Draco opened his trunk with a soft click. Quietly, so not to wake Blaise, he pulled out a small case of tiny potion phials. Uncorking one, he tossed the blue potion back like a shot of firewhisky and shoved the empty phial back into the case. He'd have to order some more soon; there were only three or four left.

"How long have you been taking Calming Draught?"

Draco jumped, swearing lightly under his breath as his knee slammed into his bedpost. "Damn it, Blaise," he said angrily.

"Well I can see why you've been taking it," observed the other boy smoothly from where he stood in the threshold of the bathroom, carefully folding the cuffs of his sleeves. "You're jumpier than my fourth stepfather, and he had nightmares about flobberworms."

Draco rolled his eyes and stood up gingerly, trying not to put any weight on his pained knee. "You're a right bastard, Blaise," he muttered, grabbing his outer robes from where they hung on the chair near him.

"Maybe you should go see Madam Pomfrey," said Blaise with a raised eyebrow. "Taking calming draughts is a short term solution. If you -"

"Thanks, Blaise, but with all due respect, if I wanted to live with someone who stuck their nose where it doesn't belong I would have gone and stayed with Pansy when she offered."

Draco pulled his robes on as he heard Blaise let out a quiet sigh before leaving the room. Draco kicked his trunk back under his bed and followed the other boy out of the room, already feeling the effects of the potion. The buzzing of his blood had faded, and the feeling of worry that had been building at the back of his head began to slowly dissipate.

By the time he arrived in the Great Hall, the constant anxiety that bubbled beneath his skin had been pushed down as low as it ever was these days, and he enjoyed the temporary calm. He always went to meals as early as he could and left as soon as possible, wanting to avoid the rush. He hated the whispers and sneers that followed his every step when in a crowd.

Today was no exception. The only other people in the Great Hall at that moment were three Ravenclaws, one Hufflepuff, Blaise, and -

Potter.

Draco internally groaned at the sight of the Gryffindor, his anxiety rising slightly despite the calming draught. Of course Potter decided to be the proverbial bird that catches the equally proverbial worm today.

He scarfed down his toast, intending to leave as soon as possible. Every time he glanced up, Potter ducked his head quickly, as if he had been staring. What the hell was his problem? Potter of all people should know how uncomfortable it is to be stared at. Then again, Potter had never had much tact.

He finished quickly, grabbing his bag and not deigning to give Potter one last glance before leaving the Great Hall. Instead he headed to the library. He still had half an hour before charms started, and they were on the same floor.

Draco carefully settled into a desk in a back corner of the library, setting a his inkwell and quill on the table. He slid two rolls of parchment out of his bag. If he worked quickly, he could finish his essay on minor human transfigurations.

He sat in solitude for a quarter of an hour, the only sound the gentle scratching of his quill on the parchment piercing the calm. However, as he started his conclusion, he noticed movement at the edge of his villain.

He scowled as he looked up to see Potter approaching him. Why couldn't the boy just leave him alone?

Potter hesitated when he met his gaze. "What?" Draco snapped. Potter tugged at the sleeves of his robes as Draco closed his inkwell and shoved everything back in his bag.

"Malfoy, I, uh - I have a question," he said slowly, as if afraid any word might set Draco off.

"I don't suppose it can wait until after Charms?" Draco drawled, really not in the mood to have a repeat of yesterday.

"We still have fifteen minutes, it won't take long, I promise," Potter said quickly.

Draco, not really seeing a way out of this that wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass later, sighed. "Fine," he said shortly, "What?"

"When Hacklesbee - the Hufflepuff from yesterday - cornered you," he said quickly, as if worried Draco would leave if he didn't get the question out soon enough, "you didn't even raise your wand before he landed his spell."

Draco crossed his arms. "And? We can't all be master duelists, Potter," he sneered.

The hero tilted his head. "But I've seen you fight. You're good. And you - you have survival instincts. You didn't even try to raise your wand. Why not?"

Draco swallowed, and suddenly he could hear his blood roaring through his ears. His fists clenched and the sharp sting of his fingernails digging into his palm brought him back down to earth.

"Like I said," he managed through tightly gritted teeth, his jaw growing sore from the force of it, "I'm not a master duelist. I don't know what you think you saw, but I didn't have time to draw my wand. I wanted to resolve it peacefully, and by the time I realized it was too late -"

"Bullshit," Potter said, and Draco blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not exactly diplomatic. Besides, Hacklesbee is a shit dueler. I paired up with him two days ago in Defense. You still should have had plenty of time to draw your wand."

"Oh, pull your head out of your arse, Potter," Draco snapped. "I'm a Slytherin, and a war criminal. He -"

"You're not a war criminal, your record was expunged -"

"Legally. Legally I'm not a war criminal. But I still helped them, didn't I?" Potter was silent, and Draco sneered. "He's a Hufflepuff. I'm a war criminal, with two parents in Azkaban. Let's say I did draw my wand, and we dueled, and I won. You think that would be the end of it?"

"I don't -"

"Merlin, you really are thick, aren't you? Hacklsebee would go running to McGonagall, or his parents, and I'd be blamed. And expelled. And possibly arrested. There are enough parents who want me out of the school as it is."

Potter's eyes narrowed, but Draco crossed his fingers within his pocket and hoped that he bought the - well, it wasn't technically a lie. It probably was true. But it still wasn't the real reason, and he did not want to get into the true rationale behind his refusal to fight back.

