Fifth year, Harry is harassed to the point of physical harm from his classmates for his announcement of Voldemort's return. After a confrontation, a battered Harry is greeted by the last person he'd like to see in a deserted hallway. Not Slash, if you can believe it with a summary like that.

Commiseration

(Formerly titled You Know What They Say About Assuming)

Fifth year was shaping out to be the worst year of Harry's increasingly unhappy life.

Harry had been in tight spots before. At 15 years old, he had evaded death by a hair more times than was reasonably believable. However, most of those life threatening events had been just that; events. They were moments in time and were quite brief in the grand scheme of things. The pain of a Basilisk fang had come and gone, the unbearable horror of a Dementor's presence was past, and the physical strain of the tournament trials was no more. All things considered, the majority of his suffering had been momentary, and his life swiftly returned to the manageable, everyday pains of stubbing one's toe or clipping a doorframe with a shoulder.

Harry imagined he was rather tough in comparison to his peers, for all that he had experienced. However, fifth was enlightening Harry to an entirely new level of suffering and endurance.

When he had returned from the graveyard stage of Voldemort's resurrection, he and Dumbledore had been quick to spread the news of the Dark wizard's return. Harry had imagined that people would spring to action and begin readying themselves for the inevitable. These days, Harry only scoffed at the memory of such a naïve notion.

People had not headed his warning; quite the opposite, in fact. While Harry had expected, on some level, some animosity and gossip from the Daily Prophet, he had been caught entirely by surprise by the hostility from his classmates. He had spent the entire summer lamenting the death of Cedric and the return of Voldemort, and growing maddeningly frustrated by not only his reoccurring dreams, but by the lack of proper correspondence with his friends. Returning to Hogwarts was something that he had looked forward to like an island castaway looks forward to a rescue plane. Harry needed the castle, needed his friends and the world he belonged to.

But now, Hogwarts was a hell. He was mocked constantly, and could not even make it from one class to another without dodging or deflecting a hex or two. This was nothing he could not handle, which he did for several weeks without much trouble. This, unfortunately, had only sparked more aggression. If he had had just maybe let a hex hit him once in a while, or let it seem as if the jeers were begging to really eat at him, perhaps this might not have escalated to the point at which now found himself.

The first physical confrontation had been a little surprising initially, but in retrospect Harry realized it had been inevitable; so had the second, third, fourth. Knowing that they stood little chance against the Tri-Wizard champion while he still possessed his wand, students realized that an unarmed Harry was much easier to handle. When they were fortunate enough as to separate Harry from his wand (a commendable accomplishment in itself), it was only a matter of physical strength and numbers. Harry had long since told Ron and Hermione to walk without him to save them the harassment, which had been by no means easy, but it gave Harry peace of mind. It also made for a very alone and very outnumbered Harry Potter.

Tonight, on his way back from trip to visit Hagrid in his hut, Harry had found his path to Gryffindor Tower obstructed by a blockade of ill-intentioned 6th and 7th years. Harry could hardly remember losing his wand, who grabbed him first, or where the first blow had landed. By the time the students felt they had proved their point and left, Harry decided it was not particularly important how it had started. What was important was finding his glasses without passing out so he could somehow make his way to the hospital wing.

Thankfully, Harry found his wand before his glasses and accioed them to himself. After a quick repairo, he shakily pushed them onto his bloodied face. Harry made a move to get to his feet, but a stabbing pain in his chest made him retreat backwards to rest against the stone wall of the hallway.

Footsteps were coming, and Harry found himself nearly begging for it to be a professor. Unfortunately, Harry rarely got what he wanted.

"Potter, what have you gotten yourself into this time?" came the simultaneously cool and cruel voice of Draco Malfoy.

Harry did not respond. He remained slumped against the wall, holding his burning, burning, burning ribcage with one arm. The other arm lay limp at his side, hand resting upturned on the floor to display several fingers that were too eschew to still all be in one piece. His raged breath was all Malfoy received as an answer.

"They're idiots, the lot of them," Malfoy scoffed mirthfully, meandering with his hands in his robes pockets toward Harry as if they were having a pleasant conversation. "They're too scared to accept reality that they think they can beat a new one out of you. Are they really so stupid as to honestly think that you have the power to make the Dark Lord come and go as you please?"

Again, Harry remained silent, save for a shuttering breath that betrayed the immense amount of pain he was in. In any previous year, he would have blanched at the thought of ever allowing Malfoy the satisfaction of seeing him truly hurt, but now...now, all that mattered was keeping the vomit down.

Malfoy seemed unsatisfied by the one sided conversation, so knelt on one knee before harry with his arms rested haughtily on his other. Harry knew this method as 'invasion of personal space to evoke an angry response'. He had been on the receiving end of this tactic many times from many adversaries. And while normally he would, in fact, react the way that was intended, tonight he kept his gaze down and his tempter nonexistent.

Disappointed, Malfoy sighed. It was not a sigh of defeat, however, but of exasperation.

"Is it worth it, Potter?" he asked.

Only now did Harry bother to respond.

"No," Harry said.

"Well, well, Potter," Malfoy exclaimed lightly, his voice laced with genuine surprise. "The Boy Who Lived finally throwing in the towel? Can we start calling you the Git Who Gave Up?"

"No," Harry said again.

"I'm afraid I don't follow. You don't seem to be making such sense, Potter," Malfoy admitted. "Although, you were probably kicked in the head a few times…"

"It's not worth it," Harry began, drawing in a pained breath to elaborate, "because I told them so they could be ready, to prepare themselves...so they wouldn't get killed. They're not, though. Like you said," Harry nearly wheezed out, "they're too scared to believe it."

