"He's going to get himself chucked out by the end of the week," Draco said, looking faintly amazed.
That earned him a not-too-gentle punch on the arm from Harry. "Stop being a prick."
"The first thing he does, on the day he's getting evaluated by a known racist, is bring mythical death horses that are known for their bad luck and are categorized as Dark Creatures," Draco argued. "Thestrals are only a step or two behind werewolves in the Ministry's eyes, and trust me, Umbridge has no love in her heart for those furry bastards either."
"Oh, put a sock in it, Malfoy," Ron said easily. Whatever had made him stay back after class with McGonagall had apparently cheered him up, and he was back on speaking terms with Hermione. That was a win, as far as Harry was concerned. That friendliness had even extended to Draco; they were doing their best to be civil, and Harry and Hermione were gently trying to encourage it. "Hagrid's trying his best."
"His best will get him sacked or demoted," Draco replied dryly. "This is the equivalent of a Muggle teacher bringing a declawed and defanged Bengal tiger to class. Oh, it's technically harmless, but do you really want to take that chance?"
It was Hagrid's first class back, and it was going just as badly as they'd feared. He'd brought them to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, already terrifying enough, and then introduced the Thestrals, those demonic-looking horses that only he, Neville, and a few others could even see.
(It had sort of shamed Harry, being surprised that Malfoy couldn't see them. He'd just assumed, what with Voldemort living in his house now, and his family being steeped in Dark magic, that Draco must have seen… someone die. But he hadn't. And Harry had. It made him wonder if he should pity Malfoy or resent him for keeping what was left of his innocence.)
Predictably, things had only gotten worse with the arrival of Umbridge. You'd think he was daft, deaf, and blind because of the way she acted toward Hagrid. Hermione, however, wasn't taking it as stoically as the rest of them.
"You hag, you evil hag!" she whispered furiously as Umbridge waddled toward Pansy Parkinson. "I know what you're doing, you awful, twisted, vicious—"
"Easy, Granger," Draco said, and to Harry's surprise, he placed a hand on her back, rubbing gently. Even more surprising was how Hermione leaned into the gesture, her trust in him evident.
The seething glare from Ron was expected, though.
"It's what she wants," Draco continued calmly. "A chance to discredit the gamekeeper—or better yet, to provoke one of you into an outburst, so she can slap you with detention and write that he's encouraging violent behavior."
"You know you can just call him Hagrid, right?" Ron said irritably. "I doubt he'd care."
Draco gave him a bemused look, his hand still moving in slow circles on Hermione's back. "I'm not quite sure if that's appropriate. We're hardly friends—not even allies, really. It would be improper—"
"Oh, Hagrid doesn't care about that," Hermione sniffled, wiping her eyes. "He's never cared about what's proper. I just wish he'd listened to me. Now Parkinson's going to make fun of him and make him look even worse."
"I'd hold off on that judgment," Draco drawled, "and let Pansy speak for herself first. She's not quite the follower you think she is."
"Do you find," said Professor Umbridge in a ringing voice, "that you are able to understand Professor Hagrid when he talks, Miss Parkinson?"
Pansy looked distinctly uncomfortable under Umbridge's scrutiny. She licked her lips nervously but answered anyway.
"I don't mind Professor Hagrid's way of speaking if that's what you mean," she said quietly. "He's easier to understand than some of our yearmates. I would, however, appreciate it if he explained more about the creatures he brings to class rather than just going on about how beautiful their fangs are."
Umbridge looked faintly disappointed but waddled away, scribbling furiously on her clipboard.
While Hermione and Ron gawked at Pansy's unexpected answer, Harry turned to Draco, who wore a small, satisfied smirk.
"Parkinson works for you," Harry said suddenly.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Works for me implies I pay her. Let's just say Pansy has no interest in bowing to a psychopath who tortures people for fun."
Hermione frowned, dabbing at her eyes as she glanced between Draco and Pansy. "I don't understand. Are you saying she's not loyal to Voldemort?"
"Not everyone in Slytherin is eager to play footstool for the Dark Lord," Draco said, his tone clipped. "Some of us actually think for ourselves. Pansy's… practical. She knows her family's position depends on survival, not blind obedience."
"So she's hedging her bets," Harry said, narrowing his eyes.
