Chapter Text
It was a lazy summer evening, the kind where the air hung thick with heat and the sky outside the tall windows of Malfoy Manor was painted in hues of violet and gold. The vast estate lay in an eerie hush, save for the occasional rustle of dry leaves on the gravel path. Somewhere beyond the manicured gardens, a boy chased the last of the twilight.
Draco Malfoy moved quietly through the edge of the orchard, the hem of his light linen shirt brushing against the tall grass. He held a wand-sized stick in his hand, swishing it dramatically as he whispered make-believe incantations. His imagination painted dragons in the air, cloaks billowing behind him, and spells crackling at his fingertips. In these stolen moments, he let himself pretend. Not about being powerful, not about being feared—but something softer, something he didn’t quite name. He liked to picture himself casting spells with a flick of the wrist, robes flaring, hair loose. Sometimes he imagined long braids. Sometimes he imagined being someone else entirely.
But even fantasy had its limits within the manor grounds. As the sun dipped below the trees, Draco straightened his back and brushed invisible dust from his trousers. He could hear the sound of carriage wheels on the drive—a guest had arrived.
Inside, the manor smelled of polished wood, incense, and the faint tang of old magic. A tall figure in black stepped across the threshold. Severus Snape had come for dinner.
Draco, now presentable and properly composed, greeted his godfather with barely contained excitement. There was something steadying about Severus—his quiet authority, the precision of his words, the way he always seemed to see through the noise.
“Good evening, Draco,” Severus said in his smooth, measured tone.
He extended a long, narrow parcel wrapped in matte black paper, tied with a single silver ribbon. There was no ceremony in the gesture—no smile, no flourish—just the quiet confidence of a man who rarely gave gifts, but who listened closely when it mattered.
Draco accepted it with a reverence he couldn’t quite hide. His fingers, elegant but unsteady, undid the ribbon and unfolded the paper. Nestled inside, against a bed of soft velvet, lay a hand mirror—delicate and old, its silver frame etched with blooming lilies and feathered filigree. The handle curved like a vine, and the whole piece shimmered faintly under the chandelier’s glow, touched by enchantment and age.
Draco’s breath caught in his throat.
He remembered pointing out a similar mirror once, almost a year ago, during a museum visit in Diagon Alley—how lovely it was, how unlike the stern, heavy objects that filled the Malfoy estate. He hadn’t expected Severus to remember. But of course he had.
“It’s perfect,” Draco murmured, running his thumb along the polished glass as if it might vanish under his touch.
Severus gave a slight nod. “It belonged to a potioneer of great skill,” he said, his tone cool as always. “The craftsmanship is remarkable.”
Behind them, Lucius stirred with his wineglass in hand, and his voice broke the moment with quiet disdain.
“A curious choice,” he said. “Rather… ornamental, wouldn’t you say?”
Draco didn’t answer. He only brought the mirror a little closer, as if it might shield him from something invisible.
“She was a witch,” Lucius added, the word hanging in the air like dust. “I assume.”
Severus didn’t blink. “She was. That wasn’t the reason I chose it.”
Lucius’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing more. The silence that followed was sharper than any remark. It clung to Draco’s skin like frost, a reminder of how easily beauty became a source of suspicion in this house.
But then Severus glanced back at him—just briefly—and that single, silent look said more than any spell ever could.
There was no apology in it, no need to explain or justify. Just a quiet certainty, a presence that offered space. Safety. A moment of alignment in a world that so rarely bent.
Draco exhaled softly, feeling something settle in his chest. Not peace, not exactly—but something adjacent. Something rare.
“Thank you,” he said again, voice steadier now. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”
That evening, the dining room of Malfoy Manor felt unusually warm. Not because of the fire crackling in the hearth—though it did its part—but because Severus Snape was in attendance, and Narcissa had insisted on a less formal setting than usual.
The long table had been shortened by magic, the candles floated at a more intimate height, and instead of the usual stiff silence, there was something closer to laughter.
“Tell me, Severus,” Narcissa said with a smile as she served herself another spoonful of roasted squash, “are the first-years still managing to melt their cauldrons every September?”
“Without fail,” he replied dryly, setting down his glass. “This year, one of them managed to brew something so volatile it removed his eyebrows and his partner’s patience.”
