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Chapter Text

The late August air in Diagon Alley was thick and soupy, clinging to the back of Harry’s neck. It smelled like old parchment, cauldron polish, and something vaguely like ozone from the Ministry wizards who patrolled the cobblestones with stiff, self-important gaits. They were everywhere these days, their dark grey robes a constant reminder of who was in charge. Minister Riddle’s face, handsome and unsmiling, stared out from posters on every other storefront, the words “ORDER, PROGRESS, PURITY” stamped beneath his chin.

“If you don’t stop dragging your feet, I’m going to tell Dad you’re the one who charmed all his Bludger posters to sing off-key,” Daisy hissed, yanking on the sleeve of Harry’s shirt.

“Go ahead,” Harry said, not even looking at her. He was too busy trying to get a better look at the new Nimbus model gleaming in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies. It was a thing of beauty. “He thought it was hilarious. Mum’s the one who was mad.”

“Because it woke her up at five in the morning!”

“Details, details.”

Daisy made a frustrated noise. At nine, she was a walking, talking miniature of their mum—all fiery red hair and righteous indignation—but she’d unfortunately been cursed with their dad’s eyes. It made it hard to stay mad at her, which was, in Harry’s opinion, a gross cosmic injustice.

“Harry, Daisy, come on.” Lily Potter’s voice cut through their bickering. She was standing outside of Madam Malkin’s, arms crossed, looking distinctly unimpressed. Their dad, James, was right behind her, grinning. He shot Harry a wink. Of course he thought the singing posters were funny.

“Just need to get your robes, kid,” James said, ruffling Harry’s already messy hair. “Then we can seriously look at the Nimbus. Maybe an early birthday present.”

That got Harry moving. He practically sprinted into the shop, the little bell above the door tinkling cheerfully. The inside of Madam Malkin’s was a calm sea of purples and blacks, smelling of lavender and new fabric. A kind-looking witch bustled forward, but her attention was already on another first-year-to-be, a girl standing on a stool in the back of the room.

She had hair so pale it was almost white, pinned back from a pointed, aristocratic face. She was already being fitted, her expression a perfect mask of bored tolerance as Madam Malkin herself adjusted the sleeves of a black Hogwarts robe.

Harry was directed to the stool next to her. As he stepped up, the girl’s grey eyes slid over to assess him. They were sharp, intelligent, and utterly cold.

“Hogwarts, too?” she asked. Her voice was clipped and carried a distinct, languid drawl. It was the kind of voice that expected to be listened to.

“Obviously,” Harry said, maybe a little more bluntly than he meant to. He just didn’t like the way she was looking at him, like he was something she’d found on the bottom of her shoe.

A faint, almost imperceptible arch of one of her white-blonde eyebrows. “My father is procuring my books, and Mother is looking at wands. I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms afterward. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. Father says it’s a ridiculous rule. He knows the Minister, you know. He has a great deal of influence.”

Harry felt an instant, prickling annoyance. Oh, one of those. Her family probably had a poster of Riddle in their dining room. His parents used the Minister’s posters as dartboards in the den.

“Got a new broom for my birthday last year,” Harry said, just to be contrary. “A Cleansweep. Dad’s a professional player. For the Cannons.”

He didn’t know why he felt the need to puff out his chest a little, but her dismissive attitude was getting under his skin. He saw her eyes flicker over his secondhand T-shirt and the worn state of his trainers.

“I’ve heard of the Potters,” she said, and the way she said it made it sound like an affliction. “My father says your family has… old-fashioned ideas. Not quite in step with the Ministry’s vision for a stronger, more disciplined magical society.”

She was quoting someone. Probably her dad. It sounded rehearsed and utterly snobbish.

“Yeah, well, my dad says people who talk like that are arse-kissing gits,” Harry retorted before he could stop himself.

