Draco

The months trickled by, and I had continued with my sour behavior towards everyone. Even the Carrows had started to look at me in resentment when I entered their classes. Blaise and Theo were not impressed with my behavior, and I often caught them whispering to each other in the boy's dorms late at night, shooting me pointed looks. 

Today was perhaps the most unluckiest day of all. I had just bellowed at McGonagall, telling her that, no, I did not give a damn about human Transfiguration!

Her temper had flared, and she shouted at me to get out of her classroom.

Now, I'm walking angrily through the castle, kicking at nearly everything I see. 

"Draco," Snape says, once I reach his new office. "You have been acting strange lately, even for you."

"It's none of your fucking business," I snap. 

"I promised your mother that I'd keep an eye on you at Hogwarts-"

"The promising you've done to my mother did enough damage last year, thank you," I snap, turning away. 

"If this is about that Granger mud-"

"It's nothing to do with her!" I say at once. "I hate her, why would I be thinking about her?"

He gives me an unconvinced sigh, bet lets it go.

"Draco, you-"

"Leave it," I snarl, and with a last glare, I stride out of his office, not sure exactly where I'm going. 

I ditch Charms, and make a sharp turn to the Owlery, as Mother expects me to write back within a few hours. 

My eagle owl doesn't have anything for me, but there's a very sickly looking pigeon that keeps on pecking at me. 

'What the fuck?" I say, trying to shoo him away. 

He lets out a loud squawk, and drops a hastily scribbled note (coated with pigeon poop) on my head. 
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You asshole, do you have any idea what you've done? 

Whatever memory modification shit you tried to do, you obviously didn't do it right, because she vaguely remembers things. Not memories, but feelings. This really isn't helping us- so fix it!

P.S

If you write back, use the bloody pigeon; the other owls don't know where we are. I know the Carrows and Snape are checking the post, so be careful.  
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I tense. This note is from Potter, obviously. I know what Father would expect me to do; write back, spy, and try to find out where he's hiding. But the more I think about it, I cross out that idea. I could do that, yes, but that would put Granger in trouble as well. And why, just to watch more people get tortured? I saw enough of that over the summer, and I didn't enjoy it. 

My mind quickly moves away from Potter, and on to Granger. She remembers something. She remembers me.

I smile for the first time in months, my face muscles feeling oddly stiff. 

But the grin quickly dissapears, because there's not really anything I can do. I don't know where the hell they are, and I can't leave the school. So if she's remembering things, then they're doomed. 

I flip the note over, almost smiling again at the pathetic question on the back. The words look almost as if Potter was debating on writing them or not, but did it anyways, gritting his teeth. 

In the tiniest handwriting, he's written, 'How's Ginny? '

And under that, hastily, 'The others too.'

I don't know if I should bother replying, but this note, sadly, is the most exciting thing that's happened to me in months. 

Then, I get a brilliant idea. I grope inside my bag, searching for two small, empty diaries. They're just about the length and width of my hand, and I puff my chest out at the genius of it. I had gotten them just last weekend at Hogesmade, as a Christmas present for Blaise and I. 

The diaries, bonded with a strong magical connection, had the power to copy what the other one wrote. It was simple, really. If Potter had one of these diaries, he could write in it. The words would immediately show up on mine, and vice versa. It would be an easy way of communicating with each other. 

I beckon the pigeon, and he flies into a wall before messily landing on the ledge in front of me. 

"Do you think you could carry this?" I ask him, tying the book onto his feet. "Bring it back to wherever they are, okay?"

He squawks again, and takes off. I watch his tiny body flap off into the cloudy sky, wishing, for just a moment, that I was the pigeon. Maybe then I could get out of this goddamn school and see Granger.

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The days roll by painfully slow, and I check my diary regularly, seeing if there's any chance that Potter's gotten it yet. One night, I'm sitting alone in the common room, staring at it. 

Finally, a few sentences show up. 

Malfoy. I've seen these diaries in Hogesmade. I, for one, have no desire to have such communication with you. What if you rat us out to your Death Eater pals?

I let out a bitter laugh, reaching for a quill and a bottle of ink. 

I thought about it, but that would put Granger in trouble too, wouldn't it? I wouldn't risk that. Plus, you're the one that wrote to me first. 

He takes a few minutes before writing back. I can't help but notice that his handwriting is terrible, and he writes in an ugly, slanted manner.

Which, reminds me, to tell you to fix it. I don't need her suddenly getting her memory back in the middle. 

I can't lie, I'm curious about where they are and what they're doing, but I know if I ask, he'll probably never write in the diary again. 

I can't really do anything. How is Hermione? Is she sleeping properly? 

She's fine. How's Ginny?

I roll my eyes at his short answer, and reply to his question exactly the same way. 

But there's one thing that's been bothering me, and I clutch the quill tightly, debating on whether to ask or not. 

Is she with Weasel?

I ask it in desperation, but Potter seems to be ignoring me, because after fifteen minutes, he still hasn't replied. 

With an aggravated sigh, I trudge up the stairs to the boys dorms, slipping the book under my bed. I lay in bed, fidgeting. Finally, I fall asleep the same way as I've done for the past few months; the thought of a reunited moment with Granger, away from the darkness that's taken over our lives.