Lucius chuckled—a rare, genuine sound. “Perhaps it’s time for a new Potions curriculum.”
Severus gave him a sideways glance. “Or new students.”
Draco, seated between his parents, beamed. It was rare to see his godfather in such good spirits, and rarer still to share a meal that didn’t feel like a performance. He reached for a piece of bread and paused, eyes flicking toward the small, velvet-wrapped mirror sitting on the side table near his seat.
Narcissa noticed. “Did you thank Severus for your gift, darling?”
Draco nodded quickly. “I did. It’s… it’s perfect.”
Severus didn’t comment, but there was the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth—a silent acknowledgment.
As dessert arrived (chocolate tart with spiced pear), the conversation turned toward Hogwarts, and Narcissa asked about the coming school year. Draco tried not to fidget. He was excited, of course. Terribly so. But more than anything, he was glad to share this moment. To laugh. To not feel so tightly wound.
Later that evening, when the plates were cleared and Lucius retreated to his study, Severus and Narcissa lingered in the sitting room, speaking softly over tea.
Draco slipped away quietly with his gift in hand.
He didn’t say anything to anyone. He didn’t need to.
In the quiet of his room, he unwrapped the mirror once more and placed it gently on his desk. The silver gleamed in the lamplight, soft and kind. He didn’t stare into it long—just enough to see a glimmer of something. A thought. A possibility.
And for tonight, that was more than enough.
Draco stood on the low fitting stool, arms out, as Madam Malkin pinned the final stitches of his school robes. The air in the shop was filled with the quiet rustle of fabric, punctuated only by the occasional snap of thread.
“I hope I’m in Slytherin,” Draco said idly, watching himself in the tall mirror. “Father says it’s the only house worth being in. Everyone in my family’s been there.”
Madam Malkin hummed politely in response, fussing over a hem.
Then, glancing across the shop, Draco caught sight of a set of robes on display—sleeker cut, with pleated skirts and more delicate lining.
He tilted his head, curiosity briefly overtaking caution. “Do you think… I mean, the girls’ uniforms look rather nice too, don’t they?” he asked, almost innocently. “Maybe I’ll be put with them.”
The words slipped out before he could think. There was a beat of silence.
Draco blinked. Realization hit.
He cleared his throat, his face tightening.
“Not that it matters, obviously,” he added with a scoff, rolling his eyes as if the idea had been someone else’s. “I’d still look better than most boys, even in lace.”
He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“And anyway, I’m sure the Sorting Hat knows better than to waste good blood on the wrong side of the dormitories.”
The bell above the shop door jingled.
Draco turned and spotted a boy about his age, hair messy, glasses slightly crooked, walking in alone. He looked vaguely overwhelmed, like he didn’t quite belong.
Draco stepped off the stool with casual precision, brushing his sleeves as Madam Malkin moved on to fetch more pins. “First year too?” he asked, studying the boy with mild curiosity.
The boy gave a small nod, eyes roaming the shop.
“I’m Malfoy,” Draco said, voice clipped and clear. “Draco Malfoy.”
The boy didn’t respond. Just stared back at him, quiet and unreadable.
Draco’s brow twitched at the silence. No handshake. No introduction. Odd.
He turned slightly toward the mirror, his tone sharpening. “You’ll find out soon enough—some wizarding families are better than others. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.”
It was said lightly. Almost offhand. But the words hung in the air like perfume—calculated, pointed.
Madam Malkin called him back. As she adjusted the hem of his robe, Draco’s gaze drifted briefly to a row of girls’ uniforms hanging near the front of the shop. Soft fabric, pleated skirts, robes cut with a grace his own didn’t have.
His expression flickered—just for a moment—something wistful, something unnamed.
Then his posture shifted. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared.
And he said nothing more
The Great Hall shimmered with candlelight and floating enchantments. Hundreds of eyes watched from the four long tables as the first years entered in a quiet procession, nervous and wide-eyed. The Sorting Hat sat alone upon its stool, frayed and ancient, yet somehow alive, as if it knew each of them already.
