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Chapter Text

“Again,” Snape demanded.

Draco dragged his hands down his face and through his hair. They had been at it for over an hour, and his mind felt as though it had been scraped raw. Snape had already rifled through his most private, humiliating memories, and still, even after a month of practice, Draco couldn’t keep him out.

“Can we please take a break?” he muttered, collapsing back into the armchair. “How do you expect me to push you out if I can’t even think straight?”

“Do you think the Order will give you a break if you’re captured and interrogated?” Snape snapped. “You swore allegiance to the Dark Lord, and once they discover your position, they will do whatever it takes to extract information. Now—again.”

Draco barely had time to draw breath before Snape’s spell struck again. The intrusion was immediate, his mind splitting beneath the weight of it. It wasn’t as sharp or searing as his scar, but close enough. Snape wasn’t gentle as he tore through Draco’s thoughts with ruthless precision.

Draco tried to slam his mental walls into place, shielding the memories he couldn’t afford for Snape to see. He’d managed so far to keep the ones of Granger buried deep, though Snape had stumbled upon the humiliating memory of Draco drunkenly attempting to kiss Pansy after the Triwizard Tournament.

When Snape finally withdrew, Draco’s head dropped back against the chair, his collar damp with sweat.

“I suppose that’s enough for today,” Snape said coolly. “But do not think I’ll go easy on you tomorrow.”

He straightened his robes and swept out of the drawing room without another word.

Draco sat motionless for a long while, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the pounding in his skull to ease. Every day for the past two months had been the same, hours on end with Snape. As agonizing as it was to keep the man from clawing his way through his thoughts, Draco had discovered he had a knack for it. There was a strange satisfaction in slamming mental doors shut, in burying everything too deep for anyone to touch. He’d found that shoving his emotions into the darkest corners of his mind made life a great deal easier.

When he finally gained enough energy to climb the stairs to his room, an envelope lay waiting on his bed, the red Hogwarts seal gleaming in the candlelight. He broke it open and a silver and green badge fell into his palm, the letter ‘P’ engraved into the metal, along with the usual supply list and term details.

Normally by now he would've been itching to return to school, back to Quidditch, to the Slytherin common room. But now, the thought of going back to Hogwarts made his stomach twist.

The last two months had been difficult. Dumbledore had uncovered Barty Crouch Jr. not long after the Tournament, apparently his Polyjuice supply had run dry. The Dark Lord had not taken the news well at all.

Draco lay on his back across the four-poster bed, turning the shiny badge over in his hand. He supposed he ought to feel proud, his parents certainly would, but since the graveyard, everything that once filled him with satisfaction seemed strangely hollow. With a sigh, he tossed the badge aside and stared up at the canopy overhead.

When he landed back at the front of the maze, people bombarded him with questions in every direction. He’d tried to explain what had happened, carefully editing the truth as much as possible. He told them about the Blast-Ended Skrewt and the Boggart, only instead claiming it had appeared as a giant insect, earning a roar of laughter. He spoke of the Acromantula and how he’d Leg-Locked Diggory before grabbing the Cup, another story that made the whole house howl. He even mentioned Krum, who’d been temporarily suspended from the Bulgarian National Quidditch team for using an Unforgivable on a fellow student.

After term, his friends had sent owl after owl, asking when they might see him again. But it was far too dangerous to have anyone at the Manor, or so his father insisted. Between Draco’s lessons and the endless meetings, there was too much chance of someone stumbling upon something they shouldn’t. So instead, he wrote back saying the family was spending the summer in France. None of them questioned it.

But the lies were beginning to press down on him, one after another, until it felt as though he were suffocating beneath them. And now, there were rumours spreading among the Death Eaters, Dumbledore had re-formed the Order of the Phoenix.

No one knew how the old man had discovered the Dark Lord’s return. In a fit of fury, the Dark Lord had cast the Cruciatus Curse on the Death Eaters, demanding the traitor reveal themselves, but no one confessed. Still, Draco couldn’t help but wonder if it was actually his fault, if Dumbledore had known about the Dark Lord even before Draco left his office. It was another secret he buried deep, hidden away from Snape.

The Dark Lord hadn’t seemed to suspect him, luckily. Instead, he had simply instructed Draco to master Occlumency before the term began.

The few times Draco had been alone with him had been… peculiar. In his own way, the Dark Lord could almost seem kind. He had shown Draco glimpses of the sort of magic that had always fascinated him, the darker, older spells his father would never have allowed him to study. Though he did not yet permit Draco to practice them quite yet, he spoke freely of theory and intent, and Draco found himself hanging on every word.

To his surprise, the Dark Lord had even allowed him to sit in on some of the meetings, despite the disapproval of several Death Eaters who muttered that he was far too young. Too young. The words made Draco’s blood boil. He was fifteen now and nearly a man. He’d faced a bloody dragon for Merlin’s sake! Half of those idiots would’ve been roasted the moment they stepped into that arena.

The Dark Lord had noticed his anger, of course. He seemed almost amused by it, encouraging Draco to remember that anger, to channel it when he needed it most. 

But late at night, when the house had gone still and shadows crept long across his ceiling, Draco’s mind always wandered back to the graveyard. His father never spoke of it, not even when Draco came to him, begging him for some kind of acknowledgement. So instead, he learned to bury those memories deep, locking them away where no one, not even he, could reach them. But on the nights when that wasn’t enough, when the guilt clawed its way up from deep inside, he’d slip down to the cellar and steal a bottle of firewhisky. Gulping down a few sips, just enough to blur the edges of his thoughts until the ache quieted.

He knew to be careful, though. He’d seen what happened to those who weren’t.

After Barty Crouch Jr. was sent back to Azkaban, he’d been found dead only days later. The Daily Prophet had called it a suicide, but Draco wasn’t so easily convinced. No suicide left a man with his skin flayed from his body.

His breath began to quicken as the image of Crouch Jr.’s lifeless face as he lay on his jail cell floor burned deep into his mind. He shoved a pillow over his face and screamed. The firewhiskey helped, but the nightmares that came along with it were unbearable and he could not afford another sleepless night. He leaned over his bedside table, rummaging through the clutter until his fingers brushed glass. The small via of Dreamless Sleep Draught caught the light, a faint violet shimmer clinging to its sides. The family Healer had warned him against further use, muttering about long-term side effects including insomnia, tremors, even temporary loss of limb control. Draco had promised to stop, of course. 

He tipped the potion back, the sweet, heavy warmth sliding down his throat. Maybe it was a good thing he was leaving soon. Quidditch would be starting again and being made Prefect gave him a bit more freedom and certainly more privileges. But best of all, no Dark Lord.

When Draco woke the next morning, it was with a violent jolt. His left arm swung of its own accord, sending the contents of his bedside table clattering to the floor, papers, quills, and books scattering across the carpet. He groaned. Perhaps the Healer had been right. Maybe it was time to lay off the Draughts for a while.

He dragged himself out of bed, stepping over the mess, and made his way downstairs.

In the dining room, his mother sat at the long table, a delicate teacup balanced between her fingers, half a slice of toast untouched on her plate. Mornings at the Manor were the closest thing to normal they ever got anymore. The house-elves appeared at once, conjuring a plate before him the moment he sat beside her.

Beside his mother’s teacup lay the morning edition of The Daily Prophet. Across the front page, the bold headline read: DOLORES UMBRIDGE OF THE MINISTRY ACCEPTS POSITION AS DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS PROFESSOR AT HOGWARTS.

Beneath the headline, a photograph of a plump, pink-clad woman beamed up from the page, straightening her enormous bow with a look of smug satisfaction.

“She’s a nightmare, that one,” His mother said coolly, her eyes narrowing at the moving picture. “Still, it’s about time the Ministry began interfering with Albus’s choice in staff.”

Draco smirked, spearing a sausage with his fork. It always baffled him how Hogwarts could never seem to keep a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for more than a year, almost as if the position were cursed. Perhaps with the Ministry involved, Dumbledore would think twice before hiring another werewolf.

“Did you receive your Hogwarts letter yet, darling?” his mother asked.

Draco nodded, a touch of pride curling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. They’ve made me Prefect,”

Narcissa’s expression softened. She set her teacup back onto its saucer and reached across to touch his face. “That's wonderful! Just like your father was. I think that deserves something special, don’t you? Perhaps we could pop into Diagon Alley for your supplies and—”

She broke off as his father appeared in the doorway. He stood tall and composed, but there was something tight and uneasy in his face.

“The Dark Lord wishes to see you, Draco,” he said flatly.

“I thought you said he was to be gone for at least a week,” his mother whispered carefully.

His father's jaw tightened. “Narcissa—not now. Come along, Draco.”

Draco rose from the table, setting his napkin neatly beside his plate, and followed his father through the ballroom into the older, unused wing of the Manor. The air grew cooler the farther they went, heavy with damp and dust. Unlike the rest of the house, this part hadn’t been renovated in decades. The wallpaper peeled, and the faint scent of mildew lingered, but the Dark Lord insisted upon using these rooms during his visits.

