Harry wasn’t a good singer, and he really didn’t enjoy public attention, despite what Draco had intimated about his exhibitionist tendencies. Harry was an even worse dancer than he was a singer, so this probably went down right next to seeing Snape’s worst memory as his most embarrassing moment ever.“You put your right foot in – you put your right foot out – you put your right foot in, and you shake it all about; you do the Hokey-Pokey and you turn yourself around. That’s what it’s all about!”

Harry kept his eyes on Draco the entire time. As Malfoy was the only student not laughing, this was somewhat helpful. His face felt like it was on fire, and he felt any moment his muscles might collapse in sheer rebellion. When the song was finally, finally over, he collapsed back into his seat at Gryffindor and pillowed his head on his hands.

The entire Great Hall erupted in applause, most notably from the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables. The Hufflepuffs looked too confused and the Ravenclaws too disdainful to do much more than murmur amongst themselves. Draco came up behind Harry and patted him absently on the head.

“That’s a Muggle song, Harry?” he demanded, amusement lacing his tone. “I’ve always said that our culture is superior, but now I know it for a fact... anyway, see me after supper, I’ve got a couple more things for you do to before you head off for Gryffindor. Oh, and eat it all.” He walked back to the Slytherin table to more applause.

Ron looked after Draco in disgust. “He calls you Harry now?”

Harry blinked up at Ron blearily. “Am I still alive?”

“Are you...?”

“Because I think, if it’s possible to die of embarrassment...”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said.

Harry blinked. Well, one good thing had come of this – Hermione was speaking to him again.

“That’s awful, what he made you do. I’m so sorry!”

“That’s all right, Hermione, it could be worse,” Harry replied. “Besides – it was my idea.”

“Yours!”

Harry nodded. “I was idiot enough to laugh in a space of silence. Malfoy asked me why I was laughing, and I said, ‘well, if I were in your place, I’d...’”

Hermione blinked, looking as though she, too, found this inexcusably dull-witted, but at least she didn’t say anything.

“Hermione,” Harry said, catching sight of her robes, “what’s that?”

Hermione flushed, and Ron rolled his eyes. “She’s been wearing that crest for the past two days,” he said. “I was wondering if you’d ever notice. It’s Hermione’s latest cause.”

Hermione didn’t seem very put-out by Ron’s attitude, which was worrying. Her smile barely dimmed as she drew slightly forward to show Harry her new crest. “Look,” she said with faint pride, “see, it’s all the symbols, intertwined. The snake and griffin are facing one another, and–”

“You have a Slytherin crest?” Harry murmured.

“It’s not Slytherin, or not only Slytherin, anyway,” Hermione protested. “It’s all of them, all the Houses. Together.”

Harry’s gaze snuck up to Ron’s. The Weasley boy was awaiting just such a signal, for he immediately rolled his eyes.

Harry wasn’t so certain this particular gesture could be so easily dismissed. Of all Hermione’s causes, this seemed the most sensible, and had the most chance of success. There was already one year of Unsorted children – why not another, and another, and another? He didn’t want to have another fight with either Ron or Hermione, so he decided to say nothing of value.

“It looks good,” he said. “Did you do the sewing? You’ve improved.”

“Oh!” Hermione suddenly pinked. “Well, no, it’s not me – er, it was Yolande–”

“Yolande!” Ron exclaimed. “That Slytherin?”

“Well...” Hermione temporized. “We’re, ah, not identifying ourselves with any House right now, not either of us.” She turned even redder. “The two of us have been chosen to be the prefects for the Unsorted House.”

“I thought you didn’t like that name,” Harry said.

She shrugged. “It is what it is. I could list each child by name, but that would take quite awhile.”

“So you’re not in Gryffindor anymore?” Ron inquired, in a very small voice.

Harry snorted, then paled while Hermione dithered.

“Er, it... it isn’t like we’re not friends, Ron,” she finally said. “I-is it?”

Ron had turned white. “Well... I mean...”

“If I’d been Sorted into Ravenclaw, or not Sorted at all, wouldn’t you still like me?”

“Well, look, Hermione, you were Sorted into Gryffindor. So how can I answer that? I don’t know how things might’ve gone.”

Hermione frowned, but luckily she recognized the logic in this and merely stabbed at a potato wedge on her plate with unnecessary vehemence. “In any case, of course I’m rooting for Gryffindor at Quidditch and all.”

