“It hasss been sso long, Sseverusss, ssincse I have sseen you. You musst update me. How goesss your quesst?”

“Well, my lord. Potter hates me more with each passing day.”

“Each passssing day? That isss not sufficsient! He musst hate more with every passsssing moment! You have the temerity to call your lack of progresss ‘well!’ I want him to be infuriated by the mere sssight of you, by the sssimple ssuggessstion of Ssslytherin colorsss that might caussse him to remember your exisstencse!”

Severus bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

“Crucio!”

---

“Potter! What do you think you are doing?”

“Brewing a potion, sir,” Harry ground out.

“Mangling is more like, though that is certainly an excellent illustration of your mental capabilities. As it happens, I was actually referring to your conference with Miss Granger. Apparently I did not make it clear enough last time that I do not want you relying on her to do your thinking for you. I know you must counter nearly six years of habit here, but surely the Boy-Who-Lived is capable of the effort.” He smirked knowingly at Harry. “I think another detention is in order.”

Harry clenched his jaw together as tightly as he could. Detention would seriously cut into his homework time, and he needed that time this evening if he was going to sneak into the Restricted Section later. “And when would you like that, sir?” Harry was all obviously false-solicitousness.

“Tonight, I think-immediately after your last class come and see me.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

---

Harry was fuming again as he stalked down to the dungeons. The headache that had appeared that morning (probably from grinding his teeth, he seemed to recall Aunt Petunia telling Dudley that grinding your teeth could do that), had never gone away. In fact, it had grown steadily through the day, developing into what Harry thought might be a migraine. He’d never had one before in his life, but the nausea and sensitivity to light were dead give-aways. At least that greasy blot on the face of wizarding-kind usually kept the dungeons dark and cool. That should give him some relief.

Severus knew the instant that Harry entered the classroom that something was wrong. His eyes were slightly unfocused and the boy seemed pale. He had been intending to inquire about the curious sight he had witnessed over the weekend, and also to reassure Harry after the spate of poor grades he had gotten recently.

The papers that were returned to the class were ink-soaked and figuratively shredded, but Severus had been keeping track of the marks that Harry would receive were he free to be more obviously fair. All of them were recorded in the grade book that Severus kept warded and out of the reach of students. As he observed the boy, however, he realized that now was probably not the time.

So, what to do?

He could, of course, ascertain the problem and treat Harry himself, thereby fixing the problem and avoiding any semblance of compassion as seen from outside the relationship, but at this point it seemed entirely unlikely that Harry would actually accept any potion from the Potions Master’s hand. Unless…

“Mr. Potter.” Severus looked up at the youth for the first time since he had entered the room.

“Sir?” Harry glowered, but simply came off looking a bit ill.

“For Merlin’s sake, boy! If you’ve got one of the Weasleys’ boxes with you, take the antidote.”

“I’m here, aren’t I? How dare you accuse me of trying to skive my way out of detention? After all, I am not a lying Slytherin,” Harry hissed the words.

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Mr. Potter. I am merely suggesting that one of the sweets might be efficacious in clearing up your current condition.”

“And what condition is that?”

“Clearly you are unwell.”

“Funny, no one else noticed. Perhaps you had a hand in my ‘condition’, sir?”

Severus glowered. “I will refrain from making unfounded accusations if you reciprocate, Potter. Take the sweet if you have it. If you haven’t, I’ve got something that will help.”

“I’m feeling just fine, sir.”

Severus snorted. “Certainly you are. Well, if that is the case, you won’t mind sitting down and writing lines again. You may write ‘I will think for myself’ one thousand times. You may be dismissed when the task is completed.”

Harry glowered again, but sat down to comply. It did not escape Severus’s notice that it took him a significant amount of time to complete the relatively easy task. Nor did it escape his notice that this was the second time Harry had shown up sick at detention.

