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Chapter Text

Harry lived with the Dursleys, but he was far from treated like family. He had a small cupboard under the stairs for a bedroom, wore Dudley’s hand-me-down clothes, and rarely experienced any affection.

That morning happened to be Dudley’s birthday. The boy was whining endlessly, convinced that the mountain of presents surrounding him was insufficient. Vernon and Petunia attempted to soothe him with the promise of a trip to the zoo.

Since no one could stay home with Harry, he was reluctantly taken along. From the very beginning, the outing was filled with insults and taunts directed at him.

At the zoo, something unusual occurred. Harry found himself standing near the glass of the boa constrictor’s enclosure. He leaned closer and whispered, “You must be bored in here, right?”

To his astonishment, the snake lifted its head, blinked, and seemed to look at Harry as if it truly understood him.

When Dudley pushed Harry forward to get a better view, the glass suddenly disappeared. Dudley fell into the enclosure, and the snake slithered out. Before departing, it turned to Harry, almost as if to say “thank you.”

Pandemonium followed. People screamed, Petunia panicked, and Vernon erupted in anger. That evening, Harry was locked in his cupboard and punished, even though he had done nothing wrong.

Yet, deep inside, Harry sensed that something extraordinary was happening. His hair had grown back overnight, clothes that had been too large now fit perfectly, and now the glass had vanished.

The days following the zoo incident passed uneventfully—or, more accurately, unpleasantly. Vernon became more irritable, and Harry received punishments more frequently. Then, something new arrived at Privet Drive.

One morning, Vernon discovered a thick cream-colored envelope among the mail. On it, neatly written in green ink, was:

Harry Potter

Cupboard under the Stairs

4, Privet Drive

Little Whinging, Surre

Harry could hardly believe it—a letter addressed so precisely to him, sealed with a red wax emblem. Vernon, however, snatched it before Harry could even touch it. His face turned pale and then bright red, while Petunia appeared panicked. They agreed that Harry could never read it.

The next day, another letter arrived. Then another, and yet another. The more Vernon tried to stop them, the more letters arrived—sliding under doors, through windows, even down the chimney.

Vernon lost his composure. He forced the family to flee, first to a hotel, then to a remote hut by the sea, hoping to escape the relentless letters. Dudley complained about the lack of television and sweets, while Harry sat quietly, his mind brimming with questions. Tomorrow would be his eleventh birthday, and he watched the broken clock on the wall, counting the seconds.

At midnight, a tremendous bang shook the door.

It nearly splintered as a massive figure entered. Towering, cloaked, with wild hair and a bushy beard, the man spoke in a deep, resonant voice: “Happy birthday, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes widened. Dudley cowered, and Vernon tried to intervene—but the giant easily brushed him aside.

“I’m Rubeus Hagrid,” the man said, smiling warmly. “Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

Hagrid handed Harry a homemade, slightly crushed birthday cake with the words Happy Birthday Harry written across it. Harry felt a warmth he had never known—no one had ever celebrated him like this before.

Then Hagrid produced a letter from his enormous coat. It was the same one Vernon had been hiding. With trembling hands, Harry read:

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry invites you to attend.

Harry froze. “W-witchcraft?” he asked hesitantly.

“Indeed,” Hagrid replied. “All the strange things that have been happening to you—they are no coincidence.”

Harry looked at Vernon and Petunia, seeking answers. Reluctantly, Petunia admitted the truth: Harry’s mother, Lily, was a witch. They had kept it secret from him for years.

Hagrid scowled at the thought of Harry growing up in ignorance. “You are famous, Harry. The Boy Who Lived.”

Harry was confused; he knew nothing of Voldemort, the man who had killed his parents. But Hagrid patted his shoulder reassuringly. “You will learn everything soon enough. For now, prepare yourself. Tomorrow, you step into the world you were always meant to know—the wizarding world.”

In an extraordinary turn of events, the giant of a man helped Harry onto a dazzling, gleaming motorbike, its chrome sparkling under the moonlight. With a roar of the engine, they shot into the starry sky, the wind whipping through Harry’s hair as they soared above the quiet countryside.

Harry’s heart pounded with excitement and anticipation as they landed gently outside the Leaky Cauldron. Hagrid led him through the bustling pub, past drunken patrons, some of whom nodded in recognition of the giant. At the back, Hagrid tapped a hidden brick in the wall, and with a rumbling creak, it shifted aside, revealing the entrance to Diagon Alley.

Inside, Harry’s eyes widened in astonishment; the cobbled streets were crowded with witches and wizards of all ages. Hagrid first guided him to Gringotts, the towering white marble bank home to goblins and countless treasures. Approaching a teller goblin, Harry quickly discovered the extraordinary wealth left to him by his parents—stacks of gleaming gold coins, safely stored in a vault.

After their visit to the bank, Hagrid and Harry explored the busy shops along the alley. They stopped at Ollivanders, the wand shop, where Harry felt an almost magnetic connection while selecting his very first wand. Every visit left him thrilled, gathering the essentials he would need for his first year at Hogwarts—the school he had only just begun to imagine. Finally, it was time for his robes, and he went alone for this task.

Harry stepped into Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. The air smelled of fresh fabric and faint incense. Rows of neatly folded black robes filled the shelves, and in the corner, Madam Malkin herself—a plump woman with a friendly smile—greeted him warmly.

Harry’s eyes roamed over the shop, taking everything in—the perfectly hung robes, the soft folds of cloth, the rows of neatly arranged wands. But then something—or rather, someone—caught his attention.

He saw a boy seated in front of a mirror, trying on a black robe that fit perfectly. His soft blond hair framed his face neatly, and his gray eyes, like polished silver, glimmered under the shop’s light. There was a quiet curiosity in his gaze, and yet a calm confidence that seemed to radiate effortlessly.

His features were refined, almost sculpted—straight nose, firm chin without harshness, and thin lips curved in a subtle, natural smile that drew attention without even trying.

Even the way he moved was captivating: deliberate but light, careful yet unassuming. The tilt of his head as he listened to Madam Malkin, the gentle adjustment of his robe’s collar—everything about him made Harry feel as if the world itself had shifted its focus.

Harry held his breath. He had never seen anyone so complete, so captivating—not just in appearance, but in presence. There was a warmth in his gaze that seemed to illuminate the room.

And then the blond boy noticed another figure in the shop—a boy with messy black hair staring intently.

“Hi… Hogwarts too?” The blond boy greeted softly, a faint, polite smile on his face.

Harry jumped. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. He stepped forward awkwardly, almost tripping over fabric and his own feet. His face flushed, and he wished he could vanish, yet his eyes remained locked on the boy.

“Y-yeah… you too?” Harry stammered, voice small and trembling. He wanted to appear casual, but the words escaped him before he could control them.

Chuckled lightly, warmly, and began chatting cheerfully about Hogwarts—the four Houses, the possibility of Slytherin placement, even favorite Quidditch teams. His words flowed like music to Harry’s ears, every syllable ringing with lively enthusiasm.

Harry didn’t understand most of what he said. And honestly, he didn’t care. He only wanted to watch the blond boy—to observe every movement of his hands, every crease in his brow, every flick of his lips when he spoke. To Harry, it all mattered, every detail etched into his mind as if meant to be remembered forever.

Even his own breathing felt too loud, yet he couldn’t stop. His eyes, ears, and mind were entirely absorbed by the blond boy—he wasn’t just seeing him, he was experiencing him. Every smile, every word, carved itself into Harry’s heart, planting a desire to stay close, to understand, to protect, to… possess.

And he was just a child—innocent, confused—but he knew one thing: this boy, right here, had become the center of his world. Without realizing it, Harry had begun shaping his purpose around him, even before truly knowing him.

Unfortunately, the encounter was brief. Madam Malkin looked at the blond boy with a polite smile. “All done, dear. I think this robe suits you perfectly.”

The boy nodded lightly, offering a courteous smile. “Very well… I’ll see you at Hogwarts,” he said, rising gracefully and walking out, his steps light but confident, as if the world followed him.

Harry remained rooted in place, eyes fixed on the closing door, chest tight, words unspoken. He was frustrated with himself—he had forgotten to ask the boy’s name, forgotten to introduce himself, forgotten to do anything at all to be remembered.

Unknowingly, that small wave of disappointment released a flicker of magic. Madam Malkin, adjusting Harry’s robes, paused mid-motion, sensing an unusual warmth in the air. She glanced at him curiously. “Strange… why is it so warm here?” she murmured, puzzled by the sudden surge of energy.

Harry lowered his gaze, face burning, heart racing. He didn’t understand it himself, but somehow, through innocent obsession and unspoken longing, a small trace of magic had expressed just how important that blond boy had become to him. And at that moment, Harry felt his world slightly emptier without him.

Harry left Madam Malkin’s with heavy steps. Though his body moved forward, his mind lingered in the robe shop. Every detail of the blond boy kept spinning in his head—the way his hair fell neatly over his forehead, the soft gleam of his gray eyes, even the way his lips moved when he smiled warmly. Harry barely noticed what Hagrid was doing beside him.

Along the walk home, he replayed every word the boy had spoken: about Hogwarts, the four Houses, and Quidditch teams. He didn’t understand most of it—he barely understood anything—but the tone of his voice, the little laugh, lingered in Harry’s mind like an unbreakable spell.

He repeated, over and over, the way the blond boy rose from the chair and walked out of the shop. Graceful. Elegant. Naturally commanding, yet warm. Harry smiled to himself, his heart pounding, as if every step left an invisible mark only he could feel.

Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured the encounter again. Even just imagining that smile made him feel both comforted and restless—comforted because he had seen it, restless because it had been far too brief.

Back in his cupboard under the stairs, Harry sat on the floor, knees drawn up, staring at his own small hands. “I… have to remember it,” he whispered softly, almost like a charm. He wanted to record everything—the face, the voice, the way he walked, even the subtle movements as the boy adjusted his robe. Every detail mattered.

He didn’t realize it yet, but this innocent curiosity and admiration were already beginning to shape his life.

And for Harry, a boy who had always felt alone, it felt like discovering something he had been missing all along. A small, simple purpose: to see the blond boy again, to get to know him, and… perhaps, to always be near him.

Chapter Text

Harry stood in the middle of the noisy crowd at King’s Cross, clutching Hedwig’s cage tight while pushing a trolley with his heavy trunk on it. He kept looking left and right, panic creeping in. Platform 9¾, written right there on his ticket, wasn’t anywhere on the board. There was only Platform 9 and Platform 10.

For a moment, Harry thought he’d been tricked—maybe the letter was fake? Or just some really bad prank gone way too far?

Then he caught the sound of a gentle, warm voice, like a mum talking to her kids:

“—Now, you know how to do it. Don’t run, just walk quickly at the barrier.”

Harry turned his head. Through the crowd, he saw a friendly-looking woman with red hair, surrounded by her kids—also redheads.

His eyes went wide when the first boy simply vanished through the wall between Platforms 9 and 10. Then the twins followed, laughing and teasing each other before disappearing too.

Harry froze, his breath stuck in his throat.

The last boy clutched his trolley nervously and looked up at his mum.

“My turn now, Mum?”

“Yes, dear. Don’t be scared, just a bit of a run at the barrier. Don’t stop.”

The boy nodded, then slipped right through the wall as if it wasn’t solid at all.

Harry swallowed hard, then gathered his courage and walked up to the woman.

“Um… excuse me… platform 9¾… how do you get there?” he asked awkwardly.

The woman smiled kindly at the skinny black-haired boy.

“Oh, first time at Hogwarts, dear? Don’t worry, it’s simple. Just head straight at the barrier between nine and ten. Bit of a run, don’t hesitate.”

Harry nodded nervously, his heart pounding. He pushed his trolley forward, shut his eyes, and—whoosh!—the air shifted around him.

He opened his eyes to find himself on a platform filled with white steam from a bright red train. The Hogwarts Express stood there, gleaming with its golden nameplate. Kids in black robes rushed about, parents waving, the whole place buzzing with magic.

Harry smiled in relief—he’d made it.

Later, he sat alone in an empty compartment, staring out the window as his thoughts drifted.

He tried to process everything that had happened, things he never could’ve imagined back at the Dursleys. Hogwarts was flipping his whole life upside down: he was a wizard, his parents hadn’t died in some accident, he was the Boy Who Lived, famous in a world he hadn’t even known existed. A wand, new robes, Hedwig… but most of all, what he couldn’t stop thinking about was that blond boy from Madam Malkin’s.

Part of him was scared, nervous about this strange new world. But another part of him was excited—he wanted to dive in, to learn, to see that blond boy again.

Harry knew he’d never forget his voice, or his pretty face. Something inside him clung to that memory like it was the most important thing in the world. He had to be friends with that boy—not just friends, but close. Really close. Close enough that nothing could ever pull them apart, like a stamp stuck to a letter.

In his chest, the thought sparked a weird kind of warmth, so strong it felt like it leaked out of him. The air around him gave a soft shiver, even though the compartment was shut tight. The seat under him felt warmer too, almost like the train itself was hugging him back.

Harry didn’t notice a thing. He was too busy holding on to that picture in his head: the smile, the voice, the way it had sounded like music.

He didn’t know why it mattered so much. He just knew it did. And he wasn’t going to let it go.

Suddenly, the compartment door slid open, snapping Harry out of his daydream. A red-haired boy stood there—the one he’d seen at the barrier.

“Er—sorry,” the boy muttered. “Everywhere else is full. Do you mind if I sit here?”

Harry’s face brightened. “Not at all,” he said, trying to hide his excitement.

The boy looked relieved and sat across from him. “I’m Ron. Ron Weasley.”

“I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”

Ron’s eyes went wide. He stuttered for a moment before whispering, “So it’s true, then… do you really… you know…”

“What?” Harry frowned.

“The scar,” Ron whispered.

Harry rolled his eyes, pushed up his messy hair, and showed the lightning bolt scar.

“Whoa… wicked.”

Their conversation flowed easily after that. Ron told Harry all about his family, his brothers, Hogwarts stories. Harry listened, fascinated—happy, finally, to have someone kind to talk to.

Then a witch with a trolley full of sweets stopped by.

“Anything off the trolley, dears?”

Harry, who’d never had real pocket money before, suddenly dug into his bag and bought almost everything—Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, Pumpkin Pasties. Ron stared in shock, then laughed when they started sampling everything together.

And just like that, Harry’s first real friendship began.

Hagrid, the giant in his ragged coat and wild hair, stood at the edge of the dark lake, the moonlight shimmering on the water.

“Everyone follow me, now!” Hagrid’s deep, warm voice boomed. First-years jostled nervously—some scared, some curious.

Harry stepped closer, staring at the small boat waiting at the shore. It was made of dark wood, simple but sturdy. He looked around at his new classmates—some he already knew, others were complete strangers. Ron stuck close to his side, looking pale but forcing a smile.

Hagrid gave the signal, and one by one the kids climbed into the boats, shivering slightly from the cold and nerves. Harry gazed at the calm water, smooth as a giant mirror, reflecting the stars and the lights from the castle towers.

“Hold on tight, don’t move around!” Hagrid instructed, pushing the boat into the lake.

Harry felt every ripple under the boat, the sound of water against the wood both soothing and tense. He glanced sideways—Ron holding his breath, Hermione hugging her books, Neville looking pale but trying to smile.

In the distance, Hogwarts slowly came into view. Lights from the towers pierced the thin mist above the lake. Harry held his breath. He felt small, yet amazed beyond words. Everything seemed real—magical, vast, and terrifyingly beautiful at the same time.

The boat reached the dock, and Hagrid helped the children ashore, guiding them to the side.

“All safe here,” he said with a warm smile. “Follow this path, and don’t get lost!”

Harry looked up at the towering stone steps, crowded with kids. The stairs twisted and turned, each step feeling like climbing into a whole new world. Harry was completely captivated.

As they neared the entrance hall, a middle-aged woman appeared, radiating authority and elegance. Her sharp, pointed features were framed by her hair pinned neatly in a bun, and she wore a long, emerald-green robe that swished as she moved. Her glasses perched on the end of her nose gave her a commanding yet wise look.

Her voice was firm, full of authority.

“Welcome to Hogwarts. Soon you will pass through these doors and join your classmates,” she said.

“But before you take your seats, you will be sorted into houses. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin.”

Harry listened in awe. He remembered the blond boy from Madam Malkin’s, confidently talking about Slytherin, and his heart gave a tiny pang of longing.

Her words were interrupted by the croak of a pet frog. She turned sharply, and the great doors swallowed her as the first-years buzzed with excitement.

“Seems like what they said on the train was true,” a loud voice announced.

