That voice… High, clear, poisonous.
— Do you recognize our guest, Draco?
Yes.
Sobbing.
— Severus… Please… Please…
— Have you been attending the professor's lessons, Draco?
No.
— She would have been only too happy if we all BRED with MUGGLES…
A snake slithers across the table, its dry scales scraping the polished wood, narrow eyes unblinking. It is hungry.
Don't…
The snake turns its head away from the figure hanging in the air; its red eyes fixate on Draco.
— Nagini, dinner.
The snake crawls toward him, jaws wide open, venom dripping from its fangs…
— Malfoy! Malfoy!
He opened his eyes. There was darkness all around, and the rotten smell of the snake still filled his nostrils.
— Draco!
He blinked in confusion. He was not in the firelit dining room with the red eyes. He was in his bed at Hogwarts, surrounded by a soft golden glow. Small, gentle hands gripped his bare shoulders, shaking him. His heart was racing, and he was drenched in sweat.
Draco tried to focus. This had to still be a dream because surely Hermione Granger, with her wild hair glinting gold at the tips, wasn't leaning over him with such a worried look.
— Nagini… — he croaked. — Dinner…
— The snake is dead, — she answered, her tone as cool as her palm on his forehead. — Voldemort is dead. You're safe.
Safe. He had never felt safe, not even in childhood. Was he safe now? How was that possible? Draco looked up at her face and wondered.
— Safe, — he rasped.
— Yes.
She tried to pull her hand away from his hair, and he caught it. His fingers clenched.
— Granger, — Draco whispered, unable to voice his request, but she understood. The golden light faded. She slipped under the blanket and lay next to him—not touching, but close. Draco closed his eyes. Safe.
When he woke up in the morning, Draco was immensely relieved to find she was already gone. The vanishing spell had worked again. Thank Salazar—today they'd finally get rid of these charms.
Memories of the previous night rushed through his mind. Granger in his bed, in lace panties, her curls still tied in that ridiculous bun. Not that Draco was unfamiliar with witch antics; girls had started showing up in his room as early as sixth year, wearing the bare minimum and with the most absurd excuses. When Granger landed on his mattress, he felt on familiar ground. She came back, he thought, and his heart pounded against his ribs. She came back to me.
He teased her, touched the pink contour of her lips, whispered the spell, and she let him. She let him kiss her, run his hands over her body in search of her warmth. She wanted that. She wanted me.
Until suddenly she didn't. Rejected—and by her… could he fall any lower?
Draco groaned, sitting up and rubbing his face. Yes, he could. Granger had heard him crying in his sleep. She comforted him. Horror. Humiliation.
He wanted to stay in his room and hide from the world in his shame, but that was beneath a Malfoy. So he got out of bed, which wasn't easy with a painful erection, then scrubbed himself clean and dressed more carefully than usual. He spent several extra minutes picking a silver tie pin and cufflinks and polishing his watch. Appearance was important. Appearance, it seemed, was all he had left.
Draco had never been so glad everyone hated him—it meant he didn't have to talk at breakfast. He shoved eggs and bacon into his mouth without tasting them and forced himself to drink tea. In his pocket, he held his grandmother's wand, feeling a little safer with it. Safe. That word brought him back to…
Granger. She had just walked into the Great Hall, glancing at him briefly before sitting at the Gryffindor table. Today she looked almost decent in a black turtleneck, suede skirt, and brown boots. Her hair was a soft cloud of curls, and Draco noticed the wizards couldn't tear their eyes away from her. Even the Ravenclaw boys looked up from their books as she passed.
There was a sharp crack, and Draco felt sudden pain in his right hand—he had squeezed his cup so hard it cracked, and blood dripped onto the saucer.
— Tea doesn't suit you, Malfoy? — asked Blaise Zabini, triggering laughter at the Slytherin table.
Draco kept his stone face and waved his chess-piece wand to gather the shards. Or that's what he intended to do—instead, the shards assembled into an apple. He waved the wand again, and the apple turned into a fat porcelain rabbit. Now Blaise was openly giggling, and Draco could only pretend he'd done it on purpose, wiping his bloody hand discreetly with a napkin. Then he sent the rabbit hopping onto Daphne Greengrass's plate. She liked animals.
Daphne gave him a sad look but said nothing. They had always been friends, but on the first day of eighth year, she told him his aura reflected the storm in his soul.