Perhaps, since they seemed to be serving no positive purpose, he should discontinue the detentions entirely. He had thought before that he might be able to use the time to reach out to Harry, but the youth was entirely unresponsive so far. It seemed unlikely that the detentions were actually the cause of Potter’s strange malaise, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to give the boy some extra space. Severus sighed. It wasn’t giving up, he told himself. It was just attacking the problem from a different angle.

----

Draco was sitting at his favorite table in the library. It was isolated and out of the way of most students who found their way into what was arguably one of the largest rooms in Hogwarts, yet it was within easy access of most of the major sections of the library.

Actually, Granger had a table quite nearby, but they usually observed a sort of truce that was as much out of necessity and an avoidance of the Wrath of Pince as anything else. Granger, however, was not present tonight. In fact, most of the student body was elsewhere, it being a Tuesday with no major projects due on Wednesday. The silence and solitude made the table a good place to think while Draco pretended to do some homework.

It had occurred to him Saturday morning that while flying with Potter was actually entertaining, he had so far not managed to further the ostensible reason for the exercise. He had learned absolutely nothing from or about St. Potter so far that didn’t come through the usual, and usually unreliable, channels. Perhaps it was time to do something drastic.

Malfoys did not chat; certainly they did not typically indulge in personal conversation with social inferiors. And yet, even though he was a half-blood, could the Boy-Who-Lived really be a social inferior? He probably had more popular cachet than the entire Malfoy family, especially lately. Draco considered his dilemma.

Sometimes, progress required sacrifices. This appeared to be one of those times. Then too, as a first year Draco had had no qualms about trying to ally with Potter. Draco nodded imperceptibly to himself. Even now, he had no problems with spending vast quantities of time in Potter’s presence.

He would just have to try to introduce an element of conversation the next Saturday…or rather, the Saturday after. This coming Saturday was the Ravenclaw game and no doubt the Slytherin captain would want him for a strategy and planning session. Perhaps it was even time to do what his father had suggested in the first place. Perhaps he really should befriend Potter.

---

Despite his best efforts, Draco didn’t actually get a chance to talk to Potter until Friday just after Potions class. He knew that he was probably going to get a bad response talking to the wizard then. After all, anyone who had spent an entire class period under the none-too-tender ministrations of Snape’s tongue was likely to be rather irritated, and lately it seemed that the mere mention of Snape’s name, let alone his presence, was sufficient to get Harry Potter hot under the collar. This was a definite contrast to the first term of the year. The two dark-haired wizards had gotten along quite well in the fall and early winter. What ever could have happened between them, Draco wondered again. “Potter,” he called.

“What?” Harry snarled at him. Hermione, walking beside the brunette youth, was silent but watchful.

“I just wanted to let you know that this Saturday I have a game, so I won’t be able to meet you before it.”

“Fine,” Harry said shortly.

Draco quirked an eyebrow. “Well, I’ll see you later then, Potter.”

“Later,” Harry growled.

Draco nodded briefly at Hermione and she lifted a hand in response, sparing him a small, sympathetic smile.

---

Saturday, Harry woke briefly in the early morning, but after a moment, promptly rolled over and went straight back to sleep. He did not awaken again until Ron stood next to his bed, shaking his shoulder. “What?” Harry moaned sleepily.

“Oh nothing,” Ron replied. “I just thought that you’d like to get up, maybe eat breakfast, and then come cheer Ravenclaw with me.”

Harry blinked at him a moment before sitting up. “Yeah, okay.”

“I guess the Ferret didn’t want to fly with you today?”

“He said he wouldn’t be able to meet me before the game. He didn’t say why.”

Ron nodded sagely. “Well, he’ll probably meet you next weekend, right?”

“I suppose,” Harry said absently as he gathered some clothes.

Ron nodded again. “We are cheering Ravenclaw, right?”

“Of course,” Harry looked up at him in surprise. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Well, you are friendly with the Slytherin seeker…”

“Yeah, but not that friendly. I still want Gryffindor to win the House Cup.”

