top of the flight, forcing himself to gauge if now was really the best time for this. He rocked forwards and back while he wavered in his decision. If Malfoy hadn't gone with the others to the match, he must have wanted time alone.

Then again, this felt like Harry's one chance to speak his peace in private.

Because it had become a habit, Harry grabbed one of the sweets he now kept in his pocket, and threw it at Malfoy when he spotted him sitting in the wide window overlooking the pitch. Malfoy plucked it from the air, arm stretched out because it hadn't been one of Harry's better throws, and rolled his head over to look at Harry. The bright winter light flooded his face, making him an image of white.

"Surely you've confirmed my reflexes by now."

"You need to stay sharp for next year."

Malfoy let out a breath, and it almost conveyed amusement. "Next year."

"Saw the paper," Harry said. He walked forwards, only close enough neither would have to raise their voice to carry on the conversation. He leaned a shoulder against the stone wall, then regretted it. The stones were frigid, and the cold bore through his jumper and coat. He eyed a set of carved initials in the stone as he waited on Malfoy's response.

"Why are you here?" Malfoy asked. He rested his head back against the arched window frame, casually, not in a position to make a quick reach for his wand.

"I guess partly for an apology."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "No, really."

"I've been harassing you all term. You've done nothing for it."

"And to apologize, you corner me when I'm alone?"

"You can't expect me to do this in front of your friends."

"You'd never've gotten this far."

The mere fact they were talking without spouting curses proved that coming when Malfoy was alone had been the right idea. Alone in the corridor, almost alone in the entire castle, neither of them had anything to prove.

Malfoy unwrapped the sweet and put it in his mouth. It was the first Harry had seen him eat any of the food he'd thrown over. The surprise stunned him for a moment that felt too long upon reflection. Harry quickly stared out the window, although from his angle, it only looked out to the forest.

"So, apologize," Malfoy said, clearly working the sweet around with his tongue.

"Very succinct, aren't you?"

"You didn't come to apologize?"

"Figured implying would've done it."

"If you've got something to say, do or go."

Harry looked back, and found his gaze fixed on the outline of the sweet in Malfoy's cheek. He blinked to break his fixation, and met Malfoy's eyes.

"Sorry for giving you trouble this year. I guess I forgot that I wasn't the only person with, well, things going."

"Well," Malfoy said, as bored as he had been from the start, "If that's all."

"You know it isn't."

That panicked look Harry had seen too often this term returned, and Malfoy started to his feet. Unwilling to let the topic go so quickly, Harry stepped forwards, keeping Malfoy cornered in the windowsill. Now that he'd gotten up the nerve to confront Malfoy, he couldn't back down without getting his point across. Now or never.

"Seems like in my self-centeredness, I might've overlooked the fact everyone's in this differently. Seeing the paper this morning reminded me."

"Are you actually planning to talk about my father?"

"You aren't happy he's out."

"Should I be waving a banner? Proud my father, who you got arrested, is now a prison escapee?"

"Your father got himself arrested," Harry said. "And the Malfoy I've grown up with would've been bragging on it. Taunting me about my upcoming death."

"Is this an apology or you taunting back?"

Malfoy pushed to his feet, and an audible breath let on what a strain it was for him. At eye level, it became abundantly clear how much weight Malfoy had lost since the start of term. Harry was used to being smaller after a lifetime of being underfed, and being bigger than Malfoy set Harry on edge. It almost made him back down, but the sight of a freckle at the corner of Malfoy's right eye held him in place. He'd never noticed before.

"Done with the apologizing. You aren't glad to hear he's out. It makes me wonder what else you might not be onboard with."

"You have no idea what you're talking about, Potter."

"Maybe not. But in the event things aren't as clear as you and I might like them to be, I just wanted to say, there's more than one option."

Malfoy's eyebrows furrowed. The panic never faded, but it was tinged with curiosity. Maybe Harry hadn't been so far off. Maybe he was right.

"I can't fathom what you're on about," Malfoy said, more pointedly.

And Harry shrugged. "Tomorrow you might. Should that time come, I'll leave the offer standing."

Harry gave Malfoy a moment to take it in, and then, watched the proof cross his face. Malfoy was considering it. Whether he could admit to whatever he'd been dealing with since Voldemort's return, he clearly had a reason to want to take Harry up on his offer.

But the expression dulled, then transformed into his typical scowl.

"Your brain's as thick as your glasses, Potter. Save the Chosen One antics for someone willing to buy into it."

Harry backed away with hands raised in surrender. Malfoy's consideration proved Harry had been at least somewhat right in his suspicions, though mostly wrong, and as much resentment and hatred as he held for Malfoy, if Malfoy wanted to defect, Harry would help him. Malfoy likely thought he only had the one path before him, but with another option, maybe an inkling of hope could sway him.

After all, bad times could bring out the best in some people.