The new year at Hogwarts began, and Draco was not happy. In fact, he was miserable, which he hated, so he did the only thing that made sense: he tried to make everyone else around him equally miserable, especially everyone he irrationally blamed for making him question every part of his existence.

So, rather than doing as Hermione had requested and returning to the boy he'd once been or at least seemed to be, he flung himself hard in the opposite direction. It never occurred to him as running away. If it had, he might have been horrified as Malfoys were, of course, not cowards, or so he had been endlessly told. Granted, he'd also never been told they were thieves, racketeers, and murderers, maybe even worse if that was possible, so perhaps "coward" wouldn't have been so terrible of an addition.

But he started seeking out the weakest in the pack with predatory focus. He supposed that technically Hufflepuffs should have been his dominant targets given that goal, but his heart wasn't really in it. What was the point of seeing if he could make Justin Finch-Fletchley cry? Of course he could. So could Snape, McGonagall, and on at least one occasion a very surprised and horrified Flitwick who had apologized so profusely for speaking too sharply that he'd nearly started sobbing himself. As for Ravenclaws, he hated to admit it even to himself, but there was something a little frightening about them. That many highly intelligent people all in one house could be working on almost anything, up to and including finding out the most damning secrets of anyone who crossed them. Draco therefore gave them a wide berth. Slytherins were, obviously, out of bounds, even if there were more than a few he was beginning to dislike heartily.

That left Gryffindors. More specifically, Gryffindors who were either blood traitors or Mudbloods. Or Neville Longbottom, whom he still couldn't believe was a pure-blood. There must have been some sort of mix-up with his parentage. Maybe he'd been swapped at St. Mungo's when he was born and there was someone walking around thinking he was a very gifted descendent of mediocre background when he was actually a Longbottom. No wizard with that sort of prime ancestry should have that much difficulty casting the simplest spells.

Then again, if being a pure-blood wasn't a guarantee of perfect wandwork, being a Mudblood didn't automatically make someone an inept troll either, he reminded himself. Not that he needed reminding of that during every single bloody class he had with Granger. Perhaps she was the one who'd been swapped at birth? It would make his own life a lot easier if it turned out she'd been adopted or abducted or some variation on a changeling or anything that rearranged her family tree. That would mean things would make sense again. And that would be beyond nice.

Obviously, therefore, that was impossible.

So Draco became such a horrendous brat that he even started to hate himself. He flung curses at Longbottom in the corridors with abandon and waged ludicrous gossip campaigns against Potter that had absolutely no basis in fact but were generally swallowed whole by the Slytherins. His current favorite was that Potter was secretly Fudge's illegitimate son, though anyone who'd seen a photograph of James Potter would have known in an instant that was concocted. Harry and James might as well have been twins born a couple decades apart, well, except for the eyes. He supposed those must have come from his mother.

Eventually Malfoy got into a fight in the stands at a Quidditch match with Neville and the youngest Weasley at the school. He pulled Crabbe and Goyle into the battle once Draco came to the surprising realization that Longbottom was capable of causing fairly extensive damage with his wand, not so much with magic but as a surprisingly effective stabbing instrument. Ron, on the other hand, was a bloody dirty fighter, something he would have normally respected, but seeing as it was Weasley, Draco just hated him worse than before if that were possible. While Longbottom tottered away from the encounter towards the Hospital Wing with a bloody nose, barely conscious, Draco was nursing the start of a black eye and at least three large, wand-shaped bruises on his ribs. He sneered at the Gryffindors as he left. The pain almost felt good. At least it wasn't complicated, even though he was sure his father would have been horrified if he'd been caught brawling like a common Muggle. Something about that thought felt good too.

When he entered the common room, Pansy was gazing at him adoringly as though he were carrying the wounds of a great battle. He liked the attention, of course, particularly as Slytherin's defeat by Gryffindor meant no one was getting any other glory. But it was empty.