"Smart of her, isn't it?" Draco said, his smirk deepening. "Unlike others, she doesn't put all her eggs in one basket. Now, if only Hagrid could apply the same logic." He gestured toward the Thestrals. "These things scream bad press. Honestly, he should've stuck with Hippogriffs. At least those have a shiny reputation—when they're not mauling students, of course."
Hermione huffed. "The Thestrals are fascinating creatures, and they deserve respect. It's not their fault the Ministry classifies them as Dark."
"No," Draco agreed mildly, "but that classification will get Hagrid sacked if Umbridge has her way. You should be thinking about how to defend him when she inevitably writes her report."
"Defend him how?" Ron demanded, his eyes narrowing. "We can't exactly argue with her during her evaluation."
"No," Draco said with a sigh. "But maybe you can convince Hagrid to play her game—for now."
"Fat load of good that'll do," Ron muttered. "Hermione tried to get him to change his lesson plans and look at what we got. Horses from hell."
"To be fair, this is a good lesson from…Hagrid," Draco said after a moment's hesitation. "I mean, compared to his Skrewts, these are practically cuddly. And no one's been savaged! That's a major improvement."
"When will you stop whining about Buckbeak giving you what you deserved? You walked up to him and called him a stupid brute. If I was Buckbeak, I would've done worse to you and your fat head," Harry shot back, his tone sharp but laced with humor. "You already admitted it was your fault."
"Yeah, but I like whining," Draco replied with an easy smile. To their collective surprise, he draped an arm over Harry's shoulder. "It's how I show affection."
The black-haired boy rolled his eyes but made no move to dislodge Draco.
"You know, normal people show affection by actually being tolerable, instead of whining like a first year that lost his wand."
"Boys, really," Hermione interjected, her tone exasperated. "At least try to get along while Umbridge is busy sabotaging Hagrid."
Draco withdrew his arm with a smirk, but the tension between him and Harry had practically disappeared. Despite their constant sniping, the atmosphere between them didn't feel hostile—just…normal. Harry had worried that adding Draco to their group would make things awkward, but surprisingly, he seemed to fit in just fine. Yes, he was intense, sarcastic, and still very much an arse, but he was also brilliant, fiercely loyal, and unexpectedly funny. It was like a little niche they didn't know was there had been filled by him.
Harry felt confident in calling him a friend now. He wasn't sure if Ron and Malfoy would ever be friends, but they seemed to be settling into becoming rivals pretty well.
He could get used to this.
**************************************************************
Harry's body felt unnervingly smooth and supple, his movements effortless yet alien. He was gliding—no, slithering—between bars of cold, gleaming metal, their dull sheen flickering in a strange, otherworldly light. The stone beneath him was icy, its chill radiating up through his belly as he slid soundlessly across the floor. A faint hiss escaped him, unbidden, and he realized it wasn't from his mouth—it was from his entire being.
The air was thick, heady with scents he had never known. Every molecule was alive with information, painting an eerie, vibrant picture of his surroundings. Shadows became shapes, their outlines shimmering in vivid, pulsating colors that weren't visible to human eyes. It was both beautiful and terrifying, this new world of scents and vibrations, but a growing hunger gnawed at the edge of his consciousness, sharp and primal.
His head swiveled smoothly, the motion instinctive yet foreign, and the corridor came into view. At first glance, it was empty—silent and still—but as his senses sharpened, he noticed the faint outline of a figure ahead. A man sat slumped against the cold stone floor, his head bowed, chin resting heavily on his chest. Harry flicked out his tongue and was startled by the clarity of the man's presence. He tasted him on the air: the salt of sweat, the faint musk of fear, the underlying tang of flesh. Alive, yet drowsing. Vulnerable.
Harry's heart—or whatever now pulsed within him—quickened. The hunger roared, urging him forward, but he wrestled with the impulse. There was work to be done. Important work. He pushed down the animalistic desire, though it trembled beneath the surface, ready to erupt.
As he slithered closer, the man stirred. A silvery glimmer fell from his lap, pooling around his feet, and he stood, his outline snapping into sharp focus. Harry's senses screamed warnings: movement, danger. A wand appeared in the man's hand, and Harry's mind filled with a sudden, overwhelming command—a voice not his own, yet somehow part of him.
Strike. Now.
