This story is the the long-awaited and unfortunately, really-belated birthday fanfic present for my great friend, the awesome and incredibly sweet Sammie aka dreamydrarry. Sammie, I am so so sorry it took forever for me to get this done. I hope you love it.

Call It What You Will

First year, a month after she was taken from the ordinary world of chores and Dursleys to one of magic and wonder, Aria Potter felt like a zombie. A calm, rational zombie, staring straight ahead, putting one foot in front of the other, following behind as Hagrid led the detention group back into the castle.

Hagrid was muttering about centaurs and their riddles. Hermione and Ron were close behind him, getting into another argument over Ron's lack of wrist movement. She was far behind, half-heartedly listening to the commotion with one ear, holding herself tightly as another shudder broke through her body.

From the freezing autumn wind whipping against their cheeks and through their hair. From memory of the slain unicorn they found with its neck torn open. From the vivid crimson eyes glowing from the pale-faced, hooded-figure that was biting into its' neck.

She was so calm. Brave even, according to Ron with a bright grin after they found her. Definitely braver than the blonde-haired, snotty scaredy-cat that fled the second the stranger flashed those burning crimson eyes at them. Maybe she was brave for standing her ground, not looking from him. Only now it was all the calm she possessed during that time vanished with the fear knocking into her at full force, spreading ice through her veins as those burning red eyes flashed through her mind-

A hand reached out to pull her hand away from her side and hold it in his own.

Stunned, she turned over to see Draco Malfoy by her side. "Wha-"

"Don't think too much of it, Potter." he said.

"Said the one who grabbed my hand." she snapped.

"Call it needing an inexpensive source of warmth," he said.

The fact he refused to look at her hinted on the warmth was intended for. She won't deny that he managed to take her mind away from burning red eyes and spilled unicorn blood. That his hand, despite every other revolting thing he was, did feel nice. Warm and soft.

But it was Malfoy, the Prince of Prats that had been an absolutely git to her since day one. She didn't need to stroke his ego anymore than it already was.

So she did the logical thing. She squeezed his hand tight, making sure it hurt. A smile touched her face when she heard a satisfying yelp.

Second year, Draco Malfoy kept his head low, eyes focused on the brownish-green grass as Father stood across from him, mentally peeling the skin off his bones as he recounted every single mistake done on Draco's part during his miserable Quidditch match.

When he managed to push past the pain throbbing down below from his fall, Draco looked up to see the glare firing in Father's eyes that demanded a "talk" afterwards. Three hours in, Father was still listening out his faults. His words the hammer and Draco the nail, being knocked deeper and deeper into the ground with each verbal, stinging lash.

"It isn't enough that you were proven woefully inadequate to a measly, irrelevant Mudblood flea that somehow came out on top academic-wise."

Only because the stupid pest spends every waking second in the library, devouring books like crazy, Draco argued in his head. If he were a bit braver, he'd voice it out loud, but past mistakes and faded bruises taught him that speaking out when Father was in a mood only worsened the consequences for him.

"Everyday this past summer you've been pestering me nonstop for a new broom, promising you'll bring victory to both the Slytherin house and the Malfoy name. Yet you couldn't even do that, failing once again."

It was all because of stupid Potter. Because that bludger was meant for her head and he was the innocent bystander caught in the crossfire. Because somehow she was able to manipulate the wind to her advantage, adding more speed to that twig of a broom. Because she-she-

"Ow!"

Both father and son blinked at the cry, halting Father's rant, halting Draco's wishes of melting into the ground.

Low and behold, when one spent so much time cursing out Potter in their head, she'd appear like clockwork. Still dressed in her Quidditch uniform, dirt dusted onto her cheeks and clothes, her arm set in a cast.

Father's eyes narrowed as they took of it. "Sports' injury, Potter?"

"Unfortunately," she scowled, jerking her head towards Draco. "Courtesy of your son."