Despite their silence, Draco could feel the tension radiating from his father. Neither of his parents liked him being alone with the Dark Lord. He understood, of course, after all, the man had once tried to kill him, but no matter how often he said that the Dark Lord had never harmed him, that he even seemed to take an interest in him, that flicker of fear always returned to their eyes.

His father opened the heavy wooden door to the Dark Lord’s chambers. Inside, the Dark Lord sat in an armchair, Nagini coiled lazily at his feet, her scales glinting in the dim light. No matter how often Draco saw her, the sight of that snake still made his skin crawl.

“Ah, there you are, Draco,” said the Dark Lord, his voice low and silken. “Do have a seat.”

Without hesitation, Draco crossed the room and sat in the opposite chair, his back straight, shoulders squared. The air in the chamber seemed to hum faintly, a pressure building in his ears. He pressed a thumb into his palm, grounding himself.

His father moved to close the door, but the Dark Lord raised a long, pale hand. “That will be all, Lucius.”

He hesitated. “But, my Lord, I thought—”

“I said,” the Dark Lord hissed, his crimson eyes glinting, “that will be all.”

His father swallowed hard, bowed low, and withdrew, the door closing with a heavy thud that echoed through the stone walls.

The Dark Lord regarded Draco for a long moment, a thin smile curving across his lips. It was strange, almost unnerving, to see him in such a temperate mood, given everything that had transpired of late. Draco swallowed hard, waiting for him to speak.

“You’ll be returning to Hogwarts in a few days,” the Dark Lord said at last, his voice soft, almost conversational. “Though our personal lessons must, regrettably, be put on hold, I trust you understand that absence does not exempt you from expectation.”

Draco nodded stiffly.

“I have learned much these past few days,” the Dark Lord continued. “Something that I will soon share with you, but in the mean time, Severus tells me your progress in Occlumency has been… satisfactory. This pleases me, Draco. It shows discipline, obedience and most importantly, success.”

He extended one long, white hand from the folds of his robes and drew forth a small golden compact. Its surface glimmered dully in the firelight, a serpent etched upon the lid in intricate detail. He placed it into Draco’s palm. It was heavier than it looked.

Draco looked down, pulse quickening as his fingers brushed over the crest.

“Open it,” murmured the Dark Lord.

Draco obeyed. Inside, a small mirror caught his pale reflection, then the glass rippled, and his face melted away. The Dark Lord’s image stared back at him from within the compact, those red eyes gleaming through the shimmer. Draco’s breath caught and he snapped it shut at once.

“This will allow me to reach you, wherever you are,” the Dark Lord said, his voice almost gentle. “You will keep me informed of the younger Order members—listen when you can, observe their movements, their meetings. But make certain your importance is not discovered. Let them suspect, but never confirm. Anonymity is a luxury, Draco, and one we must preserve. The less the world knows, the less it will resist. And people,” he added, a faint smile touching his lips, “fear what they do not understand. Fear, when properly guided, can persuade even the most stubborn.”

Draco’s fingers tightened around the compact. “Yes, my Lord,” he said quietly.

“Good,” the Dark Lord murmured. “Consider this an opportunity to prove yourself further. Your father, though loyal, has… faltered of late. I cannot place my faith in him as I once did.”

His crimson eyes gleamed as they fixed on Draco. “Your grandfather, Abraxas, was a man of great ability—and absolute devotion. A pity that such qualities were not inherited by your father.” His voice softened, almost kindly. “But you, Draco… I believe you may yet restore what was lost. You could bring honour back to the Malfoy name.”

He placed a long, cold hand upon Draco’s shoulder. “Do not make his mistakes. Loyalty and strength—those are what I value most. And I think you understand that, don’t you?”

Draco’s heart pounded painfully as the Dark Lord’s fingers tightened.

“The compact will burn when I wish to speak with you,” the Dark Lord went on, straightening to his full, serpentine height. “No matter the hour, no matter where you are—you will answer. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Draco murmured, clutching the compact as though it might spring to life and attack. 

“Wonderful,” the Dark Lord said softly, the faintest hint of amusement curling his voice. He turned, his robes whispering across the stone floor as he led Draco toward the door, “Do try to enjoy your fifth year, won’t you? Those dreadful O.W.L.s can be such a bore.”

