Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything was on fire; it was everywhere. Climbing the walls, spreading across the floor, devouring everything it touched. He was running as fast as he could, following behind Goyle, the taller boy just steps ahead of him. The smoke was starting to obscure his vision, but he didn't dare slow as the fiendfyre spread.

His pace, the smoke, and the pure terror running through his veins created the perfect recipe for failure. He tripped; he wasn't sure over what. It could've been a stray bit of furniture, a raised piece of floor, or just his own two feet. Whatever the cause, he fell fast and landed hard. His right arm throbbed where he'd tried and failed to catch himself. He lay on the floor for a moment, pain radiating from his elbow to his wrist, attempting to catch his breath.

When he finally looked up, Goyle was gone, and the fire had blocked his only way out.

Draco pulled himself up to his feet. Towers of junk were piled on either side. The fire was moving closer to him with each passing second. He was effectively trapped. Out of pure desperation, he did the only thing he could think to do. He began to climb. Nearby, there was a tower of old desks; it seemed stable.

The fire nipped at his heels, the heat searing his skin as he climbed higher and higher, in a desperate bid for the top. At that moment, a chill ran down Draco's spine as the weight of the situation hit him - he was going to die. A trained wizard with great power, practice, and patience wouldn't have been able to reel in the fiendfyre now. It had grown too much, consumed too much.

Maybe they could've avoided this.

If Crabbe hadn't gone AWOL.

If Goyle hadn't left him for dead.

If Potter had just stayed away.

If he'd never let the Death Eaters in to begin with.

Maybe they could've avoided this.

But Crabbe had, and Goyle did, and of course Potter would never. So, in the end, it all came back to him, just as it always had and always would. This was all Draco's fault, and he knew he had no one to blame but himself. The pile of desks beneath him rattled and shook so hard he nearly lost his footing. He was going to die here in this room, the room where it all started.

It was almost poetic.

"Malfoy!" The yell was accompanied by a whooshing sound that could only possibly be made by a broom.

He looked up and watched as none other than Harry Fucking Potter came swooping in to his rescue. Draco lifted his arm, but with the sweat that coated his skin, the other boy's hand slid away. Then the Weasle and the Mudblood were there as well; one of them grabbed his other arm and helped to drag Draco onto the back of Potter's broom.

The fire was growing, climbing into the air in search of an exit, only to be met with an unforgiving ceiling. It nibbled at their heels and the fabric of their robes as Potter expertly maneuvered them through the blinding smoke. Draco wasn't any help, as he could do nothing but scream and cling on tighter. Suddenly, the other boy went into a dive, heading straight for the open door as the fiery serpent took notice of them once again.

Draco screamed again, "Look out! Look out! Get to the door!"

But it was no use; Potter was going too fast as the serpent moved to cover the door and opened its mouth wide, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe. He was trapped, he was dying. The flames consumed him, wrapping around his body like a vice. Draco felt himself falling, falling—

He hit the floor with a thud, tangled in his bedsheets. For a terrifying moment, the soft fabric felt like the coils of a fiery serpent, and Draco thrashed against it. His heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could still feel the blistering heat of the fiendfyre against his skin, smell the acrid scent of smoke hanging heavy in the air.

With a final, desperate twist, Draco broke free of the blanket and threw the cursed thing off of him. He scrambled backwards until his back hit something solid—his bedside table, he realized, as the cool wood pressed against his sweat-soaked pajamas.

Gulping in air, Draco forced his eyes to focus on his surroundings. He was in his bedroom, his own four-poster bed looming beside him, surrounded by familiar Slytherin green curtains. The early morning light was beginning to trickle in through the gaps in his thick black drapes. He could make out the vague shapes of his desk and chair, dresser, mirror, and bookshelf. It was calm and quiet, serene even.

Draco ran a trembling hand through his hair, damp with sweat. He closed his eyes, and sucked in a deep breath, holding it for just a moment before letting it go. There was still a pit of dread in his stomach. It had all felt so real - the fire, the smoke, the searing pain, the betrayal. It was so real, he swore the scent of smoke still hung heavy in the air, the heat of the fiendfyre still stung his skin. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed until he saw spots even with his eyes closed.

But as he opened his eyes and peered around the room, he knew it must've just been a nightmare, an extremely realistic, possibly magically induced nightmare. Even if it had felt so intensely real. It wasn't though. What was real was the scent of broom polish that hung in the air. The bustling sound of house-elves just outside his bedroom door. The silk sheets he was half sitting on top of. The beating of his own heart. That was real, this room was real, he was real.

It was a nightmare.

Just a nightmare.

Of course it was. Crabbe and Goyle would never betray him; they worshiped the ground he walked on. They were idiots, barely making one brain between the two of them. Without Draco, they were lost souls. Minions without a master. Without him, they were nothing. He gave them direction! He gave them purpose! They were like loyal dogs, and he was their master, completely and utterly dependent on him in every sense of the way. They needed him; they could never betray him.

They were his only real friends.

Potter and his friends would never have saved him; they hated his guts. For years, he made their lives miserable, and they returned the favor with equal fervor. From the moment Potter rejected his hand, Draco knew he'd made an enemy for life, and they'd been at each other's throats ever since. After everything he'd done to them, they had every right to let him burn. Draco wouldn't have hesitated if he'd been in their position.

He would've run like the coward he is.

A nightmare.

It was a nightmare.

A nightmare and nothing more!

He threw a hand up to his bed and used it to lever himself up - it seemed taller than he remembered - and stood on shaky legs. His knees wobbled, threatening to collapse, and he threw a hand out to steady himself on the end table. The burn was finally beginning to dissipate from his skin; the cool wood floor beneath his feet was an almost instant relief. He took a deep breath, grounding himself once more, and pushed forward.

He made his way towards his dresser; there was no chance of falling back asleep now, so he might as well get himself ready for the day. He went about his normal routine, pulling his clothing from the drawers, pausing for only a moment - why did everything look so small? The dresser seemed taller; he had to stand on his tiptoes to peer inside the top drawers. He shook his head, pushing those thoughts aside. His mind was still reeling from the nightmare; he was paranoid and over analyzing everything. He tossed his clothes on top of his bed, not caring if they wrinkled.

He turned towards the window, ready to let a bit more light in. In doing so, he coincidentally had to turn and face his mirror. He froze. The face staring back at him was unquestionably his own, but not at the same time. His blond hair was shorter, and darker in a way he hadn't seen since he stopped using Sleekeazy's. His face was rounder, a smidge of baby fat still clinging to his cheeks. The face of an eleven-year-old stared back at him.

Draco stumbled back, his mind racing. He brought a hand up and reached out to touch the mirror's surface; trembling fingers met cool glass, his reflection mimicked him perfectly. It was a trick, it had to be. Someone had jinxed his mirror. He brought a hand up to feel his face, the reflection still following his movements. His cheeks felt fuller, his jawline softer. Running his fingers through his hair, he realized it was far shorter than he'd kept it in years.

He ran to the window and threw the curtains open. The light came flooding in, illuminating the entire room in early morning sunlight. He took a closer look at his surroundings. Everything was in the right spot, but he'd gotten rid of that desk in his third year. The broomstick propped up next to it was his old Clean Sweep 11, which he hadn't seen since the beginning of his second year. The walls were painted a dark gray rather than the green he'd changed them to before his fourth year.

Draco allowed his eyes to wander around the room. The bookshelf on the far wall was full as usual, but rather than old schoolbooks and advanced potions texts, it was full of fiction and fairy tales his mother read to him as a child. Posters pinned to the walls of the Falmouth Falcons. He hadn't followed the Falcons since it came out they were charming the Bludgers in all their matches.

He turned back to the window and peered out at the yard. The trees were covered in thick green leaves, branches swaying in a gentle breeze. The flowers were blooming, brilliant bright colors as far as the eye could see. Birds flew by overhead, and he could see the selkie sunning itself by the lake. Nothing like Draco remembered it looking last time he was home. The trees had all been burned down by his aunt Bellatrix, the flowers removed on Voldemort's order, the birds repelled by several different charms, and the selkie was killed by Greyback. It all looked so alive, completely untouched by the dark magic that had consumed the manor in recent years.

Draco's breath quickened as he backed away from the window, his mind racing. It was impossible. This was impossible. Completely impossible.

Draco turned back around slowly. His clothes, his room, the yard...it was all wrong. His mind raced; his chest felt tight. Wrong. It was all wrong!

"This isn't real," he whispered to himself.

And that was exactly right, wasn't it?

He was still dreaming; he was still trapped in his nightmare. Any second now he'd wake up in Hogwarts hospital wing, or in a hospital room at Saint Mungos. The fire had been real, Potter had saved him, and he was currently in a magically induced coma where they played memories of his childhood to keep him relaxed. They'd done the same thing for Karl Broadmoor, the Falcons’ former beater, when he'd taken a Bludger to the head in 1961.

Magically induced medical coma.

It made sense.

It did nothing to quell his raging panic. His heart still raced, his breath still came in short gasps, his hands still shook.

Because it didn't make sense. Karl Broadmoor claimed that he'd lived his favorite day over and over and over again, a memorable day that he'd wanted to go back and experience again ever since it happened. It started the same and ended the same every single time. Draco didn't even know what day it was, and he most certainly didn't remember ever waking up like this. Karl Broadmoor told anyone who would listen that he knew exactly what was happening the entire time and he was in complete control. Draco didn't feel very in control, and he had no clue what was happening. Karl Broadmoor said that he only felt peace throughout the entire experience. Draco could only feel panic.

Which meant it could not possibly be a magically induced coma, and everything was far too real for it to be a simple dream.

This knot in his chest grew as a theory began to form.

Not a coma.

Not a dream.

Not a nightmare.

That only left one possible solution, and it made the least sense of them all.

"Time travel?" He whispered once again to the empty room, but that was impossible.

Time travel was well known to be the most unstable kind of magic there was. Few people were willing to touch the stuff and even fewer survived if they did. It was widely regarded as the most dangerous form of light magic in existence.

It was an impossibility. But what other explanation was there?

"No," he mumbled, shaking his head, "no, no no."

Tears began to blur his vision.

"This can't be happening," he turned back to his room, "this isn't real."

He stumbled over to his desk, shaking hands rifling through the drawers. He wasn't sure what he was looking for - a letter, a newspaper, an old homework assignment? Anything that might have the date on it, anything that could disprove the terrifying theory running through his head. The drawers were stuffed full of parchment. quills, old inkwells, and small trinkets. He tossed things to the side with reckless abandon: a broken pocket watch he'd hidden from his father, a few stray galleons, and his old collection of Gobstones.

There, sitting plain as day in the middle of his desk, was a letter. The envelope torn up next to it, as though someone had opened it in a hurry. He grabbed it, fingers trembling as he unfolded the parchment. He knew the handwriting well; the ink was an all too familiar shade of green.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL 

of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr Malfoy,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1st, 1991. We await your owl by no later than July 31st 1991.

Yours sincerely,

Deputy Headmistress

He pushed himself away from the desk, his breath coming in short, erratic pants. His shaking hands found their way into his hair, gripping tightly. The pounding of his heart echoed in his ears, a relentless drumbeat that continued to grow faster and louder drowning out everything around him. He fell to his knees on the cool wood floor, tears streaming down his face. His chest ached, each breath a struggle. It was as if the air around him had suddenly turned to sap, too thick to inhale all at once and growing thicker by the second. He tightened his grip on his hair and pulled, the pain grounding him in the midst of his panic.

Draco forced himself to take a deep breath in, hold it for as long as he could before letting it out, then he did it again, and again after that. His lungs didn’t want the sap air but he was going to force them to accept it even if it hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the cool wood beneath him, the slight scent of broom polish that hung in the air, the bustling of house elves just outside the door going about their daily chores. The familiar sounds and smells his anchor to the present, the past? He couldn’t think about that right now.

He peeled his eyes open and found himself staring at the floor. His fingers traced the pattern of the wood. He focused him mind on tracing pattern, finding images in the grain. That swirl looked like a face. That one was a bunny. There was a snake over there. And that one to the left looked a bit like -

A sharp, insistent knock at his door brought him back to reality. Draco’s head shoot up to stared at it, trying to will whoever it was away. The knock returned, more urgent this time. Draco shook his head to clear it and pushed himself back to his feet. His legs felt unsteady as he stumbled forward yet again.

When he opened the door, he was greeted with another impossibility. Dobby the house-elf, dressed in rags, with his translucent skin and Quaffle-sized eyes, stared back at him.

"Master Draco's presence is requested in the dining room," Dobby's voice trembled.

Draco didn't respond for several minutes, which seemed to unnerve the small creature. His gnarled hands began to wring the ratty old tea towel he called clothing, large eyes darting nervously around the room.

"Dobby," Draco finally managed to find his voice, "what day is it?"

The house-elf peered up at him nervously, his ears twitching, "It is July thirty-first, Master Draco."

Draco nodded, "And the year?"

He needed to hear it out loud. He needed someone to say it. Even if that someone was a house-elf.

Dobby gulped, "1991, Master Draco."

Draco closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. This was real. 1991. Before the fire. Before the war. Before Death Eaters and Voldemort and Potter.

"Is Master Draco feeling well?"

Draco opened his eyes and snarled, "Fine! Inform Mother that I'll be down shortly."

The small thing nodded, ears flopping about wildly, before disappearing with a soft squeak and a pop. Draco closed the door and returned to his bed. The clothes he'd picked out earlier still sat atop it, so he dressed quickly; his mother never did like to be kept waiting.

On his way to the dining room, his mind had been a whirlwind of thoughts. Throughout the corridors hung portraits of his ancestors, hundreds of Malfoys that had come before him. They moved about and chattered quietly amongst themselves as he walked past. Relics and ornate decorations that had been collected throughout the years carefully arranged beneath them. The diamond chandelier, blasted to bits by Rodolphus Lestrange in a fit of rage, hung proudly overhead. Soft carpet changed to gleaming marble as he descended the grand staircase, the banister polished to shine. Everything so similar yet so different to what he remembered.

If time travel really had caused all of this, and with no other explanation forthcoming he had to assume so, then he needed to find out how. Luckily, the Malfoy family library was one of the largest in the country, next to Hogwarts and the Potter family’s. The answers he needed where there, he knew it.

"Good morning, darling," his mother greeted as he made his way into the room.

She was sat in her usual spot, her long blond hair pristine, not a speck of gray in sight, dressed in a stunning floor-length black dress with emerald earrings and a matching necklace. Half a grapefruit presented elegantly on a plate in front of her.

He cleared his throat. "Good morning mother," his voice scratchy, "I hope you haven't been waiting long."

She smiled at him, not the fake strained thing he had grown used to in the past year, but a bright, warm smile meant only for him. "Not at all, darling. Sit. I had the house-elves make your favorite."

Draco took his usual seat; it creaked in a familiar comforting sort of way. The table was immaculate as always, all fifteen place settings had been put out even though it was just the two of them, silver cutlery gleaming. They sat together eating in silence, the only sounds the clinking of their utensils and the rustling of the Prophet in his mother's hands.

He couldn’t remember the last time they’d shared breakfast together like this. Just the two of them. No Death Eaters milling about, his crazed aunt wasn’t just seats away, Voldemort wasn’t sat at the head of the table. It was nice.

When they'd both finished eating, his mother placed her utensils to the side and faced him. "We'll be going to Diagon Alley today to get your school supplies," the way she spoke left no room for argument, and Draco nodded along with her. "We'll be taking the Floo, and I want you ready in ten minutes. We have to be at Gringotts before eleven to beat the rush. Your father will be meeting us there after his meeting."

Draco nodded before remembering himself and responding with the expected, "Yes, Mother."

Narcissa Malfoy rose from her seat, her movements elegant and full of purpose, and brushed non-existent crumbs from her dress. "I'm going to freshen up. I expect you to do the same." She turned and begun to leave before pausing in the doorway. "And please dear, do something with your hair?" It wasn’t a question.

"Yes mother."

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley looked just as he remembered it from his childhood. The store fronts were just the right amount of shabby to show their age and not look run down. Posters for broom shows, adoption events, and Quidditch games were hung up all around them. A large sign in front of Flourish and Blotts proclaimed “Come Meet Gilderoy Lockhart August 19, 1992 - VIP tickets on sale now at the register”.

It even smelled the same. The scent of cakes, ice cream, and sweet treats wafted from Sugarplum's Sweet Shop, while the Apothecary emitted the pungent aroma of freshly brewed potions and their ingredients. The scent of broom polish, wood, and leather surrounded Quality Quidditch Supplies, and the smell of old and new books joined the mix each time the door of Flourish and Blotts opened. All together it made up a fragrance that was very distinctly Diagon Alley no one could ever hope to replicate it.

The crooked cobblestone path was teeming with wizards and witches of all kinds, packed shoulder to shoulder. Everything was bright - brightly colored robes as far as the eye could see, bright store fronts, bright smiles, with bright light shining overhead. It was loud too, with voices floating from every shop, children's laughter filling the air, menagerie animals chattering, and street vendors yelling.

One tried to grab his mother’s attention, “an emerald bracelet to complete the set?” She paid him no mind.

A familiar looking red haired woman brushed past Draco as she made her way into the Apothecary, murmuring under her breath, “Bundimun, dragon's liver, hemlock…”

It was so very alive.

