It started, as if often did, with an idle thought, one he'd had a million times. It went something like, what if, in the very beginning, Potter had agreed to be his friend? Couldn't that have changed everything?

He was reminding himself of the thought's absurdity when he tripped over an extended foot and sprawled onto the cold, stone ground.

The culprit laughed. Didn't see you there, Malfoy. So sorry.

Didn't see him? Ha, Father would hear about this…is what he might have said, once upon a time. With grim amusement, he thought, alas, times had changed… Smoothing away the pained grimace marring his face, he swept a cool gaze over the offending Hufflepuff (what even was his name) and noted with satisfaction the hint of fear bubbling beneath the bravado. There was a note of unease in the snickers of the onlookers. The kid and his gaggle of friends took a uniform step back when he rose.

Fools, he sighed, dusting off his robes. After the cruciatus, after sectumsempra, did they really think that a scraped knee, a bruised ego…? Hufflepuffs! He tossed a silent sneer over his shoulder and walked on, already forgetting the incident. It was of no moment. His thoughts were far away.

They had, in fact, wandered back to that perennial daydream. Most absurd, but…what if?

A memory surfaced: Madam Malkin's on that perfectly pleasant day—every day back then was perfectly pleasant—the lazy sunshine of a mild August streaming through the windows; his chest puffed out excitement as he stood next to Potter on a stool. He couldn't remember what he'd actually said, probably something ridiculously arrogant. But what was it he wanted to say? Hullo, your eyes are awfully green. Hullo, I've never seen the likes of you before. Hullo, I'm actually just excited to meet a new person, d'you want to get an ice cream after?

Potter had been awfully quick to write him off, that stupid sod.

All right, forget that. What if, instead, he'd intercepted Potter that first day on the train, before Weasley got to him? He could imagine a different conversation, or no conversation. He could've salvaged the poor beginning. He could've plied Potter with chocolate frogs, instead of talk of purebloods. No one could resist chocolate frogs.

What if he'd hung onto Potter at the sorting, like he'd wanted to. He'd talk up Slytherin—well, talk it up better than he had. He'd infect Potter's thoughts, at least a little bit, and couldn't that have made all the difference?

Imagine if they could've played on Quidditch on the same team!

Imagine if Potter could've shielded him from Father over the holidays…

Imagine if…and there were infinite ifs, innumerable permutations, small details Draco dreamt up in the dead of the night when the Deatheaters prowled, minor modulations year after year couldn't have mattered, but invariably did. They paved the way to a different ending, a better ending, as it were, than the one he got. The one he deserved, no doubt. The one he was living. If only…

Absentmindedly, Draco turned a corner and collided hard into a hard chest.

"Fuck. I mean, sorry—oh."

The thoughts dancing round and round in Draco's head vanished. He stood still, blinking slowly at the bright green eyes that walked right out of his daydream. "Potter," he whispered.

"…Malfoy…"

Potter's eyes narrowed; his whole body tensed. Draco could see his hand on his wand in his back pocket; it provoked a glimmer of a wan smirk. As if Draco could, at this point… He gave Potter a lazy nod, which boy-hero returned, tersely. And then Potter was walking away again.

Draco wasn't sure what got to him. Maybe he was lightheaded from skipping lunch. Or maybe it was that he'd caught Potter alone, for the first time in forever. Or maybe there was just nothing to lose now. Nothing left to lose at all.

"Potter, wait."

The footsteps paused. Potter turned to look at him, guarded and uncertain.

"Do you ever wonder . . . if we could've been friends?"

Lumos.

The light flickering at the end of his wand was so faint that it was near invisible. Still, there was light, and that meant something, didn't it?

He heard Greg laugh in the darkness. "I thought you were getting a new wand."

A bit difficult, as it turned out, when the premier wandmaker had been shut up in your dungeons for weeks on end.

"There are other wandmakers."

"Never mind all that, Greg. This will do."

