Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Draco severely missed the noise of heavy rain on a tin roof. He’d only ever heard it once before, long ago, when he was very small. His mother had taken him to St. Mungo’s one rainy afternoon, and sat him down in the waiting room as she’d gone inside.

He never remembered how long she’d been inside, or who she was there to visit, because he’d been so enchanted by the soft sounds of pitter-pattering that seemed to surround him on all sides.

After a while, she picked him up and took him home, and he never heard that noise again. Now, rolling over in his silk duvet as the rain fell heavily, he wished he had a tin roof. Not the magically reinforced plywood and metal of Malfoy Manor, but something softer. Something more charming, something worn, but loved.

Though it didn’t matter now, because sunlight was creeping in through the blinds, and soon he’d have to be up, washed, dressed, and downstairs, eating his plain oatmeal and waiting for his father to criticize his posture. Or maybe his expression, or tone of voice.

A bleating screech pierced the silence.

“Up!” It shrieked.

“Up, Up!”

Draco sighed, rolling out of bed.

“Yes, yes, I’m going..” He muttered. After a moment of incessant noise, he slapped the old alarm clock. It squawked one last time before settling into silence.

He trudged to the bathroom, and turned the tap on. Soon, steam filled the small, intricately decorated space, and he stripped, and stepped into the scalding tub. The water felt nearly boiling, running up his legs and back like hands, pulling him downwards into some fiery pit, but he wouldn’t have it any colder.

“Hot water calms the mind,” Dobby had told him once.

“Make sure to have a hot bath regularly, Draco, or you’ll never be at your most reasonable.”

After the tub, he shuffled back to his bedroom with a towel round his waist, and began to dress. He barely looked at his wardrobe— every black-and-white thing in his wardrobe matched every other. It was just a matter of mix-and-match.

Empty-minded, he slumped down the grand mahogany staircase toward the dining table. Mother was already there, looking serene as always in her long black house gown, her hair done up the same way it was every day since the day he was born.

Mother was a regularity in his life, a rock of sorts. No matter what happened, she kept the same peaceful expression, the same calm composure. Every day she grew older, but that seemed to be the only thing that ever changed about her. It brought Draco a little corner of placidness in his ever-changing life.

“Good morning, Draco,” She smiled.

“You’ve received a rather important letter. Why don’t you go and take a look?”

Draco tilted his head. He rarely received mail that deserved any more attention than a glance.

“It’s in the front entrance, love,” she added. Draco nodded, and started off toward the front entrance. In secret, he called Malfoy Manor The Anthill . It seemed only fitting, for a house as massive and as windy. He’d been suggesting to Father to give guests a map, just to be sure they wouldn’t get lost. Of course, he’d dismissed it, muttering something about his prissy femininity. He was rather used to that by now.

He turned the corner into the front entrance, where a single letter was sitting on a table just before the towering, grandiose oak double doors. It was thick, yellowed parchment, scrawled upon gracefully with emerald green ink. It read,

Mr. D. Malfoy

The Largest Bedroom in the East Wing

Westmost Estate of the Noble House of Malfoy

Wiltshire, United Kingdom

Draco scratched his head. This letter held an odd, specific sort of magic, to know not just where he lived, but which bed he woke up in. Slowly, he turned it over. There, unmistakable, rested the crimson wax seal of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Chapter Text

The journey into London was a rather short one— quite the blessing for one who wants to communicate with their father as little as possible. Though the floo networks were always rather clogged around back to school time, they managed to get to the Leaky Cauldron alright in a snappy twenty minutes, give or take.

The next challenge was maneuvering his way through the moth-eaten throng of pub-goers. This was a far more difficult challenge, but after a good ten minutes of polite conversation and awkwardly forced smiles, he was out on the other side, and into the brick alleyway.

“That hovel is the most rancid hole in London,” his father snapped.

Mother’s eyes carried a hint of quiet judgement at his words, but she didn’t make a peep.

“I agree,” Draco chimed in, just for the sake of agreeing.

Father‘s cane clicked sharply against the bricks.

“Right,” he said, turning to Draco.

“I will take what money I need and go to fetch Draco’s books. Narcissa will go and purchase supplies, while Draco will go to Madam Malkin’s to be fitted for his robes. After he’s gotten those, he’ll go and get his wand, and all three of us will meet up so that I can choose his owl. Understood?”

Draco nodded. Father often spoke like Draco and his mother weren’t there at all, so they were rather used to it. By now, the bricks were separated, and the three of them stepped through.

Draco barely had time to marvel at the long, winding road full of charming magical shops, and magic folk in funny hats and cloaks, and all sorts of magical bits and bobs sitting in the windows, because Father’s cane came flying down onto his heel with a sharp ‘thwack!’

“Yes, I’m going!” he yelped, setting off down the street.

Draco barely had a foot in the door when Madam Malkin descended upon him, her chubby fingers wrapping around his shoulders and lifting him up onto the stool.

“Hello, dearie. Hogwarts, is it?” She asked, already breaking out the tape measure.

“Yes, Hogwarts. Under, ahem, Malfoy?” he coughed, batting his lashes in hopes of catching her off-guard. She only huffed, as if she heard the name ‘Malfoy’ twice a day. 

“Alright, now, just stand still, and let the tape measure do its work,” she instructed, shuffling over to her massive tower of drawers and beginning to rummage for who-knows-what.

After a moment, the door-bell jingled, and Madam Malkin bustled off to her next client.

“Hogwarts, dear?” He heard her ask.

“Got the lot here— another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.”

Draco craned his neck slightly to see who it was coming around the corner. He wasn’t.. impressed, with what he saw. A slim little boy, his age, with warm brown skin and jet-black hair that stuck up every which way, including covering his entire forehead in a thick layer of strands. The bottle-green eyes that did poke out from behind the mop were covered by thick-rimmed round glasses, cracked in the middle. He looked.. lower class, to be frank. But who knows? He had no idea the Crabbe was of pure-blood when he first met him.

“Hullo,” he nodded to the boy,
“Hogwarts, too?”

The boy nodded in return, stepping onto the stool.

“Yes,” he answered softly.

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands,” he sighed, trying to get the conversation started. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first-years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow,” he added, idly smoothing down his robes.

“Have you got your own broom?” Draco asked.

“No,” said the boy, rather sullenly.

“Play quidditch at all?” he wheedled.

“No,” the boy said again.

This boy was not very easy to make conversation with.

“I do— Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you’ll be in yet?” He asked simply.

“No.” Again.

“Well, no one really knows till they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been— Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

“Mmm”, the boy hummed, not looking up from his shoes.

He opened his mouth to ask another question when his stool rattled. He would have fallen off, had he not gone still at the sight of the truly gargantuan man standing in the window with a pair of ice-creams. He looked like a mountain with arms. His massive beard looked like it could hold a human child up to the age of five, and his great hands had fingers the size of bananas, with the thickness of sausages. Draco stared. Not in wonder, exactly—more like caution.

“I say, look at that man!” He cried, hoping maybe the sheer size of him would elicit a reaction from the dismal boy.

It did elicit a reaction, only, not the one he was hoping for.

“That’s Hagrid,” he grinned, giving the towering man a cheerful wave.
“He works at Hogwarts.”

The name was vaguely familiar. He remembered Father doing a case on him once, arguing that a man so large could harm the little children. Draco thought that was silly, Father had never cared about the livelihoods of any children other than his own— and that was simply a matter of legacy.

“Oh, I’ve heard of him,” he shrugged.
“He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?”

This seemed to sour the boy’s mood from solemn to surly.

“He’s the gamekeeper,” he huffed.

“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage— lives in a hut in the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic and ends up setting fire to his bed,” he chuckled.

“I think he’s brilliant,” the boy said shortly.

Brilliant was a bit far. Fantastically large? Sure. Comedically stupid? Most likely. But brilliant?

“Do you?” he asked, incredulous.
“Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”

“They’re dead,” the boy said plainly.

Of course, Draco felt sorry for him, that was ghastly. But he was also terminally preoccupied with making sure his robes fit him just right.

“Oh, sorry,” he replied offhandedly. Then a thought struck him. Was the orphan boy of wixen heritage?

“But they were.. our kind, weren’t they?” he asked carefully.

“They were a witch and a wizard, if that’s what you mean,” the boy shrugged. He didn’t seem to care very much about blood-purity, or their conversation for that matter. Maybe a subject-change was in order.

”You are excited, though, aren’t you? To go to Hogwarts?”

Finally, an expression of mirth broke through the thick mop, and he perked up, opening his mouth to answer. But before he could, Madam Malkin came toddling in on her squatty legs, a warm smile on her face.

“That’s you done, my dear,” she nodded to the boy, who hopped off the stool at lightning speed.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” he sighed, shuffling a little to the left as the tape measure tried to get at his ankles.

He never told me his name, Draco realized, frowning as the door jingled behind him. Didn’t even ask mine.

After a while, Draco had bought his robes, and Father had gotten his books and cauldrons and things— all that remained was his wand. Father decided to wait for them outside the Leaky Cauldron— ‘I cannot stand that eccentric old codger!’ So Draco went in with his mother alone.

The shop was deathly quiet, and seemed almost like a relic, someplace that hadn’t been touched in centuries. On every wall, hundreds of thin, rectangular boxes were piled up to the ceiling, some in neatly organized rows, some simply tossed about, but one got the feeling that nothing was a hair out of place.

Mister Ollivander appeared seemingly out of nowhere, creeping towards them with large, pale, lamp-like eyes.

“Well, hello. Narcissa, I remember you. Walnut, dragon heartstring, ten inches, slightly bendy. Took us a solid eleven wands before we got it just right. And this must be Draco, eh? Lovely to meet you, my boy. My, you’ve got eyes just like… Well, I’m sure someone had told you. Come now.”

Ollivander began to measure strangely specific things on his person, like belly-button to knee, ear-to-ear length, nose-to-toes, and pointer finger to ankle. As he did, he rambled,

“Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mister Malfoy. We use unicorn hairs, the heartstrings of dragons, and phoenix feathers. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two dragons, phoenixes or unicorns are the same. This goes to say, you will never get as good results with another wix’s wand.”

“Let me think… Ah.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling as he pulled a sage-green box from a messy pile.

“That will do,” he said sharply, nearly swatting the enchanted tape measure from mid-air.
“Here you are. Fourteen inches, apple, unicorn hair, slightly swishy. Go on, give it a wave.”

Draco waved the wand unceremoniously, and somewhere in the far distance of the shop, something glass shattered. Ollivander winced, and took it back.

“No, no…” He muttered, placing it back where it had gone before. He pulled a silvery blue box from the shelf, sighing.

“This one has a decent shot. It was a perfect match with your Father, but he decided he’d rather have that utterly impractical cane. Truly a.. Well, here, just take it,” he nodded encouragingly.

Draco gave the wand a little swish, and he heard dusty shop window behind him crack.

“Sorry!” he gasped, setting the wand down with a cringe. Ollivander only shook his head.

“Nonsense, this is all part of the process,” he insisted.

For the next quarter of an hour, Mister Ollivander danced around the shop, picking out wand after wand, but eventually deciding to toss them before they ever got into Draco’s hand.

After nearly a dozen mismatched wands, Ollivander finally produced a scarlet box from a high-up, neatly organized shelf.

“Here, try.. this one,” he grinned, almost mischievously.

The wand was sleek, and black, with a little twist in the grip. He took it carefully in his hand, and gave it a flick.

Draco felt a warmth broiling in his stomach, that reached all the way out to the tips of his fingers, and seemed to move into the wand and shoot out the other end in the form of red and golden sparks.

Mother clapped politely, a deep, proud smile on her face. Ollivander’s eyes flashed, deepened, like he’d been waiting for this all along.

“That’s.. Hm.. Let’s see here..”

The old man went back to busying himself with organization, so the pair of them left twelve galleons on the counter and let themselves out.

It was lovely to be back in the daylight, after the stuffiness of the wand shop. Though, he barely had a moment to bask in the warmth of the sun before Father dragged him off to pick out a mean-looking eagle owl.

He barely paid attention, his mind still lost on the day’s earlier events. He was still in a fog as they made their way back through the Leaky Cauldron and floo’d home again.

It wasn’t until Draco was back, sitting on his bed when everything truly dawned on him.

He had fourteen days between now, and moving away from home for the first time in his life.

Chapter Text

The month that followed his trip to Diagon Alley would go down in his memory as one of the most unrelenting of his life. Every morning, he would awake in a state of elation, believing it to be the morning. Then came the dreadful realization—it wasn’t the morning, and wouldn’t be for a number of days. He would pull the covers back over his head and try to sleep. He never could.

The days were even worse. While Mother was a little warmer to him knowing that he would be gone soon, this knowledge seemed to only sour father’s mood more than it already was. He settled into a dangerously friendly manner, always offering Draco all sorts of luxuries he’d usually have to earn.

“Would you like a new broom, Draco?” he asked one dreary morning, to Draco’s confusion and alarm.

“I appreciate the offer, father, but I cannot accept, you are being far too gracious with me,” he responded cautiously, eyes searching the sitting room for every escape.

Father’s eyes flashed. “You’re being ungrateful, son.”

Instantly, alarm bells rang in his head. This was where the path forked between a lashing on the hide and no food for a week, and narrow escape. He had to tread lightly.

“My deepest apologies, father, I meant no offense,” he began, checking to make sure father wasn’t reaching for something to throw.

“I simply meant that I am undeserving of such a blessing, however I am eternally thankful for your kind gift.”

“Draco,” he said sharply.

It was an agonizingly long moment before he continued. He always liked to drawl out his sentences, just to keep people on their toes.

Father’s eyes flicked downwards towards the thick leather belt fastened around his decadent blue robes, and Draco’s chest seized. He nearly flinched, but managed to keep his eyes open at the thought that flinching in itself would earn him a good whacking.

“I suppose that is the case. You’ll get the broom sometime, when I’m not too busy with my work. Run along.”

Those last two words glittered with danger, as if to say, before I change my mind.

Draco sighed nervously, and toddled from the room on shaky legs.

This sort of interaction happened non-stop throughout the whole month, up until the day before he was to leave.

He’d been packing his case upstairs in his bedroom when he heard mother call,

“Draco!”

The sense of urgency in her voice was one he knew all too well. He could barely move, so much as walk all the way through the halls of The Anthill towards her beckoning voice. Nevertheless, his body began to stand and walk, out the door, down the endless halls and stairs, and into a grand, round room, with all sorts of plush couches.

“Draco,” she said again, her voice cracking.

“Your father wants to see you.”

He knew it was coming before the words fell from her lips, but they stuck like needles nonetheless. It was as if the feeling of a limb falling asleep had spread through his entire being to culminate in his head and chest.

“Yes, mother,” he heard himself say.

It was times like this where he didn’t feel very attached to his own body.

When the door creaked open, there was Father, sitting comfortably in a large, plush white armchair. He smiled warmly at him, though it held no warmth.

The room smelled like fresh parchment and drying ink. A pleasant, comforting scent, for one who doesn’t associate the smell of an office with ‘behavioral corrections.’

“Draco,” he said, soft enough that it might have sounded kind to someone else.

Draco’s breath caught. He’d already run through five answers in his head, searching forth one that wouldn’t land him on the floor.

“Yes, Father,” he said quickly—too quickly.

He rose from his chair, deliberate as always, smoothing the folds of his blue robes. Every movement was measured.

“You’ve grown insolent. Do not think that Hogwarts will be your great escape. I have eyes and ears everywhere, and I will always be watching you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he nodded, eyes squeezed shut.

“I don’t think you understand, Draco.”

“I— I didn’t mean to be—” Draco swallowed, trying to slow his voice, but panic leaked through every word. “I meant no offense, Father. Please— I’ll fix it, I—”

“You’ll fix it,” he repeated, almost pleasantly. His hand moved to his belt. He forced himself to stand straighter, to keep his eyes forward; flinching would only make it worse.

His fingers lingered on the belt buckle, just long enough for Draco’s lungs to tighten. He didn’t look away. That would only make it worse.

When the strike came, it was quick, hot, sharp across his ribs. Not the worst he’d had, but enough to steal his breath. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep silent.

His ribs throbbed, heat spreading under the fabric of his robes, but he kept his breathing even, shallow, the way he’d taught himself to after years of this.

“You will not act so freely again, Draco. You’ve already been a selfish embarrassment, don’t make it worse,” he said, already turning back to his chair.

“And what do we say?” he asked sweetly, threading his belt loop back through his velvet robes.

“Thank you for my discipline,” Draco nodded. Though the words scraped his throat raw, they came out steady. His legs felt wrong beneath him, too light, like he might float away if he didn’t keep moving. He nodded once, stiff, and backed out of the room.

The following day at King’s Cross station, Draco clung to his mother’s arm as they weaved throughout the crowds. Father had refused to come, so it was just the pair of them among the muggles. The place itself was grand, but no more grand than his third dining room. Gaggles of non-magic folk were squawking on their little rectangles, wrapped in coats of every shade of cement and fecal matter.

“Right, here we are,” mother nudged.

“Platform Nine and Three Quarters!”

There didn’t seem to be much of a platform. What mother was gloriously presenting to him was a brick wall, half of the arch between platforms nine and ten.

“Where?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well it can’t be out in the open, can it?” she replied, gesturing vaguely to the muggles.

“All you’ve got to do is run straight at the wall. Don’t hesitate, or you’ll crash. My cousin once got stuck between platforms! What a day that was. Anyhow, go on.”

That didn’t make Draco any less nauseous.

“Go!” he heard her cry.

He squeezed his eyes shut, clamped his hands to their cart, and sent himself barreling at the wall.

Any moment he would go crashing into the wall, and look quite stupid, he thought to himself.

But after a long, crash-less moment, he dared to peek an eye open, expecting to be stuck in some sort of mid-platform phantom zone.

What he saw instead was a grand red steam engine, and a massive crowd of witches and wizards bustling about, loading their children aboard.

He felt a rush of air behind him, and before he knew it, mother’s warm hand was on his shoulder.

“Welcome to Platform Nine and Three Quarters,” she smiled warmly.

Near the front of the train, a boy was sobbing into an old woman’s peacock-feathered frock, clutching at her sides as he cried out,

“Please don’t make me go, Nan! I don’t want to go!”

He felt a little sorry, but at least that boy was lucky enough to have a grandparent who wasn’t at risk of going to Azkaban, he thought sourly.

A little farther down, a pair of ginger twins were poking their heads out the window, making a different face every time. Below them, a frumpy little woman whom he assumed was their mother was swatting her large handbag at them.

Looking leftmost, he spotted Greg Goyle being dragged to the train by the scruff of his neck.

“Ow, Mum..” he heard him mumble.

He turned to his own mother.

“Thank you for taking me to the platform, mother. Goodbye,” he said shortly, turning on his heel.

He barely made it five steps before charging back into her arms.

“You’ll be okay, won’t you? With him?” he whispered, clutching onto her silken black robes like they were the last string attaching him to life.

The words made her breath hitch.

“I’ll be alright,” she said, squeezing him tightly.

“You get on that train and you don’t worry about me. Write home, I’ll write back.”

She kissed the top of his head.

“Remember how much I love you, my dragon. Go on.”

He squeezed her one last time, before stepping back.

“Love you too, mum. I’ll see you at Christmas?”

“See you at Christmas.”

It wasn’t just a goodbye, it was a promise. She’d be okay.

Merlin, he hoped she’d be okay.

Inside the train, it was warm, and homey, and though it was a tunnel, it felt more like a cozy den than the hollow pit he was used to.

He began to drag his case down the aisles, the thick contents of books and pewter cauldrons and such tugging at his wrist. Right around the middle, he found the compartment that held on its two benches his only friends in the world.

Pansy Parkinson waved cheerfully at him, nodding him inside, her bobbed black hair whipping backwards. She had lightly tanned skin, a new acquisition from summertime he supposed, and was already in her Hogwarts robes. He figured he’d ask later, that was always a good strategy with her.

Crabbe and Goyle were sitting on the floor, swapping sweets. The pair of them looked significantly larger than when he’d seen them last, and though he couldn’t tell from their sitting positions, he assumed they’d gotten taller as well.

Crabbe moaned when he pulled out another Rowena Ravenclaw from his chocolate frog.

“That’s my fourth one!” he cried.

Blaise Zabini was huddled up against the far wall, an open notebook on his lap. The boy had a slim face with hollower cheekbones than he remembered. Home hadn’t been feeding him, he guessed. His thin, bony fingers looked that way. His long, bouncy curls were gone as well. Courtesy of whatever man Mrs. Zabini was targeting next, he thought, deciding that a woman so famous for her beauty such as that would never shave her son’s head down to practically bald, not for no good reason, anyhow. No, that was a man’s work.

He slid open the door and took a seat as close to the window as he could manage without accidentally kicking Crabbe. No one but Pansy had noticed he’d come in.

“Hey,” he waved, catching everyone’s attention.

“Draco!” Goyle smiled.

“You ponce, we haven’t heard from you all summer!”

He laughed weakly.

Oh, if only you knew what sort of summer I’ve been having, he thought to himself.

“So,” began Blaise, finally bringing his nose out of his notebook,

“Let’s ask the tough questions, shall we?”

The compartment went silent, Draco’s mind racing.

“If someone was to be in Hufflepuff, which loser would it be?”

“Goyle,” Crabbe giggled.

“Nuh-uh!” Goyle cried in protest.

Pansy laughed as well.

“Oh, come on. We all know where we’re all going. What I’m curious to know is how they put us there. Blaise? C’mon, your mum tells you everything!”

Blaise sighed.

“She wouldn’t tell me this, though believe me, I tried. I heard the Weasley Twins say you have to wrestle a troll, though I doubt their word, blood-traitor filth.”

He nodded, looking out the window as he felt the train began to chug. Hundreds of parents were running with the train, waving to their kids, sobbing as they disappeared from sight.

It nearly made Draco smile.

“I heard Harry Potter’s on the train, you know,” Pansy said after a while.

“What? No way!” Cried Goyle.

“I mean, he would be eleven years old by now. And I’m pretty sure he’s still in England, it would only make sense.” Shrugged Blaise.

“Well come on then,” said Crabbe, wiggling his eyebrows.

“If Harry Potter’s on the train, let’s go find him.”