Perhaps a little too alive.

Too bright.

Too loud!

Draco’s heart raced, and sweat pooled in the palms of his hands. His lungs seized, and he had to stop for a moment to regain his breath. Draco could feel tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, and the vibrant colors of Diagon began to blur together. He was quick to wipe them away with the sleeve of his robes; his mother wouldn’t be happy with him if she found he’d been letting his emotions run wild.

He could hardly blame himself. This was something he never thought he’d see again. Diagon, like everything else in the war, had crumbled under Voldemort's reign.

Draco remembered the last time he’d seen Diagon Alley. It was during Christmas break of his seventh year at Hogwarts. At the time, he had barely recognized the place. The usually brightly lit alleyway was dark, shrouded by a cloud of dark magic that more often grew over the streets of Knockturn Alley. Nearly every shop he’d grown up with was boarded over, with more and more Dark Arts shops appearing by the day to take them over. Muggle-borns sat huddled in corners and doorways, shrouded in rags. They ran from any Death Eater they saw and begged to anyone else; they were always ignored, even by those considered to be on the side of the Light. 

There had only been two recognizable places to Draco then. The Apothecary - the original owner had been run out but it was taken over by a rather enthusiastic young Death Eater trying to get on Severus Snape's good side - and the never-changing Gringotts.

All the while, his mother kept a steady pace down the street, Draco's Hogwarts letter held delicately in her perfectly manicured hand. She didn’t so much as glance back at Draco as she walked, simply expecting him to keep by her side as he always did. Or rather, as he always had. Draco hadn’t actually gone shopping with his mother in nearly four years; the last time was to find his father a Christmas present when he was thirteen. By the time he turned fourteen, they trusted him enough to shop on his own.

“Draco!”

He flinched when he felt a hand grab hold of his upper arm and yank. When he looked up, he was back at his mother’s side, her burning gaze directed at him.

Narcissa Malfoy had always had a temper, but he hadn't seen her like that in years. Her temper was well known throughout Pureblood society and had caused a number of scandals. But he’d never seen her anger directed at him. Mudbloods, house-elves, ministry workers, and socialites, yes. But never him. It was unnerving.

“Quit that gawking!” She hissed at him, her eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit. “You're acting like one of those Mudbloods!”

Draco gulped and shrank as far away as he could with her bruising grip still on his arm. “Sorry, Mother.”

She held his gaze for a beat longer, making his stomach churn, before turning back to the street. She kept ahold of his arm, something he knew she was loath to do as she believed it made them look bad. It made Draco look like a child, and she was insistent that he was no longer a child. Even knowing it was supposed to be a punishment Draco was grateful for the steady hand leading him forwards. With everything he was worried he may fall behind and lose himself in the crowd. She didn’t release his arm until they were climbing the steps of Gringotts.

Towering over the rest of the street it was just as he remembered. The same color as freshly fallen snow, polished until it gleamed in the mid morning sunlight. The burnished bronze doors were guarded by the same goblins as always, dressed in freshly pressed uniforms of scarlet and gold. His mother ushered him past them quickly, not paying any mind as the creatures bowed to them. Beyond the first pair of doors was the second, this time colored in silver and engraved with the goblins’ warning to thieves:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

The second pair of silver doors were opened for them by a second set of goblin guards, who also bowed to them as they walked past. His mother once again paid them no mind, just as she paid no mind to the engraving on the wall.

She kept her hand on his back as they made their way across the marble floor.  Draco couldn’t help but gaze around the room as he was led through it; it felt as though it was the first time he’d ever seen it. All the goblin tellers sat high above their heads, each performing different tasks. Some were helping other wizards, some measuring Knuts, Sickles, and Galleons on polished bronze scales, others were examining precious metals and ancient artifacts through jeweler's loupes*. A long hallway full of doors branched off into other parts of the building where Draco had never been but where he knew his father spent a significant amount of time.

His mother led them to a familiar goblin whom he knew had been working with his family's account for the better part of four centuries.

“Ulgras,” The small creature looked up from the pile of rubies it had been examining.

“Lady Malfoy,” it gave a slight incline of its head, “young Mr. Malfoy, to what do I owe the pleasure.”

His mother reached into the pockets of her cloak to retrieve the shining golden key to his school account. “We’re here to withdraw money from Draco's school account.”

The goblin nodded. “Of course, there’s just the matter of your security protocols -”

Draco tuned out of the conversation at that point and allowed his eyes to wander the vast hall. He watched as a balding wizard with a rather large nose in shoddy robes haggled - or attempted to haggle - with another goblin teller over what appeared to be several goblin-made antiques. Nearby, an elderly witch in elegant floor length emerald robes with a garish hat adorned by a stuffed vulture was counting out a large stack of Galleons with practiced precision. Each Galleon was then handed to a boy, probably around Draco’s age, who placed them in the bright red handbag hanging from his wrist. 

He heard the bank doors open behind them, and heavy footsteps echoed throughout the room. Draco discreetly turned his head to see who else had entered the bank and was greeted with the sight of a giant. His face was almost entirely hidden by long, scraggly hair and a big bushy beard, the only thing visible being his mouth and beady black eyes. He wore a long leather trench coat with far too many pockets and carried around a pale pink umbrella. Draco recognized him immediately as Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. And trailing behind him with a look of amazement on his face was none other than Harry Potter himself.

Draco couldn’t stop himself from openly staring at the pair as they marched past. Potter was so much younger than he ever remembered seeing him, wearing clothes that were at least five sizes too big. The legs of his pants pooled at his feet despite having been rolled at the bottom, and his shirt fell down to nearly his mid-thigh. Draco could vaguely remember seeing the other boy in Muggle clothes like that throughout their first three years of school, clothing far too big and worn out to have possibly belonged to him firsthand.

He felt his mother's harsh gaze land on him once again as he watched a goblin lead the two of them to a cart. He knew what she was thinking - that his behavior was improper and unbecoming. It was embarrassing. He didn’t care. He didn’t think the goblins did either; they didn’t think much of wizard etiquette. He watched as Hagrid helped Potter into the cart before warily climbing in himself, the goblin following after the two of them, and then they were whizzed off to the vaults.

His mother grabbed his arm in a bruising grip once again and gave a discreet yet harsh tug as their own goblin escort led them to the next available cart. As they walked, they past the still arguing pair, Draco heard a small blip of their conversation. 

“You hired me to retrieve these items, well I’ve done so, now pay me! This is a bank! You all should know how a transaction works!” 

The goblin didn’t so much as look up from its paperwork. “I know of no such transaction. You’ll have to wait and speak with the Head Goblin.”

Draco was pushed into a seat and he felt his stomach lurch as the cart took off. He couldn’t help but think about how familiar this all felt. He remembered all of this from the first time.

Gringotts with his mother - if he thought back hard enough, he could remember the giant coming in, but he’d been far too busy standing straight and watching his mother to catch much more than that. He certainly hadn’t caught sight of The Boy Who Lived following just a few steps behind.

Or perhaps he had but he simply hadn’t recognized him at the time?

The cart slowed as they arrived at Draco’s school fund, the only Malfoy vault under his name and not his parents’. His mother had to guide him from the cart, and he knew from the look on her face he’d be getting a talking to about his behavior later. He couldn’t bring himself to care because another thought had just occurred to him.

Yes, it was true he, hadn’t caught sight of Potter at Gringotts the first time, but he had seen him hadn’t he? At Madam Malkins, they had their fittings at the same time. It hadn’t occurred to Draco at the time that he was talking with The Harry Potter. He didn’t even think they’d exchanged names, but now, as he thought back on it, he knew it must’ve been him. Same messy hair, baggy clothes, and broken glasses.

His mother handed him a small pouch and instructed him to fill it with Sickles and Knuts as she handled the Galleons. Draco did so, not truely paying attention, his mind wandering once again. If he thought back hard enough, he could vaguely recall a conversation about Hogwarts? Something about Quidditch perhaps? He wasn’t sure; it was a long time ago. Perhaps that’s why Potter hadn’t taken his hand on the train. He must’ve made an incredibly poor first impression if that was the case.

As his mother always said, “You only get one chance at a first impression, Draco, so be sure to make it a good one.”

But that’s not entirely true, is it? In any other case it would be, but not this time.

He felt his stomach lurch as the cart took off once again. When had they gotten back in the cart? It didn’t matter, because six years ago he met Harry Potter in Diagon Alley and set the foundation for their relationship. From that day onward, Harry Potter hated him, and in turn, Draco had vowed to make the other boy's life miserable.

But now it was six years ago, that meeting had never happened. Or at least it hadn’t happened yet. He was the only one who knew. He had an impossible second chance. A second chance at a first impression. He could -

“Draco,” his mother’s voice brought him back to reality. He noticed they were no longer in the cart, they were no longer in Gringotts at all, they were standing outside once again in the bright early afternoon sun. When he looked at his mother, the smile from breakfast was gone, instead replaced by the mocking image of it, strained and masking her slowly growing frustration with him.

“Don’t be rude, darling,” she nudged him forward and when Draco looked over he was greeted by none other than his father.

“Draco.”

When Draco had last seen his father the man had looked like a walking corpse. His skin was nearly translucent, with large bags under his eyes, deep wrinkles across his face. He’d lost so much weight that his skin practically hung from his bones. As a result his clothing never seemed to fit right. His cane, a proud family heirloom, was used less for show and more for necessity. He jumped at the slightest noise and ran at the first sign of danger. He lived purely out of spite and the primal parental urge to protect his only child and his wife who he loved more than life itself. Draco knew that because his father said so himself.

The man that stood before him now was not that man. He was young. Pale, yes, but in a perfectly healthy sort of way. His face appeared to be carved from stone, not a wrinkle in sight. The robes he wore fit perfectly, just as custom tailored robes should. His cane held firmly in his right hand, not even touching the ground. Not a single hair out of place.

Draco’s mouth went dry. His back straightened itself out to the point at which it hurt. He felt his hands begin to tremble. The last time he’d seen his father like this was fourth year, before the Dark Lord’s return, before Azkaban. The last time he’d seen his father like this, the only thing he’d had to worry about was next year's O.W.L.S. and whether or not he’d make Prefect. The last time he’d seen his father like this felt like a lifetime ago, the changes in him far more drastic than those he’d noticed in his mother.

He felt small. Just as he always had around his father back then. As though the smallest slip up, the slightest mistake, would change the way his father viewed him forever. It was only made worse because he knew for a fact that it would. Back then his fathers love was conditional, and Draco knew that. Just as he knew it now.

It made him feel sick.

“Good morning, Father.”

Draco was raised on manners, etiquette, and old Pureblood family traditions. He was to speak only when spoken to, stand up straight, know which fork, spoon, and knife to use at the dinner table and exactly when to use them, dress in clothing appropriate for a Pureblood heir, and always know the right thing to say. Before the war, those had been the rules of his life; he followed them religiously. During the war, they didn’t matter as much. Who has time for manners and etiquette when there’s a mad man living in your house? When every moment could be your last? It was safe to say that Draco had forgotten most of his childhood lessons, and at the time, his parents couldn’t have cared less.

The same could not be said now as he watched his father’s formerly relaxed face grow taut, taken over by an expression that to anyone else would look stoic but that Draco knew to mean he was growing irritated. And he couldn’t figure out why. For a beat, they stood staring at each other; his father grew more irritated as Draco thought back on his early etiquette lessons that for him had taken place well over ten years ago, trying to figure out what he had said wrong. Evidently annoyed by waiting, his father huffed and turned to greet his mother with a delicate kiss on the cheek.

“Hello, my mon ange.”

His mother smiled. “A pleasure seeing you, my love.”

The two of them turned and began walking down the street, neither turning to see if Draco would follow, they knew he would.

“The Leaky Cauldron is buzzing with the news.”

His mother turned to his father curiously. “Oh? And what news would this be?”

“You haven’t heard?” His mother shook her head. “Evidently, Harry Potter’s around getting his school supplies.”

“Really? That would make this his first public appearance since The Dark Lord fell.”

His father hummed, “yes, made quite a spectacle this morning. According to Tom he’s romping around with Dumbledore's half-breed pet.”

His mother laughed, a delicate little thing, “of course the old man would send that thing. Couldn’t even send a proper professor to retrieve The Boy Who Lived from wherever it is they’ve had him holed up?”

“Too busy bringing more filth into our world.” His father sneered in the direction of Flourish and Blotts where Draco saw a family of three being led into Flourish and Blotts by Professor McGonagall. Draco thought he caught a glimpse of bushy brown hair through the windows before it disappeared down one of the isles.

Draco remained quiet, trailing behind his parents until the three of them stopped in front of Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions . His mother turned to him once more. She reached into the pockets of her cloak once again and pulled out a folded slip of paper.

“I’ve made you an appointment for your fitting,” she handed him the paper, “give this to the seamstress. I’d like her to fit you for a new set of dress robes as well, you’ve nearly outgrown yours. Everything she needs to know is right here.”

Draco discreetly pinched his arm to keep his nerves in. This was it. “Yes, Mother.”

“In the meantime, your father will go and get your books while I go to Olivander’s and browse the wand selection.”

His father raised an eyebrow. “Narcissa, what good will that do? You know as well as I-”

His mother waved her hand. “Yes yes, the wand chooses the wizard. I’m well aware of that, Lucius, but I think I know my son well enough to be able to pick out some more suitable wands for him to choose from.” She said this with her nose pointed in the air.

The first time Draco went through this day, he remembered being absolutely certain his mother would be able to guess which wand would choose him. Now Draco knew that every wand she suggested would consist of a Dragon heartstring core (just like hers and just like his father’s) made from elm wood or yew or blackthorn or ash or any other wand wood best suited for the dark arts. None of them would be his wand, his wand that he hadn’t seen since it was stolen from him by one Harry Potter.

He missed it.

But right now, he had something much more important to take care of.

“In you go darling,” his mother said as she ushered him through the door.

Everything was just as he remembered it from the first time. The shop was covered in fabrics of all sorts, flying needles with threads hanging off them darting all around. Upstairs held private fitting rooms for those willing to pay for them. Draco knew that if either of his parents had come into the shop with him, that’s exactly where his fitting would have taken place.

But as fate would have it, both this time and last, his parents had different priorities. His father was determined to keep him away from the Muggle-born family who was surely still in Flourish and Blotts if it was who Draco suspected it was. His mother was determined to get him a wand suitable for a Malfoy heir, even if it didn’t match him at all.

So here Draco was, standing on a footstool just as any other first-year Hogwarts student would be, an assistant seamstress pinning up the fabric just above his ankles. He paid her no mind as he stood watching the shop's front door. He’d be here; any moment now, he’d walk through that front door and Draco would…what would he do?

His entire childhood, all he’d ever wanted was to befriend The Boy Who Lived. He would tell his parents about it almost daily; when he started Hogwarts, he’d be best friends with Harry Potter. They’d meet on the train, get sorted into Slytherin together, and spend all their free time playing Quidditch and Gobstones.

Then he’d actually met the boy and blown any chances he’d had before he even knew who he was talking to. Then Potter had befriended a Weasley, been sorted into Gryffindor - and wasn’t that just the most accurate sorting he’d ever seen - and hated him for the rest of their time at school.

But none of that mattered anymore because none of that had happened yet, it may not happen at all. But did he even want to be friends with Potter? The other boy hated him; he may not hate him yet, but maybe that was just because he hadn’t met him. Was Potter just destined to hate him? Were they destined to be enemies in every life? Even if they weren't, did Draco really want to befriend the trouble magnet that was Potter? The boy could turn a simple dinner into a life-or-death situation just by walking in the room! Draco didn’t think he could handle that kind of stress.

Yet Draco did owe Potter his life. The other boy had come back for him in a situation where, if the roles were reversed, Draco surely would have left him for dead. But did Draco still owe him his life? Clearly, Draco had died in that fire, otherwise he wouldn’t be here, and this Potter wasn’t even the one who had saved him (tried to save him). Unless it was? What if Potter had come back as well? He hadn’t even thought of that. They were both on the same broom; the very same phenomenon could have happened to Potter as well.

He had to figure out what to do. What was he supposed to do?

Too late.

The bell above the shop door jingled, and a younger version of his schoolyard nemesis shuffled his way into the dress shop. Draco watched as the boy looked around at the floating sewing supplies in awe, mesmerized by the patterns they wove throughout the air as they put together other Hogwarts school uniforms without anyone physically controlling their movements.

“Hogwarts, dear?” 

Draco watched Potter jump nearly a foot in the air as Madam Malkin came down the stairs. Draco watched as the other boy spun around and went to open his mouth, only to be cut off by the witch.

“Got the lot here – another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.” She hustled Harry over to the stool that sat right next to Draco’s and hurried him onto it.

Draco took a deep breath and when he heard the two seamstress witches start gossiping amongst themselves. He turned his head towards Harry; the other boy wasn’t paying any attention to him, still gazing around the shop in wonder. 

Surely that had to mean this was actually the younger Potter? An older version wouldn’t be so fascinated with flying sewing supplies. Unless he was just acting the part. Another quick glance found Potter utterly enthralled at the sight of a needle restringing itself. No, the Potter he knew wasn’t patient, or smart, enough to think of that.

