Monday, 1st September, 1997

It would be their last time riding the Hogwarts Express to commemorate the start of their final school year. It was a series of 'lasts' where their academia was concerned, and yet the ending of one life chapter only ushered in the start of another. Six years ago, Draco remembered sitting on the bumpy ride with peers he once thought were 'friends' - they were the sons and daughters of his father's associates eager to fall into the Malfoy heir's social orbit - as he looked forward to his Hogwarts days. Since he could remember, he'd been fed stories of his parents' Hogwart legacies, of his father's glory as a prefect and his mother's social charms. His father stressed the importance of those early years in setting the stage of gathering influence; Draco was pressured to follow in his father's perfectly manicured footsteps in developing alliances, figuring out foes, establishing favors, and structuring a ruling class in his house with him at the top.

At the tender age of eleven years old, he had looked forward to the challenge with giddy nerves. For years, he was raised seeing his father schmooze his way in and out of social circles, completely circumnavigating the proverbial 'social ladder' to instead levitate himself where he needed to be. Lucius Malfoy was everywhere but nowhere, a shade that visited only long enough to make a ripple effect that'd prove beneficial down the line. That was how Lucius Malfoy operated; he was never focused on the immediate gain. He set up plays long before his adversaries and allies had any idea of what he was attempting, and by the time they did figure it out, they were already so entrenched in his web they couldn't hope to get out of it. He was all attack, and an extremely limited few managed to escape his cunning.

Draco had once dreamed of finishing Hogwarts with a similar reputation as his father. He once dreamed of being Head Boy, top of his class, and likely engaged by the end of his final term. His pristine future would be envied by all, and he'd keep a court of loyal subjects who would eventually progress into aristocratic associates as he moved to inherit the Malfoy Conglomerate and complete high-valued acquisitions and work on global diversification. He once dreamed of being engaged to a Pureblooded, wealthy witch, a highly publicized affair cultivated under superb etiquettes. He once thought Hogwarts would make him.

He never thought it would break him. And he never dreamed he'd be sitting beside Hermione Granger, his girlfriend, with charity case Ron Weasley and annoying Lavender Brown across from them.

The train jostled as it crept from the station. Draco looked out the window, watching the station and London slowly slip away. His father remained in the crowd - he could still see the flash of snow-blonde hair belonging to the man currently in conversation with, strangely enough, Xenophilius Lovegood. Lucius might've mostly changed from the man he used to be, but parts were still the same. And he didn't hold an audience with a man like Lovegood without deriving some kind of benefit from it. The fact that his father waited to engage the man, or vice versa, until the train pulled out of the station made Draco narrow his gaze on the window and begin to guess the end game potential.

As ridiculous as The Quibbler was, often the butt of jokes and rarely taken seriously if read at all, it was press. And the power of the quill was often more baleful than all of the unforgivables combined. Trust and reputation took months or years to build, but a single article could tear that same man's integrity down in seconds.

"Money is the blood of nations," Lucius had once told Draco. "Know how to bleed it, how to control it, and you have power. But an ink and quill… never underestimate that. Always keep the quill on your side."

"Our last year," Lavender was the first in their small, awkward group to break the silence. She didn't seem to notice the Gryffindor and Slytherin boys dodging each other's eye. The witch tugged on her boyfriend's arm. "Can you believe it, Won-Won?"

Draco looked across to the other seat, smirking at the redhead. "Yeah, Won-Won. Can you believe it?"

Hermione smacked him lightly on the arm. "Behave," came her hissed response, almost drowned out entirely by a pack of energetic first years passing by them in search of some seats, their robes whirling in a sea of black clouds.

"They're so…small," Ron furrowed his brows as he nodded at the passing children, completely ignoring his girlfriend's endearing use of his nickname and the Slytherin's repeating of it, much to Draco's disappointment. At least a verbal tic for tac could've given them some entertainment for the ride. "Were we that small?"

Hermione chuckled. "Afraid so. It was so odd how fast everyone grew - I swear, when we came back third and fourth year, the boys practically grew fifty centimeters over the summer. And then the girls…" she frowned and shrugged a little. "None of us really changed, I don't think."

Though both boys shared knowing smirks, Draco was at least smart - and gentleman - enough to know to keep his mouth shut. Weasley wasn't. "I dunno," the redhead boasted with a stupid lopsided smile. "I can think of a few parts that grew on the girls."

While the both witches huffed and hawed at his indecency, Draco let Weasley enjoy his ungentlemanly moment in solitude, and instead looked out the train window at the landscape passing them by. Sure, he had the ghost of an amused smile, but he was still on the outskirts of their friend circle; he was an accessory attached to Hermione, and wouldn't be sitting across Ron and his bint of a girlfriend had Hermione not been there.

Could he enjoy a salacious, crude joke with Weasley like he used to with Nott and Blaise? Could he even consider Weasley an acquaintance, or were they still categorized as, while lesser grade, enemies?

It was difficult considering Weasley still had no idea about Draco's involvement with his murdered brother - really, Draco wasn't tormented by any guilt over the matter but it complicated things - and hadn't barraged the Slytherin with sharp words of contempt for kidnapping Harry. In fact, despite a few nasty glances thrown his way, the youngest Weasley wizard hadn't said anything about the topic. Most curious.

It would've been easier for the blonde had Weasley grown a forked tongue and had it out with him. That he could prepare for. That he knew how to hold an arrogant facade of indifference to, despite how he felt internally, and could then move on with his life knowing where they stood.

The train had only just emerged from the city proper and spit out into the blossoming countryside, where slopes and hillsides rolled with fertile wildgrasses and the start of autumn foliage. The locomotive snarled up to its full speed with a guttural whistle, carrying a heap of eager passengers on its back. Well, most were eager. Draco wasn't sure what to feel as he watched the landscape whizz by in a vomit of colors. In another life, he would've been basking in the praise and adoration of his friends, who'd sing his celebrations as a bonafide Slytherin and speak eagerly of his promising Pureblood future after Hogwarts. In another life, he would've been sitting two rows back with the other Slytherins - Blaise, Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle, and several up and coming sixth years - while throwing disdainful commentary at the Gryffindors. They were the perfect targets, so bold with conviction and victims of their own innate "courage".

