Author's Note: Thank you guys for your lovely comments! I had a few people ask if I was going to use sign language, and I thought I'd address that here. At first, I was not going to use it because I don't know much about it. But then I realized that I don't need to know much anyways, so yes, I will be, but later in the story when it is appropriate. Anyways, thanks again!

Chapter 2

"Harry, do you want some of this?" Hermione asked, holding out a spoonful of something at him. Harry shook his head in what he hoped was polite declination. She put it down, a frown on her face, but she didn't ask. Harry averted his eyes and sighed.

Though they were sitting at the Gryffindor table, it seemed that everyone else was miles away in proximity. Perhaps they were. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, staring at his plate and trying not to glance around. It was his first morning out of the common room, but he was obviously the talk of the school. Various students stared at him, openly whispering and pointing, gesturing at the bright red scar on his forehead. Harry wished that his hair would cover it, but Hermione had given him a trim last night in order to look proper for his big arrival.

"Mate, are you okay?" Ron asked finally, frowning at the lack of food on Harry's plate.

Harry shrugged his shoulders, gazing blankly at his lap now.

"Maybe we should get you to the Hospital Wing," Hermione clucked, her concern growing with every unresponsive gesture. "You haven't eaten at all since yesterday. That can't be healthy."

Harry shrugged again. He'd gone quite a while without food when Remus used to go out on his weeklong trips, as Harry had never really been a hungry person and often forgot to eat when his friend wasn't around. He figured that it was why he was so scrawny and weak, especially when it came to casting spells. Of course, he had learned how to conjure parchment and a quill last night with some notable effort; he'd been thoroughly exhausted just from one attempt. Perhaps he was a freak, like the blond—Draco, that was his name—had said. Harry inadvertently looked up, spotting the shock of white-blond hair on the other side of the room at the Slytherin table immediately; the owner gazing straight back at him with a curious expression. Harry's cheeks heated up and he looked down again.

"Is it Malfoy? Don't pay any attention to him, Harry. He's a jerk," Hermione remarked, obviously having seen the brief silent exchange between them. She shot a glare across the room and Draco immediately looked away.

"He had no right to speak to you that way," Ron agreed, stuffing some unknown substance into his mouth while he talked. "He never really was all that compassionate, though. It's rather typical of him."

Hermione nodded. "He may be a fantastic artist, but he's a horrible person," she said.

Harry frowned and cocked his head in a show of questioning. She tsk'ed and took a parchment out of her notebook for him to write on.

He's an artist?

"Yeah," Ron answered. "And a bloody good one at that. He's even got this club we all go to, even though he acts like a complete arse at every meeting. We put up with it anyways."

"We should stop going," Hermione mused.

"I reckon he's got private training," Ron kept on. "Nobody can create that sort of genius without a little bit of help."

Hermione rolled her eyes, and Harry wrote something down, biting his lip.

Is he really that good?

"Yes," Hermione answered bitterly. "It's not fair."

Harry leaned forward in his seat, glancing back at the boy in question. Draco was pushing eggs around his plate, clearly not intending to eat them, yet still eyeing the serving bowl as if he wanted more. Harry frowned. Draco was entirely a mystery. On one hand, he made Harry feel like shit, calling him names and sneering at him like he was nothing. Harry hadn't felt that way in years—hadn't wanted to—but somehow, something inside of him ignited when he thought of it. It wasn't anger, no, it wasn't sadness; he knew those emotions too well to mistake them. There was just something about Draco, something that Harry could not place a finger on, that intrigued him. Draco was a bully, that much was certain, but what else was he?

By the time that they were all finished eating, Harry didn't feel like attempting to fit in today. He didn't feel like doing anything. Without taking the time to write an excuse on the parchment, Harry got up and sped out of the Hall, amidst Hermione's loud protests and several whispers of his peers. At the moment, he didn't want to deal with it.



Draco felt like slamming his head against the wall. Both Granger and Weasley were ignoring him, even though he had tried—actually tried—to go out of his way to speak to them. He'd purposely taken the long route to class when he knew that Granger's Charms class was on a different floor, although she had evaded him effectively ("Malfoy, is that a spot on your face?"), and he had loudly referred to Weasley as an 'orange-haired oaf' in Potions to agitate him, but it was no use. They weren't listening. Draco grit his teeth in frustration. How much would it take to get out just one tiny little apology?

