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The dream wrapped around Draco like the icy waters of the Black Lake.
He was not the middle-aged head of the Malfoy family, nor the eleven-year-old Malfoy heir just starting school, but that gaunt Death Eater crushed by fear and duty.
Draco stood in the Room of Requirement, the loose collar of his black suit somehow tight against his throat. Before him was the Vanishing Cabinet, radiating menace.
No, don't open it.
Draco screamed inside, but his body would not obey him.
His hand lifted, fingers so pale they were nearly translucent, a splinter of wood from the cabinet still caught under one nail, just as it had been when he was seventeen and had first succeeded in letting Death Eaters out of the cabinet.
"Click."
The moment he pulled the door open, thick black vapour poured out, a fog that felt solid, clinging like seaweed, wrapping around his ankles and climbing up his trouser legs, carrying the rot of graveyard soil.
Bitterly cold, seeping into his bones.
A hoarse, low voice, like a snake slithering over gravel, sounded in his ear:
"Well done, Draco."
He spun around to see who had spoken, but what met his eyes was a face he knew all too well beneath the billowing black robes, a faintly red lightning scar on the forehead, emerald eyes behind glasses like deep, bottomless dark jade, and a smile curving the lips.
Harry Potter's face.
—!
Draco jolted awake, his heart pounding frantically in his narrow chest.
In the darkness he gasped for air, his lungs emptied, unable to make a sound. Cold sweat soaked the pale blond hair on his forehead.
After a few seconds his vision cleared, and he saw the ceiling of the Slytherin dormitory glowing with faint green lake light, and the intricately carved snake patterns on his four-poster bed curtains.
The green velvet curtains, edged with silver serpent embroidery, swayed gently with his ragged breathing. The ripple patterns of water drifted slowly across the ceiling, bringing a heavy stillness.
It was a dream... but not just a dream. It was the twisted shadow of past fears.
He sat up, the back of his silk pyjamas soaked through with cold sweat and clinging to his skin, icy against it.
The dormitory was quiet except for the occasional crackle of embers in the fireplace. Outside the window lay the Black Lake, its waters shimmering with a dim blue glow. Now and then a small silver fish darted past, its shadow flickering across the stone floor like a falling star. His eyes flew at once to the bed next to his: Harry's bed.
The curtains were drawn, and he could not see inside. Draco practically fell out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold stone floor, and hurried over. With trembling fingers he pulled back a corner of the curtain: empty.
A nameless panic seized him, worse than the nightmare.
"Potter?" he called in a low voice, with a trace of alarm he himself did not notice.
"Draco."
Draco followed the voice and saw Harry sitting with his knees drawn up on the broad windowsill, his outline traced by the faint light from the deep water of the Black Lake outside.
Hedwig, the snowy owl, stood quietly on the stone ledge beside him, her round eyes gleaming in the dark as she tilted her head at Draco.
"Did you have a nightmare?"
Harry came over wearing a silly blue-and-white striped pyjama set.
It was only then that Draco realised he was still breathing hard, cold sweat running down his temples. He raised his arm and wiped his forehead with his pyjama sleeve. The irritation left by the nightmare and the displeasure of being seen so vulnerable made his tone sharp.
"Why aren't you asleep? What are you doing by the window?"
The tone carried the sternness he used when scolding Scorpius, but coming out of his eleven-year-old body it lost much of its force and sounded instead like a startled child's petulance.
"I couldn't sleep."
Harry answered with startling openness, his green eyes bright in the dim light. He reached up to stroke Hedwig's feathers. "Everything here is so strange... magic, portraits that move... it's like a dream. It feels like only yesterday I was sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs, listening to Dudley snore and smelling the musty wood."
When he said "the cupboard under the stairs," his voice was soft, not complaining, just with a dazed sense of relief, as if checking that he was not dreaming.
The nameless anger in Draco's chest died at once, replaced by a complicated feeling, a thought of the Scorpius in that other timeline: what would happen to him after losing his father?