Draco stood among the crowd of new students, hands clenched at his sides beneath the heavy black sleeves of his robes. His heart hammered with a rhythm both anxious and electric. He had imagined this moment for years, dreamt it in the solitude of his room, whispered about it to his mirror. And now, here it was.
Name after name was called. One by one, children were sorted. A few cheers for Hufflepuff, loud roars for Gryffindor, polite claps for Ravenclaw, and a steady current of green-and-silver approval for Slytherin.
Then: "Malfoy, Draco."
He stepped forward with practiced grace, chin lifted, eyes steady. The Great Hall hushed. Some students leaned in, curious. Others watched with expectation. He knew what they were thinking. He was a Malfoy, after all. The answer was obvious.
But nothing felt obvious when he sat down on the stool and the Sorting Hat was lowered onto his head.
"Ah," the Hat murmured in his ear, ancient and amused. "A complicated one, aren't you, my dear?"
Draco stiffened. His breath caught.
"Yes, yes," the Hat continued, thoughtful. "Plenty of ambition, sharp mind. You’d do well in Slytherin, like your family. But there’s more, much more... Courage, yes, fierce and bright. A longing to protect, to stand in front of others and take the blow. Very Gryffindor of you. And curiosity—books, riddles, the why of things. A thirst for understanding... Ravenclaw, perhaps? And I see kindness, too. Empathy. A heart that bends rather than breaks. Not afraid to care. Hufflepuff wouldn't be unfit."
Draco felt her throat tighten.
"You could go anywhere, really," the Hat mused. "But what is it you want, my dear girl?"
That word. Girl.
It rang inside him like a bell, discordant and intimate. No one had said it aloud—not yet. And yet the Hat had. So easily. As if it simply knew.
Draco's mind reeled. His fingers dug into the edges of the stool.
"Slytherin," he whispered. The French syllables from home, slipping free without thought. Then again, firmer: "Slytherin. Please."
The Hat paused.
"Ah. You’re certain, then. Ambition, loyalty to legacy, a strong sense of who you must be—for now. Yes. Yes, Slytherin will do."
The Sorting Hat drew a breath that seemed to pull the very air from the room—and then, with a voice rich and resonant, it bellowed:
"SLYTHERIN!"
The green-and-silver table erupted in applause, cheers echoing off the enchanted ceiling. Somewhere near the front, a prefect pounded the table with both fists, and the older students began calling his name.
"Malfoy! Malfoy!"
Draco slid off the stool and walked toward his new house, shoulders straight. Inside, his mind still echoed with the Sorting Hat’s voice.
My dear girl.
It had said it with such ease.
And for the first time in a long while, Draco felt something that wasn’t fear or pressure.
He felt seen.
The word still echoed inside him—girl. It didn’t feel wrong. Not exactly. Just... too much. Too soon. And yet, part of him clung to it, like the cool touch of the mirror’s silver frame back home.
He wasn’t ready to say it aloud. But someone—something—had seen her anyway.
And that mattered more than he could admit.
Later that night, in the hushed quiet of the Slytherin dormitories, Draco unpacked her things in silence. The green velvet curtains swayed gently, stirred by unseen charms. From the very bottom of his trunk, he retrieved a wrapped bundle of cloth. With care, he unwrapped it, revealing the silver-handled mirror Severus had given him.
He held it only briefly, his fingertips brushing its delicate edge, before slipping it beneath a false panel in the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet. Hidden, but close. Not discarded.
Draco sat on the edge of his bed, swinging his legs a little above the stone floor, listening to the soft murmur of voices from the other first-years settling in. The dormitory smelled of polished wood and new parchment, of unfamiliar beginnings.
He glanced toward the drawer one last time, then turned his gaze to the canopy above his bed. Tomorrow, classes would begin. He’d wear his robes, carry his books, and walk through the corridors like he belonged.
A smile tugged at his lips. Whatever else waited, the adventure had finally begun.
And for tonight, that was enough.
The morning sun spilled across the Hogwarts grounds, lighting up the rolling grass and the line of first-years nervously awaiting their first flying lesson. Brooms lay neatly in rows before them, glinting with dew. The air buzzed with quiet anticipation.
Draco stood near the front, his robes crisp, his chin tilted just enough to look confident. But beneath the posture, he was eager. He had flown before, of course—but never at school, never with everyone watching. His father expected excellence. And he wanted—no, needed—to impress.
