Author's Note: Reflections is part of a joint project with keeptheotherone for the twentieth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Today, we will both post our first chapters, but we will alternate days here after. Tomorrow, May 3, keepthotherone will publish her second chapter of her collection, In Living Memory. I will return on May 4 with my next installment. Please check out both collections and don't forget to review.

A/N2: Thank you to Ladiefury who beta-ed this chapter.

Disclaimer: The characters and world belong to JK Rowling.

Between Changed and Lost

May 2, 1999

Draco drew back the heavy velvet drapes and peered through the window at the walls surrounding Malfoy Manor. The vultures were at the gates. Father charmed the Manor windows so their long, intrusive lenses wouldn't penetrate, but Draco preferred to keep the curtains drawn. Perhaps it was unnecessary—Father's charm work was impeccable—but blocking the paparazzi from sight made Draco feel secure. His home was his prison now, and sometimes it felt as though the photographers acted as jailers. Draco couldn't even wonder into his own garden without the flash of their light bulbs blinding him.

The wake of paparazzi was thicker than usual today. What were they hoping to catch with their cameras? Father performing a ritual sacrifice? Mother stomping a photograph of Granger under her heel? Perhaps they hoped Draco would reveal the throngs of Muggle-borns they kept locked in their cellar, victims of torture and starvation. That rumor was reported in the Quibbler just months after the Dark Lord was vanquished. An utterly ridiculous conspiracy theory peddled by a rubbish publication. The Aurors turned Malfoy Manor inside out—seizing valuable trinkets, diaries, and account registers to use as evidence—before the family was committed to its confines. In the year since, the Manor was subjected to monthly inspections. They couldn't keep prisoners even if they wanted to.

The Quibbler may be a complete fraud—run by that barmy, stringy haired imbecile—but there were those who took it at its word. Wizards used to read the rag as satire, but the war changed that just as it changed everything. For once in his life, Xenophilius Lovegood printed the truth during those long months when the Dark Lord controlled the Ministry of Magic. Now Lovegood was afforded the benefit of the doubt by those who really should know better. It didn't matter that Lovegood was off his nut. It didn't matter that he filled his magazine with crackpot theories. It only mattered that he supported Potter—until he didn't. Nobody wanted to talk about how Lovegood happily turned Potter and his cohorts over to Death Eaters in hopes of getting his dotty daughter back.

No one was interested in sweeping Draco's sins under the carpet.

He let the curtain fall back in place.

Draco was only sixteen when he took the Dark Mark. Not even legal yet. How could he be held accountable for his actions? He was tortured, too. Just like Granger, and by the same witch on more than one occasion. Nobody cared about that though. One of Draco's best mates died before his very eyes. Was Vincent a friend, though? It was convenient to refer to him as a friend because it made Draco more sympathetic, but Crabbe was really more of a lackey. Same with that arse pimple, Goyle, who was serving a six month stint in Azkaban for what he did seventh year.

Bile rose up in Draco's throat when he remembered the glee on Crabbe and Goyle's stupid faces when they used the Cruciatus curse on a fellow student. For as long as Draco knew them—which was nearly his entire life—Crabbe and Goyle had been slack-jawed lackwits, utterly useless beyond their brawn. In six years of formal schooling, they'd been unable to master even the most basic spell. Then, in seventh year, the two finally found one subject at which they excelled—the execution of Unforgivables. Well, they couldn't perform the Imperious curse, of course, it required too much brain power. To the best of Draco's knowledge, neither Crabbe nor Goyle ever had the opportunity to use the Killing curse, though Draco had no doubt they would have. But the Professors Carrow gave them all plenty of opportunity to practice Cruciatus.

Draco did his best to avoid performing that blighted spell. He knew what it felt like to be at the other end of that curse and didn't relish the opportunity to mete it out. Not even to his enemies. Under the Carrows' tutelage, however, one could only put off unpleasant tasks for long. Eventually, Draco had to get on with it.

He didn't mind torturing the likes of Longbottom or Finnegan. Draco even got a bit of satisfaction in seeing those know-it-all Ravenclaw boys writhe under his wand. Longbottom spent six years being a worthless lump, and suddenly he thought he'd play hero? Finnegan—brash and insolent—an utter dick. Of course, the Ravenclaws were complete nobodies. It was harder for Draco to Crucio the girls. Lavender Brown was surprisingly defiant, but her screams still wrung in Draco's ears.