The Saviour who had become a hero would surely never let him suffer the same kind of life under someone else's roof as he himself had.
Draco walked to the window, reached out, and tugged Harry's pyjama collar up. "You'll catch cold standing here." No sooner had he said it than he let out a loud sneeze, his nose instantly turning red.
His sweat-soaked silk pyjamas clung to him, and the night air made his teeth nearly chatter.
"Go back to bed, Draco." Harry slipped down from the windowsill, his voice carrying a natural, no-nonsense concern. "You'll catch cold."
Draco muttered something but obediently went to the wardrobe and fumbled his way into dry pyjamas.
Once changed, they both climbed back into bed. Draco lay with his eyes closed, listening to Harry's even breathing and feeling Hedwig preening her feathers at the foot of the bed.
It seemed only a blink later that the dormitory was filled with dim light from the Black Lake, filtered through layers of water. Theodore Nott, who preferred to keep to himself, was already gone, his bed made immaculately.
"Nott said he'd go on ahead to the classroom." Harry was already dressed in his school uniform and stood before the mirror trying to tie his tie, his fingers clumsy, the knot hanging crooked at his neck.
"He also said... if we get lost, we can follow the students in yellow. They're mostly Hufflepuffs, and they'll be going to the Great Hall. The first classroom isn't far from there."
Draco watched him struggle with the tie and couldn't help walking over. He reached out, undid the knot, and tied it again.
His movements were practised, the same way he had tied Scorpius's tie when his son first went to Hogwarts.
Harry froze. He could feel Draco's cool fingertips occasionally brush the skin of his neck, and he could smell a faint, crisp citrus cologne, completely different from the strong, harsh perfumes he remembered from the Dursleys' house.
He tried to keep his composure, even deliberately lightening his breathing, but a faint blush crept up his ears, betraying that he was not entirely unaffected.
The brief silence made Harry feel a little awkward. His green eyes flicked to the soft blond fringe falling naturally over Draco's forehead, no longer slicked back with gel, and he found a topic at last.
"You... aren't going to slick your hair back like before?" He remembered that when they first met in Diagon Alley and at Madam Malkin's, Draco's hair had been combed tightly back, like a pompous little adult.
Draco's fingers paused almost imperceptibly.
That immaculate, slicked-back style, so carefully modelled on his father Lucius, now seemed both childish and full of pointless bravado.
He gently tightened the knot so it sat neatly at Harry's collar, and answered in an offhand, as-if-discussing-the-weather tone, "Too much trouble. This is fine."
"Following the Hufflepuffs will take the long way round." Draco adjusted the knot to the centre of Harry's collar. "I know a shortcut. Ten minutes faster."
Harry looked down at the impeccable knot and gave a soft "Oh." This slightly awkward and strange morning interaction, more than any spell, made him realise he really had left the cupboard under the stairs at the Dursleys far behind.
By the time they left the dormitory, the castle was stirring. The portraits along the stone corridors were waking up, some smoothing their rumpled robes, others nodding to the students passing by.
"Draco!" Harry tugged at Draco's sleeve and pointed to a portrait at a corner of the corridor. In it, a knight in armour was chasing a flying teacup on horseback. "It wasn't like this yesterday! Yesterday it was having tea with the lady next to it!"
"The portraits at Hogwarts all have their own temperaments. What they do each day depends on their mood." He slowed down to wait for Harry, who had fallen behind while looking at the portraits. "Come on. Professor McGonagall's class is at half past eight."
Harry hurried after him, occasionally glancing up at the moving staircases overhead, which sometimes turned clockwise and sometimes slid abruptly sideways.
"How are you so familiar with it?" Harry couldn't help asking, his voice full of admiration. "You walk around like it's your own living room."
Of course he was familiar. He had spent seven years here.
After the war, he had dreamed countless times of the staircases of Hogwarts. He dreamed of running up them with Crabbe and Goyle to watch Quidditch matches, of stomping back to the dormitory after losing a duel to Harry, of following the Death Eaters down the stairs after the final battle with the castle burning behind him.
