Chapter Text
“You’ll remember your manners, won’t you, Draco?” his father asks, raising an expectant eyebrow.
“Yes, Father,” Draco says absently. He’s too distracted trying to take in everything around him.
The platform’s filled with wizards and witches, laughing and chattering around them, and Draco’s itching to get on the Hogwarts Express. He has never been around this many people, and he’s never been around any Alphas besides his parents. It’s overwhelming, the sight, the scents, the noise, all of it. He half wants to cover his ears and close his eyes and half doesn’t want to blink so he doesn’t miss a thing.
“Good.” Lucius is tight-lipped and frowning. He hadn’t wanted Draco going to Hogwarts; he’d wanted to send him to Castus, the all-Omega school in Rome, but Draco’s mother had argued against it tirelessly. She doesn’t usually argue with his father’s decisions – and much less in front of Draco – so, in the end, she’d gotten her way.
“Have fun, chéri,” Narcissa says, kissing his forehead. “Write weekly.”
“Yes, mother,” Draco says, still distracted. He turns to his parents excitedly. “Can I go now, please?”
Narcissa smiles. “Of course, chéri. Be-”
Draco doesn’t hear the rest of her sentence, as he’s already running towards the Hogwarts Express, Philippa Wigglebutt in his arms.
Philippa Wigglebutt is his gorgeous black kneazle, Draco’s going-away present from his mother. Her official name is Circe, but only because he knows his father would never approve of the name Draco actually wanted to give her.
He picks an empty compartment – he’s never been with children his age, since his father thought it’d be inappropriate for him to be with Alphas or Betas, and Omegas are extremely rare – and sits down excitedly, hardly able to contain himself and be still.
“This is going to be good, Wigglebutt,” he tells Philippa, who’s currently purring and rubbing herself against his clothes. “We’re going to meet other kids, and-”
The door opens, and Draco turns to look at the person who opened it. It’s a girl; she has dark skin and bushy brown hair, haloed all around her, down to her elbows. Her eyes are huge, round and dark as she blinks at him.
“Hello,” she says. “Can I sit here?”
Her scent is pleasant, though almost imperceptible, so he assumes she’s a beta. She’s wearing blue, odd-looking trousers, and a bright purple shirt, and she’s dragging her trunk along with her, heavy-looking and brand new, the initials HJG carved on the side.
“Yes,” he says brightly. “Hi. My name’s Draco Malfoy.”
“My name’s Hermione Granger,” she says. “You smell nice. Are you an Omega?”
Draco’s ears go red. “Err, yes.”
She smiles widely. She has rather large front teeth, and her smile’s so wide it’s a little bit scary. Draco’s a little bit intimidated by her. He thinks he might like her better for it.
“I’m sorry, was that terribly rude of me?” she asks. She steps in and pulls her trunk onto the luggage rack above with a grunt, before turning to face him again and sitting down in the seat opposite his. Draco’s mother has always taught him that it’s not polite to comment on people’s scents, but he doesn’t want to tell her that and risk upsetting her, when she’s - potentially – his first friend. “I’m a muggle-born, and even though I’ve read lots about it in the library in Hogsmeade-”
“What’s a muggle?” Draco asks, frowning lightly, and then cringes at himself for interrupting her. That’s it; she’ll hate him now, and she’ll give him one of those looks that his father always throws at him when Draco makes a mistake-
“A non-magic person.” Hermione frowns.
Draco’s eyes widen, inner crisis momentarily forgotten. “There are non-magic people?”
Hermione’s frown deepens. “Did you not know?”
“My parents are both wizards,” he says. “They don’t really speak about anything important in front of me.” Whenever they want to speak of anything without Draco listening in, which is more often than not, they lock themselves into his father’s study, and the only other person who Draco speaks to is Severus Snape, who becomes his tutor in the summers, instead of Draco’s mother. “And you said that you went to Hogsmeade?”
“Yes,” Hermione looks puzzled, and Draco doesn’t understand why. Is he already messing it up? He wants to flee; two minutes into a conversation and he already interrupted her, he obviously has. “Have you gone?”
“Oh, no. I’m not allowed outside,” Draco says hastily. All of his lessons took place inside, and even when he gardened with his mother, it was in the greenhouse underneath the manor; poisons mostly grow there, but he’s planted anything that grows in the dark and damp.
“ What ?” Hermione demands.
“What?” Draco asks, puzzled.
“You’re not allowed outside?” she asks. “Why not?”
“Because it’s safer that way.” At Hermione’s horrified look, he continues hastily. “Was that inappropriate? I haven’t spent too much time around other wizards and witches.”
Hermione’s looking increasingly horrified each passing second, and Draco’s belly immediately clenches. Should he not have said that?
“I haven't read nearly enough about this,” she says. “But - are you – is your family one of those old pure-blooded families that still think of Omegas as some sort of – of commodity?”
Draco frowns, mildly offended.
“I’m – I – it’s not like that,” He manages finally. It's about his safety, about what’s best for him. He makes his own decisions, just – within certain boundaries. Eventually, his parents will arrange a marriage – to a respectable, pureblood Alpha, and really, Draco’s always known that – and those boundaries will change. For now, though, “That’s just how it is.”
“It’s not!” she says, shaking her head.
Draco fights the instinctive, indignant reply that wants to come out at the implication that he’s wrong about something. It’s never well received.
Instead, he frowns. “What is it like, then?”
Hermione hums thoughtfully, tilting her head. “Well, I’m not quite certain yet, since I’ve only known about magic for eleven months. But we’ll discover it together, yeah? You can’t be locked inside a house, that’s just – it's not right . We’ll figure things out, and we’ll get you away from your parents, and you’ll make your own decisions.”
Draco frowns lightly. He does, he thinks, but... well, his parents are his parents, and they’re Alphas, and they know so much more than Draco does, no matter how fervently he tries to catch up. It seems illogical to defy them, but he doesn’t want to disagree with Hermione, so he nods hastily.
“Alright,” he agrees. His parents have very few rules, really, and the most important one has always been to never go outside. Inside the Manor, he can do whatever he wants. It’s really not a lot to ask for, he thinks. “I - but-”
The gleam of her eyes softens. “It’ll take some getting used to. We can start slow.”
Draco nods, unsure of what he’s agreed to; he feels like he’s understood less than half of what’s happened in this interaction, but he’s too afraid to show it, so he hopes she’ll be satisfied with his response.