The hour and a half that followed was filled with pointless questions. Draco did most of the talking, Crabbe and Goyle just stood there looking menacing, so that people would tell the truth. Eventually, Hannah Abbott, a perpetually nauseous ginger girl, coughed up something useful.

“Well, I think he’s in the front half of the train, cause he bought the whole trolly. Everyone back here’s been moaning about it for hours!”

It was a clever trick for asserting dominance, that. Whoever was raising him must’ve taught him strategy.

“Right. Any clue what compartment?” He asked, although he knew he was pushing his luck. He vowed that if Abbott barfed, he’d use Goyle as a human shield.

“Well, I know that Longbottom didn’t get any, and he’s compartment ten. You can narrow it down from there, can’t you?” She asked shakily.

He supposed he could, and he was eager to escape the splash-zone anyhow.

Compartments ten, nine, and eight all held older children, seven, six, and five held only girls; Four was where he struck gold.

He slid open the door, and there was a massive mound of sweets piled all over the seats, with two boys sitting among the mountain.

One of them was the sluggish boy from Madam Malkin’s, the one with dead parents.

It didn’t take him long to make the connection, and his eyebrows shot up in alarm. Harry Potter! The Harry Potter, who was sitting against the window, chocolate smeared on the corner of his mouth.

“Is it true?” He asked, with barely restrained wonder.

“They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

If Draco was born The Harry Potter, he’d have a little more confidence.

Harry Potter’s eyes flicked to Crabbe and Goyle. Both of them were trying their best to look mean, but he could tell they wanted to introduce themselves, maybe shake his hand if they were lucky.

“Oh, this is Crabbe, and this is Goyle,” he gestured, knowing the pair of them would be happy to know that Harry Potter knows who they are.

“And I’m Malfoy, Draco Malfoy,” he added smoothly.

The ginger boy sitting across from him sniggered.

“Think my name’s funny, do you?” He asked, crossing his arms.

“No need to ask who you are. My father told me all Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.”

He turned back to Harry, satisfied.

“You’ll soon find out that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

He smiled in a way he hoped was encouraging, and extended a hand. If father were here, he’d be nodding his head in approval, he thought cheerfully.

“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks,” the boy responded, not taking his hand.

His ears went pink, and his nostrils flared.

He flashed his eyes menacingly at the Potter boy.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he threatened.

“Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid and it’ll rub off on you.”

Both of them stood up, and it was the first time it clicked in his mind that Potter was taller than he himself, and Weasley was taller than all of them.

“Say that again,” Potter growled.

“Oh, you’re going to fight us now, are you?” He asked, half-condescending-remark-half-nervous-question.

“Unless you get out now,” he said.

“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we boys?” He said, which was lie number one.

“We’ve already eaten all our food,”

Lie number two.

“And you still seem to have some.”

Goyle somewhat nervously reached down to grab a chocolate frog.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched something small, and grey, and lightning fast shoot out of a box of Bertie-Bott’s every flavor beans. The rat leapt out at him, sinking its tiny little teeth into his knuckle.

Goyle let out a horrible yowl, swing the rat round and round and round as he and Crabbe backed away at the notion that there were more finger-biting rats hiding under the enormous pile of sweets.

When the rat finally went flying, the three of them took off running, and didn’t stop until they reached the door.

When they finally made it, Draco was thoroughly winded. His chest heaved with the effort of rubbing halfway down the train, and he flopped down onto the seat.

“Harry Potter is a stupid git,” he muttered to himself.

“And so’s Weasley, that brute. And the rat! Augh, Goyle, do you have rabies?”

Pansy was cackling her head off.

“Are you kidding me?! You three got beaten by two little boys and a rat? Your chances of survival in this world are slimmer than I ever could‘ve imagined,” she smiled.

“Oi!” He cried.

“I didn’t want to fight him.”

Crabbe stifled a laugh at that.

“Sounded a little different when you made fun of his dead parents,” he prodded.

“Merlin knows, I know how it feels for people to poke fun at how you were raised,” Blaise sighed.

Draco nodded.

“Yeah, I know. I still think Potter’s a git, though.”

“Fair is fair,” he heard Pansy mutter.

By the time all five of them had changed into their robes, it had gotten dark out, and the train was slowing to a stop.

“We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.” Came a pleasant voice, echoing up and down the corridor.

Nerves grabbed an iron grip on his already fast-beating heart, but he steeled himself and stepped into the corridor with the rest of the student body.

As soon as the train was stopped, Draco pushed his way out and onto the wet, muddy ground, where he would have stumbled and fallen on his face had Pansy not caught him.

“Firs’ years! Any more firs’ years? Mind yer step now! Firs’ years follow me!” Came Hagrid’s great, booming voice.

Reluctantly, he swallowed, and began to follow the groundskeeper. Shivering in the crisp night air, the five of them trudged down the dark path, trees as high as skyscrapers on either side.

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” called Hagrid from ahead.

As they rounded the bend, warm light kissed his face as he laid his eyes upon a massive castle on the hill, it’s grandiose windows, halls, and it’s many twisting turrets and towers giving way to a humongous black lake before them, it’s surface like glass.

“No more’n four to a boat!” Called Hagrid’s booming voice again, and he felt Crabbe take his hand and drag him towards the shore.

“I’ll take another boat,” nodded Goyle, still nursing his bitten hand.

And so, Draco loaded into the dinky little wooden boat, followed by Blaise, then Pansy, then Crabbe.

“Everyone in? Right then— FORWARD!” Bellowed Hagrid, his loudest yet.

All at once, the fleet of little boats pushed off into the lake, and began to row towards the looming castle above them.

“Heads down!” Hagrid hollered as they came to a thick curtain of ivy.

Draco ducked, though he felt the vine brush along his back. They drifted without rowing down a dark tunnel, which clearly was taking them directly underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of docking point in the dark, somewhat claustrophobic tunnel. Draco clambered out cautiously, and looked expectantly over at the great beast of a man.

“Oi, you there, is this your toad?” he asked, holding up a spotty little amphibian for the whole group to see.

“Trevor!” A boy cried joyfully, and dove forward to collect his pet. He recognized the voice as the boy who’d been crying to his Nan at the station.

After Trevor was back in normal-sized hands, the group clambered up a steep little passageway through the rock, and out onto the other side. There, they found themselves standing on a patch of grass directly beneath the castle, moonlight replacing Hagrid’s lantern. They stepped up a large cobblestone stairway, and found themselves face-to-face with a truly gargantuan oak door. Hagrid raised a wide fist and knocked three times upon it.

When the doors swung open to the grand chamber, ceiling higher then four of Hagrid stacked on top of each-other, all eyes didn’t fall upon the glimmering torches, or the grandiose double doors waiting on the far wall, they fell to the tall, stern looking witch dressed in emerald green standing before them. Draco’s first thought was that this was not someone to cross.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Her great voice came, piercing the nervous silence.

“I am Professor Mcgonagall, deputy headmistress. Welcome to Hogwarts!”

Chapter Text

Before he knew it, Draco was scrambling up the flagged stone steps towards another pair of towering double doors. He could hear the chatter of hundreds of students on the other side, but McGonagall didn’t lead them in just yet. Instead, they found themselves in a small side-chamber.

“The start of term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the great hall, you must be sorted into your houses.”

The professor’s steely tone made Draco wonder if they really did have to wrestle a troll.

“The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory and spend free time in your house common room. The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours. The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”

As she finished that last bit, her eyes fell upon the toad boy, whose cloak was fastened snugly onto his left ear. Draco sniggered.

He expected Professor McGonagall to continue, by explaining exactly what it is they would have to do in order to be sorted.

Instead, she left the chamber without a word, leaving him with a cold pit in his stomach.

“Blaise, if you do know how the sorting words, now would be a fantastic time,” he whispered.

Blaise only shook his head.

Just then, Pansy screamed in terror—Crabbe leapt into Goyle’s arms like a child to its mother. And for good reason, too.

Ghosts had glided into the room, silvery and quite nearly see-through. He had one or two ghosts living in The Anthill, but they kept to themselves. These ghosts, however, did not. They spoke amongst themselves for a moment though he couldn’t make out what about, before laying their pearly white eyes upon the group.

“New students! About to be sorted, I suppose?” cried a friar ghost joyfully.

A few children nodded dumbly.

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” he added, with a smile. “My old house, you know.”

Before anyone had worked up the courage to ask a question or two, Professor McGonagall appeared once more.

“Now, form a line,” she said sternly. “And follow me.”

He got in line between Goyle and a blonde-haired girl, and followed nervously.

The grand oak doors swung open with a deafening creak, and there before them was the Great Hall.

He could have never imagined how one space could be so utterly enchanting. The hall was twice as long as it was wide, with the highest ceiling you could possibly imagine. Only, the ceiling wasn’t really a ceiling at all, but a night sky full of glittering stars, with candles hanging from nowhere. Four endlessly long tables sat evenly spaced throughout the hall, all leading up to one especially grandiose table for the staff, which was littered with all sorts of interesting witches and wizards of all shapes and sizes.

Draco filed into the back crowd piling up at the front of the hall, and craned to get a look at whatever the sorting test was. Pansy scooched over just in time for him to catch a glimpse of the dusty old pointed hat, with a face made out of creases and curves, beginning to sing.

“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 hall burst into thunderous applause as the old hat finished, bowed to the four tables, and went back to sitting still.

More than anything, Draco was relieved. Putting on a hat was much simpler than wrestling a troll, though he still wished he didn’t have to do it in front of everyone.

“Abbot, Hannah!” was first up, she was a Hufflepuff, followed by “Bones, Susan!” Also a Hufflepuff, and “Boot, Terry!” Who was the first Ravenclaw.

“Brocklehurst, Mandy!” also went to Ravenclaw, and “Brown, Lavender!” was the first Gryffindor.

Millicent went up after that, and no one was surprised when the hat deemed her the first Slytherin.

“Finch-Fletchley, Justin!” went to Hufflepuff, and “Finnigan, Seamus!” went to Gryffindor.

After him, the scraggly-haired girl from the train went up eagerly, and he learned her name was Granger, Hermione. She went to Gryffindor as well, with the biggest smile on her face. She had rather large front teeth, he noticed. It did give the girl a certain charm.

After her, the toad boy went, whose name was Neville Longbottom. When the hat finally called,

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Draco choked on his own saliva. Maybe the hat was getting old and senile?

Neville jogged off with the hat on his head, to the entire hall’s amusement.

Then, McGonagall called, “Lovegood, Luna!” and Draco went quite pale. Father used to have a little brother, that is before he ran off, changed his name, and married that crazy Pandora Rosier. This dark-skinned, blue-eyed, white-haired girl was the result. After a moment’s deliberation, his estranged cousin found herself in Ravenclaw.

Does she know I exist? he thought sadly.

“Malfoy, Draco!” called the professor.

A tight thrum of anxiety wound through his chest as students began to turn their heads, but he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to push through the crowd.

“’Scuse me!” he stage-whispered to the blonde-haired girl, gently patting her arm to get her to move to the side. After a moment, she awkwardly shuffled over, and he was free to step up.

Seated in front of the teacher’s table was a humble wooden stool, and resting upon it was the only thing in the world that could decide if he was a success or a failure. He straightened his back and stepped up, schooling his expression into something he hoped looked like confidence. Professor McGonagall’s hawklike gaze zeroed in on him as he turned and took his seat, squeezing his eyes shut.

Echoed whispers reverberated loudly throughout the hall, but none were louder than the whisper-thin voice that now whispered in his ear.

“Well, hello there, Mister Malfoy. You’ve got quite the legacy, haven’t you? Every single ancestor you’ve got has gone to one house. It gives me a simple answer now, doesn’t it?” the hat asked rhetorically.

Draco, however, was going to take any chance he could get to plead.

“Slytherin,” he whispered. “Slytherin, please. Just put me in Slytherin.”

He pursed his lips, waiting for the verdict. Only, it didn’t come.

“Hmm. Slytherin, eh? A good choice. Full of talented, passionate witches and wizards. You’ll make good friends there and impress that father of yours. Slytherin is what he wants for you, isn’t it?”

Draco nodded quickly.

“It’s what I want too,” he added, just to be firm about it.

“Well, it’s what you think you want. You haven’t truly got too much ambition, you know. Just thoughts planted in there by Daddy. You’ve got an alright mind—rather creative. Maybe Ravenclaw’s your fit…” it mused, to Draco’s alarm.

“No, no no no. I’ve got to go in Slytherin,” he begged.

“Ah-ah-ah, not too fast. You’ve got options, you know. Like… Hufflepuff, for example. You can see the value in hard work, can’t you? And you’re rather loyal. But no, I think not,” the hat huffed in his ear. “Tricky, tricky…”

Draco’s heart was pounding out of his chest now. He was tricky? No. No, he had to be in Slytherin. Merlin knows, he’d be a disappointment if he didn’t.

“A disappointment, eh?” the hat rasped, making Draco jump in surprise.

“Hmm. Slytherin’s just not right.”

Draco shook his head, refusing to give in. There, already sitting at the Slytherin table, watching him with careful eyes, were Blaise, and Pansy, and Crabbe, and Goyle, and Viola, and Millicent, and all the other friends he’d known all his life. That’s where he belonged. Slytherin. Slytherin. Please, please Slytherin.

“I reckon you’d… well, no…” The hat turned the whole thing over in its mind for a moment more, rambling yeses and no’s and maybe’s and a lot of incomprehensible nonsense. Then, after its careful consideration, it began to speak the next part out to the whole hall:

“Well, there’s only one real way to go. Better be… GRYFFINDOR!”

Gryffindor.

Draco couldn’t move. He couldn’t even breathe. Not blinking, not thinking—just staring off into the abyss.

He’d just broken a thousand-year legacy. Careless. Stupid.

The ground seemed to open up beneath him as he clutched desperately at the cloth on his knee patches. His tie itched at his throat, as if trying to strangle him. He looked down, and it was scarlet and gold. The wrong colors. The enemy’s colors.

“Malfoy? Mister Malfoy? The next person’s got to be sorted, please,” came Professor McGonagall’s voice, though it sounded miles away.

Draco nodded numbly and stood on legs made of pudding. He didn’t dare look over at the Slytherin table—he didn’t want to see their faces. Slowly, shakily, he made his way down the stairs and over to the Gryffindor table.

A chubby little girl at the Gryffindor bench scrunched her wide eyes in confusion and scooted closer to her friends. Everyone else followed suit. Draco looked around, searching for a familiar face, but he didn’t recognize anyone there.

He took a seat on the very end of the bench and stared off into space. He didn’t pay attention to the rest of the ceremony, or the Headmaster’s speech. When the ceramic plates and dishes and bowls before him filled with all sorts of delicious foods, he didn’t take a bite.

He was in a trance. His body didn’t seem to respond to his brain the way it was supposed to. After all, how could it? He didn’t deserve to do much of anything. He was a Gryffindor. He’d broken one of the longest house legacies in wizarding history. His name was going to go down as the wizard who ruined the Malfoy family name. If he’d begged harder, the hat would’ve put him in Slytherin. This was all his fault.

The incessant chattering around him was making his ears bleed. His fingers were tingling. His mouth was dry from hanging open too long. There was an itch in his bones—he wanted to rip his skin off, crawl out of himself, anything to escape this.

He risked a glance at the Slytherin table—everyone was staring. Draco’s stomach lurched, and he tore his gaze back to the floor.

“Oi, Malfoy!” someone called, a few seats down. The name didn’t sound like his anymore, so it took him a solid few seconds longer to remember to respond.

“What?” he spluttered weakly, his eyes finally leaving their spot on the opposite wall to find the source of the voice. After a moment, he found a scruffy-looking boy with sandy brown hair and an arrogant smile—Seamus Finnigan, he recalled. This one was in his year.

“Didn’t think Malfoys came in red and gold. Your dad send you disownment papers yet?”

He sniggered, his thick Irish accent coming through in a way that usually would’ve made Draco laugh. He shot him a scathing glance and turned back to his empty plate.

He supposed he had to eat something. There was bread in a basket. That would do. He stole a piece, chewed without tasting.

In his mind’s eye, he pictured what his father would say.

Draco, Draco, he’d tut, a sick smile on his face. I always knew you would amount to nothing. Just a silly, pathetic child. Worthless.

And, horribly, his father was right.

Chapter Text

Of all the winding tunnels and twisting staircases of The Anthill, nothing on Earth could have prepared Draco for Hogwarts. He thought he’d seen a maze before, but the school was a different beast altogether. Never in all his days had he seen stairs that moved, nor steps that disappeared, but only on Wednesday afternoons and once an hour randomly every third Tuesday. And not just the stairs, either. Doors were a nightmare too! Some brought you to the wrong side of the castle if you were in a hurry, and some wouldn’t open unless you asked politely, or told it a good joke. The Hogwarts ghosts were a good help, though. The ghosts back home never bothered to help him find his way, but most here were happy to point a young student in the right direction.

Though, he made a point never, ever to ask the Gryffindor ghosts, out of principle. It was the right thing to do, being a wrongfully placed away from your family house. He’d made a point to show it, too. He’d asked an older student, (Slytherin, of course) to charm his tie into going silver and green, but the horrible boy refused. He’d tried every trick in his book, from hiding it, to simply claiming to be Slytherin to anyone who asked. And anyone who told him otherwise? They’d be hearing directly from his father.

In truth, even he hadn’t heard from his father, not since the sorting ceremony. His mother had sent him a few small gifts, wrapped in old brown paper, which made it clear she hadn’t sent them with father’s approval.

He kept the little trinkets in his pockets for the first two days, but eventually they added up to seven or eight, and he had to begin carrying them in his bag instead.

The lessons themselves were easy enough, with his tutoring and all. Most of the things being taught were only to catch up those raised in an… unrefined environment, such as stupid Weasley, or even worse, stupid Potter. The two of them were a dynamic duo from the depths of hell. Weasley, in all his gigantic, gangly awkwardness, always chewing on something or other, (and quite loudly, he might add) and Potter. Potter, with his griffin’s nest of hair, and that mutilating scar down the side of his face. He could always pick the two of them out of a crowd; they stuck out like sore thumbs.

And it wasn’t just their appearances that were unpleasant, it was their entire presences. He never thought he’d meet someone he truly, absolutely hated, but that was before he met Harry Potter. The absolute nerve of that boy was astounding! He’d shoved him to the side in the hallway on Wednesday, and on Thursday he’d overheard him telling Weasley that he was ‘too stuck up to get himself anywhere’. The gall! Oh, the very thought made him sick. At least he had a right to be stuck up, unlike saint Potter, Mister-Famous-For-Nothing. It was truly astounding how much everyone gawked at him and his blindingly green eyes.

Give it a few months, he assured himself.

Pretty soon, it’ll all blow over like a gust of wind on a spring morning, and Harry Potter will be old news. All you have to do is avoid him.

And that was his plan. But sadly, he had every lesson with him. All. Day. Long.

In every lesson, he sat in the very front, which helpfully, sat him far, far away from where Potter and The Weasel found themselves seated. This, however, also led him to commonly end up stuck with Hermione Granger, the buck-toothed girl. She always had her hand up, more than Draco did, and that had never happened before. He found himself enjoying the challenge, who could answer more questions, who could get more right. Of course, when he and Hermione raised their hands, they never got it wrong.

After a few classes, he could resist it no longer, and he introduced himself.

“Hey,” he nodded to her, as she was scribbling down notes about the gargoyle strike of 1911.

“Yes?” she answered somewhat impatiently, not looking up.

Draco was a tad miffed, but he let it pass.

“I’m Draco. Draco Malfoy. What’s your name?”

Of course, he already knew it, but it was polite to ask. He couldn’t just say, ‘I’m Draco, you’re Hermione, I like you cause you might be as smart as me, let’s be friends!’

She finished her sentence, dotted her I’s, and finally met his.

“Hermione. Hermione Granger. You’re… the boy from that old wixen family, aren’t you? The one who had the hat stall?” She asked, something akin to wonder in her expression.

Merlin’s beard, don’t remind me.

“Yes, that’s me,” he sighed.

“Anyhow, your parents must’ve taught you impeccably well. I’ve never met someone just as eager to learn as you.”

Hermione tilted her head a little, and frowned.

“No, actually. I come from a muggle family. But still, I am eager to learn.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t just talking to a Gryffindor, but a muggle-born Gryffindor as well! If father saw him now, he’d be ashamed. Flames licked up the back of his neck at the thought.

Draco turned back to his work, trying to ignore her. But, awfully, she kept pressing to talk more. He liked her curiosity, but right now, he hated it.

“What was it like with magical parents? Ever had any magical pets? What happens in the Monastery of Magic?”

“Ministry of Magic,” he corrected, sighing.

“It’s our government.”

He looked up for a moment, but wished he hadn’t, because Hermione was smiling widely.

“What?” he snapped.

“No one’s ever corrected me before.”

Draco rubbed two fingers into his temple.

“Good for you,” he huffed, trying in vain to pay attention to whatever the horrible ghost professor was droning on about now.

For the next five classes, Hermione constantly pestered him with questions, that Draco gave reluctant, snippy answers to.

Sadly, though, the girl couldn’t take a hint to save her life. So on the pestering went, for days. Eventually, they drifted into a semi-peaceful coexistence, her being the only Hogwarts student that would speak to him. The Gryffindors didn’t want him, which he was glad of, but neither did the Slytherins. Whenever he’d try to speak to any of them, they’d seem twitchy, like a cornered animal, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger. So Hermione’s company, while not at first welcomed, was begrudgingly appreciated.

On Friday, he had his first potions lesson. Severus Snape, the potions master, had been good friends with his father since the 80’s, so he could only expect someone just as cold and unsettling.

Whatever Draco had been expecting, Professor Snape was a million times worse.

Draco sat in the front of the classroom, as always, and Hermione sat herself down next to him with her big-toothed grin.

“Hello,” she began.

“What d’you think potions’ll be like? Ever brewed one?”

“Yeah, of course I have. I clean my teeth with one. Potions is easy, this’ll be a breeze.”

Hermione nodded, reassured, and busied herself with taking out her supplies.

Only a moment later, her head whipped up, because the door to the dank dungeon classroom had slammed open with a deafening crack, and in strode Professor Snape, long black robes billowing out behind him. The man had pasty skin, greasy, black hair, a large hooked nose, and eyes so small, beady, and black, you’d think they belonged to a pig. Instantly, the clamoring went silent.