The room went silent. Harry froze, startled—he knew that voice. He had been waiting to hear it again.

“Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts.”

Harry and the other children turned toward the voice. His heart leapt—there he was, the blond boy from Madam Malkin’s! Even now, he remembered Harry.

“This is my friend Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, Theo, Blaise… and I’m Malfoy,” the boy said, pausing for just a moment before continuing straight to Harry.

“Draco Malfoy.”

Ron stifled a laugh, and Draco glared, annoyed.

“You’re a Malfoy, huh? The kind who usually looks down on kids whose families aren’t as… elite as yours? I bet you’ve already judged me in your head.”

Draco blinked at Ron.

“No, I wouldn’t say anything about your family. I don’t know them, and my parents taught me to respect other families. Family is very important to me, and I follow that lesson.”

“I just want to be friends with Harry Potter, teach him a little about wizarding traditions, and maybe some fun magic games.”

Ron raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised, but chose to scoff instead.

“Yeah, and I bet you’ll also show him how to bow to You-Know-Who, like your family does.”

Draco’s eyes widened, his expression twisting with hurt. It cut through Ron’s bravado. Hermione, nearby, nudged Ron sharply with her elbow at the harsh comment.

“I don’t know what your problem is, but I’ll leave you be. You are Harry Potter’s friend, and we’ll get to know each other properly, without any bad feelings.”

Draco ended the conversation with Ron and turned back, forcing a smile as he extended his hand to Harry, who was still frozen in shock.

“Let’s be friends, Harry Potter.”

For a moment, it felt painfully quiet. Draco’s hand hung there, ungrasped, his pride and heart aching. Harry didn’t move, his gaze hard to read.

Before Draco could try again, a gentle tap on his shoulder reminded him of the woman who’d spoken earlier.

“Time to go inside,” she said.

Draco sadly returned to his friends. Pansy offered a hug, which he accepted, hiding his disappointment on her shoulder.

“It’s okay, Draco, it just takes time,” she whispered.

“Yeah… changing people’s minds about us isn’t easy,” Blaise added kindly.

Theo patted Draco’s head gently, while Crabbe and Goyle looked on, nearly in tears seeing their friend’s sadness.

Ron brushed against Harry's arm, making him jump way more than necessary. Ron didn't even notice; he was just trying to keep up with the other kids while chatting about Draco.

"He… he reached out to me?! He's… inviting me to be friends?!" Harry's mind was spinning. He missed the most important thing ever. The candles in the Great Hall flickered slightly, but no one seemed to notice.

"Yeah... I guess he did surprise me. Sorry I made him look bad earlier. If I get a chance, I'll apologize."

Harry raised an eyebrow, annoyed. What had Ron done to make Draco look bad? Why did Draco have to be embarrassed? Why hadn't he answered Draco's hand? Why didn't he respond at all? His frustration made the Great Hall lights flicker again—just a little this time—but no one paid attention.

Seeing Harry's glare, Ron threw up his hands. "Okay, okay! I know I messed up. I thought you heard everything and rejected his offer."

Harry huffed, feeling ignored. He couldn't believe he'd missed it all.

He's frozen. His eyes locked on Draco's pale hand, then to his face—so confident, so calm. Draco didn't move, didn't say a word.

But in Harry's head… everything was spinning. He's really here. Right in front of me. I can't believe he's actually here. I have to remember this—his voice, his face, the way he stands. I have to…

A warm, tingly feeling spread through Harry's chest, making him squirm slightly, and his heart beat strangely, like it wanted to keep him rooted in place.

He stayed frozen, staring at Draco—how confident he looked, how the candlelight bounced off his blonde hair, every little detail seemed impossibly important. Harry didn't know why, but he felt like he had to stay close. Not on purpose, just… naturally.

Trying to calm himself, Harry turned his attention to the other students being sorted by the magical, talking hat.

As Harry tried to focus on each name being called, his gaze drifted—by accident—toward the teachers’ table in the corner. A man dressed in all black sat there, his expression unreadable. The instant Harry’s eyes landed on him, a sharp pain flared in his scar, forcing a wince.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Ron whispered beside him.

“Nothing,” Harry muttered, shaking his head as he rubbed at his scar.

When the name Draco Malfoy was called, the pain in Harry’s scar vanished as if it had never been there. He leaned forward instantly, desperate to see the pretty blond boy. For a fleeting moment, Draco’s face looked almost sad—before he covered it with his usual confident smirk. The sight made Harry’s chest ache sharply.

And when the Sorting Hat declared, “Slytherin!”, relief and warmth spread through him. He found himself smiling faintly, glad to hear it. Draco had been right about his certainty.

Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, the two he had already met, had both been sorted into Gryffindor. Harry’s stomach tightened with nerves.

“Harry Potter.”

The hall went dead silent, the weight of every eye pressing down on him as he walked toward the stool. His palms were damp, his heart thudding as he sat down.

The Sorting Hat was lowered onto his head, and at once a voice echoed in his mind. "Hmm... difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, cleverness... and a lot of ambition, yes—but a thirst to prove yourself. Interesting. So... where should I put you?"

Harry swallowed. “Not Slytherin,” he said, trying to sound calm even though his stomach was twisting.

"Not Slytherin, huh? Are you sure?" the hat hummed inside his head. "You could do well there, you know. All in your head. And... you like Draco Malfoy. Why not be in the same house as your crush?"

Harry looked toward Slytherin and saw Draco trying not to notice him. His chest burned. The hat chuckled. “Young ones… stubborn.”

Harry took a deep breath, voice shaking slightly but firm. "I... I can stay near him from anywhere. I don't need Slytherin. Draco... he's important, he's my goal. But I want Gryffindor. That's where I feel like myself."

The hat sighed. "Hm... a brave heart, but a little naive. Very well. Gryffindor it is. Don't disappoint yourself... and remember, your greatness is waiting, Harry Potter."

Harry exhaled, relieved. Before the hat officially announced it, it added one last thought:

"My strongest reason to put you in Slytherin is your immense potential... and Draco Malfoy is your key. But I'll respect your choice. Just... make sure Draco doesn't reject you—otherwise, or the wizarding world might not survive it.”

Harry blinked, confused, but before he could ask, the hat shouted:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Cheers erupted. The hat lifted off his head, leaving Harry dazed, still thinking about that last warning.

At the Gryffindor table, Harry was bombarded with handshakes, cheers, and pats on the back. He finally slid into the seat next to Ron, who grinned ear to ear.

"I was worried you'd end up somewhere else, and we'd have a hard time being friends. You were in there ages! But hey, we're together!" Ron's excitement made Harry smile and flush.

After the Sorting, Professor Dumbledore spoke briefly about forbidden curses and the third-floor dangers, then the feast began. Harry was amazed.

His eyes immediately searched for Draco, who was eating with such enthusiasm his cheeks puffed out. Harry couldn't help staring… until Draco caught his gaze and quickly looked away at his friends.

Harry's heart raced, but he also felt a sharp sting when Draco turned away. He looked down at his own food, suddenly unable to eat.

“Is it just me, or is it freezing at our table?” Ron chirped.

Chapter Text

It was only the first day of school, and Harry and Ron had already managed to make a memorable entrance — they were late.

When the classroom door swung open with a loud bang, both of them were panting hard. Luckily… there was no professor in sight. Just a tabby cat sitting on the teacher’s desk, its tail swishing lazily.

“Thank Merlin, the teacher’s not here yet,” Ron muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. “We’d be doomed otherwise.”

Harry stared at the cat, trying to catch his breath. But something felt weird — why was everyone in the class trying not to laugh?

Before he could sit down, the cat suddenly transformed into a woman. One blink, and there stood Professor McGonagall, looking at them with a cold, sharp gaze.

“A spectacular start, Mr. Potter. Mr. Weasley,” she said dryly, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Ron gawked in awe. “Whoa, that was amazing!”

“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall replied flatly. “Now take your seats before I deduct points.”

Harry quickly turned away, face burning hotter than Hagrid’s fireplace. That’s when his eyes met Draco Malfoy’s — the blond boy was sitting casually, trying to hide a smirk. The sight made Harry’s stomach twist. Not exactly how he’d wanted to get Draco’s attention.

He started walking toward Draco’s table — there was one empty seat next to him, and somehow it felt like that was where he was supposed to be.

But Ron grabbed his sleeve. 

“Harry, sit somewhere else. There’s only one chair left there.”

Harry didn’t answer, still staring at Draco. “I wanna sit next to him,” he whispered.

Ron blinked. “What?”

Before Ron could argue, Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through the air, sharp as glass.

“Are you planning to stand there all day, gentlemen?”

Both of them froze. Ron dragged Harry to a table far from Draco, while soft laughter echoed from the Slytherin side.

Draco watched the scene unfold, lips twitching slightly. “I have no idea what those two idiots are doing,” he murmured.

Blaise, sitting beside him, nudged his arm. “Looks like the Boy Who Lived wanted to sit next to you.”

Draco snorted. “Yeah, right. They didn’t even want to be friends with me yesterday.”

Pansy leaned forward, smirking. “I think Harry was just nervous. Now he’s looking at you like—”

She glanced toward Harry, who sat far in the back, eyes still darting Draco’s way. “—like there’s a magnet pulling him to you.”

“Shut up, Pansy,” Draco said quickly. “I’m not falling for your nonsense.”

Pansy just raised an eyebrow. “Whatever you say. But never underestimate a girl’s instinct.”

She turned back to her book, while Draco pretended to help Greg with his notes. But his mind wandered — not to Transfiguration, but to those green eyes across the room that still looked faintly disappointed.

"LOOK, that’s him!"

"Where?"

"Next to the tall red-haired kid."

"The one with the glasses?"

"Did you see his face?"

"Did you see the scar?"

Whispers followed Harry everywhere the next morning after he left his dorm. Kids waiting in front of classrooms stood on tiptoe just to get a glimpse of him, or walked back through the corridors pretending to forget something so they could pass by him again. Harry really wished they wouldn’t do that, because he needed all his focus to find his classes.

He was relieved to find he wasn’t behind the others. Plenty of kids came from Muggle families too and, like him, had no idea they were wizards until they got their letter. There was so much to learn that even kids like Ron weren’t that much ahead.

They finally managed to find their way to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost.

“What’ve we got today?” Harry asked as he poured sugar into his porridge.

“Potions. Double period. With the Slytherins,” Ron said gloomily. “Snape’s head of Slytherin House. People say he’s biased and the Slytherins are his favorites. We’ll see if that’s true.”

“Hopefully we’ll be McGonagall’s favorites,” Harry muttered.

Potions class was held in one of the dungeons. It was colder down there than anywhere else in the castle, and the place already looked creepy enough without all the pickled animals floating inside glass jars lining the walls.

Like Professor Flitwick, Snape began by taking the roll, and like Flitwick, he paused when he reached Harry’s name.

“Ah, yes,” he said softly. “Harry Potter. Our new celebrity.”

Draco turned toward Harry with a mocking smirk, and Harry—realizing it—flushed slightly, caught off guard by the pretty blond boy’s attention.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” Snape began.

Draco’s eyes immediately went back to Snape, and that tiny movement made Harry feel a sting of disappointment—no more attention from him.

“As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic…” Snape’s silky voice carried on. “I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death—if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

Silence followed that short speech. Harry and Ron exchanged raised eyebrows. Hermione Granger was sitting on the edge of her seat, desperate to prove she wasn’t one of the “dunderheads.”

“Potter!” Snape snapped suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry froze. He turned stiffly to Ron, who looked just as blank. On the other side, Hermione was waving her hand in the air like she might explode if she couldn’t answer.

“I—I don’t know, sir,” Harry said.

Snape’s lips curled into a sneer.

“Fame clearly isn’t everything.”

He ignored Hermione’s raised hand.

“Let’s try again, Potter. Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?”

Hermione was practically standing on tiptoe with her hand up, but Harry had absolutely no idea what a bezoar was. He tried not to glance toward Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were snickering. This was definitely not the kind of attention from Draco he wanted.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Didn’t bother to open your book before coming here, eh, Potter?” Snape drawled, clearly pleased. “What’s the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

Harry shook his head again. Snape gave him a cold glare.

“Sit down,” he barked at Hermione. “For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it’s called the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane—they’re the same plant, which also goes by aconite. Well? Why aren’t you all writing this down?”

Everyone scrambled for quills and parchment. Over the scratching of pens, Snape added,

“One point will be taken from Gryffindor for your incompetence, Potter.”

Class continued. Snape paired them up to brew a simple boil-curing potion.

Maybe that humiliation earlier was just the start of what Harry had to endure before fate decided to reward him—because his partner turned out to be Draco Malfoy. What a dream come true, working beside that beautiful blond boy.

“Why did you stop crushing the snake fangs, Potter?”

Harry jumped at that soft, melodic voice saying his name. He looked down at his unfinished work—he’d been too busy staring at Draco.

“Draco,” Harry blurted out softly.

Draco’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and irritated that Harry had the nerve to call him by his first name.

“I mean—Malfoy,” Harry corrected quickly, panicking a little. “Sorry.”

“Can you just do your work properly, Potter? I don’t want my potion ruined because of your lack of skill.”

Harry ignored the bite in Draco’s tone. This was his chance—his moment to fix things—and he wasn’t going to waste it.

“Malfoy, listen,” Harry started quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t take your hand yesterday. I’m sorry I offended you—in front of everyone. I really want to be friends with you, I swear, it’s just that… yesterday… I—” He stopped, too embarrassed to say he’d been too mesmerized by Draco to think straight.

Draco paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Harry’s face. Harry held his gaze, desperate, sincere.

“… Alright. I’ll take that,” Draco said finally.

Harry’s heart nearly exploded with joy; for a second he almost blew up their cauldron from excitement.

“But,” Draco added, turning back to his ingredients, “I’m not going to be your friend. Not yet. I still remember how that felt.”

It hit Harry like a thousand daggers.

“But I want to! I know I was wrong, but please—just give me a chance!” he begged.

Magic flared from his frustration, crushing more snake fangs than necessary and accidentally making Ron’s potion heat up too much. Ron yelped, waving frantically at the steam.

Draco sighed softly, glancing at Harry again before looking at the perfect powder on his board.

“Fine. Keep trying, Potter. I’ll think about it.”

He added the crushed fangs into the cauldron; the potion turned a pale pink. He was sure Harry hadn’t been doing any real work at all—but the fangs were ground perfectly.

Harry couldn’t stop staring at him. At least now, he had a reason to stay close.

“You—IDIOT!” Snape bellowed suddenly, sweeping away a spilled potion with one flick of his wand. “You added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire, didn’t you?”

Neville whimpered as boils began to pop out on his nose.

Harry flinched, not even realizing what was happening. Thankfully, the spilled potion hadn’t splashed onto him—or Draco.

“You—Potter—why didn’t you stop him? Did you think you’d look clever if he messed up?” Snape’s voice was sharp as ever. “Another point from Gryffindor.”

Harry’s mouth opened to protest, but Ron gave him a warning shake of the head. Still, the injustice burned in him—until a gentle hand landed on his arm.

He turned, startled, and saw Draco’s hand on him. Just that small touch made the anger melt away, replaced by a rush of warmth that made his face flush red.

“If you’ve got time to argue,” Draco murmured, “you’ve got time to help me fix this potion and earn your point back.”

Harry nodded quickly, scooting closer—way too close—to help Draco finish the brew.

Well, maybe that was worth losing a few points for.

The first flying lesson had finally begun, and Harry could feel his stomach twist with nerves.

“Hold out your right hand over the broom and say, Up!” Madam Hooch called.

“Up!” the class shouted together.

Most of the brooms just rolled lazily on the ground—but Harry’s shot straight into his hand, quick and perfect, as if it had been waiting for that command all along.

A wide grin spread across his face. For the first time that day, Harry felt genuinely proud of himself.

“I did it on the first try!” he said cheerfully, loud enough for Draco to hear.

Draco had also managed to call his broom with ease. He turned his head slightly, gave Harry a small, amused smile, and nodded. That brief smile sent a warm rush through Harry’s chest. He quickly looked down, pretending to adjust his grip on the broom handle.

Harry burst out laughing when Ron’s broom smacked him in the face, making Ron yelp, “Shut up, Harry!”

When Madam Hooch told them to mount their brooms, the students did so nervously.

“Keep your balance. On the count of my whistle—”

But before the whistle even sounded, Neville’s broom shot up into the air.

“Neville!” half the class screamed.

Neville soared out of control before crashing down hard. The thud made everyone flinch. Madam Hooch sprinted over to him.

