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Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy was more observant than his parents had ever given him credit for.

He noticed things, made assessments others often missed. Certainly nothing expected of a child. 

But that didn’t stop Draco.

He enjoyed it, rather– the delight it would put upon his mother’s face, when pointing something out; the proud appraisal from his father. It meant he’d done well and was already growing up astute, just as a Malfoy should.

His father, Lucius, was always waxing poetic about the expectations of being a Malfoy. Draco was to keep good posture– shoulders down and rounded back, and his chin elevated, ever-so-slightly– to give a regal air. He was to address others properly, so as to not give a bad impression. He was to always listen to his parents, so he could someday follow in their footsteps, once he became of age.

Draco always did as he was told, and maybe a little too well. But the respect he held for his parents was more than such. He revered his mother, utterly and completely. Her presence was borderline divine; the woman practically floated everywhere she went. Narcissa Malfoy was truly a wonder to behold. Draco never settled for anything less than making her smile.

Lucius Malfoy, though, Draco respected, yes, but from afar. The man seemed almost untouchable. His mother had once told him of how he had escaped imprisonment, back in the First Wizarding War. How he had claimed to be under the Imperius Curse.

But Draco noticed things. He noticed the way his mother’s lips had quirked down, at the mention of her husband’s testimony. The way she never quite answered his more specific questions on the matter, as he grew older.

Draco noticed things, and he knew that his father had lied. His father had lied, and he was a free man because of it.

Draco wasn’t sure that this was for the better.

As much as Draco could respect the power his father held, he himself wanted no part of it. If becoming a pseudo-criminal was in his future, just by following suit, Draco would stand idle.

He’d done his own research on the War, of course. Malfoy Manor had no shortage of books, and Draco regularly combed through many of them. He’d learned of the dark wizard named Voldemort, who wreaked havoc on muggles and wizards alike and collected his own army of pureblood supremacists called Death Eaters.

Draco supposed his father had been a part of that group, not long ago.

When not talking of work or the Malfoy lifestyle, Lucius went on about his own pureblood upbringing. Supposedly, the Malfoy line had always held wizards, just as the Blacks’, his mother’s family, had. They both belonged to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, a directory filled with only pureblood families. According to Lucius, that’s what made him, Narcissa, and Draco, himself, so prim and proper.

But judging by how his mother always seemed to be more interested in her lap than her husband’s lecturing, and often faintly winced at the occasional mention of the term “Mudblood,” the pureblood society wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

So Draco researched even more, found books he would swear his father had tried to hide, and learned of the powerful magic users who needn’t only be attached to a pureblood name. Nicolas Flamel and Albus Dumbledore, for example.

And Harry Potter.

If a half-blood could defeat such a powerful wizard as Voldemort, and as a baby, at that, Draco had no doubt that magical prowess did not just apply to purebloods.

And telling this to his mother, in confidence, just after their trip to Diagon Alley, where Draco had indeed met the famed Harry Potter, made her beam like no other.

So, despite his father’s clear instructions upon first boarding the Hogwarts Express, Draco found himself away from his arranged friends and in a compartment by his lonesome. He’d read, maybe watch how some of the returning students acted, to gain some perspective. He wanted to be prepared, after all, and observing was what he did best.

Besides, his father was practically the last thing on his mind, once a bushy head of hair poked through the door to his compartment. Lucius could complain at the end of term, if he truly wished. Draco had a feeling he’d find much better company, in time.

Chapter Text

“Have you seen a toad? A boy named Neville’s lost one.”

Draco looked up from his copy of Moste Potente Potions at the intruding voice, finding a girl with quite the frizzy head of hair in the compartment’s doorway. Her foot tapped anxiously at the ground, and she was watching him, expectant, with her arms crossed.

Absently, Draco closed the book, using his finger as a placeholder. “Sorry,” he said, “I haven’t. But then again, I wasn’t exactly looking for one.” Draco paused, noting her plain, black robes. “Might I suggest asking a prefect? They should be better equipped than two first-years, I’d say.”

The girl appraised him a moment, then smiled, her front two teeth slightly larger than the rest. Draco supposed it suited her.

“Thanks!” she nodded, and then she was gone.

Draco chuckled to himself, then reopened his book, eager to continue reading about the Wolfsbane Potion. The book itself had been a birthday gift from his godfather and coveted Potions Master, Severus Snape, and Draco was already almost finished with it– for the third time, mind. While first years weren’t exactly expected to know potions as advanced as the one in the book, Draco still wanted to enter as prepared as possible. Plus, just as he loved to make his mother smile, it befell to him to please his godfather in any way he could. He figured sharpening up on his potions knowledge just might do the trick. Of the perks of being Severus Snape’s godson, tormenting the man as much as possible and making him proud were definitely the most notable. Draco was equally talented at both, if he did say so himself.

And Draco would be damned if he didn’t crack Severus’ carefully-crafted, steely expression the moment he stepped into class. Severus couldn’t stay mad at his godson for too long, he figured. It would be worth it; besides, Draco could point the blame back to Severus himself, if he so needed. After all, Severus gifted the book to Draco. What else was a doting godson supposed to do, if not read it, in return?

He hadn’t even finished the chapter before the bushy-haired girl popped back into the compartment. She bounded right through the door and onto the bench in front of him.

“You were right! A Hufflepuff prefect was more than willing to summon Trevor,” the girl said, in lieu of any form of pleasantry. “A quick accio had the poor thing flying right back into Neville’s hands.”

Draco raised a brow. “His toad is named Trevor ?” he huffed out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Glad I could help, in any case. Pity we haven’t learned the Summoning Charm yet.”

“Oh, I know!” the girl cried. Draco had to refrain from covering his ears. “I can only read so much until the practical application becomes necessary! It’s a shame we can’t learn it until our fourth year, though.”

Draco nodded, considering her. From her vocal tone and the way she was practically bouncing off her seat, the girl was exuberant and lively, no doubt. Highly intelligent, too, to already know the standard curricula for each year. But her sheer abandon of a customary greeting, coupled with her almost innocent excitement, had Draco asking a simple, “Muggle-born, then?”

She sat back in her seat, back straight against the supporting cushion. “Well, yes. Is that a problem?” Evidently, this girl had even brushed up on wizarding politics, to ask that question. That, or she was simply curious. Draco couldn’t fault her for that, he supposed. He’d be hypocritical, in that case.

Draco shook his head. “Not to me, no,” he assured, and the girl sighed in relief. “It shouldn’t be a problem to most people, I’m sure. It’s really only pure-bloods who still follow that rhetoric, but even then, I’m not too certain how many even do.”

Except for my father , he thought, And his acquaintances . But that was neither here nor there, really. Although Draco wasn’t too familiar with the other first-years with whom his father was insistent he connect, he had a feeling they weren’t too keen on blatantly following the supremacist ideologies their own parents tried to instill in them. Most of them, anyway.

“Oh, good,” the girl said, relaxing further into her seat. “So you must be a half-blood, then?”

“No, I’m a pure-blood,” Draco replied. “I just have a habit of disagreeing with my father. He certainly isn’t the wisest of men.”

The girl laughed, showing her teeth, once more. Draco found that he rather liked her smile, and the feeling he got placing it on her face was not dissimilar to that of when his mother smiled. This compelled him forward, and Draco held out a hand. “Draco Malfoy,” he greeted. “A pleasure to meet you.”

The girl’s own hand immediately shot forward to clasp his. “Hermione Granger,” she said, in return. “Likewise.”

Hogwarts was far more grand than Draco had ever imagined.