He began with taking the roll— Brown, Millicent, Finnigan, Hermione, Longbottom, then himself. When the Professor’s hollow eyes finally lolled lazily over to him, a chill rolled down his spine.

“Malfoy? Yes? Yes. Surprised to see you on the right side of my classroom, Malfoy. Slytherin house has unfortunately lost itself a rightful member. I do hope you’ll remember who to root for when the time comes. Now…”

Obviously, at surface level, this was a head of house, joking lightly about Quidditch season. But Draco knew what he meant, really. About when the time comes. The thought made him shudder.

Draco only popped his head back up again when he heard ‘Potter’.

“Our new… celebrity,” the potions professor said slowly.

It seemed a common practice among pure-blood men to drawl their words to an excruciating degree.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death— if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

That garnered a snicker from Crabbe and Goyle, far behind and to his left. The fact that those two were the ones laughing, Draco found a bit ironic, and he chuckled too.

“Potter!” cried Snape, rounding on the boy, who from where he was sitting, seemed to be shaking a little. Draco felt a twinge of empathy for him, but he rolled his eyes and tried to focus on… anything else.

“What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” the professor asked, a sickening smile already spreading across his pale, thin lips.

Hermione’s hand shot up.

“I don’t know, sir,” he heard Potter mutter, which did bring him small satisfaction.

Next to him, Hermione’s hand slowly went down in disappointment.

“A sleeping potion— the living death,” she whispered to him sullenly.

“Tut tut. Fame clearly isn’t everything,” the professor added.

Draco smiled a little at that. Finally, someone said it.

“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?”

This time, both he and Hermione raised their hands. He couldn’t take it, it was too easy.

As the silence stretched, only filled with Crabbe and Goyle’s subdued laughter, Draco’s hand stretched higher, and higher, trying to be the highest hand raised in the room. Unfortunately, she was giving him tough competition.

“I don’t know sir,” came Potter’s answer again.

The two of them sat down with matching sighs, and shared a look. This was just Professor Snape tormenting Potter, which of course, he was all for, except that it meant no one else was going to get to answer.

“Thought you might open a book before coming, eh, Potter?” Snape asked, to his amusement. You’d need more than a few weeks to memorize One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, the book was larger than Professor Flitwick!

“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?” he asked, the sick smile still dominating his expression.

Draco resisted the urge to raise his hand this time, unlike a certain muggle-born.

“I don’t know,” Potter huffed.

“I think Hermione does, though, why don’t you try her?”

The chorus of laughter and Hermione’s proud smile only lasted a moment before the Professor snapped,

“Sit down. For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?”

Draco quickly pulled out his calligraphy, and tried to pretend he’d been writing the entire time.

When the potions master took a point from Gryffindor for Potter’s ‘cheek’, Draco was struck with an idea. A mad, brilliant idea. If he could do enough bad, and get enough points taken from Gryffindor, maybe they wouldn’t want him, maybe enough to speak to the headmaster, enough to get him re-sorted, and back where he belongs.

The thought lit up a million sparks inside his head, and he began to grin like a maniac as he scribed down something about wormwood. He had a plan, and now all he needed was a means to put it into action.

Thankfully, that means came along on Sunday evening, when a wonderful little notice was posted upon the common room bulletin board.

‘Flying lessons with Slytherins begin Thursday at 2pm sharp— do not be late!

Signed,
M. McGonagall’

Chapter Text

On Draco’s second Thursday at Hogwarts, he was up long before the sun. Why? Oh, I’m glad you asked. He had a marvelous plan, and today was the day it was to go into action.

He didn’t eat a spot of breakfast, he wasn’t hungry. Not when by the end of the day, he’d be sitting at Slytherin table, chatting to Pansy about whatever lavish gift he’d received from his father.

What did interest him, however, was the arrival of Longbottom’s rememberall.

“Gran knows I forget things— this tells you if there’s something you’ve forgotten to do.”

As if by sheer force of comedic irony, the little glass sphere began to glow a bright scarlet— along with the boy’s face.

“Oh..” he muttered glumly.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he snatched it from Longbottom’s chubby fingers.

“Oi!” The Weasel cried, as he and Potter jumped to their feet.

He stuck his tongue out at them, continued to study the object.

“Is there a problem here?” came a familiarly even voice from behind him.

He jumped, and placed the rememberall back on the table.

“Just looking!” he squeaked, as Professor McGonagall stalked away.

“Hermione, I don’t know what to do,” Neville pleaded.

“How do I come down again?”

Draco truly couldn’t resist. It was sitting right there!

“You could always just fall, save Snape some trouble tomorrow,” he sniggered.

He expected the boy to shoot him a look, but the only ones who did were Hermione, Potter, and The Weasel.

Classes that day were truly a bore, especially because he barely paid attention, his eyes entirely focused on the clocks in every classroom that were slowly ticking towards three-thirty. This gave Hermione a wild advantage, though she neglected to enjoy it.

“Draco?” She asked eventually, poking him in the shoulder with her quill.

“Hm?” He responded, not tearing his eyes away from the far wall.

“What’re you so off-kilter about? Is it the flying lessons?”

At that, he turned to her, eyebrows to his hairline.

“How did you know?”

“Well, everyone’s nervous. You’re not the only one.”

Draco barely held in a cackle. He, Draco Malfoy, nervous about flying? The thought was so out of the question it was funny.

“No! Merlin and Morgana, no. You see, I’ve got a plan. I’m getting out of Gryffindor, back where I belong.”

Hermione looked puzzled.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with being in Gryffindor.”

He chuckled awkwardly, realizing his mistake. Hermione Granger was not the person you wanted to argue with, so he tried bis best to placate her.

“Of course not! It’s just not where I was supposed to go, the Sorting Hat made a mistake.”

She eyed him suspiciously, but said nothing.

“What is this plan of yours, anyways?”

Draco puffed his chest out like a peacock, and began to relay his brilliant idea with a proud smile. He went on for several minutes, making sure to revel in every magnificent detail. It was only when his glimmering eyes fell upon hers again that he deflated.

The expression the girl had on her face somewhat resembled an angry bull, about to charge at a red cloth. Air ploomed out of her nostrils in great puffs as she whispered dangerously,

“Draco, don’t you dare.”

Draco guffawed tensely, trying his best to play it off. He’d rather not be charged by a raging Hermione, thank you very much.

“I’m joking! Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’ll remain firmly within three feet of the ground,” he lied through his teeth.

At exactly three-thirty in the afternoon, Draco was standing on the grassy hill just before the Hogwarts outer courtyard, where they’d be taking their lessons. As soon as he was in the presence of a professor, his plan would begin.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long.

Madam Hooch, a woman with short, spiky grey hair and large, yellowish eyes like an owl, arrived onto the pitch, her chin held high. Behind her was the rest of the Slytherin and Gryffindor first years, who were all scowling at each-other.

He shot his friends a nervous smile, and none of them acknowledged him, but Pansy, who gave him an awkward nod. Still, even a nod was loud in the deafening silence their absence had left in his social life.

Hermione, to his dismay, was walking with Potter and The Weasel. He nearly gagged right there and then! How dare she fraternize the enemy?

Appalled, Draco marched down to the courtyard with the rest of them, avoiding eye contact.

When he finally looked up, twenty broomsticks were lined up in neat little rows before him.

Merlin, they were fossils! Tiny, with little twigs everywhere! This was splinter city!

Draco cringed, but obeyed nonetheless as Madam Hooch barked for them to each find a broom.

Draco found one at the far end, that seemed to be the most likely to keep him afloat, though still nowhere near perfect.

“Stick out your right hand over your broom and say, UP!” Hooch cried.

He didn’t call his for a moment, waiting to see how his peers did. Fortunately, he didn’t have much competition.

To his horror, Potter’s jumped straight into his hand, and he smiled easily. Everything just came so quickly to him, didn’t it?

The Weasel, though, had a much more entertaining try. When he called for it, it shot up like a whip. Not to his hand, but to smack him across the face with a lovely thunk.

Hermione seemed to be getting rather frustrated with hers, as it rolled over on the ground, but made no upward movement. After a while, she just picked it up, brushing herself off while she made sure nobody was looking. Draco busied himself with a rather interesting blade of grass.

Finally, he turned to his own broom, and called confidently,

“Up!”

It shot into his hand, like every broomstick before it.

Madam Hooch demonstrated how to mount it, which he rolled his eyes at. This was amateur stuff, surely the muggle-born children could just learn by doing.

He mounted his broom with a sigh, turning to the clouds drifting lazily in the distance. His gaze only snapped back to the professor when she corrected him on his grip, saying he’d been ‘doing it wrong for years’. The nerve!

Draco changed his grip back to its usual place as soon as she looked away, purely out of spite.

“Now when I blow my whistle, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet and then come straight back down by leaning forwards slightly,” she instructed.

“On my whistle! Three, two—”

But before her countdown was even finished, Neville Longbottom was rising.

“Come back, boy!” Hooch barked, but Neville was shooting like a rocket.

Soon, the poor blithering boy was above the courtyard walls, and making no signs of stopping.

Longbottom looked down, gripping his broom with an iron fist. His face was twisted in indecision.

Draco went white as he remembered the ‘advice’ he’d offered him this morning.

‘You could always just fall, save Snape some trouble tomorrow.’

Neville hit the ground with a sickening crack.

Guilt burned down his throat like liquid fire. The boy was lying on the floor, being coddled by Madam Hooch, who was whispering something about a broken wrist. The entire ordeal made Draco’s stomach squirm as he stared motionlessly. He wanted to cause trouble, but someone getting so needlessly hurt wasn’t part of the plan. And yet, there it was, looming before him as if a physical presence— Neville Longbottom had a broken wrist, because of him.

The two of them left, Neville sniffling. But Hooch’s final warning lit up fireworks in his head.

“None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts faster than you can say ‘Quidditch’.”

Or, out of Gryffindor.

As soon as the Professor was safely out of earshot, he made himself known to the entire group, calling out over the din some drivel about his appearance or his fall— he barely spared his insults a thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something glittering in the sun.

The rememberall!

He darted out and stole it from its resting place in the grass— where Neville had just lain moments ago. Something burned behind his eyes, but he turned and held it up to the group.

“Look! It’s the stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him!”

Just to get out of Gryffindor. Just to get out of Gryffindor.

“Give it here, Malfoy!” cried Potter, a thunderous expression on his lightning-scarred face.

Draco mounted his broom, smiling lazily. This was it! He’d be in the headmaster’s office in no time.

“No, I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to collect— how about up a tree?”

Draco kicked off, and hovered over to an old oak, its leaves whipping as the wind began to pick up.

“Give it here!” Potter cried again, grabbing his own broom.

Hermione grabbed his arm, and he could spot that same angry-bull-expression on her face. But Potter was braver than he, cause he ignored her with painful ease.

He mounted his broom and kicked off— a smile donning his face for a moment, as Draco’s jaw dropped open.

He was flying up to him with perfect accuracy and speed, and he didn’t even look afraid!

He remembered his first time on a broomstick— the terror that came with the rush. Well, it seemed perfect saint Potter wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid of anything. It made him sick with envy.

“Give it here, or I’ll knock you off your broom!” he bellowed, the sound making Draco falter. He showed no signs of hesitation.

“Oh, yeah?” He sneered— or at least tried to.

Before he could steady himself, Potter was shooting at him like a freshly popped cork. He dodged, but only by just enough not to join Longbottom in the hospital wing.

He studied Potter’s gaze for a moment— or at least what he could see of it through the overgrowth of hair, and noticed it not to be on him, but on the rememberall still clutched in his hand. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten all about it. With a wicked smile, he held it up.

“Catch it if you can, then!” he jeered, and tossed it as far as he could.

As Potter shot off to make a futile attempt at catching the dammed thing, Draco drifted himself safely to the ground, and brushed off his robes with a smile. Only then did he notice that his peers were missing. He spun as if hexed, to find them all surrounding a triumphant Harry Potter, rememberall clutched safely in his hand, and a massive, giddy grin on his face.

Before he had the chance to screech in absolute horror, someone else’s booming voice filled the courtyard.

“HARRY POTTER!” bellowed Professor McGonagall, her face pallid with rage.

This time, it was Draco’s turn to grin.

As McGonagall began to drag him away by ball-and-chain, Draco held up the broom in a last-ditch-attempt to get himself in trouble.

Her eyes were glossy with rage, though, and she stormed off into the hall with Potter in tow. He still took this as a massive victory though— no more Potter! He’d be gone by morning!

Thoroughly satiated that at least his plan had done something, he began to make his way back to the castle, for some much-needed rest.

Before he could take a step, he faltered. Pansy was staring at him, whispering to Blaise and the others. Still dumb with triumph, he sauntered up to them with a confident smile.

“Hey! Wasn’t that great?” he squawked, still not processing who he was speaking to.

“Yeah. Great,” nodded Pansy with a clipped expression.

His eyes went wide with realization.

“By the way- uhm, hi! How are you guys? Can I-“ he stammered.

“-Good to see you. Bye,” she interrupted, grabbing Goyle by the necktie and dragging him away, as the rest of them followed suit.

His chest tightened painfully. Maybe he couldn’t escape Gryffindor, but he’d get his friends back. Eventually.

He stood, staring after them with a sigh.
The day boasted one victory, at least.

Chapter Text

Dinner that night was particularly pleasant. Of course, there was nothing special about the food. His source of joy was the empty space where Potter and The Weasel usually sat at Gryffindor table.

Unfortunately, wherever those two had gone, Hermione must’ve gone with them, because absent from the din was her endless yammering about magical theory, or wand movements, or arithmancy. Draco found himself rather missing the sound of her voice, despite himself. He’d grown used to her presence, something he quickly realized his father would look down upon in shame.

He stabbed a potato and raised one up to his mouth, but before the food could even touch his lips, his fork fell to his plate with a clatter, forgotten.

Standing in the towering archway of the Great Hall’s entrance were Potter and The Weasel, grinning triumphantly, as Hermione trailed behind them.

It was as if he’d looked both ways before crossing the street, and then got hit by an airplane.

Potter was smiling! He hadn’t even packed his trunk!

Fury burned up inside his gut as he leered at them. They sauntered over to Gryffindor table, and each took a seat, smiling calmly. Draco, however, was anything but calm.

“How are you still here?!” he hissed, white-knuckling the edge of the bench.

“McGonagall saw me catch the remembrall— I’m Gryffindor’s new seeker,” he said coolly. What utter poppycock!

He raised an eyebrow.

“Alright, very funny Potter, but be honest. When are you leaving?”

“I’m not. I’m perfectly serious— youngest in a-“

“-Century,” he finished, breathlessly. It was too specific not to be true, especially when Potter had never even seen a game of Quidditch before. 

Oh, Merlin and Morgana..

Stupid saint Potter had done it again! He always won at everything, it just wasn’t fair! Draco had been practicing on a broom before he could walk, and a muggle-raised boy had come and shown him up after one lesson. His face felt heavy with a familiar shame.

“Good for you,” he muttered bitterly.

Hermione said nothing, only flashing him a horribly disappointed expression. Her eyes alone left a painful lump in his throat. She hadn’t spoken to him since the flying lesson— since Neville had taken his ‘advice’.

“I’m going to study!” he announced loudly, standing up without finishing his food.

Trying not to look back, he marched down Gryffindor table, and out towards the very archway the three of them had appeared from moments ago. Only then did he look back, just in time to watch The Weasel fork Draco’s cold potatoes into his mouth. He scoffed, and stormed from the hall.

It was only when he got to the library that the thought dawned on him that firstly, he’d never been there before, and secondly, he had nothing to study. Still, determined to distract himself, he pushed open the door.

Instantly, he was hit with the overwhelming musk of every book to ever be published— both muggle and magical. A small, giddy smile spread across his lips at the very idea.

The library itself was truly magnificent, with seemingly infinite rows of grandiose mahogany shelves, towers of books that pressed against the ceiling, winding wooden staircases to upper floors he could barely make out, and a ladder on almost every bookcase. It was messy yet organized in a way that was as if one person had set out to read every book in the place, and died trying. Draco would gladly finish what they started.

He could have read for ten minutes, ten hours, maybe ten days. All he knew was that by the time he closed his eighth book, it was dark outside, the library now lit by oil lamps and stressed upperclassmen cramming for O.W.L’s late into the night.

Pansy Parkinson was standing above him, her dark eyes glinting in the low light, her hands on her hips. At her flank were Vincent and Gregory, each watching him quietly.

He scrambled up, trying to greet her coolly.

“Pans, hey. What’s the.. what’s the word?”

He could have jinxed himself.

“Uhm.. not much,” she responded, smiling at him for the first time in two weeks. Maybe he had a chance after all.

“People are starting to wonder whose side you’re really on. So I just.. wanted to ask for a favor. You know, to prove where your loyalties lie.”

Something sprang out of his chest like a rocket.

“Anything!” he cried, barely noticing how desperate he sounded.

“I know who to.. who to root for.”

His mind flashed to Professor Snape’s dark, piggy eyes.

“Then it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to prove it. If you get this right, Draco, things can go back to normal. Just don’t mess up.”

He nodded, hands shaking.

“I want you to see if you can get Potter alone. A duel would be best, if you can manage. Fire off some spells. See what he can do. And once you’ve figured him out—beat him. If you can do that, we can hang out again. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Of course I can,” he nodded firmly.

Pansy bit her lip.
“I don’t think you’re bad,” she began slowly. 
“Just.. get this right. I don’t want to think about what’ll happen if you don’t.” 

Draco took in a quick, cold breath, the air rushing past his lips, and held it there.

All he had to do was organize a duel right under the teacher’s noses, sneak out in the middle of the night, and best the boy who nearly killed the Dark Lord.

No pressure.

———

The following morning, as he was just leaving for early morning charms, he spotted Hermione coming down the stairs, and seized his opportunity.

“I have a favor to ask you,” he began quickly, not giving her time to reject him.

“I’m going to be in a duel, against Potter, and I need you to by second.”

“No,” she sniffed, pointing her chin to the sky. Draco stood there, unsure of what to do, until she began to make her way to the portrait hole. Desperately, he grabbed her shoulder.

“Wait, please,” he gasped, a crazed look in his eye. The words felt foreign on his tongue, like an unpracticed language. He felt as if he were swallowing liquid fire. Still, he continued.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that to Neville. I feel really horrible about it. But I need to do this duel, Hermione, and you’re the most talented wix I know. I can’t do this without you.”

The words burned on his tongue, but her pulling away felt twice as awful.

“I’m not sneaking out to break rules, and I’m not dueling Harry! He’s my friend! You’ll keep away from duels too, if you know what’s good for you! And your apology doesn’t mean much when you haven’t said a peep to Neville.”

He felt as if he were sinking into quicksand, with no one to pull him out. He was back to square one— not a friend in the world. The thought bubbled in his gut till he was nauseous.

But that would change soon. He would take on Potter all by himself, and by tomorrow he’d have more allies than he could count on his fingers.

———

“Oi! Potter!” he hollered through the corridor. Several heads turned to him, but he made his way to the only one that mattered.

“I invite you to a wizard’s duel. Midnight tonight, in the trophy room. Don’t be late,” he smirked, waiting for the faltering expression.

It never came, though. He only nodded confidently.

“Alright, fine.”

“No seconds,” he added quickly, as The Weasel came towards him.

He backed away, looking rather sullen that he wouldn’t get to beat the daylights out of him. Draco shuddered.

“See you tonight,” he added with a confident sneer, and strode away. Now, all he had to do was wait.

———

Draco left the common room at eleven o’clock sharp, dressed in a fuzzy green robe and white slippers— a set that used to belong to his mother. Potter would leave later, as not to arouse suspicion.

Light footsteps was a gift he’d gotten from his years and years of creeping around The Anthill, and so was an exceptionally good ability to see in the dark. The two made for a deadly combo when one is trying to avoid a rancid old man and his even more disgusting flea-bag of a cat late at night. He managed to be in the trophy room within ten minutes, a rather impressive time, if he did say so himself. He let himself relax, sitting down on the cold cobble floors, back against the trophy cabinet. It was terribly late at night, and the dusty old room was quite peaceful in the moonlight.. It was so serene, he found himself teetering on the edge of sleep.

“Alright, over here, my sweet.. this way..” came the decrepit old voice of Mister Filch.

Draco sat up sharply, gripping his wand like a vice. He stood just in time to see the faint warm lamplight of Filch’s lantern wrapping around the corner, and he needed no more motivation to run. Being friends with Pansy would be no use if he was expelled. He kept running, and running, sometimes with his eyes closed, because every corridor looked the same. Great suits of armor loomed over him, seeming to have eyes that followed his form in the pitch darkness. He kept his gait, and didn’t stop till he was absolutely certain he had lost them. He opened his eyes, and found himself face to face with an unassuming oak door. Not wanting to risk being found, he slipped inside.

He expected a broom closet, or maybe a bathroom. What he found instead was an empty chamber, that looked as if nothing had been inside for centuries. Standing right in the middle, and the only thing that looked recent, was a grand mirror, adorned with a golden frame. Across the top, written in old, carved letters that he recognized as old wixen, read an inscription:

‘Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wo’

I show not your face but your heart’s desire.

Draco’s eyes widened, and he rushed to stand before it. Curiosity killed the cat, after all.

He stepped directly in front of it, and nearly gasped in surprise, because there he was— only different.

He stood taller, broader, with a Slytherin tie around his neck, and his father’s hand on his shoulder. His mother stood beside him with her usual firm smile, still unchanging, and there beside her were his friends. Pansy, Hermione, Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle, everybody. They all smiled brightly at him, just like they used to.

He found himself sinking to his knees. Everything he’d ever wanted peered back at him curiously, but not unapprovingly.

“Father,” he whispered carefully, uttering his name out loud for the first time in forever.

Father, his father, beamed down at him. He squeezed his shoulder. Draco reached up and felt his own, but there was no squeeze. He looked back into the mirror, and the boy sitting there, his face hardened with handsome maturity, green and silver adorning his robes, smiled back at him. He felt nearly sick.