Of course, Draco hadn't had any intention to apologise to them last night, as he was still reeling from the effects of meeting a mute Harry Potter. But that was just it. He wouldn't have felt bad if it weren't for the boy, and now he did. What was this sorcery? Obviously not something Draco had been taught, as he would've known otherwise. There was just something about those quivering green eyes that made him feel soft and apologetic. And those were two words that one wouldn't ordinarily use to describe Draco Malfoy.

"Granger!" he caught up to her again, grabbing her arm before she could escape. Granger scowled at him.

"Let go of me, I've got class in two minutes," she snapped.

"Never mind that," Draco said quickly. "When do you want to have your lesson?" Truth was, he had no idea how to apologise to an angry Gryffindor, and he wasn't about to learn. Surely, the lesson should be enough to appease her without him having to say the dreaded words. She would comprehend, wouldn't she?

"I don't," she replied bluntly, shaking him off her.

"But you introduced me to Potter, regardless of the turnout. Surely, I must compensate."

"Forget it," Granger spat. "It doesn't matter anymore."

Draco sighed. "Where is he?"

"None of your business."

"He wasn't in class, I just wanted to say—"

Granger whirled around and glared at him. "I think you've said enough," she barked. "Honestly, how dare you? What you said last night is the farthest thing from okay. You really hurt him! That is not the way you speak to a mute person—hell, it's not even how you speak to any person! How about you learn some manners, Draco Malfoy, before you even think about going near Harry again."

She stomped off then, clearly having to get to class in a hurry, and Draco slumped against the wall in defeat. He knew that he had crossed the line the moment the words slipped out of his mouth—especially when he'd seen that look at Potter's face. He didn't know what Granger had been talking about; Potter didn't appear hurt. Worse, it was a look of pure blankness, as if the phrase hadn't even affected him much. As if he'd been called that plenty of times before, or maybe had called himself that at one point. Draco shuddered.

Properly disgruntled, he sighed and straightened up with resolution. He had a free period, he might as well visit his canvas like he always did when he was upset... It calmed him somehow, made him feel better again. He began trudging down the corridor, still slumping a little. If there was a way he could take it back, he would. But he didn't have a clue how to make it up to the boy; he barely knew how to apologise to Granger and Weasley, two people he had known for years now. Perhaps it was hopeless. Draco opened the door to the art classroom, hoping to find his things perfectly in place for him to start. What he saw, however, was complete chaos.

"What the hell?"

He stared at the place, which appeared to be trashed in random places, but perfect in others. There was paint all over the floor as if someone had spilled it and haphazardly tried to clean it up. The canvases were all turned inwards, creating a circle, placed in several different positions. Balls of crumpled parchment overflowed the trash bins. Suddenly, a dark head of hair popped out from behind one of the canvases, obviously having heard Draco's sudden outburst. Draco stood there, frozen. It was Harry Potter.

"What did you—" Draco took a deep breath, not wanting a repeat of last time. The other boy looked wary enough. "What are you doing?"

Potter paused, as if contemplating whether or not he should answer that. Apparently deciding not, he just gave Draco an inquisitive look.

"Me?" Draco felt foolish, as if he were talking to himself. He pursed his lips and glanced around. "I was just coming in to do a bit of painting. But I can clearly discern that you're in the middle of doing... something, so I won't stop you."

He turned around to leave, but before he could, a small thump came from behind him. When he looked back, Potter was shaking his head and gesturing Draco towards him, albeit in a somewhat reluctant manner. Draco frowned and stepped forward, entering the strange circle of canvases surrounding him.

The following sight that met his eyes astounded him. It was like a right slap to the face. Upon each canvas, there was a piece of artwork—terrifying artwork, to be exact. The colours screamed at him, the shapes were brazenly obnoxious, as if daring him to come over and rip it apart. On one canvas there was a scene of a crooked house, all darkened and sharp and precise, leaning sideways into the gloom. On another there was a white and orange cat, piercing him with its pale yellow eyes. Both pieces scared him and intrigued him at the same time. Draco slowly looked at Potter, seeing him in an entirely new light. Who was this person?

Potter only pointed at an empty canvas next to him, indicating that Draco could use it if he pleased. Draco approached it and picked up a brush cautiously, now horribly aware of his own artistic shortcomings. How would his work compare to Potter's magnificent show of sentiment? Potter's art was wholly audacious, twisted, spiking every emotion that Draco had ever felt or wanted to feel. Draco frowned at the shapes his hand had decided to make on the canvas, dissatisfied. His was pretty, as always. It was warm with warm colours, warm textures, a warm, dull feeling.

