Draco Malfoy & the Horror of the Heir

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/47437147.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Pansy
Parkinson, Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, Slytherin Students, Luna
Lovegood, Ginny Weasley, Gilderoy Lockhart, Severus Snape, Lucius
Malfoy, Narcissa Black Malfoy, Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle | Voldemort,
Dobby (Harry Potter), Albus Dumbledore, Moaning Myrtle, Original
Characters, Original Cat Character(s), Various Character(s), Colin
Creevey
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Fix-It, Time
Travel Fix-It, Good Draco Malfoy, ish, Draco Malfoy is a Little Shit, but
he's trying okay?, Hogwarts Second Year, Book 2: Harry Potter and the
Chamber of Secrets, Humor, Comedy, Horror Elements, but mostly
comedy, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Chaos Ensues, Ladies and Gentlemen:
Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle are good friends,
Justice for Crabbe & Goyle, AVPM References, If You Squint -
Freeform, Draco Malfoy is a Brat, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings,
Draco Malfoy is Obsessed with Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy and the
Golden Trio, The Journal of Dreadful Things, Indian Harry Potter, Black
Hermione Granger, Slow Burn
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of The Journal of Dreadful Things
Stats: Published: 2023-05-26 Completed: 2023-06-25 Words: 41,443 Chapters:
7/7
 Draco Malfoy & the Horror of the Heir
by Lilbeanz19

Summary

Draco Malfoy is having the worst summer of his life. It's too hot, his father keeps having
strange meetings, and worst of all, Harry Potter won't respond to any of his owls.

Oh well. At least there won't be any strange magical books showing up to ruin this school
year.
 Summertime Balls & Bookshop Brawls
Chapter Notes

Ahhhh! Here it is! Here we go!

First of all I'd like to say a huge massive thank you to everyone who has supported me
and this story so far (that includes you, dear reader!) And a specially HUGE thank you
to
Drakaina , Citrusses and Lumosatnight for being the best second, third, and fourth pairs
of eyes in the universe! <3

Secondly, I have taken a few artistic liberties in some places. It is a rewrite after all, and
there were some irksome plot holes -- I'm looking at you, Terf-face McRowling.
Speaking of, sadly this franchise and its characters do not belong to me. But I suppose
this version of them does, and all the twists and turns...*evil laughter intensifies*

I hope you enjoy! <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Malfoy Manor – August 1992

The summer air was rich and swelteringly warm. A clear blue sky cast a magical spell on the
colourful Wiltshire countryside, and a balmy breeze tickled the rolling grassy hills ever so
slightly.

One might say it was the perfect summer’s day.

Draco Malfoy, however, was having the worst day of his life.

For one, he was being made to attend a small garden get-together of his parents' social circle.
Draco had been left with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle to play Conjurers Croquet while
his father had gone inside with his associates and his mother chatted away with her company,
sipping on chilled lemonade.

For another thing, despite the sweltering heat – as sweltering as Britain could get, that is –
he’d still been forced into dress-robes that were simply too much in the heat, even if he did
look stunning, he felt like he was melting! Even the Cooling Charms stitched into the fabric
failed to keep the icky stickiness away.

Most importantly – most annoyingly – however, was the fact that Harry Potter had still not
responded to any of his owls! Draco swung his mallet with a huff.
Last Draco had known, they’d been on good terms, having helped solve the mystery of the
Philosopher's Stone and Quirinus Quirrell.... So why wasn’t the stupid scar-headed boy-who-
lived writing back? It had been five whole weeks!

He did suspect, perhaps, that maybe his father was keeping his letters from him. The Malfoy
Patriarch had made it clear from the moment Draco had stepped off the train in mid-July, that
he was extremely disappointed in him, and did not want Draco 'gallivanting around like a
foolish Gryffindor and tarnishing the Malfoy name any longer.’

The owl that had swooped in with his practically perfect first year F.R.O.G results a couple of
weeks back had smoothed things over a little. But only a little. His father still insisted upon
badgering him about his behaviour at every opportunity.

Draco sighed, leaning against his mallet as Gregory swung his. The idiot must have got his
charms wrong – yet again – because the ball went careening like a Bludger, bouncing off the
croquet rungs before zipping across the vast lawns of the manor, causing a few of Draco’s
father’s prized peacocks to scatter, squawking angrily.

“Oopsy-daisy!” said Greg, before rushing after it.

Draco only rolled his eyes. He was quickly becoming incredibly bored, and very much
wanted to get out of the sun.

“I’m going to the little wizards’ room,” he told Vincent as a means of escaping. “Carry on
without me.”

“Why don’t you just go in that small forest over there?” Vincent asked him, pointing to the
thicket of trees nearest them.

“Sweet Merlin, Vincent!” Draco exclaimed. “That’s the Sacred Malfoy Grove! Wandmakers
have been harvesting the wood from its trees for generations, I’m certainly not going to
tamper with ancient magic like that!” he scoffed before stalking away, missing how Vincent’s
face suddenly went very pale indeed.

Honestly, he thought to himself as he stomped across the impeccably well-kept lawn.

“Is everything quite alright, darling?” his mother called from beneath the flower-entwined
pavilion, where all of her gossiping wix were now watching Draco curiously, cooing as they
fanned themselves to swat away the heat.

“Yes, Mother! Just marvellous!” he called back, darting up the marble steps and ducking into
the refreshingly chilled ballroom with a heavy sigh. He gazed up at the crystal chandelier
before deciding to just wander around the cool halls of the manor for a while, occasionally
stopping to chat with his painted ancestors about how boring these sorts of visits were.

“Thou doth not know thine luck!” his twelfth-great uncle, Cadmond the Crackpot, exclaimed
from his ornate frame. “Rejoice! Such visitation lasts not an eternity. I envy thee, dear
nephew.”
Draco only scoffed, venturing on. None of them seemed to understand just how truly dreadful
he felt, it was completely and utterly unfair. He turned the corner into the West Wing,
planning to close himself inside his bedchambers, when he spotted a house-elf peeking inside
one of his father’s rooms, the door slightly ajar.

“I say, you there, what are you up to?” he demanded, making toward the creature.

The house-elf startled, looking at Draco with wide, green eyes before squeaking and hastily
snapping into thin air. Draco froze, blinking at the spot where the elf Draco knew now to be
Dobby had just been doing… something.

How very odd.

Come to think of it, Dobby had been behaving very oddly recently… Whenever Draco talked
at the elf about whatever was bothering him (which was usually the owl situation with
Harry), Dobby had been much, much stranger than usual. And now that Draco thought about
it, it seemed that all Dobby asked him about nowadays was –

“Calm yourself, Yaxley!”

Draco jumped back as his father’s voice resonated from the room Dobby had been peeking
into.

“Do you really think you’d be sitting there if we had nothing to discuss?”

“I had rather thought we were here for a pleasant afternoon rendezvous,” a voice that Draco
recognised as Theodore Nott’s father, Atticus Nott, replied, chuckling.

“I just still don’t see how,” came Corban Yaxley’s voice. “The Dark Lord is long gone.”

Draco knew he shouldn’t , but he couldn’t help but lean in to listen, pressing his cheek against
the door.

“This may be true, but it is far from being over yet,” Draco’s father said with firm conviction.
“There’s still hope of a brighter, purer future for our kind.”

“And you truly believe opening it is our best chance?” Atticus Nott scoffed.

“It’s a start!” Draco’s father snapped. “And it’s what he asked me to do.”

“And do you still have the key?” came the grating voice of Selwina Crabbe.

“No. It’s with Mr Borgin – Who I intend to meet within the week!” Draco’s father quickly
reassured as the other voices began to groan in protest. “As you all well know the Ministry
has recently been… poking around a lot more.”

The others promptly made begrudging noises of agreement.

“Well, we’ll smuggle it in with a student, that will be the safest option,” boomed the gruff
voice of Ivan Goyle.
“And it must be somebody pure of blood, those were the Dark Lord’s instructions,” drawled
Draco’s father. “No Half-bloods or filthy little Mudbloods. The Chamber of Secrets can only
be opened by a Pureblooded soul.”

Draco took a swift step back from the door, cursing as the floorboard beneath him gave an
ominous creak. The conversation inside the room drew to a sudden stop.

“What was that?” asked Selwina Crabbe.

Draco held his breath, ducking behind an antique vase as footsteps clacked nearer. There was
quiet, and then the door was shut with a careful snick.

Draco took that as his cue to tear down the hallway and up the stairs, not daring to glance
back until he reached his bedchambers, rummaging through his bedside drawer until he
plucked out a tatty little black book with a purple stain on the top corner.

The journal that had been given to Draco by his future self in an attempt to change his fate
did, of course, mention that Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets would be opened in his
second year, and that a handful of Muggle-borns would be petrified. Draco hadn’t thought it
would be that serious if it all got resolved anyway – it was hardly any of his business if it
only affected the Muggle-borns.

What Future-Draco had failed to tell Present-Draco, however, was the fact that it was his
business.

Because his father was the one behind it.

***

Diagon Alley – August 1992

“Come now, Draco, don’t dawdle.”

Draco hesitated, watching his father, who had very suddenly made a sharp turn down the
crooked, narrow path of Knockturn Alley.

They had come to Diagon today to tick off Draco’s second year school list, which seemed to
mostly consist of a series of books written by the Gilderoy Lockhart.

Draco had an inkling of what was running through his father’s head; he knew he was to
venture to someone called Mr Borgin for ‘the key.’

However, his mother had always been very firm on the rule that Draco was to never go down
Knockturn Alley until he was of age. However, his mother was not with them... His father
had sprung the trip on her that morning, earning a suspicious look as she had reminded him
she had already planned to have tea with Mrs Greengrass.
Draco looked once more to the jollier, colourful shops painting Diagon, before taking a deep
breath and crossing the line to Knockturn, chasing after his father’s long, purposeful strides.

“Knockturn, Father?” he asked with a practised air of calmness, staying as close to his
father’s cloak as he possibly could.

The creepy hags, dodgy looking wix, and other mischief-making miscreants that dwelled in
Knockturn Alley all parted for Lucius Malfoy.

“I’ve a small errand to run. It won't take long at all,” Draco’s father replied smoothly, then
slanted him a dubious look. “I’m sure this is nothing compared to your little… misadventures
with your school friends?”

Draco, entirely used to the barbs his father had been jabbing him with since July, chose not to
answer, glowering at his shiny dragonhide shoes until they reached a crooked little shop with
a sign that read ‘Borgin and Burkes.’

His father swept inside, and Draco followed suit, a bell jingling as the door swung.

All sorts of knick-knacks decorated the cobwebbed shelves; dusty books to tea-sets,
gobstones to sparkling jewellery, each likely thickly coated with dark magic or powerful
curses.

Draco startled as a glass eye snapped in his direction, watching him with its piercing blue
pupil. In a sort of trance, he reached out curiously to tap it –

“Touch nothing, Draco!” his father hissed from the till, where he swatted at the bell
impatiently.

Draco snatched his hand away at once. “Yes, Father,” he replied, before curiously looking
around the display of shelves stacked with dusty ornaments and antiques. He crouched down
to examine a shelf lined with the skulls of humans and creatures alike, both disturbing and
fascinating at the same time.

A squat man with slick hair and a downright creepy smile appeared from the back.

“Mr Malfoy, what a pleasure it is to see you again – delighted!” he simpered, then noticed
Draco and clapped his hands together. “And this must be the young Master Malfoy!
Charmed, charmed! How may I be of assistance? I must show you, Mr Malfoy, just in today,
and very reasonably priced – !”

Draco’s father made an impatient noise and cut in; “I’m not buying today, Mr Borgin, I’m
selling…”

Draco quickly got bored of the conversation as his father went on about his work at the
Ministry, stepping away as something else caught his eye. It appeared to be a dark branch of
wood resembling a skeletal hand on a velvet cushion. Draco had recently read a book about
magical properties of certain woods; he wondered what powers this one possessed.

“Father, can I have this?”

“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” exclaimed Mr Borgin, rushing over. Draco grimaced as the man
scooped it up with carefully gloved hands, recoiling slightly as he caught a glimpse of
something off-white and he realised that actually it wasn’t a peculiar shaped piece of
enchanted wood. It was exactly as it seemed. A decaying hand.

“Best friend of thieves and plunderers!” Mr Borgin grinned before turning to Draco’s father.
“Your son has fine taste, sir!”

“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” Draco’s father spat,
continuing to speak over the little man as he began to grovel. “Although, at the rate he’s
headed, frolicking around with entirely the wrong sort and getting low school marks, that
may indeed be all he’s good for,” he drawled, peering down his nose at Draco.

“It’s not my fault, the teachers all have favourites! That Hermione Granger –” Draco began,
only to be interrupted by his father bringing his cane down on the ground with a sharp thunk!

“I would’ve thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wixen family beat you in every
exam!” he snapped with an air of finality.

Draco ducked his head, cheeks burning, ashamed and angry as his father carried on
discussing with Mr Borgin. He distracted himself by examining a coil of hangman's rope, and
was just admiring the way a cursed opal necklace sparkled when he became aware of the
conversation again.

“There is another matter, I thought I might…” his father’s voice trailed off as he leant in to
whisper. Mr Borgin’s eyes went wide, and he began nodding frantically.

“Yes, sir! Of course, sir!” he said with a flourishing deep bow, “If you’ll follow me to the
back, it’s heavily warded with your, well, your wards, as you well remember.” Mr Borgin
gave a nervous chuckle as he opened the counter gate and gestured for Draco’s father to pass
through with a sweeping motion. “Not that I’ve tried to get past them or anything, no, sir!”

“Remember, Draco,” his father uttered over his shoulder, “you’re not to touch a thing. ”

“‘Memememe, mememememe!’” Draco mimicked when he was sure his father was out of
earshot, blowing a raspberry in his father’s general direction and feeling his ancestors rolling
in their graves.

He sighed, trying to calm down, going back to admiring the cursed jewellery, when there
very abruptly came a quiet “Pssst!”

Draco shot upright, glancing in every direction as a chill ran down his spine.“Who – Who’s
there?” he asked cautiously, goosebumps spreading when there came no response.

“Show yourself!” he demanded, and very nearly screamed when something came stumbling
out of a large, black cabinet. A boy, covered in soot, with… with green eyes and scruffy dark
hair.
Draco felt his jaw drop, still reeling from the shock. “Potter?!” he hissed, “What in Merlin’s
name are you doing here?”

Harry Potter adjusted his wonky glasses, squinting slightly. “I could ask you the same
question, Draco,” he replied hoarsely. “What is this place?”

“Borgin and Burkes, Knockturn Alley,” Draco huffed, crossing his arms and trying to ignore
that fluttering feeling he got in his stomach around Harry. He was sure he had to be allergic to
him by this point. It was already flaring up, for Merlin’s sake.

“How do I know this isn’t some sort of trick?” Draco asked. “What if you’re just an illusion
from this enchanted cabinet, hmm?”

“What?” Harry replied, frowning, clearly baffled.

“One that, oh, I don't know..." Draco shrugged carelessly before jabbing Harry’s
chest."Shows you who you’re the most angry with?!”

Harry had the gall to look startled. “Why would you be angry with me?”

“Because you haven’t replied to any of my owls!” Draco seethed. “I thought we were friends,
Scarhead!”

“We are – hang on – Scarhead?!” Harry cried.

“Shh!” Draco hissed frantically, “You oaf! They’ll hear you!”

They looked both ways, the only noises being the hubbub of voices outside and the scurry
and squeaking of a rat nearby.

“I am really me,” said Harry after a moment. “I got sent here by, what was it? Floo powder
power or something, I think I might have gotten the pronunciation a bit wrong...”

“Floo powder? How crude. No wonder you look a fright,” Draco scoffed.

Harry huffed impatiently. “Look, I didn’t mean to not write back, it sounds crazy, but some
sort of elf creature thing called Dobby had been hiding all my letters from me–”

Draco blinked, suddenly lost. “I beg your pardon, did you just say Dobby?!”

“Yeah!” Harry said, nodding and sprinkling soot everywhere, “Do you know–?”

Draco cut him off when he heard footsteps and muffled voices drawing near. “Shh! My
father’s coming back!”

“Wait, why is– ?” but Harry didn’t get to finish his question, as Draco was already stuffing
him back into the cabinet and slamming the door shut.

“Draco, what are you up to?”

Draco swivelled on his heel, managing to gain some composure in the nick of time.
“Nothing, Father!” he replied, smiling in a way he thought was surely both endearing and
extremely convincing.

His father only looked down at him, clearly sceptical, before sniffing and slowly turning to
Mr Borgin. “Well… a good day to you, Mr Borgin, I’ll expect you at the manor tomorrow to
pick up the goods.”

Draco followed his father, grimacing as he looked back at the barest hint of broken round
spectacles glinting from within the crack in the cabinet door, guilt trickling into his stomach
as he left Harry behind in the belly of Knockturn Alley.

***

A couple of hours later, after making stops at the Malfoy vaults in Gringotts and a few other
shops for Potions ingredients, Draco’s father took him to Flourish and Blotts to get his books.

Upon arriving, they found the bookshop was jam-packed, overflowing with wix, the crowd
heaving as various witches and wizards chatted away excitedly.

“What on earth…?” Draco’s father began, before noticing the banner strung above the door.

GILDEROY LOCKHART

Will be signing copies of his autobiography

MAGICAL ME

Today 12.30 - 4.30 pm

Draco felt a thrill go through him. Gilderoy Lockhart was an esteemed, famous wixen
explorer, each of his tales more extraordinary than the last! He was inspirational!

Draco’s mother had several of his books, which were by this point well-read. The Travel
Trilogy had always been a favourite for Draco growing up, especially the third part, where
Lockhart took on a Ukrainian Ironbelly that had been dwelling in a mountain cave and
causing the village below distress. He managed to defeat the dragon with only his wit, charm,
and a song, lulling the dragon into a sleep that would last for a hundred years or more.

And he was actually here, in the flesh, just beyond the doors of Flourish and Blotts!

“Come along, Draco,” his father sniffed, his sharp nose scrunched as if he’d caught a whiff of
something rotten. “We’d best come back on a quieter day.”
Draco felt his face fall. He began to trudge after his father, almost bumping into him when he
drew to a sudden halt. Confused, Draco glanced up to find his father’s eyes fixed on the other
side of the street, where a scruffy pack of unmistakable ginger wix were busy fighting their
way inside the bookshop.

A fleeting smirk passed over his father’s face then, disappearing as quickly as it had come.
He turned to Draco. “You know, since we’re already here, Draco, we may as well brave it,
hm?”

Before Draco could even question it, his father was striding across the street – Draco wasn’t
complaining, not when he was going to get to meet the Gilderoy Lockhart.

The inside of Flourish and Blotts was dimly-lit and cramped. Draco’s father grabbed his arm
as they were jostled about, squeezing in between large stacks of books and the sea of tittering
fans.

Draco craned his neck in an attempt to peer over the crowd, grateful when someone shifted to
give a clear view of a small stage that had been set up at the front of the shop. There was a
table laden with piles of books upon it, and behind that table stood a tall, handsome wizard in
flattering forget-me-not blue robes. His hair coiffed in perfect golden locks, his face chiselled
and his beaming smile a brilliant pearly white. Gilderoy Lockhart winked at his admirers,
who giggled and clapped and fanned themselves.

“Such astounding arrogance,” Draco’s father uttered, examining the cover of a copy of
‘Magical Me’ with clear disdain written on his face.

Draco didn’t reply. He was finding it very hard to tear his eyes away from that dazzling
smile. It was mesmerizingly bright.

But then that bright smile disappeared, replaced with a brief gape before forming five excited
words:

“It can’t be Harry Potter?!”

Draco stood on his tip-toes, peering over the applauding audience, relief flooding through
him as he saw Lockhart hauling a still-very-sooty Harry onto the stage, vigorously shaking
his hand as the camera clicked a mile a minute.

He’d gotten out of Knockturn Alley! Excellent! Draco could stop feeling guilty, then. He’d
made it out, and now he was in Flourish and Blotts, visibly trying to step away from Gilderoy
Lockhart for some bizarre reason. The esteemed magical explorer was having none of it,
however, pulling him firmly against his side, his smile blinding in the flash as the
photographer kept snapping pictures.

Harry was left blinking like a Confunded kneazle, his crooked, hasty smile more of a wonky
sort of grimace.

Draco couldn’t help but let out an inelegant snort, amused and more than a little envious.
“Ladies and gentlemen and all those in between!” Gilderoy Lockhart began with excitement
once the flashing and clicking had finally ended. “Wix of the Wixen World, what an
extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve
been sitting on for quite some time.”

He gave a hearty chuckle. “When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today,
he only wanted to buy my autobiography – which I shall be happy to present him now, free of
charge – ”

The crowd made noises of approval, Lockhart beaming away and playfully shaking Harry by
the shoulders all the while.

“He had no idea that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical
Me,” Lockhart continued with another laugh. “He and his school fellows will, in fact, be
getting the real, magical me! Yes, I have the great pleasure and pride in announcing that, this
September, I will be taking up the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

Draco felt his stomach swoop as the audience applauded with delight. The one and only
Gilderoy Lockhart would be teaching him come September. Draco would get to see the
celebrated wizard on a daily basis! Even perhaps get a live-action retelling of his adventures!

“How quaint,” Draco heard his father drawl behind him and immediately fell from his cloud,
wiping the excited smile from his face.

He watched as Harry, arms loaded with all of Lockhart’s books, hastily stepped down from
the platform, staggering slightly. Draco looked to his father, who was busily counting out the
gold to pay for his books, before slipping through the crowd.

“I bet you just loved that, didn’t you, Potter?” Draco couldn’t help himself, laughing as he
waltzed over. “Famous Harry Potter, can’t even go to a bookshop without making the front
page.”

Harry only gave him an irritated look.

“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!”

Draco peered down at what seemed to be a wild little girl, snarling at him through a shock of
vivid ginger hair and freckles.

“Oi, Malfoy! What are you doing here?”

Draco looked to the ginger troll that was ambling over, then back to the ferocious beast of a
girl beside Harry. “Ah, yes. Now see, that makes sense.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Ronald Weasley. “Malfoy, my little sister, Ginny. Ginny, Draco Malfoy.”

The Girl-Weasley only glowered at Draco some more, although looking a little bit lost at the
friendly-ish tone her brother had taken on.
Before anyone else could say another word, a bounding mane of bushy brown hair ambushed
them, a bundle of energy despite heaving an armful of books. Then again, that was practically
normal behaviour for the Granger.

“Oh, hello, Draco! Good to see you!” the Muggle-born witch grinned. “Did you hear the
good news? About Gilderoy Lockhart?”

“Ha!" Draco scoffed. “Why would that be good news? Because it’s not, obviously. I only
came in here to collect my school books, obviously. Who cares about some – some daring,
dashing celebrity figure? Not I, that’s for certain!”

Draco really wished he knew how to Silencio himself, unsure why he felt so flustered. The
others only stared at him as if he’d chosen to wear a pair of frilly pink bloomers atop his
head.

“Say!” Draco practically shouted as he grasped for an escape from the hole he’d dug himself
into. “Isn’t it lucky that Potter made it out of Knockturn Alley unscathed?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, eyes narrowing behind those ridiculously round glasses of his.
“Thanks for all your help back there, Draco. Really appreciated that.”

“Hang on,” said Weasley, “what were you doing in Knockturn Alley?”

“Well, I…” Draco began, unsure how to continue – but he was saved from explaining
himself, as in the next moment, a balding ginger man had barged his way over to them with
the Twin-Weasleys in tow.

“Ron! What are you doing, it’s mad in here, let’s get outside –”

“Well, well, well,” came a familiar icy drawl, and Draco felt the weight of a hand upon his
shoulder as his father appeared at his side, his lip curled in a sneer. “Arthur Weasley, what
a… pleasant surprise.”

“Lucius,” Arthur Weasley replied just as coldly.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” Draco’s father sighed with a false air of sympathy. “All
those raids. I do hope they’re paying you overtime.” His father then swiftly plucked a worn
textbook from the Girl-Weasley’s cauldron, eyeing the aged, clearly hand-me-down book
with disdain. “Obviously not,” he tutted. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the
name of a wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”

Draco watched, transfixed, as in the blink of an eye his father deftly slipped something within
the tattered pages of Ginny Weasley’s Transfiguration book.

“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy,” said Arthur
Weasley gruffly, his freckled face turning almost the exact same shade of red Weasley’s–
Boy-Weasley’s– Original-Weasley – ugh – Ronald’s did when he got angry.

“Clearly,” Draco’s father sniffed disapprovingly, looking at a pair of people in Muggle attire
(Granger’s parents, Draco figured) up and down before softly scoffing. “The company you
keep, Weasley… and I thought your family could sink no low–” was all his father managed to
say before being tackled into the nearest bookshelf.

“Get him, Dad!” the Twin-Weasleys hollered as, well, Arthur Weasley had just thrown
himself at Draco’s father, wildly swinging his fists and punching the Malfoy patriarch square
on the nose with a resounding crack!

Draco slapped his hands over his eyes, but found he couldn’t not look, peeking through his
fingers just in time to see his father, blood trickling from his nostrils, knee Arthur Weasley in
the stomach, pouncing at the ginger man while he clutched at his middle. They careened into
another bookshelf, sending the shelves toppling in a domino effect while large, dusty books
cascaded around them. Cries burst out from the crowd as everyone rushed to the front of the
shop, far from the fray, shouting at the commotion.

A short, round lady who must’ve been the Mother-Weasley was attempting to wade through
the books screeching; “Arthur, no!”

But Arthur Weasley did not listen to his wife; instead he reached up and yanked hard at
Draco’s father’s long, blond hair. Pulling him back by his scalp while the Malfoy patriarch
yelped out in pain, attempting to simultaneously wrap his left leg around Mr Weasley's neck
and whack him with his cane, his other hand still tightly gripping Girl-Weasley’s book.

The book.

That was it! His father must’ve planted ‘the key’ inside her book! The Weasleys were
pureblooded, after all, weren’t they?

“Look out!” Granger cried, hopping up on the display window as the two brawling wizards
staggered in their direction. Ronald threw himself sideways into the nearest book pile while
Girl-Weasley ducked behind her cauldron and Harry narrowly managed to climb a bookshelf
like a tree.

As they scattered, Draco didn’t really think. He ducked out of the way of Arthur Weasley’s
elbow, quickly reached out, going unnoticed by the gawking onlookers, and snatched Ginny
Weasley’s book from his father’s grasp while the fighting wizards stumbled past them. A
small, sleek black book slipped out of the wrinkled old Transfiguration tome. Draco quickly
tucked it into his cloak, passing the Transfiguration spellbook back to the still-gawking girl,
who took it without looking away from the brawling middle-aged men.

“Break it up there, gents, break it up!” came the booming voice that would finally end the
madness. Draco looked up (and up, and up) as Rubeus Hagrid easily pulled Draco’s father
and Arthur Weasley apart, lifting them off the ground by their robe collars as they thrashed
about like angry cats.