With a lazy flick of his wand, the door slammed shut behind him with a resounding crack, causing Draco to nearly drop the compact. He just stood there, staring at the detail in the engraving with shaky hands. He stood for what felt like hours, going over the conversation. Once he finally gained the strength, he quickly walked out of damp, musty wing and back to his room, avoiding his mothers gaze at all cost.

~~~

The station was already heaving with noise as Platform 9 ¾ filled with steam, chatter, and the shrill whistle of the Hogwarts Express. Draco had only just pulled himself free of his parents, both of whom had worn that pinched, strained look they’d had all summer, before turning toward the train.

He made his way down the corridor toward his usual compartment, shoving aside a pair of second-years who weren’t watching where they were going. His hand hovered near the pocket of his robes, making sure it was still there. The compact hadn’t left him since the moment the Dark Lord had pressed it into his hand, and every time his fingers brushed the edge of it, or even when he merely thought about it, his stomach lurched unpleasantly. It was ridiculous how something so small, so simple, could make him feel like this. 

He ought to feel honoured. That was what he kept telling himself. The Dark Lord was giving him a chance to prove himself, something meaningful, something he had been trusted with for the cause. Answering whenever he was summoned would hardly be a challenge, and listening in on the younger Order sympathizers? Easy. They were hardly subtle to begin with.

And yet…he pushed the thought away before it could fully form, putting up his mental walls until the tightness in his chest subsided. 

He slid open the compartment door and immediately found himself crushed in a bone-snapping hug.

“Draco Malfoy, where have you been?!” Pansy shrieked, squeezing the air out of him. “We were worried sick when you didn’t answer a single owl! And why are you so skinny?” She held him at arm’s length, eyes narrowed.

“Leave the man alone, Pansy,” Theo drawled from his seat. “Clearly he was busy in France with ménage à trois.” He attempted a French accent so ridiculous Draco almost snorted.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “I doubt you even know what that means, you absolute troll. But seriously, Draco—what happened?”

The compartment quieted. Everyone leaned in. Draco felt heat rise in his face—not from embarrassment, exactly, but from knowing he absolutely had to lie convincingly and immediately.

He swallowed. “Er—well, like I told you, we were in France. And you know how my parents can be—all ‘family time’ this and ‘privacy’ that. They decided we needed to… disconnect.” He gave an airy laugh. “No owls allowed unless it was for Father or an emergency.”

Theo snorted. Blaise raised an eyebrow. Pansy still looked suspicious.

“But,” Draco went on, forcing a smirk, “I found my own ways of entertainment. If you catch my drift.”

Blaise let out a low whistle. “Told you those Beauxbatons girls were pretending to hate you.”

“Mm, well, enough about me,” Draco said quickly, eager to steer the conversation away from any more questions. “What about you, Pansy? Anything new in your complicated love life?”

Pansy’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, a grin tugging at her mouth. “Actually…after term ended, I realized it was pointless to wait until seventh year to tell Luna. So I sent her an owl and asked to meet up, you know—somewhere private. We talked for hours, about our families, about what we plan to do after Hogwarts. She even showed me a new edition of The Quibbler before it was published, her father let her have an early copy.”

“So does that mean you’re going to tell your parents?” Blaise asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Pansy’s smile faltered. “Not yet. I’m still… working up to that. Besides, I told Luna that while we’re at school, we can only be friends. She seemed confused, though. Said we were already friends.”

Draco blinked. “Pansy… did you even tell her you liked her? You know—more than friends?”

“I thought she’d understand what I meant when I said I felt strongly toward her,” Pansy muttered.

Theo burst out laughing so hard he had to wipe tears away with the sleeve of his robes. “You expected Looney Lovegood to decode that? Not even someone sane would know what you meant!”

“Stop calling her that!” Pansy snapped. She smacked him so sharply on the arm that Theo yelped. “Come on, Draco. We’re supposed to meet the other Prefects before the train leaves. We can leave these two buffoons to themselves since we actually have responsibilities.”

That only made Theo and Blaise collapse into each other, gripping fistfuls of each other’s robes as they howled with laughter.

Pansy stomped her foot. “Don’t think I won’t hesitate to give detention to my own house, Nott!”

“Ooh, I’m terrified,” Theo said in a falsetto, clutching his chest. “Yes, ma’am, Ms. Parkinson. Or would you prefer Mrs. Lovegood?”

The two boys practically slid off their seats, cackling. Even Draco had to bite down on a smirk.

Pansy, face now a furious shade of red, grabbed Draco by the sleeve and yanked him out of the compartment. She slammed the door behind them so hard the glass rattled.

She half-dragged him down the corridor to the Prefects’ carriage at the front of the train. Inside, a pale Ravenclaw boy and a tall blonde Gryffindor girl stood at the front, murmuring to each other—clearly the Head Boy and Girl. The rest of the new Prefects sat scattered about. Draco recognized one of the Patil twins but couldn’t remember which one and honestly didn’t really care.

Pansy dropped into the seat beside him, arms crossed tightly, still pink in the face. Theo always knew exactly how to get under her skin. He’d joke about her hair or her nose but she’d always return the jab, but this felt different. She looked… genuinely upset.

Draco nudged her lightly with his elbow. “He shouldn’t have said that… I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure why the words came out, but seeing Pansy like this made him feel both guilty and a little nervous all at once.

Pansy let out a shaky breath and straightened her shoulders. “It’s fine. He’s just a twat, simple as that. I shouldn’t let anything that comes out of his stupid mouth bother me.”

Before Draco could say more, the carriage door slid open again and Granger stepped inside, hair bushier than ever. Behind her—

“You’re joking,” Draco blurted, staring at Weasley bewildered. “Who in Merlin’s name let you be a Prefect?”

Weasley’s ears immediately turned scarlet. “Shove it, Malfoy. Everyone knows Daddy bought your badge.”

Draco felt his own face heat, but Pansy cut in before he could retaliate.

“Well, at least our fathers can actually buy us something,” she said sweetly.

Draco barked a laugh. Weasley’s entire face began to match his hair. Granger clamped a hand on his shoulder and whispered something sharply that seemed to deflate him a little, but he still stared daggers at him. She turned as though to address Draco but a loud throat-clearing came from the front.

“All right, that’s enough. Everyone’s attention up here, please,” said the Ravenclaw boy.

“My name is Robert—Head Boy—and this is Samantha, our Head Girl. You’ve all been chosen as fifth-year Prefects. By accepting this role, you’re expected to uphold the rules and responsibilities of your position, as well as prepare yourselves for your O.W.L.s.”

Draco tuned him out almost immediately, studying the wood carvings along the carriage ceiling instead. 

“There will be a daily rotation for curfew patrols,” Robert continued. “And you’ll be required to remain at school during holidays if any first- or second-years from your House choose to stay. You also have the authority to give detentions and deduct house points.”

Draco sat up straighter at that, eyebrows lifting. He shot Pansy a look, and she mirrored it with delight.

“However,” Robert added, “you will not be permitted to give punishments to your fellow Prefects.”

Draco slumped back in his seat, scowling. Of course. Trust Hogwarts to ruin the only interesting part. He glanced sideways at Weasley, who was still staring daggers at him. Well, if he couldn’t take points from him, at least Potter was still fair game.

“If you have any questions,” Robert went on, “you may come to Samantha or myself. If we’re not available, speak to your Head of House. Now—first order of business. We need two volunteers to escort the first-years from the carriages to the Great Hall.”

Granger’s arm shot into the air so fast she nearly hit Weasley in the chin. He remained slumped back in his seat, arms crossed until she elbowed him fiercely in the ribs, forcing his hand into the air. 

Draco watched Granger’s enthusiasm with great amusement, smirking, until he noticed Pansy giving him a strange, wild sort of look. He coughed and faced forward again.

“Excellent,” Samantha said cheerfully. “Hermione and Ron will lead. Once they’ve been sorted, each of you will guide your new first-years to your common room and dormitories. Understood?”

Everyone nodded.

“Wonderful. Welcome to your fifth year.”

Chapter Text

Draco trudged across the grounds toward the Great Hall. He’d walked this same path for four years, yet tonight it felt strangely unfamiliar, as though the castle itself were watching him approach. The sun slipped behind the hills, stretching long fingers of shadow across the grass while the torches sputtered to life along the stone paths. Usually that sight gave him a pleasant, anticipatory flutter. Tonight, all he felt was a cold, heavy tightness in his chest.

He shoved his hands into his robes and kept close behind his friends. His fingers brushed the compact in his pocket, and he curled around it instinctively. Still cold. A sensible part of him was relieved… but another part shamefully flickered with disappointment.

Ridiculous. Completely mad. He should to be grateful the Dark Lord hadn’t summoned him in the middle of the train ride. Yet the silence after days of nothing gnawed at him. 

He was terrified of the Dark Lord, any sane person would be, but the Dark Lord had looked at him and seen something no one else ever had. Not his parents. Not his teachers. Something he could become. Draco knew perfectly well the Dark Arts demanded a price; even one Unforgivable left a stain, everyone knew that. But he still wanted to understand what the Dark Lord meant about his “potential.” Why his magic sometimes felt like it was pressing against invisible walls, desperate to break free.

If he wanted answers the way the Dark Lord intended, he needed something worth offering when the summons finally came. His “task,” was a test, obviously. Whatever he scraped together from spying on Potter and his little fan club would never rival what a real Order member could reveal, but he had to produce something. Something that proved he was capable. 

It would be much easier if he already knew Legilimency. Then he could pry open Potter’s thick skull, scoop out whatever secrets were rattling around in there, and be done with it.

Draco climbed the marble staircase and slipped into the Great Hall, heading for his usual place at the Slytherin table. He scanned for Potter, purely out of obligation, but instead his gaze snagged on an aggressively pink, unnervingly cheerful woman sitting at the staff table where the oaf usually sat. Umbridge, wasn’t it? The sight of her wiggling a lipstick wand at her perfectly painted mouth made Draco wrinkle his nose. This was their new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor? She looked more likely to hand out sugar quills than teach anyone how to block a curse.

The doors swung open again. Granger swept in, her hair bouncing like an overexcited Pygmy Puff as she attempted to shepherd a line of wide-eyed first years inside. The way she gestured around the hall, explaining everything at once, made her look like she’d swallowed a copy of Hogwarts, A History. McGonagall’s pinched expression suggested she agreed.

When the last child had been placed where she wanted them, McGonagall set the Sorting Hat on its stool. The Hat cleared its throat, and the hall fell into expectant silence.

“Oh gather ’round, young witches, wizards,
Another year begins!
With trunks and robes and hopeful hearts,
Let all the Sorting spin!

I’ve watched these halls for centuries,
Seen legends rise and fall;
From founders’ dreams to youthful schemes—
There’s room here for you all!

Brave Gryffindors with fiery souls,
And Ravenclaws who seek;
Strong Hufflepuffs with loyal hearts,
Proud Slytherins—unique!

And every year a student comes
Whose path is edged in shade…
With ancient ties and whispered power,
A destiny half-made.

But fear not yet, for school is bright,
A place to learn and grow—
Though some may meet a guiding hand
Much darker than they know.