Before Harry could resist, his body reacted. He reared up, muscles coiling with terrifying speed, and lunged. His fangs sank into the man's flesh with a sickening crunch. He felt bone splinter beneath the force of his jaws, a flood of warmth spilling into his mouth. The taste of iron—blood—was overwhelming, intoxicating. The man yelled, his cries echoing down the corridor, but the sound was short-lived. Another strike, and another, silenced him. He slumped back against the wall, his vibrant outline fading, dimming, until only stillness remained.
Harry recoiled, a wave of revulsion crashing over him. His body—no, Nagini's body—was still. Blood pooled around the fallen man, its metallic scent overwhelming. The hunger had abated, replaced by a terrible ache in his own head. His scar burned, searing like fire, the pain so intense it was blinding.
"Harry... HARRY!"
The voice broke through the haze, distant yet insistent. He was pulled upward, away from the scene, the vivid sensory world of the serpent falling away. His own heartbeat thundered in his ears as he woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat and clutching his scar, the phantom taste of blood still on his tongue.
********************************************************
Bloody hell. And to think the day had started so well.
Everything had been a blur after his dream. Neville had dashed off to fetch McGonagall, who, upon hearing the story, had wasted no time leading Harry and the other Weasleys to Dumbledore's office. Dumbledore had listened intently, confirming Harry's account with some sort of strange device—a delicate instrument that emitted green gas, which coiled into the shape of a snake before dissipating. Without hesitation, he'd conjured a Portkey and sent them all to Grimmauld Place.
But just before they'd left, Dumbledore's piercing eyes had locked onto Harry's, and for a fleeting moment, Harry had felt something…alien stir within him. A sharp, gnawing hunger, paired with a violent, inexplicable urge.
He'd wanted to bite Dumbledore, to feel the old man's blood and bone break in his mouth.
The thought made his skin crawl even now, hours later. Whatever it was, it wasn't just his weird dream about Voldemortsnake.
There was something inside him, something darker.
Now, they were at Grimmauld Place, waiting for news on Mr. Weasley. The Weasleys were huddled together in the kitchen, their fear and grief palpable, while Harry had drifted to the hallway with Sirius. They sat side by side on the staircase leading up to Harry's old room from the summer. The house felt colder than usual, as if it could sense the anxiety simmering within its walls.
Sirius broke the silence, his tone gruff but tinged with regret. "Sorry about what I said earlier. About there being things worth dying for. That was—stupid. Especially since the twins are right; I've got no room to talk about sacrifice when I can't even fight for the cause."
Harry stared down at his hands, his voice quiet but firm. "Forget the twins. I get it—their dad's in the hospital. But they're wrong about you. You're doing more than enough."
Sirius turned to him, startled. "More than enough? Harry, I'm hiding in this house. I've done nothing but mope around and bark at people who don't deserve it."
"You spent twelve years in Azkaban," Harry replied evenly. "This isn't their house we're hiding in. And I'm pretty sure you've been using your money to help, haven't you? That's more than a lot of people in the Order have done, I reckon."
For a moment, Sirius looked completely taken aback. Then he gave a small, lopsided smile. "I…guess you're right. Still, I figured you'd be more upset at me. I have a habit of running my mouth when it's not needed. Moony was always the one to rein me and James in, but—well…"
He trailed off with a shrug, but Harry could feel the familiar pang of loss in his chest that surfaced whenever James was mentioned.
"You're looking good, though," Harry said, eager to shift the subject. "Have you been working out or something?"
Sirius gave a roguish grin, his cheeks a little rosier than usual. His face was clean-shaven, his clothes uncharacteristically neat, and there was a faint, spicy scent clinging to him—something like whiskey, sandalwood, and cinnamon.
"Well, no," Sirius admitted with a conspiratorial smirk. He made a big show of looking left, then right, before saying in a stage whisper. "Don't tell Dumbledore… but I've been sneaking out to Muggle London for the past month."
Harry's eyes widened, and he immediately smacked Sirius on the arm.
"Ow! What the hell, pup?"
"Are you mental?" Harry whispered furiously. "You'll get caught by the Aurors!"
"Not in Muggle London," Sirius said confidently, rubbing his arm. "They wouldn't know a Tube station from a bus stop. And I don't go out looking like Sirius Black. I shave, wear a hat, sunglasses—sometimes even a fake mustache if I'm feeling especially Marauderish. I've been to pubs, cinemas, and even that stuffy old library two streets over. Lovely librarian there, Milly—she's got the rack and arse of a Veela—"
"Merlin's beard, Sirius." Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him.
