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Harry saw him on the train to Hogwarts, and for the first time since they'd met at Madam Malkin’s eight years earlier, he didn't recognise him, not right away. The boy who dropped his eyes and shuffled past was dark-haired. Thick-featured. He had no trace of arrogance or grace about him ... but there was something in the way he looked at Harry, as though he knew who he was down to his bones, his very thoughts, that made Harry watch as he walked away to sit alone in a carriage down the back.
The next day on his way into Potions, a girl bumped past him, whirling to flash him a smile and a, 'sorry, Potter.' Her hair shone in the torchlight and her smile didn't reach her eyes. There was an edge in them, one that he saw when he looked at himself in the mirror.
He was leaving the showers after the first week when a tall redhead, who was most definitely not Ron Weasley, looked unaccountably embarrassed and asked to borrow his shampoo.
'I'd have thought you'd have the fancy stuff,' Harry said, passing the bottle and looking up into deep blue eyes.
Not-Ron shrugged.
'Not anymore.'
Harry started watching everyone, analysing every glance, every word. He knew. Every time, he knew.
He had to use the map to corner him at last, late one night, atop the Astronomy Tower.
Malfoy didn't turn around at Harry's footsteps, didn't move from where he sat on the edge of the tower, feet dangling into the space Dumbledore had fallen.
'How?' Harry asked, sitting down beside him, looking over the sleeping castle.
'Metamorph. Late bloomer.' His smile was bitter instead of proud. 'Turns out trying to hide from psychopathic maniacs inside your own house can trigger all sorts of latent talents.' Malfoy glanced at Harry, raising an eyebrow ironically, 'If only he'd moved in sooner, think how much more I could have messed with you.'
'Why?' Harry asked. The more important question.
Malfoy looked back out into the darkness while Harry looked at him, looked at the platinum blonde hair, shining in the moonlight, shaved short on the sides, so different from how he'd worn it before. He looked at the bags under Malfoy's eyes, the hunch in his shoulders.
He almost didn't catch the words, whispered into the night.
'Maybe I don't want to be Draco Malfoy anymore.'