Upon arriving at the castle, Draco and Hermione had been ushered out of the train, along with the other first years. A rather large man had greeted them, and a voice from one of his year-mates behind him had indicated him to be named Hagrid.

Draco had been so taken aback by the castle itself that he’d barely noticed riding a small boat up to the entrance. Hogwarts was simply fantastic. The magic surrounding the school was almost palpable, and Draco took a second to wonder whether this was due to warding or simply the sizable amount of magic-users cohabiting the place at once.

“It’s beautiful,” Hermione breathed out from next to him, and Draco could only nod in agreement.

His and Hermione’s boat slowed to a stop on the castle grounds, and then they were being led into the school and up a staircase. Draco’s fingers glided across the stone as he walked, enjoying the feeling of the worn yet stable foundation. He was just one of many to have entered Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, yet he felt special and acknowledged, all the same. He was certain Hermione did, too; she practically glowed as she walked beside him, brown eyes alight in wonderment.

As they climbed the staircase, Draco took note of the various picture frames adorning the walls. It was hard not to notice them, there were so many. Portraits were stacked without any sort of order, yet it did not seem cluttered in the slightest. Just as his own portraits had at home, each work of art moved, as if alive. Various Lords and Ladies waved as the group of first-years walked past, and Draco was sure a rogue knight had even held out a salutatory horn of mead.

A woman greeted them at the top of the stairs, clad in dark green robes. Draco recognized her as the transfigurations professor, Minerva McGonagall, whom his father had alluded to, in passing. “Welcome to Hogwarts,” she greeted. “In a few moments, you will pass through these doors and join your classmates. But before you can take your seats, you must first be sorted into your houses. They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Triumphs will earn you points, and rule breaking will result in a deduction.” Her eyes roamed the students, and Draco found himself nodding as he listened. Beside him, Hermione eagerly did the same. “The sorting ceremony will begin momentarily,” McGonagall announced, and then departed from the group, slipping through the large double doors ahead of them.

“How do they sort us?” a voice sounded from the collected group of first-years. Draco recognized it as the same one that had identified Hagrid, only moments earlier.

“Some kind of test, I think,” another voice responded. “Fred says it hurts like hell, but I’m sure he was joking. At least… I think he was.”

Draco turned around to look for who had spoken. Just behind him were two boys: one with red hair and frayed robes, who could only be Ronald Weasley, Arthur Weasley’s sixth son, and another with dark hair, round glasses, and enchanting green eyes. Harry Potter .

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. Before him was Harry Potter, a boy so revered in wizarding culture Draco almost felt inconsequential simply standing near him. But looking at the boy, Draco observed he was quite small– not overly so– and hunched in on himself, as if he weren’t entirely sure of his bearings. A boy so different than Draco had imagined, so different from a boy who had, for all intents and purposes, grown up with all the fame and glory he could imagine, according to his father.

But then again, Draco often disagreed with his father, and this was one of those moments. Wanting to give the boy– Harry – some semblance of comfort, Draco said, “It’s just a hat. It uses a form of legilimency to discern your values and place you into the corresponding house.”

Harry Potter simply stared at him, then questioned, “Legilimency?”

Beside him, Ronald Weasley curled a lip and groused, “Shove off, Malfoy.”

Draco elected to ignore the Weasley boy for a moment and turned to Harry. “It’s a type of magic used to look into a person’s mind. Alternatively, occlumency is used to prevent this from happening.” He then turned to Ronald. “Hello, Ronald. I’d advise you not to be so quick to form conclusions about others before you’ve formally met them. I simply wanted to reassure Harry, here, that the sorting process isn’t anything to worry about.”

With that, Draco turned back around, giving Hermione a reassuring grin. She, too, seemed slightly worried over the sorting.

Hermione smiled back, a simple tug of her lips, and Draco knew he’d succeeded.

The doors ahead of them opened once again, and McGonagall stepped out. “We’re ready for you now. Follow me.”

All the first-years hastened to follow. Draco found himself squished amongst the other children as he stepped inside the Great Hall, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care, once he took hold of his surroundings.

The Hall in and of itself was massive, with four exceedingly long tables stretching the length of it. The House tables, then, Draco supposed. The ceiling was magnificent, showing what appeared to be the night sky, above them, along with various floating candles.

“It’s not real, the ceiling,” Hermione said, beside him. “It’s bewitched to look like the night sky. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History .”

Draco absently nodded, too entranced to reply. A scoff from somewhere behind him that must have come from the Weasley boy had Draco rolling his eyes.

Reaching the front of the Hall, Draco peered at the High Table, which consisted of each member of the Hogwarts staff. He was quick to spot his godfather, and they both exchanged a quick, subtle nod of acknowledgement.

“Who is that?” Hermione asked, nudging his side with her elbow.

“Severus Snape, the potions professor and head of Slytherin House,” Draco answered. “And also my godfather.”

Hermione hummed, satisfied with his response, then straightened. Draco followed her gaze to where McGonagall now stood in front of the High Table, next to a stool with a weathered hat atop it.

McGonagall cleared her throat, garnering the attention of students and staff alike. “When I call your name, you will come forth. I shall place the sorting hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your houses.” She referenced her scroll of the first-years’ names, and then called, “Hermione Granger!”

Hermione stiffened beside him. She gave him a quick, panicked look, to which he grabbed her hand and squeezed, then let go. She nodded once, then walked forward, and Draco let out an amused huff as he heard her mumbling, “Okay, relax,” as she went.

Ronald’s voice sounded from behind, “Mental that one, I’m telling you,” no doubt complaining to Harry Potter, next to him.

Draco valiantly kept himself from spitting some choice words in the boy’s general direction. Instead, he watched as Hermione sat herself on the stool and let the Sorting Hat be placed atop her head.

Her sorting went on for a few minutes, and Draco wondered if she’d become a hatstall. Many must have been wondering the same, considering the ripples of mumbling beginning to sound throughout the Hall.

But then the hat shouted, “RAVENCLAW!” and Hermione scampered off to her new house.

Draco smiled to himself, though it was strained. No doubt Hermione was best suited for Ravenclaw, but, as much as Draco would have liked to follow his new friend over to the house of the eagles, he wasn’t too sure that’s where he would end up.

Malfoys were always sorted into Slytherin, simple as that. His mother’s side had a rogue Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, he recalled, but that was it. He’d been raised by two Slytherin parents, and his father expected him to be sorted the same. Draco’s stomach sank. He’d be a fool not to accept he’d be sleeping in the dungeons that night, that’s for certain.

“Draco Malfoy!” McGonagall called, and he surged forward on unsteady feet.

Sitting on the stool, Draco felt the worn fabric of the hat be placed on his head. He tried to find Hermione in the crowd, but the hat obstructed his vision before he could.

“ Ah, ” a voice sounded from inside his head. “ You’re quite different from the rest of your family, aren’t you? ”

Draco jolted. “You can speak? ” he thought, sure the hat would be able to pick up on it.

“A clever mind, then, I see ,” the hat said, evading his question– or, rather, providing insight into Draco’s own thought process. “ Cunning, sure, considerate, no doubt. But where to put you? ”

Draco shifted in his seat. “ Is it not obvious? ” he thought back, though with slight contempt.

“ Oh, not at all, ” the hat responded. “ Is Slytherin what you seek? You may have pride, but how much of that is out of fear? How much of that is taught, rather than respected? Slytherin is not for you, no. Better be…

“RAVENCLAW!”

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was silent.

His own fault, Draco presumed– a tale worthy of the Daily Prophet : “Malfoy Heir Disgraces Family Name in Hogwarts Sorting.” Written by Rita Skeeter, no doubt. Both Mother and Father often seemed disdainful of the woman.

