Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy opened his eyes like he expected applause.

Silence.

Unacceptable.

He reached to the left without looking, fingers brushing polished silver. His hand mirror sat on the nightstand exactly where it belonged—angled slightly, because his right cheekbone was more impressive in early light. Propping himself up on one elbow, he lifted the mirror and stared at his reflection.

Disaster.

His hair was doing that thing again—flat on one side, imperial on the other. And his mouth looked too honest.

He scowled. Better. But not enough.

Today was the day. The train. The school. The Sorting. A castle full of peasants pretending they’d never heard the Malfoy name.

He needed a look that said:

“You are lucky to have me.”

Draco tried a faint smirk. Too cruel. Another. Too soft. A third—eyes half-lidded, one brow arched slightly higher than the other, the corners of his lips curved like he knew a secret he’d never tell—

Perfect.

He held the pose. Then whispered, as if quoting scripture:

“A Malfoy should be feared, not liked.”

That was what Father said. Always.

He exhaled and collapsed back onto the pillow, mirror still in hand. His kitten—a black smoke Maine Coon with yellow eyes had crept onto the bed at some point and now curled against his ribs.

Draco reached down and stroked the kitten’s head.

“Just think,” he murmured. “By tonight, I’ll be the most interesting person in Hogwarts.”

The kitten sneezed on him.

He took it as an agreement.

Draco sat up fully, still cradling the hand mirror like a weapon. With a practiced sigh—the kind he’d once overheard Lucius use after a Ministry gala—he set it down and opened the drawer beneath the nightstand.

Inside: one green leather-bound diary, and a long silver quill with a serpent-shaped nib. The pages were warded, charmed to reveal themselves only under his specific magical signature. Not even Mother could pry it open. He’d checked. Twice.

He dipped the quill into the inkwell (enchanted: it never spilled, even in rage), and let the tip glide onto the page.

September 1st, 1991

Dear Diary,

I am not ready.

I look like a pale ghost in silk pajamas, and Mother insists it’s “aristocratic.”

Father said it’s time I “represent the legacy,” which I believe means “don’t cry in public.”

I haven’t cried. Yet.

I might, if the house-elf burns my toast again.

He’s done it twice now and acts surprised every time.

Honestly, Hogwarts should be grateful to have me.

Draco paused, reread, then added:

P.S. If I’m Sorted into Hufflepuff, I will hex myself into a coma. This is not a threat. It’s a Malfoy vow.

He blew lightly across the page to let the ink shimmer and vanish, locking itself into place. A second later, the diary snapped itself shut with a thwip, as if it, too, had standards.

Draco tossed it back into the drawer with a practiced flick of his wrist and reached for his silk robe.

Time to suffer.

Draco descended the grand staircase with the solemnity of a prince heading to exile.

Silk robe: secured. Hair: tragically perfect. Smirk: reloaded.

Aurelian, ever loyal, padded beside him with silent paws and a look of mild disdain—as if he were the one heading off to boarding school and not the actual eleven-year-old with a monogrammed trunk and separation anxiety.

Draco adjusted his gait to match Father’s exactly. Long strides. No hesitation. Back straight enough to be declared illegal in three provinces. He’d practiced this walk in front of the mirror. It was a very serious exercise. 

He reached the landing, lifted his chin, and—

tripped.

Over a rug that had definitely moved.

His arms flailed with more drama than physics required, and he managed to catch himself against the banister before any bones (or reputations) shattered. Aurelian halted mid-step and stared up at him.

The kitten’s face was unreadable. Regal. Judging.

Draco hissed, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve.

“My father cannot find out about this.”

Aurelian meowed once, like a threat.

Draco narrowed his eyes.

“I mean it. You keep your mouth shut.”

The kitten licked his paw.

From the eastern wing, Narcissa Malfoy emerged.

She didn’t descend. She drifted.

Her morning robe trailed behind her like a storm cloud stitched with silver, each step silent on the polished marble. The light caught in her pale hair, twisted into a perfect coil, and her face was unreadable—serene in a way that made you feel like she’d already judged you and didn’t find you interesting enough to punish.

Draco froze halfway down the opposite stairs.

She looked at him—eyes cool, calculating, and somehow still warm.

“You didn’t sleep,” she said softly, not asking.

“I slept,” Draco replied, lifting his chin. “Enough.”

She didn’t argue. She met him on the landing and reached out to adjust the collar of his robe with delicate fingers. Not fussy. Not doting. Correcting.

“Don’t let them see you tired,” she murmured, eyes locked on his. “Only lions show off their weakness.”

Draco swallowed and gave the smallest nod.

Aurelian padded to her feet and circled once. Narcissa let her hand drift down, brushing the kitten’s sleek fur as if she’d known it for years.

“Keep him close,” she added. “Your enemies tend to talk when they think you’re alone.”

She turned then, silk rippling behind her.

Draco fell into step beside her.

And together, mother and son descended into the breakfast hall—two pale figures born of legacy, expectation, and secrets stitched into satin.

Draco sat straight-backed in his chair, silk robes freshly pressed, hair brushed to pale perfection. Aurelian, his black smoke kitten, perched like a shadow beside his toast—occasionally swiping for the corner of a sausage.

The house-elf trembled by the silver teapot, trying to pour without clinking.

Draco leaned closer to Aurelian and whispered,

“Burnt toast again. Third time this week. My father can’t find out.”

Aurelian meowed. Agreement, probably.

Footsteps descended from opposite sides of the grand staircase. Lucius moved with the precision of a man who never rushed, one hand gloved, the other resting idly on his cane.

Lucius didn’t begin with a greeting. He rarely did.

“When you meet Dumbledore,” Lucius said, slicing into his eggs, “do not smile. If he smiles at you, do not smile back. He thrives on being adored. Don’t feed him.”

Draco blinked. “But he’s the headmaster.”

Lucius didn’t look up. “Yes. And the worst thing to ever happen to Hogwarts.”

There was a sharp pause. Even Aurelian tilted his head.

Narcissa dabbed at her lips with a linen napkin and added gently, “You’ll understand in time.”

Lucius continued. “He welcomes everyone. Especially the undeserving. Muggleborns will sit beside you. You are not to lower yourself.”

Draco frowned, chewing. “Are they really… bad?”

Lucius finally looked at him. Not angry—just disappointed at the question.

“It’s not about ‘bad,’ Draco. It’s about blood. About breeding. Would you dine with a dog from the same plate?”

Draco shuddered. “Ew. No.”

“Exactly.”

Lucius leaned back, watching him carefully now.

“There is a Malfoy Standard, and you will represent it. Don’t raise your voice. Don’t lower your chin. Walk like you own the floor. And if someone insults you—”

Draco perked up. “Hex them?”

Lucius smirked faintly. “No. Mock them. Cleverly. Wounds heal. Humiliation doesn’t.”

Aurelian gave an approving meow. Draco glanced at him proudly and reached for a new piece of toast—less burned.

Narcissa sipped her tea and finally turned to her son.

“You’ll do well. Just remember who you are.”

Draco straightened his spine a little more, even though he was already sitting like royalty.

“Don’t worry,” he said, plucking a cube of cheese from the bowl and tossing it to Aurelian. “Hogwarts is lucky to have me.”

The rest of breakfast went in silence. 

“Draco,” Narcissa said softly, rising from her chair with regal grace. “Go pack your things. Dobby will take your trunk to the entrance.”

Draco nearly leapt from his seat, his chair scraping with a clatter that made the house-elf flinch. But Lucius didn’t scold him. Not this time.

Father was taking him to the train station today.

Not a house-elf. Not a carriage driver. Father. He had taken half a day off from the Ministry. That never happened. Not even for Draco’s birthdays. And now—he was coming to see him off.

It meant something. It had to.

He rushed up the stairs, Aurelian trailing behind him like a living plume of shadow. Once inside his room, Draco threw open his wardrobe and pulled his trunk from under the bed, muttering a list as he packed.

“Robes, gloves, comb, letter from Professor Snape—he wrote in cursive, disgusting, must ask if that’s mandatory—boots polished by elves, vial of hair potion—just in case.”

And then, reverently, he reached for the drawer beside his bed.

His diary. Bound in black dragonhide, the title spelled out in shifting silver ink:

“Not For You, Peasant”

He ran a finger across the lettering and smirked.

“Of course I’m bringing you,” he muttered to the diary. “You’re the only one at Hogwarts who’ll understand me.”

He tucked it gently on top of his folded nightshirt, as if the diary were royalty and the rest were peasants beneath it.

Aurelian hopped into the trunk, curling up like he owned it. Draco sighed. “You can’t ride in there, you ridiculous beast. You’ll crush the diary.”

With great drama, he scooped the kitten up, set him on the bed, and shut the suitcase with a firm snap.

Then he stood in front of the mirror and gave himself one last smirk check. Just to be sure.

It was the right one today—the one that said:

You’re lucky to have me. But I won’t say it out loud because I’m too refined.

——

The marble-click of Narcissa’s heels echoed like royalty down the platform’s cold stone. Lucius walked beside her, his silver cane tapping with controlled grace. Between them, Draco glided in his finest traveling cloak—black wool lined in green satin, collar sharp, spine straighter than the cane itself.

Trailing behind like a small shadow was Aurelian, his black smoke fur billowing with every elegant step, tail raised like a banner. No cage. No leash. Just poise.

“Excuse me,” barked a squat station officer as they neared the entrance to Platform 9¾. “Animals must be in carriers—there’s a regulation—”

Lucius didn’t even look up.

But Draco stopped, tilted his head slightly, and blinked once—slowly.

“Oh? I wasn’t aware regulations applied to aristocracy.”

The officer blinked, confused.

Draco offered a delicate smirk, then added with precise cruelty, “Aurelian doesn’t do cages. But I hear they’re very fashionable among your kind.”

Narcissa let the corner of her mouth twitch—approval, like a passing cloud. Lucius finally spared the officer a glance, the way one might notice a speck on glass. It was enough to send the man stumbling back, muttering apologies into his clipboard.

Aurelian meowed once—smugly—and sauntered past the officer.

Draco followed, feeling seen.

He barely stepped onto Platform 9¾ before they came.

“Draco!” bellowed a wide boy with tiny eyes. Gregory Goyle, already sweating.

Next to him, the taller, dimmer Vincent Crabbe gave a clumsy bow. “Mr. Malfoy, sir. Father says thank you again for… for the fireplace thing.”

Draco blinked. “Yes. Well. He should.”

They flanked him instantly—one on each side, thick and obedient. Like bodyguards. Or footstools.

Lucius barely glanced at the boys but nodded at their parents, who were standing nearby with obsequious smiles.

“Very good, very good,” Goyle Sr. said, practically vibrating with gratitude. “We’ve told the boys to watch over young Draco. Stick together. Keep the riffraff away.”

“Excellent,” Lucius said, tone neutral but cold enough to ice a lake.

Draco stood a little straighter.

Power equaled protection. Protection equaled loyalty. Loyalty equaled… friendship?

He looked from Goyle to Crabbe. They grinned, clearly thrilled just to orbit him.

And yet—

Something prickled under his skin. Like an itch. Or a gap.

He shoved it down.

He didn’t need laughing friends. He didn’t need warmth or mischief. He had status. He had a pedigree.

He had Father.

Aurelian brushed against his leg, purring.

Draco smirked to himself and stepped closer to the barrier.

Crabbe and Goyle lumbered through the barrier, wheezing with excitement as their footsteps echoed into the magical threshold. Goyle nearly tripped over his trunk. Aurelian huffed from Draco’s shoulder, unimpressed.

Draco lingered behind.

He turned to look at his parents—his mother, tall and luminous in pale silver robes; his father, a statue of power and control, hand resting lightly on his cane.

For a moment, it felt like a painting. One he wasn’t in anymore.

Lucius stepped forward, gloved hand adjusting the collar of Draco’s cloak with precision, like aligning a chess piece before opening play.

“Draco,” he said, voice smooth as oil on marble. “Be civil, but calculated.”

Draco blinked.

“If a boy is strong, impress him. If he is weak… offer him something he’ll regret losing.”

He leaned in, tone lower.

“Friendship, for instance.”

There was a pause. Draco’s lips parted slightly—somewhere between confusion and awe.

Lucius continued, “The world is made of alliances and optics. You are a Malfoy. Make sure people know it before they know you.”

Draco swallowed.

“Yes, Father.”

Lucius brushed something imaginary from Draco’s shoulder. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Narcissa stepped forward then, breaking the chill like morning light through frost. She smoothed his hair gently and kissed his forehead.

“I packed your tea blend. And your midnight robe.”

“…Thanks, Mother.”

She gave him a rare smile. “Don’t start any duels until the third week.”

Then, just like that, they stepped back.

He turned toward the barrier, heart buzzing like a golden snitch. And as he walked through, head high, the voice of his father echoed in his mind:

Offer him something he’ll regret losing.

Draco Malfoy smirked.

The platform smelled like smoke, sugar, and chaos—utterly unsanitary. Draco stepped through the barrier with one foot already offended by the dust. He wrinkled his nose.

In front of him was a gleaming brass luggage cart with an absurdly regal kitten perched atop like a tiny war general: Aurelian, watching the scene with bored disdain.

Draco blinked slowly. None of the Hogwarts staff had yet approached to carry his things.

Unacceptable.

He folded his arms and waited.

Crabbe and Goyle were already hauling their trunks into the nearest carriage, both panting like underpaid trolls. Crabbe glanced back and blinked.

“Draco, aren’t you coming?”

Draco gestured faintly to his cart like it should be obvious. “Why has no one come to carry my luggage?”

Goyle’s mouth hung open. “Er… I think we’re supposed to do it ourselves?”

Draco slowly turned to look at him like he’d just suggested they eat off the floor.

“I'm Malfoy, not mules,” Draco said. “This is appalling.”

Just then, a voice behind him drawled—

“If you’re not going to step in, move aside.”

Draco’s chin lifted sharply. A boy stood behind him, just slightly taller, lean and pale, with chocolate-brown hair that curled in the humidity and eyes like bitter tea—cool, uninterested, sharp. His uniform was immaculately pressed. His posture spoke of generational wealth, but unlike Draco’s peacock pride, his elegance was razor-thin and reluctant.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Brown, wavy hair. Face like it forgot how to smile. You must be Nott.”

The boy arched one brow. “Theodore Nott. And I need to board the train. Preferably sometime this year.”

Aurelian meowed, as if seconding the motion.

Draco huffed, flicked an invisible speck off his sleeve, and finally—finally pushed his cart forward, but not before muttering, “Ridiculous. A boy has to carry his own belongings these days. This is how civilization falls.”

Theo watched him for a second longer. “Better get used to it. Hogwarts doesn’t come with house-elves.”

Draco shot him a look.

“Yours doesn’t.”

And with that, he sauntered aboard.

Chapter Text

Draco finally managed to heave his luggage onto the train with an indignant grunt, Aurelian hopping up beside him with a dignified meow of complaint, as if he had done the heavy lifting. His silk shirt clung slightly to the back of his neck—he had sweated. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sweated.

He lifted his wrist subtly, sniffed.

Unacceptable.

Crabbe, already halfway through a suspiciously lumpy chocolate bar, looked up.

“You all right, Draco?”

Draco frowned. “Obviously not. I’m perspiring.”

Goyle chimed in, crumbs dotting his lap. “My dad said we’re expected to already be in uniform when we arrive. First years line up before the Sorting.”

Draco stood at once. “Then clearly I’ve been misled.”

He reached into his case, pulling out a crisp pale shirt and the folded weight of his Hogwarts robe. Aurelian jumped down as Draco began changing, fastidiously. He slid off his travel shirt and muttered,

“This is why I told Mother we needed two compartments. I have standards. This train doesn’t.”

The robe’s fabric was cool against his fingers. As he draped it over his shoulders, the scent of fine tailoring and new wool pulled him into memory—

He had stood on the small fitting stool, back straight, letting the robe fall over his arms like silk. Madam Malkin circled with pins and measuring tape.

Another boy shuffled up beside him—dark hair, awkward limbs, wearing oversized Muggle clothes like he’d crawled out of a laundry basket.

Draco, in a rare mood to socialize, said,

“First time at Hogwarts? Bet you’ll end up in Hufflepuff. My father says they’ll take anyone.”

The boy didn’t respond.

Undeterred, Draco added,

“My father’s buying me a broom. Even though first-years aren’t allowed. But… rules don’t really apply to our kind.”

Still nothing. Just that flat, silent look.

Draco’s smile faltered. He looked at the boy again. Thin. Ragged. Not even a bodyguard nearby.

Maybe not “our kind” after all.

He turned back to the mirror.

Some people just didn’t get it.

Draco sat back down, the robe settling around his shoulders like a cape.

Out came the silver-trimmed thermos, still warm. Narcissa had brewed it herself—bergamot tea with milk. His favorite.

Draco unscrewed the lid, sipped, and sighed. A small hum of contentment escaped him. Aurelian purred beside him, pawing at the steam like it was made of diamonds.

This was better.

Crabbe peered at it. “That smells fancy.”

“It’s not,” Draco lied, delicately. “It’s just proper.”

He let himself breathe—just for a moment. Then, Father’s voice returned.

“You must socialize. Establish status. If the boy is smart… impress him...”

Draco blinked.

He sat up straighter. That boy—Theo Nott—had been quiet. Polished. Unbothered. Draco had sensed something. Not power, not noise, but… calculation.

He capped the thermos.

Crabbe was halfway through unwrapping a licorice whip. Goyle had already unbuttoned his top collar like they were on holiday.

Draco stood.

Crabbe and Goyle looked up in unison, jaws pausing.

“Where are you going?” asked Crabbe, licorice flapping.

Draco smoothed his front and adjusted the sleeve cuffs.

“Time to socialize,” he announced, as if that explained the secrets of the universe.

“…Socialize?” Goyle echoed.

Draco gave them a look, somewhere between exasperation and pity. “Yes. Socialize. It means making allies so we don’t end up sitting next to someone with visible pores for the next seven years.”

He stepped into the corridor, boots clicking smartly. Crabbe and Goyle exchanged helpless glances—and followed.

They passed compartments full of laughter, squeals, and hand-me-down cloaks. Draco didn’t pause. He was hunting. Scouting.

Then he found it.

Compartment B17. 

Draco slid open the compartment door with the kind of flair that implied ownership. Aurelian trailed behind like a shadow draped in silk. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him, breathing too loudly.

Inside, two boys sat across from each other—calm, composed, untouched by the chaos of the train.

One of them was unmistakably Theodore Nott.

He had an heir’s posture and a scholar’s gaze, fingers hovering just above a chess piece like he was deciding the fate of nations. Across from him sat a sharp-featured boy with deep skin, elegantly bored eyes, and cheekbones that could cut glass. He looked like the type who’d critique your shoes before your opinions.

Draco stepped in with all the gravity of arriving royalty.

Before he could speak, Theo looked up and said, “Draco Malfoy.”

Draco smirked. “Ah, good. Recognition is the first step toward relevance.”

Theo didn’t blink. “Your friend shouted your name while you were blocking the train entrance.”

Draco’s smirk twitched.

The other boy added smoothly, “And, your last name is engraved on your thermos.”

“Suitcase as well,” Theo added.

Draco instinctively looked down.

…Oh.

He glanced back up, narrowing his eyes slightly—less in offense, more in curiosity. These two weren’t idiots. Worse: they had restraint.

His gaze slid back to the unnamed boy, the one across from Theo. Composed. Disinterested. Not a single tell in his expression. His fingers tapped once on the chessboard, once on his knee. Still unreadable.

Draco slid into the seat beside Theo, dropping into the velvet with elegant entitlement.

“Fine,” he said, as if offering them a privilege. “Since you already know who I am, tell me your name.”

The unnamed boy paused, eyes drifting over Draco like he was deciding whether to respond.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Blaise Zabini.”

His voice was low, like poured ink. Draco filed away the name immediately. One to watch.

Theo made his next move in silence.

Draco leaned back, arms draped lazily across the seat, Aurelian curling beneath his legs like a shadow crown.

He unscrewed his silver thermos with the practiced flair of someone who’d had multiple rehearsals that morning. The scent wafted up—warm, fragrant, unmistakably expensive.

He took a single, reverent sip. Then:

“Bergamot,” he said aloud, though no one had asked. “Imported from a private orchard in Florence. Mother insists anything store-bought is for… taxes.”

Theo glanced over the chessboard but didn’t respond. The dark-haired boy across from him quirked one brow in vague amusement.

Draco gave them both a look that could only be described as bless your impoverished souls.

He cradled the thermos like it was a newborn heir. “Father says I have a refined palate. I refused cherry juice once and he told Mother I was destined for diplomacy.”

Still nothing.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, leaned in with faux sweetness. “So, what did your mothers pack? Let me guess—jam sandwiches and mediocrity?”

A beat. Then a perfectly timed meow from above.

Theo looked up. “Is the cat always this judgmental?”

“No,” Draco said. “He just mirrors my standards.”

Blaise leaned back, inspecting Draco with the faintest smirk.

“Mother packed wine-poached pears, rare roast duck, and a note warning me not to trust charming boys with trust funds.”

Draco blinked once, lips twitching.

“Well, at least she assumed you’d be sitting with your equals.”

He sipped his bergamot milk tea. “Though I must admit—wine-poached pears? That’s almost… poetic.”

Then, after a beat—

“I suppose the duck is just for protein.”

Draco turned smoothly to Theo.

“And what did your mother pack you, Nott?” he asked, tone light, aristocratic.

Theo didn’t look up from the chessboard.

“A funeral urn wouldn’t fit in the lunchbox.”

“So Father packed a letter,” he said flatly. “Reminding me not to embarrass the Nott name.”

Blaise let out a quiet snort.

“No pressure,” he murmured.

Draco froze for half a second—just long enough for the words to land.

Not embarrass the Nott name.

It echoed.

Father’s words replayed in his head: You are a Malfoy. That name precedes you. Don’t waste it.

He sat a little straighter, lifted his chin, and replied with a tight, perfected smirk.

“Well, consider yourself fortunate. At least your father didn’t follow up the letter with a three-hour lecture and a wax seal made of shame.”

Theo finally glanced at him, mildly impressed.

“Touche.”

Just then, Crabbe rustled in the corner and pulled out a squashed paper bag.

“Got a ham sandwich,” he announced proudly, holding it up like it was a family heirloom. “Mum says it’s got the crusts cut off special. That means it’s fancy.”

Goyle dug into his own bag, blinking.

“I got cold sausages,” he mumbled through a mouthful. “And a note that just says ‘Don’t skip lunch’—but it’s got mustard on it now.”

There was a beat of silence.

Blaise raised a brow. “Charming.”

Theo didn’t look up. “Efficient.”

Draco sighed, daintily lifting his thermos.

“And people wonder why I drink bergamot.”

Crabbe and Goyle blinked, then nodded like he’d just shared a state secret.

Draco rolled his eyes—just a little.

He’d never admit it, but there was something comforting about their dull loyalty.

Then—

Aurelian meowed, low and curious, his golden eyes fixated on the compartment door.

Draco followed his gaze.

A faint scratching echoed from the other side.

Goyle stood and yanked the door open.

A puff of snow-white fluff tumbled in.

It was a kitten—dainty, pristine, with a ridiculous pink satin bow around its neck.

She landed on the carpet, blinked once, and promptly trotted over to Aurelian.

Aurelian, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He sat tall, tail curled like a question mark, and allowed the little intruder to sniff him. Then—delicately—he sniffed her back.

Crabbe blinked. “Is… are they dating now?”

“They’re not dating,” Draco scoffed, watching the two kittens begin to circle each other. “They’re establishing a social contract.”

Blaise smirked. “Looks like she’s the dominant one.”

Theo didn’t look up from his chessboard. “Naturally.”

Before Draco could make another quip, a voice floated in—breathy, high, and scandalized.

“Severina! What are you doing here?!”

All eyes turned as a girl stepped into the doorway, brown hair in glossy waves, her robes immaculately pre-wrinkled for drama. Her hands flew to her hips.

Behind her trailed another girl with icy blue eyes and hair the color of moonlit straw. She arched a single brow, then crossed her arms.

“Seems like your kitten is gooning,” she said dryly.

Draco’s mouth parted, but no words came. Blaise actually laughed out loud.

The brunette scooped up her kitten with a huff and spun toward Draco and company.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, flicking her hair with practiced offense. “Severina has never acted like this before.”

“She has taste,” said Blaise.

“She has nerves,” muttered Daphne.

Draco finally regained composure and tilted his head. “And… who exactly do we have the pleasure of entertaining in our royal box today?”

The brunette straightened proudly. “Pansy. Pansy Parkinson.”

“Daphne Greengrass,” said the blonde, with less interest and more suspicion.

Draco crossed one leg over the other and lifted his thermos with a smirk. “Well then. Welcome aboard.”

Aurelian, still nose-to-nose with Severina, gave a small, approving purr.

Pansy turned on her heel, prepared to march off with her feline fugitive.

But Aurelian growled.

It was soft—but unmistakable.

A sound like silk torn over glass.

Severina froze in Pansy’s arms. Then—with zero respect for gravity—clawed her way down her owner’s shoulder and padded back toward Aurelian, curling against him with dainty finality.

Pansy gawked.

Draco blinked, utterly betrayed. “I fed you quail once,” he whispered to Aurelian.

Blaise leaned back with the easy grace of someone born to recline in other people’s chaos. He smiled, charming and deliberate.

“Well,” he said, eyes glinting at Pansy, “seems your kitten’s made up her mind. Might as well stay and supervise.”

Pansy hesitated. Very briefly. Then flicked her hair and turned back around with practiced elegance.

“I suppose I could sit,” she said, like the idea had come to her unprovoked. “If only to keep her from eloping.”

She slid gracefully onto the seat beside Blaise, crossing her legs like she’d trained for a fashion editorial.

Severina curled smugly against Aurelian, already purring.

Daphne sighed, the sigh of someone who wasn’t going to let her friend sit among boys alone.

She followed with resignation and perched beside Pansy, arms still folded, as if shielding herself from idiocy.

Pansy narrowed her eyes at the group. “Alright. If we’re sharing air, I suppose I should know your names.”

Blaise offered a slow smile. “Zabini. Blaise Zabini.”

“Theodore Nott,” Theo said simply, not glancing up from his chessboard.

“Crabbe,” said Crabbe with enthusiasm. “Vincent Crabbe!”

“Gregory Goyle,” added Goyle, slightly behind schedule.