The girl’s pale face flushed a delicate, furious pink. Her mouth opened, a perfect ‘o’ of outrage. For a split second, before the anger truly landed, Harry found himself noticing the exact shade of her eyes. They weren’t just grey. They were like silver in the shade, with darker flecks in them, like tiny chips of stone. It was a weird thought to have about someone so completely and instantly unbearable. He pushed it away.

“You—you can’t talk to me like that!” she finally sputtered, her composure cracking. “Do you even know who I am?”

“Haven’t got a clue,” Harry said with a shrug, enjoying the flare of anger in her eyes. “And I don’t really care.”

“The name is Malfoy,” she snapped, as if that explained everything. “Dracy Malfoy. And you would do well to remember it. Some wizarding families are a great deal better than others. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.”

Harry just laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. “Don’t worry,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “I think I can spot the wrong sort from a mile away.”

Her jaw tightened. They stood there in simmering silence, two statues on their little wooden stools, as the witch fussed around them with pins and measuring tape, oblivious. The tension was so thick Harry could have stirred it with a wand. He’d met bullies before, but there was something different about this girl. It wasn’t just playground meanness; it was a deep, ingrained belief that she was simply better.

When his parents came back into the shop, Dracy’s own parents were with them. Lucius Malfoy was tall and imposing, with the same pale hair and a sneer that seemed permanently affixed to his face. Her mother was elegant and beautiful, but with a gaze just as cold as her daughter’s.

James Potter and Lucius Malfoy exchanged a look. It wasn’t friendly. It was a stiff, formal nod that carried the weight of years of political and ideological opposition.

“All done, Harry?” Lily asked, her voice deliberately pleasant as she ignored the Malfoys.

“Yep,” Harry said, hopping off the stool. He caught Dracy Malfoy’s eye one last time. She was looking at him with an expression of pure disdain, but there was something else in there, too. A flicker of… something. It wasn’t hurt, not quite. It was more like… surprise. As if she’d never had someone talk back to her so plainly in her life.

As he followed his family out of the shop, the little bell tinkling behind them, he couldn’t shake the feeling. He hated everything about her—her voice, her attitude, her stupidly perfect hair.

So why did he have the strangest, most irritating urge to turn around and look at her one more time?

He didn’t, of course. He kept walking, letting the noise of the alley swallow him up, trying to focus on the promise of a new Nimbus. But the image of a pale, furious face and silver-grey eyes stuck with him. Hogwarts was going to be interesting. He just knew it.

Chapter Text

The chaos of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was a familiar symphony. Owls hooted, parents shouted last-minute reminders, and the great scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express hissed a plume of white steam into the crowded air.

“Now, you’ve got everything?” Lily Potter asked for what had to be the fifth time, straightening the collar on Harry’s shirt. He swatted her hands away good-naturedly.

“Mum, I’m fine.”

“Cause a little bit of trouble,” James said, pulling him into a one-armed hug that smelled of broom polish and fresh air, “but not enough to get a letter home in the first week. Save that for October.”

“James!” Lily scolded, but she was smiling.

Daisy, meanwhile, was trying to look bored with the whole affair, but her brown eyes kept darting toward the train with unconcealed envy. “When he’s gone, can I have his room?”

“No,” all three of them said in unison.

Harry grinned and gave his sister a light shove. “See you at Christmas, Daze. Try not to blow up the garden shed again.”

“That was one time!”

With a final squeeze from his mum and a conspiratorial wink from his dad, Harry clambered aboard the train. He lugged his trunk down the narrow corridor, peering into compartments already packed with chattering students. The air was thick with the scent of chocolate frogs and coal smoke. Just as he was starting to think he’d have to sit with a gaggle of giggling third-year girls, a familiar voice called out his name.

“Harry! Over here!”

He looked up to see Neville Longbottom waving from a compartment halfway down the car. Neville was round-faced and earnest, a head taller than Harry and built like a future Beater. Their parents had been friends since their own Hogwarts days, so they’d grown up in each other’s pockets, spending summers learning to fly and getting into trouble.