“He’ll be fine,” she said at last, though her face was tight with worry. “His wrist’s broken. I’ll take him to Madam Pomfrey. And listen, all of you—don’t move an inch from where you are! If anyone dares, you’ll be out of here before you can say Quidditch!”

She marched Neville off the field, leaving the rest frozen in place.

Then, Draco stepped forward toward the pile of Neville’s things.

“Draco, don’t!” Pansy cried, her voice trembling. “You’re not steady enough yet!”

Theo and Blaise moved too. “Don’t be stupid, you’ll fall—”

“I’ll be fine,” Draco said quietly but firmly. “I’ve practiced.”

Before anyone could stop him, Draco kicked off the ground and rose into the air.

Harry’s whole body tensed. His eyes locked on Draco, his heart hammering in his chest. His hands gripped the broom tight—ready to fly if Draco even wobbled.

Hermione’s voice rang from the side, “He’s breaking the rules! That’s reckless!”

But Harry didn’t hear her. His eyes didn’t move an inch.

Draco climbed higher, spotting Neville’s rememberball glinting near the roof of Hogwarts. He reached carefully—

And then, just like his friends had feared, his broom lurched sideways.

“Draco!” Pansy screamed from below.

His hand slipped; his body tilted forward. But just before he fell, his fingers caught the rememberball. His victory lasted only a heartbeat before gravity took hold.

Harry didn’t think. His broom shot forward like lightning, cutting through the air.

“Draco!!”

Magic flared from him—wild, instinctive. It wrapped around Draco like a soft current, slowing his fall. Harry reached out, pulled him close, and caught him midair.

Draco landed right in Harry’s arms.

Harry clutched him tight, shaking uncontrollably with fear. He guided his broom down slowly, heart still racing, and landed gently on the grass. 

Even then, he refused to let go.

Neville’s rememberball rolled nearby, glowing faintly in the sunlight. Magic still pulsed around Harry, unstable and hot with leftover panic.

The other students rushed over, shouting in alarm. Blaise and Theo tried to pull Draco away.

“Potter, let go—!”

But a burst of raw magic surged from Harry, knocking them both back onto the ground. Pansy started crying, panic-stricken.

Draco was still frozen in Harry’s arms, pale and breathless. Shock had rendered him silent.

Then came the firm, commanding voice of Professor McGonagall from across the field. Every head turned.

Draco finally stirred. Slowly, he brushed his fingers over Harry’s hand where it circled his waist—gentle, grounding.

“It’s okay, Harry,” he whispered. “I’m safe.”

Harry’s arms loosened. His face flushed—a mix of fear, anger, and overwhelming relief.

Draco was immediately surrounded by his friends. Pansy threw her arms around him, sobbing, while Greg and Vincent hovered close, visibly shaken.

Professor McGonagall stopped right in front of Harry, eyes sharp and disbelieving.

“Mr. Potter,” she said in a low, steady tone, “come with me.”

Then she turned to Blaise and Theo. “You two, take Mr. Malfoy to Madam Pomfrey.”

Harry looked at Draco one last time, reluctant to go.

Draco met his gaze and gave a small, soft nod—something almost warm flickering in his expression.

Without a word, Harry followed Professor McGonagall off the field, leaving behind the sound of panicked chatter and Pansy’s sobs echoing across the grass.

Chapter Text

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

They were having dinner. Harry had just finished telling Ron what happened when he left the field with Professor McGonagall.

Ron had his fork halfway to his mouth with a piece of meat pie but completely forgot about it.

“Seeker?” he said. “But first years never— you’ve got to be the youngest in like…”

“…a century,” Harry said, shoving the pie into his mouth.

He was starving after everything that had happened on the broom that afternoon.

“Wood told me." Ron just stared at him, mouth hanging open.

“I start training next week,” said Harry. “But don’t tell anyone. Wood wants it kept secret.”

Fred and George Weasley appeared in the hall. They spotted Harry and hurried over.

“Nice,” George whispered. “Wood told us. We’re on the team too—Beaters.”

They were the ones who hit the Bludgers.

“Telling you, we’re going to win the Quidditch Cup this year,” said Fred.

“We haven’t won since Charlie left, but the team this year’s going to be brilliant. You must be amazing, Harry, Wood practically bounced off the walls telling us.”

“But we’ve got to go. Lee Jordan thinks he’s found a secret passageway out of school.”

“Bet it’s the one behind Gregory the Smarmy’s statue, we found that first week. See you.”

“You’ll be fine with them,” Harry said, turning to Ron, who was finally eating his pie again.

Harry looked unsure, even a bit scared. “What if I’m rubbish at being Seeker? I’ll let everyone down.”

“Nonsense.”

Both Harry and Ron looked up. Hermione was standing there, no one knew how long she’d been listening.

“You just love butting into other people’s conversations, don’t you?” Ron muttered, sarcastic.

Hermione ignored him completely, eyes locked on Harry, steady and sure.

“You’re not going to fail. Being a Seeker’s in your blood. Your dad was Gryffindor’s Seeker—he brought home the Cup.”

Harry’s eyes went wide, excitement flickering across his face.

“Really? How do you know that?”

“It’s in the records. His trophy’s still there—you can go see it yourself,” Hermione replied quickly, then walked off.

Ron muttered under his breath about Hermione acting like she knew everything. Harry barely heard him.

Warmth spread through his chest. For the first time, his fear was gone, replaced by pride—his dad had been a great Seeker.

Done with his thoughts, Harry started eating again. But his eyes flicked to the hall doors when Draco walked in with Crabbe and Goyle, heading straight toward him.

Relief and nervousness mixed in his chest. “Dra—Malfoy, you okay? You’re not hurt? Nothing’s wrong? Are you—”

“Potter, shut up.” Draco snorted, hiding a small laugh. “I’m fine. Now it’s my turn—did you get detention when McGonagall called you?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Ron cut in sharply. “Too bad for you, Malfoy, Harry didn’t get punished. So shove off, you ungrateful—”

Draco flinched but didn’t say anything. Harry shot Ron a sharp glare, telling him to shut it.

“Fine,” Draco said at last, voice calm but with a challenge in it. “I want to face you myself, Potter. Wizard duel. Trophy room. Midnight.”

Harry blinked—then his eyes lit up. Something stirred in his chest, excitement mixed with something else he couldn’t name. He’d see Draco again.

Ron snorted loudly. “Fine, you git, I’ll be Harry’s second. Who’re you bringing, huh?”

Draco glanced at Ron, looking irritated but also…not totally sure. He hadn’t actually planned to duel. He just wanted to say thanks—something he could never do in public without ruining the Malfoy name.

“Fine, my second’s Crabbe,” Draco said coolly. If he had to deal with Weasley, so be it.

“Alright,” Harry cut in quickly, eager to pull Draco’s attention back to him. “I’ll be waiting tonight.”

Draco only gave a brief nod before turning and walking off with Crabbe and Goyle.

Harry watched him until he disappeared into the crowd. A small smile flickered on his face—but it vanished the moment his eyes shifted to Ron. His face tightened; quiet anger showed through.

“What?” Ron asked, confused. “I was just standing up for you! He’s totally ungrateful. Saved him and he’s still arrogant—”

“Stop insulting him, Ron. I’m serious.”

Harry’s tone made Ron shut up. He opened his mouth to argue but Harry’s glare—cold and sharp—made him close it again. Ron finally sighed, defeated.

“Sorry.”

A girl’s voice cut in again.

It was Hermione.

“Can’t we ever eat in peace?” Ron grumbled.

Hermione ignored him, speaking to Harry. “I overheard you talking with Malfoy…”

“No surprise there,” Ron muttered.

“…and you can’t be sneaking around school at night. Think about the points Gryffindor will lose if you’re caught—you will get caught. You’re being selfish.”

“That’s none of your business,” Harry snapped.

He and Ron got up and left the hall.

Harry spent the night waiting, restless. Dean and Seamus were fast asleep, Neville still hadn’t returned, and Ron was busy explaining what a wizard’s duel was.

Harry listened but kept seeing Draco’s calm, pretty face in his mind.

This was his chance to face Draco again, maybe figure out where their friendship stood.

“Half past eleven,” Ron muttered at last. “We’d better go now.”

They threw on their cloaks, grabbed their wands, and crept across the common room. The fire was dying, making all the armchairs look like hunched shadows.

They were almost at the portrait hole when a voice came from the nearest chair. “I can’t believe you’re doing this, Harry.”

A lamp clicked on. Hermione Granger, in pink pajamas, frowned at them.

“You!” Ron hissed. “Go back to bed!”

“I almost told your brother,” Hermione snapped. “Percy’s a prefect, he’d stop you.”

Harry couldn’t believe someone could want to meddle this much.

“Come on,” he said to Ron, pushing open the portrait of the Fat Lady and climbing out.

Hermione wasn’t giving up. She followed them, hissing like an angry goose.

“Don’t you care about Gryffindor at all? Do you only care about yourselves? I don’t want Slytherin to win the House Cup and all the points I earned from Professor McGonagall—because of the Switching Spell—will go to waste.”

“Go away.”

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, just remember when you’re on the train home tomorrow you—”

She never finished. She turned to the portrait hole to go back in, but the canvas was empty.

The Fat Lady had gone visiting and Hermione was locked out.

“So what am I supposed to do?” she demanded loudly.

“That’s your problem,” Ron said. “We’ve got to go, we’re already late.”

They hadn’t gone far down the corridor when Hermione caught up.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

“No way.”

“You think I’m going to stand here waiting for Filch to catch me? If he finds us, I’ll tell him the truth—that I was trying to stop you—and you can back me up.”

“You’re mental…” Ron muttered.

“Shut up, both of you!” Harry hissed. “I hear something.”

A kind of sniffle. “Mrs. Norris?” Ron whispered, peering into the dark.

It wasn’t Mrs. Norris. It was Neville, curled up on the floor asleep, but he jumped awake when they got close.

“Thank goodness you found me! I’ve been out here for hours. I forgot the new password.”

“Keep your voice down, Neville. The password’s ‘pig snout,’ but that won’t help you now, the Fat Lady’s gone somewhere."

“How’re your hands?” Harry asked.

“All better,” said Neville, showing them. “Madam Pomfrey fixed them in a second.”

“Good—look, Neville, we have to go, see you later…”

“Don’t leave me!” Neville cried, scrambling up. “I don’t want to be here alone, the Bloody Baron’s already passed twice.”

Harry sighed. In the end, all four of them walked carefully toward the trophy room.

Malfoy and Crabbe weren’t there. The glass cases glittered in the moonlight. Cups, shields, plaques, and statues gleamed in the dark.

Minutes ticked by.

“He’s late, probably chickened out,” Ron whispered.

Harry tried not to be too disappointed. He’d really wanted to see Draco again.

Then a noise from the next room made them jump. Was that Draco? Harry’s heart leapt.

He raised his wand when they heard a voice—and it wasn’t Draco’s.

“Sniff around, sweetie, they might be hiding in a corner.” Filch’s voice, talking to Mrs. Norris.

Terrified, Harry waved frantically at the others to follow him. They crept toward the door, away from Filch’s voice. Neville’s robes vanished as he turned the corner just as Filch entered the trophy room.

“They’re in here,” they heard Filch mutter. “Probably hiding.”

They slipped out the door and ran, turning corridor after corridor, Harry leading without any idea where they were. They ducked behind a tapestry into a hidden passageway, ran down it, and came out near the Charms classroom, far from the trophy room.

“Think we’ve lost him,” Harry panted, leaning against the cold wall and wiping his forehead.

“Malfoy set you up, Harry,” Hermione said, also out of breath.

“I know you’ll hate me saying this, but he’s a real git, completely shameless,” Ron snapped.

Harry said nothing this time. His heart already hurt enough from Draco not showing.

“Come on, let’s go.”

It wasn’t that simple. Peeves spotted them and shrieked with delight.

“Shh, Peeves—please, shh—you’ll get us expelled.” Peeves cackled.

“Midnight wandering, first-years? Tsk, tsk. Naughty, naughty, naughty, you’re gonna get caught.”

“Got to tell Filch, got to,” Peeves said piously, eyes gleaming with mischief. “For your own good.”

“Move,” Ron growled, swinging a fist at Peeves.

Big mistake.

“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves screamed. “STUDENTS OUT OF BED IN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!”

They ducked under Peeves and ran to the end of the corridor, where they hit a locked door.

“Brilliant,” Ron groaned, shoving at it uselessly. “We’re done for!” They could hear Filch’s footsteps running toward Peeves’ scream.

“Oh, move aside,” Hermione snapped. She grabbed Harry’s wand, tapped the lock, and whispered, “Alohomora!”

“Where’d they go, Peeves?” Filch called. “Quick, tell me.”

“Say ‘please’ first.”

“Don’t mess with me, Peeves, where?”

“I won’t say a thing if you don’t say ‘please,’” Peeves said, voice flat and maddening.

“Fine—please.”

“NOTHING! Ha ha! Told you I wouldn’t say anything if you didn’t say please! Ha ha haaaaaa…”

Harry and the others could finally breathe—until Neville tugged Harry’s sleeve. “What?”

They weren’t in a room at all. They were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third floor. And now they knew why it was forbidden.

They were staring straight into the eyes of a giant dog, a dog that filled the whole space between floor and ceiling. Three heads, three pairs of glaring eyes, three noses sniffing the air toward them, three dripping mouths with strings of saliva hanging like ropes from yellow fangs.

The dog stood still, all six eyes fixed on them. Harry knew the only reason they weren’t dead yet was because their sudden entrance had surprised it. But it was getting over the shock fast, judging by the terrible growls.

Harry grabbed the door handle. Between Filch and death, he’d take Filch.

They scrambled back, Harry slamming the door shut, and ran, practically flying down the corridor in the opposite direction. Filch must have gone looking for them elsewhere because they didn’t see him, but they didn’t care—all they wanted was distance from the monster.

They didn’t stop running until they reached the Fat Lady’s portrait on the seventh floor.

“Where’ve you—”

“Never mind, pig snout—pig snout.” Harry gasped. The portrait swung forward and they all tumbled inside.

It was a while before any of them could speak. Neville looked like he’d never speak again.

“What are they thinking keeping a thing like that locked up in school?” Ron said at last. “If there’s a dog that needs walking, that’s the one.”

Hermione had caught her breath and her bossiness.

“You lot didn’t even use your eyes, did you?” she snapped. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”

“The floor?” Harry guessed. “I didn’t see its feet, I was too busy with its heads.”

“No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. Obviously it’s guarding something.” Hermione stood, glaring at them.

“Hope you’re happy now. We could’ve all been killed—or worse, expelled. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”

Ron gaped at her. “She really needs to sort out her priorities.”

Chapter Text

Harry still had a hard time believing he was actually back at Hogwarts after yesterday — the day that nearly got him expelled.

But here he was, walking with Ron toward the Great Hall for breakfast. Both of them looked tired, but they couldn’t hide the small smiles on their faces. They shared the same thought: even though danger had lurked yesterday, it had also been… exciting. The adrenaline had been pumping, thrilling and a bit fun — and deep down, a small part of them secretly hoped for more unexpected trouble.

That morning, the sky above the hall was full of flapping owls, coming and going with letters, parcels, and news from every corner of the wizarding world — a routine that somehow always made Hogwarts mornings feel alive.

Harry, of course, never got letters. No one would miss him at the Dursleys’ — and honestly, he didn’t want them either. When Ron’s owl came with a letter as usual, Harry just kept his head down, focusing on devouring his meat pie.

While eating, he grabbed Ron’s copy of The Daily Prophet lying on the table. His eyes narrowed at the bold headline on the front page — news about a break-in at Gringotts.

“Ron, look at this,” he said quietly, his voice tense.

Ron leaned over, looking at the article Harry was pointing to.

“The Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday! That was when Hagrid and I were there!”

They read the next paragraph together:

The vault that was broken into had already been emptied earlier that same day. Its contents had been moved in advance.

Harry swallowed slowly. He clearly remembered Hagrid taking a small package out of vault seven hundred thirteen — a package he had brought straight to Hogwarts.

“Do you think… it’s dangerous?” Ron asked, a mix of curiosity and worry in his eyes.

Harry shook his head, though he wasn’t sure himself. “I don’t know. Let’s hope not.”

They exchanged a brief glance before going back to their breakfast, acting like the news didn’t matter. But deep down, Harry knew something was going on — and this was just the beginning.

He returned to his meal, glancing occasionally toward the Slytherin table, at the figure who, for some reason, had become the focus of his attention every morning. A habit no one had noticed… or at least, that’s what Harry thought.

Yesterday, Draco had hurt him. A small lie that led to danger almost made Harry lose everything. Yet strangely, that anger never turned into hate. He was just … caught between disappointment and a feeling he couldn’t shake off.