Ron nodded one final time and shoved Harry toward the showers. “Hurry up, you prat, or there won’t be any food left and I’m starving!”

“You’re always starving,” Harry laughed as he went to get cleaned up.

---

About forty-five minutes later, Harry and Ron were making their way to the Quidditch Pitch, along with most of the rest of the school. Miraculously, there had been enough food left for them, and after a hearty meal they were looking forward to the excitement of the game. They found good seats, mostly by dint of squirming through the crowds and a little mostly-harmless misuse of Ron’s prefect status. Within five minutes Hermione, Neville, Luna, and Ginny had found them and within ten Madame Hooch had walked out into the middle of the field to tell the captains to shake hands and start the match.

It was a good game. Both teams were fairly evenly matched, and it was clear to Harry from the start that unless Slytherin cheated the outcome was going to come down to which seeker found the snitch first. With that in mind, Harry looked up at the two figures circling above the pitch on their broomsticks.

Draco looked intently focused. He was searching methodically, but every lap or two he’d change his pattern a little to keep from getting bored. He did, however, succumb to the temptation of making some comment or taunt to Cho every time he passed her, distracting himself far more than he did the Ravenclaw.

Cho, Harry noticed, had gotten a bit taller, but she seemed to be as willowy as ever and she sat her broom with easy grace. She was, perhaps, not quite as good a flier as Malfoy, but she made up for it by not being as easily distracted as the Slytherin. No matter what, it was going to be a close game.

In fact, the game lasted for nearly three hours. The score was forty-sixty in favor of Slytherin until the snitch, which had been even more elusive than usual, finally showed itself. Draco didn’t notice it until a full seven seconds after Cho, because he was busy teasing her about her recent bad luck romantically speaking.

The snitch was about halfway across the pitch, and although Cho took off as soon as she saw it, Draco at first thought that she was running from him. By the time he realised the truth, there was no way he was going to be able to catch up.

Which wasn’t to say he didn’t try. With his broom’s superior agility and speed, he turned and accelerated with nearly unmatched grace and speed. Unfortunately, it just wasn’t enough. He was still five meters away when Cho Chang’s hand closed around the snitch, ending the game. In that moment, three quarters of the students present rose to their feet and began cheering.

---

Draco was, understandably, out of sorts for the rest of the week. His housemates and teammates were not particularly forgiving of his mistake in missing the snitch. Draco had not expected them to be, but all the understanding that they had had when he lost to Potter was noticeably absent after his loss to Chang. “You just got too cocky, Malfoy,” the team captain had told him. “You’ve got to keep your head in the game. If you can’t do that, then you’re out, I don’t care who paid for the brooms.”

It was for that reason that Draco had spent most of his free time in the library at his favorite table. Sometimes, he reflected, it is good to be alone, away from the petty squawkings of others. He ruthlessly ignored the feeling of restlessness, of recklessness that had been growing in him since the match on Saturday. Malfoys were tranquil, or at least gave the appearance of it. Always.

Draco sighed. He no longer felt like studying, but he did not want to go back to the common room to be treated with grudging acceptance and as little attention as possible. For one thing it would mean dealing with Crabbe and Goyle. True, he had not spent much time with them this year, but it seemed to be getting more difficult to be in their presence rather than less. Perhaps, he had reasoned, he had just needed a break. As time had gone on, though, Draco began to wonder if he had outgrown his two loyal sidekicks.

He still kept them as acquaintances, of course; one never knew when an extra pair of unquestioning hands might be useful, but neither youth provided anything in the way of meaningful companionship. Draco sighed again and dragged his attention back to the present.

Being in the library more also meant seeing quite a bit more of Granger, who seemed to live at the next table over. How it was that she managed to spend time with her friends, help everyone outside of Slytherin (and a few within) study, eat, sleep, and not go absolutely barking mad while still spending such a significant amount of time in the haven of books was beyond him. Draco could not help watching her for a few moments as she crouched over her book.

