Cheers, Potter.

Excuse me?

Harry's POV

I knew that for whatever reason, Malfoy still hated me. Be it because I couldn't save his father from Azkaban, because I was a living reminder of everything he'd lost, or because I was a reminder of everything he couldn't be, I didn't know. But I knew that he hated me with every fibre of his being. Still, somehow it shocked me to see his face in such a jovial expression turn so grey, simply at the sight of me.

When he abruptly stood and left the room, I had no idea what came over me. My brain seemed short circuit and I stood, starting to go after him and realising I was in polite company and should say something first.

"I- um..." was my poor attempt at an excuse; the old Malfoy would have scoffed at me.

"Yeah we know," Ron rolled his eyes, smiling at Hermione.

"Old habits die hard." She said in return.

I took that as the all clear and hurried from the breakfast table.

~ Ж ~

I'd learnt my lesson about following Malfoys the hard way: unless I wanted a stinging jinx to the face, or a hex to the abdomen, I had to stay out of sight. My invisibility cloak had always been on hand since returning to Hogwarts. Hermione had taught me the extension charm that had come in handy for us so many times before and I had used it all of my clothes. Every cloak, every pair of jeans, every jumper had an emergency grab bag and a few of the essentials packed up. It was strange to know I was safe and not believe it, like my mind and my instinct were constantly butting heads.

I'd managed to catch up to Malfoy about two and a half corridors down from the Great Hall and followed him into the library. I'd noticed that he'd been spending a lot of his time there, not that I'd been keeping tabs on him or anything... that'd be weird. I just couldn't help but notice him – it had become a bad habit, an addiction that I couldn't quite kick.

I had assumed that he knew where he was going, that he was going to collect a particular book, or meet someone in a specific aisle. He was walking with conviction, like he knew exactly where he was going so it was difficult not to assume that.

I almost walked right into him when he stopped dead in the middle of the tall stack of dusty old volumes. I realised he was just trying to make sure that I was lost when he placed a firm, sure hand out in front of him, flat on my chest. He knew I was there, and the thunderous look on his face was more petrifying than facing down a basilisk.

Malfoy opened his mouth – no doubt to yell at me using words only Hermione would know the meaning of. Something stopped him in his tracks before he could scold me and I realised what that was when he looked over my shoulder and immediately looked ill.

Two angry-looking Ravenclaws had followed him to the aisle and clearly wanted something from him. I didn't recognise them, but Malfoy clearly did.

"I don't want any trouble, Jenny," he took a step backwards, warily.

"Too bad, Death Eater," she spat back, I saw Malfoy tense at the title they'd given him, "It's your fault that my brother is in St Mungo's! They say that he's never coming out again!"

"I'm sorry, I really am but –"

"I don't want your apologies!" she shouted, beginning to tear up, "Merlin, if you hadn't been such a yellow-bellied snake like your father..."

Malfoy stood there and didn't say a word, he wouldn't defend himself against the charges put against him. None of them held any substance, obviously; many found in his shoes would have chosen a much darker path than he had but few gave him credit for that. Everyone was terrified of Voldemort; it took courage to fight back even when he did. Against his family.