A/N: I'll more than likely incorporate minor elements of OotP into this fic, but, by and large, The Readiness is All should be considered Pre-OotP AU… also Draco-didn't-stay-at-Hogwarts-for-the-Yule-Ball-or-during-second-year AU. Because what would a fic be without a major canon hiccup?

Also: If you would like to be notified of chapter updates, drop me a line at [email protected] with "Chapter Updates" in the subject line.

Thanks muchly for your patience and for sticking with me for so long.
33333

Things looked rather different the next morning at breakfast, however. Draco had overstepped a boundary, and found himself entirely unsure of how to act. He ate his breakfast methodically, deliberately and did not look up at Potter who had taken, it seemed, to redoubling his efforts to catch Draco's eye. Unable to bear it any longer, he stood up sharply and made for the entrance hall. A walk would be pleasant; a walk would make him feel less of a prisoner within his own mind.

The lawns were slick with dew as he made his way down to the lake. In the distance, the forbidden forest stood ominous and black, even mid-morning. It was no wonder how deeply it disturbed Draco, evocative as it was of the northern part of the Malfoy Manor estate. Many of the most horrifying rites of his life had taken place among the trees there—where Death Eaters were hidden away in Unplottable cottages, amongst altars and runes and the lingering shadows of centuries of dark magic. He shuddered involuntarily.

There was a cold wind coming off of the lake that lifted the hair away from Draco's neck and face. The water looked dense, teetering just on the edge of freezing, as if the molecules had huddled together in fruitless pursuit of warmth. The winter sun, naked and bleak, diffused across the surface of the water, which Draco half-heartedly scanned in case of an appearance from the giant squid.

"Do you want it back?"

Startled, he whirled around too quickly. He flailed, and Potter had to clutch at his arm in order to keep him from falling in. Draco made a show of regaining his balance, and only after he had stilled completely did Potter drop his hand.

"Christ, Potter, you scared me."

"Did I?"

The corners of his mouth quirked upward.

"Shut up."

His cheeks were raw and red, eyes clear and hard from the cold, hair standing alarmingly on end. Potter must have noticed Draco's gaze lingering there, for he tried to flatten it in vain. Draco smirked. Potter looked affronted.

"You still haven't answered my question, Malfoy."

"Oh?"

Draco arced an eyebrow and was pleased to see how rapidly Potter was angering.

"So, do you want it back or what?"

He extended his hand—the one that hadn't encapsulated Draco's arm in a death grip mere moments ago—and in it was his piece of parchment. Draco narrowed his eyes at it.

"Why… do you want to give it back?"

"Not necessarily. You just… you seem pretty freaked out."

"Malfoys don't freak out."

The words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop himself and Potter gave him a look that seemed to encompass all evidence to the contrary from the past term. How very succinct of him.

"Even so. Other than your epicenter-of-the-wizarding-world complex, what makes you think it has anything to do with you?"

"Oh, so you weren't ignoring me twice as hard as usual this morning, then?"

Draco snarled, unsure of when Potter had started giving back as good as he got.

"God, Potter, what happened to you?"

They both bristled at his frankness. Draco resumed his walk, trying to leave the words behind, abandon them on the shore where, with its soft, insistent rhythm, the lapping water could coax them out of existence. When Potter fell into step beside him, Draco cleared his throat and tried again.

"I don't know how to do this, you know."

"Oh, and I do?"

"So I was mistaken in assuming Weasel and the mudblood are your friends, then?"

"Malfoy," and it was clearly a warning, "you're not Ron and Hermione. Not by a long shot."

A hot spike of anger lanced through him.

"I hardly want to be."

"You're not."

"You've made you're point, Potter."

He had to force the words between clenched teeth.

They fell back on silence for a time.

"Malfoy, maybe this was a bad idea."

"No one's forcing you into anything."

"I know that."

Quietly.

And there was that weary voice; the only means by which Draco had been able to find sleep for months, the skeleton key to his frighteningly tenuous hold on sanity. He owed more to Potter than he dared admit, and the sudden rush of gratitude was overwhelming.

They came upon an outcropping of rock. Draco had seen Potter sitting here with his owl on more than one occasion. Wordlessly, they began to scale it together. Potter picked his way between boulders with a speed borne out of familiarity. Draco wondered how he must look, wind-tossed and freezing, scrambling after Harry Potter. The mental image didn't become him, and he consciously slowed to a more dignified pace. Let Potter wait on him when he'd gotten wherever it was they were going.

Potter had settled himself into a small depression, partially sheltered from the wind, which looked back at Hogwarts across the lake. Draco sat down beside him and hissed at the cold.

"Mind your arse, Malfoy."

He shut up quickly enough when Draco gave him a look that brooked no further comment.

They sat for a while, and the silence was surprisingly companionable.

"Clearly we only have trouble communicating when one of us tries to speak."