He set them down again once they seemed to have calmed down, Draco’s father muttering
about ‘dignity’ and ‘grubby giant hands.’ The Mother-Weasley began to scold Arthur
Weasley immediately, whacking his arm with her patchwork handbag.
Draco looked to his father, following his eyes as he stared at the battered old copy of A
Beginners Guide to Transfiguration Girl-Weasley clutched in her hands. He frowned ever so
slightly, before sniffing and attempting to compose himself, smoothing his hair and adjusting
his cloak. He gave Arthur Weasley one last glare before haughtily swivelling on his heel.
“Come along, Draco!” he snapped, striding out of the mess with all the pride he could muster.

Draco looked once more at the sorry state of the bookshop, at the crowd watching them, at a
stunned and baffled Gilderoy Lockhart, and at Harry and the others' shocked and bewildered
faces, before ducking his head and tailing after his father, too humiliated to even bid them
goodbye.

“This is why we do not associate with riff-raff like the Weasleys, son.” His father sneered
once Draco caught up, his cane clacking on the cobblestones much more violently than usual.
“Weasleys are nothing but traitorous hooligans, and you would do well to remember that!”

***

Malfoy Manor – August 1992

“How could you be so incredibly foolish?” his mother snapped, tone teetering on becoming
shrill. “People will talk of this for weeks to come, now, you do realise.”

“The buffoon threw himself at me in broad daylight, ‘Cissa!” his father argued back. “I was
simply defending myself!”

“And a proper duel like actual, grown wizards wouldn’t have sufficed?!”

Draco poked his head around the doorway to the parlour. His father was sitting on his
armchair while his mother dabbed at his black eye with a cotton ball soaked in a lime green
solution, a tray of healing potions and tinctures on the table next to them.

“Oh, do stop your whinging, Lucius!”

“I am not whinging, it really stings!” hissed his father, accompanied by another muffled
whimper.

Draco inhaled sharply through his nostrils. It would seem his parents would be occupied for a
while. He took the opportunity to sneak upstairs, shutting himself in his bedchambers and
retrieving the book he’d taken from within his robes.

He sat down at his desk, shoving aside scrolls of finished homework and dropping the book
in their place.

First question: Should he have taken it?

Probably not, but he was incredibly curious. This was the key to opening the Chamber of
Secrets, after all, and Future-Draco had warned him it would be opened this year.

But how? It was a book …

Perhaps it had spells inside to unlock the chamber?

Draco picked it up and flicked through, shocked to discover it was completely empty, the
only thing inside being the dates of the year 1943 …Or so it would seem! Draco held it out at
arm's length, turning it in every which way.

Perhaps it was only enchanted to appear empty?

Draco knew of another certain book that had the very same trick. ‘The Journal of Dreadful
Things’ was enchanted so that only Draco could see its contents, perhaps this book was
enchanted in the same way. Maybe only Salazar Slytherin could see its contents?

Draco opened the sleek black book only to the very first page this time, finding a very faint
scrawl of a name.

‘T. M. Riddle’

…It was a diary.

A silly old diary! Draco scoffed loudly to himself. No! There had to be more to it, otherwise
why would his father attempt to plant it on Girl-Weasley?!

Draco wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the book when he was startled out of his
drifting thoughts by a sharp pop filling the air.

“Dobby is being told to tell Master Draco that supper is to be served in half an hour, sir!”

Draco shot to his feet. “Dobby!” he exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at the house elf
in question, who flinched back, eyes wide and worried.

“Y–yes Master Draco?”

“Why have you been interfering with Harry Potter?” Draco snapped, marching forwards as
Dobby stumbled backwards “More importantly, why have you kept my letters from reaching
him?!”

Dobby let out a squeak as he backed into the desk, knocking over Draco’s never-drying
inkwell, the contents splattering out onto his scrolls of homework and the diary in a seeping
black mess.

“Oh you clumsy fool!” Draco cried, fumbling to rescue his hours of hard work. He rounded
on the trembling house elf.

“You just wait till my father hears about this! Get out at once!”
 Dobby whimpered, and with an obedient snap of his bony fingers, he disappeared.

Draco released a long breath, using the countdown technique his mother had taught him
when he was all but five and had the most terrible tantrums… apparently. He didn’t see how
they were tantrums when he was always completely reasonable and rational.

When he finally felt calm enough, Draco dared to peer down at the damage. His Charms
essay had gotten the brunt of it, the bottom half dripping with ink. His Transfigurations one
was the next worst. At least his Potions homework only had a few splatters here and there.
Brilliant.

He would have to ask to have it all Tergeoed.

Oh, but what about the diary? Surely the elves wouldn’t say anything, but what if his father
caught him in the act? Thinking he could perhaps blackmail Dobby, Draco cautiously opened
up the book, and then, with a sharp gasp, almost dropped it.

What should’ve been pages drenched with spilt ink was instead clear, crisp parchment. Even
more strangely, a sentence had magically written itself in bold loopy handwriting.

'Hello? Is there someone there?'

Draco stared at the words, until, without warning, they began to fade away. Drawn in with
amazement and curiosity, he reached for a quill and fresh ink.

'Hello?' He hastily scrawled, in a sort of trance as he waited with bated breath until the same
looping handwriting appeared once more, seeping into existence on the page before him.

'Why, hello there,' it said, 'who might I be talking to? And how did you come across my
diary?'

'My name is Draco Malfoy, and I' – he paused to think – 'found it in my father’s study.

'Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Draco Malfoy. My name is Tom Riddle…'

Chapter End Notes

Dun dun duuuuun! D^:

I hope you enjoyed! As always you can come find me on my tumblr

See you next week! <3

 Mayhem on the Hogwarts Express
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The Hogwarts Express – Tuesday the 1st of September 1992

Draco watched out the window as London became a greyish blob in the distance. He let out a
deep sigh as the Hogwarts Express picked up speed, chugging along the green hills and fields
of the English countryside. Once again he was off to Hogwarts.

No longer would he be able to spend his days lounging around doing nothing. Goodbye skies
of blue and beautiful mansion house, hello clouds of grey, miserable Scottish countryside,
and bleak, cold castle. Goodbye endless supply of delicate French pastries and ice cream
sundaes, hello stodgy pies and lumpy mashed potatoes. Goodbye sleeping til gone ten
o’clock, hello –

Draco let out a yelp, his inner monologue rudely being interrupted as he was thrown forward
by a heavy weight dropping onto his shoulders. He scowled as he saw a blur of black and
orange in the corner of his eye. “Vincent! She’s doing it again!”

Vincent looked up from his and Gregory’s game of cards. “Tortoise doesn’t mean any harm,
Draco,” he said. “She’s just taken a liking to you.”

“Ugh,” said Draco in response, tucking his nose into ‘Wandering with Werewolves’ as
Vincent’s fat cat purred in his ear.

“Go fish!” announced Vincent proudly, slamming his cards down on the makeshift table
they’d made using their trunks.

“Oh,” said Gregory, his brow furrowed. “I thought we were playing snap?”

Draco rolled his eyes. It was just his luck to get lumped with these two bumbling fools yet
again.

He was finally settling into his book, eagerly turning the page as Lockhart tamed ‘the Hound
of Hungary’ by using his wand for a game of fetch with it, when their compartment door
rattled open without warning, causing Tortoise to startle and jump down from Draco’s
shoulders into Vincent’s lap. Honestly, this was starting to get ridiculous. It hadn’t even been
fifteen minutes since leaving Kings Cross station!

“Oh, hello, Draco!” It was Granger, along with that Weasley girl from Flourish and Blotts.
“Do you mind if we join you? It’s jam-packed out there.” Without waiting for an answer,
Granger began pushing inside. “Hello Crabbe, hello Goyle. Did you have a nice – who is
this?” she gasped in delight as she noticed Tortoise.
Draco frowned at Girl-Weasley, who closed the door and took a seat as close to it as possible,
looking at Vincent and Gregory warily. He turned to Granger.

“Where’s Potter and the other one?”

“You mean Ron?” Girl-Weasley said, eyebrows furrowed.

Draco shrugged carelessly. “Do I?”

Granger paused in her fawning over Vincent’s cat. “I’m not sure, actually.” She frowned.
“Ginny, did you see them?”

“Um, no. I last saw them at the train station,” said Girl-Weasley.

“Oh, shall we look for them then? We did all promise we’d sit together back in August.”

Did they now? Draco hadn’t been aware of this little pact… Then again, his father had been
attacked by Arthur Weasley and they’d made quite a scene, his father having to hurry them
home with his tail between his legs, embarrassingly enough.

Not wanting to bring that up, Draco cleared his throat. “Are we going to have to search the
whole train? Believe me, it is not as easy as it sounds.”

“I know, I spent the whole of my first ride to Hogwarts looking for Neville’s toad,” Granger
sighed wearily.

“And I for Harry.”

Oh. Oh, Merlin’s rusty shoe buckle. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud. He looked up to find
Granger giving him an amused, calculating look, and the Girl-Weasley squinting at him with
visible confusion and something else. Thankfully, Vincent and Gregory were minding their
own business.

“What? What are you looking at me like that for?” he snapped at the girls, feeling his face
become hot.

“No reason,” Granger said slowly. “Anyway, shall we go make sure they haven’t missed the
train or anything?” She giggled, before her face fell and she sat bolt upright. “Oh my God,
what if they have missed the train?!”

“I don’t see how they could’ve,” Girl-Weasley said. “We were late, but we weren’t that late.”

“Vincent, Gregory?” Draco asked, standing up.

“We’re good, thanks,” grunted Gregory, immersed in his and Vincent’s card game.

“Enjoy your search!” Vincent chirped.

“Right, shall we split up?” Draco asked hopefully as they exited the compartment. “Cover
more ground?”
“No thanks,” said Girl-Weasley firmly, hooking her arm through Grangers. “I’d rather not get
lost.”

“And I was so looking forward to spending the trip reading,” lamented Granger, clutching ‘
Voyages with Vampires’ close to her chest.

***

The first compartment they tried seemed to be packed full of the whole Gryffindor Quidditch
team, along with Lee Jordan, but no Harry.

“If you do see Potter, tell him we need to talk strategy,” said Oliver Wood, while the Twin-
Weasleys made pained, choking gestures behind his back, coaxing a giggle from Girl-
Weasley.

Draco, on the other hand, was trying very hard not to stare at Wood’s exposed arms, as they
had gotten…um… broader over the past summer holidays… which was, for some reason,
affecting Draco’s vision, as his eyes kept darting back to them. Perhaps Wood had cast some
sort of spell on them.

He heaved a sigh of relief as they finally left the compartment, darting down the corridor with
Granger and Girl-Weasley in tow. Had it gotten warmer on the train? Draco certainly felt a bit
flushed. It was probably all the running around.

“In all seriousness though –” one of the Twin-Weasleys called after them.

“If they have missed the train –” said the other.

“We’ll be sure to send them a postcard from Hogsmeade!” They finished simultaneously,
cackling.

“You two are the worst!” Girl-Weasley yelled back, poking her tongue out at them.

“We know!”

Draco rolled his eyes. Weasleys.

The results were similar for the next several compartments, filled to the brim with various
Slytherins, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws, but no Harry Potter. Or Ron Weasley,
but honestly, who cared about that?

Only one compartment they stumbled into held one passenger; a young girl in first year
robes, her tawny blonde hair twisted upwards into very peculiar looping braids, humming as
she gazed out of the window with a vacant expression.

“Well, looks like they aren't in here!” Draco hissed, grabbing Granger’s elbow and making to
shut the compartment door, but he wasn’t quick enough, as the girl stopped humming and
turned to look at them.
“Why, hello there, Cousin Draco,” she greeted, smiling gently.

Draco sighed, his shoulders drooping. “Hello, Luna,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Oh, you two are cousins?" Granger said, sending a half-questioning glance at Draco. "That’s
nice!”

“Well, actually, Granger, most purebloods are related,” Draco sniffed. “Looney here just
happens to be closer than most.”

Granger scrunched her face into an expression Draco had come to realise was the face she
made when she received new information from anyone besides a teacher or a book.

“You wouldn’t have happened to have seen two second year boys, would you?” asked Girl-
Weasley.

“One clearly a Weasley, the other Harry Potter?” Draco added, ignoring the glare Girl-
Weasley gave him.

Luna only tilted her head, her pale eyes suddenly clearer as she looked at Draco. “You know,
you really ought to be more careful with imaginary friends.”

Draco stared at her, a shiver trickling down his spine.

“Riiiight,” Granger piped up when the silence had gone on for a bit too long, her eyebrows
reaching her hairline. “Well, anyway, we’d best get back to searching, nice to meet you.”

“Oh, have you lost something?” Luna asked politely.

“We did just say –” Granger began.

“Come on, it’s not worth it,” Draco said, hurrying them out. As they shut the door, Draco
twirled his finger near his temple. Granger chuckled nervously while Girl-Weasley just kept
on scowling at him.

“Draco, what you said back there about Purebloods.” Granger said after a moment, “Well,
what’s all that about?”

“What’s a Pureblood about?” Draco asked, “Granger, do you not know something for once?”

Granger let out a loud harrumph. “Well, I know that I’m a Muggle-born witch because I
come from Muggle parents, and I know that there’s a group called the Sacred Twenty-Eight
families, but I hadn’t realised there were more differences, really. Of course, I’ve heard of the
term ‘pureblooded’ before, I do pay attention in History of Magic, but I just realised I don’t
actually know that much about all of it. I just sort of assumed it didn’t matter, and if you had
magic, then you had magic!”

“Didn’t matter? ” Draco yelped, startled. “You assumed it didn’t matter? ” He began to laugh
so much that he had to support himself by placing his hands on his knees. “Granger, of course
it matters!” he managed through his dying chortles. “Blood is the very thing that defines
wixen nature. My father says it’s the most important thing, keeping pure wixen blood alive!

“So if my blood isn’t pure what is it?” Granger asked waspishly. “Impure? That sounds
terribly wrong. Maybe it matters to your father, Draco, but perhaps it shouldn’t matter to
you. Because it certainly doesn’t matter to me. ”

Draco blinked, suddenly feeling quite wrong-footed. He wasn’t sure what he’d found so
funny anymore. Don’t be rude or disrespectful to Muggle-borns in any way. That was
something written in the very first page of the Journal. Another warning Future-Draco
wanted him to heed. Don’t follow Father’s footsteps.

Sometimes it was hard when the only thing Draco had ever known was just that.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t keep quiet anymore,” Girl-Weasley piped up, sounding just as irritated
as Granger. “Hermione, are you, Ron, and Harry seriously friends with him?”

Draco sniffed, finding himself too preoccupied to get offended for once.

“It’s a long story, Ginny,” said Granger, as they carried on down the train corridor in
thoughtful silence.

***

The next compartment they knocked on was slightly more full than the last. Pansy Parkinson
opened the door to them, an enthusiastic smile lighting up her face when she laid eyes on
Draco.

“Draco, there you are!” she exclaimed, her face falling when she saw who was behind him.
“What are you up to with them?”

“We’re just looking for…something,” Draco finished lamely. “What’s all this?”

“Since we’re all twelve now, we’re having a proper high tea,” Daphne Greengrass explained
primly. “Mother gifted me an enchanted tea set for my birthday.”

Draco stared at the floating shiny silver teapot and the cakes, biscuits, and sandwiches laid
out on a similarly floating three-tier stand. Draco watched as the teapot drifted down and
magically tipped on its own, pouring steaming brown liquid into Vincent’s teacup.

He then did a double take. Because yes, there Vincent and Gregory were, sipping from
teacups with their pinkies pointed out.

“How did you two get in here?” he asked, bewildered. “You didn’t pass us.” He turned to
Granger. “Did they?” Without waiting for an answer he swivelled back to Gregory and
Vincent “Did you?”
“They have cake,” said Gregory, as if that was a reasonable explanation, stuffing a petit four
in his gob.

“So does the trolley,” Girl-Weasley muttered under her breath, blowing a strand of hair out of
her face.

“Oh, yes,” said Pansy, looking at Daphne. “The trolley.”

The two witches giggled into their teacups.

“What’s wrong with the trolley?” Granger piped up, folding her arms.

“Well, I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Pansy scoffed, Daphne giggling once more.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Granger snapped.

“Nothing, nothing, don’t get your wand in a knot!” Pansy managed through her giggles, mirth
dancing in her eyes. In the next moment, she had diverted her attention to Draco, smiling
sweetly. “Draco, would you like to join us?”

“I was hoping you’d ask,” Draco sighed, taking a seat opposite her. They hadn’t stopped for
lunch in their hunt for Harry and Weasley, and it was surely long past lunchtime. Draco’s
stomach had been rumbling for the past hour and the trolley seemed to have vanished from
existence, old lady pushing it and all.

Granger and Girl-Weasley hesitated, exchanging a quick look before awkwardly taking seats
too. Draco paid them no mind, accepting the teacup that had floated over to him and letting
the enchanted teapot pour delicious-smelling hot tea in it.

A few moments passed in silence, the only sounds being the chugging of the train, the
murmur of distant voices, the clinking of teaspoons against silver, and the chomp of Vincent
enjoying a biscuit.

Pansy cleared her throat.

Draco snatched the sugar bowl out of the air as it bobbed in his direction, happily stirring
until he sensed the niggling feeling of eyes on him. He looked up to find Granger watching
him with a look half way between concerned and disgusted.

“What?” he asked her, raising a brow as he dropped in his fifth sugar cube.

“My parents say that too much sugar is bad for your teeth,” Granger said, fidgeting with the
empty teacup in her hands.

“What, are your parents teeth experts or something?” Pansy asked, snorting.

“Yes, actually. They are. They’re dentists,” Granger replied, glaring at her shrewdly.

“Dent-whats?” Gregory asked. For once, Draco was just as clueless as him.
Granger looked at Gregory, then at the rest of the Slytherins, then eventually at Girl-Weasley,
her face growing more surprised by the minute. “Does the wixen world really not have
dentists?” she finally asked. “How do you all take care of your teeth?”

“Oh, so it is a Muggle thing then,” Pansy said, voice dripping with disdain as she examined
her dark pink nails.

Granger angrily slammed her teacup down on the makeshift trunk-table. “What is so wrong
with being a Muggle?!”

Draco awkwardly raised his teacup to his lips, intending to take a sip to avoid the
conversation (and the déjà vu), when the cup began rattling ominously in his hands.

“What in Merlin’s –?” he began, only to gasp in surprise as the teacup floated into the air,
along with everyone else's. In the next moment, the teacups had upturned themselves,
dumping not-quite-piping-hot tea into the laps of everyone in the compartment.

Everyone began shouting as their teacups began darting about like birds, swooping down and
trying to hit them on the head.

“What’s gotten into your tea set?!” Draco exclaimed, batting away his teacup.

“It’s turned evil!” Daphne wailed, sinking down behind the trunk-table.

Draco looked around as Pansy let out a high pitched scream. A stream of steaming hot tea
was shooting in direction, and she ducked in the nick of time as it splashed against the
window. The enchanted teapot then turned in the air and fired another stream of scalding
brown liquid in the other direction, Vincent having to jump up on the seats to avoid getting
burnt.

The three-tier stand then began spinning where it floated at a frightening speed, bits of bread,
cucumber, scones, cake, and biscuits flying in all directions, splattering against the windows
and smacking into the wix in a shower of high tea nibblies.

“I’m gonna be killed by the thing I love most!” Gregory yelped, raising his arms as a shield
against the cakes pelting down on him.

“Daphne, where on earth did your mother get this tea set?!” Draco cried, grabbing a passing
tray in an attempt to use it as a shield, only for it to struggle in his grip, actually lifting him
off the floor. He let go immediately, the tray zipping up and zooming around the
compartment like an out of control broomstick.

“How should I know?!” Daphne’s voice shouted back at him from behind the trunk-table. “It
was a birthday present!”

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Granger shouted, pointing her wand in the air. “Immobulus!”

Just like that, everything froze. The teacups stopped attacking them, the teapot stopped
spraying hot tea, the tray stopped whizzing around, and the tiered stand stopped spinning,
sandwiches and cakes suspended in mid-air.
The silence stretched on for a long moment.

Vincent plucked a ladyfinger from directly above him, biting into it and effectively breaking
the tension.

“Would you just look at my robes?! They’re completely ruined! I can’t walk into the castle
like this!” Pansy shrieked, gesturing down at her school robes, now covered in smears of
icing, jam, buttered bread, the odd blob of egg and cress, and globs of cream.

Draco could hardly find it in him to laugh, they were all in a similar state. He looked down at
himself, a slice of cucumber falling from his hair and landing on the floor with a splat.

“Everything was going just splendidly until she got here,” Daphne whined, wiping in vain at
a splodge of mustard on her sleeve while glaring at Granger. “I think you angered them with
your bad manners.”

“Hey! You’d still be getting attacked by your teapot if it hadn’t been for her!” Girl-Weasley
exclaimed, half of a cream-covered scone falling off her shoulder.

“Oh, what would you know?” Pansy huffed, throwing her jam coated handkerchief at the
floor.

“Apparently a lot more than you shallow lot!” Girl-Weasley snapped back.

“Did you just call me shallow?!” Pansy gasped.

“Ginny, let’s not,” Granger said tersely. “Come on, we haven’t searched the whole train yet.”

Draco grabbed a floating jam tart before hurrying after them. After all, if Harry was lurking
somewhere on the train, he wanted to be there when they found him.

“Draco?!” he heard Pansy shriek after him.

Not wanting anymore confrontation, Draco picked up his pace a little bit.

Before they reached the end of the carriage, they heard a distant exclamation.

“What about my tea set?!”

***

“I can’t believe they missed the train.” Granger said, chewing fiercely at a fingernail. Draco
managed not to sneer at her disgusting habit.

They’d gotten off the Hogwarts Express a long time ago, having searched the entire vehicle
top to bottom. A prefect had been kind enough to cast a Scourgify on them, removing almost
all evidence of what Draco had chosen to call ‘the Tea Party of Terror.’ It had left Draco’s
robes stiff and his skin slightly itchy, but at least he didn’t look like a high tea had thrown up
on him anymore.

They were currently riding a horseless carriage up to the castle above, towering over them
and silhouetted by the starry night sky.

Girl-Weasley had left with the rest of the first-years for their boat journey, thankfully, but
Draco was unfortunately then stuck with a very foul-tempered Granger. And a snoozing
Gregory and Vincent, but that was a given. They were always there behind him, somewhere.

Draco turned his attention back to Granger. “If they have it’s not a worry, the Ministry of
Magic will be able to sort out some way of getting here.”

“Oh, I hope they don’t do anything stupid,” Granger whined, pulling her pointed hat down
over her eyes.

“Why would they–?” Draco began, only to stop himself as he thought about what he was
saying. “Actually nevermind.”

His remark did not help Granger, who only looked sourer and sourer as their carriage
trundled on toward the castle.

***

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – 1st of September 1992

Draco heaved a sigh of relief as he finally escaped a by now thunderous Granger, reuniting
with the rest of the Slytherins as they made their way into the well-lit Great Hall of
Hogwarts, just as grand and gusty as they’d left it.

Draco caught the eye of his Potions professor, head of house, and close family friend,
Severus Snape, sitting at the Teachers table, and nodded politely in greeting. Severus nodded
back.

With that, he took a seat between a sleepy Vincent and Gregory at the Slytherin table. It was
nice to know the draw between Gryffindor and Slytherin last year was still earning him a
favour, as some of the older Slytherins clapped him on the back and greeted him cheerfully as
they passed by. The red and green banners were still strung from the walls and would
continue to be until the House Cup winner got announced at the end of the school year.

The babble of chatter died down when McGonagall walked in, snot-faced first year students
in tow, to begin the Sorting Ceremony. The Sorting Hat perked up on its stool, cleared its
non-existent throat, and began to warble its awful song about the houses.
Draco, not caring for any of it, was busy craning his head this way and that to see if he could
spot any trace of scruffy black hair hiding at the Gryffindor table when the doors to the Great
Hall were flung open, and a long red carpet unfurled itself, students having to lift their feet as
it rolled to the very front of the hall.

The Sorting Hat paused mid-song. Professor McGonagall placed her hands on her hips.

Draco felt his stomach flip and a smile light up his face. For there was Gilderoy Lockhart,
adorned in shimmering golden robes, his hair coiffed perfectly and his smile sparkling white.

“I’m not terribly late I should hope?” asked Lockhart, a dimple appearing as he grinned even
wider. “Only, say, fashionably?”

Various wix in the sea of students began to giggle and swoon, the closely huddled group of
first years looking on with wide eyes.

Lockhart laughed. “Yes, yes! I know! Believe me, I completely understand how you all feel,
to be basking in the presence of someone such as my –”

BANG!

A loud sputtering sound pierced the air, interrupting Lockhart. A din of grating and
screeching quickly followed the bang, then what sounded like distant screaming, and then
more of the horrific screeching noise. It was like nails on a blackboard…or scraping metal.

Then, silence.

“...self,” Lockhart finished as murmurs began to trickle through the hall, turning into loud
babbling as a few teachers and prefects got up to peer outside the dark windows. The teachers
all seemed to quickly discuss something before Severus hurried out of the hall, black robes
billowing out behind him.

“Goodness, whatever has hap–?” Gilderoy Lockhart began loudly, only to be interrupted once
more by Professor McGonagall hurrying him up to the teachers’ table.

“If you will, Professor Lockhart , you are indeed very late! Let us all carry on with the
Sorting Ceremony!” she announced, clapping her hands and exchanging a nod with Professor
Dumbledore.

Despite McGonagall’s words, the school carried on furiously whispering as the first years got
sorted, nobody really noticing or caring as each house got a handful of new students. Even
the Sorting Hat was out of sorts, grumpily grumbling the house into which each new student
was going. Evidently, magical clothing didn’t care for being interrupted.

All of a sudden the Twin-Weasleys broke the hushed tone as they began howling with
laughter at the Gryffindor table.

“Fred and George Weasley!” shouted Professor McGonagall. “Outside at once!”

Draco tilted his head in to listen as the babble of murmurs finally reached the Slytherin table.
“Potter and Weasley flew a Muggle car right into the Whomping Willow!”

Draco couldn’t help it, he snorted. Not just your typical snort, no, no. A loud snort of laughter
that had most of the pureblooded students around him staring in amused disbelief. Refusing
to acknowledge how uncouth he’d just been, Draco chose to look across the hall to a bush of
trembling brown hair. Granger was staring intensely at her plate, shaking her head.

“Talk about making an entrance,” said Blaise Zabini once all of the first years were sorted
and the feast had appeared. Dumbledore, thankfully, had not stopped to make a speech as he,
Professor McGonagall, and Filch left the Great Hall, presumably to deal with Harry and
Weasley.

“That has to have violated the Statute of Secrecy, though, surely?” said Theodore Nott
thoughtfully. “Flying all the way here from Kings Cross in London?”

Draco smirked. If the rumours were indeed true, Harry was going to be in so much trouble,
and Draco was going to have so much fun teasing him about it.

That was, if he didn’t get expelled first.

***

Draco stretched as he flopped down into his readily made bed, enjoying the warmth of the
charms sewn into the duvet in contrast to the coolness of the dank dungeons.

Today had been… a lot. But there was one positive! The Chamber of Secrets hadn’t been
opened, and it wouldn’t be! Because as long as the key was in Draco’s hands, he knew he
would keep the Chamber closed.

Crisis averted!

But simply talking to Tom wouldn’t hurt. Tom had made for excellent company during
Draco’s last week of the Summer holidays. Draco often wondered just what Tom was exactly.
He’d never heard of magically sentient objects that seemed to be aware of their existence and
used a name for themselves. No talking mirror Draco had ever spoken to had a name, not that
he’d ever actually asked, come to think of it.