The truth was he was lonely, not that he'd admit it. While Pansy was appropriately worshipful, she was also so boring that he sometimes wondered how he managed not to fall asleep whenever she opened her mouth. As far as he could tell, she had no interests to speak of besides nail varnish and the newest robes. Crabbe and Goyle were worthy bodyguards, but trying to have a conversation with them about anything more complicated than breakfast or the weather was impossible. His loneliness made him angrier, more determined to be the biggest bully in the school, which had the effect of making most people stay away from him, which made him lonelier yet, and the whole thing just repeated. He found himself hoping school would end soon so he could return home, only to be reminded of how awful the holidays had been. He didn't see the slightest bit of light anywhere, and it was getting steadily worse.

That's when he took to very quietly slipping away from the rest of the Slytherins. He became remarkably good at simply dissolving out of a room, no magic involved, just extricating himself from any attention and disappearing rapidly down the nearest corridor. Then he wandered. First it was aimlessly, or so he told himself. If he happened to wind up in the library, it was only because he wanted to read one of Hydrangea Stonewater's newest adventure novels, not because of anyone else who might be there. If he sat at a table in an unobtrusive corner, deep in shadow, and occasionally glanced over the pages to see someone else reading on the far side of the library, lost in a book probably the size of a paving stone, it wasn't because some bit of him was pretending that they were reading together despite the distance. Really.

At least she never caught him staring, which was a mercy, and Weasley and Potter tried to stay out of the library as much as possible, so there was little chance of running into them. But then they started showing up as well, obviously looking for something specific and talking loudly enough that Pince pitched all three of them out more than once.

Weasley and Potter in the library looking for something that obviously even Hermione couldn't find? Draco's interest was piqued, and as he had been bored for a truly inordinate length of time, he decided it was entirely in the interest of the school, the Ministry, and the world in general to stick his nose into their business and find out what the two idiots and the Mudblood mastermind were plotting. It could be insurrection. It could be a campaign to overthrow the ministry. Hell, at this point they could be plotting how to get more pudding and he wouldn't complain about wasting his time. He'd never been so bored.

He took to following them. Not Granger. She was far too observant. And not Potter, since he drew a sizable crowd regardless of what he did. Instead, he carefully began tailing Ronald Weasley. For quite a while, the only thing he found out was Weasley seemed to spend a good deal of his time avoiding his older brothers, particularly Percy (he really couldn't blame him there as he was the definition of a prat), and that he was practically glued to Potter and Granger the most of the time. Draco was just about to try finding another hobby, anything, possibly even sinking as low as Gobstones, when he unexpectedly struck gold.

Peering through the filthy glass window of the caretaker's hut, Draco was absolutely delighted to see Hagrid and the three others grouped around what was obviously a newly hatched dragon. Potter looked confused, Weasley mildly interested, Hagrid ecstatic, and Granger, as usual the only one with half a brain in the room, alarmed.

"Hagrid," he heard her say, muffled though the glass, "how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow, exactly?"

Draco thought that was only part of the trouble as the tiny dragon started sneezing sparks at them. The dragon trade was completely illegal. He'd actually asked for a dragon for his fifth birthday and received a "no" in response for one of the few times in his life, though that could have been less out of respect for the law and more an effort to prevent burning down Malfoy Manor. Draco had no idea where the egg had come from, but this was easily enough to get Hagrid sacked and the other three put into detention for weeks, possibly even expelled. He would be entirely glad to see Granger leave Hogwarts so that he would have no reason to think about her ever again and his life could go back to normal.

With a sickening thud in the pit of his stomach, he admitted how much he now hated normal.

At that precise moment, Hagrid saw him, as did the others, and Draco took off running towards the school at top speed. He knew, and they knew that he knew, and he knew that they knew that he knew. On the whole, there was a great deal of knowing, but the one with all of the power was, to his immense surprise, himself.

He didn't stop running until he was back in his dormitory. It was empty, and he slammed himself down on his bed and stared out the window.

He could do it.

He could get rid of all of them: the Mudblood, the blood traitor, the oaf, and even Potter himself. It was all in his hands.

His father would be proud of him.

