The Rivalry

Draco's eyes narrowed at the sight of Potter among the Gryffindors, handing out imitation laughter like sweets as if all of his 'friends' former cruelties and wildly irrational behavior was imagined. The little Gryffindor hadn't sent a note to him to tell him of Dumbledore's solution so Draco had contented himself with waiting until they were back in the Come and Go room to find out. This wasn't part of the plan. Potter may have been among them once again but the boy could never be one of them. Potter had always known it, Draco had always known it. He was doomed to be an outsider gazing in at the Gryffindors, endlessly tormented by his inability to properly belong, while they carried on oblivious to his inner turmoil. These red swathed, hard-headed icons of nobility who knew their savior so little they were immune to the false, flat tones of his voice, the dull gloss of his eyes and the mechanical movements of his body. Was he happy? He was smiling. He looked happy. So what did it matter?

If there was a way to encapsulate everything Draco detested about Gryffindors it would take the form of a picture of the scene before him. It would need no caption to the trained eye. Disgusted, he pushed his goblet from him delicately, set his untouched salad aside and sat there as still as the marble statue he was often accused of being. Draco couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he could almost taste the wrongness. Potter sat further along the table, near the doors. He nodded and flashed insincere smiles when a response was required, his eyes on his plate. He never looked up or around even to see whom he was sat beside.

There was something...off.

Draco Malfoy didn't just notice details, he memorized them, categorized them, picked them apart and examined them at length to learn their origins. Every gesture, every inflection, every word said or unsaid. All of it meant something, if you knew how to read it. He knew, for instance, that Harry used to sit in the middle of the table, opposite Draco himself, with the more popular of the Gryffindors arrayed around him in a fashion the smaller boy didn't properly understand or, to Draco's inner Slytherin's exasperation, take advantage of. Having trusted people surrounding him made Potter feel safer, and it allowed him to see where they all were at any given time, often popping his head up to glance around and locate faces before continuing his meal. Whether he was making certain everyone was accounted for or if simply didn't wish to be left behind Draco had never been able to ascertain. Both seemed likely. He knew Potter would sit in a relaxed manner,

limbs loose, legs wrapped around the bars of the bench beneath him, book bag thrust under it haphazardly which often leading to precious minutes wasted attempting to retrieve his belongings and catch up with his fellow Gryffindors. Relaxed and at ease.

Today? The other boy sat as close to the doors as one might without resorting to sitting on the floor. His body-language was rigid, his book bag fastened about his waist. He looked ready to bolt. No, to escape. Potter wasn't comfortable with the people near him and he didn't feel safe. Yet he continued nodding and fake-laughing and staring at his plate without eating what was on it. Chicken from what Draco could see, which was odd as Harry, like Draco, avoided meat. Potter because the food served here made him ill at the best of times, he was obviously used to a far different diet at home with his relatives. The house elves seemed to have caught on, there were always alternative options placed near him on the table. Toast or fruit or yogurt. Simple foods. Granger must have placed it there he decided, the chit was fond of mothering Potter poorly. If she used half of that brain of hers she'd notice Potter's revolted expression at the sight of it. Perhaps she did and thought she knew better than the boy what he needed? A lot of people did that and they were usually wrong, in Draco's view.

The blonde tilted his head to the right.

He noticed Potter wasn't actually talking to anyone, instead doing whatever he could to avoid any real conversation. His tightened fingers about his unused fork suggesting, once again, he'd rather be anywhere but where he was. It also suggested it was taking a great deal of will power for Potter to be there. He was focused. Draco didn't know what he was focused on but it certainly wasn't whatever inane conversation topic Weasley's minions were loudly hooting over. The raven haired teen hadn't once made eye contact. With anyone. He was avoiding it with an intensity that bellied fear. He was afraid of meeting eye contact, of initiating real conversation, of interacting.

Placing himself on automatic as well, Draco crept inward, his thoughts taking pieces of information and placing them in an organized fashion before Draco's inner eye. Patterns of behavior connecting to recent events connecting to individuals involved in these events, an intricate web woven of collected information. It was quickly overlayed with another web, of possible motivations, emotions and influences. There. Draco paused and stared at the strands in his mind critically. From what he could reason, with what he knew, the behavior had a catalyst somewhere between the meeting with the headmaster in the hallway and Potter's entry to the great hall for dinner. This was predetermined behavior, meaning Potter had known he would sit with the Gryffindors and that he wouldn't like it before he came into the great hall and sat down. None of it was spur of the moment, nor was the choice to sit somewhere other than his usual spot. He wanted it clear he was unhappy with this situation. But whom was he relating those feelings to? It couldn't be Draco, Draco already knew Harry wouldn't be pleased with such a situation. There would be no need to prove it.

Silver eyes flashed to the side, scanning the teachers table. What, exactly, did Potter and the headmaster talk about? Dumbledore had mentioned having a solution to Potter's issue with his housemates. Did something convince Potter that making nice with the idiot Gryffindors would help him? It wasn't logical. Potter knew he'd have to pretend to accept Weasley's insincere apology and go on as if everything was okay if he did so, and Draco knew from direct conversation with Potter the other boy had no intention of forgiving the ginger unless he meant his apology. Potter hated living and pretending the way he had been and though the last week had been hard on the boy it was also sort of cathartic. To free himself, if only a little amount, from his self-made chains. So what could have possibly changed his mind? Why would he force himself to do this again?

Draco followed Dumbledore's pleased gaze, and he could tell it was pleased from the brighter than average twinkle to the old mans eyes and the non-faked cheery flush to his cheeks, to the Gryffindor table. To Harry.

Curious.

Potter's glass smashed into the floor, his plate over turned, goblet on its side, the small Gryffindor standing beside the table with his fists clenched and eyes shut tight. Trying, in vain, to get a hold on himself. Draco leaned forward, analyzing. What in Merlin's name was that about? Whatever happened he hadn't caught it, so it was no surprise everyone else looked confused about the boy's outburst. When Potter lifted his head and opened his eyes Draco gave a soft cough. Emerald orbs snapped to him. Draco raised a silver brow in inquiry.

The Gryffindor started to mouth something, trailing off almost as soon as he started, his body stiffening sharply and his teeth biting into his lower lip. And then utter stillness. His face cleared, body straightened, he turned his eyes away from Draco back to his fellow Gryffindors and he smiled.

Draco shivered. Is it possible, he wondered, in the final analysis, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another? To catch their life's vibration so solidly as to harmonize the sound? To see clearly shadows and crevices mirrored in one's own life experience so vividly as to feel stirrings of whispers of your own emotions in response? A dreadful feeling of understanding grew, watching Potter return to his seat, fixing his mess with fake clumsiness that appeased Granger and not once look Draco's way again. Fixedly staring at the table once more. The Slytherin tapped his chin, cataloging, labeling and analyzing. He looked through his information repeatedly but there was nothing there to shake the certainty, with every minute Potter sat over there robotically, something horrible was going to happen. Draco could hardly bare to look.

It was too much like staring through a jagged, distorted reflection of himself.

So much ice it burned.