He used to be the one dishing out the insults and bullying. Now he was listening to them, the sole target of their acidity.

The conversation between the Gryffindors was promptly ignored as Draco idly listened to and systematically recognized the Slytherin voices undoubtedly directed at him. Two rows back behind them was Jeremy Harper, an uppity and overly ambitious sixth year, along with Pansy, Blaise, and several other sixth years. So far, he didn't hear Crabbe or Goyle.

The only voice that was loud enough to actually hear was the one meant to be overheard: Jeremy Harper.

"...gotta give it to 'em though. I wouldn't come back to school after being such a bloody failure." A pause for a nasally laugh. "Maybe those Gryffindors are rubbing off on him. Bravery and all that shite. Fecking disgrace for a Slytherin, let alone a Malfoy."

The conversation around him from the Gryffindors suddenly stopped, certainly they heard the ridiculing from Harper, and the trio all looked at the sole speck of green among a sea of courageous red. But Draco didn't flinch; he didn't turn his head, didn't even blink. He wouldn't give Harper the satisfaction of knowing he got a rise out of him. Harper was the type that if given a moment, he would seize it. And so the blonde Slytherin simply didn't give him one.

In another life, Draco was that bully sitting on the bench, slinging the insults. But he did it with poise and game; Harper did it with the ambitions of desperate acceptance. He was trying to win over his Slytherin subjects much like Draco had during their first train ride when they were eleven years old. The biggest difference was the glaring flaw in Harper's plan; when Draco did it, they were still in the whims of boyhood and his jokes - albeit demeaning at the Gryffindors expenses - aged appropriately with them. Ever his father's son, Draco used a perfect blend of simplistic insults laced with derogatory words, just to get the ideal balance of shock value. It worked-shock was the pathway to disarming even your worst of enemies and best of friends.

That was Harper's first mistake. The second was assuming his subjects were a captive audience who shared with those ideals.

"...Couldn't do anything right on either side. I'd probably hide in some hole if I was him. Or off myself." Harper's nasally laugh carried the distance with far too much ease. Draco's leg twitched. Beside him, Hermione shared a troubled look with Ron, the same one that made her jaw square with righteousness on the eve before she'd launch herself into some noble lecture that she thought virtuous. And that was where the Gryffindors made their mistake-for six years, they thought their virtuous attitudes were the best defense against a Slytherin's acidity. In actuality, it was only fuel to their fire. Draco knew that firsthand.

Hermione did that thing where she sucked in air through her nose, the process she went through when steeling her nerves, and Draco knew what came next. He reached out and placed a stilling hand on her forearm - the first move he'd made since Harper began ridiculing him - to stop her from standing up. She was tense under his touch, and looked at him in a mixture of confusion and anger at his move.

He turned to her. "Don't."

"Draco," her face crumbled more, as if it physically pained her Gryffindor self not to run to the aid of the wounded victim. And while he was many things, a wounded victim he refused to be. At least in this situation. "He can't just say those things about you! How can you ignore that?"

Across from her, even Ron looked bothered. But he also looked bothered that he was bothered, like the mere prospects of feeling anything beyond acrimony towards the blonde Slytherin was troubling. The redheaded wizard shifted his eyes uneasily between Hermione, Draco, and the pack of Slytherins two rows back, sizing up the situation but uncertain on how he should respond.

It was humorous, in a way, that the Gryffindor was finally put in a crisis where he wasn't sure if he was meant to stand up for someone who used to be his bully. Was there a limit to their fount of eye rolling valor?

"Because I can," Draco replied to her, stiffly looking back out the window but not seeing the landscape one bit. When he spoke, it was quiet and low in a tenor reserved solely for the four of them, his lips barely moving enough to form the words. "And you can. He wants a rise. You won't give it to him."

Hermione gave a hmph of disapproval and staunchly crossed her arms over her front, maybe in a last ditch effort to show requested self-restraint and not reach for her wand to hex Jeremy Harper. Across from her, Lavender chewed on her bottom lip nervously, also looking peeved and bothered by the foul turn their train ride took.

Leave it to a pack of Lions to struggle not to get involved in a fight that wasn't theirs to pick. Draco didn't need them to fight his battles-it was a battle that wasn't even worth fighting. Slytherins didn't fight in that way, anyways. Infighting within their House was often malicious but unseen; they were resourceful and cunning, but covert and sly in machinating tactic and strategy from unseen forces. They didn't think about the immediate battle, but considered the grander picture of the war. Sometimes losing battles were needed sacrifices in order to line up a crushing defeat later on.

And sometimes the best way to make friends was to make enemies out of the right people. That was Jeremy Harper's third mistake. He assumed Blaise, Pansy, and the rest of the Slytherins were immediate in tossing the Malfoy heir off his throne, to villainize him for what he did. But the lawlessness of Slytherins rarely operated on knee jerk reactions. They might have had slippery morals, but they still diluted situations to try to find the best outcome in their favor. Jeremy Harper was a wildcard to them; either he'd win over their allegiance by assuming Draco's throne, or he'd go down in flames trying.

Draco heard Blaise mutter something too low for him to make out before the olive-skinned Slytherin left his seat beside Harper and swiftly made his way up the aisle, his bag slung to his shoulder. He never returned.

As the hours passed and their train wormed further north towards Hogwarts, Harper's insults continued with the same lack of creativity and cleverness as before. Really, Draco felt more insulted that the younger Slytherin was so lame and flimsy in the art of bullying. Didn't he learn anything from watching Draco over the years?

This was the best contender for Draco's reign?

Luckily, the Gryffindors were convinced to ignore him enough to resume their bootless conversations, mostly about their hopes and worries for school, Hermione rambling on about the importance of study schedules, and Lavender trying to gossip about the new relationships and rumored engagements on the horizon, though no one else shared in her gossiping interest. Unsurprisingly, no one brought up Harry, the previous war they just emerged from, or any of the topics deemed 'untouchable', leaving the Slytherin to wonder if he was considered an untouchable topic around Harry.

Ironic that Snape and his father could somehow find friendship in the aftermath of the war and the horribleness they all shared, yet their sons couldn't even exchange words with each other. Which in and of itself was strange. They shared a bedroom, had seen each other at their utter worst, and stared down death's door a few times during the ordeal. Maybe it was because they never knew how to exist with one another without the mess of a war or being enemies.