He glanced at the others, noting who looked steady and who looked like they might be sick. Potter looked blank. Longbottom looked like he might faint.
Madam Hooch barked instructions. Everyone mounted their brooms. A few children wobbled ungracefully. Draco's rose smoothly beneath him, hovering just as he'd practiced. He couldn’t help the satisfied curl of a smile tugging at his lips.
Then it happened. A sharp cry. Neville’s broom jerked skyward, spinning out of control. Draco turned just in time to see the boy’s terrified face as he clung on—and then, a moment later, fell.
The class gasped as Neville hit the ground with a thud.
Something small bounced from his robes and landed in the grass nearby, catching the sun.
Draco blinked. "Oh… he dropped something," he murmured, stepping forward without thinking. "That’s… a shame."
For a heartbeat, his expression was almost gentle.
Then Crabbe nudged him with an elbow, grinning. “Looks like a Remembrall.”
Draco glanced sideways. Crabbe looked expectant. Goyle, not far behind, snorted. Eyes were on him.
The moment turned.
Draco bent and scooped up the object with a flourish, letting the light catch on its polished surface.
"Look what we’ve got here," he drawled, voice louder now. "Poor Longbottom’s forgotten something again."
A few nervous giggles. A shuffle of disapproval. Potter stared at him, unreadable.
Draco twirled the Remembrall between his fingers. "Think I’ll leave it somewhere… if he can find it."
He wasn’t even sure what he was doing anymore. The words came automatically. Crabbe laughed. So did Goyle. That was enough, wasn’t it?
He kicked off the ground before he could think twice.
But as he soared into the air, he caught movement below—Harry was following. His broom lifted, fast. Too fast.
Draco’s fingers tightened around the Remembrall. His pulse quickened.
He’s really coming after me? He hadn’t planned for that. Not really. He had expected glares, maybe a prefect to shout. Not this.
“Back off, Potter!” he barked, voice cracking slightly with tension. But Harry didn’t slow. He was closing in fast.
Draco's mind raced. The Remembrall felt heavier now, burning in his palm. The eyes of the class, the sky, the weight of being caught—none of it made sense anymore.
He didn’t know what he was trying to prove.
Without thinking—without knowing what else to do—he threw it. Hurled it hard, away from himself. A flash of red arced through the air, catching the morning sun like a flare.
He didn’t even look to see where it went.
He just turned his broom and flew the other way.
The forest was colder than Draco had expected. The trees towered above like silent sentinels, their branches clawing at the night sky. Leaves crunched underfoot as the group moved forward—Harry, Draco, Fang the boarhound, and Hagrid leading from a distance. The only light came from Hagrid's lantern, flickering weakly against the dense darkness.
Draco walked stiffly beside Harry, pretending not to glance sideways, but the silence gnawed at him. He hated this. Hated the forest. Hated being out here in the dark, punished like some reckless child.
The rustling stopped all at once, replaced by an eerie stillness. They had reached the clearing.
Moonlight spilled through the canopy above, illuminating a shape on the forest floor—slender, graceful, deathly still. A unicorn. Its silver blood shimmered in the grass like starlight.
Draco froze, every instinct screaming at him to run—yet his feet refused to move. He couldn’t look away. The beauty of the creature twisted into something unbearable in his chest.
Next to the unicorn, a cloaked figure crouched low over the body, its face buried against the white flank. A sickening, wet sound cut through the clearing—feeding.
Harry gasped, instinctively taking a step back.
Fang let out a low whimper and began to retreat, tail tucked.
But Draco didn’t move. He was conscious of the danger, could feel it like a pressure behind his eyes, but something in him refused to turn away. His eyes were locked on the scene, wide and unblinking. His breath came shallow and fast, chest rising and falling in frightened motions. The wrongness of the act—the violation of something so pure—gripped him with cold fingers.
The figure turned its head.
Its face was deathly pale, stretched and wrong, with dark, hollow eyes that seemed to flicker like dying embers. It hissed without sound and disappeared into the trees, faster than anything Draco had ever seen.
Harry staggered to one knee, clutching his forehead in pain.
