As Draco and Hermione talked, the sky outside the carriage window gradually darkened.
"Do you know which house you'll be sorted into?" Hermione asked him.
She didn't seem to want his answer immediately, and carried on herself: "I've asked around quite a
bit, and I'm hoping for Gryffindor. Everyone says it's the best; I heard Dumbledore himself came
from there. Although—Ravenclaw doesn't sound too bad, either..."
In most cases, an outpouring of words like that points to one thing: nerves. She was talking to fill
the silence, to paper over her anxiety.
Draco glanced at her. Sure enough, the closer the train drew to Hogwarts, the more tense and intent
she became.
Fear of the unknown? This was a side of Hermione he had never seen before.
He had never known that the proud, relentless girl who had swept to the top of every class since
first year had come through these doors with the same quiet dread as everyone else.
"Don't worry," he said, with an ease that surprised even him. "I think you'll go to Gryffindor."
"Thank you for saying so." She gave him a slightly strained smile and followed his gaze to the
window. Beneath a deepening purple sky, the shapes of mountains and forest were beginning to slow
in their passage.
"We're nearly there," Draco said with certainty, watching the blurring shadows outside.
"You should go and change into your robes," Hermione said, carefully cradling the toad, which was
wriggling with increasing urgency. "I need to get this back to Neville before he starts crying. See
you later."
Draco gave her a reserved nod and watched her hurried figure disappear into the corridor.
Gryffindor... Really, Hermione Granger, listen to yourself.
Her reasons for wanting Gryffindor were thoroughly un-Gryffindor.
It's the best.
Dumbledore himself came from there.
Since when did a Gryffindor choose a house for those kinds of reasons? Draco pressed his lips
together. That sounded rather more like a Slytherin with ambitions and an eye for status than
anything else.
He opened his compartment door and found that Crabbe and Goyle had, predictably, finished everything
and were now sprawled across their seats, round faces flushed and satisfied, burping companionably
at each other.
"Did nobody mention that there's a feast at Hogwarts?" Draco said, feeling perversely cheerful, and
watched with some pleasure as their faces collapsed into expressions of genuine devastation. "Quite
lavish, by all accounts. I wonder whether your stomachs can manage it."
"No one told us there was food at Hogwarts!" Crabbe wailed, beating his chest.
"Aren't you supposed to sleep at school?" Goyle blinked, genuinely baffled.
Draco regarded their expressions of utter dejection, shook his head inwardly, and set about putting
on his robes.
Once the train rolled to a complete stop, a tide of students poured toward the doors and out onto a
small, dark platform. All the first-years followed the great hulking shape of Hagrid down a steep,
narrow path.
The path was muddy and treacherous, and the younger students slipped and stumbled as they went. Every
few steps, someone went down.
The girl walking just ahead of Draco was wobbling badly enough that his heart lurched.
Hermione Granger was in a sorry state. She was fighting her way through the darkness, trying to keep
pace with Neville, when the toad in his hand made a leap for freedom and landed squarely at her
feet—very nearly under them.
"Trevor!" Neville called, spinning around in a panic. He looked wildly in every direction, and
then—with the expression of someone watching a disaster unfold—saw the toad hop once, twice, and
vanish into the dark undergrowth at the edge of the path.
"No!" The sound that tore out of Neville was one of pure anguish.
Hermione, who had thrown herself sideways to avoid both the toad and the grief-stricken, slightly
unsteady Neville, found herself with too much forward momentum to stop. The mud tilted toward her.
She was going over.
A hand caught her collar from behind and hauled her back.
She spun round, startled, and caught a gleam of platinum in the darkness.
Draco.
"Thank you," she whispered, still shaken. Some of her usual composure had gone; there was a genuine
flush of embarrassment in its place.
"Little fool," he said, quietly, into the cold dark air, with Neville's wailing as a backdrop.
"Grab my sleeve."
Hermione hesitated.
Draco could have predicted this perfectly. The original Hermione Granger: athletically challenged,
prone to stumbling on level ground, and deeply reluctant to be seen accepting help in public—or to
admit a weakness of any kind.
Unless, of course, you knew which particular button to press.
"Grab my sleeve," he said again, more lazily. "Unless you want to walk into the Sorting Ceremony in
front of the entire school covered in mud."
"Fine—thank you," Hermione said, looking briefly horrified at the image, and grabbed the back of
his robe sleeve. She fell into step behind him.
Much better, Hermione thought privately.
The boy seemed to have an instinct for finding the steadier ground in the dark, which made things
considerably less treacherous than walking alone—only slightly, of course. Just a little.
The boy in front of her was rather pleased with himself.
Hermione Granger, tugging obediently at his sleeve like a well-behaved little animal following its
keeper—it satisfied some persistent, wicked streak in Draco Malfoy's sense of humour.