To his surprise, this morning Draco looked back at him.
That look made Harry’s heart beat faster — not because he’d been caught, but because there was something different in Draco’s eyes.

His jaw wasn’t as tight as usual. His normally raised lips were now slightly down, like he was holding something back but didn’t have the courage to say it. A faint crease appeared between his brows, not from anger, but from unease. His gray eyes seemed dim, as if hiding something he wished he could take back — a mistake that had slipped out unintentionally.

Harry froze. In that instant, he understood. Draco was sorry.

A warm feeling spread through his chest, replacing the disappointment that had clumped there last night. He lifted a slight corner of his mouth, giving a small, almost invisible smile from afar — a sign that he wasn’t angry anymore.

Draco tensed for a moment, then gently exhaled, restoring his usual expression. That calm, proud face returned, like the mask he always wore perfectly. He turned to his friends and started talking as if nothing had happened.

“Malfoy’s been staring at us the whole time,” Ron whispered, just loud enough to make Harry glance reflexively.

Sure enough — Draco had looked their way before pretending to focus on his plate.

“Maybe he’s annoyed we didn’t get caught or expelled like he wanted,” Ron added, in his typical sarcastic tone.

Harry shrugged, trying to act casual. “Forget it, Ron. Just ignore him.”

Ron huffed softly and went back to his meal.

Hundreds of seats were arranged all around the pitch on high stands, so the spectators would be tall enough to see what was going on. At both ends of the pitch stood golden posts with three hoops at the top.

The posts reminded Harry of the tiny plastic sticks Muggle kids used to blow soap bubbles. Only these ones were fifteen meters tall.

Oliver Wood was already there, carrying a big wooden box.

“I’m just going to teach you the rules tonight,” he said, “then you’ll join practice with the team three times a week.”

He opened the box. Inside were four balls of different sizes.

“Right,” Wood said. “Quidditch is pretty easy to understand, though not so easy to play. Each team has seven players. Three of them are called Chasers.”

He took out a bright red ball, about the size of a soccer ball.

“This is the Quaffle,” Wood explained. “Chasers throw the Quaffle to each other and try to get it through one of the hoops to score points. Ten points every time it goes through. Got it?” Harry nodded.

“Then there’s the Keeper on each team—I’m Gryffindor’s Keeper. I have to fly around the hoops and stop the other team from scoring.”

“What about these?” Harry asked, pointing to the three remaining balls in the box.

“I’ll show you now,” Wood said.

“Take this.” He handed Harry a small bat that looked like a baseball bat.

“I’m going to show you what the Bludgers do,” Wood said. “These two are Bludgers.”

He held up two black balls, a bit smaller than the red Quaffle. Harry noticed they seemed to struggle against the straps holding them in the box.

“Step back,” Wood warned. He bent down and released one of the Bludgers.

The black ball shot up into the air and then dove straight at Harry’s face. He swung the bat just in time, sending it zig-zagging across the pitch. It whizzed around their heads and then sped toward Wood, who jumped and managed to catch it on the ground.

“You’ve got what it takes to be a Beater,” Wood said. Harry grinned at the compliment.

Wood reached into the box again and pulled out the fourth and final ball.

Compared to the Quaffle and the Bludgers, this one was tiny, only about the size of a large walnut. It was golden with silver wings that fluttered rapidly.

“This,” Wood said, “is the Golden Snitch. And it’s the most important ball of all. It’s really hard to catch because it moves so fast and is hard to see. The Seeker’s job is to catch it. You have to dodge Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and the Quaffle to catch it before the other team’s Seeker does. The Seeker who catches the Snitch adds 150 points to their team — usually enough to win. That’s why good Seekers are in high demand.”

On Halloween morning, they woke up to the delicious smell of roasted pumpkins wafting through the corridors. Even better, Professor Flitwick announced in Charms class that, in his opinion, they were ready to start making things fly—a spell they’d been itching to try ever since seeing him make Neville’s frog twirl in the air.

Flitwick paired them up for practice. Harry got Seamus Finnigan, while Ron had to work with Hermione Granger. It was hard to tell who was angrier about that.

“Now, don’t forget the nice wrist flick we’ve been practicing!” shouted Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his stack of books as usual.

“Swing and flick, remember! And say the spell correctly too—don’t forget what happened to Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and ended up flat on the floor with a buffalo on his chest.”

It was tricky. Harry and Seamus swung and flicked, but the feather they were trying to lift stubbornly stayed on the table. Seamus finally lost patience and jabbed at it with his wand, setting it on fire—Harry had to smother it with his hat.

Ron, at the next table, wasn’t doing any better. “Wingardium Leviosa!” he shouted, waving his hand like a windmill.

“You’re saying it wrong,” Harry heard Hermione snap. “It’s Wing-GAR-dium Levio-sa. Say the ‘gar’ nice and long.”

“Do it yourself if you’re so smart,” Ron snapped back.

Hermione rolled up her sleeves, flicked her wand, and said, “Wingardium Leviosa!” The feather lifted from the table and hovered about a foot above their heads.

“Oh, marvelous!” shouted Professor Flitwick, clapping his hands. “Everyone, look here! Miss Granger has succeeded!”

By the end of class, Ron was furious.

“It’s Leviosa~ not Leviosar~ No wonder nobody wants to be friends with her,” he muttered to Harry as they jostled along the corridor. “She’s awful. Really!”

Someone bumped into Harry as kids rushed past. It was Hermione. He caught a glimpse of her face—and froze, seeing tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I think she heard you.”

“So?” Ron said, though he looked a bit uneasy. “She probably realized she’s friendless.”

Draco Malfoy lounged on a weathered stone bench in the busy courtyard, flanked by his loyal friends Pansy, Blaise, and Theo. The warm sun threw tiny shadows through the old oak above, casting light across the grass where Vincent and Gregory lay lazily, their laughter mixing with the chirping of nearby birds.

Draco had actually heard everything—from Ron mocking Hermione to the girl getting upset, then breaking down in tears before rushing off—colliding with Harry hard enough to shove him aside.

He watched Hermione’s retreating back. There was something on his face—a rare flicker of doubt, of unease. He hated seeing someone cry, especially over something so trivial.

“If you’re going, go. I’ll save you a spot for dinner,” Theo’s voice broke his thoughts.

Draco turned quickly. Pansy, Blaise, and Theo had been watching him all along, their eyes full of meaning.

“Fine,” he said finally, his voice flat as usual. “You coming, Pansy?”

Pansy waved her hand lightly. “No, not interested in meddling with that girl. Go if you want.”

Draco let out a small huff, rolling his eyes before standing. “Annoying,” he muttered under his breath, but his feet moved toward the exit.

Blaise gave a small smile, glancing at Theo. “See? I told you—he can’t stand to see someone cry.”

Theo held back a laugh. “Draco Malfoy and his soft heart.”

Draco followed Hermione silently, stepping lightly so she wouldn’t notice. Her sobs echoed down the corridor, and for some reason, each one pierced him like an unavoidable spell.

He stopped in front of the bathroom door. Inside, the sobs had quieted to tired sniffles. He waited. He didn’t want to interrupt—just waited until she ran out of tears.

Finally, he tapped gently on the door—just one soft knock, barely audible.

Hermione jumped. “Go away!” she rasped. “I don’t want to talk to anyone!”

Draco tilted his head slightly. His voice was almost a whisper. “I won’t talk… if that’s what you want. I’m just… here.”

No coldness. No demand. Just a calm presence, a voice that sounded honest, like a soft exhale.

Hermione didn’t answer. But Draco could hear quiet footsteps behind the door. The next moment, it cracked open. Hermione’s face appeared in the narrow gap—her eyes red and wet, cheeks damp.

“Why do you care?” she whispered.

Draco shook his head slightly, a soft smile forming. “I don’t know. But I do know you shouldn’t be crying over someone like Weasley.”

Hermione looked almost offended, but Draco continued before she could respond.

“Listen… what you did to Weasley wasn’t wrong,” he said gently. “Teaching others isn’t bad, Hermione. You’re just… enthusiastic, maybe your tone’s a little sharp. But your intentions are right. You want them to understand, so they don’t make mistakes again. That’s a good thing.”

Hermione stayed quiet, staring at the floor. Her voice was soft when she finally said, “They said I’m bossy…”

Draco kept that warm, gentle smile. “You’re smart. Not bossy. You just haven’t faced people who aren’t as quick to learn as you yet. That’s not your fault.”

He looked at Hermione softly, and for the first time, she saw a side of Draco she’d never noticed before.

“You’re a good person, Hermione,” he continued quietly. “You care about others in your own way, and that’s not something you need to change. Maybe you just need to learn when to lower your tone—not your intent.”

Hermione bit her lip. Her eyes glistened again, but not from sadness—relief.

“Thank you, Draco,” she whispered.

Draco nodded slightly. “Hm. If you cry again, just don’t do it on wet floors. You could slip,” he teased.

Hermione laughed softly through her sniffles, and the two finally became friends.

Suddenly… a heavy thud echoed down the corridor.

One step, and the ground beneath them vibrated. Another. Louder. Like a huge creature making no effort to hide. Thud. Thud. Thud. Walls shook lightly, dust falling from the ceiling.

Hermione froze. “D-Draco… what is that?” she whispered, fingers reflexively clutching his arm.

Draco didn’t answer. His body tensed, pupils widening at the low growl coming down the hall. He swallowed hard—fear crawling up his spine.

“You hear that?” he whispered. “It’s… not human.”

The air shifted; what was cold just moments ago now felt heavy and pressing.

A massive shadow emerged—long nose, dull gray skin, and a huge club in its hand.

“Troll…” Hermione whispered, barely audible.

They both stepped back, but the giant’s strides were faster, smashing the bathroom with one rough swing, making them scream in terror.

A voice rang from behind the troll, “HERMIONE! DRACO!”

Harry and Ron burst in, breathing heavily. Harry’s face was pale. “Get out of there, now!”

The troll turned, its cloudy eyes scanning for the sound. Harry knew they didn’t have time.

“RON, DISTRACT IT!” he shouted.

Ron panicked but grabbed a piece of wood and started throwing it at the troll, shouting as loud as he could, “HEY, OVER HERE, MUDDY FACE!”

Hermione managed to pull herself toward Harry and Ron, but when she looked back—Draco was still halfway there, breath coming in short gasps, face pale. The troll turned, raising its weapon.

“DRACO!!” Hermione screamed.

Draco froze for a moment before throwing himself under the sink by the wall. A CRASH! echoed as the huge club smashed the nearby sink, shards flying toward his cheek. He covered his head, trembling—he was truly terrified.

Hermione cried out, calling his name. Ron kept tossing wood to keep the troll’s attention off Draco. But the monster raised its weapon again, ready to strike the blond boy’s hiding spot.

And in that moment—something inside Harry snapped.

His fear exploded into something bigger—a mix of panic, anger, and the sheer unwillingness to lose anyone.

“DON’T TOUCH HIM!” he yelled.

The wand in Harry’s hand moved so fast that even he couldn’t tell which spell was coming out. A burst of light shot from it, hitting the troll squarely in the chest and sending it staggering backward. At the same time, the magic from his wand yanked Draco out from under the sink—so quickly that Hermione and Ron gasped.

Draco flew toward Harry, and the boy caught him, holding him tightly.

“Sit here. Don’t move,” Harry said, his voice low but trembling.

Harry’s face was a mix of fear, anger, and relief. Draco could only stare at him, still trembling, his silver-blue eyes glistening.

Harry stood again, eyes blazing at the troll with a fury rarely seen.

For the first time, Hermione and Ron realized—it wasn’t just courage driving Harry forward. It was the fear of losing someone.

The troll wobbled, its eyes rolling wildly, letting out heavy, confused grunts. The silver light from Harry’s wand lingered in the air—his magic was too strong for an eleven-year-old.

Harry’s breath came fast. He knew the spell had stunned the troll, but only briefly. “Now or never…” he whispered.

Without hesitation, he ran toward the creature, dodging the massive club that smashed the floor. The troll swayed, and Harry—with incredible speed—leapt onto the club’s handle, climbing it like a rope. Within seconds, he was on the troll’s back, gripping its hard shoulder.

“Harry!” Hermione screamed in terror, but he didn’t hear her. Adrenaline and fear surged through him.

He pressed his wand to the back of the troll’s neck—and raw, uncontrolled energy erupted, not a spell, just pure force vibrating through the air. The air around them sizzled like trapped lightning.

White-silver light streamed from Harry’s wand into the troll. The creature let out a loud roar, losing balance, its eyes spinning in confusion. Harry’s magic didn’t hurt it—it disrupted the troll’s internal system, leaving it temporarily paralyzed.

Harry almost lost control of the spell, feeling the magic pushing through the troll, trying to tear him apart from within. Part of him wanted to let it happen. But the pale look in Draco’s eyes—frightened yet focused on him—snapped him back to reality.

No.

Draco had already been terrified enough.

He couldn’t lose control.

Harry leapt down, landing slightly off balance but still upright.

“RON!” he shouted. “Do Wingardium Leviosa! Now!”

Ron froze. “W-what?! I—I can’t!”

Hermione, panting, urged him, “You can! Move your wand like this—Wingardium Leviosa! Quick!”

Ron panicked, hand shaking. “WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!”

The massive club halted midair—suspended above the troll’s head, which still groaned. Every eye widened.

Then… BRAAAK!

The club smashed onto the troll’s skull with a resounding crack.

The creature shrieked, staggered backward, and collapsed with a thunderous crash that echoed through the stone corridor.

Silence. Only their ragged breathing filled the air.

Harry still stood, shoulders heaving, wand gripped tightly.

Hermione stared at the unconscious troll, then at Harry—eyes wide with awe and fear.

Ron felt a small pride for successfully casting the spell, then realized just how intense Harry’s magic had been. He glanced at Hermione, who shared the same thought.

Harry wasn’t calm yet.

Ron turned to Draco, helping him stand slowly. Draco’s body still trembled, relying fully on Ron’s support.

“Malfoy, listen. Only you can calm Harry. Please, steady him before he loses control.”

Draco looked at Ron, confused and pale, but seeing Ron’s sincerity, he didn’t question further. He approached Harry.

“Harry, calm down. We’re safe now. You and Weasley saved me and Hermione,” Draco said, gently touching Harry’s arm.

Harry immediately relaxed; the lingering intensity of his magic vanished. He hugged Draco tightly, reassuring himself that Draco was safe.

He looked like a normal eleven-year-old again—neither a hero nor a powerful wizard. Just a child who had almost lost someone.

Suddenly, the door banged open, footsteps thudding—Draco released him.

They didn’t notice the commotion they caused, but someone below had heard the banging and the troll’s roars. Moments later, Professor McGonagall stormed in, followed by Snape, with Quirrell trailing behind.

Seeing the troll, Quirrell whimpered and hurriedly sat on a toilet, clutching his chest. Snape glanced at Draco in surprise. Professor McGonagall stared at Ron and Harry, furious.

Harry had never seen her so angry—lips pale. The hope of earning fifty points for Gryffindor vanished.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” McGonagall demanded coldly. “You’re lucky to be alive. Why aren’t you in your dormitories?”

“Sorry, Professor McGonagall… they were after me.”

“Miss Granger!”

Hermione squared her shoulders.

“I went after the troll because I… I thought I could handle it myself. I had read so much about them.”

Hermione Granger, lying to a professor?

“If they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead now. Harry jabbed his wand into the troll’s nose, and Ron knocked it out with the club. The troll was ready to kill me when they arrived.”

Harry and Ron wore expressions as if this were old news.

“And Mr. Malfoy?”

Hermione paused. “He told me to stop acting foolish and bossy. But he ended up stuck with me anyway.”

“Well then…” McGonagall said, eyes on all four of them. “Miss Granger, you’re foolish. How could you think you could handle a mountain troll alone?”

Harry noticed Snape’s injured foot, quickly covered by the professor. He glanced suspiciously before looking away.

“Miss Granger, five points are deducted from Gryffindor. I am disappointed. If you and Malfoy weren’t hurt, you should return to your dormitories. The other students are finishing their feast.”

“I still maintain you were lucky. Not many first-years could face a mountain troll. Each of you earns five points for Gryffindor. Professor Dumbledore will be informed. You may leave. As for Mr. Malfoy, I am not the one to assign points.”

Snape interjected, “Twenty points for Slytherin for cleverness and courage in preventing a fool from doing something reckless.”

The three professors left. Quirrell glanced awkwardly before recoiling at the troll and quickly turning away.

“You’re a good liar,” Ron and Draco said simultaneously, startling Hermione.

