Draco/Harry (scholar and Artificial Lily)
 

This was the fifth year that Draco had taken the train to Hogwarts, and in all honesty it was getting quite tiring. The same people in his year, the same rivalries, the same lame insults, the same lame jokes.

Pansy, hanging onto his arm as if they were already engaged, ruffled his hair again. "Aw, Drakey, what's the matter?"

"Stop calling me Drakey," Draco said, for what he was sure was the tenth time in as many minutes. "And you wouldn't understand. Just—leave me alone, okay? I'm sick of you hanging onto me."

Pansy looked genuinely hurt, and backed away. "Sheesh, sorry. I was just worried about you, for all that you care."

Draco sighed and patted her arm, standing up. "I'm just... bored of the train, that's all," he lied. "I'm going to go track down the lady with the trolley and buy some food. Want anything?" he offered.

"No, I'm fine," said Pansy, but her expression was truly concerned. "Come back soon."

As Draco closed the compartment door behind him and set off down the narrow, rickety corridor past the long rows of other compartment windows, he reflect that Pansy definitely would not understand what was really bothering him. Yes, he was tired of the train, yes, he was tired of seeing the same people day-in-day-out. But mostly, he was very, very worried about his future. His father's parting words on the train platform came back to him:

"Draco, you may only be fifteen, but you have a family legacy to uphold. I would be ashamed if you let me down."

Draco found the lady with the trolley quickly enough, and bought himself some pumpkin pasties for show. He wasn't really hungry, but Pansy would wonder if he returned to the compartment empty-handed.

At the thought of returning to the cramped compartment, his blood began to boil. He was completely trapped on the train, just as he was trapped by his father and the Dark Lord, and Wizarding pureblood tradition. He wanted to run, to shout, to protest the way everyone—okay, his father—had taken away any chance he'd had of choosing. Bloody hell, he was only fifteen. He'd thought he'd've had two more years to sit back and wait for the Death Eaters to fix things before he'd have to get involved.

But the train was an enclosed space. Unless he hurtled himself out of a window—not bloody likely—he was stuck on it until they reached Hogsmeade.

With a rush of angry energy, Draco pushed past a group of goggling first years and walked as fast as the rattling train would allow towards the very back. Maybe simply seeing a clear space, free of people, would help calm him down.

Oh, perfect, thought Draco. Just the person he'd wanted to see when he was in a foul mood and feeling trapped. Potter, perfect Potter. And there was no way he could avoid the encounter unless he decided to simply turn around and give up. Which he couldn't do for two reasons: first, it would look silly, and second, he still needed to simply get out.

He had a few options: curse Potter so he became small enough to get past, which had the added advantage of revenge; he could also simply rush past without saying anything; or he could just tell Potter to move aside.

"Move, Potter," he said. Draco wasn't in the mood for a duel; he just wanted OUT, even if it was only the symbolic "out" of the train's back platform.

Draco rolled his eyes and stepped forward. "I don't care if you were there first, I need to get past you, Potter. Move."

He drew his wand, sorely tempted.

Draco ground his teeth and pushed forward, now pretty much in Potter's face. "No, this spoiled rich kid is in a very bad mood. And there are no teachers around, Potter, so don't think I'll hold back."

He breathed evenly, slowly, keeping the scream of rage controlled inside him before it burst out as an Unforgiveable.

"Just move, Potter," said Draco through gritted teeth. When had the other boy become so sarcastic and snide? He suddenly felt like their roles were reversed: him, the adrenaline-fueled Gryffindor, Potter the sly, hanging-back Slytherin.

Something snapped, and he forcefully pushed Potter sideways up against the rattling wall of the train aisle. There were no compartments back here, just a handful of toilets, none in use right now. The corridor was very narrow indeed; both were turned sideways as Draco pushed past.

The two boys were face to face, bodies touching fully front to front. Draco could feel Potter's abdominal muscles against his own. They were very nearly the same height; Potter an inch or so taller. The other boy's face was very near, so that Draco could see the pores on his cheeks, chapped lips, and those annoyingly green eyes.

"I hate you," Draco whispered, and with a massive push, thrust himself past Harry Potter and towards the small door leading to the train's back platform.

Draco heard Potter's insults called after him, but ignored them and flung himself through the door to the back platform. Finally! Fresh air, no confinement, no other people. He felt his heartbeat slowing down as the racing noise in his head slowly silenced itself, and the repetitive click-clack of the train took over.

Then, as his head cleared of the claustrophobic, trapped feeling, he began remembering the encounter moments past, the sensation of forcing his body past Potter's own, the two of them so similar in build. A shudder passed through him with the remembered sensations. The two of them hadn't been so physically close since their first days at Hogwarts, when Draco had tried to extend his friendship and help to the Muggle-raised wizard.