Draco still didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on the fallen unicorn. The silver blood pooled in the moss like spilled moonlight. His knees trembled, but he stood frozen. The stillness of the creature was unbearable, as if time itself had stopped around it.
His throat tightened. How could something so radiant end up like this? What kind of monster would do such a thing?
He felt hollow. A quiet ache filled his chest, unfamiliar and overwhelming. He didn’t understand why it hurt so much, but it did. There was something sacred about the creature, and that had been violated.
He wanted to step back, to look away, but his feet wouldn’t listen. His thoughts spiraled: fear, sorrow, and a rising sense of something he didn’t yet have words for. He stood motionless, hands trembling, barely breathing.
Then a shadow swept silently across the treetops.
A centaur landed between them and the trees where the cloaked figure had fled. Tall and proud, his golden hair caught the moonlight like flame. Firenze.
“You are safe now,” the centaur said, his voice deep and steady. “The forest does not welcome such evil.”
Draco’s eyes widened. For the first time since they’d entered the clearing, he seemed to breathe.
With the danger gone, and Firenze standing firm between them and the shadows, his body finally began to respond. His legs buckled slightly, and he took a few hesitant steps forward, drawn to the unicorn by something deeper than fear or curiosity.
He stopped a few feet away. His eyes brimmed with tears that slipped down his cheeks, silent and unbidden.
“I… I didn’t know something like this could happen,” he whispered, barely audible, as he looked into the unicorn’s still, glassy eyes.
And then—another unicorn stepped from the shadows. Smaller than the first, silver as moonlight, its coat shimmered with an ethereal glow. It moved with silent grace, each step reverent as it crossed the mossy earth.
Reaching the lifeless unicorn, it lowered its head solemnly, touching noses with the fallen one. The moment was long, still, filled with a quiet sorrow that pulsed through the air. Mourning passed between them like a whisper on the wind.
Then, with hesitant curiosity, the living unicorn turned its gaze toward Draco. It stepped closer, slowly, cautiously, as if measuring the boy’s heart. When it reached him, it leaned forward and gently brushed its muzzle against his forehead.
Draco froze. The touch was warm, real, impossibly gentle. He gasped softly, lips parted, tears streaming freely down his face now. His hands clutched his sleeves tighter, as if the fabric might anchor him to the moment. A quiet shiver ran through him—not of fear, but of something older, deeper. A connection he couldn’t name.
That was when Hagrid burst into the clearing, wand raised, breath caught in his throat. “What in Merlin’s name—?!”
He stopped cold.
Draco stood motionless beside the unicorn, tears on his cheeks, while the other unicorn—graceful, silver, and solemn—faded silently into the trees. The air shimmered with a strange stillness, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Harry watched, too stunned to speak.
Firenze stood tall beside them and inclined his head. “He means no harm.”
Hagrid didn’t lower the lantern right away. He blinked, staring.
He stopped dead in his tracks. For a moment, all Hagrid could do was stare. “Blimey,” he muttered, not quite believing his eyes. “That really you, Malfoy?”
Draco wiped his sleeve across his cheek and said nothing.
Hagrid blinked again, then cleared his throat and looked away. “Alright,” he said gruffly. “We’re going. Now.”
The unicorn was gone. The clearing seemed emptier than before.
As they walked back through the forest, Draco rubbed his face quickly, jaw tight.
“Say one word about this to anyone,” Draco muttered, not quite meeting Harry’s gaze, “and I swear, I’ll make you regret it.”
Harry said nothing.
It was late.
Too late, probably. The corridors were nearly empty, lit only by the occasional flicker of torchlight dancing across stone walls. Draco’s shoes clicked softly on the flagstones as he walked, arms tight around the books he had borrowed from the library. He had stayed past curfew, lingering over a Transfiguration essay for Professor McGonagall. The silence of the library had helped. Or maybe he’d just needed the silence.
His mind still buzzed with half-finished sentences and revisions. He barely noticed that he’d taken a different route back to the dungeons until a strange feeling prickled along the back of his neck.
He stopped.
A door ahead stood ajar. It hadn’t been, a moment ago—he was certain of that. A pale shaft of moonlight fell through the crack, illuminating the edge of a grand stone arch. Something about it called to him. Not loudly, but insistently, like the last note of a song echoing through a hollow chamber.