She seems to be, because she changes the subject entirely.
“What house do you think you’re going to get into?” she asks. “I think I’ll be in Ravenclaw. Gryffindor might not be too bad, but I don’t want Hufflepuff or Slytherin. I don’t think I’d fit in.”
Draco’s only option is Slytherin, he knows – his father expects it of him, and he’ll be furious if Draco sorts anything else – but Hermione looks very excited, and he doesn’t want to lose his new friend, so he just smiles brightly and nods along.
“I don’t know,” he answers, which is true enough. “I don’t know much about the Houses.”
That much, at least, is true; he doesn’t know anything about the other three houses, and very little about Slytherin. No one ever bothered to tell him anything, and, according to his mother, it’s rude to ask for things you’re not being given.
Hermione smiles widely. “Do you want me to explain?”
Draco nods, and, by the end of her explanation, he doesn’t know if he’ll fit in Slytherin. He doesn’t think he’s particularly cunning or ambitious. Most of the times, he feels like he’s just – there , and things are just happening around him, with little to no influence of his own actions.
“And obviously, I’m brilliant,” Hermione says, almost absently, staring at something besides Draco. “So, I’ll be Ravenclaw. Anyway, she’s gorgeous. What’s her name?”
It takes him a moment to realize that she’s looking at Philippa, and his chest immediately swells; she is gorgeous, and safe, and well cared for, and all his.
“Circe,” he says hastily, ears reddening slightly. Not a lie either, not exactly.
Hermione reaches to scratch behind Philippa’s ears, and she purrs loudly. Draco raises his eyebrows.
“She likes you!” he says, surprised. Philippa hates Draco’s father with a burning passion, and dislikes his mother strongly, so he’d assumed she was just like that with everyone. It seems he was wrong.
“You love me, don’t you, kitty?” She coos, and Philippa purrs louder.
“Do you have a pet?” he asks her curiously.
She shakes her head, raising a shoulder. “My parents told me if I wanted a pet, I’d have to get it with my own money, and I couldn’t afford it. I’ll start saving up so I can get one soon, though.”
Draco stares in awe. “You’re allowed to have your own money?”
Hermione frowns, troubled.
* * *
The second they get off the train, Draco’s mouth drops at the sight of the grass. He drops to his knees and pets it lightly. It doesn’t feel anything like he imagined. Since he hasn’t been outside the manor, he’s never felt the grass, or dirt, or anything like that. Sure, he’s seen all of those things in paintings – he's even painted them – but he’s never been able to touch them, not unless they grow in his mother’s garden, underneath the manor, and grass doesn’t grow there. What does grow there could most likely kill anyone who touches it.
Instead of rushing him, Hermione sits beside him cross legged with her elbows on her thighs and her chin resting on her hands, staring at him intently. She has a troubled look on her face, as she did on the train, and, usually, Draco would think it was his fault – he knows he does that, usually, cause problems. It makes him hard to love. Right now, however, he can’t focus on anything more than the way the damp dirt feels in his hands.
“First years, follow me!” Draco flinches at the sudden, booming voice; there’s a half-giant standing near them. Draco’s hands begin shaking, tight terror gripping at his lungs at the thought of leaving, having to be inside again. He’s not – he’d apparated from the Manor straight to King’s Cross, so this is the first time he’s ever been allowed – outside, outside, and he can’t give it up yet, he can’t, he can’t move-
“It’s alright,” Hermione says quickly, and Draco doesn’t know how she noticed his distress until he realizes his shaking has become visible, and his eyes are quickly gathering tears.
He wipes at them quickly, hands trembling, streaking dirt across his cheek. Omegas are never sad, Draco, his mother’s voice rings in his head.
Hermione dusts her knees and stands, and then she helps him stand, too. When Draco looks around, he realizes that there’s a boy staring at him. He’s an Alpha – Draco can smell him even above every other person coming from the train, distinctly rich, a delicious mix of scents Draco doesn’t recognize – and he has dark brown skin and messy black hair, sticking out every which way, along with a lightning-like scar running down across his eyebrow, his eye, and to the middle of his cheek; it stretches out and covers nearly half of his face, the longest of the tendrils running across his nose.
His eyes are the brightest shade of green Draco’s ever seen.
Draco blinks, and then the boy’s turned away, gone, walking away with the half-giant.
He and Hermione get in one of the boats, and she has to constantly remind him to pull his hand out of the water because something might bite it, since he keeps feeling the water to make sure he’s not dreaming. There’s a lake in the Manor, just like this. It’s visible from his bedroom window. He’s spent entire days staring at it, imagining how it would feel, and now that he can , he cannot help himself.
Walking into Hogwarts is a dream; Philippa jumps out of his arms and immediately takes off, and he lets her because she always comes back to him, no matter where she’s gone. The castle is impressive, bigger even than the manor – which was Draco’s entire world for the first eleven years of his life, and so it was the biggest thing Draco had ever seen – and there are ghosts simply floating around , and no one acts as though it’s a big deal!
Draco takes everything in, tries to memorize everything, and he’s so distracted he nearly doesn’t hear his name called out in the sorting. He steps up to the stool and sits, ears burning when he sees everyone looking at him; a murmur runs through the hall.
Then, the lady who’d introduced herself as Professor McGonagall places the Sorting Hat on his head, and he doesn’t hear anything else besides its voice in his head.
A Malfoy, huh? It hisses. Not what I expected from your family line.
Draco’s heart stutters. He can’t disappoint his parents, and…
The hat laughs softly. So loyal , it says. Hufflepuff, maybe?
“I have to be in Slytherin,” Draco says softly.
Do you really? The hat asks. The choice is yours. They’re all yours .
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco scowls, before quickly smoothing his expression. Good Omegas never show unhappiness, Draco, his father had said sharply, with a look that had left Draco’s face burning with shame of himself for hours after he’d cried when Lucius had killed a beetle. It was an unsightly little thing, really, but it had never even hurt Draco, and it made him sad to see it dead so easily.
It means , the hat says, that your choices can lead you to very different places. They’ll have to be yours.
“I choose to be in Slytherin,” he tells the hat. “I don’t care where you think I belong.”
The hat laughs then, but judging by everyone’s faces, Draco’s the only one that hears him.