Hermione laughed. Harry looked at Draco with concern, seeing the boy shaken.

“Let’s go to Madam Pomfrey. She’ll heal you.”

Draco shook his head. “I can manage, Potter.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Draco stopped him, leading the three of them out of the bathroom into the corridor.

“Listen. I apologize for yesterday. I didn’t come not because I didn’t want to, but Pansy forbade me. You know how girls are when they forbid something—don’t be offended, Hermione. I’m sorry if I got you into trouble.”

Hermione huffed, then nodded slightly, trusting Draco’s sincerity.

“Well, you really are a troublesome brat,” Ron added, making Draco glare. “But you apologized, and that’s surprising considering your family. By the way, I also apologize for mocking your family.”

Draco nodded. “Alright, our families may never get along, but we’ll be the first to bridge the gap.”

He extended his hand to Ron, who shook it immediately. A small smile formed between them.

Harry frowned; their friendship wasn’t his yet, but Ron had it. Unfair.

“What about me? I want to be friends too!” Harry pleaded, his expression endearing, making Hermione laugh.

Draco released Ron’s hand and looked at Harry. “I want to thank you for saving me twice. I’ll remember and repay it someday. Of course, we’re friends, Potter.”

Harry grinned. Finally, after such a terrifying ordeal, he had friendship with Draco.

“Call me Harry,” he urged, eyes pleading.

“You ask too much, Harry,” Ron said, chuckling. “But I want you to call me Ron too.”

Draco nodded. “Then call me Draco.”

And just like that, the four of them formed a bond of friendship.

Chapter Text

That morning, Hogwarts felt alive in a different way.

Even before the first bell rang, the smell of toast and hot tea already filled the Great Hall. The floating candles seemed to burn brighter, as if they too were waiting for something. The air buzzed with voices—not the usual quiet chatter, but a rising hum that bounced off the high stone ceiling.

At the Gryffindor table, it was chaos.

Seamus and Dean were arguing over who’d score first—even though neither of them was playing. Fred and George were tossing bits of toast at each other while loudly swearing to “protect the youngest Seeker in Hogwarts, even if the Bludgers go mad.”

Lavender and Parvati were busy debating whether Harry or Oliver Wood looked better in Quidditch robes, while Neville nearly spilled his pumpkin juice from laughing too hard.

Everyone was excited.

Everyone was talking about winning.

Unlike his friends, who were happily devouring breakfast, Harry just poked at his food, his stomach churning like it was full of restless snitches. The noise around him—laughter, clinking plates, talk of the match—felt distant, like it belonged to another world.

“You need to eat, mate. You’re playing today,” Ron said, looking worried.

Hermione nodded. “You’ll need your strength, Harry.”

“I’m not hungry,” Harry muttered. His hand held the spoon but never really used it. All he could think about was the wind on the pitch, the roar of the crowd, the eyes watching him up in the air.

“Good luck today, Mr. Potter.”

A smooth, slow voice drifted from behind him.

Harry turned sharply. Professor Snape stood there—tall and shadowed in his long black robes. The words sounded polite, but the tone… slick and cold, like a snake whispering before it strikes. Harry felt a chill crawl up his spine. Snape’s “good luck” didn’t sound like luck at all.

Without another word, Snape adjusted his cloak and walked away, his limp barely noticeable as he disappeared into the crowd of students.

Harry stared after him. “That was Snape,” he said quietly but firmly.

“Snape?” Ron blurted, his mouth full of scrambled eggs. Crumbs flew out as Hermione groaned.

“Swallow first, Ron,” she scolded, rolling her eyes. But then her voice softened as she looked at Harry. “You think something’s up again?”

Harry leaned forward. “He was limping last night. I think he tried to get past the trapdoor—and that dog got him.”

Hermione hesitated, lips pressed tight, but she didn’t argue. Not this time.

Before anyone could speak again, the heavy beat of wings filled the hall.

A snowy owl swooped down gracefully, landing on the Gryffindor table with a soft thud. In her claws—an oddly large package wrapped in brown paper.

Ron gasped. “That’s gotta be for you, Harry! Go on, open it!”

Heart hammering, Harry tore the paper open. Inside gleamed polished mahogany, smooth and perfect—so beautiful he forgot to breathe.

“Nimbus Two Thousand!” Ron shouted. “You’re kidding! That’s the fastest broom there is!”

Neville leaned in, wide-eyed. “Isn’t that what the England team uses?”

“Who sent it?” Seamus asked, awestruck.

Dean just muttered under his breath, “Lucky git.”

The owl had already flown off toward the teachers’ table, landing right in front of Professor McGonagall. She gave Harry the faintest smile—the kind that said you know exactly who sent it.

Harry smiled back, heartbeat still racing.

Today was going to be huge.

“You’re really not going to eat?” Hermione asked again, her tone gentle but worried. “You could faint out there, Harry.”

Harry stared at the food, tense. How could he eat? Right in front of him, the Nimbus Two Thousand lay gleaming on the table, practically daring him to fly it. Every glance at it made his stomach twist tighter.

Ron groaned. “You’re gonna fall off that broom if you don’t eat something.”

Harry shook his head again. Hermione sighed in defeat.

Then Ron glanced up and spotted Draco walking into the hall with his usual Slytherin entourage. Without thinking, Ron stood and grabbed his arm.

“Hey—what—” Draco protested, but Ron was already dragging him over to the Gryffindor table.

“Tell him to eat,” Ron said quickly. “If you say it, he’ll listen.”

Draco glared. “Why would I—”

“Trust me, Draco. This is for Quidditch safety.”

Draco looked like he wanted to hex him, but when his eyes landed on Harry—who sat hunched over his plate—he sighed and stepped closer.

“Harry,” he said lazily, “you really think you can win if you’re starving?”

Hermione swore she could see Harry’s imaginary tail wagging.

Harry looked up immediately, eyes bright. “You care, huh?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Draco shot back, a little too fast. “I just don’t want Gryffindor losing because their Seeker passed out midair.”

Harry grinned, finally taking a bite. Slowly, but he was eating.

Draco watched, unimpressed. “You eat like a snail,” he muttered.

Harry only smiled wider. Draco sighed, and after a beat, grabbed the spoon himself.

“Here,” he said quietly, “chew faster,” and fed Harry a spoonful.

Hermione froze. Ron did too.

And this time, they both could see it—Harry’s invisible tail wagging like mad.

Draco blinked. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Harry shook his head, still chewing, still grinning.

Draco groaned and turned away. His gaze accidentally fell on the broom again — that perfect mahogany gleam.

“Whose broom is that?” he asked, voice faltering.

“It’s mine,” Harry replied, trying not to sound too proud but failing miserably.

Draco stared. For a long moment, his usual arrogance faded, replaced by something softer — awe, maybe.

“I know this sounds annoying,” he said finally, tone quieter than usual, “but I actually hope you win. Let that broom do its work… catch the Snitch, Potter. I want to see you on that Nimbus.”

Harry blinked, something fierce lighting up inside him. For a second, the world around him went still.

And in that stillness, his thoughts narrowed down to one thing.

I’ll win. Not for Gryffindor. Not for glory. But because Draco asked me to.

“I’ll win,” Harry said aloud, voice steady and sure.

Draco’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Good.”

Then, with infuriating calm, he fed Harry another spoonful.

By eleven o’clock, the whole school had already filled the high stands surrounding the Quidditch pitch. Many students brought binoculars. The seats were already pretty high, but it could still be hard to see what was going on sometimes.

Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean—the West Ham fan—up in the top row. As a surprise for Harry, they’d made a huge banner out of Scabbers’s old bedsheet. It said “Potter for President!” and Dean, who was good at drawing, had painted a big Gryffindor lion underneath. Hermione added a little spell to it, making the paint shimmer in different colors.

Harry was already dressed in his Quidditch robes, holding his Nimbus broom. Wood was giving some last-minute pep talk, constantly interrupted by the Weasley twins—just enough to make Harry’s nerves ease a little.

“Ready, Harry?”

“Ready,” Harry said firmly, the nervous flutter in his stomach fading as they neared the pitch.

As soon as they arrived, the cheers from every House filled the air—loud, wild, and alive. Harry’s stomach twisted with nerves, but excitement and pride quickly took over. He was about to fly, to play, to show off—in front of Draco.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a banner fluttering above the crowd: POTTER FOR PRESIDENT. His heart gave a hard thump.

Madam Hooch was the referee, standing in the middle of the field with her broom in hand, waiting for both teams to gather around her.

“I want a clean game, all of you,” she said firmly once they’d formed a circle.

Harry noticed she seemed to be speaking mostly to the Slytherin captain, Marcus Flint—a fifth-year who, Harry thought, probably had some troll blood in him.

“Mount your brooms!”

Harry swung a leg over his Nimbus Two Thousand. The sharp blast of Madam Hooch’s silver whistle pierced the air—fifteen brooms shot upward, higher and higher. The game had begun.

The wind rushed against his face, his pulse racing with adrenaline. Draco’s voice echoed in his head—words from earlier that now burned like fuel. Even though the Snitch was nowhere to be seen yet, Harry took a moment to glance toward the stands, spotting Draco watching the match intently.

Adorable.

“And the Quaffle’s caught by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor—what a Chaser, that girl! Pretty impressive too, if I may sa—”

“JORDAN!”

“Sorry, Professor.”

Lee Jordan, the Weasley twins’ best mate, was doing the commentary—under the very sharp supervision of Professor McGonagall.

“Angelina’s up high, flying fast—nice pass to Alicia Spinnet, a great find by Captain Oliver Wood—she was only a reserve last year—back to Angelina, and—no! Slytherin takes the Quaffle! Captain Marcus Flint’s got it and he’s off—flying like an eagle up there—he’s going to scor—no! Brilliant save by the Gryffindor Keeper, Wood! Gryffindor’s got the Quaffle again—Katie Bell’s in possession, diving neatly around Flint, climbing back up—and OUCH! That had to hurt, Bludger straight to the back of her head—Slytherin snatches the Quaffle—Adrian Pucey speeding toward the goal—but he’s blocked by the second Bludger—sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can’t tell which one—either way, great move from the Gryffindor Beater! Angelina’s got the ball again—no one in front of her now—she’s really flying—dodges another Bludger coming fast—goal ahead—come on, Angelina—Keeper Bletchley dives—misses—GOAL FOR GRYFFINDOR!”

The Gryffindor stands exploded in cheers, red and gold banners waving wildly through the cold air—while groans and boos echoed from the Slytherin side.

Harry spotted Hagrid waving from the Gryffindor stands and felt a surge of happiness. He hovered above the other players, eyes sharp, scanning for the Snitch. This was all part of the plan he’d made with Wood.

“Stay back until you spot the Snitch,” Wood had shouted. “We don’t want you getting attacked too early.”

When Angelina scored, Harry did a couple of backflips in midair just to release some of his excitement. Then he was back to hunting for the Snitch. Once, he caught a glint of gold—but it turned out to be a reflection off one of the Weasley twins’ watches. Another time, a Bludger came straight at him, but Harry dodged just in time, and Fred zipped after the ball.

“You okay up there, Harry?” Fred yelled as he smashed a Bludger toward Marcus Flint.

“Slytherin’s got the Quaffle,” Lee Jordan announced. “Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers—two Weasleys—and Chaser Bell—and zooms toward—wait—is that the Snitch?”

A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey dropped the Quaffle, too distracted by a golden flash whizzing past his left ear. Harry saw it instantly. With a burst of energy, he dived toward the glimmering Snitch. The Slytherin Seeker, Terence Higgs, had seen it too.

They shot after the Snitch together, leaving the Chasers floating above, seemingly forgetting their roles as they all watched the chase unfold.

Harry was faster than Higgs—he could see the tiny golden ball, wings beating frantically, darting upward. He pushed his broom harder.

CRASH!

A roar of anger went up from the Gryffindor stands. Marcus Flint had deliberately rammed Harry, sending his broom off course. Harry gripped tight, struggling not to fall.

“Cheater!” shouted the Gryffindor crowd.

Madam Hooch scolded Flint and awarded a penalty throw to Gryffindor. But of course, in all the chaos, the Snitch had vanished again.

From the stands, Dean Thomas yelled, “Send him off! Ref! Red card!”

“This isn’t football, Dean,” Ron reminded him. “You can’t send anyone off in Quidditch—and what’s a red card anyway?”

Hagrid, meanwhile, defended Dean. “They oughta change the rules. Flint could’ve knocked Harry right out of the sky.”

Lee Jordan struggled not to take sides. “So—after that nasty, obvious bit of trickery—”

“Jordan!” Professor McGonagall barked.

“I mean, after that disgusting, blatant cheating—”

“Jordan, I warn you…”

“All right, all right. Flint nearly killed the Gryffindor Seeker—this could happen to anyone, I’m sure—so penalty for Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, thrown back immediately, no problem, the game continues, Gryffindor still in possession of the Quaffle.”

As Harry dodged another Bludger flying straight at him, his broom suddenly pitched terrifyingly. For a second, he thought he was going to fall.

He gripped the broom with both hands and clamped his knees around it. He had never felt anything like this before.

It happened again. It was as if the broom wanted to throw him off. But the Nimbus Two Thousand didn’t just decide to betray its rider. Harry tried to head back toward the Gryffindor goalposts, even thought about suggesting a quick time-out to Wood—when he realized he had completely lost control of his broom.

He couldn’t steer it. He couldn’t slow it. He couldn’t do anything.

The broom zigzagged wildly through the air, lashing up and down, threatening to fling Harry off with every sharp tilt.

Lee Jordan was still commentating. “The Quaffle’s with Slytherin—Flint’s got it—past Spinnet—past Bell—Flint’s face just got nailed by a Bludger, hope he broke his nose—just kidding, Professor—Slytherin scores—oh, nooo…!”

Nobody seemed to notice that Harry’s broom was acting strangely. Slowly, it carried him higher and higher, away from the game, twisting and jerking violently.

“And—wait a second!—something’s wrong up in the air!” Lee Jordan’s voice suddenly shot up, making half the stands turn toward the pitch. “Harry Potter… his Nimbus—what’s happening to that broom?!”

All eyes turned skyward. Harry looked like he was wrestling with his own broom; the Nimbus Two Thousand spun wildly, dipped sharply, then leapt again into the air.

The broom rolled and twirled uncontrollably, and Harry felt like a first-year again—humiliating. Every awkward move seemed to be watched by the entire crowd, and his chest tightened. Draco must not see this. Not now. Not ever.

Frustration and embarrassment burned inside him. Without realizing it, his thoughts were completely focused on Draco—the look he’d caught when Draco first saw his new broom. His wish was simple: he couldn’t let Draco think he couldn’t fly.

Harry could feel his magic flowing out—this time, he was fully aware. He sensed the subtle energy coursing through him, reaching out to the restless broom. Its movements were still wild, but not nearly as uncontrollable. Harry managed to steady himself, and the crowd below jolted in astonishment.

“He’s lost control! Harry’s about to fall! Oh no—don’t tell me he’s really—GOOD HEAVENS, HE’S STILL UP THERE!” Lee Jordan’s voice crackled through the stands, but Harry held himself upright, face forward. The Nimbus Two Thousand was still frantic, yet now he looked like a Quidditch player in command. Draco wouldn’t have guessed the chaos that had come before—the broom had been the problem, not him.

“This… is incredible!” Jordan nearly shouted. “That broom—like—it was possessed! And now Potter—look at him!—he’s balancing it again! No one’s ever done that without magic!”

The stadium erupted. Cheers and gasps of amazement mixed together. Up in the air, Harry stared straight ahead, eyes sharp, breathing steady, completely in control.

In the stands, Draco froze. Even though Harry had regained control of his broom, there was still the chance it could act up again—and he could really fall this time.

“Draco! Professor Quirrell is hexing Potter’s broom!”

Draco jumped at Pansy’s shout. Her binoculars were still glued to her eyes as she kept talking, her gaze fixed on the pitch.

“Let me see.” Pansy handed over the binoculars.

Finally, Draco saw for himself: Professor Quirrell staring sharply at Harry, lips moving in tiny murmurs. Draco knew—he’d grown up in a family that dabbled in the Dark Arts—this was dark magic. Quirrell was trying to kill Harry!

“I’m going over there.” Draco handed the binoculars back to Pansy. “I’m coming with you.”

Without another word, Theo grabbed Draco and started dragging him toward the row where Quirrell was standing, now moving quickly along the stands behind him.

There they ran into Hermione, eyes wide. “You noticed too? Harry’s broom’s been cursed.”

Draco nodded firmly. Together, they agreed—they had to stop Quirrell’s plan before it was too late.