The image of Susan Bones' enormous black eyes formed inside Draco's brain. She was from a long line of filthy blood traitors. Draco remembered the way her bottom lip quivered when he bore down on her. He remembered the way her tiny form trembled and her face drained of color. Draco had stood over her, impotent. The jeers of the Carrows and other Slytherins followed Draco down the hall as he fled. It was Crabbe who tortured Bones in the end.

Draco pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead. He didn't like rehashing the last three years of his life. It was a pointless exercise. Nothing could be changed, and it just left him with a stomachache. Of course, trying to imagine the next three years was an equally pointless exercise. For all Draco knew, he'd be in Azkaban by December.

Walking down the wide staircase into the foyer, Draco felt the weight of his ancestor's eyes upon him. They stared out from portraits, cool and disdainful. Once in awhile, one uncle or another liked to remind Draco of the shame he'd brought upon the Malfoy name. He wondered if their judgment was easier to bear than what Father experienced. Their painted forebears turned their collective backs anytime the elder Malfoy entered the room.

It was hypocrisy, of course. The Malfoy line reached back to the Founders. The original Lucius Malfoy had sided with Salazar Slytherin on the question of admitting Muggle-borns to Hogwarts. Each and every one of them would have lined up to serve the Dark Lord if given the chance. What they objected to was the loss of wealth and power. The Malfoy coffers were frozen by the Ministry, they lived on a mere allowance. As far as influence went—well, the Malfoys were ruined. The only family whose name was more sullied by their association was the Blacks, and mother was the last of them.

Speaking of Mother, she was sitting at the table in the dining room when Draco entered. This was not the long, elegant, burled oak upon which Charity Burbage was devoured by Nagini. As far as Draco knew, that table was housed somewhere within the Ministry as evidence. Good riddance. Draco would have just as soon burned it for kindling than ever sit at that God forsaken piece of furniture again. In its place was a small, rough-hewn trestle dragged from the kitchen. Hardly grand, or even befitting of a Malfoy, but must needs.

"Mother."

"Hello, darling. Tea?"

"Yes, please."

Mother went about fixing him a cup. The delicate, gold trimmed china at odds with the scarred surface of the table. Draco picked up the copy of the Daily Prophet that sat at Mother's elbow. They'd read the morning edition over breakfast, but this was new.

"What's this?" Draco asked.

"Special Edition." Mother rolled her eyes as she passed the cup and saucer, yet news ink was smeared on her fingers.

Draco's eyes flicked to date in the corner: May 2, 1999. There was a picture of Potter, Granger, and Weasley standing at a podium, Dumbledore's tomb behind them. Draco knew there was a memorial scheduled for dawn that morning. An article in the morning paper said Potter, as well as McGonagall and the Minister of Magic, would speak, then there would be a moment of silence before the name of each combatant who fell was read. Draco wondered if they bothered to read Crabbe's name, but he doubted it.

Flipping open the paper, Draco saw a montage of photographs spread over two sheets. He wanted to close it again. For weeks now, details of the memorial had been parsed out on the wireless and reported in the newspaper. Draco was determined to ignore it all. He was at Hogwarts that wretched night, and many prior, he didn't need a ceremony to remind him how it all went down. He was well aware—look at the price he paid for his participation.

Yet, Draco found himself folding the paper in half and examining the photos more closely. The Weasleys were everywhere, of course. The one who with the ponytail, his face ravaged by Greyback, was holding hands with the half-breed freak he'd married. Father objected to allowing something so lowly as Greyback serve the Dark Lord, but was silenced immediately. The Dark Lord appreciated the type of brutality Greyback brought to bare. Perhaps that should have been a sign of things to come.

Longbottom stood upon the stage along with the girl Weasley and Loony Lovegood. Even Draco had to admit, the Weaslette was a formidable opponent. If she weren't a blood traitor, she would be an asset to any pureblood family. But even after witnessing Longbottom's transformation from loser to hero, Draco couldn't fathom it. That fat wank wasn't the match of any Death Eater, yet he dared to stand up to the Dark Lord. Not just at the Battle, but all that blighted year. For months, Draco heard the whispers about Longbottom, but he'd refused to believe it. Neville Longbottom, the leader of the resistance? Even now it was preposterous.

Draco didn't give the Lovegood girl a thought.