Courtesy of whom?!

She looked at him, holding up her bandaged arm, her too-green green eyes flashing. "Congratulations, Malfoy. I thought the upper-class players were brutes. Apparently I was proven wrong."

Flabbergasted, Draco looked to Father, watching the heavy sheer of disappointment and fury roaring in his eyes slowly chip away. First to astonishment, and then to something else: grim satisfaction.

"Really?" He glanced over at Draco, then looked over at Potter. "Perhaps you should take it as a warning, Ms. Potter," he smiled, the curled corners of his mouth sharp as a blade. "Certain people of a frail, delicate structure as yourself shouldn't be playing such a rough sport."

Potter returned Father's smile with a sweet one of her own. So greatly, irritatingly sweet that Draco's teeth ached from looking at it, feeling cavities being drilled into his molars. "But then creatures such as myself won't have the pleasure of showing bigots such as yourself how delicate when I knock them flat on their arse and win the game."

Draco bit down his lip to stop the curl from unraveling across his lips, carefully avoiding Father's eyes as fury shaped his face once more.

"Always a pleasure, Potter," Father sneered. "Draco," he nodded, and then took his leave.

Potter was about to take one of her own until Draco grabbed hold of her hood, stopping her in her tracks.

"We both know I didn't do that," He jerked his head towards her cast.

Her response was a simple shrug.

"Why?"

Potter shrugged with one shoulder, her bright green eyes focused on her muddy shoes. "Call it giving a dog a bone. I could hear his barking from the other side of the field."

That should have been enough, yet…"Why?"

Potter opened her mouth, then closed it, thinking over her answer before finally saying, "I don't like bullies, Malfoy."

He didn't know what to say to that.

"Besides, we both know if it's anyone's job to knock you down a peg, it's mine."

He did however know what to say to that. "You won't be so smug next time, Potter, when I knock you off your broom."

"To do that, you have to know how to actually use one, Malfoy."

He sneered. With a triumph smirk, she left.

Third year, Aria could still feel the cool touch of the Dementors seeping into her bones, chilling her heart. She could still feel the ice turning her muscles, her limbs into lead as she was stuck on her seat, completely trapped. She could still hear that poor woman screaming.

And that bright flash of green-

She shook her head to clear the cluttered thoughts, and continued walking down. She wanted to talk to Dumbledore, but he vanished the second the Welcoming Feast was over. She wanted to talk to Professor Lupin about what happened and the spell he used to drive the Dementors away, but he was swept into a conversation with both McGonagall and Hagrid and she didn't want to intrude.

Plus, if she was being honest with herself, she couldn't stand being in the Great Hall a second longer, knowing a solid ninety-five percent of the conversations and looks going around were centered on her thanks to the train fiasco.

She went to the library for safe haven, relieved to see not too many people there. Probably getting ready for the first day of class tomorrow or, if they were Ron, catching up on their nap-time. She wandered over to one of the fictional shelves and ran her finger through the spines, hoping an interesting one would pop out.

"You never answered my question."

And out pop the cockroach. She groaned inwardly, directing her attention to the blonde-haired git leaning across the bookshelf behind her, smirking at the razor-sharp glare she shot him.

"You never answered my question, Potter," Malfoy repeated.

"Yes, Malfoy, I think you're a great pain in the arse."

"Believe me, the feeling's mutual."

Well, clearly the library was now out. Maybe she could catch up with Hermione; she did mention that she planned on spending the rest of the night in the common room. Or the Patil twins. She moved over to the door, but Malfoy grabbed hold of her wrist.

"Is it true that you fainted?" He asked again. "I mean, actually fainted?"

It was the change of tone, snarky taunting dimming down to something else that kept her there. It was the way he looked, not nastily but almost…worried that made her answer, "Yes."

"Are you okay?"

It was odd that out of the questions that had been asked about what happened, that one hardly anyone wondered about. Even odder that Malfoy was the one to ask it.