This wasn’t a mirror of one’s desires, not really. It was a mirror of what could have been. A mirror of what-was. He turned back to its glassy surface, and let himself indulge for a blissful moment. Everything would have been so much easier, had he begged harder, had he done something, anything, everything differently. But at least here, he had the life he’d always wanted. Here, he had no scars from spells of canes or belts, his father had never had any need for them. He was perfect, there, in the mirror. It was a wonderful glimpse.

Draco sat there, staring, until morning, and kept coming back. Over and over, night by night. Months slipped through his fingers, falling like sand in an hourglass into the mirror of what-was. Pansy had stopped speaking to him, but mirror-Pansy would.

One dreary Sunday morning, four days from Halloween, he spotted his friends in the library, poring over books as they merciless chowed down on a pack of sugar quills.

“Hey!” he hollered, to a chorus of whispers from the surrounding students.

“Watcha doin’?” he smiled, sliding into an empty seat beside Goyle.

“..Studying,” muttered Vincent, who seemed rather nervous.

“We should go and do something. Something fun. Anyone up for exploding snap?” he asked, lack of sleep fogging his mind.

“Uhm, no,” said Pansy quickly.

“Why not?” he whined.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s just-“ wheedled Blaise.

“-No,” Pansy interrupted, staring at him darkly. “It’s not nothing. You have to leave us alone. We can’t be seen with you anymore. You’re a blood traitor.”

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t know where he was until he awoke on that dreary Monday morning. His eyes were red and puffy, his throat raw and pink. He was lying on top of his mattress, but not much else. His bedding had seemingly been tossed off in the previous night’s fitful sleep. He didn’t bother to dress himself, or even to leave the room. He just curled himself up, and went back to sleep, hoping to escape the javelin of pain that was soon to strike him at the thought of yesterday.

When he awoke again, it was dark outside, and now he couldn’t sleep. A pair of hands tightened around his throat as he remembered.

Blood traitor.

That’s what he was, whether he liked it or not. His face would be burned from the family tree, they wouldn’t speak to him again. He’d join the ranks of Xenophillius, Sirius, Andromeda… He shuddered. He was one of them. The thought made his gut boil like a cauldron on fire.

The days blurred by, each one melting into the next. Whenever he wasn’t sleeping, he cried, and whenever he wasn’t crying, he slept. Lessons were occasionally slipped in-between, when he could manage to gather the energy. Though, just getting through the classes was its own ordeal. About midway through the week, Professor McGonagall stopped waking him up when he fell asleep in class, and slipped him a pumpkin pastie once or twice. He resolved to thank her, when he had the life to do. If he had the life to do so.

Nothing was able to pull him from his sluggish state for what must have been a week. The sun was setting on the evening of Halloween when he finally caught sight of something that snapped him out of it.

“It’s no wonder no one can stand her,” The Weasel was muttering to Potter on their way out of charms, making a very obvious gesture at Hermione.

“She’s a nightmare, honestly!”

For the first time in a long time, a fire began to brew in Draco’s belly as he stared.

“I think she heard you,” Potter muttered.

“So? She must’ve noticed she’s got no friends!” cried The Weasel.

He felt for his wand inside his pocket, flicking through his mind for every jinx and hex he knew. He was distracted, however, when she pushed past the pair of them, running off in tears.

He knew that feeling. He knew it very well.

Draco set off, not caring who heard him as he hollered,
“Hermione! Hermione, wait! Hermione!”

She didn’t stop running until she reached the girl’s bathroom, and stumbled inside, still sobbing.

This left Draco in quite the awkward position.

“Hermione, uhm… Is there anyone in there?” he called, scratching the back of his neck.

“Leave me alone!” she called back.

He sighed.
“I know how you feel. To feel like no one wants you.”

“…Come in.”

Draco pushed the door open, and found Hermione sitting against the far wall, tucked into a little ball as she cried. He remembered the angry bull from weeks before, and the sight before him became especially awful.

“Those twats don’t know what they’re talking about,” he said carefully, sliding down the cold tile to sit beside her.
“I think you’re an incredible wix, and more than that, you’re an incredible person.”

She sniffed.
“He said everyone can’t stand me. Do they really hate me that much?”

“No. The Wea—”

She looked up, raising a shaky eyebrow.
“—Ronald, is an idiot. You have got friends. You’ve got… uhm…”

It dawned on him that he wasn’t very involved in Hermione’s social circle. Or maybe she just didn’t have one.
“You’ve got your roommates,” he decided, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder.
“And you’ve got me.”

She smiled a little at that, tears still forming in her eyes.
“I’ve been such a nightmare,” she sighed.

“Merlin and Morgana, you’ve done nothing! If you want someone who’s been a nightmare, you’re looking at him.”

She shook her head.
“You haven’t been a nightmare, you’ve just been figuring yourself out. We all have.”

Something about the way she said it shook something loose. He smiled a little— for the first time in a while.

“Thanks. Now, are you hungry? There’s a feast going on,” he smiled weakly, his stomach grumbling loudly at the prospect of his first meal in two or three days.

But before he could stand, a foul stench found its way up his nose. It smelled something like unwashed quidditch socks, rotten eggs, and fecal matter.
“AUGH! What in Merlin’s name is that smell?!” he bellowed, cupping his hands over his nose and mouth.

Hermione looked just as puzzled, holding her nose with an expression of barely concealed disgust.
“I’ve got no…”

Before she could say clue, the door to the girl’s bathroom slammed open with a BANG!

There, standing on the threshold, was a truly gigantic troll. It was at least twelve feet tall, its skin a dull, unappealing grey, and its head too small for its great body. Worst of all— it was advancing on them, destroying the bathroom as it went.

The pair of them shrunk against the back wall, and Hermione put an arm in front of him, as if that would stop the great beast from ripping them both to pieces with it’s humongous wooden club. Fear clawed up his spine and through his chest as he began to shake.

He looked to the door, calculating the odds of a mad dash, only to watch in horror as someone from the outside closed and locked it. He shrunk in against the corner, hoping that it wouldn’t notice him if he were very, very still.

The troll took one gigantic step towards them, and Hermione screamed piercingly. Instantly, terror ripped through him as he covered her mouth, shaking like a leaf.

Just as the troll raised its enormous club to strike, the door swung open, and there stood Potter and The Weasel, wands at the ready, the pair of them looking uncharacteristically brave. He’d never been more happy to see them in his life.

“Confuse it!” Potter cried, as the troll swung around to face him.

“Oi, Pea-Brain!” cried The Weasel, who, wild and confused, grabbed a sink that the great beast had nearly detached in its rampage, and ripped it out of the wall, letting it fall and break with a crash.

This gave the vast creature pause as it stopped to figure out the source of the sound, blinking slowly.
“Come on, run! RUN!” beckoned Potter, flailing his arms.

Draco got up to do just that— but Hermione was still flat against the wall, open mouthed and staring in horror.
“I won’t go without her!” he called back, and Potter set to coming up with a new plan.

The troll, however, didn’t seem to like all this brain-power-stuff, and roared and started on The Weasel, who was up against the stalls and had no means of escape.

The troll raised its colossal club, and sent it swinging down. Draco screamed, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he heard no horrible splat, he pried an eye open, to find Potter clambering on its back, his hands around the beast’s fat neck. And even more amazingly, (and disgustingly) his wand had gone right up the troll’s nose!

He cackled incredulously, looking around as if to say, what now?

Unfortunately, he didn’t have to wait very long before his question was answered. The troll began swinging its head round, left and right, roaring and howling as Potter struggled to stay on. 

From behind him, he heard Hermione finally find her voice, and shout,
“Swish and FLICK!”

Whatever that meant to The Weasel, he understood it instantly, and aimed his wand.
“Wingardium Leviosa!” he bellowed, swatting his wand every which-way.

By some miracle of Morgana, this actually worked, and the troll’s titanic club came flying out of its hand and into the air. It turned over slowly in the air, and dropped again, landing squarely on its head. Potter jumped, scrambling to safety away from the crash-zone.

When the dust and debris finally cleared, the four children stood cautiously over the unconscious body of a fully grown mountain troll.

“Is it… dead?” asked Hermione, a certain tone of hope in her voice.

“I don’t think so, I think it’s just been knocked out,” responded Potter, reaching down and carefully pulling his wand from the nose of the troll. It was covered in thin, iridescently green slime, which made Draco a little sick.

“Urgh, troll bogies,” shuddered The Weasel.

Before anyone could laugh, the door burst open once more, and there stood a rather panicked Professor McGonagall, followed by a furious Snape, and a nervous Quirrell bringing up the rear.

He’d never seen her look so white, not even when Potter had caught the Remembrall. Draco hung his head.
“What on Earth were you thinking of?!” cried McGonagall furiously.
“You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Why aren’t you in your dormitory?”

Draco took a deep breath. He could not believe he was really about to do this.

“They were looking for me, Professor,” he said sullenly.

Potter and The Weasel whipped around, looking at him like they’d seen a ghost

“Mister Malfoy!” McGonagall cried shrilly.

Hermione emerged as well, staring at her feet.
“And Draco was looking for me. I went looking for the troll, cause I thought I could deal with it on my own, because, y’know, I’ve read all about them.”

If those two weren’t surprised before, they sure as Merlin were now. Hermione Granger, telling a downright lie to a teacher?

“Draco went looking for me, just to tell me to get out of the dungeons, which made Ron and Harry notice we were missing,” she finished, with a sniffle that likely wasn’t just for show.

“If they hadn’t found us, we’d both be dead by now. Potter stuck a stick up its nose and The W… and Ronald, he knocked it out using its own club. They didn’t have time to come fetch anyone, or the troll would’ve gotten us both,” he added, trying his best to look miserable. In truth, it was quite the opposite. He felt better than he had in weeks! His heart was still pounding straight out of his ribs.

Professor McGonagall had never seemed so thoroughly ruffled in her life.
“Well in that case… Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own?”

Hermione didn’t say a word.
Secretly, Draco thought to himself that Hermione probably could take down a troll, given enough prep time.

“Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this. I’m very disappointed in you. If you’re not hurt at all, you’d better HES up to Gryffindor tower, students are finishing the feast in their houses.”

As Hermione left with her bushy head down, McGonagall rounded on Potter, Ronald, and he.
“Mister Malfoy, I would have never expected this from you. Five points will be taken for your blatant breaking of rules. However, ten will be given, for your self-sacrifice in going to warn Miss Granger.”

Though he was staring at his feet, a grin spread across his face. Five points!

“Well, I still say you two were lucky, but not many first years could have taken on a fully grown mountain troll. You each win five Gryffindor points. Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go.”

The three of them left the girl’s bathroom together, most of all finally relieved to be away from the stench of the troll.
“Fifteen points,” smiled Draco, after a while.

“We should’ve gotten more,” grumbled Ronald.

“We would’ve gotten twenty if it weren’t for Hermione,” shrugged Potter.

“She lied for us, though,” Draco protested quickly, throwing him a nasty look.

“So did you,” Potter smiled at him.
“Thank you.”

He paused on the steps. Potter was a reckless, win-it-all golden child with an ego twice the size of Hogwarts, but he was a good person to have on your side.

“You’re not entirely dreadful to be around, Potter,” Draco surmised.

”So.. we’re friends?” he asked, raising a tentative eyebrow.

Draco huffed, his shoulders sagging as he gave in.

”If you insist,” he rebuked, smiling to himself.

Chapter Text

Over the coming weeks, it became more and more apparent to Draco that every assumption he’d ever made about Potter and The Weasel had been correct. Sadly, though, it also became apparent that it didn’t make them any less easy to be around.

One of the first things they learned that they all had in common was a love for wizard’s chess. Well, all but Hermione. She found it ‘utterly barbaric’.

Secretly, Draco thought that she just didn’t like losing.

The Weasel was a lot more of a teddy bear than his height made him out to be. He was no Merlin, but he was a good person to have on your side, considering how far he was willing to go for his friends. In the halls on the way to Potions, Lavender Brown had whispered something to Parvati Patil about him being a ‘Slytherin Sleeper Agent’, to which he’d nearly given her a good punch to the face. And he would have, had the three of them not dragged him away.

Potter was still perfect in every sense of the word like he’d seemed to be, but he was a little more… humble about it than he’d anticipated. Whenever anyone would come up to him, asking for an autograph or something of the sort, he’d go rather pink, and would nervously comply. To put it simply, Potter didn’t enjoy the attention, which utterly baffled him.

“I don’t think I really deserve to be famous,” he admitted in the common room one night. Draco had been thinking the exact same thing barely two weeks ago—but now he felt a little guilty about it.

“I mean, apart from doing something as a baby that I don’t have any recollection of, I’m no different from any other student.”

Draco furrowed his brow. “That’s not true. You’re the youngest seeker in a century. That deserves at least a little attention.”

He’d smiled a little at that, and it occurred to him that it was the first time he’d really seen Potter smile. 

The other Gryffindors were slowly warming up to him as well. Dean Thomas had taught him all about football, a silly looking muggle sport where they run around a field, kicking a black-and-white sphere and pretending to get hurt. Neville let him sign his cast as well, though he seemed fairly skittish.

That wasn’t all that was changing, either. Winter was descending upon Hogwarts, and Yuletide would be upon them soon enough. But before he could begin thinking about presents, Quidditch season jammed itself in the way. Potter was gone at practice in the mornings and evenings, and when he wasn’t at practice, he was reading up on Quidditch. And for good reason, too: Gryffindor had one game to bring themselves up from third place to second, or they’d be out of the running, and he hadn’t played a game yet. They’d been keeping him a secret, or at least they were for a while, until someone let it slip. Now everyone and their mothers were coming to congratulate him—or to tell him they’d be holding a mattress underneath him during the matches. That one was especially irritating.

———

On the clear, bright winter morning the day before Potter’s first match, the four of them were sitting under an old oak in the courtyard, skimming through Quidditch Through The Ages for tips. Draco had also been, ahem, correcting some of the biases made by Kennilworthy Whisp. For example, his obvious affection for the Wimbourne Wasps, which was utterly ridiculous. Puddlemere United was the best team in the league by far, which he got into a squabble with The Weasel about. (He was a Chudley Cannons fan, ugh.)

“The Chudley Cannons are a good team! Honestly, I swear, this is the year they win,” he wheedled, still trying to look firm.

“You’ve been saying that since 1852.”

“1892!”

“Same difference.”

The Weasel opened his mouth to protest, but before a word could leave his mouth, Professor Snape’s tall, ominous shadow blanketed them in darkness.

“What’ve you got there, Potter?” he asked, gesturing towards Quidditch Through The Ages, which was sitting neatly on Hermione’s lap, open to the page about the Beater’s Bible. Potter picked it up and showed it to him.

“Library books are not to be taken outside the school. Give it to me,” Snape snapped, swiping the book from his hand. “And five points from Gryffindor. Each.”

The Weasel got up, fully ready to fight a Hogwarts professor, but Snape was already limping away.

“What’s wrong with his leg?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Dunno, but I hope it’s really hurting him,” The Weasel snarled.

———

The common room was filled with commotion the following afternoon. The entire Gryffindor quidditch team was sitting around, laughing and chatting loudly—except Potter, who was sitting by the window with he, The Weasel, and Hermione, looking out the window wistfully.

“What’s with the long face, Potter?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

When he turned to look at him, Draco’s eyes went wide. Potter was plotting something.

“I’m going to ask Snape for the book,” he grimaced.

He stood up. “I’ll go with you, Snape’ll kill you if you approach him alone.”

Potter nodded grimly. 

Quickly, they made their way down through the winding corridors towards the staff room. While Hogwarts had the same maze of hallways, the place didn’t feel like an anthill at all. In fact, the building felt more like home than home ever had.

Potter gave a sharp rap on the door. Nothing.

Draco knocked this time—albeit more timidly. “Maybe he left it inside?” he suggested.

“Worth a shot,” shrugged Potter, pushing the door ajar.

What met his eyes was a sight Draco would never forget.

Two men were inside the room, alone—Snape and Filch. Snape was sitting on a rickety old chair, his leg propped up on the table. That is to say, if you could still call it a leg. It was so bloody and mangled you could barely make anything out. Blood was dripping from the ripped open carcass of an appendage to congregate on the floor in a dark, thick pool of red. Filch handed him a bandage.

“Blasted thing,” Snape muttered bitterly, “How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?”

Harry tried to shut the door and escape with what he’d just seen, but the two men whipped their heads around.

“POTTER! MALFOY!” the professor screeched, dropping his long black robes in order to hide his injury, but it was too late.

“We’d like our book back!” he tried, but Snape was having none of it.
“GET OUT! OUT!” he bellowed, his already nasty face contorted with rage.

White-faced, the two of them sprinted back up the stairs and through the corridors, into the portrait hole again.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Draco!” cried Hermione.

“Yeah, you alright?” asked The Weasel, somewhat begrudgingly.

“No, we’re not!” he squawked.

In a horrified whisper, Potter told the pair of them what they’d seen.

“Do you know what this means?” he finished.

“He tried to get past that three-headed dog at Halloween! That’s where he was going when we saw him—he’s after whatever it’s guarding! And I’d bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to create a diversion!” gasped Hermione.

“Three-headed-dog?” Draco squinted, crossing his arms.

The Weasel relayed the tale of what really lurked in the third floor corridor, making elaborate hand-gestures and acting out some bits along the way. By the time he was finished, Draco’s jaw hung open in terror.

“How dare they keep that thing in a school!” he shrieked.

“Keep your voice down!” whispered Hermione.

“Fine. But honestly! A creature like that needs proper care, it can’t be locked up in one stuffy old room forever. And plus, it could’ve killed you! You have to be more careful!”

The Weasel rolled his eyes. “Sometimes, you’re worse than Hermione.”

She scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ron opened his mouth to answer, but-

“-We’re getting off track here,” Potter interrupted, his lips pursed.
“Snape is after whatever that dog is guarding, and if he’s willing to go this far, it’s got to be something powerful. We have to stop him.”

Draco awoke the next morning feeling rather nauseous. Potter had his first match today, Snape was after a powerful magical object being kept in the school, and soon he’d have to go home for Yuletide.

Oh, joy.

———

At breakfast, he could barely keep anything down, but no one noticed, because Potter couldn’t either.

“Just have a little breakfast. A bit of toast?” urged Hermione, but he shook his head.

“Chocolate, maybe? Not the most nutritious, but it’s something,” he said, pulling the remains of a small bar of chocolate he’d gotten from his mother out of his bag.

Potter took it gratefully, and swallowed it all down.

Draco was one of the first people in the stands, at ten-thirty sharp. With him were Dean and Hermione, who’d helped him prepare a surprise for Potter. It was a great scarlet banner, made of one of Ron’s old sheets. It read ‘Potter for President’ in swoopy calligraphy, courtesy of himself, had a massive golden lion on it, courtesy of Dean, and the paint flashed all colors, courtesy of Hermione.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” he cried in unison with the others, lifting the banner high into the air above them.

He grinned proudly as people pointed and smiled at the banner, pushing up his scarlet and gold scarf on his face.

Eventually, Hermione performed a charm to lock the banner into one place, hovering high above the Gryffindor stands. This was done just in time to watch the Slytherin team come barreling out of the tunnel at high speeds, racing just above the audience’s heads, mussing up everyone’s hair. He held his firmly in place—he’d spent forever on it that morning.

As the parallel tunnel opened, Wood came swooping out, followed by Potter and the others. Draco jumped up and down, whooping wildly and waving his flag.

His eyes scanned the pitch, and he spotted his cousin in the Ravenclaw stands, wearing a giant, realistic lion head on top her own as she hollered. Draco laughed softly as he stared over at her.

“And the game BEGINS!” Lee Jordan bellowed into the announcing microphone as the quaffle was tossed into the air—snatched by Gryffindor.

“And the quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor, what an amazing chaser that girl is—and quite attractive, too—“

“—Jordan!” cried Professor McGonagall.

“And she’s really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood’s, last year only a reserve—back to Johnson and—no, Slytherin have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes—Flint flying like an eagle up there—he’s going to sc—no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and Gryffindor take the Quaffle—that’s Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Flint, off up the field and—OUCH! That must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger—quaffle taken by Slytherin—that’s Adrian Pucey speeding off towards the goalposts, but he’s blocked by a second Bludger—sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can’t tell which—nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes—dodges a speeding Bludger—the goalposts are ahead—come on, now, Angelina—Keeper Bletchley dives—misses—GRYFFINDOR SCORE!”

Gryffindor erupted into joyous cheers, and Draco found extra satisfaction in watching his Slytherin ex-friends groan and complain over in their box.

Suddenly, he felt a massive, warm body shuffle past him. He didn’t even have to turn around.

“Hagrid,” he nodded cautiously.

“Budge up there—make some room—Well hullo, Draco, Harry tells me you lot are friends now.”

“We are, I suppose,” he sighed, adjusting his gloves on his long, thin fingers. 

During the entire ordeal of Gryffindor’s first point, Potter hadn’t moved an inch, except a celebratory loop-the-loop when Johnson scored, and he still wasn’t moving.

“Slytherin in possession,” Lee Jordan began again, “Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys and Chaser Bell and speeds towards the—wait a moment—was that the snitch?”

As if a wind-up toy that had finally been let go, Potter finally moved from his stillness, and dived towards the glittering ball of victory with deadly accuracy. Slytherin’s seeker had seen it too, and dived after him, but it was clear there was no competition. Potter was five, maybe ten meters ahead of him, and gaining.

What happened next, he watched in slow-motion. Marcus Flint, who’d been hovering close to the ground, floated easily across the pitch—and directly into Potter’s path. He batted him with the end of his broomstick, and Harry went flying.

“FOUL!” he stood up and bellowed, Ron, Hermione, and all of Gryffindor joining him.

But the cries fell mostly on deaf ears, as all they got was a free shot at Slytherin’s goalposts.

Lee Jordan, though technically supposed to be neutral, was making it glaringly obvious who he supported. “So after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating—“

“Jordan!” yelped Professor McGonagall.

“I mean, after that open and revolting foul—“

“—Jordan I’m warning you—“

“All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I’m sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet…”

Lee Jordan continued to talk, but Draco wasn’t listening. He was rather distracted by the odd way Potter was behaving on his broom.

It was bucking and lurching, left and right—doing barrel rolls too, as Potter seemed to be struggling to hold on. He snatched Hagrid’s binoculars, just to be sure, and clear as day—something was wrong with Potter’s broom.