"We should probably get in line for the lavatory to get changed," Lavender suggested as she stood up and turned to Ron. "I want to be the first off the train, arm and arm, and go into the school together. Make it special."

Draco spared a quick glance at Hermione and they both cracked a small smile at the witch's cringy affection. But she was right; if they wanted to avoid the hustling packs of students changing into their uniforms last minute, they'd need to do so soon. Outside the train, twilight battered the sky into a bruised scattering of soft yellow and pink and an encroaching indigo. The Scottish Highlands welcomed them in its elevated arms, the landscape having turned from simple flat plains to jagged, dramatic slopes, mountains covered by vibrant green glens, and crystalline lakes caught in the rigid scapes valleys. It was wild and thriving with nature, so much so that there were hardly any settlements along the feral vista.

The temperature dropped the higher up they climbed, and soon they'd be in Hogsmeade.

Draco grabbed his bag and set off towards the front of the train with Hermione in search of an open lavatory. There were small swells of first years in house-less, generic robes and attire, all nervous and excited at the same time as they lingered in the aisles. Some looked at their newfound friends in desperation, wondering if they would be sorted into different houses and therefore test the bonds of their newly formed friendships. Others kept a small proverbial distance from each other, knowing that there was the possibility of them not being in the same house and not wanting to face the fallout of it.

"Wait for me?" Hermione asked as she took the next open lavatory at Draco's behest.

He nodded back and stared at the closed door that she disappeared behind. Next in line, he was hopeful that he wouldn't have to wait long, especially considering the eyes he felt boring into his back from the second years lined up behind him. A couple of Hufflepuffs, if he were to venture a guess from their fleeting stares that always seemed to quickly look away when he'd tried to catch them in the act. Gryffindors and Slytherins would've kept staring even if caught, either through bolded bravery or in a show of refusing to be intimidated And Ravenclaws wouldn't have been staring in the first place - they didn't so much care about his reputation or him.

The door to the other lavatory - not the one Hermione currently occupied - opened and Draco couldn't be happier to no longer be the spectacle for a pair of curious Hufflepuffs. Preparing to eagerly enter the lavatory to change, the blonde instead found himself rooted in his spot when his eyes landed on a familiar set of deep brown ones. They were the same eyes he looked at for years, for inspiration as a friend and reaffirmation of his power.

"Zabini."

"Malfoy."

The two Slytherins stared at each other with emotionally flat expressions, neither one sure how to react to the other, ironically much the same way Draco treated Harry. The silence spread between them, the type that begged for a confession to shatter the awkwardness.

It was Blaise that broke the silence first as he stepped forward boldly, shoulders proud but arms deftly at his side to show that he meant no harm and wasn't aggressive. "Harper's a bloody twit."

Draco arched a brow. Without taking his eyes off the other Slytherin, he nodded his head in the direction of their seats. "Pansy seems to get on with him well enough."

The other wizard snorted-only someone as suave as Blaise could make the disdainful gesture still come off as caramelly and sophisticated. "Pansy likes anyone with potential. It's even more in her favor when they fancy her back. First part you fulfilled, second part you didn't."

That wasn't a secret. Draco might've taken her to the Yule Ball and stomached her annoying fawning, but not once did he consider dating or courting her. At the most, she could've been an easy lay, but he never acted on it. Don't shit where you eat sort of mentality. "Things are different now, aren't they?"

Blaise didn't say anything right away, just studied the Malfoy heir in the same quiet manner he always did, slowly dissolving outer walls and working to deduce what lay underneath. Blaise was good at that, figuring out a man's worth and weighing against his own goals and ambitions to decide if they were worth his time. He was as much his mother's son as Draco was his father's, they just went about their business with different methods.

But the fact that Blaise didn't let himself get captured in Harper's orbit spoke volumes. It meant he didn't see value in the uppity sixth year, at least not enough to abandon his fealty to Draco and immediately back Harper. It wasn't surprising that Harper was wooing Pansy and Blaise; they were the two Slytherins, beyond Crabbe and Goyle, Draco kept in his confidence. If Harper had them as subjects, he could teeter the power of balance in his favor, systematically taking over important pieces on their proverbial chessboard.

"Haven't seen Crabbe and Goyle," Draco tried to casually bring up. "Don't tell me they finally got kicked out of Hogwarts for their rubbish marks."

The attempt for information might as well have been transparent, Blaise saw through it so quickly. His full lips crescented in a faint smirk, showing a small glimpse of stark white teeth. "Up at the front of the train with me," he offered up the information for free, though that was a double edged sword. Either he continued to trust in Draco and indulged his curiosities out of an undercurrent of allegiance, or he gave the information because it showed that the imbecile wizards were now sitting with Blaise and suggesting their own loyalty rested with him.

Draco maintained an unflappable look. "With you, are they?" He asked flatly.

The other Slytherin narrowed his eyes before chuckling dryly. "They needed a place to sit and I didn't mind the company." They continued staring at one another for a few seconds, the air between them changing a little, before Blaise stepped forward into Draco's space and lowered his voice to a near whisper. "A lot of Slytherins need a place to sit."

Blaise left without another word, and Draco wasn't inspired enough to make assumptions and act. No, he was playing a game of subtlety - any good Slytherin was - and his best knight had told him his pawns and bishops were a scattered mess on the board with little cohesion. Slytherins were interesting creatures; as ambitious and self-fulfilling as they were, they were horribly far-sighted in pursuing a single-minded goal towards greatness. But sometimes greatness didn't mean the good kind, and it often meant losing perspective on the ground directly in front of them. Without a mastermind to guide the flow of their energy, they were aimless until they identified the next greatest person's coattails to ride on.

Changing into his uniform on the train for the last time should've felt symbolic or sentimental. But as Draco emerged from the lavatory, still fixing his tie, he felt nothing but numbness. It would be the last year he'd wear the uniform, though he'd likely exchange it for a different one once he began his healer training, both in the wizarding and muggle world. His father had given him his word that he would reach out to contacts at muggle universities to pull strings, fabricate the needed school marks and academic record, and secure the teenage Malfoy acceptance. Maybe if Draco was a lesser person - or maybe a morally-chained Gryffindor - he would've been upset that his acceptance to the university was getting paved by his father's coffers and not his own accomplishments.