Pansy nodded, then looked to the boy across from her, clearly expecting a name she’d already guessed.

Draco offered a tilt of the chin and a half-smirk. “Draco Malfoy. But I assume you already knew that.”

Pansy sniffed. “Of course I did.”

Daphne raised an eyebrow. “Nameplates on thermoses are subtle.”

Draco took a proud sip of his bergamot tea, utterly unbothered. “A Malfoy is never subtle. We’re collectible.”

Theo, without looking up, moved his bishop and murmured, “Like taxidermy.”

Blaise grinned, eyes still on Pansy. “Or porcelain dolls.”

Pansy flushed faintly, but held her posture. “Fine. I like collectibles.”

Aurelian purred louder. Severina blinked slowly.

Draco glanced around the suddenly full compartment. His brow arched, his voice a bit smug.

“Well, this escalated quickly.”

“Good,” Pansy said. “Because I’ve decided this is the best compartment.”

Daphne muttered, “Of course you have.”

Draco, legs crossed, peers over his thermos and says lightly,

“So. Severina.”

He tilts his head at Pansy.

“Bit dramatic, isn’t she? Pink bow and all. Let me guess—you chose the ribbon, and she clawed you for tying it too tight.”

Pansy scoffs.

“She only bites people she doesn’t respect.”

Then she smirks, “You’ll be fine.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. Test passed, he thinks. Sharp tongue, confident posture, doesn’t fold under teasing. Needs dominance met with challenge—probably raised among boys.

Blaise, without lifting his eyes from a small silver ring he’s twirling, says,

“She has the eyes of a girl who’s already hexed her older brother. Twice.”

Then glances up at Pansy. “Did he deserve it?”

Pansy grins. “He broke my broom.”

“Mm,” Blaise hums. “A tragic accident.”

Draco turns to Daphne next, who hasn’t spoken, just watched with her chin propped against two fingers like she’s on a throne.

“And you,” Draco says. “Let me guess… Severina was your idea, but not the bow. You’re the strategist.”

Daphne glances at him, bored but curious. “I don’t share things.”

“Not even opinions?”

“I share if they’re worth sharing.”

Blaise gives a low whistle. “She’s going to be dangerous.”

Draco leans back. She didn’t deny she’s in charge. Doesn’t need approval. Not competing—observing. He smiles, half to himself.

“I like her,” he says simply, then glances at Pansy. “And you… you’ll like me. Eventually.”

Pansy narrows her eyes, “I’ve met your type before.”

“No,” Draco says, resting his chin on his hand, “You’ve only met cheap imitations.”

Pansy flicked her braid behind her shoulder with a practiced snap.

“Oh, please. I’d like you more if you came with a gift receipt.”

Draco blinked—then gave a slow grin. “You’re feisty.”

“That’s what Mother said when I broke the tea set and blamed the cat.”

Daphne muttered under her breath, “You did break it.”

“And she believed me, didn’t she?” Pansy replied sweetly.

Crabbe, seated awkwardly between the sharper kids, raised a hand as if signaling for a teacher. “I’m just curious what houses we’ll be sorted into. You definitely fit Slytherin.”

Goyle nodded. “I just hope it’s not Gryffindor. My dad says that’s where Harry Potter’s going.”

Pansy’s head tilted. “Why? What’s wrong with Potter?”

Goyle scratched his chin. “His dad, James Potter, was the worst Gryffindor. Arrogant. A huge bully. My dad said he once turned a Slytherin boy upside down in front of everyone just because he could.”

Draco snorted, swirling his tea. “And you think I’m less arrogant and not a bully?”

Everyone paused.

“…Well,” Goyle muttered, “you’re our arrogant bully.”

Draco looked vaguely flattered.

Blaise drawled, “So we’re cheering for internalized elitism now. Lovely.”

Draco leaned back, eyes flicking to the window. “Anyway. This Harry Potter. I’m curious what he looks like. I imagine… tragic. Maybe scrawny.”

Theo tilted his head. “I heard he made the You-know-who disappear.”

Pansy scoffed. “He was a baby. What did he do? Drool threateningly?”

“Mum says he has a lightning scar,” Goyle offered, squinting as if trying to picture it. “Right here.” He pointed to his forehead.

“Cute,” said Daphne, inspecting her nails. “A marketing choice, clearly. Lightning. Very subtle.”

Blaise’s mouth curved. “I bet the Ministry spun it. The orphan boy who lived. Sounds like a bedtime story with branding.”

“Or he is dangerous,” Crabbe said. “That’s why they hid him with Muggles. Maybe he explodes if he sneezes.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “You’re confusing him with a dungbomb.”

“Still,” Draco said slowly, “no one’s seen him since. Just vanished into the Muggle world? That’s either a punishment…”

“Or protection,” Theo finished.

Draco hummed. “And now he returns. Mysterious. Tragic. Famous. Alone.”

There was a beat.

“That’s how cult leaders start,” Blaise said lightly.

“I should meet him,” Draco announced, tone casual but eyes sharp. “Before the Gryffindors start feeding him bad habits.”

Pansy tilted her head. “You want to help him?”

Draco smirked. “Please. I want to curate him.”

He stood, brushing invisible lint from his robe.

Crabbe and Goyle rose like obedient mastiffs.

Theo didn’t look up.

“You’re going to approach Harry Potter like an exhibit.”

“I’m going to approach him like my father would,” Draco replied, chin high. “Optics and alliances, Theo. Pick your peers wisely.”

He stepped into the corridor, Aurelian padding behind.

They passed a few compartments before spotting a girl with frizzy hair reading aloud from a book with her nose practically touching the page.

Draco stopped.

“You,” he said, pointing slightly as if she were a house elf that had forgotten to bow.

The girl blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, obviously. Do you know which compartment Harry Potter is in?”

“Oh! Yes. I just helped him find a toad. He’s with a red-haired boy two doors down.”

Draco arched a brow. “Thank you…?”

“Hermione Granger,” she said, with the immediate energy of someone who expects you to remember it forever.

He didn’t reply. Just turned and walked.

Two doors down, laughter echoed from inside the compartment.

Draco slid it open with one smooth gesture, like a king expecting applause.

“Hello,” he said, silk in every syllable.

The laughter stopped.

Inside sat the boy with the glasses—and beside him, a gangly redhead mid-chew on a Bertie Bott’s bean.

Draco’s eyes flicked to the sweater, the freckles, the scuffed shoes.

Weasley.

Of course. Exactly like Father described.

“Is it true?” Draco asked, voice sugar-sweet. “You’re Harry Potter?”

The boy hesitated. “Er… yeah.”

Draco smiled like a sales pitch.

“This is Crabbe. This is Goyle. And I’m Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

A cough behind him.

He didn’t look.

He knew it was Goyle again, stifling laughter at his own name. Embarrassing.

Harry didn’t smile. Still staring.

Draco noticed it. And noticed who Harry was looking at—the redhead.

Hmph.

He turned toward Weasley, gaze sharpening.

“You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are better than others, Potter,” he said, tone shifting like sleet under silk. “You wouldn’t want to make friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

And he held out his hand.

Open. Entitled. Smirking.

Harry looked at it.

Then at Ron.

Then back at Draco.

“…I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself,” Harry said, cool and quiet—but firm, like a closing door.

A pause stretched. The silence bloomed like something rotting.

Crabbe and Goyle didn’t breathe.

Draco’s smile didn’t waver. Not at first.

But his hand hovered, fingers still open in the air, as if the gesture might somehow be accepted after all.

It wasn’t.

Slowly, he pulled it back—smooth, practiced, like it was part of a larger movement and not the first time someone had ever refused him.

Not the first time someone had looked at the Malfoy name and said no.

“Well,” he said, voice brittle under polish, “you’ll regret it.”

He turned sharply. His robes swirled behind him like a curtain closing on a bad act.

In the corridor, Draco didn’t speak.

Crabbe and Goyle didn’t dare.

He didn’t stop walking until they’d reached their own compartment again.

Once the door shut, Draco didn’t sit. He just stood there, breathing shallowly.

Goyle finally spoke. “Why’d he say no?”

“Because he’s stupid,” Draco snapped. “Because he doesn’t understand legacy. Or alliances. Or power.”

But the words didn’t settle the sting.

He sank into his seat. Reached for the thermos again.

Out came the bergamot tea. Still warm.

His hands were shaking.

Not enough to notice. But enough to make the lid screw on crooked.

“Out,” Draco snapped.

Crabbe blinked. “But—”

“I said out, you thundering turnip.”

Goyle gave Crabbe a look. Then they both shuffled out without another word, their footsteps thudding like dull punctuation. The door clicked behind them. Silence.

Aurelian padded up onto the seat, curling beside him with an almost judgmental flop.

Draco’s throat was tight. His cheeks were still hot. He could hear Harry’s voice replaying in his skull like a stuck phonograph.

I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself.

Wrong sort?

Wrong sort?

He yanked open his trunk. Rifled through robes and monogrammed socks until he found the thick green book with its silver-trimmed corners.

“Not For You, Peasant,” it read in fine, gleaming script.

He slammed it onto the seat. Opened to the next clean page. Ink bled harsh across the paper.

September 1st – Afternoon.

Carriage 4, North Side, Hogwarts Express.

Note: write in anger. Think later.

Subject: Harry Potter.

I offered him everything. My name, my house. My hand.

I would have protected him. Introduced him to the right people. Carved a place for him.

And what did he do?

He spat on it. In front of that Weasley.

(Weasley. Of course. No manners, no gold, red hair like a howler in human form. Probably smells like potatoes.)

Potter chose him. Over me. Over a Malfoy.

This is not acceptable.

This is not allowed.

No one gets to make me feel small.

Not at home. Not here. Not ever.

And if he wants enemies—

If he wants to see what happens when you humiliate a Malfoy—

Then so be it.

He paused, the quill hovering.

Aurelian purred softly beside him.

Draco glanced down at his cat, whose yellow eyes blinked like polished gold.

“…He’ll regret it,” Draco muttered, quieter now. “He will.”

He capped the ink bottle with trembling fingers. Shut the diary with a snap.

And for the first time in his short, charmed life—

Draco Malfoy didn’t feel proud.

He felt rejected.

And he had no idea what to do with that.

Chapter Text

Draco stepped into the great hall with the practiced stride of a boy born for marble floors.

His shoes tapped smartly against the stone. His chin was lifted at just the right angle—regal, not arrogant. Aurelian padded beside him like a silent shadow, tail raised like a banner. They had rehearsed this moment in the mirrors of Malfoy Manor: shoulders back, eyes bored, posture that whispered superiority.

And yet—his heart thundered.

Voices echoed, dozens of students whispering, giggling, glancing about. The energy pricked under Draco’s collar like an itch. He tightened his grip on his sleeves. Steady.

Aurelian looked up and meowed. A low, judgmental sound. Draco inhaled. Adjusted his collar. “You’re right,” he whispered back. “We’ve arrived.”

Pansy and Daphne trailed close behind. The girls had linked arms like they owned the aisle.

“If you get Hufflepuff, I’m hexing the hat into a decorative bow,” Pansy whispered loudly.

Daphne arched an elegant brow. “If I get Hufflepuff, I’ll demand a recount.”

Behind them, Theo Nott moved like shadow—quiet, observant, utterly unreadable. The kind of boy who would never raise his voice, but always win the argument.

Blaise Zabini, on the other hand, was already surrounded by girls. He was all velvet charm and cutting wit, tossing out aristocratic jokes with effortless grace. His laugh curled like ribbon.

Draco watched him for a beat, then turned away. He wasn’t here to charm. He was here to matter.

He scanned the crowd, head tilting slightly—then froze.

“…Potter?”

“Is that the Harry Potter?”

“Look at the scar—”

“Do you think he remembers You-Know-Who?”

The whispers coiled through the air like smoke. Draco followed them.

Potter stood among the crowd like a cracked porcelain idol—too thin, too wide-eyed, and somehow still glowing with the sort of tragic mystique that made girls whisper and boys stiffen with envy.

Draco’s lip curled.

He rejected me.

He chose the Weasley.

The sting hadn’t faded. Not on the train, not now. It was unfamiliar—like failing a lesson he didn’t know he was supposed to study for.

He didn’t like unfamiliar.

“Do you think he’ll be a Slytherin?” someone muttered.

Draco’s gaze narrowed. No. Not if he had anything to say about it.

We don’t need a saint in green.

He turned to Theo, who was watching the exchange with unreadable calm.

Draco said coolly, “I hope they give him Gryffindor.”

Theo hummed. “Would make sense.”

“And that scar,” Blaise added dryly, adjusting his cufflink, “aesthetically tragic. Very Gryffindor.”

Pansy, who’d linked arms with Daphne by now, rolled her eyes. “If he starts making speeches, I’m transferring to Beauxbatons.”

Draco’s expression didn’t flicker. But inside, the ache sharpened.

He wouldn’t look at Potter again.

Not unless he was winning.

A hush fell across the corridor as a tall witch in emerald robes stepped forward—stern mouth, square glasses, and the kind of authority that could turn children into statues.

Draco straightened instinctively. Aurelian blinked slowly from inside his satchel.

“I am Professor McGonagall,” she said crisply. “In a few moments, you will step into the Great Hall to be Sorted. There are four Houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. While you are here, your House will be like your family. Behave accordingly.”

Vince leaned toward Draco and whispered loud enough for the portrait to flinch, “Hope I get Slytherin. Dad says he’ll disown me if I end up in Hufflepuff.”

Greg shivered. “What if the Hat thinks I’m… kind?”

Draco didn’t blink. “Don’t worry. You don’t look kind.”

Pansy smirked, arms folded. “If you two end up in Hufflepuff, I’ll send flowers to your funerals.”

“White lilies,” Daphne added dryly. “For the innocence lost.”

Theo, without looking up, muttered, “I’d pay to watch the Hat argue with Greg for a full hour.”

Blaise bit back a laugh.

Then—

“Parkinson, Pansy!”

Pansy flipped her hair and strode forward like the runway owed her an apology.

“Queen behavior,” Blaise murmured as she passed, to which Daphne only sighed. “She’s going to demand a throne.”

They listened.

“…Slytherin!”

Pansy didn’t even pause—just spun and winked before gliding toward the table in green and silver.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “She’s obnoxious.”

Daphne said, “You’ll get along.”

“Malfoy, Draco!”

He stepped forward like he’d been waiting for a spotlight. Chin high. Shoulders back. The smirk was already prepped, practiced in his mirror for weeks. He passed Vince and Greg—both sweating buckets—and caught sight of Pansy already seated at the Slytherin table, legs crossed, smug as a queen.

Hmph.

Female version of me.

Which means I’m not worried.

He reached the stool and sat like it was a throne. McGonagall lowered the Sorting Hat over his head.

Darkness.

“Well, well…” the Hat purred in his ear. “Another Malfoy. Ambitious. Sharp. A bit of a showoff—”

Draco muttered under his breath, voice honeyed and poisonous.

“Slytherin, peasant. Or I’ll tell Father to burn you.”

The Hat barked with laughter. “Oh, definitely—SLYTHERIN!”

The hall applauded. Draco stood, tilted his chin a little higher, and returned to his table with all the grace of a boy who already thought it was his birthright.

He slid into the seat beside Pansy, who was inspecting her nails.

“I was faster than you,” she said, not looking up.

Draco smirked. “Because I gave it incentive.”

“Potter, Harry.”

The name dropped like a chandelier.

Gasps. Shuffling. Someone at the Hufflepuff table actually squealed.

Draco’s eyes narrowed as Harry stepped forward. He looked nervous. Still wearing that same baggy shirt. His hair was a disaster. He sat down and the Sorting Hat dropped over his head.

And then—

Nothing.

Seconds passed.

Then more.

Draco leaned forward slightly, frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What’s taking so long?” he murmured.

Pansy didn’t look up from adjusting her sleeve. “Maybe the Hat is broken. Or traumatized.”

Draco scoffed. “Or maybe it’s having a moral crisis.”

“Must be hard,” Pansy said sweetly. “Trying to fit mediocrity into the appropriate box.”

Draco ignored them, eyes still locked on Potter. “It’s confused because he looks like a Hufflepuff, but the world keeps whispering Gryffindor.”

Pansy added, “I bet it’s trying to decide if scars count as personality.”

Draco blinked, then let out a low chuckle. “You really are perfect.”

“For what?” she smirked.

“My PR team, obviously.”

Suddenly—

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The roar of the table across the room rose up instantly.

Figures.

“Greengrass, Daphne.”

Daphne stepped forward with quiet, unhurried grace. Chin up. Expression unreadable. Her blond hair shimmered slightly under the enchanted ceiling.

Draco tilted his head. “She’s not very talkative,” he murmured.

Pansy, still brushing lint off her sleeve, replied without looking up, “That’s because she’s too busy judging you. People should consider themselves lucky if she doesn’t talk to them.”

Draco’s brow lifted. “Really? She seems… Ravenclaw.”

“She’s smart,” Pansy said, leaning closer. “Trust me—she only studies if it’s worth her manicure. She lacks ambition, maybe. But not confidence.”

The Sorting Hat barely touched Daphne’s head before bellowing—

“Slytherin!”

Pansy flung both hands in the air like a Quidditch goal had just been scored. “Woo hoo!”

Daphne, still composed, smirked as she returned and sat beside Pansy. She offered Draco a subtle nod. He returned it. Mutual understanding. Silent superiority. It was nice.

Then—

“Greg, Gregory.”

“Slytherin.”

“Vince, Vincent.”

“Slytherin.”

“Nott, Theodore.”

Draco watched as Theo walked calmly to the stool like he’d already seen this in a dream.

“Slytherin.”

Draco smiled. Of course.

“Zabini, Blaise.”

Blaise gave a theatrical little bow before strolling to the stool. The Sorting Hat took about three seconds.

“Slytherin.”

Draco leaned back, arms folded, satisfied. “Good,” he muttered. “I like those ones.”

Pureblood. Polished. Acceptable. The House of snakes was looking rather fine tonight.

Then he noticed Harry Potter laughing with a redhead at the Gryffindor table.

Draco’s eyes narrowed.

“Tsk,” Pansy said beside him. “You can’t save everyone, darling.”

——

The prefect—tall, stone-faced, with a Head Boy badge that gleamed like he’d polished it himself—led the newly sorted Slytherins down the shifting staircases. Torchlight flickered, casting gold glints along emerald-trimmed robes.

They stopped at a blank stretch of damp wall.

“Password?” someone asked.

The prefect smirked. “Pure.”

The wall melted away.

Gasps echoed behind Draco as the common room revealed itself: low-ceilinged, moody green light filtering through the lake beyond the windows, polished black leather couches, and a fireplace that crackled in quiet, calculated elegance.

“This is where you’ll live,” the prefect said, voice like gravel in velvet. “Girls’ dorms to the left. Boys’ dorms to the right. First-years, follow me.”

Pansy leaned toward Daphne, eyes wide. “Tell me our beds have curtains. If I so much as hear someone breathing weird—”

Daphne exhaled. “If my sheets are polyester, I’ll hex the school’s endowment.”

The two girls glided toward the left hallway, shoes clicking like royalty at a gala.

Draco watched them go. “They better not get better pillows.”

Then he turned, following Vince, Greg, Theo, and Blaise through the right-side archway.

Their dorm room was circular, cold stone walls lit with enchanted sconces. Five beds formed a ring around the room, each with deep green hangings and carved blackwood trunks at their foot.

Aurelian trotted in like he owned the place.

He leapt onto the bed nearest the window, stretched into a long silver smoke curl, and blinked slowly at Draco as if to say, Naturally.

Draco sighed, stepping toward the bed with theatrical disappointment.

“No private rooms? Pathetic.”

He perched on the mattress and winced. “It’s three times smaller than my own bed.”

“Still looks bigger than mine,” Vince muttered, dropping onto the bed at Draco’s right.

Greg claimed the bed to Draco’s left, sitting down with a thud and pulling out a half-eaten pastry. “At least it smells alright.”

Theo crossed the room silently, setting his trunk beside the bed opposite Draco. He began unpacking with silent efficiency.

Blaise flopped next to Theo, already loosening his tie.

“Better get used to it,” Blaise said, glancing around. “This is the beginning of our legacy.”

Draco flopped back dramatically against the pillow. “Then Merlin help the legacy.”

Aurelian yawned in agreement.

Aurelian, ever the aristocrat, leapt gracefully off Draco’s bed and—betrayal of betrayals—curled up in Theo’s lap.

Vince blinked. “Oi. He likes you?”

Theo didn’t flinch. “He recognizes superiority.”

Immediately, Vince fumbled for his lunch crumbs, attempting to bribe the cat.

Greg pulled out what looked like a squashed chocolate frog. “Here, kitty—”

Blaise, without looking up from unpacking, produced a pristine silver tin. “Truffle pate. Mother says it’s for posture, not pets, but I’m feeling generous.”

Aurelian turned with the slow elegance of royalty, sniffed, and leapt onto Blaise’s bed.

“Traitor,” Draco muttered, flopping back against his pillow. “I fed you caviar once.”

Blaise smirked. “Caviar? What did he do, inherit a yacht?”

“Technically,” Draco began, before a crash cut him off.

Greg had tried to charm a treat into his hand—and flipped his entire mattress upside down instead.

A beat of silence.

Then Draco laughed. Fully, honestly. The kind of laugh that rattled loose something in his chest. “Greg,” he gasped, “you absolute menace.”

Theo arched an eyebrow. “I hope he fails all charms. It would be… entertaining.”

Blaise nodded sagely. “At least we know who’s bunking closest to the door.”

The dorm glowed in soft candlelight, blankets rustling, trunks half-unpacked, laughter fading to hums.

Eventually, one by one, they quieted. Vince and Greg snored immediately. Blaise slept like a panther, composed and silent. Theo rested against the headboard, eyes half-lidded but alert.

Draco sat upright, pulled the emerald-bound journal from beneath his pillow, and began to write.

Day One.

As expected, I have been sorted into Slytherin.

I’m Father’s son, after all.

The Sorting Hat didn’t even dare stall—though I did whisper a polite threat just in case. (Peasant.)

The sting from Potter’s rejection hasn’t quite subdued. Imagine, refusing me. I extended my hand—pure optics, obviously—and he looked at it like I offered him a disease. It was… humiliating.

No. Educational.

Anyway.

My dormmates are acceptable. Vince and Greg are loyal, which is all that matters. It’s inherited loyalty—for now—but I’ll earn the rest. Establish my own status. Make Father proud.

Blaise Zabini sleeps like a cat in a sunbeam. His charm is effortless, I’ll give him that—but he’s not competition. Not in the areas that matter. Not in the arenas I plan to win.

And then there’s Theo.

Nott barely speaks, but there’s something about him. Familiar, but not in the mirror way—he’s nothing like me. Doesn’t flash. Doesn’t reach. Doesn’t need to be seen.

But I see him.

Maybe that’s worse.

We’re both heirs. Both the only sons of very old, very powerful families. There’s something… frightening, when I think about it too long. Like maybe he understands something I haven’t figured out yet. Or maybe he’s already accepted the weight I’m still pretending not to feel.

I shoved that thought down.

I’m a Malfoy. I’m not scared.

I’m strong.

I’m above.

Still.

It’s been a long day. I’ll win tomorrow.

—D.M.

Draco snapped the diary shut with a flourish, the last stroke of his quill underlining not just his thoughts—but his resolve.

Across the room, Blaise exhaled in his sleep. Theo hadn’t moved once. Vince snored like a warthog. Greg muttered something about pudding in his dreams.

Then, with the elegance of a practiced thief, Aurelian leapt off Blaise’s bed and padded across the stone floor—before vaulting, effortlessly, onto Draco’s stomach.

Draco blinked, startled, as the cat circled once, then curled up with imperial indifference.

He whispered down to him, dryly—

“I assume you were spying on my potential rivals. That’s why I won’t hold a grudge.”

Aurelian purred.

The weight on his stomach was oddly comforting. Warm. Anchoring.

Of course Mother knew. She always did.

That’s why she chose Aurelian specifically.

For Hogwarts. For this.

Because she knew—

that even a Malfoy prince would need someone who chose him.

Draco closed his eyes, hand resting gently on Aurelian’s silken back.

He drifted into sleep.

For once, the castle didn’t feel cold.

Chapter Text

Draco opened his eyes.

The morning sun filtered through the tall, arched windows, casting golden streaks across the stone floor.

He blinked once, twice. Adjusted his posture.

Greg was snoring like a dying trumpet. Vince had kicked one leg out from under the blanket and mumbled something about sausages.

Blaise lay still, a silk eye mask covering half his face like he was recovering from a debutante ball. Naturally.

But Theo’s bed?

Neatly made.

Not a single crease. Not a sign that anyone had even slept there.

Aurelian was gone, too.

Draco exhaled lightly, dragging one arm across his sheets to reach the mirror propped on his side table. He tilted it forward, scrutinizing.

Today was the first day of class. He needed the right expression.

The “polite heir” look? No—too soft.

The “darkly brooding genius” look? He hadn’t earned it yet.

Ah.

The classic.

“I’m the best, obviously” smirk.

Perfect.

He gave himself a nod, then reached for his diary.

September 2, 1991.

Today is the first day of class.

Mother told me Professor Snape was her and Father’s classmate, so naturally, he’ll take care of me.

It’s good that he’s our House Head.

It’s good to be a Malfoy.

I’m not planning to study. Not really.

I’m here to build my name and do politics.

The professors should be grateful to have me.

Draco smirked as he closed the book.

He swung his legs over the bed and padded to the bathroom.

The water here felt… wrong. Cold. Hard. Not as silky as the enchanted showers back home.

Tolerable, perhaps. Barely.

Good thing Mother had packed the emergency kit.

He reached for the slender bottle labeled in gold: Japanese First Crop Green Tea Extract Moisturizing Lotion—Morning Edition.

“For balanced glow even after contact with barbaric plumbing.”

Yes. Mother knew what she was doing.

He applied it methodically, like armor.

Because unfortunately—unforgivably—the Muggleborns were using the same water.

Draco exhaled.

Father said it was unacceptable.

But Draco… Draco would endure it.

For now.

Draco lifted the pressed white shirt from its hanger, inspecting it with narrowed eyes.

Wrinkled.

Not visibly, of course. But he could see it.

He clicked his tongue.

No house elf. No steaming charm. No wardrobe enchantments that whispered yes, heir as they draped him in privilege. Just a sad wooden dresser that smelled like old books and someone else’s childhood trauma.