"I-well, I'm not dead." she finally said.

"That-that's good." He cleared his throat, toying with his collar. "Really good."

Merlin, she had to be dreaming. That was the only explanation for why Malfoy wasn't acting or looking like an irritating git, but like a person, one that almost cared.

Then just as she was beginning to process the mind-bobbling change, a curve grabbed hold of his mouth, shaping it back into his infamous smirk.

"Then it looks like my job is done."

She knew it was too good to last. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she asked, "And what would that be?"

"Call it checking on the well-being of my favorite source of entertainment."

She scowled.

"Oh come on, Potter. With you dead, I'll have nothing else to bade my time with."

Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the thickest hardcover she could find on the shelf and swung it hard against his arm, smirking at the pained yelp that burst from his mouth.

Fourth year, Draco had a good idea of how the Yule Ball would be like. Elegant, sophisticated, a night to remember as Mother often said, reminiscing about her own Yule Balls Father had taken her to. He spent the following years beforehand planning it all out: he'd have a custom-made suit that, he'd have the most beautiful and perfect girl as his date, and they would be the envy of the all as they danced the night away. He planned, hoped, and dreamed that it would be one of the best nights of his life.

Instead what he got was a complete mess.

Thanks to Parkinson, a last-minute date who attached herself to his arm the second they walked into Potions and throughout the day, begging and weeping and full-on screaming until he finally said yes to get her to shut up. And spent nearly forever getting ready, which made them two hours late to the event.

Thanks to Weasley and some buffoon from Durmstrang who got into a fist-swinging, hex-shooting match. Ordinarily, Draco would be all for it, especially with the way the Durmstrang oaf was pounding Weasley's face in repeatedly. But not when they fling themselves at the punch bowl where he and Parkinson stood two feet away, getting splashed with the juice. Ruining Pansy's lacy, frilly mess of a pink dress, which contributed to Draco's eardrums nearly being ruined by her shrieking.

Thanks to stupid Potter who didn't trip like he hoped she would when Tournament champions came in, who didn't make a complete fool out of herself as she danced with her date, a fellow dark-skinned Gryffindor whose name he couldn't remember or cared to. Who looked like she was having the time of her life while Draco was having the worst of his. Who-who-

Who now looked just as miserable as he was, watching Granger run up the stairs, with the skirts of her blue dress held in her hands, face streaked with tears and mascara. Potter watched her go and sighed heavily, tilting her head back, as if all the burdens of the world were stacked on top of her.

For once the misery on her face didn't delight him. If anything, it left a heavy, unpleasant feeling in his stomach.

Before he could think it over, he walked over to her and offered her his hand. She looked just as surprised he was to see him there, with his hand out. What was even more surprising was the fact that, unlike first year, she accepted it.

He led her to back to the Great Hall, where the ball was still going on, the musicians still playing and several couples left on the floor, even though they were more interested in each other's tongues than the music. Draco took Potter to the center of the floor. She placed her other hand on his shoulder, he settled his arm around her waist.

A shared glance, a questioning glance answered with a nod, and they were off, settling into a slow but easy step, following into perfect sync.

One two three, one two three, one two three.

It was funny how Potter was only a half-blood with hardly any dance experience, as far as he knew, but she was able to follow his lead a lot better than Pansy, a pureblood with seven years of dance class under her belt, who couldn't move without stepping on his feet or nearly tripping on her own.

"Have a nice night?" she asked.

"Pleasant," he said, letting the grim smile show how great of a night it was for him. "And you?"

"Swell," she replied. "Like getting teeth pulled out."

Potter's sense of humor never ceased to amaze him. He spun her out of his reach and brought her back in.

"So," she said after a minute of silence. "What do you call this?"

That was a question he had to think on for awhile, finally settling for: "Call it misery seeking out company."

She scoffed under her breath, but he detected the smallest hint of laughter attached to it.