His eyes scanned the photographs, landing on Oliver Wood and Katie Bell. The caption noted her name as 'Wood' now, and she held a blanket wrapped baby. What Draco knew about babies was approximately nothing, but it resembled a sack of potatoes. Merlin, was the slag up the duff at the Battle? Draco concentrated on Wood's burly form. In the photograph he repeatedly wrapped his arm around Bell and pulled her close. The man was a beast. Draco couldn't escape Wood. His photo was in every Quidditch magazine, his name splashed across the Prophet's sports section, his accolades sang by every Quidditch announcer on the WWN. For all Draco knew, it was merely hyperbole. Praise lavished on a great hero who didn't deserve it. Of course, Draco couldn't know for sure. He wasn't allowed out of his prison to watch Quidditch matches.

At the top of the next page was a picture of Potter and the Weaslette, a toddler dangling from their hands. Draco squinted at the caption: Young Master Lupin can not know of the importance of the day, though it has surely changed his life, as he plays with his adoring Godfather, Harry Potter. Draco set the paper down and looked at his mother. She was reading a letter, cup in one hand, and her face blank of emotion.

Draco cleared his throat. "Mother?"

She looked at him. "Yes, darling?"

"Is this your sister's whelp?" He pointed at the photo of Young Master Lupin.

Mother glanced at the picture, her lips pursed. "Indeed."

Her voice was flat, but her expression pinched.

"They say he's a Metamorphmagus," she said. "Like his mother."

Mother returned to her letter, sipping her tea, but Draco watched her for a moment. Narcissa Malfoy was extraordinarily gifted at keeping her emotions in check. There was never an eyelash out of place, much less a histrionic. Draco assumed it was this gift that allowed Mother to so easily lie to the Dark Lord when it mattered most. Yet, there was a hollowness to her manner that Draco rarely witnessed. A similar hollowness had met Draco when she told him that Father was in Azkaban. It met Draco again when he informed Mother that he would take the Dark Mark.

She set her teacup in the saucer, and Draco took the opportunity to cover her fist with his. Startled, she looked up at him and there were actual tears glimmering in her eyes. Needless to say, Mother was not the crying type.

"I thought you disowned your sister?" Draco asked quietly.

"I did." She frowned. "She didn't go to the memorial today."

Draco scanned the photographs again, but saw no caption containing his aunt's name. He wasn't sure what the woman looked like, but rumor had it she resembled Bellatrix. It was strange that somebody who looked like Bellatrix Lestrange could lay with a Mudblood and bare his brat.

"How do you know?" Draco asked.

"A Black wouldn't put her grief on display."

Draco peered at his mother through his fringe. "But she's not a Black anymore."

"No," Mother replied slowly. "However, one never loses one's training. It occurs to me…I'm responsible for all that Andromeda suffered."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"Well, not me alone. We all had a hand in it…Mother, Father, Bella….Bella spit on Dromeda when she announced her engagement to-to that man. Ted Tonks. We fought to destroy men like her husband, and of course we did kill him. Her daughter, too."

"You didn't kill anyone, least of all your sister's Mudblood hus—"

Mother held up a hand. "Stop. Being on the losing side of history has a funny way of making one re-examine one's position. Like it or not, our ways are over. Muggle-borns—and we must call them by that name—are going to become a greater and greater force in society. It wouldn't surprise me if that girl becomes Minister of Magic one day." Mother pointed at a photograph of Hermione Granger holding hands with Ron Weasley. "If we want to keep a semblance of our wealth or influence, we must adapt, my darling. For if we do not, the Malfoys will go the way of the Blacks."

Draco folded his arms over his chest and jerked back in his chair.

She was right. He knew she was right, and he hated it. All Draco saw spread out before him was a life of struggle and ostracism. He hated it. He was raised to believe he deserved to be at the very top of society, looking down on all those below him. It was a comfortable place to occupy. He never had to think about consequences or poverty. Now, those were his only concerns.

Standing abruptly, Draco marched out of the dining room and up the stairs to fling himself across his bed. His entire life had been boiled down to three rooms in this massive manse. He'd read every book in the library already. He was permitted to roam the grounds, and even fly his broomstick within the garden walls, but the paparazzi held him hostage inside his own house. He couldn't even enter the bloody sitting room for the memories that assailed him there. He wanted life to go back to how it was.

Not when the Dark Lord was alive or even to the day Draco first met Harry Potter. Why couldn't he be seven again? The Dark Lord was a thing of myth then. Father's hair was lustrous, his cane menacing as he strolled through the Ministry buying politicians. Mother was gracious and beautiful, every society woman coveted her invitations. Crabbe and Goyle lost at Gobstones and did Draco's bidding. Life was simpler then.

