The Blacks sat around the long oak dining table of Highlands Manor. The candles floated above their heads in enchanted holders, throwing flickering shadows across the plates. Wanda—still answering to Lily—sat at the head, carving roasted pheasant with an elegant flick of her wand. Beside her, Sirius poured himself another goblet of elf-made wine, muttering to himself.
"I still don't like it," Sirius grumbled, stabbing at his food. "Malfoys don't change. Narcissa might talk pretty about needing protection, but it's all a ploy. They're snakes, every last one of them. And now she's brought Draco sniffing around Harry."
Harry looked up from his plate, unimpressed.
"Draco didn't impress me," Harry said flatly. "Hermione knows more about magic than he does, and she's only just turning eleven. If that's the heir of the Malfoys, I'm not worried."
"That's not the point, Harry," Sirius leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "The boy's a Slytherin in the making. Mark my words, he'll try to drag you down the same path. Hogwarts sorts people into houses, and Malfoys always end up in Slytherin. You're at risk of being pulled into their games."
Harry set down his fork with a deliberate clink. His green eyes glowed faintly in the candlelight, reminding Sirius for a fleeting second of James, but sharper—more controlled.
"Sirius," Harry said evenly, "I'm not going to Hogwarts."
The table went quiet. Even America, who had been sneaking extra helpings of roast potatoes, froze with her fork halfway to her mouth.
"You can't mean that," Sirius said, his voice rising. "Hogwarts is tradition. It's where your father and I—"
Harry cut him off. "It's where you and Dad played pranks, had fun, and maybe learned a few things along the way. But I'm not James Potter. I've already learned more in Asgard than Hogwarts could ever teach me. Combat magic. Runes older than this planet. Skills no book in your library can cover."
Lily's lips twitched into a small smile at her son's firm tone, but she said nothing, letting the two spar.
Sirius leaned back, scoffing. "Asgard, Asgard, Asgard! You talk about it like it's the only place worth learning. Hogwarts isn't just about spells, Harry—it's about friends, about growing up, about being part of something. You'd miss all that."
"I already have friends," Harry said firmly, nodding toward Hermione's empty seat—she'd left earlier with an armful of books—and then at America. "And I have a family now. Asgard teaches me not just how to wave a wand, but how to survive. Hogwarts would be a step backward."
Sirius's jaw clenched. "Your father would have wanted—"
"Don't," Harry's voice cracked like thunder, his magic rippling in the air. "Don't tell me what my father would have wanted. He's not here. You are. And you should trust me enough to know what's best for me."
The silence that followed was heavy. Wanda finally set down her knife, her scarlet-tinted magic humming faintly around her.
"Sirius," she said gently, "Harry's right. He's not James. He's Harry. And he's already walking a path none of us could have imagined. Forcing Hogwarts on him would only weaken what he's building."
Sirius stared into his goblet, the fight draining out of him. "I just… I wanted him to know what we had. What it meant to be a Marauder. To run those halls free."
Harry softened slightly, leaning back. "I'll make my own memories, Sirius. They might not be in Hogwarts, but they'll be mine. Isn't that what Dad would have wanted too?"
The dining room fell silent for a moment after Harry's words. Sirius's fork froze halfway to his mouth, and even Wanda lifted her brows at the sharpness of Harry's tone.
Harry leaned forward, his emerald eyes gleaming with determination.
"And don't blame little children for the mistakes adults made, Sirius," Harry said firmly. "Look at yourself—until you came along, every Black in your family was sorted into Slytherin. Your house was full of dark wizards, pure-blood fanatics, and power-hungry schemers. Yet here you are, Sirius Black, Gryffindor's golden rebel. You proved blood and family name don't decide who you are."
Sirius scowled, shaking his head. "That's different. I chose to be different. Malfoys don't change, Harry. They're steeped in their arrogance from birth. There's no way Draco Malfoy will ever be a Gryffindor."
Harry's lips curved into a mischievous grin. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.
"Is that a challenge?" he asked, his tone light but his eyes sparking with mischief.
Sirius blinked, caught off guard. "What? No—it's reality. You can't change a Malfoy."
Wanda chuckled softly from the head of the table. "Careful, Sirius. You just lit a fire under him. Harry doesn't back down from challenges. Especially when someone says impossible."
Harry tapped the table with one finger. "Then it's settled. If you could break the Black tradition and turn Gryffindor, I can make Draco Malfoy into the first Gryffindor in his family. Call it… my personal mission."
Sirius groaned and dropped his face into his hands. "Merlin's beard, what have I done?"
America laughed so hard she nearly spilled her pumpkin juice. "You literally dared the son of Thor to prove you wrong. Bold move, Sirius."
Harry smirked. "Don't worry, Sirius. By the time Draco's eleven, he'll be running into the Great Hall with a red-and-gold scarf, shouting Gryffindor forever."