“Of course,” Ron said.

“But that’s mostly because my two best friends are flying for Gryffindor,” Hermione tacked on unrepentantly. “I don’t have House pride, really.” She pierced Ron and Harry with a searching glare. “You don’t have any difficulties in that I’m counting on you, do you?”

Harry thought that Hermione had turned the conversation around in a very Slytherin-like manner, as both he and Ron had to now say that they didn’t mind that the only reason Hermione was interested in Quidditch at all was because of the two of them.

“Good,” she said firmly. “And I’m sitting here at Gryffindor table because I enjoy the company of the both of you. It only makes sense I’m to sit with my best friends.”

Once again, it was appallingly hard to disagree.

“Well, then,” Hermione said. “All settled.”

And she ate her peas.

Harry wandered over to the Slytherin table after he’d eaten. Everything he’d put on his plate, too, although Malfoy’s insistence on that was somewhat odd. It was probably bad manners in the wizarding world not to leave a clean plate, Harry decided. Something to do with insulting the cook, maybe?The closer he drew to the Slytherin table, the more audible the talk became.

“...and when he spun in a circle, sweet Merlin, I thought I was going to die!” Pansy Parkinson simpered, leaning on Draco’s arm. “However did you think of it? That was divine!”

Harry couldn’t see Draco’s face, but he could tell by the set of the other boy’s shoulders that he wasn’t really enjoying Pansy’s attentions – and she was overdoing it, he had to admit.

“C’mon, Yolande,” Harry heard Goyle say as he elbowed the golden-haired prefect. “Why not?”

“Because, I’ve no wish to accompany you anywhere,” she said coldly, grey eyes flashing. “In any case, I’m already going with someone. And before you ask – it’s none of your business.”

“Er, hey,” Harry said quietly.

Yolande grinned wryly at him, and Harry couldn’t help but note that his episode of complete and utter humiliation seemed to have endeared him to some of the Slytherins – probably those who’d thought him a complete stuck-up prat, before. Even Crabbe couldn’t hide a small smile of rueful amusement.

Malfoy turned, or turned as well as he could with a girl surgically attached to his arm. “Potter. There you are. Did you eat?”

Harry stiffened. “Y-yeah.”

“I hear they don’t feed you at home,” Malfoy added casually.

Harry froze in shock; then, on the heels of that shock, he realized what Malfoy was doing. Slytherins respected strength and they respected power, and they apparently could be amused.

They did not respect victims. Even Yolande, whom Harry was beginning to believe halfway decent, eyed him with new suspicion. A couple of people giggled.

“Well then,” Harry said politely, “I suppose I must thank you for looking after my well-being so tirelessly.”

Draco colored. “It’s not because of you, it’s because the Professor asked me to–”

“Why Draco,” Harry said with a faint smile. “You actually like me, don’t you?” He faked a gasp, eyeing the Slytherin table with delight. They were staring at Draco, now. “You really, really like me?” he inquired, a puckish gleam to his eyes and a grin on his lips. “You care? Why – all my life, I’ve been awaiting someone who would...”

“All right, Potter, shut up.”

Harry did, with an abruptness that was apparently entertaining – the entire Slytherin table chuckled again, although some of it was obviously nervous laughter. Harry shrugged to them, as if to say he regretted not being able to continue for their viewing pleasure. The gesture was so expressive that several people laughed again.

Draco eyed the table with amused benevolence, as if to say that there was no accounting for Gryffindors, and then Harry was dragged away.

Harry wasn’t certain when he should begin talking again, so he remained silent until Draco led him up to the Astronomy Tower. There, they found at least three couples in various nooks and bends, and whirled back around.

“Where can we go to be alone? I need to talk to you.”

Harry frowned. He knew the perfect place – but...

“Harry. Now.”

“All right. Follow me.” Harry led the way, frowning in consternation. He knew the perfect spot, he did – but his mind scurried about, attempting to come up with a place – any other place half so good. When he was unable, he found himself striding past the Room of Requirement, thinking of a good place to talk with Draco.

At the third pass, a door appeared, and Harry entered.

Oh, Merlin, Harry thought.

The Room had delved deeper into his thoughts than he would’ve imagined. It had arrayed itself as a War room, a council chamber. Harry found a moment of amusement comparing how it had been when he needed to talk to Ron, as opposed to now.