But Draco wasn't a Gryffindor and he didn't lose a wink of sleep knowing he was stealing some other muggle's spot at the university because his father was willing to throw an absurd amount of galleons at them.

Attending a muggle university… that was another stressor he needed to come to terms with. He didn't know anything about muggles and their backwards world. Sure, he was going to be taking Muggle Studies, but two semesters of coursework wouldn't replace a lifetime of refusing to acknowledge the muggle world and their attributes. He was having to learn an entire culture, technology, and norms in the span of a few months instead of seven years.

When Hermione got out of the lavatory - longer than he took, which was impressive considering he went in after her - he didn't mention how her hair looked less frizzy and somewhat tamer. Clearly, she was doing more than just changing into her school uniform. The train churned into Hogsmeade station with a slow gait, night already fastly descended on them as the sky transitioned from twilight to waning dust to finally evening.

Lavender and Ron were already dressed in their uniform and robes back at their seats, sitting and looking not the least bit interested to leave the train quickly. Typical of Weasley- he lazily walked into classrooms, was the first to dash out at the end of a class, and showed no interest in rushing the start of his seventh year. In a way, Ron's academic rigor somewhat reminded Draco of Crabbe and Goyle. And though he wouldn't say it aloud ever, he gave Ron much more credit in surpassing them in intelligence even with his weak interest in schoolwork.

"I need to get off the train early for Head Girl duties," Hermione announced as she reached forward to straighten Draco's tie. It was straight - he never left his tie a mess - and so he figured she only did it for an excuse to touch him. The smile on the edges of her lips only reaffirmed the suspicion. "I can meet up with you before the welcoming feast if you want."

"I'll go with you," Draco replied. "Why not watch Goldstein brilliantly cock up the role that should've been mine?"

Hermione leveled him a look that was meant to be admonishing, but her sympathies in the truth of his words eclipsed it. It was true; Head Boy should've been bestowed on him. He wasn't even a Prefect that year; it went to Blaise Zabini in his absence. Apparently in the conditions of his return to school, when they decided his safety was best assured if lodged separate from his House, he was also to abstain from any student body activities. They never even asked him. Yet again, it was another part of his identity stolen from him.

They left the Gryffindor couple behind while they both made their way to the train doors that'd opened up only seconds earlier. Hand in hand, fingers laced together, the Slytherin-Gryffindor couple were ready to take the year on in sweeping force. And maybe that was what caused the upset. Because Draco had been hearing Harper's demeaning insults for the hours-long train ride, absorbing each verbal blow with the bottomless perseverance his father drilled into him at an early age. In a game of subtlety, resorting to insults was admitting defeat. And maybe if their hands weren't conjoined together, and maybe if Draco wasn't basking Hermione's radiance and power, and maybe if he wasn't so enchanted by her, he could've kept using his shields against Harper's comment.

But people who only use a shield to block are ignoring a perfectly good weapon in their hands.

They both stepped out of the train onto Hogsmeade's dark platform when Harper's nasally voice, a mere meter ahead of them, shattered the calm over Draco. "Ah, look, there Malfoy is. Let's leave 'em alone, guys, he's obviously pretty comfortable between his Mudblood's legs."

A part of Draco longed to release it all, the weight he carried, the bitter taste of memory and the corrosion of hate. And for the greater train ride, he was able to forget the ball of acidity that developed over the course of the past year, a result of being forced into a life he didn't want and then made to live with the consequences he didn't create. Those consequences were made through his adoration for Hermione, the one good blip in his morose sea of darkness that was his life.

And in that moment, those fragile few seconds, he felt something brittle in him snap.

The meter between Draco and Harper was suddenly gone and Hermione's hand was no longer captured in his. He must've dropped it somewhere along the way, but when and how he wasn't sure, nor would he be sure even afterwards. Acting purely on instinct - if one could even call it that - he roughly grabbed Harper's shoulder with all the intention of murdering him. It was a small miracle that his instinct was so basic and distracted with masculine bravado, and that logic and sense fled him. Had he been of sound mind, he would've pulled his wand and hexed Harper with spells that'd give him a one-way ticket to Azkaban.

Luckily for both of them, all Draco armed himself with were his fists.

Spinning Harper around with one hand, Draco threw his fist and all of his weight behind it at the younger Slytherin's face. He barely even heard the sound of bone and cartilage breaking before he threw himself bodily on the other wizard, not the least bit caring about the crowd they quickly attracted. Some were cheering them on - scandal and mischief were the spice of life - and others, the younger students, stood with wide eyes and wondered what kind of school they were going to.

Both Slytherins fell down to the ground in a heap of limbs and robes. He got a few more punches into Harper - maybe his nose and face, he couldn't be sure - before Hagrid and several of the prefects managed to get involved. A half-giant had a fear-inducing effect when he wanted to, and several ground shaking bellows from Hagrid knocked the aggressive fever out of Draco. He stilled just long enough for Hagrid to grab both boys by the scruff of their robes and easily yank them to their feet, keeping both boys separated.

Harper was a wet mess of blood, snot, and tears. The sight was enough to give Draco some sense of satisfaction, and he all of a sudden understood why his father resorted to muggle dueling Arthur Weasley before second year.

"Enough! Both 'a ya!" Though Hagrid seemed to be mostly talking to the wizard with a clean face and blood on his fists.

Dropped with significantly less care than Harper, Draco gathered his wits in the aftermath of what happened. Poise and control in the face of a game of subtlety was the ultimate sophistication, and what he'd just done contradicted the lessons his father instilled in him. And yet, watching Harper painfully limp away with Hermione - who casted a perfect healing charm on him that Draco had taught her - concreted his decision to throw hands with the other boy. Harper was a bully and bullies took opportunities. But Harper forgot something; Draco was the exemplification of a bully and he saw a moment given to him and took it.

There was a buzz washing over the students whispering to one another, some excited over the spectacle, others worried, while the majority of blue-tie wearing students leveled him unimpressed glances. They just wanted a school year free of drama and the ability to focus solely on their academics. Harry Potter had once been the antagonist to a placid education, and they were not about to stomach another distraction.