Potter was busy sketching something on the canvas. He didn't seem bothered by Draco's presence at all, which ironically, was disconcerting in itself. Draco would have thought that he would be shuddering in the corner again, or at least a little angry at Draco for what he had said earlier. But Potter was neither. He had no expression on his face. Draco watched Potter's hand move gracefully across the parchment, expressing those emotions that Potter himself could not verbally express—the anger, the fear, the endless disappointment. Draco wondered how he did it.

"What are you drawing?" he blurted out suddenly. Damn, he forgot that the bloke couldn't speak. Draco flushed a little. Why was he so insensitive? Why did he care that he was?

Potter didn't balk, however, he looked at Draco and gave him a tight smile. Then, he took out his wand and flicked it a little, conjuring a piece of parchment, and then again, for a quill. Then he scribbled something on it, handing it to Draco after he was finished.

It's the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room.

Draco stared at the tiny script written neatly on the parchment and looked up. "It's… it's very different," he managed.

Again, the colours screamed at him in various shades of orange, red, and black. The flames were almost real enough so Draco could feel them licking at his skin, angry about something that he couldn't understand. It was terrifying again, but terrifyingly excellent.

That bad?

Draco had hardly noticed that Potter had shoved the parchment underneath his nose again, and he scanned it quickly before protesting. "No! No, it's brilliant," he exclaimed. Then he bit his lip. "I mean, I've never seen artwork with such intensity before. It's utterly compelling."

He had to wonder what prompted Potter to draw like this. Was it the lack of speech? The lack of expression? Draco realised that he hadn't seen a genuine expression on Potter's rosy face since he had first met him, not even when he'd been sitting at the Gryffindor table with his new friends. Of course, Potter hadn't made many friends since this morning; on the contrary, most people seemed to avoid him.

"I really like it," he offered again, gentler. "Where did you learn to draw like that?"

Potter's face lit up a little, his dull green eyes brightening with his smile as he wrote. It seemed to be what he wanted to hear.

I've had a lot of time on my hands... Sixteen years, to be exact. There wasn't much else to do.

"Oh," Draco said out loud. "So you've really never met anyone before coming here?"

Potter's face immediately darkened, and he gave Draco a clipped nod, turning back to his canvas. Draco cursed himself inwardly; he hadn't meant to sound condescending when he said that, but it occurred to him that Potter might have taken it that way. He shook his head. Why did he even care, anyhow? It wasn't like Potter could yell at him for it. Draco stood awkwardly at his canvas for a short while, watching Potter work again. Then after a few minutes, he spoke.

"I don't think you're a freak," he amended quietly. "It was rude of me to say that to you, and I'm sorry."

Potter paused in mid-stroke. He put down his brush and picked up the parchment and quill again to answer.

That's very big of you to admit that.

"Yeah," Draco replied uncomfortably. It was an odd feeling, having those words roll off his tongue. He rarely ever apologised for his wrongdoings, hardly ever even acknowledged that they were there. But this was different. "Don't tell anyone else I said anything, though," he quipped. "I have a reputation to uphold."

Potter studied him for a few seconds, as if trying to process Draco's words. Then he smiled, opening his mouth a bit to let out a silent laugh. Draco stared at him, stunned. He hadn't known how to take that; Potter's little burst of emotion shocked him a bit. And to think that it was Draco who had been the one to elicit that reaction… He bit his lip to conceal his smile and picked up his brush again, briefly glancing over at Potter's work before returning back to his own with a new confidence. The silence was comfortable, to say the least. Maybe he could get used to it.



When Harry finally made his way back to the Gryffindor common room, it was well after dinnertime and he knew that Ron and Hermione would be looking for him. He'd spent the last couple of hours painting and cleaning up with Draco, who had miraculously decided to stay with him the entire time to chat about this and that. Harry had no idea what to think of that. He obviously remembered the snide boy who had mocked his disability the previous night, the one who Ron and Hermione had hailed a 'horrible person', but this boy hadn't been either of those. He was funny, soft, uncertain at times—things that Harry would have never expected from the start. Of course, he had only allowed Draco to come in and join him because he had wanted the acclaimed artist's opinion of his work, but still, he had learned something new. And apparently, Draco had loved it... even though Harry wasn't so sure.