Draco found Tom a much better thing to talk at than Dobby, because Tom actually listened to
his problems and advised him, unlike that useless house elf, who usually just blinked up at
him cluelessly.

Draco rummaged through his bedside drawer for quill and ink.

All of his belongings had magically popped themselves where they were meant to go as soon
as he’d touched the bed he’d chosen (furthest from the door, of course). Excitedly, he reached
 into his satchel and retrieved the sleek black book, ignoring the rest of his dormitory as they
shuffled around sorting themselves out for the next day.

First day back at Hogwarts, the Sorting feast went as expected. You’ll never guess what
Harry Potter did after missing the train.

'Back at last, how excellent. What did Harry Potter do?'

'He, along with Ronald Weasley, drove an enchanted Muggle car all the way from London
right into the Whomping Willow.'

'Well, that sounds incredibly foolish. What is the Whomping Willow?'

'It’s a tree on the grounds that attacks anything that comes within five feet of it.'

'What an odd thing to have at a castle full of children.'

“What are you smiling about?”

Draco looked up to find Blaise raising a brow at him as he fiddled with his pyjama buttons.

“Nothing! Mind your own business!” Draco scoffed, closing his emerald bed curtains with a
great huff. Suddenly in a much fouler mood, he picked up his quill again.

'I’d better be going now, Tom. Classes begin tomorrow.'

'That is very wise. Best of luck to you, Draco. This year is going to be just swell…'

Chapter End Notes

*Evil laughter intensifies* see ya'll next week! ;^)

 The Strangest of Magics

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – 2nd of September 1992

Naturally, the only thing the whole school seemed interested in the very next morning was
what was now dubbed ‘The Weasley-Potter Whomp.’ Draco could only just make out a head
of scruffy black hair at the overcrowded Gryffindor table.

Draco yawned as he sank between Vincent and Gregory at the Slytherin table, plucking his
timetable out of the air as it magically popped into existence before him.

He snagged a piece of toast from the rack and startled slightly as the butter was suddenly slid
right in front of him. He looked up to see Pansy Parkinson sitting opposite him wearing a
suspiciously bright smile.

“Parkinson, what are you up to?” Draco asked with trepidation. Clearly both she and Daphne
had gotten over the tea incident on the train, the blonde witch peacefully eating her cereal
next to Pansy.

“It’s Pansy, and I’m not up to anything. I’m just having my breakfast,” she explained with a
shrug. “Jam?”

Draco squinted. He looked down at his toast, then back up at Pansy, then at the jar of
strawberry jam in her outstretched hand.

“Have you done something to it? Is this a trick?”

At that, Pansy laughed. “Don’t be daft, Draco,” she said, blinking a lot more than seemed
necessary.

“Have you got something in your eye?”

Pansy’s face fell as there came what sounded like a badly concealed snicker to her left.
Daphne suddenly yelped out in pain as there came a thud from under the table, jangling the
cutlery and plates on top.

Draco threw a questioning look at Vincent and Gregory, who could only offer an equally
baffled shrug in response.

Luckily, Draco was saved from Pansy’s strange behaviour by the stream of owls soaring into
the Great Hall, distracting her as she got a neatly wrapped package.

Draco began reading his timetable as he nibbled on his deliberately jamless toast, feeling
suddenly very excited as he saw that they had double Defence Against the Dark Arts after an
hour of Charms first thing. He opened his mouth to say as much to the other second-year
Slytherins, when he was rudely interrupted by a booming voice that made the very walls of
the hall shake.
“RONALD WEASLEY!”

Draco recognised that screech from Flourish and Blotts. It was the Mother-Weasley.

“HOW DARE YOU STEAL THAT CAR?!”

“Oh sweet Merlin, someone pinch me. Weasley got a Howler,” Draco whispered to Gregory
and Vincent. Theodore, who had somehow managed to doze off on his scrambled eggs,
whined and covered his head with his Charms spellbook.

“ – YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO
THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT HAD GONE
–!” The Mother-Weasley went on like this for another good five minutes, until finally the
assault on everyone’s ears ended and the Howler went up in a puff of red smoke.

The silence was deafening. Draco peered around Pansy’s head, seeing that Harry – now
visible – was wearing a similarly dumbstruck expression as Weasley, blinking in wide eyed
shock.

Draco couldn’t help but laugh, and apparently, neither could most of the school, as Weasley
turned bright red and Harry hung his head.

***

Charms class whizzed by in a flurry of wand waving and banishing ghostly ectoplasm as
Flitwick had them learning the Skurge Charm, which Draco found very unfair indeed. Why
should he have to clean up after a stupid ghost? Find a way to make them do it themselves,
thank you very much.

But as soon as Flitwick dismissed them, Draco felt his mood brighten significantly because
he knew what came next.

Lockhart.

Not even the climb from the third floor to the seventh could dampen Draco’s anticipation.

As the Slytherins approached the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, their chatter died
down as there came the faint sound of a piano being played inside. The second years
exchanged uncertain glances.

Blaise Zabini tilted his head to the door in a silent gesture at Draco.

Draco shook his head vehemently in response.

Theodore checked his pocket watch and frowned.

Blaise tilted his head again.

Draco turned to Gregory and Vincent and copied the motion.

“What?” Gregory asked cluelessly.

“Oh, for Salazar’s sake!” Pansy snapped, rolling her eyes and knocking loudly on the door.
The doorknob turned on its own, the door groaning on its hinges as it opened, the sound of
the piano, now louder, drifting through the crack.

The Slytherins poked their heads around the doorframe, only to see that Gilderoy Lockhart,
draped in flattering turquoise robes, sunlight catching his golden hair, was sitting at a grand
piano on a raised platform like a make-shift stage in his classroom.

Again, the Slytherins exchanged questioning glances. All but Draco, that is, who found
himself rather starstruck all of a sudden.

Pansy cleared her throat loudly.

Lockhart turned to face them, flashing those dazzling white teeth in all their glory.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, still playing the piano. “You appear to have caught me ‘tickling the
ivories’ as they say,” he chuckled.

As he stood up his piano carried on playing its jazzy tune. Lockhart kicked it hard, and it
stopped. He smiled at them again, spreading his arms out grandly as he strode to the centre of
his stage.

“Don’t be discouraged! Come in, come in! Take a seat! Let us begin!”

They did as they were told, Draco pushing past Daphne to take the spot closest to Lockhart’s
desk. “Ugh!” groused Daphne as Vincent and Gregory took the other front seats on either
side of Draco.

Lockhart strode up the aisle of desks and circled around his own desk, propping one leg on
his chair and giving them all an even larger grin as his eyes swept across them.

“Gilderoy Lockhart,” he announced, gesturing to himself. “Order of Merlin, Third Class.

Explorer of all things mysteriously magical, Honourary Member of the Dark Force Defence
League and five times winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award... But you
already know all that, and I suppose to you I’m now simply your wonderful Professor
Lockhart!”

Lockhart struck a heroic pose, still smiling oh-so gallantly. Draco leaned forward in his chair.
There was a cough from the back of the class as the silence dragged on. Lockhart peeked out
of one eye as his smile faltered.

“Um…Right! No applause, that’s fine,” he laughed, clapping his hands together. Draco’s eyes
followed him as he strode across the room. “No matter. You Slytherins have the luck of being
my first students, you know!”
He picked up a stack of parchment.

“I’ve devised a little test, if you will, to kick things off with a bang. How does that sound,
eh?”

Draco eagerly got out his quill and ink, but once the test had been passed to him, he could
only frown down at it, puzzled as he began writing his name at the top.

Question 1: What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favourite colour?

Draco knew it was lilac, of course, he had read Year with a Yeti after all, but he failed to see
the relevance between Gilderoy Lockhart’s favourite shade of purple and defending yourself
from a dark curse. The questions carried on in a similar fashion, Question 2: What is Gilderoy
Lockhart’s secret ambition? Question 7: When did Gilderoy Lockhart publish his first book?
Question 12: Where is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite place to holiday?

On and on it went, all the way to the end of the third page at Question 54: When is Gilderoy
Lockhart’s birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

Draco looked up every so often to find Lockhart swishing about the room in his turquoise
robes in a way that oddly reminded him of his father’s prized white peacocks.

In fact, Draco found he couldn’t really stop glancing up.

When all of the tests had been handed in, Professor Lockhart went through the answers.
Draco had gotten the most right, to his delight. Theodore had actually managed to do the
worst for once, which was no doubt embarrassing for him. When Lockhart finished telling
them all how he’d actually managed to catch all the ghouls in Gadding with Ghouls (Draco
had answered correctly, of course), he checked his timepiece, frowning ever so slightly.

“That took less time than I’d expected,” he hemmed in thought. “Any further questions?”

“Professor Lockhart, sir?” Draco spoke up, calmly raising a hand.

“That’s me!” Lockhart chuckled. “What’s your question, Mr…?”

“Malfoy, sir. Draco Malfoy,” Draco replied, leaning back in his chair, attempting to seem as
nonchalant as possible.“What would you say is the most dangerous adventure you’ve ever
had?”

Lockhart’s face lit up. “Ah, now that is a very good question, Mr Malfoy! Let me tell you all
about the time I was exploring the deep heart of the jungles of Wixen Peru…”

***
As Draco left Lockhart’s class for lunch, he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d actually just
sat through two hours of. As thrilling as Lockhart’s tales were, and as starstruck as Draco felt,
he certainly hadn’t learned anything about defending himself from a wayward hex or curse.

He pondered this even as he made his way out of the Great Hall and down to the courtyard
towards Harry, Weasley and Granger. But found he couldn’t ponder for much longer, as there
seemed to be a small blond Gryffindor first year student getting much too close to Harry for
Draco’s liking, like a bounding over-excited puppy, yapping at a mile a minute.

“ – Maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign
it?” The first year was babbling, and then Draco saw the camera in their hand and realised
what was happening. He couldn’t believe his ears.

“I beg your pardon?” He asked incredulously. “Signed photos, Potter? You’re giving out
signed photos?”

“No. No. That is not what’s happening at all, ” Harry insisted, shaking his head.

“Oh, please, Harry? It won’t take even a minute I promise!” begged the first year. “You don’t
have to sign it!”

Draco rolled his eyes, taking out his wand and twiddling it around lazily. “I’m sorry, but who
are you supposed to be?”

The first year audibly gulped before jabbing a thumb at himself. “C-Colin. Colin Creevey. A-
and you’re probably just jealous, whoever you are!”

Draco recoiled at once, scoffing out a laugh.“First of all, that was very rude, where are your
manners? Secondly, why would I be jealous of Scarhead over here?”

“You’d better watch it, Malfoy,” Weasley warned, sitting up as if ready to draw his own wand
and fight. Beside him, Granger rolled her eyes and carried on reading Voyages with Vampires.

“Actually, I think you’d better watch it, Weasley,” Draco replied, smirking before putting on a
shrill voice. “‘If you put another toe out of line!’”

Draco’s smirk grew wider, pleased with himself as a group of nearby fifth years burst out
laughing.

Weasley shrunk into himself, his scowling face flushing bright red. “Remind me why we put
up with him,” he grumbled.

“Sometimes I ask myself the same question,” Harry muttered darkly.

Draco felt something ugly bubble up inside of him at that remark, but before he could come
up with a clever retort there came a charmingly smooth voice echoing across the courtyard.

“What’s all this, what’s all this?” Asked Professor Lockhart as he strode over beaming away,
the whiteness almost blinding in the open daylight. “Who’s giving out signed photos?”
Despite the lingering nasty feeling in Draco’s chest, he couldn’t help but feel amused as
Harry garbled his words and Lockhart spoke right over him, laughing jovially.

The bell rang, and Draco turned away from the little scene he’d stirred, making his way to
History of Magic.

***

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – September 1992

“Quidditch try-outs!”

Draco’s head snapped up. He scrambled to look across the common room, squishing
Gregory’s face in his haste as he bounded over the sofa and rushed to the notice board, where
indeed there was a flyer for Slytherin Quidditch team try-outs the following week along with
an excited crowd.

“Why, Malfoy, you know you could show at least a little enthusiasm,” drawled Blaise, who
was also crowded around the notice board. “I’m assuming you’ll be trying out as well?”

“There’s no need to try-out when I already know I’m going to get in,” Draco replied, folding
his arms smugly.

Blaise just chuckled and shook his head.

Now, Draco knew the Journal mentioned all of this. It told him he shouldn’t ‘bribe his way
into the Quidditch team.’ And the thing was Draco had actually even considered pleading
with his father. But after the response he’d gotten when he begged for a brand new
broomstick, he decided perhaps it just wasn’t worth it… After all, his father had not been in
the best of moods since July.

And the more he’d thought about it, the more he’d stared at the words written in the Journal’s
pages, the more he’d realised he could probably make the team anyway if he gave it his best
shot. He was a brilliant flyer, after all. And he would show the team just how talented he truly
was on a broom!

***

Draco glared down at his blasted Comet Two Hundred and Sixty. It just wasn’t fair! If he had
disobeyed Future-Draco’s wishes he would be holding a Nimbus Two Thousand and One in
his hand right now. The fastest known broomstick yet. But noooo, here he was, holding a
stinking, out-of-date, fraying at the bristles, so nineteen-eighty-nine, poor wix’s excuse for a
broom. He glared harder for good measure.

At least his broom wasn’t the most undesired of the bunch, however. Bullstrode had a
Cleansweep Seven. How embarrassing for her.

To make matters worse, it was a miserable day. Rain had been pelting down on the school
since breakfast. It was now almost supper time.

His feet sludged in the mud as he made his way onto the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the
eager-eyed Slytherins hoping to be a part of the team.

“Right you lot!” yelled Marcus Flint as they reached the middle of the pitch. “We’re only
going to need a new Beater and a new Seeker. So let's see what you’ve got. Don’t be afraid to
get dirty, if you catch my meaning.” He nudged Montague and Pucey, laughing. They shook
their heads.

“Let’s start with Beaters,” said Montague, tapping his quill on his clipboard.

Draco harrumphed as he took a seat next to Blaise, watching as those who were aiming to be
Beaters battled Bludgers in the sky. Finally, after Millicent Bullstrode hit a Bludger so hard it
went crashing into the teachers stand, the Beater exercises were over.

And that meant it was time for the Seekers.

“Alice, ladies first,” Flint grinned, holding up a tiny golden ball between his fingers.

“That’s Nettlington to you, Flint. And that’s also really demeaning,” growled the seventh
year, snatching her broom up anyway. Flint shrugged, releasing the Snitch.

Draco watched her zoom around the pitch for a while, letting out a bored huff and leaning
against his broom.

“You really aren’t very patient, are you?” Blaise chuckled, bumping his shoulder amicably.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’d really rather get out of this rain,” he drawled.

Finally, Nettlington snagged the Snitch.

“That was great, Alice!” yelled Flint as she landed. “Zabini, let’s see what you’ve got!”

Draco groaned as Blaise took off. How much longer till he got to show them his skill and
potential? He glared as Blaise streaked through the air, going into a nosedive minutes later to
grab the Snitch.

“Not bad, Zabini! About average time, if I’m being honest,” Flint called out as Blaise
touched the ground.

“Fair enough!” Blaise laughed back.

“Malfoy, you’re up!”

“Best of luck to you!” Blaise said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Draco pushed off the ground with a bit of difficulty – the grass was muddy and slippery, after
all! – but he quickly found his bearings as he soared into the air.

Oh, he always forgot how much he loved that feeling.

The swoop as his stomach lurched, the wind whistling in his ears. The rain was an unfamiliar
sensation, however. Icy pin pricks against his skin as he circled the pitch. Draco had never
really flown in the rain. At home rainy days were a certain no-go for flying, so Draco really
was in uncharted waters here. He felt he should’ve gotten on the team for that effort alone!

After what felt like a lifetime, with raindrops streaming from his hair, Draco finally glimpsed
a flash of gold hovering near the Hufflepuff stands. He zipped after the Snitch with all the
skill he could muster despite feeling rather peaky yet again, desperate to know if they were
all watching, if they were at all dazzled by his brilliance as he gained on the speedy golden
ball.

His hand closed around the Snitch. A smattering of applause came from the ground below.

“Not the best time, Malfoy. You’re gonna have to work on that if you want to be at least a
decent Seeker!” Flint called out as Draco landed.

Draco stared at the grass beneath him, feeling his breath coming quicker, his hands fidgeting,
clenching and unclenching. That was it? Nettlington had been ‘great’, Blaise had been
‘average’, but Draco had been less than decent?

It wasn’t fair.

He would’ve been Seeker if he’d not followed the Journal. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair.

It. Wasn’t. Fair.

“Well, at least I’m not a good for nothing brute who barges his way to a cheated victory!” he
felt himself scream back, unsure if he really just said what he did until he saw that the pitch
had fallen unbearably silent, the other Slytherins all gaping at him. Draco felt his cheeks
burning, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Flint was glaring at him. “What did you just say to me?” he ground out.

Draco glared back, grip on his broom tightening as he slowly repeated his words as if talking
to a small child. “I said at least I’m not a brute who cheats.”

The other players threw uneasy looks at Flint as he marched towards Draco.

“That’s close enough, Flint!” yelled Pucey as the Slytherin captain loomed right over Draco.
Flint grabbed the front of Draco’s Quidditch kit, pulling him up so he was on his tiptoes. He
was so close Draco would have counted every hair of his barely-there moustache if he hadn’t
been suddenly fearing for his life.

“You can sodding well get off my pitch right this minute, Malfoy!" he spat, jabbing a finger
towards the changing rooms and shoving Draco back, which resulted in him slipping and
crashing to the muddy ground.

Draco felt his lip quiver ever so slightly, his grip on his broomstick turning his knuckles
white as he managed to get up and walk away, his back rigid.

“Now you definitely don’t have a shot,” Bullstrode whispered in passing.

“Where in Merlin’s name did that come from?” Blaise hissed.

Draco really didn’t know, and that scared him even more than a furious Marcus Flint.

***

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – October 1992

“Mother says she managed to get Papa to admit he bought the tea set from some dodgy old
tradeswix in Knockturn,” Daphne was saying to Pansy one evening as the second years were
busy doing their Potions homework. “I’m so upset, it was such a darling little set. Naturally
Papa is saying he’ll get me a new one. A proper one, this time…”

Draco paid them no mind, watching forlornly from his spot in the Slytherin common room as
the Quidditch team huddled by the fireplace after their first practice session as a full team.

As their brand new Beater, Millicent Bullstrode, so kindly predicted earlier that week, Draco
did not in fact make the Quidditch team, let alone Seeker. Nettlington had gotten the spot
after all, and the rumour mill suggested that it was purely because Flint had his eye on her.

“Oh, you look so sad. You should stop,” came the pitying tone of Pansy, who was currently
decorating her Potions spellbook with little hearts instead of doing her work.

“I should stop looking so sad?” Draco asked her incredulously. “Oh, yes. I feel so much
better now, you’ve really cheered me up.” He threw an arm over his eyes, flopping onto his
back and kicking his feet up onto Gregory’s lap.

“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t get onto the team either,” said Blaise, looking up from his
essay.

Draco rolled onto his stomach, pressing his face against the soft cushions on the sofa, and let
out a long, despairing whine.
“Do you want to go to the kitchens, Draco? A nice mug of hot chocolate always cheers me
up,” asked Vincent’s disembodied voice.

Draco sighed a long, put upon sigh. “I think I’ll just head to bed, and perhaps never emerge
from the covers again.”

“Poor Draco,” he heard Pansy say as he trudged up to his dormitory, determinedly ignoring
the daggers Flint was giving him.

Normally in this situation, Draco would’ve written to his father and told him how Flint had
nearly killed him, that something needed to be done to mend the injustice thrust upon him,
like getting Marcus Flint expelled. But Draco found he really didn’t have the energy to
exaggerate.

Draco flopped onto his bed, scritching behind Tortoise’s ears as she perched herself on his
pillow. He absent-mindedly reached into his bedside drawer and picked out the sleek black
book inside.

No sooner had he opened the diary did words come seeping onto the page.

‘How was your day, Draco?’

‘Awful. Truly just the worst day of my life,’ Draco replied.

There was a slightly longer than usual pause before Tom wrote back.

‘Do you wish to tell me about it? You know you can tell me anything.’

Draco did not know that. He didn’t know if he could actually trust Tom…

He knew that there had to be more to all of this than just a sentient magical book Draco could
confide in. The book being the ‘key’ had to mean something. It just didn’t make any sense…
Yet Draco felt compelled to tell Tom everything, about how he’d felt just rotten lately, about
how he’d made a scene in the courtyard, been snappy and irritable, even baring his teeth at
Flint…

‘I didn’t get on the Quidditch team. I lashed out at the team captain and I don’t know why.

I wish I was the Seeker, it’s not fair.’

‘No, it’s not fair, is it? You should be the Seeker. They don’t know what they’re missing
out on.’

Oh, but Tom was so very kind. Draco felt himself smile for the first time all day, reaching
over to dip his quill in his ink once more.

***
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – Saturday the 31st of October 1992

Draco sat sulking in the courtyard, steam billowing from his ears. He hated the feeling of an
oncoming cold. He’d been feeling just awful all week but woke up feeling particularly peaky
that morning. He couldn’t even pay attention to his homework. Having gone to Madam
Pomfrey for some Pepperup Potion, he still didn’t feel quite right, but the smell of freshly
baked bread, spiced pumpkin, cinnamon, and chocolate wafting through the corridors did
ease his mind a little bit, reminding him of the feast to look forward to later that day.

He could only just see the Quidditch pitch from where he sat, perched on the bannister of the
great stone staircase leading out of the castle, his legs dangling over the edge. The Slytherins
were practising, Draco could see them doing sets of manoeuvres, flying up and dipping
down.

He tore his eyes away from the blurs of green darting about in the distance as there came the
sound of footsteps approaching. It was Harry, Granger, and Weasley.

Draco felt his allergies start to flare up as he took in Harry's ridiculously messy hair and
scoffed softly to himself. Honestly.

“You can’t still be torn up about not getting on the Quidditch team?” Granger asked, her face
scrunching up in confusion. “You know, my parents say sports is bad for your teeth.”

“Hermione, let the wizard grieve, would you?” Weasley said, leaping to Draco’s defence to
both his surprise and dismay.

The power of Quidditch.

“Granger,” Draco began, “if Hogwarts had a book club, and you had the opportunity to be a
part of said book club, but said book club told you that you couldn’t read, and therefore you
couldn’t be a part of said book club, how would you feel?”

Granger gasped, a hand springing to her mouth. “But I wanted to be a part of the book club,”
she mumbled forlornly, staring somewhere far away.

“That right there is exactly how I feel,” Draco sighed, looking once more to the Quidditch
pitch.

“We’re going to Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday party later.”

All of Draco’s previous melancholy and woe was replaced by pure bewilderment as he turned
to face Harry.

“Come again? A Deathday party?” he asked incredulously.

“Er, yeah. Do you want to tag along?” Harry asked, shrugging. “We’re not sure what it’s
going to be like, but…”
“So none of you actually know what a Deathday party entails?” Draco groused, watching a
flurry of orange leaves dance on the wind whistling through the courtyard.

The three Gryffindors shuffled on their feet, Granger raising a finger then lowering it again,
grumbling something about ‘holding back from researching for the thrill of the surprise.’

“And really I ought to be honouring my ancestors tonight, not some old Gryffindor fart,”
Draco grumbled before exhaling sharply through his nose, looking into those toad-green
eyes. “But fine, as you so elegantly put it, Potter, I’ll ‘tag along.'"

***

Draco adjusted the collar of his velvety black Samhain robes, running his fingers along the
sparkling cobwebs sewn along the cuffs.

“Are you sure you’d rather go with Potter and not just come to the feast?” asked Vincent,
who was similarly dressed to Draco except in a rusty orange colour, trying to squeeze his
pointed orange hat on his head. “I heard Dumbledore’s hired dancing skeletons.”

“You know, it still confuses me a bit,” Gregory added. “Your um thing with Potter. Is it an
obsession? Or–”

“It is not an obsession,” Draco retorted hotly. Honestly, what did they know? Draco had to
stay friends with Harry and tolerate the other two; otherwise, his future would be shambles!
It’s not like Draco wanted to miss the delicious feast, choosing instead to spend time with
someone he was obviously deathly allergic to…

Once Vincent and Gregory had left for the feast, Draco sighed, sitting at his dresser and
running his finger along the spine of the Journal. There was still half an hour to wait before
the Deathday party, and to be honest, he really wasn’t sure why exactly he’d said he would go
when he and Harry were already good friends.

He was beginning to suspect he really wasn’t allergic to Harry actually. It certainly didn’t
seem like an allergic reaction. He’d seen firsthand what’d happened to Daphne Greengrass
when she ate muskrill caviar at that ball one year, and nothing like that had happened to
Draco as of yet.

Draco froze, all thoughts fleeing his mind as he noticed a sudden movement behind him in
the mirror.

Swivelling around in his chair, he surveyed the empty dormitory. “Hello?” he asked, a shiver
running down his spine. There was no reply. “Tortoise, is that you?”

There was nothing but silence, not even a meow. Frowning, Draco turned back around, only
to cry out in shock.
There in the mirror, standing behind him, was a boy with dark hair in Slytherin robes. The
last thing Draco recalled before everything turned black was a pair of bright red eyes and the
sound of cold, cruel laughter echoing around his mind.

***

Draco was having the best time of his life. He was drifting through the clouds, which were
made of cake and macarons and all things deliciously sweet! He was sure he must be
dreaming, he could feel the pull of the waking world dragging him back. But why was his
pillow so… wet? And cold? And would whatever was poking his face just stop already?!
Groaning, Draco tried to swat whatever it was away.

“Oh, good,” said a serene voice, “you’re alive.”

With herculean strength, Draco managed to open his eyes, taking in tawny blonde hair and
wide silvery eyes peering down at him. He groaned. He felt dreadful, worse than before.

“Looney? What are you doing here?” Draco asked, blinking up at the starry sky. “More
importantly, what am I doing here? Where is here?” he forced himself to sit up, a weight
rolling from his chest to his lap with a pathetic flopping noise. He looked down to see a
feathery bloody mess and did the only rational thing. He screamed.

“Why in Merlin’s name is there a dead chicken in my lap?!” he wailed, pushing the dead bird
away. He held up his shaking hands, which were crimson with its blood.

Luna only tilted her head. “Oh, so you weren’t doing a sacrificial ritual when you
accidentally fell asleep? That’s a shame, I was very sure that’s what it was. They do say that
the strangest of magics are invoked on Samhain. Have you been having chicken related
dreams perhaps?”

“I – what?” Draco looked up from the poor feathered creature, then looked around, gulping
and gasping for breaths. “Are we by the Forbidden Forest?”

“Yes, I had just come for a walk after the Samhain feast in the Great Hall, or at least that’s
what we call it, did you know Muggles have an entirely different holiday they celebrate
today?...”

Draco stopped listening as his head gave a dull throb, he began to get to his feet, trembling.
Luna held his arms as they rose up from the damp grass.