She seemed utterly oblivious at first, but after a few seconds she blinked, sat up straighter, and glanced about. She smiled at him when she saw him, a polite smile that somehow managed to convey more sincerity than most of the smiles he had received in his life and was about to turn back to her book when he spoke. “Granger?”

“Yes?”

Draco hesitated. Did he really want to do this? Well, why not? He needed a study break. Besides, if he had already determined that he could talk to Potter, was Granger really that much worse? Deliberately ignoring the voice in the back of his head that screamed yes, she was, Draco got up and walked over to the chair that was just across the table from Granger. “May I?” he inquired, head tilted slightly to the right.

“Yes, of course,” Hermione replied. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly fine, thank you,” Draco said haughtily.

“Good. You’ve seemed,” Hermione paused delicately, “a little off all this week. I was concerned.”

“You were concerned?” His skepticism showed clearly in his tone and expression, though he was careful to retain at least an appearance of utter politeness.

“Yes, of course.” Hermione paused again. “I’m certain that you didn’t come over here to discuss your health or behavior, though.” This time it was her turn to tip her head to the side.

Draco hesitated again. Now that he was here, he did not really know what to say. He had the vague idea that maybe he could get some information out of his classmate, but he was not quite sure what he was looking for, what she might know, or how to go about finding it out. He would, he realized, have to make small talk. “I didn’t think I could stand another minute staring at my text books and essay and note outlines,” he said finally.

Hermione smiled again, this time a little more warmly. “I know what you mean.”

“Do you? I’m not sure I believe you.” To Draco’s immense surprise, Granger laughed softly.

“Yes, I do. I don’t spend my every waking minute studying, you know. Not that anyone actually could,” she qualified. “You mustn’t let on, though,” she said conspiratorially. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Draco assured her. “So if you’re not studying all the time, what is it you are doing?”

“Well, I do read quite a bit. A lot, if I’m going to be honest. Not all of it relates to coursework, but I find that a lot of the knowledge I pick up can be sort of, cross-referenced. Like a spider web or the weaving of cloth on a loom.” She blushed slightly and looked as though she expected him to say something caustic.

“So that’s why you do so well in class? If you don’t understand what the professor says you just cross-reference it?”

“Partly. It helps to be able to think of things in more than one way, to have more than explanation. Not only does it clarify what the professor is trying to teach us, it can actually bring to light other, perhaps previously unconsidered, aspects of the topic.” She managed to look earnest and excited at the same time.

The flush on her cheeks lingered, even deepened, and Draco got the impression that she had not explained this particular philosophy to many people. “That’s actually fascinating,” he said. He was struck by a sudden thought, and if he hadn’t been feeling so displaced and rebellious he never would have said it out loud. “Do you ever think of magical things in Muggle terms?” He blushed himself as soon as he realized what he had said, but Granger did not seem at all offended by his question. In fact, she seemed to think it was a natural extension of thought from her last statement.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “I know that in a lot of ways the magical world is very different from the Muggle world, and a lot of the things I learned when I was younger, a lot of laws and things that Muggles think of as absolute aren’t necessarily so. But I did grow up believing I was just an ordinary girl until I was eleven. It’s only natural really.” She shrugged. “Wizards, when confronted with non-magical objects and phenomena usually look for a magical explanation, even though it doesn’t exist.”

Emboldened by her response and feeling (he thought) justifiably smug that his attempt at insinuating himself into her confidence was going so well Draco continued. “Has there ever been a time when being familiar with the Muggle world has actually helped you adapt to magic? Or has it been a hindrance?”