The truth was, Crabbe and Goyle weren't Draco's friends—they were his toadies. There merely to get their hands dirty so Draco wouldn't have to. Friends were equals. Friends were confidants. Draco didn't have friends. He had rivals and sycophants. Zabini was the former. He was an upstart, of course, but he dared to believe he was Draco's equal. Pansy was the latter. Her family was wealthy and well connected, but they wanted more. They wanted what the Malfoys had.

Zabini tortured as many students as any other Slytherin, but while his mother might be a black widow, she was no Death Eater. Zabini charmed his way out of trouble. He bought an ounce of forgiveness with strategic donations to charities favored by the Weasleys. Zabini's star was on the rise.

And Pansy's was snuffed out. Pansy's problems were many fold, but Draco pinned most of them on her two greatest flaws—she was a people pleaser and a coward. All those blow jobs she offered were just a way to procure Draco's approval and therefore the approval of their peers, she didn't care about him. If the price of popularity was to torture Gryffindor's? Well, Pansy would appear to revel in it in order to please the powers that be. But she would never confront the likes of Lavender Brown face to face for fear of getting her teeth knocked out. And Pansy would certainly turn Potter over to the Dark Lord if that meant incurring the Dark Lord's favor at the same time as covering her own arse.

Draco wondered if it ever occurred to Pansy that Potter might win when she so desperately offered to sacrifice him. If Pansy could see into the future, would she be on her knees sucking off Potter before he met the Dark Lord in their final duel?

Occasionally, Draco received owls from Astoria Greengrass reporting that Pansy's fate was little better than Draco's. Pansy would probably avoid prison, but her name was mud now.

If Draco had a real friend, that was probably Theo Nott. Theo didn't give a damn about being as good as Draco, he just was. In fact, they both knew Theo was a better person. He didn't lift a wand against another student, and nobody challenged him on the matter. There would be no point. Theo didn't care what other's thought of him. When Draco was at his lowest, he could confide in Theo. But, as Theo liked to point out, he did not exist to massage Draco's ego. That was always a sticking point between them.

Draco sniffed. He was sad when Crabbe died. Sadder than he ever expected to be. Sadder still that in the end, Goyle betrayed him. It was a long time coming. As Draco's star dimmed, and Crabbe and Goyle's prowess at torture made them favorites of the new administration, their power dynamic began to change.

The Battle of Hogwarts was the culmination of an absolutely unbearable year—an unbearable two years, really. Father took pride in his Dark Mark. It set him aside, above, other wizards. He told Draco that Mudbloods and half-bloods were little better than house elves. Their magic and their minds were inferior. They were incapable of noble emotions like love and loyalty. They simply rutted like animals. No Mudblood should be allowed into the Wizarding world. They should either be eradicated as the scourge they were, or at the very least, subjugated.

It was the best for everyone.

But Draco found that killing was not as easy as Father made it sound, nor as noble. Draco hadn't chosen Katie Bell to carry the cursed necklace to Dumbledore because she was a Mudblood. She was merely convenient. It wasn't Draco's fault that Bell almost died. How was he supposed to know that her friend would try to stop her or that Bell had a hole in her glove? Why didn't she repair it? Why didn't she buy a new pair? Draco would never be seen with a pair of holey gloves.

When Draco heard what happened to Bell, it was like being plunged into an icy river. His blood ran cold, even his organs hurt. The Dark Lord wanted Dumbledore dead and he gave Draco the job. It was supposed to be a great honor, but Draco's first attempt was an utter failure because that stupid girl couldn't even perform a simple mending charm.

Draco wiped his eyes.

Weasley got in his way the next time. Another plan gone awry. Draco was desperate by the time he repaired the Vanishing Cabinet. Still, watching Greyback climb out of the Cabinet had made Draco's skin crawl. But it wasn't like Draco forced Weasley's long-haired brother to take on the monster. The eldest Weasley did that to himself.

The truth was, Draco was relieved when Snape murdered Dumbledore. Oh, Draco knew the truth of it now, but it didn't change the fact he was glad to have someone else do his dirty work for him.

Draco stared up at the canopy over his bed. Green silk with the Malfoy crest embroidered in gold. These curtains had hung from his bed for as long as he could remember.