Father will have a coronary , Draco thought, absently, when the first smattering of applause began to fill the Hall. He was quick to find it belonging to Hermione, the other Ravenclaws soon joining her.

A hand at his shoulder caused him to jolt.

“To your table, please, Mister Malfoy,” McGonagall urged softly, patting his shoulder once more.

Draco nodded, standing from the wooden stool and placing a hand atop it to prevent it from shaking in place. McGonagall’s lip twitched upward, ever-so-slightly, before she nodded in dismissal, ushering him forward so the sorting could proceed.

By the time he reached the Ravenclaw table, to where Hermione sat, enthusiastically clapping, the rest of the Hall had joined in their applause. Draco spotted Harry and Ronald amongst the group of first-years still waiting to be sorted, and they both appeared to be clapping; though, in Draco’s opinion, it seemed to be more out of polite obligation, rather than the unbridled joy Hermione was exhibiting.

Hermione was quick to wrap her arms around Draco’s neck in a hug, as soon as he’d straddled the wooden bench at the table.

“Oh, how wonderful!” she exclaimed, yanking him down onto the bench. Draco slowly wrapped an arm around her, in return, not used to such a blatant display of affection being directed towards him. “I was beginning to worry we’d have to compare schedules in order to arrange meeting times.”

Draco hummed. “Each house has at least one class with every other,” he said, swinging a leg over the bench to sit properly. Hermione relented and unlinked her arms from around him, easing his movements.

“Is that so? From the way everyone reacted to your sorting, I’d assumed some houses simply didn’t get along,” Hermione mused.

“That may be true in some cases,” Draco nodded, “But I think any hesitation about my being sorted into Ravenclaw had more to do with expectations, rather than contempt.”

Draco couldn’t help but think some of the reactions to his sorting were out of contempt, though– Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, as well as a section of the Slytherin house, to name a few. The Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables had barely given any thought before joining Ravenclaw in their festivities, as soon as Draco had been sorted. Some of those sitting at the Slytherin table had merely clapped to show face, but Draco did notice a sizable amount applauding without abandon.

Just to make sure of his supposition, Draco spared a glance up at the High Table. He found Severus already watching him. Draco gave his godfather a small smile, raising an inquisitive brow.

Severus dipped his head in an approving nod, and Draco beamed. His godfather’s eyes closed shut for a moment too long to be a blink, and Draco recognized it as Severus’ way of composing himself in the wake of Draco’s actions. Draco’s smile only grew brighter, and he turned back to Hermione.

“Just as I thought,” he reported. “It was merely a shock, is all. I was expected to be in Slytherin, just as nearly my whole family’s been. But Severus is fine with it. So are most of the other Slytherins, from what I’ve seen.”

Hermione nodded, and her sharp gaze darted up to the High Table before focusing back on Draco. “And your parents?” she asked, brows furrowing. “Your father has expectations of you, correct?”

Draco sighed, and his shoulders hunched forward slightly. “He certainly won’t be pleased,” he relented, then gave a little shrug. “I’m sure Mother will talk some sense into him, though.”

Hermione’s eyes roamed his face, surely searching his features for any hint of a lie or the withholding of information. She soon thereafter accepted his words, though, for she inclined her chin and set her posture straight. “But you’ll tell me otherwise,” she demanded.

Despite himself, Draco chuckled, both at her self-determination and sheer audacity. “Of course,” he agreed. “Merlin knows what the world would come to, should you and Mother ever meet,” Draco grinned, and Hermione giggled.

“Great things, I’m sure,” she quipped, leveling his own mischievousness.

Draco nodded sagely in assent, and Hermione laughed, her eyes shimmering. His own mirth was no doubt projecting in his own eyes– a grey that his mother often remarked reminded her of the clouds, just after it rained. He figured the glimmer in Hermione’s brown eyes must be the sun, in that case. After all, an eagle does dominate the sky.

The Ravenclaw common room exceeded Draco’s every expectation. Granted, he hadn’t pondered too much on it, so sure he’d be sorted into Slytherin, but the little he had imagined could never compare to what now laid before him.

The room itself was round and spacious, but by no means was it overbearing. It was by far the most comfortable room he’d ever set foot in, if he did say so himself. Around the circumference of the common area lay a blue rug, its color representing a fine topaz that Draco sometimes saw his mother adorning in her jewelry. At the center sat a pair of velvet couches, this time a darker blue, which matched the color of the bookshelves not far behind them. The bookshelves themselves were marvelous– enough stacks to rival those at the Manor– and Draco was already itching to peruse them and supposed he often would. From the way Hermione practically bounced in place next to him, he knew he would not be alone in that particular endeavor.

The prefect who had led the small group of first-years to Ravenclaw Tower– Penelope Clearwater, she’d said her name was– stepped further inside and cleared her throat. “Welcome to Ravenclaw!” she greeted, smiling warmly. “You’ve done admirably, being sorted into the house of Rowena Ravenclaw, and, in doing so, are sure to value wit, learning, intelligence, curiosity, and acceptance. We are all of like mind, here; you will do well to remember that. All dormitories are up the staircase– boys’ on the left, and girls’ on the right. Your belongings should already be by your respective beds, all of which were assigned in advance. There is no curfew, but do be mindful that breakfast always ends at exactly 8:50 each morning.”

Penelope looked over their gathered group, looking them each in the eye. Draco made sure to nod when she reached his gaze, and Hermione did the same. A boy standing on Hermione’s other side went so far as to raise a thumb in the air, in response. Draco wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, but it couldn’t have been of mal-intent, for Penelope matched it with a broadened grin.

“Should you ever need anything, find myself or another prefect, or even Professor Flitwick, our Head of House,” she advised, and then bid them with a cheery, “Goodnight!”

Hermione immediately turned to Draco, grasping his wrist in her hand. “I can’t believe we have our own library!” she marveled, dragging him alongside her in her quick stride to reach the stacks.

“We should check out the main library at least once,” Draco drawled, amused, and Hermione turned to him and whacked his arm.

“Come off it,” she huffed, entertained and flabbergasted all at once. Her hair seemed even more bushy in her excitement, if that was at all possible. “It’s simply so much to take in, it’s a wonder the rest of our year hasn’t joined us.”

Draco took a cursory glance around the room and found that she was correct. Besides a few stray upperclassmen chatting on the couches, Draco and Hermione were the only ones left in the common room.

“Everyone must already be heading for bed,” he mused. “And I quite agree with that sentiment. These books will still be here in the morning, after all.”

Hermione wrung her lips, looking from Draco to the bookshelves, then back again. “I suppose you’re right,” she conceded. She squeezed Draco’s wrist once, then let go, and Draco found himself already missing the comfort her contact brought him. He certainly didn't want to cut his time with Hermione short, but he was beginning to feel the toll the day's events left on him. He brushed fingers against hers, and her eyes gleamed in understanding.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Hermione smiled, and Draco smiled back. “See you first thing for breakfast!” she waved, and then she was off.

Draco watched her disappear around the arch of the spiral staircase in a whirlwind of curls before slowly following suit. The first door to his left remained open, and Draco poked his head in, taking stock of the room.

The dormitory itself was certainly not as large as the common room, but it was of appreciable size, considering it had to sleep four people, including himself. Two four-poster beds lined the sides of the room, all set with the same royal blue bedclothes. Matching armchairs sat beside each bed, and, on their other side, a bookshelf and desk, each. Directly across from himself and the door was a large curved window, complete with a plush, velvet, cushioned bench attached– the same material that adorned the couches in the common area, Draco noted. He imagined the view from this high in the castle was magnificent, and Draco promised himself he’d sit by the window soon.