Granger looked thoughtful. She regarded him with slightly wary eyes for what seemed an unnaturally long time before she replied. “It was hard to accept, at first, the existence, even the possibility of magic. I had, of course, had some experiences with accidental magic when I was younger. I repaired a plate I had dropped, for instance, just by wishing it whole. But magic isn’t logical. Its existence is not really allowed for by modern, rational, scientific thought. Of course, science can’t prove that magic doesn’t exist, but most Muggles simply don’t believe in it. Magic is for children and clowns and stage magicians and fantasy novels. It doesn’t factor into everyday life. In that respect, it was very difficult to join the magical world.

“Of course,” Hermione smiled, “everything got easier to accept when Professor McGonagall came and levitated our tea cups and transfigured our couch into an elephant and back again. I think my parents were a little relieved that I was a witch and would be trained properly and I wasn’t going to turn into Carrie or anything like that. To answer the other half of your question, though, yes, I think coming from a Muggle background has been beneficial. I tend not to accept as many things without thought as some of my wizarding-raised friends do. And Muggles are loads better at things like analytical thinking and logic and organization. Those skills have definitely come in useful.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “Who’s Carrie?” he asked at last.

Hermione laughed again. His first instinct was to take offense, but she didn’t appear to be laughing at him, so he didn’t say anything. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I sometimes forget that purebloods know so very little about Muggle culture. Carrie is a fictional character created by an author renowned for his horror stories. She was a social outcast who ends up killing her class when they play a prank on her that goes too far.” Seeing his blank look, Hermione continued, “She killed them using a combination of telekinesis and pyrokinesis. To a certain extent, accidental magic is explained in the Muggle world by attributing it to psychic gifts.”

Draco frowned. “Muggles think magic is created by the mind?”

“More or less,” Granger nodded. There’s a lot of thought and research on the subject, not all of it reputable or reliable, and there are even more books and programs and films and things.”

“That is…bizarre.”

“Not really. Modern Muggle society is founded on secular thought, the belief that there is a rational explanation for everything. It cannot be possible that every single Muggle-born witch or wizard comes to Hogwarts or any of the other magical schools, despite the best efforts of the wizarding world. In fact, given the resentment that so many wizard-bred feel for Muggle-borns it’s practically guaranteed that some should fall through the cracks. Given this, it’s only to be expected really that science would try to study magic. And without knowing what magic really is, the probability of stumbling onto the right answer is extremely low. Especially since in Muggle society these gifts are possessed by only a few and in some cases don’t seem to be gifts at all.”

“Don’t seem to be gifts? You mean Muggles think magic is actually something to be ashamed of? They think it’s a curse?”

Hermione got the distinct impression that Draco was about to declare that the most barbaric thing he’d ever heard of. “Sometimes. Sometimes it is.”

“Now wait a minute!” Draco interrupted her before she could go any further. “Magic is possibly the best thing ever to happen to humanity! Without it, society as it is today wouldn’t exist!”

“I agree,” Hermione inserted coolly.

“But you just said that magic was a curse,” Malfoy protested.

“No, I said that sometimes it is a curse. Perhaps it would be better to say that in certain cases it is a burden.”

“How could magic possibly be a burden?” Draco asked in an exasperated voice.

His face stated quite clearly that he would not be convinced, but Hermione knew she had to try anyway. Even though she knew that it was probably useless to try to engender any sort of understanding of the Muggle world in Draco Malfoy. She took a deep breath and let it out, watching his face the entire time. She leaned back in her chair and tilted her head, studying him as she gathered her thoughts. This was, without a doubt, the longest conversation she had ever had with the Malfoy heir, but it was also the most satisfying.

Finally, she leaned towards him again and said, “You have to forget what you know, to really understand. You’ve grown up with magic; you’ve seen it worked all your life. Muggles don’t. You understand magic instinctively. Muggles don’t. They don’t even acknowledge the truth of its existence. Now, say that there is someone with magical potential who isn’t recruited by a school. This person is Muggle born and bred, so they’ve grown up denying magic. All right?”

“Okay.” Draco’s disbelief was clear, but it was equally apparent that he wanted very much to know what she would say next.