Draco realized that, until that very moment pushing past him, he'd continued to think of Potter as an eleven-year-old boy. But no longer. Neither of them were boys anymore: at fifteen, they were in between the world of children and adults. It was time to put childish insults away, along with childish rivalries.

Draco rested his head in his arms and stared out at the train tracks thundering along underneath them. An immense feeling of calm descended over him as his claustrophobia, his boredom, and his worries about the Dark Lord were pushed down deep inside, covered by the noise and repetition of the train's journey. Even if that journey took him back to school, where he'd have to deal with the same old problems, for now he was peaceful. He could deal with this.

--

((I have to go do dishes right now, which will take about fifteen minutes, but I'll be back then.))

BACK! :D

Draco turned around from his contemplation of the railroad tracks, pulled out of his peaceful—if noisy out here on the back platform—state of mind by Potter's questions.

"Why do I hate you?" he repeated. He opened his mouth to reply automatically, but then closed it. Why did he hate Potter?

They were rivals, Gryffindor/Slytherin, and had competed on the Quidditch pitch, for one. And then there was that nasty comeback of his, so many years ago: "I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself." That had rankled, for so long. Plus, Potter's mother had been a Mudblood. Then, it burst out of him:

"I hate you because you're an annoying twit of a Gryffindor," he snarled. "Dumbledore's always on your side, even when you break the school rules. You flaunt your celebrity status at every possible moment, and it's bloody irritating. You hang around with Ron Weasley, who's the thickest, tactless brick in the school, and that Granger girl who doesn't care about letting other students try to answer questions but has to show off by being fastest up with her hand." The rant kept coming: "You don't seem to get that your rosy version of the Wizarding world is completely wrong, and that family and blood status matter even to those who pretend it doesn't care."

He took a deep breath. "That's why I hate you, Potter."

----

((Oh, and just a setting note: Draco's out on the back platform, which is outside the train. He's not in a room. :P ))

Draco forced himself to calm down. "Whatever, Potter," he said. "You asked me why I hate you, and I answered. I'm sorry if you don't like my answer."

He added, "You keep harping on about not having parents, but have you ever thought about what it would be if your parents were still alive? They'd pressure you to do this or that; they'd tell you who you could be friends with. All those silly stunts you've pulled—the Forbidden Forest, that dragon, all those pranks—they'd've punished you somehow." He turned away and stared moodily out at the passing scenery. His anger had completely cooled, and suddenly he simply didn't give a shit what Potter thought of him. "Parents aren't always great to have."

He wondered, with a surge of panic, when the letter would come from the Dark Lord. He knew there'd be a letter, and a request, and perhaps a command. He felt the pace of his breathing increase and blinked furiously.

"Just—go away, okay? I need to be alone. I need to think."

The last thing Draco wanted was Potter's pity. "You think I can just defy my parents? Defy my parents' friends? Get real, Potter," he snarled. "You've had the Cruciatus curse put on you, I know—my father told me everything about the graveyard, about the Dark Lord's resurrection. You know what it feels like, and so do I."

He inhaled sharply. He'd said too much already, opened up too much, but he couldn't turn back. "My father knows everything I do at school. He pays my friends to write to him and report weekly; and of course Snape"—he spat the name out with hatred—"blabs everything to him. I can't stand up to him, okay? It's not just a matter of willpower, it's a matter of life and death. You just have this rosy little vision of families, and you can't understand that some parents view their children as expendable."

Draco had had enough of Potter. Being confined in the train compartment was much better than standing out here being taunted into revealing things he'd rather keep secret.

He flung open the door from the platform into the closed space of the train, and flat-out ran down the aisle to the compartment where his housemates sat. They might be annoying, but nowhere near as annoying as Potter.

"What happened, Draco?" Blaise asked as Draco flung himself grumpily onto a seat.

"Ran into Potter," Draco muttered, and glared out the window. Potter's words kept echoing in his head: "stand up for yourself, stand up for yourself, stand up for yourself..."

I wish I could, Draco found himself thinking.

----------

((Feel free to move the train along to the school now if you'd like.))

Draco silently followed his yearmates out of their compartment as the train lurched to a halt. Pansy had a claw-like grip on his arm and was prattling away about something girly. Greg and Vince were talking over each other about how hungry they were. Blaise and Ted Nott were struggling to carry the basket with Ted's Kneazle inside. The creature was yowling and hissing about the confinement, and the basket kept nearly leaping out of their arms. Draco wondered why they didn't just Petrificus the animal to shut it up. Draco's own owl, Aquila, had already flown up towards the castle, probably to hunt on her way to the owlery.

He spotted Potter's black head, next to Weasley's red—no, make that four red Weasley heads—and the brown bushy mess of Granger's. He thought about Granger. He didn't really hate her, but she was bothersome in class. No one else ever got a chance to answer and earn house points, because she kept raising her hand and reciting the textbook. A thought occurred to him, more unusual than any other thought. Maybe, just maybe, he could simply ask her to stop? It probably wouldn't work, but he could try.