— It ruins my spiritual energy, — she had said sadly, then handed him a vial of essential oils and ran away. Draco had dropped it immediately and smelled like jasmine for three days.
She was certainly right about his aura today. Draco sat gloomily through a double Muggle Studies lesson—old Professor Tindley had brought in a pile of metal junk that he claimed helped Muggles cook food. But since Hogwarts had no electricity, the professor had to act out each "device," spinning two dangerous-looking objects in a "mixing bowl" and making strange noises while pressing "blender" buttons.
Before lunch, they had Advanced Charms. As soon as the lesson started, Flitwick jumped onto his stack of books and announced they'd be demonstrating spells to the first-years. The Slytherins groaned, but the Ravenclaws perked up, always ready to teach.
A group of Slytherin first-years shuffled into the room. Under normal circumstances, this might have been positive—even a point of pride—to teach them. But this year's batch was the sorriest Draco had ever seen—and he had known Crabbe and Goyle at eleven. These first-years blinked eagerly, and none of them had an ounce of talent. It was like a whole class of Longbottoms. People were already grumbling during the Sorting that Slytherin had been too strict about blood purity, and now the house lacked gifted students. Looking at this scraggly bunch, Draco had to agree.
The little Slytherins lined up against the wall, nervously glancing around despite Flitwick's encouraging smile. Those nearest Draco looked ready to jump out the window. He gave them a grim look and slowly pulled his grandmother's wand from his pocket. The closest boy's lip visibly trembled. Disgraceful.
Flitwick started with Lumos, then asked the Slytherins and Ravenclaws to demonstrate Summoning and Banishing charms, Diffindo, and Tergeo.
— Levitation spell, Mr. Malfoy, — the tiny professor said with a note of warning. A yellow feather appeared on Draco's desk, and the chess-piece wand in his hand trembled with impatience.
— Wingardium Leviosa, — Draco said in a bored tone, and with a light flick, the feather rose into the air and hovered in the aisle. The wand performed the charms perfectly. What a fucking waste of…
Suddenly, the wand flew out of his hand, making the first-years gasp. It landed on his desk and started performing ridiculous dances, releasing yellow sparks. Draco was so stunned he couldn't move, even when the wand spun around and turned the feather into a tiny yellow puffskein that plopped onto the nearest boy's shoulder.
The first-years squealed and applauded, and Flitwick looked at Draco with approval. It was awful.
Now the entire class stared at him, especially Theo Nott, who twirled a feather between his fingers thoughtfully. The puffskein chirped cheerfully, and Draco just sat there, scowling gloomily while the first-years left the room, accompanied by whispering classmates. Flitwick gave him an approving nod and left too.
Draco picked up the chess-piece wand.
— What the fuck was that? — he hissed, and the wand drooped slightly. — Behave yourself, or else…
A soft cough made Draco look up, and his jaw tightened. Blaise and Theo.
They were an odd pair, though they'd been best friends since before Draco could remember. Blaise was tall, dark, and elegant; Theo, on the other hand, was short, pale, and pudgy. His chestnut hair was nearly as wild as Granger's, and his watery green eyes, combined with the green Slytherin tie and grey sweater, gave him a harmless, forgettable appearance.
But Draco knew better. Theo had a razor-sharp mind for strategy. He'd managed to avoid the Dark Mark during the war, even though his father had been part of Voldemort's inner circle. Theo had spent his childhood carefully earning his father's contempt—crying when needed, fainting during his first (and last) Death Eater gathering. All for survival.
Blaise, on the other hand, had been shielded from the worst by his mother, who considered the whole Death Eater affair tacky and vulgar. Draco respected self-preservation—it was Slytherin's core trait—but he never quite forgave them for valuing their own skins above everyone else's.
Daphne had risked far more than either of them, voluntarily coming to the Manor during the war to support Draco and his mother. Draco had been touched by that, though he'd never said so. He still wore the protective charm she'd given him under his shirt, even though he had doubts about the three rusty nails inside. How charming, he'd thought at the time. Survive torture, snakes, and curses, only to die of tetanus.
"Zabini. Nott." Draco spoke their names as if they were strangers. He picked up his bag, raising an eyebrow when neither of them moved aside to let him pass.
"A word, Malfoy," Theo said. He closed the door and cast a muffling charm. Careful, as always.
Draco leaned against a desk, silent. It was their move.