Secure in the fact that this was indeed a younger version of Potter and he was the only time traveler present. Draco debated with himself. Should he say something? Should he stay quiet? Was it rude if he said something? Who initiated the conversation the first time? Was it Draco? It was probably Draco.

Potter’s wandering gaze met Draco’s stare, and his cheeks turned red. He very quickly (too quickly?) averted his eyes. Should he say something? He had to now, right?

“Hello.”

Or not.

Draco turned back to Potter, who was looking at him with a timid smile. “Are you going to Hogwarts too?”

“I am,” Draco replied, meeting the other boy’s gaze head-on. He should say something else, he really should, but his mind was blank. For once in his life, Draco couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

Potter apparently didn’t have that same problem. “I’m Harry. What's your name?”

Draco noticed he kept his last name out of it. Smart.

“Draco.”

Potter smiled at him and extended his hand as best he could while the seamstress maneuvered him about. “Nice to meet you, Draco.”

Draco stared at the hand offered out to him so casually, as though it meant nothing, a kind gesture to a stranger. As though it wasn’t the very thing Draco had wanted all those years ago, only to have it shoved to the side. Draco took it before Potter could change his mind.

“Nice to meet you, Harry.”

The other boy’s smile brightened. “You're a first-year too, right?”

Draco nodded, wishing he could think of something more substantial to add to the conversation.

“It’s all very exciting. I wonder what it’ll be like.”

“Magical, I suppose.” That was stupid, that was a very stupid thing to say. Why was that the only thing he could think to say?

Harry just laughed, loud and carefree. “Yeah I suppose so! Wish there was a way to learn a bit more about it before we get there, though.”

“ Hogwarts: A History !” Draco stated, a little too quickly, a little too loudly, without thinking. His cheeks warmed.

Harry’s brow knit together as he looked at Draco in confusion. “What?”

Draco licked his lips and took a deep breath. “ Hogwarts: A History , it’s a book all about Hogwarts. The founders, the houses, the classes, the legends. All of it!”

Harry’s eyes went wide. “Really? A whole book about Hogwarts!”

Draco nodded.

Harry was practically vibrating with excitement. “Are there more like it? About the wizarding-”

A sharp rapping on the window cut him off. Hagrid stood on the opposite side of the glass with a large smile, pointing at two ice-cream cones that nearly towered over his head. 

Draco, eager to change the subject, feigned ignorance. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Hagrid!” Harry lit up. “He works at Hogwarts.”

Draco put on his best thinking face, acting as if he was trying to remember something long forgotten. “He works the grounds, right? Takes care of the animals?”

Harry nodded. “He’s the gameskeeper.” 

Draco snapped. “That’s right! Is he here with you?”

“Yeah, my guardians are Muggles, so Hagrid’s been taking me around.”

“Oh.” Draco wasn't going to ask; he didn’t want to steer the conversation in a direction that would turn sour. Not after how well it was going.

Harry apparently took his lack of asking as asking. “My parents are dead.”

Daco froze, “I’m sorry.” He did his best to sound sincere, but really how else was he supposed to react to that?

Harry opened his mouth to say something else but wasn’t able to.

“That’s you done my dear.” Madame Malkin said, cutting the conversation short. Harry actually looked disappointed for the conversation to end. His own seamstress had long since finished his school robes and was half way done with his dress robes at that point. 

Harry hopped off his stool. “I’ll see you at school then?”

It sounded more like a question than a fact.

Draco bit his lip. Now or never. “We could sit together? On the train, I mean?” 

Harry once again shot him a beaming smile. “That’d be brilliant!”

“Harry!” Hagrid knocked on the window with insistence now. “The ice-cream's meltin’!”

The other boy waved as he raced out the door. “I’ll see you on the train, Draco!”

He managed to shout a quick thank you to Madame Malkin before the door shut behind him. She smiled as she shooed her apprentice out of the way and made quick work of finishing off Draco’s dress robes. “What a lovely young man.”

Draco couldn’t help but agree.

Chapter Text

August 1st, 1991

It was late, very late, well after midnight. Too late to try and sneak out of his room and go to the library. The manor was silent, not a sound coming from beyond his door, just the occasional creak of the old house settling and the near silent hoot from the owls flying around outside. Draco wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to leave his room. Once they’d returned from Diagon Alley, his parents had locked him in as punishment. His mother stated that if he wanted to daydream, he could do so all day in his room. His father stated that he could daydream of ways to make up for the blatant disrespect he had shown him in Diagon Alley. Draco still wasn’t sure what he had done wrong.

But none of that really mattered to him anymore. If this had happened to him the first time, he probably would’ve worked himself into a panic trying to figure out what he’d done wrong, how he could fix it and get back into his parents' good graces. That's likely exactly what they thought he had been doing for the last few hours. But ever since they returned home, he’d had other things on his mind.

His wand was different.

Ten inches long, made from Hawthorn wood, with a Unicorn hair core (specifically from the mane and not the tail, he’d asked), reasonably springy. The wood was light brown in color that faded into black as it got closer to the handle. With two raised rings towards the bottom that distinguished the handle from the body. It was simple; his mother referred to it as elegant. That was his wand.

The wand he had received from Olivander was not his wand.

It felt the same. It was made up of the same wood, had the same core, and was the same length. But he didn’t recognize it. It was the same brown color that faded the closer it got to the handle, but there was a flash of white right before it faded into black. There were two more raised rings farther up the body. The handle area was more defined, rounded out more at the top and bottom. And there were golden swirls etched into the wood.

He’d inspected every inch of it, examined every difference and made a mental comparison between the wand he remembered and the one he held now. The connection was there; he could feel the familiar tingling of magic flow through it. He could feel it coursing through the wand and into his finger tips, merging flawlessly with his own. Yet the difference in appearance gnawed at him. It wasn’t right.

When he held it, he felt complete. But when he looked at it, he felt wrong.

He tried not looking at it, closing his eyes and pretending it was the wand he had lost, but it didn’t work. Draco traced his fingers along the golden swirls, turning the wand over in his hand. It sat differently when he held it, the feel of it completely foreign, yet it fit so perfectly in his hand as though it was made for him. It was his wand, yet it wasn’t. 

The same but different.

Kind of like him.

The only difference between them was that his wand was different on the outside. It was made up of all the same materials but presented them in a different way. Draco was different on the inside. To everyone around him, he looked the same as he always had, but he wasn’t. He was different; he’d been through war. He’d been a Death Eater. He killed people. He watched his friends die. He’d experienced betrayal from those he thought he could trust and mercy from those he thought of as enemies.

 He set his wand down on the bedside table and laid back on his bed. The room was dimly lit by the moonlight streaming through the window, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Potter had been his enemy, he stood for everything Draco had been taught to despise his entire life. Yet he’d risked his own life to save Draco’s. Crabbe and Goyle had been his friends, they grew up together, and were practically raised as brothers. Then one had tried to kill him while the other left him for dead.

Draco stared up at the top of his four poster bed, following the movement of the shadows cast from the moonlight of his still open window. His mind wandered. He was a bad person. He was a bully, a traitor, a liar, a thief, and a snitch. Worst of all, he was a Death Eater. And he’d been happy about it, at least he had been at first.

He felt along his left forearm, tracing a pattern that was no longer there. Or rather had never been there at all. Here he was never a Death Eater. Here he was never a snitch. Never a thief. Never a liar. Never a traitor. Never a bully.

Here he could be whatever he wanted to be, without the weight of his past decisions skewing the perspective of those around him.

Here he was Draco. Nothing more, nothing less. Just Draco.

He had the opportunity to change his whole life. He wasn’t the heroic type, never had been. He wasn’t courageous, or adventurous, he wasn’t even particularly loyal (to anyone but himself). He wasn’t a Gryffindor. But he was a Slytherin. He was smart, ambitious, and cunning. He could change things, change his own life and even the lives of those he cared for through his own actions.

The first step would be sitting with Harry on the Hogwarts Express.

August 7th, 1991

The sun hung lazily in the sky over Malfoy Manor, casting long shadows across the manicured gardens. Draco’s father had locked himself away in the upstairs study with Crabbe and Goyle senior to discuss important business; the rest of the house wasn’t to be privy too. His mother was out in the garden with Mrs. Crabbe and Mrs. Goyle, making pleasant small talk and gossiping about the latest pureblood scandal. Their voices carried through the wind and flittered into the open window of the ‘playroom’ where Draco found himself unwillingly occupying one Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.

When his parents told him they’d be hosting the two families, he kicked up quite a fuss. He’d complained, he’d whined, he’d faked ill, but nothing had worked. His parents had been both shocked and appalled by his actions.

“Vincent and Gregory are your best friends, Draco. Why wouldn’t you want to host them?” his mother had asked.

“Draco, you will cease this childish behavior at once. They’re arriving at noon, and that is final,” his father had sneered. “Now, will you do something about that mop on your head?”

Crabbe and Goyle sat at the coffee table while he sat curled in on himself in his reading chair next to the window. After initial greetings, Draco had been doing his best to ignore the two of them since their arrival. Crabbe and Goyle, each idiots in their own right, who even combined wouldn’t make one whole brain, didn’t even seem to notice. Upon entering the playroom, Draco had handed them a game of Exploding Snap, and they’d been completely engrained in it ever since.

It wasn’t until the first “SNAP!” that Draco realized he had made a mistake.

The crackling of the cards sounded all too similar to the crackling of a fire. He tried to tune them out, but where they lacked in brains, they made up for in volume. Draco brought his hands up to cover his ears and tucked his head between his legs. It didn’t work. He could feel his heartbeat in his teeth, and it was becoming harder to keep his breathing under control. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his shaking hands harder against his ears.

When he closed his eyes all, he could see was red and orange. He could feel the heat of fire against his skin. The acidic scent of smoke hung so heavy in the air he could almost taste it. Crabbe let out a yell of frustration, and suddenly Draco was watching him being burnt alive. The fiendfyre of his own making consumed him, scorching his skin and the smell of burnt flesh mingled with the smoke. Cries of frustration turned into cries of pain. He was burning alive; he was dying. He could hear Goyle’s triumphant laugh and another “SNAP!” from the cards, but all he could see was his back as he ran. The fire was surrounding him.

“Draco?”

“SNAP!”

“SNAP!”

“SNAP!”

It was getting closer, closing in on him.

“Draco?”

He could feel it against his skin. It was hot. It was bringing his skin.

“Draco!”

He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die.

“DRACO!”

His eyes shot open. His breath was coming in sharp pants, every inhale stabbing his lungs like a knife. Crabbe stood in front of him with his hands on his shoulders, a look that could almost be considered concern on his face. Draco slapped his hands away, and the other boy took a surprised step back.

“Wassa matter with you!”

Draco grit his teeth and glared, the effect weakened due to the fact that he hadn’t quite gotten his breath back under control.

“Nothing!” he spat. “I’m fine.”

Goyle snorted from where he still sat. “Don’t look like nothin’.”

With Crabbe distracted, he’d taken the opportunity to stack the deck, only for several cards to explode in quick succession.

“SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!”

Draco flinched and jumped out of his chair. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t be here. He didn’t wanna be here. His eyes scanned the room quickly, darting from one corner to the other. Why couldn’t he remember where the door was?

“What’s wrong with you?” Crabbe demanded.

Door. Door. Door. Where was the door?

Goyle turned away from the cards to inspect Draco. “Yeah, you’re acting real weird!”

Door! He made a run for it and didn’t turn back, even when he could hear the other two in pursuit. He ran and he ran and he ran until he couldn’t run anymore.

When he came back to his senses, he found himself curled up in the corner of his bedroom closet. He wasn’t sure how long he had been there, but from the cramping in his legs and the numbness in his arms, he guessed it had been quite some time. He could hear his parents calling his name, their voices faint but the anger in them clear as day. Not carefully hidden as it usually would have been but on full display, so he knew they were mad.

He decided to stay in his hiding spot, at least for now. They’d find him eventually, but he wasn’t ready to deal with that quite yet.

August 17th, 1991

He had been grounded for a week. He was to go nowhere, see no one, and have no sweets of any kind. His father took a belt to his behind for the first time in years, and that was a fact even without counting the time travel. His mother had signed him up for etiquette lessons with a private tutor due to his recent behavior.

Draco wasn’t heart broken by any of that. The etiquette lessons were a nice refresher, not that he cared to pay close attention, but it would be enough to keep him out of too much trouble. He didn’t have anywhere to go, and it got him out of any forced trips to Knockturn Alley with his father. Not being allowed to see any of his so-called friends, most of whom had done something heinous and unforgivable to him during the war, was a blessing in disguise.

Not being allowed any sweets was a low blow, but it was only for a week.

His ‘punishment’ also allowed him to spend countless hours in the family library searching through any and all books that even vaguely mentioned time travel, which turned out to be quite a lot. He searched the entire week, spending all of his free time in the library. Locating the books was a problem on its own. The Malfoys had been adding books to their collection for centuries; some could even be traced back to the first ever recorded Malfoy ancestor on record. Due to this, the family library was a large cavernous space taking up a majority of the manor's third floor. With shelves so tall they touched the ornate ceiling, Draco had to dig out an old dusty ladder in order to reach most shelves without the assistance of a house-elf.

His frustration grew with each passing day, but his parents were happy that he was “taking an interest in his studies so early.” They left him to his own devices and didn’t bother to question what he was actually researching. By the weeks end, he was certain he had searched through every book in the library, and he still hadn’t found anything of relevance. What he did find disturbed him to his core. Most of them provide little to no information at all - either a paragraph outlining the dangers or a throwaway sentence.

“Eloise Mintunble was the leading researcher in Time Travel.”

“Time Travel is extremely dangerous and should not be attempted without a Time Turner.”

“Un-born: Used to refer to someone who vanishes into nothingness, as a result of a disturbance in time itself, in which someone travels back in time and, due to their influence, history is changed to some degree, culminating in the disappearance of people in the present, as the events leading to their births are prevented or altered in some way.”

“Are Squibs the product of time-travel?” (Continued on page 1,206)

“The Ministry of Magic shut down the Time Travel division in 1899 following the death of Eloise Mintumble as it was deemed too dangerous for further research.”

He attempted to further research Eloise Mintumble, but due to her status as an Unspeakable there was little to no public information about her. Even her own autobiography, The Life and Times of Eloise Mintumble , turned out to be useless. In his frustration, Draco wound up throwing the book half way across the room. He didn’t care that she ate the same breakfast every morning or that she had a messenger cat named Owl. A whole chapter on her time-travel research, and it was all useless.

“Time Magic is well known to be the most unstable kind of magic in existence. One wrong move and the world as we know is changed forever. Few wizards have been willing to research the unstable magic, and even few survive if they do. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve been fascinated with Time Magic. They say that it’s dangerous, but is Repero not a form of Time Magic? With the flick of my wand, I can return a broken chair to its previous state: then why can I not do so with a live being? Why can I not do so with myself?

While Time Magic doesn’t corrupt as Dark Magic, and it isn't cursed as some spells can be, it is still widely known as the worst type of magic a wizard can perform. I intend to change that. I will uncover the secrets it holds, and to do that, I’ve created a device. I call it a Time-Turner. The ministry has barred me from writing of how I created this device, but I assure you it's fascinating. WIth this device, I intend to break the boundaries of magic."

"There have been some unprecedented side effects. My research assistant, Norbert Shot, volunteered as my first test subject. I sent him back in time to the day he proposed to his wife ten years in the past. He was to make contact with his younger self and return to the present day by spinning the Time Turner in the opposite direction. There were some minor complications. While Norbert’s return was instantaneous, his body aged an additional ten years as though he’d actually lived through them. He was otherwise physically fit, so I sent him home with a promise to sort out the matter at a later date.

Upon his return home, Norbert found he no longer had two beautiful daughters but rather two rambunctious boys. He also found that his wife, the two had been in the midst of a rather nasty argument with divorce looming just on the horizon, was nine months pregnant and happy as could be. Furthermore, upon returning home myself, I found Owl, my once female tabby cat, to be a male black cat. We will need to run further tests to discover how deep these changes go.”

The chapter continued on, mostly consisting of her failed attempts to revert Norbert to his correct age and things that she assumed to be changes they created by messing with the time stream.

“Mortimer was drinking coffee with his right hand when he typically uses his left, will need to investigate further.”

“Atticus has a different wand, will need to investigate further.”

“Aribella has a Hufflepuff pennon strapped to her desk when she was in Ravenclaw, will need to investigate further.”

The list went on like that. She stated that they ran other experiments but didn’t go into as much detail as she had the first one. She made a statement that Norbert refused to go farther back in time more than a few hours in fear of more rapid aging. In correlation with that, he also refused to use the return function on the Time Turner. He also refused to talk to his past self as he believed that to be the reason for the drastic changes to his family. Eloise hired more test subjects in order to fully test out these functions, and the results were always the same. Drastic aging, family changes, Owl the cat changed gender and breed another six times, and several of her test subjects went mad and had to be admitted to Saint Mungos.

The book went on and on but contained nothing more about Time Travel until the very end. The last page was clearly not written by Eloise as it spoke of her death.

