A/N: It's strange how having someone's outside influence can be a great motivator. For example, my one and only reviewer suggested that another chapter to And You're Welcome might be good, and now I have a sudden uncontrollable urge to form some semblance of a plot, and continue the story.

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Alone

Draco was beside himself with rage.

For the last several hours, he'd been preoccupied with wild, uncontrollable, strangely dislocated thoughts, and none of them made much coherent sense. And those that did caused him so much pain to think about that he quickly discontinued - better die in peaceful ignominy than live in agonising understanding.

That was what he wanted more than anything - understanding. An understanding to his parents' demise. An understanding to his mingled feelings of grief and terror and release. An understanding of what would happen now that they were gone, what would happen to him? An understanding as to why, when this had always been has best and easiest subject, as to why he was having so much difficulty getting his Eau de Bultubex to thicken.

He stared glumly and detachedly into his cauldron, watching thick, rubbery bubbles swell and burst across its surface. When a bubble burst, it's formally pink-ish tint would spill yellowish slime into the same pot, effectively adding this new creation back into its own juices. It was now the consistency of stringy soup - it was meant to be tar.

And then there was the matter of the Weasley girl to deal with. He realised, suddenly, that she was not quite the person he expected her to be. She cared - it appeared genuinely - about what had happened to his parents, and she had a power to see things the others couldn't. She alone seemed to see the inner turmoil their deaths had created for him.

He'd been shaken horribly by the news of his parents' death, he admitted that much to himself. It represented a lifetime of beliefs and views going up in smoke.

Potions ended. It was the end of the day now, and he detested the idea of returning to the Slytherin common room. Slinging his bag onto his back, he slipped from the classroom before either Crabb or Goyle could catch up with him. He headed for the library - because of the greater chance of bumping into Granger there, he tended to avoid it. Those knuckle-headed tree-trunks had about as much chance of thinking to look for him there as being nominated for the "Worst Accomplished and Intelligent Witch or Wizard Award" in Dodgebin's Sophisticated Sorcery magazine.

Pulling down a random, potion-related reference book from one of the top-most shelves, Draco seated himself behind it in a far corner of the library, in one of those un-necessarily comfortable chintz armchairs that Dumbledore was so fond of.

He didn't see the words on the page, or the gruesome moving images of torturous potions gone wrong. He didn't notice the darkening windows or the quiet calm of the place. He heard, over and over again, the wails of screams of two people he'd thought this never could have happened to...

"But you spoke to him?"

"No, I told you, all I saw was him leaving the Great Hall. I went to the bathroom, that's all."

"Right. So where did you hear?"

"Hear what?"

Draco's reverie was broken harshly by two hushed voices, floating from behind a nearby bookcase. He sunk lower into his chair and strained to listen.

"About his parents."

"Mum and Dad let me know. They got it from the Order, knew it wouldn't be in papers for a month at least. Wait, how did you find out?"

It was Ginny Weasley. He felt a painfully tight constriction in his chest as he heard her voice. She was going to tell someone, he just knew it. Her little Muggle-loving mouth was going to send his life into a spiral of shame and weakness.

"McGonagall told me. She's been giving me all the information she can, seeing as I'm the last hope for the Wizarding World and all..."

Draco ground his teeth - he'd just recognised the second voice, and realised it was none other than the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry Potter, son of a Mudblood, bane of his life. Potter was far from bragging though - he sounded bitter.

"I know I've got to do this, Gin, I just can't see how the hell I'm going to manage it. We've had no luck with anything we've been trying so far, no leads, no clues..."

"Don't worry, Harry," Ginny said softly, as they wandered past the end of Draco's row. He saw, with a sudden forceful surge of unidentifiable emotion, that she had her hand resting on Potter's back. "You'll do it. It's just going to take some time. Maybe you should have a break. Go to Hogsmead next week, keep your ears open, do some watching for a change instead of doing."

Potter nodded reluctantly. "You're probably right."

"Of course I am," she said blithely, smiling. "Now sod off, go find my brother. I've got work to do, and you've got to go work out what you're going to do next week in Hogmeade."

Potter nodded obediently, and left, hands in his pockets. He ducked his head behind his potion book.

"Ears burning, Malfoy?"

He dropped the book onto his lap. Ginny Weasley was watching him, her face emotionless, a hand on her hip.

"Don't remember asking you to speak to me, Weasel," he said, glaring at her.

"That's good, I don't remember being asked," she replied. "Besides, you normally don't ask, you tell."

"I tend to get a much prompter response from telling."

"You'll tend to get a much me painful response from me, Malfoy. And it probably only worked before because you hang around with two brainless idiots who can't think for themselves. Mind you, with an ego the size of yours, your enormous head's probably got enough brains for all three of you."