Sirius peeked at him through his fingers, muttering, "I'd rather eat a hat than see that day."
Harry raised a brow. "Then better start seasoning your hat, because I don't lose challenges."
Wanda leaned back in her chair, watching the banter with an amused smile. Yet in her heart, she was proud. Harry wasn't just strong—he had the heart to see people beyond the weight of their families and mistakes.
Draco Malfoy had not expected a letter that morning. Malfoy owls usually carried crisp summons from his father, instructions about lessons, or announcements of some new society his mother insisted he attend. But this envelope was different—neat, bold handwriting that simply read Draco Malfoy. Inside, a short note:
Draco,
Would you like to visit Highlands Manor tomorrow? I think you'll find it worth your time.
—Harry Potter
The name at the bottom made Draco's heart pound. Harry Potter—the boy whispered about in every corridor, the child who had defeated the Dark Lord—was asking him personally. His father had always spoken of Potter with disdain, but curiosity gnawed at him.
The next morning, at precisely nine o'clock, Draco stepped through the Floo and into the grand living room of Highlands Manor.
The room was unlike anything he had ever seen. Malfoy Manor was austere, filled with portraits and cold grandeur, but Highlands was alive—sunlight poured through enchanted windows, bookshelves climbed the walls, and strange magical trinkets hummed softly on pedestals.
Harry greeted him with a wide grin. He looked confident, older than his age, his lightning-shaped scar faint but visible under his dark hair.
"Welcome, Draco. I wasn't sure if you'd come."
"I wasn't sure either," Draco admitted, brushing ash from his robes. "But… curiosity won."
"Good," Harry said, clapping him on the shoulder with surprising strength. "Come on, I'll give you the tour."
Harry led Draco through wide hallways enchanted to stretch further than they looked, into a kitchen where Sirius Black was nursing tea and muttering about politics, and past gardens full of rare plants. Draco couldn't stop staring at the magical creatures roaming the grounds—winged deer, tiny silver foxes that darted through the hedges, even a small phoenix perched on a stone column.
"You keep phoenixes here?" Draco whispered, almost reverently.
"Not keep," Harry corrected. "They come and go. Creatures trust this place. It's safe."
Draco absorbed that quietly. Malfoy Manor never felt safe.
Finally, Harry pushed open a set of double doors. "And this," he said proudly, "is the library."
The sight made Draco stop dead. Towering shelves groaned under the weight of books, staircases shifted gently to reach the highest volumes, and enchanted lamps glowed with soft golden light.
Hermione Granger was already there, of course, half-buried behind a pile of tomes. She looked up when Harry and Draco entered, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"You invited him?" she asked.
Harry smirked. "Yes, I did. He's my guest. Be nice."
Hermione huffed but stood, brushing hair from her face. "Fine. But don't expect me to go easy."
Draco lifted his chin. "I wasn't planning on it."
Harry gestured toward a rack of spare wands. "Draco, pick one. Hermione already has hers."
Draco hesitated, then chose a slim oak wand. It felt strange in his hand—borrowed, unfamiliar. "I've never had a spare wand," he admitted. "Sometimes I borrowed Father's to try spells, but…"
Hermione was already preparing. She flicked her wand with practiced ease and murmured an incantation. A pile of cushions in the corner transformed into a line of neat white rabbits. With another swish, they became sparrows, fluttering up before returning to cushions.
Draco's jaw dropped.
"You're not even eleven," he muttered.
"Neither are you," Hermione shot back, "but I actually study."
Harry grinned, watching Draco's pride bristle. Exactly what he wanted.
"Your turn, Draco," Harry encouraged.
Draco tried a simple levitation charm. The feather twitched, wobbled, then plopped back onto the desk. Hermione, with infuriating calm, levitated three feathers at once and guided them through the air like dancers.
Harry chuckled. "Looks like Hermione's ahead."
Draco scowled. "She's just memorizing spells. Real wizards don't need to show off."
"Oh?" Hermione raised her wand. "Lumos Maxima!" A brilliant sphere of light flared, filling the library with warm glow. She dimmed it to a flicker, then brightened it again, controlling it like a lantern.
Draco tried to mimic the spell, but only managed a weak spark. His cheeks burned.
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. First time's always rough."
Hermione smirked. "Practice makes perfect."
The next hour was filled with more demonstrations. Hermione conjured water streams, transfigured coins into buttons, and even summoned books from high shelves with a sharp call. Draco tried to match her, succeeding once or twice, failing more often.
By the end, Draco was red-faced and sweaty. Hermione, though equally flushed, was triumphant.
Harry finally intervened. "That's enough. You've both done well."
"She did well," Draco muttered.