“What spell should we use?” Hermione groaned, flustered, her panic making her forget the right incantation.

“How about Lacarnum Inflamarae?” Draco and Theo suggested at the same time.

Hermione’s face lit up. She drew her wand and cast the spell. A jet of blue flame shot from its tip. “Draco, Nott! Snape’ll have to back off with his dark magic now!”

“Wait—Snape?! Professor Snape?!” Draco squeaked, and Theo had to clamp his mouth quickly.

“Yes? Who else would it be?” Hermione looked puzzled, not expecting Draco’s reaction, even though they all knew Snape was the one hexing Harry’s broom.

Draco opened his mouth to defend Snape’s honor, but Theo cut in softly. “We’ll talk about that later. Draco, we need to get back before anyone notices you’re missing.”

Draco paused, then nodded. “We’ll talk later. Let’s just hope we’re not too late to save Harry. See you, Mione.”

Hermione gave Draco’s wave a stiff return, still confused about who he thought the culprit was, even though it was obvious—Snape, watching Harry’s broom, lips moving in tiny murmurs. Unconsciously, her feet carried her back, and Ron was already looking at her, a mix of worry and immense relief.

“Harry’s broom is back to normal. He can win this.”

Harry’s Nimbus finally calmed, and he easily withdrew his magic. Terence Higgs had already spotted the golden flash. The Snitch darted low between the shadows of the pitch, making the crowd roar throughout the stadium. Harry immediately leaned down, body tilting to follow Higgs without hesitation.

Jordan nearly lost his voice as the two Seekers raced each other at insane speed.

“Two Seekers chasing each other! This is insane—the Snitch is dropping! They’re diving down! They’re really—DIVING!”

The Snitch plummeted sharply toward the ground. Higgs held his breath, broom wobbling dangerously as he skimmed close to the grass. He yanked it back just in time to avoid hitting the pitch.

“Higgs pulls up!” shouted Jordan. “He’s not taking that risk—but Harry—oh Merlin—HARRY DOESN’T SLOW DOWN!”

Harry didn’t have time to think. The wind slapped his face, the ground rushing up beneath him, but only one thought filled his mind: Draco wants me to win.

He lowered his body, aligning perfectly with the broom, gripping instinctively. Miraculously, the broom obeyed, flying straight just inches above the grass. The crowd’s cheers turned to gasps of panic.

“He’s going to crash—he’s going to—”

At the last second, Harry pulled slightly upward, gliding parallel to the ground, arms outstretched, eyes locked on the golden flash—and the Snitch vanished from everyone’s sight.

The pitch went silent for a heartbeat before Harry staggered in midair and hit the ground. Moments later, a wave of nausea hit him—and something small and shiny popped out of his mouth.

Jordan screamed hoarsely:

“HE GOT IT! HARRY POTTER GOT THE SNITCH—HE REALLY GOT IT!”

Madam Hooch blew her whistle loudly, her voice cutting across the stadium.

“GRYFFINDOR WINS!”

The announcement set off an explosion of joy. The Gryffindor stands erupted—shouts, whistles, red-and-gold banners waving wildly. Fred and George nearly knocked each other over in excitement, yelling so loudly their hats flew off somewhere in the chaos.

Wood, usually so stern and composed, completely lost it this time. He sprinted toward Harry, face red with emotion.

“YOU’RE—YOU’RE CRAZY AND A GENIUS, POTTER!” He hugged Harry so hard the boy almost couldn’t breathe. “I’ve never seen a catch that daring in my entire life!”

Angelina, Katie, and Alicia ran over, slapping Harry on the back, laughing and shouting.

“You nearly gave us heart attacks!”

“That was insane—but Merlin, you’re incredible, Potter!”

Harry was still panting, but a wide, proud grin spread across his face. He raised his hand high, showing the glinting Snitch in the sunlight. The cheers roared even louder, like a storm shaking all of Hogwarts.

But amid the chaos, Harry turned, searching for a single face in the sea of spectators—Draco. His eyes scanned the Slytherin stands, the crowd, even the pitch itself. No sign of him.

Harry’s chest tightened slightly, annoyed that his eyes couldn’t pick Draco out from the ground. Still, he was sure Draco had seen what he’d done.

He looked down at the Snitch in his hand, and his smile slowly softened—no longer just about victory, but a quiet proof, something he hoped that one person had noticed.

“Nonsense—why would Snape curse Harry’s broom?” Hagrid boomed, striding ahead with Harry, Ron, and Hermione following.

“Who knows? Why did he try to get past the three-headed dog that Halloween?”

Hagrid frowned. “Who told you about Fluffy?”

“Fluffy?!” Ron shrieked in disbelief.

“That thing has a name?” Hermione asked.

“Of course it has a name. It’s my pet. I bought it from an Irish flyer I met in a pub last year.”

Not surprising, Harry thought.

“Then I lent it to Dumbledore to guard…”

“Yes?” Harry’s mind clicked—that’s the answer. That’s why Snape tried to get past the dog.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Hagrid muttered. Harry groaned—of course Hagrid wouldn’t just leave it there. “Don’t ask any more questions. That’s a secret.”

Harry wasn’t about to let that slide. “But Hagrid, whatever Fluffy’s guarding, Snape tried to steal it.”

Hagrid stopped in his tracks. “Nonsense. Professor Snape is a teacher at Hogwarts.”

Hermione spoke up now. “Teacher or not, I know when someone’s casting a spell. I’ve read it all. You have to keep eye contact, and Snape doesn’t blink.”

“Exactly,” Harry nodded firmly.

“You three, listen to me. You’re meddling in things you shouldn’t. It’s dangerous. Whatever that dog guards is between Professor Dumbledore and Nicholas Flamel.” Hagrid’s voice sharpened.

The three of them looked at him in unison. “Nicholas Flamel?” Harry asked.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Hagrid muttered regretfully, walking off while mumbling to himself about how carelessly he’d spoken.

Nicholas Flamel—he’d have to find out about that.

“Let’s just head inside, Harry. We’ve got enough information for now.”

Harry nodded, and the three of them entered Hogwarts.

For a moment, Harry’s thoughts lingered on Nicholas Flamel, and on whatever object he and Dumbledore were guarding that made Snape so desperate. Snape had even cursed Harry’s broom—almost killing him—and worse, he’d done it in front of Draco, who was watching!

“Where’s Draco?!” Harry’s voice was sharper than he’d meant.

He stopped and scanned everywhere, searching for Draco, but couldn’t spot him anywhere.

Where was he? He should be beside Harry, congratulating him, maybe hugging him, admiring the broom, praising that spectacular Snitch catch. Harry needed that—he wanted Draco to notice him, to praise him—but why wasn’t he here?!

“Harry, calm down, mate, for Merlin’s sake, you’re heating up the place,” Ron tried to soothe him, aware of how much magic was spilling out of Harry in frustration.

Hermione and Ron were both panting, feeling the searing heat radiating from him.

But Harry didn’t care; he strode forward, seeking the familiar blond figure. Every step radiated his magic, making the air around him scorch.

“Good Merlin, the kid’s going to burn down the school!” Hermione yelled, panicking as she chased after a flustered Harry.

Ron let out a heavy sigh—Harry and his obsession with Draco. He’d known this was coming. Even just not seeing Draco was enough to make Harry’s magic flare. Absolutely exhausting.

Ron ran after Hermione, who was trying to catch up. Everyone Harry passed felt the heat and recoiled slightly.

“Harry, calm down, let’s head to the library,” Hermione finally called.

They caught up to him, standing near him before he could burn anyone for real.

“Maybe he’s there. Let’s take a moment to calm down,” Ron added, confident.

Harry nodded, unaware of the magic still clinging to him. Once he relaxed, Hermione and Ron breathed relief as the cool air of Hogwarts swept over them.

Before dinner, the trio found themselves in the library, searching for the blond boy who could finally ease Harry’s restlessness. Fortunately, Ron and Hermione’s instincts were right—Draco was there, buried in a stack of books.

Harry and Hermione approached, Harry eager, Hermione curious about what Draco was reading.

“Draco!” Hermione called lightly.

Draco looked up, startled, closing his book slowly and giving a small nod as he regarded the golden trio with mild surprise.

“Hi, you guys. What’s up?” he said calmly, slightly confused by Harry’s appearance—like he’d just survived a life-or-death battle.

Harry stopped a few steps away from Draco, green eyes sharp—too sharp for a casual greeting. His chest heaved, breath heavy. Behind him, Ron and Hermione felt the faint heat radiating from Harry again, though less intense this time.

“Where were you just now?” Harry’s voice was hoarse, demanding an answer.

Draco blinked, confused. “I… I was here? After the match, I went straight to the library. Why—”

“I won the Quidditch match today,” Harry interrupted, voice tinged with bitterness and disappointment. “Didn’t you see me win? Didn’t you see me catch the Snitch? I didn’t see you at all.”

Draco stared at him, mouth slightly open, searching for words. “I—I saw you, Harry. I thought you’d celebrate with the Gryffindors and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You didn’t interrupt at all!!” Harry’s voice rose, and Ron reflexively patted his shoulder—a warning to calm down.

Hermione stepped forward cautiously. “Harry, calm down—”

But Harry wasn’t listening. “You should have come to me, Draco. You—” He paused, teeth clenched. “I… I won, just like you wanted me to, but you didn’t say anything! Did I do something wrong? Was it because my broom went haywire and embarrassed me?”

A thin heat crept into the air, making the candles near Draco’s table flicker.

Draco gripped his book tighter. His gaze softened, tinged with guilt. “For Merlin’s sake, Harry… you’re overreacting,” he murmured. “You were incredible on that broom. I saw you, I didn’t forget, I just… wanted you to have time with your Gryffindors.” He sighed. “Okay, I’m sorry for not coming to you. I meant to celebrate with you tomorrow.”

Harry, moments ago like a fire ready to explode, fell silent. His gaze met Draco’s gray eyes—awkward, but sincere.

“I… I’m sorry,” Harry finally whispered, tension still lingering in his voice. “I was childish. You’re not angry, are you?”

Draco exhaled, taken aback. Harry was furious just because he hadn’t praised him—and now looked like a desperate puppy.

Draco extended his hand. His long, pale fingers brushed through Harry’s messy hair, soft enough to make the world seem to freeze. To Harry, it wasn’t just a touch—it was like a spell calming the fire in his chest, soothing the magic that had surged uncontrolled. He felt alive.

“Congratulations on your win, Boy Who Won,” Draco murmured, teasing softly, but laden with meaning. “You had everyone in the stands staring—especially me. Next time, I’ll beat you on that broom.”

Harry stared, stunned. The words and the touch were better than anyone else had ever calmed him. More comforting than Hagrid’s hug, warmer than the Gryffindor common room blanket, more powerful than any spell to quell his anger, more thrilling than the roar of victory when he’d caught the Snitch.

Draco slowly withdrew his hand, but Harry, unconsciously, stepped slightly forward, unwilling to lose the warmth he’d just felt.

Draco, Hermione, and Ron were all surprised by his reaction. Draco chuckled, resuming his previous posture but occasionally pinching Harry’s cheek in teasing before smoothing it again.

“All right,” Ron broke the silence, uneasy at Harry’s puppy-like attachment to Draco. “It’s dinner time. We better go.”

Draco paused, and Harry growled lightly at losing the warmth, pouting at Ron who raised his hands in surrender.

“All right, let’s go—reading books and handling a spoiled kid is exhausting,” Draco said dramatically, earning laughter from Ron and Harry, who frowned but secretly enjoyed it.

“I never thought your messy hair could feel… pretty soft. I thought it was just a bird’s nest with a luck charm,” Harry muttered, eyes fixed intensely on Draco.

Ron and Hermione watched again as Harry’s imaginary tail wagged like a frantic puppy, though the gaze he shot Draco was dark enough for the eleven-year-olds to grasp the intensity.

Draco strode into the Great Hall first, heading straight for the Slytherin table. Harry had to be dragged by Ron back to Gryffindor—or he would’ve turned into a statue staring at Draco, or followed him like a chick.

For Merlin’s sake, Ron was exhausted. Hermione was both confused and amused.

Chapter Text

Christmas is coming! Hogwarts was all snowed in one morning in December. The lake was frozen and the Weasley twins got busted for hitting Quirrell with snowballs. Some owls still flew through the snow to deliver mail, but they had to chill with Hagrid for a bit to warm up.

Everyone's super stoked for the holidays! The corridors that are usually drafty are now freakin' freezing, and the wind's howling through the classroom windows, making 'em shake like crazy. But Snape's dungeon class is the worst. It's so cold in there that you can see your breath, and everyone's huddled around their cauldrons just to stay warm.

Harry slid over to Draco as Snape told them to pair up, and Ron rolled his eyes in exasperation at Harry's speed. "Draco, are you going home for the holidays?" Harry asked quietly.

Draco looked up from measuring out powdered dragon claw, his eyes narrowing. "No, I've written to my mother to say I won't be coming home. I'm not ready to face my father yet, not after... our friendship."

Harry beamed with delight at the thought of Draco staying over for the holidays - they could spend some quality time together. He got a bit overenthusiastic while crushing the rat spleen, and things might have gotten messy if Draco hadn't swiftly intervened, batting Harry's hand away and taking control of the spleen. Harry didn't even protest, still grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, by the way — after class, do you want to come to the library? I have something to talk about. You're coming, right?" Harry asked — more like nudging Draco into saying "yes."

"Alright, back to this potion, Harry. If you mess it up, I'll make sure that bird's nest on your head is gone forever and never grows back."

Harry felt so happy — weird, really — he was helping, or rather adding to Draco's workload until Draco let out an exasperated huff, but could only stay quiet.

As they left the dungeons at the end of Potions class, Draco walked off to join his friends, leaving Harry behind. Harry, Ron, and Hermione found a huge fir tree blocking the corridor ahead. Two giant feet sticking out from underneath it, along with heavy, raspy breathing, told them that Hagrid was behind the tree.

“Hi, Hagrid, need a hand?” Ron asked, poking his head through the branches.

“No, I’m all right. Thanks, Ron.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed Hagrid and his massive fir tree into the Great Hall. Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were busy with the Christmas decorations.

“Ah, Hagrid, the last one... just put it in the far corner.”

The hall looked spectacular. Garlands of holly and mistletoe hung along the walls, and no fewer than twelve towering Christmas trees surrounded the room—some glittering with icy streams of frost, others twinkling with hundreds of candles.

“How many days till you’re off for the holidays?” asked Hagrid.

“Just one more,” said Hermione. “We’d better head to the library now before lunch.”

They had been searching for Flamel’s name in books ever since Hagrid’s slip-up—after all, how else were they supposed to find out what Snape was trying to steal? The trouble was, they had no idea where to begin, since they didn’t know what Flamel had done to make his name worth mentioning in any book. He wasn’t listed in Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century or Famous Names in Modern Magic; his name didn’t appear in Important Magical Discoveries of Our Time or Recent Developments in the Wizarding World either. And of course, it had to be remembered just how massive the library was—tens of thousands of books, thousands of shelves, hundreds of narrow aisles.

As soon as they entered the library, Harry’s eyes immediately caught sight of a blond boy sitting not too far from the door, surrounded by his friends. Draco was completely absorbed in conversation with a brown-haired student beside him.

“Draco!” Harry shouted—then instantly winced as every single person in the library turned to stare, Madam Pince included, who was already glaring daggers at him. Flushing, Harry quickly hurried forward, Hermione and Ron following close behind, both looking equally embarrassed.

“Nice to know my name’s famous all over the library,” Draco drawled.

Harry’s face grew even redder at the sarcasm.

He sat down across from Draco—the dark-skinned boy beside him kindly shifted over to make space so Harry could face Draco directly.

“Uh… h-hi, everyone,” Hermione greeted awkwardly. She sat down stiffly, while Ron beside her tried to calm her with a small nudge.

Ron was wary of Draco’s friends. Most of them came from old pure-blood families that looked down on Muggle-borns like Hermione. Harry, too, stayed alert when he noticed Draco’s friends eyeing Hermione for a bit too long.

“Oh, come on, you lot are so tense. We’re not professors,” the dark-skinned boy joked, laughing quietly. The girl beside Draco giggled in response.

Sensing the awkward air between the Gryffindors and his group, Draco finally spoke. “Harry, Hermione, Ron—these are my friends: Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, and Blaise Zabini. You probably already know the other two, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle—they’re in the kitchens right now.”

“Enough with the small talk,” Parkinson cut in sharply, though her eyes gleamed with curiosity. She fixed an intense look on Hermione, making the girl inhale nervously on reflex.