“Nev! Thank Merlin,” Harry said, sliding the door open and shoving his trunk onto the rack with a grunt. “Thought I was going to have to listen to a two-hour debate on the merits of Celestina Warbeck’s new album.”

Neville laughed, helping him with the trunk. “Close call. My Gran was trying to give me a lecture on proper wand-care etiquette right on the platform. In front of everyone.”

They sank onto the worn seats, the train giving a lurch beneath them as it began to pull away from the station.

“So,” Neville said, leaning forward. “Any thoughts on the Sorting? My Mum and Dad would be chuffed if I got Gryffindor, but Gran says Hufflepuff is perfectly respectable, too.”

“Long as it’s not Slytherin, I don’t reckon I care,” Harry said with a shrug, leaning his head against the cool glass of the window. He was watching the London suburbs blur past when the compartment door slid open with a sharp clatter.

Standing there, framed by two thickset boys who looked like they’d been assembled from spare parts, was Dracy Malfoy.

Behind her, a girl with a pug-like face and an acid-green hair ribbon peered in. Dracy’s silver-grey eyes swept the compartment, a faint, dismissive sneer playing on her lips when she saw who was inside. It was the exact same look of haughty disdain from Madam Malkin’s.

“Well, well,” she drawled, her voice cutting through the rhythmic clack of the train on the tracks. “Look what we have here. Potter. And Longbottom, is it? I’d heard you were coming this year.”

Neville straightened up, his expression polite but wary. Harry, on the other hand, felt a slow grin spread across his face. He leaned back, putting his hands behind his head.

“Malfoy,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “Didn’t think I’d have the pleasure so soon.”

Her sneer faltered for a fraction of a second, surprised by his lack of deference. Pansy Parkinson, the pug-faced girl, giggled.

“My father told me to be careful who I associate with at Hogwarts,” Dracy continued, recovering quickly. She gestured vaguely at Neville. “Some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making the wrong sort of friends. I can help you there.”

It wasn’t an offer. It was a command wrapped in silk. She expected him to be impressed, maybe even grateful.

Instead, Harry laughed. It wasn’t just a chuckle; it was a genuine, unrestrained laugh that made Neville start and the two lumps of muscle behind Dracy shift uncomfortably.

Dracy’s pale skin flared with colour, a splotchy, furious pink that climbed up her neck.

“That’s brilliant,” Harry said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “Did you practice that in the mirror all morning, or does it just come naturally?”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. The two boys, Gregory and Goyle, looked at each other, their simple expressions confused. They’d clearly never seen their leader so completely wrong-footed. Pansy’s giggle died in her throat.

“You— you think that’s funny?” Dracy finally managed, her voice tight with rage. “You’ll see. People like you don’t last long when they don’t show the proper respect.”

“Right,” Harry said, his grin not wavering. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He turned back to Neville. “So, you were saying something about Gryffindor?”

It was a total dismissal. The final nail in the coffin of her grand entrance. For another moment, Dracy just stood there, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her whole body radiating impotent fury. Then, with a furious huff, she spun around and stormed off, her cronies scrambling to follow. The compartment door slammed shut behind them, rattling the glass.

Silence descended, broken only by the rocking of the train.

Neville let out a breath he seemed to have been holding. “Are you sure that was a good idea, Harry?”

“What? It was hilarious.”

“No, I mean it,” Neville said, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. “The Malfoys are… they’re important. They’re in deep with the Minister’s office. My dad says Lucius Malfoy is one of Riddle’s biggest supporters. You don’t want to make an enemy of them before we’ve even gotten to school.” He shook his head. “I’m with you, obviously. But… not everyone will be.”