Draco hesitated. Then, almost against his will, he stepped closer.
The room was empty—or seemed to be, at first. Cold. Dusty. But there, at the far end, stood a tall, ornate mirror framed in clawed, gilded feet. The glass shimmered faintly.
Draco set his books down carefully on the ground and approached.
And there he was. In the mirror.
Except—
It was him, but not as he was.
He stood in a different dormitory. One he didn’t recognize immediately, but then the clues crept in: softer lighting, open windows draped with gauze curtains, the glint of soft colors, the faint trace of perfume in the air. Not his dormitory. Not the boys’ quarters in the Slytherin dungeons.
He looked… the same, mostly. Hair the same shade of white-blond, face the same—though maybe his features were softer, less guarded. He wore a simple pyjama shirt and trousers, the kind he actually owned, but in the reflection, they hung slightly differently on him. More comfortably. Loosely.
On the bed beside him lay an open book and a folded girl’s uniform—Slytherin colors, pleated skirt.
And around him, laughter.
Daphne Greengrass leaned over the edge of a bed nearby, tossing a pillow at Pansy Parkinson, who shrieked in protest before launching one back. Millicent Bulstrode sat cross-legged on her bed, carefully braiding her hair while humming a tune under her breath. Tracey Davis lounged near the window, feet propped on the frame, lazily flipping through a magazine. They were all there, laughing, chatting, completely at ease in each other’s presence.
And Draco was with them.
He wasn’t watching from the side. He was part of it.
He was laughing, too.
It wasn’t a sneer or a smirk. It was light, easy. Free. His shoulders were relaxed. His eyes were shining.
He looked happy.
Draco took a sharp breath and stepped back.
The reflection remained a moment longer before fading back into simple glass.
His heart pounded. He didn’t know what he had just seen. Or rather, he knew exactly what he had seen—he just didn’t know what it meant. Why had the mirror shown that?
Why had it felt so... right?
He stared blankly at the now-empty glass, trying to make sense of the warmth that still lingered in his chest. Those girls—Daphne, Tracey, Pansy, Millicent—they weren’t his close friends. Not really. But he got along with them better than with Crabe and Goyle, who mostly just followed orders and grunted their agreement. The girls laughed at clever things, talked about interesting nonsense, and didn’t treat him like a prince or a pawn. With them, things felt—different.
What was the mirror trying to say?
He stood motionless for a while, tangled in questions he couldn’t quite name. Then, as if waking from a dream, he blinked, turned on his heel, and gathered his books. He left the room at a brisk pace, heart still racing.
He didn’t look back.
But the image stayed with him, curling around the edges of his thoughts like mist that refused to lift.
It was late again. The castle slept, but Draco couldn’t.
The events of the evening replayed in his mind like a spell gone wrong—over and over, no matter how he tried to ignore them. Harry Potter had stood up to Professor Quirrell. Not just stood up to him—confronted him. Challenged him. And somehow, he’d come out of it whole. Maybe even victorious.
Draco had watched from the shadows, frozen in a mixture of disbelief and something dangerously close to admiration. He didn’t like Potter, not really. But what kind of eleven-year-old dared challenge a teacher? A teacher possibly connected to Voldemort, no less.
That name still sent a chill down his spine.
He wandered the halls of the dungeons, unsure of where he was going until his feet led him to a familiar door. He hesitated only briefly before knocking.
"Come in," came the voice from within—calm, composed, unmistakable.
Draco stepped inside. The quarters were dark, save for the glow of a single lamp hovering above a stack of parchment. Professor Snape—no, Severus tonight—looked up from his work. There was a moment of silence before his expression softened just slightly.
"Draco. Shouldn’t you be in bed?"
Draco shifted awkwardly, hands clasped behind his back. "I couldn’t sleep."
Severus raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He gestured subtly to the seat across from him.
Draco sat. The chair creaked slightly beneath him. He didn’t speak at first, just stared at the lamp’s flame. Then:
"You’re not hurt?" he asked, barely above a whisper, his voice tight with something that hovered between fear and frustration. "I heard—well, I overheard something. In the corridor. Potter said Quirrell—he mentioned him, like something happened. And I thought... maybe it had to do with him."