He got into a carriage with Pansy, Greg, and Vince, and joined in their idle conversation about the upcoming year without real enthusiasm. Yes, of course he'd be playing Quidditch. No, he had no idea who the next Defense teacher would be. His father hadn't told him anything. Yes, of course he'd go with Pansy on the next Hogsmeade outing. Yes, of course he'd help Greg pass Potions, help Vince pass Transfiguration. It was all the same, and that boiling feeling began surging upward again, threatening to crack the calmness he'd found in that brief moment on the back of the train, out in the open air.

They reached the castle at last, and tumbled out of the carriage together. Up the stone steps, through the front door, and into the Great Hall.

After the new students were sorted, Dumbledore did his usual speech and introductions. To Draco's horror, the new Defense teacher was that awful Umbridge woman, one of Fudge's underlings. He began to suspect that his father had had a hand in selecting her. A shudder went through him. He'd have to toady to her, and he already did so much toadying to Snape that he felt he could easily be mistaken for Neville's pet Trevor.

Umbridge's speech was far from encouraging: the Ministry, in short, was interfering at Hogwarts. That roughly translated to the Dark Lord interfering at Hogwarts. Draco didn't know what he thought of that.

Finally, Umbridge finished talking and the food appeared. With relish, Draco piled his plate high and focused on filling his empty stomach. Maybe a full stomach would also calm the emptiness he felt in his heart.

The food didn't help, and when Draco woke up the next morning he felt quite sick from having overeaten. He forced himself to get up, shower, and dress. He poked Vince and Greg awake and sent them lumbering off to their own morning rituals, then headed up for breakfast.

As he took his seat, Snape descended on him with a piece of paper. Draco's heart leapt uncomfortably in his chest until he realized it was probably just his schedule for the term.

The paper was indeed his schedule, but Snape also had a few words for him: "I had a letter from Lucius this morning with a few notes about your future plans. Do feel free to come talk to me if you encounter, ah, any problems."

"Yes, sir," said Draco, bewildered. What sort of problems might he have with his father's plans other than not wanting to go through with them? But Snape had already walked away, so Draco looked down at his schedule.

Bloody hell, they were with the Gryffindors for Potions, Defense, and Care of Magical Creatures. If there was one class Draco had regretted taking, it was Care of Magical Creatures. Why on earth had his father insisted on it?

The mail arrived. Draco looked up for Aquila, but she wasn't there, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Pushing his plate away, he got up from his seat, only then noticing Potter across the Great Hall. He flicked his eyes away quickly. Why did Potter bother him so much these days? Usually he tried not to think about him, unless they were in the same room.

Draco heard the whispers about Potter as he hung around in the entrance hall, technically waiting for Pansy but mostly trying not to think.

"He says You-Know-Who is back, but I don't believe him."

"I read in the Prophet that he's all messed up in the head."

"...lunatic..."

"...nightmares, they said..."

"...totally cracked..."

"...Boy Who Lied..."

Draco bullied a first year into giving him her copy of the Prophet and scanned its articles. There were no headlines about Potter, so what was everyone talking about? He flipped to the back page and saw Girl with scar on forehead claims to be Girl Who Lived. The article was snide, poking fun at both Potter and the poor crazy girl, who was now in St. Mungo's for treatment.

Draco felt shaken. He'd not read the Prophet all summer, as his father regularly gave long updates at the dinner table regarding Ministry policies, events in the Wizengamot, and what the Dark Lord was planning. He'd had no idea that the newspaper was going at Potter like this. He'd known, from his father, that the Ministry was hushing things up with the Prophet, preventing them from headlining certain stories, or editing out small but crucial details. He was horribly startled to learn that Potter might actually have been telling the truth about things not being all rosy.

Draco, who had been leaning against a wall just off the entrance hall, suddenly felt dizzy and slid down it to sit on the floor with his head between his knees. What was going on? He was supposed to be the Prince of Hogwarts, he was supposed to have Potter as his unquestioned rival, he was supposed to know where his life was going: finishing school while the Dark Lord fixed things, then loitering around the fine social places taking advantage of his status and wealth.

He saw a pair of shoes pass him by and looked up, careful of his head, to see a figure pass by and turn the corner. Potter.

Not knowing why he was doing it, Draco stood up, folded the paper under his arm, and followed him.

Potter was leaning against a wall with his eyes closed, and looked tired and worn out. Draco looked at him for a long moment, taking in the unfamiliar slump, the exhaustion. He shook his head, denying the reality that Harry Potter's life was not at all charmed, even if he didn't have a Death Eater for a father.

"I, er," he began, "I just read the paper."