Draco began to imagine a wonderful scene. He was carried into the Great Hall on the shoulders of the tallest Slytherins, the rest crowding around them and cheering his name ecstatically, followed by a particularly raucous round of "For He's a Jolly Good Wizard." As he was deposited at the Slytherin table, the mail would arrive, and with it a large package addressed to Master Draco Malfoy, Esq., in familiar handwriting. He would tear it open to find a racing broom so phenomenal that it hadn't even been introduced to the public market yet, ten pounds of Dobby's best sweets, and three hundred Galleons glistening in an emerald green velvet pouch. A letter would be there also, the exact opposite of a Howler, and it would open itself to the sound of golden trumpets.

"My dear son," it would say in his father's magically magnified voice, "I am so very proud of the great service you have done to the wizarding world by removing these odious interlopers from our beloved Hogwarts. You are a credit to our entire family. Your mother joins me in saluting you for your success. Congratulations, Draco."

Then it would explode into a storm of multi-colored confetti as he was surrounded by raucous cheers again.

It was a wonderfully clear daydream, so real that he could almost swear it was happening, and perhaps that was why his imaginary self glanced over at the Gryffindor table and noticed three vacant places, one of them somehow seeming even emptier than the others. The fluttering confetti suddenly became less bright, the cheers out of tune, and the grin that had been plastered onto his face faltered.

Draco opened his eyes to find Persephone sitting at the end of his bed and regarding him quizzically.

"Here for a treat?" he asked, sounding sour. "It's the only reason you ever stop by."

The owl pecked his foot as though he was stupid for thinking such a thing, then fluttered up to his bedside table and stared at him with huge, luminous eyes.

"What?" he said, then shook his head and scratched her under her beak fondly. "How is it you always seem to know when to show up?"

Persephone made no answer but emitted a quiet chirping noise that wasn't all that different from a cat's purr. At least something in this world liked him without his having to destroy people's lives to get their approval.

"It's a dangerous animal," he said quietly. "That idiot should realize a dragon really could hurt someone."

Persephone hooted quietly as though in agreement.

"He can't let it stay here," he said, trying to think things through. "She's right, of course, as usual. It's going to grow quickly. Once it's too enormous, either everyone will know or they'll have got rid of it somehow."

Persephone tilted her head at an odd angle.

"Okay, for now, I'll wait. I can keep my mouth shut for a bit and see what happens. Maybe they'll do something stupid and get themselves thrown out without my doing anything, so it won't be my fault," he said, then slowly grinned. "Of course, there's no law that says I can't make them all sweat for a while wondering what I'm going to do or when. That might be amusing."

Persephone gave his hand a sharp nip that nearly drew blood, but Draco only gave her a mouse-flavored pellet and she flew off.

For a solid week, not much happened. He would dramatically turn around from his cauldron in Potions class while Snape's back was turned and give the three of them a particularly evil smile whenever he had the opportunity. Potter and Weasley would look furious, but Hermione would blanch the color of the froth on her potion. This was getting to be fun.

Nearly a week went by, and Draco reveled in the thought that he could save or damn them at his whim at any moment. That's when a letter arrived by Persephone one morning at breakfast. He had been hoping for a note from his mother, but the plain envelope, when opened, was written in tiny handwriting that he remembered only too well.

D

I need to speak with you. You know about what. Please meet me at 6:00 this evening outside Greenhouse One. Thank you.

H

He stared at the words, stunned by the sheer audacity at her requesting a private audience with him. It was utterly ridiculous.

"Who's the letter from, Draco?" Pansy said, sitting across from him. "Not bad news I hope."

"Why would you think that?" he asked as he deftly slipped the letter into his bag.

"Because your face is turning colors," she pointed out, handing him a pocket mirror, which she always seemed to have handy.

Draco glanced in it and realized he had indeed gone red. He couldn't very well control whether he was flushing or not, but it still annoyed him.

"Nothing too horrid," he said. "Just a note from home. Mother isn't happy with my Transfiguration grade."

It was a terrible lie as he was standing near the top of the class, save for one other person who would remain nameless, and he didn't mean the Dark Lord.

"For mercy's sake, what does she want you to do? Stuff your head with so much nonsense that you turn into someone as boring as Goody-Goody-Granger?" Pansy said, giggling maliciously, and he joined in with relish.

"Probably. You know how mothers are," he said.

"Oh, mine isn't like that," Pansy said with a sniff. "She's told me how humiliated she would be if I'm in the top half of the class. A proper lady doesn't concern herself with study. It's enough that's she pretty and rich, well, and of a good family, of course."

