Time flies like an arrow. Nearly two months had passed since arriving at Hogwarts, and the once-new castle life had settled into a comfortable rhythm of classes, feasts, and whispered gossip.
Today, however, Draco Malfoy was unusually animated. The normally composed Slytherin heir wore an expression that could only be described as radiant. Even during dinner, the corners of his mouth were slightly upturned—a rare sight for someone so often smug or disdainful.
"So you got a permit—big deal. You look like you've just won the Quidditch Cup," Pansy drawled from beside him, stabbing a piece of smoked fish with her fork.
"This isn't just a permit," Draco replied grandly, his tone carrying the unmistakable edge of triumph. "It represents knowledge, wisdom, and—most importantly—power."
"I think you should take your plate and sit with the Ravenclaws," Pansy retorted, rolling her eyes.
Draco only smirked. Today, he had finally been granted a rare privilege—freedom to borrow nearly any book in the Hogwarts Library without needing Madam Pince's approval.
This was no small feat. Some volumes in the Restricted Section contained dangerous spells and ancient Dark Magic far beyond the ordinary curriculum, accessible only to advanced students with a professor's signature. For Draco, the range of books open to him now had grown dramatically. With only the rarest or most perilous tomes still off-limits, he had gained something even more intoxicating than gold: access to forbidden knowledge.
Pansy watched him fidget restlessly, clearly pleased with himself, and sighed. "You couldn't even concentrate in class today," she said, her voice laced with mock irritation. "I swear, I've never seen you this happy—not even when you're with me."
Draco blinked, momentarily thrown off by her tone. "You're right… there's still class later," he murmured, trying to compose himself, seemingly oblivious to the faint sourness in her voice.
But it was true—he had been distracted all day.
The final class that afternoon was Herbology, a subject Draco barely tolerated. The instant Professor Sprout dismissed them, he was already halfway to the castle, leaving his classmates behind in a swirl of robes. Professor Sprout could only watch his retreating back, wondering if her lecture had any effect whatsoever.
Meanwhile, across the castle, murmurs were spreading among the Ravenclaws.
"I swear, the Sorting Hat must have been malfunctioning," one whispered to another. "If Malfoy were in our house, we'd have won the House Cup by now."
"What's so great about him?" Ron grumbled later that evening in the Gryffindor common room. "He just thinks he's clever because he gets good grades."
Harry, sitting by the fire, looked thoughtful. "Maybe we should think about how to apologize to Hermione. That's what's really important right now."
Ron snorted. "Apologize? To her? Did you see her in Charms class? 'Wingardium Leviosa!'" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "She looked at us like we were total idiots."
"Ron," Harry said sharply. "Enough. You know she didn't mean it like that. She was just trying to help."
Ron opened his mouth, then hesitated, the memory of Hermione's teary face flickering in his mind. Making a girl cry wasn't something to be proud of, even for him.
Harry softened his tone. "We'll apologize at the Halloween feast tonight. Deal?"
Ron groaned. "Fine, fine. I'll apologize, alright?"
While the two Gryffindors were making their uneasy truce, Draco was already lost deep among the ancient shelves of the library.
Hogwarts' library was vast and ancient, its wooden shelves worn smooth by centuries of use. In some corners, the boards had begun to rot, giving off a faint musty scent. Dust hung thick in the air, clinging to books that had been sealed for decades, their titles faded into obscurity.
Draco's eyes glimmered as he wandered between the aisles. This was what he had been waiting for—hidden knowledge, long buried by time and fear. He scanned each shelf with precise intent, his footsteps silent against the stone floor.
Finally, he stopped before one of the oldest bookcases, tucked away in the corner like a secret. His fingers trailed along the cracked spines until they paused on one particular volume.
"It's you," he murmured, pulling the book free. The cover was nearly illegible, coated in decades of dust and grime.
"Scourgify," he whispered. A flick of his wand sent a faint spark across the surface, cleaning away the worst of it. The book looked better, though the words on the cover were still blurred, eroded by age.
"That's enough," he said to himself quietly.
As he tucked the book under his arm, another thought crossed his mind. "Right. I suppose I should head back soon. Seems like today's… special."