"Exactly," Harry said smoothly. "She's a Muggleborn, Draco. Grew up without magic in her house, without any of the resources you've had. And look—she's still ahead."
Draco froze, his pride warring with the evidence in front of him.
Hermione folded her arms. "Blood doesn't make you stronger. Work does."
Harry leaned back, watching Draco's expression shift. He didn't expect Malfoy to admit defeat, not yet, but the seed was planted.
As the afternoon waned, Harry walked Draco back to the Floo room.
"Thanks for coming," Harry said.
Draco scowled, though there was less venom than before. "I'll be back. I need to prove myself."
"That's the spirit," Harry said with a grin.
When Draco vanished in a swirl of green flame, Hermione appeared at Harry's side.
"Why are you encouraging him?" she asked softly.
"Because," Harry replied, eyes thoughtful, "Sirius thinks Draco will always be a Malfoy. But I think he could be more. Maybe even… a Gryffindor."
Hermione stared, then shook her head with a laugh. "That's impossible."
Harry only smiled.
At first, Sirius had grumbled every time the green flames in the Floo spat Draco Malfoy into the living room of Highlands Manor. But after the fifth visit in as many days, even he had stopped muttering. Draco had become something of a fixture in the sprawling halls—an extra shadow trailing Harry and Hermione wherever they went.
"Never thought I'd live to see a Malfoy wandering freely through my house," Sirius commented one morning as he watched Draco trail after Harry toward the library. "If my dear mother could see this, she'd faint straight into her portrait."
Lily chuckled from the kitchen doorway. "She's not here, Sirius. Let the boy be. He looks happier than I've ever seen him."
And indeed, Draco did.
Hermione had never had a proper rival before. Around Harry, she always felt like she was running to catch up to something impossibly distant—Asgardian training made him untouchable. But Draco? Draco was different. He was clever, fast, and had the same raw magical energy she did.
One evening, Harry sat cross-legged on the library carpet while Draco and Hermione faced off across a row of practice dummies.
"Petrificus Totalus!" Hermione shouted, freezing one of the mannequins stiff.
Draco countered with "Expulso!" The dummy next to hers shattered into wooden splinters.
Harry clapped. "Not bad, Draco. But Hermione's aim is tighter."
Draco bristled. "That's because I was showing power, not precision. Anyone can hit a standing target!"
Hermione smirked. "Better to hit it properly than to miss altogether."
The rivalry was fiery, but Harry noticed something else—Draco's sadness never lingered long when he was in their company. For a boy who had lost his father's presence and his family's political protection, the manor was becoming a refuge.
If Hermione ruled the library, Draco owned the skies.
The manor grounds were wide and open, with charmed obstacles for practice. One morning, Harry and Sirius leaned against the paddock fence, watching Draco zoom past at breakneck speed.
"He's good," Harry admitted. "Smooth on the turns. Balanced."
"Of course he is," Sirius said grudgingly. "Flying's in the Black bloodline, even if it came through the Malfoys. Still, he's reckless."
Draco landed with a flourish, brushing his hair out of his face. "Well? Better than your friend here?" he asked, jerking a thumb at Hermione.
Hermione folded her arms. "I don't like flying, that's all. It doesn't make you superior."
"It does if you fall and break your neck," Draco quipped.
Harry stepped in before Hermione could retort. "Enough. Everyone's got their strengths. Hermione beats you in spells. You beat her in flying. Fair balance."
But Harry could see Draco's chest swell at the acknowledgment.
At one dinner, Sirius watched Draco carefully polish his wand before dessert. "Merlin help me," he muttered, "I'm starting to think the ferret belongs here."
Draco looked up. "I heard that."
"Good," Sirius replied with a smirk.
Harry laughed. "Don't mind him, Draco. He's just bitter you're getting used to the place."
Draco leaned back with a surprising smile. "Maybe I am."
There were still times, though, when the weight of his missing father crushed him. Harry found him once, late in the evening, sitting by the enchanted pond outside, staring at his reflection.
"Thinking of him?" Harry asked gently.
Draco didn't look up. "He always told me Malfoys don't show weakness. But without him… the house feels empty. Mother's trying, but…" His voice cracked.
Harry sat beside him. "Then don't be the Malfoy he wanted. Be something better."
Draco gave him a long look. "Better than Lucius Malfoy?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah. Why not?"
For the first time, Draco laughed without bitterness.
Hermione cornered Harry in the library after one particularly fierce duel left Draco panting on the floor.
"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Doing what?"
"Changing him. You keep pushing him toward… well, toward being less like a Malfoy and more like a Gryffindor."
Harry's smile was secretive. "Maybe I am. Sirius thinks it's impossible. But I like impossible things."
Hermione sighed but didn't argue. Deep down, she knew Harry was right—something about Draco Malfoy was slowly shifting.
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