“ – And that’s when I realised it wasn’t a sleeping higiblink at all, it was my dear cousin –”

Draco let out an impatient noise. “Looney you talk too much. I have to go now. Don’t tell
anyone about this.”
With that, Draco left his odd cousin and rushed back to the castle, not stopping as he pelted
through the deserted courtyard, not questioning the splash of water under his feet as he
dashed through the first floor, down to the twisting dungeons below, not stopping until he
was at the Slytherin house stone slab, breathing out the password and stumbling through the
entrance.

“Draco?!” It was Pansy.

Draco didn’t stop. He rushed up the stairs as fast as he could, passing other confused
Slytherins, grateful for once that they resided in the dungeons and their house was always
dimly lit.

Draco barged into his dormitory and slammed the door shut after him.

“Oh, fine then! Don’t have the goodie bag I saved for you!” There was a loud thud against the
door after Pansy had her shriek, which Draco guessed must’ve been the goodie bag she
mentioned, but Draco couldn’t really bring himself to think about goodies, chocolate, or any
kind of sweet as he jumped in the shower and scrubbed himself clean. All he could think of
was that boy he’d seen in the mirror before he’d woken up covered in feathers and blood.

He was quite sure the Journal of Dreadful Things never mentioned this.
 Beware the Heir (and the Heart)

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – November 1992

“'The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir beware,’ that’s what it said,
what do you reckon it means?”

Draco turned the page of the Potions spellbook he was reading irritably. The group of first-
year Hufflepuffs on the table next to his clearly didn’t get that libraries were meant to be
silent.

For the past week the school had not spoken about anything but the events of Samhain night,
when, apparently, Mrs Norris had been petrified and a cryptic message had been left on the
wall outside the abandoned bathroom on the first floor.

Which meant somehow, in some inexplicable way, Draco had failed the Journal's demands.

The Chamber of Secrets had been opened.

Perhaps ‘the key’ wasn’t even the diary. Perhaps Draco’s father had only been trying to plant
a dark artefact on the Girl-Weasley so that the Weasley family would get in trouble, and
Draco had been wasting his time trying to figure Tom out, when he should have been looking
for an actual key.

Scowling, Draco turned the next page, and promptly realised he hadn’t actually read the last
one. Oh, he was barely focusing! And he couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched…

He looked about warily, before finally seeing exactly why he had that feeling.

Three familiar faces were watching him over the top of a large tome, all with narrowed eyes.
Draco narrowed his eyes back at them, slowly getting up from his chair. As he did so, the
three Gryffindors fumbled to look casual. Granger put the book down with a thud as she bent
her head over it, pretending to read. Harry scrambled to take out his parchment and quill,
scrawling all over the page even though he had no ink, whereas Weasley, struggling to do the
same as Harry, dropped his jar of ink all over the floor, spilling it everywhere.

Which of course, ended with Madam Pince kicking them out of the library.

“You’re not as sneaky as you think, you know,” Draco said, catching up with them. “Why
were you all looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Harry asked, eyebrows jumping up in feigned innocence as the four of them
drew to a stop.

“The same way you looked at Professor Snape for the whole of last year…” Draco placed his
hands on his hips, affronted, as it suddenly dawned on him. “I'm not the Heir, if that’s what
you’re implying!” he snapped waspishly. “I think I would know if Salazar Slytherin was a
Malfoy ancestor!”

“Well, we just thought, maybe, since you are a Slytherin,” Weasley reasoned, as Harry and
Granger nodded along with tight-lipped smiles.

“Oh, so all Slytherins are evil monsters out to get you, then?” Draco waggled his fingers at
them menacingly before huffing and crossing his arms. “Merlin himself was a Slytherin I’ll
have you know!”

The very notion that it had been him made him want to laugh. How could he have attacked
Mrs Norris, when he’d been busy with…

Busy with…

Just what had he been doing exactly?

Looney was right in saying that strange magic was invoked on Samhain, Draco had reasoned
that was what it was… But now that he thought about it, that didn’t really make any sense…

Where had he been on that Samhain night? When he’d woken up clutching a dead chicken on
the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, his hands covered in blood?

He certainly remembered getting ready for the Deathday party… He remembered seeing a
face in the mirror. But, whose face was it? It was all a blur…

Was it really him? Was that why his hands were covered in rooster blood? Did he open the
Chamber and write the message on the wall?

“ – aco? Draco?!”

Draco reeled back as Granger’s fingers snapped before his eyes.

“I – pardon?” he asked, shaking his head. “So you think it has to be someone in Slytherin, the
heir? Salazar Slytherin’s heir? Who’s certainly not me.”

The three Gryffindors exchanged an odd look.

“Actually, we were talking about Polyjuice potion,” Granger said slowly. “And how we want
to take the place of three Slytherins.”

Draco burst out laughing at that, slightly hysterical thanks to his internal panicking. However,
his mirth immediately died when he saw the three Gryffindors weren’t laughing along with
him.

It wasn’t a joke.

“Oh, Merlin’s beard,” Draco said with rising dread. “You’re serious?!”
“We figured if we start brewing it now, we can sneak into the Slytherin common room over
Christmas and try to figure out just who the heir is!” Harry explained.

Draco wrinkled his nose. “So you want to try and figure out who the heir of Salazar is over
the holidays, when most of the Slytherins will be at home for the festive season, myself
included?” he asked flatly.

“Oh,” Harry said, frowning. “We didn’t really…think about it that way?”

Draco rolled his eyes. Of course they hadn’t. “Have you even thought about how you’re
going to get the ingredients? Polyjuice is an extremely tricky potion to brew, that’s why you
don’t find it in most spellbooks.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got all that covered,” Granger said with confidence. “Why do you think
we were in the library just then?”

“Spying on and accusing me?” Draco retorted snidely.

“Well, yes, but actually, no!” Granger said with purpose, before pulling a thick, green book
emblazoned with a bubbling cauldron on the cover titled ‘Moste Potente Potions.’ “Tada!”

Draco tilted his head. “How did you manage to get access to the Restricted Section?”

“Oh, I just so happen to be Lockhart’s favourite pupil,” Granger said smugly, flicking her
hair over her shoulder. Behind her Weasley pulled a face like he’d eaten something nasty.
But Draco couldn’t really focus on that because Granger? Lockhart’s favourite?!

“Is that so?" Draco ground out, glaring. Granger gave him an odd look in response, like she
was trying to work him out.

Good luck with that, Draco thought.

The Muggle-born was quite literally saved from an ‘accidental’ jelly-legs jinx by the bell at
that point. And as Draco marched off to Charms, he swore he would triumph over that witch
and earn his spot as Lockhart’s number one somehow. Even if it was the last thing he did!

***

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – November 1992

Draco would’ve rather stuck his wand in both of his eyes than watch the first Quidditch
match of the season between Gryffindor and Slytherin, yet he found himself sitting in the
stands anyway, sulking as the teams did a warm-up lap around the pitch.

It was a beautiful day despite the crisp Autumn chill, and Draco felt as if the sun was
mocking him. He startled as the Gryffindor stand erupted around him, looking up to see the
Gryffindor team soaring by in a V-formation, red cloaks billowing out behind them.

“YEAHHHH GO GRYFFINDOR! WOOHOOOO!”

Draco blinked down at the row in front of him, where Girl-Weasley was bouncing up and
down like a lunatic, waving her red and gold flag as she clapped and cheered at the top of her
lungs.

“Don’t mind Ginny,” Weasley said to Draco and Granger in a stage-whisper. “She just really
fancies Harry.”

“Ron!” growled Girl-Weasley, turning around and trying to punch her older brother on the
arm, “I do not! I just like Quidditch!” However, even as she protested this, her face had gone
bright red. The squabble between Weasley and his little sister carried on for a few more
minutes, but Draco paid them no mind.

For some reason, imagining Girl-Weasley holding hands with Harry made a very ugly feeling
twist and contort inside Draco’s chest. He chose to divert his attention back to the pitch
before he said or did something more horrible than usual again.

The game quickly got underway, with Draco feeling more and more dreadful by the second.
To make matters worse, that Creevey boy had chosen to sit directly behind him and would
not stop clicking and flashing with that damned camera of his. It was starting to give Draco a
headache.

Oh, why did he choose to sit in the Gryffindor stands?

Ah, right. He’d insulted the Slytherin captain to his face.

Draco’s attention was caught by the flurry of red above. Harry was circling the pitch on his
Nimbus Two Thousand. It certainly wasn’t a Nimbus Two Thousand and One, but it was still
the fastest broomstick in the game.

Nettlington was keeping a steady pace behind him.

Draco snorted to himself, sinking into his Slytherin scarf with a moody grumble. That was
one of the most basic tactics! Tail your opponent so you don’t have to rush to catch up with
them if they spot the Snitch first. Where was the strategy? The distractions? The
obstructions?! Honestly. Draco would’ve been doing loop-de-loops and tormenting Harry to
keep his attention away from finding the Snitch, to give Slytherins some leeway to score
some goals. Perhaps Nettlington was a bit lacking in the brains department…

Draco, instead of dwelling on that palaver, turned his attention back to the birdsnest of black
hair on a broomstick. He couldn’t help but chuckle as Harry narrowly avoided getting
knocked off his broom by a Bludger whizzing in his direction.

He always looks so stupid playing Quidditch, Draco thought as he leant his head in his
hands.
It was true! Harry pulled the awkwardest of faces, and just generally looked like a dancing
bowtruckle with two left feet. A disaster on both solid ground and in the air, yet somehow
still a decent Seeker. That, or he was just blessed with dumb luck. It wouldn’t surprise Draco,
seeing as he luckily survived the Killing Curse as a baby. He’d caught the Snitch in his mouth
back in that first game... He’d looked like a wide-mouthed tree frog as he spat out the golden
ball, but he’d luckily caught in nonetheless.

He was just so… daft.

For the second time, Harry had to barrel-roll out of a Bludger’s path. Draco would’ve
laughed again, but at the same time, Pucey’s broom got hit with one on the other end of the
pitch. There were never more than two Bludgers in a game of Quidditch.

Draco frowned, watching the Bludger that Harry had just dodged sail across the pitch, only to
swivel around unnaturally before pelting at Harry again. Harry had to barrel-roll out of the
way yet again.

“Someone’s meddled with that Bludger,” Draco observed, as Harry darted out of its path yet
again.

The Weasleys, Granger, and Creevey, along with a few other Gryffindors, all craned their
heads to look up at Harry, who was by this point flying away as fast as he could, the Bludger
speeding after him relentlessly.

Weasley groaned, rubbing at his face. “Why do these things always seem to happen to
Harry?” he asked nobody in particular.

Draco had to agree, what with Quirrell’s sneaky broomstick-jinxing last year. Who was the
culprit this time? Who had sabotaged the game? Flint, perhaps? He mused upon the
likelihood, but in the next moment Draco couldn’t contain the laugh that bubbled up his
throat as Harry pulled an awkward sort of twirling manoeuvre to dodge the rogue Bludger yet
again.

“Are you seriously laughing right now?” Granger asked, giving him her shrewdest glare.

“I’m sorry, but he looks like he’s training for the ballet!” Draco wheezed.

“He could die!” As if to emphasise Granger’s point, the rogue bludger whizzed past Harry
once more, snagging his broom bristles and sending him cartwheeling into Bulstrode.

Draco winced.

The Twin Weasleys were circling Harry and beating the Bludger away every time it came
back. But all of a sudden Harry went into a dramatic nosedive, the Bludger careening around
once more.

Draco gasped with the crowd as Harry was struck by the Bludger, sending him tumbling
down to the field below.
 ***

Harry had caught the Snitch. Gryffindor had won the game, and Draco had some very mixed
emotions about it. Yes, he was a Slytherin through and through, but he was bitterly glad Flint
hadn’t had his victory.

The Bludger had broken Harry’s arm, and he was in the Hospital Wing actually having to
regrow his bones overnight. Lockhart had failed to heal him, but Draco was sure it was due to
the heat of the moment and the amount of pressure on him. True, Lockhart had never made
mistakes like that in his many adventures, but he’d also never had hundreds of pairs of eyes
watching him pull off his daring deeds. It was the only reasonable explanation.

Draco huffed as he pulled at his covers, tossing and turning for the umpteenth time that night.
He felt uneasy, and couldn’t, for the love of Merlin, get to sleep. The memories of Samhain
were, for some reason, floating to the forefront of his mind. The chicken, and the boy in the
mirror.

And to make matters worse, Draco also could not stop thinking about what Weasley had said
earlier, about his little sister ‘fancying’ Harry. The thought of Harry ‘fancying’ that little
ginger hooligan back made him feel… things.

Imagining them holding hands made him want to hex someone. Why should she be the one to
hold Harry’s hand when Draco could hold it so much better?!

Draco froze in his tossing, staring with wide eyes up at his bed canopy.

Did he ‘fancy’ Harry?

Was that what that fluttery feeling was?

No, it couldn’t be…

Could it?

Oh.

Oh, Merlin’s soggy socks.

He did, didn’t he?! He had feelings for Harry! Not just friendly feelings. Soppy ones! He
wasn’t allergic to him at all, was he?!

Did that mean…? Had he been harbouring these feelings since first year?!

Draco sat bolt upright.

OH, HE HAD!

Draco buried his burning face into his pillow and let out a long, muffled scream.
“Are you alright?”

Draco hesitantly lifted his head from his pillow, seeing a thin, pale face and mousy brown
hair peeking back at him through the curtains.

“Yes!” Draco practically whisper-shouted at Theodore, feeling his eye twitch. “Why wouldn’t
I be?! I’m fine. I’ve never been more fine!”

Theodore gave him an odd look. “Riiight,” he said, “It’s just because, well, you were
screaming. But you’re clearly going through… um… something… so I’ll just…um bye.”

The curtains shut again, and Draco collapsed heavily onto his back, his twitching eye
jumping as he burned holes into the canopy. Oh, he felt so confused. It made sense, of course.
It explained why he was so – not to use Gregory’s wording, but – obsessed. But he’d never
felt like this for anyone before… how could he know if that’s truly what it was? He needed
advice.

Draco looked at the sleek black diary peeking out innocently from beneath his pillow.

Taking a sharp breath, he snatched it up before he could change his mind, grabbing his quill
and ink from his bedside.

‘Draco! It’s been too long since we last bumped gums. How are you?’

Draco hesitated for a moment, a single ink drop splashing on the page and disappearing.

‘Well? Don’t keep me waiting.’

Draco frowned down at the empty page a moment longer, unsure why everything had
suddenly gone fuzzy.

‘My apologies, Tom. Something happened to me today…’

***

Word got around the next morning that Colin Creevey, the hopeless little Muggle-born who
followed Harry around, had been the second victim of the Heir. And the first person. It struck
Draco as strange, especially since Tom had asked about Creevey when Draco brought him up
in their conversation the previous night…

Naturally, the school was flooded with a babble of rumours. But Draco was too tired to even
care. If anything, it was a good thing. He didn’t like how that boy followed Harry around,
annoying him and seeking him out at every opportunity. Honestly, who does that?
His head had been aching since he stayed up late talking with Tom about Harry til he conked
out, and it seemed like no amount of pain relief potions would dull it down.

Draco was busy trying to avoid everyone and everything later that same week, hidden away
at the back of the library among the most dusty and cobweb-blanketed books. He’d tucked
his nose resolutely inside the copy of ‘Magical Me’ he’d snuck from some unsuspecting
Slytherin who’d left it in the common room, and was happily chewing on a toffee toadstool,
when he heard footsteps approaching.

Draco flailed, moving to stuff the book back in his bag, but it was too late. Hermione Granger
had seen it, and seen him reading it.

It would’ve been perfectly fine if he’d been reading Holidays with Hags, or Travels with
Trolls. But Magical Me was definitely not on the curriculum that year.

Draco swallowed his toffee toadstool. “I was just making fun of it, you know, how ridiculous,
I mean, that is to say… um…” he broke off into nervous laughter, internally berating himself.
He was usually so quick on his feet with spinning a little white lie, what was wrong with
him?

Granger only looked at him with narrowed eyes, a mischievous smile tugging at her mouth.
Had she been a Slytherin, Draco would have started to worry.

“You know, it’s really alright if you’re a fan of Lockhart, too,” she whispered to him
conspiratorially as she sank to her knees beside him. “It doesn’t hurt to enjoy the things you
like.”

Draco looked down at the book still in his grasp, at the winking face of Lockhart clearly on
the cover, and at Granger’s stupid, smug, buck toothed face.

Feeling there was nothing for it, Draco peered around the shelves, just in case there was
anybody around who might overhear. He bit his lip, turning back to Granger and deflating.

“Alright, Granger, since you’ve cornered me and twisted my arm…I am indeed…a massive
fan,” he mumbled, blinking as he strangely felt a huge weight lift off his chest.

Granger let out a hushed high-pitched squeal, doing a weird little dancey thing with her arms.
“Isn’t he just incredible?! I can’t believe he’s actually here, teaching us! What’s your
favourite story? I can’t decide between befriending the Hound of Hungary or the battle
against the Banshee of Killarny!”

“Mine has to be the Ukranian Ironbelly, it was my favourite growing up,” Draco said with
more confidence, a thrill washing over him at actually speaking aloud about all this.

“Oh, of course! You must have been raised on his tales!” Granger grinned.

“My father never approved,” Draco admitted glumly.

“Yes, but you approve,” Granger said fiercely, prodding him in the chest.
Draco frowned down at where she’d poked him. That was the second time she’d made a
comment like that, about his father.

“This may be weird, but I’ve actually learned the copying charm so I can make copies of all
my homework and cut his signatures out,” Granger whispered, biting her lip and shrugging
her shoulders. “And my parents really approve of his teeth, they say he should be in a
toothpaste advert,” she giggled.

“What’s tooth-paste?” Draco asked, frowning and wondering if it was a potions ingredient
he’d somehow not heard of.

Granger gave him a long, disbelieving look. “How are your teeth so white? Is there some
kind of spell? I don’t get it!”

“There are spells, but most wix use a magic potion that we gargle, if you really must know,”
Draco sniffed.

“Like Mouthwash?” Granger asked.

“How crude. Are all Muggles that simple with names?” Draco scoffed.

Granger raised a finger, opening her mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it,
lowering her finger as she frowned. “That is very simple, actually. But, oh I’m so glad you
opened up to me about Lockhart! I was thinking lots about what you said in October, about a
book club. Maybe we can start one to talk about his adventures!”

“Like a fan club?” Draco asked, his nose wrinkling slightly.

“No, well, yes, but also as an exploration of further literary extra-curricular activity!”
Granger said all in one breath. “But mainly to talk about Lockhart’s novels, so also yes, a fan
club!”

“What are you two busy whispering about?”

They both jumped. Weasley loomed over them, a faint scowl upon his freckled face.

“Nothing!” Draco yelped, this time managing to stuff his book away.

First Granger, now Weasley. And where there was Weasley, there was… oh no.

Draco wasn’t ready! He couldn’t see Harry, not after his world-shattering revelation the other
day! He needed more time, it wasn’t fair! Why, oh, why did they have to share the stifling
proximity of the same enormous seven-story castle?!

But wait…

“Where’s Harry?” Draco asked, frowning as he peered around Weasley’s knobbly knees. The
orange one was alone, so it seemed.
“It’s Wednesday. He’s at Quidditch practice,” Weasley grunted, seeming a tad more hostile
than usual.

“Oh,” said Draco, his shoulders slumping. If he didn’t want to see Harry, why did he feel so
disappointed? And why was Weasley glaring at him?

***

“Why are we brewing it in the abandoned bathroom?” Draco groused as he followed the idiot
trio into the first-floor bathroom. “Don’t you think people will notice the smell?”

“It’s a bathroom,” Granger said, setting her cauldron down on one of the toilets with a loud
clunk. “Abandoned or not, there’s going to be smells.”

“We’re all going in there? Together?” Draco glanced fleetingly at Harry. “Won’t it be…
cramped?”

“It’s fine,” Granger said, waving her wand and lighting a flame in the toilet bowl beneath the
cauldron. “Right, we’re going to need Knotgrass, Lacewing flies, Fluxweed, leeches, Bicorn
horn, and Boomslang skin.”

“How are we meant to get those ingredients?” Weasley asked.

“We may need to come up with a plan,” Granger said authoritatively, pacing up and down the
cubicles. “A distraction the next time we have Potions. Then one of us can sneak into
Professor Snape’s private stores.”

“I think Draco and I had better do the actual stealing,” she continued. “You two will get
expelled if you get in any more trouble, and we have a clean record. So all you two need to
do is…”

Granger’s words became noise in the background as Draco stared at Harry. And at that
moment, as Harry gave Granger a weak smile, Draco had a very good-bad idea. A very good-
bad idea that would no doubt impress Harry, and get the one up on whatever idea Granger
was stewing over in her unfairly ginormous brain.

***

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – Wednesday the 9th of December 1992
“Might I ask why you’ve decided to help me collect potion ingredients this evening, Mister
Malfoy?”

“I’m really running out of extra-curricular interests as I didn’t get on the Quidditch team,”
Draco lied smoothly, adjusting his winter cloak around himself as he plucked another
mushroom from a mouldy stump and threw it in his basket.

The sun had set around an hour ago, and the full moon hung bright and yellow in the sky
despite it still being before curfew. Severus waded through the shallows of the Black Lake
toward Draco, his wellies at risk of filling with icy water if he went any deeper.

“Boline knife,” Severus said. Draco passed the crescent-shaped blade to him, exchanging it
for the jarful of glowing algae Severus had just collected. “Are you terribly upset about that?”

“Well, it would have been a lot of fun,” Draco mused, staring up at his namesake in the sky
whilst Severus went to work filling a basket with fluxweed. “But I’ve almost accepted that
perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be.”

“That is very mature of you,” said Severus. “But don’t feel discouraged from trying again
next year.”

Draco chose not to reply, finding a spot for the jar of algae in Severus’ wagon of freshly-
picked ingredients.

There was a great, fat toad bobbing in a jar that Draco did feel quite sorry for. It was soon to
be pickled. Draco was promptly struck with the image of Harry’s eyes and that feeling of…
whatever it was that he felt washed over him.

He let out a long sigh, falling to the damp grass in a heap and staring up at the stars.

“Sir?” Draco asked, lifting his head to look at Severus. “Have you ever… had romantic
feelings for anyone?”

Severus severed the roots of the fluxweed a little too harshly, his beady black eyes snapping
up to meet Draco’s filled with something very heavy that Draco couldn’t even begin to pick
apart.

Draco suddenly wished he hadn’t asked, finding the damp grass beneath him incredibly
interesting. Riveting, actually. So many blades of green.

“That is a very private matter, Mr Malfoy,” Severus finally drawled. “However, if it’s
guidance you’re searching for…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing irritably. “It’s
only natural to feel attraction and emotions like infatuation and even love as you grow,”
Severus said, his face strained as though he’d eaten a whole basket of lemons. “And that is
only going to get worse as you become an adolescent, I’m afraid.”

“Right,” Draco croaked out, despising the way his heart felt like it was thumping away in his
throat. “Thank you.”
Severus gave him a long, questioning look before nodding and wading off to the shallows of
the lake once more.

Right. Well, that was that conversation done with. Draco let out a deep breath, placing his
burning face in his hands.

While Severus was busy gathering more ingredients in the shallows, Draco snuck some of the
freshly harvested fluxweed into his robes. And if Severus noticed Draco taking several other
ingredients when he helped restock his private stores, he didn’t think anything of it.

What Severus did fail to notice, however, was that among the ingredients Draco had taken,
there was shredded boomslang skin and powdered bicorn horn.

***

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – December 1992

The three Gryffindors stared in astounded silence as Draco placed the ingredients beside the
steadily bubbling cauldron on the toilet the very next day.

“How did you manage that?!” Harry exclaimed.

“Flawlessly and effortlessly,” Draco replied simply, smirking.

“How did you really manage it?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes.

Draco rolled his eyes in return. Gryffindors were so sickeningly righteous.

“If you must know, Scarhead, Snape is actually a family friend,” Draco sighed. “He tutored
me before Hogwarts.”

“This somehow doesn’t surprise me,” said Weasley, giving Harry a pointed look.

“And he didn’t question this at all?” Granger asked, brow furrowed deeply. “I had this whole
plan thought through, I even smuggled in contraband for tomorrow's lesson.” She held up a
Filibuster firework that she appeared to just be carrying on her person.

“No matter! I got everything we need,” Draco said, gesturing at the ingredients with a
flourish. “And nobody got in trouble or hurt!”

“That is true…” Granger said. Harry and Weasley shrugged in acceptance. “And now we can
start brewing!” Granger added, clapping her hands together.

“Brewing what?” came a whining, sullen voice from the next stall over.
Everyone looked up as a ghostly girl in Ravenclaw robes peered over the edge, an affronted
look on her bespectacled face.

“Oh, hello, Myrtle,” said Granger weakly.

“I did wonder what all that was,” Moaning Myrtle grumbled. “Nobody ever comes into my
bathroom. What are you four doing in here, and why shouldn’t I report you now?”

“Oh, I just wanted to um… show them how lovely it is in here!” Granger reasoned, gesturing
vaguely at the damp floor, dusty mirrors, and lone fungi growing at the base of one of the
sinks.

“‘S great!” Weasley agreed when Granger elbowed him.

“Really, er, peaceful?” Harry added awkwardly.

“Very quaint,” Draco finished politely.

“I do try,” Myrtle sniffed, then pointed at the bubbling cauldron on the toilet. “What about
that? I did go to this school, you know, before I died. I was a student!” she snapped. “I’m not
stupid, I know a Potions set-up when I see one!”

The four second years exchanged a panicked glance.

“We thought the aroma of a steadily bubbling potion would fit your…wonderful ambience!”
Draco blurted out quickly. “Just adding a little…pizazz, if you will!”

“Oh,” said Myrtle, reeling back with a silver tinge to her ghostly cheeks. “I…I think that
might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me…”

“Ask her if she’s seen anything,” Harry muttered to Draco.

“What are you whispering about?” Myrtle snapped

“Nothing. We were wondering if –?” Harry began, only to be interrupted as Myrtle let out a
wail like a banshee.

“Oh, I wish people would stop talking behind my back! I do have feelings, you know, even if
I am dead!” the ghost girl cried. With that, Myrtle drifted through the stall wall, there was
another loud wail, promptly followed by a large splash.

“Marvellously handled, Potter,” Draco sighed.

Harry just grimaced.

The four of them then stared down at the cauldron in an awkward silence.

“Right!” Granger barked suddenly, opening ‘Moste Potente Potions’ to a page she’d
bookmarked. “So it says here we need to add the knotgrass first on a low heat…”
 ***

An honourable, respectable wix learns how to duel properly. That is one of the first rules of
magic, at least in pureblood culture. Aside from proper wand etiquette, solstice traditions,
and basic potion brewery, how to duel properly and fairly was one of the first lessons taught
to a well-tutored wix.

“Why would we even need to go?” Draco asked as his fellow second year Slytherins made
their way down to Herbology one chilly winter afternoon.“We all know the rules already.”

“I hear Professor Lockhart’s hosting it,” Daphne Greengrass said with a dreamy sigh.

Draco paused mid-step.

“I’ve changed my mind, we may as well give it a look-see, eh?” Draco said to the others, who
all agreed.

And that’s how the Slytherins ended up in the Great Hall that same evening after dinner.

