Goyle's cake choked in his throat mid-swallow as he registered Draco's severe expression. Beside him, Crabbe flinched, his neck was hunching slightly as though trying to make himself smaller and less noticeable.
They had never seen Draco like this before.
Draco ignored the two henchmen's astonished gazes, took a deep breath to calm himself, and then sat back down.
He needed to think carefully about why his emotions had become so out of control when the cat was mentioned.
Just as he was beginning to organize his thoughts, Pansy Parkinson came storming into the common room from the dormitory stairs. Her footsteps echoed sharply against the stone floor in rapid, angry clicks that announced her mood before she'd even spoken.
When her eyes found Draco, they held an expression he'd never seen directed at him before: disdain mixed with something that might have been disappointment.
"I heard you were talking to that Hufflepuff's pet cat in the corridor?" Pansy's voice carried across the common room.
Draco's body went stiff for a barely perceptible instant.
"I merely happened to be passing through the same corridor." His tone was flat giving no emotional foothold for further interrogation.
"Merely passing through?" Pansy's voice climbed higher, taking on that particular shrill tone. "I certainly hope that's all it was, Draco. Remember who you are—a pure-blood of the highest standing, a proud Slytherin! I have no desire to hear rumors someday that you've been 'tamed' by some common house pet."
She paused for emphasis; her expression was hardening further.
"Whether or not you care about such things, I refuse to be humiliated by association."
"Parkinson!"
Draco's head snapped up with enough force to make Pansy flinch back. His eyes had gone cold in a dangerous chill that marked him as a Malfoy heir.
"Watch your tongue," he said with soft, lethal precision. "What I choose to do is not subject to your judgment or approval."
He leaned forward slightly, using his posture to create pressure even without moving from his seat. The technique was one his father had taught him.
"If you're so desperately bored that gossip has become your primary occupation, perhaps you should redirect that energy toward improving your Potions work instead." His voice remained silky soft, forcing Pansy to strain to hear every word and thus acknowledging his control of the conversation.
"Professor Snape made it quite clear that if anyone fails to produce satisfactory work in our next class, he won't care about their House affiliation. Even Slytherins can face his displeasure."
The threat landed with effectiveness.
Pansy's face went pale, not just with anger but also fear. Snape's standards were notoriously demanding, and while he showed favoritism toward Slytherin in general, that protection didn't extend to students whose work actually offended his professional standards.
Failing in Potions as a Slytherin would be doubly humiliating because you'd failed despite every advantage.
Pansy released a cold, dismissive sound somewhere between a snort and a huff, trying to preserve some dignity in retreat then spun and fled back toward the dormitories.
Crabbe and Goyle shwoing the survival instincts that had kept them in Draco's good graces for years silently retreated to a distant corner of the common room and resumed attacking their cake with focus.
If their friend was in this kind of mood, the wisest course was to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible.
Draco dismissed the entire confrontation from his mind almost immediately, returning his attention to the fireplace as though nothing had interrupted his contemplation. But Pansy's words had stirred something in his thoughts, bringing certain details into sharper focus.
The orange-red flames danced in his pupils, casting flickering light across his face. As he stared into the fire, his mind drifted back involuntarily to that corridor encounter replaying the moment when he'd stood frozen before Tom, struggling to force out words that felt simultaneously necessary and forbidden.
He'd looked into Tom's yellow eyes during that conversation.
There'd been no fear there nor flattery. But more significantly, there'd also been no calculation. No hint of the scheming assessment that were in his so-called 'friends' gazes, where every interaction was evaluated for potential advantage.
And certainly nothing like the open disgust that had radiated from that Weasley—that blood traitor who wore that disgust like a badge of honor.
No. In Tom's eyes, Draco had seen only... calm. And perhaps, beneath that calm, a flicker of pure curiosity.
This gaze was so unfamiliar, so unfamiliar that it unsettled him.
The realization unsettled Draco more than any amount of hostility could have.
"Absurd," he muttered to himself, his voice was barely audible over the crackling fire. "Completely absurd."
He, Draco Malfoy—heir to one of Britain's most prestigious pure-blood families, his parents' pride was sitting here feeling genuinely disturbed by a cat's expression?