So listen well, dear students all,
For choices shape your fate…
The storm begins with gentle winds—
But thunder comes too late.”

A scattering of applause rippled uncertainly through the Hall. Students exchanged puzzled looks. Even a few teachers shifted in their seats, whispering behind their hands.

“A bit darker than usual, yeah?” Theo muttered.

Draco folded his arms, refusing to admit the song had sent a prickling sensation across the back of his neck. “That bloody old hat sits in Dumbledore’s office all year gathering dust. Then he drags it out, plonks it on a stool, and everyone acts like it’s some oracle. There’s no way it actually means anything.”

Theo didn’t look convinced. Draco wasn’t entirely convinced either, but he’d sooner swallow a filibuster firework whole than admit it.

Before anyone could respond, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat sharply. “Yes—another wonderful song to start the year,” she said briskly. “Now, first-years: when your name is called, please step forward. Who do we have first… ah, yes. Abercrombie, Euan.”

Name after name followed. Each trembling eleven-year-old shuffled up to the stool, the Hat dropped over their eyes, and a House was declared before they scampered off to their tables. Draco half-listened, trying not to think what “but thunder comes too late,” meant.

At last the final student hurried away towards the Hufflepuff table. McGonagall lifted the Hat, sweeping it off the stool just as Dumbledore rose from the staff table, eyes twinkling with a brightness Draco wasn’t sure was entirely reassuring.

A strange chill rushed through Draco’s veins. He had tried desperately to forget their meeting, both to keep the memory out of Snape’s reach and because he couldn’t bear the look on the Headmaster’s face. Not his usual gentle, maddeningly serene mask. Something Draco had never seen from the man before and certainly never wanted to again.

“To our newcomers,” Dumbledore began, spreading his arms in welcome, “welcome! And to our old hands—welcome back! There is a time for speeches, but this is not it. Tuck in!”

Laughter and applause broke out as the empty plates filled in an instant, roast meats, mountains of vegetables, golden breads, rich gravies. The familiar smell of a Hogwarts feast washed through the Hall like warm air after a storm.

Draco dug in immediately, stomach gnawing from a day spent thinking far too much. Across from him, Pansy only nudged her roast potatoes around her plate.

“Don’t you think that was odd?” she asked suddenly. “What the Hat said?”

Blaise snorted. “Like Draco said—it’s ancient and bored. Probably entertains itself by scaring us. You should’ve heard what it tried with me during Sorting. It wanted Ravenclaw. I had to practically beg it not to.”

Pansy looked sharply to the side just as the Bloody Baron drifted past, silver chains whispering against each other. “Baron!” she called. “Do you think the Hat’s warning was… off?”

The Baron paused, turning his translucent head. He stroked his spectral beard thoughtfully. “Not particularly. The Hat has issued many warnings over the centuries—most when the school stood on the brink of danger. But its only advice was to stick together.”

Theo scoffed. “But there’s no way it knows if the school’s actually in danger. Even if it overheard something in Dumbledore’s office, that doesn’t mean it can predict the future.”

“Of course it cannot predict the future, young Nott,” the Baron replied. “But the Hat listens. And it remembers.” With that, he drifted onward down the aisle.

A tight pressure coiled low in Draco’s stomach. Could the Hat know about the prophecy? Dumbledore might have spoken of it before, but even during their private meeting, the Headmaster hadn’t said a single word of it aloud. He knew the Dark Lord had returned, of course—but not Draco’s involvement. 

Their plates vanished with a sweep, and Dumbledore rose again. He had barely taken a single step toward the podium when a sudden, searing heat pulsed through Draco’s robe pocket.

His hand slapped over the fabric instinctively. For one impossible moment, he hoped he had imagined it—until the compact burned again, harder this time, like a brand pressed to his skin.

“I—I’ll be right back,” Draco muttered, tripping over the bench in his haste before forcing himself to straighten. He walked calmly toward the back of the Hall. Pansy shot him a puzzled look, but he didn’t dare meet her eyes.

As Professor Umbridge’s syrupy voice began to spill across the Great Hall, Draco slipped through the doors, eased them shut, and the second they latched—he ran.

He didn’t know where he was going, but he ran as fast and as far as his legs would take him. 

The moment Umbridge’s voice faded into muffled nothing, Draco ducked into the nearest classroom. He slammed the door, locked it with a sharp flick of his wand, then muttered Muffliato around the frame for good measure. His heart pounded painfully in his ears.

He practically collapsed into the nearest desk, fumbling the compact free. The metal scorched his fingertips. Drawing a steadying breath, he forced down the sickening mix of dread and something close to anticipation creeping up his spine.

Then he opened it.

The glass split apart like water under a blade. Draco’s reflection melted, draining away until the silver surface rippled and reshaped into the pallid, serpentine face of the Dark Lord. Sharp red eyes gleamed through the distortion.

“Hello, Draco,” the Dark Lord murmured, smiling in a way that made Draco’s stomach twist painfully. “Your promptness is appreciated. I assume the feast had not yet concluded.”

Draco swallowed hard. “N-no, my Lord. But I—I haven’t found anything yet, I—”

The Dark Lord lifted a thin, white hand.

“I do not expect results yet, boy,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “These things take time. In truth, I summoned you for a more… conversational purpose.”

“Conversational?” Draco blurted before he could stop himself.

“But of course,” he purred. “Though it pleased me to test your obedience, I also wished to clarify recent developments. It seems the Order shares very little with their younger members—quite expected, considering they are but children. However…” His eyes narrowed. “What the Order does not know is that Potter and his godfather have begun to pry.”

Draco stiffened.

The Dark Lord’s voice cooled into something brittle and poisonous. “They have been seen attempting to interview those they presume knowledgeable about my return. Asking what they have heard of me… of my followers.”

Draco’s breath caught. Potter was reckless, but this was open suicide. Black even worse. What in Merlin’s name were they thinking?

“To the untrained mind,” the Dark Lord continued, “their behavior might appear harmless. But they have become an irritation.” His gaze sharpened. “Potter has returned to school, but Black remains a problem. What I require is a means of feeding information to the boy—who will, no doubt, run straight to his dear godfather. I intend for Black, and whoever in the Order is foolish enough to listen to him, to chase the wrong trail.”

“My Lord—Potter and Weasley—they won’t—”

Another slight lift of the Dark Lords’ hand cut him off instantly.

“I did not ask for your doubts,” he said softly, though his expression revealed the simmering displeasure beneath. “You swore yourself to me, did you not? I have granted you the chance to prove your worth. Be grateful I did not strike you down the moment your usefulness ended.”

Shame flared hot in Draco’s chest. “Yes, my Lord. I—I’m sorry.”

Voldemort studied him with unreadable eyes, then let out a faint, almost weary sigh. “It is natural to be uneasy. You are young, and this task demands more than observation. But do not grow accustomed to such leniency.” His voice dipped colder. “We will speak again.”

The image vanished, snapped away as though the glass itself rejected it and Draco found his own reflection staring back at him: pale, damp-haired, eyes wide and stinging.

He hurled the compact onto the desk with a sharp clatter. Frustration and humiliation clawed at his throat.

Idiot. Knew better than to question the Dark Lord, even for a second. As terrified as he was, the Dark Lord had taken the time to teach him, show him things even his father never could. He had looked past the prophecy. Past Draco’s age. Past his supposed insignificance.

And Draco had responded like a frightened, stammering child.

He shoved himself to his feet and began pacing the room, forcing air into his lungs in slow, controlled breaths. Think. Think. Potter and Weasley wouldn’t let him within ten feet of them, let alone close enough to plant false leads. At least not directly.

But the year had barely begun. He didn’t need their friendship, he didn't even need their trust. He just needed an opening, a single moment and he could prove himself. Prove he wasn’t a useless child, or a disappointment, or some shadow of his fathers incompetence.

He could make the Dark Lord right for choosing him.

Draco forced every emotion down, down past the point of feeling and stuffed them behind the tight, well-built walls. When the numbness finally settled in, Draco retrieved the compact from the desk, slipped it back into his pocket, and left the classroom without looking back.

The corridors were thinning out by the time he made his way toward the dungeons. The castle felt colder than he remembered, darker in a way that had nothing to do with the torches dimming for the night. If he really stopped to think about it, everything felt different. There was no comfort left in the stone walls he’d grown up believing were safe and familiar.

He glanced at the tapestries, the old portraits dozing in their frames, trying to take them in as they were now, because there would come a day when all of it changed. When the castle didn’t feel like home at all. It was for the best, he told himself. That was the price of reform. 

Still… the thought of losing the faint warmth he once felt here, the warmth that had extinguished so completely over the summer, made his chest ache.

A hand suddenly clamped onto his sleeve. Draco jerked back instantly, yanking his arm free before he even registered who it was.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you—I just wanted to see if you were okay,” Granger said quickly, hands full of colorful knitted hats. Her eyes were wide, and a flush crept across her cheeks at his reaction.

He scowled, tugging his robes straight and forcing his heartbeat to slow. “Of course I’m okay, Granger. Why in Merlin’s name would you think otherwise?”

“When you came into the prefects’ carriage, you looked well—ill,” she said. “I’ve been reading a lot about healing over the summer—really fascinating stuff, actually—and I read that if you—”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. Don’t you have other things to worry about instead of sneaking up on me and scaring the shit out of me?” he snapped.

Granger’s blush deepened. “I—I’m sorry.”

His patience frayed, but he couldn’t ignore the sincerity in her voice. He had thought about Granger over the summer, more than he cared to admit, trying to understand why she helped him during the Tournament. She hadn’t known about the scar or the prophecy then. She had simply… helped. 

But things were different now. Granger was part of the Order, however small her role, and she might even suspect that Draco was involved in something, even if only by virtue of his father’s name. He studied her face carefully, searching for any flicker of accusation or knowing. But all he found was concern.

What in Merlin’s name could she hope to gain by checking if he was ill? The thought irritated him, a hot pulse of defensiveness swelling in his chest. He didn’t need her pity, or her attention, or her—whatever this was.

But another thought slid quietly into place, cooling his temper. He drew a slow breath and forced his shoulders to ease, letting his expression soften into something mild, polite—almost charming.

“No worries, Granger,” he said lightly. “And I forgot to congratulate you on making Prefect. Though I’ll admit, I expected Potter to get the badge before Weasley.”

Her eyes widened in confusion, as if she were trying to determine whether he was mocking her or had simply been replaced by a very convincing impostor. “Thanks… Malfoy,” she said uncertainly.

She shook her head faintly, as though clearing away whatever wild thought had crossed her mind. “Anyway… I’m glad that you're okay. Goodnight, then.” She gathered her hats more tightly and hurried down the corridor. Just before turning the corner, she glanced back briefly, then vanished.

Draco lingered in the empty hall, the silence settling around him as he replayed the exchange. A plan began to take shape at the edges of his thoughts. Who knew the opening he needed had been standing right in front of him all along?