"I suppose you're right," he conceded reluctantly, "I thought maybe…"

"Well you thought wrong." He shouldered his bag and stood. "I need to get to class." He left as quickly as he could without seeming like he was still trying to hide anything.

To his relief, Potter didn't try to sit next to him in Charms. He let himself get lost in the copius amounts of notes Professor Flitwick had set, complicated magical theory replacing the niggling self-conscious worries that plagued him so often.

He skipped lunch and avoided the Great Hall; instead, he made his way across the grounds, sitting up against a tree near the quidditch pitch and gnawing on an apple. The solitude was so preferable to the countless glares he received in the castle he was almost tempted to stay there forever, looking up at the sky, and never going to Potions. Alas, by the time he finished his apple, reality set in. With a morose expression and a visible drag to his shoulders, he made his way back to the castle and down into the dungeons.

To his horror, he was the last to arrive, and the only seat available was, once again, next to Potter in the back of the classroom. Draco narrowed his eyes as he approached, slinging his bag on the floor and refusing to look at Potter. What was his deal? Surely he could have asked someone else to move; nobody would dare refuse the Chosen One.

To his intense relief, Potter didn't try to speak to him. When they retrieved their cauldrons from the side to continue the Skele-Gro, he said a polite "excuse me," and that was all. Every time Draco glanced over at the other boy, he seemed consumed with his work - not that it was doing him any good. What was meant to be a thin brown liquid, emitting gente puffs of steam, Potter had somehow turned into a congealed grey mess. Next to Draco's perfect brew, it was entirely pathetic. This wasn't the first time he had ruined a potion; Draco knew he had a track record of poor grades in this class. And it wasn't like Potter was stupid; he seemed to have some sort of block.

When he attempted to add the wrong ingredient for the fourth time, Draco snapped. "No," he said shortly, "Not the beetle eyes. Add the stewed bat bones first."

Potter swung his head up to look at Draco, but he had already turned away. Draco's neck heated under the other boy's stare. "Thanks," he said slowly, following Draco's advice. Draco swallowed.

"Well done, Draco! Excellent work," beamed Slughorn as he collected their potion samples. "Don't vanish the rest of it, I'm sure Madam Pomfrey will want to make good use of this, it's in perfect condition. And, er…" his eyes drifted to Potter's potion, the brewer himself standing behind it and shrugging ruefully. "Well, there's room for improvement, at any rate. I'm sure next class you'll do better. Off you go!"

Draco didn't spare any time dawdling and, with a short nod to Slughorn, all but bolted out of the room. Being around Potter made it harder to breathe; years of spite and jealousy did not mix well with months of intense guilt, and Potter was simply a reminder of everything Draco wasn't, and everything he could never be.

He stumbled down the hall and up the stairs, desperate to get out of the dungeons and breathe fresh air; as he flew through the corridors, he ignored the strange looks and the thump in his chest that was far too quick to be healthy. He finally made it out and he inhaled as deeply as he could, his fingers digging within the bookbag slung around his body. They finally made contact with a slender glass vial and he pulled it out and uncorked it, taking the Calming Draught like a shot of Firewhisky and leaning against a tree trunk. He gripped the bark tightly, his skin raw against its roughness, as he waited for the potion to set it.

It only took a few minutes before his chest grew softer and his breath came more easily. He ran a hand through his blond hair before turning around and coming face-to-face with Potter.

"Seriously? What, are you stalking me now?" He demanded, crossing his arms.

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright," Potter said cautiously, his hands gently raised in a placating gesture. Draco had never been more grateful for Calming Draughts, as he was sure he would not have reacted very diplomatically without one.

He snorted. "Right. Since when have you cared if I was alright? Was it last year, when you got both my parents thrown in prison?" Potter tried to interrupt but Draco ignored him and continued, "Or was it in sixth year, when you cursed me and left me bleeding out on the bathroom floor?" Okay, maybe he still wasn't being diplomatic.

Potter's brilliant emerald eyes had the audacity to flood with hurt, and he took a wavering step back as if Draco had shoved him. "That was - I'm sorry. I really am. There's nothing I can say to take it back, and I'm not making excuses, but - I didn't know what it would do. I was a fool."

Draco heard himself laugh incredulously, his tone scathing. "You cast a spell on a fellow student when you didn't know what it did? "

"I know. I know, it was stupid and selfish and I can't take it back. But - if there's something I can do -" Potter looked like a wounded dog, and Draco couldn't help some small flicker of satisfaction, ignoring some deeper twinge that this conversation was all wrong. It was inside out.

"You want to make it right, Potter? Here's a start - stop following me. Just leave me the fuck alone," he spat, shouldering past the other boy to prevent an outburst of the slimey, unforgiving emotion crawling in the base of his stomach. Instead he hurried through the castle, his fingernails digging into his palms, and concentrated on keeping his breathing steady. Either the Calming Draught was faulty or he would be even more worked up without it, both of which were equally implausible.

What in the world was Potter's problem? Why was he so hellbent on not letting Draco get a moment's peace? And the gall of him to pretend to feel guilty about what he had done, when he knew Draco's sins ran so much deeper, was insulting. The alternative, that he actually did want to make it up to Draco, was even worse. Of course he would. Perfect Potter, he probably bent over backwards apologizing to cows for eating beef. Draco was so distracted by his thoughts he almost missed the dirty looks a group of third-year Gryffindors gave him, or the sixth-year Ravenclaw that spat at his feet. Almost.