Chapter Ten: Staircases, Forbidden Corridors, and Halloween
Hogwarts had one hundred and forty‑two staircases. Draco knew them all — wide and grand, narrow and rickety, some that shifted on Fridays, some with vanishing steps that trapped the unwary.
For new students, they were less whimsical than cruel. Hermione Granger discovered this one evening, arms full of books, when her foot sank into a disappearing step. She struggled, but the stone held her fast.
She called out, but the corridor was deserted. Candlelight flickered against the walls, shadows deepening her unease. She flipped through Hogwarts: A History, hoping for guidance, but the book offered only platitudes about friendship and helping hands.
At last, footsteps echoed above. Relief surged — until she saw who approached. Draco Malfoy.
Mortified, she buried her face in the book. Better stuck all night than beg him for help.
Draco, descending from a failed attempt to speak with the Grey Lady, spotted her immediately. Typical Granger — caught in a trap, pretending to read. His mood lifted.
"Need help?" he asked, amused.
"No," she snapped, cheeks burning.
"Studying in a staircase? Does that sharpen the mind?" His smirk widened.
She refused to look at him. Yet when the staircase jolted, sending her tumbling against him, his hand shot out, steadying her. She clutched his robes, mortified.
The stairs shifted again, depositing them near the fourth‑floor forbidden corridor. Filch's voice echoed, his cat prowling. Hermione panicked. Draco pulled her behind a statue, calm as ever.
"Trust me," he whispered, drawing a silver cloak from his pocket. He draped it over them. Hermione gasped as her hands vanished.
"Invisibility cloak," he murmured. "Stay close."
Pressed against him, heart racing, she dared not move. Filch's lantern swung near, his eyes scanning. Draco's hand rested steady on her back, wand ready. Hermione buried her face against his shoulder, inhaling the faint, clean scent of him, trembling but oddly reassured.
Filch passed. They waited — Draco knew his tricks. Only when silence returned did he guide her away.
"Is this allowed?" Hermione demanded, regaining her voice. "You can't sneak around with that cloak. It's against the rules!"
Draco arched a brow. "Without it, we'd be in chains tonight. Rules are sieves, Granger. The clever use the gaps."
She bristled. "If you keep breaking them, I'll tell Professor McGonagall."
He leaned close, eyes cold. "Then you'll share the punishment. We're in the same boat."
Her indignation flared. "You're a ruthless Slytherin!"
"And proud of it," he retorted, thrusting her book into her arms before striding away.
Hermione stormed back to Gryffindor Tower, clutching the rescued volume, her emotions tangled — gratitude, anger, confusion. Draco Malfoy was infuriating. He was also clever, capable, and far too good‑looking for his own good.
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Halloween
October brought chill winds and the scent of roasted pumpkin. The Great Hall glittered with bats and lanterns carved from gourds large enough to seat three students.
In Charms, Flitwick introduced the Levitation Charm. Hermione's feather rose gracefully, earning her praise. Ron scowled. Draco, across the room, lifted his feather too — deliberately steering it to block hers, teasing her with silent precision.
She glared. He feigned innocence, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Yet beneath his calm, Draco remembered his humiliation in the OWLs, when a shattered goblet had cost him dearly. He would not repeat that mistake.
That night, the feast overflowed with delights. Crabbe and Goyle whispered eagerly of dishes to come. Draco, restless, climbed the Astronomy Tower once more.
The Bloody Baron stood there, chains glinting, eyes hollow. Empty bottles lay at his feet.
Draco spoke lightly, as though discussing weather. "The Grey Lady isn't here tonight. Did she not invite you to the ghosts' ball?"
The Baron's voice rasped. "She will never invite me. She will never forgive me. She hates me."
Draco's breath caught. Rarely did the ghost speak. He pressed gently. "Why?"
The Baron lifted his chains. "I killed her. I found her in the Albanian forest. She was proud, she refused me. I stabbed her. Then I took my own life. I regret it still."
Draco's mind raced. Albania. Quirrell had claimed to encounter trouble in a dark forest there. Voldemort had hidden, weakened, in exile. Could it be the same place? Coincidence was a lie; connections were everywhere.
And the diadem — the lost crown of Rowena Ravenclaw. If Helena had fled with it, if the Baron had pursued her… then the diadem's trail led to Albania too.
Draco shivered in the cold wind. The tower was haunted by death and regret. Yet here lay the threads of destiny: ghosts, relics, Voldemort's shadow. He would unravel them, no matter the cost.