One morning in March, Draco woke with a start.
Those usually calm, indifferent grey eyes held a flicker of panic.
He never slept well. His Occlumency sometimes faltered in the small hours, and when it did, fragmented, terrible memories came flooding in — screaming through his dreams until they pulled him out of sleep entirely.
He sighed and sat up in his four-poster bed, reaching under his pillow for his wand. He cast Occlumency on himself again, slow and deliberate, until his thoughts settled.
That was better. The sound of waves lapping against the dungeon windows gradually drew him back to himself. He turned and stared out into the depths of the lake, where a cluster of tiny, luminous fish chased each other through the dark water — a small, cheerful scene, entirely indifferent to his mood.
His schedule today was light. Ever since Slytherin had beaten Ravenclaw with a Wronski Feint — Marcus's jubilation had been something to behold — Quidditch training had eased off considerably. The extra free time should have been welcome.
It wasn't. Draco was restless when left to his own thoughts.
Unable to sleep again, he threw on his robes, passed through the dim and silent common room, and made his way up through the empty underground corridors and into the castle proper. He wanted to use the quiet before the castle woke to slip into the library and dig up what he could on Salazar Slytherin.
The library's posted hours were, technically, a non-issue for him. The Disillusionment Charm had its uses.
He never made it to the doors.
The reason for his unease was waiting for him in the corridor just outside the library — Hermione Granger, frozen at the corner, the hand mirror he had given her clutched in her stiff fingers.
She looked surprised. That was how the Petrification had taken her — mid-expression, mid-thought.
That once-vivid face had turned the colour of ash. Every trace of life had gone out of it.
Draco's heart stopped.
"Damn it." He crossed the corridor in a few strides, bringing his face close to hers to confirm — just Petrified, not worse. He exhaled slowly, his eyes level with hers, something complicated moving across his face. "I told you. Don't act alone. Why didn't you listen?"
No reply. Only his own voice echoing back from the stone walls. The silence was unbearable. She couldn't retort, couldn't launch into one of her earnest, precise arguments about the statistical likelihood of a Muggle-born student encountering a basilisk in the castle corridors.
He circled her carefully, jaw tight. He pressed his fingers to his temple, then reached into his robes and pulled out the small bottle of Mandrake Restorative Draught he had carried for the better part of nine months — against exactly this kind of moment — and administered it to her.
Thank Merlin. It worked.
The grey pallor receded slowly from her skin. Her cheeks warmed. The rigid stiffness left her limbs all at once, and she swayed — and fell.
He caught her without thinking, one arm out, pulling her against him before she hit the floor.
She sagged into him, a dead weight slowly becoming a person again. Her hair lost its dull, brittle quality and regained its familiar warm brown. He felt his heart start again — though it was clenched.
Hermione stared up at the pair of grey eyes looking down at her. He was watching her intently, his face doing something she had never seen it do. He looked panicked. He looked undone.
Her lips trembled. She wanted to say thank you. She couldn't make the words come.
"Put your hand on my shoulder," he said, softly. His voice was careful.
She looked at him with wet eyes, body still shaking. She couldn't manage it. She was as fragile and rigid as a frost-killed rose.
He helped her — placed one of her arms around his neck, supported her other arm at the elbow, and half-guided, half-carried her to the nearest bench. "Are you alright?" He kept his hand on her shoulder, unable to pull it away yet.
The ordeal seemed to have knocked every last support from under her. Without someone holding her up, she might have simply folded. His chest ached.
He had no idea how long she had been standing there.
She was just a girl. She shouldn't have had to go through something like that.
Hermione gripped the front of his robes and didn't let go, still shaking. In that moment, all she knew was that he had found her — had found her terrified and alone, when she had been certain she was going to die. That realisation cracked something open in her chest.
She wanted him to keep hold of her. The warmth was the only thing keeping the cold at bay. If he let go, she thought she might shatter, or simply cry until she couldn't stop.
She knew she ought to pull herself together. She knew a sensible girl shouldn't cling to a boy, no matter the circumstances. But she was frightened — genuinely, completely frightened — and he had saved her, and right now being near him was the only thing that felt safe.
"It was so awful," she whispered, her voice unsteady, barely audible. "It was so awful."
Draco looked at her — at the bewildered, stripped-bare expression on her face — and something caught in his throat. He had rarely seen her like this. She should be eager, or fierce, or entirely too certain of something; she should be frowning over a book or winning an argument she had no business winning. She should not look like this.