Potter looked at Draco askance and rewarded him with a small smile for his efforts.

Heartened, he got to the point.

"It was a gift, Potter. I wouldn't have given it to you if I didn't want you to have it. But you're under no obligation to use it."

Potter only nodded.

"They're coming back in a few days, Malfoy. My friends, the rest of the school."

"So they are."

"And you're going to refuse to 'supercede this', aren't you?"

He waved the parchment mockingly—or was it tauntingly—before Draco's face. His smile was mirthless.

"Look, Potter, if you can't understand the necessity…"

"No, I do. It's okay."

Potter's ready acquiescence caused some indiscernible, dark emotion to flit through him—gone in a flash but undeniable.

"Alright, then."

"Alright."

"I'm freezing."

"Well, I'm not about to offer you my cloak, Malfoy. Buck up."

"I should be getting back to the castle."

Potter nodded again, looking very much the forlorn hero, gazing out over the lake as he was.

Draco cleared his throat—"I'll be seeing you, then, I suppose"—got up and began to make his way back to the castle.

He hadn't made it far when, "Oi! Malfoy!" Draco turned to look at him, puzzled by his grin—so suggestive of the way Potter had looked in happier days. "Happy Christmas!"

Draco smiled too, without really realizing it, and made the decidedly rude gesture that was expected of him. Potter's soft chuckle was lost to the wind coming off of the lake, but Draco saw him shake his head in amusement.

He picked his way over the rocks and back across the sloping lawn; unable to feel the cold any longer, unable to keep his mouth from turning up into the ghost of a smile.

****

And then the rest of the school returned.

The next time he saw Potter, Granger had him in a crushing hug and Weasley had a hand on each of their shoulders. It was a sickening display and it filled Draco with jealous anger. He'd grown used to the castle, empty and yawning as it had been over break. Now it felt overfull. The crush of students was stifling, and he cursed them for coming back all at once, for coming back at all.

Draco continued to refuse to speak to his housemates. Once or twice, he'd reached into the pocket of his cloak to run a thumb along his father's letter only to find it gone. Each time his fingers closed around nothingness, he felt a little piece of himself slip away. In the interest of self-preservation—or so he told himself—Draco took to carrying around the piece of enchanted parchment in its place. He hadn't yet tried to write to Potter, but the knowledge that he could was a source of abstract comfort.

****

Draco's first class back was History of Magic, cursed with a double period of Binns' monotonous droning. It was desperately unjust. Not more than twenty minutes into the lesson, Draco was dangerously close to nodding off. On a whim, he brought the parchment from his cloak and smoothed it over the top of his notes. He glanced up at Binns, floating at the front of the classroom, seemingly oblivious to the students who gazed back in various states of catatonia. His voice was dry and brittle as bits of old chalk. Draco, quill inked and poised over the parchment, was at a complete loss for what to write. "Hello" would sound ridiculous, "Potter, I'm bored" was rude even by Draco's standards…

He'd put down his quill, resigned to defeat, when Potter—stupid Gryffindor—proved brave enough to make the leap. Draco silently applauded his impeccable timing, read the words and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing aloud. Binns hadn't the presence of mind to notice, but the other Slytherins certainly would have taken it as another notch in the log of Draco's supposed madness. I fucking hate Divination scrawled itself across the page.

After that, it was easy.

****

Draco had never been one for conversation—insults and orders, surely, but never simple conversation. In writing, though, he found his sense of vulnerability dissipate into nothingness. At times his hand could hardly keep up with the words that spilled forth from his brain. He was being wildly reckless, far too honest, but couldn't bring himself to care. It didn't seem real enough to be dangerous. And then, it was more real than anything in his life had ever been.

Either way, it was only Potter. Potter was a Gryffindor. Potter wouldn't even know where to begin to betray Draco's trust… that is, wouldn't have if Draco knew how to trust anyone.

****

Draco liked especially, for reasons he didn't quite understand, to write to Potter during Care of Magical Creatures and Potions. These were the classes Slytherin and Gryffindor shared. He made a game of distracting Potter's attention away from Weasley and Granger, seeing how long he could sustain it.

They were sitting Indian style in the grass outside of Hagrid's hut, huddled around crates full of Billywigs, ostensibly taking notes. Hagrid lumbered around in their midst, looking particularly ominous, towering over them as they sat. Occasionally he'd comment on the creatures' eating habits, their preferred climate, something to that effect… Draco wasn't paying much attention.

They're really very blue, aren't they?

Quite. Too blue, in fact. They're beginning to hurt my eyes.

Jesus, Malfoy, don't be so fragile.

I'm not fragile, Potter.

Draco could feel eyes on him, could hear him snickering a few yards away.

Sure you aren't.

Draco sneered, but his heart wasn't in it.

Do you ever wonder why this is so easy?

What, Care of Magical Creatures?

No, Potter, you idiot… talking this way as opposed to… talking.