~~~

The first day of classes went about as Draco had expected. Every professor seemed determined to remind them several times of their workload for the year and how “critical” their O.W.L.s would be. And, of course, he had been right about Hagrid. The oaf had been replaced by Professor Grubbly-Plank, who was infinitely more competent. The lesson wasn’t exactly thrilling, but at least she didn’t nearly set their eyebrows on fire with a giant worm that had no business being in a classroom.

Draco filed into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom behind the rest of the Slytherins, only half-listening as Pansy muttered about almost losing the last straggling group of terrified first-years after his disappearance. Apparently he had also missed Umbridge’s “uplifting” introductory speech. Not that it mattered. The moment Draco stepped into her classroom, whatever faint trace of optimism he’d carried evaporated.

Umbridge gave her wand a flick; new textbooks thudded onto each desk in a neat pink-tinged row. “I understand,” she began, “that the standard of Defense Against the Dark Arts has gone unchecked for far too long. No consistent curriculum, no Ministry oversight—and with your O.W.L.s approaching, it’s high time someone ensured your success. Unlike your…previous professors, in my class we will concern ourselves strictly with theory.”

A low murmur rippled through the room. Even Draco felt his eyebrows rise. Theory? Yes, their past D.A.D.A. teachers had been unhinged, cursed, or generally disastrous but at least they taught actual magic.

“So we’re not learning any real spells, then?” Potter blurted.

Umbridge turned toward him with a smile so forced it quivered. “Indeed not, Mr. Potter. There is no need for defensive magic here. Hogwarts is perfectly safe.”

Potter sat up straighter, stubbornness radiating off him. “What about outside the castle? Don’t you think we should be prepared? If we’re not using magic, what makes us any different from Muggles?”

A dangerous flush crept up Umbridge’s neck, blooming pink beneath her collar. “And what, precisely, do you think is lurking out there? Do you imagine you’ll be attacked the moment you step off the grounds?”

“Actually, yes,” Potter said flatly. “Everyone knows what’s going on. The Ministry is just too scared to say it.”

The class collectively held its breath. 

Umbridge slammed her foot against the floor with a squeak that was almost a squeal. “Detention, Mr. Potter. For one month. I will not have lies spread in my classroom, nor will I tolerate disorder.” She inhaled sharply, smoothing her expression back into its artificial cheer. “Now. If you have a question, raise your hand and wait to be called on. Please turn to page one hundred and thirty-four.”

Potter slumped in his seat, glowering.

Draco let out a quiet snicker. Of all the people who irritated him, and there were plenty, Potter was unmatched. Always needing attention, always needing to be the best, and always being treated like he already was, simply because of who his parents had been. But the way he saw it, they were nothing. Simply a Mudblood and a blood-traitor who died fighting a losing cause. 

His father spoke often of the Potters, how influential they had been during the first war. And when they had been killed during a particularly bad raid of their safe house, they left their son to be raised by Sirius Black of all people.

Draco’s lip curled slightly. Why would anyone, especially the Potters, trust that man to raise their only child? His mother always stiffened whenever Black’s name was mentioned, muttering darkly about the disgrace of sharing blood with him.

His father had warned him to keep as much distance as possible from Potter, and Draco had obeyed without question. Why would he want to be friends with someone so unbearably self-righteous?

Draco forced himself to focus on the front of the classroom, though his fingers tapped restlessly against the desk in a soft, impatient rhythm. Umbridge read aloud from the textbook with syrupy enthusiasm, as though each dull sentence were a gift she was bestowing upon them.

“…Protego is commonly used in minor dueling scenarios, capable of deflecting most simple offensive spells. However, it lacks the strength to defend against more advanced curses…”

Draco skimmed the page ahead of her, barely suppressing a snort. Protego. He’d learned it before he could properly hold his wand straight. How the Ministry expected fifth-years to sit through this drivel was beyond him. And irritatingly enough, Potter hadn’t been entirely wrong: if they weren’t allowed to cast anything in class, how were they meant to pass their practical O.W.L.s? How were they supposed to defend themselves at all?

He could practically feel his skill withering.

Umbridge droned on, flipping pages with pointed cheerfulness while the students sat wandless and motionless. By the time she dismissed them, Draco felt as if his brain had been dipped in treacle. Even Binns was more tolerable than this.

He shouldered his bag and had only taken a few steps toward the door when a saccharine voice chimed behind him.

“Draco, dear, do you have a moment?”

He froze. Slowly, he set his bag back down as Umbridge approached, hands clasped neatly in front of her.

“I was ever so disappointed you couldn’t stay for my welcome speech at the feast,” she said, her smile bright and brittle. “Though I’m sure your fellow Slytherins filled you in. And congratulations on becoming a Prefect! Your father must be very proud.”

Draco schooled his face into something smooth and polite. Pride wasn’t something his father had much say in these days. 

Umbridge leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a scandal. “Now, I have a little secret for you. The Ministry will announce it officially next week, but… I’ve been appointed High Inquisitor of Hogwarts.”

Draco blinked. What the hell is a High Inquisitor?

“For far too long,” she continued, “this school has lacked proper oversight. Chaos masquerading as education. There will be order again. And you, Draco, can help me achieve it.”

A thin curl of curiosity twisted in his stomach. “Help in what way?”

Her eyes sharpened, bright and calculating behind their frilly innocence, “I’d like you—and a few trusted friends—to act as my eyes and ears. To help maintain discipline when I cannot be present. It’s quite like your Prefect duties, only… expanded. Should you hear of any misbehavior, any disruption, you’ll report straight to me. Together we’ll ensure Hogwarts no longer caters to those who believe they can do as they please.”

Draco felt something inside him click neatly into place. His expression softened into something confident “Of course, Professor. I’d be glad to help.”

Umbridge beamed, “I knew I could rely on you.”

Draco lifted his bag again, and this time when he stepped into the corridor, a subtle thrill ran through him, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. Perhaps Umbridge wasn't so bad after all.

Chapter Text

Draco was halfway through his second sausage when Thorne swooped down from the rafters and dropped the Daily Prophet onto his plate with a thud. The owl nipped his knuckles, demanding a treat before flapping away.

It was the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, and Draco intended to enjoy every minute of it. His pockets were pleasantly heavy with Galleons from his tournament winnings, and after yesterday’s surprisingly decent Quidditch practice, he felt more than justified in spending a good portion of them. Marcus Flint had grumbled endlessly about him missing the Snitch but Draco had pulled out the Triwizard-champion card, and that had shut him up fast enough.

He scanned the paper, “Sturgis Podmore Arrested for Attempted Break-In at the Ministry.” Boring. He tossed it aside and finished the last of his eggs before meeting Theo and Blaise in the courtyard. 

A crisp chill hung in the air, white frost stretching across the lawns like a thin sheet of glass. Their boots crunched over the early snow as they made their way into the village, mingling with the crowds of students flooding the cobblestone streets. Hogsmeade thrummed with life—shop windows glowing warm, owls swooping overhead, the distant chatter from the Three Broomsticks spilling out onto the road.

Pansy and Luna disappeared almost immediately and Crabbe and Goyle lumbered toward Zonko’s, having heard rumors of a new dungbomb shipment.

Draco, however, had a mission.

He walked straight into Spintwitches. The familiar smell of leather and varnish hit him instantly. On display in the window was the Firebolt model he already owned, still the fastest broom on the market, drawing awed stares from passing students.

Inside, shelves of polished broom handles and equipment gleamed under enchanted lanterns. Draco pushed through toward the back, where the real quality gear was kept. He grabbed a new pair of dragonhide gloves, perfectly stitched, and a professional-grade polish kit. This year, Slytherin was taking the House Cup. No more Gryffindor favoritism and certainly no more Potter. 

He, Theo, and Blaise stepped back into the cold with their purchases when something caught Draco’s eye. A steady stream of students was slipping into the Hog’s Head, far too many to be a coincidence. 

“Their choice in hangouts has really gone downhill,” Blaise muttered, adjusting his scarf.

“What do you think they’re doing in there?” Draco asked, frowning.

Theo shrugged. “If they want to drink in a place where someone has probably died on the floor, let them. Perhaps they’ll feel more at home.” 

Blaise snorted, but Draco’s mind was already working. “I might check it out,” Draco said casually. “Inquisitorial Squad and all that.”

He handed his parcels to Theo, ducked down a narrow alley, and cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself. His skin prickled as the magic settled, his body shimmered and vanished. Keeping low, he slipped toward the wooden doors of the Hog’s Head. The moment he cracked them open, the stench of stale ale and body odor hit him.

He slid inside and pressed himself against the wall. The place was dim, lit only by a few weak candles, and in the corner, gathered around a rickety table, sat Potter, Granger, Weasley… and at least two dozen other students.

What in Salazar’s name were they plotting? Draco carefully inched closer until their voices reached him.

“Fudge is terrified Dumbledore’s trying to build some sort of army,” Potter was saying, voice low but fervent. “That’s why Umbridge is here. She’s not teaching us to defend ourselves—she’s stopping us from learning anything useful.”

A murmur rippled through the group. Potter hesitated for half a second, then said boldly, “Voldemort is back.”

A gasp, sharp and collective.

“How do you know that?” a younger girl whispered, wide-eyed.