More absurd still: he'd actually thanked that cat. Expressed genuine gratitude to a creature that couldn't even be properly categorized as human. And the worst part was that the gratitude had felt real when he'd spoken it.
"This is ridiculous," he told the empty air, shaking his head as though it could dislodge the uncomfortable thoughts taking root there.
Naturally, Tom remained completely oblivious to this minor drama unfolding in the Slytherin dungeons. He had his own concerns occupying his attention.
The combination of genuine curiosity about meeting Hagrid and excitement about a nighttime adventure proved sufficiently distracting that for once, quite remarkably, given his track record, he managed to get through an entire afternoon of classes without causing any incidents at all.
This wasn't entirely due to improved self-control, it should be noted.
The Herbology lesson that afternoon focused primarily on identification and classification of common magical plants, memorizing names, recognizing distinguishing features, understanding basic properties and uses.
In other words, the class offered very little opportunity for Tom to experiment, improvise, or accidentally revolutionize conventional understanding of magical botany.
The result?
Professor Sprout was approaching Dumbledore's office yet again after class, though this time her complaint carried an entirely different quality than previous visits.
She genuinely couldn't understand it. Why did Tom perform so spectacularly in other classes—producing effects that shocked professors and defied magical theory while in her class he was... 'well-behaved'?
Aside from his exceptional memory and solid, comprehensive grasp of basic knowledge, he showed absolutely no special talent. She, too, wanted to experience teaching a 'prodigy'!
Faced with this peculiar complaint of basically "why isn't my student breaking reality in my class like he does for everyone else?"—Dumbledore found himself at a complete loss for appropriate response.
What could he possibly say?
He settled for offering Professor Sprout a helpless, somewhat apologetic smile that conveyed his complete inability to explain or resolve her concerns.
The situation was simply too bizarre for him to address.
Time, as it tended to do despite anyone's wishes otherwise, continued its march forward.
The afternoon faded into evening, dinner came and went, and eventually night fell over Hogwarts like a heavy velvet curtain.
This was the time beloved by adventurous students across generations, the hours when the castle's official rules gave way to its unofficial possibilities.
For those brave or foolish enough to venture out after curfew, Hogwarts at night offered an entirely different experience than its daytime self.
Outside the castle's main entrance, tucked into one of the many shadowed alcoves that dotted the walls, an increasingly impatient figure fidgeted in the darkness.
"Where are they?!" Ron's voice emerged as an agitated whisper. "We've been waiting forever! And where are Hermione and Ariana? They specifically agreed to come, so why haven't they appeared yet?"
His foot tapped against stone in an unconscious rhythm of rising anxiety, the sound was fortunately muffled by his boots.
"Do you think they got caught by Filch? What if they're being interrogated right now? Harry—" Ron's voice climbed slightly with each question, panic was building momentum, "—what if they tell him about us?"
Harry, wearing an identical dark traveling cloak that was standard uniform for Hogwarts students attempting covert nighttime activities, felt his own nervousness but managed to maintain better control than his friend.
"Relax, Ron. We're not even at the agreed meeting time yet—we're early." He kept his voice low and steady, molding the calm he wanted Ron to adopt. "And even if Hermione did get caught, she wouldn't betray us."
He stated this with complete confidence.
"Think about it: if she's caught alone, Filch can only deduct points from her personally—one student's worth. But if she reveals our involvement, we'd all lose points. That's three or four students' worth of point deductions instead of one."
Harry paused to let the mathematics sink in. "Given how much Hermione cares about House points, she'd protect us even if it meant taking the entire punishment herself."
Harry might not fully understand many aspects of social dynamics or pure-blood politics or the complex personalities of his classmates.
But when it came to academic achievement and House points, he trusted his read on her completely. He had great confidence in Hermione as even for the sake of house points, she would keep their secret.
"Yeah, that makes sense actually." Ron's anxiety eased fractionally, his foot was stopping its nervous tapping. "She is basically Mini-McGonagall, after all."
"What was that about 'Mini-McGonagall'?"
The calm voice emerged from directly above them with no warning, causing both boys to nearly leap out of their skins. Their startled yelps were barely suppressed into strangled gasps.