“Hey, it’s Malfoy!” a voice called, and Draco opened the door more fully to allow himself further entry.

The rest of his year-mates were already sitting on their beds, and Draco quickly deduced his own was closest to the window on the right-hand side of the room. The boy who’d just spoken sat on the bed diagonal to Draco’s own, and a glance at his trunk showed his initials to be “T.B.” He was the same boy who’d made the gesture with his thumb, earlier, that Draco couldn’t quite place.

Draco nodded and raised a corner of his lips upwards in greeting, closing the door softly behind him. “Terry Boot, I presume?” Draco asked, thinking back on the names McGonagall had called during the sorting and holding out a hand for the other boy to take.

Terry nodded and accepted the handshake, his eyes glinting curiously underneath his gold, circular glasses. Draco thought they looked quite similar to Harry Potter’s pair but mused the gold coloring on Terry’s suited his darker skin tone well.

“And that’s Michael Corner, there, next to me, and Anthony Goldstein behind you,” Terry informed him, gesturing to both boys as he spoke.

Draco greeted each boy, in kind. Michael Corner shook Draco’s hand first, and his skin tone seemed to be as pale as Draco’s own, although it was contrasted by a dark head of hair and bright blue eyes. Anthony Goldstein, though, appeared to be slightly more tanned and perhaps a little wiry in height, with hair a few shades lighter than Hermione’s chestnut brown.

Draco slid onto his own bed next to Anthony, running a hand over the duvet and humming at its soft texture.

Anthony let out a breathy laugh. Draco looked up at him sharply, but the boy only seemed amused at his ministrations.

“How does a Malfoy get sorted into Ravenclaw?” he asked, and Draco couldn’t quite tell if his question was rhetorical or not.

Nonetheless, he quirked a brow and posited, “Same as anyone who puts on that batty, old hat, I suppose.”

All the boys snickered at that, and Draco grinned. After a moment, he shrugged one shoulder and continued, voice lower, “I’ve never been much like my father, really, so I’d hardly be one to sort straight into Slytherin, on account of being a Malfoy." He let his finger run absently along the duvet, comforted by the feeling of the soft fabric. "I bet he’s gone mad, right about now. He’s bound to have heard about my sorting.”

Michael snorted. “What, does he keep tabs on the school, or something?”

“Well, he is on the Board of Governors,” Draco drawled, making the rest of the boys groan. He laughed along, conceding their point, then admitted, “My godfather was told to report back to him, after the sorting. He’s bound to have found out by now.”

“I thought I’d heard you mention that earlier, at the feast,” Terry interjected. “Have I gone barmy, or is your godfather really Professor Snape?”

The other two boys turned to Draco, eyes wide. Draco let out a sharp bark of laughter, then clapped a hand over his mouth. Still snickering, he said, “He’s really not that bad, I promise.” 

His roommates stared back, unconvinced. 

“I’m sure any rumors are far worse than the reality,” Draco assured them. “After all, he’s been more of a father to me than Father has,” he said, then shrugged. His shoulders stayed hunched by his ears, though, as the three boys regarded his statement.

Anthony hummed a considering note and nodded. “Guess we’ll see tomorrow, at any rate,” he said, bouncing himself back towards his headboard and slipping under his covers.

Terry squawked, leaning forward off his own bed. “What, we’ve got potions tomorrow?” he asked. Draco, too, looked at Anthony, bemused. They hadn’t yet received their schedules.

“I don’t know,” Anthony said, his voice muffled by the duvet. “But we’ll still see him tomorrow, come breakfast, won’t we?”

Terry flopped back onto his bed, heaving a put-upon sigh. “Don’t screw with me like that,” he muttered petulantly.

Draco laughed softly. These boys seemed like an interesting group, at the very least. He’d make sure to introduce them to Hermione in the morning. Idly, he wondered how she was faring in her own dorm and resolved to inquire with her then, as well. It seemed, no matter how mad his father might be at his sorting, he still managed to make some friends, at his father’s behest. Lucius didn’t need to know they weren’t Slytherins.

Chapter Text

The first day of classes was overwhelming, to say the least.

Breakfast had been a lively affair. Draco’s ambitions to acquaint Hermione with his new dorm-mates went terrifically, if not a little boisterous. Hermione, for one, was glad to interact with the other first-year Ravenclaws and became fast friends with Terry Boot. Of course, Hermione had managed to recognize Terry’s family name and was delighted at the fact that, yes, he was related to Webster Boot, co-founder of Ilvermorny, the wizarding school in the States. Draco had managed to hear more than he’d ever truly wished about America, then, considering Anthony had piped in about his own American relatives and subsequent holidays he’d spent overseas. For one, Draco had finally been able to place Terry’s odd thumb gesture from the night before– turns out, it was a symbol of agreement, and sometimes also stood for a motion of encouragement. He’d turned more than a few heads when he’d said he’d only recognized it as a signal used by poachers when hunting for dragon hide. In Draco’s defense, though, he was almost certain that was not what Terry had meant, and was quite glad that didn’t appear to be the case. Draco quite liked dragons. He was named after the creature’s constellation, after all.

In turn, Hermione had introduced him to her own roommates, Padma Patil, Lisa Turpin, and Mandy Brocklehurst. Far more reserved than Draco’s own new friends, these girls refrained from adding much to the group’s conversation but were still very nice. Padma had been quick to point out she was a twin, and that her sister had been sorted into Gryffindor, the night before. Ambivalent about the house itself, Draco nonetheless extended his condolences to the girl, but he thought she might’ve misinterpreted his sympathies; Padma’d told him she’d get used to being away from her sister, eventually, and all Draco could do was nod. He’d elbowed Hermione when she’d tried to hide a snort in her glass of pumpkin juice, after that.

Immediately after breakfast was their first Defence Against the Dark Arts class with Professor Quirrell, a class shared with the Gryffindors. His and Hermione’s entrance to the classroom was met with a cacophony of noise, all caused by the rowdy Gryffindors, waiting in excitement. Draco barely managed to keep from raising a hand to his already-throbbing temple, the mixture of noise and the overwhelming scent of garlic doing him no wonders. Of them sat Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, and they were sitting next to the only desk that still had two seats available.

Hermione’s hand grasped his wrist, and he stiffly followed her as she led him to the table.

Hermione took the seat nearest the other Ravenclaws, so Draco had no choice but to sit down next to Harry Potter.

The boy seemed to be in a similar state as Draco; one hand was pressed against his forehead, fingers rubbing in a circular motion, and the other laid clenched in his lap, grip turning white from lack of blood flow.

Draco had nothing against the Boy-Who-Lived. In all honesty, he was mostly curious about him, not quite sure what to make of the boy who seemed timid and willful and awkward, all at once. When Draco had met him before the start of term, in Madam Malkin’s, Harry had seemed innocent and filled with wonderment, not at all like the prideful child his father had described him to be. And then again just the day before, at the Sorting, Harry appeared to be smaller than he was, both physically and emotionally, almost unsure of his place amongst the rest of the first-years– nervous.

And that just wouldn’t do, Draco figured. Hogwarts was supposed to be a place meant for building the makings of strong wizards and witches; anyone who set foot in the castle should feel at home.

So Draco pulled out a piece of parchment, his quill, and ink, and said, “Alright there, Potter?”

Harry turned to him, eyes wide. Not for the first time, Draco noticed how starkly green the other boy’s eyes were, and he had to re-focus his attention, once Harry hesitantly replied, “Fine.” He paused for a moment, then elaborated, “Just a headache, ‘s all.”