“Barbaric,” he muttered, slipping the shirt on anyway.

The green-and-silver tie he knotted with expert precision. His prefect-ready blazer sat like it had been tailored for him alone—which, naturally, it had been.

Behind him, the bathroom door creaked. Blaise emerged, towel slung effortlessly over one shoulder like a model in a cologne ad. “You’re up early.”

“I am Malfoy,” Draco said simply, smoothing his sleeve. “Unlike some, I don’t sleep through opportunity.”

Blaise only smirked, disappearing to his side of the room.

Greg and Vince were still snoring. Draco flicked his wand with lazy flair and said,

“Incendium—kidding. Get up, you trolls. If you miss breakfast I’ll be forced to pretend I don’t know you.”

Vince grunted. Greg sat up and hit his own face with his pillow.

Satisfied, Draco turned on his heel and headed downstairs.

The common room buzzed with low voices and flickering green torchlight. Students had formed a semicircle near the fireplace, murmuring with the sort of reverent excitement usually reserved for duels, scandals, or potential expulsion.

Draco’s curiosity flared. He moved through the crowd, parting it with the natural command of someone who knew he didn’t need to ask.

At the center, seated like it was a throne, was a chessboard.

On one side: Theo Nott, calm as an assassin, fingers steepled.

On the other: Daphne Greengrass, chin tilted slightly, blue eyes sharp with concentration.

Behind Daphne stood Pansy, arms folded like a smug queen’s attendant. Around her clustered the other girls in their year—Sophie Roper with her freckles and smug grin, Tracey Davis bouncing slightly on her heels, Millicent Bulstrode chewing something that wasn’t food. Older girls leaned in too, murmuring and watching with admiration.

They were rooting for Daphne.

Draco’s eyes flicked to the opposite side. Behind Theo stood the Slytherin boys—upper years and first years alike—some calculating, some impressed, one awkwardly trying to understand the rules.

And on the high window sill, bathed in early light, Aurelian sat elegantly beside Severina. Their tails curled like mirrored punctuation.

Draco raised a brow.

So… this is what Nott had been doing while I slept.

He crossed his arms, amused.

This day was already off-script.

And maybe—just maybe—that was interesting.

“Morning, Draco,” Pansy purred, not looking away from the board. “We were wondering when our prince would grace us with his presence.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “I had to let the lesser royals gather first. Wouldn’t want to make too dramatic an entrance.”

Blaise appeared beside him, tying his cufflinks one-handed. “You already missed Daphne threatening the board.”

“She didn’t threaten it,” Tracey said. “She just stared until the knight threw itself off.”

“Semantics,” Blaise shrugged.

Draco took in the room. “A chess match before breakfast. Bold. Personally, I prefer combat after tea.”

“Check,” Daphne said smoothly, voice like polished ice.

Theo leaned forward, blinked once, and moved his bishop.

Daphne gave a slow blink.

She moved her queen.

“Mate.”

The girls erupted in cheers, claps, and Pansy’s dramatic gasp. Tracey squealed. Sophie stomped. Even Severina let out a soft meow, though that might’ve been a yawn.

Pansy smirked and leaned down toward Theo.

“I’ve never seen her spend a full hour playing chess with anyone before,” she said, faux-whispering. “Consider yourself lucky, Nott. Apparently, you’re interesting enough to hook her.”

Theo didn’t flinch. He stood, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve.

“I suppose I should thank you, Greengrass. It’s not often someone tries to murder me before breakfast.”

Daphne smirked faintly. “Your defense deserved assassination.”

“Oh, charming,” Draco drawled. “She flirts like she’s planning a funeral.”

Blaise gave a low chuckle. “That’s how Slytherin girls say they like you. First they insult your intelligence, then they steal your books.”

Tracey perked up. “Is that allowed?”

“No,” said Theo and Blaise at the same time.

Vince finally wandered in, looking confused. Greg followed, holding his tie like it was a weapon.

“Did we miss the duel?” Vince asked hopefully.

Draco shook his head. “No blood yet. Just egos.”

Aurelian flicked his tail as if to say not yours this time, then curled tighter beside Severina.

The class senior clapped and gestured to the exit, “Time for breakfast mates.”

The Slytherins entered the Great Hall like they owned it—which, in several legal loopholes and offshore accounts, some of them technically did.

Draco walked at the front, chin high, robes immaculate. Vince and Greg flanked him like a royal court. Behind them, Theo strolled in silence while Blaise read the Daily Prophet mid-stride, dodging benches without looking. Pansy and Daphne followed like royalties.

They took their seats at the long, emerald-trimmed table. The scent of toast and pumpkin juice filled the air.

Draco blinked. “This is… tragic.”

“What is?” Pansy asked, already reaching for the butter.

“There’s no linen,” Draco said flatly. “And the cutlery is—oh, Merlin—unpolished. I can see my reflection in this spoon and it looks poor.”

Greg cheerfully stabbed three sausages with his fork. “Tastes fine to me.”

“That’s because your palate was raised on iron skillets and sorrow,” Blaise murmured, flipping the page.

Draco snapped open a monogrammed handkerchief and began polishing his goblet with the flair of someone rescuing a fallen crown. “Honestly. If I get dysentery from this cup, someone’s writing my mother.”

Pansy stole a triangle of toast off Theo’s plate.

Without looking up, Daphne reached across and slowly moved her butter knife just… barely… against Pansy’s wrist.

“Don’t,” Daphne said.

“I already did,” Pansy replied sweetly, chewing louder.

Theo didn’t flinch. “Do all girls your age commit crimes before 8am?”

“No,” Pansy said, “only the interesting ones.”

Draco’s eyes swept lazily across the room.

He tilted his head.

“Where are they?” he said, voice laced with theatric disgust. “I don’t see the redhead and the charity case.”

Pansy didn’t even look up from her eggs. “Probably still figuring out how chairs work.”

There was a snicker from Greg, who hadn’t quite followed but appreciated the cruelty.

Theo glanced up from his pumpkin juice, but said nothing. Daphne sipped her tea, elegant and unbothered.

Blaise, folding the Prophet with princely disdain, added, “Or maybe Potter’s trying to remember which fork is for eyeballs.”

Draco laughed. “He did look like he was raised in a cupboard. Filthy nails. And the hair, Merlin.”

Then Pansy leaned toward him slightly, voice turning syrupy.

“That girl over there,” she said, nodding toward a bushy-haired figure across the hall, “she’s a Muggleborn. Heard it from the Hufflepuff girls.”

Draco turned and squinted, then made a noise halfway between a scoff and a retch.

“Ugh. I remember her,” he said. “From the train. Told me her name like it mattered. Hermione-something. Acted like she was auditioning for an interview.”

“Probably thought you’d be flattered,” Pansy said sweetly.

“Well, I’m not,” Draco sniffed. “Good to know, though. Now I won’t come anywhere near her. Father says Muggleborns have no place sitting among us.”

Pansy stabbed a grape with her fork and said, “By the way, our House Head still hasn’t introduced himself. I heard he never even visits the first years.”

The House rep—an older boy named Cassian—nodded without looking up from his toast. “You’ll meet him in Potions. He doesn’t bother with introductions.”

Draco tilted his head. “My mother said he attended Hogwarts with her and Father. Either way, he’ll know my name.”

Cassian smirked. “Then it’ll be either very good… or very bad.”

Draco blinked. “No one ever treats a Malfoy badly.”

With that, the students strode to their first class: Transfiguration.

The classroom was oddly silent for a Monday morning. No professor. Just a grey tabby cat perched on the desk, tail flicking like it had tenure.

Draco glanced around, unimpressed.

“Fantastic,” he muttered to Blaise. “Our Transfiguration professor is a stray.”

The cat blinked slowly at him.

He leaned back, resting his polished wand lazily across his knee. “If her cat’s allowed in class, then why were we told Aurelian and Severina had to stay in the dorms? Mine even has better manners.” 

The cat stood.

“Maybe it’s here to teach us. Watch—it’s going to transfigure Pansy into a swan. I mean, she already hisses.”

“Oi,” said Pansy, but she didn’t sound that offended.

Just as Draco lifted his wand mockingly toward the cat, it leapt from the desk—and transformed mid-air.

Gasps broke out across the room. Robes flared. A tall, stern woman landed neatly on her feet where the cat had been, adjusting her glasses with slow precision.

Professor McGonagall.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said coolly, “five points from Slytherin for feline disrespect and wand waving without instruction.”

Draco’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

He blinked once. Twice.

Then whispered, just to Blaise:

“…That was terrifyingly cool.”

Professor McGonagall’s sharp voice cut through the morning chatter.

“Remember, students—this is what Transfiguration looks like.”

With a graceful flick, she transformed in front of the class, her tartan cloak collapsing as she shrank and twisted into a sleek, tabby cat. The feline hopped onto her desk and sat with dignified stillness, tail flicking once as if daring someone to speak.

Draco rolled his eyes.

Yes, yes. Very flashy.

Still… it was kind of cool.

Professor McGonagall’s sharp voice cut through the morning chatter.

“Remember, students—this is what Transfiguration looks like.”

With a graceful flick, she transformed back to the cat. The feline hopped onto her desk and sat with dignified stillness, tail flicking once as if daring someone to speak.

Draco rolled his eyes.

Yes, yes. Very flashy.

Still… it was kind of cool.

If he could turn into a cat, he could sneak into Father’s office and finally hear what those late-night “strategy” meetings were about. He wasn’t stupid—he knew something important was always being discussed when Lucius dismissed Draco with a cold “not for your ears.” Mr. Nott was among these men too. He wonders if Theo knows anything…And maybe if he became Aurelian for a day…

Draco sighed.

He looked to the doorway.

Still no sign of Harry Potter or the redheaded embarrassment trailing him around. Just as he had that thought—

The door creaked.

In stumbled Potter and Weasley, out of breath and red-faced.

Draco smirked. Finally.

Professor McGonagall resumed her human form in a heartbeat, arms crossing like drawn swords.

“That is no excuse. I should have made you wait outside for the rest of the lesson. If either of you arrive late again, I shall take House points from Gryffindor.”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

Wait—“shall”?

That meant she hadn’t done it. No point deduction. No -5. Just a warning.

His mouth moved before his self-control could catch it.

“Why didn’t they get any points subtracted,” he muttered, “when I wasn’t even late…”

A hush. McGonagall’s eyes were on him instantly—piercing, cool, feline.

He looked down.

Right. Right. Father is right. Gryffindors really are all like that.

The classes were more or less boring for Draco. Well, maybe because he stopped paying attention as soon as Professor McGonagall said that turning into an animal required advanced skill—and that students wouldn’t learn it until third year.

Now he was back in the Slytherin common room, lounging near the fireplace, adjusting his pose just so. Even Cassian’s story about Salazar Slytherin was more interesting than all that Gryffindor talk about Transfiguration.

Vince raised a hand lazily. “So you’re telling me Salazar Slytherin wanted only pure-bloods at Hogwarts, the others disagreed, and no one was on his side?”

Pansy snorted. “Let me guess—Gryffindor was totally against it. Bet he was a muggleborn.”

Cassian nodded. “Pretty much. Godric argued for inclusion, and the rest supported him. Salazar left the school after that. Some say he dabbled in dark magic and the others pushed him out. Others say he left because Rowena Ravenclaw rejected him.”

Daphne, still checking her nails, said, “I love tragic rejections. I hope he sent a snake into her bedroom after.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Good to know what happens if someone turns down a Greengrass.”

Blaise added, “Though she’d never propose. Too proud for that.”

The dorm burst into laughter. A few of the older students started heading off to bed.

Cassian stood and stretched. “Good night, everyone. That’s the story of our founder—make of it what you will.”

Pansy stood, smoothed her skirt, and reached for the pantry.

“Time to feed Severina,” she said.

Draco hadn’t seen his kitten since returning to the dorm. Maybe Aurelian was just off exploring. He sighed, opened his own pantry section, and pulled out the tin of Aurelian’s food.

He turned—and saw Pansy holding the exact same brand.

They smirked.

“Royal Choice,” they said in unison.

Both turned around and called out their kittens’ names.

No meow. No pawsteps. Nothing.

“Strange,” Daphne murmured. “Severina always shows up for dinner.”

“And Aurelian usually doesn’t leave my side,” Draco added.

Pansy clutched her chest in mock horror.

“Merlin, what if Mr. Filch kidnapped Aurelian for Mrs. Norris? And my Severina followed him to save the poor boy.”

Draco turned to her slowly and blinked. “That’s… creative.”

Even Theo snorted. Quietly.

Blaise stood and rolled up his sleeves with a practiced smile.

“Well, I’ve always wanted to explore Hogwarts. Shall we?”

Greg looked uneasy. “But… what if we get caught? What if Slytherin loses more points?”

Vince nodded. “Then everyone will blame us.”

Draco shot them both a glare.

“If we get caught, it’ll be because you two tripped over something.”

Daphne stood, brushing invisible lint off her robe.

“I told you we should’ve put a bell on Severina’s collar.”

“I’ll ask Father to order a charmed tracker,” Draco muttered.

They headed for the exit, only to realize Theo was still seated, arms crossed.

“The fewer people, the lower the risk of detection,” he said mildly.

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Then come with us, strategist. We need you.”

Theo stood and walked to the pantry. He lifted the kitten food tin, cracked it open just slightly, then turned and led the group.

“Cats have great noses,” he said dryly.

Draco hesitated. He wasn’t used to walking in the dark like this. The castle at night was too quiet, too big. But the thrill of discovery tugged at something inside him. He didn’t know it yet—but he liked it. Still, he stayed in the middle of the group, letting Theo and Blaise lead the way while Pansy and Daphne trailed behind him. Vince and Greg brought up the rear.

Good thing everyone knew Lumos.

Seven wands glowed softly as they made their way through the dark corridors. Then came a sharp thud.

Everyone froze.

“Turn off the Lumos,” Theo said quickly.

They obeyed. In the pitch-black silence, something brushed past Draco’s legs. He winced.

Vince’s voice shook. “W-what was that?”

“Did something touch you?” Greg added.

“Quiet,” Daphne whispered. “All of you.”

Draco lit his wand—and found himself face-to-face with Mrs. Norris, already sniffing at the tin in Theo’s hand.

“You can turn the light back on,” Theo muttered.

Pansy stepped closer. “Don’t give her food yet. Interrogate her first. Ask where she’s hiding Aurelian and Severina.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Right. Mrs. Norris, I know you don’t understand me, but have you seen two aristocratic kittens wandering around the castle?”

He turned to the group with dramatic flair. “See? This isn’t Transfiguration. This is just a freakin’ cat.”

But Theo lifted a finger for silence. He still hadn’t opened the tin fully—just enough for the scent to catch. Mrs. Norris meowed and padded off, her tail flicking once. The group exchanged looks.

“I think she understands more than we give her credit for,” Theo said, following her.

They turned a corner. Mrs. Norris stopped at a stone wall where a dusty portrait hung—an old, faded painting of the Slytherin emblem. Moonlight poured in through the nearby window, casting a glow across the surface.

Draco stared. “Great. The cat brought us here to admire house pride.”

Daphne stepped closer, squinting. “Severina…”

Draco opened his mouth to scoff—until a soft meow echoed from behind the wall.

Pansy gasped. “Merlin! Severina!”

Blaise quickly covered her mouth. “Shhh. We don’t want to get caught.”

Vince looked around. “So… where’s the entrance?”

Theo crouched, fully opened the food tin, and let Mrs. Norris eat. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Draco lifted the portrait—nothing behind it. No door. No crack. Just stone.

Pansy frowned. “In the fairytales my brother used to read, there’s always a brick that reacts to touch.”

Draco turned to Vince and Greg. “Go on then. Find the magic brick.”

The boys began tapping every stone in sight.

Nothing.

Daphne folded her arms. “Our kittens wouldn’t be able to touch bricks. They’d never reach.”

“So the entrance opened by chance?” Draco muttered. “Or maybe they stepped on the right floor tile.”

“If it was that easy,” Theo said, “other students would’ve found it by now.”

“Over here,” Daphne called, peering near the window.

They all crowded around her.

“See the paw prints in the dust?” she asked, pointing just below the window frame.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “So the clue is… on the window?”

Theo scanned the glass. At the top center, two coiled snakes formed the Slytherin crest. He pointed. “That’s it.”

But the crest was high—out of reach.

Draco turned to Vince. “Crouch down. I’ll step on your back.”

“Why me?” Vince asked.

“Because you’re the biggest.”

“Then why you on top?”

Draco scowled. “Because I’m a Malfoy, obviously.”

Vince groaned but dropped to all fours. Before Draco could step up, Daphne pushed in front.

“I’ll go. I’m the tallest.”

Draco huffed. “You measure that recently, did you?”

She ignored him and climbed up. Reaching high, she pressed her palm to the Slytherin glass emblem.

The portrait quivered—and the wall creaked open like a hidden door.

Warm air and faint light spilled from within.

Aurelian and Severina trotted out calmly and returned to their respective owners.

The wall sealed shut behind them.

“Well,” Blaise said. “Anyone else curious what’s inside?”

“We found the kittens, didn’t we?” Vince asked, stretching.

“My mum says I need eight hours of sleep,” Greg added with a yawn.

Without a word, Theo jumped, touched the emblem again, and reopened the passage.

“Anyone who wants to go back—go. Blaise and I are going in.”

Draco hesitated. He was still a bit scared.

But the curiosity burned brighter.

He followed.

“If Draco’s going,” Pansy said, linking her arm through his, “so am I.”

Daphne sighed and followed too.

Vince and Greg looked at each other—and trudged in after.

The wall shut behind them with a low thud.

Draco sighed. “Great. Now how do we open it again?”

Daphne rolled her eyes and walked to the nearby torch sconce, shaped like two entwined snakes. She gave it a tug. The wall opened. She let it go, and it sealed again. “Classic,” she muttered.

The room before them was a wreck. Papers littered the floor, chairs overturned, glass shattered across the stone tiles. The thick scent of old ink and dust filled the air. It looked like someone had lost control in here.

Blaise knelt and picked up a torn parchment. “Student enrollment criteria proposal: Must be a mage of either pure-blood or half-blood lineage,” he read. Then, quietly, “Signed by Salazar Slytherin.”

Daphne stepped closer. “So this was his private study. He must’ve trashed it after the founders turned against him.”

Theo crouched near a broken bottle by the hearth. “Apparently drank himself through it too.”

Pansy spotted something on the desk and held it up between two fingers. “Look at this.”

It was an old, tarnished Slytherin badge—thicker and heavier than the current ones.

“Antique,” she said with a grin. “Wonder how much it would sell for?”

Blaise snorted. “You really are our business department.”

Draco moved through the wreckage carefully, stepping around the worst of the mess, brushing dust off his sleeve. So this was the legacy. A brilliant founder, outvoted and abandoned. Even right ideas didn’t survive democracy, apparently. No wonder Father always said a Slytherin should take back Hogwarts one day.

A sudden glint caught his eye. Hanging from the fireplace was a large, hairy spider.

Draco yelped and jolted back.

“Control yourself,” Theo muttered. “It’s just a spider.”

Vince and Greg laughed. Draco sent them a look so cold it could’ve frozen the lake. Then he turned back to the fireplace.

There, half-buried in ash and soot, was a book. Green leather, snakes etched across the cover. He picked it up and blew the dust off. Inside—blank pages.

Pansy leaned in. “Empty.”

“No,” Theo said, narrowing his eyes. “It’s charmed.”

Draco nodded. “My diary’s the same. You need the original caster’s magic to reveal it.”

“But Salazar’s long dead,” Pansy replied. “So how are we supposed to read it?”

“There might be another way,” Theo murmured. “A key, maybe.”

Daphne stepped forward, holding the old badge. “What if this is it?”

She aligned the badge with the cover, pressing the serpent crest into place.

The book hissed.

A green glow flared from the spine, pulsing once—twice—then burst.

Draco gasped, but before he could say anything, the world bent. Light wrapped around them, cold and fast and sharp. And then—

They were gone.

Pulled inside.

Draco staggered as they landed. Panic flared in his chest, but one glance at Theo’s impassive face and Blaise’s calm posture helped him steady himself. He straightened his back, lifted his chin—just like Father always taught him.

They were standing in Hogwarts… but not their Hogwarts.

The walls were bare stone. Wooden scaffolding lined the corridors. Outside the tall window arches, there were no students, no banners, no towers completed. Only stone, sky, and silence. Hogwarts, mid-construction.

Pansy let out a breath. “So this is Salazar Slytherin’s diary…”

Vince blinked at the scene before them. “What kind of magic turns words into… pictures?”

Then came the footsteps. Two figures walking side by side down a long hall. A man and a woman, mid-conversation.

“I’m excited for this school,” the man said. His voice was light, hopeful. “We’ll teach every wizard and witch. It’s going to be the best in the world.”

The woman beside him smiled. “I’m just glad we’re including muggleborns. Imagine sending letters to the muggle world—those kids will be thrilled. And your detection system? Brilliant.”

“Of course,” the man said. “I want everyone to learn magic.”

They stopped at an unfinished windowsill and looked out across the stone foundation.

“I want a rose garden in front of Ravenclaw house,” the woman said dreamily.

The man chuckled. “I thought lilies were your favorite, Rowena.”

“Lilies are for princesses,” she said softly. “And I’ve grown up, Sal.”

Vince squinted. “Wait… is that Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin?”

Draco sighed. “Obviously.”

“But Salazar hated muggleborns,” Pansy whispered. “Why would he invent the magic detection charm?”

Daphne folded her arms. “Something must have changed him.”

As they watched, Salazar’s hand inched along the windowsill—slowly, carefully—until it brushed against Rowena’s fingers. Neither of them pulled away.

“What kind of roses would you like?” he asked.

“Blue ones,” she said without hesitation.

Salazar turned to her. “That’s beautiful.”

She smiled. “Ravenclaw will be on the right wing, Slytherin on the left. A blue rose garden in the middle, with green stems connecting them.”

She looked down then, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. Salazar reached up and gently brushed his knuckles across her cheek.

He leaned in.

Blaise immediately covered Pansy’s eyes. “Adult scene,” he muttered.

Pansy swatted him. “Say that again and I’ll break your fingers.”

Daphne snorted. “We should’ve brought popcorn.”

Draco grimaced. “Ugh. It’s going to get gross.”

But just as their lips met, a loud whoosh and laughter echoed from above.

A man on a broomstick swooped into view and landed beside them with dramatic flair. Tall, broad-shouldered, red cloak flaring—classic Gryffindor.

Salazar stepped back, instantly stiff. “Godric, I told you not to fly around the construction site. You’ll scare the elves.”

Godric only laughed, brushing his windswept hair back. “Relax, Sal. I got bored doing loops over the pitch. Figured I’d come steal Rowena for a proper tour.”

Daphne tilted her head. “That’s Godric Gryffindor.”

“Of course it is,” Pansy muttered. “He even lands like a show-off.”

Draco folded his arms. “For once I’m glad to see a Gryffindor. I was one kiss away from vomiting.”

“I thought it was kind of romantic,” Blaise said quietly.

Everyone turned to look at him. Blaise looked away and cleared his throat.

Rowena laughed softly. “What brings you here, Godric?”

“Just finished putting up the goalposts. Thought I’d show you a few moves.”

“I can fly her too,” Salazar cut in, voice clipped.

Godric raised a brow. “We both know I’m better with a broom. You’d drop her halfway through the loop.”

Rowena gave Salazar a gentle smile. “He’s right, Sal. You should come with us. It’ll be fun.”

Salazar’s expression turned cold. “I have more important things to do than play games. The magic detection globe isn’t going to fine-tune itself.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off down the hall.

Theo clicked his tongue. “Competitive, isn’t he?”

Draco adjusted his robes. “Let’s follow him. I want to see what made him snap.”

Chapter Text

Salazar walked fast down the hallway, his cloak trailing behind him.

The memory twisted—magic bending time—and the group was yanked to a new setting.

They now stood in the courtyard. It was night. The air was quiet, heavy with dew. Draco glanced around and recognized the space immediately: this was the spot where, in their time, a wilted rose garden struggled to survive.

Except now… there were no roses.

“Let me guess,” Pansy said, folding her arms. “He planted the blue rose garden and still got rejected.”

Daphne smirked. “Should’ve gone with white roses.”

Vince blinked. “Why white?”

“Because they work for both weddings and funerals.”

Draco gave her a slow blink.

The others turned toward Daphne with a unified what-the-Merlin look.

Then Salazar appeared. He approached the base of a nearby tree, knelt, and whispered an incantation. The roots shifted, parting smoothly to reveal a small hollow in the earth.

The memory twisted again.

Now, two children sat beneath the same tree—young Salazar and young Rowena. Their hands met in a firm shake.

“Peace,” they said together.

Rowena laughed. “I’m glad we’re not mad at each other anymore. Promise me… next time we argue, we’ll just say it. No more silence.”

Salazar looked bashful and turned toward the tree. “I wrote you an apology, but I was too moody to give it to you during class… so I left it here.”

He murmured the same spell. The roots shifted, and a small parchment surfaced. Rowena took it, smiled as she read.

“From now on,” she said, “whenever we argue, let’s write letters. We’ll leave them here, and the other one has to read it. Even if they’re still mad.”

Young Salazar nodded with a shy grin.

“They were more dramatic than the entire Slytherin house combined,” Blaise muttered.

Draco rolled his eyes.

The memory shifted again.

Now they stood at the foot of a nearly finished castle. The four founders gazed at Hogwarts, proud and wind-swept.

“We should celebrate this milestone!” Godric Gryffindor declared, louder than necessary.

Salazar said nothing.

“I’ll make us a big cake,” Helga Hufflepuff chimed in.

“Perfect,” Godric grinned. “Meanwhile, Rowena and I will head to the forest—gather some mushrooms. You know, for the stew.”

Rowena hesitated. “Actually, I’ll go with Helga. I want to learn how to bake.”

Godric laughed. “Can’t wait to taste it.”

He turned to Salazar. “Come with me then, Sal? We can race brooms through the trees. You’ll finally get to prove you’re faster.”

He added a wink toward the girls. “Though I doubt it.”

Helga chuckled.

Rowena, though, glanced at Salazar—eyes uncertain.

Salazar looked away. “Someone needs to roast the chicken.”

The memory twisted once more.

Now they were in the kitchen.

Rowena was sliding a crust into the oven. Salazar walked in, holding a bowl of raw, seasoned chicken.

He stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

“What’s wrong with you lately?” he asked. “Why aren’t you talking to me?”