Draco usually had little patience for school celebrations, but today the castle seemed unusually lively. Teachers and students were bustling with excitement, talking of candies, pumpkins, and enchanted decorations. Even Pansy had been dropping hints all morning about the Halloween feast.
"Halloween…" Draco murmured. Then his eyes widened slightly. "Wait—the troll. That's today."
As he pondered the infamous event, his thoughts were interrupted by a sudden bump from behind.
"Sorry!" came a small, familiar voice.
Draco turned, already knowing who it was. "Well, if it isn't today's protagonist," he said with a faint smirk. Standing before him was Hermione Granger, her curly hair as untamed as ever. Her eyes were red-rimmed—she'd clearly been crying.
"Isn't this Hogwarts' resident know-it-all?" he asked lightly. "You don't look too cheerful today. Trouble with your friends?"
Hermione froze, biting her lip. Her composure wavered, and suddenly all the hurt she had bottled up spilled out.
"They all think I'm just trying to please the teachers," she blurted, voice trembling. "In Charms class, Ron said I was a nightmare! I only wanted to help—his pronunciation was wrong! Why does everyone have to be so cruel?"
Her words tumbled out faster, tears welling again. "And the people in your house—they keep calling me a Mudblood. I hate that word! It's horrible!" She lifted her chin defiantly, though her voice cracked. "Go on, laugh if you want. Everyone else does. There's nothing left for me to be proud of."
Draco blinked, momentarily at a loss. He hadn't expected this—Hermione Granger, of all people, breaking down in front of him. She wasn't supposed to be vulnerable; she was supposed to be brilliant, stubborn, and unshakable.
For a brief moment, he felt as though he'd stepped into another life—one where he wasn't a Slytherin, and she wasn't a Gryffindor.
He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Ahem."
"Well," he began carefully, "as the most outstanding first-year in Slytherin, I suppose I can offer an apology on behalf of the idiots in my house."
Hermione blinked at him in surprise as he bowed slightly, the gesture half-serious, half-playful.
"I sincerely apologize," he said. "And, as a gesture of goodwill, allow me to invite you to Honeydukes Sweetshop. Today is Halloween, after all."
Hermione stared at him, stunned. She hadn't expected him to react kindly, much less apologize. For a moment, she wondered if he was mocking her.
"You're… not angry?" she asked softly.
Draco tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "I think that if a Gryffindor has the courage to apologize to a Slytherin, then it would be quite petty of me to hold a grudge, wouldn't it?"
He was referring, of course, to the time she had apologized to him before—a moment he hadn't forgotten.
Hermione hesitated, brushing at her eyes. "But Hogsmeade is off-limits to first-years," she whispered. "You need a teacher's permission—and it's not even Saturday."
"In this world," Draco said smoothly, "there are no places you can't go—only places you choose not to."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough for her to hear. "Besides, doesn't Gryffindor courage include breaking a few rules now and then? Maybe if you bent them a little, you'd finally fit in."
Hermione's eyes widened at the challenge. Part of her—the rule-abiding, prefect-in-training part—screamed in protest. But another part, the one that craved acceptance and adventure, hesitated.
"Come on," Draco said, turning toward the corridor. "I'll show you something better than the feast."
For a heartbeat, she stood frozen. Then, with a frustrated little stomp, she followed him.
After all, what was the point of being a Gryffindor if you didn't have the courage to take a risk?
The two disappeared down the dim corridor, the faint sound of their footsteps echoing between the tall shelves. Dust motes swirled in the lamplight like drifting spirits, and the air carried the quiet hum of ancient magic.
Outside, the castle buzzed with excitement. Candles floated through the Great Hall, lighting rows of pumpkins and cauldrons overflowing with sweets. Laughter and music filled the air.
None of the students there noticed that somewhere in the shadows, two unlikely first-years—one proud Slytherin, one wounded Gryffindor—were walking side by side, each about to step into a story that neither of them could have predicted.
Perhaps it was fate. Or perhaps, as Draco Malfoy might say, it was simply knowledge, wisdom, and power—of a different kind.