After a long stumbling procession through the dark, punctuated by complaints and the occasional
shriek, the path finally ended.
"It's beautiful..." he heard Hermione whisper behind him.
It was. This was Hogwarts as it had been before the Death Eaters—tall spires against a sky full of
stars, tranquil and magnificent and impossibly beautiful.
Once they reached level ground, Hermione released her grip and thanked him again in a low voice.
"Pleasure," he said.
And then she was gone—just like the others around her, drawn like a tide toward the edge of the
Black Lake. She stood with the rest of the first-years, all of them gazing out at the great,
shimmering mirror of water and the castle that blazed on the opposite shore.
The first-years murmured and exclaimed, voices bright and wondering.
Draco stood a little apart, watching, and felt like a stranger at a celebration he had already
attended. Coming back to Hogwarts, he could no longer feel what they were feeling—only a faint stir
from somewhere deep, something he couldn't quite name.
Following tradition, the new students would cross the lake in small boats, as the four founders once
had. Draco held back, watching quietly, curious to see who Potter would be crossing with.
This small detail mattered. Longbottom's perpetually missing toad had given Draco something to think
about.
In his past life, the toad had gone missing on the train and Longbottom had sobbed the entire
journey—irritating, but predictable. It wasn't until just before they entered the castle gates that
Hagrid found the creature in one of the empty boats.
In this life, Draco had impulsively helped Hermione retrieve it earlier. And yet it had still run
off, and Longbottom was still wailing. Some things, it seemed, were not so easily altered.
As Draco watched, just as in his past life, Potter, Weasley, Hermione, and Longbottom climbed into
a boat together.
So it appeared that as long as he didn't actively interfere, the broad shape of things wouldn't
change. And even when he did—like with the toad—fate adjusted, nudging everything back toward its
original course.
Interesting. He would need to observe more carefully before drawing conclusions.
Draco picked a boat at random and crossed the glassy lake with Zabini, Parkinson, and Nott, slipping
through the curtain of ivy that hung over the face of the cliffs and into the dark passage beyond.
The students made their way along a narrow tunnel, grumbling about the dim light. Eventually, they
emerged at what appeared to be an underground dock, clambered out, and crunched up onto a bank of
gravel.
"Where are we?" Draco asked, climbing ashore—half hoping to hear Hagrid announce the find of a
toad, as usual.
No one answered him.
"We've arrived at the Black Lake dock," Draco said quietly, to whoever was nearest. "There's still
a little way to go."
"It's terribly dark and damp in here," Hermione said, somewhere behind him, her voice faintly
worried. "I hope the castle isn't like this. I don't like damp."
She almost certainly wouldn't enjoy the Slytherin common room, Draco thought.
After a wait, when there was no sign of Hagrid producing a toad, Draco fell in with the main group
and followed them up through the rocky tunnel, until they emerged onto a flat, dark meadow in the
shadow of the castle.
"Trevor!" came Longbottom's voice then—unmistakably delighted—from somewhere in the grass ahead.
He had found the toad.
Interesting, Draco thought.
So things could still be shifted—just not undone. Longbottom had found the toad in his past life
too, in the end, but at a different time and in a different place. The course had bent, not broken.
That was reassuring. The worst possible outcome would have been finding that no matter what he did,
everything reassembled itself exactly as before—that all his effort amounted to simply watching the
same events replay. He would rather not relive every terrible thing.
But it seemed the world was willing to flex. He would need to test that more carefully.
At this moment, something unexpected stirred in the stillness of his chest—a quiet, cautious flicker
of something like hope.
Don't lower your guard. Observe, then act.
The entrance hall of Hogwarts blazed with torchlight. The new students waited outside the Great Hall
while Professor McGonagall reviewed the four houses, the House Cup, and the general expectations;
then she swept out and left them to themselves.
Potter was standing not far ahead of Draco. Weasley and Longbottom flanked him. "How do they sort
us into houses?" Draco heard Potter ask, looking genuinely baffled.
"There must be a test. Fred said it hurts, but I think he's joking," Weasley said.
That set off a ripple of dread through the group. No one said much after that.
Draco could hear Hermione behind him, quietly murmuring to herself—running through spells she had
memorised, apparently, just in case. Her earnest, worried face pulled the faintest edge of a smile
out of somewhere he hadn't expected.
"There's nothing to worry about," Draco said, with the slightly superior air he was deploying as
cover. "It's just a hat."
"A hat?" Hermione turned to look at him.
"A patched, battered hat with thoughts and a voice of its own. They call it the Sorting Hat," Draco
said, as if imparting basic knowledge.
Hermione was sceptical.