Harry looked at Neville’s worried face, then at the door that Dracy had just slammed. He thought of her furious, flushed face and the utter shock in her eyes when he’d laughed at her. He knew Neville was right. He knew it was probably stupid. Provoking people like the Malfoys was asking for trouble, and in Minister Riddle’s Britain, trouble could mean more than just a few lost house points.

But the thrill of it, the sheer satisfaction of knocking that smug, entitled girl off her high horse… it was intoxicating.

“Yeah, probably not a good idea,” Harry admitted, a roguish glint in his eye. He gave Neville a shove on the shoulder. “But it sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”

Chapter Text

The rest of the journey passed in a comfortable haze of sugar and speculation. The trolley witch came by, and Harry bought an armful of everything, splitting it with Neville as they argued good-naturedly over which team had a better shot at the Quidditch Cup this year. Harry, loyal to a fault, defended the Chudley Cannons despite their abysmal record. Neville, ever the pragmatist, pointed out that Puddlemere United actually, you know, won games sometimes.

Outside the window, the rolling green hills of the English countryside slowly gave way to the wilder, purple-tinged landscape of the Scottish Highlands. The sun began to dip low, painting the clouds in shades of orange and pink. A feeling settled in Harry’s stomach, a weird mix of nerves and a thrumming, pure excitement. He’d heard his parents’ stories about Hogwarts his whole life—tales of secret passages, epic pranks, and late-night adventures. Now it was his turn.

“We’d better get our robes on,” Neville said, peering out at the darkening sky.

They changed in the cramped space, wrestling with sleeves and collars. By the time the train finally slowed, pulling into the tiny, windswept station at Hogsmeade, night had fallen completely. A single lantern bobbed on the platform.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!” a booming voice called out. A giant of a man, with a wild black beard and a kind, crinkly smile, was waving them forward. “C’mon, follow me! Mind yer step!”

They followed the man—Hagrid, Harry heard someone whisper his name—down a steep, narrow path. The air was crisp and smelled of pine and damp earth. And then the path opened up, and they all stopped dead.

Across a vast, black lake, perched atop a high mountain, was Hogwarts. Its windows glittered like captured stars against the dark silhouette, countless turrets and towers reaching for the inky sky. It was… more than the stories. It was real, solid, and utterly magical.

“Whoa,” Neville breathed beside him. Harry couldn't have said it better himself.

The boat ride across the lake was silent, a fleet of first years too awestruck to speak, their faces illuminated by the bobbing lanterns. Harry could see it, the castle right there in front of him, getting bigger and bigger until it loomed over them like a sleeping giant.

They were led up a flight of stone steps and into the castle proper, stopping before a set of towering oak doors. A stern-looking witch with her hair in a tight bun introduced herself as Professor McGonagall and gave them a brief, no-nonsense speech about the four houses. Harry tuned most of it out. He was too busy looking around, trying to catch a glimpse of the Great Hall his dad always talked about. He spotted Dracy Malfoy in the crowd. She was trying to look bored, but her eyes were wide, taking in everything. She caught him looking and her expression immediately hardened into its default sneer. Harry just smirked back.

Then, the great doors swung open.

The Great Hall was even more spectacular than his dad had described. It was lit by thousands of candles floating in midair, and the ceiling wasn't a ceiling at all, but a perfect replica of the star-dusted night sky outside. Four long tables were packed with students, their faces turned toward the newcomers.

At the front of the hall, on a raised dais, sat the teachers. In the center, in a large golden chair, sat Headmaster Dumbledore, his long silver beard tucked into his belt, his blue eyes twinkling.

Professor McGonagall placed a rickety three-legged stool before them and on top of it, a frayed, patched wizard’s hat. It looked ancient. And then, a rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and it began to sing.

When its song about the four houses finished, the hall burst into applause. McGonagall unrolled a long scroll of parchment. “When I call your name, you will come forth, I shall place the Sorting Hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your houses.”

The names began. A boy named Finch-Fletchley became a Hufflepuff. A girl named Parkinson, Pansy—the pug-faced girl from the train—was sent to Slytherin almost before the hat touched her head. Then, “Longbottom, Neville.”