Potter squared his shoulders. “Because he is. The Ministry’s covering it up—they’re lying to everyone. But that doesn’t change the truth. What matters now is that we prepare ourselves. If they won’t teach us real defensive magic… then we’ll teach each other.”

“So you haven’t actually seen him, then?” a Hufflepuff prefect pressed, suspicion wrinkling his brow.

Potter paused, jaw tightening. “No. I haven’t. But the Order of the Phoenix is active again—they have. Sirius and I have been trying to track Voldemort’s movements since the Tournament. Something’s been wrong ever since. Dumbledore won’t rest until the Ministry admits what’s happening. And we need to do our part. We can’t sit back and let them win.”

Draco’s stomach lurched. A hot, nauseating twist curled through him, and he took a single step back, barely breathing. Of course they knew but hearing Potter say it aloud, hearing students gasp at the name… it clawed at something deep inside him.

He slipped quietly away from the group, inching out the pub and down an alley. Once safely out of sight, he lifted the Disillusionment Charm, letting the magic dissolve like a cold peel from his skin. His legs felt oddly unsteady.

He pressed a hand against the wall, the stone cool against his palm, and exhaled shakily. Potter hadn’t mentioned his name. That was good. But the rest of it… Draco raked a hand through his hair, heartbeat thudding in his throat. Who would actually believe Potter? he reasoned. Who would risk their life based on the word of someone who hasn’t even seen the Dark Lord himself?

Yet the truth settled like ice in his gut, Potter didn’t need everyone to believe him. He only needed a few. A few who were frightened, desperate, and foolish enough to start preparing for a war.

Draco swallowed hard. This was something the Dark Lord would want to know and surely something Umbridge would reward him for. His pulse quickened with anticipation at the thought of being the one to bring it forward first.

But behind that thrill, something sour lingered. He understood their fear, he hated that he did. The Ministry was hiding the truth; everyone knew Fudge was too terrified to admit anything. And maybe that was necessary. Chaos helped no one.

Draco straightened, jaw tightening. But he didn’t have the luxury of sympathy, not anymore. He had obligations. And tonight, he had found something genuinely valuable. He pushed off the wall and headed back towards his friends, his mind already organizing the message he planned to deliver.

Whatever Potter was building… Draco would break it before it even had the chance to begin.

~~~

Draco pushed open the door of the Slytherin common room and stepped into the cool dungeon corridor. The air down here always carried a faint dampness, as though the stones themselves were breathing. Robert and Samantha had sent out the prefect rotation the day before; somehow, his first night shift had conveniently landed him with Granger.

He made his way toward the library, where the prefects were meant to meet before splitting off. His steps echoed softly in the stillness. As he walked, he tried to rehearse a plan, questions he might ask,  subtle ways he could steer Granger’s answers. But Granger was far too smart for her own good, he’d have to be careful what he asked and most of all how. 

By the time Draco reached the library, the other prefects, tired of waiting, had decided their routes and assigned him and Granger the East wing. He lingered outside the doors, listening to the last of their footsteps vanish down the corridor.

Then came the frantic patter of someone running.

Granger appeared at the top of the staircase, breathless, her prefect badge hanging crookedly from her robes. “Sorry—I’m late,” she gasped. “I lost track of time.”

Draco stared. She looked as though she’d tumbled down a flight of stairs. Her hair, normally unruly, was a full catastrophe, sticking to her forehead in sweaty curls. Her face glistened, flushed, and there was a thin smear of blood on her lip.

“What happened to you?” Draco blurted before he could stop himself.

Granger pushed a hand through her hair—achieving absolutely nothing besides making it stick out in new directions. “Nothing. I just… got a bit carried away with the Transfiguration homework. Vanishing Spells are trickier than they look.”

A pathetic excuse. And a lie so obvious it almost offended him. “Right,” Draco said dryly. “Arithmancy tends to leave me battered and bleeding, too.”

Her face twisted, then she whipped the blood from her lip. “So… where are we supposed to patrol?”

“East wing,” he said. “Charms corridor and back.”

She nodded, brushing curls away from her face. They fell right back where they started.

They walked in silence. Normally, Draco enjoyed silence, especially when Granger’s voice was the alternative, but tonight he found it irritating. He needed information, and walking beside her with nothing but his own thoughts made his mind feel even louder.

He thought about simply asking what she’d been doing in the Hog’s Head. Ludicrous, obviously. She’d tell him another unconvincing lie and twist the accusation back onto him. No, he needed something smaller. Something he’d been wondering anyway.

“Why did you help me last year?” he asked, far too abruptly for his own liking. He kept his eyes straight ahead. 

From beside him, Granger gave a soft huff of amusement. “Do you want the god's honest truth?”

“Obviously.” He drawled, rolling his eyes. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked.”

She shrugged, but the smugness didn't leave her face. “Well… you looked rather pitiful, Malfoy. In the library before the first task—crying and all that.” Her voice softened. “I’ve never had much sympathy for you, considering all that you’ve said to me over the years. But seeing you like that…I don’t know. It made you seem—well—human.”

“Human,” Draco reacted flatly, raising a brow. He fought the urge to retort back something cruel, just to prove a point. But when nothing came to mind, he settled for silence.

When he didn't respond, Granger sighed, her expression gentle. “I’m glad I helped, you know. I couldn’t tell Harry or Ron—they’d never forgive me—but…I’m glad I did.” 

A strange heat crept into Draco’s chest. His hands stayed cold, but something warm settled beneath his ribs. It was unsettling. He wanted to say something clever, but all he could manage was a nod of acknowledgment and a soft smile. 

“How’s your—er—“ She gestured awkwardly to her own forehead.

He cleared his throat, happy to change the subject. “Better. Honestly it barely acts up anymore. Just tingles sometimes. I almost forgot about it.” 

She smiled faintly, though something dimmed in her eyes. It twisted something love in Draco’s stomach, but he didn't comment, and neither did she.

They continued down the corridor toward the East Wing. Peeves flew by, a roll of parchment flying behind him. A Hufflepuff student came running soon after, trying to get his homework back. Normally Draco would be more than happy in Peeves' mischief but his mind was stirring.

He hated admitting it, even to him, but he somehow came about trusting Granger. She knew something little else knew, something that could change everything if it got out. But she didn't. She didn't have the Potter or the Order. She should have. That would have been the smart thing to do, but she didn't.   

And something else Draco realized was when it was just them, she wasn’t the same girl he constantly criticized in class. She stood straighter, spoke more confidently, albeit frustratingly confident. She seemed…different. 

As they walked down the dim corridor, something unfamiliar tightened across his chest. He didn't know what it meant, all he knew was that he hated it. 

And maybe that was why the next question slipped out before he could stop it.

“I’ve heard Potter talking about You-Know-Who,” Draco said suddenly, trying to sound offhand even as his stomach twisted. “Do you actually believe him?”

Granger stopped midstep. Her hands knotted together nervously. Then she nodded. “Yes. Of course I do. He’s my best friend.”

“But how do you know he’s right?” Draco asked carefully.

“Because I trust him,” she said softly. “And because he has no reason to lie.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why are you asking me this, Malfoy?”

He swallowed, forcing himself not to look away. When he came up with this plan, he fully expected Granger to question him, but what he didn't expect was just how nervous he would be. Everything he so confidently practiced went right out the window. Her brown eyes stared accusingly at him, waiting for a response. 

“It’s just… what happened, I was a baby,” he stammered quietly, looking around to make sure they were alone. “If the Dark—You-Know-Who is really back… then I’m the first person he’ll want to finish off, aren’t I?”

Her whole expression changed. She looked at him with that maddeningly perceptive stare, the same one she’d had the day she’d seen his scar.

“Draco…” she whispered, stepping closer before she caught herself.

“Everyone else thinks I’m being dramatic,” he said, injecting just enough truth to make the lie feel real. “My parents haven’t said a thing and you know I can't go to my friends.” He gave a stiff, humorless laugh. “You’re the only person I can go to.”

Granger's eyes shone with worry, and guilt, too. She wasn’t very good at hiding that.

“I thought maybe you’d… heard something.” He pushed, hoping his ‘vulnerability’ was enough.

For half a second, her face lit with the instinct to help him and that flash of warmth in her eyes nearly knocked the air out of his chest. But then her face went still. “Er—no, I haven’t. I’m sorry, Draco,” she whispered, quickly turning to hide her face. 

The rest of their route was made in silence.

Chapter Text

Umbridge was delighted, practically swelling with triumph, when Draco reported Potter’s gathering at the Hog’s Head. Naturally, she wanted more and he was more than happy to oblige. Draco fully intended to give her something useful. The problem was… he couldn’t find the blasted room.

He’d decided his best option was to trail Longbottom. The idiot was nervous enough to trip over his own shoelaces; Draco was certain he’d slip eventually. Every time, Longbottom trudged up to the seventh floor, right past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his dancing trolls. Draco stayed several paces behind—close enough to see but stayed far enough not to be seen.

And every single time, Longbottom rounded the corner then seemed to vanish into thin air. Not even a scuffed footprint. Not even the creak of a door. Nothing.

Draco had searched every inch of that stupid wall afterward, running his hands along the stones until his fingers ached, but it was totally solid. He went to Umbridge with his concern, but according to her, there were no undocumented rooms in Hogwarts, and he must keep looking. The Ministry had the architectural records to prove it. 

After nearly a week of this infuriating pattern, Draco snapped.

The following afternoon, he stalked Longbottom up the stairs, grabbed him by the back of the robes, and shoved him against the tapestry. Barnabas squeaked in offense and halted mid–dance step, the trolls banging clumsily into each other behind him.

“Ma–Malfoy! What are you doing?” Longbottom squealed, trembling like a bowtruckle.

Draco couldn’t help laughing. “Relax, Longbottom. I barely tapped you.”

He drew his wand, barely visible in his sleeve, and leveled it right at Longbottom’s chest. Longbottom’s knees shook as if they were about to give out.

“Now then,” Draco drawled, “where exactly do you think you’re sneaking off to? You and your Gryfindork friends haven’t been as subtle as you may have thought. There’s nothing but dusty walls over here, unless you find stone very interesting.”

“I–I’m not sneaking anywhere,” Longbottom stammered, staring at the blank wall behind Draco’s shoulder. “Just… taking a walk before, um… class.”

“A walk,” Draco echoed. “Fascinating. Perhaps you’d like to take a walk with me—to Professor Snape’s office. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind fetching a vial of Veritaserum so we can confirm your exercise routine.”

“No! No—please, Malfoy, you can’t!”

“And why not?” Draco pressed, stepping closer, wand digging into the fabric of Longbottom’s robes. “What are you so afraid might come out? Because word is that resisting Veritaserum hurts. Terribly. Some poor souls lose their minds entirely—St. Mungo’s for life.” He let the next words drop. “Sound familiar?”

Longbottom made a pathetic squeak, shrinking towards the floor. 

“Mr. Malfoy, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

McGonagall’s voice sliced through the corridor like a blade.

Draco lowered his wand so quickly it nearly fell from his grip. He slipped it up his sleeve and turned, flashing what he hoped was a pleasant smile.

“Nothing, Professor. Just helping Longbottom—he was terribly lost. Silly enough, thought the greenhouses were…” He gestured vaguely. “Over there.”

McGonagall fixed him with a sharp stare, “Neville, dear? Are you alright?”

Longbottom practically leapt away from Draco. “Y-yes, Professor. I’m fine.”

“Off you go, then.”

Longbottom scurried down the corridor without another word—though Draco noticed, with irritation, that the idiot fumbled suspiciously with something shiny in his pocket before he disappeared around the corner.

Draco turned to leave, but McGonagall’s hand shot out and hooked the collar of his robes. “I don’t think so.” 

She turned him back towards her, her face puckered similar to a bird. “I would have hoped that your prefect badge might encourage you to leave these childish bullying tactics behind. Clearly, I was mistaken. Detention—with me—for an entire week. And fifteen points from Slytherin.”

The outrage shot up his throat, but she raised her hand sharply. 

“Not. One. Word.”