“Someone’s jinxed it!” Hermione gasped, and Draco began frantically scanning the crowd. It didn’t take him very much time at all to spot Snape muttering an incantation up towards the bucking broomstick.

“It’s Snape,” he said quickly. “Take a look.”

He handed the binoculars to The Weasel, who took one look and grimaced.

“What should we do?” he asked.

“Leave it to me,” said Hermione, ducking out of the stands.

Draco’s gaze jerked back to the sky as Potter swung off his broomstick, holding on with one hand. The Weasley twins attempted to scoop him onto one of their brooms, but it kept leaping higher, or jerking away. They began to circle beneath him instead. The broom began to vibrate, trying to shake him off. Draco leapt to his feet, trying to think of something, anything to stop Snape. Thankfully, Hermione had it covered.

He watched in awe as a blue flame sprang up on Snape’s robes, that he stood up and frantically began to stamp out as all the other teachers turned to watch. Like a charm, Harry’s broom stopped vibrating, and he managed to clamber back on.

“Thank Merlin and Morgana for Hermione Granger,” he sighed thankfully.

She popped up again beside them a moment later. “Neville, you can look!” he smiled, shaking the boy’s shoulder away from Hagrid’s jacket—where he’d been sobbing the past few minutes.

Suddenly, Potter began speeding towards the ground, and Draco was on his feet again. He was diving, diving, diving, and just before he reached the ground, he tumbled from his broom, and hit the grass on all fours. He watched with wide eyes as Potter’s stomach lurched… and the snitch fell into his hand!

Potter stood, waving it about for everyone to see as he grinned triumphantly. The Weasel pulled he and Hermione into a bear-hug as the three of them whooped and hollered. Two stands away, Luna was cheering as well.

“Come on, you lot,” smiled Hagrid. “Down to me hut, I’ve got a victory surprise for yeh.”

Soon, the four of them were all sitting cozied up in Hagrid’s hut—which was a lot more inviting than he’d imagined. Hagrid was working the kettle.

“It was Snape,” Draco explained fretfully.

“Ronald, Hermione and I saw him. He was jinxing your broomstick, the little—“

“—Rubbish,” said Hagrid, who had been too busy comforting Neville to pay attention to what they’d been saying during the match. “Why would Snape do somethin’ like that?”

He and Potter shot each other looks.

“Draco and I found out something about him,” said Potter. “Something he wouldn’t want us to know,” he added.

“He tried to get past the three-headed-dog on Halloween, and it must’ve bit him,” supplied Hermione.

The teapot clattered to the ground.

“Now how in the world do you know about Fluffy?”

Draco scoffed. “Fluffy?”

The name sounded like something you’d call a pigmy-puff, not a three-headed-dog.

“Yeah, he’s mine—bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las’ year—I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the—“

“Yes?” Potter said eagerly.

“Now, don’t ask me any more,” muttered Hagrid, “That’s top secret, that is.”

“But Snape’s trying to steal it!” he cried.

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid again. “Snape’s a Hogwarts teacher, he’d do nothin’ of the sort.”

“So why did he just try and kill Harry?” prodded Hermione, a fire in her eyes he hadn’t seen since he’d told her about his plan to escape Gryffindor.

“I’ve grown up watching my parents perform hexes and curses just like that, Hagrid, and you’ve got to maintain eye contact. Snape wasn’t blinking,” Draco explained feverishly.

“I’m tellin’ yeh, yer wrong!” Hagrid said hotly. “I don’ know why Harry’s broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn’ try an’ kill a student! Now, listen to me, all four of yeh—yer meddlin’ in things that don’ concern yeh. It’s dangerous. You forget that dog, an’ you Forget what it’s guardin’. That’s between Professor Dumbledore an’ Nicholas Flamel.”

“Aha!” Draco grinned, wagging a finger at him. “So there’s someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?”

They were out of that hut before you could say ‘Flamel’.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t long before winter’s bitter cold swept over Hogwarts. Entire days were spent in the common room, bundled up by the fire, pouring over books and playing exploding snap.
Though, the book-reading was mostly left to he and Hermione.

The two of them spent hours swapping theories about Flamel, and Snape, and the Dark Lord, and whatever it was that the creature was guarding. He spent so much time on it, he hardly remembered the Yuletide creeping up on him.

It was tradition cemented into existence long before Draco was born, and it unfortunately would continue long after he was dust. Every member of the sacred twenty-eight would gather at one grand mansion or another, and spend those two awful weeks talking about useless nonsense. He’d once heard some Lestrange wix with a horribly gaunt face tell his mother that ‘hippogriffs are sweet, docile creatures’. Clearly, not every pure-blood was the sharpest wand in the box.

“You don’t think you could stay over Christmas?” asked Potter, not looking away from his game of wizard’s chess with The Weasel.

“What’s Kris-mahs?” he scoffed.

“Sometimes I forget how depressing your childhood was,” Potter muttered, shaking his head in disappointment.

“You’re one to talk, Mister-Raised-By-Muggles,” he quipped back.

Hermione huffed.

“In any case,” she began, finally tearing her eyes away from an ancient text entitled ‘100 of The Best Wixen Duelists’.

“You’ve got to stay, Draco, and help us figure out Nicholas Flamel. I’m going home for Christmas, and Dumb and Dumber-“

“Oi!” cried The Weasel.

“Dumb and Dumber,” she repeated, eyeing him like a hawk, “need somebody with knowledge on the happenings of the Wixen World.”

A lightbulb flicked on in his head.
If anyone was to know about evil plots and plans that were happening at Hogwarts, it would be his father.

He shot up in his seat, the great stack of books tumbling from his lap and onto The Weasel’s thumb-shaped head of flaming orange hair.

“Oi!” he cried again.

“Hermione, you’re a genius!” he screeched.

“I know.”

“No, no, I mean you’ve got it! If I can convince my Father I want to help with whatever evil plan Snape’s in, he’ll tell me, us, anything we need to know!”

This time, Potter leapt up.

“Draco, you are a genius!” he grinned.

He felt a warm sensation spread in his chest.

“Thought I was the genius,” muttered Hermione bitterly, crossing her arms as she stood.

“Shut up, all of you!” bellowed The Weasel, standing up as the chess pieces spread out across his lap tumbled onto the floor with a clatter.

“Draco, your dad cannot be gullible enough to just tell you Snape’s plan. And how do we know they’re connected anyways?”

For the first time, he’d made a really good point.

“He has to be connected, I just know he is. But you’re right, the trouble is getting the information out of him,” he sighed, furrowing his eyebrows.

Potter studied his expression for a moment.

“If your dad’s anything like my aunt and uncle, you won’t hear a peep, not if he doesn’t trust you. And no offense, but I doubt he trusts you.”

“None taken,” he nodded.
“But I think you’re right, I won’t be able to convince him I’m on his side, not while we’re.. friends.” The word still felt odd on his tongue.

There was a grim silence.

Hermione was looking between the three of them quizzically.

“What if you didn’t go home for Christmas?”

“Yuletide,” he corrected.

“Alright, Yuletide. Stay at Hogwarts, he can’t stop you.”

Challenging an authority figure was a new one for her, but the cogs did begin to turn in Draco’s mind.

“I suppose he couldn’t be much angrier with me than he already is,” he shrugged.

Potter smiled, his green eyes glittering in the warm glow of the fireplace.

“Alright,” Draco whispered, fresh resolve on his face.
“I’ll write to him. Today.”

..That statement was only partially true. He would write to him, eventually, but it turned out writing a letter to your father that was essentially a gigantic ‘F U dad, I do what I want’ was easier said than done.

It was the day before he was to board the train home for Yuletide that he finally plucked up the courage to pick up the quill.

‘Father,’
No, too casual. This was a delicate letter to write.

‘Dear Dad,’
Absolutely not, he’d be flayed alive!

‘To My Dear Father,’
Good enough.

To My Dear Father,
It is with the utmost sorrow that I inform you I will not be in attendance of this years’ annual Yuletide gathering. At present, I am too deeply indebted by my studies to spare myself such a large hiatus. I pray you will understand these are the unfortunate trades one must make in pursuit of an education.

Regards,
- D.L.M.

He nearly cackled as he read it through. He could almost picture the look on his father’s face as he read it— the pure rage and disbelief. The thought would normally scare him, if he didn’t find the idea of having the emotional upper hand on him so appealing.

A smile of retribution crossed his face as he folded up the letter and sent it, using the very eagle owl his father had picked out for him.

For the next week, he hung in the constant anxiety that the scarlet envelope of doom would be dropped on his breakfast plate. But every day, he waited anxiously, and every day, it failed to arrive.

When he awoke on the first morning of Yuletide, he was overjoyed to find himself not alone in some moth-eaten spare bedroom, but being shaken awake by Potter in his Hogwarts dormitory.

He sat up groggily, swatting his hands away.
“Get.. get away.. What do you want?” he croaked, still struggling to open his eyes.

“Get up, Draco, it’s Christmas!” he squealed.

“I don’t care about your stupid muggle holidays, let me-“

“-You’ve got presents.”

That got his attention.
His eyes snapped open. Potter looked even more disheveled than normal, if that was possible, but he was grinning wildly.

“Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?” he smiled, jumping out of bed and down the winding stairs into the common room.

When they reached the large, round room, The Weasel was standing atop a pyramid of oddly wrapped gifts, wearing a slightly oversized burgundy jumper with a giant golden R in the center.

“What are you wearing?” he and Potter chorused in unison.

“It’s a Weasley jumper, Mum knits us each one at Christmas. I think you two might’ve gotten them as well.”

They shared a look. Draco was especially perplexed.

“Mrs. Weasley knitted me a family jumper?”

“She insisted,” The Weasel shrugged.

Draco looked to what he assumed was his pile of presents— considerably smaller than The Weasel’s.

He’d gotten a book of muggle fairy tales from Hermione, with a note attached in her familiar tidy scrawl,

You’ve got to learn somehow.
With love,
- Hermione

He chuckled, slipping it away to read later. Next was The Weasel’s gift, a box of Bertie Bott’s. It was the same present Potter got, but he appreciated it nonetheless with the Weasley family’s lack of funds.

The Weasel was right— Mrs. Weasley had made him a jumper, in a blinding turquoise with a violently green D in the center. Skeptically, he slipped it on, only to find it oddly soft, if a tad itchy. 

“You’re telling me your mother knitted me a sweater? Why?” he asked, his voice high with incredulity. 

The Weasel shrugged.

”I mean, you’re my friend. And besides, I think Mum has a pension for taking in kids with nasty families,” he grinned, throwing a look at Potter.

Draco leapt up.

”My family is not nasty!” he cried, stamping his foot. 

Potter and The Weasel both raised a simultaneous eyebrow.

”Oh, the nerve of you two,” he harrumphed, sitting back down with his arms crossed. 

Next was a gift from Hagrid, a remembrall crudely wrapped in brown paper. The note attached read, in barely legible type,

Haree tels me you fance rembrals, so her you go
- Hagrid

He smiled softly as he read the note. As scary as the great oaf looked, he had the evil intentions of a golden retriever.

He pocketed the remembrall, pursing his lips at the thought of the flying lesson.

He searched the pile for Potter’s gift, but found nothing. He looked over at him, cocking his head.

His face was rather pink.
“I wasn’t expecting, uhm, gifts, so I didn’t think.. Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s ok. I didn’t get you anything either, if that makes you feel better.”

“You’ve never had Christmas before.”

“My point still stands.”

Potter shook his head, and moved back to his own gifts. Draco turned to his, only to realize the only thing left was a small piece of parchment that had been sitting underneath the remembrall. Scrawled on it in loopy letters he recognized as his Mother’s, it read,

Happy Christmas, Draco.
- N.M. & L.A.M.

Narcissa Malfoy and Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.

He hadn’t been expecting flowers, but somehow the note was worse than nothing.
We exist, it said. We are here with open arms, but only for good little boys who do as they’re told.

He crumpled the note and threw it on the floor, frustrated tears filling his eyes.

Potter and The Weasel were by his side in seconds, which made it all worse. He’d gotten what he wanted, but lost what he had.

“‘S’fine,” he murmured after a moment, sniffling.
“My dad is mad at me. What’s new.”

“My aunt and uncle only got me socks, if that makes you feel better,” Potter wheedled. 

“So?” he whined.

“The whole wixen world adores you, who cares if two bloody muggles don’t.”

He was very quiet then, only sitting down beside him, his dark, knobby legs crisscrossed over each-other.

“I’d trade you, if I could,” Potter muttered. 

“So would I, easily,” Draco huffed sadly.

”But we can’t. So let’s come off it, shall we?”

“D’you know what this is?” asked Potter, the pity in his voice thick.

He turned to him slowly, and his jaw dropped open. In his hands, Potter clutched an invisibility cloak. That was a luxury not even his family could get their hands on.

“Who gave that to you?!” he cried.
“That’s an invisibility cloak!”

“What does it do?” asked Potter quizzically.

“What do you think it does, genius? Put it on!”

Potter slipped the cloak around his shoulders, and his body was suddenly missing altogether.

“My body’s gone!” the floating head of Harry Potter cried.

“Obviously! Who gave that to you?” he cried back. 

“It didn’t say, only that it once belonged to my dad, and that I should use it well.”

“Course we’re gonna bloody use it well!” bellowed The Weasel, yanking it from Potter’s grasp.

“Think of the places we could sneak off to! We could skip classes, sneak into the kitchens, the teacher’s lounge-“

“-The restricted section!” he gasped.

The Weasel tilted his head.
“Not exactly what I had in mind.”

“But we could find information on Nicholas Flamel, and stop Snape before classes even get started again!”

“You’re right!” cried Potter.
“I’ll go tonight, see what I can find.”

“Alone?” asked The Weasel skeptically.

“Better for one of us to be caught than three. If I find something, I’ll bring it back.”

Draco nodded uneasily.

That night, Draco couldn’t sleep. Potter was out, sneaking around the restricted section, where he could be caught by Madam Pince, or worse— Filch.

The Weasel, however, was out cold, and his train-horn snoring wasn’t making it any easier to drift off.

He sighed, and decided he’d get up to fetch himself some water. But before a toe could even touch the floor, the door burst open, and in barged Potter, his green eyes glowing like two lamps in the darkness.

“Draco! Ron! Ron! RON! Get up, get up, you’ve got to see this!”

“Keep your voice down!” he hissed.

“Sorry, but seriously!”

“What’ve you found?” he asked skeptically.

“You won’t believe me until you see it for yourself. Come on, let’s go! Ron, don’t fall back asleep!”

The Weasel nodded sleepily, muttering something about spiders and flying cars.

Soon, the three of them were all concealed under the cloak, trying to keep up with Potter’s nonsensical rambling as he tried to remember which way he’d come.

Eventually, the skidded to a stop outside a familiar door.

Draco’s heart dropped into his stomach.

Potter had found the mirror.

Pretty soon,The Weasel was standing in front of it, gushing about his greatest desires, jumping up and down in his Chudley Canons pajamas. He wanted to be quidditch captain, head boy and such. Draco tried to creep away, but the pair of them turned on him, unknowing smiles on their faces.

“What about you? C’mere, what do you see?” asked Potter. 

“I want to find Nicholas Flamel,” he answered shortly, his eyes flicking towards the door.

“Prove it,” said Potter, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Shove off, Potter,” he snarled, making for the door. But The Weasel had his arm before he could make it halfway there.

”Come on, Draco, let’s see it,” he grinned.

Draco wrenched his arm out of The Weasel’s grasp. 

“If you want to see mine so bad, Potter, let’s see yours. Œil pour œil pour œil.”

The Weasel gave a snort into his hand.

“It’s French, weasel. An eye for an eye,” he spat.

”Like I said, Potter, what’s yours, if you’re so eager on mine?” he asked triumphantly, rounding on him. 

Potter had seemed to physically shrink, his eyes dimmer, like someone had taken all the air from a fire. 

“Oh, I just..”

He stepped in front of the mirror, staring into it with large eyes. 

“I see my parents,” he sighed.

”And not just them. My grandparents, and their grandparents, and every Potter and Evans there’s ever been. They’re all there.”

That shut Draco up quickly.

In had been a regular talking point of his fun-poking, but never once had he actually taken a moment to truly think about it.

Potter had never known his parents. And they weren’t the sort of people Draco was raised by. The Potters were good, stand-up people, who would have raised him well. But they didn’t raise him at all. It was a tragedy, really. His whole existence was. 

“What’s yours, Draco?”

He couldn’t not tell him now. With a shaky huff, he closed his eyes, submerging himself into blackness as he stepped into the mirror’s cruel embrace. 

When he opened his eyes, what peered back at him wasn’t the boy he’d seen all those months ago. He was himself, exactly as he was, decked out in scarlet and gold, with his friends, his real friends, surrounding him, while his father smiled at him approvingly, his mother’s hand on his shoulder.

A lump formed in his throat as he stared back at the boy in the mirror. The boy who was exactly like him, only with his father’s approval, like warm sunshine on his face. He sighed shakily.

“I see my parents accepting me for who I am,” he admitted.

He felt Potter’s warm hand on his shoulder.
“If they don’t take one look at you and see how amazing you are, they must be blind.”

“Blind and stupid,” The Weasel added.
“You’re brilliant, mate.”

“You really are,” finished Potter.

He felt hot tears pool in his eyes as he stood there, staring at the boy in the mirror. Suddenly, his father’s approval didn’t seem quite as sunny.

He turned and pulled both of them into a crushing hug.

“You two are the most wonderful idiots I’ve ever met in my life,” he sniffed.

Chapter Text

“Come on, Potter, the snow’s knee-deep!”

“You go.”

“Want to play wizard’s chess, Potter?”
“I’m alright, but you have fun.”

“Why don’t we visit Hagrid?”
“No thanks.”

Draco was frustrated to tears. He’d wasted his entire last week of winter break trying to get Potter to go anywhere but the stupid mirror, to no avail.

Every night, he would disappear under the cloak, and wouldn’t be back till dawn. And while fine on its own, this little habit began to interfere with his day-to-day. Potter became habitually sleepy, never bothering to think about Snape, or quidditch, or Flamel.

More than once, he’d fallen asleep on Draco’s shoulder during breakfast. He didn’t really mind, but after an entire week of Potter practically sleepwalking around Hogwarts, he’d had enough.

On his eighth night in a row of slipping away to the mirror, Draco followed him. Lucky for him, Potter was a man on a mission, and didn’t bother to look back even once.

He watched quietly from behind a large pillar as Porter sat before the mirror, staring into it with eyes full of wonder. It was the happiest he’d seen him in a while.

He shook his head. Potter needed help.

“Why are you back here again?” he asked, stepping out from behind the obelisk.

Potter whipped around, startled.
“Draco! What the-“

“-Don’t,” he interrupted.
“You have to stop coming here, it won’t do you any good.”

“You don’t know what’ll do me good,” Potter answered bitterly.

“Sure,” he admitted wearily.
“But I do know what that mirror does to you.”

He sat down on the floor beside him.

“I found the mirror before you did, the night of the duel.”

Potter gasped.
“I thought you set us up!”

He shook his head.
“No. I got lost and ended up here. But when I first saw myself in the mirror, what I wanted wasn’t for my father to change what he approves of for me, it was for me to change in order to meet my father’s expectations. It drove me crazy. I spent weeks sitting here.”

“What changed?” he whispered.

“I realized that what you want isn’t always what you need.”
The words surprised even himself.
“I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, not because I got re-sorted into Slytherin, but because I let myself be who I am.“

Potter didn’t respond, only staring into the mirror longingly.

“Hey. Look at me. Your parents aren’t coming back, Potter. There’s no magic in the world that can resurrect the dead. You can’t bring them back. But what you can do is pick yourself up and keep going. It’s what they would want.”

Potter stared, tears welling in his eyes. He pulled Draco into a hug.

He squeezed back just as tightly. Potter would be loud, obnoxious, fiery Potter again, thank Merlin and Morgana.

———

“Draco Malfoy! Out of bed without the cloak! If Filch had spotted you-!”
“-But he didn’t.”
“But he could have!”
“I suppose he could have.”

Hermione sighed defeatedly. The two of them were sitting alone in the boy’s dormitory on Draco’s bed, late at night. Unable to keep everything to himself, he’d decided to give her a debrief while Potter and The Weasel were off doing who-knows-what. She was in a pink silk bonnet and purple satin pajamas, a sour expression on her face.

“Did you get any information on Nicholas Flamel?”

He shook his head.
“No, just the mirror.”

“..It was good of you to stop him,” she admitted.
“He might’ve gone mad without you.”

Draco shook his head, smiling.
“He is a little reckless, isn’t he.”

“More than a little,” Hermione added.

“More than a little.” he affirmed.

———

The following morning, the four of them were walking toward’s Potter’s early morning quidditch practice, which The Weasel had insisted they attend every once in a while.

Everyone was dragging their feet but Hermione, who was going on and on about the quiz they had later that day in ancient runes.

“But that one wasn’t really created by Emeric the Evil, but by Hilda von Schvatz, ancient ancestor of-“

“-Sometimes I wish you had a mute button,” grumbled The Weasel.

“Ok, here we are,” nodded Potter, gripping his broom.
“You lot go sit in the Gryffindor stands, and I’ll meet you after.”

Potter disappeared into dimly lit wooden tunnels underneath the pitch, as he and the others headed up to the stands.

By the time Draco finally settled himself in a spot he was at least 90% sure wouldn’t give in under his weight, Potter and the team were already zipping around the pitch, running formations under Wood’s watchful eye.

He chuckled as the Weasley twins dive-bombed each-other, pretending to fall off their brooms. Wood, however, was less than impressed.

“Will you two stop messing around?!” he bellowed.
“That’s exactly the sort of thing that’ll lose us the match! Snape’s refereeing this time, and he’ll be looking for any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!”

Draco’s stomach dropped.
Snape was refereeing the quidditch match.

That meant two things:
1. His going theory on Snape being a sun-avoiding vampire was unfortunately false.
2. Potter was dead boy walking!

One of the twins, he couldn’t tell which— dropped off his broomstick like a snidget shot out of the air.

The rest of the team landed as well, but Draco wasn’t around to see it. He was already barreling down the rickety old stairs towards the muddy grass of the quidditch pitch.

Fortunately, Potter was already there to meet him.