Rowena avoided his gaze. “It’s… nothing, Sal. We’ve all been busy. I was finalizing the curriculum. You were handling the finances.”

She tried to step past him. He blocked her again.

“If you’re dating Godric, just say so.”

Rowena blinked. “I’m not. I haven’t even spoken to him, you see? Let’s just finish the school. We need to stay united—this is the last stage.”

Salazar said nothing. He moved to the oven, placed the chicken inside.

“That wasn’t a no,” Blaise pointed out.

“She wasn’t dating Godric,” Pansy added, “but they kissed earlier. Godric interrupted, or Salazar would’ve confessed.”

Daphne hummed. “Yeah. Instead, she ghosted him.”

Draco groaned. “I’m going to throw up from this love triangle.”

Theo smirked. “There’ll come a time you’re in one.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “No one rejects a Malfoy.”

“Exactly,” Theo said. “Especially a Malfoy.”

Draco blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Theo smiled.

The memory warped again.

The founders were gathered around a table in a private room.

“It’s time to choose the first headmaster,” Godric announced. “I’d gladly take the title. My diplomacy skills are sharp—I can be the face of the school.”

Draco muttered, “Duh. Predictable.”

Salazar stood. “Before we decide that, I propose a change. We should stop admitting muggleborns. I know we planned to—but right now we’re low on funds. We can’t afford to educate them for free. Besides…” He looked at Godric. “The school needs a pureblood as its representative.”

Godric’s expression darkened. He slammed his fist on the table. “Are you serious right now?”

Helga raised her hands. “Salazar, that’s not fair. Those kids need help controlling their magic.”

“It’s not our responsibility,” Salazar said coldly. “If you want to open a charity school, be my guest.”

Godric turned to Rowena. “Rowena. What do you say?”

She looked between the two men. Her jaw tensed.

“I still believe we should include everyone,” she said. “Sal, you used to be excited about them too.”

Salazar flinched. Just slightly.

“But,” she added, “I think Salazar would make a better headmaster. He’s been leading the construction process and managing our finances since day one.”

Salazar stood. “I won’t stay here while that muggleborn breathes the same air.”

Godric’s chair screeched back.

“What did you just say?”

“You’re loud. Arrogant. And a mudblood. All of you have the same trait.”

Godric lunged.

They collided, fists flying. Salazar blocked the first few hits—but Godric overpowered him, slamming him to the floor.

“Apologize!” Godric shouted, punching again. “Say it!”

“Stop!” Rowena yelled. “Please—stop!”

Godric froze. He stood, panting. Salazar sat up slowly, blood streaking his mouth.

“I’m leaving at dawn,” he said.

And walked out.

The memory shattered.

They were yanked from the vision and dropped hard onto the stone floor.

Back in the ruined cabinet.

Dust hung in the air like ash.

No one spoke.

Draco was the first to sit up, brushing dust off his cloak with stiff fingers. His face was pale, jaw set too tight to be casual.

“So,” he said coolly, though his voice wavered. “Our founder was a lovesick idiot who stormed out because his crush didn’t vote for him. Brilliant. Truly inspiring.”

“Honestly,” Pansy huffed, “if Rowena picked that broom-jock over him, maybe she did belong in Ravenclaw.”

Daphne gave her a look. “She didn’t pick anyone. She ghosted both.”

Then she stood, brushing imaginary ash from her skirt. “Still… Salazar should’ve planted white roses.”

“He buried letters under trees,” Theo murmured, “burned half his own cabinet, and called Gryffindor a mudblood on the way out. Messy. But maybe not done.”

“He punched Salazar in the face!” Vince burst out. “Like, actual punched. I didn’t know Gryffindors even could fight.”

“They can’t,” Draco muttered. “That was rage. Not technique.”

Greg, still on the floor, whispered, “So… are we allowed to call Gryffindors mudbloods now or not?”

“Absolutely not, you helmet,” Pansy snapped. “We’re trying to get promoted, not expelled.”

Draco inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You lot are giving me a headache.”

Behind them, Severina and Aurelian padded into view—dusty but unharmed. They rubbed against their owners’ ankles like nothing had happened.

“Found the kittens,” Blaise said dryly. “Guess the real treasure was generational trauma.”

Draco’s eyes are still on the scorched floor. He murmured the word like it tasted different now.

“…Mudblood.”

His voice echoed off the stone walls, quiet and brittle.

“Father used to say that,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “He’d whisper it at parties. I thought he was talking about… dirt. Or bloodied shoes.”

He looked up, eyes unfocused. “But now I know.”

Pansy adjusted her collar. “Well. He wasn’t wrong about the shoes.”

Draco didn’t laugh.

“If Salazar left before the school even opened,” he said slowly, “then how did Father know that word? How did any of our families?”

Pansy shrugged, brushing dust from her skirt.

“Maybe,” she said, “because all muggleborns are like Godric Gryffindor. Loud, arrogant, self-righteous. Maybe our ancestors realized some people don’t deserve magic.”

Draco hummed in agreement. “My father said that too.”

Theo turned slightly, staring at a broken bookshelf. His voice was low.

“Blood doesn’t form personality.”

Draco’s head turned. “What?”

Theo exhaled. “Nothing. Let’s go. Before we get caught.”

Blaise stooped and picked up the diary. “We’re showing this tomorrow. It’s history.”

He brushed a thumb over the now-dark snakes on the cover. “And it bites.”

They made their way to the exit. Daphne reached for the torch holder.

Then the stone wall rumbled.

Two serpents slithered from the carved frame, made of magic and smoke and ash. Their emerald eyes gleamed with eerie awareness.

Draco screamed and jolted back, nearly toppling Greg and Vince.

Pansy shrieked and clutched Daphne’s sleeve.

“Draco, do something!”

“I am,” Draco snapped. “I’m panicking effectively!”

Theo and Blaise stepped forward, wands drawn. The serpents hissed low, coiling toward them like silk pulled through needles.

Aurelian and Severina arched and hissed, mirroring the threat… but backed away with flattened ears.

Draco’s knees trembled.

He hadn’t been this scared since Dobby wore a goblin mask on Halloween and jumped out from the drapes. That night, Father hexed the elf into a curtain rod and Mother held him until his breath slowed.

Now neither of them were here.

“Go away,” he whimpered. “Beasts. My father will hear about this—”

“If you get out and tell him,” Daphne muttered.

Theo didn’t blink. “Drop the diary, Blaise.”

“What?”

“Drop it. Now.”

Blaise hesitated, then let the book fall.

The serpents lunged—not at them, but around the diary, coiling like guards reunited with a buried curse. A glow pulsed from the book’s spine. Then—

FWOOM.

A flicker of green fire. The diary ignited.

They all backed up as it burned in silence. No scream. No spell. Just heat, and ash, and the quiet knowledge they weren’t supposed to see any of this.

Draco’s breathing was still shallow, his hand trembling slightly even as he slapped it hard against Greg’s and Vince’s backs.

“This is your fault!” he snapped.

Greg blinked. “Why?”

“Because I said so!” Draco’s voice cracked. “And Father will hear about this—about how you two didn’t protect me. Your fathers won’t get their Ministry raises this year. Watch.”

Vince looked confused. Greg just scratched his head.

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Calm down, Draco. You survived. Barely.”

Theo crouched where the diary had burned, running his fingers over the faint scorch mark. “It looks like Salazar put a protection charm on it. Once we opened the diary, the serpents were summoned to destroy it.”

Daphne tilted her head. “Then why not summon the snakes immediately? Why let anyone read it first?”

Theo stood slowly. “Maybe… maybe he wanted someone to read it. But only once. Only those willing to risk everything for truth.”

Blaise hummed. “Typical Slytherin melodrama.”

Draco dusted off his sleeves. “Alright. Let’s just go. We’ll report this to the Headmaster tomorrow—”

“And get detention for sneaking around at night?” Blaise cut in.

Theo added, “Besides, no one’s going to believe a word of it. The diary’s gone. No proof, just snake burns and trauma.”

Draco rolled his eyes and groaned. “Fine. Let’s go and never return to this cursed place again.”

He stepped toward the torch holder and reached for it.

“Serpents,” Blaise said calmly.

Draco flinched like he’d been hexed, nearly tripping over Vince as he jolted back.

Laughter echoed through the chamber.

“Bastards!” Draco hissed, cheeks flushed. “How dare you joke on me! I could’ve died!”

Pansy looped her arm around his shoulder. “Oh, darling, we’re just training that fragile little heart of yours. Tough love.”

Draco shoved her arm off with a scowl, but didn’t snap back. He stalked toward the exit, muttering under his breath. The others followed.

The wall sealed behind them with a heavy rumble.

Draco didn’t say anything for a while. But his hand, when it brushed Aurelian’s fur, had stopped trembling.

He couldn’t deny the thrill—the danger, the mystery, the rush of it all.

The chaos. The closeness.

He’d hated every second of it.

Hadn’t he?

A flicker of heat curled in his chest. Something warm and unfamiliar.

Was this… what friendship felt like?

He didn’t know.

——

Five-year-old Draco ran after the deer that had just vanished behind the birch tree.

He tripped—his tiny shoes catching the roots—and fell with a dramatic thud. He didn’t cry because it hurt. He cried because he knew Mother would come running.

And she did.

She swept him into her arms, soft silk sleeves and rose-scented perfume wrapping him in comfort. A healing charm lit briefly as she pressed her lips to his temple.

“Draco,” her voice was warm against his ear, “you are the pride of the Malfoy family. You’ll grow up strong.”

Sniffling, but smiling through it, Draco looked up at her with watery eyes.

“Because Father named me after the Draco constellation,” he said, chest puffing faintly. “It means dragon.”

Mother nodded. “And dragons are feared by everyone.”

Draco giggled, still nestled against her. Behind them, footsteps crunched softly over the grass.

Lucius approached, elegant even in the garden, and knelt beside them.

“Not only that,” he said, his voice calm and cool, “but you’ll also behave properly. Because your blood is pure.”

Draco tilted his head. “Pure?”

Lucius touched a hand to his shoulder. “You were born into one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families, Draco. The Malfoys have a duty to preserve what makes us special. You’ll understand soon enough.”

Mother kissed his forehead. “Remember, darling—you are a pureblood wizard. That means something.”

Lucius sat beside her and rested a hand on her knee. As he adjusted his sleeve, it slipped just enough for Draco to glimpse something underneath.

A black mark.

A serpent. A skull.

Draco blinked. He reached toward it curiously, but Father’s sleeve fell back down in a smooth motion—too smooth.

He wasn’t meant to see that.

The next moment, two serpents—identical to the ones in Salazar’s chamber—hissed sharply, fangs gleaming.

Draco screamed—

And woke up.

He sat upright in bed, gasping. Aurelian meowed softly from the windowsill.

The dorm room was quiet. Empty. Already morning.

So… it had just been a dream.

Draco ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair and glanced at the mirror on his bedstand. Pale. Slight dark circles. Unacceptable.

He sighed, and practiced his smirk—just as he always did.

Then he turned, reached for his journal, and unscrewed the ink pot.

Before he could touch the page, Vince and Greg peeked through the doorway.

“I thought you’d never wake up,” Greg said. “C’mon, we’ll be late for class.”

“It’s Potions today,” Vince added. “Professor Snape.”

Draco smirked. “Relax. He won’t scold me.”

Greg frowned. “Why not?”

Draco dipped his quill and opened the diary.

“Because I’m a Malfoy.”

The door closed behind them with a groan. Draco’s quill scratched against the parchment.

September 3rd, 1991.

Potter and piggy Weasley are still idiots.

Weasley failed to turn his dirty pet mouse into a goblet yesterday in Transfiguration—it squeaked and ran under Longbottom’s desk. It was hilarious. Everything Father said is true. The Weasleys are pathetic.

Potter will regret picking Weasley over me.

Last night I went on an adventure with my dorm mates. It was… terrifying at times. But fun.

I think… I’m liking Hogwarts.

As Father said—I’m socializing with my equals.

Draco snapped the diary shut with a quiet snap and rose.

Aurelian padded after him as he headed for the shower, already rehearsing lines for breakfast.

The smirk was back in place.

Draco was terribly late.

But he wasn’t worried.

He walked into the dungeon classroom with deliberate elegance, robes trailing perfectly behind him. If anyone expected him to rush, they clearly didn’t understand who he was.

He fully intended to flash Professor Snape a reminder of his surname—perhaps something about Father’s most recent correspondence with the board of governors. But the chair at the front of the room was empty.

Draco blinked. Interesting.

Unbothered, he made his way to the Slytherin table and slid into the seat between Vince and Pansy like it was a throne. He crossed his legs, adjusted his collar, and looked utterly undisturbed.

Pansy leaned over, whispering behind a perfect manicured hand, “You are so lucky.”

Beside Pansy, Daphne tilted her head lazily. “If I knew Snape was late, I would’ve slept another hour.”

“Dark circles are the enemy of all civilized women,” Pansy muttered, checking her compact.

From across the table, Blaise chuckled. “Come on. It was fun, wasn’t it?”

Draco scoffed. “It was your fault. We followed you and Theo inside.”

Theo didn’t even look up. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it,” he said, voice calm as ever.

Draco huffed.

A door creaked open.

The temperature dropped slightly.

Professor Snape strode into the room, robes sweeping the flagstone floor like a storm rolling in.

Draco straightened immediately, back like a ruler.

Snape didn’t even look at him—his black eyes swept across the class, unreadable.

But Draco felt the tension in his spine anyway. Because no matter how many stories Father told about helping Snape get his position, there was something very cold about this man…

His gaze landed on Harry Potter.

Draco didn’t even try to suppress his smirk.

Snape tilted his head ever so slightly and said, voice silken with contempt,

“Ah… our new celebrity.”

Potter blinked, clearly caught off guard.

There was a pause, awkward and heavy.

“Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Potter’s eyes widened stupidly, he shook his head and said “I don’t know.”

Beside him, the muggleborn he met on the train raised her hand, eager. Draco rolled his eyes. Hopefully she is not that loud, arrogant type like Godric Gryffindor. 

Professor Snape ignored the muggleborn girl, his eyes fixed on Potter. “Fame isn't everything, is it, Potter?”

Draco’s smirk sharpened.

Oh, I like this professor.

He leaned sideways to Pansy and whispered behind his hand, “Finally, someone who doesn’t buy into Potter’s fan club.”

Pansy giggled quietly, biting her lip.

Weasley, a few seats down, looked like he was ready to jump across the table. Draco gave him a smug, slow blink. Do something, Weasley. I dare you.

Snape reached the front, spun on his heel, and let silence hang for a beat too long before speaking.

“Page sixteen. Antidotes. You will work in pairs.”

Vince elbowed Draco, eager.

Draco glanced at Pansy instead. “I don’t do bubbling cauldrons with people who confuse blush with bloodroot.”

Pansy grinned. “You’re just scared I’ll outbrew you.”

Draco gave her a look and said smoothly, “If you poison me, I’m haunting your wedding.”

Blaise smirked. Theo actually laughed.

Snape’s voice cut through again. “Mr. Malfoy, since you’re clearly well-rested and socially fulfilled this morning, perhaps you’d like to demonstrate the correct ratio of bezoar to mistletoe extract?”

Draco blinked. He hadn’t even opened his book yet.

“…Of course, Professor.”

He didn’t flinch—but it was a near thing.

He could feel half the room watching.

Behind him, Pansy muttered, “Don’t faint, darling.”

Draco rose from his chair with just enough grace to pretend he’d expected this. His mind scrambled for the answer. Bezoar… mistletoe… what the hell?

Snape, prowling between desks, says:

“If one attempts to combine powdered bezoar with mistletoe extract in a restorative potion, what is the resulting reaction, and why is it classified as dangerous in potion-making?”

Draco’s hand shook once as he reached for the bottle of bezoar. Did he just say dangerous?

Granger’s hand shoots up. She clearly knows the answer. Draco sighed.

Snape ignores her. 

He turned to Daphne instead. “Miss Greengrass.”

Daphne, lounging with her cheek against her knuckles, doesn’t look up.

“I don’t know.”

Snape stopped beside Draco, who clearly was still afraid to put the two bottles together and said cooly “Five points from Slytherin, then.”

Gasps. Draco turns, betrayed. Pansy hisses. Granger preens. Weasley smirked.

Snape, silkily: “Unless you’d like to revise your answer.”

Daphne finally lifts her chin. Her voice is soft, bored. Then—sharp.

“Bezoar forgives poison. Mistletoe doesn’t.”

Everyone stills.

“Put them together without care, and you force two opposite instincts into one. The result isn’t always foam. Sometimes it’s just… silence. A potion that smells right, looks right but doesn’t save you when it counts.”

She draws a lazy circle with her quill.

“It’s dangerous because it pretends to work. It gives people false hope. That’s always the most fatal kind of magic.”

Silence. Even Granger doesn’t raise her hand.

Snape’s lips twitched. “Ten points to Slytherin.”

Granger’s voice cut through the tension.

“But Professor—this wasn’t an academic answer.” She held up her copy of Magical Drafts and Potions. “The book says ‘the interaction can cause bezoar’s neutralizing properties to collapse into volatile foam if the pH isn’t balanced, leading to mild poisoning.’”

Snape finally turned to her, voice like crushed velvet.

“Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger.”

He paused.

“For the book-smart answer.”

Even Weasley and Potter looked at Daphne now, mouths parted. Granger’s eyes narrowed. She gave Weasley a sharp elbow for looking too long.

Daphne just returned to her nails.

Snape’s voice sliced the silence again.

“Mr. Malfoy. Now that you know the why, perhaps you’d like to demonstrate the proper proportion?”

Draco’s hands trembled. He didn’t know the answer. Panic tapped at the back of his throat. He looked up, trying to meet the eyes of his housemates.

Theo casually turned the page of his book and held out three fingers on one hand. One finger on the other.

Draco smirked.

He measured.

Three drops of mistletoe. One pinch of powdered bezoar.

He stirred precisely three times clockwise.

Snape approached and lifted the vial with a pale hand. He examined the color. Tapped it. Nodded.

“Correct. Ten points to Slytherin.”

Draco stepped down like a prince descending from his throne, head high. He passed Weasley and Potter with a smug half-smile that said told you so.

He took his seat and whispered to Pansy, “I love this professor.”

Pansy grinned.

Daphne exhaled through her nose, faintly amused.

Class ended.

It was already better than Transfiguration yesterday, Draco decided. He still found Professor Snape vaguely terrifying—like a snake coiled beneath velvet robes—but watching the man surgically dismantle Potter’s ego with each passing question? That was art. Draco could get used to that kind of show.

His thoughts were interrupted by Greg, lumbering beside him with a frown carved deep into his heavy features.

“I still don’t understand Daphne’s answer,” Greg muttered. “And why Snape was satisfied with it.”

Vince grunted, “Let’s be honest. You didn’t understand Granger’s answer either.”

That earned a few chuckles.

Blaise, walking a few elegant paces behind, glanced at Daphne.

“You’re smart,” he said easily. “Beat Theo in chess yesterday. So why don’t you study?”

Daphne didn’t slow down. She didn’t even glance his way. Her voice was smooth as cold marble.

“Because books are boring.”

Pansy sighed dramatically. “See? She never shows off—only when she wants to.”

Theo gave Daphne a sideways look. 

“You should feel honored,” Pansy added with a smirk. “She spent effort on you.”

Theo arched a brow. “Rematch tonight, Daphne.”

Daphne rolled her eyes, the barest flick upward. But she didn’t say no.

They passed the entrance of the Slytherin dorm when Draco slowed to a halt, gaze drawn to something just beyond the stone archway.

The half-dead rose garden.

It stretched like a forgotten memory in the shadow of the castle wall—grey vines, curling thorns, roses drained of color and bloom.

The others stopped beside him.

“So Rowena Ravenclaw planted this garden anyway” Draco asked, voice low with vague curiosity. “Why does no one care for it?”

Pansy pursed her lips. “Maybe because Godric was supposed to care for it and he got too busy showing off on his broom? Typical Gryffindor—big speeches, no follow-through.”

Blaise added, “She should’ve picked Salazar. At least he knew how to commit to bitterness.”

As they approached, they saw a massive figure hunched over the vines.

Hagrid.

He was trimming the thorns with a pair of dull shears.

“Why are you trimming them?” Draco asked. “They’re dead.”

Hagrid looked up, startled to see them. He pushed back his hood and wiped his forehead.

“They’re not dead,” he said. “They’re cursed.”

Pansy blinked. “Cursed?”

“Aye,” Hagrid nodded, solemn. “Planted by Rowena herself. No one knows why. They don’t bloom, but you can’t uproot ’em. And nothing else grows here. Not even weeds.”

Vince scoffed, puffing his chest. “Even if I yank the roots?”

Before anyone could stop him, Vince grabbed one and pulled hard.

The vine retaliated instantly—thorns flicking up like blades. His hand jerked back, blood dripping from sharp scratches.

“Ow! Bloody thing bit me!”

Hagrid sighed. “Told ya. They’re protective. Been like this since Hogwarts opened. Plenty’ve tried burning them. Hexing them. Drowning them. Doesn’t work. They just grow back, same way. Gray and spiteful.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Draco frowned at the roses.

“Maybe Rowena planted them for Salazar,” he murmured. “After he left. A message he’d never see.”

“Not a pretty revenge,” Pansy said, rubbing her arms.

Daphne finally spoke. “I told you all—she should’ve chosen white roses.”

They turned.

Daphne, arms crossed, was staring at the thorns with quiet detachment.

“White roses,” she repeated. “Perfect symbolism. Want a wedding with Godric? You’ve got it. Want a funeral for Salazar? Perfect thorns.”

The group collectively sighed.

Theo muttered, “She’s doing it again.”

Draco looked at the roses one last time. 

No one spoke again as they walked away. 

Chapter Text

Draco leaned in, trying to follow the chess moves. The whole dorm had crowded around Daphne and Theo’s board. Girls were lounging smugly on couches, a few placing bets on how long it would take Daphne to win. The boys gathered behind Theo like a miniature fan club.

“Come on, Daphne,” Pansy said, arms crossed with full faith. “You’re the best at this.”

“At this rate,” Blaise muttered, “we should enter her in the school championship. Heard Weasley plays chess too.”

Draco noticed the flicker in Daphne’s eyes but she didn’t say anything. Just moved her piece.

Then:

“Check,” Theo said.

A pause.

“…Mate.”

The room erupted. The boys whooped. Girls groaned. Pansy threw a cushion at Blaise. But Theo just stared at Daphne, not gloating, not even smiling. Just… watching.

Cassian stood up and wrote neatly on the common room board:

1 – 1

At the bottom he added in red: Losing side at end of term reorganizes the dorm layout.

“Oh please,” Pansy huffed, flicking her hair. “Daphne will win. No way I’m letting boys pick our curtain colors.”

Everyone began to scatter—some to homework, some to bed. Draco and Pansy snuck into the little pantry to feed Aurelian and Severina. The kittens circled their ankles like tiny shadows.

Draco crouched, watching Aurelian eat, eyes half-lidded with thought.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, “remember that tree by the cursed rose garden?”

Pansy looked up from Severina’s food bowl. “What about it?”

Draco tilted his head, thinking out loud. “What if Salazar left something there? A letter or something Rowena found… maybe something petty. And that’s why she cursed the garden.”

Pansy blinked. “…That’s the most dramatic theory you’ve had today.”

Draco smirked. “You don’t know Salazar like I do.”

Blaise smirked. “You mean that’s what you would do?”

Draco didn’t reply. He simply turned to the exit with the kind of dramatic flair only a Malfoy could pull off.

“Let’s go.”

Theo sighed, already regretting every life choice that led him here. “We’re breaking rules again.”

“Don’t worry,” Draco said over his shoulder. “You’re with a Malfoy.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “You’re just lucky I like you.”

Their footsteps padded softly through the corridor as they slipped out of the dorm, cloaks pulled tight, wands drawn.

“Lumos.”

The tips of their wands flared to life. The roses still looked dead. Still cursed. Still waiting.

But the tree… it was there. Same one from the diary memory.

Draco stepped forward, lips parting. “I… don’t remember the incantation.”

Blaise squinted. “Then why did you drag us out here?”

Daphne sighed, stepped past them all, and murmured the incantation under her breath. The roots groaned, then slowly parted, revealing a small hollow in the earth. Inside, dry but wrapped in charm-stitched parchment, was a letter.

Pansy gasped. “You were right. He really did leave one.”

Draco grinned and reached down, lifting the envelope like it was a relic from a different time. “Let me guess,” he said, voice thick with sarcasm, “How dare you pick a mudblood over me.”

He opened it. Everyone leaned in.

The handwriting was elegant. Slanted. Painful.

I love you, Sal. Always have.

I was afraid of love tearing us apart… and by avoiding it through silence, I did exactly that.

If you still want me, come for me. We’ll leave together.

No one spoke for a moment.

Draco blinked. Once. Twice.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “She loved him. I’m getting sick.”

Blaise, of course, looked moved. “I think it’s tragic. But in a beautiful way.”

Pansy snorted. “And what, you gonna write a novel about it?”

“Why not?” Blaise said, deadpan.

“Oh, please,” Draco scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Stop this before I vomit.”

But before he could say anything else, the letter began to glow—soft and warm. It broke apart into shining particles, lifted by magic, and floated across the garden.

They watched in stunned silence as the gray, lifeless roses stirred for the first time in what must’ve been centuries. Petals unfurled like sighs. Blue.

A sea of blue roses bloomed under their wands’ faint Lumos.

Blaise stepped forward, voice softer now, almost reverent.

“So she hoped… one day he’d come back. Read the letter. See the garden she planted.”

He exhaled, eyes wide.

“This is… devastatingly beautiful.”

No one argued.

Not even Draco.

Draco stared at the roses a moment longer, arms crossed, lips curled in something between a sneer and confusion.

“Why didn’t she just go and tell him?” he muttered. “He wouldn’t have died thinking she chose Godric over him.”

Theo’s voice was quiet. “Maybe she didn’t know about the secret office. Couldn’t find him.”

Draco scoffed but didn’t argue. He turned away, heading back across the garden path toward the castle, hands shoved into his robes.

He wasn’t sure what to think anymore.

So Salazar Slytherin hated muggleborns… because he hated Godric Gryffindor?

Not because he thought they didn’t deserve magic?

Father never said that. Father said purebloods were born superior. That they carried power in their veins, ancient and true.

