Chapter Text
Oliver Malfoy woke up freezing.
Not the normal dungeon cold, but the kind that felt like it started under his skin and spread outward, like something inside him was made of ice. The Dark Mark pulsed once beneath his left sleeve—slow, heavy, like it was reminding him it existed before he even opened his eyes. He hated that it could do that. He hated that it did that.
The Slytherin sixth‑year dorm was empty when he sat up. Everyone else had already gone to breakfast, leaving behind half‑closed trunks, scattered ties, and the faint smell of damp stone. It should’ve felt normal. Safe. Familiar.
It didn’t.
He pushed the blankets off and stood, the greenish lake‑light drifting across his pale skin and catching in his platinum‑blonde hair, making it glow faintly. Typical Malfoy hair—impossible to hide, impossible to mistake. His reflection in the small mirror above his trunk showed the rest: sharp grey eyes, the kind people said looked cold, but right now they just looked tired. Older than sixteen. Older than he wanted to be.
He knelt beside his trunk and opened it. Everything inside was folded perfectly, because that was one of the few things he could control. He pulled out a crisp white dress shirt and shrugged it on, the fabric cool against his skin. The sleeves were long enough to hide the Mark, and he buttoned them carefully, making sure nothing showed. It was stupid—no one was even here—but he still checked twice.
Next came the charcoal waistcoat, fitted and sharp, the kind of thing his father approved of. It made him feel held together, as if he wore enough layers that he could keep the panic from leaking out. He stepped into his tailored black trousers, pulled them up, and slipped on his polished shoes, the leather shining even in the dim light. He tied his Slytherin tie with practised precision, knot perfect, maybe a little too tight. It felt like a hand around his throat, but at least it was his hand.
Then he looked down at his hands and winced.
His knuckles were calloused, the skin rough and cracked from years of duelling practice and punching stone walls when he couldn’t breathe. They were bruised, too—purplish and ugly, like he’d been in a fight. He hadn’t. Not this time. Sometimes they just… ended up that way. He didn’t want to think about why.
He reached for his wand on the bedside table.
It was pale oak, smooth and almost white in the dim light, with a faint shimmer in the grain if you tilted it just right. The handle was worn slightly from how often he held it, and the unicorn hair core made it warm quickly in his hand, like it was trying to comfort him. It was a gentle wand—too gentle for the things he’d been forced to do with it.
He lifted it over his knuckles and whispered the glamour charm. The bruises faded, the rawness softened, the skin smoothed—a lie, but a necessary one. Malfoys didn’t walk around looking like they’d been brawling in alleyways.
Only then did he reach into the bottom of his trunk and unwrap the small square of green silk. The Malfoy heir ring lay inside—heavy, cold, inevitable. He held it between his fingers, studying the silver band and the serpent carved into its crest. It felt less like a symbol and more like a shackle. Still, he slid it onto his finger. It settled into place as though it had been waiting for him all along.
When he looked in the mirror again, the perfect Malfoy heir stared back: pale, polished, composed.
As he closed the trunk, he noticed the Muggle pills he’d been taking were no longer tucked in their usual hiding spot. A flicker of panic rose in his chest, but the dorm was empty—no witnesses, no questions. Quickly, he shoved the bottle deep into his bag and left the sixth‑year dormitory.
Outside, he was met by his younger brother. Draco—now a fourth‑year—stood waiting with his usual air of polished confidence, chin tilted just enough to suggest the corridor should be grateful for his presence. Oliver felt a quiet swell of pride at the sight of him.
“Brother,” Draco said with a smirk, the word rolling off his tongue like a title he enjoyed bestowing.
“Draco,” Oliver murmured back, his soft French accent slipping through—something he only ever allowed around Draco or their mother.
Draco fell into step beside him immediately. “I still can’t believe it,” he said, voice low but buzzing with excitement. “The Triwizard Tournament. Here. At Hogwarts. Everyone’s still talking about it.”
Oliver gave a tired half‑smile. “Hard to miss. The whole school hasn’t stopped buzzing since the announcement.”
Draco studied him for a moment, his expression sharpening. “You look exhausted.”
“I took the pills,” Oliver said quietly. “Last night.”
Draco’s eyes flicked to Oliver’s bag—the one place he knew Oliver kept the small bottle he’d bought in the Muggle streets of London. Oliver relied on them more than he liked to admit. Draco was the only one who knew he had them, the only one he trusted with that secret.
“You still look tired,” Draco murmured.
“They don’t always work the same,” Oliver replied, rubbing his temple. “But they’re better than nothing.”
Before Draco could respond, a pale strand of his own hair slipped forward. Oliver reached out and brushed it back, then paused. “Hold still… Draco, your roots.”
Draco froze. “No. No, absolutely not.” His hand flew to his head, trying to cover the dark strands. “It’s worse today, isn’t it?”
Oliver leaned in slightly. “A bit more noticeable, yes.”
Draco groaned. “Brilliant. The visiting schools arrive soon and I look like—like this.”
“It’s not that bad,” Oliver said gently. “And I can fix it. For now.”
Draco blinked. “How?”
“A glamour,” Oliver said. “Just enough to hide the roots until tonight.”
Draco hesitated. “Tonight?”
Oliver nodded. “We’ll use the prefects’ bathroom. I still have access, even if I refuse to wear the badge.”
Draco snorted. “You hate that badge.”
“It ruins the aesthetic,” Oliver said simply. “But the bathroom is useful. We can dye your hair properly there.”
Draco’s shoulders loosened a little. “You’d really do that?”
Oliver gave him a small, tired smile. “Of course. Hold still.”
Draco did, and Oliver lifted his wand, murmuring a soft charm. The pale blond shimmered, evening out seamlessly.
Draco checked his reflection in a nearby window. “Better,” he said, relief slipping into his voice.
“Good,” Oliver said. “Now let’s get breakfast before you start panicking about something else.”
Draco shot him a sideways look. “You’re taking another one tonight.”
Oliver didn’t argue. “I know.”