When Draco boarded the Hogwarts Express for his seventh year, he felt nothing but relief. Having the Dark Lord in residence was a nightmare. Mother and Father…they were scared. There was no other word for it. Father was out of prison at last, but also out of power. And the Dark Lord…

Draco thought with Snape as Head Master and the Ministry under the Dark Lord's thumb, there would be plenty of room for Draco to make his mark. Maybe he hadn't murdered Dumbledore, but he could still prove himself and save his family. He hadn't anticipated the resurrection of Dumbledore's Army or Longbottom. The fact the Weaslette caused trouble came as a surprise to no one, but Longbottom?

It was Lavender Brown that proved Draco's ultimate undoing. She was a mongrel half-blood and an utter twit. She was caught defiling the wall beside the Headmaster's office—Dumbledore Wouldn't Allow This. Her shirt was torn open when the Carrows hauled her into the Great Hall for punishment. Draco was given the privilege of meting it out.

Her eyes were an odd color. In fact, Draco thought they were actually lavender. Regardless, she didn't beg or grovel like he expected her to. She simply stared up at Draco with contempt. When Snape demanded she admit her crimes, Lavender screamed, "Dumbledore's Army—still recruiting!"

That's when Carrow bade Draco to begin.

"Crucio." Nothing came from Draco's wand, not even a sputter. Most of the tables were silent, horror-struck at what they were about to witness, but there were titters from the Slytherin table. "Crucio!"

His wand vibrated in his hand as the spell arced from its tip. Lavender was not silent in her defiance. She screamed so loud the windows shook. Draco knew what it felt like to be tortured. Under the Dark Lord's wand, he'd been reduced to an animal that writhed and begged. But this mongrel girl's screams were all too human as they ricocheted off the walls of his mind.

Draco ended the spell, panting. "Crabbe—let Crabbe do it."

Lavender Brown was reckless and stupid. She got caught. She deserved to pay the price. But Draco couldn't deny that she was as fully human as he was, maybe more so. Everything changed after that.

Christmas came and while Draco could escape Hogwarts, he could not escape the war. Malfoy Manor was a prison then, as well, and not only to Draco. Ollivander had been held, and tortured, in his cellar for years. The old man got company that Yuletide.

Draco shut his eyes, wishing he could shut his mind to that memory as easily. He couldn't think about the time Luna Lovegood was a guest at Malfoy Manor. The tinkling sound of her voice haunted him.

By Easter, when Potter and friends were hauled into the Manor, Draco just wanted it all to end. He'd been disgraced at school and while his parents' letters never hinted at the dire situation at home, Draco knew. He heard the rumors of murder and torture. He understood that his father was little more than a whipping boy. When asked to identify Potter, Draco should have been glad to do so. Here was his chance to garner points with the Dark Lord, to put an end to the war at last.

Draco still couldn't understand why he equivocated.

Perhaps he was as soft and spineless as his classmates accused him of.

He was determined to make it right at the Battle of Hogwarts. As the other Slytherins were escorted out of the castle, Draco hid with Crabbe and Goyle and waited for his moment. Draco would prove himself worthy at last, but look where it got him—Crabbe was dead, Goyle was in prison, and Draco may as well be.

The blackness behind Draco's lids did not relieve the burning in his eyes. Of course Potter and his side would crow over their victory on its one year anniversary. They would commemorate their dead, then congratulate themselves on a successful campaign waged.

Draco sat up, disgusted. He was wallowing in his own spiteful thoughts, still trying, after all this time, to outdo Potter. Nobody was reveling in anything on this day. Too many lives were changed forever during the war, and too many lives were lost on May 2, 1998. Draco sometimes felt he hovered somewhere between those two realities—Changed and Lost.

Maybe the former was preferable, but if he were to change, what would he become?

A pop sounded outside his door, then a knock. "Master Draco, a letter," squeaked Donk, their last house elf.

Draco wiped his eyes and went to retrieve the folded parchment Donk pushed under the door. Not many people wrote Draco these days. Theo sent sermons about self-betterment that Draco mostly ignored. If he weren't so bored, he wouldn't read them at all. But the lettering on the front of the owl was not Theo's chicken scratch. That exacting elegance could only belong to one witch—Astoria Greengrass.

Frankly, Draco had no idea why Astoria wrote to him at all. She was Daphne's kid sister, and though Astoria was only two years younger than Draco, she was three years behind him in school. While Draco could recall the cool disdain in Daphne's glare, he couldn't conjure a single memory of the younger Greengrass sister.