He toyed with the wand, familiar yet foreign, indulging again in his memories with a hollow smile: his irrepressible excitement when the wand had first responded to him on that perfectly pleasant day in August; his helpless despair when Potter wrestled it from him at the manor; his dull bemusement when Potter handed it back again during a break at his trial…

Sorry I … uh … kept it so long, Potter had said in that gruff, awkward way of his. Draco would've laughed if he wasn't so out of it. His fingertips accidentally brushed against Potter's when the wand exchanged hands; they both flinched. The wand—that traitor of a wand—still swirled with remnants of Potter's magic.

It had been a suitably dark day, frigid though it was summer, a perfect embodiment of England's natural gloom. The rain fell in sheets, splattering against the ground in an almost violent way. Potter disappeared behind a curtain of precipitation before Draco remembered to say thank you.

Focillo, he'd whispered, huddling outside the building without much hope. He was shivering so hard he almost dropped the wand. But, miracle of all miracles, a faint warmth spread from his wand up his trembling fingers. It wasn't enough to warm him through, but he let out a shuddering sigh of relief anyway. So, the wand hadn't completely switched allegiance. Or, perhaps he and Potter were not entirely misaligned. Or, at the very least…

"Listen, Greg, I had a thought."

Greg grunted noncommittally.

"It's about Potter." A snort now, full of derision. Are they ever about anything else, Draco could hear him thinking. But this time, it was different. It wasn't an idle daydream, a fantastical rewrite of the past. "No, really. I was thinking, what if I tried to befriend him now?"

The silence stretched so long that Draco began to wonder if Greg heard him, or if he'd spoken at all. So he continued, his words coming out in a breathless pitter patter of syllables, if only to fill that silence. It's not too late, really, and it's not impossible, despite everything. People change. He can change, I can change. And you weren't there, Greg, you didn't see his reaction. Of course, Potter was surprised, of course he was suspicious, of course he didn't say yes, but he didn't say no, and that meant something. And more importantly—this was key—among all the emotions that flashed across those guarded green eyes, there had been a distinct absence of…hatred. Of revulsion.

"And I can still use this wand, can't I?"

"So?"

"Don't be daft, Greg. It means, obviously, that Potter can't hate me all that much. So there's hope."

"You're speculating."

Draco made a face—where had Greg learned such big words? "Maybe he even likes me a little, deep down. You know, feel the kind of begrudging respect one has for a worthy adversary. We've been at it for so long, he must…"

"You think Potter finds you a worthy adversary—" Draco's frown deepened. What had gotten into Greg today?

"—Do you have a better idea? Potter can rehabilitate... Greg, you know the problem with you?" He was beginning to grow incoherent. "It's just that we have to—we can't just—" They had to do something. Otherwise they'd just be sitting ducks. To wait would only prolong the torture. There would be no exam honors, no job prospects, no place in society. There was no future for people like them, didn't Greg understand? He wanted to walk across the dark room and shake the stubborn giant by the shoulders. Father would understand. Not that Father should serve as an example, after … but Father had saved their family from ruin after the last war despite all odds, had made it grander even, so why couldn't Draco? He was a Malfoy too; he was a Slytherin. He could swallow his pride and bury his feelings and bide his time, do whatever it took, if that meant…

And it didn't have to be friendship, really. Draco wasn't that delusional. Just an acknowledgement, a public sense of forgiveness, really. Potter was the quickest way.

"Potter could save us, Greg," he said. Even without Greg's response, the hopelessness of it all weighed on him as he voiced these final, desperate thoughts. The light at the end of his wand dimmed even more; it would be extinguished in a second. Forgiveness from Potter at this point, after everything? Just a wild pipe dream, and they both knew it. "But I could try…I should try…" His mumbling trailed off uncertainly.

"You should get some sleep," Greg said quietly. Draco heard his sheets rustle as he nestled deeper into bed. "Good night, Draco."

The light died at last and darkness swallowed the room. Draco stared up at the ceiling with dull, grey eyes. He would stare until his eyes dried out and forcibly drift shut; only then would he let his nightmares catch up to him.

"Good night, Greg."

And, good night, Vince, wherever you might be.