It was strange seeing Sirius like this—animated, happy. He looked less like the grim, haunted man Harry had first met and more like the mischievous figure in his parents' wedding photos.
Strange, but good.
"I'm surprised you even know your way around Muggle London," Harry said, still smiling. "Figured you'd be clueless."
Sirius's expression softened, his grin turning nostalgic. "Your mum dragged us everywhere after she started dating James. Coffee shops, bakeries, her old neighborhood in Cokeworth… She wanted us to see her world as much as we showed her ours. I think she liked watching us stumble around like idiots."
Harry felt a pang in his chest. Everyone always talked about his dad—how charming, bold, and talented James Potter had been. But hearing these little glimpses of Lily made Harry feel closer to her, as if he were piecing together fragments of a life he'd never known.
"We'll go out together," Sirius said suddenly, his excitement contagious. "I'll take you to all the places she loved after all this is over. We'll get you a suit, something tailored. Maybe a nice watch—no, we'll save that for your seventeenth. But we'll get you new clothes, proper ones. No more of that rubbish from your relatives."
"You don't have to—"
"Oh, hush," Sirius cut him off. "This'll be fun. We'll sneak out at night, so Molly doesn't catch us. Hell, maybe we'll hit a club! Imagine it, little Prongslet breaking it down on the dance floor! I might shed a tear."
Harry laughed, the sound echoing softly in the dim hallway. It was insane—Mr. Weasley was probably fighting for his life in St. Mungo's, Voldemort might be inside his head, and there was the ever-looming threat of a war they couldn't yet win.
But right now, sitting on the staircase with Sirius, talking about clubs and suits and memories of his mum, Harry felt something he hadn't ever felt in his life.
He felt like a kid with a family.
*************************************************************
"What happens when you take Polyjuice Potion with animal hairs?"
Snape paused mid-mark, the quill in his hand dripping a blot of red ink onto the parchment. He looked up, his dark eyes narrowing.
"Bad things," he said flatly, before returning to his grading with an air of irritation.
Draco leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up on the edge of the desk as he twirled a quill between his fingers. "Bad things like what?"
Snape exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Draco, you are here to help me grade these abysmal attempts at brewing, not to fill my office with incessant chattering."
"You said you wanted to talk about something important!" Draco argued, the whine in his tone unmistakable.
"And I will," Snape replied, his voice like silk wrapped around steel. "After we finish grading these... essays," he said, disdain dripping from the word as he gestured to the stack of parchment on the desk. "Though calling them essays is an insult to proper composition."
Draco groaned, dramatically rolling his eyes as he picked up the nearest essay. "Honestly, why not just vanish the lot of them? It's not like anyone's going to learn anything from this drivel."
"Because," Snape said in a clipped tone, "it is my job to impart knowledge to dunderheads like yourself. And if I must endure the agony of their ignorance, so must you."
"Rude," Draco muttered under his breath, scanning the essay with a grimace. "Merlin's beard, someone actually tried to substitute lavender for knotgrass. Do they want to explode?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if they did," Snape muttered darkly. "Half of them are too thick to even read the instructions correctly. One might think they'd prefer to be rid of their limbs entirely."
Draco snorted, then held up the essay he was reading. "This one tried to add crushed doxy wings to a Calming Draught. Should we dock points for attempted homicide?"
Snape's lips twitched—just barely—but he smoothed his expression before Draco could notice. "Deduct ten points. And make a note to inform Madam Pomfrey to prepare for a spate of vomiting first-years."
Draco dutifully scribbled a note in the margin before glancing at Snape again. "You're dodging the question."
Snape's quill stilled, his gaze sharp as he leveled it at Draco. "And you are testing my patience."
"Oh, come on!" Draco said, his voice taking on an edge of curiosity laced with mischief. "You can't just say 'bad things' and expect me to let it go. What happens if someone takes Polyjuice with animal hair? Do they turn into some horrible hybrid? Or—"
"They turn into an incomprehensible mess of limbs and fur," Snape snapped, his tone brooking no argument. "Possibly with claws, tails, or other appendages sprouting in places they do not belong. The transformation is unstable, excruciating, and potentially irreversible. Does that satisfy your morbid curiosity?"
Draco frowned, leaning back in his chair. "That's not what happened to Granger, though."