“Now, you don’t believe in magic, but you eventually become aware that you have some very strange abilities. Abilities that you can’t discuss with anyone because if you do, they’ll probably think you mad, and then you’ll be locked away where you can’t hurt anyone, or yourself. Perhaps these abilities are even more apparent when you are distressed or frustrated or hurt or confused. Maybe you find that you can’t always control them. Can you imagine? It would be terrifying.

“Muggles have posited that what they call ‘poltergeist activity’ is due to psychic phenomena brought on by severe distress. Now, it is entirely possible that all the documented but unexplained happenings are due to actual poltergeists which the Muggles simply cannot see. On the other hand, it is also possible that this activity is, in fact, due to uncontrolled accidental magic. The phenomenon is far more prevalent among the young and the emotionally troubled.” Hermione spread her hands. “In that case, magic might very well seem like a curse.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, imagining what it might be like not to have any idea that magic existed, actually to be convinced that it did not exist, and then to be confronted with things that could not otherwise be explained. It was not a comfortable thought. “I see,” he said at last. “It has been suggested,” he began slowly, “that we purebloods ought simply to exclude Muggle-borns entirely. If, however, as you say, Muggles are actually aware of magic, are studying it, no matter how peripherally, that might actually not be in our best interests.”

“To be completely honest, I think it would be very bad for the wizarding world to pursue that course,” Hermione said quietly. “Aside from all the potential progress and innovation that would be forgone, if there were a sudden increase in the percentage of the population that exhibited what appeared to be psychic gifts, there would be a vast deal more research done on the subject, and it would most likely be much better funded than such ventures are now. To exclude the Muggle-borns could actually lead to the discovery of the magical world.”

“That’s a worst case scenario, surely,” Draco scoffed.

“Is it?” Hermione asked calmly. “I admit it probably wouldn’t happen immediately, but think about it.”

Draco nodded. “I shall.” He straightened, stretched slightly, and stood. “Thank you, Hermione,” he said gravely. “You have given me much to contemplate.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of this for some time, but I’ve never actually had the chance to discuss it before. I appreciate the opportunity.”

Draco nodded again and returned to his own table. Hermione smiled at him again before settling back into her chair and returning to her long neglected book.

---

It was now Friday afternoon, and in addition to avoiding the common room, the Great Hall, and the Quidditch Pitch, Draco now considered the library off-limits as well. He did not expect that he would encounter any angry Slytherins there, as he might in any of the other places, rather he was almost certain that he would see one Hermione Granger, Muggle-born. Unfortunately, Hermione Granger was also probably the most intelligent person in the school and an interesting conversationalist. It was for the last reason, nearly as much as the first, that Draco did not want to see her.

He could not believe his own behavior. He, Draco Malfoy, pureblood, practically a prince of wizarding society, had actually said the words ‘thank you, Hermione.’ It was unheard of. It was extraordinary. Potter hadn’t even been there to witness the occasion, so Draco could not even pretend that the whole thing had only happened because he was trying to win the other youth over. No, to his horror, the entire conversation had taken place because he was feeling bored, reckless, and, to be completely and utterly honest with himself, lonely. It was unthinkable, and yet, it was the truth.

He was lonely. And she had seemed utterly reasonable. And easy to talk to.

Draco stood up from the bed that he had been comfortably perched on and began pacing the room. Perhaps, he thought after several minutes, all was not lost. Surely Granger, open and friendly as she was, would mention to her best friend and her boyfriend that she had seen and talked to him. Therefore the entire experience would improve his standing with Potter, possibly even more than if Potter had been standing there.

Then too, it never hurt to have multiple sources of information. If Potter didn’t want to talk, probably Granger could be induced to. He could cultivate her as an informant if nothing else. Yes, that just might work. And, if they met in the library it would mean that not only would relatively few students see them, they would assume that any meeting was for the purpose of studying. Come to that, they might actually do a little studying.