“Madam Eloise Mintumble was trapped, for a period of five days, in the year 1402 during the course of an experiment to travel back in time for more than a few hours. When she was finally retrieved to the present, her body had aged five centuries, and, irreparably damaged, she died in St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Her excursion to the past provoked a great disturbance to the life paths of all those she met, changing the present so dramatically that no fewer than twenty-five of their descendants vanished in the present, having been "un-born". Moreover, there were a few more alarming signs that time itself had been disturbed: Tuesday following her reappearance lasted two and a half full days, whereas Thursday shot by in the space of four hours.

The Ministry of Magic officially declared Time Magic too dangerous for further research and put limits on the use of Madam Mintumble’s patent Time Turner. The defunct return function was removed after its malfunction. It was deemed to be too dangerous to travel back more than five hours at a time and declared a hazard to interact with one's past self.”

While interesting none of it did any good for Draco. He had clearly gone back more than five hours. He was physically eleven years old and not the seventeen that he should have been. There was no past incarnation of himself to interact with. It was nothing at all like Time Turner magic, which appeared to be the forefront of Eloise Mintumble’s work. Which meant he was no further to figuring out how he ended up in this situation than he was two weeks ago.

Chapter Text

August 22nd, 1991

Ten days before he was set to leave for Hogwarts, Draco's parents summoned him to his father's office for a formal meeting. The large oak doors loomed ahead, imposing and ominous as ever. Draco wasn’t often allowed in his father’s office. He remembered the first time he had ever set foot in it—when he was fifteen. His father had presented him with a family ring, a symbol of his transition from child to man, marking the beginning of his training to become the next Head of House. He knew that wasn’t what they had in mind now.

As he stepped across the threshold, he was met with the scent of wood polish, aged parchment, and fresh ink. His father sat behind the imposing oak desk, back straight, hands clasped in front of him, exuding an aura of authority. His mother stood beside him, poised and perfect, her hand resting gently on his father's shoulder. They stood as a united front, the very presence of authority. Draco felt sick.

Draco entered the room slowly, the plush carpet muffling the sounds of his footsteps. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though his legs had turned to lead, the distance between the door and the desk stretching farther even as he pushed himself forward. His stomach churned as he fixed his gaze firmly to the floor.

He only dared to shift his gaze from the floor when he was firmly seated in the old leather chair placed opposite his father’s desk. He was met with his father’s glare—cold and unfeeling. The slight curl of his father's lip was the only indication of his displeasure, but it spoke volumes. Draco was growing tired of the utterly helpless feeling of not knowing what he could have possibly done wrong.

“It is polite to wait until you're offered a seat before taking one.”

Right. In wizarding society, during meetings of the utmost importance, it was often considered rude to sit before the host had offered the seat.

Draco quickly stood up again. His father’s cold eyes locked on him, as though he expected him to say something. After a beat, he spoke hesitantly, “My apologies, Father.”

Lucius made a displeased humming sound but motioned for him to sit nonetheless. Draco lowered himself back into the chair, feeling the weight of his father’s piercing gaze like an iron chain around his chest. The chair creaked again as he sat back down, the noise seeming to echo throughout the otherwise silent room.

“Draco,” Narcissa began. Her tone was like ice, cutting through the air and sending a shiver down Draco's spine. “Your behavior has been… unusual lately. You haven’t been yourself.”

Lucius nodded, his expression stern. “You’ve been acting rash and undisciplined. You neglect your duties as an heir, and you disrespect your mother and I.”

“But I haven’t—” Draco tried to… Tried to what? Deny? Protest? Defend himself? He didn’t know.

“You will listen when I am speaking to you, and you will not interrupt,” Lucius cut him off sharply. Draco was almost relieved.

“It’s as though you’ve forgotten all of your etiquette lessons. This behavior is unbecoming, and I will not stand for it. The more you act like this, the more shame you bring to our family name.”

Draco took a deep breath, his gaze drifting from his father’s face—stern and angry—to his mother’s, impassive and disappointed. He felt the ever-present knot in his stomach tighten as he struggled to find the right words to explain himself. Yet how could he possibly explain himself? He knew he couldn’t tell them about the time travel—as if they’d ever believe him. Every other explanation he came up with felt like nothing more than a flimsy excuse, one that would never hold water under his parents’ endless scrutiny. He felt as though he were suffocating, the pressure of their gazes sucking all the oxygen out of the room.

“Father, Mother, I—” Draco started, not truly knowing where the thought was going, but his father held up a hand to cut him off.

“Interrupting again, Draco,” Lucius’ voice was practically dripping with disappointment. Draco’s cheeks burned. “You embarrass us.”

Narcissa spoke up from his side, her voice cold and unyielding. “This behavior won’t stand, Draco. You have responsibilities and a family name to uphold. We raised you better than this.”

“But I-” 

His mother pressed onward as though he hadn’t spoken at all. “I told you to write an apology letter to Vincent and Gregory after that stunt you pulled, and you’ve neglected to do so. Their mothers are appalled at your lack of manners, and it reflects negatively on me. They’re criticizing me as a mother. Why would you subject me to such a thing?”

He knew his mother wanted him to write an apology letter to Crabbe and Goyle, and he had tried—he had started several times—but it was hard when he still wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. He had made it clear from the beginning that he didn’t want to be part of that playdate, didn’t want to see either of them, but his parents had forced him to, and it ended… Well, a bit worse than he had been expecting. But still. He didn’t feel as though he had anything to apologize for. It had never occurred to him that Mrs. Crabbe and Mrs. Goyle were really the ones the letters were for. Just another play in his mother’s socialite games.

“No, Mother, I would never—”

“But you already have,” his father interrupted. “Have you forgotten that everything you do reflects back on us?”

“No, Father—”

“You will get your behavior together before the gala next Saturday, and you will not embarrass us like this again. Or we may be forced to take more drastic measures to correct your behavior.” He waved a hand through the air. “You are dismissed.”

Draco left the room more at odds with himself than he already was. He knew he was different than before, but despite small slip-ups here and there, he thought he had been playing the part rather well. Apparently, that wasn’t the case.

The only problem was, he didn’t know how to be the version of himself from six years ago. Everything about that person had been beaten out of him by the war. Without fear running his life, he wasn’t sure how to act.

He barely knew who he was anymore, let alone who he had been.

August 31st, 1991

Every year before the new school year at Hogwarts, the Pureblood high society put on a gala to celebrate the new group of first-years. It was held at a different location each year, and this year, it was their turn. Narcissa had been planning for months to ensure everything was perfect. Draco was their only child, the only one they’d ever get to see off to Hogwarts—their perfect heir. Each of the hundred and twenty-eight tables was decorated with green tablecloths and silver runners. The centerpieces—silver snake vases with emerald eyes—held white roses, placed just so. A twelve-piece orchestra played from the stage. Floating candles hung overhead, just as they did in Hogwarts’ Great Hall. The Slytherin house banner adorned each wall.

The collar of his dress robes was too tight. He could feel it biting into the skin of his neck. It hadn’t been like that at Madame Malkin’s, so either he had grown in the last month or his father had tied his tie much too tight. It was probably the latter—Lucius Malfoy hadn’t been too pleased that Draco had seemingly forgotten how to properly tie a tie in two months’ time, when in reality Draco hadn’t worn a tie since the Yule Ball in his fourth year. Not much time to throw galas when your home had been invaded by the devil.

Lucius held tightly to Draco’s shoulder as he guided him around the ballroom. It had been just over a week since their conversation in the study, and much had changed. Unfortunately, none of it had been in Draco’s favor. Ever since, Draco had been hyper-aware of every move he made, and he had yet to make one his parents approved of. Not for lack of trying—he just didn’t see the point in most of the things he was supposed to care about anymore. He didn’t know why it was such a bad thing to make his own afternoon snack; in his time, Aunt Bellatrix had killed all the house-elves. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with the way he spoke, but it seemed every time he opened his mouth, his mother’s lips pursed. He forgot how he used to style his hair, and his father had something to say about it every morning. He never did write the apology letter.

His father made sure to introduce Draco to every Ministry official who had shown up. His hand was like a vice on Draco’s shoulder, a warning: “Behave,” it said. Draco greeted every one of them with a handshake and stiff pleasantries that no one truly cared about. His father had made sure to reeducate him on proper greetings earlier that week because he no longer trusted him. Draco had wished he were more upset about it, but really, he was relieved because he’d long forgotten the proper Pureblood handshake etiquette.

Smile, but without teeth because that would be rude. Offer your hand if you were the one to approach; wait for the offered hand if you were the one who was approached. Grasp hands firmly, but not too tightly, as that could be taken as a threat. Shake hands—once for informal greetings, twice for formal ones. Introduce yourself first if you were the one to approach; wait for the other to introduce themselves first if you were approached. Release hands.

He did this when his father introduced him to Kingsley Shacklebolt, a prominent Auror and light magic user. Draco wasn’t sure why he was invited—he remembered the man pointing a wand at him from across the battlefield, a curse on his tongue. As they walked away, his father whispered that the man’s ideals would lead to his downfall.

He did it again when he was introduced to Silvanus Selwyn, a member of the Wizengamot who was firmly in his father’s pocket. Draco had sat across the table from him at more than one of the Dark Lord's inner circle meetings. His father told him that Silvanus was one of their own and that it was a shame his sister chose the wrong side in the war. 

And again when he was introduced to Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic—the man who denied the Dark Lord’s return until it was too late. His father whispered that the man was a bumbling buffoon, but so easily manipulated that he’d make sure he stayed in office as long as he was able.

And again…Dolores Umbridge. The pink monstrosity herself. Draco shuddered at the sight of her; he wished he’d never joined the Inquisitorial Squad (he supposed now he never had, as it had yet to exist). His father told him everyone knew she was playing at being a Pureblood but was actually a half-blood.

And again…Barty Crouch, Sr. Firmly on the light side but just as cruel and ruthless as everyone else in the room.

And again…Pius Thicknesse. He would be Minister of Magic, the Dark Lord’s puppet.

And again…Ludo Bagman.

And again…

And again…

He was introduced to so many people, some he knew, others he didn’t—most of them Death Eaters, both current and future. He did exactly what his father told him to, and he did it perfectly. He was the model son, the one every Pureblood wished they had. His father seemed pleased and even removed his hand from Draco’s shoulder, trusting Draco to follow him. He did.

He followed his father all around the ballroom as he talked to the elite of wizarding society, showing Draco off like some kind of tamed dragon. He listened as his father talked about blood superiority. Remarks about how the Malfoy family was one of the only true Pureblood families left—not a trace of Muggle blood in their lineage dating all the way back to the very first Malfoy. Snide remarks targeted towards families known to have Squib relatives. Someone launched into a detailed argument about why Mudbloods should be kept out of Hogwarts and the wizarding world as a whole. He watched another not-so-discreetly kick a house-elf when brought a drink with three ice cubes in it rather than two.

As he watched it all, he felt numb, which was a sharp contrast to the overwhelming panic he hadn’t been able to shake since he woke in his childhood bedroom. This was his life, his whole life. These people, their ideals—this was all he had ever known. This was what he was.

So why was it making him sick to his stomach?

Numb and queasy.

He felt numb and queasy.

His grip on his drink (when had he gotten that?) tightened as the adults around him burst into laughter at a joke he hadn’t heard. His father shot him a discreet but irritated look—he was probably supposed to laugh too. He could hear the clinking of ice cubes as they hit the side of his glass, a full-body tremble overcoming him. He attempted to take a breath to steady himself, but the collar of his dress robes pressed against his neck so tightly he just felt as though he were being strangled.

He couldn’t breathe.

“…filthy Mudbloods running around like they belong,” Tiberius Nott sneered, swirling the wine in his glass. His son, Theodor Nott, stood at his side. “Won’t be long before they’ve taken our world over completely if things continue as they are.”

He tried again. Deep breath in—and again, his dress robes got in the way. Was his throat getting tighter? Or were his lungs just refusing to cooperate?

Lucius snorted into his glass, his hand finding its way back to Draco’s shoulder. “Quite right you are, Tiberius. Someone really should take care of this growing… infestation.”

The pounding of his heart echoed in his ears, a relentless drumbeat that continued to grow faster and louder. Please not here. Please not now.

The adults around them burst into another round of laughter. His father gave Draco’s shoulder a warning squeeze. He hadn’t laughed again.

It was hard to laugh when you couldn’t breathe.

“Lucius,” someone spoke. “Is your boy feeling alright? He’s looking a bit under the weather.”

His father’s voice was clear above all else. “Just the excitement of it all. Perhaps he should be getting to bed early. After all, he does have a big day tomorrow. Wouldn’t you agree, Draco?”

“Yes, Father.” His voice sounded foreign in his ears, distant, even though it had come from him.

Time blurred.

One second, he was in the ballroom with his father. The next, he was upstairs in his bedroom, the collar of his dress robes still pressing against his neck, suffocating him. His breath came in short, panting gasps. It was too tight. He couldn’t breathe. His hands still trembled as he ripped off his tie to get access to the button hidden beneath it. It brought little relief. He fumbled with the button, his sweat-soaked fingers slipping from the slick surface at every attempt.

He couldn’t get a grip.

When Draco’s fingers slipped on the button once again, he took hold of both sides of his collar and pulled. The top three buttons popped, each of them flying off in different directions across the room.

Mother won’t be pleased.

The thought was gone faster than it had appeared as he gasped—huge, desperate gulps of air flooding his lungs. His chest heaved with each breath. He could breathe. He could finally breathe.

He clutched the edge of his dresser, trying to steady himself, trying to force the tremors out of his limbs.

Hands no longer shaking and breathing under control, he was able to make quick work of the rest of the buttons. The house-elves would find the other three buttons and reattach them before his parents found out. He hoped.

He shrugged the dress robes off, and they crumpled to the floor. He picked out his most comfortable pajamas—soft emerald-green cotton—and left the top three buttons undone. He stumbled as he made his way to bed, tripping over nothing and landing on the comforter face-first. He lay there for a moment, unmoving, breathing in the lavender detergent before he could muster the will to crawl to the head of the bed and tuck himself beneath his silk sheets.

His stomach still churned uncomfortably.

During the gala, he’d come to a sickening realization. He hated it.

He really, truly hated it.

Everything here—everything this society was, everything his parents were, everything he was, and everything it stood for—he hated it.

Everything he had ever been—every choice he'd made, every action he'd taken that aligned with them—had turned him into everything he had ever hated.

A coward. A puppet.

Just like his father.

Just like he’d always wanted.

As Draco lay there, staring up at the canopy of his four-poster bed, he came to his second realization of the night.

He hated himself.

He hated the person he had become.

Chapter Text

The next morning Draco stood before the scarlet red steam engine that was The Hogwarts Express for the eighth time that he could remember —but only the first time in his life. He was dressed in his school robes, just as he had the first time, and just as he knew every other ‘respectable’ pureblood child would.

His mother stood on his left in a dark green dress; her hair perfectly styled, her makeup impeccable. His father was on his right, dressed in black robes with dark green accents that matched his mother’s dress. His cane clutched in his right hand while his left rest firmly on Draco’s shoulder.

Though it was only 10:15, the platform was already packed—students bustled about by parents, owls screeching, cats hissing. He could hear other students reuniting with friends, parents crying, and loud laughter as his father steered him through the crowd. At the front of the train, near the compartments that came just after the engine, stood a rather large group —those his parents referred to as ‘friends,’ as if they actually cared for them, accompanied by their children.

All of them had been at the gala the night before, but Draco had only seen—or at least only remembered seeing—one before he had been sent to bed early. His father had been furious with him for causing such a scene, and he’d gotten quite the earful just that morning. Since his parents had been keeping him away from polite society until he “could get his behavior under control,” Draco hadn’t seen any of his former friends besides Crabbe and Goyle since his arrival in this time.

It was jarring, to say the least.

They all looked so young—younger than he could ever remember them looking.

The adults greeted his parents promptly upon their arrival, exchanging pleasantries and political niceties. But no one acknowledged him. That was strange but not abnormal. Traditionally, adults didn’t always address children unless necessary, but as the sole heir to the Malfoy name, Draco usually received a nod or a handshake. Stranger still, his peers ignored him as well—not a single friendly wave, not even a glance.

His father’s hand remained glued to his shoulder the entire time.

Theo Nott stood beside his father, Tiberius Nott, having what appeared to be a very in-depth conversation with Millicent Bulstrode about proper wand care. Neither turned toward Draco when he approached, which was really odd— they never failed to greet him before. And their parents made no effort to correct their behavior.

Daphne Greengrass was reassuring her younger sister, Astoria, that she’d be home for Christmas, but the younger girl’s wails only grew louder. Their parents exchanged nervous glances, hoping no one was paying attention to their nine-year-old causing such a scene. Blaise Zabini stood with his mother on the outskirts of the group, close enough to be part of it but not fully engaged. Astraea Zabini, infamous for the mysterious deaths of her five husbands—each leaving her a sizable fortune—was a walking scandal. It was rumored that Blaise wasn’t even one of her husband’s children but the product of an affair. His blood status was constantly in question. Pansy Parkinson, who would have typically thrown herself across Draco’s shoulders the moment she saw him, had her back pointedly turned to him and was attempting to participate in a conversation with Bonson Pike who didn’t seem to realize he was a part of any sort of conversation at all.