The tables had vanished and in their place were a dozen or so evenly placed mats, as well as a
large raised platform at the very end of the hall. It seemed as though almost the whole school
had turned up.

Draco was just about to ask Gregory if he could get a piggyback to see over the crowd when
there came a familiar, velvety, more than welcome voice.

“Gather round, gather round!” Professor Lockhart exclaimed as he strode along the raised
platform to the sound of the applause that had quickly bloomed. “Can you all see me? Can
you all hear me? Excellent!”

He was adorned in professional duelling robes of a deep purple, and struck quite a brilliant
figure in the bright candlelight.

Draco let out a quiet sigh. Granger was definitely right about one thing. Lockhart was simply
incredible.

Lockhart clapped his hands together, bouncing on his heels and beaming away. “Now!
Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little duelling club, to train you
all up in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless
occasions – for full details see my published works.”

There came the sound of a pointed throat clearing, everyone glancing to the other end of the
stage where Severus was ascending the steps, looking very much like a bat with his black
cloak draped around himself.

“I didn’t know Snape was helping,” Draco heard Pansy whisper.

“Ah, Professor! Glad you could make it,” Lockhart called out, laughing amicably. “Professor
Snape, everyone! He tells me he knows a tiny bit about duelling himself, and has sportingly
agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now I don’t want you
youngsters to worry, you’ll have your Potions master when I’m through with him, never
fear!”

Draco exchanged a glance with the Slytherins. While most of them looked on disbelievingly,
Draco bit his lip. Who knew what Lockhart was capable of? What powerful magic he could
use on Severus? Yes, Severus was a capable wizard, but this was Gilderoy Lockhart.

With a flourish, Lockhart raised his wand high over his head, pointing it at Severus, his knees
bending in a perfect dueller's stance. Severus followed suit with an expression Draco could
only describe as rather murderous.

“As you see,” Lockhart murmured, clearly getting in the zone, “we are holding our wands in
the acceptive combat position. On the count of three we will cast out first spells. Neither of
us will be aiming to kill, of course.”

The tension in the air was palpable; everyone leaning in slightly as sparks flickered at the end
of Severus’ wand.

Lockhart began counting down. “Three – two – one!”

Severus waved his wand, chanting an incantation before Lockhart could so much as blink.

“Expelliarmus!”

A jet of red light hit Lockhart in the chest, sending him colliding with the wall, a Gryffindor
banner falling in a heap on top of him. There was muffled groaning, before Lockhart’s head
peaked out from the thick scarlet material, his golden coif of hair as messy as Harry’s
birdsnest.

A few students laughed as Lockhart stumbled to his feet, climbing back on the stage.

“Well there you have it!” he announced, chuckling weakly. “That was a disarming charm – as
you can see I’ve lost my wand – ah, thank you Miss Brown. Yes, an excellent idea to show
them that, Professor Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you
were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have only been too easy. However, I
felt it would be instructive to let them see…” Lockhart trailed off at the look Severus was
giving him, somehow ten times more murderous than before.

“Enough demonstrating!” Lockhart exclaimed. “Let’s pair you all up, shall we? Professor
Snape, if you’d like to help me…”

“I thought Lockhart was supposed to be good at this sort of thing?” Parkinson sniffed,
examining her nails, which were festively coloured green and red.

“He did say he was going easy on Professor Snape,” Draco told her snidely.

“Draco, do you admire Lockhart or something?” Blaise asked, grinning from ear to ear.
“Oh, not you too,” Theodore groaned.

“I…” Draco began, trying to come up with something, anything believable and less shameful
than a pureblood heir having an idol.

“Mr Malfoy, come over here,” called out Severus over the bobbing sea of heads. Thankful for
the interruption, Draco strode over to where Severus was standing next to a knot of
Gryffindors, including…

“Let’s see what you make of the famous Potter.”

Draco faltered. He barely heard the rest of what Severus was saying as he approached Harry.
Half of him was screaming to turn and flee, the other wanting desperately to show off like
one of his father’s prized peacocks. Another tiny part of him was purely flailing with
giddiness at the prospect of being partnered with Harry.

“Scarhead,” he greeted with feigned nonchalance. “May I have this duel?”

“Er…well, you’re already my partner?” Harry replied, blinking owlishly. Draco felt his eye
twitch. Honestly, it was ridiculous how uncultured in wixen tradition some people were,
specifically Harry. He was a Potter, after all! Draco made a note to perhaps tell him more
sometime.

“Face your partners, and bow!” came Lockhart’s voice.

Draco dipped down at the waist just as Lockhart had. Harry followed suit, albeit clumsier and
more rigid than Draco had been.

“Wands at the ready! When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponent – only
to disarm them! We don’t want any accidents.” said Lockhart. “Now on the count of three…
one… two… three!”

Harry took the most basic of dueller's stances, but Draco had no need to take stance, as he
shot on two. It was a dirty tactic but it gave the dueller the upper-hand, or so his father said.

“Locomotor Wibbly!”

Harry let out a yelp of surprise as his legs turned to jelly, but he didn’t drop his wand,
pointing at Draco from the ground as his legs wobbled around like fish out of water.

“Rictumsempra!”

Draco doubled over as laughter bubbled up from his throat, quite unable to stop giggling
helplessly as it felt like dozens of feathers were tickling him all over. He collapsed to the
floor, cackling. Through his tears of laughter, he managed to squeeze out a spell, aiming his
wand with a shaking arm.

“Tallantallegra!”
Harry made yet another surprised noise as he began to tap-dance with his jellified legs, which
gave the impression of a drunken squid, and only made Draco laugh even harder, this time of
his own will. His laughter was apparently contagious, as Harry began to snigger too.

“Stop! Stop!” yelled Lockhart’s voice from somewhere far away, but Draco could barely hear
him over his peals of laughter.

“Finite Incantatem!” Severus’ voice resonated around the hall, and Draco felt magic sweep
over him like a gust of wind. Just like that, everyone stopped duelling, their spells undoing
themselves.

Harry stopped tap-dancing on his no-longer jellified legs, clutching at his knees. Draco
groaned, wiping the tears of mirth from his face as he got to his feet.

“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly spells first!” Lockhart exclaimed,
chuckling nervously. “Let’s have a volunteer pair! Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how
about you?”

“I think not, Professor Lockhart,” Severus interrupted, gliding to the centre stage from where
he’d been lurking in the shadows. “Longbottom causes devastation with even the simplest of
spells, we’ll be sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley to the Hospital Wing in a matchbox.”

Severus caught Draco’s eye. “How about Malfoy and Potter?” he drawled, the barest hint of a
smile tugging at his lips.

Draco looked to Harry, who nodded back at him. Together, they wound their way through the
crowd and climbed the stairs to the stage.

“Good luck, Draco!” Pansy whispered as Gregory and Vincent gave him a thumbs up.

While Lockhart spoke to Harry, Severus leaned down to whisper in Draco’s ear.

“I should think the old pulling a serpent from the wand trick ought to do it,” he murmured,
giving Draco an uncharacteristically sly wink.

Draco nodded, a smirk curling upon his face. His cheeks still hurt from laughing so much,
but oh, this was such fun! Duelling with Harry was distracting him from feeling so terribly
tired and moody all the time.

Draco approached Harry, raising his wand in front of his face.

“Scared, Potter?” Draco asked, smirking.

“You wish,” Harry muttered, mirth sparkling in those green, green eyes.

“On the count of three,” said Lockhart. “One – two – three!”

Draco waved his wand with a flourish. “Serpensortia!”

He watched, feeling extremely proud of himself as a large conjured python sprung out the tip
of his wand, falling to the floor in an angry, hissing pile of scaly coils.

In his early days of tutoring, his father and Severus often duelled each other to set an
example, and Draco had wanted to use that spell ever since Severus had sprung it on his
father and he ran around the ballroom screaming as it chased him.

But instead of screaming and fleeing like his father, or gasping like the rest of the closest
students, Harry began to hiss at the snake, and the snake seemed to respond. It stopped in its
tracks as it advanced on a group of Hufflepuffs, turning its scaled head to Harry and hissing
back.

Draco felt his jaw drop as it dawned on him.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was also a Parseltongue? And he was commanding
Draco’s conjured snake to do his bidding now, apparently?!

The snake abruptly burst into flames, Severus lowering his wand with a grim expression on
his face.

The resounding silence was broken as everyone began to whisper and murmur and stare.
Draco blinked dumbly at Harry, who only looked around, baffled.

“What?”

***

For some reason, Draco found himself waking up covered in feathers and blood more often
than he’d like. This was only the second time, but it was still two times too many, thank you
very much.

Peeking out of his emerald bed curtains, Draco saw that the coast was clear. It was most
likely the early hours of the morning.

Draco scampered across the dormitory to the bathroom, locking the door and jumping in the
hot shower, lathering lemon-scented bathing potion all over his blood-caked hands.

Taking a deep breath of steam and citrus, he shook his head. This was getting out of hand, it
couldn’t be a coincidence. If there happened to be another bloody message on a wall, then
he’d have his answer; he’d know.

Draco would know if the Heir was somehow him.

 ***

As it turned out, there was no new message. But there had been another petrification. Harry
and Weasley made sure to inform him of that as soon as he found them, looking as dejected
as kicked crups in the courtyard.

“They got Hermione.”

Sure enough, Granger had been the next victim of the Heir, laid in the Hospital Wing, her
eyes wide, her face twisted with shock, and her dark skin a sickly grey.

“And just before Christmas, too,” Harry mumbled, looking absolutely miserable. His face
had very much been the same over the past couple of weeks, with what seemed like the entire
school suspecting him to be the Heir. Now it seemed his grumpy, woeful expression had
worsened tenfold.

Draco sighed, tearing his eyes away from Harry and gazing down at Granger’s fear-contorted
face. Surely it had to hurt, to have one’s face stuck like that indefinitely…

An uncomfortable feeling washed over him as he looked across the Hospital Wing to the bed
Creevey occupied, face contorted much like Granger’s. And Mrs Norris, in her cat bed in the
corner, as stiff as a statue.

If this was Draco’s doing… Oh, he didn’t like this at all. The Journal had made it seem so
simple. ‘The Chamber of Secrets will be opened and a handful of Muggle-borns will be
petrified. If you can, try and stop it.’

Yes, Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey were working on a cure, waiting for the
Mandrakes to mature to make the draught. Yes, the victims would all be back on their feet by
the end of the school year… But never would Draco have imagined it would be this dreadful.

With another sigh, he turned his eyes back to Granger. It was impossible to believe this was
the same witch who had been gossiping about Lockhart with him just a few days ago…

He left Harry and Weasley in a trance, finding himself back in his room sometime later,
already loading books into his trunk.

It was the last day of term. He would be boarding the Hogwarts Express in a few hours time
for the winter solstice festivities.

He should’ve been feeling ecstatic, yet he still pondered on Granger and Creevey. He
pondered on Mrs Norris, and the message written in blood. He pondered on the Chamber of
Secrets, and Tom being the key to open it. The fact that Tom was in his possession, and that
Draco could not remember certain things. Like Samhain, when he’d somehow killed a
chicken. And that morning, when he’d done it again, and there had been yet another attack.

The key to opening the Chamber of Secrets and unleash Salazar’s monster was a sentient
diary , and Draco had been speaking to him all term.
Draco had fed Tom the information he needed.

Draco wasn’t the Heir.

Tom was.

“Are you alright, Draco?”

Draco snapped out of his trance, turning to see Vincent blinking back at him, Tortoise
sprawled happily across his shoulders.

“You’ve been standing there, staring into space for the past five minutes is all,” Vincent
reasoned, shrugging.

“I’m fine,” Draco told him, sounding hollow to his own ears.

On shaking legs, Draco grabbed Tom’s diary from beneath his pillow and dropped it inside
the lowest drawer of his bedside table, kicking the drawer shut firmly.

“Let’s go,” Draco said with a tone of finality, grabbing his trunk from his bed and striding
towards the door.

“Oh,” said Vincent. “But I haven't finished packing yet.”

***

Malfoy Manor – December 1992

Over the course of the holidays, Draco had been feeling much perkier. He hadn’t really
noticed he’d been feeling so tired until he woke up on the third day feeling incredibly
refreshed and alive.

The Malfoys held the solstice just as usual, celebrating the time-honoured tradition. He’d had
a right good time, stuffing his face with chocolates and festive Yuletide treats.

Only all the fun and festivities seemed duller than usual. And not dull in the boring sense. It
all just seemed… pointless. All Draco could think about was what was going on back at
Hogwarts. If there had perhaps been another attack and Tom wasn’t the Heir after all, that
Draco had just developed some sort of terrible sleep-walking curse and Tom was just a
sentient diary to talk to.

He knew that wasn’t the case, but he sorely wished it was.

Draco had tried so very hard not to think about Tom, or the Chamber, or the attacks. Now that
his mind felt clearer and more awake, he’d decided he’d try to figure it all out as soon as he
got back to the castle.
But it was a rather hard topic to avoid.

The first thing his father had queried Draco about as they sat down for dinner the night Draco
had returned had been the Chamber.

“The school board is of course urging the culprit to be caught, but I mean, what harm is it
truly causing?” his father had chuckled as he sipped his wine. “Certainly doesn’t affect any
wix of proper blood.”

Draco was reminded of how Granger had worded her view of blood and magic on the
Hogwarts Express. Then of the fact that she had been the last victim before he’d left, a
familiar feeling squirming around his guts. Suddenly, he hadn’t felt so hungry anymore.

It seemed to be all the pureblood wix could gossip about at the solstice, wondering if the
school was even safe, and who was handling it. Some tittering witches had suggested that
Lockhart would swoop in and figure it all out. Draco had thought he wouldn’t mind that,
actually, even as he’d tried to distract himself by having a snowball fight with the other
second year Slytherins. Doing his best at avoiding Pansy, who, for some odd reason, seemed
adamant on dancing with him.

But as soon as the holidays began, they were over entirely too quickly.

Draco sat on his bed with a sigh. Packing done, all that was left now was to get a good night’s
rest.

He was just wondering what Harry had been up to, and if he’d received Draco’s owl bearing
solstice blessings, when he thought he saw something in the corner of his eye.

He looked across the room, where there seemed to be a small red light glowing in the
reflection of the mirror.

Treading lightly, he made his way to the cheval mirror, frowning as there seemed to be
nothing…

But wait! There it was again, the red glowing light… No. Not one, but two red glowing
lights…

Squinting as he looked closer, he saw that the red glowing lights belonged to a shadowy
figure behind him.

Draco swivelled around in fright, bracing his arms against the side of his dresser.

All he saw was his empty bedroom, a slither of moonlight creeping through a gap in the
curtains, with no shadowy figures in sight.

Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Draco turned around again.

A familiar dark-haired boy stared back at him over his shoulder in the mirror, smiling in an
unnervingly pleasant way.
Draco gasped as déjà vu struck him like a wayward hex.

“You,” Draco breathed out. “You’re who I saw in the mirror on Samhain. Who are you?”
Now that he was looking, he saw the boy appeared to be older; a fifth or sixth year perhaps.
And his Slytherin school robes were nothing like Draco’s.

The boy mimed a book opening, pointed at Draco, then mimed writing.

“Tom?” Draco gasped. “You’re Tom?!”

Tom only nodded, the pleasant smile not leaving his face.

Draco backed away. “How are you here?! I don’t have the diary on me.”

At that, Tom’s smile seemed to grow wider and he shook his head, as if amused.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco snapped.

Tom pointed at Draco, then at himself, then knitted his fingers together.

Draco blinked. “You and I… together?”

Tom nodded, then.

“I’m not sure what my father would say about that,” Draco squeaked, his cheeks flooding
with heat.

Tom only squinted back at him, before shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.
In the blink of an eye, Tom had vanished again.

Draco collapsed onto his bed, his mind doing cartwheels as he tried to wrap his head around
what had just happened. He needed to think, if only he could focus, he could surely find a
solution. If only he wasn’t so, so very tired…

***

Draco blinked, sitting up and looking around.

He appeared to be in a cavernous room, statues of heraldic serpents lining a clear path

toward a ginormous face carved into the stone wall. It resembled the Green Man…Or
Merlin... Or just about any legendary wizard, really.

Or Salazar Slytherin.

Was he inside Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets?

Draco ventured toward the end of the chamber, his footsteps sending ripples along the
flooded floor. The snake statues seemed to be hissing; a sharp, whispering sound that echoed
off the high ceilings.

There appeared to be something small and furry standing beneath the giant stone carving, and
as Draco drew nearer, he saw that it was Mrs Norris, her red eyes unsettlingly wide and
glassy.

But she wasn’t alone.

Standing either side of her were Colin Creevey and Hermione Granger. Draco gasped, taking
a step back. As he did, Mrs Norris, Creevey, and Granger took a step forward. The Muggle-
borns' faces were twisted in their petrified state, their eyes holding the same wide glassiness
as Mrs Norris’ as they pointed accusing fingers at him.

Draco tried to take another step back, but found he could not, his arms pulling him back in
place. He looked down in fright, finding magical strings attached to his wrists. The strings
were pulled taught, and Draco was dragged forward, stumbling. Mrs Norris, Creevey, and
Granger only got closer and closer.

Draco tried to call out for help, but all that came out of his mouth was the crow of a rooster.

A cold, high laugh echoed around the chamber, and Draco woke up with a loud cry.

He sat bolt upright, panting and shaking.

“Draco? Is everything alright?”

Draco snapped his gaze up, finding his mother standing in the doorway of his bedroom, the
tip of her wand lit up. "Mother?”

“Your wards went off, sweetheart,” she explained, stepping further into the room. “I just
came to see if you were feeling well.”

Draco made a noise between a scoff and a snort. “You still use wards on me? Mother, I'm
twelve years old, I’m not a child anymore!”

His mother only raised a sharp eyebrow at him, sitting herself at the end of his bed. “Was it a
nightmare?”

Draco avoided her gaze. It was much, much more than a nightmare.

“Draco? You know you can tell me anything,” his mother urged, before tapping a finger
against her chin in thought. “Was it the one where your head’s stuck in a magical gel helmet
again? Or perhaps the one where Bartholomew the peacock had replaced you as our son?”

Draco shook his head, staring down at the snakes embroidered on his duvet. The words were
right there, on the tip of his tongue.
There is something wrong, and I don’t know what to do. I think The Heir of Slytherin is
controlling me. Tom Riddle is controlling me.

“It’s nothing, Mother…”

 All is Unfair in Love and Potions
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – January 1993

“It’s almost ready,” Draco said, draining the stewed lacewing flies of any residual liquid.
“Well, I say almost. It’s likely to be another three days.”

They’d been back at school for almost a whole week now, and there had been no more
attacks since Granger in December. It was the middle of lunch, and Draco was in the
abandoned bathroom, cramped in a stuffy stall with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, taking
Hermione Granger’s place as the primary brewer of this complicated, off-limits potion that
would likely get them in detention till the end of the year if someone were to discover them.
Which would not be terribly unlikely, seeing as they were on the first-floor and it really did
smell as much as Draco had predicted.

“It’s a good thing you’re almost as good as Hermione in Potions,” Weasley mused as he
stared at his broken wand glumly. “Otherwise we’d be toast.”

Draco bit his tongue to keep from snapping back at the orange-headed buffoon. Granger was
petrified, it would be hurtful and rude to speak ill of her, Harry would hate him and he’d have
to start back at square one... Even if he was better than Granger at Potions.

“Oh, yeah! Draco, something happened over Christmas,” said Harry suddenly, nearly making
Draco tip the cauldron over in shock. “Peeves threw this up the stairs leading out of the
dungeons screaming about dark forces and evil spirits.” As he spoke, he dug about in his bag,
before pulling out a sleek, black… diary.

Draco stared at the diary, a feeling of dread washing over him.

He hadn’t even known it was gone. He’d been refusing to acknowledge it, and thought that
finally, finally Tom had left him alone…

But Peeves had found it, which meant he’d been rummaging around where he shouldn’t have
been. What if Harry knew Draco had been writing to Tom? What if Tom or Peeves told him
that the diary had been hidden in Draco’s belongings?

“And?” he asked, trying to sound as calm as possible. “It’s just some sort of book, isn’t it?”

“Well, that’s the thing, it’s magic. It writes back!” Harry told him, green eyes sparkling with
excitement. “And it told us something really strange.”

“What did it tell you?” Draco asked. He would not panic, he would not panic. He would be
so calm–

“It told us Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets all those years ago.”
Well, then. Draco had not been expecting that. Now he was just confused.

“Well Tom Riddle sort of showed me really, but, er… Anyway we asked Hagrid,” Harry
continued before Draco could say anything. “And he told us his side of the story, and took us
to meet ‘the monster’.”

Harry and Weasley shared a look that suggested they’d seen some things.

“Never again will I trust Hagrid when he says something is ‘harmless’,” said Weasley,
shuddering. “Nearly got my leg torn clean off by those spiders.”

“If Hagrid hadn’t been there, I don’t know what we would have done.” Harry shook his head,
staring somewhere far away.

Draco loudly cleared his throat, brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“Right, well, basically, it wasn’t Hagrid, and now we know the monster in the Chamber is not
a giant spider,” Harry told him, scratching the back of his neck. “We still don’t know who the
Heir could be, but now we’re sure it has to be a Slytherin since Peeves found it in the
Dungeons. And Tom Riddle won’t say, he’s been quiet ever since we talked to Hagrid.”

“For all you know it could be a Hufflepuff, their house is also down those stairs. It could even
be you, Potter,” Draco snorted, starting to add the lacewing flies. “Since that’s what most of
the school believes.”

“I can’t help that I’m parcelforce or whatever it’s called,” Harry grumbled.

“Parseltongue,” Draco corrected, dropping in the rest of the flies in with a loud hiss before
sticking his wand in the smelly grey sludge and stirring. “Most would kill for that talent, you
know. It may be seen as a dark skill, but talking to snakes? I mean that’s just sort of brilliant,
isn’t it? If it was the ability to talk to any other animal, like cats or owls, people would be in
awe.”

“Oh,” said Harry.. “Er…Thanks? I think?”

Draco froze, cheeks heating up as he realised he’d been rambling and also taking no notice
that the polyjuice recipe – nay, the entirety of Moste Potente Potions – was nowhere to be
seen and he had no idea exactly how much he was supposed to stir the brew.

“Where has the book gone?” he asked impatiently, rolling his eyes when Harry and Weasley
just looked back at him dumbly. “The recipe? ‘Moste Potente Potions’?!”

“Oh, right. Well, Hermione’s instructions were to return it at some point over Christmas so it
wouldn’t be overdue. So we did,” Harry told him, shrugging like it was no big deal.

“But ‘Mione wrote these notes so we wouldn’t have a book from the restricted section for a
suspiciously long time.” Weasley took out a small brown notebook from his bag and passed it
to Draco, who perused the written steps until he found the stirring instructions after adding
the lacewing flies. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stirred it twice more clockwise before
cleaning off his wand and chuckling.
“Well, that could have been disastrous!”

Harry and Weasley looked at him once more, wearing equally dumbstruck, wide eyed
expressions.

“Oh, come on! This is the basics! Potion brewing is a very exact and precise practice!” Draco
berated them. “One wrong step and you’ll either get a cauldron explode in your face or be in
the Hospital Wing spewing slugs. You should know, you two are always botching your
brews.”

Harry and Weasley at least had the decency to look rightfully ashamed of themselves.

Draco tutted and ignored them for a few minutes in favour of flipping through some more of
the notes. There was an alarming amount of hearts drawn around the initials G.L. In fact it
seemed as though Granger considered herself a modern Karuzos, as there were many
scribbles in the margins. Draco held the book at a distance as he stared at one drawing that
could almost have been a dog if you tilted your head.

“What, in Merlin’s name, is that supposed to be?” he asked, showing the others the page.

“We think it’s meant to be a bicorn?” Weasley replied, stroking his chin. “Like in the
ingredients, ‘horn of bicorn.’”

“Before you start, we know. Hermione can’t draw.” Harry said, sounding exasperated. He had
gotten too close for Draco’s liking. Draco panicked and threw Granger’s notebook at his face.

“Hey! what was –?” Harry began, only to be interrupted by a whining, petulant voice.

“What are you doing back in here again?”

“Oh, great,” Weasley groaned.

“Well, that’s not very nice! You have no right to be in here, this is my bathroom!” Moaning
Myrtle snapped as she floated upside down above them, her ghostly pigtails dangling in their
unfinished concoction. “I could report you, you know. Three little boys, getting up to no good
in here.”

While Harry and Weasley were busy pleading with Myrtle, Draco found himself staring at the
diary. Harry had left it exposed, underneath Granger’s notebook. He stared harder. It was like
it was calling to him... Whispering, urging him to pick it up and write in it…Because it was
his diary. Not Harry’s.

The next thing Draco knew he was reaching out and swiping it into his bag, looking up
surreptitiously to see if Harry, Weasley, or even Myrtle had noticed.

They hadn’t, they were too busy bickering.

***
Draco stared down at the diary later that night. Everyone in his dormitory was asleep. He
could hear Gregory and Vincent’s snuffling snores, Zabini was always the first asleep, and
Theodore always the last. And he could tell Theodore was definitely not still reading because
his Lumos charm was finally out.

The only light in the room was Draco’s candle at his desk as he had been finishing up his
Transfiguration homework at the last minute (spending all your spare time brewing one of the
most complex potions in existence would do that to you). When he’d run out of ink, he’d had
to fish through his bag, finding the diary.

Because he’d taken it.

“But, why?” he whispered, tracing the gilded letters on the cover. T.M.R.

Draco looked up at his reflection in the mirror, shooting up from his chair and stumbling
slightly as a familiar face appeared behind him. He immediately turned away, covering his
eyes.

“Go away, Tom!” he hissed, careful not to disturb the others. “I don’t want to speak with you
anymore!”

“But I want to speak with you.” whispered back an unfamiliar, velvety voice.

Draco slowly turned around. “Did you just… talk? Aloud?”

“It would seem our bond is much stronger at Hogwarts,” Tom said, wearing that same
unnervingly pleasant smile he’d worn in Draco’s mirror at home. “Now come along, Draco.
We have some catching up to do...”

***

The very next day the school was marked by the distinct lack of the following: farting noises
as you walked down the corridor, floating portraits, rude words on the blackboards, and
walking suits of armour chasing you.

Peeves the Poltergeist had been attacked by the Heir.

Draco had not even known ghosts could be petrified, let alone poltergeists. Yet there Peeves
was, in the Hospital Wing, no longer silvery pale but an ominous corroded black.

Harry had approached Draco, telling him the diary was gone, and that he wasn’t sure if he’d
misplaced it or someone had taken it, and Draco lied. He told Harry he hadn’t seen it. He lied
right to his face. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t seem to keep the words from slipping out
of his mouth.

But Tom told him it was fine, so surely it was, wasn’t it? Everything was fine.

***

“What’s in it for us?” Vincent asked, stroking his cat. Tortoise purred, glaring smugly at
Draco. They made for an imposing scene, with Vincent illuminated by the fireplace, Tortoise
perched on his lap and Gregory standing firmly at his side, arms folded.

Draco groaned, he couldn’t believe he was doing this. “I’ll let you copy my Potions
homework for a week?”

Greg and Vince exchanged a dubious look before Greg turned back to Draco and crooked his
fingers wordlessly.