He was clumsy about it, but he put an arm around her anyway, his hands moving over her cold shoulders in slow, warming passes. "It's alright," he said quietly. "You're safe. You're back. Nothing can hurt you now."
She was still shaking. She looked up at him with eyes that reminded him — painfully — of the night on the drawing room floor at the Manor, when she had stared up at him with that same undone expression while Bellatrix circled her.
He couldn't bear it.
He reached into his pocket, found a chocolate bar, and broke off a piece. "Open your mouth," he said gently. "Eat this."
She blinked at him. Then, slowly, like a fawn taking something from an unfamiliar hand, she let him feed it to her. She chewed carefully, still wary, still poised as though she might bolt or faint.
"There you go... have a bit more... this is Honeydukes' finest, my last piece... you're doing well, don't be afraid... you're safe, I promise..." He scraped together every scrap of patience he possessed, holding back the cold fury that was building steadily beneath his ribs. He kept his voice easy, kept his expression soft, terrified of startling her.
His unusually gentle tone made something in Hermione loosen unexpectedly. She had never heard him speak like this. He was unrecognisable. He was softer than anyone she had ever known at Hogwarts, in that particular moment.
She found she wanted to do exactly what he said. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she ate small bites of chocolate from his hand, more docile than she had ever been in her life, and not at all embarrassed about it.
Gradually, warmth moved through her. The numbness retreated. Her fingers stopped feeling like ice.
By the time she noticed, the chocolate was gone.
Draco watched her swallow the last piece and let out a quiet breath. She could eat. That was good.
"Feeling better?" He searched her face.
"Much better," she said, a little drowsily. She still felt weak. She still wanted to lean against him.
"You should go to the hospital wing," he said, watching her with a slight frown. "I'm not a Healer. Madam Pomfrey is far better placed to check you over properly."
"I'm fine," she said softly. She didn't want to move. She didn't want him to let go.
"You still have the energy to argue with me, which is a promising sign." His tone was mild, not teasing — or not only teasing. "Though you'll be more convincing when your legs have stopped shaking."
She said nothing. Her heart was beating fast again.
"I don't want to be alone," she said, her voice catching. Her grip on his robes tightened.
"You won't be. I'll come with you." He spoke calmly, steadily, until she slowly released him.
"Come on, then. On my back." He crouched in front of the bench. "It's getting light. The library will have visitors soon. If you'd rather they didn't find you here like this, we should go now."
She was still unsteady. It took her a moment to manage it — to lean forward onto his back, to get her arms, still half-numb, around his neck. He gripped her legs firmly, and the warmth of his hands against her skin began to bring the feeling back.
He was warm. His back, his hands, the crook of his neck — all of it warm. The warmth of something solid and safe. She pressed closer, face turned against his shoulder, and smelled something faint and clean at his collar. The persistent dread that had been sitting in her chest began, very gradually, to ease.
She stopped trembling somewhere in the corridor.
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At the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey made her displeasure known with swift efficiency.
"This is far too risky." She fixed Draco with a severe look. "I expect better judgment from a student of your calibre. You're in second year, Mr. Malfoy — a Mandrake Restorative Draught is an exceptionally complex potion. Do you have any idea what could have happened if it had been incorrectly brewed?"
"She was Petrified," Draco said flatly. "How much worse could it have got? And she's perfectly fine."
Madam Pomfrey shot him a look that suggested she had strong opinions about arrogant boys who gave experimental potions to innocent girls. She swept the curtains around Hermione's bed and got to work.
The rustle of fabric. Madam Pomfrey's gentle, unhurried voice. Hermione's quiet replies.
When she emerged from behind the curtain, her expression had considerably improved.
"Mr. Malfoy, you're fortunate." She studied him with something less hostile. "The Petrification has been fully reversed. She'll have some dizziness and fatigue following exposure to that level of Dark magic, but rest will sort her out. I'll fetch something warming for her to drink."
"He already gave me chocolate," Hermione called through the curtain.
Madam Pomfrey glanced at Draco with mild surprise, then nodded approvingly. "Sound instinct. You might think about a career in Healing one day." She paused. "Did you brew the Restorative Draught yourself? I'll have to commend Professor Snape — clearly an exceptional teacher."
Draco gave her an awkward smile and said nothing.
Snape had no idea Draco had been brewing. If he had known, the Potions master — who was chronically short-handed — would have delivered a thorough dressing-down before conscripting him as an assistant.
"Have you any more of the potion?" Madam Pomfrey asked after a moment. "We still have several Petrified students."
"I'm afraid not. Limited ingredients, and losses during the brewing process. That was the only bottle," Draco said.