Brave, then. Perhaps a little reckless? Oh, yes, you’ll fit right into Gryffindor, boy.
“Wait,” Draco says, alarmed. “Gryffindor? I have to-”
“GRYFFINDOR!” The hat shouts, before Draco can respond, and McGonagall whisks it away.
Everyone begins whispering about a Malfoy being sorted into Gryffindor, and Draco stands frozen. He has – he has to be a Slytherin, his father will hate him if he’s not, he can’t – there’s a hand on his shoulder, and Draco looks up to Professor McGonagall’s face.
“Go on, Mr. Malfoy,” she says, giving him a small push and a tiny smile.
Draco walks towards the Gryffindor on shaking legs.
He sits down – a few people clap him on the back, and he smiles tremulously – and watches a few other children get sorted until McGonagall calls Hermione up.
* * *
Ah, spectacular mind , just spectacular, the hat says. You’d fit right in in Ravenclaw, girl.
Hermione tries to give a smile, trying to ignore the odd knot in her stomach; it doesn’t make sense. She knows what Ravenclaw is, she wants Ravenclaw. Or at least she did. Right now, however, all she can see is Draco’s worried face, blinking up at her from the Gryffindor table, trying to give an encouraging smile while his lower lip trembles.
It doesn’t make you happy , the hat observes. It’s the Omega boy, isn’t it?
“He’d never gone outside,” she says.
She can’t stop thinking about it, how he’d said it, like it was nothing. How he looked when he told her he wasn’t allowed outside his house, as if it wasn’t something out of a horror film.
I know, the hat responds, I know everything. You’d be a good fit in Slytherin, too. Have quite a lot of ambition on you.
That’s just how it is , Draco had said, looking like the world had nothing else to offer.
Then he’d seen the grass, and when Hagrid had called them to leave he’d gotten the most heartbroken look on his face, and Hermione can’t stand it, she won’t.
She knows what it feels like to think you’ve only one option, and she knows how much books helped open her mind, let her see that no matter her gender, or her race, or anything else, she could fight for what she wanted, didn’t have to settle for anything less than what she deserved.
She can’t let him keep thinking like that.
“I want to be in Gryffindor,” she tells the hat.
It won’t be an easy path, girl, the hat says. There’ll be many hard choices. It’ll bring you pain. Ravenclaw will be easy.
“I don’t care,” she says. She’s made up her mind now, and this is how it’ll go. She doesn’t care if it’s not easy; in the Muggle World, it was hard because she’s a girl, or because she’s black, and now it’ll be hard because she’s a Muggle-Born. It’s just one minority for the other; it’s no different. “Sort me into Gryffindor.”
The hat hums, if it’s what you choose…
Hermione nods.
“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouts.
* * *
Draco claps politely – Omegas are never loud, Draco – barely noticing the loud cheering that’s overtaken the Great Hall.
Hermione comes sit next to him. She frowns, concerned. “Are you alright?”
Only then does Draco realize that he’s trembling visibly. He doesn’t know if he’s alright; the thought of Owling his parents and telling them he’s a Gryffindor is making his whole body shake with the terror of disappointing his father again. He can’t do it, and he knows that it doesn’t matter that he tried, his father won’t care; he can’t bear to see the look of disappointment again, he can’t, it’s too-
He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, nods and tries to turn his terrifying trembling into excited bouncing, extending a hand out to her unsteadily.
“Congratulations, Hermione,” he beams, voice wobbling.
She looks down at his hand and then back up at his face.
“Would you rather hug?” she asks gently.
Draco very, very much would rather hug.
“You’d let me?” he asks, blinking widely at her. His parents never let him hug them, even when he asked for it.
“Of course!” Hermione says brightly.
The hug is a little bit uncomfortable for Hermione; Draco’s bony elbow is somehow digging into her arm, and his arms are wrapped clumsily around her back, but for him it’s the most comfortable thing he’s ever known, and they both smile through it.
Just as they pull away, McGonagall shouts, “Harry Potter!”
Everyone begins whispering furiously, and a boy goes up to the stool.
Draco realizes it’s the same boy as before just as he sees Hermione’s mouth hanging open.
“What’s going on?” he whispers.
“It’s Harry Potter!” Hermione whispers back.
Draco frowns. “Who’s Harry Potter?”
Hermione very nearly screeches, turning to him with a disbelieving look on her face.
“You don’t know who Harry Potter is?!” she asks loudly, and everyone turns to look at them. Draco’s cheeks redden, as do Hermione’s, and she lowers her voice considerably. “Defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”
“Ah,” Draco says, even though he still has no idea what she’s talking about. “Yes. Him.”
Hermione stares at him calculatingly, and finally she huffs. “You don’t know who I’m talking about, do you?”
“No,” Draco admits.
She shakes her head. “I’ll explain it all up in the dorms. I forget you’ve been living under a rock. I’ve got so much to teach you.”
Draco hasn’t been living under a rock; the manor is quite big and comfortable, thank you, but he nods anyway.
“GRYFFINDOR!” The hat shouts loudly, and the Gryffindor table cheers louder than ever.
Harry Potter gets off the stool and walks over to their table, sitting a few seats away from them with various redheads.
Draco keeps waiting for another Omega to get sorted, but there are no more Omegas in his year, at least that he can identify. He tries to hide his disappointment.
As the feast begins, the plates fill with food, and Draco stares at it, open-mouthed. There’s Shepherd’s Pie, and mashed potatoes, and every sort of food Draco could ever want.
He wants to pile all of it into his plate, but it’d be inappropriate for an Omega to eat that much, so he gets a small piece of chicken and some rice, and cuts it all in various pieces before he begins to eat it.
Draco talks to Hermione all through the feast – he doesn’t notice the Slytherin table sending them odd and sometimes hostile looks – and when it’s over, the Headmaster, who Hermione says is called Dumbledore, stands again.
“Now that we’re all fed and watered,” he says. “I’ve a few start-of-term-notices to give you. First-years should know that the forest on the grounds is strictly forbidden. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.”
He looks towards two redheaded twins a few seats down from them, both of them grinning cheekily back at him, and Draco makes a mental note to stay away from them. He can’t get into trouble, can’t afford to give his father any sort of reason to pull him out of school.