“Two weeks? A month?” Draco scowled, taking a deep breath. “The rest of the academic
year?”

Vincent and Gregory exchanged another look, then nodded at Draco.

“Okay, we’ll just be in the kitchens when you need us to be,” Gregory chirped, giving Draco
a thumbs up.

“That would be around now, actually,” Draco told them, holding up a pair of scissors. “For
about an hour.

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose as he walked away with two vials filled with a lock
of their hair each. Stupid Scarhead, stupid plot, stupid everything! The only reason he was
doing any of this was to keep his and Harry’s bond he’d crafted so elegantly and flawlessly
last year!

“I still think you’re being completely ridiculous; this is never going to work,” he told Harry
and Weasley as he dropped Gregory and Vincent’s hairs into two separate glasses of polyjuice
potion.

The potion fizzed and bubbled before changing colour; Gregory’s turning lime green,
Vincent’s turning bright orange.

“It’s our best shot at finding out at least a little more about the Heir of Slytherin!” Harry said
resolutely, taking Gregory’s glass.

Harry and Weasley nodded to each other, holding their noses as they determinedly downed
the contents of each glass.
“Oh, Merlin, I think I’m gonna be –!” Weasley gagged before rushing into one of the
bathroom cubicles, his glass tinkling as it shattered on the bathroom tiles.

“Me too,” Harry said before copying Weasley, slamming his door shut.

Draco stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say as there came an onslaught of gross
bubbling noises and grunting from inside the stalls.

In the next moment, the stall doors clicked open, and out trundled Gregory Goyle and
Vincent Crabbe. Except it was Harry and Weasley.

“It worked!” Goyle-Harry exclaimed in Gregory’s voice, beaming.

Draco felt his face twist downwards as he tried to wrap his head around what he was seeing,
feeling utterly appalled. “Oh, this is so weird,” he said, teetering on becoming a bit hysterical.

“Easy for you to say,” Crabbe-Weasley grunted in Vincent’s voice. “I am not comfortable
right now.”

“Well, come on then,” Draco grumbled, “Let’s get this over with.”

With that, Draco and the two fake Slytherins headed off, out of the abandoned bathroom and
down the winding stairs of the dungeons, until they stood at the wall where laid the entrance
to Slytherin house.

“We’re ready,” Goyle-Harry and Crabbe-Weasley said at the same time.

“I’m not,” Draco muttered, before sighing and revealing the password (‘Sneezewort’ that
month – it was always a Potions ingredient), watching the slab of stone as it rolled out of the
way, allowing Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, two of the most Gryffindor-aligned people
he’d ever met, within the sacred walls of Slytherin House.

It was chaos as usual.

The seventh years were perhaps the only sensible ones, a group of them huddled by the
fireplace doing revision for their N.E.W.Ts. Meanwhile another handful of Slytherins were
busy… playing charades? Was it game night?! Oh, he was missing game night for this!

There was the usual chess tournament being held by the stairs leading to the dormitories,
what seemed to be an intense game of gobstones on the other side, as well as a game of
makeshift spell-skittles by the bookshelves.

Perhaps the only other exception besides the seventh years was the group of first years
crowding around the large ornate window at the far wall, oohing and ahhing at the giant squid
as it did its daily routine of showing off its vibrant colour-changing skin and swishing its
tentacles.

“This is… not what I was expecting,” observed Crabbe-Weasley. “At all.”
“How are we going to figure out who the heir is?!” Goyle-Harry hissed, staring at the mass of
snakes in their natural habitat.

“Maybe you should have thought about that before deciding to do all this!” Draco hissed
back, folding his arms crossly.

“Draco!” It was Pansy, marching towards them with Blaise and Daphne hot on her heels.
“Would you tell them I’ve finally mastered the art of the poker-face? They won’t believe
me!” She then proceeded to pull an overly serious face, her eyebrows furrowed intensely and
her lips a grim line.

Draco wasn’t quite sure what to say, but thankfully he noticed the stack of cards Blaise was
shuffling in his hands. “Cards, is it?”

“Wixen-Whist, we’ve decided. Shall I deal you three a hand?” Blaise asked.

“Oh, er, no thanks,” said Goyle-Harry awkwardly.

“Is something amiss?” Daphne asked, seeming worried all of a sudden. “You two usually
love playing cards.”

“They’ll be on my team,” Draco piped up. “Not very confident about this particular game, are
we?” he asked them pointedly.

“Er, no,” Goyle-Harry replied, catching on and shaking his head.

“ARGHH!” Crabbe-Weasley exclaimed, as he was abruptly pounced on by a heavy blur of

orange and black. Tortoise the cat hissed and scratched angrily as Crabbe-Weasley tried in
vain to throw her off.

Draco sat down, watching in amusement as the madness unfolded. That is until he saw
Goyle-Harry glaring at him. Draco rolled his eyes and got out his wand, casting a quick
Wingardium Leviosa at the suddenly shocked feline, placing her down on the ground. She
blinked in surprise, her ears folded right back. He didn’t see why Goyle-Harry couldn’t have
done anything.

“Shoo, Tortoise, Shoo,” Draco said, sweeping his arm at the stunned cat. Tortoise snapped
out of her trance, hissing once more at Crabbe-Weasley before waddling away with her nose
stuck in the air.

Crabbe-Weasley practically fell into one of the comfy green armchairs, gasping for breath
and adjusting his uniform which was now torn in some places, his hair ruffled and his cheeks
bright red.

“That’s strange, your cat is usually the loveliest little lady,” Daphne observed, peeking at
Crabbe-Weasley over the top of her cards.

“Oh, uhhh,” Crabbe-Weasley stuttered, wide eyed. Draco could practically feel the suspicion
taking root in the other three Slytherins minds at that very moment.
“You should see what goes on when you’re not looking!” Crabbe-Weasley finally choked out,
laughing nervously. “Nearly scratches my eyes out sometimes!”

Daphne giggled. Crabbe-Weasley cracked a smile, his chest puffing out slightly. Draco rolled
his eyes.

“Why’s Crabbe’s cat called Tortoise?” Goyle-Harry asked Draco under his breath.

“Because of her markings, obviously,” Draco whispered back, wishing their time would be
up already. Talking to Gregory who was actually Harry was really not proving to be a fun
experience.

“Theo, want to play?” Draco heard Blaise call out. “We’re betting Draco’s secret stash of
sweets!”

That made Draco look up. “You’re doing what?!” he yelped, just now noticing the small
wooden chest in Blaise’s lap. The chest that definitely should’ve been tucked safely under
Draco’s bed.

“I would rather be petrified by Salazar’s monster,” Theodore drawled, before skulking away
with his nose tucked in his Charms spellbook.

“What about him?” Goyle-Harry muttered behind his cards. “He seems off.”

“Theodore? Absolutely not.” Draco scoffed lightly, still glaring at his stolen sweet chest.
“He’s always been that way.”

“But the Notts,” Crabbe-Weasley murmured, “Dad says they sided with you-know-who.
Besides your family, the Crabbes, and the Goyles, surely he’d be the next most clear
option?”

“Well, perhaps,” Draco replied. “But he hasn’t been acting any differently.”

“Yes, but if I was the Heir, I’d want people to think that too,” Goyle-Harry whispered.

“What are you three muttering about over there?” Pansy asked petulantly. “You’d better not
be cheating!”

“The Heir of Slytherin,” Goyle-Harry spoke up before Draco could get a word in edgeways.
“Who do you suppose it is?”

“Oh, not this again,” Daphne groaned, rolling her eyes.

“I thought we established it was Potter?” Pansy said, frowning.

“No, no. Draco was very clear that it wasn’t his dear little Gryffindor friend, isn’t that right,
Draco?” Blaise smirked.

“I, um–” Draco squeaked, his eyes darting to Goyle-Harry, who thankfully just looked
confused.
“However do you put up with those gormless Gryffindors?” Pansy snorted.

“Well, I suppose, you can’t really go through a trapdoor expecting certain doom and not
come back up as friends?” Draco improvised, shrugging and glancing fleetingly at Goyle-
Harry. But Draco did not get the reaction he’d hoped for, as the stupid Scarhead seemed too
preoccupied, glaring across the common room at Theodore.

“How cute,” Blaise cooed. Draco glowered at the smirking sweet thief, hating the way his
face heated up.

“You know what, actually?” Draco ground out, getting to his feet. “I take it back!”

“Oh, now look what you’ve done,” Pansy groaned.

“Most of the time it feels like they don’t even care about me,” Draco began with a deep sigh.
“Potter can be very annoying.” he said, glaring pointedly at Goyle-Harry, who was finally
paying attention to him. “He’s a bloody Potter, and yet he was raised by Muggles, he’s
absolutely clueless about our world. He’s a clumsy, scar-headed oaf who rushes head-first
into danger and breaks a million school rules. A celebrity because he survived being a baby.
So did all of us, it’s not that hard!”

At that, the group burst out laughing, all except Goyle-Harry and Crabbe-Weasley. Feeling
smug and encouraged, Draco carried on.

“Worst of all he’s doted on by Dumbledore. Doesn’t matter how many school rules he breaks,
doesn’t matter if he breaks the Statute of Secrecy by flying a ruddy enchanted car over
London, he’ll still be good old golden St. Potter in that old nutter's eyes!” More laughter.
“And Weasley is a Weasley, so that speaks for itself really.”

Draco placed his hands on his hips, smirking triumphantly down at the imposters. They both
glared back.

“Oh, Draco, you’re hilarious!” Pansy cackled, clapping as Draco gave them a flourishing
bow. “Go on, who’s next? What about the Mudblood?”

The group was abruptly quiet, the remaining traces of laughter dying like water thrown on a
fire.

“OI!” yelled Crabbe-Weasley as he jumped to his feet, pointing a finger angrily at Pansy,
before seemingly remembering he had to act like Vincent Crabbe. “I mean, erm, don’t say
that, it’s rude.”

“Why?” Pansy asked, laughing uncertainly. “My dad says it's fine if you say it when there
aren’t any of them around.” She gestured to the common room. “I don’t see any, do you?”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Vince on this one, Pansy,” Blaise piped up. “My mother’s
always said it's a dirty, vulgar word. One time my second step-father said it and she
Scourgified his mouth.”
“Didn’t you say he ended up dead a week later?” Pansy shot back sulkily, sinking into the
sofa.

Blaise chose not to answer, clearing his throat and staring at his cards.

“Granger’s not so bad once you get to know her,” Draco said after a moment, surprising
himself as he recalled the conversation they’d had on the train, and the fact that she was
currently laying petrified in the Hospital Wing. “Annoying? Most of the time. Toothy swot?
Absolutely. But she’s not bad simply because she’s a Muggle-born.”

“Aren’t you worried about what your parents think, though?” Daphne asked. “My mother
says to ‘be careful which baskets you place your eggs in’, which I think is a bit silly and
nonsensical, but –”

“My father has made it perfectly clear what he thinks about my unlikely friends," Draco cut
in, glaring down at his shoes.

There was silence for a long moment, the only noise being the rustle of Blaise shuffling
through Draco’s leftover sweets. Draco harrumphed, slumping back in his seat and crossing
his legs, glowering at his hand of cards.

“Surely the Heir has to be one of us, though, right? Salazar Slytherin?" Goyle-Harry piped up
after a few minutes. Draco’s grip on the sofa arm tightened.

“Oh, Greg, you naive thing, you,” Daphne laughed. “Nobody knows who the Heir is. That’s
the excitement of it! It could be a Hufflepuff, it could even be Potter for all we know. What
do you think, Draco?”

All eyes were suddenly on Draco again, except this time he didn’t have anything to say. That
familiar lump had formed in his throat. Why couldn’t he talk about Tom? It was as if
something, someone, clamped their hand over his mouth whenever he tried to talk about it

Draco Malfoy was silent for perhaps the first time in his life.

“I can’t be sure,” he finally uttered. Lying about it once again, because apparently he could
do that just fine.

“Why are you two suddenly so interested in all of this, anyway?” Pansy asked, thankfully
turning the attention back to Goyle-Harry. “It’s been almost four months now.”

Draco was saved from coming up with a clever excuse for the two idiots by the sudden
ruckus of laughter and loud chatter as the Slytherin Quidditch team entered the common
room.

Marcus Flint jeered as he clapped Pucey on the back so hard he went stumbling into a fourth-
year group's game of spell-skittles, knocking over all of the pins.

“He’s a nasty piece of work, that Flint,” Pansy harrumphed.

“He was the one who kicked you off the pitch at try-outs wasn’t he?” Goyle-Harry hissed in
Draco’s ear, scowling over at the Quidditch team.

Draco fought the heat rising in his face, willing his heart to slow down, for Merlin’s sake!
“It’s not surprising,” he managed to reply. “Given the way the Flints are.”

As if supporting Draco’s comment, Flint’s voice suddenly resonated from where the
Quidditch team had congregated. “In any way, I think it’s a great thing!” he said loudly. “If
the Heir could hurry up and target Angelina Johnson, those pathetic lions would be down a
player and we’d be set!”

“Marcus, that’s an awful thing to say,” said Miranda Burke, the other team Beater.

Draco sighed, drawing his eyes back to the game of whist, when he noticed a tuft of ginger
hair growing on Crabbe-Weasley’s head, and he didn’t think it was Tortoise’s fur. Glancing
over to Goyle-Harry, he saw the faint shape of a lightning bolt appearing on his forehead. The
hour was finally up.

He grabbed them by their robe sleeves, whispering hurriedly in their ears. “You’re changing
back!”

The two Gryffindors promptly surged to their feet, Goyle-Harry announcing something about
a tummy-ache before they both took off through the common room doors.

Pansy, Blaise, and Daphne turned to Draco.

“Whatever is the matter with those two this evening?” Daphne scoffed.

“I’m really not sure, perhaps I had... Better go check on them,” he told them lamely, before
placing his cards on the table, grabbing his last toffee toadstool, and scampering up to the
first floor toilet.

“Want to tell us what your one-man show was all about back there?” Weasley snapped as
soon as Draco walked through the door.

“I was simply playing along, I didn’t really mean it,” he said, blinking at them innocently.

Harry and Weasley only gave him a long, narrow-eyed look in response.

“Anyway, that was really close!” Harry said, leaning against a sink. Both he and Weasley
were still in their oversized Slytherin robes, and Harry looked rather fetching in green.

“Sheer stupidity is what it was,” Draco scoffed, placing his hands on his hips. “You two
almost changed back into pumpkins in front of my entire house!”

“Not entirely stupid! We have two suspects!” Harry proclaimed.

“Who?” both Draco and Weasley asked.

"Flint and Nott!” Harry replied, as if it should have been obvious.

“You seriously think Theodore Nott is the Heir of Salazar Slytherin? What is it with you
wanting to solve all these mysteries?!” Draco cried, throwing his hands up in the air.

He desperately wished he could tell them they’d wasted their time.

He knew exactly who the Heir was, yet he couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it.

***

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – Sunday the 14th of February 1993

Draco was unsure whether he was dreaming as he walked into the Great Hall for breakfast on
a bright, crisp Sunday morning. It looked as though a love potion had exploded, with bushels
of pink roses and ribbon strung from the walls, pink paper heart confetti drifting like petals
from the ceiling, and enchanted golden harps playing peaceful music in each corner of the
room.

“What, by Merlin’s frilly knickers, is all of this?” Draco asked the others as he sat down.

“I was just speaking to Finch-Fletchley,” Pansy said, almost making Draco jump out of his
skin as she appeared beside him. “Apparently today is a Muggle celebration of love and
romance called Valentine’s Day.” She was blinking at him in that way that made him think
she had something stuck in her eye.

That or she was malfunctioning.

“How interesting,” Draco drawled, plucking a soggy paper heart out of his goblet of pumpkin
juice.

He looked up just in time to see Harry walk through the doors, hair as atrocious as ever,
closely tailed by Weasley (of course). They both looked just as baffled as Draco felt by the
whole thing. Pansy’s words rung in his ears. Love and Romance. Draco stared determinedly
down at his porridge as his traitorous heart began to beat faster.

He needed a distraction. Something… Anything!

Luckily, his knight in pale pink robes came in the form of Gilderoy Lockhart. Striding to the
front of the hall, where Dumbledore usually stood to make announcements, he grinned at
them all with that signature smile of his.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” announced Lockhart. “And may I thank the forty-five people who
have so far sent me cards. Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you
all – and it doesn’t end here!”

As he said this, he gestured grandly to the doors at the end of the hall, where a dozen or so
bearded, half naked little men carrying lyres were trudging in, scowling if daring anyone to
laugh.

"Is there something in this pumpkin juice, or are there really dwarves wearing nappies and
fake wings in the school?” Draco asked, blinking in disbelief.

“What on earth did he do to get them to come out of their mines and agree to something like
this?” Pansy asked.

“My friendly card-carrying cupids!” Lockhart announced jovially. “They will be roving
around the school today delivering your Valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure
my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape
to show you how to whip up a love potion!...”

One look at Severus’ face told Draco the DADA professor had not approached him with this
topic beforehand. Draco wanted to laugh at the dark scowl on Severus’ face, but couldn’t
help but feel uneasy.

The rest of Lockhart’s speech became a fuzzy blur, because all Draco could think of was how
all of this Valentine’s Day thingamajig set off alarm bells in his mind…Something to do with
the Journal.

***

In the end, breakfast proved to be a rather dramatic affair. Many students either fussed about
picking out paper hearts from their porridge and cereal, or they choked on ones that had
gotten mixed up with their mouthfuls. Dumbledore eventually ended up taking Lockhart
aside to end the madness.

By eleven o’clock some of the older students were getting ready to go to Hogsmeade, the rest
electing to stay behind lazing around the castle or studying. Draco often wondered if there
was a way to sneak into Hogsmeade. Everyone made it sound so fun, always ecstatic when
coming back from the wixen village. It wasn’t fair that he had to wait another seven whole
months before being allowed to go too.

Perhaps Harry would be so kind as to lend Draco his invisibility cloak some time…

“What do you suppose Lockhart meant by delivering Valentines?” Pansy asked abruptly,
popping his bubble of thoughts as she and Draco sat on a bench in the courtyard. Gregory and
Vincent had gone down to the kitchens for ‘elevenses,’ leaving Draco stranded with her.

“Well, he said he got forty-five cards…” Draco mused. “Do you think it’s like..compliments
to those you wish to court?”

“Oh my word, you purebloods can be so weirdly naive,” Bullstrode snorted, stopping in front
of them.
“Millicent, how nice of you to drop by, I thought you’d have Quidditch practice,” said Draco
flatly.

“It’s a Hogsmeade weekend,” Bullstrode replied, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, they're poems.
Flowers. Chocolates. Confessions and gifts. Muggles are crazy about it. My dad always gets
my mum flowers, it really confused her at first because there was no occasion in the wixen
world, but–”

“We should write poems!” Pansy exploded, interrupting Bulstrode and grabbing Draco by the
arm excitedly. “Come on, I know there’s someone you have your eye on!” She smiled coyly
at him, doing her weird blinky eye twitch again. She ought to have that checked out, really.

“I don’t think so, Parkinson,” he huffed, pulling his arm out of her grip as Bulstrode
wandered off again. Was it so hard to just want to enjoy his weekend and do nothing? Maybe
play a game of catch in the courtyard? Do everything but acknowledge his predicament?

“For the last time, Pansy! Pan-zee! It’s not that hard, and it’ll be a laugh, come on!”

Draco looked into Pansy’s pleading brown eyes, and considered.

It wasn’t like… It wasn’t like Scarhead would ever hear or see it. And maybe it would help
Draco sort out his poor, conflicted mind to write out his feelings, like he did to Tom so often
these days. Spill forth his feelings onto the page…

***

Draco snorted to himself as he wrote, helpless to the little skip his heart gave as he wrote the
third line. This was ridiculous, he felt ridiculous. This was hopeless romantic nonsense. Why
had he agreed to do this, and why couldn’t he stop smiling stupidly at what he’d written?
He’d tried to make it more silly than mushy, and yet it was still ridiculously… gooey.

“Okay, now what?” Draco asked Pansy. “Do we burn them?”

“Don’t be thick, Draco,” Pansy chided. “It’s not a good look on you. Now we hand them in!”

She snatched the poem from Draco’s hand in the blink of an eye, and before he even realised
what was happening, she’d fled from the common room.

Draco shot to his feet, rushing after her.

“You’ll do no such thing!” he called after her as he caught up to her in the winding corridors
of the dungeons.

“You said you would!” Pansy called back over her shoulder as she skipped up the stairs.
“I never said I’d hand it in!” Draco exclaimed, finally reaching her and trying to grab the
poem from her grasp. Pansy held it out of his reach, only succeeding because she was on a
higher step than him.

“I’m only trying to help you! Merlin’s knickers calm down!” she protested, giggling. The
sound only made Draco angrier.

“I don’t think that’s your motive at all, Parkinson!” he snapped, thrashing and trying to grab
the letter as Pansy held him at arms-width. By Merlin, the witch was stronger than she
looked. “Give. It. Back!”

“Too late!” Pansy chirped as they reached the Entrance Hall. She held out the poems as one
of Lockhart’s evil minions darted by, snatching the parchment from her hand and rushing off
down the corridor, leaving a flurry of pink paper hearts behind them.

Draco watched, mouth agape, at the spot the so-called cupid had been, before rounding on
Pansy, who was smirking like the kneazle who got the cream.

“You’ll thank me later!” she giggled mischievously, before disappearing into the Great Hall,
leaving Draco standing alone in the Entrance Hall, slowly simmering with rage.

***

Draco rummaged through his bedside table, slightly desperate as he discarded spellbooks and
parchment rolls over his shoulder. He finally found what he was looking for, tucked away at
the bottom of the bottom drawer.

How had the Journal become so buried? Surely it hadn’t been that long since he last looked
in it?

He hurriedly flicked through the pages, skimming the chapter written on his second year,
before finally finding what he was looking for and feeling his stomach drop.

‘On the Muggle holiday “Valentine’s Day,” don’t write the poem. It just leads to you being
publicly humiliated.’

Draco groaned, resting his head in his hands. It was like he couldn’t think properly anymore!
Like there was some kind of fog clouding his usually incredibly, fantastically, brilliantly
beautiful mind!

He had to stop that cupid.

Rushing down to the common room again, he made to barrel out of the entrance when he
caught sight of something that made him freeze in his tracks. Or rather, someone. Someone
who definitely didn’t make it his pastime to frequent the Slytherin household.
“Sev- I mean, Sir , what are you doing here?” he asked his Head of House, for there he was,
curled up by the blazing fire with a steaming cup of tea and a newspaper in hand.

“Hiding," Severus snarled through gritted teeth, glaring over the top of his Daily
Prophet. “For now, at least. The next giggling young fool to knock on my office door and ask
me about brewing love potions will receive a month's worth of detentions. I am in need of a
break for the moment.”

“I see…” Draco trailed off awkwardly, before promptly remembering his current predicament
and tearing out of the common room, ignoring Severus’ orders to slow down.

He was half way up the stairs to the Entrance Hall when two familiar figures ambled into
view. “Oh, thank Merlin!” Draco exclaimed as he reached them. “I need your help!”

Gregory and Vincent exchanged a wary look.

“You don’t want to take more of our hair, do you?” asked Gregory hesitantly.

“No, no, no!” Draco cried, shaking him by his shoulders. “I need you to help me find one of
those creepy little nappy-wearing scoundrels and stop them from delivering a poem or I’ll
simply die of shame and embarrassment!”

“Oh,” said Gregory as Draco carried on shaking him.

The three of them searched high and low, interrupting several confessions as they checked to
see if the cupid singing was Draco’s, even shoving apart a snogging couple in an attempt to
catch one that ended up being a false lead anyway.

They were scouting around the courtyard for the umpteenth time that afternoon, Draco
peering around from his vantage point up a tree, when there came a commotion from the
cloisters.

“Incoming!” Draco called, letting himself fall backwards from his branch into Gregory’s
waiting arms. He hopped down to the ground, dusting himself off and striding over to the
gathered crowd, barging past a couple of first years.

“What’s going on here?” he drawled, playing it as cool as possible, that is, until he heard five
words that made his skin crawl.

“A poem for Harry Potter!”

Draco pushed through the crowd, only to find Harry trying to escape from a cupid. The very
cupid Draco was after.

“What’s all this commotion?!” said a voice that sounded like the Prefect-Weasley, but Draco
couldn’t really focus on that wet blanket, because his dignity was about to be shredded to
pieces.

Harry tried to make a break for it, but the cupid tackled him to the ground and pinned him by
his ankles.
“Right,” said the cupid, twanging their harp. “Here is your singing Valentine…”

Draco felt as if the world was crumbling before his very eyes. He couldn’t watch. Why here,
why now? Why couldn’t he just walk away? It was like watching a broom collision in a
Quidditch game, his feet rooted to the spot. And why, of all things, did Harry’s reaction
matter so much to him?

“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,

His hair as dark as a blackboard.

I wish he were mine,

He's really divine.

The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”

The crowd that had gathered began laughing. Draco laughed along with them as he looked
around helplessly.

His eyes fell on Girl-Weasley.

She fancied Harry, didn’t she? As Weasley had put it. Always mooning over him.

Yes! That would do!

“I don’t think Potter liked your Valentine much!” Draco called to her, throwing on his best
smirk as the dispersing crowd laughed some more.

The redheaded first-year looked both stunned and puzzled, her cheeks still turning pink
nonetheless. “But I didn’t write that!” she exclaimed.

Draco forced out a laugh. “Methinks the witch doth protest too much!”

Girl-Weasley only scowled at him before marching off with her friends.

Draco could feel his heart pounding against his chest. To his relief Harry was too busy
scrambling to pick up his ink-stained books to take any notice of his internal panic.

“Come on now, move along!” said the Prefect-Weasley, brushing the remaining onlookers
off. Draco took that as his cue, rushing down the nearest corridor, Vincent and Gregory at his
heels.

“You could have just told us you wanted to court Potter,” Vincent said as he and Gregory fell
into step with Draco.

“Everything makes way more sense now!” Gregory added.

“Shut up! Both of you!” Draco snapped, coming to a standstill. “I do not want to court him! I
mean – I – it’s not – I just –!”
“It’s okay, Draco,” said Gregory. “Take your time.”

“We’re here for you,” said Vincent.

“Ugh!” Draco scoffed, then scoffed once more for good measure. “That’s the problem! You
always are there, lurking behind me! It’s– it’s… stifling is what it is! You two stifle me!”

Gregory and Vincent looked at each other, then back at Draco, brows furrowed.

“Why don’t you two ickle Hufflepuffs just run along to those kitchens you adore so much,
hm?! Find someone else to stifle with your – your stifleyness!” With that, Draco stormed off
as quickly as possible, not waiting for a response.

***

Draco’s grip on his bag tightened as he left the Great Hall, hearing the sound of the Twin-
Weasleys teasing Harry by belting out Draco’s poem for the umpteenth time that day – nay,
that evening .

“Draco!”

Oh, that was the second to last voice Draco wanted to hear right now. He turned to see Pansy
Parkinson marching toward him, dragging one of Lockhart’s cupids beside her by their fake
wings.

“There you are! We’ve been looking for you all day!” Pansy huffed. “Cupid here has a
message for you!”

“You!” Draco growled, recognising the dwarf as the one to deliver his poem. “You should
have some sort of cancellation option! I never wanted that poem delivered!”