Draco’s eyes flicked to his friends following behind—Theo, Blaise, Greg, Vince, Pansy, Daphne. All purebloods. All raised on the same idea. They were doing the right thing. Weren’t they?

Father can’t be wrong, Draco thought. He just… can’t.

Maybe Salazar just didn’t live long enough to see things clearly.

He would’ve laughed at Weasley, probably. Pureblooded and still grubby, still acting like a muggle.

The girls peeled off toward their dorm, and Draco fell into step with the boys.

Draco laid on his bed. Aurelian curled lazily on his stomach, purring with the confidence of a creature born to royalty.

He stared at the ceiling, still thinking of the letter, the roses, the truth.

“…If Salazar left Hogwarts, then who was the first Slytherin house head?” he murmured aloud, not really expecting an answer.

All he could hear was Vince’s snort and Greg’s gurgling sleep breath. Then, from across the room, Blaise’s voice cut through the dark.

“It’s not written anywhere in the dorm history,” he said. “Kind of unfair, actually. Gryffindor has portraits of every head in their common room.”

Draco scoffed. “Of course they do. Prideful idiots.”

Theo’s voice was softer, thoughtful. “But here’s the thing… we know who came second. And third. Slughorn, of course, Snape now. But not the first after Salazar.”

Draco blinked. “Where did you find that?”

“The library,” Theo replied. “Buried in the back of the third archive column. There’s a ledger—Head of Houses by term. It jumps straight from Salazar to someone two generations later. Just a gap.”

Draco sat up slowly, brows drawn. “If they erased his name… then it wasn’t an accident. There’s a secret.”

Blaise swung his legs down from the bed. “So where would they hide it? Not in the dorm. Not in the library.”

Draco smirked. “Certainly not Gryffindor.”

There was a pause.

“The House Head’s office,” Theo said.

Blaise grinned and stood. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Draco stared. “Are you insane? If Snape catches us—”

Theo was already walking to the door, cool and quiet as ever. He turned slightly. “You said it yourself earlier.”

Draco narrowed his eyes.

Theo smirked. “We’re with a Malfoy.”

Aurelian meowed.

Draco sighed, grabbed his wand, and said, “Fine. But Father will not hear about this.”

And just like that, the boys slipped out of the dorm.

Draco walked beside Theo, a step behind. Mildly, he regretted not waking Vince and Greg—they’d make better human shields if anything went wrong. But Theo’s calm face steadied his heartbeat. It was maddening how composed he always looked.

“Are you scared?” Draco whispered.

“Yes,” Blaise answered immediately.

“No, not you,” Draco muttered. “Theo?”

Theo, wand tip glowing faintly with Lumos, replied, “I am.”

Draco glanced sideways. “You don’t look it.”

Theo didn’t look back. “Does it make a difference?”

Draco frowned. “I suppose not.”

They stopped outside Snape’s office, pressing close to the cold door. Muffled voices echoed from inside.

“…Dumbledore might have recommended you,” came Snape’s voice, ice-carved and sharp, “but I’ll still be watching closely.”

The other voice stammered near the door—soft, breathy.

“I—I only asked how to bypass the beast f-for research, professor. I teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, after all…”

Draco’s stomach twisted. Quirrell.

“You know what it protects,” Snape snapped. “And remember—I’m one of its protectors. I’ll be watching.”

“However you wish. G-Good night.”

Theo yanked Draco and Blaise back into the shadows. Wands went dark.

The door creaked open. Quirrell shuffled out, his cloak brushing the stone. Then Snape stepped out, black robes rustling as he disappeared down the corridor toward the staff quarters.

They waited. One breath. Two.

“Now,” Theo murmured.

Wands flicked back on. Lumos.

They slipped inside.

The office was dim and cold, lined with jars of unsettling things and stacks of yellowing parchment. Draco stepped carefully, trying not to touch anything.

“I bet there’s a secret room in here,” he said.

Blaise moved toward the far shelf. “Knowing Snape, it’s not behind a portrait. It’s potion-based. We’ll need a trigger.”

“Or a ward,” Theo added. “Something smart. And smug.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Then we just have to think like a bitter genius with too much time and too many vials.”

Draco watched as Blaise pulled each book from the shelves one by one, brows furrowed like this was some grand academic challenge. Theo, ever the logic brain, leaned in close to the potion vials, inspecting labels, sniffing corks.

Draco, however, had a better idea.

He sauntered to Snape’s desk and plopped himself into the chair with a dramatic sigh, the very image of a spoiled heir reclaiming his throne. It was more comfortable than expected. He leaned back, arms draped, and declared,

“Father said I’ll be working in the Ministry when I grow up.”

Theo didn’t even look up. “If you don’t get expelled first for sneaking into your house head’s office and sitting in his chair.”

Draco smirked. “Details.”

He opened the nearest drawer lazily and pulled out a small, battered handheld mirror. Naturally, he checked his reflection first. Perfect.

He spun once on the chair just for the drama of it, legs swaying gently, back turned to the desk—until something in the mirror caught his eye.

Faint lettering. Reflected behind him on the back wall.

He squinted and read aloud, slowly:

“Only those who’d rather look back than face the unknown may proceed.”

A soft click echoed.

The wall in front of him shuddered… then slid open.

Draco froze, jaw slightly unhinged. “I… what—?”

Theo stared at the opening, then back at Draco.

“Of course,” he murmured. “Snape would design a trigger that no Gryffindor or Ravenclaw would ever figure out.”

Blaise blinked. “Only someone arrogant…or foolish enough would be granted access.”

Draco, still seated in the professor’s chair like it belonged to him, smiled slowly.

“Well then. Shall we?”

The hidden room was colder than the office, lit only by pale green light shimmering from glass cauldrons that bubbled in eerie silence. 

Blaise stepped in first, wand raised. “These are still brewing…”

Shelves lined the stone walls—filled with old potion flasks, faded scrolls, and ingredients sealed in jars, some of which looked like they hadn’t seen daylight in a century. 

Blaise crouched beside a workstation, eyes gleaming. “He labeled everything in code. Look at this—‘Solution 9: Memory Unbinding through Intent Reversal.’ What does that even mean?”

Theo murmured, “It means too dangerous to teach.”

Draco wandered off to a locked cabinet, opened it  and paused.

Sitting inside, nestled in a nest of soot-stained velvet, was an egg. Iridescent, scaled, and warm beneath his fingers.

He lifted it carefully, holding it up to the green light. “Is this… what I think it is?”

Blaise turned. “Draco…don’t shake it.”

“I’m not shaking it,” Draco said, gently cradling. Then he noticed the brass tag nailed inside the cabinet.

“Ukrainian Ironbelly – In suspended hatch phase since 1975. Viability: uncertain.”

Draco let out a low whistle. “This thing’s been cooking longer than my whole life.”

Theo ignored him and stepped toward a stone pedestal in the corner. A book rested on it—thick, dust-covered, bound in dark leather. The title gleamed faintly under Lumos:

The Sacred Twenty-Eight

But it wasn’t the title that stopped Theo’s breath.

It was the author’s name.

Cantankerus Nott

Draco glanced over. “Wait—that’s your last name.”

Theo nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the cover. “He was my great great-grandfather.”

Blaise moved closer, whispering like he didn’t want to disturb the air. “Open it.”

Theo lifted the front cover. The parchment inside was aged but immaculate. The first page held a handwritten subtitle in stark, controlled ink:

“A private study into Salazar Slytherin’s departure from Hogwarts and the purity of magical bloodlines.”

Theo began to read aloud:

“I have studied every preserved scroll in the Forbidden Archives. The Muggles, centuries ago, hunted our kind. Tortured them. Burned them for nothing more than lighting a candle without flint.”

Draco muttered, “So he was paranoid.”

Theo continued:

“When Salazar Slytherin warned against admitting Muggleborns, it was not pride—it was survival. The other founders misunderstood. They thought he feared impurity. But what he feared… was extinction.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “No, he was just hating on Godric Gryffindor who happened to be a muggleborn. It was that simple.”

They flipped pages and pictures of witches and wizards being tortured, burned alive flickered. 

Theo flipped through them quickly until another handwritten page.

“Salazar left because he saw the tide of tolerance turning blind. He did not trust those raised in violence to be handed wands without scrutiny. His silence was misread as cruelty. I will not make the same mistake.”

Draco’s voice lowered. “So your ancestor thought he was continuing Salazar’s legacy.”

Theo nodded. “But he twisted it.”

Another entry caught their eye:

“To preserve the wizarding world, I will unite those with unbroken bloodlines. Not to dominate, but to shield. I will mask our fear as strength. I will call them the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Blaise whispered, stunned, “He created the list… not for pride… but fear.”

Draco frowned. “All this time, we were told we were superior. But it started because he was terrified.”

Theo flipped to the final page.

There, in thick, deliberate ink, was the last entry:

“To take this mission, I am claiming the title of the first Head of Slytherin House after Salazar. I will continue his legacy. Even if history forgets my name.”

The boys were silent.

Theo closed the book. 

Draco sat back, staring at the flickering blue candlelight. His world—the pride he inherited—was shaking.

They heard the cabinet door creak open.

Instant stillness.

Theo’s eyes flicked to the tall storage cabinet in the corner. He crossed the room in two steps, opened it silently, and the three boys slipped inside. The wooden door shut just before a distant footstep echoed through the hidden chamber.

Draco squeezed between Blaise and Theo, trying not to inhale too loudly. For once, he was genuinely glad Vince and Greg weren’t with them. They would’ve tripped over a cauldron or whimpered about spiders. Theo had been right: smaller group, smaller risk.

Draco clutched the edge of his robe. No, not the edge—Theo’s hand. He was squeezing Theo’s hand like a panicked debutante. Merlin.

The footsteps grew louder. Closer.

Someone entered the secret room.

Draco’s heart slammed against his ribs. Every word of his future “My father will hear about this” speech raced through his mind. He edited it mid-panic—maybe “My mother is on the Board of Governors” would sound more reasonable in court. Would Snape even listen before turning them into potion ingredients?

Then—silence.

The footsteps faded. A door creaked open… and shut.

Stillness returned.

The cabinet door eased open. Theo stepped out and yanked Draco’s hand with him. That’s when Draco realized: he hadn’t just been holding Theo’s hand… he’d been clutching it. For the entire time.

He cleared his throat and let go immediately, dusting his robes like nothing happened. He strode for the exit like dignity was a spell he still had active.

Theo and Blaise followed, but Blaise paused, glancing back. “Close the door to the secret room,” he whispered.

Theo shook his head. “Snape was just here. He walked out… and didn’t close it. That means he wants it left open.”

Then—

The door opened.

And Snape was standing there.

Expression unreadable. Robes trailing like judgment.

Draco’s knees almost gave out.

“Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Nott, Mr. Zabini” Snape said, with that deadly calm, “do you enjoy testing the limits of my tolerance?”

Draco opened his mouth. He had rehearsed this.

“My f—”

Snape raised one hand.

“Not. A. Word.”

Blaise instinctively stepped back. Draco froze, blinking furiously, mouth dry.

But Theo—calm, steady Theo—stepped forward.

“We didn’t mean to intrude, Professor,” he said, voice low, careful. “We were following… instructions.”

Snape’s eyebrow twitched. “Instructions?”

Theo inclined his head slightly toward Draco. “Lucius Malfoy sent word through his son. He wished for Draco to… familiarize himself with the duties and legacy of House Slytherin. We thought… where better to start than the head’s office?”

Draco blinked.

That was… almost plausible.

Snape’s eyes slid to Draco. “Is that so?”

Draco straightened, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. “Yes. Father believes I should be more than a student. He says a Malfoy leads. Not follows.”

Snape’s lips thinned, unreadable.

Blaise added quickly, “We didn’t touch anything. Nothing personal. We were only looking at books. Old Slytherin history.”

Snape stepped forward slowly. “And the open passage?”

Theo answered before Draco could panic again. “We thought it was part of the legacy. Something for the heir to see. We didn’t realize it was restricted.”

There was a long pause.

The air felt heavier somehow. Like Snape was testing the weight of their lies on his tongue.

Then, coldly—

“Out.”

They didn’t wait to be told twice.

As they slipped past him, Snape’s voice followed, quiet but sharp.

“Mr. Malfoy, tell your father if he intends to use my office for private education, he can send an owl. Or a donation.”

Draco muttered, “Yes, sir,” without turning around.

And then they were gone—back in the corridor, three heartbeats racing in sync.

Blaise whispered, “I can’t believe that worked.”

Draco exhaled. “Neither can I.”

Theo glanced back toward the now-shut door. “It won’t work twice.”

Draco muttered, “Good. I’m not sure I could survive it again.”

——

Draco walked back to the dormitory feeling utterly triumphant.

Between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw dorms, the blue rose garden had fully bloomed.

Students were still talking about it. Some thought it was a new charm from the professors, others said it was a sign of good luck for Ravenclaw.

Draco knew the truth—but he couldn’t tell anyone. The diary was gone. Rowena’s letter too. There was nothing left to prove what they did.

Still, he felt a quiet pride. He had been part of it. No one else knew, but he did. 

His father always said achievements meant nothing if no one knew they were yours. But for once, Draco didn’t care.

It felt good anyway.

But today he showed everyone another thing. He had shown them—all of them what it meant to be a Malfoy. A natural. A pureblood.

His fingers still buzzed with the memory of wind and speed.

Father would be proud, wouldn’t he?

I’ve proven it today, he thought, chin tilted slightly as he walked. A Malfoy is superior. Worthy of the title. That I know what pureblood means.

He passed a window and caught his reflection—blond hair wind-tossed, cheeks pink from adrenaline—and allowed himself the smallest smirk.

Granger hadn’t even managed to lift her broom. Not even an inch. And Potter—well, Potter had been decent. Annoyingly decent. He had caught the Remembrall, and for that, they’d all cheered him again.

Draco’s lips twitched.

Of course they cheered him. He was their golden boy. Famous before he even knew what fame meant. “Chosen One” nonsense. It wasn’t about skill. It was never about skill.

He shoved the thought down and quickened his pace.

In the common room, Vince and Greg flanked him as always.

He nudged Greg with his elbow. “Can’t wait to see Longbottom’s face tomorrow. Think he’ll even dare to show up?”

Greg snorted. Vince laughed too loud.

Pansy piped up from behind, her voice sugary and sharp. “You were amazing today, Draco. Really. No one else flew like that.”

Draco turned slightly, preening—until he caught the flicker of something on Daphne’s face. Annoyance, maybe. Or was it judgment?

She said nothing. Just turned away toward her book.

Draco shrugged it off and turned toward Blaise and Theo, stretching his arms behind his head like a prince waiting to be crowned.

“You lot wanna bet if Longbottom ever gets to fly again?” he said with a grin.

Blaise tilted his head. “Depends. You going to steal anything else next time?”

Draco blinked.

“Just asking,” Blaise said lightly, curling into the corner armchair with a sigh.

Theo didn’t speak. He was sprawled on the rug, flipping through a Defense book absently.

“Something wrong with the way I flew?” Draco asked, trying to keep his voice light. Almost laughing.

“No,” Theo said at last. “You flew like someone who’s been trained his whole life.”

“Exactly,” Draco said.

Theo closed the book. “That wasn’t the part I didn’t like.”

Draco’s chest tightened, just for a second.

He scoffed. “Right. Because catching a ball is heroic now, I suppose?”

Theo didn’t answer. Just stood up and brushed imaginary dust off his sleeves. “Good night.”

He walked off toward the dorms. Blaise followed soon after.

Draco stood there for a moment, Greg beside him, Pansy twirling a strand of hair by the fire. He looked down at his hands—at the same fingers that had once gripped the handle of a toy broom Father gave him for his third birthday.

He’d always loved flying.

So why did it feel like he’d just come back down to earth a little too fast?

Draco noticed Daphne tug Pansy toward the girls’ dorm a little too quickly. No parting look. No sarcastic remark. Just silence and retreat.

He dropped onto the common room sofa, legs spread, arms crossed tight over his chest like armor. Vince and Greg dropped beside him a beat later—reliable, warm, dumb presence. For once, he was grateful for it.

Cantankerus Nott’s book said the ideology was made to protect purebloods, didn’t it?

That’s what today was. He protected it. Proved it. Flying like that.

He didn’t even steal anything. That ball? Please. He didn’t need a Remembrall—he just wanted to make Longbottom sweat a little. Laughable, really.

And then Potter… Potter flew off like he owned the bloody sky. Like it was a story written for him.

Draco shifted, jaw tight.

He turned to Vince, voice low. “Why do you think everyone cheered for Potter earlier?”

Vince blinked. “Dunno. ’Cause he’s the Chosen One?”

Greg added, “But don’t worry. You looked better.”

Draco picked a green apple and leaned back against the sofa.

He bit down on the apple and chewed slowly.

“Exactly,” he murmured. But it wasn’t a declaration. It was reassurance—for himself.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Professor Snape swept into the common room, robes whispering like threats.

Draco sat up straighter immediately, smoothing his expression.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said coolly, “where are Mr. Nott and Mr. Zabini?”

Draco blinked. “In the dorm, Professor.”

Snape didn’t wait. He turned sharply and strode toward the boys’ quarters. A tense minute passed. Then he returned—Theo and Blaise behind him, eyes unreadable.

Snape didn’t look at Draco.

“You three. Follow me.”

Draco’s stomach twisted. He put the half eaten apple down and stood. Vince and Greg didn’t move, only glanced at him with confusion.

He swallowed hard and followed.

The door to Snape’s office shut with a heavy, deliberate thud. 

Draco stood stiff, chin slightly lifted like his father taught him. Beside him, Blaise stayed eerily composed. Theo had that unreadable look again—calm, but Draco wasn’t sure if it was real or a defense.

Snape clasped his hands behind his back and began circling them—slow, smooth, a vulture’s orbit.

“You three,” he said, voice soft as acid, “found the trigger to the secret room yesterday.”

Draco felt the blood drain from his face.

Snape’s eyes passed over each of them in turn. “Tell me,” he said, with the barest tilt of his head, “what did you find?”

Draco swallowed.

Theo’s silence was strategic. Blaise’s eyes flicked sideways.

It would be Draco who speaks. Of course it would be.

He drew a breath, measured. Not cowardly, not rattled. Just… Malfoy.

“We found… a potion cabinet. Still brewing. A few labeled vials.”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

Blaise added carefully, “There was a dragon egg. We didn’t touch it.”

Theo spoke last, voice even. “And a book. Written by Cantankerus Nott. My great great-grandfather.”

Snape’s gaze stilled. Something flickered behind his eyes. Recognition. Displeasure. Calculation.

Draco pressed on, not sure why. “Sir, the trigger was a mirror. Only someone who looks backward would see the writing. That wasn’t an accident, was it?”

Snape gave no answer. Just continued circling.

“Tell me,” he repeated, slower this time, “what else did you find?”

Draco shook his head, a little too fast.

“I only remember seeing those things,” he said, carefully. “We didn’t touch anything important.”

Snape’s eyes sharpened.

“You didn’t take any of these things out?” he asked, quiet and cold.

“Absolutely not, professor,” Blaise said smoothly. His voice was velvet, but firm.

Theo added, “We’re not thieves.”

Snape raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by moral declarations. He turned slowly on his heel and walked back behind his desk.

“You were the only ones,” he said, “who have ever found that room. In all my years at this school.”

The boys stayed still.

“Normally,” Snape continued, “I might have brushed it off. Curiosity. An accident.”

He paused—long enough for Draco’s stomach to turn.

“But another event happened last night.”

The words landed with surgical weight.

“I didn’t check the room when you left,” Snape said softly. “Thought sons of the most prestigious families wouldn’t be… thieves.”

Draco flinched. Even Theo’s face finally shifted.

Snape’s black eyes locked onto them.

“But when I checked the room today—” he drew out the sentence like a knife— “the dragon egg was missing.”

Silence.

Draco’s heart thudded against his ribs.

He had held it. Only briefly. Only to look.

Snape’s voice dropped to a near-whisper.

“I suggest one of you starts talking. Before I stop assuming this is a misunderstanding.”

Draco’s throat tightened. He wasn’t scared because he was guilty—he wasn’t—but because something about Snape’s voice made every nerve in his body want to flee the room.

Snape’s gaze flicked to Theo. Then to Blaise.

Then it returned to Draco.

“Perhaps I should verify your claims directly,” he said, almost lazily. “Legilimency is not illegal if the subject consents.”

Draco flinched before he could stop himself.

Snape noticed.

It was only for a split second, but that was all he needed. His lips twitched — not in a smile, but in quiet understanding.

He stepped back.

“No need,” he said smoothly. “If you were lying, Mr. Malfoy, I’d already be in your head.”

Draco said nothing. Neither did Blaise or Theo.

Snape’s robes swirled as he turned toward his desk.

“Get out. And if I find out you were covering for someone else—”

His voice turned knife-sharp.

“—you will wish you’d simply told the truth.”

The door opened with a flick of his wand.

The boys didn’t need to be told twice.

They walked back to the dorm in silence.

Draco’s heart was still thudding hard in his chest, each beat like a fist. His palms were damp, though he clenched them into fists inside his robe pockets, hoping neither Theo nor Blaise would notice.

Theo broke the silence, calm as always.

“We don’t tell anyone what happened. Not the girls. Not Vince or Greg. After this—low profile.”

“Good idea,” Blaise murmured. “We already got away with our skins.”

Draco said nothing. He could feel Theo’s eyes flick toward him, could almost hear the gears turning in that bloody quiet head.

Finally, Draco turned, irritated.

“What?”

Theo tilted his head, expression unreadable.

“Nothing. Just… a passing thought. Someone tried to steal a Remembrall today, and last night another round object vanished.”

Draco’s brow furrowed.

“You’re implying something?”

Theo didn’t flinch.

“No.”

Draco scoffed, defensive.

“I didn’t take the dragon egg.”

“Of course,” Theo said simply, with that maddening calm. “Just a coincidence.”

Draco felt something cold settle in his stomach. Not fear—no, not quite—but something worse: doubt. Suspicion he hadn’t earned, and the sickening realization that once it’s planted, it never really goes away.

He turned away from them both, heading up the stairs.

“Let me know when you want to stop acting like Ministry investigators,” he muttered, “and be friends again.”

Neither of them replied.

The dorm door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Vince and Greg looked up from the floor, where they’d been playing Exploding Snap with a slightly singed deck.

“What happened?” Greg asked, eyes wide with concern that only looked half-understood.

Draco dropped onto the bed.

“Nothing,” he said—too quickly, too sharply. His voice cut the air like a snapped wand.

They both blinked, unsure whether to ask again. They didn’t.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, back stiff, and reached under his pillow. He pulled out the green leather diary. The same one Mother had gifted him on his tenth birthday. “For clarity,” she’d said.

Clarity was the last thing he had right now.

He uncapped the ink. The quill hesitated. Then, carefully, he wrote:

“I didn’t take the egg.”

He stared at the sentence. Then added:

“But I teased about the Remembrall. I wanted to see Longbottom’s face. I wanted to make the others laugh. That’s what Father would’ve done. That’s what I was raised to do—prove I was better. Show the hierarchy. Fly better. Speak sharper. Win.”

His quill paused, trembling slightly between his fingers.

“But Blaise didn’t laugh. Theo didn’t even look at me. He just walked away.”

Draco frowned. Scratched out the last sentence. Wrote again:

“I like Blaise. I like Theo. They’re my friends, but they’re just kids like me. They don’t know what Father knows. They haven’t been taught properly. That’s all it is.”

His handwriting wavered.

“Father has never been wrong. Not about blood. Not about names. Not about what it means to be a Malfoy.”

He stopped. Read the sentence again. Then underlined it twice.

Aurelian leapt lightly onto his lap and curled up, warm and silent. 

“They think I might’ve stolen something because I made a joke. But it was just a joke.”

He sighed.

“Theo looked at me like I was a stranger. Like he wasn’t sure. I hate that look. I hate not being sure myself. Maybe I would have taken it if I knew it was important. Father always said if it’s valuable, it’s worth owning. And Snape… Snape looked at me like he was testing how much pain I could take before flinching. I hate that too.”

The ink started to blot. He adjusted his grip.

“Vince and Greg believe me. But they always do. And that’s not the same as being right.”

Draco stopped. Closed the book.

He scratched behind Aurelian’s ears absently.

“I didn’t take the egg,” he whispered.

This time, it sounded like he was trying to convince someone.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall glowed with floating pumpkins.

Their carved mouths flickered gently above a feast of roasted lamb, buttered rolls, and jewel-toned jellies. It should’ve made Draco happy.

Greg and Vince were already in full eating mode. Pansy was giggling with Daphne about their newly painted nails—black with tiny pink paw prints, and on each pointer finger, a gleaming pair of yellow cat eyes.

Pansy nudged Draco.

“Draco, if you ever change your mind, I can paint your nails too. I swear I’ll make the yellow eyes look exactly like Aurelian’s.”

He scoffed—but it was the first relief he’d felt all week.

Because he hadn’t felt like himself lately. Not since that cursed day with Longbottom. Not since Snape’s office, when Theo and Blaise started ghosting him. Daphne wouldn’t talk to him, though she never talked much anyway.

He told himself he didn’t care. He didn’t need them. But his chest had been tight for days.

Then—a flutter.

An owl descended, graceful and sleek, landing beside his plate with a box in its claws.

Draco’s face lit up. A gift.

From Father and Mother.

Pansy leaned in instantly. “Ooh, from your parents? Do they send you presents on every holiday?”

Draco smirked, voice soft but proud.

“They do.”

He opened the letter first.

“We’re so proud you’re upholding the Malfoy legacy. Continue to carry our name with pride.

—Father

We miss you dearly. The house is far too quiet without you. I sent your favorite cocoa blend. Please stay warm.

—Mother”

Something stirred in his chest—warmth, relief, and a faint ache. They believed in him. They loved him. And he wouldn’t disappoint them. Father always said that leadership was about example. About poise. About legacy.

He folded the letter neatly, tucked it into his robe, and smiled.

“Open the box, Draco,” Pansy prodded, eyes gleaming.

Greg leaned over. “I hope it’s something eatable.”

Draco chuckled and opened it. A familiar black-and-gold pot rested inside.

“You’re half-right, Greg,” he said, eyes twinkling. “It’s drinkable. And I doubt you’ve ever tasted anything this rare.”

Vince’s eyes widened. “Will you share with us, Draco?”

Draco flicked his gaze toward Theo and Blaise—just for a second—then looked back at Vince and said coolly,

“I always share with worthy peers.”