He tells them that there will be Quidditch trials – Draco knows he’ll have to ask Hermione what Quidditch is, later – the second week of classes, and that they’re not allowed to do magic outside of class, which honestly, Draco finds a bit ridiculous. It’s supposed to be a magical school, isn’t it? They’re supposed to be encouraging them.
“And finally,” Dumbledore continues. “I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”
Draco frowns and eyes Hermione warily. “Is he serious?”
“Reckon he must be,” Hermione whispers, frowning thoughtfully. “Seems like an odd joke to make if he weren’t.”
“And now.” He claps his hands together. “Your prefects will lead you to your dorms.”
The male prefect is red-haired, tall and thin with long limbs and an unfriendly face; he introduces himself as Percy Weasley when he stands from the table and tells them to gather around before he leads them to the dorms. There are tons of stairs, and by the third turn they take Draco’s half-lost, but when they’re finally inside, all of it’s worth it.
He looks around in amazement, and though Hermione closes his mouth for him, she’s wearing a similar expression. The Common Room is large and round, with high ceilings and a huge fireplace. There are several worn armchairs, sofas, and blankets around, a few wooden tables with chairs – for studying, Draco assumes – and huge windows on the side; it’s cozier than anywhere else Draco’s been.
“The dorms are through there.” Percy gestures to an archway that seems to lead to a long staircase that eventually splits off into three. “Girls to the right, boys to the left. You’ll find your name on one of the doors, and that’ll be your dorm for the rest of your stay here. There’s an Omega, if I’m not wrong?”
Draco looks at Hermione, and she nods encouragingly, so he raises his hand hesitantly. Percy looks at him and it’s not exactly condescending, but it doesn’t seem like he thinks very much of Draco, either.
“Take the middle staircase, and you’ll find your room.”
Draco nods and tries to fight the uncomfortable itching that rises through him as soon as he gets separated from the only person he knows. He follows the prefect’s instructions and takes the staircase in the middle, shortly coming onto a long hall.
There are about a dozen doors along the walls, and the one nearest to the stairs has his name in simple black letters.
The rest of the rooms are empty.
“No fair, you get your own dorm,” Hermione complains from beside him.
Her voice both startles him and sends relief through him at the same time. Her hip’s jutting out, and she’s crossing her arms across her chest, frowning even though her mouth is curled in a lazy smile. She’s standing just past the archway to the hall, and Draco smiles as he gets closer to her.
“He has to.” A boy Draco doesn’t know sneers beside them. He’s blonde with wavy hair, and he looks at Draco like he’s nothing. He has to be older than them, because he didn’t get sorted at the feast. “Otherwise there would be four people fucking him during heats.” He extends his hand. “Cormac McLaggen. Alpha.”
Draco’s cheeks flame, part in shame and part in anger, and before he can even think about a response – and he’s not supposed to talk back, he knows, he’s supposed to brush it off gracefully – he hears a yelp.
McLaggen is clutching the lower half of his face, and Hermione isn’t even trying to hide her narrowed eyes. Through his fingers, Draco can see a pig’s snout. He can’t keep his mouth from dropping open, and he stifles a shocked laugh; McLaggen glares at him. Hermione steps closer to Draco, and McLaggen looks away.
He’s looking accusingly at her, and he tries to say something, but all that comes out is a pig’s squeal.
“I simply made you look like what you are,” she says disdainfully. “If you avoid being a pig in the future, maybe this won’t happen again.” She raises a challenging eyebrow at him and tucks her wand back into her sleeve. “If you don’t, we can always add ears and a tail.”
McLaggen doesn’t answer, and promptly flees when Hermione reaches for her wand again.
Draco bursts out laughing, feeling like it’s an inappropriate response but not knowing what else to do. “Where did you learn that?”
Hermione grins. “I read a lot before coming here. I didn’t think I’d ever actually need that hex, but…” She grins and cocks her head. “I can teach you if you want.”
Draco’s immediate response is yes.
Then, the corner of his lips pulls downwards. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Says who?” Hermione demands.
“It’s what I’ve been taught,” Draco defends.
“And if it’s wrong?”
Draco doesn’t respond.
Hermione looks calculatingly at him for a second, and finally shrugs. “I’m just saying, whatever it is your parents were teaching you, it’s all lies. You deserve to make your own opinions about the world. When you realize it and you want to learn, I’ll teach you whatever you want. Meanwhile, shall we?”
She gestures to his room, and he nods.
He walks towards the door, and Hermione tries to follow. When she tries to pass, however, there’s the low hum of magic, and it rebounds, sending her to the floor right on her arse.
“Oi!” she says.
Draco frowns, and he walks back towards the stairs just as the hum of magic quiets down.
“What is that?” he asks.
“I’d forgotten I’d read about it, but it’s good to know that it works,” she says, standing up and dusting herself off. “Protective wards. No one who isn’t an Omega can pass without a residing Omega’s consent, and even then, it’ll only be to their room.”
“Oh.” Draco frowns thoughtfully. “Err, I – I, Draco Malfoy give Hermione Granger permission to enter my dorm whenever she wants for the rest of my stay here.”
There’s a soft hum again, and when Hermione takes a cautious step through the archway, it lets her through smoothly.
He opens the door to his room and steps in. Hermione steps in after him and closes the door behind them.
There’s a bed in the middle, with thick blankets and covers, pillows, a dark-wood bedside table, a wardrobe, and a lamp. There’s a table by the window with two chairs on it, and a big, comfortable-looking armchair. Draco’s trunk is at the foot of the bed, and Philippa is purring happily on top of it.
Draco assumes that the door on the edge of the room is the bathroom.
“So,” Hermione says, sitting cross-legged on Draco’s bed. “Want me to tell you about Harry Potter?”
Although Draco always had his own room in the Manor, sleeping alone at Hogwarts is different.
Even with the moonlight, the room is too dark and unfamiliar, and every little noise or shadow makes him flinch. He spends half of the night trying to fall asleep, and when that doesn’t work, debates to himself whether or not it’ll be worth it to get up from bed.
He’s always been desperately terrified of the dark, and back at the Manor he would stand it because if he got out of bed his father would purse his lips and send him back to bed, snapping at him that he was old enough not to be scared. Even now, here, Draco’s terrified that somehow, his father will know that he’s broken a rule, but he’s too scared to stay in bed, and he’s resigned himself to the consequences of getting out of bed if it’s necessary.