Draco hummed, penning his name and the class subject in the top corner of his parchment. “I can’t say I’m surprised. The garlic’s getting to me, as well, I think. If this is how the rest of Quirrell’s classes will go, I have to say, I think I’ll simply transfer.”

A laugh bubbled out of Harry’s throat. Next to him, even Ronald gave a quick snort.

Hermione swatted at his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. A quick look at the year’s curriculum shows that we’ll be doing a unit on vampires. I’m sure that’s what the garlic’s for.”

Draco arched a singular brow. “What, and are the vampires here, Hermione? Really, must we need this much garlic? I can barely breathe, what with the stench of it.”

Hermione sent him a dubious glance, as did Harry, but any further commotion was interrupted by Quirrell entering the room. If anything, the garlic odor only increased, upon his entrance. This time, Draco really did bring a hand up to massage at his temple.

The class droned on quite underwhelmingly, Draco found. Quirrell was a simple sort of man with a clear lack of courage that had Draco wondering at the verity of his supposed accolades. He also spoke with a stutter, and Draco spared a moment of musing whether this was a testament to how truly nervous the man appeared to be, or if it was a speech impediment, before coming to the conclusion it really wasn’t any of his business.

For all that Draco tried to pay attention to the lesson, he found it increasingly hard to focus, as the time passed. By the time students began packing up their bags, Draco had a pounding headache and slightly labored breaths, and the small, keenly aware part of his mind began to doubt that the garlic was really to be blamed.

He registered his bag being taken from his lap, where he had sluggishly begun attempting to put away his belongings, and then two hands were grasping his arms and leading him out of the classroom. A stuttering voice had asked a question, and someone else had called a distant reply, but Draco was now more focused on trying to remember how to breathe than paying any heed to a nearby conversation. His feet seemed to move of their own volition, and he could only watch through clouded vision as they kept moving through the room and then out the door, and then around a hallway.

Draco came a little back to himself by the time his feet had stopped moving and was subsequently manhandled onto the ground and up against a wall.

One blurry figure was close to his face, another off to his right, but still close by. A third figure stood behind them.

The one closest to him was talking, he realized. Draco squinted, trying to make sense of what they were saying, but he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat and wheezing breaths.

A hand grabbed hold onto his arm, and Draco flinched. For a moment, his breath stuttered to a stop, and then it ramped back up again, this time accompanied by more noise.

“-raco. Draco, you need to slow your breathing.”

Draco’s head jolted upward, and he realized the figure closest to him was Hermione. She was crouched in front of him, eyes wide but determined, and she kept speaking, over and over, instructing him to calm his breaths.

Suddenly more panicked than overwhelmed, Draco shook his head. His heartbeat felt as if it had just doubled in rhythm. “Can’t,” he gasped, voice strangled and shaky. “Can’t breathe.”

“No wonder,” another voice sounded, from the figure furthest from him. Ronald. “You’re hounding him, Hermione. Lay off, for a moment.”

Hermione’s head whipped over to the Weasley boy, her hair seemingly puffed even more than it had been that morning. “I’m trying to help him!” she argued, her voice no more than a harsh whisper.

“You’re not helping, either of you,” intoned someone from right next to him. Harry. “Cut it out,” he said sharply.

Belatedly, Draco’s eyes connected the hand laid on him to Harry himself, who sat fully on the floor next to him, rubbing his thumb along the plane of Draco’s upper arm. It was vaguely grounding, and Draco found himself watching as Harry elaborately demonstrated taking deep breaths, waiting for him to join.

So he did. It took a few minutes, but Draco’s breaths returned to normal, albeit they were fairly shaky and joined by the poundings of a residual headache– or, perhaps, the one from before just never left.

Draco leant his head against the wall behind him, exhaling with a slight wheeze. Harry’s hand left his arm, then, and Draco couldn’t bring himself to think too hard on why he immediately missed that contact.

That respite was short-lived, however, for Hermione reached her own hand out to settle on his knee. “Are you alright?” she breathed.

He looked her in the eye and saw them brimming with tears. Draco’s stomach sank at the thought that he’d put them there, so he squeezed her hand and nodded. He winced at the throb his head gave in response to that simple movement.

Hermione looked at him a moment longer, brown eyes assessing, then turned to Harry and Ronald. “Maybe we should take him to the hospital wing.”

Draco was inclined to agree, for his head felt as if it had been bludgeoned in a Quidditch match gone wrong, but he was now all too aware of the time that must have passed and the echoes of footsteps that sounded from just around the corner. Slowly, to avoid more pain, he shook his head in protest. “We’ve got Charms,” he said, brows furrowing when the small movements still rattled his head.

To the side, Ronald snorted a laugh. “Mate, no offense, but Flitwick would take one look at you and send you there, anyway,” he reasoned. Draco winced. If he looked as bad as he felt, he really didn’t want to look in a mirror, any time soon.

“We can take you,” Harry offered, motioning to himself and Ronald. Hermione started to shake her head, but Harry kept talking. “You can still make Charms, if you go now. Plus, you’ll be able to take notes for Draco. Ron and I have a free period right now. We can take him.”

Any other time, Draco would have protested his plans being arranged for him without any input, but he could hardly think beyond the cruel combination that was lightheadedness mixed with a headache. So he looked back over to Hermione and gave his best attempt at a smile, and she relented.

“Oh, alright,” she sighed, standing up and grabbing Draco’s bag, as well as her own. “I’ll put your bag on your bed,” she said, then reached out to squeeze his hand. Before he knew it, she was gone around the corner, determined to make it to class on time.

Again, Draco was being bodily arranged by two hands at his elbows, and then Harry and Ronald were supporting him up to the hospital wing.

Upon arrival, Madam Pomfrey gasped upon seeing him, and he figured he must’ve really looked quite the sight. Draco was quickly ushered to sit on a bed, and then Pomfrey turned to his two suitors, gaze critical.

“Not even halfway into the first day and already someone’s in here,” she muttered, shaking her head. “What have we here?”

“He had some kind of breathing thing,” Ronald supplied unhelpfully.

Harry nodded in agreement. “He complained of a headache in Defence– claimed it was all the garlic. But then he started breathing too fast, and he went out of it. Couldn’t really hear us, for a few minutes.”

Draco pursed his lips. He supposed that was what had happened, but he was unsure as to why. Had it really been the garlic? Surely, even that much wouldn’t be enough to cause any kind of reaction; he hadn’t even eaten any.

Madam Pomfrey fretted about his still-shaking form for a moment, waving her wand and mumbling to herself, all the way. Draco recognized some of the incantations to be diagnostic spells; his mother, trained as a healer, had sometimes performed the same ones whenever he’d gotten hurt, as a child.

He was pulled to attention when Pomfrey asked, “Have you ever been subject to many crowds, Mr. Malfoy? Boisterous events, perhaps?”

Draco thought for a moment, then settled on, “Not really, no. Father sometimes holds galas, but I’m never present for more than a few minutes.”

From somewhere behind him, Ronald snickered, but Pomfrey quelled his quiet laughter with a sharp look in his direction. “Just as I thought,” she said, pulling a potion from one of the drawers of the bedside table to his right, “Nothing more than a sensory overload, my dear. Must’ve been quite a shock, being around so many people, all at once.” She handed him the uncorked potion. “Drink up. Just a simple calming draught. You can either rest here or in your dormitory, but I don’t recommend any more classes today. Ease yourself back in with the feast, if you must,” she instructed, motioning for him to take the potion.