The prefects demanded the students "move on" and "get to the carriages and boats" and try to ignore the drying blood on the platform and the disheveled Slytherin standing in a slight daze. The students rushed past him in a sea of moving water, forced to listen to the prefects though still avidly talking about the fight, while Draco was largely left alone. When sense and reason returned to him, the blonde's only regret was making Hermione's job as Head Girl suddenly harder, now that she had to ensure the wellbeing of a tosser for a student who bold facedly called her a mudblood.

The carriage ride to Hogwarts was faster and more depressing than Draco remembered it ever being before. He sat with a bunch of quiet third year Slytherins who tried to ignore his presence and hold a conversation as if he wasn't there at all. But their wandering eyes and nervous laughs betrayed them. And just like that, with a single fistfight, his reputation was forming.

When they finally arrived at the castle, Draco didn't join the strong current of students flooding into the Great Hall, enchanted by the amber glow of the floating candles and seduced by the choir. Why did they have a choir in the first place? Quidditch made sense - it was a sport that used magical prowess in handling a broom. But singing?

There was nothing enchanting or magical about the start of term to Draco. His fists still had phantom aches where they collided - and broke, if guessing by the amount of blood - with Harper's very stupid face. The only consolation Draco got was the hopeful chance that Harper's already infuriating nasally voice would become even more nasally after getting his nose rearranged by his knuckles. But considering how quick Hermione was to cast the healing spell, the chances were slim.

Waiting in a little alcove beside the Great Hall was Hermione, fidgeting on the balls of her feet and fingering the hem of her robes while worriedly scanning the crowd. When their eyes met, relief washed over her face and he made his way over towards her, weaving between a sea of students rushing into the feast.

"Everything alright?" He asked it in the most nonchalant, casual tone, like he didn't just smash another Slytherin's face in on the platform.

She balked at him. "Oh, you mean besides me helping a bleeding student to Madam Pomfrey? I expected Head Girl duties to be difficult but didn't anticipate it starting before we even arrived at Hogwarts. What were you thinking, Draco? Honestly!"

Maybe he should've felt more remorse like her. Or maybe that was what separated them; she was an inherently good person while he was a bad person just trying to live a good life. "I was thinking I wanted to hit him to shut him up."

The witch stared at him hard. "Violence doesn't solve anything."

"I dunno about that. He seemed to stop talking rather quickly."

To her credit, she acted like she didn't hear him but the twitch in her squared, stiff jaw gave her away. "What happened to ignoring him? He's right angry, you know. Was going on and on to Madam Pomfrey about how you went mad and attacked him unprovoked."

A swarm of Slytherins rushed past their little alcove, all loud and talking fervently over the fight and trying to guess what happened to Harper. Of course they were extracting unspoken strengths and weaknesses from the 'fight'; Draco hitting his attempted usurper sent a strong message through their House. After they passed, the corridor had gotten significantly quieter as the majority of the student body were finding their seats in preparation for the commencement of the welcoming speech. Distantly, Draco heard the choir quieting itself.

"Unprovoked?! He's bloody lucky I didn't hex his face into his arse." He wasn't actually sure that was a hex but now he was curious to research it later on. With some innovation, maybe he could create the spell, though that begged the question of how to test it. Maybe Harper could serve a purpose, all for academia, of course.

Hermione's frazzled, bothered, and worried expression - all attributes that made her look ravishing, if Draco was being honest with himself - broke for a few seconds as she fought against a small smile. "Come on. We're going to be late. And that wouldn't do for the Head Girl."

Walking hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, green beside red, the two made their way into the Great Hall. As stragglers, they got the attention Draco wanted. And when he felt dozens of eyes on them, he made his move. Before she could separate their hands and move towards her respected table with the other Gryffindors, he gently pulled her in, breathed in her raspberry scented shampoo, and brushed their lips together in a quaint, delicate kiss. It was fragile and provocative and a bold statement all in the same breath. It wasn't the fiery type of kiss that physically swept a woman off her feet, but the meaning behind it was profound and stilling enough to make Hermione's cheeks flush and her breaths come in shallow wisps. And the rest of the hall watched on as the Slytherin made a silent pact with the student body to kiss and hold and be as public as he wanted with his Gryffindor, Muggleborn witch.

While she was still in a bit of a daze, he leaned in towards her to whisper in her ear. "I'll come by your room tonight. Just keep the door unlatched."

Going to their own tables and separating was harder than actually walking into the castle again. While Hermione was accepted to a table filled with her friends, Draco was met with a myriad of faces: some disdainful at what he did during the war, the younger batch curious on the fight that'd broken out, and the smart ones that ignored him and gave him the cold shoulder. Those were the true Slytherins; don't associate with filth out of fear of sullying your own reputation. If it was him, he would've done the same.

In another life, he would've taken a central spot at the table, flanked on his sides by his loyal subjects to run things as he saw fit and be fawned on by his many achievements and anticipated accolades. Instead he took a spot at the very end of the table, where the incoming first years would sit once they got sorted. That was how he was going to start his final year of Hogwarts: sitting with a bunch of eleven year olds.

The pomp and circumstance was mostly ignored by Draco. He didn't care about the Sorting Hat and his stupid riddles, barely noticed which students got placed where, and wouldn't even pretend to be interested in Dumbledore's speech. The man had abandoned him in his final hour of need. Suddenly, an anger flared inside the wizard. Maybe it wasn't Potter that he blamed and held so much contempt for. Maybe it was the ailing old headmaster held in high esteem by the Gryffindors, who clearly favored the lions, all the while leaving Draco out to dry when he needed some of that altruism and benevolence the old man was supposedly revered for. But no, Dumbledore didn't give it. He didn't give Draco anything beyond a welcome letter back to Hogwarts and arranging some meager private quarters. Was Draco supposed to be thankful for that? Did Dumbledore think he was doing the teen a favor by having him back and giving him private lodging?

The prideful part of Draco was tempted to stomp up to the head table and demand he return to the dormitory, safety be damned. But the self-preservation side - arguably his more dominant trait - won out and convinced him that having a private room would keep him not only safe, but at a resource advantage compared to his peers.

It wasn't until the once vacant spots around him got filled by miniature witches and wizards - Weasley was right, the first years were tiny - that he realized the sorting hat had done its thing. Looking up, Draco eyed his new neighbors to take assessment of the new Slytherin stock, especially the fearless one who plopped down directly beside him.