He tip-toes out of his room, relieved to see the fireplace burning brightly. It’s too hot, leaves his skin nearly burning, but it makes his panic lessen, so he gets as close to it as he can stand and sleeps on the floor in front of it.
When Hermione goes over to Draco’s room and finds it empty, she frowns. She looks in all the rooms, but they’re all empty. Just as she’s about to panic and go to McGonagall, Lavender Brown peeks her head into the staircase.
“Hermione,” she calls. “That odd, pretty friend of yours is lying on the floor of the common room. He’s going to be late if he doesn’t wake up soon.”
Hermione’s both immensely relieved and immensely confused. Why would Draco go sleep on the floor of the living room? She rushes down the stairs and, indeed, finds Draco asleep on the floor in front of the fireplace, skin flushed from being too close to the fire for too long.
She frowns and crouches beside him, shaking his shoulder lightly.
His eyes fly open, and he sits up, looking around, panicked.
“It’s alright,” she assures immediately, ignoring the looks from the other students. “We’re at Hogwarts, remember?”
It takes a couple of seconds for Draco to completely focus on her, but when he does, he visibly calms down.
“Oh.” He looks around, blinking owlishly. “Did I oversleep?”
“Yes,” Hermione says. She checks her watch – the only Muggle thing she’s brought – and her mouth twists. “If you rush, I’ll get us something for breakfast and we’ll eat on our way to class.”
“You don’t have to-” he starts, but she frowns and waves it away.
“I know I don’t,” she says. “But that’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”
He gets an odd look on her face. It seems like he’s a little confused and sort of sad, and she doesn’t want to make him sad, so she smiles brightly.
“Come on,” she says. “Hop in the shower, I’ll be back in a few, and you’d better be ready if we don’t want to be late.”
She – above all – doesn't want to be late; all of this has seemed like a sort of fever dream, and she’s afraid it will end any moment. Still, she’s always had a soft spot for helping people, and she thinks Draco needs help.
He nods and rushes up the stairs, and she goes down to breakfast and grabs two bagels slathered with cream cheese before going back upstairs.
Just as she opens the portrait to the common room, Draco rushes down the stairs, uniform pristine and perfectly in place. Hermione hands him the bagel and they walk towards Transfiguration, their first class that morning.
“Hey,” Hermione says lightly. “Why were you sleeping on the floor?”
Draco swallows a bite of the bagel, and his shoulders draw up, fingers twitching.
“No reason,” he says. He looks at her warily, and she’s beginning to get more and more concerned with all of these little signs; she’d already realized his parents most likely treat him very differently than her parents treat her, but she’s beginning to think it extends further than she realizes.
She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to respond to that; her mother always knows what to do, how to help, but she doesn’t feel like any of it’s been passed on to her, so she only feels helplessly inadequate.
“Alright,” she says, wanting desperately to push it but not knowing if it’s the right move.
He looks surprised, and changes the subject hesitantly, smiling when Hermione goes along with it.
When McGonagall sees them as they walk into the classroom, her lips tighten disapprovingly.
“Miss Granger,” she says. “Even if you demonstrated an impressive ability for Transfiguration, next time abstain from doing it on Mr. McLaggen’s face. Two weeks detention.”
“But that’s not fair!” Draco says immediately. Hermione looks at him, surprised, and sees how he flinches when McGonagall turns to look at him, how his fingers tremble as he continues. “He said-” his ears go red, and he stutters out a few words, tries to find some way to say it that makes it sound less demeaning than it was, not for McLaggen but for himself, because he can’t repeat it with everyone looking at him like that.
“Yes?” McGonagall raises an eyebrow expectantly.
“Nothing,” Hermione says. Draco looks at her in disbelief, and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly. She knows the shame of it, repeating insults or slurs said to her, believing somehow it was her fault that they could be used against her. “He said nothing. My behavior was completely uncalled for, Professor McGonagall.”
She clenches her fists at her side to stop her hands from shaking. She’s terrified that she’ll be expelled for this, that it’s not even her first day and magic, all of this, will be taken away from her.
She doesn’t want to risk it, but she couldn’t just let McLaggen talk to Draco like that. She won’t.
McGonagall’s lips tighten, and she looks between her and Draco. “Sit down, both of you. And see me after class.”
Draco and Hermione sit down in the front, and Draco squeezes her hand under the table.
“Copy what’s on the board.” McGonagall tells them. “When you’re done, we’ll begin practicing.”
Draco grabs parchment and a quill, as does Hermione, and they begin writing.
* * *
“We’re going to be late on our first day,” Harry pants as they run towards Transfiguration. “There’s no way McGonagall won’t notice.”
“Maybe she won’t be there. First day, she might’ve-” Ron stops as they round the corner. “Look, here it is.”
He opens the door to the classroom, and several students turn to look as they stumble inside.
McGonagall arches an eyebrow from where she’s standing in front of the classroom.
“You’re late.”
Ron and Harry grimace.
“We’re sorry,” Harry says. “We got lost – Peeves threw chalk at us-”
“I don’t care for excuses, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall says. She looks them up and down, and Harry notices they’re rather dirty from the chalk. “Next time, I suggest you leave your dorm earlier. And show up clean .”
Neither of them respond, looking at their feet, embarrassed.
“Sit down and copy what’s on the board,” she orders.
They sit down near the back, and a certain blonde catches Harry’s attention just before McGonagall begins speaking.
* * *
McGonagall teaches them to transfigure matches into needles, and Hermione’s the first one to get it right. Draco gets it soon after her, and he stares at the needle, marveling. It’s not much, he knows, but he’s never been taught any of this, so even if it’s just a needle, he feels oddly impressed with himself.
His mother, who was also his tutor for the first eleven years of his life, taught him many things; she taught him to paint, draw, garden, cook, read, and write. Draco’s practically read his way through any book that his mother allowed him, and though he knows his father didn’t approve of some of them, he was rarely there to stop her.
“Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall says, at the end of the class. “A word.”
Draco frowns worriedly, and Hermione looks incredibly tense as they approach her desk.
“Hermione didn’t do anything wrong,” Draco begins rambling immediately, fingers twitching nervously, scratching at the skin on his hand until it turns red and raw. “If someone’s going to get in trouble it should be me. Am I going to get expelled?”
He’s already shaking at the thought of losing Hermione, his first and only friend, and of his father sending him to Castus – or, even worse, not sending him to school at all, wanting him to be homeschooled – but he won’t let his friend go down for doing something for him.