Why he even bothered to broach these subjects was beyond Draco. He wrote without premeditation. Reckless. Stupid.

You don't want to know what I really think.

No, I'm sure I don't. Forget I brought it up.

Potter never dropped anything, though. Draco knew that well enough.

Partly because you can forget who I am and partly because I can forget who you are.

Draco grimaced.

I thought I told you to forget it.

It wasn't so hard by the lake, anyway. If it weren't for your father, who knows.

Draco glared at Potter, hard and pointed, oblivious to the classmates that milled around and between them. Potter was the first to look away, ashamed.

I'm sorry.

Draco wasn't much for conversation after that.

Hagrid continued to move among the students, checking on their progress, pausing to gaze fondly at each crate of Billywigs.

Dare you to let one sting you.

Malfoy!

Oh, come on. Live a little.

No way.

God, you're such a Gryffindor.

Thank you.

Draco glanced surreptitiously at Potter, eyebrow raised.

Yes, I'm well aware that it wasn't meant to be a compliment, Malfoy.

A perceptive Gryffindor, then. Well done.

Hagrid approached and leaned over to peer into his crate. Draco instinctively shied away from his hulking form.

Oh my God, Malfoy, you stupid sod. You're scared of Hagrid!

Draco fixed him with another glare—reckless—going for crippling ire, but Potter only began to laugh. Heartily. At his expense. His friends were staring at him, utterly nonplussed. Weasley touched his shoulder, asking for an explanation. Potter only shook his head, shrugged him off, and continued to chuckle.

Draco left Care of Magical Creatures in an unusually good mood.

****

The following Thursday, Draco settled himself at the back of the Potions classroom, apart from his housemates and in full view of the back of Potter's ridiculous head.

Do you even own a comb?

Very original, Malfoy.

Draco grinned in spite of himself. He'd been doing that a lot lately. It was rather alarming.

Professor Snape swooped in like an overgrown bat, per usual. Draco's running commentary over the lecture had Potter convulsing in fits of silent laughter. He lost fifteen points for Gryffindor.

Dammit, Malfoy, that was low even for you.

Low, but effective. It's all in a day's work.

Slytherin.

Half-breed.

"… the necessary ingredients. Do mind your work, as you will be testing the results at the end of the period," Snape paused here for dramatic effect, "by means of ingestion."

Draco thought there was something seriously lacking in the performance—the ruthless smile devoid of its usual sadistic edge—but Potter looked positively stricken.

Holy shit, I don't even know what potion we're supposed to be making.

Isn't that what you generally use Granger for?

Use your eyes, Malfoy, she's sitting on the other side Dean and Seamus with Ron.

So she was. It struck him as odd that the triumvirate's usual seating arrangement had been fractured.

Seriously, Malfoy, I'm fucked.

He looked it, and Draco took pity on him.

I must be going soft in my old age, Potter. Calm yourself, you sod. I'll walk you through it.

Thank you.

And Potter hurried to the back of the classroom, practically tripping over himself in haste, to gather ingredients.

These are Hagrid's Billywigs, aren't they?

Growing sentimental are we, Potter? You need to take off the stings and powder them. Unless, of course, you'd rather take pity on their poor, dead, dried souls.

Alright. How many?

Thirteen.

Set your leech juice to simmer. It needs to be bubbling, but don't let it come to a full boil.

And then what? This bit of horn?

Draco smirked. It was knotgrass next, actually. The Erumpent horn wouldn't agree with the leech juice before it had been diluted.

Yes. The bit of horn.

Oblivious, he dumped it into his cauldron. The explosion was spectacular. Leech juice, thick and green, was everywhere. Potter, naturally, had gotten the full blast of it, and the boils springing up on every inch of exposed skin were an angry red. There was a bit on Draco's right boot, but he was otherwise unsullied. He mused at the obvious perks to lurking in the back of a Potions classroom. With a simple scourgify, he was right as rain. Snape, on the other hand, had taken a generous dollop to the face. There was a rather large boil upon the end of his hooked nose. It was swelling even as Draco watched. He looked livid. Draco was delighted.

"Potter! You may actually be growing less competent with each passing year. Fifty points from Gryffindor and detention. Directly after dinner, I want you back here to clean this mess up. No magic. You'll be organizing the potions cupboard as well." As he spoke, Snape produced a phial of violet liquid from his desk. He tipped his head back and applied a drop to the boil on his nose with great care, which promptly shrank and disappeared. "Everyone else, line up in an orderly fashion so that I may rid you of your boils. No marks for today's work, Potter, deplorable as it was, and you're at the end of the line. Perhaps the discomfort will serve to encourage your diligence in the future, though I hardly dare to hope."

Potter shot a long-suffering look at Draco over his shoulder. Covered in congealed leech juice and boils, he looked a right mess. It made Draco almost regret what he'd done.