Could it be true? Was he pulling her leg? An ordinary hat with thoughts? And the power to sort
people into houses? She couldn't quite believe it.
She didn't have to wonder for long. As Professor McGonagall led them through the double doors into
the Great Hall, reality settled the question efficiently.
Hermione spotted the patched, pointed wizard's hat almost immediately—dirty and lopsided on a four-
legged stool at the front of the Hall. Before anyone could react, it split open along a tear near
the brim and began to sing. When it finished, it bowed to each of the four house tables in turn.
The students applauded.
"Susan Bones!" Professor McGonagall read from a scroll of parchment.
"You were right," Hermione said to the surprisingly calm boy beside her. "But will it actually sort
me into the right house?"
"Hufflepuff!" called the hat. The table on the right erupted in applause.
"It isn't simple," Draco said, glancing sideways at her. "The four founders poured their own ideals
into it specifically to choose students for their houses. It sorts by qualities and temperament—not
merely by what you want."
"Seamus Finnigan!" A boy with light brown hair sat on the stool for the better part of a minute
without the hat making a sound.
"Why is it taking so long?" Hermione asked, her voice edged with a worry that was probably more
about herself than Seamus.
"Gryffindor!" the hat announced at last.
Draco was about to answer when Professor McGonagall called out above the noise: "Hermione Granger!"
"Go on," he said quickly. "When you put it on—think of your preferred house. It will take your
wishes into consideration."
Hermione practically ran to the stool and jammed the hat down over her ears.
"Gryffindor!" it called. Draco watched her dash to the table on his left, where she was welcomed
with a roar of applause.
He had barely registered it when he heard Professor McGonagall call his own name. Just as in his
past life, the Sorting Hat called out "Slytherin" before it had fully settled on his head.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
A quiet satisfaction settled over him, and some of the tension he had been carrying slipped away.
He had employed Occlumency on himself before the ceremony, just in case—the hat was ancient, and
he wasn't certain how far its perception reached—but apparently it hadn't needed to probe very
deeply.
Draco walked the familiar path to the Slytherin table. As he passed the remaining queue, he caught
a familiar voice: "...everyone knows bad wizards end up in Slytherin."
That idiotic Weasley. Draco hadn't even provoked him this time.
Just how deeply had that prejudice been embedded?
He didn't hear what Potter said in reply. All he knew was that when Professor McGonagall called
"Harry Potter," a collective commotion swept through the Hall.
Potter, of course, went to Gryffindor, where he settled across the table from Hermione.
As for Hermione—she seemed to glance over toward the Slytherin table. Since the hat had called
"Slytherin," she had been watching Draco with an expression of faint surprise, as though she hadn't
quite expected it.
What had she expected? Gryffindor? Draco looked away. Hermione had already turned to a red-haired
prefect beside her and was deep in conversation.
From across the Great Hall, Potter caught Draco's eye and offered a small, tentative smile.
Weasley hasn't entirely ruined him yet, Draco thought. Good.
Potter settled quickly into his new surroundings. The first-years ate with enthusiasm, filling the
hall with noise, falling into conversation with older housemates—all the ordinary, excited business
of arriving somewhere new.
The Slytherin table had a somewhat different atmosphere. The greetings were measured, the smiles
somewhat practised, the handshakes brief and assessing. You didn't dive into lively conversation
with a Slytherin on the first night—you exchanged pleasantries, introduced yourself, sized each
other up. That was how it was done.
Life in Slytherin was a long game of calculation. They were already, without quite seeming to,
sorting each other by surname and the firmness of a handshake—with the silent understanding that
alliances would be made and broken over seven years according to who proved most useful.
Draco moved through the introductions, meeting his Slytherin classmates again with the ease of
someone who already knew them. But the moment no one was looking, the smile that never quite
reached his eyes faded. His attention drifted.
Because sitting beside him at the table was the Bloody Baron—the resident ghost of Slytherin, and
someone Draco had been quietly waiting to speak to.
To most of his Hogwarts classmates, the Bloody Baron was a figure of genuine dread: hollow eyes, a
gaunt, grey face, and silvery bloodstains across his robes. He was not the sort of ghost anyone
sought out willingly.
For Draco, he was exactly the right person to talk to.
"Good evening, my Lord Baron." Draco chose his words carefully. The Bloody Baron stared through him,
as though Draco were a decorative wall fixture.
Marcus Flint, a fifth-year across the table, watched Draco's attempt with some amusement and decided
charitably to spare the new first-year an extended effort. "Give it up. He's always like that. Half
the time he's not really present at all. I've never seen him speak to a student—ever."
"My Lord Baron," Draco said pleasantly, not deterred, "how many consecutive House Cups has Slytherin
won?"
The entire nearby stretch of the Slytherin table went quiet.