He placed his palm on the pot.

It glowed.

Shuddered once, then twice.

Pansy let out a delighted gasp. “Is it charmed to warm itself? Merlin, Malfoy, next time just bring the manor kitchen.”

Draco smirked.

“This is pumpkin spice hot cocoa. The cocoa powder is imported from Brazil. The pumpkin spice blend? Harvested from a private farm in southern England. My father commissioned it himself.”

He said it louder than necessary. As expected, heads nearby turned.

Admiration? Envy?

Draco didn’t care.

This was how Father did it.

Enter. Impress. Lift your chin like royalty.

He poured a cup for Pansy first.

Greg blinked. “Why her first?”

“Because ladies first,” Draco replied smoothly. “Father always pours Mother’s tea first. If you two had ever been taught etiquette, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to sit beside you in public.”

Greg flushed. Draco almost felt bad.

Almost.

He sighed theatrically. “Fine. I’m feeling generous. Give me your cups.”

Greg and Vince lit up.

Draco filled each one. Pansy took a sip and perked up like a cat spotting prey.

“Oh, Merlin—this is heaven. I’d hex a Hufflepuff for a refill.”

She turned to Daphne. “You have to try this.”

Draco tilted his head, eyes hopeful.

“Want some, Daphne?”

She gave him the faintest smile and pushed her cup toward him.

He poured slowly, carefully, and felt a flicker of victory. A connection, maybe. He glanced at Theo and Blaise again.

But they weren’t looking at him.

He raised his cup and drank. It was rich, spiced, perfect.

“My father says this blend is fit for royalty.”

Pansy snorted, flipping her hair.

“Of course. Malfoys don’t drink anything made for peasants.”

Draco hummed, lips curved.

“Exactly.”

But Theo still didn’t glance up. Blaise didn’t say a word.

He could just… ignore them back. Let them stew. It’s what Father would do.

Draco closed his eyes and tried to remember. Father would never offer it. He’d make others want it by showcasing it—subtly or not—and then let them stew in envy. Lucius Malfoy did not beg. He did not share.

But… something inside Draco—it pulsed, barely a whisper—wanted them to approve of him.

He hated that.

Still, he turned slightly and called out with a tilt of his chin, tone practiced but edged in need.

“You two want a taste? It’s imported—Father says even Ministry officials don’t get this blend.”

Theo glanced up, expression unreadable. Blaise didn’t even lift his eyes.

“No thanks,” Theo said coolly.

“We’re good,” Blaise added, chewing his cinnamon roll.

The silence after that felt louder than the entire Great Hall.

Draco felt something sink in his chest. He looked back at his cocoa, the warmth suddenly too sweet, too loud.

Of course.

Father was right. Always had been. People respect you more when you hold back.

Draco let out a quiet scoff to cover the ache rising in his throat and muttered,

“Suit yourselves. Wasn’t meant for everyone anyway.”

He sipped his cocoa, forcing a smirk, even as something bitter bloomed in his chest.

Draco’s spiral was interrupted as the Great Hall doors slammed open and Professor Quirrell burst through them, pale and trembling.

“Troll! In the dungeon! Thought you ought to know…”

Then he collapsed with a dramatic thud.

For a moment, the hall was silent.

Then chaos. Screams, scraping benches, robes rustling in every direction. Dumbledore’s voice cut clean through it—loud, sharp, commanding.

“All students are to return to their dormitories. Prefects, lead the way.”

Draco didn’t move. His heart had slammed against his ribs so hard it stole his breath. His legs felt like someone had transfigured them into jelly. He just stood there, watching the bodies shuffle past like a tide.

He was still frozen when the hall was nearly empty.

Only then did his survival instinct kick in.

Draco snapped out of it and turned on his heel, knees nearly buckling beneath him, forcing himself to run. He hadn’t even reached the corridor when a voice ahead made him pause.

“We need to save Hermione—she doesn’t know!” Potter.

Weasley nodded. “Come on!”

They darted off down a side corridor, wands drawn like little heroes in a bedtime tale.

Draco stopped.

Theo and Blaise ghosted him all week. Potter got the cheers. Potter got the attention. What if this was the moment? What if he could beat Potter to it? What if he got there first?

He turned. Not towards the dorms—but towards the troll.

It made sense in the moment. Father would have done it. Father always stood at the center of the room, always had control, power, presence. Draco’s hands tightened into fists. If Potter could do it, he could do it.

Except…

Except he had no plan.

The footsteps ahead weren’t his. They were Potter’s and Weasley’s.

He slowed.

The air thickened.

Then he saw it.

The troll.

It loomed ahead like a moving tower of rot and shadow. Warts, stone-colored skin, thick breath that smelled like a carcass stewed in vinegar. It was bigger than he imagined. Far bigger. No bedtime story, no hunting trip with Father, no lecture about Malfoy pride had prepared him for this.

Its club dragged across the floor. Its head turned—slowly.

Their eyes met.

Draco couldn’t breathe.

It roared.

He screamed.

His body moved on instinct—no heroics, no pride, no thought—just pure, desperate flight. He bolted into the nearest room: a dark-tiled bathroom reeking of mildew and scented soap. He stumbled back, slamming into a sink. He panted. He shook.

The troll’s footsteps thundered closer.

Boom.

Boom.

The hinges on the bathroom door groaned. Then—

CRASH.

The door blasted inward. The troll stomped in, nostrils flaring. It sniffed the air. 

Draco screamed and scrambled back like a crab. His wand fumbled out of his robe and clattered against the tile. He snatched it up, arms shaking, his entire body buzzing with panic.

“D-don’t—you don’t want to touch me! I’m a—my father—!”

The troll roared.

Draco’s voice jumped two octaves. “MY FATHER WILL HEAR ABOUT THIS!”

The beast stomped forward, saliva dripping from its yellowed teeth.

Draco pointed his wand with a trembling arm, trying to steady his breath. He thought of Father—how he stood at every Ministry gala, how even senior Aurors lowered their heads in his presence. How he once sneered at a servant who’d spilled tea and hissed—

“Vermiculus.”

Draco shouted it like a curse. Not because he knew what it meant—but because Lucius made it sound like power.

The wand sparked.

And the troll’s club shrank.

Right in its massive grip, the weapon writhed, twisted, then sprouted legs. Hundreds. The bark peeled away to reveal slick, glistening flesh. A grotesque centipede, longer than Draco’s arm, convulsed in the troll’s palm.

The troll blinked. Then screamed.

It flung the wriggling creature away and stomped backward, crashing into a stall with a yelp that could’ve shaken the ceiling.

Draco just stared.

His wand was still raised. His knees still shaking.

“…That worked?” he whispered.

The troll bellowed again—but not at Draco. It turned and ran. 

Draco sat frozen on the tile for several seconds, blinking, waiting for his heart to stop punching his ribs.

Then the silence hit.

He looked down at his wand.

“…Vermiculus,” he murmured again, in awe. His voice cracked. “That’s definitely going in the diary.”

And then he noticed something warm soaking through his trousers.

His cheeks flared red. Shit.

Draco stared down.

“No,” he whispered. “No no no—”

He scrambled up, shoved open the nearest sink, and let the water gush. Then, he splashed it all over his robes, his sleeves, even his hair. The icy water made him gasp, but he kept going, soaking every part of himself until no one could tell what was water—and what wasn’t.

He glanced in the mirror. Wet hair plastered to his forehead. Robes clinging to his chest. He looked like he’d been dragged through a storm.

Good. Better a storm than a coward.

He inhaled sharply, trying to steady his knees. His wand was still gripped tightly in one hand, like a lifeline.

And then he turned.

His steps were quick, vision blurred.

He made it to the dorm.

The other Slytherins were gathered around Theo and Daphne, watching their chess match with lazy interest. Good. 

He slipped in, careful to keep his footsteps light.

Almost there.

But then—

“Draco, where have you been?” Vince’s voice cut through the low hum like a blade. “We were worried about you.”

Draco froze. Every head turned. Every eye found him.

Shit.

Pansy tilted her head. “You look… like you’ve just been in a storm.”

Greg blinked. “How did you get to this state?”

Draco inhaled sharply, lifted his chin. “I faced the troll. In the bathroom. I made it flee.”

Theo didn’t even glance up from the chessboard. “No, you didn’t.”

Blaise added without looking, “Harry, Ron, and Hermione knocked it down in the bathroom. Unless you want to say you were there, and they saved you.”

Silence.

Then a snort. A sharp whisper—

“From wetting yourself.”

Another laugh.

“Though it looks like you already did.”

The dorm cracked. Giggles spilled through the walls.

Draco stood there, soaked and flushed, humiliation clinging tighter than the water on his skin.

He wanted to hex the whole room. Turn them into frogs. Burn it all down.

But all he did… was lift his chin, sneer faintly, and walk to the shower.

He’d stripped down quickly, peeling off the soaked clothes with shaky fingers, shoving them to the corner like evidence of a crime. His chest still heaved from the panic.

He had pissed himself.

The shame clung tighter than the damp fabric had. His knees had buckled. His voice had cracked. And worst of all—he had screamed.

What would Father think?

He leaned his forehead against the cool stone tile, eyes shut tight.

Draco remembered the hunting trips—watching Father fire stunning spells at deer mid-leap with the elegance of a ballroom bow. Remembered the way Father addressed party guests like they were pawns waiting to be played, always so sure of himself. Never weak. Never messy.

Why can’t I be like that? Draco bit his lip. Why am I such a coward?

Potter had fought the troll.

Potter—filthy, halfblooded Potter—had come out of that bathroom victorious. And once again, the school would chant his name like he was some saint. Meanwhile, Draco had fled, shaking and wet.

And Blaise and Theo… they had looked at him like he wasn’t even worth the lie.

He stepped out of the shower with water dripping from his hair.

He dried off slowly, pulled on his nightclothes in silence, and crawled into bed without a word to anyone.

Draco reached for the drawer beside his bed, opened his journal, and stared at the blank page. The quill hovered.

Then he wrote, fast, before he could stop himself:

“I wish I don’t have to go to Hogwarts. I just want to be with Mother now.”

He stared at the words, a lump forming in his throat.

They were small. Pathetic. Not befitting the heir of the Malfoy line.

Draco blinked hard, and—shaking—crossed the sentence out with a line so sharp it tore the parchment.

He took a breath.

Then he wrote, carefully this time:

“I will be strong. I will become like Father one day. I will make him proud.”

He shut the diary, tucked it beneath his pillow like a secret oath, and closed his eyes.

——-

Draco woke up to the sound of someone coughing. He opened his eyes and saw Blaise curled up in his bed across the room, unusually pale, his breath shallow. Theo, as usual, was already gone. Vince and Greg were still snoring loudly.

For a moment, Draco hesitated.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. A quiet part of him thought: Maybe I should ask if he’s alright.

But then, yesterday’s voice echoed back—cold and certain.

“Unless you wanna say they saved you.”

Draco’s face twitched. His throat tightened.

He said nothing.

Aurelian hopped lightly onto his bed, tilting his smoky head before curling beside him. Draco exhaled, ran his fingers along the cat’s silky fur, then reached for his mirror. He practiced his smirk. One side lifted. No teeth. Confident. Untouchable.

He thought about the Quidditch match. His first time seeing it at Hogwarts. He had heard Potter was on the Gryffindor team. First-year. Unheard of.

Draco imagined Potter’s face when he lost. Eyes wide. Ashamed. Humiliated in front of the whole school.

He smirked wider.

“Great smirk,” he told his reflection softly.

Then he opened his diary and wrote:

Today will be the first time I witness the Quidditch match—a game I always imitated playing at home with Dobby. If we win, I will tell the whole team my father will buy them new brooms. I will be respected. Loved again.

He shut the diary. Sat up.

He didn’t glance back at Blaise—still curled in bed, still coughing—as he slipped out of the room with Vince and Greg beside him.

Shower. Breakfast. The match.

As Draco stepped into the Great Hall, the buzz of conversation struck him like a cold gust. Potter’s name again. Always Potter. Did you hear? He saved Granger! He knocked out a troll! The same story, told over and over with widening eyes and shrinking brains.

Draco clenched his jaw.

He would have felt far less annoyed if Potter looked smug about it. But no. Potter sat there at the Gryffindor table with that stupid innocent face—like he hadn’t done anything special. 

Draco passed by their table, straightened his spine, and threw on his best smirk.

“I suppose you think you’re pretty clever,” he said, loud enough for the table to hear. “Running to find a troll. That was really stupid of you.”

He didn’t wait for Potter to answer. He didn’t care. He turned on his heel and strode toward the Slytherin table.

Pansy was seated beside Daphne, their heads close together. Theo sat across from Daphne, his face unreadable as always. Greg and Vince trailed behind and plopped down on either side of him. Blaise’s seat was still empty.

“Morning, girls,” Draco said smoothly, dropping into the seat beside Pansy.

Pansy slapped his shoulder with a grin. “You look good today. Extra gel to psychologically terrify the Gryffindors?”

“Obviously,” Draco drawled.

She added, “Honestly, if you ever get on the Quidditch team, they should make you the visual representative. You’ve got more drama in one eyebrow than most of them have in a lifetime.”

Draco lifted his chin. “Only if I get extra pay.”

“Royalty tax?” Daphne asked without looking up from her toast.

Draco smirked, “Exactly.”

Pansy reached for a croissant and casually glanced down the table.

“Where’s Blaise, by the way?”

Draco didn’t look up from buttering his toast. “Probably still sleeping. Might not feel good. I heard him coughing earlier.”

Theo set his knife down. “I’ll go check on him.”

Draco paused, his hand still hovering over the butter dish. Something in his chest twisted.

He shrugged. “Might be just a cold.”

Theo gave him a look—neutral, unreadable—and walked off toward the dorm corridor.

Draco said nothing more. He wanted to go too. Wanted to ask if Blaise was alright. But his pride flared hot behind his ribs. You offer cocoa, they reject it. You tell the truth, they call you a liar.

The match later that day ended in a loss for Slytherin.

Potter was in the spotlight again.

The youngest Seeker in Hogwarts history.

Caught the Snitch in record time.

First-year prodigy leads Gryffindor to victory.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Draco wanted to rip his hair out.

He was furious—not at the team, not even at the game. He was furious that Potter was in the center of attention, and he wasn’t. It was Potter the crowd called golden. Not Malfoy.

But right now, his anger was dulled by something else.

He hadn’t seen Blaise at the match. Not once. Only caught a glimpse of Theo slipping out of the stadium mid-game. Probably heading to the infirmary.

Draco hated how much he wanted to go.

Greg and Vince flanked him as they exited the stands, with Pansy and Daphne trailing behind.

“I say we check on Blaise,” Greg muttered. “Curious what made him drop like that. He was fine yesterday.”

Draco sniffed, arms crossed. “Yeah, go ahead. Maybe he should’ve taken my cocoa after all. Pumpkin spice has cinnamon. Helps with sore throats.”

Daphne, cool and unreadable as always, turned to him. “Why don’t you go and tell him that yourself?”

Draco froze.

But before the silence could stretch, Pansy cut in, looped her arm through his and Greg’s, and pulled them forward.

“Come on,” she chirped. “He can deliver cocoa, I’ll deliver charm. That boy needs both.”

She winked. Vince jogged after them, grinning.

Draco said nothing. He let himself be pulled. 

He hated this feeling.

Curiosity? Guilt? Concern?

Whatever it was… he’d rather die than admit it.

The Hospital Wing was nearly empty—everyone else too busy with the post-Quidditch celebrations to care.

Theo sat beside Blaise’s bed, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. Blaise looked better than that morning—propped up against his pillow, color returned to his cheeks, but his eyes were still glassy.

Pansy jogged over immediately.

“What’s wrong with you, Blaise? You were perfectly fine last night.”

Blaise gave a soft, worn-out smile. “I’ll be fine. Just mild food poisoning.”

Draco scoffed lightly as he entered behind the others. “The Quidditch match was a disaster anyway. Potter’s spotlight—again. I would’ve preferred to be in bed too, if I could turn back time.”

Vince piped up as he and Greg followed. “I enjoyed the chips they gave us at the entrance, though.”

Theo didn’t say a word. Just stared at Draco like a loaded wand.

Daphne sat gracefully by Blaise’s bed. “Didn’t know you had food allergies,” she said, tilting her head. “So what exactly made you sick?”

Blaise’s eyes flicked—toward Draco. For a second. Just a flicker. But Draco caught it. Annoyance. Maybe hatred.

Then Blaise turned to Daphne and said softly, “Apparently… anything pumpkin and cocoa.”

Draco’s patience snapped. “You bastards. What’s wrong with you?”

Theo’s voice sliced in, sharp and sudden. “What’s wrong with you, Malfoy? Came here to check on how much damage you’ve done?”

Draco’s breath stuttered. Theo never lost composure. Never snapped. Before he could bite back, Daphne leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

“There’s something going on between you boys.”

Greg frowned. “Yeah. You two’ve been ghosting Draco.”

Pansy scoffed. “Come on, was it because he teased poor Longbottom? It was fun and harmless.”

“It was rude,” Daphne said calmly, “but this is more than that. Isn’t it?”

“You kept secrets from us?” Vince looked between them, confusion growing.

Draco’s fury boiled over. “Fine. You want the truth? After the rose garden, Theo, Blaise, and I got curious who the first Slytherin headmaster was after Salazar. So we snuck into Snape’s office. Found a secret room. A book from Cantankerus Nott—Theo’s great great-grandfather. Apparently, he was the first one.”

He paused, then added with sharp emphasis: “There was also… an egg. A dragon egg. The next day, Snape called us in. The egg was gone. He accused us.”

Pansy’s jaw dropped. “And you didn’t tell us?!”

Draco waved a dramatic hand. “We were supposed to, but these two got all righteous about my joke on bloody Longbottom, and Snape grabbed us right after. Theo said we shouldn’t tell anyone.”

“And we were right, weren’t we?” Blaise said quietly.

Theo stood, voice steady now. “Tell them. Tell them why you stole the egg.”

Daphne, Pansy, Vince, Greg—all stared at Draco now.

“I didn’t steal that freakin’ egg!” Draco barked. “You bastards!”

Daphne turned slowly to Theo. “You have evidence?”

Theo’s eyes didn’t leave Draco. “Yesterday, during the troll attack evacuation… you were the only one missing. Where were you, Malfoy?”

Something about him saying ‘Malfoy’ again made Draco’s stomach knot.

“I tried to follow Potter and Weasley. I panicked, alright? I hid in the bathroom. I was scared. Happy now?” His voice cracked, just a little. “But the troll came in. I scared it away. Sheer luck, but it happened. Call it what you want, I did it. I swear to Salazar.”

Theo tilted his head. “Then why were your clothes wet?”

Draco froze. He couldn’t say it. Not here. Not in front of them.

“I washed my face,” he said stiffly. “Water splashed on my robes.”

Blaise let out a humorless laugh. “Liar.”

He looked at Daphne now. “After he went to bed, Theo and I checked the bathroom. We saw dirt. Not just any dirt. It was laced with potion residue—Madam Pomfrey confirmed. A mix of powdered puffapod seed and root rot. Causes dizziness, flu symptoms, and coughing. I got sick just from touching it.”

Theo picked up the thread. “We followed the trail. It led outside, just beyond the small tree behind the greenhouse. We found a catacomb.”

Blaise nodded. “Inside was the egg base—the stand it used to sit on in Snape’s cabinet. Poisoned potions.”

Vince looked lost. “But… how does that prove Draco did it?”

Theo sighed. “We think he used the evacuation to sneak out, move the egg. Then went back to the bathroom to wash off the dirt. That’s why his robes were wet.”

Everyone stared at Draco.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Finally, he said, voice low and bitter, “It wasn’t me. I told you the truth. Believe it or don’t. I don’t owe you anything.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked out, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms.

Draco’s footsteps echoed down the empty corridor.

He didn’t know where he was going—only that he couldn’t stay. Not after that. Not with all of them looking at him like that.

Theo’s voice kept ringing in his head.

“Then why were your clothes wet?”

Draco clenched his fists. Because I pissed myself like a bloody coward, that’s why. He wouldn’t say it. He couldn’t.

But if Theo and Blaise were going that far… following dirt trails, digging into catacombs, dragging others into this—what if they wanted it to be him?

He pushed the front door open. The cold air hit his face.

He didn’t care.

He walked faster, past the courtyard, past the rose garden and out through the side gates. His shoes crunched over the gravel path as he headed toward the tree Theo mentioned.

Let’s see this stupid catacomb for myself. Let’s see what they think proves anything.

It was darker outside than he expected. The wind bit at his face, sharp and cold. The trees looked taller, the shadows heavier. Every little sound made him twitch.

He should’ve brought Greg and Vince.

But then he remembered their faces earlier—how they looked at him. Like they believed Theo. Like they doubted him.

His stomach twisted. His hands clenched.

He remembered the shame—the stench of it, the heat spreading down his legs, the way he had to splash water over himself just to hide it. The memory hit hard. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth.

He closed his eyes.

Think about Father. Be like Father.

He forced a breath through his nose and lit his wand.

“Lumos.”

The soft glow wasn’t much, but it helped. He walked, checking the base of one tree… then the next. Nothing.

A part of him wanted to laugh.

What if Theo and Blaise lied? What if this was all just to make him sneak out and get caught by Filch? A prank. A setup. A final nail in the coffin of their friendship.

He turned to go back—

—and tripped.

His foot caught a root and his body pitched forward.

The ground gave out.

He tumbled down through loose soil, stones scratching his arms and legs, until he landed hard with a grunt in something cold and damp.

Groaning, Draco pushed himself up.

He was in a hollow space underground. The air smelled of mold and old magic.

He held up his wand.

Bottles. Potions. Some smashed. Some glowing faintly.

A flat black stand sat in the center. Empty—but he recognized it.

The egg base.

He stepped toward it and reached out.

It was real.

It was here.

So Blaise and Theo hadn’t lied. This was the place. But then—

A voice behind him, calm and cold, slid through the dark.

“I couldn’t bring myself to think the son of Lucius Malfoy would stoop to theft.”

Draco froze.

The voice continued, each word like a needle.

“Seems I was wrong.”

Draco turned slowly.

Professor Snape stood at the entrance, half-shrouded in shadow. His eyes glittered. Not with surprise.

With disappointment.

He turned around and said nothing. He didn’t need to. Draco followed him in silence.

And now he stood stiff in the center of Snape’s cabinet while Snape leaned back in his chair with all the serenity of a vulture digesting something unpleasant.

“Imagine my month, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said at last, steepling his fingers. “You and your friends break into my private stores. A troll breaks into the castle—still not the worst part, mind you. And now… I find you covered in catacomb soil, fondling potion bottles stolen from my cabinet like they owe you money.”

He tilted his head.

“Are you quite well?”

Draco blinked. “Sir, I—”

“No, no. Let me guess. You were sleepwalking past the outer gates, tripped, and accidentally rediscovered the base of an illegal dragon egg. All while reeking of pride and pumpkin spice.”

Snape stood now, slowly. Each step echoed with the click of his boots on the stone floor, like the ticking of a slow, judgmental clock.

“You disappoint me, Draco. I expected this kind of idiocy from a Weasley. But you…? You had branding.”

He turned sharply, black robes flaring behind him.

“You know, during her third year, Narcissa once stole a basket of boiled eggs from the kitchen because she read somewhere they could help maintain a perfect waistline.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you think dragon eggs will add more lines to your brain, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco opened his mouth.

Snape raised a hand, palm up, patient as death.

“Do go on. Entertain me.”

Draco said quickly, voice tight,

“Theo and Blaise said the catacomb was real. They—implied I must have done something. I went to check it myself. I didn’t take anything. I didn’t steal.”

Snape didn’t blink.

“Fascinating,” he said, his voice like frost. “So now I must believe you trespassed out of honor, not theft. Shall I fetch the Sorting Hat for a reassignment ceremony?”

Draco muttered, “…If I get sorted into Gryffindor, my father would never look at me again.”

Snape slammed his hand on the table.

Draco flinched.

But before either could speak, a loud thump came from behind the door. Snape didn’t even bother to sigh—he flicked his wand, and the door creaked open.

Vince and Greg tumbled in first, a mess of limbs and panic.

Behind them were Theo, Blaise, Pansy, and Daphne—lined up like children caught behind the sweets cart.

Snape’s gaze raked across all of them.

“Well,” he said coldly. “The full circus. All we’re missing is a phoenix and a broomstick juggling act.”

Pansy opened her mouth, probably to lie.

Snape raised a hand.

“Not. One. Word.”

He looked back to Draco.

“You have five seconds to explain why your fan club is eavesdropping before I decide this room now teaches joint detentions.”

Daphne took a step forward, her voice calm but razor-sharp.

“Professor, think about it. If Draco had truly stolen it and hid it outside Hogwarts, would he go back to the scene with no plan, no excuse, and just… poke around alone?”

Snape narrowed his eyes at her. He didn’t answer. The silence itself cracked open space for doubt.

“He was reacting,” Daphne continued. “Not covering up. He was angry. Curious. A bit stupid, sure—but not guilty.”

Draco made a strangled noise. “Thanks.”

She ignored him.

Then Theo stepped forward, hesitant at first, then more certain. “When we were inside your secret room, Professor… we heard someone step in. That’s why we hid inside the cabinet in the corner. A minute later, you entered and caught us. At the time I thought… maybe you did it on purpose to catch us red-handed. But—can you verify something? Did you step into the room twice?”

Snape’s eyes glittered, dark and sharp. “No,” he said. “I opened the room. And you three were already inside.”

Silence. Thick.

Daphne turned to the others, voice gaining weight. “Then the first person to come in… wasn’t you.”

She looked at Theo and Blaise.

“It was whoever actually stole the egg. And the potions.”

Blaise glanced away. Theo’s jaw tensed.

“And one more thing,” Daphne added, eyes now locked on Snape. “If Draco had stolen the egg and used the troll attack to sneak out and relocate it… why wouldn’t he take the base with him too? Why leave it behind in a catacomb where it could be found?”

Another beat.

Snape leaned back again, folding his arms. 

Theo cleared his throat. “Sir… the person who stole the egg—and your potions—might be the same one who let the troll into Hogwarts.”

Snape’s gaze snapped to him.

“The troll was a distraction,” Theo continued. “Whoever it was took the potions and egg, probably to use them on something. That’s why they left the base behind.”

Daphne folded her arms. “Do you know what the potions and egg could be used for?”