A girl. A young, mousey looking girl so thin and small that her robes - altered in a poor attempt to fit her awkward, frail frame - sat directly beside the Malfoy heir. Thanks to zoning out during the Sorting Ceremony, Draco entirely missed the names and faces of the new Slytherins and so he was at a momentary loss for who his new neighbor was for a few seconds. But that's all it took - a few seconds for him to immediately recognize her ashy brown hair, golden-tan complexion, and cold hazel eyes. No, they'd never officially met but he heard enough about her to figure out who she was.

The Pureblood society was small and mostly self-contained with steep admission requirements and arguably stiffer criteria to stay in the exclusive club. In result, most families knew everything there was to know about one another: their magical affinity and Dark Arts leanings, allowance of blood traitor ideologies, achievements and influence, and many others. For this particular girl, she was a Pureblood hailing from the distant Middle East country of Jordan. Her lineage - strong and pure - was rich with dabbling in the darker of dark arts, though the particular area they lived in Jordan, a small coastal town on the Red Sea, was notorious for it. Necromancy was a daily exercise, often taught at an early age, and they lived with an iron fist around spirits and creatures. The difference between their family and the Malfoys was that the latter respected the Dark Arts, understood its destructive force, and treated it as an ally. The other family did not and paid the ultimate price.

"I'm Hala Khatib," the girl offered without being asked, not looking up from the table's edge.

"Draco Malfoy," Draco stiffly introduced back, not all that interested in engaging in social pleasantries, least of all with a girl of such sinister infamy, if the rumors held any water. "But you probably already know that, don't you? From what I've heard, you know a lot of things about people that you shouldn't."

A humorless smile, the cold type that was morose with a bitter spice to it, crossed her face. "I heard that you sold out your friend and gave him to the Dark Lord after turning your back on your other friends."

Touche.

"You know what they say about rumors," Draco lamely offered back. The girl, Hala, finally looked up from the table to eye him. There was something off about her. Despite her small, fragile frame - borderline emaciated if Draco had to describe it - there was a clouding grief and stilling chill in her stare. As if she witnessed the horridness of humanity, walked through nightmares on the norm, and developed a hardened shell from it. Because that was precisely what she did.

Six years ago, when Hala was only five years old and Draco was early on in his Hogwarts career, her parents had made their last attempt to control spirits. A vengeful jinn spiraled away from their clutches, angered at being enslaved to their whims, and murdered her parents and two older brothers. But not Hala. The news of her family's murder rocked Pureblood society; it was a fear they all had with the dark arts, solidifying the very real threat that encompassed their sinister hobbies. Little Hala had been there for the murders, had seen the jinn take revenge on his captors, and had, somehow, lived to tell the tale.

Rumors abound about her, especially after she relocated to Cornwall to live with her grandmother on the coast. Those who met her lamented on her strangeness, on the way that her piercing stare saw through and into you, and the way that she would have premonitions unprovoked. Supposedly, if the rumors were true, the young witch was gifted the sight of a seer, specifically to see death premonitions.

Draco wondered what she saw when she looked at him.

"Are you going to ask?" She queried with a curious tilt of her head, as if she could read his mind.

He instinctively brought his Occlumency shields up. "Ask what?"

Hala considered him with a blank expression for a few seconds. Distantly, Dumbledore was beginning his speech, making both of them lower their voices. "About your death. It's what everyone asks. Unless you don't care."

He recognized the irony and steel in her voice, like she was challenging him to fall in line with everyone else. "Well, sorry to disappoint," he wasn't sorry at all. "Why would I care about something that's bound to happen anyways at the end of my life? All men die. Why should mine be special? Can you tell me something that's useful instead?"

It was a lie. They sat at a table of Slytherins who all shared the same strong sense of self-preservation. It was the same trait that became Voldemort's one fear: death. Their lives were nothing more than ticking time bombs, each passing second wasting away potential moments of greatness. They were driven to achieve all that they could, ambitious to leave behind a sterling legacy. Death was the only challenge. And Voldemort tried to overcome that challenge with immortality.

Hala didn't call him on his lie, but the more genuine, girlish smile told them both that she knew. "I'm excited to see our Common Room. It's under the lake." Humorous that she informed him, as if he hadn't been living in the Slytherin dorms for the past six years. She was bold like that. "I love swimming. Grew up doing it. I think that's why I got sorted into this House. Its element is water, isn't it? Do you like to swim?"

The abrupt casualness of their conversation disarmed Draco for a few seconds, during which he glanced over at Dumbledore as he was wrapping up his speech. "It's alright, I suppose. But I don't suggest swimming in the Black Lake." He looked back at his new...friend? Were they friends now? "There's merpeople and other ungodly creatures in there that wouldn't take kindly to you splashing about. Not to mention it's bloody freezing."

The younger Slytherin didn't answer right away. She stared at him, her gaze roaming over his features as if in internal deliberation with herself, like she wanted to say something but wasn't sure if it was a good move. The contemplative look was curious to Draco, but he didn't press it. The girl was rumored to be a seer; maybe she was seeing his death. It wasn't something he wanted to know.

When the feast was served, Draco almost convinced himself that luck and charity were on his side, that the start of term might've begun on rocky feet but it was turning for the better. He made a friend with a girl who clearly knew his turmoiled background, coming from her own murky one that they cancelled each other out. Hala wasn't much of an eater - explaining her extremely bony structure - and Draco had no appetite after the fistfight with Harper. He mostly picked at the food on his plate: roasted chicken, bacon, mashed potatoes, and carrots, but didn't commit to eating much of anything.

He should've known something was wrong when Jeremy Harper never showed up to dinner. Instead, two Aurors burst into the hall, shattering tradition and any means of normalcy Draco disillusioned himself to possess.

The hour or hours - he wasn't even sure - that passed after he was forcibly seized and interrogated by the Aurors was a blur. Earlier in the night, when taken to Madam Pomfrey for healing, Harper had played a vengeful card against the Malfoy Heir by pleading for intervention by the Aurors, crying that he worried for his safety after getting attacked by a Marked Death Eater. The card had its intended effect; Draco's probation was Harper's biggest ally, and now the other Slytherin wizard knew it.