"Why did you come back this year?" Theo asked, eyes cold. "Haven't we suffered enough?"
"Really, Nott?" Draco smirked. "Tell me more about your suffering during the war. Feel a faint coming on?"
Theo flushed.
"We all did what we had to do."
"Yes," Draco agreed. "We did."
An awkward silence followed. Theo cleared his throat.
"Coming back to Hogwarts won't change anything, Malfoy."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?" Blaise asked, sharper than usual.
Draco smiled.
"Maybe I missed you."
"I hate to break it to you," Theo said, his tone lacking any actual regret, "but your reputation is beyond saving."
Draco shrugged. Newsflash.
"But Slytherin's reputation still can be," Theo pressed on. "And we're not going to let you ruin our last chance to restore it."
Theo's green eyes burned with resolve. Draco respected that about him. Nott only failed at two things: beating Granger in academic rankings, and winning Daphne's heart. In sixth year, he'd barely edged into first place in Arithmancy—thanks to private tutoring and Granger getting the flu before finals. He'd called that a victory.
Daphne, though, was another matter. Theo despised Divination, but he believed with enough planning, any obstacle could be overcome.
"You're worried about the wrong Slytherin," Draco warned.
"Tennant Rowley?" Theo asked.
Blaise frowned. "He wasn't a Death Eater."
Draco and Theo exchanged a look. Clearly, Theo had seen things at the Manor while hiding behind furniture.
"I admit, I was surprised to see him here," Theo's voice tightened. "Didn't expect him to be fully acquitted."
"Neither did I," Draco said honestly.
"But you're still the biggest threat," Theo continued calmly. "Flirting with first-years and Gryffindor girls? Dangerous game, Malfoy."
Draco's eyes narrowed. Nott had eyes and ears everywhere. His gaze shifted to Blaise, whose face was suddenly unreadable.
Theo lifted the silencing charm but turned back to Draco before leaving. His expression wasn't hostile—but it wasn't friendly either.
"Take my advice, Malfoy. Go home. You don't belong here. You'll end up in Azkaban again."
Naturally, Draco ignored him. As soon as they left, he headed to the Slytherin dorms for his broom. While the rest of the students made their way to lunch, he slipped out through the castle's front doors, cloaking himself and the broom with a Disillusionment Charm. He soared toward Gryffindor Tower, opened a window with a wandless spell, and climbed inside.
Granger was already waiting, those large honey-gold eyes locked on him, lips red and parted. She pities you, hissed the cruel little voice in his mind.
Draco looked away.
"Let's get this over with," he snapped.
She said nothing, simply stepped aside to let him approach the bed.
He tossed down his broom and carefully examined the four-poster—checking the canopy, the base, the heavy curtains.
"Keep your ginger beast away from me."
"As you wish." Her voice was ice.
Good. Obey, like the rest of your kind. His fingers tightened on his wand.
Do it right, he thought, or I'll break you.
Draco pointed his chess wand at the bed, drawing a perfect circle. His body betrayed him, stirring with unwanted memories, but he forced his voice to remain cold.
"Intermissum Harmonia Nectere."
He repeated the spell, over and over. Precision. Control. Pureblood magic always prevails.
Except… something was wrong.
The bedposts shivered, but there was no glow. The Unbinding spell always produced a glow.
"Is something wrong?" Granger's voice was worried.
Worried. Concerned.
"No," Draco snapped.
He had to get out. She was too close.
"Nothing! Nothing at all!" he repeated, louder.
Granger watched, confused, as Draco leapt onto his broom and flew straight out the window.
He spent the entire day in the air, flying high over the Scottish Highlands. Freedom. Joy. He hadn't felt like this in years. Up here, he wasn't a villain or a Death Eater, a failure or a disappointment. He wasn't trapped in the past or haunted by the nightmares that made him wake up screaming—except on the nights she was there.
He shoved that thought away, slicing through a patch of cloud.
By the time he circled back near the Black Lake, his mind was clear. The Vanishing Spell on the beds had been a mistake—obviously. But now that it was undone, he'd only see Granger in Divination class. Maybe he should drop that too. Ask Trelawney for private tutoring. She certainly liked him enough.
The fling with Vane was over. Good riddance. Fun in bed, but too unstable. Maybe Theo was right about Gryffindor girls. Time to try a Ravenclaw. Sure, it would require more talking, but Ravenclaws had their reckless moments—especially when experimenting with dangerous magic.