Looking up toward the source, they found two faces looking down at them from the wall above—Ariana and Hermione, both lit by moonlight in a way that made them appear almost luminous.
The silvery light caught in Hermione's bushy hair and played across Ariana's creating an effect that was simultaneously beautiful and slightly eerie.
"Oh, Merlin, you scared us half to death," Harry gasped, pressing one hand against his chest as though restraining his racing heart.
Ron was bent double beside him, gulping air in great dramatic heaves like someone who'd narrowly escaped drowning.
"Serves you right for talking about people behind their backs!" Hermione's tone mixed satisfaction with exasperation.
She and Ariana dropped down from their perch with ease, apparently they'd been lying in wait specifically to surprise the boys and quickly ducked into the shadowed alcove alongside them. "Now you know how it feels. Maybe you'll think twice before gossiping."
She had no intention of being caught by Filch before their adventure even began, thank you very much.
Once settled in the shadows, Hermione's expression shifted from amused to concerned as she scanned their surroundings.
"Where are Tom and Hannah? The Hufflepuff common room is practically next to the Great Hall entrance, they should have beaten us here easily. Why are we waiting for them?"
[Well, here we are!]
Ron's mouth had just opened to complaint about the absent pair when Tom's familiar whiteboard appeared behind them, giving him such a shock that he swallowed his words with an audible gulp.
Turning around, they discovered Tom and Hannah standing calmly in the shadows as though they'd been there the entire time, their presence was previously undetected despite the narrowed space.
This was one of Tom's significant advantages when it came to nighttime adventures.
During his last after-hours excursion, he'd foolishly forgotten about his ability to simply teleport between locations that had nearly resulted in Peeves catching them all.
But tonight, having remembered this extremely useful capability, he'd simply transported himself and Hannah directly to Harry's position with perfect accuracy.
Watching the pair stand there looking completely casual and unstressed while everyone else had been anxiously navigating the castle's dangers, Hermione opened her mouth as though to protest this unfairness... then seemed to reconsider, her objection was transforming into a long, weary sigh.
"Fine. Alright. Now that everyone's actually here, we should establish a proper plan before proceeding." Despite her exhaustion with the entire situation, her instincts kicked in automatically. "We need to coordinate our actions to ensure this goes smoothly and we all return safely."
"Oh, here we go again," Ron muttered. "Know-It-All Granger showing off her supposedly brilliant strategic thinking. We're just visiting Hagrid, not breaking into Gringotts! We don't need some elaborate military operation!"
"(╬◣д◢) RON!"
Hermione's face flushed with anger.
Honestly, listening to Ron's constant sarcastic belittling made her seriously consider abandoning this entire venture and letting them all face the consequences alone.
But glancing at her other friends—Hannah looking awkward, Ariana showing concern, Harry trying to project peacemaking calm, she swallowed her anger with visible effort.
"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "Let's say the outbound journey causes no problems. What about the return trip? What happens when we're coming back and Filch is making his rounds? Have any of you actually thought about that possibility?"
[Actually, there's really no need for concern about that.] Tom's whiteboard appeared. [You just need to tell me where Hagrid's hut is located and we can either walk there safely or I can arrange alternative transportation.]
As he wrote this, Tom reached into his robes and extracted a folded bedsheet, displaying it proudly as though revealing a master disguise.
In Tom's worldview with cartoon logic and cartoon solutions—concealment was remarkably simple. You just needed to drape a sheet over yourself and pick up some leaves or branches for camouflage.
Instant invisibility!
It had worked perfectly in countless cartoons, after all.
Unfortunately for Tom's confidence in this approach, his companions' reactions showed they didn't share his optimistic assessment.
Everyone except Ariana, who seemed willing to give any of Tom's ideas the benefit of the doubt, deliberately averted their eyes from the bedsheet, studying the surrounding stonework with sudden intense interest.
Because no matter how you looked at it, Tom was holding a completely ordinary bedsheet.
Walking through Hogwarts draped in that thing wouldn't provide any actual concealment—it would just make them look like extremely suspicious people wearing bedsheets. Which was basically begging Filch to investigate, possibly the most provocative thing they could do just short of carrying a sign reading: "BREAKING CURFEW, PLEASE CATCH US."