"I used to walk them often." He gave a vague answer and did not elaborate, only quickening his pace. "Turn left up ahead and it's Professor McGonagall's classroom. Stop staring at the stairs or you'll walk into a suit of armour."
Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom was on the third floor. The oak door was carved with a lifelike cat, and as they approached, the cat blinked and the door clicked open.
The classroom was already fairly full. Theodore sat by the window, leafing through A History of Magic. When they came in, he merely glanced up and nodded toward the two empty seats beside him.
The first lesson mainly involved copying down a few spells. No one dared whisper in Professor McGonagall's class, and the only sound was the scratching of quills on parchment.
But the quiet was soon broken.
Ron Weasley burst in, his red hair a mess like a bird's nest, his robes dragging on the floor and covered in dust.
"Sorry, Professor McGonagall!" Ron stood at the door, panting. "I got lost on the stairs. They suddenly turned to the fourth floor..."
"Mr Weasley," Professor McGonagall said, her voice like ice, "the staircases at Hogwarts do not turn 'suddenly'. They follow their own patterns. If you spent less time complaining and more time learning the castle's layout, you would not be late. Now, go to your seat, and remain after class to copy the first chapter of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration twenty times."
Ron's face reddened as he hurried to find a seat. His eyes swept the room and landed on Draco and Harry. He immediately shot them a furious glare, clearly taking their gaze for mockery.
When that look of open dislike came from Weasley, Draco felt a deep sense of helplessness. He muttered under his breath.
"See that? Your future friend is already starting to hate us."
"Mr Malfoy!" Professor McGonagall's sharp voice rang out at once. "I require your attention, not your commentary. Quiet in my classroom!"
Draco shut his mouth at once and pressed his lips together. He picked up his quill, scribbled a line in the corner of his parchment, and pushed it toward Harry:
How do we salvage our friendship with the redhead (crossed out) with Weasley? Any ideas?
Harry looked at the note, glanced at Professor McGonagall, then picked up his own quill and wrote a serious reply. The note came back:
He seems to have a big prejudice against you. But I don't think you're as bad as he says. On the contrary, you're quite kind, just not always very straightforward.
I don't know how to make Ron believe that, but I won't compromise over it.
Draco looked at Harry's reply, mixed feelings churning inside him. A Malfoy, kind? What a ridiculous joke. The Weasleys and the Malfoys had never got along, and the chances of Ron Weasley accepting him were about as likely as the Weasley family striking it rich. But he obviously could not say that, so he just tucked the note away with a sour look.
The second lesson was Potions, held in a classroom below ground, even colder and damper than the Slytherin common room.
The air was thick with a strange smell, a mix of herbs, chemicals, and a certain... dampness from long lack of sunlight. Shelves along the walls were lined with glass jars of animal organs in liquid, gleaming eerily.
When Severus Snape swept into the room like a great bat, his black robes billowing behind him, and slammed the door shut with a bang, the whole class fell instantly silent.
"Sit down." Snape's voice was barely louder than a whisper, with his characteristic clipped delivery, yet it carried clearly to every ear.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. Such things are far too advanced for a pack of dunderheads who cannot even handle a cauldron."
Snape walked to the front and slammed a copy of Advanced Potion-Making onto the desk, sending dust into the air. "We begin with theory."
He paused, and his gaze swept across the middle of the room. "Some of you seem to think you are rather special, that you already know the workings of magic before setting foot in this school, and therefore have the nerve to let your attention wander in my class?"
Draco followed Snape's gaze. Harry was bent over his notebook, quill moving quickly as he wrote down Snape's words word for word.
Draco's stomach tightened and he nudged Harry with his elbow.
Harry looked up in confusion, glanced at Draco, then followed his signal and met Snape's cold stare.