What Draco found to be the oddest thing of all was that upon his arrival Crabbe and Goyle hadn't immediately flanked to his sides as they were known to do. While it was unexpected Draco wasn’t particularly upset. In fact, he even found it to be somewhat of a relief. He’d been worrying himself sick all morning about how he’d ditch the two of them once they arrived at the station, as there wasn’t a time in his Hogwarts career that he could remember the two of them ever leaving him alone even for just a moment.

Instead, he found them awkwardly standing next to their parents, shuffling their feet uncertainly and overall, just looking lost and confused. From the sharp glances their mothers sent in his direction, Draco realized his lack of apology letter had been thoroughly noticed and was thoroughly unappreciated.

Draco glanced up at the large station clock—10:35. The Hogwarts Express left at exactly 11 o’clock on the dot each year. Within the next ten minutes Draco knew that he and his fellow soon-to-be Slytherin classmates would be boarding the train, with quick goodbyes to their parents. They’d all find a compartment together and they’d spend the ride to Hogwarts talking about how wonderful it would be to finally see the Slytherin common room and the Great Hall and other things like that. Draco did not want to be in that compartment, he didn’t want to sit with any of his former friends, half who would end up betraying him while the other half abandoned him.

Besides, he already had a place to sit. 

Now, he just needed to figure out how to slip away without any of them noticing.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to think up an excuse. As the others began boarding the train, his father’s hand remained firmly on his shoulder, keeping him rooted in place. The others stopped when they noticed the Malfoy family was missing and turned back towards them.

Lucius’s face remained cool as stone when he addressed them. “Draco will be along in just a moment. I promised Narcissa we’d say a proper goodbye to our only son. Please —don’t wait on us.”

That seemed to be all the reassurance they needed as they all disappeared onto the train.

Draco knew this was not a goodbye.

His parents had never stopped to wish him a private goodbye.

The queasy feeling from last night made an unwelcome reappearance.

His father turned him, so they were face to face. Draco tilted his head up to meet his father’s gaze. Lucius’ expression could have been carved from stone.

“Draco, your mother and I need to speak with you before you leave, regarding your behavior.”

Wonderful, Draco thought, this again.

“While it is clear to us you have been…attempting to correct your recent behavior, you have still been acting out to an outlandish degree. Your mother and I just wanted to reiterate the discussion we had the other day.”

His mother took over with ease, voice firm. “You will be on your best behavior. You will be respectful, well-mannered, and put all of the etiquette training we paid for to good use.”

“And most importantly,” his father continued, “you will not embarrass us. You are a Malfoy. Act like it.”

Draco swallowed, his hands shaking, and nodded. “Yes, Father.”

His father nodded and finally, finally, let go of his shoulder. “Good. Now, go join your friends—you have apologies to make for your lack of manners last night.”

His mother bent down and gave him a light hug and a kiss on the cheek. Her lipstick burned. His father gave the shoulder he’d only just let go of a hearty pat. It was all for show.

It was always just a show.

The ghost of his father’s touch lingered as Draco lugged his trunk down the train's hallway. When he came across the compartment with his “friends” inside, all sitting prim and proper —backs straight and robes laying just so —he kept walking.

If they noticed, they didn’t bother to try and stop him.

Draco couldn’t exactly remember which compartment he’d found Harry in the first time they’d done this, but he could remember that it was closer to the back of the train than it had been to the front. Just to be safe, he glanced in every compartment he passed as he walked by. Nearly all of them were packed to capacity. He was nearing the very end of the train when he finally found him.

Harry was sitting with his back to the door facing the window, he was peering out carefully as though he didn’t want anyone on the platform to see him looking. Draco opened the compartment slowly so as to not startle him. Harry still jumped at the sound of the door opening. His head whipped around at such a speed Draco was surprised he didn’t break his neck. For a moment he looked uneasy —scared even —but when he saw that it was Draco standing there his face lit up in a smile.

“Draco!” Harry cried as he hopped down from his seat to help Draco pull his trunk into the compartment. It was much heavier than he remembered.

Draco returned Harry’s smile. “Hi Harry.”

Draco grabbed a hold of one end of his trunk, struggling to get a grip on it so he could lift it into the overhead compartment. He realized then that his mother usually placed a Feather Light charm on his trunk, so it was easier to carry. Harry came over and grabbed the other end. They both struggled to raise it over their heads only to realize they were too short to reach the shelf and ultimately decided to just tuck the trunk away in a corner under the seats. Draco glanced up at Harry’s trunk, tucked away in the compartment over the seat he’d been in when Draco entered the room.

“How on Earth did you get that up there all by yourself?”

“Huh?” Harry turned to look at his trunk up in the bin. “Oh, I didn’t. There were these two older students —red heads, twins, I think. They saw me trying to get the thing in here and offered to help.”

“Oh,” well that explained how Weasley had found Harry so quickly the first time around while it had taken Draco the better part of an hour to even find out he was on the train. The ground lurched under their feet as the train began to move away from the station, the two of them quickly took their seats across from each other before they landed on the compartments floor. Draco turned towards the window, glancing around the platform to see if his parents were still there only to see the youngest Weasley sibling —Ginger? Jenny? Jeanie? Something like that —running after the train with tears in her eyes waving.

For a moment they sat in silence —Harry staring out the window while Draco tried not to stare at Harry. Then, the compartment door slid open, and in the doorway stood one Ron Weasley, face a bright red color with a speck of dirt on his nose.

“Anyone sitting there?” he pointed at the seat beside Draco. “Everywhere else is full.” 

Harry shook his head at the same time Draco said, “No.” 

Weasley sat down, he stared at Harry and opened his mouth as though he was about to say something before snapping it shut again and glancing down at his shoes. 

“Hey Ron,” three sets of eyes turned towards the door where Weasley’s twin brothers stood. “Listen, we’re going down to the middle of the train – Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.” 

Weasley turned back to his shoes, with a shudder. “Right,” he mumbled. 

The twins turned towards Harry, “Harry, did we introduce ourselves? I’m Fred.” 

The other twin spoke, “and I’m George, and that-” George gestured grandly at Ron, “-is  Ron, our baby brother!”

Together they said, “See you later, than!”

“Bye,” chorused the three of them. Draco thought that was one of the strangest interactions he’d ever had, no handshakes or proper introductions, he hadn't introduced himself at all, and it was all over in less than a minute without even a proper goodbye.

The compartment door slammed shut with a bang. 

Weasley immediately turned towards Harry. “Are you really Harry Potter?”

Draco could tell he hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that based on the way his already red face turned an even brighter red, almost out doing his hair. Harry didn’t seem to notice and simply nodded; Draco did his best to look surprised as he remembered he wasn’t supposed to know this particular fact yet. 

“Oh – well, I had thought – Fred and George, they like to pull pranks – maybe it had been one of their jokes,” Weasley stuttered, “have you really got the,” he pointed to his own forehead, “well you know.” 

Harry just pulled back his bangs, showing off the lightning bolt shaped scar for the two of them to see. Weasley staired, Draco tried to make a point not to, it was very rude to stare after all, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t curious, Draco had never seen the scar up close before—Harry had never shown him. 

Harry caught Draco's look and frowned. “What?” 

Draco shook his head and quickly looked away, “nothing, just didn’t realize you were Harry Potter.”

Harry looked confused. “You didn’t.” 

Draco looked at Harry equally confused. “Well, you didn’t say anything at Madame Malkin’s.” 

Harry shrugged, “I just assumed you’d figured it out. Everyone else seemed to.” 

It was in that moment that Draco realized just how truly oblivious Harry actually was. Before Draco could respond, Weasley broke in. “You two know each other?”

“Sort of,” Harry replied. “We met in Diagon Alley while getting fitted for our school robes.”

Weasley nodded, “I don’t think I got your name.”

He held out his own hand. “Ron Weasley.” 

Draco took a deep breath. Moment of truth. He took Weasley’s hand. “Draco Malfoy.”

Draco took it as a good sign when the other boy didn’t immediately rip his hand away. Although he did look a bit weary and when the shake was over, he retracted his hand a little more forcefully than was strictly necessary. And Draco would have to be completely oblivious to not notice the slight shuffle he did to put a bit more distance between the two of them.

“I’ve heard of your family.”

Draco was prepared, he knew Ron Weasley, not as well as he knew Harry Potter. He’d never been too focused on Weasley and besides his stint in Quidditch Draco had no real reason to pay that close attention to the red head, but he knew him well enough to know that the other boy was as blunt as his father’s walking stick with just as much tact.

“My dad says your family was some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Says your dad claimed to be bewitched.” That was a fact, it was all fact, everyone already knew about that. “He doesn’t believe it. He says your dad didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.”

Draco clenched his teeth, every bit of information Weasley just spouted was true. His father had always believed in blood superiority and keeping magic within the pureblood lines (even if that meant the extinction of wizards as a whole and an atrocious amount of inbreeding that no one ever talked about) but that didn’t make the urge to defend his father any less powerful. 

He took a deep breath and swallowed down the comment that he wanted to make. Opening his mouth to say…he didn’t know what when he caught Harry’s eye.

The other boy was staring at him now, and not in a good way. “Your dad worked for Voldemort?”

They both ignored Weasley’s shout of surprise. “You said You-Know-Who’s name!”

“Yeah.”

This was it, this is where Harry was going to tell him off. The queasy feeling in his stomach that had never truly left him since the platform grew. Together Potter and Weasley would send him packing from the compartment and back to the friends who would betray him. Draco could feel that all too familiar vice encompassing his throat. This was the inevitable rejection, exactly what he had been waiting for since their meeting at Madame Malkin’s. It was growing very warm in this compartment. Who was he to ever think Harry Potter would ever be friends with Draco Malfoy in any iteration of time.

“I’m sorry.”

Draco's head shot up, the vice in his throat loosening just a smidge, Harry was looking over at him, not with pity or anger, but understanding. “What?”

“That must be hard, everyone looking at you like they know exactly who you are just because of who your family is. I got that a lot living with the Dursleys, they’re my muggle guardians. I told you about them, they told everyone that my parents were drunks who died in a car crash. The neighbors all thought that made me some sort of troublemaker.”

The vice in Draco’s throat was gone, the queasy feeling in his stomach had lessened and couldn’t help but stare at Harry Potter in complete and utter bafflement.

“Yeah,” he choked out, “everyone I meet seems to think I’m just my father but smaller.”

“That sounds awful,” Draco had almost forgotten that Weasley was there, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it,” somehow Draco doubted that. “My parents both expect me to be just like my brothers. I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. Mum and dad are always talking about how remarkable my brothers are, all their achievements. You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Everyone expects me to do as well as they have, but if I do, it’s really no big deal, because whatever it is they’ll have done it first.”

They weren’t exactly the same, the three of them and their family issues, but maybe they had more in common than Draco originally thought. After that the tension in the compartment eased just a bit and the three of them were able to sit in comfortable silence. Draco relaxed in his seat and watched as the train sped past farmland, fields full of cows and sheep. It was nice. Harry had pulled out a copy of Hogwarts: A History, the book clearly new but already beginning to show wear on the spine and cover and tucked himself into a corner to read. Weasley sat back in his own seat, still a good way away from Draco but no longer actively trying to put distance between the two of them and was in the process of unwrapping what looked to be a sandwich when their compartment door slid open once again.

“Anything off the trolley, dears?” the trolly witch stood in their doorway smiling.

Harry set his book down on the seat next to him and jumped up eagerly. Draco followed behind him shortly after, Weasley remained where he was nibbling on the edge of his now unwrapped sandwich, and not looking all that pleased about it, the tips of his ears as red as his hair.

Draco met Harry in the corridor who was looking over all the trolly witch had to offer. The other boy appeared to be mesmerized by the sweets laid out before him, Draco would admit he was underwhelmed. The basics were there of course, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other things, but she didn’t have any Jelly Slugs or Enchanted Popping Candies or Shrieking Sherbet. Nonetheless he watched as Harry seemed to decide that it would be better to try a bit of everything rather than miss out on anything. Draco could recall the first time he went through this walking into a compartment full of sweets and wanting nothing more than to be invited to join, until he saw Weasley sat there amongst the chaos munching away on a chocolate frog. That was when he made the comment that sealed his fate as Harry Potter’s nemesis rather than Harry Potter’s friend.

Harry turned back to their compartment with his arms full of goodies and Draco decided to just buy himself a licorice wand and two chocolate frogs, already expecting he’d be recruited to help get rid of the mountain Harry had just bought.

He returned to his seat to catch the tail end of Weasley’s sentence, “-forgets I don’t like corned beef.” 

He sounded upset, more upset than Draco ever expected someone to be about a sandwich. 

“Trade you for one of these?” Harry said, holding out a pumpkin pasty. 

Weasley shook his head, “you won’t want these, they’re all dried out!” Then was quick to add, “Mum hasn’t got that much time, there are still five of us at home. Me, my brothers, and my little sister.” 

Draco held out his second chocolate frog, a peace offering perhaps to smooth out the remaining tension between them, at the same time Harry stated, “go on have a pasty! You too Draco! I can’t eat all this myself.”

So, the three of them sat there in the compartment eating through the absolute mountain of treats Harry had bought, Draco couldn’t help but ask why he’d bought so many when he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat them all throughout the entire school year let alone the train ride. 

Harry just shrugged, “I didn’t want to miss out on anything.” 

Draco supposed that was a pretty good reason. 

Draco tried his best to remain friendly towards Weasley and was shocked that it was actually easier than he had expected, he only had to bite his tongue twice, and in return Weasley remained civil, although Draco quickly found the other boy had absolutely no filter and would just spout out the first thing that came to mind without thought of tact. There were more than a few comments about his family's opinion of Slytherin house. But it did help him to understand that perhaps, at least when they were younger, not all of the things Weasley had said were meant to be a personal dig at Draco and were in fact just him repeating things he’d heard around his own house. Much as Draco had done at that age.

“What are these?” Harry asked, holding up a chocolate frog package. “They’re not really frogs, are they?” 

Draco didn’t have a chance to explain as when Harry asked as his mouth was full of licorice wand and he’d been taught from a very young age that one never speaks with their mouth full, something that stuck around even during the war. Weasley had obviously not been taught the same as he was quick to answer Harry’s question even though his mouth was full of Cauldron Cakes.

“No but see what the card is. I’m missing Agrippa.” 

Harry looked up at Weasley, “what?”

“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know,” Draco rolled his eyes ‘yes Weasley, wonderful way to start the explanation’. “Chocolate Frogs have cards inside them, you know, to collect – famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about five hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.”

Draco looked at Harry and noticed that the tips of his ears had turned a light shade of pink, not noticeable unless you were looking for it. It wasn’t really a surprise to Draco. Based on their conversation at Madam Malkin’s he knew Harry had very little knowledge of the magical world, and there was only so much one could learn in a month, and Draco assumed that Harry probably hadn’t bought many extra books on top of their course books. Of course he’d be embarrassed about not knowing. But Harry didn’t acknowledge his embarrassment and instead unwrapped his chocolate frog and exclaimed.

“So, this is Dumbledore!”

Draco saw Weasley beginning to open his mouth once again and quickly cut in wondering the whole time how the two of them managed to become friends if this was how their conversation had gone the first time around.

“My father never lets me keep the cards,” which wasn’t a lie, his father didn’t believe the wizards on the cards represented people who Draco should look up to as role models, with a great majority of them not being of Pureblood statues. 

“Can I see?” 

Draco hopped into the seat next to Harry as Weasley was asking, “Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa – thanks - ” 

Draco looked at the card as Harry turned it over to read the back.

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

 Harry turned the card back over and exclaimed, “He’s gone!”

Draco was just as confused as Weasley this time, “well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day,” Weasley said. 

Draco added on, “but he’ll be back.”

Weasley groaned, “no, I’ve got Morgana again and I’ve got about six of her.” He turned to Harry and held the card out, “do you want it? You can start your own collection!”

Harry took the card happily and then stated, “you two do know that in the muggle world people just stay put in photos?” 

Draco looked up from the frog he’d been about to tear into, “that’s strange.” 

At the same time Weasley exclaimed, “they don’t move at all!? Muggles are so weird!”

Together the three of them tore through the pile of chocolate frogs Harry had bought Weasley, much more focused on eating them while he and Harry examined each card with curious intent. Draco insisted Harry should keep all the cards for himself as he’d bought the frogs, but Harry insisted they split them and wouldn’t let Draco argue anything else. Draco was busy reading the back of his new Alberic Grunnion card – the achievement for which he received the card being the invention of the dungbomb (and Draco now knew why his father never wanted him to collect these). When Weasley spoke up, “you want to be careful with those.” 

Draco looked up and saw Harry opening a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans and jumped in on the conversation, “they really do have every flavor, you’ll wanna steer clear of the orange one's, I got a vomit flavored one once, absolutely nasty.” 

Harry looked disgusted and spat out the bean that was in his mouth. “They’ve got good flavors too! You know, like chocolate and peppermint and marmalade. George reckons he got a booger-flavored one once though.”

Draco picked out one of Harry’s beans, a strange greyish pink in color and bit into half of it before making a face that must’ve been amusing as the other two burst out laughing, “sardine.”