Everything Draco did would be scrutinized. The Aurors - specifically the wanker Auror Williamson - happily informed him to expect periodic, unannounced checks on Draco, where he would be isolated and his wand investigated to see if any dark spells were cast. Or any spells that would lead to an indictment. The terms were hazy and ambiguous, stylized that way to disfavor his position and give the Aurors complete autonomy over him. Yet again, he was punished for saving a life by sacrificing another.

After the interrogation, Draco found himself sitting on the edge of his bed in his teeny private room reeling in the aftermath of everything. It was smaller than the one he had back in Snape's quarters, which was nothing short of depressingly impressive, but private all the same. His Head of House had just left, leaving the young Slytherin with nothing but his thoughts about everything that occurred.

Looking at his hands, he wondered how he was supposed to get back to living a life when he didn't like the one he was given. All of his attempts to move forward, to pave a new path over the crumbled remains of what he used to walk on, were thwarted. Not really one to wallow in self-pity, he couldn't help but feel like the laws of the universe conspired against him.

How was he supposed to get out of an abysmal life if all of his resources acted against him?

Draco looked around his room, or what there was to even look at. Classes would be starting the next day and the smart thing to do would be going to sleep. Sleep wouldn't come to him, though. Not with his mood soured and thoughts so dark they rivaled the bottomless lake outside his window. Hidden in his chest at the end of the bed was a refreshed supply of sleeping droughts, newly replenished from his Knockturn dealer just before leaving for school. They were dangerous, he knew. Largely because he already recognized the dependency he was building on them. There were only two ways he could find sleep: under a potion's influence or with Hermione in his arms.

Still dressed in his uniform, Draco slipped out of his dorm room, slinked through the empty Common Room basked by the nocturnal lake's eerie glow, and, once confident no one else was around, shifted down into his animagus form. It was his inaugural venture through the castle as the fluffy white kitten, the first trip of many between the Slytherin dungeons and the Head Girl quarters.

The castle was quiet and dreamy at night. It was riddled with dark arts tucked in the corners if you knew where to look, but that didn't bother Draco. And now taking the corridors as a cat, he got to experience the castle like never before. The darkness suited him, even with the faint glow of the night lanterns, allowing his feline eyes to see things he wouldn't normally be able to see. Night time stopped being night; it was a new world with a newfound dimness.

And the smells. Oh the smells.

Every student, every familiar, every elf - the most disgusting in the lot - that walked the corridors in the past few hours left behind an explosion of smells. Even if Draco wanted to, he couldn't dissect and discern what each were and who they belonged to. So potent and many, the overwhelming aromas made his head hurt behind his eyes, and he was half tempted to shift back and simply trot the rest of the way.

It was a little bittersweet standing outside the Head Girl quarters, located right across the corridor from Head Boy's. That should've been his room. He should've been behind the Black Walnut door, hanging up his Slytherin banners and Quidditch posters, shoving books into empty shelves, setting up his quills and ink pots, and casting charms on the shower to make sure it was the perfect temperature. He should've been living a royal life in real private quarters- not a broom closet off the Slytherin Common Room - while dealing with the headache of his Gryffindor counterpart.

Instead, the introverted, babyfaced Anthony Goldstein was hogging up the space, undoubtedly stringing up his own mixture of Ravenclaw banners, Mezuzah, and over abundance of books that were the closest to friends he'd ever get. In truth, Draco had no real opinion about the other seventh year wizard; they'd known each other as peers for years, served as prefects together, but never really crossed each other's paths. Which was interesting to note, as Anthony Goldstein was a Pureblood and something of an arithmancy scholar; there was no reason to avoid the other wizard.

Draco made a mental note to reach out to the Ravenclaw at some point that year, maybe under the guise of talking arithmancy and see if a friendship was in the cards. It'd be a large step, befriending someone without any expectation of a return investment, and a very un-Slytherin thing to do. At his next session with Dr Cobb, which was in two weeks, he'd have to tell the mind doctor about it and see how that weighed against his psyche.

Still in his kitten form, Draco nudged his small body against Hermione's door to test it. It was late, long after curfew, and the last thing Hermione saw of him was when the aurors yanked him out of the Great Hall. Did she still expect him that night? As a Gryffindor, she wouldn't have heard that he was released from questioning. No, the entire school sans the Slytherins wouldn't know until breakfast that he wasn't tossed in an Azkaban cell, despite how much Auror Williamson clearly wanted it.

It had taken every ounce of Draco's self-restraint not to wittily insult the auror's pisspoor dueling and inability to best a mere teenager. But he wasn't sure if Williamson knew the masked Death Eater he dueled on Privet Drive was him, and the Slytherin wasn't ready to show his hand quite yet when the status quo between them was slighted in the older wizard's favor.

Draco needed resources and allies. Maybe befriending Goldstein would serve a purpose after all.

The door to Hermione's quarters nudged open against his miniscule weight. Even after curfew, after hours past dinner, without knowing if Draco was even still in the castle, Hermione held onto hope and left her door ajar for him.

The door opening a teeny amount was enough to grab the witches attention. He found her dressed in her pajamas sitting at the desk near the large lancet window, the crisscross ironwork over the glass fracturing the moon's silver glow over her features. Her hair was damp and she looked tired, half crescent dark circles hanging low under her worried eyes. But when she saw him - the familiar white kitten - she jumped to her feet with a deep exhalation of breath that she was holding for the past few hours.

"Oh, thank god!"

Draco distantly heard her as he transformed back to his normal stature, inwardly happy that his uniform followed him. He still wasn't sure where clothes that didn't transform with their animagus owner went, though he was determined to research the answer at some point that term.

He was barely standing at his normal, lanky height before a witch and forest of brown hair flung herself into his arms, her own wrapping around him strongly, fearing that the world would spin some more and take him away. "I'm fine. Sorry I didn't come sooner - Snape wanted to talk with me."

Hermione held him so tight that if it were anyone else, he would've drawn his wand and hexed them against the wall. But there was no threat or inkling of panic from her closeness. No, she was exactly what he needed in a time of duress. "I was so worried after they took you," she mumbled, her voice muffled from his robes. "That you'd wind up in Azkaban or-or that I'd never see you again! What happened?!"