"Of course," Draco said, though he couldn't help feeling a sense of vague horror at what Pansy's mother was molding her to be. Then again, he thought, was what his parents were doing all that different?

That very uncomfortable thought was probably why Draco ended up standing outside of Greenhouse One at precisely 6:00. He heard her footsteps before he saw her, and he made sure not to turn around, hoping it looked like he just happened to be casually peering through the glass panes at a Flutterby Bush that was beginning to bud and his being here at a time that coincided with her note was entirely accidental.

"Malfoy," she said, and he did turn around now as there was no other alternative. "Thank you for coming. I didn't really think you would."

"Save your breath, Granger," he said, and even he was surprised by how venomous he sounded. "I had something to do here. That's all."

"Of course," she said, and he knew she hadn't believed him. "But still, you know why I sent you the note."

"I assume you mean the dragon currently roasting the Keeper of the Keys," Draco said, smiling viciously again. "Yes, I suppose you would want to discuss that."

"Why haven't you said anything yet?" she asked.

"Is waiting for the other shoe to drop becoming too much for your delicate Mudblood nerves?" he said, laughing.

Hermione sighed, then sat on the bench next to the door and stared at the ground.

"I want you to say something," she finally said.

Draco blinked at her. He hadn't been expecting that.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I'm honestly afraid someone is going to get hurt," she said, looking up, and he did see fear in her eyes. Draco actually took half a step toward her, then stopped himself. She was a Mudblood. He wasn't supposed to feel concern for her even if she were bleeding to death.

"What do you mean?" he asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

She paused for a moment, looking torn, then said very quickly, all in a single breath, "Hagrid's a very nice person, really he is, but he's not thinking logically. He's wanted a dragon since he was little, and he's so thrilled by it that he's not noticing that it's getting too large, and it's biting and spitting sparks that are starting to turn into actual flames, and he lives in a wooden house, and he keeps thinking it's some sort of overly large dog or a frisky horse or something and honestly I don't think he knows just how dangerous it is! Someone could honestly get killed!"

Draco frowned.

"Why not run and tell McGonagall yourself then?" he asked.

"If anyone finds out what Hagrid's done, and they undoubtedly will, keeping an illegal dragon on school grounds where anyone could stumble on it, he'd be sacked," she said.

"And of course that would be an epic tragedy," he said snidely.

"It would," Hermione said firmly. "He's good at what he does, Draco, and he loves animals a great deal, so much that he does foolish things to help them. That's not the worst crime someone can be guilty of committing. On top of that, this is the only home he's known since his father died when Hagrid was at school, and I don't know how he'd survive outside of Hogwarts. I'm still hoping someone can come up with a plan to convince him to get rid of it before anything has to be done, but if not, someone has to tell when the dragon isn't anywhere near him, and I don't know how to do that yet."

Draco stared at her. She was honestly worried about what would happen to the man. It was, well, oddly touching. If she'd been pure-blood, even half-blood, he might have been able to feel some small bit of empathy for Hagrid, but as it was, he very firmly told himself he did not.

"That someone is supposed to be me, I take it," he said.

"It would make sense," Hermione said.

"It would keep your so-called friends from hating you, you mean," Draco said.

"That too," she admitted.

"And keep you out of trouble," Draco pointed out.

"No," she said. "I'm aware there needs to be a sacrifice made here. I'm willing to take the blame for it. I have good enough marks that one infraction shouldn't be enough to get me thrown out of school. Besides, I know you'd enjoy seeing me get into trouble, so there's your payment."

Draco took a moment to close his jaw. This was the least boring day he'd had in at least four months, maybe longer.

"Let me get this straight," he said. "You're willing to let me get you caught with an illegal dragon if it means the overly hairy gamekeeper can keep his job?"

"And no one accidentally gets killed by a dragon, yes," she said, "provided we don't come up with another way of getting rid of Norbert."

"Norbert?"

"The dragon," she said.

"The dragon is named Norbert?"

"I didn't choose it!" she said.

In spite of himself, Draco started to laugh, and after a few seconds, he heard her snort, then join in too. It really was absolutely ridiculous.