This surprisingly didn’t deter Harry from the beans and actually encouraged him to try one for himself; he looked pleased when the flavor was significantly better than Draco’s, “toast.”

This prompted Weasley to try one and soon the three of them had made it into a competition of who could get the best flavor. Weasley and Draco were laughing as Harry spit out a particularly nasty flavored bean, dirty socks, when there was a knock on their compartment door.

The door slid open to reveal a younger, at least younger to Draco, Neville Longbottom. His face streaked with tear tracks as his eyes began to well up again and he sniffled before using the sleeve of his shirt to wipe at his nose.

“Sorry,” he said with a sniff, “but have you seen a toad at all?” The three of them shook their heads and Neville began to wail, more tears falling from his eyes, “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!”

Draco, who had never been good with his own emotions let alone the emotions of other people, awkwardly looked away. 

Harry, sounding just as awkward as Draco felt, spoke up, “He’ll turn up.” 

“I hope so,” said Neville, sounding just as miserable as he looked, he sniffed again and wiped at his nose once more. “Well, if you see him…” he left his statement open and left the compartment. 

Weasley, with just as much tact as he’d shown all day, said, “don’t know why he’s so bothered. If I’d brought a toad, I’d lose it as quickly as I could.”

Draco couldn’t help but nod his agreement, it was a well-known fact that a toad was the worst pet a wizard could get. “Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.” 

Draco watched as Weasley reached into his pocket to pull out the rat in question. The rat looked familiar, but Draco couldn’t place why he would know any particular rat, more than likely he was just recalling the thing from being Weasley’s pet, but then he couldn’t remember why he would have cared to remember Weasley’s pet before. Honestly before this exact moment Draco couldn’t say he even knew Weasley had a pet or what that pet was. Draco pushed the thought aside and filed it away as something to examine more closely later on but couldn’t help the disgusted look that crept onto his face, rats were almost as bad as toads, “where did that thing come from?”

Draco expected Weasley to become defensive but instead he became dejected, “my brother Percy found him in our garden and gave him to me because he got an owl instead, a gift from our dad when he became Prefect. I’ve got five older brothers so nothing I get is new. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy’s old rat.” 

One thing in that statement stuck out to Draco, “you’ve got an heirloom wand?”

Heirloom wands were a coveted thing in Puerblood households. After a family member dies the family keeps their wand, especially if they had done something significant in their lifetime, for future generations. It was seen as one of the highest honors if the wand of a passed family member chose you as its next handler, the less handlers the wand had, the higher the honor. His father used an heirloom wand, only ever used by three other Malfoys before, each of them a family legend in their own right. While the Weasley’s were Purebloods, he never thought they followed traditions like that, or at all.

Weasley shrugged, “sort of I guess apparently it was our uncles, he died in the war, and mom pulled it out of storage when Charlie started school. Bill said she was practically in tears when she handed it to him.”

Now Draco was confused, “why? Being chosen as the new wielder of an heirloom wand is one of the highest honors you can get when starting school. I wish one of our family wands had chosen me!”

“Oh, it didn’t choose Charlie, when he started school - well - they just didn’t have the money for a new one at the time since they had to buy a new set robes as well, so they didn’t really have a choice. Then they had Percy try it when he was getting ready to start school, but it wouldn’t do anything for him, not even a spark. Charlie saved up to get his own wand for three years. Mum got it back out when Fred and George were starting cause they really didn’t have the money for two. George said the first time he tried to touch it the thing nearly set his hand on fire and Fred refused to go anywhere near it after that. They had to share all their textbooks that year.”

 Draco stared at Weasley in silence for long enough that he began to squirm in his seat. He knew it was rude, and probably uncomfortable, but he just couldn’t help it. Using a wand that didn’t choose you, that was beyond irresponsible, it was just about the worst thing a wizard could do. That was the one fundamental rule of wand use. The wand chooses the wizard. Bad things could happen, very bad things. Maybe you could get away with it for a short period of time, or for a spell or two, but for three years it was nearly impossible. Draco had heard of several cases where the compatibility between wizard and wand was so bad one of them blew up, and it wasn’t usually the wand.

Weasley knew this, Draco was absolutely positive that all the Weasley’s knew this, there was no way they didn’t. It was a basic wizarding fact, everyone knew. “Do they realize how dangerous that was?”

Weasley slumped back in his seat, “yeah, they told Charlie if it ever got too hot or started to feel a bit off that he needed to stop using it and they’d make sure to take him to Olivander’s as soon as possible, but that never happened.”

Draco was incredibly surprised by that. It was incredibly dangerous and with a wand there really was no telling if or when something would go wrong. “It at least chose you, right?”

Weasley sunk lower in his seat, “well, not exactly. But it didn’t outright reject me either! I can tell it's not my wand, you know, but it feels like it’ll work, at least until I can get my own!”

No wonder Weasley had been bottom of the class their first few years.

“Are you sure? Have you tried any spells yet?”

“Well, I tried yesterday, Fred and George gave me a spell to turn Scabbers yellow, but it didn’t work, here I’ll show you.” He pulled the heirloom wand out of his other pocket and winced, “unicorn hairs nearly poking out -”

Draco was about to tell him that if they could see the core of his wand, it really should be taken to a Wandmaker for maintenance. When the compartment door slid open abruptly this time it revealed one Hermione Granger in all her bushy haired buck toothed glory, and she, like himself, was already wearing her Hogwarts robes.

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” her voice was far higher pitched than he remembered and had a sort of bossy know it all tone to it. Neville was back too, peering in over her shoulder.

“He’s already looked in here,” Draco spoke, but it didn’t seem that Granger was paying much attention to him as her eyes had latched onto Weasley’s wand. 

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it then,” she said as she took a seat next to Draco, Neville remained cowering in the doorway, eyes nervously darting down the hallway before he moved fully into the compartment and slid the door shut taking the seat next to Weasley. Weasley looked nervous as his audience had quickly doubled in number as he was about to demonstrate a spell that didn’t work.

“Er all right then.” He cleared his throat and raised his wand once again, “Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid fat rat yellow.” 

Throughout the spell he waved his wand in circles before tapping it to Scabbers back at the end. A small puff of smoke left the end of his wand but other than that nothing came of it, Scabbers remained gray and fast asleep, although his foot did twitch. 

Granger looked rather smug when she said, “are you sure that’s a real spell?” 

When Weasley just shrugged in response she continued. 

“Well, it's not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells myself just for practice and they’ve all worked for me. Nobody in my family has magic, it was such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was very pleased. I mean Hogwarts is the very best school for witchcraft there is, so I’ve heard. Of course, I’ve learned all the course books by heart, I just hope it’ll be enough. We haven’t introduced ourselves, I’m Hermione Granger and that’s Neville Longbottom.” 

Neville gave a small wave from where he sat. 

“And you are?” She spoke very fast and didn’t let the rest of them get a word in until she was done, he exchanged a look with Weasley and Harry, this was not a version of Hermione Granger he remembered ever interacting with.

“Ron Weasley,” Weasley sounded as though he were in shock. 

“Draco Malfoy,” Neville let out a small squeak when he heard his surname, Draco ignored him, and Granger gave him a funny look. 

“Harry Potter.”

“Are you really? I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books for background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding events of the Twentieth Century.” 

“Am I?” Draco was surprised he didn’t know apparently Hermione was too. 

“Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out everything I could if it was me. Do any of you know what House you’ll be in? I’ve been asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad.” She stopped for a moment perhaps she was waiting for an answer or maybe just taking a breath, they would never know as she continued shortly after. “Well, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. You two should get changed into your robes, I expect we’ll be arriving soon.”

They turned to leave but before the door shut Hermione caught it, “and Harry if you’d like to borrow any of those books, you're welcome to, I’ve already finished them.” 

And with that they were gone. 

“Whatever house I’m in, I hope she’s not.” Weasley said before he began muttering about stupid brothers and stupid fake spells.

“What Houses are your brothers in?”

“Gryffindor, all of them have been,” his shoulders slumped, and his face fell, “Mum and Dad were in it too. My whole family has been for generations, both sides. I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not. I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad Hufflepuff either, but I can’t imagine it if they put me in Slytherin.” And then as an afterthought added on. “No offence Draco, you’re not so bad.”

Draco was surprised. “Thank you, Ron.” Ron nodded, still looking depressed.

Harry looked over at Draco, “you think you’ll be in Slytherin?”

Draco shrugged, “my whole family has been for generations. Both sides, like Ron, except one cousin who got sorted into Gryffindor, but we don’t really talk about him.”

Harry nodded, a thoughtful look on his face, then turned back to Ron. “You said two of your brothers graduated already, right? What do they do now? What do wizards even do when they finish school?”

Ron put Scabber down on the seat beside him and the rat finally managed to open its eyes only to make himself at home in an open chocolate frog box with a half-eaten frog inside. “Charlie, he’s the second oldest, he’s studying Dragons in Romania. And Bill, he’s the oldest, he’s in Africa right now doing something for Gringotts.” Ron seemed to have perked up now, “did either of you hear about Gringotts? It’s been all over the Daily Prophet, dad was talking about it just this morning, someone tried to rob a high security vault,” Draco did remember this, he also recalled that nothing ever actually came of it. Nothing was ever reported about who did it, why, or what the vault contained in the first place. 

“I heard about that; my father was close to emptying all our savings until my mother asked him where he planned to put it.” 

Ron laughed, “I can just imagine it, your entire family fortune piled in an empty bedroom.” 

Dracon felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and couldn’t help but laugh along with him, “whenever he wants to get the minister's attention, he just invites him over for tea upstairs.”

“No sir please don’t worry about the mess; the galleons are just right in the closet there.” Ron spoke in what could pass as an impression of Draco’s father, if someone had slipped a helium-based elephant on a bicycle candy in his breakfast. 

Draco laughed and noted to himself that had that conversation happened even a year ago that both he and Ron would have drawn their wands on each other, and everything would have been laced with a far more hostile tone. Instead, the atmosphere was light and even Harry, although Draco knew he couldn’t possibly have known the backstory to all of this, was chuckling.

“So, what happened to them?” 

“To who?” Ron asked, looking confused, before it seemed to dawn on him, “oh the guy that broke in? Nothing! That’s why it's such big news! They haven’t been caught. My dad says they must’ve been a powerful Dark wizard in order to do it, but they don’t think they took anything, that’s what’s so strange about it. Course everyone gets paranoid when stuff like this happens, in case it's You-Know-Who behind it.”

Draco sat up a bit straighter at the name, shoulders going tense. He was right, nearly anytime anything remotely related to the Dark Arts came up The Dark Lord was in the back of everyone's minds. The fear that he would one day return never quite going away. Of course, when he actually did return those very same people refused it with every breath and ultimately allowed him to regain his power beneath their very noses. The very thought of it made a pit grow in Draco’s stomach.

Ron, apparently done with that thread of conversation, began fiddling with yet another chocolate frog box and asked to no one in particular, “What’s your Quidditch team?”

“Puddlemere United.” Draco said at the same time Harry said. “I don’t know any.” 

“What!?” Ron exclaimed looking back and forth between both Harry and Draco.

Draco flinched. The exclamation was louder than it needed to be for that sort of revelation and Draco still hadn’t quite recovered from the previous conversation. The pit was still there, his shoulders remained tense. He wasn’t exactly sure how Ron was able to move on from such an intense topic to something as light as Quidditch so quickly.

“You hang on,” he pointed at Harry than at Draco, “had you pinned as a Falmouth Falcons fan for sure.”

 Draco refused to admit that he had once been a Falcons fan but had quickly switched to Puddlemere after it came out that the Falcons had been jinxing the bludgers before the start of every game so that no matter where they were hit, they could never hit one of their team members. Of course, now that Draco thought about it, that particular scandal hadn’t even happened yet, but he’d come to like Puddlemere over the years and saw no harm in starting off as a fan of theirs this time.

“The Falcons games are interesting to watch that's for sure, but Puddlemere’s the better team by far. Not to mention their games are actually games and not just bloodbaths.” 

Harry looked concerned but Ron nodded along in his agreement with Draco’s statement.

 “Is Quidditch really that dangerous?”

 Ron shook his head, “no no, that's just the Falcons, they’re dangerous. Quidditch isn't any more dangerous than a muggle sport, at least I don’t think it is.” 

Draco and Ron launched into an explanation of how Quidditch was only as dangerous as the people who played it. After about twenty minutes where they were just starting to get into a detailed explanation of the player positions. The door of their compartment was once again thrown open and when Draco looked up to see what Hermione and Neville wanted this time he was shocked to find Crabbe and Goyle stood in the door frame instead. Draco remembered his first year, how he’d barged into the compartment the moment he heard Granger flaunting the fact that she’d met Harry Potter to every compartment they entered. He remembered dragging Crabbe and Goyle along with him even though they were much more interested in tracking down the trolley witch. They hadn’t seemed to show any interest in finding Harry Potter as he had.

 Draco had just assumed that without him they wouldn’t enter the compartment at all, “Draco! We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Crabbe exclaimed, who had the most personality of the two, which still wasn’t saying much.

“Your dad said you were going to meet everyone at the compartment then you never showed up. We’ve been looking everywhere for you, but we couldn’t find you. We thought you might’ve missed the train.” Goyle didn’t sound particularly concerned that Draco may have missed the train, he didn’t really sound like anything actually. Draco didn’t recall that he ever had, except that one night in second year, but he always claimed not to remember it.

“What have you been doing stopping and looking in every compartment?” The train had been in motion for hours now. He knew Crabbe and Goyle weren’t the smartest in the bunch, but he’d at least have thought they’d realize the compartments had windows.

Goyle shrugged, “Theo told us to go find you, what else were we supposed to do?”

Theodore Nott had never thought much of Crabbe and Goyle, Draco knew for a fact they’d always annoyed him a great deal and he complained about it regularly to anyone who would listen. Even Crabbe and Goyle themselves. Draco supposed Theo told them to come find him in order to get rid of them for a while, after all Theo wouldn’t ever be concerned for Draco’s safety or his arrival at Hogwarts. Theo had never been particularly fond of Draco either.

“You know the compartments have windows.” Ron sounded confused. Draco didn’t blame him, if you didn’t know Crabbe and Goyle you would be surprised that someone could actually be so stupid.

 Crabbe turned to look at Ron, immediately noticing the red hair and freckles, “what’re you doing sitting with a blood traitor?”

Ron’s face turned red, morphing into a frankly frightening glare, but Draco jumped in before he could say anything, “I don’t think that’s any of your business now is it Crabbe.”

Bad move, that was a very very bad move. Being caught sitting with a Weasley was bad enough but defending a Weasley was more than enough to paint a target on his back. A nice big one that spelled out the words BLOOD TRAITOR in bold print red letters.

Crabbe crossed his arms, “you're supposed to be sittin’ with us! Your dad said so!”

If Draco had been in his right mind that comment would’ve gotten him to jump up and run back to wherever he was supposed to be before his father found out about his disobedience and punished him. But lately Draco had been doing a lot of things that one could say meant that he wasn’t in his right mind. And he’d already made quite a few bad decisions today.

Well, it is as they say. In for a knut in for a galleon.

So, he made a show of looking around the compartment before turning back to Crabbe and Goyle with wide eyes, “funny I don’t seem to be able to spot him, Ron do you see my father anywhere?” 

Ron perked up and gave him a sly smile, “no Draco I can’t find him. Is he hiding somewhere? Harry, do you see him?” 

Harry shook his head, “nope, can’t seem to find anyone in here besides us.” 

This was also a bad move, Crabbe and Goyle may not know how bad of a move it was, but the other soon-to-be Slytherin students would, and Draco had no delusions that Crabbe and Goyle wouldn’t be telling them the moment they made it back to the compartment. But it felt good.

So, Draco let himself continue to act on impulse just this once, and he had to admit, it felt freeing.

“Well seeing as my father isn’t here with us, I don’t see why I’d have to sit where he told me to. And I’m quite comfortable here, so I think I’ll stay.” 

Crabbe spluttered, not quite knowing what to say to Draco at that moment. As Draco thought back until their school years, he realized that he had always done most of the talking. Their relationship had been mostly Draco hurling insults with Crabbe and Goyle hurling fists. As Crabbe spluttered on, not quite managing to string together a coherent sentence, Draco noticed Goyle reaching for the pile of Chocolate Frogs on Rons left.

In an instant the fuzzy memory of their first-year train ride, when Draco had been standing in the doorway offering Harry his hand and the other boy had refused to take it, snapped into place. Draco went to shout out a warning, but it was too late. Goyle let out a howl of pain as he retracted his hand. Scabbers was hanging off his knuckle, his sharp little rat teeth stuck deep into the flesh. Goyle swung his hand around trying to dislodge the thing, nearly hitting Crabbe in the process. 

At some point the rat's jaw must have given out because he went flying off and hit the window, Crabbe and Goyle turned tail and ran after that, no doubt heading back to the front of the train and to the Slytherin compartment where they’d tell everyone of Draco’s betrayal.

It was then that he began to regret his decision, just a bit. After a bold move like that there was almost no way he’d be able to survive in Slytherin house. He’d have no allies of any kind. He’d just aligned himself with a blood traitor and the boy who took down The Dark Lord that most in their circle had worshiped as a savior. At this rate it was not going to be a pleasant seven years for him.