There was Hermione's voice. She scurried over to him, having been perched on the couch facing the portrait hole for who knows how long. Ron sat there as well, appearing to be going over some homework with another boy. Harry nodded at her, and then at him, before going over to stand near Ron and the dark haired boy by the couch. Hermione followed him.

"Where were you?" came the inevitable question. Harry shrugged. With an irritated huff, she conjured some parchment and handed it to him.

Soul searching.

"That's not funny, Harry," she scolded. "You missed all of your classes again. How are you going to make up two days worth of assignments?"

Ron rolled his eyes and looked up from his scroll. "Lay off him, Hermione, he's probably just exploring the halls. Hogwarts was the most fascinating place upon arrival, you said so yourself."

Hermione sighed and sat down, encouraging Harry to come sit beside her. He complied. "Sorry, I get a little worrisome sometimes," she admitted.

The dark haired boy sitting by Ron snorted. "A little?" he chuckled.

"Shut up, Dean," Hermione muttered. Dean laughed again.

"By the way, Harry, this is Dean Thomas," Ron announced, and the other boy gave Harry a smile.

"How's it going," he greeted. Harry smiled back at him.

"Oi!" Another boy bounded down the stairs from the boys' dormitory, waving around a magazine as he went. "You lads will never believe what I found in yeh paper!"

"And that is Seamus Finnigan," Ron continued. "He and Dean are in my dorm, along with Neville. You know him, don't you, mate? He passed you the juice this morning."

Harry nodded, still eyeing the overexcited Irish bloke—Seamus. His eyes were glowing with laughter as he waved the magazine in Dean's face.

"You've got to see this—"

"Seamus, mate," Ron interrupted, gesturing to Harry. "This is Harry."

The boy looked up and grinned widely. "Nice to meet you, Harreh," he drawled. Harry smiled at him too. He folded his hands on his lap as Seamus turned back to the magazine and Dean to ramble about who knows what. Hermione clicked her tongue at them.

"Boys," she remarked, shaking her head at Harry as if he was supposed to agree with her. He shrugged. Since he had his own private room, he hadn't acquainted himself with the boys of Gryffindor yet, even though he knew that he should. Having friends around here seemed crucial, seeing as he probably wouldn't find any outside of Gryffindor. On his way back here from the art room, he'd gotten many cold stares.

"So where are you from, Harry?" Dean suddenly asked, pulling him out of thought. Harry blinked at him.

"Yeah, have you been living in London?" Seamus added, now seating himself next to Dean and Ron. Ron nudged the parchment towards Harry, and he took it.

I've lived in London. Lots of other places too.

"That's cool," Seamus declared. "Have you ever been to Asia?" Harry paused, then nodded. "Australia?" He nodded again. "America?" he paused, and nodded. Seamus brightened and ogled Harry a bit in study. He seemed to like the result. "Wicked," he breathed.

Ron grinned. "You know Harry, you should think about moving into our dorm," he suggested. "We've got an extra bed, and Dumbledore ought to let you since you've met us all by now. Wouldn't that be brilliant?"

"That's a great idea," Hermione piped up, having put down the book that she picked up when the conversation had started. "It would be good for you to mingle with the boys, Harry. Settle in, perhaps."

Harry motioned vaguely, not wanting to give them a definite answer. He wasn't sure whether he'd be comfortable enough to move into the Gryffindor shared dorms, as he didn't really know the others so well. Besides, he still had his doubts. What if they thought he was weird? What if they discovered that they didn't really like him after all, and then shunned him for it? There was an endless list of possibilities. Harry didn't want to think of them all.

"It's okay," Hermione reassured gently, whispering so that the other boys couldn't hear. "They're nice boys. Well, most of the time. You'll like them, I'm sure of it." Harry smiled at her, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear uncertainly. She smiled back, and then gazed at his bag, which he had left on the floor. "Maybe I should lend you my notes for the past few days," she mused. "You'll need to catch up."

Without a pause, she whipped out her notes from her own satchel before picking up Harry's to place them inside. As if on cue, a flurry of scraps flew out, spreading across the floor like spilt milk. "Oh! I'm so sorry," Hermione said, flustered, now getting up to retrieve the stray parchments. Harry got up too, embarrassed, especially when Ron picked one up and inspected it.

"What's this?" His blue eyes widened as he gazed upon it. "Bloody hell, this is amazing."

Hermione had stopped and picked one up too, staring at it, awestruck. "Is this yours?" she breathed.