Besides the fact they barely knew each other, the Greengrasses were in ascendancy. They kept their hands clean throughout the war and it was paying off in dividends. An association with Draco Malfoy would hardly be to Astoria's credit.

Regardless, Draco was glad to have one contact from the outside world who did not despise him. Astoria's first letter arrived shortly after his confinement began. At first, Draco assumed she was one of those slags who got off on writing to inmates. Soon, he realized Astoria Greengrass was his equal in every way. From her razor sharp wit to her impeccable penmanship, Draco found himself looking forward to her letters full of gossip and news and reminders that he was a loathsome individual. She brandished her insults with humor, and somehow Draco didn't mind.

Sometimes, Draco even permitted himself to daydream about Astoria. After much cajoling, she sent a photograph. Unlike Daphne's blonde beauty, Astoria had dark hair and eye makeup as precise as her handwriting. Her expression was full of irony, but it was her smile Draco imagined most. Sharp enough to cut a man's throat.

Pulling back the green seal, Draco saw his name painted across the top and smiled.

May 2, 1999

Dearest Draco,

I imagine right now you are sitting in your bedroom feeling sorry for yourself. I am a keen observer, something you would have noticed if you weren't busy letting Parkinson blow smoke up your arse (I thought this was the most delicate phrasing I could manage when combining "Parkinson" and "blowing" in the same sentence). Where was I? Oh, yes, I'm a keen observer and I've noticed you have a proclivity for sulking. Normally, I would consider this a fatal flaw, but I'm hoping that you use this time for self-reflection. Though, as my friend Dennis has pointed out, the evidence is against me. Of course, he's not talking to me anymore. His brother died on this very day last year and he holds you personally accountable. He seems to feel that my writing to you is a betrayal of his trust. I've tried to explain to him that I'm doing my civic duty—reforming a Death Eater. Dennis isn't buying it.

So, the Memorial Service. Dawn seems a little too on the nose, don't you think? We could have been equally as sad at noon, I should think, but alas. Dawn it was. I know this isn't your crowd, and I'm rather grateful that most of your crowd is in prison, but I still rather wish you'd been here this morning. Dennis is wrong, of course, you are not personally responsible for his brother's death (I'm assuming). However, it is with a heavy heart that I acknowledge your part in all of this.

I've always found you fascinating (a personal failing), but I also wish you were a better person. I wish you could have been here today to see the pain Voldemort caused. I wish you could learn from this. Your parents raised you to be an utter arsehole, but I refuse to believe that's all you can be.

Care to prove me right?

Darlingest Astoria

Draco crumpled the letter and threw it away. Draco had always seen truth as something that must be massaged or hidden, but Astoria used the truth as a weapon. Today, she used it to cut him deep with that unexpected turn to the sincere. She wished he were a better person?

So did he.

Azkaban hovered over Draco's head as a real possibility. He refused to make plans or even think of a future when he could be thrown into prison at any moment. So, just as Astoria accused him of, he sulked. He lived in that space between Lost and Changed refusing to choose either. He was pathetic, blaming others for his mistakes, and railing at a world that would gladly leave him behind.

His parents had raise him to be an utter arsehole—that was a hell of a line. Draco had been taught to value power and money at the expense of everything else. Father and Mother had but one saving grace—their devotion to one another, but even that was transactional. Look at Mother's sister, not the mad one, but the one who dared to marry for love. The woman crossed the line of what her family considered acceptable, and they tossed her out. What if Draco had the temerity to fall in love with a Mudblood? Would Father disown him? Would Mother turn her back?

There was some part of Draco who knew he didn't want that for himself, but he was afraid to shine light on that shred of decency buried deep inside. To embrace it was to embrace change. He would have to excavate his soul, examine all the dark corners. Who was he without his cloak of privilege and insolence? What if he found out only to be sent to Azkaban?

Draco retrieved Astoria's letter and uncrumpled it, ironing it with his fist. When he imagined Astoria, he imagined a future for himself, a luxury he could ill afford. Draco just wanted to be in the same room as Astoria Greengrass. He wanted to know what her laugh sounded like, if her nails were as sharp as her smile. He wanted to feel her hair slip through his fingers. He wanted their friendship to leap from parchment into the real world.

But he had to deserve her first.

A/N3: Don't forget to check out keepthotherone's first chapter for In Living Memory.