He was so distracted by his own thoughts he only vaguely heard Harry and Ron's discussion of Scabbers' well-being. He only just noticed Granger reentering their compartment.

“-trouble before we even get there!” Draco hadn’t heard the beginning of her statement, but he could make an educated guess on what had been said. 

“Scabbers has been fighting, not us!” Ron retorted he was scowling at her, Draco couldn’t remember a time where the so called “Golden Trio” hadn’t gotten along so this was a shock to him, he never knew there was a time when Ron was just as annoyed with Granger as the rest of the school. “Would you mind leaving while we change?” Change? Draco glanced out the window and noticed just how dark it had gotten and that the scenery had changed drastically, mountains and forests flew past them at a much slower pace now as the train slowed the closer, they got to Hogsmeade station. 

Hermione stuck her nose in the air, “I only came in here because people outside were behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors,” her voice sounded arrogant. “And you’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?” 

She left their compartment in a huff, door slamming shut behind her.

As Ron and Harry changed into their robes Draco watched out the window, wondering just how he was going to get himself out of the mess he’d just created. No Slytherin was going to trust him, not after the stunt he’d just pulled, he’d be ostracized.

A voice that Draco knew was spelled to only appear in compartments with a first-year present echoed throughout their own: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.”

Draco felt sick.

Chapter Text

Hogsmeade station looked exactly as Draco remembered it. Small, at least in comparison to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, with barely enough room to handle the capacity of students exiting the Hogwarts Express. The older students were making a beeline for the carriages and ignoring any first year they happened to cross paths with. Draco craned his neck, trying to peer around the sea of black robes but another slight to being eleven once again was his height. Unfortunately he’d always been a rather short child up until he hit his growth spurt in fourth year. He knew they were supposed to make their way over to the docks by the Black Lake, he just couldn’t see where that was, and he couldn’t hear the usual booming voice of Hagrid over the noise created by hundreds of students.

He was about to start off in the general direction he knew the docks to be when something caught his sleeve. Draco tensed, his shoulders stiffened, instinctively, his hand was grasping his wand beneath his robes. His head whipped around, a curse already on the tip of his tongue, only to find that it was Harry with a death grip on his sleeve. Draco relaxed as Harry tugged him in the opposite direction of where they were supposed to be going towards Ron and a small group of first years that had all assembled themselves together and were looking around the station in confusion.

Everyone in the group looked as though they were incredibly uncomfortable and nervous. He could see Granger and Longbottom had joined, as well as several soon-to-be-Slytherin students. Ron perked up when he spotted them approaching.

“Good, you found him!”

Harry released his sleeve when they were close enough and it was clear that Draco wouldn’t be wandering off again, “did you find your brothers?”

Ron scoffed and crossed his arms, “yeah, fat load of help they were. Just said first years weren’t allowed to take the carriages but wouldn’t say how we were supposed to get to the school!”

Their group of first years had grown but the platform wasn’t getting any less empty. Draco was surprised. He couldn’t remember a time when there were this many students at Hogwarts. His gaze swept over their group once again, eyes scanning the sea of faces around him, and he couldn’t say that he recognized all of them. Had their class gotten bigger?

“Hey!” Ron exclaimed, turning to Harry, “You were reading that book on the train right? The history book about Hogwarts?”

“Yeah?” Harry wrinkled his nose, staring at Ron in confusion.

“Well did it say anything about how the first years are supposed to get to Hogwarts?”

Draco knew how they were getting to the castle, but he chose to keep that to himself. He couldn't exactly spout out that they needed to go find Hagrid so the half-giant could taken them on an enchanted boat ride off to the castle. He was supposed to be a regular first year after all, and nobody had told them anything. So, until the crowds parted and Hagrid appeared he would keep his mouth shut and act just as clueless as the rest of his classmates.

Harry rolled his eyes, “if it did don’t you think I would’ve said something already? All it mentioned was a tradition leading back to the days of the founders. Same with the sorting ceremony. The author said she didn’t want to ruin the first year experience by saying too much.”

Ron wilted. “Ah well it was worth a shot,” he muttered.

The platform was still packed but the herd of students had finally begun to thin out, most of the older students now waiting for the carriages to come back around on their second trip. They’d amassed a decent sized group of first years now all huddled together, eyes darting around the platform.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!”

Finally Hagrid emerged from the mists, hairy face towering above not just the first years but the rest of the students as well. His lantern held high above his head to cut them a path through the night. He had already amassed a large group of first years and their group was quick to join them. Draco watched as Hagrid’s black eyes swept across the group and came to a stop at Harry.

“All right there, Harry?”

Harry smiled at Hagrid and gave an affirmative wave as the man's eyes continued across the rest of their group. The platform had almost completely cleared out by now, just a few seventh years now making their way off the train.

“Any more firs’ years? No - alright then! C’mon, follow me! Firs’ years follow me! Mind yer step, now!”

Hagrid led them down a steep and narrow path, darker than even the night sky would allow. The first years, Draco included, slipped more than once on the damp rock the path was made from and other than their footsteps and a few surprised cries, they were silent.

Hagrid led them down to the docks along the edge of the Black Lake, A small fleet of boats bobbed gently at the shoreline, patiently awaiting their arrival.

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid yelled at them when he spotted a group trying to squeeze five into one boat.

“There!” Ron yelled, rushing forward to claim one of the only empty boats left, beating out another group who’d also had their eyes on it. Harry rushed after him, grabbing hold of Draco’s sleeve once more to pull him along.

There were just enough boats to accommodate the number of first years so Granger wound up joining the three of them in their boat while Neville, who’d been following the girl around like a lost house-elf since the train, had to take the empty seat in the boat next to them. Only calming down when Granger promised that she’d meet up with him when they reached the castle.

“Everyone in?” Hagrid shouted from his boat which was already beginning to float away from the dock while holding a bright pink umbrella. “Right then — FORWARD!”

He thrust the umbrella forward and their fleet of boats took off across the lake. It was a calm night, nothing but a gentle breeze that caused the tree branches to sway about. The Black Lake was clear and the waters were calm. Draco was almost positive he saw the Giant Squid swim beneath their boats. As the boats drifted around a bend he felt his breath catch in his throat.

Hogwarts castle loomed tall and imposing above them. Each and every window lit up to show off its glory. The grey stone glittering in the moonlight. It was glorious and beautiful and completely intact, untouched by war, just as it should be. As their boats drifted nearer Draco couldn’t take his eyes off it.

For just a moment he couldn’t help but consider himself lucky. If everything were to go to shit tomorrow at least he was able to relive this moment.

The castle disappeared from view as their boats sailed through a curtain of ivy which led their boats through the tunnel which opened up to Hogwarts underground harbour. Each boat came to a stop at a dingy looking narrow wooden walkway that looked like it might collapse under the weight of a feather, trying to pass itself off as a dock. Ropes appeared from thin air and tied each boat to the dock and only after they were tied were the students allowed to disembark. The sort of dock led to a small beach-like area made of rocks and pebbles where Hagrid instructed them to wait.

He was checking each boat as the students climbed out of them, “watch yer step now. Careful now, rocks tend to be a bit slipp’ry. Oy!” He bent down to pull something from one of the boats and hold it aloft, “who’s toad is this?”

Neville, who looked just as miserable as he had been on the train, perked up, “Trevor!”

Hagrid lowered the toad into his waiting hands, “now you hold onto him, toads are known to be tricky little buggers when they want ter be!”

Hagrid marched his way to the front of their group, eyes sweeping across the amassed first years one last time, “alright e’ryone, almost there, just up this way! C’mon! Follow me!”

Hagrid led them outside and onto the castle lawn. The wet grass squashed beneath their feet. It was a short walk to the front steps of the castle and once they got there Hagrid wasted no time raising his fist to knock exactly three times on the large oak door. Hagrid barely had a chance to take a step back before they swung open to admit one Minerva McGonagall. Tall and imposing, dressed in the finest emerald green robes, charcoal black hair pulled back into an impeccable tight bun with an ornate pointed black hat atop her head decorated with two feathers that Draco thought looked suspiciously like quills. Her mouth set in a firm line as her green eyes swept across the group, peering over the top of a pair of glasses perched near the tip of her nose.

Hagrid cleared his throat to gain her attention, “The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall.”

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

With a flick of her wand the doors swung open entirely and they all hurried inside after Professor McGonagall who was already walking in a steady stride across the flagged stone floor. Draco heard Hagrid wish Harry a quiet, “good luck,” as the three of them passed by. Their professor led them past the doors which Draco knew would take them into the Great Hall and in through a much smaller doorway off to the side and into an empty side chamber where they all huddled closely together despite the still impressive size of the room. Only when the very last first year had made it inside did she choose to address them.

“Welcome to Hogwarts. Now, in a few moments, you will pass through these doors and join your classmates for the start-of-term banquet. But before you can take your seats, you must be sorted into your houses. They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards of all kinds. Now while you're here, your house will be like your family. Your triumphs will earn you points. Any rule breaking, and you will lose points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope that each of you will become a credit to whichever house becomes yours. The sorting ceremony will begin momentarily, and will take place in front of the rest of the school. So I suggest each of you take this time to smarten yourselves up while you wait.” Her eyes flicked from the crooked clasp on Neville's robes to the dirt on Ron’s nose—and, curiously, paused on Draco’s own hair.

“I will return shortly.” And with that she was gone.

Silence reigned through the hall after she left, but it didn’t last long, what started as a gentle murmur, grew into hushed conversations, grew into a steady stream of conversation.

“Do either of you know how they sort us into our Houses? Hogwarts: A History didn’t say much about it besides the fact that it was a time honored tradition.” Harry asked, looking back and forth between Draco and Ron.

Ron shrugged, “my parents wouldn’t tell me, something about not wanting to ruin it. I think it's some sort of test. Fred went on a lot about how it really hurts, but I think he was just joking.”

Draco watched as Harry nervously wrung his hands in the ends of his robes. McGonagall probably wouldn’t be impressed with the wrinkles he was causing. Draco took pity on the other boy and decided to pipe in.

“My dad said it had something to do with a hat,” Lucius had in fact never said anything of the sort, but they didn’t need to know that, “not really sure how that would work though.”

Draco watched as the tension in Harry’s face gave way to confusion, “a hat? How on Earth would a ha-”

That's when the screaming started. Draco tensed and watched as Harry gasped and went very pale. Ron turned his gaze to the far wall of their chamber and muttered a confused, “What the Hell?” Draco followed his gaze to the far side of the room and the tension bled from his shoulders immediately.

Ah, yes he’d forgotten about this. He thought as he watched a small group of ghosts calmly float through the walll.

To anyone who wasn’t already used to such things Draco could see why it would be slightly terrifying. The fact that each of them were a single shade of pearl white and just translucent enough to see right through could be considered off putting. The group before them now was made up of just four, not even half of the Hogwarts ghost population. A short and stout man, the top of his head completely bald even though the sides remained long, wearing a simple brown robe with a simple rope belt tied with three knots down the side. He was arguing with another ghost dressed in what would certainly have been a nice outfit in the fifteenth century, neck ruffle and all. They were accompanied by a young female ghost in an Arthurian style dress who looked quite a bit more grey than the other three and a man dressed in traditional wizard robes that were covered in a shimmering silver substance.

The Hogwarts House Ghosts: The Fat Friar, Nearly Headless Nick, the Grey Lady, and the Bloody Baron.

They made their way into the room, not even sparing the students a glance as they argued amongst themselves. “Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance — ”

The Fat Friar was cut off by Nearly Headless Nick, “My dear Friar, haven’t we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he’s not really even a ghost — I say,” he’d finally caught sight of the first year in the room, “what are you all doing here?”

Not a single student answered. They were all too busy staring at the ghosts with their mouths hanging open.

“New students!” the Fat Friar cheered. “About to be Sorted, I suppose?”

Some of them snapped out of their daze enough to nod at the ghost.

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff! My old House, you know.”

“That’s quite enough,” McGonagall had returned and she didn’t seem pleased to see the four ghosts hovering above them, “off with you now, the Sorting Ceremony’s about to start.”

The four ghosts drifted back through the wall they’d come in from. And McGonagall returned her attention to the students.

“Now, all of you, form a line,” they all scrambled to do as they were told. Draco yanked Harry along— the boy acting as though his limbs had turned to lead. “And follow me.”

Somehow Draco wound up behind Granger but in front of Harry with Ron filing in behind him. McGonagall led them from the small chamber, back into the main hallway, and then finally through the grand double doors of the Great Hall which swung open for them all on their own.

“It’s even better than I imagined,” Harry whispered.

Last time Draco had seen the Great Hall it had been a wreck. Which was probably why the moment they stepped through the doorway Draco couldn’t help but let out the same amazed gasp as the rest of the first year class. No matter how illogical it was, he’d half expected ruin: grand tables vanished, wounded sprawled across flagstones, the enchanted ceiling bare for the first time since the founders themselves, floating candles fallen, snuffed beneath trampling feet… But it was whole. Glowing. Just as it was when he left it last, and he couldn’t get the image out of his head.

And it really was. If Draco thought his best memory was seeing the castle for the first time from the boats this one fell into place right behind it. The Great Hall back to its former glory just as it always should have been. All four House Tables in their rightful place, the enchanted ceiling mirroring the perfect weather and clear night sky, the floating candles dancing above them in unpredictable patterns. Every now and again the candle light would catch the golden dinnerware making it shine brighter than it already was. Students from all four houses were watching as they marched down the center aisle towards the teachers table and the small stage it rested on. After they’d all reached the top McGonagall instructed them to turn and face the resort of the student body. Draco noticed that most eyes in the crowd were on Harry, not surprising as this was only the second public appearance of Harry Potter since his disappearance that Halloween night.

McGonagall made her way to the middle of the stage and produced a four-legged stool from within her robes which she set in the center of the stage, right in front of Albus Dumbledore's pedestal. Then she reached into her robes once again and pulled out the frayed, patchwork, and extremely dingy sorting hat and set it atop the stool. The first years watched the hat with bated breath and the rest of the school looked on in anticipation. The hat twitched, what could have been mistaken as a rip near the bottom of the brim opened wide as a mouth and the hat began its yearly song.

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,

But don’t judge on what you see,

I’ll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all.

There’s nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can’t see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true

And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

If you’ve a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin

You’ll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means

To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don’t be afraid!

And don’t get in a flap!

You’re in safe hands (though I have none)

For I’m a Thinking Cap!”

The whole hall burst into loud applause, with a few hesitant and bewildered first years joining in. The hat then bowed four times, once to each table, before returning to its previous inconspicuous state.

“All we’ve got to do is try on a dirty old hat!” Ron hissed, “I’m going to kill Fred! He kept going on about wrestling a troll!”

Draco snorted, “and you believed him?”

Ron scowled at him but shuffled his feet in embarrassment, “no,” he muttered. Draco smirked. Yeah, he definitely believed him . Harry smiled weakly, his face looking a pale shade of green.

McGonagall stepped closer to the stool holding a large parchment scroll, “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. Abbott, Hannah!”

Draco didn’t care to pay much attention to the sorting of his peers, just clapping along at the right moments. He couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen at his own sorting, he knew all too well what had happened the first time. The hat had barely touched the tip of his head before yelling out a deafening “SLYTHERIN.” At the time, he’d been proud. He was the perfect Slytherin and even the hat knew that without so much as having to touch him. He knew he wasn’t that same eleven year old boy anymore but he was positive he belonged nowhere else. Things were more complicated now. When he made his way to the green and silver table he’d sit alone, his peers wouldn’t want to speak with him after that stunt he’d pulled on the train and he’d spend most of his time trying to convince them he wasn’t a blood traitor. It would be hard to do that while hanging out with the likes of Harry Potter and one of the Weasley clan, the most well known and outspoken blood traitors of them all - that is, if they’d even still want to hang around him after this.

“Granger, Hermione,” was the first name Draco cared to pay attention to. The bushy haired girl eagerly ran up to the stool, the hat placed firmly on her head. Draco counted to forty six before the hat shouted out.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The red and gold table erupted into applause, they always did cheer the loudest when a new member joined their ranks.

The sorting continued on and Draco fell back into his thoughts.

What if Harry and Ron didn’t want to hang around him anymore when he was sorted into Slytherin. He already knew Ron’s feelings about his house, on the train the other boy had said he wasn’t so bad for a Slytherin, but would that sentiment still exist when they were truly sorted? And what if the toxicity between their two houses got to Harry just as it had last time? Draco wouldn’t be able to blame him, the bad blood between Slytherin and Gryffindor ran deep, all the way back to their founders' initial rivalry. But if it did all the work he’d put into creating and maintaining a friendship with Harry would be for naught and he’d be right back where he was only with no friends and no allies in a house full of people who saw him as a blood traitor. Even if he could earn their trust again, something essential would already be gone—some unspoken ease that couldn’t be recovered. He’d never be able to garner the same authority again. He’d wind up as someone else's lackey for sure.

“Malfoy, Draco.”

Draco’s stomach churned as he made his way to the stool. He took a seat, McGonagall began to lower the hat above his head. He waited for it to call out before it had even brushed a hair on top of his head, but that didn’t happen. Instead the hat was lowered fully until the wide brim fell over his eyes and he felt McGonagall remove her hand as a voice resonated inside his head

“My my, you truly are a unique case aren’t you?”

