The day before the new term began, Draco—who had returned to Hogwarts early—found himself with little to do and decided to try out his new Wizard Chess set in the Great Hall.
He cornered Theodore Nott in a decisive checkmate, deploying a pair of rampaging rooks and a ruthless bishop.
"Fine, I admit you're better." Theodore threw down his piece and left in a sulk.
Before long, Hermione came rushing up like a gust of wind, beaming. "Draco, thank you! I owe you so much!"
"What's happened?" Draco tapped the chessboard with his wand. "Pack!" The chess pieces leapt obediently into their box and settled themselves into place.
"How did you do that?" Hermione asked. "Why do different people get such different results with the Sorting Charm? I've tried it any number of times—the wand movement helps, certainly, but it seems to have little bearing on how well the spell actually works."
"I expect you haven't grasped the core principle yet," Draco said pleasantly. "Organising and tidying spells require both meticulous logic and imagination. As you cast it, you need to picture exactly where each object belongs, and work in concert with the spell to bring that image to life."
He reached over and deliberately upset the neatly packed box, sending the chess pieces into a shrieking uproar. "Try it," he said.
Hermione raised her wand. "Pack!"
The pieces arranged themselves more or less in order—but a few had landed in the wrong places.
"Ah. You're probably not very familiar with Wizard Chess," Draco said. "That raises another point: you need a thorough understanding of whatever you're sorting. You have to know exactly where everything belongs before your imagination can do the rest."
"I see," Hermione said, thoroughly pleased to have learned yet another of his casting techniques.
She had never expected to find such a gifted peer at Hogwarts—to her, he was an utterly unexpected treasure. The closer she grew to him, the more dazzling he seemed, and the more impossible to overlook.
He possessed a grasp of magical theory far beyond his peers. While most students were still wrestling with spell names and correct pronunciation, he was already applying the same spells fluidly in practice. His classmates knew he was always first to complete a spell—but few appreciated just how much more deeply he understood the magic behind it.
He never mocked her for what she didn't know about the wizarding world. When she had first arrived at Hogwarts, she had been terrified of revealing her ignorance, convinced that her unfamiliarity would invite ridicule from those who had grown up around magic—but he had never once done so.
He would quietly correct her and put her at ease. It had begun around the time of the Sorting, she thought. Gradually, she had even lowered her guard enough to admit openly when she didn't understand something and to ask for his perspective.
And he—this boy who concealed a warm heart beneath a cold exterior—was extraordinarily patient with her. He was generous with his insights, often staying to help her practise, pointing out gaps in her understanding and helping her sharpen her knowledge of spellwork.
Draco Malfoy had claimed the top spot on this academically minded Gryffindor's list of most coveted study partners.
As long as he was in the room, everyone else seemed terribly ordinary by comparison.
"What is it?" her favourite study partner asked at that moment. "What were you in such a rush to tell me?"
"Oh! I nearly forgot." She leaned close to his ear and said breathlessly, "We've found Flamel! And the Philosopher's Stone—the three-headed dog is guarding the Philosopher's Stone!"
"Shh!" Draco covered her mouth with his hand.
Over Hermione's shoulder, he had spotted Professor Quirrell not far away—swaying slightly as he walked toward them.
The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor appeared to have had a dreadful Christmas holiday. He was gaunt, pale, and drawn, as though he had been gravely ill.
It was obvious Quirrell was in a bad way. Draco wasn't surprised.
Sharing one's skull with a disembodied soul was hardly without consequence—and the toll on Quirrell's body was, if anything, the lesser of the costs.
Hermione startled at the sudden contact. His hand was warm, and the gesture bold—but she found she didn't mind.
It reminded her of Halloween night, when he had pulled her away from the troll.
He wasn't the sort to act without reason. She trusted that much. So rather than bristling, she quietly followed his gaze and turned her head, spotting Quirrell at once.
That was close. She exhaled a quiet sigh of relief.
Her soft breath brushed against Draco's hand, making him feel somewhat uncomfortable.