He was distorted by the sound. Just as he was by her appearance. He was distorted by the way her red dress looked on her, simple but captivating with thin straps, the color going well with her golden skin-tone, the dress showing off her figure. Still petite, but no longer bony, starting to fill out into a more slender frame. The way her messy black hair was set into polished, loose ringlets, entwined with braids. The way she looked that moment, eyes soft and gleaming by the candlelight, black ringlets framed around her face, and lips painted a glossy pink. So unbelievably, painfully pretty.

Throwing their way of normalcy completely off balance.

Balance that was restored a week later when he flashed the Potter stinks button her direction as they passed by each other in the hallway and she dismissed him with an eye-roll.

Fifth year, Aria came to a conclusion. Voldemort was a monster. There was no doubt about that; a ruthless, terrifying monster. But months into the new school year, Aria came across a monster that may be just as bad. Maybe even worse.

A ruthless, vindictive, pink-clad sadist of a nightmare with sharp grins and sweetly-poisoned words who was determined to silence any and all whispers of Voldemort's return by silencing her.

Slowly, painfully.

By taking away points-hundreds of points-from Gryffindor any chance she got.

By assigning her days' worth of detention if she sensed Aria was even a toe out of line.

By having her write, I MUST NOT TELL LIES over a thousand times with those blood-engraving quills that carved the words onto her hand like a tattoo.

Tonight's detention had to be the worst yet.

Not only did she have to use those quills again but she also had to copy every word of the massive, thick books Umbridge handed over to her that covered every aspect of torture the Ministry done to prisoners and traitors alike, dating back to the early Middle Ages. In full, terrifyingly-descriptive, explicit detail.

She had written so much that the words stretched out onto her arms, nearly reaching her shoulders. Had written unwillingly digested so much, images filled of her head of what she read.

Of snakes being shoved down the prisoners' throats one by one until their bodies were swelled up with them. Of having their arms and legs stretched out by the turn of a wheel until they felt or had their bodies snap into pieces. Torture that was similar to ones that were played out in her dreams, of Voldemort-no, of her, looking down at Muggles and witches and wizards, smiling in delight as her hands slashed them into ribbons.

Nausea twisted her stomach on the slow way back to her room. More than once, she had to push down the bile racing up her throat, swallowing it hard. At one point, she was so tired, so weak, so sick, she had to use the wall for support, the nausea and exhaustion weighting down on her body like a heavy cross.

"No late-night wandering," drawled a familiar voice behind her.

Hand pressed against churning stomach, Aria turned over, her blurred vision making out a tall figure and white-blonde hair. But at the moment she didn't really see him. All she saw was a body hung by his neck, serpents gliding underneath his skin, consuming him from the inside out.

And suddenly she was falling.

"Potter!"

Quick action and strong arms kept her from crashing face-flat to the ground.

It took a minute for her vision to clear, even longer for the nausea to pass.

She looked up at him. Malfoy's arms were wrapped around her waist, holding up her limp body.

What happened to you? Those gray eyes asked. Nothing, not a spell, not a charm, not even Malfoy himself, could hide the shock and concern that shaped his face as he took in her appearance.

"I thought you hated me." she said.

"Call it an intense dislike." Malfoy said.

"So why are you helping me?"

His eyes scanned her face as if she could find the answer there. She didn't realize till then how clear his eyes were. "I don't know."

He didn't say another word the whole walk back to her room, though she noticed the tension stiffening his body when he saw the marks marred onto her skin.

Sixth year with only a handful of weeks left of the semester, Draco decided right then and there that cruel was completely, utterly cruel to him. It had always been mean, always nasty, but this time he had the full taste of its cruelty.

He pulled his eyes away from the empty sink and looked up. He almost didn't recognize the corpse-pale, terrified boy that stared back at him.

The same one who had a mission to fulfill or lose his life in the process.

