Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy was in hell. Worse, he was in hell with Harry Potter.
They sat beside each other in the headmaster’s office, his foot bouncing up and down the floor, heel clacking. Potter kicked him under the desk. Draco stopped.
“Thank you so much Professor Dippet,” said Harry, doing his best to look like a lost puppy. To Draco, he looked like a wet sock, but Dippet seemed to be buying it. Harry continued, “We don’t want to burden you, but but we had no where else to go and Hogwarts was the only place I could think of—“
Dippet put a hand up to stop him. He nodded along sympathetically. “I understand, son. These are…difficult times, for all of us. You don’t need to say more.”
That was the story they were going with. Displaced during the Global Wizarding War, with no money or family to speak of, they had travelled to Hogwarts to seek refuge.
Really, they had just stumbled out of the Room of Requirement about twenty minutes ago, which was enough time for them to cook up this half-baked plan.
Potter seemed extraordinarily calm about their predicament. The minute they woke up, Potter explained to him that they’d travelled through time into the 1940’s. The only thing keeping Draco from falling to pieces was the fact that Potter assured him they would be going back soon, so long as Draco sat still and let Potter do the work.
One could understand Draco’s confusion, then, when Potter dragged him to the Headmaster to get them enrolled.
Dippet put on his glasses and began to methodically search through each drawer. Finally, he pulled out a sheet of parchment from the bottom of the desk.
“We’ve set up a special program for students in your situation,” explained Dippet, “all you need to do is give us a few details.”
He laid the form flat on the table and spun it round to face them. Then, he conjured up a quill. “May I have your names?” asked Dippet.
“Harry Evans and Draco Evans,” Potter answered confidently.
Dippet’s gaze bounced between the two of them, his pointed finger following. Draco couldn’t fault him for being confused; the two of them made an odd sight.
“We’re brothers,” said Draco.
“He’s adopted,” added Harry, rather too quickly.
Dippet apologised for his confusion. He quickly moved on, embarrassed. “And could you tell me about your family and old location?”
Potter hesitated. Draco rolled his eyes. Clearly Potter hadn’t thought it through well. He’d been instructed not to say anything, but Draco felt he had no choice.
He ducked his head. “You see, there were people after us, so we’d rather not reveal…”
“Of course, of course. In cases like these, anonymity is key,” said Dippet. He tapped his wand against the form, and about half the text disappeared. “If you could just sign this. Name and date of birth, please.”
Potter scribbled his name, then paused. “What year is it, again?” he asked Dippet.
Dippet frowned. “You don’t remember the year?”
“My brother’s gone through something very traumatic,” said Draco, trying to look as traumatised as possible. After these last few years, it wasn’t difficult. “As you can see, it’s messed with his head a bit.”
Potter scowled at him. Dippet winced, then gazed upon the two sadly.
Draco bristled, feeling mildly guilty. It was clear the man felt deeply for his students and the war, and he and Potter were preying on that.
“It is 1942,” said Dippet.
Potter’s face scrunched in concentration as he counted backwards. Draco rolled his eyes at how long the boy took. It wasn’t that difficult to subtract sixteen.
Potter pushed the form and quill towards Draco, who took it. He filled in his date of birth—he should have put it as 1925, which was seventeen years ago, but for some reason Potter wanted them to enroll as sixth years—and signed his name. Draco’s stomach swirled with distaste as he wrote the muggle surname.
He handed the form back to Professor Dippet, who neatly filed it away. “Not to worry boys, we’re nearly done,” said Dippet, “now, we just need to get you sorted.”
The man pushed out his chair and disappeared to the back of his office, which was filled with many, many shelves. The man reached into the back and pulled out the sorting hat. He slapped it when it started to sing.
“Sorry,” apologised Dippet, “I figured you wouldn’t appreciate the song, at your age. We normally do it for the first years.”
Dippet placed it on the desk, waiting for one of the boys to take it. Neither of them took it. They glared at the hat, locked in a silent duel for the first move, that neither of them wanted to take.
Draco was already sure what house he would be placed into, he just wasn’t sure if this was part of the plan. Potter, on the other hand, seemed apprehensive. He stared at the hat with wide eyes.
When it was clear Potter wasn’t going to take the hat, Draco forfeited. He shoved the hat on. He felt a slight pang as he realised it didn’t fall over his eyes anymore. In fact, it was nearly a perfect fit.
“SLYTHERIN!”
Draco passed the hat to Potter, unsurprised. Potter took it slowly, held it over his head, shut his eyes and dropped it.
Draco realised how creepy the sorting looked. For more than a minute, the hat sat on Potter's head. His eyeballs flickered side to side, moving horribly behind his eyelids.
“SLYTHERIN!” the hat bellowed.
Draco’s head whipped around, his jaw hanging. Potter refused to meet his gaze.
Of all the things that had happened that day—the Room of Requirement burning, Potter saving him, them falling off his broom, travelling through time—Potter getting sorted into the Slytherin was the most shocking.
“A very fine house,” said Dippet, smiling, “it’s best if we call someone your age to sort you out. Please wait a few minutes, I’ll call Mr Riddle.”
Potter fell out of his seat.