Draco gave the potion a cursory sniff, ever so ingrained in him to appraise Severus’ work, even if the man himself wasn’t there. He knew his godfather supplied the hospital wing with most potions, besides the ones the school had inventoried straight from St. Mungo’s, and Draco had grown up regularly observing Severus’ potion-making, when the man was tasked with watching Draco.

He drank the potion in one gulp, handing the empty bottle back to Madam Pomfrey and grimacing. That particular potion was one of the more pleasant to consume, but it still didn’t taste the best.

“Thank you,” Draco tiredly mumbled, feeling the potion take effect. Making to stand up, Madam Pomfrey halted his movements with a swift hand placed over his chest.

“Just one more, dear,” she said, holding up a phial she must’ve grabbed when he’d been taking the calming draught.

Unscrewing the phial, Pomfrey held out a dropper, filled with a golden substance. “Migraine Managing Serum, five drops on the tongue,” she informed him, then once again motioned, this time for him to tilt his head back.

He obliged, sticking his tongue out, and a ruffling noise and a soft whimper behind him suggested Harry had elbowed Ronald before he could laugh, this time.

The serum was much more sweet in flavor than the calming draught, and Draco repositioned his head with a hum at the acceptable flavor.

“Alright, dear, off you go,” Pomfrey said, stepping back to allow him room to stand. “I’ll inform your head of house you’re to stick to your common room for the rest of the day. And thank you, boys, for accompanying him,” she bid, nodding to Harry and Ronald, and then to himself, before walking to her office.

Harry and Ronald had left Draco at the hall leading to Ravenclaw Tower, as they had needed to head to their next class, Magical Theory. The first-year Ravenclaws were set to join them, so Draco would have to wait another hour, at the least, before he could see Hermione, or Terry, Anthony, or Michael again.

He grew all the more tired as he reached the last step before the entrance, and he almost debated falling asleep on the ground until the knocker spoke its riddle.

“ I am the keeper of small things– worn on the outside, hollow on the inside. What am I, ” the aged eagle spoke, voice gravelly in tone.

Draco was stumped for all of two minutes before the answer popped into his head, unbidden. “A pocket,” he said, proud when the knocker simply humphed and allowed the door to swing open.

Draco would like to say that he made it to his bed before he fell asleep, but that would be a lie. When he woke, it was to a repeated poking at his shoulder, and he found Hermione standing over him in what seemed to be the common area.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” she asked, then immediately followed that up with, “Are you alright?”

Draco gave an amused huff and sat up. It was a slow movement that Hermione spotted him for, her hands outstretched and ready, should he sway. His head only gave one dull throb, once he was upright, and he considered it a success.

“Pomfrey called it a ‘sensory overload,’” he said, and Hermione’s eyes lit up in recognition. “I’m fine, though. I was advised to rest and return to classes tomorrow.”

Hermione moved to sit next to him, and it was then that he noticed he was on one of the velvet couches by the fireplace. He bounced in place a little. It was incredibly comfortable.

“I was so worried,” Hermione told him, her eyes wide and filled with almost as much concern as they had been earlier. “You just started hyperventilating, and I felt so helpless, and Ron–”

“You helped,” Draco interrupted, needing to assure her she hadn’t been a burden. He remembered the guilt that had crept into him at seeing her tear up, and it was far from how he ever wanted her to feel, at his expense, or simply ever again. He reached for her hand and squeezed, glad when the action prompted a small smile out of her. “I thank you very much for caring about me, Hermione, even though we’ve only truly known each other for a day.” That may be true, but he felt he’d known her for much longer. She simply fit, as though she was meant to be his friend. His father truly would have a coronary. Draco couldn’t help the smirk that plastered itself on his face.

Hermione tilted her head to the side, “What?” she asked, bemused, having noticed his change in mood.

He shook his head, squeezing her hand again. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t receive word from home until Thursday morning.

His parents’ eagle owl, Auriga, flew in with the rest of the post at breakfast, dropping two envelopes on Draco’s plate before nipping at his hair and soaring back out the window.

Draco lifted a shaky hand up to brush his hair out of his eyes, staring vacantly down at the table. He hadn’t used his Sleekeazy’s hair potion since he’d arrived at Hogwarts; he despised the tight feeling it left on his scalp. What his father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Hermione’s own head of hair suddenly obstructed half his vision. “From your parents?” she asked, although Draco suspected she already knew and only did so by way of pleasantry.

Draco simply nodded. His tongue sat like a stone in his mouth, much too heavy for words.

“The contents aren’t going to change, no matter how long you wait,” Hermione voiced.

“I know,” Draco rasped. “My hands didn't seem to want to move, is all.”

Hermione giggled and squeezed his hand, and then he momentarily lost all his sight by way of unrestrained hair in her effort to grasp one of the envelopes. When she leaned back, he was met with the word Dragon , curled elegantly in dark green script. Even without knowing its contents, Draco nonetheless felt slightly pacified at the sight of his mother’s handwriting. He just didn’t think he could handle it, if it turned out his mother was disappointed in him. The love he held for her was boundless, and the prospect of having let her down made his insides curl in a way that threatened the most violent upheaval of his breakfast.

He promptly ripped open the envelope, ever one to act on the lesser of two evils. Shaking hands grasped the letter on both sides. His eyes frantically darted across the body of the letter, taking it in, at once:

Draco,

I wish to congratulate you on your sorting. Ravenclaw is a prestigious house that produces talented, accomplished wix, of which I know you are, without a doubt. And, of course, I know too well that you’ve always been just as clever and inquisitive as you are ambitious– a fitting combination for an Eagle. I only worry for your state of mind, as I know you expected a different outcome, and you surely must have wondered at my less-than-prompt response. But fear not, my dragon. You have made me proud.

With love,

Mother

A shocked, delighted sort of noise bubbled out of Draco’s throat, and Hermione wasted no time in seizing the letter from his hands to read herself.

Draco was foolish to have worried, he realized, about his mother’s thoughts on his sorting. His anxieties and rushing thoughts only temporarily clouded his judgment, as they were often wont to do. But his mother’s clear support of him cleared his mind almost immediately.

Picking up his father’s letter, Draco found he didn’t much care about its outcome. While he didn’t exactly want to upset his father, he knew it was more expected that he would, anyway. He’d been raised by two Slytherins, and his father often spoke of Draco’s future education as if he could vicariously live through his own son, to relish in the experience once more.

And Draco increasingly seemed to act differently from his father, anyhow. At this rate, it may have served Lucius well to have supposed Draco’s sorting wouldn’t be so cut and dry as he’d originally thought.

With Hermione preoccupied by his mother’s letter, Draco carefully removed his father’s from its sleeve, peering down at the parchment. On it laid a single sentence:

We will discuss this at Christmas .

Well. At least he hadn’t been disowned.

“With me,” a voice drawled from a nearby open classroom.

Draco paused his gait, a hand reaching out on impulse for Hermione to do the same. He turned towards the doorway, just to watch as a tall form of billowing robes swiftly retreated into the room.

Draco quickly dragged Hermione along with him in his move to obey. The two entered the classroom, and Draco took note of its pristine condition; various vials and bottles lined the shelves along the walls, all filled to equal measurements, with the occasional plant hanging from the ceiling to separate the sections. Long, wooden desks sat at both sides of the room, accompanied by cauldrons, each placed equidistant from the other. And, of course, at the front of the room, stood the ever-imposing figure of his godfather.

“Hello, Uncle,” Draco greeted, bounding up to the man. Hermione, still locked in next to him by the wrist, stuttered to a stop. Her hair did the same, only half a second later.

Respectful as ever, Hermione nonetheless followed suit. “Professor,” she nodded, shooting him an eager smile.