"Fine," he said, still chuckling a bit. "We'll give it a week. If you find a way to get rid of ickle Norbert, send me a piece of blank parchment via owl at breakfast. If not, then straight to the stake with you, Mademoiselle Jeanne d'Arc, complete with your own personal dragon to light the fire."

She looked uncomfortable, but nodded.

"I'd say thank you, but this seems an odd thing to thank someone for," she said.

For one moment, as the last of the spring sunshine caught her in profile, he almost forgot what she was. He hadn't laughed at anything for so long that he was nearly giddy off it, and the level of self-sacrifice she was willing to give for her idiotic friends, though he didn't understand it at all, was admirable. For that split second, he liked her again, but it was only a second. His treacherous feelings terrified him so much that he blurted out the worst thing he could think of to insult to her.

"Don't thank me, you pathetic sow!" he said. "You just handed me everything I need to destroy you, as you should be. Never presume to speak to me again!"

He stalked off impressively through the evening dusk, not bothering to turn around and see her face. Granted, it would have been slightly more impressive if he hadn't walked directly into a wall on his way out, but perhaps she hadn't noticed.

The very next day, another letter came for him at breakfast. He glanced at it casually, not allowing his curiosity to betray him, then opened it to reveal a blank sheet of parchment. Well, that had been quick.

"How odd," Blaise said when he threw it in the middle of the table.

"Yeah," Draco said, sneering at the paper. "Odd. Someone's playing a very stupid joke."

The blank parchment lay on the table between the strawberry jam and the toast. There was nothing at all on it, not a dab or ink or a single mark, nothing. Just endless, bland, pure paper. Draco tried very hard not to make a comparison between the paper and his life, but only succeeded in feeling more sullen than usual.

The day stretched on, and nothing happened. Pansy appeared to apply her own weight in lip gloss every few hours, Crabbe was puzzled by how a quill worked, Goyle stared out a window for five minutes before noticing it was raining, and Binns droned on and on about the life of Helga Hufflepuff, who sounded like she might have been happier as a baker than a founder. Draco tried stirring up trouble, but there weren't any likely targets. He considered skiving off classes to wander about the library, but even that seemed flavourless.

For several days, Draco wandered the corridors of Hogwarts, occasionally leering at Weasley or Potter, but now that the dragon was obviously gone, there was no point to it. Then he had the extremely bad luck to knock directly into Weasley in the Charms corridor, and the contents of both of their bags had scattered all over the floor.

"Watch where you're going, you idiot!" Draco yelled as he scrambled to stuff everything back in his bag, even though he was fairly certain it was his own fault.

"You're one to talk, Malfoy," Weasley said, jamming books and bottles of ink into his own satchel. As he did, Draco noticed that his hand was extremely puffy and looked infected. In fact, it was turning green. "All the grace of the giant squid, you've got."

Draco threw him a scathingly nasty glare as he took off down the hallway. He had a free period next and was planning on spending it in the owlery, sending Leaves on the Tree of Perfection back to his mother with a polite note. When he got there, he couldn't find the book anywhere. He dug through it like a deranged Niffler, eventually dumping the whole mess back out again on the floor for the second time that day. As the luminous eyes of the owls looked on, he slowly came to the horrible realization that Weasley had his book.

"Ugh," Draco said, shoving everything back in again. "I'm actually going to have to speak to him."

The book was not only his mother's, but it was obviously expensive, probably even irreplaceable. He had meant to leave it at home over the holidays but had completely forgotten its existence, which wasn't hard to do as it was deeply boring. He had occasionally wondered if there might be a Sleeping Charm on it.

Later that day, he tried to track down Weasley, but he was nowhere to be found. Eventually he swallowed his own pride enough to ask his older brother Percy where Ron was.

"Not that it's anyone's business, but I've heard he's in the Hospital Wing," he said pompously, "so it's better to leave him alone."

The Hospital Wing? Draco remembered the hand he'd seen earlier and decided that must be why, but more than that, he realized in retrospect that it looked very much like Weasley had been on the receiving end of a nasty bite, and not by something a first-year was likely to run into in class.