“Neither of you are going to be expelled, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall says, and Draco stops scratching at his hand. “What did Mr. McLaggen say?”
Draco’s cheeks go red.
“Nothing,” Hermione says. She doesn’t want Draco to have to go through that sort of shame again. “I was unprovoked.”
Draco glares at her. “You weren’t.”
He takes a deep breath and turns to McGonagall, feeling ridiculous, and helpless, and stupid all at the same time.
“He made a crass comment about my heats,” he says, as clearly as he can. It comes out quietly anyway, but he can’t bring himself to say it any louder. He doesn’t get heats yet, he’s too young, but he knows they’ll make him weak and an easy target. He dreads them more than he dreads anything else that comes with being an Omega. “Said that – that if I were to share a room there’d be four people – f-fucking me through them.”
Draco shifts uncomfortably and risks taking a look at Hermione. Her cheeks are flushed, but not in shame; she’s angry, her wand gripped tightly in her hand, just like she was last night, and Draco feels oddly touched.
He can’t look at McGonagall, and now he can’t look at Hermione, so he’s looking at his feet and anything near them. There’s a bright little button right beside his shoe, and—
“One afternoon’s detention, Miss Granger.” Draco and Hermione both look at her surprised. McGonagall’s eyes are hard, and she continues. “And I’ll be having a talk with Mr. McLaggen.” She gives them a hard look. “But I want neither of you hexing fellow students again. Go to your next class.”
Hermione and Draco walk out of the classroom.
“What do we have next?” Draco asks.
“Potions,” Hermione says, wrinkling her nose. “Professor Severus Snape. I’ve heard he’s horrible.”
“He’s my godfather,” Draco tells her.
“What?” Hermione asks. “Oh.”
Draco shrugs. “He’s not the worst. He brought me ice cream sometimes.”
“You couldn’t eat ice cream?” Hermione asks. She’s giving him that look again, the mix of pity and incredulity that seems to be her default expression whenever he tells her something about his life at home.
They arrive to the Potions classroom and sit down near the front. Draco actually likes Potions – it’s one of the few Hogwarts subjects Draco had an introduction to, since Snape taught him during the summers – and Hermione seems interested in learning as much as she can.
“Well, no,” Draco says. “Indulging is for undisciplined people.” That’s his mother in his head, word for word. “It’d be inappropriate of an Omega to be like that. And I have to look good for my future Alpha. Who’s going to want me if I don’t look good?”
Hermione looks horrified.
“Draco, looking pretty isn’t your job,” Hermione says. “And eating isn’t some sort of – of – your worth isn’t related to how much you eat – and – and-”
She makes a frustrated sound.
Draco frowns. “I know it’s not my job. I won’t have a job.” It’s not like he can’t , per se. His mother has told him that there are Omegas who do, but it’s evidently not very well- seen; she always frowns disapprovingly when she says it. She tells him, ‘Chéri, you can do anything you want in this world after you’ve secured your future, but not a minute before .’ Securing his future means marrying a respectable, upstanding Alpha. Having children. Dedicating himself to them the way she dedicated herself to him. “And eating isn’t – it isn’t something people enjoy.”
“It can be,” Hermione argues, frowning. Then, “Is that what you want?”
“I… don’t understand.” It’s not about what he wants, it’s never been about what he wants; he’s always known that’s going to be his life. The Alpha, the kids, the grand parties in which he’s not really important. He’s always known it.
“You,” she says insistently. “Is that what you want? The Alpha, the babies, no job?”
“I - that’s how it’s going to be. That’s how it always is,” he responds finally. “That’s what I’m supposed to do.”
“But what if your Alpha wants something you don’t want?” Hermione presses. “What if that’s all they want from you, to keep you home and have you take care of the children? Is that what you want?”
Hermione’s questions are only making Draco distressed.
“I don’t – I don’t know, Hermione,” he says. “If it’s what my Alpha wants, I have to – I'm supposed to want to do it.”
“But that’s what I’m saying!” Hermione says. “You don’t ! You have so many options, Draco, you can make so many choices! You don’t have to stay home and take care of the children! You don’t have to have children! You don’t even have to get married!”
“Miss Granger,” Snape drawls from behind her. Hermione and Draco both look back at him. “I suggest you do not go putting ridiculous ideas in people’s heads.”
Hermione glares at him. “It’s not ridiculous. Draco can think for himself, sir.”
She says it with just the right amount of impertinence, and Draco raises his eyebrows, impressed. She has passive aggressiveness down to a science.
“Fifteen points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” Snape says.
“For what?” Hermione demands. “Disagreeing with you?”
Snape sneers. “This is not the Muggle World, Miss Granger. There are traditions.”
“Discrimination, you mean,” Hermione says primly. “And for your information, sir, there’s plenty of that in the Muggle world, too.”
Snape doesn’t bother to answer before going to the front of the class.
“Good Morning,” he says. “I am Professor Snape, and I will be teaching you potions. There will be no-” he trails off, glaring at a point beside Draco. Draco looks, and sees Harry Potter sitting there, writing something down.
Draco’s been able to smell the Alpha whenever he’s around – in all of his classes, since they’re both Gryffindors – and it’s oddly comforting, and it makes Draco like him already, even if he’s never talked to him, which makes him dislike the way Snape is looking at him even more than he normally would.
* * *
“Potter!” Professor Snape barks. Harry looks up from where he was writing down POTIONS on his parchment. “What would I get if I added powdered root of Asphodel to an infusion of Wormwood?”
Harry doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know; he’s never taken Potions before, and until his eleventh birthday, he didn’t even know magic existed.
The bushy-haired girl at the next table raises her hand urgently, but Snape doesn’t even bother to look at her.
“Draught of Living Death,” the boy beside him breathes.
Harry looks at him, surprised, but the boy doesn’t look at him. He is scarily still, hands folded in his lap, face forward, and, even when he speaks, his lips barely move.
“Draught of Living Death?” Harry guesses hesitantly.
“What is a bezoar?” Snape questions.
“Stone taken from the stomach of a goat,” the boy speaks again, beneath his breath.
It’s the boy he saw, sitting on the grass outside the train. He doesn’t know who he is, but he’s eye-catching. Harry notices him any time they’re in the room together. He has long, pale eyelashes, fluttering against his cheeks when he blinks. He has almost white blond hair, and his irises are such a pale grey they seemed very nearly transparent in the moonlight.