“It will be Professor Snape while in the classroom,” his godfather sneered, “Especially in front of company.” He did not give a verbal response to Hermione, only sparing her a glance to acknowledge her presence. As much was only done for Draco’s own sake, he supposed. His godfather was never one to follow social guidelines, really.

“Yes, Professor,” Draco said cheekily, setting his satchel down beside the front right desk. It wouldn’t be long, now, before the rest of the Ravenclaws, as well as the Hufflepuffs, entered the classroom for their shared Potions class. He appreciated his godfather’s convenient choice of meeting time, however abrupt it was.

“I hear you have been in correspondence with your parents,” Snape noted, eyes tracking him and Hermione as they sat, evidently electing to ignore his snark.

Draco nodded once, folding his hands atop the desk. “Mother says she’s proud of me.”

“Did she,” Snape spoke, lifting a singular brow.

Draco nodded again, though he knew the man’s words had not been a question. “Father, less so. He means to speak of it over the holiday,” he added.

Snape pursed his lips– a reluctant show of humor, Draco knew. “A compromise,” he drew out, “With your mother, I suppose.”

“Undoubtedly.” Draco refrained from chuckling, but he felt his cheeks grow warm in mirth, all the same. He knew his mother often quelled his father’s temper; this time was, surely, no different. Narcissa was truly a powerful woman, to mollify someone as capricious as Lucius. Severus, someone so closely acquainted with her, knew this just as well as Draco. It was often an unspoken source of amusement, between both godfather and godson.

While his godfather was a few years his mother’s junior when they both attended Hogwarts, Draco supposed it was only natural the two became closely acquainted through their professions. His mother was often quick to acquire what she desired, and she was readily willing to commission Severus’s aid in preparing potions for her Healing practice, come his finishing seventh year. As his father often said, it’s all about connections .

Draco knew Severus began to refuse reimbursement shortly after his birth and the man’s subsequent appointment as godfather. He also knew his mother sometimes slipped galleons in her owls to him, as well as in his robe pockets, when she had the chance.

It was perhaps because of his mother and Severus’ kinship that Draco was only having this conversation now, as opposed to the term’s first potions class, two days ago. For as much as Severus took his position as godfather seriously, never did he overstep his bounds. Mother had made the first move in sending the day’s post, and Severus had followed suit.

And, despite himself, Draco’s nagging worry from breakfast came back with a vengeance, sending a twisting sort of pinch straight to his stomach. Movement in his periphery caught his attention before he could dwell on it.

Severus had only taken a step forward, but his gaze held a minutely softer resolve than usual. Draco had grown accustomed to it, over the years, taking comfort in the man’s solicitous efforts.

“Know that I am, as well,” Severus spoke, voice tight, as if the words almost pained him. “Proud, that is.”

All too aware of Hermione’s attentive presence next to him, Draco refrained from giving his godfather what would have been a sorely unwelcome hug. Even so, he smiled brightly, the nervous coil in his stomach unwinding, all but forgotten.

Severus, ever exacerbated with Draco’s sheer being, retreated with a put-upon sigh. “I should have known,” he drawled, reaching his desk as first-year wix began to fill the room, “That a child with such cheek would never be placed in my house.”

Draco’s month-long streak of not encountering any Gryffindors in the library swiftly ended at the approach of Harry and Ronald at his and Hermione’s table. Ronald’s face twisted as they got nearer, and Draco figured the two of them must make quite the sight: Hermione, sat across from him and writing vigorously, had a stack of books upon the table, reaching higher than her head; Draco, for his part, had a few potions books sprawled open and a slip of parchment almost entirely filled.

”Blimey, don’t tell me we’ve got homework,” Ronald groaned, leaning his head down to peer at Hermione’s work.

She wasted no time in flipping over her parchment, peering up at Ronald in incredulity. “Of course, we have homework. Besides,” she said, closing the open book in front of her, “This is exam preparation. I’ve already done all the homework.”

Ronald’s eyes practically bulged out of their sockets, and Draco had to hold his breath to refrain from laughing. “Exam prep? Hermione, it’s only October,” Ronald exclaimed.

Draco cast a cursory glance towards the librarian, Madam Pince, at Ronald’s sudden change in volume. He winced at the glare she was sending their way and closed his own books, figuring this conversation could very well end in their forced removal from the library, if he didn’t leave first. He did not want to have to find a new study spot, after becoming accustomed to his routine with Hermione of reviewing notes in the library until closing.

Hermione, for her part, seemed to have the same idea, as she was already rolling up her parchment to place in her bag. “We’ve already covered one unit in each class, at the very least. It’s useful to study,” she said matter-of-factly, then promptly began her leave to the corridor, dragging Ronald by the wrist alongside her.

Draco wasted no time in following, keeping a steady pace behind her as she continued to accost Ronald about his poor study habits. Had Harry not hurried to step up next to him, he might have even spared a shrug at Ronald’s helpless glance back at them. Harry had the gall to chuckle under his breath– whether at Hermione’s impassioned antics or his own friend’s suffering, Draco did not know.

“She’s being helpful, you know,” he said to Harry, figuring he may as well cover his bases, as Hermione’s friend.

Harry laughed again, though not unkindly. “That’s kind of what we need right now,” he said, fiddling with the hem of his robes as he walked.

Draco paused mid-step and found he’d stopped not far from Ravenclaw Tower. He could spot the winding staircase that led to the common room up ahead. “Help?” he asked, a little lost at the fact that the two Gryffindors would seemingly be coming to Hermione and him for advice. “With what?”

Harry, now also stopped in front of him, shuffled his feet on the cobblestone. Despite himself, Draco’s chest tightened at the thought he’d somehow given Harry a reason to be nervous around him, but it immediately turned into a sinking pit in his stomach when he answered, “Theodore Nott challenged me to a duel.”

Draco was suddenly grateful for Hermione’s tendency to unabashedly eavesdrop, for her sharp whirling around with an incensed, “Duel?!” provided Draco with the opportune moment to quell his sudden influx in thoughts.

He’d known Theo for years, courtesy of forced gatherings from their fathers. Never, in all his time spent around the Slytherin boy, did Draco think Theo could hold any sort of resentment that would cause him to challenge another to a duel, let alone Harry Potter . Draco could only assume this was the influence of the other first-year Slytherins– namely Crabbe and Goyle, who he knew to be as bullheaded as they were exceedingly dull. Coupled with what he was sure were harsh expectations from Nott, Sr., Theo must have felt compelled to act brashly.

It was perhaps all of this that caused Draco to blurt, “It must be a trap,” effectively ending Hermione’s diatribe on the foolishness of first years agreeing to a wizard’s duel, no matter how well-reasoned they felt it to be.

Hermione, Harry, and Ronald all turned to him. The sudden attention, though expected, at his outburst, caused Draco’s shoulders to bristle.

“How so?” Hermione asked, genuinely curious.

And so was Draco tasked with informing them of his relationship to Theo, his knowledge of the boy’s more reserved nature and propensity to avoid confrontation as means to only rile Harry up, if he truly felt he had to. “It’s no excuse,” Draco reasoned, “But certainly an explanation.”

Especially, he didn’t add, if he needed to save face, in the name of his own reputation. It was not lost on Draco of the day’s earlier events of Neville Longbottom’s new Remembrall being taken and used by a group of Slytherins as a makeshift Snitch. Harry, of course, had felt the need to intervene and subsequently avoided detention by being named the new Gryffindor Seeker. If Theo was truly caught in the middle, he must’ve needed an out. If that directed the attention towards Harry, all the better for him. Behavior truly fitting of a Slytherin.