Snape's quill stilled, his gaze cutting toward Draco with a mixture of disdain and impatience. "Firstly, different people have different reactions depending on constitution, magical aptitude, and the sheer luck—or lack thereof—of the brewing process. Secondly, Granger's abysmal attempt at the Polyjuice Potion saved her in the end. True, perfected Polyjuice Potion can last for an entire twelve hours. Granger's barely lasted an hour, I believe. Its utter inadequacy spared her from the worst of the effects."
Draco's brow furrowed as he considered this. "So… the better the Polyjuice Potion is, the worse the effect would be when the drinker imbibes the botched formula. And the worse that the Polyjuice is, the more curable the effects of the failed transformation would be."
"Precisely," Snape confirmed, returning to his grading with the air of someone who had no patience left to spend. "Though why you're so fixated on such lunacy is beyond me."
Draco rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as an idea formed. "...So what if a person uses magical creature DNA?"
There was a sharp scratch as Snape's quill gouged the parchment he was marking. He lifted his gaze slowly, dark eyes narrowing. "...What?"
Draco straightened in his chair, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "If someone took shitty Polyjuice Potion with something like dragon scales, phoenix ash, or Thunderbird feathers—"
"They would most likely die. Horribly. In extreme pain." Snape's voice was as sharp as broken glass, each word dripping with incredulity. "Draco, why are you asking this?"
"...No reason?" Draco said, feigning innocence with an unconvincing shrug.
Snape's nostrils flared, and he set his quill down with deliberate care. "If you are even considering experimenting with magical creature remains in conjunction with Polyjuice Potion, allow me to disabuse you of the notion immediately. The outcome would be catastrophic. What, exactly, do you imagine would happen?"
Draco leaned forward slightly, his expression serious, but with a slight smirk on his lips. "I'd become a hybrid beast, unlike anything the world has ever seen. And destroy my enemies in a wave of pure power and magic."
For a moment, there was silence. Then Snape's lips pressed into a thin line as his knuckles whitened against the edge of his desk. "Yes," he said finally, his tone like ice cracking beneath pressure, "and then you would die. Painfully, I might add. Draco, I can only make educated assumptions, as no one has been mad enough to attempt such idiocy, but the most likely effects would be that while you might transform into a hybrid of some kind, your mind would also change. You would no longer be Draco Malfoy. You would be some mindless beast to be hunted down and put out of its misery."
Draco tilted his head, as though considering this. "It'd be a hail-Mary sort of thing. Like, if I'm facing down the Dark Lord—"
"If you are facing down the Dark Lord," Snape interrupted sharply, his voice rising, "you will be dead in less than two seconds. He will not give you the luxury of ingesting some idiotic concoction. He will see to it that your life ends before you can so much as uncork a bottle. Cease this madness immediately."
"But—"
"No, Draco!" Snape snapped, standing abruptly. The force of his motion sent a few loose parchments fluttering to the floor. "This is not clever. This is not inventive. This is the kind of reckless stupidity that gets good wizards killed. Do you think magical creatures' essences come with no consequences? That you could imbibe the essence of a dragon or a phoenix and walk away unscathed? Their magic is primal, Malfoy—untamed, ancient, and utterly incompatible with the human form."
Draco's smirk faltered, but his curiosity burned brighter. "What about controlled experiments? I mean, if you modified the potion—"
"I said enough." Snape's voice was dangerously low, the finality in his tone enough to make Draco's mouth snap shut. "If I hear so much as a whisper about you meddling with this kind of idiocy, you'll find yourself scrubbing cauldrons in the dungeons for the remainder of the year."
Draco slumped back in his chair, muttering under his breath. "Fine. No hybrids. Got it."
"Good." Snape returned to his grading, though his gaze flicked up occasionally to ensure Draco wasn't plotting further nonsense. The silence was heavy for a moment before Snape added, "And if you're so determined to destroy your enemies, I suggest you focus on improving your dueling skills, not indulging in suicidal alchemical fantasies."
Draco nodded reluctantly, and the two worked in silence for a good hour. The air between them was heavy, laden with unspoken thoughts and the gravity of Draco's mad ideas. Snape graded essays with sharp, precise strokes of his quill, but his eyes flicked up occasionally, watching the younger Malfoy. Draco, for his part, remained unusually subdued, his normally glib tongue silenced by his mind undoubtedly racing to possibly bring his insane hybrid idea to fruition without Severus' help.