“A stone taken from the stomach of a goat,” Harry says, louder than the first time.
The boy’s cheeks flush when Harry looks at him, scent shifting lightly, and it causes Harry to notice something else: he has a rather sweet scent; Harry can recognize a hint of vanilla. That’s not something Harry’s used to noticing about people. Muggles didn’t smell like much, but as soon as Hagrid and he stepped into Diagon, Harry was flooded with a whole new array of scents. This boy’s is by far the most pleasant he’s encountered yet.
“What is the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?” Snape asks.
“They’re the same thing,” the blond whispers.
“They’re the same thing,” Harry repeats, louder.
“All correct,” Snape drawls. “Next time, though, you could try answering questions without Mr. Malfoy’s help.”
There are a few snickers, and the blond turns red. He looks at Snape through his lashes, but the older man doesn’t even look at him. He’s glaring at Harry openly.
“Five points from Gryffindor for your actions, Mr. Malfoy,” he says. He doesn’t look away from Harry. “And fifteen points for yours, Potter.”
“That’s not fair!” Harry and Ron say at the same time. Ron sat with him on the train, and Harry thinks they might be friends now, though he’s not certain because he’s never really had a friend before. “Why does Malfoy only lose five and Harry fifteen?”
Immediately, Harry could hit himself; sure, it makes no sense for him to lose fifteen points and Malfoy five, but he doesn’t want to lose another point for Gryffindor, let alone ten of them.
“Because,” Snape drawls. “Potter was shamelessly cheating, while Mr. Malfoy was trying to help a fellow student.” He sends blond a look. “Which I recommend you abstain from doing in the future, Mr. Malfoy.”
The blond nods, and Harry doesn’t like how unhappy he looks.
“Now,” Snape says. “Open your books to page 41. You’ll be brewing in pairs with your table partner.”
As they gather the ingredients, Harry turns to Ron.
“Do you know who he is?” he asks, trying to gesture discreetly at the blond. Ron isn’t discreet at all when he turns to stare at the blond – currently at the table next to them, along with the girl who’d raised her hand before – but luckily, the boy seems to be completely immersed in gathering the ingredients while the girl reads them out loud.
“Draco Malfoy,” Ron says. He snorts. “I don’t think he’s much of a Malfoy, though, if he’s in Gryffindor. I don’t think there’s ever been a Malfoy in Gryffindor.”
“Why not?” Harry asks.
“The Malfoys are evil.” Ron shudders. “Even to each other. Mum told me his parents treat him like some sort of crup.”
Harry frowns. “What do you mean?”
“She says he’s not allowed outside his house,” Ron explains, voice lowered.
Harry nearly flinches back. The Dursley’s were always cruel to him; they yelled at him and though they never hit him, starving him and locking him out of the house or in the cupboard weren’t unusual occurrences. Still, he was always allowed to go outside. He thinks he would’ve gone mad if he weren’t.
It explains the grass thing, he guesses. He also saw him putting his hand in the water, even though Hagrid explicitly warned them that the creatures in the Black Lake aren’t necessarily friendly.
“Didn’t anyone call child services?” Harry asks, horrified.
“What’s child services?” Ron frowns.
Harry’s even more horrified. “What people call on you when you abuse your children.”
“Oh,” Ron says. “That’s not really a thing in the Wizarding World. People can call the Aurors on you, but no Auror would move against Lucius Malfoy.”
“Why not?” Harry asks.
“The Malfoys are an old pure-blood family,” Ron explains. “Lucius Malfoy has more than enough power in the Ministry for them to ignore him having illegal dark artifacts; they’re not going to step in on his family.” He shrugs. “The Malfoys still think Omegas are some sort of – of – thing, I guess. Pretty and trophies but not really people . And people like to pretend they don’t agree, that they’re above it, but… well, You-Know-Who rose to power because people thought the same way he did.”
“Omegas?” Harry asks. He has about a thousand questions on everything Ron’s told him, and this seems to be the one that keeps being brought up. Hagrid had mentioned he was an Alpha, but Harry hadn’t wanted to ask what that meant. He feels stupid for not knowing anything, but up until now, Ron’s been very patient with his questions.
“I forget you come from the muggle world.” Ron shakes his head at himself. “There are Alphas, Betas, and Omegas. Doesn’t matter as much as it used to, which one you are, unless you’re like the Malfoys, or You-Know-Who. It’s sort of like being a muggle-born, or a half-blood, or a pure-blood. Omegas are very rare, I think, but I'm not sure. I’d never met one before.”
He waves it away like it doesn’t matter, but Harry’s worry intensifies.
“His father is a prick to our family.” Ron shrugs. “Calls us blood-traitors for ‘fraternizing with muggles’, as he calls it. Don’t think the brat’s going to be much different, even if he is in Gryffindor.”
* * *
They brew the standard cure for boils – Hermione’s unexpectedly good at Potions, just as she has been at every other class so far – and when class is over, Draco turns his and Hermione’s phial in, trying to walk away as quickly as he can.
“Draco,” Snape says. Draco grimaces and turns around again, shifting nervously and looking down at his feet.
“Yes, sir?” he asks quietly.
“Have you told your parents you’re a Gryffindor?” It’s said with a sneer, and Draco’s shoulders draw up.
“No.”
“Your father won’t be pleased.”
Draco knows that, and he tries to fight the anxiousness squeezing at his lungs. When he doesn’t respond, Snape speaks again.
“You stay away from Potter, you hear me?” he orders. “I don’t want to give your father another reason to pull you out of Hogwarts and keep you in the Manor again.”
Draco nods shamefully.
“Draco,” he hears Hermione say. She’s glaring at Snape, and Snape looks right back at her unblinkingly. “We should go. We have History of Magic next.”
“Yes,” Draco mumbles, and lets Hermione pull him along.
As soon as they’re out of the classroom, Hermione huffs angrily.
“I can’t believe he threatened you!” she says.
“What are you talking about?” Draco asks, frowning lightly.
“That was such a thinly veiled threat!” Her tone deepens and she mimics Snape’s nasal voice. “’Stay away from Potter’ why does he care if you-”
“Err, Draco?” There’s a voice from behind them, and both Draco and Hermione turn to look.