"Potter," Snape drawled, the corner of his mouth curling into a sneer. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
"I don't know, sir." Harry did not understand the sudden targeting, but he answered frankly and sincerely.
"Don't know?" Snape gave a cold laugh. "It seems the fame of the Boy Who Lived has not made your brain any quicker. Second question: what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"I don't know."
"Third question," Snape said, stepping forward so his shadow fell over Harry's desk, "what is the key ingredient in the antidote for a spider bite?"
The room was completely silent, everyone watching Harry. Hermione in the front row had her hand up the whole time, but Snape ignored her.
Harry's face flushed red, not with embarrassment but with anger. He could feel the deliberate malice in Snape's questioning.
"Clearly, fame is not everything." Snape finally looked away, his voice dripping with mockery. "Pity."
"It's not me who's a pity." Harry suddenly spoke, his voice not loud but clear across the room. "It's obvious Granger knows the answers, but you won't call on her. That's the real pity."
A stifled burst of laughter broke out across the classroom. Several Slytherin students clapped their hands over their mouths.
Snape's face went livid. He stared hard at Harry and said, each word deliberate, "Five points from Slytherin for Mr Potter's insolence!"
Now the Slytherins stopped laughing, while the Gryffindor first years still grinned openly.
So Snape's point-taking from Gryffindor in his previous life had not been entirely out of favouritism for Slytherin, Draco thought.
Then Snape paused and swept his gaze over the snickering Gryffindors.
"And as for you, do you find this amusing? Another five points from Gryffindor for disrupting my class!"
At lunch in the Great Hall, hundreds of owls flew in like a dark cloud, carrying letters and packages of all kinds.
A haughty-looking tawny owl dropped a familiar envelope stamped with the Malfoy family crest onto the table beside Draco's plate of bacon.
Draco quickly picked up the letter and, while Harry was absorbed in a borrowed copy of the Daily Prophet, turned away and broke the wax seal.
Lucius Malfoy's handwriting was as ornate and cold as ever. The reply was brief and absolute.
Draco,
Your idea of having Potter transferred to Gryffindor is childish and completely unnecessary. Having the name of the Saviour in Slytherin is far more advantageous to the Malfoy family's prospects.
Maintain the status quo and cultivate a friendship with him. That is an order, not a suggestion.
Father
Draco groaned inwardly. He could hardly wait to get Harry away from him, and now his father wanted him to actively befriend the boy? It was shoving him straight into the fire.
"What are you looking at?" Harry suddenly leaned over, his head almost touching Draco's shoulder. "Is that from your dad?"
Draco jumped and hastily folded the letter away. "Nothing. He was just asking how I'm settling in at school."
"Oh." Harry did not press. He pushed the newspaper toward Draco and pointed at an article. "Look at this. A vault at Gringotts was broken into! That's the bank Hagrid took me to when we got my money."
Draco followed his finger. The headline read: "Gringotts Vault 713 Burgled."
A familiar anxiety seized Draco again. He could not remember clearly, or perhaps the details had blurred, exactly what great deeds Harry, Hermione, and Ron had done in each school year, but he was certain every one of them had been a brush with death, the kind of adventure that could easily have killed them.
And now Harry was in Slytherin, and his relationship with Weasley and Granger looked to be, at best, that of strangers, or at worst, outright hostility. Was he going to be dragged into those troubles?
No. Absolutely not. He had to find a way. He had to repair the relationship between Potter, Weasley, and Granger, at least so that Potter would have someone to help him when danger came.
The thought filled him with a deep sense of helplessness, but looking at Harry beside him, blissfully unaware and still studying the newspaper with curiosity, a strange sense of responsibility settled heavily on him.
He looked over at the Gryffindor table and saw Hermione Granger bent over a book alone, while Ron Weasley sat with his brothers, laughing loudly.
Draco picked up a pumpkin pasty and took a bite without tasting it.
It felt more draining than any magical business negotiation or estate renovation plan he could remember.
He had to think of something, a natural, unforced way to bring the destined trio together as soon as possible.