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"Young!"

I'm sitting alone on the bank of one of the immense lawns, overlooking the Great Lake. It is a relatively warm day, considering it's the middle of October, and the air is bright and dry. It might be relaxing if I didn't have so much work to do, but my books are spread around me like cell walls. Still, stressed as I might be, this is a nice break from the stuffy library.

"Hey, Young!"

Behind me, near the school, Draco has broken away from his little clique who he was standing with and is jogging over to me. The expression of confusion on my face greatens as he sits down beside me.

He sticks out his hand and I stare at it. "I'm calling truce."

"Truce?" I stare at him. "You never call truce."

He smiles calmly. "I didn't know you were such an expert on my personality."

"But why would you – ," I frown, trying to take this in. "What's the catch?"

"There is no catch," says Draco pleasantly. "But wouldn't life just be so much better if we were on good terms?"

His sarcasm cools me slightly. "I don't understand," I say. "It's not as if we were in a big prank war or anything. Harry and Ron fight with you all the time, and you've never said something like this to them."

Draco narrows his eyes. "Despite what you might think, Potter and Weasley don't interfere with my personal life. You do, and personally, I feel it would be best for both of us to just be civil."

I stare warily at my book. "Fine. But I'm not shaking your hand, you probably spat on it or something."

"Now why ever would I do that?" I don't answer, and out of the corner of my eye I see him look at me curiously. "Something wrong, Young?"

"Just that you're still here."

"You know; I think first-name terms would make this work better," he says thoughtfully. "What would you like me to call you?"

"Are we being civil or best gal pals?"

"I think Isobel is a bit formal, don't you? How about Izzy?"

I look up at him for the first time, amazed. "Malfoy, where has this all come from?" I say, and my tone is as astounded as I feel. "You're scaring me."

Once again, he ignores me. He crosses his legs and squints dramatically at the lake. "Iz? Izzo?"

I suppress a smile. "Neither."

"So what would you prefer I call you?"

"I'd prefer you didn't call me anything."

"Bel?"

"No."

"Bella?"

"Definitely not."

Draco suddenly makes some kind of loud, over the top, gasp sound. "Belly."

I widen my eyes. "Malfoy," I say; "you will not call me that ridiculous name-"

"As prefect, I'll call you anything I like," he says happily. "See you later, Belly."

He walks away with long strides, but with a new kind of bounce in his step. I watch him all the way, positively astonished.

-

I make it a full week before Draco manages to corner me again, full of questions like are you okay - are you eating enough - are you hydrated - are you getting enough sleep - are you finding a reasonable balance between work and leisure - Belly, Belly, Belly... His questioning only stresses me out more, to tell the truth, because I don't think I will ever figure out what exactly he's playing at and from where he has managed to drag out this fake, overly-niceness.

After that, November flies by in an array of stricter rules and harder work, and I trying to avoid Draco, who remains ever persistent in his exaggerated politeness. Most nights are spent by the warm, blazing fire of the Gryffindor common room, wrapped in blankets and thick fleeces, trying desperately to get homework done hours before it is due. We are spending more and more time in DA meetings, which I will pick over homework any day, but this means that we don't have quite as much free time as the teachers think we do. The pressure makes me irrationally nervous.

On this particular night, I am joined by Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville.

Neville, who has been poring over a Herbology essay for about an hour looks up suddenly. "Isobel, I've just remembered!" he says earnestly. "Why was Malfoy bothering you earlier?"

I go red, feeling the others' eyes turn to me. "Was he?"

"Yes, during lunchtime!" says Neville earnestly. "You were on the bank and he came over to you. I would have helped you out, but I had Potions next class and couldn't find my textbook."

Hermione is still looking at me, curious. "Was he being mean to you?" she asks. "He doesn't usually target people on his own, does he? Crabbe and Goyle are usually around to bodyguard him."

"He was fine," I say indifferently, turning over a page in my textbook. I try to remind myself that my heart shouldn't be speeding up, I have nothing to hide from them. "Just being his usual strange self. That was very kind of you Neville, you really needn't have worried."

But as I dismiss the conversation and try to continue my work, I know that they – especially Hermione – are forming their own false ideas about my association with Draco. But as much as I hate to admit it, I can't help feeling that maybe, just maybe, they might be right.

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