“I don’t know,” Ronald said. “It’ll be worse if he does show, after all, and we’re not there. Merlin, think of what Fred and George would say, if they heard I’d been too cowardly to show up to a duel.”

Harry was quick to agree, though he glanced between him and Ronald as though still unsure.

Hermione huffed, and her foot moved, as if she’d only just restrained it from making a petulant stamp at the ground. “No, you mustn't,” she argued. “You’re sure to get in trouble.”

Draco nodded. “It’s too risky,” he said. “I’m telling you, Theo won’t be there. It’s just a trick.”

His eyes locked on Harry’s, and their bright green hue almost swirled, with the intensity ablaze in them. He hoped his own conveyed a similar strength, if only to get Harry to see reason.

But Harry simply lifted a corner of his mouth, as if asking for forgiveness, and said, “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Draco sighed and sent his eyes rolling skyward. Bloody Gryffindors.

Draco woke at a quarter to midnight to Hermione standing at his bedside, clad in pink, striped pajamas. A hastened hand placed over his mouth kept him from yelling out in surprise.

She simply nodded her head towards the door and left, expecting him to follow. He spared a moment to mourn a good night’s rest then hurried to do so, making sure to slip on his shoes as quietly as possible, in order to not wake any of his dorm-mates.

Hermione was waiting for him down the stairs by the door to the common room, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

As he approached, rubbing at his bleary eyes, he whispered, “Don’t tell me you’re actually going to try and stop them?”

“Well, someone has to!” she hissed, crossing her arms. “They’re being incredibly irresponsible.”

Draco pressed his lips together in an effort to refrain from pointing out the same could be said of this act of hers. He figured she’d probably been keeping herself awake, going back and forth on whether corralling the two Gryffindors would be worth it, before ultimately deciding she’d rather not have them get in trouble, if she could help it. Draco respected her for this; he just wished it didn’t also come with the sacrifice of sleep.

Finding Harry and Ronald proved far easier than Draco had thought; he and Hermione had barely made it two floors below Ravenclaw Tower before running into the boys, who seemed to be rushing towards them.

“You were right,” Ronald said, as soon as they were near enough to speak at a lowered volume. “He didn’t show.”

Draco wanted to smack him upside the head for ever doubting him. Instead, he raised a vindictive brow and yawned, asking, “You know Gryffindor is the other direction, right?”

From the way Ronald and Harry remained silent, Draco reasoned that was a resounding no .

“We may have gotten lost,” Ronald sheepishly admitted. Harry nodded, sticking his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Well, at least you’re alright,” Hermione acquiesced. “Now, we just need to get you back to your common room, before you’re caught.”

She led them all to the Grand Staircase, hopping up the nearest steps. They’d only just reached the middle when the stairs began to move, threatening to send them scrambling.

“What’s happening?” Harry asked, grabbing hold of the railing.

Hermione, who’d latched onto Draco in a panicked attempt at stabling herself, responded, “The staircases change, remember?”

The marble stairs deposited them in front of a dark alcove. Harry stepped up first, pulling Ronald alongside him. “Let’s go this way,” he said, pointing to a large, wooden door, just past the threshold.

Thoroughly frazzled, Ronald concurred, “Before the staircases move again,” and hurried to push open the door.

Draco had barely set foot through the entryway before he had to muffle a sudden sneeze into his wrist. Taking a precursory look around the room, he could see why; various statues and picture frames were scattered around the room, all covered in dust and cobwebs. This room probably hadn’t been used in years.

“Ugh,” he sniffed, “We should definitely not be in here.”

Hermione sent him a slightly concerned look, then said, “We aren’t supposed to be. This is the third floor; it’s forbidden.”

Harry gave the room a wary glance. “Maybe we should leave,” he suggested, stepping back towards the door. He, Hermione, and Ronald followed, only to be waylaid by a cat standing at the exit, pinning them all under its red-eyed stare.

Draco groaned, quickly stifling a desperate pair of sneezes. Any more time around this cat, and he’d be sure to develop hives. “Great,” he mumbled, voice already scratchy. “Filch’s cat.”

His own words caught up to him, then, and he exchanged an alarmed look with Hermione.

Harry was already one step ahead of them. “Run!” he exclaimed, making a break for the other side of the room.

Hermione yanked at his wrist, sending Draco stumbling after her in a joint effort to flee. Ronald’s fast-paced footsteps sounded not far behind them.

Harry was first to reach a door, but by the way he was rattling its handle, Draco surmised it was locked.

Ronald ran up and immediately moaned, “That’s it! We’re done for!”

Draco couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled from his throat. With his throat still compromised, though, it came out as a few dry coughs, causing Harry to give him a once-over– probably checking to make sure he wouldn’t keel over right there, in the forbidden room.

Hermione, ever efficient, pushed the boys aside and cast an Alohomora at the door. The lock clicked, and she quickly threw the door open and ushered them inside.

Draco caught a glimpse of Filch and his damned cat as the door slammed shut, and he had to pinch his nose, lest he immediately give away their location.

“‘Alohomora?’” Ron whispered, testing the word out in his mouth.

Hermione scoffed. “ Standard Book of Spells , chapter seven.”

They stayed quiet for a moment, listening to Filch’s steps pace outside the door with bated breaths.

When they finally abated, Harry let out a relieved sigh, slumping against the door.

Draco sneezed down at the ground. “That blasted cat,” he grumbled, absently itching at his neck.

Hermione wordlessly handed him a handkerchief, blue in color, with a cursive H stitched in one corner. Draco’d never been more grateful to have befriended her than in that moment.

“Filch must’ve thought it was locked,” sounded Ronald’s voice, from Draco’s other side.

“It was locked,” Hermione said hotly, evidently affronted at the accusation she wouldn’t have had the foresight to do so.

Harry, voice shakier than he’d ever heard it before, said, “And for good reason.”

What Draco had originally attributed to a lack of circulation finally registered as a warm blast of air being sent their way in intermittent puffs. Slowly, he raised his head, only to be faced with a three-headed dog, breathing out in hot, humid growls. It was perhaps the scariest sight he’d ever laid his eyes on.

Draco let out a strangled scream in tandem with the others. He’d never had an adrenaline rush so severe as this; his mind was blank as he, Hermione, Harry, and Ronald escaped from the room, barely managing to squeeze the door shut against the snapping Cerberus.

They continued running until they reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. Draco braced himself against the stone wall, taking wheezing, heaving breaths. Truly, his dust and cat dander allergies did not mix well with running for one’s life.

Ronald, still catching his breath, exclaimed, “What do you think they’re doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?”

“You don’t use your eyes, do you?” Hermione snapped. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”

Draco had. Despite being absolutely terrified, he’d spotted it, under one of the Cerberus’ feet.

At his wit’s end, Ronald huffed, “I wasn’t looking at its feet; I was a bit preoccupied with its heads. If you hadn’t noticed, there were three!”

“It was a trapdoor,” Draco said, voice mangled now, both from screaming and that menace of a cat.

Hermione nodded. “It was guarding something.”

“Guarding something?” Harry asked, bemused.

“That’s right,” Hermione said, hands on her hips. “Now, if you two don’t mind, I’m going to bed before either of you come up with another clever idea to get us killed, or worse, expelled.” With that, she turned on her heel, bushy hair bouncing in her exit.

Draco, now entirely too tired to give more than a wave in Harry and Ronald’s direction, made to follow. As he retreated, muffling coughs into his elbow, he caught Ronald’s exasperated, “She really needs to sort out her priorities.”

And as Hermione flounced ahead of him, eager to return to Ravenclaw Tower without getting caught, Draco found he somewhat agreed.