He released her quickly, clasping his hand behind his back, holding onto the warmth that lingered there. He glanced around the hall, frowning at the students chatting nearby. "Let's find somewhere quieter to talk."
Before long, they had found an empty classroom. Through the window, they could see the Quidditch pitch, where several scarlet-and-gold figures wheeled through the grey winter sky. The winter sun filtered in through the glass and lay in warm patches across the floor.
"You've been very diligent," Draco drawled.
Scarlet and gold—Gryffindor's colours. One of those figures on the pitch was almost certainly Potter.
"Thank Merlin, he's finally stopped brooding over that mirror," Hermione muttered.
"What mirror?" Draco asked.
"The Mirror of Erised. Harry came across it while exploring an empty classroom over the holidays. It's said to show you the deepest desire of your heart." Hermione's eyes lit up. "Unfortunately, I never got to see it. They moved it before the holidays ended, and no one seems to know where."
Draco raised an eyebrow. He had heard of the Mirror before but never seen it. Hogwarts, it seemed, held no shortage of wonders he had yet to encounter.
"Never mind that—let's talk about Nicolas Flamel!" She shifted excitedly, still clutching the thick book she'd been holding tightly under her arm. "At Christmas, Harry found Nicolas Flamel's name on the back of a Chocolate Frog card! And I found even more in the book you gave me." She pushed it in front of Draco and pointed to a long passage.
"Just as you guessed—he's six hundred and sixty-five years old! No wonder I couldn't find him anywhere in the books about modern wizards," Hermione said triumphantly, before Draco had finished reading.
"What are you planning to do?" Draco asked, looking up at her.
Nicolas Flamel has finally been found. Miss Know-It-All's thoroughness certainly hasn't disappointed, Draco thought.
"We're not sure yet. We're mostly just curious. Professor Dumbledore must have it safely hidden by now…" Hermione trailed off.
"You haven't forgotten that someone already tried to steal it from Gringotts, have you?" Draco said. "Do you really think Quirrell released that troll from the dungeons just as a prank?" He gave her a pointed look. "Not long ago you suspected Professor Snape of plotting something grand…"
"Yes, I did suspect Professor Snape… And just the other day, Harry overheard him threatening Quirrell," Hermione said, her expression becoming uncertain. "But why would Professor Quirrell want to steal the Philosopher's Stone? He has no quarrel with Harry—so why would he curse him? Sometimes, when you look at that timid, pitiable face of his, it's really very hard to believe he could be capable of it—"
"Hermione," Draco interrupted, "I think you may be looking at this from the wrong angle. Why not start from the other end—work backwards from what you know?" He held her gaze. "Who in this world despises Potter enough to want him dead? And who is so desperate for immortality that they would go to any lengths to achieve it, clinging to life by whatever dark means they can manage—lurking somewhere in the shadows even now…?"
Hermione understood at once. Her eyes went wide, and she breathed the name: "Voldemort!"
The sound of it made Draco's skin crawl.
"Don't say that name," he said tightly.
But Hermione was already on her feet, and she seized his hand—warm, earnest, insistent. "You're right. Quirrell didn't do any of this for himself—he did it for a master! He could be acting on Voldemort's orders!"
"Don't say that name," Draco said again, jaw set.
You could hardly blame Draco for his sensitivity.
In his past life, members of the Dark Lord's search party—among them the werewolf Greyback—had tracked down the Potter trio precisely because of that kind of Gryffindor recklessness: a single careless utterance of the name.
It had triggered a chain of tragedies.
Irreversible damage.
All of it avoidable.
"Sorry," Hermione said, glancing at him with a flicker of confusion.
She didn't dwell on it. There were more pressing matters.
She released his hand and began to pace, thinking aloud. "I need to warn Harry to be wary of Quirrell… We need more evidence… Otherwise, Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore won't believe us…"
"Agreed," Draco said lazily, discreetly clasping the hand she had just let go.
Miss Know-It-All's fighting spirit was already blazing, her passion for a battle of wits ready to ignite at the slightest spark.