The cupid put their hands up in surrender. “Look, kid. Don’t hex the messenger. Believe me,
I’d much rather be in my workshop right now,” they grumbled, glaring up at Pansy, who
simply folded her arms and stuck her nose in the air.

The cupid let out a deep sigh, then cleared their throat. “‘An Ode to Draco Malfoy!’” they
announced, strumming their lyre.

“Draco,

Named after a star,

I watch you from afar.

Wishing every day and night

You’d notice my blight.

Would you be so kind,

As to spare me a thought?

And you and I could court.

Plus your family is loaded.

Pansy.”

Draco stared at Pansy, his left eye twitching.

She stared back, a strangely pensive look on her face.

The cupid backed away slowly, before simply scampering out of the castle, discarding their
golden wings and their harp as they went.

Draco sighed, all of the fight leaving him. “Pansy, I really don’t think of you –”

“Nope. No. Stop, stop!” Pansy cried, frantically shaking her head and flapping her arms at
him. “I’ve changed my mind!”

“You…?”

“I really don’t think I like you that way, actually,” she said, that pensive look coming back.

“...Come again?” Draco asked blankly.

“I thought I felt funny in a bad way while writing it. It being said aloud just really drove that
in for me.” Pansy continued. “I mean you, just… yuck!”

“I beg your pardon?” Draco asked, voice rising an octave. “What’s wrong with all this?” he
asked, gesturing to himself grandly. Pansy gave him a once-over, nose scrunching up in
disgust.

“I think we should just be friends,” she concluded politely.

Draco stared at her once more.

“How have you just managed to both confess your feelings and reject me at the same time?!”
he exclaimed.

Pansy simply shrugged.

“Well, you’re not doing very well on the whole being my friend thing anyway, not after all
the humiliation your wicked little scheme has caused me today!” Draco seethed. “Was all of
this just for you to sort out your own feelings?! You know, the Twin-Weasleys are having a
field day with that stupid Merlin forsaken poem!”
 “Oh, come on, at least you didn’t add your name!” Pansy giggled. “It could have been a
thousand times worse if you had!”

“IT’S NOT FUNNY!” Draco shrieked, causing others to look over at them, that familiar
anger swelling up in his chest.

Draco looked around at the people watching, snickering and whispering. Breaths coming
quicker, he turned and fled down to the Dungeons.

“Draco, come back, please! I didn’t – !” he barely just heard Pansy call after him. But he
didn’t care.

Draco simply wouldn’t have feelings for Harry anymore! He’d push them aside. Harry Potter
was nothing but a stupid scar-headed fool, anyway! With his stupid scruffy hair, and his
stupid glasses, and his stupid green eyes! Ugh!

'Emotions like attraction and love are a waste of valuable time, anyway.' Tom told him,
and Draco believed him wholly.

'It’s silly, isn’t it?'

'Not at all,' Tom assured him. 'You were confused.'

'Everyone laughed at me today. It’s not fair, I only like it when I make others laugh on
purpose. I was ridiculed today, Tom. Publicly humiliated. I may never have enough pride to
show my face around the castle again, let alone talk to my ‘friends.’'

'You don’t need them. In fact you don’t need anyone at all do you? Except me...'

Chapter End Notes

Honestly, I think this was my favourite chapter to write :')

YES! I DO THINK DRACO MALFOY CANONICALLY SENT THAT SINGING
VALENTINE TO HARRY POTTER!!!!
 Broken Dreams

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – May 1993

It was a fortnight until June. Only a fortnight until Draco’s second year F.R.O.G.s, and yet he
felt as though anything he revised would not sink in no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t
recite the recipe for brewing a Strengthening Solution no matter how many times he wrote it
down, he couldn’t memorise the proper wand movements for Charms, and he certainly
couldn’t recall any of the topics listed for DADA revision. He was beginning to get very
worried indeed.

He felt tired and foul-tempered all the time, and very much wanted to curl up in his bed and
have the rest of the world disappear.

The options form for their third year classes had been doled out over the spring equinox,
giving something for Draco to think about besides how dreadful he felt. In the end, he elected
to take Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Care of Magical Creatures. Divination was a bunch
of incense-fumed nonsense most of the time (particularly now that he had a fortune-telling
journal up his sleeve), and everyone knew Muggle Studies were a waste of time. At least,
that’s what his father told him...

The Professor for Muggle Studies, Professor Jones, had been the next victim of the Heir the
very same day the form had been handed out, and Draco knew it was no coincidence. He was
very much aware by this point that the Heir was Tom, and Draco was his unwilling
accomplice in the attacks, even if he wasn’t conscious when it happened.

However, in the end it seemed as though Tom had been right about one thing. Draco had been
purposely avoiding everyone since that dreadful day in February. He didn’t need them, and
from the look of it, they certainly didn’t need him.

Pansy now vanished from the room if he was in it, choosing to sit as far away as possible in
classes wearing an expression Draco could only describe as uncomfortable.

Gregory and Vincent got along just fine without him, taking their trips to the kitchens and
playing their games, not stifling him in the slightest. Draco rather missed their presence. It
had always been something to fall back on… But Tom told him he was better off alone.

But perhaps what hurt most was Harry. Avoiding the stupid scar-headed fool proved to be a
very difficult task for Draco. He wanted nothing more than to bother him at break, tease him
in Potions, make him laugh and spend time with him.

But it wasn’t as if Harry even noticed they’d barely spoken a word to each other in the past
three months. Not that Draco cared or anything! Merlin, no! Vying for Harry Potter’s
attention had been beneath him since February, because he definitely didn’t have feelings for
him in any way, shape, or form.
He was just fine with Harry ignoring him, going about his days with Weasley as if he’d
suddenly vanished from existence.

That was, until one sunny spring morning when they marched up to him at break while he
was trying to wallow in his misery.

“Your dad’s only gone and gotten Hagrid arrested!” Weasley growled, pointing an accusatory
finger at him. “We caught him leaving for Azkaban with the Minister for Magic yesterday!
They think he’s the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets!”

“There’s more, he’s trying to get Dumbledore sacked too,” Harry added, glaring.

Draco felt the rage that had been bubbling away inside him reach boiling point, frothing over
the edge.

He snapped his spellbook shut and jumped to his feet. “Well that’s hardly my fault is it? I
don’t control what my father does, do I?!” he shrieked back at them, which shut them up at
least.

Draco took a step back. He’d done it again. He’d lashed out again. He’d been doing so well.
He never wanted any of this.

“Oh, I just can’t take this anymore,” Draco groaned, feeling sick to his stomach. “I need to
tell… I’m… I… I’m…!”

And there it was. The lump in his throat. The words just wouldn’t come. No matter how hard
he tried, he couldn’t say it.

It’s me. I’m doing it. Tom’s making me.

Draco felt his shoulders slump, defeated.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling so very small, alone, and scared.

He gazed up into green eyes and they stared back, wide and confused.

Draco ducked his head, turning on his heel and fleeing from the courtyard as quickly as
possible, not daring to look back.

***

Draco stared at his reflection, his grip on the sink tightening. He looked dreadful, his
normally silver eyes dulled and stone-grey, surrounded by shadowy bags. His skin almost
made him look like he’d been petrified, sickly and grey, and his blond hair fell over his eyes
in a limp, lank mess…when was the last time he combed it? He couldn’t remember.
Everything was pressing down on him. He was meant to be the perfect pureblood heir, until
he wasn’t. He was supposed to change fate, until he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything, he
couldn’t say anything. He was stuck.

Draco did the only thing he could. He slid to the floor in a heap, and began to weep.

He wished he’d never taken the diary, let Girl-Weasley have it instead. He wished he’d never
followed the stupid, Merlin-forsaken Journal. Why? Why did Future-Draco have to ruin
everything? It wasn’t fair. He was scared, he wanted his mother to tell him everything was
alright…

“Why are you crying?”

He startled, looking up through his tears and snot, to find Moaning Myrtle peering back at
him over the top of a stall.

“I can’t say,” Draco croaked out. “Whenever I try to, he stops me.”

“Who stops you? You can tell me,” Myrtle said, drifting over to him. “Do you think just
because I’m dead I can’t help? That I haven’t felt how you feel? Because I have! I feel just
terrible all the time!” she wailed dramatically, before floating upside down in front of him, a
patient expression suddenly coming across her face.

“You can tell me,” she repeated, in a surprisingly soothing tone Draco hadn’t expected from
her.

He didn’t see why he couldn’t try.

He took a trembling breath, hiccuping as another bout of tears shook him. “I think I’m being
possessed!” He choked out, then gasped.

He’d said it.

He’d actually said it.

“By the Heir,” he added, feeling his heart soar with hope. “By Tom Riddle! How am I telling
you this?”

Myrtle spun in the air to face him, a sudden sharpness in her silver glare. “Did you say Tom
Riddle?

“That’s right,” Draco nodded, feeling his chest grow lighter. “I haven’t been able to tell
anyone. Apart from you, that is.”

Moaning Myrtle’s ghostly hand sprung to her face, a fresh onslaught of silvery tears
streaming from her eyes. “Oh, you poor, poor thing,” she crooned. “I understand how you
must feel completely!”

“Why’s that?” Draco asked, sniffling. He blew his nose in his silken handkerchief.
“I was the victim fifty years ago,” Myrtle managed to say through her sobs. “I’m so sorry, I
wish there was something I could do for you…” she trailed off as even more tears flooded her
face.

“Oh, it’s too much for me!” she croaked out. With that, Myrtle disappeared, wailing her head
off through the bathroom wall, and Draco was left, curled up by the sink, letting her words
sink in.

Myrtle had been the victim the first time the Chamber opened? What did that have to do with
him? And was there nothing to be done? Draco was stuck with Tom forever, unable to tell
anyone besides the dearly departed.

The rest of the day drifted by in a blur, Draco not really paying attention. Not as Lockhart
regaled the class with more tales of his adventures in Defence, not as McGonagall had them
revising for their F.R.O.G.s in Transfiguration, not as classes ended and the smell of hot
mashed potatoes, pies, and gravy wafted through the corridors, not even when the Quidditch
team trooped out the common room for practice.

Draco sat on his bed in the dormitory, staring at nothing. The others had already gone up to
the Great Hall for dinner. But Draco, for some reason, could not. That familiar feeling was
tugging at him, and he found himself retrieving the diary from his drawer.

‘You told.’

Draco blinked down at the two words written in that same old looping handwriting.

Something broke inside him, his mind reeling in a moment of clarity. He snapped the diary
shut with all his might. He was going to be done with all of this! Done with Tom! He
wouldn’t succumb to it any longer! He wouldn’t be helpless, he would refuse!

“GO AWAY, TOM!” he cried, throwing the diary across the dormitory. It slapped against the
wall and fell open on the floor.

Draco took a shuddering breath, turning and resolutely ignoring the silhouette that had
appeared in the mirror's reflection.

“Why, Draco, you should know by now that you cannot avoid me,” came Tom’s voice,
echoing everywhere. Around the room, inside Draco’s head.

“I can, and I will!” Draco snarled, covering his eyes.

“It was really, very endearing,” said Tom, “that you thought you could stop me.”

“I will stop you,” Draco snapped back. “One way or another, just wait, you’ll see!”

Tom laughed then. “Dear Draco, it’s already too late.”

Draco took his hands away from his eyes, terrified and curious, peering down at the diary as
it began to shudder and lurch, black ink spreading and bleeding onto the yellowing pages,
before surging upwards from the parchment in a swirling mass of dark magic and ink. The
words Draco had written so keenly and sincerely spoken in hissing whispers; turning into
bone and flesh, moulding a face he’d seen in mirrors one too many times over the past few
months.

Tom opened his eyes; eyes that burned a menacing bright red. “Now then,” he murmured, his
voice as smooth as velvet. “It’s time to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” Draco cried. He wished, now more than ever, that
somebody would come rushing in – Greg, Vincent, Severus, Harry, Mother, Father –
anybody! Even Looney would be a welcome hero!

Tom only began to laugh, a cold, tinkling thing that trickled down Draco’s spine and left his
skin covered in goosebumps. “I’m afraid you really don’t have a choice!”

Draco gasped as his body moved on its own accord, staggering to his feet. He couldn’t move
his arms, legs, nor his head – not even his fingertips by himself.

Tom laughed once more. “All the time you spent talking to little old me, so naive; so
trusting.”

“I never trusted you!” Draco spat. “I knew there had to be something else to you!”

“And yet you still kept writing to me,” Tom sighed, twirling his finger. The action caused
Draco to take a step forward, towards the door.

“I – could — I couldn’t–” Draco gulped, eyes darting in every direction for something,
anything to escape.

“Couldn’t stop?” Tom finished for him, his tone so very cold. “Well of course you couldn’t.
I’ve been devouring your soul, after all.”

Draco felt fresh tears prick at his eyes.

“And now it’s time we went. Come along, Draco!” Tom announced. “Down to the Chamber
we go…”

***

Draco woke up in his bed.

Not his bed at Hogwarts, his bed at home. At Malfoy Manor.

He sat up. The windows were open, the curtains swaying gently with a warm, summery
breeze, revealing a cloudless blue sky and the endless green fields of the Wiltshire
countryside.

Draco smiled to himself, rubbing at his eyes sleepily. He was home.

Had he always been at home? He wasn’t entirely sure… How odd. He got out of bed,
padding over to the clock on the mantelpiece with a big yawn. It read as gone six o'clock, but
it wasn’t ticking at all.

It was broken.

Shrugging off the strange feeling crawling down his neck, Draco pulled on his dressing gown
and stepped into his slippers, venturing out of his room.

He trod softly down the sunlit hallways and stairs, passing all of his painted Malfoy
ancestors, who simply watched him, wearing unusually fond smiles. As Draco narrowed his
eyes curiously at the portrait of his Grandfather, he noticed he seemed to be oddly blurry. As
did the rest of his pearly haired ancestors.

But Draco found he couldn’t really focus on that as his stomach gave a loud rumble.

Yawning once more (goodness he felt tired), Draco made his way to the dining room, where
breakfast would usually be served. As he drew near, he could hear the faint murmuring of
voices and the gentle clink of cutlery on china.

Two very familiar figures sat at the dining table, but for some reason the sight of them threw
Draco off, that crawling sensation tickling his skin again.

“Mother?” Draco asked hesitantly. “Father?”

They both looked up, his mother from her cup of tea, his father from his newspaper, and
promptly beamed at him.

“Good morning, my darling boy,” his mother said, getting up from her chair to sweep him
into a hug. “And a very happy birthday to you.”

Draco pulled away from his mother’s embrace, looking to the dining table and noticing
something he hadn’t when he’d first walked in. There, on the table, in the middle of the fresh
fruit and a steaming stack of readily prepared crêpes, was a large pile of wrapped presents
and a beautifully decorated three-tier cake with swirling chocolate icing and thirteen golden
candles.

Draco stared. “It’s my birthday?” Had he been asleep that long? Had he even been asleep?
There was that strange feeling again, like something wasn’t quite right…

“Why, of course it is!” His father laughed, interrupting Draco’s train of thought as he came
around the table, placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “And do you know what you wished
for?”

“I…wanted the new Nimbus Two-Thousand and One,” Draco answered him, though he
wasn’t completely sure why.
His father patted his shoulder, before reaching behind the dining table. When he turned
around again, he held a long, obviously shaped gift, wrapped neatly in golden wrapping
paper and a large green bow.

He presented it to Draco, who grabbed it, hastily tearing the wrapping paper off, and
revealing the sleek black broomstick beneath. Draco picked up the Nimbus Two Thousand
and One, feeling the smooth polished wood and thrumming spellwork beneath his fingertips.

“Oh, it's just wonderful! Thank you, Father!” he exclaimed, clutching his brand new
broomstick close to his chest.

His father laughed once more and gestured out of the windows, toward the gardens. “Go
ahead, my boy! Why don’t you take it out for a spin?”

Draco didn’t need to be told twice. He beamed at his parents, forgetting about breakfast as he
excitedly tore out of the dining room, through the ballroom, and out to the lawn. He jumped
onto his Nimbus Two Thousand and One, kicking hard off the grass and soaring into the air at
an incredible speed.

He whooped with joy as he zipped, whizzed and loop-de-looped through the air. He’d never
flown so fast before, he couldn’t believe he finally got what he’d wanted, he was so very
happy!

But…

He still couldn’t help but feel… Like something wasn’t right.

This wasn’t right, was it?

If it was his birthday…what was he doing at home when he should’ve been at school…?

In fact where had he been… What had he been doing? There was something pressing at the
forefront of his mind, like it was on the tip of his tongue. A nagging feeling. There was
something…

Something...

Draco was jolted from his thoughts yet again as there was a blur of green beside him. He
looked around, only to find Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch captain, trying to keep up
with Draco’s amazing speed

“Flint? What are you doing here?!” Draco called out, unsure if he should be afraid of getting
knocked off his broom. He cautiously slowed down a bit to match Flint’s pace, who only
shook his head.

“Come on, Malfoy!” he yelled. “You need to make this win for Slytherin!”

“I do?!” Draco shouted back.

“Well, you are our Seeker, aren’t you?!”

“I am?!” He looked down to see that he was also dressed in a Slytherin Quidditch kit, his
emerald green cloak billowing behind him. He looked back up again to find he was speeding
along the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, blobs of red and green darting around him. The sound of
the whole school cheering and screaming below hit him like the Hogwarts Express at full
speed.

Draco whooped with delight, streaking across the pitch. Only a few moments passed before
he spotted a flash of gold near the other end of the pitch.

And there it was! The Golden Snitch, fluttering near the largest Gryffindor hoop. Draco
zoomed after it at full speed. Lee Jordan was commentating that the chase had begun but
Draco took no notice, he was easily gaining on the Snitch. He almost had it, he was so close,
nearly closing his hand around it…

“ –aco?! Draco?!” came a familiar voice, echoing through the Quidditch pitch. “You need to
wake up!”

Draco drew to a stop, the Snitch disappearing from sight once more.

“What?” he murmured, rubbing at his temple. “Harry?” Draco spun around on his broom,
staring at the Quidditch game before him.

Of course.

How could he be so foolish? If there was no Harry Potter here, Gryffindor wouldn’t be
playing…

“None of this is real,” Draco whispered, “I must be dreaming.”

And just like that, Draco remembered.

Tom.

Tom was doing this, Draco was dreaming and Tom was making it happen somehow.

Without warning, Draco’s Nimbus Two Thousand and One disappeared and he was
plummeting to the ground. Starting to panic, Draco scrunched his eyes shut. There was no
impact with the ground, however. Peeking out of one eye, Draco found he was standing.
Opening the other eye, he saw he was no longer on the Quidditch pitch, he was on a stage, a
bright light blinding him.

“I know what you’re up to, Tom!” Draco cried.

He was met with dozens of different voices all laughing. He recognised a few; Harry, Pansy,
Weasley, Granger. Tom.

Yes, there it was, high and cold and cruel in the middle of it all.

“Stop it! Stop it now!” Draco shrieked, only to be met with more laughter.
“What’s the matter, Draco?” came Tom’s voice, as though he was whispering right in Draco’s
ear. “I thought you liked making everyone laugh!”

“None of this is real!” Draco cried, covering his ears. “I’ve had enough of your stupid riddles,
Tom!” Draco yelled, only to be met with howls of laughter yet again. “Take me back to the
real world right now!”

“If that’s what you want, Draco,” Tom’s voice hissed.

The different laughs suddenly all morphed into Tom’s, his cackle echoing all around as the
theatre was plunged into darkness and Draco was falling again. Down, down, down, he fell
and he fell until he landed with a splash in the darkness, the ground beneath him cold and
wet.

There was a small light far away, Draco got up and ran towards it as fast as his legs could
take him, which seemed to be getting more and more difficult with each step he took, as the
wet ground below seemed to be trying to swallow him, his legs sinking further and further
into inky darkness.

When he finally reached the light, he was up to his waist, wading through the cold liquid. The
light Draco saw seemed to be some kind of window, and on the other side…

He wasn’t sure what to make of what he was seeing. There, in the window, was his own body
lying on the wet stone floor of the cavernous stone chamber from his nightmares, his pale
hair fanned about his even paler face. And there was Harry, sword in hand like some kind of
scruffy stupid knight in shining armour, running at a gigantic emerald serpent that was
rearing its scaled head, ready to strike at Harry with enormous sharp fangs.

“Well, I’m hardly going to believe that’s reality now, am I?!” Draco cried.

“Who’s to say what reality is?” Tom’s disembodied voice asked as another window appeared,
one showing Draco soaring about the Manor lawns on his Nimbus Two Thousand and One
while his father cheered him on.

“Reality is what we make of it, Draco."

Draco looked between both windows. He knew the one at home had to be a dream, but… it
was tempting. It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? For his father to care, to have the fastest
broomstick, to be on the Quidditch team. He felt inescapably drawn to it.

He glanced at the other window, the one with Harry and the monster. Except, there was no
monster now. But there was Harry, crouching, holding something glistening and yellow and
sharp high over his head.

“Wait, no!” Came Tom’s voice all of a sudden, jolting Draco out of his trance. "Stop! You
can’t –!”

Draco stumbled back as there came a terrible, blood-curdling scream above him.

The windows disappeared, shattering into pieces, and Draco was left in darkness again.
He almost panicked, but then there was a flash of golden light that was so very bright. The
brightest light Draco had ever seen.

All Draco could see was black once more once the light had faded. But not the empty pitch
black he had been in before, just the kind of black one could see when they closed their eyes.

In fact, now that Draco thought about it, he could feel his eyelids fluttering as he looked
around beneath them. He could feel his own body, twitching his fingers slightly and feeling
the graze of cold stone beneath them. He was lying on the ground, no longer up to his chest
in inky liquid.

He dared to try and open his eyes, finding that he could, and that he was indeed in his own
body again, just as he had seen before; sprawled upon the flooded floor of the cavernous
Chamber of Secrets.

That had been reality after all.

Slowly, Draco sat up.

Harry was crouching beside him, his robes ragged and covered in blood. The sword Draco
had seen him wielding lay on the floor some feet behind him along with the carcass of the –
now that Draco was seeing it with his own eyes – frankly unfairly gigantic beast of a Basilisk.

Draco blinked. “Did you just kill that thing?”

“Well, I had some help,” said Harry, grinning and looking somewhere behind Draco. He
turned to see a majestic bird with feathers that glowed like flames perched upon a statue of a
serpent.

“Is that a phoenix?” Draco blinked, cocking his head. None of this certainly felt like
reality…

“That’s Fawkes. He’s Dumbledore’s,” Harry explained, as if that helped.

Draco nodded dumbly, his eyes drifting around the Chamber. “What about…” he took a deep
breath. “What about Tom?”

Harry held up the diary, except now the sleek book didn’t look quite so smart, with a huge
hole torn right through it, its pages smoking and sizzling with a green ooze.

Basilisk venom.

“He’s gone.”

Tom was gone. It was over. Draco was alive.

Draco choked as tears that he couldn’t quite stop rolled down his cheeks. Without thinking,
he flung himself at Harry.

“You saved me,” he managed. “You saved my life.”

“Er…” said Harry, and then Draco felt his back get patted three times awkwardly. Draco
chuckled wetly.

Stupid Scarhead.

It was as if the fog that had clouded his mind for the past several months had finally lifted. It
came rushing back to him all at once; his long nights writing to Tom, the way he’d lashed out
at his friends, the Valentine’s poem…

Oh, Merlin the Valentine's poem.

Draco reeled back, looking determinedly down at the ground.

Well, he couldn’t really push his feelings away any longer, could he? He couldn’t keep lying
to himself, not after this.

He still had … feelings for Harry. Soppy, disgusting ones.

“Right!” said Harry, grimacing and getting to his feet. “We should get out of here now,
c’mon, Draco.”

Draco stared at Harry’s outstretched hand for what must’ve been a concerning amount of
time, feeling his cheeks burn before huffing and abruptly shooting up.

“I am perfectly capable of standing by myself, thank you, Potter!” he snapped, dusting off his
robes and looking around. His back was drenched, his hair was a mess, and he felt so
incredibly tired.

“Hey! What happened to ‘thank you for saving my life’ and all that?” Harry asked, putting on
a ridiculously posh accent.

Draco turned sharply, wishing his heart would stop beating so quickly. “I do not sound like
that!” he hissed, marching off as quickly as possible.

“Erm, Draco?” Harry called out, his voice bouncing off the walls of the Chamber.

“What?!” Draco snapped over his shoulder.

“The exit is this way.”

***

Draco frowned, once again unsure if he truly was dreaming, as he climbed through the hole
that had been cleared between a mountain of crumbled stone and boulders, and saw Gilderoy
Lockhart standing on the other side, smiling at him dopily.
“All right, Malfoy?”

Draco blinked, looking to his left and seeing Ronald Weasley giving him an awkward, tight-
lipped smile.

Never mind. It was a nightmare.

Weasley threw the large stone he was holding to the side. Both he and Lockhart were covered
in chalky dust and suspicious slime.

Harry climbed through after Draco, scattering stones as he jumped down.

“Harry! You – Where’d the bird come from?” Weasley asked as Fawkes soared through the
hole, landing on Harry’s shoulder with a shrill squawk.

“He’s Dumbledore’s,” Harry said simply.

“How come you’ve got a sword?!” Weasley gasped, pointing at the blade Harry held. Draco
had to admit, he did make quite an imposing figure, glistening sword in one hand, majestic
fire bird on the other.

“I’ll explain later,” Harry said. “We should get going.”

Harry and Weasley began shuffling through the rubble of rocks and stones, stopping to peer
up at a large pipe at the end of the cave. “Have you thought about how we’re going to –?”

“How… did you know?” Draco interrupted hoarsely, staring very determinedly at a boulder
that oddly resembled Professor Flitwick. “That I wasn’t doing all of this on purpose?”

There was silence for a moment, then Harry spoke.

“Myrtle told us what you told her, and when we heard what’d happened, what had been
written on the wall, well…” He trailed off, shrugging.

“What was written on the wall this time?” Draco asked with a tired groan, staring down at his
hands. Sure enough, in the dim light he could just see that they were caked with something
dark in places. More ruddy chicken blood. Brilliant. Just marvellous!

“‘His body will lie in the Chamber forever.’” Weasley piped up. “You really don’t remember
any of it?”

“I was possessed,” Draco mumbled, shooting the orange buffoon a glare. “Also I’m finding it
very hard to believe you’d rush to save me.”

“Oi, I put up with you, don’t I?” Weasley exclaimed, then shrugged. “Wasn’t much help
anyway, Harry’s the one who was itching to rescue you. But I reckon school just wouldn’t be
the same without you around, Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t answer, fighting the mixture of emotions running through him. Weasley actually
cared about him? Harry had been itching to rescue him? And Lockhart… Well, he'd been
strangely quiet this whole time.

“Professor, did you bring them down here?” Draco asked hopefully, taking in the explorer’s
dirty, sludge-coated sapphire blue robes. A fleeting thought passed through his mind, then,
stirring a rush of excitement in him. If Draco were to be in Lockhart’s next book… Well, all
of this would’ve been so worth it.

“Hm?” Lockhart asked, blinking down at Draco. He glanced around dumbly before pointing
to himself, eyebrows reaching his hairline. “Oh, I’m a professor, am I?”
 Possessed and Whatnot
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – May 1993

“Draco!”