But there was a much more important manner at hand.
Finally, Snape spoke. His voice was low, almost a murmur, yet it cut through the stillness like a blade. "You have been reported. To your parents. And the Dark Lord."
Draco froze mid-motion, his quill poised above a paper. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, and then he let out a resigned sigh, his shoulders slumping. "Huh. That was… fast. I'd thought I'd have more time."
Snape set down his quill and leaned forward, his dark eyes drilling into Draco's. "The Dark Lord wishes to meet you when you return to the Manor this Christmas. To talk to you, to see if he can bring you back to the right path. To enquire why you have been fraternizing with Mudbloods and his greatest enemy since Albus Dumbledore."
Draco let out a humorless chuckle, the sound brittle. "And I'm guessing a refusal—"
"Would see you dead in days," Snape finished bluntly.
The words hung in the air like a death knell. Draco leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his pale hair. "Well, that's comforting. I suppose congratulations are in order for whoever snitched. They've earned themselves a nice spot on his good side."
Snape's face twisted in exasperation. "I told you, Draco. I warned you this was dangerous! Cavorting with Potter, betraying Slytherin House with such brevity—did you think there would be no consequences? That you would slip free, unnoticed? When your father is Lucius Malfoy and your mother is a Black?"
Draco licked his lips, his face pale but resolute. "I have a plan."
Snape scoffed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "A plan. Do enlighten me. How does one plan to deceive the most powerful Legilimens alive?"
Draco met Snape's gaze steadily. "I won't lie to him."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "You cannot tell him the truth either."
"I won't. Not completely." Draco's voice was calm, his words deliberate. "I'll tell the truth… but in a way he can't parse. Half-truths, omissions. I've been preparing for this."
Snape stared at him, his skepticism palpable. "And what will you do should he decide to enter your mind?"
Draco hesitated, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the edge of the desk. "I've thought about that. It's why I haven't been taking any Felix Felicis these past couple of weeks. I got the results I wanted, but I figured I'd need all the luck I could get this Christmas. I'll take it before the meeting."
"If you're going to rely on Felix Felicis," Snape said grimly, "I suggest you take it before you even step off the train. The Dark Lord's spies are everywhere, Draco. A single misstep—"
"I know." Draco's voice wavered, but he straightened in his seat, his jaw tightening. "I know what's at stake, Professor. But this is my best shot. If I can convince him that I'm still… useful, that I'm playing Potter and Granger, then maybe—just maybe—I'll survive this."
Snape studied him for a long moment, his face inscrutable. Then he sighed, the weight of his own burdens evident in the lines of his face. "You are playing a dangerous game, Draco. One miscalculation, and you won't live to regret it."
"I've already made my choice," Draco said quietly. "I just need to see it through."
Snape rose from his chair and crossed the room with deliberate precision, his robes whispering against the stone floor. He reached a locked cabinet and muttered a series of complex incantations under his breath. The lock clicked open, and he retrieved a small vial of liquid gold that shimmered faintly in the dim light, as though it pulsed with life itself. He placed it on the desk before Draco with the reverence of one presenting a sacred relic.
"Take it," Snape said, his voice clipped but not unkind. "I will not condone your recklessness, but I will not leave you unarmed. Pray it's enough."
Draco's fingers curled around the vial, trembling slightly as he lifted it. "You made this?" he asked, his voice barely audible, as though afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile hope the potion represented.
"No." Snape's tone carried a rare note of humility. "But I have a contact in South America—one of the best potion masters alive. His work surpasses even the finest apothecaries in Europe. I can tell from the consistency of your last batch that you procured yours from Romania—a decent brew, but amateur in comparison. This," he gestured to the shimmering liquid, "is perfection. The best Felix Felicis in the world. I had to barter many secrets and favors to secure it. A week's worth in total."
"A whole week?" Draco's voice cracked as he stared at the vial, disbelief etched on his pale face.
Snape inclined his head. "Yes, but understand this: it is all the time I can buy for you. And you must consume it all in one sitting before you step into that house. You will have no time to dose yourself as you do here—not when every word, every gesture, and every heartbeat will be under scrutiny."
Draco swallowed hard, his throat dry as parchment. "Thank you, Uncle Sev."
Snape stiffened slightly at the use of the old nickname, his gaze softening despite himself. "Do not thank me. Luck is a fickle ally at best. Even with this, you must tread carefully. The Dark Lord is not easily deceived."