"Draco, thank you—I have to go, there's so much to do!" Hermione flashed him a smile and sprinted out of the classroom, nearly colliding with the Grey Lady, who was drifting through the doorway.
She murmured a hasty apology and hurried away.
Draco shook his head, something like amusement curling at the corner of his mouth.
He watched her go, and then his thoughts shifted to a different matter entirely: just what role did Professor Snape play in all of this?
In his memories of his past life, he had never known that Professor Snape had cast a spell to protect Potter.
He had been equally unaware that Snape had threatened Quirrell, who had meant to harm Potter.
When he had relentlessly tormented Harry and his friends in his previous life, Snape's treatment of them had struck Draco as tacit approval—perhaps even encouragement.
Snape's conduct was bewildering. He had once been genuinely kind to Draco and a frequent guest at Malfoy Manor. At the same time, he had enjoyed Professor Dumbledore's deepest trust—at least, until the night Snape killed him.
When Snape returned to the Dark Lord's side, he managed to earn the Dark Lord's complete trust without hesitation—despite having spent years under Dumbledore's protection—and somehow emerged without blame from either quarter.
Regardless of where Snape's true loyalties lay, the man was formidably shrewd. Not many could navigate so precarious a position and emerge unscathed.
Until he knew where Snape truly stood, Draco could keep up a façade of respect and warmth—but confiding in him was another matter entirely.
Draco was not ungrateful by nature. Over the years, Professor Snape—as Head of Slytherin—had shown remarkable favouritism toward the students of his house. As a beneficiary of those privileges, Draco, like most Slytherin students, found it difficult to think ill of him.
When Draco had been grievously injured by "Shadowless" and was near death, it had been Professor Snape who saved his life.
And in Draco's previous life, when the task the Dark Lord had assigned him remained unfinished—though Snape had relentlessly pressed him to complete it—Snape had ultimately carried it out himself, having sworn an Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa to ensure as much.
Snape was, without question, a deeply enigmatic man.
After Christmas, the Quidditch pitch was draped in the banners of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.
Professor Snape—ever unpredictable—had volunteered to referee the match, just as Professor Dumbledore had once suggested he might.
Draco might once have assumed Snape had taken up the role in order to vent his simmering resentment on Potter. But learning that Snape had previously acted to protect him made that theory rather less convincing.
Was it possible, then, that Snape had volunteered as referee specifically to protect Potter?
He entertained the thought for a moment before the sheer absurdity of it struck him. It was like the punchline to a joke that had never quite worked.
As the students filed into the stands in twos and threes, Draco overheard Weasley just ahead of him grumbling to Hermione: "I bet he's just looking for a chance to penalise Gryffindor."
"Oh, come on, Ron—a referee has to make fair calls," Hermione said, though she didn't sound entirely convinced.
Potter appeared untroubled by whatever Hermione had told him. He caught the Golden Snitch barely five minutes into the match—a record by any measure.
Hufflepuff suffered a crushing defeat.
Gryffindor's victory had come so swiftly that neither well-meaning protector nor ill-wishing enemy had had time to act on anything. Draco noticed Professor Snape's face had gone ashen.
The entire Slytherin and Hufflepuff crowd looked equally wretched. Slytherin's captain, Marcus Flint, even spat onto the pitch in disgust.
No one wanted their house to lose. Whatever personal connection Draco had with Potter and the others, everyone understood that Gryffindor's win brought them one step closer to the House Cup.
Since Slytherin's last defeat at Gryffindor's hands, the house had been quietly hoping Gryffindor would stumble against Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw—leaving the championship within reach. Now those hopes had grown considerably slimmer.
"You need to work harder!" Flint was already rounding on Slytherin's Seeker, Terrence Higgs. "Slytherin cannot afford another failure!"
"What's that got to do with me? It's not all my fault!" Higgs fired back.
"Is that your attitude?" Flint snarled. "Is that what a Slytherin who strives for excellence sounds like…?"
Amid Flint's furious tirade, Draco fell in with Crabbe and Goyle as the crowd swept toward the Great Hall, already catching himself—against all better judgment—imagining what it would feel like to catch the Golden Snitch himself one day.