“Could you explain,” Parkinson went on, “that Muggle device—rectangular, and when it’s switched on, little people appear inside it? They talk, move, even fight like we’re doing now. They’re not really in the box, but we can see them! What kind of magic do they use for that?”

Hermione’s mouth fell open, her tongue frozen mid-thought. Ron stared at Parkinson as if she’d just asked, ‘Why is the sky green?’ Meanwhile, Harry… Harry just blinked blankly for three whole seconds before Draco suddenly jumped in.

“Oh, right!” Draco exclaimed, his eyes lighting up, voice almost eager. “My aunt’s Muggle husband has one! I saw it once—those little people inside the box were talking, even shouting! I was too embarrassed to ask, but—I liked them! The people in the box!”

Hermione looked like she was about to speak, but Harry beat her to it.

“I can explain it!” he said loudly, far too excited to hold back. He turned to Draco with the determination of someone about to win a scholarly duel.

Thank Merlin for Theo Nott, who had wisely cast a Muffliato before the conversation began—otherwise, they’d all have been kicked out by now.

“Before that,” Harry said, “do we have something here that lets us see memories?”

“Sure,” Blaise replied smoothly. “It’s called a Pensieve. You picture a memory and pull it out with your wand—something like that.”

Harry nodded, finally piecing the idea together. “Right. Well, that Muggle device is called a television. It’s not magic—it’s something called technology.”

A wave of confusion rippled across the table. Blaise, who was usually calm and composed, now frowned like he was trying to decipher an ancient spell.

“Okay, imagine this,” Harry continued. “You’ve got a Pensieve—but without any magic. Muggles created something that can do a similar thing, using logic instead of spells. They send images and sounds through streams—like currents of invisible energy—that travel in wires. With that, they make illusions that everyone can watch together. But instead of real memories, they show made-up stories. They record them first, using a device called a camera—something that captures light and sound—and then play them back through the television.”

Draco looked at him in awe.

“So they can create moving images without magic… just logic and invention?”

“Yes,” Harry said softly, his heart swelling at the sight of Draco’s fascinated expression. “They don’t need spells to create wonders. They use ideas, cleverness, and a bit of courage to push past their limits.”

“I knew it,” Theo murmured. “Muggles aren’t as bad as we were taught.”

“They even make powerful potions and shoot them into their own faces! Apparently, it’s to stop aging—isn’t that spectacular?!”

“You mean botox?” Hermione explained, her tone bright and eager. “They mix different chemicals to make it, and by ‘shoot,’ you mean inject.”

Pansy’s eyes sparkled with interest as she scooted closer, switching seats to sit directly across from Hermione.

“Call me Pansy. I’m sure we’ll be good friends! You have to tell me how Muggles create beauty like that!”

Hermione nodded enthusiastically, delighted to have found unexpected common ground. “Then call me Hermione.”

Draco’s smile turned genuinely warm as he watched the two girls chatting—he was glad to see them getting along.

“All right,” Theo said calmly, cutting in with his usual composure. “Let’s wrap up our little Muggle Studies lesson. Now, what was it you wanted to talk to Draco about? We’ll help you.”

There was a brief silence, faces uncertain, until Blaise added reassuringly, “Don’t worry. You keep quiet about us being curious about the Muggle world, and we’ll keep quiet about whatever secret you’re digging into.”

Harry nodded, followed by Ron and Hermione. “We’re looking for someone named Nicolas Flamel.”

The air shifted immediately—light curiosity turned into alert silence.

“Hagrid—the gamekeeper—he said there’s something of his being guarded very closely here at Hogwarts,” Harry explained. “And Hermione, Ron, and I want to find out what it is.”

Pansy frowned, confused.

“If it’s being guarded that carefully, why bother digging into it at all? Wouldn’t snooping around just make it more obvious? Honestly, I think we should just leave it alone—let it stay wherever it is, for however long it needs to.”

Draco nodded slightly. It was a very Slytherin kind of wisdom—don’t get involved in someone else’s secret. The less you know, the safer you are. And the safer the secret stays.

“No, you don’t understand,” Harry sighed.

Ron spoke up next, his voice awkward but earnest.

“I get it, you probably think we’re being reckless. But listen—Snape knows about that thing, and he’s trying to steal it. We can’t just sit back and let him get away with it. If it’s something dangerous, we need to make sure it’s safe first. We’re not trying to interfere—we just… want to make sure no one gets hurt.”

Draco, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise all frowned the moment their Head of House’s name was mentioned.

There was something off about that claim—something that didn’t quite add up.

“Maybe I can look into it when I’m home,” Theo said, his gaze distant as he stared at the rows of books, as if trying to summon a memory. “The name isn’t unfamiliar—I’m sure I’ve read it somewhere before. Just in case, you three should keep searching here.”

Hermione, Harry, and Ron all looked at him with a mix of hope and relief—as though Theo had just offered them a sliver of light in their dead-end search. Especially Hermione; her eyes shone with admiration. It wasn’t often she met someone who shared her excitement for books and mysteries alike.

“All right, lunchtime’s about to start and I’m starving,” Pansy groaned, tugging Blaise out of the library. He didn’t resist much—just gave a lazy wave before letting himself be dragged along.

Theo turned to Draco, extending a hand slightly—an easy, wordless signal for them to walk out together, as they always did.

But something about it made Harry frown. There was a quiet familiarity in the way Draco accepted that gesture—effortless, practiced, almost intimate in its normalcy. And Harry didn’t like it.

Draco gave Theo’s hand a brief pat on the back before speaking calmly, “Go on ahead. I need to clear up a few things about Severus.”

Theo simply nodded and turned away, heading after Blaise and Pansy, leaving Draco and Harry standing face to face amidst the quiet hum of the library.

As soon as they left, Draco drew a deep breath, glancing at Harry, Ron, and Hermione in turn.

“I’ve known for a while that you think Professor Snape is up to something evil,” he said flatly, though his voice carried a rare firmness. “But I’m telling you, that’s not true. Professor Snape isn’t that kind of person.”

Harry shot back immediately. “No, Draco! Ever since I got to Hogwarts, he’s clearly hated me! Even in the very first lesson—I felt it… I almost never got a fair grade!”

Draco replied casually, shrugging slightly. “That’s because you don’t read your potion books and you can’t answer anything. You’re terrible at potions, Harry.”

Hermione chimed in, a bit hurried but logical. “What about Harry’s broom? You and I saw exactly how it almost made him fall on the Quidditch field. Isn’t that clearly malicious?”

Draco stared at them with a serious expression, his voice firm but carrying a faint trace of frustration.

“Hermione, I saw it clearly—it was Quirrell who put a spell on Harry’s broom. I’m very certain of it.”

Hermione frowned, letting out a short, sharp breath, caught somewhere between disbelief and impatience. She tried to keep polite, but her tone was biting.

“Really, Draco? Of all the professors at Hogwarts, you’re accusing Professor Quirrell? He can’t even speak without stammering!”

Draco remained unmoved, his gaze steady and unwavering.

“That might actually be part of his disguise. Don’t be fooled by appearances. I know what I saw that day—and I know what he was doing.”

“Then during the troll incident, Harry saw the wound on Snape’s leg! He was trying to get past that dog!” Ron shot back.

“Maybe he was protecting that thing from Quirrell—there has to be a reason.”

Hermione groaned. “Oh, come on, Draco, you’re being ridiculously stubborn.”

“Trust me, Professor Snape isn’t evil. He might look scary and cold, but he’s not like that.” Draco whined slightly, defending Severus’ honor as both Head of House and his godfather—he wasn’t about to spill everything to them.

Of course, Draco’s opinion didn’t come with hard proof, so Ron and Hermione weren’t convinced. But Draco’s eyes locked on Harry, who simply stared back. This was Draco’s chance—to convince him.

“Harry, you trust me, right?” Draco’s face softened in the library’s flickering candlelight, which cast a warm golden glow. His pale skin almost seemed to shine; his silvery-gray eyes glimmered with a mix of determination and hope, like someone desperate to be believed yet afraid of showing weakness. His lips pressed together slowly, trembling just slightly at the edges. There was something pleading there—not whining, but fragile, genuine beauty.

Harry stared too long.

The world seemed to fade at the edges of his vision—no Ron, no Hermione—just Draco’s earnest, glimmering gaze. His heart skipped oddly, and his head felt light, as if the floor beneath him had vanished.

Draco did nothing, only held that gaze, as if silently asking for acknowledgment; and somehow, Harry found it impossible to refuse.

Without realizing it, he nodded gently.

A faint smile curved Draco’s lips—not completely happy, but enough to steal Harry’s breath for a moment.

“See? Harry trusts me,” Draco said, pride lighting his expression, and Harry was still utterly captivated.

Ron and Hermione watched the scene with the most ridiculous expressions they’d ever worn. What kind of betrayal was this? Harry—Harry!—the first to accuse Snape, the loudest in speculating and arguing about his evil intentions, suddenly flipping completely around?

Just like that? All because Draco Malfoy looked at him with those pleading gray eyes?

Hermione even opened her mouth to protest, but only a long, frustrated sigh came out. Ron, on the other hand, looked like he was trying to calculate exactly where in Harry’s brain his reasoning had shut down.

A full-on betrayal, right before their eyes. Not against Gryffindor, not against logic, but against basic human common sense.

And the worst part? Harry himself seemed completely unaware that he had already “surrendered.” Draco Malfoy’s pleading gaze—apparently—was deadlier than any spell taught in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Ron let out a rough sigh. “Maybe if Draco said You-Know-Who was just some ugly frog by a pond, Harry would probably believe him too,” he muttered under his breath so no one could hear.

“All right,” Ron finally said, voice challenging. “Let’s bet. If you’re wrong, Draco, you have to treat me and Hermione to Hogsmeade for a whole year during our third year.”

Hermione glared so hard she nearly choked. How could something this important be turned into a bet?

Draco raised an eyebrow, a sly Slytherin smile curling his lips. “Agreed. But if you lose, Ron, I’ll kiss you in front of all of Hogwarts until your face is as red as your hair. And Hermione—” he glanced at her with a wicked look, “you’ll wear the Slytherin uniform at the end of term.”

“WHAT?!” It wasn’t Ron who shouted, but Harry—right before a sharp “SSST!” came from between the stacks.

Madam Pince floated out like a just-awakened dementor, glaring at them as if she meant to curse them into old, tattered books. In an instant, they were being marched out of the library—apparently Theo’s Muffliato had worn off at some point.

Ron slumped, wincing. “Blasted, Draco, you’re going to kill me twice.”

Harry looked at Ron with an unreadable expression—a mix of anger and… jealousy? Ron didn’t dare confirm it; Harry was already terrifying enough.

Meanwhile, Draco casually stuck out his tongue, face lit up with smug satisfaction.

Ron huffed, but Harry stepped forward. “What about me? Do I get kissed too?” he asked suddenly.

Draco blinked, one brow arching. “Why would I? You’re on my side.” He turned on his heel, his robes swaying lightly. “Let’s end this. I’m starving. See you, annoying Gryffindors.”

“Harry, I swear to Merlin, I—”

“Forget it,” Harry snapped, cutting Ron off. “This is our chance to prove Draco wrong.”

“You’re literally on his side, Harry! And honestly, Ron, how could you even bet on this?” Hermione scolded as they made their way toward the Great Hall.

“I don’t know,” Ron muttered miserably. “Feels like I just bet my life.”

Harry and Ron were sitting in the nearly empty Great Hall, absorbed in a game of wizard chess. Hermione approached, dragging her trunk behind her just as Ron made his final move.

“Queen to E5!” she shouted—and her queen sprang to life, smashing Harry’s knight into pieces.

“How brutal,” Hermione said, grinning.

“That’s wizard chess for you,” Ron replied. “Looks like you’re all packed up already.”

“Not like you,” Hermione shot back.

“Plans have changed,” Ron said. “My parents are visiting Charlie in Romania; he’s studying dragons there.”

“Good—that means you can help Theo find information on Nicolas Flamel,” Hermione said.

Ron sighed. “We’ve already spent a hundred hours searching. Our only hope is Theo now.”

“But not in the restricted section yet,” Hermione said with a mischievous grin. “Merry Christmas,” she added, smiling widely as she walked off.

Ron’s shoulders slumped as he looked at Harry. “I think we’ve been a bad influence on her.” Harry just nodded in agreement.

Hermione came back for a moment. “Send me an owl if you find anything.”

“And you could ask your parents, in case they know who Flamel is,” Ron added. “It’s safe to ask them.”

“Very safe—they’re both dentists,” Hermione snorted, amused, and then continued on her way.

Once the holidays began, Ron and Harry were so excited they didn’t even think about Flamel. Their room held only the two of them, and the common room was far emptier than usual, so they could settle into the comfy armchairs by the fireplace.

“Let’s check on Draco—he’s probably lonely,” Harry said, getting up without waiting for Ron’s reaction.

“I’m not coming, you go ahead. I’m too lazy,” Ron whined, flopping back into his chair and stretching out.

Harry grinned at that—well, Ron refused, which meant it would be just him and Draco.

“Then I’ll go,” Harry said, barely hiding the thrill in his voice, making Ron snort with amusement, clearly aware that Harry’s invitation was just an excuse to have Draco all to himself.

“It’s so quiet… I’m actually getting sleepy,” Harry muttered as he left.

Harry walked cheerfully through the quiet Hogwarts halls, heading straight for the library—it wasn’t hard to find the blond boy in such empty corridors.

Sure enough, there was Draco, gracefully immersed in a thick book. Harry’s steps grew lighter with excitement as he slid into the seat next to Draco, sitting a little too close.

“I’m not even surprised—your magic practically announces itself from afar, Harry,” Draco said without looking up.

Harry’s imaginary tail wagged at the sound of Draco’s voice. “What are you reading? I’ll help.”

When Draco finally looked up, Harry felt a wave of happiness; his heart calmed at the sight of those gleaming gray eyes. “Looking for Nicolas Flamel. We have to be careful in case Theo doesn’t find the information.”

Harry nodded and started flipping through the stack of books Draco had arranged, reading page by page.

Of course, that only lasted two minutes. He much preferred watching Draco sit there with perfect poise, his slender fingers turning the heavy pages as if each sentence held a great magical secret. The candlelight fell just right on Draco’s shining blond hair, making him look like a living painting, completely unaware he was being watched.

“I told you to look for Nicolas Flamel, Harry—why are you staring at me?”

Harry choked slightly, trying to save face. “I’m not—I just—”

Draco sighed, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “—watching every strand of my hair?” he cut in quickly. “Relax, Harry. Most people do.”

Harry held his gaze a moment longer, then said in a low, serious tone, “That’s the problem, Draco. I’m not ‘most people.’”

Draco held his breath for a fraction of a second before pretending to return to his book. “Salazar… you really don’t want to read, do you?”

“I want to talk to you about… a lot of things,” Harry admitted.

Draco closed his book, looking at Harry with amusement, then nodded, silently giving him permission to speak about whatever he wished.

Harry eagerly began talking about everything he thought would interest Draco. He even shared stories of life with the Dursleys—everything he once considered miserable spilled out freely.

Draco listened with a shifting expression: furrowed brow, tense lips, then suddenly a grimace as if every word Harry spoke was a personal affront to his sense of aesthetic.

“If only we were allowed to use magic outside school,” Draco muttered, his tone cold but loaded with intent, “I’d make sure that father-mother-and-son pair were cowering in a corner of their house, regretting the decision to be born.”

He looked up, eyes gleaming with that trademark Malfoy pride.

“And their faces—Salazar above, please explain to me why creatures like that are allowed out of the house without a face-covering cloak? Ugly, and their manners are disgusting. At least if you can’t be handsome, learn some decency. The world’s bad enough without adding pathetic faces and horrible morals to it.”

Harry couldn’t help it—he burst into laughter, clutching his stomach as it hurt from laughing so hard. But more than that, something warm bloomed inside him, swelling slowly as he watched Draco genuinely angry on someone’s behalf. There was something both hilarious and captivating about the way Draco insulted someone with such ease and arrogance, purely to defend them.

“Besides,” Draco continued, closing his book with a soft thump that somehow sounded like moral judgment, “why do you live there? You’re a Potter, Harry. The Potter. One of the twenty-eight remaining pureblood families in the wizarding world—don’t make me start tracing your family line, Harry. I’m sure you’re very wealthy and capable.”

Harry winced slightly. “They’re the only family I have on my mother’s side.”

Draco huffed, arms crossed. “And? Don’t tell me they didn’t know how to handle money. Shouldn’t they have put some of the Potter family vault at your disposal to make sure you grew up worthy of being called a wizard? Honestly, the first time I saw you—” he paused, eyes scanning Harry from head to toe, “—you looked like a lost homeless kid in Diagon Alley. Small, skinny, scruffy.”