The Bloody Baron turned his withered face toward Draco. His empty eyes seemed to focus. A long
pause—and then, in a voice like dry leaves scraping stone, he said: "Six consecutive championships."
Flint raised an eyebrow.
Slytherin respected strength above almost everything—not age, not family name alone—but strength in
whatever form it took. A first-year who could make the Bloody Baron speak on command, in full view
of the table, was not easily forgotten.
For Draco, it was an unexpected but welcome development. Flint was the kind of Slytherin worth
having notice him—not someone who could be bought with brooms or flattery, but someone who
remembered what he had seen.
Satisfied, Draco left off pressing the Baron for now. He turned his attention to a plate of steaming
steak with the focused appreciation of someone who had earned his dinner.
The Baron was not a conversationalist. One sentence tonight was more than sufficient to make an
impression. Winning the old ghost's trust would take time—but Draco had been reborn with more
patience than he had ever possessed in his first life.
What he wanted from the Bloody Baron, ultimately, was information about the diadem.
In the month since his rebirth, Draco had been turning one particular question over and over in his
mind. A hypothesis had begun to form from the threads of memory—was the object Potter had risked
his life to retrieve in the Room of Requirement in their seventh year the same diadem Ravenclaw had
lost centuries ago?
If that hypothesis held, then Ravenclaw's diadem was something both the Dark Lord and Potter had a
deep interest in.
That made it impossible to ignore.
He knew where it was. He was not in a hurry to go near it.
Before understanding something fully, a Malfoy did not move rashly—and something imbued with that
kind of dark magic should certainly not be touched without preparation. Besides, it had sat quietly
in the Room of Requirement until their seventh year before anyone disturbed it. It wasn't going
anywhere.
To confirm his suspicions and understand the diadem's true significance, he needed the right source,
the right door, and the right words.
Ravenclaw's diadem had been lost for centuries. After a great deal of thought, Draco had settled on
starting with the ghosts—which led, inevitably, to the Bloody Baron and the Grey Lady.
If anyone in the world possessed even a fragment of knowledge about Rowena Ravenclaw's long-lost
diadem, it could only be the woman who had been Rowena's own daughter: Helena.
By the timeline, Helena might even have been alive when the diadem disappeared.
Draco knew that the Grey Lady's real name was Helena Ravenclaw—though she did not care to be
addressed by it.
The most direct route would be to approach the Grey Lady herself and ask about the diadem. But the
Grey Lady was deeply reclusive. She shied away from people, and without something genuinely
compelling to offer her, there would be no chance of a real conversation.
Which meant taking the long way round. First, wear down the Bloody Baron's defences—he had some
connection to the Grey Lady that Draco had never seen clearly documented, but which he was
increasingly sure was real. The Baron said little, but he wasn't actively avoidant. There was still
a chance.
Draco had stumbled onto the nature of that connection entirely by accident.
The Bloody Baron was known to haunt the Astronomy Tower at night, sometimes making low, indistinct
sounds up there alone. On the night Dumbledore had been murdered—that terrible, indelible night
Draco could never quite expunge from memory—he had passed the Bloody Baron on the Tower stairs.
The Baron had been standing very still, and murmured a single name: "Helena..."
The three tallest towers at Hogwarts—the Astronomy Tower, Ravenclaw Tower, Gryffindor Tower—all
looked out over a wide stretch of the grounds. But from the Astronomy Tower, standing at the right
angle, you could see Ravenclaw Tower clearly.
And Ravenclaw Tower was where the Grey Lady most preferred to be.
Over many years at Hogwarts, few students had ever enquired into how the Bloody Baron and the Grey
Lady had died, or why they had chosen to remain as ghosts at all. Draco knew only that becoming a
ghost required an obsession powerful enough to keep a soul from passing on. It was not a peaceful
choice, and it was rarely made—precisely because it offered no peace at all. It was a form of
confinement disguised as continuation.
Whatever kept these two here, it was old and unresolved.
What had happened between them?
Both were so reticent that generations of Hogwarts students had only the vaguest impression of them.
No one had ever thought to learn their story properly.
But Draco could make educated guesses. For a very long time, the Bloody Baron had been looking out
from the Astronomy Tower toward the place where Helena Ravenclaw kept her vigil—with an expression
that walked the line between hatred and grief.
Perhaps both at once.
And the bloodstains on his robes—his own, or someone else's?
The Black Lake was silent far below the castle. The famous giant squid slept somewhere in the
depths.
In his four-poster bed in the Slytherin dormitory, with the soft sound of waves against the windows,
Draco lay back and gazed at the silver lanterns turning slowly above him, piecing together fragments
—the Bloody Baron, Helena Ravenclaw, the diadem—until sleep finally pulled him under.