"Nothing, nothing happened." The attempt to skirt the question was half-baked, but her enchanting qualities over him did that. Made it difficult to be the sly, caballing person he used to be. At the same time, though, he didn't want to worry her.

She pulled back a little, just enough to stare pointedly up at him. "I wouldn't call that 'nothing', Draco. They-they took you - maybe even illegally seized, I'll read up on the statutes tomorrow - in the middle of school! They can't do that!"

Leave it to Hermione Granger to learn the Wizengamot's regulations and statutes, probably even expert-level, in a single school term.

Heaving a breath, the Slytherin carefully guided her to her bed. It was a four-poster, average sized bed with Gryffindor-red curtains, bed spread, and a few fluffy pillows. In fact, now that he took the time to look around her room, the entire color palette was in the vomit-inducing Lion colors. And the proud Gryffindor banner on her wall - did it really have to be so big? - felt like it was judging him.

"They can," he calmly told her after they sat on the bed, but he continued to glance around her room, taking in the small but welcoming feeling it offered. The window to the outside awarded a sprawling view of the dense Forbidden Forest and rocky landscape in the distance. It felt strange being in a bedroom so high up after spending six years in the dungeons. "My probationary terms give them that kind of power."

"Then you'll need to be more careful on what you do," Hermione immediately lectured, speaking in fast, worried tones. She'd make a good mother one day. "That means no fighting, no provoking Harper or any others with a grudge against you, no casting questionably decent spells, no getting in trouble for anything. Got it?"

He snorted. "Taking all of the fun out of the school year, aren't you?"

She smacked his arm, a little harder than just mere flirting. "I mean it, Draco! And I'm still going to read the Wizengamot's statutes. They cannot treat you like some low criminal! It's not right."

That Gryffindor bravery, so selfless and serving towards others. He used to make fun of it; never did he think he'd be the recipient of their bottomless altruism, like he was the underdog in need of someone in his corner. It was tempting to fall into the role, to allow the Gryffindor to fight for him, but that wasn't what he wanted from her.

Instead of acknowledging her attempts, Draco glanced behind them at the pillows. "After all of that lecturing on following rules - which we'll absolutely ignore that we're both breaking the rules by my being here - do you mind if I spend the night here?"

Hermione looked surprised, her mouth closing immediately. It was a bold question; it was her first day as Head Girl and she'd already had to deal with a fight - indirectly involving her - between another student and her boyfriend, was an accomplice to her boyfriend breaking curfew and going into a girl's room, and now was being asked to support his violating the immense rule of coed cohabitation.

She chewed her bottom lip in thought, looking at Draco intensely and weighing the consequences. Inwardly, the Slytherin prayed her Gryffindor benevolence would come through for him; all that awaited him in his room were his nightmares and sleeping potions.

"Fine," she conceded. "Just tonight. And only tonight, Draco. Come the morning, you'll have to leave before breakfast in your animagus form and meet me outside the Great Hall, try to make it look like you left the dungeons earlier than everyone else."

He quickly agreed, eager to put the sticky logistics behind them and focus on just enjoying the moment between the two of them. In fact, he didn't want to think about any bemuddling distractions; not Harper, the aurors, the conniving Slytherins he left back in the dungeons, though he was already preparing to get his own revenge on Harper in some form or another. Instead, he wanted to focus on his time with her and asked her all about their Gryffindor meeting, earning him a curious look from the witch. And he listened on, actually interested in the Lions way of life for the first time. It was different from his own; Snape put the fear of Merlin in them if they stepped out of line, while McGonagall exercised an impressive measure of patience.

Both dressed down for sleep, they laid in bed together under the blankets that he kept transfiguring to green only for her to dispel the charm and bring them back to red. In between the casting, he told her about the Slytherin's own meeting and some of the changes happening, including his new little friend, Hala, and the study hour that would be enforced.

"A study hour?" Hermione asked after dismissing a green charm on the curtains, though they were now back to their original dreary brown state, completely bypassing the red she initially charmed hours ago. "That's actually not a bad idea. I should suggest it to Professor McGonagall."

He watched her cast the color charm, though this time she even added a ward attachment. "Maybe for you lot it's brilliant. For us, we don't need a bloody sitter making sure we're keeping up on our studies. If anyone fails, it's their own faults." He lifted his wand and gave a few lazy flicks of it, easily dismantling her ward and turning the curtains back to green. "Since when does Snape start dotting over his students? That handholding rubbish is for Hufflepuffs."

There was a pause. "He's changed a lot in the past year, you know. A lot of people have. I have a faint memory of a snobbish blonde boy bullying me before. Said awful things. Kind of looked like you a bit."

"It's different," he mumbled, a bit distracted with his thoughts. Now that he thought about it, Snape did change an incredible amount a year ago. Change didn't happen without a catalyst, without a spark. "I grew up knowing Snape since before I could walk. I would know him better than anyone here, wouldn't I? That wizard...I dunno. He's not the same. He's… nicer. Actually listens instead of just talking over you. And then there's Potter…"

Hermione sighed. "Draco, please don't start-"

"He's beyond accommodating with Potter," Draco ignored her. He wasn't starting anything nefarious, but was quietly speaking his thoughts. "Like Snape's a completely different person, you know?"

The witch hummed a little before reaching over to press two fingers against his chin and turn his head to look at her. "There's nothing wrong with people changing for the better, is all I'm saying. Maybe he was always this man and the person you thought you knew was just putting up an act or something. I don't know, Draco. I don't question the good things, and neither should you. He changed for the better! Why can't you just accept that something good happened? Harry finally has a family, someone who cares about him like he deserves."

He considered her and fought with his immediate assumption that she was only naive to accept the "good" at face value. He was taught to always question the sudden shift of the wind, because nothing happened on its own. But maybe in this regard she was right. Maybe accepting good was like befriending Anthony Goldstein; it was keeping a positive outlook, turning away from his teachings to expect a heinous act, and simply see the virtue in others.

What he didn't want to do was consider Potter. That was a topic that they avoided at all costs, yet it was a topic that, if he were being honest with himself, needed attention. He couldn't dodge the other wizard forever.

Draco nodded at the still green curtains. "Decided to finally see it my way, have you?"

Her wand flew up and cast the red charming spell faster than he could blink.