Harry chuckled quietly, but Draco wasn’t finished.

“Good thing you’ve improved a bit since then,” he continued, his tone light but arrogant. “I even thought about giving you some pocket money back then, just so you could buy proper food… or a new robe that wouldn’t make Madam Malkin want to retire.”

This time Harry laughed out loud—still polite, of course—but he really hadn’t expected it. For him, their first meeting at Madam Malkin had been tense, even memorable. But for Draco? Apparently it was just a moment to judge Harry as a misfit wandering into the wrong shop.

Now it was Draco’s turn to tell his story, his voice calm though his eyes were slightly distant.

“At the time, I visited Aunt Andromeda without my father knowing. Mother and father were busy, and I’d get bored just staying home. So my mother suggested I visit her family. The first time I went, I was surprised to see… the square box you mentioned,” he said, glancing briefly at Harry. “I was actually fascinated, but too proud to admit it. Back then, I still held pureblood pride—maybe too high. To me, Muggles were just trash.”

Harry wanted to interject, but the gentle expression on Draco’s face stopped him.

“My aunt knew I thought that way,” Draco continued softly. “She wasn’t angry, but she slowly changed the way I saw the world. Her husband was the same. They didn’t argue—they just… showed me. And somehow, I began to see beauty in things I once considered vile. When I told Mother about that visit, it turned out she wasn’t as fanatical as I thought. She said blood doesn’t measure everything—the real difference is a person’s intelligence and opportunity.”

Harry nodded slowly, only now realizing why Draco had seemed so quick to accept Hermione from the start.

“After that, I told my friends about it,” Draco said, a small smile forming on his lips. “They didn’t judge me. At first, Pansy thought I’d gone mad—well, her reaction was pretty dramatic—but they listened. I promised I’d take them into the Muggle world one day, and my aunt’s husband agreed to come along. When we finally went together, everyone was amazed. Their taste in clothes, the strange but beautiful objects, even the way they viewed beauty… it was incredible.”

Draco let out a small, nostalgic laugh. “Pansy even swore she’d one day create a beauty potion to rival Muggle magic. We agreed to keep it secret—too risky for a pureblood family. But… well,” he glanced at Harry, his small smile turning playful. “Seems my secret was already out the moment I sat with Hermione in public.”

Harry listened without daring to blink. Every time Draco spoke, his tone softened—nothing like his usual teasing—and every subtle shift in expression made Harry feel the world around them fade away. Somehow, the winter sunlight streaming through the library windows hit Draco’s blond hair just right, making it shimmer as if a tiny spell existed only for him.

Harry just wanted to stay there, listening. He didn’t even realize he hadn’t looked at the book in front of him for a long time; he was too busy watching how Draco furrowed his brow while thinking, or the gentle movements of his fingers as he turned the pages.

The day felt… special.

Unnoticed by them, time passed too quickly. When Draco finally began closing his book with a lazy motion, letting out a small yawn, the library door creaked open softly.

“Merlin! You’re still here?” Ron stood in the doorway, disbelief all over his face. “I’ve been roaming Hogwarts three times looking for you for lunch.”

Harry glanced at the large hourglass on the wall and jumped slightly. “Already lunchtime?” he said, sounding dazed, as if waking from a long dream.

Draco just smirked smugly. “See? Even time stops when I talk, Harry.”

Harry laughed, though his cheeks flushed a little. He’d never admit it, but Draco was right—today, for him, time really had stopped.

“Ugh… I should’ve gone to visit Charlie instead,” Ron muttered, amused by the sweet interaction in front of him.

“Come on, Ron, let’s have lunch. I want to talk to you about a lot of things,” Draco said.

Draco, with his usual nonchalance, draped an arm around Ron’s shoulder as if they’d been lifelong friends.

Ron stiffened immediately, frozen like a statue, his eyes darting nervously toward Harry—who was now standing behind them, looking thoroughly not okay.

“You don’t like talking to me?” Harry’s voice was flat, but tinged with a mix of irritation, sadness, and something… wounded.

Draco rolled his eyes, half-amused, half-indifferent. “Don’t be silly, Harry. I enjoy talking to you. But I have another mission—strengthening my relationship with a Weasley for the future.”

The words slipped out too easily, too casually—and obliviously carried a double meaning that could utterly wreck one Gryffindor’s composure right there.

Ron swallowed hard. Meanwhile, Harry clenched his fists tightly. A faint crackle of magic hovered in the air; the tips of Harry’s hair trembled as if charged with electricity, and a nearby sheet of parchment on the table suddenly curled and smoldered at the edge.

Draco hadn’t noticed the danger staring them in the face.

“Ah, so that’s how it is.” Harry’s voice was flat, but low and dark—like a sweet little threat ready to explode at any moment.

Ron swallowed for the second time, this time quicker. “Merlin, help me,” he whispered, already regretting every life choice that led him to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays.

Maybe, Ron thought grimly, this winter break would end with him dead if tone-deaf Draco tried hard enough to get him killed.

On Christmas morning, Harry woke up to see a small pile of packages at the foot of his bed.

“Merry Christmas,” Ron mumbled, still half-asleep, as Harry got out of bed and slipped into his robe.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Harry replied. “Look at this—I got presents!”

“Of course. What did you expect? Turnips?” Ron said, glancing at the pile of gifts, which was far bigger than Harry’s.

Harry picked up the top package. It was wrapped in thick brown paper with “For Harry” scrawled on it in Hagrid’s handwriting. Inside was a roughly made wooden flute. Clearly, Hagrid had made it himself. Harry blew into it—it sounded somewhat like an owl hooting.

“Hagrid, oh, who’s this present from?”

“I think I know that one,” Ron said, his face a little red as he pointed to an oddly shaped package. “It’s from my mum. I told her you weren’t expecting anything and—oh no,” he groaned, “she made you a Weasley vest.”

Harry had already ripped open the package to find a sleeveless emerald-green knitted sweater and a large box of homemade soft candies.

“She makes us vests every year,” Ron said, unwrapping his own present, “and mine’s always dark red.”

“Your mum is so kind,” Harry said, trying one of the candies—it was delicious.

The next present was also full of treats—a big box of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione.

Only one gift remained. Harry picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It felt surprisingly light. He opened the wrapping.

Something silvery-gray and slick slid onto the floor, glinting as it pooled. Ron’s eyes went wide. “I’ve heard of this,” he whispered in awe, nearly dropping the box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans Hermione had given him. “If it’s what I think it is—this is incredibly rare and valuable.”

“What is it?”

Harry picked up the shimmering silver fabric from the floor. It felt strange—like water woven into cloth.

“It’s the Invisibility Cloak,” Ron said, awe-struck. “I’m sure that’s it—try it on!”

Harry draped the cloak around his shoulders, and Ron let out a squeal.

“Yes! Look down!”

Harry glanced at his feet, but they were gone. He ran to the mirror. His reflection looked back at him, but only his head floated in the air; the rest of his body had vanished. Pulling the cloak over his head, he disappeared completely.

“There’s a letter!” Ron suddenly exclaimed. “A letter fell out of the cloak!” Harry pulled off the cloak and grabbed the letter. Written in tall, flowing letters he’d never seen before, the words read:

Your dad left this with me before he passed.

It’s time to give it back to you.

Use it well.

Merry Christmas to you

No signature. Harry stared at the letter, completely blank.

Ron was busy gaping at the cloak. "I’d give anything to get this," he said. "Anything. What’s going on?"

"It’s nothing," Harry muttered. He felt weird—who sent this cloak? Could it really have belonged to his dad?

When Fred and George arrived, Harry quickly hid the Invisibility Cloak, not wanting anyone to see it except Ron, Hermione, and Draco.

"Merry Christmas!"

"Hey, look—Harry even got a Weasley sweater!"

Fred and George were wearing their own blue sweaters, one with a big yellow F, the other with a big yellow G.

Harry looked around, feeling warm inside—he loved being here, cozy and happy.

"Hey Harry, you left a gift here. Check who it’s from." Fred picked up a neatly wrapped, shiny package. "Woah, you won’t believe it, George! This is from Draco—"

With surprising speed, Harry snatched the gift, holding it like it was a treasure just as precious as his father’s Invisibility Cloak.

"Well, well," George said, exchanging a mischievous look with Fred, who grinned in full agreement. "Looks like someone’s in love."

"Who was it from again, George?"

"I caught a glimpse of that blond Slytherin kid. Gotta say, they seem really close."

"The pretty, arrogant blond giving a special gift to our charming Harry Potter—how romantic."

Harry turned scarlet, and the twins burst out laughing, clearly proud of themselves for getting that reaction.

"See? I didn’t even get anything from Draco. Just you," Ron said casually between bites, as if it wasn’t the verbal equivalent of tossing a Bludger straight at Harry’s chest.

"Really?" Harry’s face lit up in the most ridiculous way — pure delight, the kind that could only come from realizing he was the only one Draco gave a present to. He was special in Draco’s eyes, and that thought alone made him beam.

"Aw, Ron, you’re such an adorable little brother," he said dreamily.

Ron burst out laughing — Harry was practically floating already, and it took almost no effort to send him higher into the clouds.

"What’s all this noise about?" Percy Weasley stuck his head into the room, looking thoroughly displeased. He’d clearly just opened his own presents; he was holding a Weasley jumper draped over his arm. Fred immediately lunged for it.

“‘P for Prefect!’ Come on, Percy, wear it! We’re all wearing ours — even Harry!”

“I… don’t… want to…” Percy grumbled as the twins wrestled the jumper over his head, knocking his glasses askew.

“And you’re not with the other Prefects today anyway,” said George. “It’s Christmas — time for family!”

They half-dragged Percy out of the room, his arms flailing as the too-small jumper clung awkwardly to him.

“Go on, Harry, open yours,” Ron said between laughs.

Harry nodded, still grinning, and carefully unwrapped Draco’s gift. Inside was a folded note written in Draco’s elegant, looping handwriting:

Consider this a small act of saving Gryffindor’s reputation — and perhaps, a bit of pity from someone with good taste.
— Draco Malfoy

Beneath the note rested a pair of fine dragon-hide Quidditch gloves, perfectly fitted, with HP delicately engraved on the inner wrist.

Harry felt a wide grin spread across his face before he could stop it — too real, too bright, enough to make Ron curious. He leaned over to peek at the gift.

“Blimey, he really gave you something?” Ron stared at the gloves, impressed. “They look… expensive.”

The leather was smooth, light, but sturdy — and it smelled faintly of something strange yet familiar, like cinnamon and the smoky warmth of the Slytherin common room. Harry let out a small laugh, shoulders shaking — not because it was funny, but because something inside his chest was expanding, warm and alive, like a spark catching fire in the middle of snow.

“Draco gave me a gift. Just me.” Harry repeated it like a spell, the words soft and almost magical. Ron just gaped at him.

“Maybe we should… go find him?” Ron suggested carefully. Harry nodded, determined.

Before they could leave, Percy stumbled in, panting — apparently having escaped the twins’ grip at last.

He didn’t say a word — just walked past Ron and Harry. Ron shrugged it off, unfazed, and they started walking again.

“Hey, Ron, aren’t you going to open this one? It’s from Draco Malfoy. Could be dangerous, don’t you think?”

Ron froze.

“W–what? Me?” he blurted, his voice jumping half an octave.

“Yeah. ‘To Ronald Weasley, from Draco Malfoy.’ You want me to toss it out?”

“N–no!” Ron quickly snatched the package from Percy, who didn’t seem to care and just kept walking toward his room.

Meanwhile, the smile on Harry’s face began to fade. Not all at once — just a slow dimming, like candlelight flickering under a soft breeze.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “So… he gave you one too.” His tone was dark, almost unreadable.

“Yeah… um… I guess—”

“Open it, Ron.” Harry’s voice was calm — too calm. The kind that made Ron gulp.

He hurried to unwrap Draco’s gift. Inside was a letter, written in the exact same handwriting as the one Harry got.

I know you hate expensive stuff, so think of this as a social experiment:

how long can you wear something from a Malfoy before you feel the need to return it?

—Draco Malfoy.

Inside the box was a luxurious Gryffindor scarf — soft wool, perfectly knit, with a tiny silver dragon embroidered at the end.

Harry didn’t say anything at first. His expression didn’t shift, but something in the air got colder — quieter. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm. “That’s… actually really nice."

“Maybe I should return it?” Ron asked, half-desperate.

Harry tilted his head slightly, tone smooth as ice. “And make Draco sad because his gift got rejected? Really, Ron?”

Ron swallowed hard. For a second, he honestly considered crying — because he had no idea what he’d done wrong, or how he ended up trapped in this kind of mess.

Harry let out a small, heavy sigh. He didn’t want to ruin Christmas with whatever strange mess of feelings was stirring inside him right now.

“Come on, let’s go see Draco. Put the scarf on,” he said with a softer smile — calmer this time, though not quite as bright as before.

He glanced down at the gloves once more, then carefully folded Draco’s note and tucked it into the inner pocket of his robe — as if he still wanted to keep a little piece of that warm illusion alive, just a bit longer.

“Ronald Weasley!!”

Ron jumped, nearly dropping his scarf at the sound of his name being yelled across the hall. They’d just reached the entrance to the Great Hall when that sharp, unmistakable voice cut through the air.

“Draco!” Harry was the first to notice, eyes lighting up as he hurried toward the blond boy — only for Draco to stop in his tracks, his path suddenly blocked by Harry himself.

“Move, Potter. I need to talk to Ronald.” Draco’s tone was firm, clipped — the kind that didn’t leave room for argument.

Harry froze. The words hit harder than he expected. For a moment, he just stared, his chest tightening as if someone had cast a silent curse on him. Rejected — just like that. Draco didn’t even look at him. Ron. Draco wanted to talk to Ron. Not him. What—what was wrong with him?

"Ronald! Care to explain the green knitted sweater I got—from your mother? Do you have any idea how shocked I was when I opened it? I thought someone was playing a cruel joke, pretending to be her and hexing the gift!"

Ron swallowed hard, glancing nervously at Harry — who, by now, looked seconds away from exploding.

"I—I told Mum about you," Ron stammered. "I mentioned our… friendship, and she was happy about it. I didn’t know she’d actually make you one! Do you—uh—want me to tell her to stop or something?"

Draco’s eyes flashed, stepping closer until the flickering firelight behind him made his pale skin glow like marble. He looked both irritated and oddly animated.

"Are you mad, Ronald?! Throw it away? That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard! Of course I won’t throw it away!" Draco snapped, indignant. Then, his voice softened just slightly — still sharp, but honest. "Just… tell your mother I like it. I do. But I can’t exactly wear it around, considering my House and… my family. I don’t want to offend her."

And through it all, Draco still hadn’t looked at Harry — not once.

Which made the silence between Harry’s clenched fists feel dangerous.

“I also wanted to thank you for the gift — I really liked it. Harry did too,” Ron blurted out in one breath, hoping to defuse whatever tension was left hanging in the air.

And thank Merlin — Draco finally turned his attention to Harry.

The moment their eyes met, Harry lit up like someone had cast Lumos Maxima right inside his chest. His posture straightened, his eyes gleamed, and his grin grew so wide it looked almost silly. He practically vibrated with happiness — like a puppy that had just been called by its favorite person.

Ron, on the other hand, looked horrified. A minute ago, Harry had been two seconds away from turning into You-Know-Who out of jealousy, and now he was beaming.

“You liked my gift?” Draco asked, stepping closer.

“Yes!” Harry answered, voice bright and eager, his heart pounding so hard it almost hurt. The words burst out of him before he could stop them — too sincere, too raw, too Harry.

“Good,” Draco said with a smug little smirk. “Because if you didn’t, I wouldn’t bother giving either of you anything ever again. I am expecting gifts in return, by the way.”

“What do you want?” Harry asked immediately — and he meant it. He could give Draco anything. The entire wizarding world, if Draco asked for it.

“I want a dragon,” Draco replied, his tone playful but his eyes gleaming with that familiar spark. “A real one would be nice, but since that’s impossible, I’ll take anything dragon-related. But if not—well, I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

“I’ll get you a real dragon,” Harry said, utterly serious.

Draco chuckled, amused. “Don’t be ridiculous, Harry. It’s practically illegal — and incredibly expensive. Just give me something simple; I’ll like it anyway.” He tossed his hair lightly and turned toward the Great Hall. “Now come on, I’m starving.”

Harry and Ron followed him — Ron already thinking of buying a toy dragon, while Harry was quietly determined to create something special.
If he couldn’t give Draco a dragon…
He’d make one himself.