Snape’s face tightened. “Not your problem.”

He stood. “All of you—out. And if I see any of you entangled in one more bit of idiocy, you’ll find yourselves scrubbing cauldrons until your fingers dissolve.”

They turned to go, shoulders tense, almost relieved—

“And you, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco froze.

Snape’s voice dropped to a blade’s edge. “I will be personally writing to your father about your recent performance.”

Draco paled. “Sir, please—”

“Not another word.”

Daphne paused at the door. “If you want to catch whoever did it,” she said without turning, “just keep a close watch on the catacomb.”

Snape didn’t reply.

But he didn’t stop her either.

They filed out.

They made it to the Slytherin common room.

Aurelian and Severina sat curled together on one armchair like nothing had happened. Both meowed in greeting.

Theo, Blaise, Pansy, Daphne, Greg, and Vince dropped onto the couches, exhausted from the chaos and cold.

Draco didn’t sit.

Now they knew he wasn’t the thief. They had defended him, sure. But they still doubted him. And that stung more than Snape’s threats or the fall into the catacomb.

He turned to leave, already stepping past the green-glass threshold of the dorm stairs when—

“We’re sorry, Draco,” Blaise said quietly.

Draco stopped.

Theo added, voice lower, “For suspecting you.”

Blaise glanced up. “I was thinking,” he said casually, “we should all come to Italy for Christmas.”

Everyone blinked.

“My mother’s villa in Verona,” he added. “It has fireplaces in every room. And she’s too busy with her seventh husband to care if I bring friends.”

Pansy burst out laughing. “You absolute drama magnet,” she said, leaning forward. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as my tailor,” Blaise said smoothly, sipping his tea.

Draco arched a brow. “Do I get my own room?”

“You get a tower,” Blaise said. “One with a piano.”

“Sold,” Draco muttered.

Pansy clapped her hands together. “This is perfect. Finally, we’re not being moody and hexing each other again.”

Daphne raised her hand lazily. “Can I bring my sister?”

“She’s bored out of her mind at home. And she keeps reading my diary.”

“Of course,” Blaise said. “We’ll give her the tower with the peacocks.”

Draco smirked into his scarf. Theo rolled his eyes. Pansy beamed.

And just like that, the group was whole again.

Chapter Text

Draco stepped into the white stone mansion.

It was massive, high-ceilinged, and draped in expensive silks like a museum no one actually lived in. The floors were polished marble, the tapestries embroidered with peacocks and gilded snakes—but somehow, it all felt… colder than Malfoy Manor. Like the house itself didn’t believe in warmth.

This would be his first Christmas without his parents.

He missed them more than he expected—Mother’s gloved hand resting on his shoulder at the banquet, Father’s voice echoing as he toasted “to the health of the Empire” in front of the entire Ministry. He knew how those parties went: long speeches, rare wines, laughter that wasn’t real. A stage for Lucius Malfoy to prove the world still spun beneath his heel.

Draco had attended enough of them to learn exactly how to behave like a Malfoy. He didn’t need the refresher course.

This year, he chose something else.

Mother had packed him two tins of peppermint bark, his favorite, and a whole crate of peppermint cocoa—“enough to share with your little court,” she’d said with a teasing smile. Father approved, called it “a strategic social maneuver.” But Draco had felt something lighter in his chest than politics. He was… happy. Happy to spend time with his House. His new friends.

Dobby stumbled in behind him, panting under the weight of three enchanted trunks and Aurelian’s special pillow bed. Pathetic, Father always said. The only reason that elf still worked for them was because Narcissa had begged Lucius to spare his life after Dobby’s mother died saving Draco during a hunt gone wrong.

Sometimes Draco felt bad for him. Sometimes.

But Father said pity was for fools. “Dobby is beneath you. Just like muggleborns. A Malfoy should never bow to anything crawling beneath the boots of power.”

And Draco was a Malfoy heir. He would behave like one.

Still, he slowed just enough to let the elf catch up. Aurelian padded beside him, tail high, yellow eyes sharp and regal—like a tiny lion surveying foreign lands.

Inside the great hall, Blaise and Theo were already sprawled across the long velvet couch, half-buried in books. 

They looked up as Draco entered.

Blaise raised an eyebrow, closed his book with a thud, and flicked a finger. Another elf popped into the hall, smaller than Dobby and wearing black silk.

“Fink,” Blaise said smoothly. “Show the elf to my friend’s suite.”

Fink bowed and glided toward Dobby, who straightened up with a glare before begrudgingly following.

Theo stretched, not looking up from a heavy tome. “You’re on time,” he said. “I found more on Cantankerus. Sacred Twenty-Eight files, even a few letters my father hid behind a false panel.”

Draco stepped forward, eyeing the spread. “You know, you two are the only ones who’d start Christmas break by reading century-old paranoia.”

Theo smirked. “We’re Slytherins. Joy is optional. Legacy isn’t.”

Draco picked up a green apple from the fruit basket on the coffee table and dropped beside Theo on the long couch, eyes flicking over the open books: faded parchment with looping ink, family trees, and the infamous Sacred Twenty-Eight list. 

Another volume displayed grainy muggle illustrations—villagers with pitchforks, flames licking at the skirts of screaming witches, magic wands snapped and tossed into fire.

He exhaled, biting onto the apple. “So if we’d lived in the muggle world a few centuries ago, we’d have been burned on sticks.”

Theo didn’t look up. “They went after witches mostly.”

He turned the page. “Right. Because murdering women is a hobby for them.”

“Well,” Blaise added with a dry smile, “I can still imagine Pansy hexing half the village before the fire reached her ankles.”

A voice floated in—sharp and amused. “Even then, I would’ve hexed the fire first.”

All three boys looked up.

Pansy strolled into the hall like she owned the marble beneath her shoes. Severina trailed beside her. Behind her was Daphne —elegant as always, hair twisted in silver pins—and beside her walked a girl Draco didn’t recognize.

He stopped mid-chew.

Slightly smaller, quieter in her movements. Dark hair curled near her chin. Her eyes were the thing Draco noticed—clear blue, it’s rare to see someone with dark hair and blue eyes.

She wasn’t beautiful in the same striking way Daphne was.

But there was… a symmetry. A quiet poise that didn’t demand attention, yet held it.

Draco tilted his head.

So this was Daphne’s younger sister.

Astoria.

She met his eyes briefly. No blush. Just the faintest narrowing of curiosity, as if she were filing him away somewhere behind her calm gaze.

Pansy dropped her bag with a sigh and threw herself dramatically onto the couch opposite the boys. “Merlin, I’ve missed velvet. The train was insufferably beige.”

“You survived,” Theo muttered.

“I suffered,” she corrected.

Daphne nodded toward the girl beside her. “This is Astoria. My younger sister. She is 9.”

Astoria dipped her head slightly, voice soft but measured. “Hello.”

Draco inclined his head back. “Draco Malfoy.”

“I know,” she said simply. “I’ve seen you at Platform Nine the day my sister boarded the Hogwarts express. You walked like the floor should thank you.”

Blaise choked on a laugh.

Draco blinked. Then smirked. “…Charmed, I’m sure.”

Then—

Thud echoed from down the hall. Followed by a loud crash.

A beat passed.

Then, to everyone’s confusion, Vince and Greg appeared—not through the grand oak doors, but by stumbling out of a hidden servant panel in the wall, looking like they’d just wrestled a fireplace and lost.

They were both covered in soot.

“There you are,” Draco said flatly. “What, the front door wasn’t obvious enough?”

“Wrong corridor,” Greg wheezed, brushing ash off his sleeves.

“There was a fireplace,” Vince added helpfully.

Astoria tilted her head. “Did you… come down the chimney?”

Greg coughed. “It looked faster than the stairs.”

“Did it work?” Theo asked without looking up from his book.

Vince beamed, soot smearing across his cheek. “Kinda.”

Draco sighed and rubbed his temples. “I swear they’re not legally allowed to be left unsupervised.”

Blaise snapped his fingers and muttered, “Fink, please get two baths ready. And someone lock the chimney.”

Pansy snorted and turned to Astoria. “Welcome to the elite future of magical society.”

“Since everyone’s here now,” Theo said, pulling out the old leather-bound journal. “I found something in my great-grandfather’s notes. Might be just a theory… or propaganda. But it explains why the Sacred 28 even worked.”

Everyone turned toward him.

He opened the book to a crinkled page. “There was a magical plague,” he said. “A long time ago. 1600s, maybe earlier. It mostly hit children from mixed-blood families—half-muggle, or one muggleborn parent. They were born with unstable magic. Some exploded into magical bursts. Some couldn’t use magic at all.”

Draco leaned forward, brows drawn. “Exploded?”

Theo nodded. “One line here says a newborn caused an entire inn to burn down during its first cry.”

Astoria frowned. “So it was real, not just a story?”

“Hard to say,” Theo said. “But that’s not the point. Think about it—these cases happened, and over time, Muggles started seeing weird things. Young magical kids losing control. That’s when mage-hunting started. Witch burnings. Torches. Trials. It wasn’t just fear. It was panic.”

Pansy folded her arms. “So what, Cantankerus Nott sees this and says what? Ban the Muggle shagging?”

Blaise smirked. “Essentially.”

Theo turned the page. “He thought it was magic sending a message. That Muggle blood was damaging wizardkind. The Sacred 28 wasn’t just ego. It was his way of… managing a crisis. Keeping magic ‘pure’ so it wouldn’t turn on them again.”

Daphne’s eyes narrowed. “And people believed it.”

“Still do,” Draco muttered.

No one spoke for a moment.

Astoria said softly, “Do you think it’s real?”

Theo looked down at the book. “I think it was real enough to scare people. Real enough to push someone like Cantankerus to make a list. And real enough that it stuck.”

Daphne scoffed. “So all the blood purity nonsense… wasn’t superiority. It was fear.”

Draco sat up straighter. “Nonsense?” he said sharply. “Your family’s in the Sacred 28, Daphne.”

She didn’t flinch. “So? I don’t need some old list to know I’m better.”

That made them pause.

She leaned back, calm and crisp. “If you’re brilliant, you’re brilliant. No matter who your great-grandfather hexed. If you need that list to prove your worth… maybe you’re not worth much.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Harsh.”

Daphne shrugged. “Real.”

Draco muttered, “Legacy built on panic and baby explosions.”

Pansy snorted.

“I’d explode too if I found out I was half-Muggle,” Greg offered solemnly.

“Yeah,” Vince added. “Imagine waking up one day and realizing you’re your own boggart.”

There was a beat. Even Daphne cracked a smile.

Draco didn’t. He looked down at the book, then away. “Regardless… the Muggles used to hunt and kill our kind. They’re pathetic. They don’t even have magic. My father said so.”

Blaise exhaled. “Anyway. This is just research. Let’s not tear each other’s throats out over it.”

He stood and stretched. “Dinner?”

“I heard the elves made lemon-roast chicken,” Pansy said, already headed for the stairs.

Astoria followed her quietly. Theo and Blaise trailed behind, still flipping through the journal pages.

Draco lingered a moment, watching them go. He said nothing. But inside, the quiet ache of doubt began to ripple. Just once.

Then he shook it off and followed them to dinner. After all, he was a Malfoy.

The dining hall in Blaise’s family estate was long and white-marble.

Draco sat near the end, between Theo and Pansy. The house elves brought out roasted chicken garnished with rosemary and lemon slices. Everyone leaned forward, talking and serving themselves.

Astoria, seated beside Daphne, didn’t speak. She calmly used her fork to push the chicken to the side and took only the lemon slices first. Three of them.

She bit into the first wedge.

Silence.

Across the table, Vince blinked. “Er. That’s… a lemon.”

Astoria didn’t flinch. She chewed slowly and swallowed. “Correct.”

Greg leaned closer to whisper, too loudly, “Do you think she knows it’s not dessert?”

Daphne sighed. “She does this every time.”

Theo, curious, asked, “You like lemons that much?”

Astoria dabbed her lips with her napkin. “They’re sharp. They cut through the nonsense.”

Pansy burst out laughing. “She’s nine and already terrifying. I love it.”

Draco, still watching her, added a lemon wedge to his own plate without a word.

Astoria finally reached for the chicken.

“Lemons clean your mouth.” she said simply. “Like magic. But for germs.”

Draco tilted his head. “You two are sisters, yeah? Same eyes. But who got Mum’s hair and who got Dad’s?”

Daphne stabbed a roasted potato. “Both our parents are blond.”

Astoria swallowed a bite of lemon. “I was born with dark hair.”

Theo squinted. “Hidden genes?”

Astoria shrugged. “Perhaps. But I’d love to be blond though.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Astoria said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “So I wouldn’t have to bleach it if I ever wanted to dye it pink.”

Daphne groaned. “She’s obsessed with pink.”

Theo grinned. “You’d look terrifying in pink.”

Astoria picked up another lemon slice and said calmly, “I know.”

The dining hall door opened with a soft creak.

Draco looked up and froze mid-bite.

A woman stepped in, tall and graceful, dressed in deep green velvet. Her hair was dark and pinned with silver, and her skin looked like it had never known stress. Behind her was a man in black robes—tall, pale, and cold, with eyes that didn’t bother to blink when they landed on the table.

“Blaise darling,” the woman said, her voice soft and lilting as she approached the table. “Merry Christmas.”

Blaise didn’t stand. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even look up from his plate.

“Thank you, mother.” he said flatly.

She blinked, then recovered with a graceful smile. “I’ve placed your gifts in the playroom upstairs. I think you’ll enjoy the green package.”

He nodded once, eyes still fixed on his fork.

Then she turned to the rest of the table, gaze gliding over them with regal ease.

“You must be Blaise’s classmates,” she said. “Be my guests. Welcome to Verona.”

The group bowed in unison.

“Thank you, Mrs Zabini,” Draco said for all of them.

The man at her side said nothing. His presence loomed.

Blaise, without raising his voice or face, muttered, “We were just finishing. You don’t need to linger.”

The man turned his head, slow and deliberate. He strode forward and sat at the head of the table without invitation.

“He needs discipline,” the man said, voice low and rough. “Not playmates.”

The room chilled slightly. Severina hissed from the armchair.

Blaise still didn’t look at him.

His mother gave a delicate laugh. “My son is very strong-willed.”

The man’s eyes didn’t leave Blaise. “That’s one word for it.”

He took a bite of roasted chicken with theatrical slowness, chewing once, twice, before letting his fork drop onto the porcelain with a clang.

“I’ve broken sharper boys than him with less effort.”

Silence.

Blaise stood without a word. He folded his napkin, placed it beside his untouched plate, and said quietly,

“I’m full.”

Then he turned and began walking toward the stairs.

The man’s voice sharpened. “Don’t you dare disrespect me like that.”

He rose halfway.

“Bow. And say goodbye properly.”

Blaise didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. Just kept walking, back straight and chin high.

The man’s fingers curled around the wand at his hip.

“Tom,” Sabine said, hand suddenly on his wrist. Her voice was still velvet, but her grip wasn’t.

“Stop it. It’s Christmas today.”

He stared at her for a beat. Then leaned back in his chair with a scowl, fingers tapping once on the wand before letting it go.

“The boy needs to learn what respect means, Sabine.”

There was a pause. Then Theo stood. “We’re also full. Thank you so much for your hospitality, ma’am.”

Daphne rose beside him and gave a graceful nod.

One by one, Draco, Astoria, Gregory, and Vincent stood and followed them upstairs.

No one spoke as they left the room.

The only sound was the faint clink of the man’s fork tapping again, slow and steady, like a warning.

Draco didn’t speak as they climbed the stairs.

His mind was stuck downstairs.

The man had sat at the head of the table like he owned it. He barked orders, insulted Blaise in front of everyone, and reached for his wand like… like it was a reflex.

And Blaise hadn’t bowed. Hadn’t even looked back.

Draco couldn’t imagine doing that to Father.

In the Malfoy house, disrespect was worse than disobedience. You greeted your elders. You stood when your parents entered the room. You thanked them when they corrected you. 

Because that was order. That was legacy. That was strength.

But Blaise had walked away. Just walked. As if he didn’t owe them anything. As if he was… stronger?

Draco frowned. No. That wasn’t right. Blaise was rude. Unpolished. He should’ve said “thank you,” at least. He should’ve bowed.

And yet—

Draco glanced at the group, all following Blaise’s lead without question.

He didn’t understand it. But he hated how much he admired it.

Blaise reached the big common room upstairs and stopped just past the threshold.

The room was beautiful—absurdly so. A giant Christmas tree towered beside the marble fireplace. Snow drifted behind the tall glass windows. Plush emerald cushions were piled over long couches. A thick white rug sprawled like a lazy beast across the floor.

It should have felt safe.

But it didn’t.

Blaise dropped onto the rug, legs crossed, back hunched slightly. He stared at the fire, then said flatly,

“She was supposed to return late. After everyone had gone to bed.”

Theo said nothing. He took a seat on the nearest couch, his hands folded in his lap. Daphne followed quietly, brushing imaginary lint from her robe before sitting down beside him.

Astoria, after a moment of silence, stepped over and sank to the rug beside Blaise.

“Your mother,” she said gently, “she seemed to care about you.”

Blaise didn’t answer.

Draco remained standing for a beat longer, conflicted, then moved stiffly to the couch beside Daphne. Pansy followed, sitting with her arms crossed, while Greg and Vince plopped down at the ends, unusually quiet.

Aurelian padded forward and curled beside Blaise. Severina twitched her tail, then joined them, pressing her warm side against his leg.

“I’m sorry for the scene,” Blaise said finally. “I have… a complicated relationship with my mother.”

Draco, still trying to understand, cleared his throat.

“So that man… he wasn’t your father?”

Blaise shook his head.

“No. He’s my fourth stepfather. So far. Might not be the last.”

Theo gave a dry chuckle. “You know, I don’t even know who my mother was.”

“Good for you,” Blaise muttered. “Because I wish I didn’t know mine at all.”

The room went still.

Even the fire seemed to lower its crackle.

Draco stared at the thick rug, fidgeted with his sleeve. He didn’t know what to say—none of this fit in his understanding of family. So instead, he flicked his wand and said,

“Dobby.”

The elf popped in with a soft crack, eyes wide as always.

“Yes, Master Draco?”

“Bring us the peppermint bark and the cocoa Mother packed. Enough for everyone.”

“Yes, Master Draco,” Dobby said with a deep bow before vanishing.

A small exhale escaped Blaise’s lips. The tension didn’t vanish—but it loosened, just a little.

“Anyway,” he muttered, “let’s forget this.”

He looked up, eyes darker than usual but glinting with that old spark.

“How about we play a game?”

Pansy stretched dramatically, flopping back on the couch with a groan.

“Truth or dare.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “We’re not eleven-year-old girls.”

“We are eleven-year-olds, Draco,” Pansy said sweetly. “And you’re just scared I’ll make you confess you cried during that troll incident.”

Greg and Vince snorted. Daphne rolled her eyes but didn’t object. 

Everyone moved down to the rug, forming a loose circle around the still-flickering fire. The peppermint cocoa arrived with Dobby—steaming mugs, neat silver tray, and delicate peppermint bark in parchment wrappers. Dobby bowed again and vanished.

As they settled in, Aurelian padded forward and jumped lightly into Astoria’s lap. She blinked in surprise, then chuckled softly and began stroking behind his ears. The big smoke-colored cat purred immediately, leaning into her palm.

Astoria looked up, eyes settling on Draco.

“Daphne told me about your cat.”

Draco gave a faint nod, sipping his cocoa.

Astoria tilted her head, still stroking the cat lazily.

“He seems to be much more emotionally open than you.”

Draco choked on his cocoa. Pansy wheezed.

Daphne didn’t even flinch. “She’s not wrong.”

Theo grinned. “This is going to be fun.”

Draco glared, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, and muttered,

“He only likes intelligent people.”

“Good,” Astoria said calmly. “Then we understand each other.”

Aurelian stretched across her lap like a velvet scarf.

Draco narrowed his eyes. Pansy clapped her hands once.

“Alright! First round: truth or dare, starting with… Vince.”

“Wha—why me?!”

“Because you look like you’ve got secrets.” Daphne’s eyes sharpened.

Pansy tapped her chin like a conniving queen choosing her next target.

“Vince. Truth or dare?”

Vincent shifted where he sat, his fingers tugging nervously at the hem of his robe. His eyes darted around the circle—everyone was watching, but no one looked mean. That made it worse.

“…Truth,” he muttered.

Pansy smirked. “If you could trade lives with someone in this room for one day, who would it be?”

Greg snorted. “Bet he picks Draco.”

Vincent stared at the fire for a long second. Then his gaze flicked sideways.

“Blaise.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

Theo leaned forward slightly. “Why?”

Vincent looked down at his knees.

“Because he doesn’t care.”

The room went quiet.

Vincent’s voice was soft, almost embarrassed.

“He says what he wants. Does what he wants. Even when adults are around. Even his mum.”

He looked up now, not at Blaise, but at the flickering shadows on the wall.

“My dad tells me to be useful. To make myself important to the right people. Says that’s the only way to be safe in our world. He says I’m lucky Draco even talks to me.”

Draco’s spine straightened.

Vincent kept going.

“Blaise never tries to be useful. He doesn’t need to. And people still listen to him. They still stay.”

Blaise crossed his arms and leaned back into the plush rug, eyes on the ceiling.

“I’m just lucky Mother’s always on my side when her husbands try to educate me.”

Daphne looked over from the couch. “Then why don’t you like your mother?”

Blaise’s lips pressed together. “Because she loves none of them. I can see it. Every time. She’s with them anyway. I told her once—‘we don’t need their money.’ She didn’t listen. Just smiled and told me to be polite.”

He sounded tired. Older than eleven.

Draco frowned. This didn’t make sense. In his house, things were clear. Lucius loved Narcissa. Narcissa loved Lucius.

He tilted his head.

“But… isn’t your mother already rich?” he asked. “She’s beautiful. Elegant. She wouldn’t have trouble finding someone she actually wants.”

Blaise let out a quiet laugh, the kind that didn’t sound funny.

“That’s the part I’ll never understand.”

There was a pause. The fire cracked gently behind them.

Astoria, still stroking Aurelian’s back, said softly,

“Adults are strange. But only until we discover their secrets.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Astoria, please. Not everything’s a puzzle.”

Greg blinked. “Wait… are you saying we should spy on Blaise’s mum?”

Astoria looked up, her voice calm, cool, certain.

“No. I’m saying… we should discover her secret.”

Theo leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“So, just to clarify,” he said, “your mother marries men she’s not in love with… and all of them end up dead?”

Blaise, lying back on the rug, shrugged. “Eventually. Not immediately. There were… accidents. Illness. One disappeared on a boat trip.”

“That’s not normal,” Daphne said flatly.

“I didn’t say it was,” Blaise muttered.

Astoria, sitting cross-legged with a lemon slice between her fingers, tilted her head. “Did they have anything in common?”

“No,” Blaise said. “They were completely different. Different looks, different backgrounds.”

“If I were her,” Draco said, “I’d keep a diary. It’s impossible to remember that many husbands without notes.”

Everyone turned to him. Draco raised a brow. “What? My mother gave me my diary. Clarity is a discipline.”

Astoria sipped her cocoa. “If I had that many husbands, I’d hide it somewhere. So none of them ever found out about the others.”

Everyone turned to stare at the nine-year-old. She smiled sweetly. “What? Adults lie. You have to organize your lies properly.”

Daphne exhaled like her soul was weary. “She was dropped on her head as a baby.”

“I was not,” Astoria said brightly, popping the peppermint bark into her mouth.

Vince rubbed his chin. “Okay. Hypothetically—if she did keep some kind of record… Where would she hide it?”

“Her vanity,” Draco offered. “Or a private jewelry room? Somewhere feminine.”

“Predictable,” Pansy said, making a face. “Women hate being predictable.”

Theo turned to Blaise. “Does this manor have a room just for her personal things? Clothes, accessories, anything like that?”

Blaise thought for a moment. “Yeah… two dressing rooms and a seasonal wardrobe upstairs. One for spring-summer. One for autumn-winter.”

Astoria shook her head. “I wouldn’t put it there.” She plucked another peppermint bark piece from the tray and smiled. “I’d hide it in Blaise’s old toy room.”

“What?” Vince blinked.

“No husband wants to see the childhood room of the son he didn’t father,” Astoria said. “And Blaise is already too grown-up to visit it.”

Blaise gave Astoria a long look. “You terrify me.”

Draco looked just as baffled, but grinned. “You little menace.”

Vince whispered, “Now I know where to hide my toys.”

Greg replied, deadpan, “That’s predictable of you.”

Blaise sat up slowly. “Fine. I’ll show you the toy room.”

Draco followed his friends down the hall to Blaise’s childhood playroom. The door creaked open, revealing a bright, airy space dusted with age. Sunlight poured in through tall, narrow windows. A faded green dragon rug sprawled across the floor. Toy brooms, half-forgotten Quidditch sets, a shelf of enchanted soldiers frozen mid-battle.

It was, more or less, what Draco’s playroom had looked like at that age. Except newer. Less touched. 

His father never played with him much. But his mother had. She’d always watched. Guided. Laughed.

He doubted Blaise had even that.

Pansy clapped her hands. “Well, boys—Easter egg hunt. You lot are experts in boy toys. Get digging.”

Astoria tilted her head, eyes scanning the room. “Except the one who hid the secret… is a woman,” she said. “We should search too.”

Daphne crossed her arms. “Please don’t start lifting carpets again, Astoria.”

Vince was already poking around a toy chest full of disassembled knights. Greg examined a toy broom suspiciously, then sat on it. Nothing happened. He tried bouncing. Still nothing.

Blaise moved toward the dollhouse-sized model of a manor—likely an old inheritance from one of his stepfathers. He opened the roof. Empty.

Theo turned slowly in a circle. “We’re not looking for something obvious. We’re looking for something she wouldn’t want found. Sentimental. Or dangerous.”

Astoria circled the room once, then stopped. Her eyes had locked onto something.

A framed baby photo of Blaise sat crooked above a dusty shelf. His infant face stared back blankly in velvet robes, framed in unnaturally thick silver trim.

Astoria tilted her head.

“It’s too thick,” she said.

Greg squinted. “Maybe he was just a fat baby.”

“No,” she said. “The frame.”

Draco looked up, then followed her gaze. The frame was mounted high—too high for either of them to reach.

Daphne sighed and lifted her wand. “Leviosa.”

The photo floated gently down into her hands. With practiced ease, she set it on the rug.