~~~

Once Umbridge heard of Draco’s detentions, she reacted with such delighted horror that it was obvious she had been waiting for something like this. She produced a small roll of parchment at once, delicately dipping her quill into the ink.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said sweetly as she wrote, “is far too important to the smooth running of Hogwarts to waste precious hours on menial punishment tasks,”

As High Inquisitor, she had full authority to cancel whatever she pleased, a fact she underlined in an owl to Professor McGonagall. McGonagall, upon receiving it, said nothing whatsoever. But every Transfiguration class that week, Draco felt her eyes on the back of his head.

With his week now free, he had other work to do. He needed Granger to trust him. Or… trust him enough. Simply handing her information about the Dark Lord would raise every alarm in that busy little mind of hers. She closed off rather quickly when he first asked, but he could see the want to help in her eyes.

She was quieter than usual, more often alone than not. Even Potter and Weasley had seemed distant from her at times. She’d bury herself in books with a fierceness that looked less like studying and more like escape. Their Prefect rounds had become strangely comfortable, though he forced himself not to push her too quickly. The look she’d given him that first night had left something unpleasant and warm lodged under his ribs.

He shoved the thought away and tugged on his dragon-skin gloves. For right now, Quidditch required his full attention now.

Slytherin’s chances were excellent. The Weasel was Gryffindor’s new Keeper, and word around the school was that their practices had been disasters—half of them rained out, and Potter barely showed up at all. It was practically charity to let them on the pitch.

Draco strode out of the changing rooms with Crabbe and Goyle. A wave of green and silver flags rippled across one side of the stands; red and gold blazed defiantly on the other. The noise rolled over them like a storm.

“All right, mount your brooms,” Madam Hooch barked.

Draco swung astride his broom, tightening his grip on the handle. His gloves rasped softly against the polished wood, steadying him. Across the pitch, Potter mounted his broom too and, catching Draco’s eye, immediately made a rude gesture.

Hooch’s whistle split the air.

They soared upward in a rush of wind and colour, players dispersing like startled birds. Draco climbed higher and higher until the air bit cold against his cheeks. Potter kept pace, circling just above him like an overeager shadow. Cutting through the roaring wind, a melody of voices filled the air,

'Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring,

That's why Slytherins all sing:

Weasley is our King.

Weasley was born in a bin

He always lets the Quaffle in

Weasley will make sure we win

Weasley is our King.'

Draco smiled in delight, Weasley looked like he was about to be sick. He stayed in place, almost in a trance, as a massive Quaffle headed straight for him. Before the Quaffle could connect, Wealsey dove his arms stretched wide, leaving all the space for Slytherin to score. 

The stands continued their song, now even more loudly as they stomped their feet against the stands. Draco let the scene blur beneath him as he climbed higher. He was scanning for that glimmer of gold when a tiny flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye.

Near the Gryffindor stands—a streak of gold burst forward.

His heart lurched. He tipped his broom into a dive. Potter dove an instant later, noticing his eagerness.

Wind screamed past as Draco flattened himself along the broom handle, the pitch rushing up toward him. The cheers merged into a single, thundering roar—

The Snitch banked sharply left.

Draco wrenched the broom after it, Potter nearly slamming into him as they swung around the curve. 

The Snitch darted between two Chasers, vanished behind a blur of green, reappeared by the goalposts—Draco swerved after it, Potter still annoyingly at his shoulder.

Below, voices thundered and swelled, sometimes roaring in triumph, sometimes groaning in disappointment. Slytherin was a goal up now, though Draco barely spared the scoreboard a glance. He needed to end this match. 

The Snitch shot upward suddenly, not toward the stands, but toward the open sky beyond them. Draco rocketed after it. The air thinned, crisp and cold against his teeth. Potter kept pace, hunched low, eyes narrowed.

Draco reached out his arm towards the Snitch, his finger tips barely grazing it. Just when he thought he had it, something else caught his eye. Far past the perimeter of the grounds, on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, a lone dark figure stood against the treeline. 

A strange pressure tightened behind Draco’s eyes. His stomach dipped, colder than the wind. Before he could tear his gaze away, white-hot pain ripped across his forehead.

His scar felt like it had been ripped open. He gasped, clutching the broom with both hands, vision blurring. The sky tilted dangerously as he fought to stay upright. 

Potter streaked past him, the red in his uniform being the only thing Draco could make out. The gold blur veered sharply downward.

Draco forced his broom to dive, but the pain burst again, sending a spike of heat down his spine. He bit back a cry, but the world swam, the Snitch smeared into brightness.

And then a roar broke open across the pitch. Potter’s fist shot into the air, the Snitch trapped struggling between his fingers.

The Gryffindor stands erupted.

He swallowed hard, fury simmering hot beneath his ribs. There was no way he’d really seen him, not this close to Hogwarts grounds. It was too dangerous even for him. His scar still throbbed, burning deep and sickening, he had to fight to keep his expression neutral.

He landed stiffly, sliding off his broom with more wobble than he’d have liked. Crabbe and Goyle lumbered toward him, muttering angrily about Bludgers, but Draco barely heard them over the ringing in his ears and the fading throb in his head. 

On the other side of the pitch, the Gryffindor players were shouting, cheering and pounding Potter on the back. And then Draco’s mouth moved before his brain caught up.

“Well done!” he called mockingly. “Always saving Weasley from embarrassment, aren’t you? I’ve never seen a worse Keeper… but then, he was born in a bin… Did you like my lyrics, Potter?”

Potter didn’t answer; he turned away, walking toward the center of the pitch where the Gryffindor team was landing one by one, yelling and punching the air in triumph—everyone except Weasley, who was trudging slowly toward the changing rooms, shoulders hunched.

Fury coiled hot and sharp in Draco’s chest.