Another witch? sneered his inner voice.
Draco ignored it.
He needed to get Granger out of his head—her parted lips, her soft hands, the silk of her skin under that pink lace. Desire had made him reckless, needy.
And when she pushed him away, the rage—Merlin, the rage.
The urge to just take what he wanted, to become the monster everyone already believed him to be, had almost overpowered him. She wouldn't have been able to stop him, not with his serpent wand pressed to her throat.
But he hadn't done it.
It took another hour of flying to shake the memory out of his mind.
By the time Draco returned to the castle, he felt scrubbed clean. It was over. The spell was broken. He'd risen above his baser instincts for once.
Time for something new.
At dinner, he watched the Ravenclaw table, tearing through his third bowl of stew. Tennant's hands shook so badly he couldn't hold his spoon, and one of the Slytherin girls had started feeding him. Disgusting, but at least it meant Draco could focus on his new project.
The less-attractive twin from eighth-year Ravenclaw wouldn't go for him—especially not since she was a prefect. But he'd spotted three seventh-years worth considering. Two were pretending to read while sneaking glances at him. Or maybe at Tennant, who was now drooling on the tablecloth.
As for the third—blonde, emotional—he'd seen her break up with her boyfriend that morning near Numerology.
"I estimated the probability you'd cheat at 15%, Tristan," she'd said loudly, "but clearly, I was too generous!"
Perfect.
After dinner, Draco followed the Ravenclaws to the library and settled in at a corner table. Blaise sat alone nearby, which was strange. Blaise never went to the library unless Theo dragged him. Even stranger was the towering stack of books from the Restricted Section in front of him.
Not your problem, Draco reminded himself. You're not friends anymore.
He unrolled his half-finished Potions essay and started listing twelve uses for the warts of a purple toad. (Far more useful than green toad warts, which were practically worthless.)
He was just starting to relax when a witch sat across from him.
"I know what you're doing, Draco," said Luna Lovegood serenely.
Draco was proud of himself. He didn't drop his quill or gawk. He just raised an eyebrow.
"Oh really," he said.
"Yes. I've been watching you." She smiled, wearing a flower crown and bright pink glasses.
Draco clenched his quill. Why was she talking to him? She'd spent months locked in his family's dungeon during the war. She should be hexing him from behind the bookshelves, not making conversation. But Luna had always been… odd. And apparently, captivity hadn't improved her mental state.
"Enjoying the view?" he asked coldly.
She lifted her glasses to look at him properly.
"Oh yes, you're very handsome," she said. Draco's eye twitched. "But that's not why I'm watching you."
Thank Merlin. The idea of being Lovegood's crush was terrifying. He'd rather deal with Moaning Myrtle.
"I'm busy, Lovegood," he muttered, going back to his essay.
"Hilde isn't right for you," she said.
"Hilde?" Draco echoed.
Luna pointed at one of the girls sneaking glances at him.
"She's too sensitive. Skittish."
"What about Belinda?" Draco asked dryly.
"She forgets to eat, study, or show up to meetings when she gets absorbed in projects," Luna said, shaking her head. Her crown slid sideways. "I don't think you have the patience for that."
Draco scowled. He was very patient. Sitting here listening to her nonsense proved it.
"I agree, Isobel would be the best choice," Luna concluded. "She's upset about Tristan. You could distract her."
Finally, Draco found his voice.
"You want me to seduce a Ravenclaw."
Luna nodded, adjusting her crooked crown.
"Why? Do you hate her that much?"
"Oh no," Luna beamed. "Isobel's wonderful. But you'll boost her confidence. Make her feel sexy. Maybe even a little dangerous. That's good for her."
"And obviously," Luna added, "you shouldn't have sex with her."
Draco stared.
"Well, excuse my French, Lovegood, but that's kind of the whole fucking point."
She waved that off.
"You don't actually want to sleep with anyone else."
"I do, actually. Preferably without the extra nonsense."
"I've been watching you in Divination," she said. "You're doing surprisingly well. Just keep being honest."
She picked up her bag and stood.
Draco kept staring.
"This makes no sense."
"People say the same thing about Reflections on Water Deaths by Inigo Imago," Luna said breezily. "But is that the author's fault or the reader's? Good luck, Draco."
She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked away.