That should have been it. That should have been the last encounter he'd have with Potter and his friends that summer. But then out of nowhere, Father decided to attend the Quidditch World Cup and then him and a couple of his Death Eater friends decided to wreak havoc there. Malfoy stumbled upon the Golden Trio, as they were termed, just running through the chaos and for some reason, the idea of them being hurt by Death Eaters – by his father – stung in a way it never would have a year prior.
"You need to get out of here," Draco said urgently. They all stared at him. "Do you not understand what's going on?! The Death Eaters are here. They're going to kill anyone who stands in their way. They won't give a shit who you are. You will end up as dead as Harry's parents!"
Weasley peered at him like he had started speaking in rhyme or something. "Why the hell do you care?"
"I…" Why the hell did Draco care? "I'm not a monster," he said finally.
"Thanks, Malfoy," Harry said shortly. He still looked suspicious, but that suspicion was starting to be tempered with an emotion Draco wasn't quite sure he recognized. "You take care too, then. Don't want you to get hit by a stray spell."
The next time they encountered each other were was on the Hogwarts Express. Draco had to admit, he had slipped back into his old habits a bit more with bragging about the Triwizard Tournament – and the fact he knew what it was – and taunting Weasley over his dress robes. But come on, it would look suspicious if he acted like a saint all the time and those dress robes were an affront to all mages everywhere.
He'd tried to avoid Harry whenever possible at school, but somehow, the Boy Who Lived kept on popping up. Or maybe Draco was subconsciously seeking him out. It was strange, being around Harry and actually being civil. And he felt bloody odd sometimes whenever he was around the boy. Out of breath, his cheeks flushed, his heart beating oddly – maybe he was allergic to some product Harry was trying in the vain hope of taming that windswept handsome – whoa, where the hell did that word come from?! – hair? Yes. It was probably just that. Allergies acting up. He'd gone to see Madam Pomphrey but the mediwitch had laughed at him and given him some pamphlets to look at. Since they were about puberty instead of allergies, he'd concluded she'd given him the wrong ones by mistake and promptly threw them out.
And then, finally, in a turn of events that even that fraud Trelawney could have predicted, Harry's name came out of the Goblet of Fire. Because of course it did. The Boy Who Lived had the worst luck ever, as if he'd used it all up on surviving the Killing Curse.
"He put his name in the Goblet," Krum informed them at breakfast the next morning. The Durmstrang students were sitting at the Slytherin table at Karkaroff's insistence. "I was there. He admitted it."
Draco blinked repeatedly. "He admitted it," he said flatly. "You have got to be kidding me. Is this a joke? You're having me on?"
"I was surprised myself," Krum admitted. "But that is what he says. You can ask him yourself. He arrives now." He pointed at the entrance of the Great Hall. As if propelled by some force outside of him, Draco stood up from the table and practically charged at Harry. He was going to get some answers. He'd be damned if Harry threw his life away before Draco could get any political benefits out of him!
It wasn't like he liked him.
Wasn't it?