"At least it evens out for us. You Dumbledore's Army people haven't got enough sense to make one moderately intelligent person. Except maybe Granger, but it was probably some genetic mutation from being such a filthy Mudblood."

"You really ought to come up with a new insult, Draco," she said haughtily. "You've used that one so often that it has very little effect anymore."

Draco may have looked like he was livid with anger, but inside he was happier than he'd been since he'd received his news. This was what he needed - no examining feelings, no analysing his own inner-workings, just trying to get one over on the other side.

"About as much effect as you're having on making me care," he snapped.

Ginny didn't reply, and he couldn't read her expression. If he was to hazard a guess - and he hated guessing - he would have put it half way between amusement and condescension. The thought of the latter appalled him. Who was she to look at him as if he was insignificant?

Weasley turned on her heel, and was halfway back down the line towards the end of the row when Draco found himself suddenly on his feet.

"Don't turn you're back on me, Blood Traitor!"

Ginny eyed his hands, which had balled into fists. He was aware he was breathing heavily, his hand hovering near his wand.

"Blood Traitor now is it?" she said loftily. "Good, I could do with a new angle. What would that make you then?"

"I'm the only one you should ever be taking orders from," he spat, "not that weakling Potter! I'm the pure blood here!"

He thought he saw a glint of something behind her blue-green eyes.

"Oh yeah? And what would you be ordering me to do, Draco, eh? Give a damn?"

He fumed as she spun and stalked out of the library, clearly showing her back to him. He stood, collecting himself. What the hell had that been? The only one she should be taking orders from? Where had that come from?

Draco eased himself back into his chair. He needed to clear his head, to gain some perspective. Where had all that rubbish he'd been yelling come from? Unfortunately he didn't have much time to consider it - evidently attracted by the noise they'd been making, Madam Pince bustled over, growling, and told him to get out. He was too confused to argue greatly, and left without too much fuss.

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He found Crabb and Goyle in the common room later. He had already informed them of his parents' death. They had been even less talkative than usual since then, at a loss of what to say. He was glad they hadn't found anything - the incident in the library had been a helpful reminder that they just weren't the sort of people to have any sort of conversation with if you could possibly avoid it.

His argument with Ginny Weasley was what mainly occupied his mind during that evening, even with the other activities going on in the room. There was a game of poker going on in the corner of the room - a game at which he usually excelled, but tonight couldn't find the time for. For a change, people were leaving him well alone. Usually there was a reasonable amount of store put by what he said, but tonight people were steering well clear of him. As a result it was easy to let his mind wander.

Ginny had given him the nearest thing to a normal experience since his owl that morning. And despite himself and his own revulsion at the thought, he couldn't stop thinking about that morning under the tree by the lake, when he had, for the first time in his life, been held by someone with care who was not his mother. The thought of his mother brought up a sharp feeling of being about to vomit to his throat, and he swallowed hard.

"I'm going to bed," he said angrily, and headed for the small flight of stairs leading down to his dormitory.

The room was pleasantly cool, in contrast to the warm common room, and he reached his bed quickly. He changed and drew the green hangings violently around his dark-wood bed, glaring without focus.

He'd loved his mother dearly. His father not so much. True enough, he'd been perfectly fond of his father, but he hadn't felt the same bond as he did for his mother. He'd have gladly given his own life to save his mother, but his father? His father was merely a method of advancement, of funds, and of smugness when encountering other people. It was his mother's wish that he attend Hogwarts instead of Durmstang, his mother's gifts that gave him his penchant for potions, his mother's face that flitted his front of his teary eyes now as he lay awake. He was on his own now. No mother to love and care for him, no father to safe-guard him and his future. His friends—

He didn't really think he could call them friends. They were usefully placed associates at best. None of them knew, or would mourn his parents with him. None would help look after his interests. None would have held him the way Ginny did...

If the same thing had happened to Ginny, would she be where he was? No. She'd be in McGonagall's office, being told personally, being surrounded and comforted by goodness-knows how many brothers and relations, by Granger, by Potter...

Potter. The image of Ginny's hand on Potter's back came back to him and hit him with a force equal to ten fists in his gut. Longingly he wished for her hand to be on his back now, to have her warmth and comfort again, like his mother used to do when he grazed his knee and his father wasn't watching.

He turned over viciously, tightening his sheets around him. He was stronger than that, wasn't he? He didn't need that, did he? He forced himself to calm his mind and try to sleep. But he could feel his sheets wrapping around his shoulders, and couldn't resist the temptation to imagine a warm, freckled arm surrounding him in its place.

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Okay, that's it. Let me know what you think please, should I carry on with this now? I'm not sure. For a start, I don't know where this is going. Any suggestions?