“You can’t play!” he shrieked.
“Say you’re ill.”

Hermione popped up behind him.
“Pretend to break your leg,” she suggested.

“Really break your leg,” added The Weasel.

“I can’t,” Potter said hopelessly,
“There isn’t a reserve seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor can’t play at all.”

“Who cares who wins at stupid school sport, you’ll die!” Draco protested.

“Shh!” hissed Hermione, grabbing his arm.
“Let’s talk about this somewhere else.”

Draco nodded weakly.

———

Back in the common room, the four of them sat around the fire, stress-eating chocolate frogs by the dozen.

“Hermione can’t set fire to him if he’s on the pitch,” Draco said bitterly.

“Obviously,” she huffed,
“But we’ve got to keep Harry safe somehow.”

“I’ll just play. It’ll be more noticeable that he’s jinxing the broom if he’s standing in the middle of the pitch. Snape wouldn’t risk it,” said Potter determinedly.

“Yes, he would,” The Weasel muttered.

Draco swallowed a large piece of chocolate, looking down at the pile of cards he’d amassed.

Dumbeldore, Dumbeldore, Merlin, Helga Hufflepuff, Dumbledore, Dumbledore.

He turned over his latest card, reading the description he’d read a thousand times.

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 wix 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 ten-pin bowling.

And his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicholas Flamel!

Draco jumped out of his chair.
“I found him!” he shouted, turning heads all around the common room.
“Read the back of your Dumbeldore cards!”

Hermione sat straight up, a buck-toothed grin spreading across her face.
“Professor Dumbledore is particularly tamous 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!”

Before any of them had time to celebrate, Hermione dashed up to the girl’s dormitories, and came back with a massive, ancient old book, covered in dust.

“I never thought to look in here! I got this out of the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading.”

“This is light?” asked The Weasel skeptically.

“Shh! Here it is! Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of The Philosopher’s Stone!”

She looked between the three of them expectantly, but it was clear none of them had a clue what she was talking about.

“Oh honestly, don’t you three read?” she huffed exasperatedly.

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but she was already going on.

“The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Philosopher's Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal. There have been many reports of the Philosopher's Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera-lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle, age six hundred and fifty-eight.”

Draco slammed threw his chocolate frog card down.
“That’s it! That’s what the creature is guarding! That’s what Snape wants!”

“Of course he wants it,” added Potter,
“Who wouldn’t want a stone that makes gold and stops you from dying?”

“And no wonder we couldn’t find him in The Recents Developments of Wixen History, he’s not exactly recent if he’s six-hundred-and-sixty-five, is he?” added The Weasel.

As the quidditch match grew closer, Draco found himself rather nauseous more often than not. The thought of Potter hitting the ground the same way Neville did, likely from much higher up.. Merlin, it made him sick.

Consequently, he found himself digging through his defense against the dark arts books every chance he got, looking for something that could stop Snape. Luckily, though, the answer was closer than he thought.

He was sitting outside in the courtyard with Hermione and The Weasel while Potter was at practice, as three of them were swapping ideas.

“We could distract him,” suggested Hermione,
“Make lots of loud noise and racket, bring his attention away.”

“He’s dead-set on killing him, I don’t think loud noises will stop him,” Draco said sullenly.

“We could get out onto the field and tackle him?” shrugged The Weasel.

Hermione shook her head.
“Jesus, you’re impossible, Ronald.”

“Who’s Jesus?”

“Nevermind.”

Draco, meanwhile, was busy sifting through every curse, hex, and jinx he’d ever seen his parents perform.

“If we could just get him to stand in one spot, maybe-“

“-That’s it! Locomotor mortis!” Draco shouted, throwing his hands in the air.

Recognition donned Hermione’s face.
“The leg-locker curse!”

The Weasel was looking between them like they’d each grown an extra head.
“The what?”

“The leg-locker curse,” he explained.
“It’s exactly what it sounds like. You can’t move your legs.”

The Weasel nodded excitedly.
“That could work!”

———

The day of the game crept up faster than he would have liked. Pretty soon, he was all bundled up to shield himself from the elements, a scarlet flag clutched in one hand, his wand in the other.

He took notice of Dumbledore sitting in the teacher’s stand, but it didn’t make him any less tense. Snape was a nasty man, there was no telling how far he’d go.

The teams set off around the field, and Hufflepuff was winning, but he barely paid any attention. His eyes were always on Snape and Potter. Like they’d practiced, he was keeping close to the ground.

“And there’s a clear example of haversacking the goal by fifth year Hufflepuff Malcom Preece, lovely fashion sense but clearly no regard for the rulebook-“

“-Jordan!”

“-Sorry, Professor! Preece scores completely legally, bringing the total tally to 1-14 Hufflepuff. And- oh! Oh, Potter’s going straight up for the snitch, Summerby’s hot on his tail, it’s neck and neck— could be either- oh! Potter dives, straight down! Summerby can’t keep up! He’s pulling up, he’s- he’s got it! Potter catches the snitch, bringing the total tally to 216-14! Gryffindor wins!”

The stands erupted.

“That has to be a record!” grinned The Weasel, shaking his shoulders.
“No one’s ever caught the snitch that fast!”

Hermione was squealing, hugging Parvati Patil.

He was watching as Potter held the snitch over his head triumphantly, just in case Snape decided to shoot a curse at him on his way out. Thankfully, the limping man disappeared into the rafters without a word, a nasty expression on his face.

It was only then that he finally let himself relax, a smile spreading across his lip:

“We won!” he cried, turning to hug whoever was nearest. He found himself nearly crushing Neville.

In the common room, he, The Weasel, Hermione, Parvati, Lavender, Dean, Seamus, and Neville were all sitting around the fire, swapping candies, drinking butterbeer, and making shadow puppets. He was so wrapped up in all the celebrating he barely noticed Potter’s absence.

Dean was making a surprisingly good fox shadow puppet when Potter stumbled into the portrait hole, his already awful hair even more missed up by the wind and rain, his quidditch uniform covered in mud.

Before he could say a word, the four of them were up and moving towards the dormitories.

“We were right,” Potter gasped breathlessly, as soon as the door was closed.
“It is the Philosopher's Stone, and Snape's trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy, and he said something about Quirrell's ‘hocus-pocus’. I reckon there are other things guarding the stone apart from Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell which Snape needs to break through-“

“-So the stone is only safe so long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?” he interrupted, his hands flying up to his mouth.

“It’ll be gone by next Tuesday,” groaned The Weasel.

Chapter Text

It was easy to let time slip away when he spent all his time monitoring Quirrell. Surprisingly, he seemed to be holding up well. He was constantly muttering to himself, and itching the back of his neck, but small fidgety habits meant nothing as long as he wasn’t giving in to Snape.

With all the constant supervision on his professor, he barely noticed as exams began to creep closer. Hermione, though? It was all she could notice. There were days when she didn’t speak to them at all, only muttering unintelligibly to herself.

He grew slightly jealous of her unchanged focus, especially with all the approaching danger. It seemed impossible to him to be able to focus on revisions when all that stood between Snape and the Philosopher’s Stone was a giant ball of stuttering anxiety with less resolve than an elderly confundus patient.

Potter didn’t seem to be doing much better. He would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, sweat rolling down his face, muttering something about a green light. He’d tried just telling him to go back to sleep, to close his eyes and fight it out, but it quickly became clear that would never work.

“MUM!” he screamed one starless night, shooting out of his bed.

Draco’s eyes popped open. He’d always been a light sleeper.

“Potter, what.. what are you up for?”

“He’s.. I don’t..”

His eyes softened as he realized.

“It’s your nightmares again, isn’t it?”

Potter nodded weakly, swallowing. He looked oddly quite pale.

“Nothing’s going to hurt you, don’t worry. You’re safe in Hogwarts. The Dark Lord can’t touch you here, not on school soil.”

Potter sighed shakily.
“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No,” he lied. 

Potter crawled back under the covers, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

There were no more nightmares that night.

———

The following morning, the four of them were all in the library, yawning their way through revisions on ancient runes. Or, Potter and The Weasel were yawning.

“There are seven uses of goblin saliva, not twelve,” he corrected, pointing to Hermione’s page.

“No, there are twelve,” she protested, a firm look in here eye.

“Seven. You’re thinking of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood,” he countered.

“No, twelve! Warts, boils, cuts, bruises, pimples, rashes, irritation, and..”

“You can’t think of more than seven, can you?”

“Will you two shut up?” moaned The Weasel.
“We’ll never use any of this in the real world.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Hagrid was shuffling awkwardly past him.

“Jus’ lookin,” he muttered, but Draco was already hot on his tail.

“What are you up to, Hagrid?”

“Up ter? Me? I’m not up ter anything!” he protested gruffly.

“Liar. What’ve you got behind your back?” he asked, his silvery eyes flitting to Hagrid’s massive arms.

“Nothin’!” he cried helplessly.

Draco shook his head.

“We’re your friends, Hagrid, we wouldn’t tell a soul!” he said smoothly, batting his eyelashes.

Hagrid huffed.

“Alright. Come down to me hut tonight after dark. Don’t let no one see you.”

“That won’t be an issue,” he grinned.

The Weasel was nodding appreciatively.

“I take back everything I said about you,” he smiled sagely.

“What did you say about me?”

“Doesn’t matter. What d’you think he’s got?”

Hermione stood up to look at the book section he’d been looking at.

She came back a moment later, wide-eyed.

“Dragons!” she whispered excitedly.

Potter gasped.
“Hagrid’s always wanted a dragon, he said so the first time I ever met him.”

Merlin and Morgana, Hagrid did not have a dragon! He’d be thrown in Azkaban!

“That’s illegal!” he hissed.

“Obviously,” countered The Weasel, leaning towards them,
“But Hagrid’s never been the guy to prioritize the law over whatever monster he finds cute, has he?”

“You’re right,” Potter said grimly.
“If Hagrid’s got a dragon, we’ve got to get rid of it. Fast.”

———

Draco gave three sharp raps on the door of the gamekeeper’s hut, shivering in the cold.

“Who is it?” came the voice from the other side, before Hagrid quickly ushered them in.

As soon as he stepped over the threshold, he found himself missing night air again. It was awfully hot inside, the kind of hot you feel in your eyes. And that wasn’t even the worst part— the entire hut reeked of something truly foul.

“Augh-! Hagrid, what in Morgana’s name do you have cooking in here!?” he squealed, wrinkling his nose.

“A Norwegian Ridgeback,” he giggled excitedly, slipping on a pair of hand-knitted oven mitts, presumably because any you could buy at the store were too small for him.

“Wicked!” The Weasel gasped.
“That’s the kind Charlie works with up in Romania!”

“Who’s Charlie?” Draco asked, cocking his head as a plan began to work its way through his mind.

“My brother. Why?”

Draco’s eyes glittered as he turned to look at Hermione, who seemed to be having the same idea.

“Let’s send him up to Romania,” they both said at once.

Hagrid pressed a mitt to his chest, but yowled as the hot fabric seared his skin.

“Absolutely not! You- OW!”

“Oh, Hagrid!” gasped Hermione.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.. But no, you lot won’ be takin’ away my Norbert. He hasn’t even hatched yet!”

“Norbert?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“He’s got to have a name, dudn’t ‘e?”

“Hagrid, you can’t keep him here,” said Potter.

“If what I’ve read about dragons is true,” began Hermione,
“the dragon-“

“Norbert!”

“Norbert, is going to get too big to conceal within a matter of weeks.”

“You’ll be sent to prison for this, you’ve got to get rid of him,” insisted Potter.

Hagrid was clearly hearing none of this, too busy getting the great black egg out of its pot above the fireplace. He placed it on the table with great pride, like a niffler presenting you something shiny.

“Where did’ya get it?” asked The Weasel, awe sparkling in his eyes.

“Won it, of a feller in the pub las’ night. Seemed quite glad to be rid of it.”

If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself, Draco thought determinedly, and donned his warmest smile.

“Hagrid, everyone knows you. You’re one the school’s big selling points— apart from Dumbledore and McGonagall of course. You can’t keep dear old Norbert, or he’ll get too big to hide, and your perfect reputation will be soiled. You’re too loved to let something like this ruin you, and we only want what’s best.”

Hagrid’s chest swelled.
“Oh, alright then,” he chuckled, his cheeks pink.

Draco did a little mental victory dance.

“While we’re here, what else is guarding the stone?” asked Hermione.

Hagid’s smile quickly dropped off his face.

“Don’ tell me you’re still on that, are yeh?”

“We just want to know who else Dumbledore trusted as much as you,” Draco said sweetly.

Hagrid’s beard twitched.
“Well, there was.. let’s see.. Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall, Professor Quirrell, and Professor Snape.”

“Snape?” Potter asked incredulously.

“Like I said, why would he go and steal it if he’s protectin’ it?” Hagrid urged.

Cogs were already turning in Draco’s mind. If Snape was one of the people guarding the stone, that meant he knew exactly how it was being guarded. Except, it seems— Professor Quirell’s protection, and how to get past Fluffy.

“Anyone else who knows how to get past Fluffy?” The Weasel asked anxiously.

“Not a soul knows but me and Dumbledore,” Hagrid said proudly, puffing out his chest.

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Draco muttered.

———

Over the next week, all that could be on their minds was Norbert. The Weasel was constantly exchanging letters with his brother, trying to figure out a way to get a baby dragon out of Hogwarts. Obviously, this was a rather difficult feat to pull off.

Norbert grew bigger and bigger every day. By Tuesday, he was half as tall as Hermione, and by Friday, he was up to Hagrid’s belly button.
On Saturday, Hagrid had started to keep him out behind the hut in a little kennel he’d whipped up, and by Sunday, Norbert had broken it.

When they weren’t strategizing about Hagrid’s fiery problem, revisions consumed their waking days. Parchment littered the common room, ink stained their fingers and sleeve-cuffs, and their eye-bags got bigger by the day. Potter’s nightmares were getting worse too, to the point of constant sleepless nights.

It was a letter on Tuesday evening that finally brought their deliverance.

Dear Ron,
I think the best thing will be to send him over with some friends of mine who are coming to visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn't be seen carrying an illegal dragon.
Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at midnight tomorrow night? They can meet you there and take him away while it's still dark.
Love, Charlie

Before The Weasel had even finished reading it out, Draco was out of his seat, piles of parchment spilling out of his lap.

“Alright then! Tomorrow night, we’ll be rid of this stupid d-“

“-Shh!” hissed Hermione.

“Right,” he sighed, pursing his lips.

“All four of us being out at once is too risky, but we need more than one to carry the.. the load,” he puzzled, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ll go with you,” said Potter.

Hermione looked between them skeptically.

“Do not get caught, you two. I’ll hex both your faces off if you lose us any house points,” she threatened, squeezing her quill menacingly.

Draco shuddered at the thought.

———

The following evening, he and Potter stood at the mouth of the portrait hole. They were both in their pajamas, wearing slippers that Hermione had enchanted to step silently. They could hear Peeves outside, giggling foolishly as he hit a tennis ball off the wall.

“I think I hate him more than Snape,” Draco muttered bitterly.

“I don’t think it’s possible to hate anyone more than Snape,” Potter replied, his green eyes twinkling with the light of the dying fire.

“D’you think Dumbledore knows how nasty Snape is to you? To all of us, really, but he’s especially horrid to you,” Draco asked.

“No. He wouldn’t keep him here if he knew. But Snape won’t be around much longer anyway, he’ll be gone as soon as we stop him getting the stone,” Potter said determinedly.

Draco nodded, and turned his gaze to the fire.

“I’m sorry how nasty I was to you. And Ron. And Neville.”

Potter put a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re a bit of a ponce sometimes. But you also went to comfort to Hermione on Hallowe’en. And you went with me to speak to Snape. And you stopped me coming to the mirror. And you-“

“-I get the point,” he rasped, hot tears filling his eyes.

He wiped them on the back of his pajama sleeves and looked over at Potter, who’d never looked away from him, and was smiling fondly.

“The point is, you’re a good person,” he whispered.

The sounds of Peeves’ tennis ball had stopped. He stood up, dusting himself off to grope for an ounce of his former composure.

“Right,” he sniffed.
“Operation Norbert is a go.”

They arrived at Hagrid’s hut at quarter to midnight. He was squatted on the ground next to Norbert’s cage, tearily feeding him little bits of chicken.

He turned to them, dabbing his eyes as he stood and picked up the great cage like it was a bunch of grapes.

“Right, he’s got lots o’ rats and brandy for the journey, an’ I’ve packed his teddy bear in case he gets lonely.”

From inside the crate came the tearing noise of Norbert’s dear teddy getting its head ripped off.

The two of them slipped the invisibility cloak over the crate, before stepping under it themselves.

“Bye-bye, Norbert!” Hagrid wailed, blowing his nose on a handkerchief the size of Draco’s head.

The walk to the tower was one of the most awful things he’d ever had to do. Every few minutes, he placed down the crate and shook out his hands, puffing. Potter, however, was doing much better than he.

“You are unhealthily skinny,” he deadpanned.

“Shut your mouth,” Draco gasped, still trying to catch his breath.

This exchange happened several more times before they finally reached the top of the tallest astronomy tower.

The crisp night air breathed new life into him, and he threw the cloak off with a smile, doing a little spin.

“We made it!” he cried, laughing deliriously.
“I could sing!”

“Please don’t,” Potter said weakly.

“You don’t know what my singing voice sounds like!”

“I don’t want to find out.”

Draco rolled his eyes, a little smirk donning his lips as he pulled the cloak off the cage.

“When is The Weasel’s brother going to get here?”

“Any minute now,” Potter responded, turning skyward.
“It’s just past midnight.”

Draco searched the sky for a moment before he found it.

There it was, resting in between Ursa Major and Minor— his star.

“Every person on my side of our family is named after something in the night sky,” his mother had told him once, as they laid on the grass behind The Anthill.

“There’s your uncles— Sirius and Regulus, they’re both stars. Your aunt Bellatrix is a star as well, and your aunt Andromeda is a constellation. Your grandmother, Druella, she’s a planet, and your Grandfather, Cygnus, is a constellation.”

“What about you?” he’d asked as he snuggled up against her.

“I’m a flower,” she’d said, with a tone of sadness in her voice that he still didn’t understand.
“Your grandparents thought I’d be different somehow, and so they named me differently.”

Potter noticed what he was looking at.

“What star is that?” he asked.

“It’s mine,” he answered quietly.
“That one there between Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.”

“Between what?”

“Between the big and little dipper.”

Draco grabbed his wrist and guided his hand towards it.

“There, that one. That’s Draco. Or, at least the start of it. Technically I’m both a star and a constellation.”

Potter stared up at it with wide-eyes.
“You got such a nice name. Mine’s just Harry.”

Draco dropped his wrist.
“I think Harry is a fine name,” he admitted.

“No you don’t, it sounds exactly like hairy!”

“Well, maybe ‘Hairy’ is appropriate for the mess you’ve got up here,” he chuckled, vaguely gesturing at his untamable mass of hair.

Just then, there was a whooshing above them, and a group of young wix on broomsticks appeared above them, led by a grinning redhead at the front. He looked a lot like The Weasel, only older, with a wider face and darker eyes.

“Oi! You Harry?!” he called, waving his arms.

“Yeah!” Potter hollered back, his hands cupped around his mouth.

Charlie Weasley slowly lowered his broomstick, before squatting down and launching himself into a surprisingly graceful backflip that landed him safely with his feet on the cobblestone.

“It’s good to be back!” he said happily, placing his hands on his hips.
“You’re Harry, which means you must be Draco.”

He extended a hand to both of them, his arms crossing over each-other.
Draco took it awkwardly.

“Right, here he is,” Charlie smiled, wiggling his fingers as he turned to Norbert’s crate.

He took it in once hand as if it were weightless, and tossed it behind his head without even looking at it.

Every second, it was becoming more and more clear why the Weasleys were always sorted into Gryffindor.

As his gang began to rig Norbert up to hang on ropes between two broomsticks, Charlie turned to the pair of them.

“Tell my brothers I said hi, will you?” he asked as he hopped back onto his broomstick.

“Oh, and remind Professor McGonagall that the Gryffindor Quidditch team won’t find another Charlie!” he hollered as he and his crew zipped off into the night air, Norbert in tow.

Draco chuckled as threw an arm around Potter.

“We may not find another Charlie, but I think we’ll hold up with our Potter just fine,” he smiled as they began to make their way down the tower.

After such a success, nothing could bother them.

Nothing, except Filch’s ugly mug waiting for them at the foot of the stairs.

“Well, well, well.. we are in trouble,” he smiled wickedly.

They’d forgotten the invisibility cloak at the top of the tower.

Chapter Text

“How dare you!” Professor McGonagall screeched. Her nostrils were flared to the size of two great train tunnels, her eyes scarily wide. She looked as if she would breathe fire.

“I haven’t seen this many students out of bed since-“

She hesitated, faltering.

“Well, I suppose it’s in your blood.”

Draco tilted his head. Who could he possibly be related to that had the capacity to cause as much trouble as they’d gotten up to? Who could even come close to a dragon?

“Who, Professor?” Potter asked, just as he was opening his mouth.

“It doesn’t matter. You two are absolutely-“

Before the professor could set in on her tirade, he tilted his head, quietly asking again.

“Professor, who’s in our blood?”

She sighed exasperatedly, pinching her nose. She seemed to have aged a significant amount since the start of their conversation.

“For Potter, it’s his father, and for you..”

Her eyes flitted over his face.

“..Your mother’s entire side.”

His mother’s side? Draco seriously doubted it. They were all either up-tighty and strict, or..

He supposed he didn’t know much at all about those who had their faces burned off that old tree. Maybe those folk were a little like him.

Maybe he was like the wix who got their faces burned off the tree.

Dear Merlin and Morgana, what was he saying?

Draco sat up straighter, staring off into space. He was nothing like them, was he? Sure, he was in Gryffindor, but he wasn’t a troublemaker. He wasn’t disrespectful, or irresponsible, or reckless, or stupid. He was a Malfoy, no matter what house.

“..I’m taking away fifty points,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Fifty?” he heard Potter groan.

“Each,” McGonagall finished, turning up her nose.

Each?!

Draco shot out of his seat, eyes wide as saucers.

“Professor, you can’t ! That’s 100 points!” he cried, staring intensely at her through the dim candlelight.