Draco raised a brow. “Nice job. During class you couldn’t pull it off.”

Daphne didn’t answer.

She just knelt beside the frame and ran her fingers over the back, looking for a latch. Astoria joined her.

Vince was the first to notice the silence. “What is it?”

Daphne gave the back a slight nudge. Click. A narrow seam opened in the frame. She pried it gently apart, revealing two layers of enchanted glass.

Nestled between them was a slim, leather-bound book. Purple ribbon tied tightly around it, brittle at the edges. No label. No initials.

Just a diary.

Everyone stared.

Pansy didn’t blink. “She hid it behind a picture of Blaise as a baby,” she said softly.

Theo’s voice was low. “So none of the men would ever look.”

Draco crouched down. “That’s… actually brilliant.”

Daphne didn’t move. Her hand hovered over the book, then stopped.

Astoria gently reached past her sister and pulled it free. She turned to Blaise and held it out.

“It’s yours.”

Blaise took the diary and sat cross-legged on the rug. Draco sat down beside him.

He cleared his throat. His voice came quiet at first.

“She didn’t title the entries.”

He flipped a few pages, eyes scanning down.

Then he began to read aloud.

—

Tom had become something else.

I can’t say I still had a crush on him. He’s no longer that cool, handsome boy I used to talk to in the Slytherin dorms. Whatever he is now… it’s not human.

He was experimenting with Horcruxes when I saw him again. Told me all about the theory. About splitting the soul.

He offered to make me immortal.

But I saw his face. I saw what the cost was.

I told him I didn’t want eternity if it meant becoming that.

So he gave me another offer.

A prettier one.

“Seven sins,” he said. “Seven men. Marry each. Study them. And before their sin devours you, devour them first.”

There was a goblet. A beautiful thing. He said, “A drop of blood from each one, just before death. Drink it. Stay young. Stay beautiful.”

At sixteen, it sounded absurd.

I said no.

But when I turned thirty-three and saw the first wrinkle by my eyes, I panicked. I asked him if the offer still stood.

He smiled. 

—

Blaise stopped. His fingers curled over the leather.

Nobody interrupted. 

He turned the page, eyes locked.

—

My first husband was Lionel. He was proud, elegant, a Ministry golden boy. Everything about him screamed PRIDE.

I married him for love. That was my mistake.

When the ninth year came, I still hadn’t killed him.

Tom came to remind me what would happen.

If I don't kill the husband within 10 years, my beauty will start to decay.

I killed Lionel one week before the tenth anniversary. He died choking on black petals I put in his tea. I cried for weeks. But my face stayed smooth.

The second was Albert. Greed, embodied. He measured everything in galleons—even his love. Easy to hate. Easy to poison. He died on our first anniversary. I didn’t cry. I inherited his entire fortune.

The third was Andrews. He was Lust. Madly handsome. Could make flowers bloom just by smiling.

I wanted to keep him. But I knew better.

On our tenth year, I gave him wine. Laced with a charm that lulled him to sleep.

He said he wanted children. I said let’s name him Blaise.

He never woke up.

Blaise’s hands had started to shake.

He closed the book.

No one moved.

Only the fire cracked in the hearth. Aurelian flicked his tail, sensing something unspeakable had just entered the room.

Theo’s voice broke the silence. “That was the third.”

“Lust,” Daphne whispered. “So she’s done with Pride, Greed, and Lust.”

Draco’s voice was low. “And Blaise had 3 stepfathers earlier… Wrath, Gluttony, Envy”

Blaise spoke last. “And the fourth one downstairs… is Sloth.”

He set the diary on the rug.

“She really did it,” he whispered. “She really went through with it.”

Draco leaned forward, eyes wide but voice composed.

“Which means that goblet… still exists.”

They all looked at one another.

Blaise's voice dropped to a whisper. "So my mom's age is..."

"...64." Daphne finished.

Vince gasped in disbelief. "She looks like 33."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Because she agreed to take the curse, you idiot."

Chapter Text

Draco sat next to Blaise in the Slytherin common room, smirking at the chess match between Theo and Daphne. As usual, a noisy crowd had gathered—girls cheering for Daphne, boys for Theo. Aurelian and Severina had padded up to the banister above, tails flicking as they looked down like miniature kings surveying a duel.

Draco leaned back in the couch next to Blaise, arms folded, amused at how seriously the others took this ongoing competition. But when he glanced sideways, he caught Blaise’s expression—eyes fixed on the fireplace, not the board, hollow and far away. Understandable, Draco thought. Ever since Christmas, when Blaise had uncovered his mother’s secret, he had been different. Hollow. Heavy. 

Pansy, ever blunt, said he would finally accept it once his current stepfather’s funeral notice arrived—because that would mean Sabine’s cycle had finalized, and nothing would ever rob her of youth or beauty. Theo disagreed. He insisted Blaise should confront her, force her to stop this path, force her to be a normal mother. Blaise had made no decision, only let the silence eat him alive.

A loud cheer pulled Draco away from his thoughts. Daphne had cornered Theo’s king, and Cassian, the Slytherin prefect keeping score, groaned as he marked another point for the girls’ side on the board.

“At this rate,” Greg muttered, “I’ll be decorating the common room with pink bows by the end of the year.”

“Green goes well with pink, doesn’t it?” Pansy smirked.

Draco leaned back lazily. “Theo, better make sure we keep green in the lead. Not because I dislike pink—but because my hands would get callouses from mopping the floors.”

Laughter rippled through the group. The Slytherins broke apart, scattering toward their rooms with goodnights echoing through the chamber. Theo, Vince, Greg, Daphne, and Pansy all drifted over to flop near Blaise. They couldn’t cure what weighed on him, but their presence was all they could offer.

Blaise rose at last, murmuring a tired goodnight. He had barely taken a step toward the door when the iron hinges creaked.

A tall figure swept into the common room, cutting against the usual rhythm of curfew. Her silken cloak shimmered green and silver in the firelight.

An old and frail woman revealed herself under the veil.

Draco narrowed his eyes. Who was this? And how did she know the common room’s door code?

The woman exhaled softly. “The Slytherin dorm… hasn’t changed much.”

Blaise froze. His lips parted, the word barely escaping: “Mother.”

Every jaw in the room dropped.

Draco’s stomach twisted. Sabine Zabini—the woman he remembered from Christmas, impossibly young and beautiful, perfect skin, perfect hair. Now she looked… sixty-four. Wrinkled. Diminished. Human.

Does this mean she—

“Blaise,” Sabine whispered. “I need to talk to you. Please.”

Blaise’s eyes were hard. “I have nothing to talk to you about.”

“Please, Blaise. I don’t have much time left.”

Blaise’s mouth curled bitterly. “So. You chose not to kill your last husband. I can tell. Good for you. If that’s what you came to announce, you can leave now.”

Sabine flinched, her gaze flickering to Draco, Daphne, Greg, Vince, and Pansy. “So… you all know?”

“The diary,” Blaise said flatly. “Behind our portrait.”

.Sabine dropped to her knees, hands trembling. “I’m sorry, Blaise. I should have—”

“You should have taken a contraceptive drink,” Blaise cut in, voice like glass. “That would’ve been mercy, instead of creating me without a father.”

The air stilled. Draco felt the words like knives.

“Blaise…” Sabine’s voice cracked. “I know I’ve been terrible. But please, listen to me. I don’t have much time.”

Draco tilted his head. She had said that before. Twice now. What was she circling toward?

Blaise blinked slowly. “Go on, then. I need to sleep.”

“Please spend one day with me. Tomorrow.”

“If you came all this way for that,” Blaise snapped, “you can go back. You had eleven years.”

Her voice broke. “Blaise, there’s something else you don’t know…” She faltered, glancing uneasily at his friends.

Daphne cleared her throat. “Well, we should—”

“Don’t,” Blaise cut in sharply. His eyes were ice. “My mother has no dignity left to be shy. Besides, you all know her story now.”

Sabine inhaled sharply, then forced it out in a rush. “I won’t live past tomorrow night. All I want is to spend my last day with my son. But before I die, I must free you from something. When I was pregnant with you… as thanks to Tom for the curse and the goblet… he demanded an Unbreakable Vow. That when you turned sixteen, you would belong to him. And the Dark Mark would appear.”

Blaise’s voice shook with fury. “What the hell is the Dark Mark?”

“It is the sign Tom brands on his followers,” Sabine whispered.

Draco raised his brow. Whoever this Tom fellow was, he clearly didn’t know how to build loyalty. If power was real, you wouldn’t need a mark—you’d already be feared. And honestly—who in their right mind would brand themselves like cattle? You’d have to be desperate… or stupid. Imagine explaining that to a girl at a party.

Sabine’s eyes closed briefly. “I agreed back then. Because I didn’t know what love was until you were born. You were the only thing I ever loved. I regretted everything I had done. And when Tom disappeared, I thought the vow would never matter again. I thought it was over.”

Blaise scoffed. “No—you wanted youth and beauty forever. Don’t twist it.”

Sabine bowed her head. “But Tom is returning. It is certain. He lives, weak, but he will rise again. That is why… I destroyed the goblet. I fed it my blood, and burned it. That’s why I look like this now.”

Blaise’s voice was dry. “Touching. So you came to announce you’ve changed your mind.”

Sabine shook her head. Slowly, she lifted a small silver ring. Its surface glimmered faintly, as if blood ran beneath the metal.

“I came to free you. This is a blood-ring. It will take the vow into me—consume what life I have left. Once you put it on, you are free. No Dark Mark. But it costs me… everything. I will have twenty-four hours left. That is all.”

Her voice broke on the last words. “Please, Blaise. Please let me be a mother for the last time.”

Blaise’s fists clenched, knuckles pale. He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled.

“See you tomorrow,” he muttered, then turned toward the dorms. Over his shoulder, softer: “And bring ice cream.”

Sabine’s eyes glinted, wet as candlelight caught them. A tear slipped free before she could stop it. She adjusted her veil, face hidden once more, and stepped out without a word.

Silence held the group until Theo cleared his throat.

“I saw something in a potions text once,” he said slowly. “A recipe that can return someone’s prime look—for twenty-four hours.”

His gaze flicked to Blaise’s retreating back. “Blaise should see his mother as she was. The way he’s always remembered her.”

The words carried a strange weight. Then Theo stood, quick, decisive. “I’ll fetch the book.”

Greg’s jaw dropped. “That’s amazing.”

Vince grinned, dreamy. “I’d love to see my mum back when she was twenty-five. She made the best homemade rolls then. Stronger arms, better dough. You know—”

“—better kneading?” Pansy interrupted, snorting.

“Exactly!” Vince nodded earnestly.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “My mum would drink that potion every day if she could. Honestly, it’d be worse than her wine habit.”

Draco smirked. “My mother wouldn’t touch it. She’d consider it beneath her dignity. If you look perfect, you don’t need a shortcut.”

The group chuckled—though faintly, as if the tension of Blaise’s shadow still lingered.

Theo returned, clutching a thick green-bound book. He set it down with a quiet thud, flipping carefully until he found the page. His eyes scanned the list, then he began assigning tasks like a conductor with his orchestra.

“Greg—two measures of moonstone powder. Vince—lacewing flies, fresh if possible. Pansy—valerian root, dried. Daphne and I—you’ll find unicorn hair in Snape’s locked stores. Draco…” Theo paused, smirking faintly. “…yours might be tricky. We need a sprig of ashwinder’s tonguefern. It only grows in damp soil. Hagrid cultivates it in the greenhouses.”

Draco’s lips parted in mild disgust. “You’re sending me to that oaf?”

Theo arched a brow. “You wanted a challenge, didn’t you?”

Draco rolled his eyes.

Draco rolled his eyes as he slipped out of the Slytherin dorm. Honestly, tromping down to Hagrid’s hut in the middle of the night sounded far better than breaking into Snape’s locked stores. Let Theo and Daphne risk their necks with that—if anyone could handle it, it was them.

The night air bit at his skin as he crossed the grounds, the hut glowing faintly ahead. Draco exhaled, trying to banish the memory of the last time he’d been caught outside after hours—Snape’s hand clamped on his shoulder, dragging him back like a scolded child.

This is for Blaise, he reminded himself. Just a sprig of ashwinder’s tonguefern, and he’d be done.

The plants clustered near the damp soil at the hut’s edge, shimmering faintly in the dark. Draco crouched, clipped a sprig, and tucked it quickly into his cloak. Easy. He straightened, ready to vanish before anyone—

A sharp gasp froze him. Familiar. Weasley.

Draco narrowed his eyes and crept closer to the hut. He peeked through the window.

There it was. The dragon egg. Sitting smugly on the table, glowing with heat. And around it—Potter, Granger, and Weasley, gawking like idiots.

So Hagrid was the thief. Merlin, and Draco got so much trouble for this damn egg.

The egg cracked, splintering, and a scaled snout broke through. A baby dragon.

It was… cute. Far cuter than Draco wanted to admit. Before he realized it, an involuntary sound slipped out of his mouth—soft, almost admiring.

“Aww.”

The three Gryffindors whipped their heads around.

Granger’s eyes locked on him. Draco’s blood iced.

Bugger.

He bolted, cloak whipping behind him, sprinting back toward the safety of the dungeons before anyone could stop him.

By the time Draco reached the Slytherin common room, he was panting. When was the last time he’d sweated? Right—more than he had ever in his entire life since he’d set foot in this castle. Unacceptable. Father would be proud, of course, claiming he was “building muscle.” More like wearing out his joints. Whatever.

He turned down the corridor and rapped on the boys’ restroom door, whispering, “It’s me.”

The lock clicked. Inside, Theo, Daphne, and Pansy huddled around the sinks. Aurelian and Severina sat like sentries, tails flicking, while Theo stirred something in a cauldron that was definitely not school-sanctioned.

Draco pulled the ashwinder’s tonguefern from his cloak and dropped it beside Theo. “Remind me again why we’re doing this in the loo?”

“Because more Slytherin boys are part of this scheme than girls,” Daphne replied coolly.

Pansy gave a dramatic sigh. “Which makes me worry about Greg and Vince. What if they’re lost?”

Draco waved a hand. “They’ll manage. Anyway—do you know what I just saw?”

That got their attention. Theo looked up, Daphne arched an eyebrow, and Pansy’s smirk promised she was ready to savor gossip of the year.

“I saw Potter, Weasley, and Granger in Hagrid’s hut,” Draco began, then let it hang. “And do you know what else I saw?”

They leaned closer.

“The dragon egg.”

Pansy gasped. “You’re certain?”

Draco gave a solemn nod. “Positive. And it hatched. Merlin’s beard, it actually hatched. But—they saw me.”

“Why would Hagrid steal that egg?” Pansy demanded.

“Because he’s obsessed with magical beasts,” Daphne said matter-of-factly.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Who cares why? I’m reporting it. Let Snape skin them alive. I nearly got skinned myself for this mess and only survived thanks to you lot.”

The whispers pressed soft against the door: “It’s us.”

Pansy let out a long exhale. “Finally.”

Draco stepped forward and pulled the doors open. Greg and Vince lumbered in, their arms full of ingredients.

Theo straightened, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Great. Now we have everything.”

Draco slipped out past them, pausing just long enough to flash the group a lazy wink. “See ya later.”

The doors thudded shut behind him, leaving the others in flickering candlelight.

—---

Draco leaned back against the bench, spoon idle in his hand, yesterday’s humiliation gnawing at him. The way McGonagall had stood, stiff-backed and cold, deducting points from Slytherin. Fair—yes, he had broken curfew. But unfair in every other way. Potter, Granger, Weasley, and Hagrid had committed a far greater crime, sneaking a dragon egg around like fools, and what did they get? The same punishment as him. As if theft and stupidity were equal to his mistake of reporting it. At least he hadn’t stolen anything. 

And yet, who bore the brunt of suspicion? Him.

For weeks, Snape believed it, until Draco had marched in with the truth. Not that it mattered—Snape’s eyes had narrowed on him like a hawk ready to tear him apart. No scathing lecture for Potter, no threat to peel Hagrid alive for harboring contraband. Just silence. Infuriating silence.

And speaking of the detention—Merlin, what a joke. Potter should have been on his knees thanking Draco for dragging Hagrid back to save his sorry arse. If it weren’t for him, the so-called Chosen One would still be frozen stiff in that clearing, staring at death like an idiot. Draco exhaled long and slow, heat simmering under his ribs. He didn’t care about Potter’s gratitude. He just wanted Potter, Hagrid, all of them, punished properly.

His blood boiled. Why did he care so much? Why did Potter always slip under his skin? And then there was the thing in the forest. The memory of that pale, twisted creature leaning over the unicorn made him shiver even now. For one terrifying moment, he had nearly—Merlin, he would never admit it—lost control of himself again.

“Your ice cream’s going to melt if you keep glaring at it like that,” Pansy drawled, holding her ice cream cone.

Draco blinked back into the present, jaw tight. 

He looked down at the half-melted pistachio cone in his hand and started licking frantically, as if speed alone could keep it from dripping.

“You look like a puppy,” Daphne snorted.

“Do not compare me to a filthy dog,” Draco snapped, lifting his chin. But just then, a blob of green dropped right onto his pristine robes.

“See?” Daphne grinned. “Now you’ve got all the Slytherin colors. At least the green stain could be passed off as a fashion choice.”

Draco shot her a sharp glare, but before he could retort, he caught Vince reaching for his ice cream, pinky hovering dangerously close.

Draco swatted his hand away. “Touch it and you’ll lose that finger.”

“I just want to try pistachio,” Vince scowled.

“Then you should have picked pistachio.”

“But I want both.”

Draco held the cone like it was a delicate wine glass, pinky raised dramatically. “Mint is common. Pistachio is sophisticated.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “It’s nuts, Draco. Literally nuts.”

Theo chuckled, holding out his own pistachio cone to Vince. “Here, you can try some.”

Vince brightened, pulling out a spoon from Merlin-knew-where to scoop some. Greg immediately leaned closer. “Can I try too?”

Theo just sighed and nodded, resigning himself to generosity.

Meanwhile, Pansy kept darting glances at Blaise’s mint ice cream. “Pistachio tastes better anyway,” she muttered.

Blaise tilted his head at her. “Wanna try mine?”

“Nope,” Pansy said quickly, lips pouted as she turned away.

From behind them, Mrs. Zabini giggled at the whole exchange. “What a lovely group of friends you have, Blaise.”

A drop of ice cream plopped onto Severina’s white fur just as Pansy turned her head. The kitten shivered, indignant at the cold intrusion. Aurelian’s golden eyes darted to her, wide with dread as if fearing some new and terrible phenomenon — an ice cream rain. He swung his gaze up at Draco, ears twitching, a silent warning not to let such horrors repeat. Blaise, suppressing a smirk, took a napkin and dabbed the spot from Severina’s fur with unusual care, as though restoring her royal dignity.

The ice cream was gone.

Draco glanced up at Mrs. Zabini. Thanks to Theo’s potion, she looked…different. Not old and frail like yesterday, and more importantly at peace—like she belonged in another time. His eyes drifted to Blaise, who was dutifully handing out napkins, trying too hard to fill silence.

“Thank you for the ice cream, Mrs. Zabini,” Draco said finally. “Interesting choice of flavors. Even the colors matched Slytherin. You were Slytherin, weren’t you?”

Sabine’s lips curved faintly. She nodded.

Blaise tilted his head. “So that Tom—you said he was a Slytherin too. What was he like? Did he… regret his choices?”

Sabine’s eyes lingered on something no one else could see. “He was brilliant. Too brilliant. He made you feel seen when he wanted to. He never raised his voice, never lost control.” Her smile vanished. “And no. I don’t think he ever regretted a single choice.”

Draco leaned forward. “You said he experimented. With souls. That’s not normal magic.”

“Oh, it was worse than abnormal,” Sabine murmured. “I told myself I wasn’t tempted. But the truth?” Her hand tightened against her glass. “I wanted what he offered. I lived in temptation until I turned thirty-three. That’s when I broke.”

Pansy frowned. “Why would he care about you at all? You were just a girl in his dorm.”

Sabine’s expression shifted—soft, almost embarrassed. “I don’t know. Maybe because I listened when others didn’t. He told his secret to only me. Perhaps he saw through my ambition.”

Daphne arched a brow. “Did you ever report him to anyone?”

Sabine shook her head. “No. After Hogwarts, I never reached out again. Not until he became… famous. By then, he had followers.”

Theo studied her carefully. “So he must’ve been powerful.”

Daphne added, “And famous.”

Something shuttered in Sabine’s face. “You don’t need to know him. He was a dangerous man.”

Blaise stiffened. “But how will I know if the ring works? What if some dark mark—or whatever—appears when I turn sixteen?”

Sabine flinched. Her hand darted to clutch Blaise’s, but he pulled away.

“No, son. It won’t appear. I’m sure of it. Merlin, I am sure of it.”

Blaise looked away. His voice was sharper now. “Then tell me more about Tom. I need to know what he looked like. You said he’ll return.”

Draco broke in, eyes glinting. “And what happened to him anyway? You said he made himself immortal.”

Sabine exhaled. The sound carried both weariness and fear.

“He was defeated once. But he didn’t die. Not completely. My curse was bound to one goblet. His… he scattered his soul across many things.” Her gaze flicked to Blaise, raw and maternal. “But I promise you, that man will never touch you. I’ve already given my life to make sure of it.”

Blaise looked away, jaw tight. Mrs Zabini’s hand hovered above his shoulders but she lowered it, fingers curling against her palm instead.

“I hope one day you’ll be able to forgive me,” she murmured. “Not for the deaths, but for making you feel like you were never enough. I wanted beauty so badly I forgot you were already the most beautiful thing I had. I’m so grateful you turned out to be kind, Blaise. Kinder than I ever deserved.”

Silence lingered, thick as velvet.

She turned to the rest of them, her painted lips trembling. “And I can’t thank you all enough for being his friends.”

Theo tilted his head, studying her the way one might study a puzzle. “So,” he said softly, “did Tom have friends? You wanted beauty… but what about him? Why did he want eternal life?”

Mrs Zabini exhaled, almost laughing at the absurdity of telling children a story that wasn’t meant for bedtime. “I read his diary once. He shared it with me like I was his beta reader. Tom was born from love—at least that’s what his mother thought. But it was from a love potion. His mother drugged his father, and when she stopped, he left. She was already pregnant.”

Her eyes grew distant, glassy. “She gave birth to him in the orphanage and died there. Tom grew up with no family, no love, just constant reminders of mortality. I think he equated death with weakness. Survival became the only thing he believed in.”

Aurelian let out a low, rumbling purr, brushing against Blaise’s leg. Severina leapt into Mrs Zabini’s lap, curling there as though she knew.

“Perhaps that’s the difference between us,” she whispered. “Tom thought survival made him strong. But love… love is what keeps you alive in people’s memories.”

Her gaze lingered on Blaise, heavy with unspoken prayers. Then she bent forward, pressed a kiss to his hair.

Draco sat very still, the weight of her words pressing into him. Love keeps you alive in memory. It was the opposite of what Father always said—that power, name, and reputation were the only immortality worth chasing. Draco wasn’t sure which was true. He only knew that if everyone whispered Malfoy with respect, then he’d never vanish like Tom’s mother, nameless and forgotten. He would live forever through the shine of their family crest.

That was the danger of weakness, wasn’t it? Of not being born into the right kind of family, the right kind of love. That was why Father always said image was everything. If people respected your name, you’d never end up abandoned in an orphanage like that. He felt a quiet pride as his fingers brushed the Malfoy crest on his shirt, knowing there was a manor waiting for him, a legacy built to last.

Then the pride soured. Blaise would lose his mother tonight. Draco swallowed hard. He couldn’t imagine it. No father to lecture him in that cold, measured tone. No mother to smooth his hair, to tuck a handkerchief into his sleeve before a dinner. The thought hollowed him out.

What would be left of him without them? He’d be no one—just a boy, small and ordinary. Draco’s throat tightened. He depended on his parents. On their approval, their presence, even their arguments. They were the pillars that held up the Malfoy name—and him along with it. Without them, he’d crumble.

And if it could happen to Blaise—then maybe it could happen to him, too.

Draco turned his gaze to the sky. The sun was folding itself into the horizon. Sunset.

Beside him, Mrs. Zabini finally shifted. Her voice came soft, careful, as though words themselves might break.

“Blaise, my love… life won’t always be fair. Some people will be cruel, some will lie, and some things will hurt. But you—you are clever enough to see the truth. And you’re strong enough to keep walking forward. Remember to eat, remember to study, and remember to rest. That’s all I ask.”

Her hand lifted, fingers trembling as if she wanted to touch his face, but she stopped short. With a breath, she lowered it and turned away.

Blaise’s hand shot out, catching her wrist. For a moment, he held on, refusing to let go. His voice was small but steady.

“Goodbye, Mother.”

Then he turned his head aside.

Sabine’s breath caught. A faint smile touched her lips—the same smile she wore in the painted portrait with baby Blaise cradled in her arms.

And then, she was gone.

Draco noticed Blaise sitting there, knuckles white, Aurelian and Severina curled close against his side. None of them spoke. They just stayed while the sun bled out behind the horizon.

At last, Blaise exhaled and pushed himself up. His voice was low, even, but strained.

“I’m going back to the castle.”

Pansy rose immediately, draping her hand across his shoulders with an airy scoff.

“If you think you’re getting rid of me just because you look pale, you’re wrong.”

Daphne fell into step on his other side, chin high.

“You look pathetic, and I refuse to be seen beside you in this state.”

But she walked beside him anyway.

Theo brushed the dust from his robe and slid in close.

“You’re still ours, Blaise. Don’t forget that.”

Draco smirked faintly, hands in his pockets.

“You’re still sharper than half this castle on your worst day.”

Greg and Vince shuffled forward last. Vince nudged Blaise with his elbow.

“I’ve got a special edition Chocolate Frog saved for a ‘rainy day.’ Guess I could share.”

Greg’s head snapped around.

“And you didn’t tell me that?”

Vince shrugged.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t have lasted ‘til today.”

For the first time all evening, Blaise huffed a laugh and shook his head. Together, they wound their way toward the Slytherin dungeons, passing the blue rose garden blooming in the dark.

Blaise glanced at it once, his voice almost too soft to catch.

“At least I told her goodbye. Unlike Salazar Slytherin.”

The line broke them all into short, uneven laughs.

And Draco—walking in their midst, the weight of it pressing and lifting in the same breath—felt something warm flicker in his chest.

Was this… friendship?