Madam Pomfrey accepted this without disappointment — it was, after all, a remarkably rare thing. "And you used your only bottle for Miss Granger." A pause, a flicker of something in her expression. "Quite."
Her gaze moved with interest between the boy on one side of the curtain and the girl on the other. She gave Draco a small, knowing look. "Ten minutes to visit. Then I need to come in and settle her — she needs a dose of Dreamless Sleep Potion and a proper rest."
She moved away. Draco watched her go.
"Has Madam Pomfrey got the wrong idea about something?" Hermione drew the curtain aside carefully. She had changed into her hospital gown and was sitting cross-legged on the bed, barefoot. Without the bulk of her school robes she looked very small. Fragile, even.
"Get under the covers," Draco said immediately, frowning. "And don't sit barefoot on a hospital bed."
Why is she always so reckless?
He lifted the blanket with a pointed look, waited for her to comply, and then tucked it firmly around her.
"You're being completely ridiculous," she said, flushed and indignant.
"There." He looked satisfied. "Better."
"Draco." She wrestled one hand free from the blanket cocoon and looked at him seriously. "Before you go — listen. I need to tell you what I saw in the mirror. You were right from the start. It is a basilisk. I saw the body — and those enormous yellow eyes."
Draco went still. Direct evidence at last. The basilisk's existence was no longer rumour.
He was also one step closer to its fangs.
"And I think I know who's been behind all of this," Hermione said, her voice dropping. "It's Ginny Weasley."
"Ron's sister?" Draco stared at her. "Are you certain?"
In his past life, Ginny had been a victim of the Chamber. How had things diverged so far?
"I've suspected it for some time," Hermione said. "Everyone knows Ginny adores Harry. When Justin Finch-Fletchley started spreading rumours that Harry was the Heir of Slytherin, she took it badly. And think about the others — Colin Creevey is her partner in Charms. She knows he's Muggle-born. She also knows he follows Harry everywhere, and she's been irritated by it. Nearly Headless Nick invited Harry to his Deathday Party, which only made Harry look more suspicious, and Ginny might have resented that too. And as for Mr. Filch—"
"Her brothers will have told her he's a Squib," Draco said.
"Exactly. I checked with George yesterday. He confirmed it — he said he didn't want Ginny to be frightened of Filch's threats."
"And why were you attacked this morning?"
Hermione's expression turned pained. "I think she realised what I was working out. I spoke to her yesterday. I told her I had some ideas and would share them once I'd confirmed them."
"To the innocent, that sounds like reassurance," Draco said. "To whoever opened the Chamber, it sounds like a warning."
"I only half-believed it was her, even then," Hermione said, expression troubled. "I couldn't quite accept it. She's always been warm to me. She's nothing like a pure-blood extremist."
"The diary," Draco said quietly. "Perhaps her mind was compromised by whatever is inside it. This may not be her true intention at all."
He was careful to keep his voice even. "Are you absolutely certain it was her? Conclusive evidence?"
"Yes. I saw someone in the mirror, alongside the basilisk. Gryffindor robes, long red hair. There are very few girls in Gryffindor with that description. It was her." Hermione gripped the edge of the blanket. "We have to tell Harry and Ron immediately. We need to get ahead of this before she does something worse."
"I'll go," Draco said.
He turned the matter over as he said it. The Chamber of Slytherin — opened by a Gryffindor first-year? How had she got hold of the diary in the first place?
He thought, without any particular effort, of a scene at Flourish and Blotts before the start of term. His father and Arthur Weasley, arguing in the aisle. Ginny Weasley nearby, a stack of secondhand textbooks in her arms.
It would have been very easy, in all that commotion, to slip something into the pile.
A man who bore a long grudge against the Weasleys — against the Muggle-born-sympathising, Ministry-employed, always-underfoot Arthur Weasley — might find it elegant to use the man's own daughter against him. That was exactly Lucius's style.
Draco's face remained expressionless.
Father, he thought, with cold clarity, you have thoroughly ruined your son's life.
"Miss Granger, your cocoa." Madam Pomfrey swept back in, handing Hermione a steaming cup. "I've added a measure of Dreamless Sleep Potion. No more thinking tonight, dear. You need to rest."
Hermione murmured her thanks and sipped slowly, watching Draco over the rim of the cup with worried eyes.
He had already sorted through his options. Today was the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff match. Harry would be at the pitch. Ron probably too.
He met her gaze and forced a calm smile. He mouthed don't worry across the ward as he opened the door, then turned and walked quickly toward the Quidditch pitch without looking back.