A dragon bite. It had to be. Which meant that the parchment Hermione had sent him days earlier signifying that the dragon had been got rid of had either been premature or an outright lie. With a spring in his step, Draco completely ignored Percy's suggestion of respecting Ron's privacy and went immediately to the Hospital Wing.

"Pardon me, Madam Pomfrey," Draco said, putting on his most charming manners, "but I understand my friend Ronald is here, and I need to get a book back from him, please."

Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow at him suspiciously, but waved him through.

Weasley, whose hand was now bright green, was lying in one of the beds and staring up at the ceiling morosely.

"Hurt, Weasley?" Draco said with mock pity. "You've got one of my books from when you blundered into me earlier this morning. I need it back."

"Eat dung, Malfoy," Ron said through gritted teeth. "I'm not in a state to deal with you."

"Really?" Draco said, leaning closer. "Well, I certainly hope you get over this soon. What a horrid bite. It would be a shame if it were to… drag on."

It really was an awful pun, but Weasley turned paler, making his freckles look as though they'd been drawn on, which was worth it.

"Dog. Just a bite off a stray dog," Weasley said.

"Of course," Draco said, looking at the hand again. "A Norwegian dog, perhaps? One that has unusually poisonous teeth, too, dear, dear. How very unfortunate."

Ron said nothing at all this time, and Draco grabbed the book from his bag, which was lying next to the bed.

"There, now I've got what I want," Draco said. "If I were to lose this, Mother would be simply furious, absolutely breathing fire at me, but then you know exactly what I mean, don't you."

"You have it, so go," Weasley said.

"Of course," Draco said smoothly. "For now."

As he exited the room, he felt sure his father would have applauded his performance.

Draco hurried back to the owlery and was just about to slip the book into an envelope when a piece of paper fell from between its pages. Momentarily horrified by the thought one of the pages had come loose, he grabbed it only to realize it was a note addressed to Weasley from someone named Charlie—most likely one of the numerous Weasley clan.

His eyes flicked back and forth over the letter, and he quickly realized the dragon wasn't gone yet but would be leaving the next night via the Astronomy Tower. He shuddered. That wasn't his favorite place anymore. Not that it ever had been, he lied to himself. Ron was apparently supposed to bring the dragon to the tower, though that was obviously impossible now; his hand looked like a train wreck. Draco would actually feel sorry for him if he weren't a Weasley. That meant Potter would be taking the dragon to the tower. Surely it couldn't have got so large it would need more than one person, would it? The letter implied Ron alone would be bringing the dragon in the original plan. Potter might be on the small side, but he could surely handle a dragon alone better than Hermione could. Hagrid was out of the question since he would draw far too much attention.

So, Saint Potter and the dragon. It sounded like a Medieval legend, and one that might end in a horrible bloodbath. Hagrid wouldn't be there, Hermione was out of the way, and provided that Potter was caught with the dragon prior to going to the Astronomy Tower, Charlie's friends wouldn't be implicated either.

Draco smiled as he put the book into its envelope and called Persephone to him with a treat.

"Don't try reading this while you're flying," he cautioned her. "You'll nod off from boredom and might fly straight into a mountain."

Persephone certainly looked like she rolled her eyes at him as she took off, but Draco was in a much better mood. With any luck, Potter would be expelled, there wouldn't be any residual damage, and his father might even be proud of him.

As usual, Draco had not counted on the fact plans never quite go exactly as expected.

In retrospect, as Professor McGonagall dragged him down the corridor by his ear the following evening, he really shouldn't have attempted turning Potter in after curfew. McGonagall now also seemed to be weighing the possibility he was delusional and had been hallucinating seeing a dragon, something even Draco had to admit did sound far-fetched now that his proof was nowhere to be found. Added to that, Potter seemed to have magically disappeared. He must have backed out of delivering the dragon since Draco had been lying in wait for him for over an hour without seeing a trace of him, and there was no other way up to the tower.

But when Draco was told that not only did he have detention for being out of bed after hours but that somehow Potter, Granger, and Longbottom of all people would be joining him for also "coincidentally" roaming about the castle at all hours on the same night, he threw up his hands in despair at ever being able to understand anything that went on at Hogwarts.