Draco slipped the vial into his pocket, his movements measured and deliberate. His expression was resolute, but Snape could see the faint flicker of fear in his silver eyes. "I'll be fine," Draco said, though his words rang hollow, even to himself.
As he turned to leave, Snape's voice cut through the silence. "Draco."
Draco stopped, his hand resting on the doorframe, and glanced back.
"If the worst should happen…" Snape hesitated, his dark eyes locking onto Draco's with an intensity that bordered on desperation. "Remember, you are not alone in this. There are those who will fight for you."
Draco's throat tightened as conflicting emotions surged within him—gratitude, fear, and a profound sense of isolation. "I'll keep that in mind," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Snape watched as Draco stepped out into the corridor, his shoulders stiff beneath the weight of an impossible choice. The heavy sound of the door closing echoed in the room, leaving Snape alone with his thoughts.
The boy would not be killed. Of that, Snape was certain. Draco was too valuable—an heir to both the Malfoy and Black fortunes, a pawn too useful to discard. But there were other fates worse than death. The Dark Lord had little patience left for Lucius, and if Draco faltered… if he failed… he could be shattered, remade into something unrecognizable.
Snape stared at the empty doorway, his hand clenching into a fist. He would do everything in his power to shield Draco and salvage whatever pieces of the boy might remain intact after this ordeal. But ultimately, it all depended on how Draco performed.
******************************************************
The weight of the Felix Felicis in his pocket felt like both a blessing and a curse. A week's worth of the world's best luck. A week to convince the most dangerous wizard in history that he was still loyal.
Draco couldn't help but let out a hollow laugh, the sound echoing faintly in the empty corridor. It was absurd, really. Luck might help him avoid missteps, might guide him through the labyrinth of deceit he was walking into, but it couldn't change who he was. It couldn't make him believe in the Dark Lord's cause—not anymore.
Not after the attack in the summer.
The pain had been excruciating, but the aftermath was worse. The so-called Messiah of his people had scarred him, not just physically but mentally, flooding his mind with alien memories that didn't belong. Memories of a different world. A world where all of this—magic, Hogwarts, Voldemort—was nothing more than a story. A child's fantasy, spun into books, movies, and fan discussions.
It had nearly broken him. The new memories didn't slot neatly into place; they crashed over him like a tidal wave, drowning the boy he had been, twisting and reshaping him until he could barely tell where Draco Malfoy ended and the new mind began.
But he had survived. Somehow, he had clawed his way through the storm of identity and come out the other side. He wasn't sure who he was anymore—a strange amalgamation of Draco and something else—but he knew one thing for certain: he had work to do.
The foreign memories weren't just a curse; they were a gift. They buzzed with creativity, brimming with fantastical ideas that didn't belong in this world but begged to be made real. His enchanted Bludgers were inspired by Naruto's Truth-Seeking Orbs. His Animagus rings were a nod to Maui's hook from Moana. His method for mastering wandless magic, cribbed from Jujutsu Kaisen's principles of subtraction being a sign of Cursed Technique Mastery.
And there were so many more ideas, all clamoring for his attention, all promising power and ingenuity. He felt like a fledgling god standing at the edge of creation, his mind teeming with possibilities.
He should be worried about the imminent meeting with Tom Riddle—like hell he was going to call him Voldemort or You-Know-Who in his head. Draco might slip and call him the Dark Lord in conversation (old habits died hard), but in his mind? It was Tom Riddle, Government Name Supreme.
But he wasn't worried. Not about the meeting itself, at least. For all Voldemort's vaunted Legilimency, he hadn't noticed that the Draco he'd tortured into a coma wasn't the same boy who'd woken up. Voldemort had no idea that his prey was now a predator, biding his time and sharpening his teeth.
Draco's hatred burned hotter with every passing day. The Draco part of him hated Voldemort for making him feel small, powerless. The other part—the nameless, foreign part—despised the Dark Lord's hypocrisy. For all his power, Riddle was just another bully trying to force the world to bow and keep everyone in the dirt.
But the meeting wasn't what scared him. What truly worried Draco was what would come after. Because Fifth Year was the last book he remembered in any real detail.