Severus cut him off gently. "I’m fine. Quirrell is being watched closely. You needn’t worry. The situation is under control."
Draco didn’t look convinced. He gripped the edge of his robe. "But it wasn’t you who stopped him. It was Harry. A first-year. Like me."
Severus didn’t respond right away. He simply folded his hands and watched Draco with sharp, searching eyes.
"I know he’s insufferable," Draco added quickly. "Potter, I mean. And loud. And doesn’t follow rules. But—he’s not thatbad. Not really. He does things. Brave things. Things I couldn’t do."
Severus’s expression didn’t change, but his silence deepened.
Draco looked down. "I don’t want You-Know-Who to come back. Not ever. Not even if my father says—" He bit off the sentence. "No one should have to fight him. Especially not people our age."
Severus leaned back in his chair. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, softly: "You’re afraid."
Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Severus’s voice dropped to something lower, gentler. "It’s not weakness to be afraid, Draco. It means you have something worth protecting. Something that matters to you."
He let the words hang in the air a moment longer.
"I spent years pretending I wasn't," he added, quieter still. "Until someone I cared for was gone—and by then, it was far too late."
Draco looked up, eyes wide.
"You have heart," Severus said. "Don’t hide it. It’s not a flaw. It’s your strength."
Draco looked up, startled.
Severus met his gaze. "You are not your father. Nor are you Potter. You are yourself. And that is enough. You have heart, Draco—more than I did at your age. I buried mine beneath anger and pride, and when someone I loved was taken from me, I realized I had nothing left to give."
He paused, eyes briefly distant. Then he returned to the present with quiet certainty.
"Keep studying. Keep thinking. Let your mind be your shield, yes—but don’t lose what makes you human in the process. You care, and that matters. It doesn’t make you less of a Slytherin. If anything, it makes you a better one."
He smirked faintly. "Merlin help me, I sound like a Griffindor. But the truth is, these Houses we cling to so tightly—they’re only colors on a robe. You’re allowed to be clever, and kind. Brave, and cautious. All that matters is being a better version of yourself. Day after day. And I will be here, watching over you, as long as I can."
The boy swallowed hard. Something like relief flickered behind his eyes.
Severus stood and crossed to the bookshelf behind him. He pulled down a slim volume—dark green leather with silver embossing—and placed it in front of Draco.
"This one’s a bit challenging," Severus said, running a finger along the spine of the slim volume before handing it over. "No title on the cover, you’ll notice—it was removed by the author herself to avoid drawing attention. A complementary text for third-year Defence students, though few first-years ever touch it. But I think you're ready for it—at least the beginning. Try the introduction and the first chapter. We'll discuss it next term, just the two of us."
Draco touched the book gently, reverently.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thin with emotion. He lingered there, eyes still on the book, before glancing up at his godfather. "I... I love you, you know," he added, almost as an afterthought, the words awkward and quiet, like a secret not meant to be spoken aloud.
Severus offered the smallest of nods.
As Draco stood to leave, he paused at the door.
"You won’t let anything happen to us, will you? To Hogwarts?"
Severus’s reply came without hesitation.
"No. Not while I still breathe."
Draco left in silence, the book clutched to his chest.
And for the first time in days, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
In the days that followed, the atmosphere at Hogwarts shifted.
Gryffindor’s last-minute triumph came as a surprise to many. During the final feast, just as Slytherin prepared to celebrate their expected win, Dumbledore awarded last-minute points—bravery for Harry, loyalty for Ron, intelligence for Hermione, and courage for Neville. It was just enough to tip the balance.
The Great Hall fell silent as the final points were announced. Then, with a thunderous clatter of rubies tumbling into the Gryffindor hourglass, the spell broke.
Gryffindor had won.
Draco watched it all unfold with a complicated expression—equal parts scorn and reluctant admiration. He didn’t join in the jeers some Slytherins muttered under their breath. Instead, he remained quiet, the book Severus had given him now tucked into his bag, always within reach.
There was a strange sense of closure to it all, like the final page of a long chapter. And though he would never admit it aloud, Draco was—just a little—eager for the next one to begin.