Draco let out a surprised noise as he was engulfed by the smell of his mother’s perfume.

“My darling boy, you’re safe!” his mother exclaimed, holding him tight. She pulled back to
look at him with red-rimmed eyes, her hands coming to grasp at his cheeks. “You look a
fright. Are you hurt?” she placed a hand against his forehead. "You're feverish. Lucius, he’s
feverish!”

“Deep breaths, Narcissa.” Draco peered around his mother’s shoulder to see his father
quickly striding towards them.

Draco’s mother did as her husband advised, composing herself as Draco’s father approached
him.

"Mr Potter, Mr Weasley,” he drawled, despite not breaking eye contact with Draco, “as much
as it pains me to say, we are very much in your favour as of this moment.”

Harry and Weasley shared a bewildered look before aiming it back at Draco’s father.

“You’ve saved our son,” the Malfoy patriarch explained, placing a hand upon Draco’s
shoulder. Then he really did look at them. “However did you accomplish it?”

“I’m sure we’d all like to know,” came Severus’ drawling tone from across the room.

Draco looked around his father this time to see the Potions Master, along with the Deputy
Headmistress, standing beside Dumbledore, who was watching the scene unfold with that
twinkle he always had in his eye. The phoenix Harry had been carrying on his arm let out a
shrill squawk like one of Draco’s father’s peacocks, before taking off and soaring across the
room to a perch at Dumbledore’s desk.

Dumbledore stroked the preening phoenix’s chest before inclining his head at Harry.

“Erm…” said Harry, before stumbling over the story and sparing little to no detail. Draco still
wasn’t sure what to make about the part with the giant spiders, but everything else made
sense, from the petrifications to the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. He hadn’t mentioned
Draco yet. Or Tom.

Draco looked up to find Harry staring at him, blinking owlishly in that way that suggested he
was lost.
“What interests me most,” Dumbledore said calmly, “is how Lord Voldemort managed to
enchant Draco, when my sources tell me he is currently hiding in the forests of Albania.”

“I beg your pardon?” Draco’s father asked, suddenly seeming much more interested in the
conversation.

“Enchanted?” his mother asked, grip on Draco’s shoulders tightening. “By the Dark…but
how?”

“It was this diary,” Harry piped up again, holding up the sodden, beaten book. “Riddle wrote
in it when he was sixteen…”

***

Draco watched his father pace up and down the length of his bed in the Hospital Wing.

“You took it?”

“Yes, Father,”

“And you opened the Chamber?”

“Yes, Father,”

“And you spoke with the Dark Lord?”

“...Yes, Father.”

His father stopped his pacing and perched himself on the bed, suddenly looking intently at
Draco like he held the very moon and sun.

“What was it like?”

Draco felt all the breath leave his lungs. “Father?”

“Lucius!” his mother hissed, swatting at his father’s arm. “How could you even say –?”

“Our son has communed with the Dark Lord , Narcissa!” his father said. “Had I known the
book was – well, I – we both could have spoken with–”

“We could have lost our son today, Lucius!” his mother snapped.

Draco inhaled sharply, his grip on the sheets tightening.

His father’s face fell for the briefest of moments as he looked to Draco, a haunted searching
look in his grey eyes before he gave a breathy laugh and gestured grandly to him. “And yet
here he sits, alive and well!”
“No, no, that is not my point and you know it!” his mother croaked, tears slipping down her
cheeks as she too perched upon the bed, her hands coming to clutch Draco’s.

“Narcissa…” his father uttered, looking baffled and lost.

“It wasn’t as much of an honour as I think you’re imagining it to be, Father,” Draco said,
after the silence had stretched on for too long.

“I want you to promise, Lucius,” his mother said after a deep breath. “No more of this, this
ends now, today. Our son’s life has been endangered because of ‘the cause,’ and I want none
of it if that’s –” She fell silent as Madam Pomfrey bustled over with a tray of potions.

Draco looked to his mother, then to his father, who was loosening and tightening his grip on
his cane.

“I’ve something I need to sort,” he said after a moment of watching Madam Pomfrey wave
her wand over Draco. “Come, Dobby.”

Draco watched the house elf, who he’d barely even noticed was there, scarpering after his
father as he left the Hospital Wing.

“Your father forgets himself, sometimes, Draco,” his mother told him as Madam Pomfrey
bustled away again. “We’re both very relieved you’re safe and sound.”

However, when his father returned, crashing through the Hospital Wing doors, he was
seething, rumpled, and house elf-less. His mother attempted to question his anger, but he
simply told her they were leaving at once – not even bidding Draco goodbye as he angrily
click-clacked out of the room.

Draco’s mother fussed with him, brushing a thumb over his cheek before planting a kiss on
his forehead, telling him they’d see him again very soon.

No sooner had they left, the Hospital Wing doors crashed open once more.

“DRACOOOOO!!!”

He looked up to see Vincent, Gregory, and Pansy charging towards him at a frightening
speed. The air was knocked out of him as they collided, throwing themselves at him in a very
un-Slytherin style of bear hug.

“I can’t –” Draco gasped, “– breathe–!”

Apologising, the three Slytherins disentangled themselves. Draco opened his mouth to speak,
but found himself yelping instead, as Pansy punched his arm hard.

“Whyever did you do that?!” Draco scowled, rubbing at the sore spot. He would surely bruise
there, now.

“Don’t you ever do that again!” Pansy cried.

“We – we didn’t–” Greg began before dissolving into ugly sobs.

“We didn’t know!” Vincent exclaimed as Gregory nodded through his tears.

“Well, how could you have?” Draco asked, amused.

“Well you’re always carrying around an empty black book aren’t you?” Vincent replied.

Draco wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. He knew they meant the Journal of Dreadful
Things, but he couldn’t very well tell them about any of that…

“Do you know what sounds really good right about now?” he asked them instead.

Gregory and Vincent shook their heads, fat tears still pooling down Gregory’s face.

“A nice mug of hot chocolate,” Draco answered, grinning as Vincent’s face lit up like a fairy
at Yule.

“It is very good at cheering you up,” he said. “We’ll go down to the kitchens right away!”

“Greg! Vince!” he called after them. “You really don’t stifle me, actually!”

“We know!” they called back.

Draco watched them go, finding himself more amused than anything. He turned to face
Pansy, who was shuffling and looking anywhere but at Draco; the floor, the window, her
fingernails.

When she finally did look at Draco she let out a loud, impatient huff. “I just… wanted to
apologise for embarrassing you, and then avoiding you, because I felt guilty and couldn’t
face it,” she said. “So, um, yeah. There.”

Realising she had finished speaking, Draco scoffed.

“That was a terrible apology, but too right,” he sniffed, folding his arms.“And… I suppose…
well, I shouldn’t have snapped at you the way I did.”

“Shut up, you were all…” she flapped her hand at him, “possessed and whatnot.”

“Yes,” Draco laughed. “‘Possessed and whatnot.’”

“Friends?” Pansy asked.

“Friends.”

“To think I thought I liked you, ew!” Pansy snorted.

“Could you imagine? Us courting?” Draco asked, wheezing slightly. “Attending balls
together and coming up with stupid pet-names?”
“My precious Drakey-poo,” Pansy cooed, dissolving into laughter when she looked at Draco,
who’s face had scrunched up in disgust.

“You will never ever call me that again!” Draco managed to say before laughing along with
her.

Eventually their laughter died, and Pansy smiled at him. But not the kind of smile that felt
safe. “You know, the whole school’s talking about how Potter went down to the Chamber to
save you, like some kind of fairytale prince.”

“Oh, come off it!” Draco hissed, feeling warmth bloom in his face.

Pansy’s smirk grew mischievous. “‘Oh, Draco, I’ve come to rescue you from the dreaded
monster of Salazar Slytherin!’ ” She let out another shriek of laughter as Draco threw his
pillow at her face.

“You shut up! You shut up right now! ” he squawked, unable to keep himself from smiling as
his cheeks burned.

“If you’re feeling better, Mister Malfoy, there are plenty of other students who might need
that bed.”

Draco felt any previous colour drain from his face. Because Harry was standing next to
Madam Pomfrey, still covered in sludge and blood from the Chamber, shuffling awkwardly
from foot to foot. Weasley and Lockhart were also there, further driving in that awkwardness.

“My apologies, Madam Pomfrey,” Draco mumbled, taking back his pillow as a means of
having a shield.

“Oh, Morgana’s hefty left breast!” Pansy abruptly gasped. “I just remembered I left my bag
in the library. I’d better go and get it, it’s a custom made Twilfitt original!”

Draco glared as he watched the traitor leave, one-of-a-kind, custom made Twilfitt bag slung
over her shoulder.

Draco fluffed his pillow stiffly as Madam Pomfrey waved her wand over Weasley, who was
perfectly fine save for a few grazes. Pomfrey finished with him quickly and he wandered
over to Granger’s bedside.

Draco watched them for a few moments, before he suddenly became aware he was being
watched. Looking up, he found Lockhart’s eyes on him. The wixen explorer flashed him a
winning smile, leaning forward in his chair.

“It’s all very fascinating isn’t it? Wizards and magic,” he murmured. “Are you a wizard too?”

Draco frowned, baffled. “Yes?”

Lockhart leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper. “Would you happen to
know of any spells to shrink oneself to the size of a mouse?”
“I’m sorry?” Draco felt his eyebrows spring to his hairline.

“There’s been a misunderstanding, you see. I believe I am the Mouse Prince. Those were my
caves we were in, I think.”

Draco just stared in bewildered silence as one of his childhood heroes rubbed his grubby chin
in thought. He was saved any further bewilderment as Madam Pomfrey finished with Harry
and approached Lockhart.

“Come along, Gilderoy, I think we’d best take a trip by the Floo,” she said, giving Draco a
tight lipped smile as she helped Lockhart to his feet.

“Oh, goodie!” said Lockhart. “...And what is that, exactly?”

Draco watched, gobsmacked, as Madam Pomfrey escorted Gilderoy Lockhart, still babbling
about mice, out of the Hospital Wing. As soon as they were gone, he rounded on Harry, who
was desperately trying to smother his laughter.

“What did you two do to him?”

“He did it to himself!” Harry exclaimed.

Draco shook his head despairingly. “I can’t believe the greatest wizard explorer of our time
has lost his gobstones.”

This time it was Harry who leaned in, whispering. “About that. He’s a fake. All those stories
were stolen from other people by Lockhart, after he’d wiped their memories.”

“No?!” Draco gasped. He stared at Harry, mouth agape for what must have been a
concerning amount of time, because Harry began to snicker again.

“Are you alright?” he asked, mirth dancing in his eyes.

Draco shook his head absently. “I might need a minute.” He might’ve needed several
minutes. Because Gilderoy Lockhart was a fraud? Draco had grown up on his stories! And
that’s all they were. Stories. Tall tales told by a now gone-batty wizard.

“You’re very odd, Draco.”

Draco’s definitely-not-allergies flared up at that, his insides doing a disgusting little flippy-
flop. “I will take that as a compliment, Potter,” he sniffed, sticking his nose in the air.

Harry just laughed some more, and Draco despised it with every fibre of his being!

***
Draco sipped on his hot chocolate, watching as Madam Pomfrey squeezed a pipette filled
with thick yellow liquid into Mrs Norris’ jaws. In the next moment, the old cat had lifted her
head and began to stretch, her scraggly tail flicking. Filch began to sob as she climbed into
his arms, purring away.

Next was Colin Creevey, who sat up yawning, blinking blearily and mumbling something
about Transfiguration homework he had due the next day.

Creevey was followed by Professor Jones, who did not say much as they blinked awake.

Apparently Peeves the Poltergeist would need a specialist, as he was a ghostly entity and not
a human. That was, if the staff decided to heal him instead of banishing him once and for all.

And finally, there was Granger.

“Granger, I owe you an apology,” Draco mumbled as he sat at her bedside. “If there’s
anything I can do to make it up to you…”

Draco paused. He could hardly believe what was tumbling out of his mouth. Nearly dying
might have turned him as sickeningly sweet as a Hufflepuff or as chivalrous as a Gryffindor
or something just as naturally good … How disgusting.

Snapping out of that train of thought, he realised Granger had been smiling at Draco for an
uncomfortably long time. In fact Draco was beginning to think she was still partially
petrified, when she suddenly sat up, startling him.

“I’d like you to call me Hermione,” she said fiercely. “No more Granger, please. We’re
friends, Draco. We should talk like it.”

Draco felt his eyebrows climb upwards. Were they friends? He recalled that day in
December, when Granger and he had discussed Lockhart. Bonded over him, even.

Was he, Draco Malfoy, pureblood heir of Lucius Malfoy, truly friends with Hermione
Granger, a Muggle-born witch? Somebody his father would disapprove of with every bone in
his body…?

Yes. He supposed he was.

“Also, you wouldn’t have happened to have kept track of every single piece of homework
and revision, would you?” Gra– Hermione asked hopefully.

“No, sorry,” Draco admitted glumly, “I’m afraid I was possessed.”

***
As Draco was making his way back to the dungeons, he was stopped in his tracks by a parade
of Slytherins in their pyjamas.

“Good to have you back, Malfoy!” someone called out. Many of the snakes patted him on the
back in passing.

“Yeah, glad you didn’t die!”

Draco blinked cluelessly. “What’s going on?” he asked hesitantly as the second years
approached.

“Draco!” exclaimed Pansy, barging in front of the others in her frilly pink nightie. “Come on!
There is no way you’re sleeping now, there’s a feast being held in the Great Hall!”

She hooked her arm through his, and before Draco could protest, they were marching up to
the Entrance Hall and through the grand oak doors of the Great Hall.

As they made his way through the hall, Draco could feel hundreds of pairs of eyes fall on
him. Somehow, he managed to hold his head high, despite wanting the floor to gobble him
up.

“– The Heir was him all along –?!”

“–Shouldn’t he be expelled right now?”

“–Nah, babes. He was like hypnotised or summink. Well weird.”

“–Potter saved his life.”

Draco rolled his eyes at that last one, hating the way his stomach fluttered helplessly.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t be here,” Draco grumbled, as he sat down at the Slytherin table.
“Everyone is staring at me…”

“So let them stare.”

Draco stopped abruptly as Grang – Hermione had taken a seat next to Gregory and was
busying herself pouring a goblet of pumpkin juice.

“Gr– Hermione. This isn’t your table,” Draco said, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

“So? None of us are exactly in uniform right now,” Hermione replied, a rebellious twinkle in
her eye

Draco blinked, finding that it wasn’t only Hermione. Weasley flopped down on the bench
beside her with what was quickly becoming his signature tight-lipped smile.

“Well, this is a thing that’s happening now,” Draco observed, glancing at the Slytherins
around him, all of whom seemed equally puzzled.
“Yep!”

Of course. Where there’s Weasley and Granger, there’s Potter.

Draco glanced up into those unmistakable toad-green eyes as they sat down directly across
from him, feeling his chest grow a little lighter, his cheeks a little warmer.

“Now hang on a minute, do you snakes get different food?” Weasley asked as he picked up a
chocolate eclair. “What is this, Slytherin privilege?”

“Can’t knock us for having something called class, Sneezly,” Pansy replied, glaring. “You’re
at our table, play nice.”

Weasley gulped.

***

The celebration went on well into the early morning. Draco was surprised he hadn’t collapsed
in a snoring heap on the Slytherin table by gone midnight. Then again, there seemed to be a
never-ending supply of tasty desserts laid out on the tables.

Hagrid arrived around three o’clock in the morning, Dumbledore having sent the papers for
his release from Azkaban. The giant man clapped Harry and Weasley on the back so hard
they went flying face-first into the giant bowl of trifle before them, emerging with facefuls of
cream, jam, and strawberries. Naturally the Slytherins exploded with laughter as Colin
Creevey had a field day with his repaired camera.

The Headless Hunt held a jousting tournament in the Entrance Hall, while the Twin-Weasleys
and Lee Jordan snuck into Filch’s office, setting off all the confiscated Filibuster Fireworks,
which immediately got them sent to bed by a frazzled McGonagall (they snuck back in not
even five minutes later).

Luna Lovegood approached Draco with a necklace she’d made from sparkling beads and fake
flowers at the Hufflepuff’s arts and crafts table (because that was a thing too, apparently).
“To soothe your soul as it heals!” Looney had chirped before skipping away again. Draco
watched her go before squinting. As, yes. Vincent and Gregory really were also sitting at the
Hufflepuff table. They gave him a thumbs up as they caught him staring. He returned the
notion, still squinting.

Now, most pureblooded children were used to staying up all night on the odd occasion, as it
was traditional to watch the sun rise on the summer solstice. But having been through what
he’d just been through, Draco truly was dragging his feet by five in the morning. Most of the
younger students and teachers had gone to bed already, yawning and groaning.

“But it’s too late to go to sleep now!” Pansy protested loudly, hair standing on end as she
stood on the Slytherin table. “Let’s watch the sun rise!”
And that’s exactly what they did, pooling out onto the front steps of Hogwarts to welcome
the new dawn.

Draco felt an odd, sleep-deprived sort of symbolism as the warm rays of sunlight touched his
face. Like a phoenix rising anew from the ashes of their past…

It was safe to say that Draco, along with most of the school, slept well into the afternoon that
day.

***

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – July 1993

The rest of the summer term was extremely lazy and carefree. Exams being cancelled had a
very mixed reaction. On the one hand, most fifth and seventh years were either lost and
confused or just downright frustrated by Dumbledore’s decision. Especially the seventh
years, as they wouldn’t have any qualifications stepping into the Wixen world. On the other
hand, exams had been cancelled.

Life without Tom hiding around every corner waiting to strike and make Draco do dreadful
things was sheer bliss. There was an odd space where Tom had been, though, and Draco
sometimes found himself reaching out for quill and ink to write to him. He did not miss Tom
though, not at all. A conversation with Severus helped him realise the Dark Lord’s possession
over him compelled him to write to him, to further strengthen the bond, and that Draco was
merely experiencing a force of habit.

When Draco got the news of his father losing his job he wasn’t sure what to think. He was
sure his father would work his way into the Ministry’s good graces again, but he really
couldn’t bring himself to lose sleep over it. Not really, after the way his father had been when
he last saw him.

On Draco’s real birthday, he did not get a Nimbus Two Thousand and One. But he did get his
favourite macarons from France among a few other trinkets and lots of birthday wishes.

And then there was the card.

The card with a beautiful dragon on it that Gregory had drawn and decorated (Draco had not
known he was so artistically talented). It would have been fine if he’d just received the card
from Gregory, but no.

Hermione had made what felt like the entire school sign it. Which really did things to Draco
that he did not like. It made his belly do flip-flops, made his mouth curl upwards and his eyes
want to leak with joy. Ugh. Stupid Muggle-borns and their ridiculously good, forgiving
nature.

Now Draco owed them even more!

Because, yes, that was also a thing Draco had been doing. Despite knowing he had been
possessed, Draco couldn’t help but feel terribly responsible for the events of the year. It
didn’t matter how much Hermione told him he was a victim just as much as she was, he felt
like he owed everyone who got petrified a favour.

Purebloods were very serious about debts and Draco evidently did not handle guilt well.

So he’d apologised. He’d sucked up what remained of his pride, and apologised to all the
Muggle-borns who’d been targeted. All except Professor Jones, who he’d just missed, as they
had quit their position as Muggle Studies professor.

Hagrid had caught Draco in the midst of placing a wreath he’d made out of twigs and chicken
feathers at the ladder of the coop near his hut one day, after a particularly bad nightmare.

“I would’ve only cooked ‘em for me Sunday roast anyway, Malfoy!” Hagrid had boomed,
laughing and patting Draco on the back so hard he knocked the wind out of him. But Draco
insisted, even as the hens and single remaining rooster pecked it to pieces.

Chickens haunted his dreams…

Despite the macarons on his birthday, Draco’s mother had continued overstuffing his sweet
baskets each week. So much so that the unfortunate eagle owl picked that week would flop
out onto the table, exhausted from the flight. Draco somewhat reluctantly shared out all of the
sweets and chocolates, because it really was just too much, and as he did so people started to
come around to the power of chocolate. Only a few Muggle-born students were left
untrusting, skirting around him warily like the sweets were poisoned and he was going to set
the basilisk on them at any moment.

“If it had been anyone else they would all have endless amounts of sympathy,” Draco mused
as the Gryffindors and Slythrerins were spread out along the grassy bank of the Black Lake
one sunny afternoon.

“I mean, if I didn’t put up with you I would probably think the same way,” said Weasley
before tossing a toffee toadstool in his gob.

“Ron, that’s a horrible thing to say!” Hermione scalded lightly.

“Sorry, Malfoy,” Weasley gurgled disgustingly with his mouth full. “But it’s true.”

“And that’s no more goodies for you, methinks!” Draco said, sitting up, swiping the paper
bag from Weasley’s hands and throwing it in Gregory and Vincent’s direction.

“Cheers!” they called back as they dug in.

Draco, Harry, and Hermione burst out laughing at Weasley’s appalled expression.
 ***

Over the course of May to July, Draco Malfoy did a lot of thinking.

He’d never really cared for or considered other people's feelings growing up, but he was by
now familiar with the awful feeling of guilt. He’d hated the way it’d felt last year when he’d
fallen out with Harry over losing house points, and he hated the way it felt now, sitting
heavily on his chest, gnawing at his mind and reminding him how he had played a role in all
of the petrifications.

Feeling bad for Muggle-borns. His father would have declared him unworthy of being a
Malfoy right there on the spot if he knew.

But the Journal told Draco that way of thinking was wrong. His own future self had regretted
the way he’d viewed Muggle-borns and Muggles.

So Draco had done a lot of thinking.

Which was how he found himself striding with purpose down to the dungeons on the day
before the end of the school year, all the way to the Potions classroom, where he flung the
door open, practically glowing with determination.

“Severus, are you in here?!”

Draco was quite sure he may have made the Potions Master jump, as there was a loud clatter
from the ingredients cupboard.

“May I remind you, Mr Malfoy,” came Severus’ unamused drawl as the wizard in question
stepped into view. “That despite exams being cancelled, classes have not yet ended.”

“Yes, yes, Professor Snape, whatever!” Draco flapped his hand, smiling innocently when
Severus only raised his eyebrow in a warning.

Draco followed Severus into his office, watching and waiting for him to calm down as he
swept over to his desk, but found he couldn’t keep his question in any longer.

“Is it possible to change what classes we wish to take next year?”

Severus stared at Draco for several seconds as he had paused in motion, halfway between
standing and sitting. He then hung his head and sighed before gliding over to a set of drawers
in the corner of the room.

“Second thoughts are quite common, not quite as common before even taking the first class,
but yes, switches are often made.” he said, opening the drawer and flicking his wand at it
wordlessly. A scroll of parchment came floating out, unravelling itself to reveal it was
Draco’s options form.
Severus set it down on his desk, placing a self-inking quill beside it.

“Simply tap your wand against whichever class you wish to resign from, and tick whichever
you wish to replace it with.”

Draco did as he was told, tapping his wand once on the parchment, and watching as the
elegant tick next to Care of Magical Creatures faded away.

He dipped the quill in the inkwell and resolutely ticked a different box, handing it back to
Severus as soon as the ink had dried.

Severus peered at the page and his dark eyebrows jumped upwards.

“Are you quite sure, Mr Malfoy, that this is the class you wish to take instead?” he asked,
tone uncharacteristically full of surprise.

“I am quite certain, sir,” Draco replied, primly folding his hands behind his back.

“And you’re aware your father may not take well to your decision?” Severus asked.

Draco nodded, pleasantly surprised by the little thrill that rushed through him.

Severus steadily held his gaze for three long moments before finally rolling up the parchment
and depositing it with the others.

“Very well. You will be added to the register for Muggle Studies next year.”

***

“Everyone say cheese!” Creevey exclaimed.

“You keep saying that. Why would we say cheese?” Draco piped up, nose scrunched in
confusion.

“And what kind of cheese, anyway? Brie? Cheddar? Gouda?” Pansy added.

“I’m hungry now,” moaned Weasley.

“You’re always hungry,” sighed Hermione.

“I don’t actually know,” said Creevey, giggling. “It’s an expression! Now everyone say
‘cheese!’”

The camera flashed as numerous exclamations of different types of cheese filled the air.

“And it just stays still? It doesn’t move at all?” Draco asked, staring at the still picture in
Creevey’s hands.
“Not until I use the magical solution you wix do!” Creevey replied, passing the photo to
Draco as he fumbled through his bag.

“Fascinating,” murmured Draco, gazing down at the photograph. Sure enough, the memory
was frozen in time, capturing the exact moment Vincent slipped off of Gregory’s back, Pansy
put her middle finger up and Hermione saw, her expression in the midst of morphing into a
flabbergasted one, Weasley with his arm slung around Harry, who was doing his best
grimace, and Draco in the middle of it all, oblivious as he’d called out ‘Camembert!’

In fact, Draco thought as he traced a finger down Harry’s frozen face, I rather prefer it to the
moving ones.

He was yanked from his wandering thoughts as there seemed to be commotion happening.

“Oh, pleaaase, Harry, I’ve been so patient, it’s the last day of the year!” Creevey was no
doubt begging Harry to sign his photo again, holding out a peculiar- looking little stick
thingamajigy to Harry, mostly grey with a black tip and a black scribble on the side that said
Sharpie.

Harry grimaced, then sighed. “Look, Colin, I’m just… I’m not…” he looked up, catching
Draco’s eye and seemingly coming to a decision.

“OK, Colin. I’ll sign it,” he told Creevey. “If we all do.”

And that was how Colin Creevey ended up with a photograph with far too many signatures
squeezed onto it, Draco’s being the largest one, of course.

***

Draco watched as the Hogwarts Express pulled into Kings Cross Station, sighing. Another
year had officially passed. He’d done it. Granted, he hadn’t exactly stopped the Chamber of
Secrets being opened, but he’d definitely done … something. He rested his hand on the
Journal of Dreadful things, tucked neatly into his robes. At least this tatty black book was one
he could actually trust.

“Right,” said Harry, who was hastily scrawling something on three pieces of torn parchment.
“This is called a telephone number. You can use a Muggle phone to call me – it’s a bit like
owl post but not really… er, yeah, Ron your dad showed you how to use one, remember?”

Draco looked at the odd combination of numbers Harry had just passed him with sheer
confusion. Harry was so peculiar at times. Draco already had his address, he could just owl
him. He wouldn’t even know where to start with… whatever this was again.

Nonetheless, he slipped the scrap of parchment into his robe pocket, thumbing the smooth
texture, quite unable to stop the smile creeping onto his face as they all made their way out
onto the bustling crowd of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Chapter End Notes

Aaaaand there we go. Another year done and dusted. I enjoyed rewriting the Chamber of
Secrets SO much. Its my favourite of the series. And my lovelies, I really hope you
enjoyed! I think chapter six was the heaviest thing I'd ever written! But it all worked out
in the end! Once again a huge shout-out to Drakaina, Lumosatnight, and Citrusses, for
being my second, third and fourth pairs of eyes. This probably would've been a disaster
without their help XD
And thank *you!* For reading!

🫶🥹
I'll see you all soon for "Draco Malfoy & the Study of Muggles"
Bye for now, I love you all to pieces!
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!