“I can do maths, mister Malfoy,” she huffed.

“And, detention. Tomorrow night.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it as he realized they had no excuse. They were on the tallest astronomy tower in the middle of the night, and they’d forgotten the Merlin-forsaken cloak. They were doomed.

“One hundred points,” Potter breathed on their way back to the dormitories.

Draco didn’t respond, his head hung. He was a troublemaker. All because he’d allowed himself to get wrapped up in the affairs of stupid Potter, and the stupid Weasel, and stupid Hermione.

He should have just kept to himself.

———

Draco didn’t talk to anyone the following day, especially not the three-who-must-not-be-named. This turned out to work quite nicely, considering that no one wanted to talk to him either.

It was a ghastly thought. Draco Malfoy, heir to two of the greatest wixen families in history, had not only disgraced his descendant house, but had managed to put shame on his new one too.

Even the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs turned on him— they’d been rooting for Slytherin’s downfall. He had absolutely no one left to turn to.

Still, even when Draco was in the worst state he’d been in since the blood traitor incident, he was still doing leagues better than a certain someone.

He’d never seen Potter so utterly miserable. And while he tried not to look at him, he was hard to miss with a thundercloud half the size of the school hovering over his head. Draco even heard that he’d tried to resign from the quidditch team.

He didn’t feel bad for him, of course not. It’s what he got for meddling like that.

That evening, he found himself standing beside Potter outside Filch’s office. The tiny, broom-closet-esque room stank of something truly foul, and he would have plugged his nose had he not been too busy holding it up.

Potter was staring at him. Not even discretely. His head was turned to face him, and his giant, lamp-like green eyes peered out at him through the darkness.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply, as if he was telling him the sky was blue.

Draco said nothing.

“I should’ve stopped you from going with me. I could have carried it on my own,” he continued.

Draco looked away from him, his lips still sealed.

“I’m sorry,” Potter repeated again. But before he could say another word, the door to Filch’s office busted open with an awful shaky creak.

On the threshold stood Filch, his awful, bald, ratty face and five o’ clock shadow leering down at them like they were zoo animals being gawked at through the bars.

“Right, you lot. Follow me,” he chuckled wickedly, coughing up a wad of fleghm.

Draco was nearly sick.

“I bet you'll think twice about breaking a school rule again, won't you, eh? Oh yes… hard work and pain are the best teachers if you ask me… It's just a pity they let the old punishments die out… hang you by your wrists from the ceiling for a few days, I've got the chains still in my office, keep 'em well oiled in case they're ever needed... Right, here we are, and don't think of running off, now, it'll be worse for you if you do.”

Draco gasped, his face going white as a sheet. He’d been so busy being nauseated by Filch’s awful monologue that he hadn’t noticed where they’d been taken.

They were standing at the great, looming edge of the Forbidden Forest.

“Are we going in there?” he breathed, barely believing it himself.

The forest was said to be home to a number of truly nasty, evil creatures… Beasts of all shapes and sizes could be found within the thick wall of ancient, old-growth trees. Trees that were born alongside the first life-forms, maybe before. It was said that if you could manage to break through their layers upon layers of thick, dense bark, and tap one, out would spill all the secrets of the wixen world.

“Ask ‘im,” growled Filch.

“‘Urry up,” called a warm, gruff voice he recognized as Hagrid’s.

“I want ter get started.”

Detention wouldn’t be as bad if it was with him, but it was detention all the same. He had still failed not only his family, but his friends.

His only friends.

“We’re goin’ in there, alright, Draco,” Hagrid grimaced.

“But we can’t! ” he whined, gesturing towards the trees as if everyone knew exactly what he was talking about.

“It’s- it’s not for students! There’s all sorts of things in there! Werewolves, I heard!”

“Werewolves, and other things,” grinned Filch.

“I’ll be back at dawn, for what’s left of ‘em.”

Draco refused to be stayed. He turned to Hagrid, fire in his eyes.

“I am not going into that forest. I won’t. If my father heard about this-“

“-he’d tell yeh that’s how it is a’ Hogwarts. You’ve got to learn yer lesson, and do summat useful. If that father of yours ‘ed rather you get expelled, then get back off ter the castle and pack yer bags. Go on!”

He didn’t move, only staring at him furiously. Hagrid was betraying him too.

“Right. Les’ go.”

Hagrid led them right up to the threshold of the forest, holding his lamp out in front of them.

“Look there,” he nodded towards the ground.

In little indent in the ground sat a pool of glistening, nearly iridescent liquid, glowing in the moonlight. Draco recognized it immediately as unicorn blood.

“Somethin’s managed to sink its teeth into a unicorn,” said Hagrid.

“Somethin’ truly evil, an’ truly deadly. We’re gonna find the thing, an’ put it out of its misery. Bothin’ll hurt yeh as long as yeh stay on the path. You two go one way, I’ll go the other. Cover more ground that way.”

His eyes landed on Hagrid’s dog, and its long, sharp teeth.

“I want fang!” Draco said quickly, putting his hand on its collar.

“Sure, but he’s a bit of a coward,” Hagrid chuckled. Draco’s stomach sunk.

“If yer in trouble, send up red sparks with yer wand. I’ll be there quick. Les’ go.”

The Forbidden Forest was the only place that rivaled The Anthill in the stifling silence department. The only sounds in the world were those of Potter’s breathing, and the crunching of the dirty ground beneath their feet. It was dark, too— perilously dark. If it weren’t for the lantern Potter was holding, Draco wouldn’t have been able to see his own hand in front of his face. There were occasional patches of blissful moonlight, but they were few and far between.

“I’m sorry,” Potter said quietly, after a while.

Draco still didn’t say a word. This was Potter’s fault. He never should have spoken to him at all. He was a Malfoy.

“People don’t hate you, y’know. Everybody’s going to forget about the points soon. You’re a Gryffindor.”

A flaming harpoon hit him straight through the belly.

“I’m not a Gryffindor!” he exploded.
“I’m not like you! You’ve dragged me into a place I don’t belong! I’m a Slytherin, like my family! Like my father, and his father before him! I’m Draco Malfoy! Malfoy!”

The usual shining light that was Potter’s eyes went dark and thunderous, like a switch had been flipped. The change seemed wrong, so very unlike him.

“Maybe you are!” Potter cried.

“Maybe you’re in the wrong house, and you’re exactly who you say you are! Maybe, we should have never been friends in the first place!”

Flames licked up his spine, burning through his entire body.

“Maybe we were never friends at all!” he spat back.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, they rotted and soured like food left out in the sun. He tried to pull them back in, but it was too late. Harry was staring at him with tire upset and hatred for the first time since the flying lesson.

“I shouldn’t have saved you from the troll,” Potter said bitterly, the words spraying like venom.

Draco bit back frustrated tears, staring at his feet.

“Agreed,” he muttered.

The two of them continued silently down the path until they came to a clearing, where spatters of unicorn blood had been smeared all over the trees, as if the creature had been thrashing around in pain.

Lo and behold, at the other end of the clearing, laid the unicorn, dead as a doornail.

It’s long, skinny legs sprawled out in front of its beautifully tragic corpse, which was leaking that same silvery blood.

Without any warning, the bushes at the other end of the clearing began to rustle, and slithering out of the trees came a cloaked figure, with knelt against the unicorn’s lifeless body, and began to drink its blood.

Without thinking, Draco let out an ear-splitting scream, grabbing Potter‘s hand. Potter didn’t let go, only put a hand over his mouth to stop the sound.

Draco went silent, but it was too late. The being had turned its bloody gaze upon them, and was stalking toward them at a much faster pace than it had approached the unicorn.

Potter gasped, wincing as he grabbed at his scar. He staggered backwards, letting go of Draco and falling to his knees. The creature was still approaching them, and fast. Draco put his hand across Potter as some sort of weak protection, and drew his wand.

Luckily, he didn’t need to use it, because at the very last moment, the sound of thundering hooves came galloping towards them, and a massive, towering centaur leapt into the clearing, bucking it’s front legs until the creature receded into the darkness.

Draco gasped quietly, letting go of Potter. He was an incredibly large beast, with pale blue eyes, similar to his own, and a blond coat.

“Are you alright, Potter?” asked the centaur.

Potter was just getting up, rubbing his scar.

“..Fine,” he winced.

“Both of you, get on my back. Dangers are in these woods.”

Draco was more than willing to get the hell out of the forest. Within moments, he’d clambered onto his back, Potter in front of him, and Fang walking alongside.

“I am Firenze,” the centaur added, trotting back onto the path at an even pace.

“I’m Draco.”

“Draco. Uranus shines brightly for you.”

Potter stifled a laugh. Draco turned around to ask what was so funny, but he shot him an angry glare.

Right. He’d nearly forgotten. 

Draco took out his wand, fidgeting with it mindlessly. Shame burned behind his eyes. He’d been so stupid. So what if he was a troublemaker? Potter, Hermione and The Weasel had done more for him in a few months than his father had done his whole life. And now Draco was acting just like him.

It occurred to him that Hagrid would need to know where they were. He shot the red sparks into the air, not looking up. Within a matter of minutes, Hagrid came barreling through the trees, possibly knocking down a few as he went.

“‘ARRY! DRACO! WHAT-“

His eyes landed upon them, and he visibly deflated into relaxation, puffing out a great breath.

“Oh, Firenze. You‘be got ‘em. You alright, ‘Arry? Draco?”

“Fine,” they both said at the same time.

Soon, they were off the back of Firenze, and traveling through the trees with Hagrid. He listened quietly as Potter explained that the unicorn was dead, carefully leaving out the bit of the creature drinking its blood. Before he knew it, they were through the portrait hole again.

Potter moved to go up into the dormitories, not saying a word. Without thinking, he grabbed his shoulder.

“Potter, wait.”

He didn’t turn around, but he didn’t move. What was he supposed to say? What could he possibly say that would keep Potter from ignoring him?

“The- the unicorn. The thing was drinking its blood.”

“And?” Potter asked, turning around with a cynical raised eyebrow. His eyes still had that thunderous look about them.

“Drinking unicorn blood, it makes you immortal. A shell of a person, but immortal.”

“So?”

Potter was right. Why did that matter? Who would want to be immortal?

An explosion went off in his mind.

“Who do we know that wants to be immortal?!” he cried, not caring about his volume in the empty common room.

Potter’s eyes widened.

“You think that was Voldemort?”

His mind was firing at all cylinders now, sparks flying from his head.

“Yes! And- and what do we know gives immortality?!”

Potter staggered backwards a little.

“Snape doesn’t want the stone for himself,” he whispered.

“He wants it for Voldemort !” they said at the same time, nearly moving in for a celebratory hug.

Potter hesitated, and drew back.

“I’ll.. stop him. With Ron and Hermione,” he said quietly.

Draco looked at his feet. If ever there was a time to speak his mind, it was there and then.

“I shouldn’t have said those things. I was scared to admit that I’m a different person now than I was before. You three are the best friends I’ve ever had, and you’ve made me better than I ever could’ve been. I’m sorry.”

The silence that followed his words was thick. Neither spoke, neither moved. Nobody stirred. It was as if the world had gone still, just for a moment.

Then, Potter pulled him into a hug.

Draco stood there, frozen, unsure of what to do. But slowly, he wrapped his arms around Potter’s shoulders, and hugged him tightly.

“You’re alright, Draco,” he smiled weakly.

“I’m glad I get to be your bad influence.”

Draco grinned widely, pulling back with a new determination in his eyes.

“So? What do we do now?”

Potter squeezed his shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. They’d retuned not just to their old brightness, but they were electric now. Fiery.

“We go through the trapdoor.”

Chapter Text

Hermione looked rather peaceful, sleeping like that. Usually, she had quite a sour expression on her face, or at least one of focus. Now, she looked completely at ease. It was a shame he had to end it.

“Hermione! Hermione, get up!” he hissed, shaking her violently by the shoulders as her silk bonnet shook up and and down.

Her bright brown eyes popped open, instantly filling with the anger of a thousand puffing bulls, all focused into one singular beam of pure, crackling rage. Her torso shot upwards at a perfect 90 degrees, and she grabbed his collar, digging her wand straight into the pale skin of his neck.

“What on God’s green Earth could have possibly motivated you to wake me in the middle of the night, and by shaking me no less?!” she fumed, not bothering to keep her voice down.

“We need to go through the trapdoor!” he pleaded quickly, closing one eye in fear of a slap or something of the sort. Only a gasp awaited him.

“Why didn’t you say so?” she questioned, gently setting him down with a sugary-sweet smile.
“Tell me everything.”

Draco rolled his eyes, brushing himself off with a miffed expression as they made their way towards the door.

Potter was already pacing around the common room, explaining everything to The Weasel.

“So in the clearing, the thing that was drinking its blood, that was Voldemort.”

The Weasel went very white.

“Don’t say his name!” he cried, standing up.

Potter raised an eyebrow, turning towards them. Hermione had come to sit down beside The Weasel, and seemed rather confused.

“What’s wrong with saying Vol-“

“Don’t say it!” he cried again, his ears going pink.

“You say it three times, and he’ll know where you are. He might come and get you.”

“Like Beetlejuice?” scoffed Hermione.

Ron gave a small laugh, but he and The Weasel shared a look.

“Muggles drink beetle juice?” Draco spluttered. 

Potter opened his mouth to explain, then quickly closed it again.

“We don’t have time to explain, and we’re getting off-track anyhow. From what I’ve gathered, Snape’s getting the stone for Vold-“

“You-know-who!”

“Voldemort,” Draco interjected.

“And for the record, Weasel, Voldemort doesn’t appear like a boogeyman if you repeat his name. If that was true, he would’ve been back years ago, solely on how many times my father’s said it.”

The Weasel shut his mouth, his face pinker than a Yuletide ham.

“Snape’s getting the stone for Voldemort,” Hermione continued, pursing her lips.
“And we need to stop him.. tonight?”

“He could go for it any time, we need to stop him as soon as possible.” Potter said gravely, crossing his arms.

It occurred to Draco for the very first time that they didn’t have the cloak. He’d been so wrapped up in holding his silly grudge he’d barely noticed!

Hermione seemed to be thinking the exact same thing, that sour expression returning with a vengeance.

“What about the-?” she began, but The Weasel quickly interrupted her. She threw him a nasty look.

“-We’ve got it,” he grinned, nodding up to the boy’s dormitory.

“Someone returned it, same handwriting as whoever gave it to me on Christmas,” Potter added quietly.

“Right, then we’ve got everything we need,” Draco surmised.

“Gather your things, everyone, we’re going through the trapdoor.”

———

The four of them were dressed in nice, clean clothes, their wands in their pockets. Hermione’s great frizzy curls had been pulled into a ponytail, and Harry had the cloak tucked under his arm. They crept towards the portrait hole, silent as mice. 

Draco’s hand reached out for the back of the painting, but before he could, a sniffling voice came from behind him.

”You’re going out again, aren’t you?”

It was Neville, sitting in an armchair by the fire, petting his toad.

Draco sighed, turning on his heel.

”We’ve got to do this, Neville. Trust me.”

“No!” he cried, standing up and setting Trevor aside. 

“You can’t lose any more points for Gryffindor. I won’t let you go. I’ll.. I’ll fight you!”

The chubby boy put up two weak fists, quavering in his fuzzy socks as he did so. 

Hermione’s face contorted into pity.

”I’m really, really sorry about this,” she reproached.

”Petrificus Totalus.”

Neville’s shaking form froze into compete stillness, his eyes going wide as he teetered and toppled over onto his back, his body frozen. 

“You’re scary,” Ron muttered as they each stepped over Neville’s frozen form.

”Brilliant, but scary.”

On the awkward, shuffling walk towards the third floor corridor, he barely looked where he was going. He was much too busy being wrapped up in an endless tornado of ghastly thoughts. Some of the more prevalent being:

1. He was about to not just defy the organization that his family had dedicated their lives to for generations, but literally attempt kill its leader.
2. If he followed through with this, he would essentially be completely aligning himself with Gryffindor, with Potter, Hermione, and The Weasel, and with all the forces that fought to thwart the plans of the Dark Lord.
3. It would be much safer to abandon ship, and let the three of them do the work. After all, Anthill would be hell if he did this.
4. Hell was bad, but he’d learned firsthand that abandoning the people who cared about you was much worse.

“Right, here we are,” Potter muttered, gesturing to the old oak door standing tall before them.

Hermione threw off the cloak, pressing her ear to the door.

“Is.. is that a harp?” she rebuked, turning towards them with her eyebrows raised.

Draco closed his eyes and listened. Ever so faintly, he could make out the gentle notes of a classical harp drifting through the stale air of a corridor barely entered for who knows how long.

“It is,” he murmured.
“And well played, too.”

“Oh, come off it,” The Weasel scoffed, and roughly pushed the door open.

What awaited Draco inside was one of the first great horrors he’d witnessed in his eleven years of life.

With a rank stench that rivaled even that of Filch’s office, there lay the sleeping form of a great Cerberus— a three-headed-dog. Its coat was sleek and black, and surprisingly well up-kept for a beast so absolutely massive. It could have crushed all four of them with a single one of its great paws. When it exhaled, the gust of wind that blew through them was equivalent to that of being suddenly wrapped into a hurricane of only things that smelled foul, like rotten eggs and drunk house elves and such.

Draco wrinkled his nose.

“Is it asleep?” he asked dumbly.

“No shit,” huffed The Weasel.

“Language, Ronald!” Hermione hissed.

“Will you two stop bickering? We’ve got to move its paw,” said Potter, attempting alone to pick up one of its ginormous toes.

Draco rolled his eyes but complied, each of them taking one toe, except The Weasel, who took two.

“Ready?” Draco ordered.
“On my signal. Five, four, three..”

He trailed off at the dreadful feeling of something warm and wet landing with a slow squelch onto his head.

Draco gasped as if the texture had personally offended him, and looked up.

His face went white as a sheet.

The great yellow eyes of the creature were fixed on him, wide as saucers but doubly menacing.

Before he could stop himself, he screamed, loud and shrill, and dashed for the door. He nearly opened it and ran for his life, and he would have, had he not looked back to see Potter helping Hermione and The Weasel jump down into the trapdoor. Once both of them were through, Potter turned to look at him, his glimmering green eyes wide with desperation.

He looked at the exit, and he looked at Potter.

Then he looked at the exit again, and at Potter.

Potter? Exit.

Exit? Potter.

Merlin and Morgana, this house had turned him into such an idiot.

“Remind me to hex you to Timbuktu if we get out of this alive!” he bellowed, dangling his legs off the edge of the great, gaping hole as the gigantic dog snapped angrily.

He took a deep breath, and let himself drop.

Chapter Text

As he plummeted through the air into a dark pit of certain doom, Draco closed his eyes. Not that it made much difference, of course, when it was so pitch-black he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face. The wind whipped his white-ish blond hair every which way, whistling in his ears songs of death and despair. He had really decided to this, hadn’t he? Of his own free will, he had thrown himself directly in front of the train of peril, and it was rapidly chugging down the tracks.

He’d been lectured and taught and tutored in spells and self-defense since he could talk, but whatever would greet him when he hit the ground below, it certainly couldn’t be prepared for. These were Hogwarts professors after all, and he was a child. He suddenly found himself with just about the same nauseous feeling he’d had in his gut when he was told he’d have to wrestle a troll.

Draco hit the ground with a soft thwump. Whatever he had landed on wasn’t stone, or wood, or anything of the sort. It was some sort of vine, with peaks and valleys all interconnecting over each-other in one great, tangled mass.

“Good of them to give us something nice to land on,” The Weasel’s disembodied voice cajoled, patting the plant.

“Where’s Harry?” came Hermione’s.

A sudden bolt of panic twisted itself inside-out in his chest. Where was Potter? He’d made sure everyone else had gotten through first, so maybe..

The thought that someone had caught him, or worse, finally started Draco into action. He stood slowly, kicking off the vines that had tucked themselves around his feet, and looked up. From far, far above, there was a faint light, signaling that the trapdoor hadn’t been closed.  No one had caught him, or that thing would’ve been snapped shut in seconds.

The image of Fluffy’s great, snapping jaws conjured itself into his mind, and Draco was nearly sick. But before he could say a word, there was the faint sound of a familiar scream, that got louder, and louder, until Potter landed with an ‘oomph!’ right beside him.

“You gormless prat, where in the name of Merlin and Morgana were you?!” he shrieked, moving to give him a shove. Only, those pesky vines had gotten around his legs again. He sighed, and sat back down.

“Sorry, I was trying to unchain Fluffy. Like you said, he can’t get out of that room anyway, and it’s awful to be cooped up like that,” Potter sputtered.

Draco was just staring. He hadn’t the foggiest idea why Potter had remembered something he’d said months ago, or how it could have possibly stayed in his head so long. But it had. 

It’d been silent for far too long, he realized. He gave an awkward laugh, trying to defuse the odd tension, but it was completely interrupted by Hermione’s shrill scream.

“The VINES! THE VINES! They’re- they’re pulling me! They’re all over me!”

Draco looked down at his own body, gaping in horror as he realized that she was right— the vines were grappling over him, wrapping around his limbs and torso at alarming speed.

The Weasel gave a great bellow, and began to struggle and flail like a madman, trying in vain to rip the plant away from him.

“This has got to be a defense!” he realized with a gasp.

Hermione was with him instantly.

“You’re right! What kind of plant is this? Venemous tentacula vines? Alihotsy?”

Draco looked down at the great black vines that were swallowing him hole. They were thick, and nearly sentient in their quick wrapping around of his appendages, almost like a hive-mind. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to think back to his mother’s lessons with him in the garden.

Dittany.. gillyweed, weeds. Weeds. What weeds did he know? Or a vine?

“Devil’s Snare!” Hermione cried, before the vines wrapped around her face. She looked at him desperately, her eyes flitting around as if trying to prompt him to something.

Draco was clueless. But he’d have to act fast, because as soon as she came to realize that fact, she closed her eyes, stopped struggling, and was pulled into the depths by the Devil’s Snare.

”HERMIONE!” all three of them screamed.

His chest was seizing, his head pounded in and out like some great pair of hands were kneading his skull like dough.

“Hermione! HERMIONE!” he exclaimed, struggling desperately, hot tears stinging his eyes.