“Acceptable,” Draco intoned, sitting himself in a high-backed chair. After a moment, Harry sat across from him, and steepled his fingers.

“Well?”

Draco paused to consider. “Well.” He adopted a stern expression. “I didn’t know you were an aspiring comedian, Potter.”

Harry averted his gaze. “I told you not to play on my pride. It’s my–”

“Greatest weakness,” Malfoy said, nodding. “And what did I tell you?”

“You said that I should try working on my greatest weakness,” Harry parroted emotionlessly.

“And instead, you...?”

“Tried to gain back my power by taking the mickey out of you.”

“Good, Potter, very astute.” Draco ran a hand through his white-blonde hair. “And why do you suppose I mentioned food?”

Harry’s eyes blazed. “I don’t know,” he said, hating him.

“You really don’t? I think you do. Let’s go over the possibilities. First: I’m genuinely interested you not starve yourself.”

“Vetoed,” Harry said.

“Acknowledged. Second: I have a diabolical plan in which you become flabby and unattractive–”

“Oh, fine, you wanted to get the power back from me, I understood, Slytherins don’t respect victims, and the stupid dance made me brave, but the thing about food makes me a victim...”

Draco leaned back in his chair with a small, twisted smile. “Very good, Potter. Going one layer deeper, why didn’t you want me to know you understood? Is it easier to hate me that way? Because you do hate me... you should see yourself, it’s really quite amusing...”

“It’s always easy to hate you,” Harry replied. “It’s just that what you did was so...”

“Slytherin,” Draco finished. “I see. Once again, disavowing yourself from anything beyond the pure and the good. Any indication you understood a machination of mine would mean... what? That you yourself were too Slytherin?”

Harry was unsure which he was most upset about: that he was so transparent, or that Draco made it all sound so idiotic.

The pale-haired boy gazed at him for a moment, frowning in thought, before moving his chair so that he was sitting beside Harry rather than across from him. “Listen, Harry, because I will only say it once. You oughtn’t feel bad about that; the Hat was right. We are all Slytherin... in a way.”

Harry jerked in his chair, gazing at Malfoy in startled confusion.

“We all want what’s best for ourselves,” Malfoy said, warming to the topic. “We all use subterfuge in order to gain higher ground. You did it today, and if you aren’t the picture of Godric fucking Gryffindor, I don’t know who is.”

Harry flushed silently, praying Draco wouldn’t notice.

Luckily, Draco was on a roll. “Some of the things you and your little friends have done, Potter... well, if you were a Slytherin, I would have tipped my hat to you. And jostling for position isn’t just Slytherin, it’s natural. Subterfuge is sometimes the best way, even your precious Dumbledore knows that.”

“And yet murder and torture don’t seem to come as naturally to the rest of us,” Harry said. “I’m not like you.”

“But there’s where you’re wrong, Harry,” Draco reminded him coolly. “Murder and torture are also all too natural. They’re mere outgrowths of those urges to be on top, to be the one in control, the one in charge. A murder is simply taking control of another person in the most final and absolute way.”

Harry looked at the other boy, into his grey eyes, where there lurked a fanatical spark, and realized that he was hearing the truth as Malfoy saw it – a dark, twisted vision of the world with just enough reality to make it stick. He realized he was sitting with a future murderer, and his guts sank so fast it felt like he was falling away from the room, from the painful truth in Malfoy. And on the heels of that, there was a sharp, raw twinge in his chest, because someone who saw the world that way could not be anything but miserable. “Malfoy,” he breathed, and it was the sorrow that came out in his voice.

“It’s ‘Master’,” Draco reminded him, “when we’re alone. I think I’d like to hear you try it now, Harry.”

“Master,” Harry said dully. There was no struggle this time. It was a more horrible word than Harry had ever realized, but it was still just a word.

“Excellent,” Draco praised. “Now. As for what I’d like you to do... there are several things...”

Harry, though, was scarcely listening. Hermione was right: it was far too late for Draco to change his course. He hadn’t, he realized now, truly believed that.

Now he did, seeing the depth to Malfoy he’d never guessed. Beneath all the posturing and behind the vile smirk, he truly believed in what he was saying, believed in it the way Harry believed in destroying Voldemort for good.

Draco Malfoy would soon be a Death Eater, if he was not already.