Draco smiled for the first time in nearly a week. Things were beginning to move forward again.

---

When Harry had arrived at the Pitch, Draco was scowling furiously. “Something wrong?” Harry had been too surprised by this fact to be anything other than solicitous and politely concerned.

“Go ahead, just say it.”

“Say what?” Harry had asked confusedly.

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps you’d like to thank me for letting the Ravenclaw win the match.”

“It does mean that Gryffindor has a better shot at the Cup,” Harry shrugged. “I’m not a particular fan of Cho Chang, though, if that’s what you mean.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No.”

Draco had just sniffed as they climbed onto their brooms.

For Harry, flying was a way to get away from tension and the things that caused it. Taking to the air was like the ultimate escape. This was not so for Draco. Like his namesake, taking to the air just seemed to give Malfoy a more advantageous position to attack from. He flew more aggressively that morning than Harry had ever seen him, even while playing. Harry couldn’t help thinking of Hermione’s assessment of the youth.

“He’s unhappy,” she had claimed. “He may act superior, but the second I started really talking to him like a person I could tell how lonely he is.” After the obligatory expressions of surprise that Draco Malfoy had bothered talking to her at all, as well as a thorough discussion of possible motivations for the act, Harry had concluded that she was probably right. Hermione usually was.

It had never before occurred to Harry how isolated Draco probably was. Even if Slytherins put aside their ambition and acted familial in the privacy of their own House (which Harry greatly doubted), the only people he ever recalled seeing Draco spend any real amount of time with were Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson. None of them were exactly what he would call a brilliant conversationalist. Harry mused on this.

Maybe he could talk to Malfoy a little more? It would more or less depend on how trustworthy he was though. Would Draco still be expecting to befriend him to further his father’s (and Voldemort’s) plans? Or would he take it as a genuine gesture of camaraderie? Did Harry even want to make the gesture?

While Harry was consumed with those thoughts, Draco was mentally berating himself. Just when he had determined that he was going to honestly try to talk to Potter he behaved in such a surly manner that he wouldn’t be surprised if Potter completely gave up on him. Not that Draco was even sure why the saintly youth was still meeting with him. He was just going to have to make some sort of overture. He just needed to get over it. He was pouting. Malfoys did not pout. He did not pout. The whole thing was just ridiculous.

As thoughtful as they both were, however, neither of them let it interfere with their flying. They were even in the air a little longer than usual. When they landed, Harry lingered instead of rushing off. Just this once Ron and Hermione could forgive his lateness. If they noticed. It seemed that lately whenever the two of them were alone they became much more concerned with each other than with anything else.

Harry shook away the thought noting that, as he had half-hoped, Draco was walking next to him instead of stalking away. For his part, the Malfoy heir was surprised at Harry’s slowness in leaving, but was determined to seize any opportunity presented to him.

“So, is something wrong?” Harry asked as the walked slowly back up to the castle.

“Not really. Not all of us are as gifted at flying as you are. My captain saw me with my broom this morning and asked if I was getting some much needed practice.”

Harry was quiet for a moment. “You know, it’s not that you’re a bad flier. You’re really not. All that time you spent flying as a kid maybe.”

Draco looked around at him with wide eyes. He could hardly believe what he had heard. “So then what is the problem?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, mind you I haven’t watched all your games, but from what I have seen, you don’t focus enough. You’re too busy trying to tease or taunt the other seeker, or laughing at the other team, and you don’t always pay attention to the things that are really important.” Harry looked over at the blond to see how he was taking that statement.

Draco was silent for several paces. “So you’re telling me to quit being obnoxious and just play the game?” he said with the ghost of a smile flitting about his mouth.

“Pretty much.”

“You know, my mother said that to me once,” Draco remarked absently.

“Smart lady.”

“Even if she does look like she smells something unpleasant?” Draco asked slyly. Harry just grinned.