Harry blushed furiously, gathering up the rest of his artwork before the others could see them. He took the ones out of Hermione and Ron's grasp as well, stuffing them back into his back and falling back on the couch with a mortified huff.

"Harry, did you draw those?" Hermione asked again. She was gazing at him with slight concern now, no doubt for his strange behaviour. Harry shook his head, not looking anyone in the eye. Even Dean and Seamus had gone quiet under the guise of perusing through the forgotten magazine. Hermione shrugged.

"That drawing was fantastic," she admitted. "I've never seen anything like it before."

Harry nodded noncommittally, still flushing and staring at his lap.

"Mental," Ron agreed, shaking his head. "You'd beat Malfoy by a long shot."

Hermione shot him a dirty look for mentioning the name, and then turned back to Harry with a look of sympathy on her dainty face. "Nobody said anything about Malfoy's work here," she stated. "It's yours that really astounds me."

Harry grabbed a parchment and quill.

They're not that incredible. I haven't even finished them yet.

"Harry, you're a real artist," Ron declared, ignoring the protest. His eyes lit up at the thought of his own statement. "You could be famous... not that you aren't already, mate." Ron grinned, abashed.

Harry smiled slightly. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. He wasn't used to people praising his work; he had never even shown it to anybody but Draco, not even Remus. He didn't even know what had compelled him to show it to Draco. He wanted approval maybe, but it was more than just want… it was a craving, perhaps, a need. Like he needed to prove that he wasn't just another freak. Why he wanted to prove that to Draco, Harry didn't know. He had never felt the need to prove it to anyone else before.

"Well, it's lovely that you are blessed with such a talent," Hermione piped up. "You should come to art club and give everybody a real show."

"Gods," Ron cackled. "Could you imagine the look on Malfoy's face?"

Harry grimaced. He could. He literally, literally could. He could see in it his mind right now, in fact, the expression Draco had used when he'd seen Harry's circle of canvases for the first time. It was shocking, he had to give Ron that. It would be quite satisfying to see again.

It wasn't as if Harry liked Draco now, he didn't. He didn't quite believe that Draco was truly sorry for what he had said, or had tried to make it up. From what he gathered about Draco Malfoy so far, Harry hadn't even thought that the Slytherin was even capable of an apology. But... it didn't mean that Harry wouldn't let him try. Especially when it seemed that Draco was willing to. What kind of person would Harry be if he didn't acknowledge that?



It was a lovely day to be outside.

That's what brought Draco here in the first place, wasn't it? He nestled himself underneath the giant oak tree outside the castle by the Quidditch pitch, scanning the area casually. He was certainly not here because the Gryffindor boys were attempting to teach Harry Potter how to fly. He hadn't even known they were going to be practising today. Draco smiled slightly, pulling up his Arithmancy text and pretending to read it while he watched the pitch. Potter stumbled around like a lost little puppy most of the time, but whenever he got on the broom, he was steady and strong. Draco found that irrevocably interesting.

"Oi, Draco!"

Draco dropped his book in surprise from the exclamation only to find Nott and Blaise striding towards him, carrying their own texts. Well, reckon they were out trying to find a place to study as well. Typical. Draco gritted his teeth impatiently. This had to be the most inopportune moment for them to drop in. Despite his glower, his two friends sat down beside him without asking for permission and cracked open their books, chatting back and forth and clearly not studying at all.

"Could you guys pipe down?" Draco snapped irritably, after a few minutes of quiet laughing from his friends. "I'm trying to study."

"You mean you're trying to spy on the Gryffindor team," Nott revised for him. Draco stared back blankly.

"Oh come on, it's obvious," Blaise said. "You never sit over here."

Nott snickered. "And you've been holding your book upside down for the past ten minutes, I hope you know."

Draco flushed and turned his book over. "Okay, fine, you caught me."

Blaise grinned in supposed triumph. "Right. But I don't get why you're trying to spy on them. Gryffindor is only third out of four for House teams... You know, you should really focus your time and energy on Ravenclaw. I heard they've got some new moves."

Draco hmmphed a little in response, quietly watching Potter trip over his own feet while getting on the broom again, a faint blush on his cheeks from the anticipation of flying. It was a thrilling feeling, Draco knew just how it felt. He smiled involuntarily.

"Blimey, is that Harry Potter?" Blaise exclaimed, peering over at the pitch. "It is! Is he trying out for the Gryffindor team?"