“We wanted to write another couple of verses!” Draco shouted. “But we couldn’t find rhymes for ‘fat’ and ‘ugly.’ We were going to sing about his mother, you see—”

The Weasley twins had stopped dead. Their faces were identical masks of fury.

“—oh, and we couldn’t fit in ‘useless loser’ either—must’ve got that from his father—”

He didn’t even see which twin swung first. Draco ducked on instinct as a fist whistled past his ear. The other twin’s punch connected squarely with Goyle’s nose, sending him stumbling.

Chaos erupted.

Draco wasn’t even sure who he was hitting,—everything blurred together. A blow split his lip; he tasted blood pouring warm and metallic into his mouth.

“THAT IS QUITE ENOUGH!”

Umbridge’s shriek cut across the pitch like a Blasting Curse. She minced toward them, frills bouncing violently.

“Detention,” she purred, “would be far too mild for this level of violence.”

“Professor,” Madam Hooch protested breathlessly, “I can handle this—”

“No, no, Madam Hooch.” Umbridge’s smile tightened. “The Minister has entrusted me with maintaining proper order at this school.” Her eyes flicked to Draco, and her voice softened into something falsely sweet. “And I will not tolerate attacks on a member of the Inquisitorial Squad.”

Potter and the Weasley twins stood panting, bruised, and visibly restraining themselves from lunging at Draco again.

Umbridge lifted her quill and parchment.

“Harry Potter. Fred Weasley. George Weasley.” She wrote each name with a theatrical flourish. “You are hereby banned from playing Quidditch. Ever again. And your brooms shall be confiscated.”

Gasps rippled through the Gryffindor section. Potter stared at her, stunned. Fred looked murderous. George swore loud enough for several Gryffindors to recoil.

McGonagall swept onto the pitch, her expression thunderous, and ushered the boys away with a stiffness that suggested she was seconds from hexing someone, most likely Umbridge

Crabbe thumped Draco on the back, crowing triumphantly. But Draco’s stomach hadn’t stopped twisting. When Draco looked back, Potter’s furious glare speared him from across the pitch.

Draco wiped the blood from his lip and gave him a slow, pointed wink.

~~~

Draco wasn’t the least bit surprised when, the moment he stepped into the dormitory, the compact in his pocket began to burn. His scar still throbbed, a dull, nauseating pulse under his hair. Without a word he slipped into the shared bathroom, shut the door, and cast Muffliato around its edges. 

He pulled out the compact and flipped it open.

“Good evening, Draco,” the Dark Lord said, his voice soft and cold as ever. “I see you are keeping your promise.”

“Of course,” Draco answered, though exhaustion dragged at him. His head was still ringing.

“I am told,” the Dark Lord went on, “that Dolores Umbridge has developed something of a fondness for you.”

“Er—she put me on her Inquisitorial Squad. Help keep order for the Ministry.”

“Excellent.” The Dark Lord said hissed. “Umbridge will serve our purposes well. She and the Ministry blind themselves with their own concerns, and in doing so, they shield us. Even if they have no idea they’re doing so.” He paused. “Now. What have you learned?”

Draco straightened a little. “During the Hogsmeade weekend, I saw Potter and a few others sneaking into the Hog’s Head. Sounded like he's  trying to form some kind of group to teach themselves defensive magic since Umbridge only teaches theory.” He swallowed. “She thinks they’re helping Dumbledore build an army.”

The Dark Lord let out a low, amused laugh. “An army? I should not be surprised. Black has been rallying more and more fools to the Order. It is only natural that Potter would try to imitate him.” Another pause, a sharper edge. “And what progress have you made toward getting yourself inside his little group?”

“I’m… nearly there,” Draco said carefully. “I think I’ve found the best way in. Someone he trusts. I'm certain I can get her to trust me.”

The Dark Lord’s crimson gaze sharpened. “Her? You mean the Mudblood girl.”

Draco’s stomach flipped. A part of him had hoped that maybe he could've kept her hidden, so that maybe there was a possibility the Dark Lord wouldn't know about her.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Hm.” The Dark Lord's expression shifted subtly—as though he were curious. “Far more promising than I expected. Very well. Do whatever you must.”

Draco nodded again and began to close the compact, but the Dark Lord’s voice slid out once more, softer than before.

“Oh, and Draco… a word of advice.”

Draco froze, looking back into the reflection.

“Do be more careful with your focus during Quidditch matches. Snitches are terribly fickle things… especially when one’s attention strays.”

~~~

The edges of his vision blurred into black. His body felt strangely smooth, gliding soundlessly over cold stone, slipping between metal bars as though he had no bones at all. He was flat against the floor, sliding forward toward… something.

It was dark—too dark to make sense of where he was—but the objects around him shimmered in strange, vibrant hues, glowing faintly in the shadows. He turned his head toward a narrow corridor. At first it looked empty… until he saw the figure slumped by the door, chin resting against his chest.

Draco flicked out his tongue, tasting the man’s scent in the air. He was alive, but drowsy. Probably drunk. The instinct to bite him surged hot and wild through Draco’s body, but he forced it back. Not yet. There was something more important ahead.

He turned to leave, but the man stirred.

The man lurched upright, scrambling for a wand at his belt. On instinct, Draco struck. He bit once, twice, three times in rapid succession. His fangs sank deep; he felt ribs splintering beneath his jaws as warm blood burst across his face and streaked the stones beneath him. The man howled, then fell silent, collapsing sideways in a heap.

A searing pain exploded in Draco’s forehead, so sharp he thought his skull might split open.

“Draco! Draco!”

His eyes snapped open.

He was tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, his breathing frantic. Every inch of him was drenched, his blankets twisted around him as though he’d been wrestling them. His hand flew to his forehead, pulsing with pain.

Theo hovered over him, shaking him hard. The rest of the boys were gathered around the bed, all looking pale and terrified.

Draco looked down at himself, feeling his body to make sure it was real. There was no blood on his clothes and certainly no fangs. 

He couldn't hold it in, Draco leaned over the edge of the mattress and retched, vomiting what little he’d eaten directly onto Goyle’s slippers.

“For Merlin’s sake—” Goyle gagged.

“I’m getting Madam Pomfrey,” Blaise said, already heading for the door.

“No—no, don’t—” Draco’s voice cracked. His vision was still swimming. “I’m fine. I just… I need to talk to Professor Snape.”

Theo gripped his shoulder, pushing him back down. “What’s Snape going to do? You need a Healer. Lie down before you pass out again.”

Draco shook him off, stumbling to his feet, grabbing his jumper from the floor with trembling hands. “I said I’m fine. It was just a nightmare.”

Blaise snorted. “Some nightmare. You were screaming loud enough to wake the whole dungeon. I thought we were being attacked!”

“In here, Professor!” someone called suddenly.

Snape swept into the room, still in full robes despite the late hour, his expression thunderous. “What is going on?”

Draco licked his dry lips, trying to gather the words. “A nightmare,” he managed, his breaths short and shaky.

Snape’s eyes flashed. “You disrupt my sleep for a nightmare? What are you, a child?”

“Professor,” Draco said quickly, lowering his voice. “We need to talk. It’s urgent.”

Snape paused. His expression did not soften, but something in his eyes sharpened.

“Come,” he said.

Draco followed. His legs felt hollow beneath him, barely carrying him as Snape led him into the Potions classroom. The moment they crossed the threshold, Draco collapsed into the nearest chair. His head dropped onto the cool surface of the desk; it soothed the pounding behind his eyes, though the ache still pulsed sharply.

“What was this… nightmare?” Snape asked. His tone was flat, but Draco could hear the tightly leashed concern beneath it.

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” Draco swallowed hard. “I—I think it was real.”

Snape said nothing at first. He turned to his stores, selected a narrow green vial, and placed it before Draco with a soft clink. Draco didn’t ask what it was; he uncorked it and drank. Heat spread through his chest, loosening the tight band around his lungs. The throbbing behind his eyes ebbed.

“It was like I was in another body,” Draco said, voice trembling despite himself. “Not human—an animal. I could feel everything. What it felt. What it tasted. Even—its thoughts. I was cold, on the floor… moving.”

He inhaled sharply as the memory surged. The metallic taste that filled the air, and the crunch of bone beneath his jaw. 

“There was a man,” Draco whispered. “He looked familiar somehow, but I—I can’t place him. I think he had red hair.” Snape’s face didn’t shift, but his stillness changed. Draco forced himself onward. “He was asleep. I wasn’t going to hurt him, not at first. But then he woke up and when he saw me, he went for his wand. So I bit him.”

His hands shook. He stared at them as though he expected to see them covered in blood.

“There was so much blood, Professor.”

Snape was silent for a long moment. He walked towards the desk, studying his face. Lifting his wand, Snape reapplied the glamor to his scar, the magic tingling across Draco’s skin as the scar disappeared. 

“Go to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey will attend to you.” He paused, his gaze slicing into Draco’s. “And tell no one else what you saw. No one.”

Then he swept from the room, his robes billowing behind him.