The same one who watched his once powerful father, a man he believed was untouchable, sink to his knees and groveled for mercy at the hands of the Dark Lord.

The same one who had a crazed aunt that was delighted in telling him the entire summer the ways she'd make his mother bleed and scream for hours if he failed.

The same one who had his life hanging by a thread, on the whim of a madman who could easily kill him if he wished, successful mission or not.

He gripped the sink as if it were his lifeline.

The mission was simple: kill Albus Dumbledore. It should have been easy. The headmaster was a fool, an old sentimental fool who only had time for his few favorites while he left the school and the rest of the students exposed for potential threats to easily waltz right into. Draco clearly didn't have any care for him, much less lost love or respect. But it was one thing to wish a person gone and another to be the one to actually do it. Which was why he tried to make his attacks indirect, so his hands wouldn't be stained red. With poison, with the necklace, anything he could think of that would get the job done and keep his hands clean.

Yet each attempt to bring Dumbledore down had been compromised, derailed, and ruined. And the latest attempt was a complete failure.

And if the Dark Lord heard a word about it…

Tears poured down, burning his cheeks like acid. He bit his bottom lip so hard, blood nearly gushed out, as images popped into his head. Of Father down on his knees, begging for mercy, and the Dark Lord smirking down at his pathetic form before presenting to his snake her latest snack. His mother, strong and beautiful Mother, defiled and violated by the monster before she was handed over to his devoted followers as a chew toy. Of being forced to watch it all unfold, and then being killed himself.

A sob ripped through his throat, followed by another and another until-

A pair of arms was wrapped around his shoulders.

Bewildered, he looked over his shoulder to see Potter behind him, her arms clasped around his shoulders like a trap.

That was how he realized that fate truly hated him. Having Potter herself witness his complete humiliation, his breakdown.

Stupid, bloody Potter who was always the cause of his problems.

He fought against her, trying to break free. He fought, he snarled, he tried to reach for his wand. The sounds that came out of his mouth weren't the cultured tongue of a pureblood heir, but of a wild, savage animal fighting tooth and nail. But Potter was as stubborn as ever, holding onto him tight, refusing to let go.

Draco resisted, fighting all the way, until the energy completely left his body, until his throat throbbed from the frustrated screams and curses and sobs he had been trying to keep locked for the past year, until he was a mess of hot tears.

They sank to the ground, his head buried against her shoulder, and Potter's hold steady as a life raft, still holding on.

Hours later, his body boneless, his eyes puffy and raw, she offered him her hand.

"Call it a another option to consider."

He stared into her eyes, glanced down at her hand, and took it without a second thought.

"Call it a pursuing a shared interest," Draco said, volunteering to help Potter and her friends find the horocruxes.

"Call it a nerve reaction," Aria commented on the way her body broke into shivers as Malfoy zipped her up into the white and gray dress she chose to wear for Bill and Fleur's wedding, his hands lightly brushing against her bare back before he pulled up the zipper.

"Call it a way to let out steam," Draco grinned, catching up with her after her horrible fight with Ron, challenging her to a duel to take their mind off things.

"Call it me finally finding a way to shut you up!" Aria said after she kissed him in heat of the moment, noticing how close they were to each other as they were trading insults back and forth. Only for Draco to yank her back into another one, a longer, deeper kiss.

"Call it-call it…" Draco struggled and failed to find the words to describe the feelings slamming inside of him as he entered into her for the first time. He tried to say it what words couldn't through his lovemaking, with each slow, deep thrust.

"Call it…call it…" She tried to smile, her lips quivering, eyes burning with tears, as Draco crashed her body into a tree and crashed his lips onto hers before she went out to face Voldemort. Each kiss a desperate plea to stay.

"Love." Draco said, joining her by the bridge after the war, reaching out for her hand.

"Love?"

He nodded. She glanced at their joint hands; fingers laced through each other's, and then looked up at him.

"Love." she agreed with a smile.