Everything beyond this point was a blur—a mishmash of wiki summaries, YouTube clips, and spoilers from the internet's loudest assholes. He knew the broad strokes: Snape dies. Dumbledore dies. Harry and Dumbledore delve into Voldemort's past through memories. Slughorn gives up a key piece of information after Harry doses him with Felix Felicis. There's a final battle at Hogwarts where everyone from Fred to Lupin to Tonks bites the dust. Nagini's death is critical.
And Harry somehow wins the last duel with Expelliarmus.
That was it. That was the extent of his knowledge past this year.
But the problem was, this world was… different. It wasn't just that his presence had changed things—though it had, irrevocably. The world itself was stronger, more vivid. The spells hit harder, the consequences felt sharper, and the people were more complex than the characters he remembered. The Dark Lord was more terrifying, the stakes higher.
And then there was Harry himself.
Draco's lips curled into a faint smile at the thought of the Boy Who Lived. He'd expected to hate Potter, to resent him for being the center of everything: If he had been reborn as him, everything would have gone so much smoother. But instead, he found himself… intrigued.
Harry Potter was braver than Draco had expected, kinder too. There was a naivete about him, something that made you both doubt him and believe in him. He well and truly believed that people deserved second chances and that doing the right thing was worth the trouble you went through. And despite everything—despite the years of enmity and mistrust—Harry had extended an olive branch. Draco still wasn't sure why he'd given it, because even in spite of Felix, he was still sort of an ass, but he was glad he had. For the first time in this life, Draco felt like he had allies, people who might actually care if he lived or died.
But he wouldn't be able to rely on the fractured scraps of his memories soon enough. He needed new plans, new contingencies, new weapons, and new ideas to make this world of his more bearable.
Like that idea he'd just had the other day: a magical search engine. A book that could absorb the contents of other books, cross-reference information, and provide instant answers to questions written inside it, inspired by Tom Riddle's Diary. A kind of wizarding Google. He could already imagine how useful it would be—whether for research or just saving time in the library. And the name… SpellSearch? Magipedia? OwlQuill?
No, too tacky. He'd workshop it later.
This might all go horribly wrong, though, the more he thought about it.
He might die the minute he stepped foot in the Manor, his body crumpling to the floor as Voldemort's laughter echoed through the halls. Tom could rip his mind apart piece by piece, leaving only a hollow puppet behind—obedient, subservient, and utterly devoid of the person he had fought to become.
The thought made his stomach churn.
But if he managed to do this… if he managed to pull this off…
Well, that would be a feat worthy of Dumbledore himself, wouldn't it?
The idea sent a flicker of bitter amusement through him. The great Albus Dumbledore, revered leader of the Light, the man who had outwitted Grindelwald and held the Dark Lord at bay for decades. And then there was Draco Malfoy, a boy raised to kneel at Voldemort's feet. Nothing more than a minor antagonist in Harry Potter's brilliant story, standing before the Dark Lord with a smirk and a week's worth of luck in his veins.
Draco Malfoy, the first snake to bite back at the Dark Lord.
He could already picture the headlines:
Heir of Malfoy Defies Darkness!
Silver-Tongued Savior!
The Snake Who Outplayed a Serpent!
Or better yet, his autobiography.
Draco Malfoy: The Boy Who Survived the Dark Lord's Wrath.
No, that was too derivative. Something sharper, more dignified.
The Snake's Gambit: My Life Among Lions, Shadows, and Monsters.
Yeah, the Draco part of him really shined in times like this. His greed, his want to become something more egged him on as much as his hatred and fear, fuelling him even when he was exhausted. Being able to earn his right to be recognized, well, it was something that appealed to his pureblood sensibilities immensely.
After all, even if Lockhart was a fraud, he'd still been a massively popular figure in the Wizarding World. With so few distractions in their day-to-day lives, and with how gullible the average wizard was, a book series on his life and successes would undoubtedly be a best-seller.
Of course, that was assuming he lived long enough to write it.
Draco's smirk faded as reality settled over him like a heavy cloak. The road ahead wasn't a chessboard with clean-cut strategies and predictable moves. It was a minefield, and every step could trigger disaster. But he wasn't walking blind—not with this boosted Felix at his side. If he could play this right, maneuver his pieces just so, maybe he'd find his way to the other side of the game intact.
And when he did, the world would remember his name—not as some lackey to a shitty Dark Lord, not as his father's heir, but as Draco Malfoy.
The boy who had played the Dark Lord's game—and won.