"Then why do you keep trying to make them?" Malfor sneered.

"Because they're going to die if they don't," Harry said, finally looking up to meet Malfoy's perplexed gaze. They were uncomfortably close, like two men in a pub trying to intimidate the other before the inevitable brawl. However, the only way Harry would be fighting now was with words.

"You might be from the other side," Harry said with a raspy voice, alluding to Malfoy's Death Eater affiliation. "But you've heard the stories, too. Friends of your parents, their colleagues, aunts or uncles...You've heard stories about them but you've never met them, because they died in the first war. That's going to happen to us, Malfoy. Our friends, our classmates, our professors or families...people we know are going to die, and if you live through it, someday you'll be telling our own kids about the friends and family you lost."

"Its war, Potter," Malfoy spat angrily. "People die."

"For what?" Harry asked desperately. "I know what people on my side die for, but what about your lot? Even if purebloods were superior to muggle borns and muggles, would it make any difference? Muggles outnumber us by the millions. They don't have magic, but they have weapons. Voldemort will never control them. Why throw your lives away for that maniac?"

At this, Malfoy grabbed a fist full of Harry's hair and slammed him back against the wall. Harry saw stars before his eyes could focus on Malfoy's enraged face.

"Because we don't have a choice!" he snarled. Harry, through the haze of pain, realized he had never seen his rival so absolutely furious. "You think I don't understand how horrid he is? You think I don't know how easily he can kill? A Death Eater can put just one toe out of line, and his entire family is dead my morning! Just because we're Slytherin doesn't mean we don't love our families, Potter. When you're family is one misstep away from being murdered, you'd do just about anything to keep it from happening, everyone else be damned! But I guess you wouldn't know what that's like, would you?"

Malfoy kept is vicious hold on Harry for a few incredibly tense moments before releasing him harshly. Malfoy rose to his feet and took a few hurried steps away from Harry as he shakily ran a hand through his hair. With his back turned to Harry, his shoulders tensed before he wildly kicked a nearby decorative suit of armor. The suit staggered backward before glaring (as best a magical suit of armor could) at its aggressor and repositioning itself back in its place.

It startled Harry to realize that Malfoy's mannerisms were his own. They were things he only ever did while alone, or in the company of Ron or Hermione. The desperate jaw clench, rigid shoulders, balled fists, flaring nostrils, eyes unfocused and red with the effort to hold back the torrent; it was the rage of helplessness that Harry knew all too well. Harry imagined the feeling must have been overwhelming for Malfoy to have lost control and let his greatest rival whiteness his weakness.

Pitty was the not the right word for what Harry now felt. It was more along the lines of sympathy. He supposed he had never given much thought as to why Death Eaters did what they did beyond the simple and childish 'they're just evil' reasoning. Now, however, Malfoy had made it very clear that the main motive for following Voldemort was the leverage he had over you. It made Harry's stomach churn.

"You're right," Harry said honestly, making Malfoy tense further. "I don't know what that's like. I've got the Weasleys, and I think they're as good as family, but I guess I could never know for sure. I'm sorry."

"Oh," Malfoy said in a voice saturated with insane sarcasm as he spun around to look at Harry. "Oooh, you're sorry? Well, that just makes everything alright, now doesn't it? Harry Potter is sorry for his ignorance. All is well!"

Realizing how much it stung to be the recipient of that particular sort of scolding, Harry made a mental note to never do it to Ron or Hermione ever again. He had been guilty of using it on his friends far too many times, and he supposed he was finally getting a taste of his own foul medicine.

"Neither of us has a choice in this, Potter," Malfoy finally said after an awkward pause while he regained some composure. His voice was void the malice he had most likely intended, making this statement seem as if it were a fact.

"I had one," Harry said. "The hat wanted to put me in Slytherin."

Malfoy's brows furrowed at this, and Harry could tell that he did not know what to make of this information.

"It said I'd do well there...that I belonged there. I told it I didn't want to be in Slytherin. I chose."

"Some of us were not awarded that luxury," Malfoy said, again lacking his typical spite.

"Trust me," Harry almost laughed though the pain, "I know a thing or two about missing out on luxuries."

The expected rebuttal never came. Malfoy made no move admonish Harry for his self-pity and made no effort to remind Harry of his 'privileged celebrity lifestyle'. He only looked at Harry as if he had never quite seen him before.

"I'll bet all Gryffindors look like you do right now, just before He kills them," Malfoy observed. "I guess you chose well."

Draco Mayfoy turned on his heel in a very Snape-like manner and rounded the corner of an adjoining hallway, leaving Harry alone. Only brief moment passed before Malfoy returned, stopping in the archway of the second hallway just where Harry could see him.

"That was a compliment, if it wasn't clear," Malfoy said, almost humorously.

"Yeah, I wasn't quite sure," Harry told him. "Leave it to a Slytherin to give a morbid compliment."

"Just get to the infirmary, Potter," Malfoy rolled his eyes as he left. This time, he did not return.

Harry was unsure of what all the encounter had revealed about Malfoy, himself, or the nature of the war. It left him a little puzzled and, oddly, wishing Malfoy had not chosen to leave so quickly. Harry could not blame him, though. It had been a bizarre situation for the both of them, undoubtedly, and Malfoy was more prone to retreating than Harry. Malfoy's admission surely cost him a good chunk of his pride, and Harry thought it was not far off the mark to assume the Slytherin had left to go lick his wounds. But what would Malfoy do after he managed to pick up the pieces of his shattered façade? Would he put it back together, or discard it? Harry hadn't a clue.

On the other hand, there was one thing of which Harry was sure; he really, really needed to go see Madame Pomfrey.