She was going to be crushed to death, or suffocate, or both, if he didn’t think quickly.

“Draco! Draco, breathe! Come on, you’re nearly top of the class, how do you kill this thing?!” Potter hollered, wincing against the vines that were wrapping round his body.

Devil’s Snare, Devil’s Snare.. It’s deadly something. Deadly.. deadly fun. It’s something something.. but will..

“Potter, what rhymes with sun?!” he called, but to his alarm, he had succumbed to the vines. It was he and The Weasel alone now, and the ginger wix was beginning to scream like a maniac, thrashing every which way.

“Shut your trap, Weasel, let me think!” he spat.

“Don’t tell me to shut my trap, Malfoy, or I’ll-“

“We won’t get out of here if you don’t shut up!”

The Weasel made a face at him, and continued to struggle against the Devil’s Snare.

Devil’s Snare, deadly fun, it’ll sulk in the..

It sulks in the sun!

Draco instinctively wrapped his hand around where his wand usually was, but to his misery, he only found a vine.

“Is your wand in your hand?!” he called, but The Weasel could only scream back through the vine that had covered his mouth.

Those hands were beginning to squeeze again. Neither could cast a spell, and Potter and Hermione were probably dead by now.

Potter and Hermione. Dead. The Weasel would die too. So would Draco. They’d all die, in a stupid act of blindly led heroism. He’d go down as the boy who died betraying his family.

He felt the vines pulling him downwards, wrapping around his head, covering his mouth. He took a deep breath, and tried to imagine going home to his mother. Laying with her under the stars.

He felt the Devil’s Snare give out from underneath him, and suddenly he hit cold stone with a smack.

He opened his eyes, and there was Potter and Hermione. Hermione was pacing back and forth, staring at the ceiling of thick black, tangled vines. Potter was kneeling down, staring at him.

He felt his face heat up, and he realized he’d been crying. He quickly wiped his tears, his ears burning.

“Are you-“ Potter began.

“-Fine,” he interrupted, getting to his feet.

The small chamber around them was cold, and dark, and small streams of water trickled down the walls. To the right was a small, unassuming wooden door, with a rotten stench leaking in from the other side.

“Ron’s got to stop struggling, or he won’t get out. It’ll kill him eventually,” Hermione declared factually, pacing back and forth with a furrowed brow.

“Simple,” he smiled, finally able to pull out his wand.

“Lumos Solem!”

The warm ripple of magic vibrated down his arm, and out from his wand shot a blinding beam of light. Instantly, the vine roof began to sulk, and The Weasel fell to the floor. Unfortunately, the entire ceiling of vines began to collapse. The four of them scrambled to the door, vines landing everywhere with heavy thunks.

Once they were safely on the other side, Draco breathed a shaky sigh of relief, and sunk to the floor.

“Lucky we didn’t panic,” The Weasel smiled easily.

“Lucky Draco pays attention in Herbology,” Potter corrected, raising an eyebrow.

“And-“ began Hermione, but she didn’t finish her sentence, being cut off by her own nauseated gag.

Draco looked ahead, and laying on the floor, unconscious, was a gigantic mountain troll, probably twice the size of the one they’d fought on Hallowe’en. The stench was twice as bad. It was as if every dead thing in the world got together and had a party in one room.

Draco covered his mouth, going pallid. Potter pulled his shirt up over his nose, only his sparkling green eyes in those broken glasses of his visible from behind the great bird’s nest of hair. Only The Weasel was standing there, completely unfazed.

“Have you all gone mad? Do you know what this means!?” he cried.

“That mountain trolls smell awful?” Hermione guessed through gags.

“NO! That someone’s already been here tonight, and they’re strong enough to have taken down a troll!”

Draco gasped, jumping to his feet, all thoughts of the smell discarded.

“Snape already has the stone!” he blurted, but Hermione shook her head.

“No, he doesn’t. If he did, he’d be on his way back up with it. He hasn’t gotten to it yet. So we’ve got to get there before he does.”

Potter was already stepping his way over the troll’s giant appendages, trying not to lose his dinner all the while. Miserably, he plugged his nose, and followed suit.

“This is not how I pictured the end of my term,” he whined.

Finally, all three of them reached the other end, and pushed open the next door. It swung open with a creak.. and he furrowed his brow. It seemed to be an empty chamber, with only a parallel door at the other end. Potter attempted to step out onto the floor, but Draco grabbed his woolen sweater and yanked him backwards just in time.

“Wait,” he whispered, eyeing the chamber suspiciously.

”It’s too simple.”

“Agreed,” nodded Hermione.
“This place is defended by Hogwarts teachers, after all.”

A crinkling sound reached his ears. Draco turned just in time to watch The Weasel toss a sickle out onto the cobblestone floor before them.

He waited for something to explode, but nothing did. So cautiously, he stepped a toe out onto the floor. Still nothing, he walked fully out into the chamber, and held his breath.

Nothing.

He beckoned the others.

“Right, come on then, let’s go,” he said, inching over to the door.

Cautiously, he placed his hand on the cold stone door handle, and pulled. But just as he’d suspected, it was locked. Luckily, though, he had a wand in his pocket. He reached into his robe pocket and pulled out the item of his salvation.

“Alohamora,” he whispered, flicking his wand to the left, then to the right, then up and down again.

But the lock didn’t budge.

“Shhh!” called The Weasel in a stage-whisper.
“Listen!”

They listened.

It was very, very faint at first, but it sounded almost like a bird, fluttering its wings. Just a sort of faint pattering noise, a little like rain, but not quite. It was lighter, airier. He looked up, and nearly toppled over in surprise.

There, above him, were dozens upon dozens of keys. Keys, with wings.

“One of those has got to open the door, right?” asked The Weasel, tilting his head.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Potter answered firmly.

“Well, how do we know which one? And how do we get it?” questioned Hermione, ever the optimist.

Draco’s eyes darted around. The teachers can’t have expected anyone who wanted the stone to bring a broomstick, did they? No one just had a broomstick on their person, it-

“-There!” Hermione called, pointing at the far corner of the room.

His eyes had glided right over it before, in all its unassuming appearance. There, leaning against the wall, was a clunky old broomstick, with unkempt little twigs poking out both ends. It reminded Draco of the broomstick Dobby carried around with him, just larger.

“Well there’s one of your answers,” shrugged The Weasel.

“And there’s the other,” added Hermione, pointing upwards.
“That key, there, with the broken wing. Someone’s already grabbed it. See? That one near the top.”

And there it was, fluttering around slower than the others with a broken wing, a slightly more golden hue shimmering on its sides.

“You’re brilliant, Hermione,” he grinned.

“Right. Well, we’ve got the youngest seeker in a century and broomstick. It’s all yours, Harry,” The Weasel smiled, fetching the old broom from the wall, and holding it outstretched.

Potter took it with a cautious smile.

“Alright, if you’re sure,” he sighed.

Only, as soon as he mounted it, the keys suddenly changed. They shot at him like rockets, whirling through the empty chamber. Potter kicked off the ground with a scream.

“Ron! RON! They’re coming after me! Ow!” he cried as the keys began to rip at his sweater and slice cuts through his skin.

“Just grab it!” Draco shouted, not knowing how else to help.

“You think I should grab the key?! Wow, thanks!” Potter screamed back sarcastically.

Draco huffed indignantly. 

“It’s over there!” called Hermione, pointing out to the left.

Potter tore through the rafters, reached out as far as he possibly could.. and snatched the key from mid-air! The success was soiled slightly, though, when blood began to seep from his hand as the angry key slashed through his skin.

“Draco, catch!” Potter bellowed, tossing the key down towards him.

He reached out and caught it with his right hand, but pain sliced through his palm the instant he caught it. Wincing, he held tight, and dashed to the door as the other flying keys began to target him instead of the boy on the broom. Soon, his robe began to rip and tear as he shoved the key into the lock, turning it feverishly. He heard the lock click, but the key was still fighting against him. He let it go, and nearly sighed in relief before he realized it was flying away again. He grabbed it once more, and this time held it inside the lock.

This brought him to a terrifying realization, that the only way for the group to leave the room, is if someone stayed behind and held the key in.

His eyes flitted desperately to the others.

Potter was still zipping through the air, fighting off the occasional key, while The Weasel and Hermione stood to the right.

Oh, Merlin’s beard.

He grabbed the door with all the might his arms had in them, and pulled it open.

“GO!” he screamed.

“What about you!?” The Weasel cried, not moving a muscle.

“This is the only way to move on! Leave me, I’ll be fine!”

The Weasel threw him a pitying look.

“You’re alright, mate,” he said gruffly, and stepped through the door, swatting away wily keys as he did.

Hermione came to the door rather slowly.

“You will be alright, won’t you?” she asked, a key nearly slicing her cheek.

“Yes, now go!” he shouted, keys getting at his sweater now, his robes discarded. He yelped in pain.

She threw her arms around him in a hug.

“You’re my best friend,” she sniffed.

After an agonizingly long momemt, she released him, and her eyes sparkled with encouragement. Then without a word, she disappeared through the door.

Potter had discarded the broom, and ran to the door, pushing it open.

“Go through, Draco! I’ll stay behind!”

He stared down at his hand. Blood was leaking down his arm, dripping onto his shoes.

“No!” he bellowed, wincing as he pulled the door open wider.

“The Wease and Hermione need you! You need to get the stone!”

“But what about you?” Potter asked fretfully, his voice breaking.

Draco let go of the door, keeping a tight hold of the key as he made a point to stare straight into his green, green eyes. This had to be the best speech he’d ever given, or Potter wouldn’t let him stay.

“I’ve been an awful person, all my life,” he began slowly. “I’ve been a bully. I’ve said horrible things, and I’ve made plenty of people cry. But I know I can be better, because of what you, and.. and Ron, and Hermione have shown me. If I’m going down, I want to go down a Gryffindor.”

Potter’s eyes filled with that same fire they had in the common room, and he extended his right hand to shake.

Draco stared over at him, his eyes wide as saucers. He barely noticed the keys maiming his right hand as he shook Potter’s with his left, something warm beginning to froth and bubble in his chest.

He remembered faintly someone had told him once that heat ‘calmed the mind’, and ‘brought focus to the senses’. He was focused alright, but it was only on a certain pair of glittering green eyes that did not make him feel calm.

Before he knew it, the warm touch of Potter’s hand was gone, and he was slipping into the doorway.

As soon as he was sure he was through, his raw, bloody fingers finally let up their grip on the door, and he stumbled backwards. Keys began to dive at him in a glittering blur, slicing at his ankles and around his face and neck. Desperately, he clutched his sides and curled in, forehead to chest, trying to shield what he could. The blood was warm, and slick on his hands, and the room began to spin with nausea.

Out of nowhere, a particularly large silvery key swooped down upon him, slicing him clean across the stomach. He yowled in pain as he collapsed to the cobblestone floor, his midsection spurting blood. His breath came shallow, ragged—his head spun, the room tilting like a sinking ship. He gasped as he felt the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, and he tried to stand. This only resulted in his toppling back over onto the ground. His head hit the cold floor, and he felt himself falling down, down, into the inky abyss..

Chapter Text

When Draco came to, the first thing he noticed was the heaviness of his feet, as if weights were chained to his ankles. He had an odd feeling that something had happened, something simmering on the edges of his consciousness, and his entire body was aching dully. His didn’t dare open his eyes against the clear daylight that was warming his face.

“Mister Malfoy,” came a weary, warm old voice. 

Draco’s eyes popped open in alarm, squinting painfully against the sun. Professor Dumbledore was sitting on his bed, smiling down at him with a twinkle in his eye.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Draco considered the question. He certainly didn’t feel good; he had a splitting headache, something stinging all across his body, and a feeling of numbness in his fingers and feet. Still, something felt satisfying about it, somehow.

“Tired,” he breathed, his voice raspy from disuse.

“I can only imagine. Though, if you can manage through your fatigue, you do have lots of treats left by your bedside in your act of heroism that have a good chance of cheering you up.”

Draco’s eyebrow’s shot up, and he stared around him. Sure enough, on either side of his bed were candies and cards stacked nearly to the ceiling. It was a startling thing.

“Heroism?” he croaked, staring up at the piles with wide eyes.

Dumbledore nodded sagely.

“What happened in the room of flying keys was to be kept a complete secret. So, naturally, the whole school knows!”

Bile rose up Draco’s throat as the night’s events came to him in a flash. Detention in the forest, jumping down the trapdoor, the Devil’s Snare, the unconscious troll, and..

Keys. Keys, swooping down at him like blades aimed for his throat. Slicing his stomach. Chopping him up into little bits, to be prepared and served to Circe raw. Draco’s neck jerked as he moved to take a look at his own body.

The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale in horror.

Draco’s entire body, from head to toe, was covered in thin, silvery little scars, slashing every which way across what was once perfect, untouched skin. He was hideous.

“Madam Pomfrey, she can.. she can get rid of these, can’t she?” he stammered desperately, staring up at the headmaster with pleading eyes.

He only shook his head.

“This was the best she could do, I’m afraid. But don’t worry, bodily markings can be most useful. I’ve a birthmark on my left knee that is an exact map of the London Underground.”

That didn’t improve his mood.

“Oh..” he groaned, pulling his hospital gown up farther. He would have these for life. The thought was utterly mortifying.

The thought struck him like lightning.

“What happened? Are they alright? Is the stone-“ he gasped, sitting straight up despite the dull throbbing pain.

Dumbledore only smiled.

“Do lie down, Draco, your friends are alright. And the stone is destroyed, permanently.”

Draco sighed shakily, relief flushing through his senses.

“Each of them performed acts of exceptional heroism, as a matter of fact,” Dumbledore continued, pride shining in his eyes.

“Mister Weasley, he sacrificed himself to Professor McGonagall’s giant chessboard— quite clever work on her part. He’s alright now. He’s been asking about you. So has Miss Granger, who assisted Harry in getting through Professor Snape’s task with her exceptional wit.”

Unable to contain himself, he sat up again, staring into Dumbledore’s sweet old face darkly.

“And Potter? Is he-“

“-He, too, demonstrated bravery. It turns out our very own Professor Quirell was housing Voldemort in his turban. Harry made swift work of him, and the stone is safe, while Mister Potter heals up.”

That was.. more questions than answers. Dumbledore worked that way, he figured. He had to keep on making questions, because if people weren’t looking to him for answers, they’d see the strange old man he was. Still, it was nice to have someone to wake up to.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, tilting his head in suspicion.

Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes locked with his, a certain sense of seriousness, but not ridicule, filling the atmosphere.

“You are an exceptional student,” he began. “You fetch excellent grades— you’re quite the talented wix. Not to mention, you carry a rather illustrious family name. But that is not why I visited you this afternoon. It is our choices, Mister Malfoy, that define us. I visited you, not because you are Draco the Gryffindor, or Draco the top student. I visited you because you are the Draco who made the choice you did. It was really quite telling, don’t you think?”

Draco laid there on the simple white hospital bed, slack-jawed and buggy eyed, but he didn’t dare ask how Dumbledore knew any of that. He knew better than to go poking at powerful bears, especially in his weakened state.

“What happened to the Stone?” he asked carefully.

“Ah,” Dumbledore nodded, his warm face suddenly growing solemn.

“It has been destroyed.”

Draco breathed a shaky sigh of relief. The stone was gone, and the Dark Lord wouldn’t be returning anytime soon.

He thought of Nicholas Flamel, and his wife. They were in their 600s, which is quite a long time to be alive. They were probably lying in beds like his, professing their love one last time. That was a good way to go, wasn’t it? With love?

“I must be going,” Dumbledore sighed, looking to the grand double doors of the Hospital Wing.

“But do pay a visit to your friends, they’ve been prodding poor Madam Pomfrey all day.”

His bony old hands wrapped around a box of Fizzing Whizbees stacked near the top of a pile.

“I haven’t dared for years. But.. maybe.. just one..” he muttered, seemingly to himself, as he gandered away.

“What a strange old man,” Draco whispered.

———

Draco had managed to pester Madam Pomfrey into letting him go by late afternoon. As sunset swept through the warm, familiar halls of Hogwarts, he bolted as fast as his scarred little legs could carry him up to Gryffindor tower, not stopping to breathe until he had safely collapsed into Hermione’s arms.

“DRACO!” she wailed, wrapping her arms around him as if she couldn’t believe he was real.

“Oh my god, you’re alright! What- what in the world happened to you?!”

Draco stared down at himself, his ears pink.
“Those horrible keys did a number on me,” he warbled, feeling stupid.

Hermione’s brow furrowed— she was undoubtedly already flipping through her mental library for ways to remove scars. Before he could tell her they couldn’t be fixed, Ron gave him a violent slap on the back, sending him reeling backwards as his scars sizzled.

“Welcome back, mate!” he cried cheerfully, that same old stupid, toothy grin spreading across his freckled face.

Draco scowled at him, scornfully rubbing his back, but said nothing. He only sighed, looking between them both. It was good to be back.

———

It was another four endless days and nights before Potter finally came to. Draco had sat by his bed every day since, sometimes with the companionship of Ron and Hermione, sometimes without. But he’d done everything he could to remain in a constant, and eventually, it paid off.

Draco was nearly asleep on the chair when he sensed a stir. His eyes popped open wearily, expecting another false alarm, but sure enough, Potter was slowly sitting up, rubbing his eyes. His hair stuck up even more than usual.

“Wh..” he managed slowly, coughing as he did.

“Where’s the stone? Is.. Is Draco alive? Ron? Hermione? What-“

He was whipping around like a trapped animal, his eyes darting every which-way. Before Draco could think, he placed a hand on his leg, interrupting his panic.

“Potter, relax. I’m alright,” he assured, giving him a firm nod.

Potter’s eyes were flicking over him in surprise, his mouth hanging open.

“You’re scarred,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Draco smiled wearily.

“I guess that makes two of us.”

At that, Harry gave a low chuckle, that continued on building and building till the pair of them were rolling on the floor, tears of laughter streaming down their faces.

Things would be alright now. They’d be alright.

———

The end of the year feast was the sourest way one could possibly finish a term. Slytherin banners hung regally on all the walls and from the ceiling, silver and green decorations anywhere you looked. It was a nasty sight.

“This is awful,” Draco harrumphed as he threw himself down onto the bench.

“You’re telling me,” Ron agreed, his face grim.

Harry was hunched over the table, not saying a word. Draco opened his mouth to comfort him, but was interrupted by the dying noise that signaled Dumbledore was about to speak.

“Wix of Hogwarts!” he began cheerfully, his robes a decadent emerald green.

“I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were… you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts. Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding and the points stand thus: in fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw have four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two.”

Slytherin erupted— Draco spotted Vincent and Gregory banging their goblets against the table, whooping. It was a sickening sight.

“Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” said Dumbledore.

“However, recent events must be taken into account.”

The room went very still. The Slytherins' smiles faded a little.

“Ahem,” said Dumbledore. I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes.. First— to Mr Ronald Weasley...”

Ron’s face went a violent shade of mauve, his jaw dropping open.

“…for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor house twenty points.”

Draco gave a squealing gasp. Twenty points! That was the same as what you got for winning a quidditch game!

At last there was silence again.

“Second— to Miss Hermione Granger… for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house thirty points.”

Hermione buried her face in her arms, and from where Draco was sitting he could tell she’d burst into tears.

“Third— to Mister Draco Malfoy, for a truly courageous self-sacrifice, I award Gryffindor house forty points.”

Draco went pink as a ham. He’d won Gryffindor forty points! That meant they were eighty up, had passed Hufflepuff, and were fast approaching Ravenclaw.

“Fourth— to Mister Harry Potter…” said Dumbledore. The room went deadly quiet.

“…for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor house seventy points.”

The din went from loud to deafening. They’d passed the other houses, and were drawn with Slytherin! If he’d given Potter just one more point, Gryffindor would win the house cup.

“And finally, there are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, smiling.

“It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mister Neville Longbottom.”

If there had ever been a roof on the great hall before, it was certainly gone now. It was if an explosion had taken place, children standing on the tables and screaming as the banners, decorations, and even Dumbledore’s robes changed from emerald to scarlet. Neville was pale with shock as the entire Gryffindor house piled onto him in one gigantic group hug.

Sniggering, Ron grabbed his arm, and pointed to Pansy. She looked more stunned and horrified than he’d ever seen her. Snape was shaking Professor McGonagall’s hands with an awful forced smile— it was clear his feelings hadn’t changed one bit. If they could take down The Dark Lord, one nasty teacher didn’t matter a bit.

Draco had nearly forgotten about exam results, but that certainly didn’t mean they’d forgotten about him. Hermione passed top of the class, which was no surprise, if a little disappointing, with Draco a close second. Harry and Ron passed with decent marks as well, and so did everyone else he knew. Even Neville managed to scrape by with his Herbology skills.

Before he knew it, his trunk was packed, his wardrobe was empty, that awful old eagle owl was in its cage once more, and he was stepping onto the Hogwarts express. Without hesitation, he made his way to the back of the train, where Ron, Hermione, and Potter were waiting.

He slid into the compartment, hoisting his heavy trunk up onto the net above, and plopped down into his seat. Potter was leaning against the window, a faraway look in his eye.

“Alright, Harry?” he asked, cocking his head.

Potter turned back to him with raised eyebrows.

“..You just called me Harry.”

Draco looked down and back up again, considering.

“I suppose I did,” he said with a smile.

The train ride home was the best trip he’d taken in his life. Harry had used up all his pocket galleons, but luckily, now they had him. The compartment was filled with snacks and chocolates and all sorts of lovely Wixen treats, and soon their bellies were all too full to speak, and they fell into a long, dreamless sleep.

When Draco opened his eyes, the whistle of the train told him they were pulling into the station. His mother and father would be waiting for him at the platform, to that he had no doubt.

Harry seemed to sense it in his eyes, his face scrunched up.

“You’ll be alright, Draco. It’s only two months, after all.”

Draco nodded wearily, adjusting his robes and running a hand through his hair. He needed to at least look somewhat presentable.

Harry caught his wrist, and Draco’s face rapidly got quite hot.

“Write to me, will you?” he asked quickly, sounding a little desperate.

“We’ll keep in touch.”

Through his face was pink and warm, he rolled his eyes unabashedly.

“Oh, if you insist..”

Harry grinned his familiar boyish grin, and something told him it would all be alright.