"There's no way. Potter's a barmy one," Nott remarked, shaking his head. "He's in my Charms class and he can't speak for shit. If he can fly, my great gran wears frilly knickers."

Draco glanced at him sharply. "He's mute, you know," he retorted, before he could stop himself.

"So?" Nott asked, holding up his hands. "Why does it matter?"

"Uh," Draco mumbled, at the same time that Blaise cried, "Merlin! Did you see that catch?"

At Blaise's outburst, both Draco and Nott turned to look back at the Quidditch pitch. And there was Potter floating in the air, the Snitch in his palm and triumph in his eyes. He was glowing, his whole face lit up in pure joy—it was like the moment in the art classroom times a trillion. Draco couldn't take his eyes off it. It was as if time had stopped and everything stilled; the only thing visibly mobile was Potter, shaking his fists and yelling at the top of his lungs. Well, silently, that is.

"Damn, Potter," Nott muttered, obviously impressed.

"What kind of knickers does your gran wear again, Nott?" Blaise inquired, smirking. Nott punched his shoulder.

Draco nearly felt proud of the feat himself. He watched Potter soar towards his Gryffindor friends, who were all shouting and screaming with jubilation at Potter's victory. Weasley looked beside himself with excitement. Draco almost snorted. "Yeah, Potter's got skills," he remarked, in agreement.

"Hey, it doesn't change the fact that he's odd," Blaise remarked, still watching the Gryffindor. "I tried to ask him for a quill this morning and he merely stared at me for a good two minutes without moving at all. I reckon he wasn't even breathing. It was creepy, mate. What if he's not human?"

"Oh come on, of course he's bloody human," Draco grumbled. "He's obviously just got some issues. You should leave him alone."

Nott frowned. "What?" he asked. "Have you met him?"

Draco couldn't sidestep it. He'd already dug himself in too deep. "Yeah, I've talked at him a couple of times," he admitted reluctantly.

"And he's strange, right?"

Draco only shrugged this time, and Nott snorted as if it were a joke. "He is," he laughed. "I don't get why Dumbledore allowed him to come here in the first place. It's awkward. Potter has absolutely no social skills, no brains, and he can't speak, for godssake. If you ask me, he'll be a social pariah soon enough, the Gryffindors can't shield him from us forever. I reckon we can get him to quit by exams."

Draco wanted to defend Potter. He wanted to tell Nott to fuck off and mind his own business, because he didn't know what it was like to be Harry Potter. But then again, Draco didn't know what it was like either. He hardly knew the bloke aside from spending a few extra hours with him in a classroom, and it wasn't as if he wanted Potter to be his friend... although of course, he had wanted that in the beginning. The point was that Nott was right, to an extent. Potter would probably become the school outcast, and Draco couldn't afford to be defending him. Nobody talked directly towards Potter except for the Gryffindors, who would obviously always protect one of their own. The message was clear. Potter just... wasn't worth the risk.

So Draco only shook his head. "Right," he muttered.

"But you've spent time with him, haven't you?" Blaise questioned him. "What's he like, really? He's got to be a shut-in. Look at him, for Merlin's sake, trembling and muttering like an invalid. I wonder how long it took for the Gryffindors to coax him out of his cave. Talk about mental."

"He's not like that," Draco blurted out brusquely. Damn.

Nott frowned. "How was he, then?"

"He was…" Draco tried to search for something to cover his messy mistake. Even though Nott and Blaise were his best friends, he didn't particularly want them to know that he had spent time laughing and painting with the Boy Who Lived. Like he said, he couldn't afford it. "He was even weirder than that," he stammered. "Destroyed the art classroom for absolutely no reason. He had tried to get me to talk with him after that, but I told him off. Told him that he was deranged."

Nott laughed. "Such a freak," he declared. Blaise laughed too. They had bought it.

Draco looked over at the Quidditch pitch again where Potter was gathering his things to go inside and clean up, feeling guilty for his lie. Suddenly, the green-eyed boy glanced right at Draco, as if he had known the other had been there the entire time, and shot him a tentative half-smile. Draco smiled back weakly.

"Yeah," he murmured. "A freak."

Author's Note: Chapter two complete! What did you guys think of Harry's art? To be honest, I don't know anything about art, so please excuse any mistakes I made/might make in the future. The most I can draw is a stick figure, and sometimes a circle when I'm feeling it. Anyways, let me know how you like this chapter, what you want to see, blah, blah, blah. Feedback is always appreciated! x