Harry Potter and the freckled redhead who’d argued with Snape are standing there.
“Err, I’m Harry Potter,” Harry says hesitantly. “This is Ronald Weasley. I, err, wanted to thank you for your help.”
Draco blinks widely at him. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever thanked him for anything in his life – except maybe house-elves.
“I-” He doesn’t know what to say. “But I-”
“You’re welcome.” Hermione interrupts pointedly, shooting Draco a look. Draco feels his ears heat.
“Yes,” he says hesitantly. “You’re welcome.”
Harry nods, smiling kindly, and Draco’s almost sure his mouth is hanging open.
“You’re really a Malfoy, then?” The redhead – Ronald Weasley, Harry’d said – asks. He’s tall and sort of – long , like the Gryffindor prefect, and he’s looking at Draco with a mix of curiosity and suspicion, like Draco might be up to something.
Draco nods. Ronald’s a beta, and even though his scent isn’t very strong, it’s nice. Sort of like laundered clothes, or the grass blades by the train.
“I thought you’d be different,” Ronald muses.
“Why?” Draco asks, stomach sinking. Is he already letting people down? He can’t be less than perfect, he can’t make his mother sad by being a disappointment, she taught him better, she gave him everything, she did-
“Well, your father is a pr-” Harry coughs pointedly, sending Ronald a glare, and the redhead cuts himself off, grumbling lightly. “He’s not very nice to our family.”
Draco frowns, relief rushing through him when he realizes he’s done nothing wrong. “He isn’t?”
Ronald shakes his head.
“I’m sorry,” Draco says honestly. He has never heard his father apologize in his life, so he knows he wouldn’t, even if he felt bad for treating the Weasleys poorly, which Draco finds unlikely; his father seems to make it his job to let people know exactly what they’re lacking.
Ronald seems surprised.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, and he seems even more surprised at himself, that he’s said that. “You really are different than what I expected.”
Draco doesn’t know what to answer.
“We’ve History of Magic,” Hermione says lightly.
“Us, too,” Harry says. “We can walk together?”
“Alright,” Hermione agrees before Draco can say anything.
Draco panics all the way to the classroom, but, amazingly, gets there without embarrassing himself or doing anything improper.
Professor Binns falls asleep fifteen minutes into the class, so Hermione begins telling Draco of all the books she’s read, while Draco listens with rapt attention. He reads a lot, but it’s not usually what he wants. It’s readings his mother assigns him, or, occasionally, a book she lends him, but they’re never about characters or adventures like the ones Hermione’s telling him about.
When the bell rings, they pick up their things, and Harry holds the door open for them as they exit. They both thank him before Hermione leads him away quickly. He’s confused as to why she would do that until she speaks.
“So.” Hermione grins. “Harry Potter?”
“What?” Draco asks, cheeks reddening.
Hermione’s grin widens. “You like him! You like like him!”
“I-” Draco doesn’t know if he likes him. He’s never felt like this – sort of uneasy, but in a pleasant sort of way, if that’s even a thing – for anyone before, but then again, he’s never met anyone besides his parents and the house-elves before, and certainly no one who treated him like Harry did. “He’s okay. I don’t know why Snape wants me to stay away from him.”
“Then don’t.” Hermione shrugs. “Any decisions without bases aren’t valid. You do research, you experiment, and then you make a choice. Anything before that is useless.”
Draco fixes her with a steady look. “How are you eleven?”
Hermione gives a wry smile.
“I don’t have a lot of friends,” she explains, cheeks darkening. “I’ve read a lot.”
Draco doesn’t know what to say – he’s not used to anyone telling him anything even close to personal, or really, anything at all – so he pats her shoulder clumsily because he doesn’t think he can simply hug her.
“I didn’t know anyone besides my parents before I met you on the train,” he offers. “And most of what I did before then was take classes in the manor, so I’d say we’re somewhat even.”
Hermione grins slightly, and then she shakes her head. “We’re going to get you some interesting books,” she tells him. “Then we’ll be even.”
“But I’m not allowed to-” Draco begins. He’s never simply read something because he wanted to. He’s never even stepped foot in the manor library to look for books to read, only to balance them on his head while he walks.
“What your parents don’t know won’t hurt them,” Hermione says, her grin all teeth.
It’s against everything Draco’s been taught, but a small, tiny voice in his mind whispers that she’s right. If they never find out, it won’t harm them, will it? It’s not like Draco’s going to begin defying them just because he’s begun reading what he wants; it’ll just be – entertaining.
“Okay,” he decides. “Yes, let’s do it.”
They have Defense against the Dark Arts – Draco doesn’t like something about Professor Quirrell, but he can’t quite place what yet – and Charms, and then it’s time for lunch. After they eat quickly, they spend an hour going through the library.
“Why is everything here so complicated?” Hermione complains, frowning as they go through section after section. “I don’t think anyone likes ‘Vampirism, How to go From Pale and Sickly to Shiny and Sexy’.”
Draco looks down, trying to fight the disappointment in his chest.
“It’s alright,” he tells her. “I don’t need to-”
Hermione looks at him and speaks firmly. “No.” She upturns her nose. “And well, if they do not have more interesting books, I’ll just Owl my parents and have them send some.”
Draco doesn’t want Hermione’s parents to know what they’re doing – and really, what are they doing? Only finding interesting books to read. It’s not improper , Draco doesn’t know why he feels like he’s hiding something – but Hermione merely asks her parents if they can send over a book, without telling them why, and then tells Draco that he’ll love it.
They pick a table in the library and open their books to do homework. After the first few minutes of trying to concentrate but just anxiously looking out the window, Hermione looks at him, frowning.
“Would you rather be outside?” she asks, and he flinches on instinct.
He’s never been asked that question without it being followed by a lecture on why he can't, and then immediately followed by him being sent to his room. She doesn’t sound cross, however, and she’s looking at him like she really wants to know the answer.
He nods quietly. “I-I-”
He doesn’t know how to explain the fear that grips at his heart when he’s inside the classrooms, or his dorm, crawling up his throat when he thinks that this has just been some sort of blissful dream and he’ll wake up back at the manor, still not allowed to step outside.
“It’s alright,” she says. She closes her book and grabs her things. “We can go sit by the lake. I’ll just grab a blanket from my dorm, alright? I cannot stand the grass on my legs.”