This didn’t happen before. The hat hadn’t spoken to him the first time. This was wrong.

“In all my years I can say I’ve never seen anything like this. Very interesting, I’ve never had the chance to re-sort a student before.”

Draco panicked, “re-sort!? What do you mean re-sort!?”

“Well it would seem as though I was quite hasty with my decision the first time. I’ve been sorting students for hundreds of years and I’m proud to say I’ve never once made a wrong decision. I refuse to let my spotless record be ruined due to a past that never happened.”

“What do you mean by that?” Draco asked “I was in Slytherin before and it worked out just fine. I’m as Slytherin as they come! It’s where I belong!”

“Were,” the hat quipped, “you were as Slytherin as they come, but things have changed now. You’ve changed and while Slytherin may have served you well once I don’t believe it has anything more to offer you. No, no, you’re far too different for that.”

“What do you mean by that? I haven’t changed that much! I’m still as cunning as they come…although my ambitions may have changed.”

“And therein lies the truth: you’ve changed your goals… and your soul along with them.”

“But I’m still resourceful and determined, I’ve been using whatever means necessary to figure out what happened to me and despite finding nothing but deadends I’m still looking! I may want to be a better person now but at my core I’m still a Slytherin!”

“You cannot lie to me. I can see everything here - in your mind. I can see you had ambitions once… but many of them have died, and your drive flickers more with each passing day. Your resourcefulness reigns true, but your determination wanes with each passing day. But I see something else here, the courage to push forward and brave the unknown.”

“No, no, no, absolutely not. You can’t possibly be suggesting that I belong in Gryffindor!?”

“And why not, all of your new friends will be there. Would you not say you were quite courageous when you decided to break away from your parents teachings, the only way of life you’ve ever known, and forge your own path? Tell me Draco, what drove you to make this decision? To me it seems like a rather daring move.”

Draco paused for just a moment, the hats question catching him off guard. He didn’t truly know what had pushed him to make that decision, an impulsive move he never would have thought to make before. “I refuse to die again! See self-preservation! Yet another Slytherin trait!”

“That's not it, not entirely at least. In fact I do believe that this is the first time that thought has crossed your mind at all. See if that were your only goal why change at all? Why change yourself? You could’ve gone about your life exactly as before if you were so happy with it, you knew what would happen, you could’ve just avoided the circumstances that lead to your death. Tell me Draco, what are your goals for this life? What do you desire? Who are you Draco Malfoy?”

Draco froze. What did he want to do with his life? He’d been handed a second chance—something people only dream of—and so far, all he’d managed was befriending his arch-nemesis and renouncing his own name. What was he supposed to do? What did he want to do?

“I don’t know.”

“Well then, perhaps you’ll be able to find the answers in - GRYFFINDOR!”

The last word was shouted for the whole room to hear. The hat was removed from Draco’s head before he could try and argue with it further. Draco blinked against the harsh light and squinted at the table of red and gold, still cheering but with just a little less enthusiasm than they had for the other students.

He felt a hand press against his back and turned to see Professor McGonagall looking at him with that same stern face, but he could swear there was just a hint of concern breaking through her mask.

Draco remained frozen in place.

“Off you go, Mr. Malfoy,” she said softly.

She nudged him off the stool and in the direction of the Gryffindor table. Draco stumbled off the stool, nearly tripped and fell down the steps, before taking a seat at the far end of the Gryffindor table as far away from anyone else as he could manage. The sorting continued on just as before, but Draco truly wasn’t paying any attention now. He didn’t even clap along with his new house mates or react when a new body joined them at the table.

He couldn’t believe it. Him, Draco Malfoy, a Gryffindor. What was his family going to say. His mother was going to be so disappointed, his father so angry. They’d asked him one thing before he left for school, not to embarrass them and he’d already gone and mucked it up not even one day in. 

They were going to kill him, they really were.

He was startled from his thoughts when everyone around him burst into the loudest cheers and applause of the whole night. He lifted his head from where he’d been staring at a chip in the wooden table. Around him the whole table had erupted, students were out of their seats, waving their hands around, whistling, clapping, shouting. Draco’s eyes drifted back towards the stage…ah Harry had been sorted, and just as the hat promised, he’d been sorted into Gryffindor yet again.

Draco watched as Harry tried desperately to scramble over to the end of the table where Draco was but he was stopped on several occasions for hand shakes, excited hugs, and several hair ruffles. By the time he manageed to drop down in the seat next to Draco his cloak had been pushed sideways, the clasp now resting on his shoulder, his hair an even larger mess then it had been after their windy boat ride, and his face as red as a tomato. Nearly Headless Nick, who has become the unofficial barrier between Draco and the rest of the Gryffindor students, pat Harry on the shoulder causing the boy to shiver violently.

Harry turned to Draco with a smile on his face, seeming much more relaxed than he had been just minutes ago, “we got sorted into the same house! That’s great!”

Draco chanced a look at the Slytherin table, he was receiving quite a few glares and nasty looks, but not nearly as many as he had been expecting, “yeah, great.”

Harry had turned his attention back to the stage, or more accurately the teachers table on the stage, he nudged Draco under the table, “he looks just like the card don’t you think.”

Draco followed Harry’s gaze to none other than Albus Dumbledore happily clapping along with each student sorted, that same twinkle in his eye he’d had all the way up until the moment Snape had blasted him off the clock tower, “yeah, he really does.”

Dumbledore didn’t notice their stares, too busy clapping for “Turnip, Lisa” getting into Ravenclaw.

“Weasley, Ronald” and Draco found his eyes drifting back to the sorting. Ron had just taken a seat on the stool and McGonagall lowered the hat onto his head the thing was barely on Ron’s head for thirty seconds before shouting “Gryffindor!”

For the first time since he took his seat Draco clapped along with the rest of his house as Ron made his way towards them. His three brothers cheering him on, Percy gave him a firm shoulder pat while one of the twins pulled him into a hug and the other one ruffled his hair. It took him about five minutes to break away and by the time he dropped into the seat across from Harry and Draco Blaise Zabini had already been sorted into Slytherin.

The first thing he did after he sat down was turn to Draco and give a beaming smile, announcing loudly, “Knew there was a reason I liked you!” Then to both him and Harry. “You know I think I would’ve rather wrestled a troll.”

Harry snorted and Draco laughed - just a bit hysterically. He watched as Blaise confidently made his way over to the Slytherin table, his plain black tie now an elegant green and silver. Draco looked down at his own tie with just a bit of jealousy. Thered and gold didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel like his . He hadn’t really thought about the consequences his meddling with time would have before. Logically he knew there would be some, but he never thought they’d be so drastic, or so soon.

“Welcome,” Dumbledore’s voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, “to another new year here at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!”

The whole school burst into applause once more while the first years shared confused looks amongst themselves.

“Is he - well a bit mad?” Draco heard Harry whisper to the Weasley brother sat nearest to them who wasn’t Ron. His name likely started with a B, or perhaps it was a P?

“Mad!?” The Weasley whispered back just a bit harshly. “He’s a genius! The best wizard in the world! But - uh - well I suppose those two aren’t exactly mutually exclusive now are they? So, yes, I believe you could say that he is, just a little bit mad.”

Draco had to fight to keep a straight face. Albus Dumbledore was more than just a bit mad, if anyone were to have asked him he would have had to say the man had more Doxies banging around inside his head than he did brains. But no one had asked him, so he kept his mouth shut and accepted the potatoes from Harry. Although he didn’t put much else on his plate. There was still an uncomfortable churning in his stomach that only grew as the conversation began to pick up around him.

He was beginning to become far too familiar with the feeling. It felt as though it had happened everyday since his arrival in this time, but tonight felt different. Maybe it was his nerves. Or maybe it was the looks he swore he was getting from every single table in the room, professors included. Most of them just looked on in curiosity, but he could feel the hostile stares aimed at him from the Slytherin table and when he risked a glance at the table he caught the glare of someone different each and every time. The Gryffindor table wasn’t much better, less hostile than some but not exactly welcoming. The older students kept shooting curious glances, the first years who actually knew who he was were keeping a wide berth and those who didn’t seemed to think it best to follow their example.

Harry, at least, was still there. Harry had no expectations, no preconceptions. He had no clue who his family was except for what Ron had mentioned on the train, and even then he didn’t seem to care. All Harry saw was Draco, no Malfoy, just Draco. It was nice.

“Are you going to finish those?” Ron asked, pointing at the yet untouched potatoes on Draco’s plate.

Draco blinked, startled by the rather abrupt intrusion to his thoughts. Nonetheless he shook his head and pushed his plate closer to Ron, “all yours.”

Ron brightened and quickly scrapped Draco’s potatoes onto his own plate, “thanks mate!”

He supposed this Weasley wasn’t so bad either. Sure Ron had initially come across as crass and rude but the more time Draco spent around him he came to realize the other boy was just unfiltered and blunt to a fault. Against his better judgment Draco was beginning to feel an unwarranted fondness for him. After Ron had polished off the potatoes they all watched as the grand meal disappeared from the table and was instead replaced by a spread of desserts that was just as grand, if not more so.

Draco watched Harry snag a few pieces of Treacle Tart and politely declined when he was offered a piece. Ron piled his own plate high with desserts just as he had with the food, acting as though he hadn’t had anything to eat in days. Draco still didn’t think he’d be able to stomach anything, but he stared longingly at the spread laid out before them. Hogwarts always had the best food and even better desserts.

He was just thinking that he may be willing to risk further upsetting his churning stomach for one of those chocolate eclairs when he heard a whispered hiss of pain from beside him. Draco turned back to Harry who had a hand clasped over his forehead rubbing at his scar as if he were in pain. Draco reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, “you alright?”

Harry turned to him, “yeah, yeah fine.” 

He turned back towards the head table and pointed towards someone in a very poor attempt at being discreet. “Do you know who that is? The professor talking with Professor Quirrell?” 

Draco looked over in the direction that Harry had pointed in only to lock eyes with Professor Snape who was very clearly glaring in their direction. Whether that glare was directed at Draco or Harry was unclear.

Draco’s mouth went bone-dry. His stomach twisted tighter with every heartbeat. He was happy now that he’d been interrupted before he could take that eclair, if he hadn’t he would more than likely have thrown it back up by now. He swallowed thickly and clenched his shaking hands together in his lap before tearing his gaze away from the man who, in another life, would’ve been his mentor and returning it to Harry who was looking at him expectantly.

“That’s Professor Snape,” his voice had an odd choked quality to it that he couldn’t seem to get rid of, “he’s friends with my father. He’s the potions professor.”

The Weasley Prefect had apparently overheard their conversation and chose that moment to butt in. “He’s right, but everyone knows he’s after Quirrel’s job, has been for ages now. He knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts Snape does. If you believe the rumors, which most of us do, he used to be one of You-Know-Who’s followers before Dumbledore managed to turn him spy.”

He whispered the last part with a sly smile on his face, “but you know, they’re only rumors,” and with a wink he’d turned back to his previous conversation with Hermione like nothing had ever happened.

Harry turned back to Draco, “is that how he knows your dad?”

Draco opened his mouth once. Then again. A third time. Still nothing. Then finally he managed to get out, “I suppose so.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something more but was interrupted when all of the desserts disappeared and Dumbledore stood from his seat once again.

“Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

“First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well. I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.

“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

There were a few scattered laughs around the Great Hall that quickly sputtered out when no one else joined in.

“He’s not serious, is he?” he heard Harry whisper to Percy.

“Must be, ” Percy angled himself closer to them with a frown on his face. “It’s not like him though, usually he gives us a reason why we’re not allowed to go somewhere — the forest’s obvious, full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that, although my brothers would have you believing otherwise. He should have told us prefects, at least!”

Following that Dumbledore had them all sing along as he conducted them through the school song. Everybody sang along at different speeds and tunes, Draco sang his rather quickly to get it over with sooner while the last remaining were the Weasley twins singing to the tune of what Draco assumed to be a funeral march.

“Ah, music,” Dumbledore proclaimed. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

And with that they were off to the common rooms. Draco paused in the doorway of the Great Hall and watched as the Slytherin Prefect led the Slytherin first-years down to the dungeons. That should’ve been him—descending into familiar stone corridors, welcomed by people he understood. Instead he was headed up the stairs to a common room he didn’t know the location of and had never seen before with a bunch of people who, while not outright hostile, obviously didn’t want him there.

“Come on, mate we’re gonna lose the group.” Draco watched as the last of the Slytherin first years descended into the dungeons before sighing and turning back to his own group. Most of them had already begun ascending the stairs, Draco, Ron, and Harry were the only three still lingering at ground level. Ron tugged on the sleeve of his robes and urged him forward. They rushed to catch up with the group, Ron kept a light grip on Draco’s arm as the group made their way up the stairs urging him along the whole way. Many of their fellow first years were looking around in awe at the living paintings and the moving staircases.

They climbed up a flight of stairs, were led down a hallway, up another flight of stairs, and another, and another. It seemed the Gryffindors were quite a ways up the castle, possibly in one of the many towers. After a rather unpleasant run in with Peeves, Hogwarts resident Poltergeist, they finally arrived at their destination. Weasley the Prefect led them down a corridor and walked them nearly to the very end before stopping in front of a portrait of the largest woman Draco had ever seen. She appeared Greecian, draped in fine pink silkes with a woven crown of flowers and leaves on her head and her brown hair curled into ringlets. Her eyes swept over their group before landing on Percy.

“Password?”

Percy turned back to them, “pay attention now! You’ll need to know this to get into the common room, it changes monthly so be sure to check the bulletin board for the new one the first of every month.” Then he turned back to the Fat Lady, “Caput Draconis.”

The picture swung open and they made their way through a small tunnel that then opened up into a very cozy common room. Bookshelves lined the walls, a roaring fire was going in the corner surrounded by plush armchairs and a large comfortable-looking couch. A reading nook was set up in the corner, window seats overlooking the grounds with a very nice view of the black lake and the Quidditch pitch on the opposite side. There were tables set up all around with plush chairs ready for students to study. And everything was red and gold with small accents of white scattered about.

Draco had never been to the Gryffindor common room before and, although lacking in the quiet elegance of the Slytherin common room, it looked warm, comforting and homey. He was surprised to find that he liked it. Even if the red and gold was quite garish.

Percy led them off to a small corridor on the far side of the room, it branched off into two hallways where he directed the girls to the staircase on the right and the boys to the staircase on the left. Draco followed the other boys up a spiral staircase that opened into another corridor, this one with doors that Draco assumed led to the different dorm rooms, each of the doors were adorned with five or six different names of the boys in their year group. Different groups were splitting off as they found their own dorms in the end just leaving Draco, Ron, Harry, Neville, Seamus, and the boy who Seamus had always seemed to be attached to the hip of—Donnie? Devin? David? It was something that started with a D.

They found their dorm all the way at the end of the hall, the only room not on either side of the wall but smack dab at the end of the hallway. Each of their names was printed on the door alphabetically by last name. Seamus F., Draco M., Neville L., Harry P., Dean T., Ron W. Ron, who found himself at the front of the group, pushed the door open. 

The first thing that Draco realized was that the room was huge, bigger than any of the dorms he’d been in during his first time around, the wall directly across from them was in the shape of a semicircle, which Draco took as confirmation to his suspicion that they were in one of the towers, with three beds pushed against in and three more on either side of the room. The beds were huge, Draco would dare say bigger than those in the Slytherin dorms, four-posters with plush red and gold sheets and deep-red velvet curtains hanging off each side. Each of their trunks had been placed at the foot of one, Draco found his on the semicircle wall next to a window, it was to the right of Harry’s who was in the middle with Ron on his left side. 

There was some muttering amongst each other and a fair bit of laughter as they all got ready for bed. Harry didn’t say much and Draco could tell he was incredibly tired because he didn’t say anything or even laugh along with the other boys when Ron announced that Scabbers was trying to eat his sheets. Draco sunk into his bed, which he was loath to admit, was actually very comfortable, even better than his at home.

The other boys had already fallen asleep, Draco could hear their deep breathing and an annoying whistle like snore emanating from Neville's bed, he glanced over at Harry to find him already passed out rolling over and muttering in his sleep.

As Draco stared up at the bright red canopy of his new four-poster bed he found his mind drift back to his conversation with the sorting hat. The damn thing was right, he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do. He had a second chance at—well, practically everything. At least everything that mattered. And wasn’t that exactly what he wanted? A chance to change, to change his whole life around for the better. Everything he’d been wishing for since he’d taken that damn mark.

He’d managed to change a lot in the last month. He’d befriended Harry Potter, humiliated his parents, told off Crabbe and Goyle, become a Gryffindor, and practically gained the title of Blood Traitor in less than a month, and half of that was just today! That was changed, and based on what the sorting hat had said it was a step in the right direction.

A month ago he’d decided he wanted to be something different, yesterday he’d realized that he needed to be more than something different, he needed to be something better. A month ago he’d decided the first step of his journey would be to sit with Harry Potter on the Hogwarts Express. Today he did just that. The only problem with that was when it came to a plan, that was as far as he got.

Now he just needed to figure out what the hell step two was. 

Simple enough.