Neville took a shaky breath and walked up. He sat on the stool, looking small and terrified. The hat was placed on his head, covering his eyes. A minute passed. Then another. Neville’s knuckles were white where he gripped the stool. Harry held his breath.

“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat finally shouted.

The table on the far left erupted in cheers. Neville, looking weak with relief, practically sprinted over to them.

A few more names were called. Then, “Malfoy, Dracy.”

She walked up to the stool with a practiced, elegant stride. There was no hesitation. The hat had barely grazed her pale hair when it roared, “SLYTHERIN!”

She slid off the stool, a smug, satisfied smile on her face as she headed for the table decked in green and silver. She shot a look across the hall at Harry, a look that was pure challenge. *This is where I belong. Where do you?*

And then, “Potter, Harry.”

A murmur rippled through the Great Hall. Heads turned. Whispers followed him as he walked to the stool. He tried to project the same casual confidence he’d had on the train, but he could feel his heart thumping against his ribs. He sat down, and McGonagall lowered the hat.

Everything went dark.

Hmm, a small voice whispered in his ear. Another Potter. Tricky. There’s courage, oh yes. A Potter specialty. And loyalty. But what’s this? There’s a sharp mind here. And a… a certain disregard for the rules when it suits you. An ambition to prove yourself. You have a cunning that would serve you well…

You’re thinking of Slytherin, aren’t you? Harry thought back at the voice.

It could lead you to greatness, you know. That little spark of ruthlessness you have when you’re pushed… the way you enjoy getting one over on your rivals… Slytherin would hone that.

Harry thought of Dracy Malfoy’s smug face at the Slytherin table. He thought of her father and his talk of the Minister’s “vision.” They were the sort who kissed up to power. He just liked to cause a little chaos. There was a difference.

Nah, Harry thought back, his voice firm in his own head. I think I’ll pass. They seem like a bunch of miserable gits.

The hat was silent for a moment. Then it let out what felt like a mental chuckle. Miserable gits, eh? You’re certainly not short on nerve. You know your own mind. I see where your heart lies, Potter. There’s only one place for that kind of brazen nerve… better be…

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The hat was pulled from his head. The Gryffindor table exploded. Harry blinked in the sudden light, a wide grin breaking across his face. He caught Neville’s eye, who was cheering louder than anyone. As he made his way over to the sea of red and gold, he glanced at the Slytherin table.

Dracy Malfoy was staring at him, her pretty face a mask of disbelief and contempt. Her lips were pressed into a thin, angry line.

Harry just winked at her before turning his back, the cheers of his new house washing over him like a warm wave. This was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor table was a roaring, chaotic sea of red and gold. As Harry slid onto the bench beside Neville, he was immediately thumped on the back by at least three different people. A tall, lanky boy with glasses and a shiny Head Boy badge leaned over to shake his hand.

“Percy Weasley. Welcome to Gryffindor.”

Before Harry could respond, two identical red-headed boys cornered him from the other side. They had identical mischievous grins and a smattering of freckles across their noses.

“We heard them call a Potter,” one of them said.

“And we thought, no way,” said the other.

“James Potter’s son?”

Harry grinned back, feeling a little overwhelmed but mostly exhilarated. “That’s me.”

“Excellent.” They shook his hand vigorously, one after the other. “I’m Fred.”

“And I’m George.”

“We’ve heard the stories,” Fred—or maybe George—said with a dramatic sigh of reverence. “Dad still talks about the time your dad and Sirius Black enchanted all the suits of armor to sing the national anthem.”

“The bawdy version,” his twin clarified. “Absolute legends. We’ve got a reputation to uphold for you, kid.”

“Don’t put ideas in his head,” Percy said primly from across the table, though there was a twitch of a smile on his face. The twins just ignored him.

Dumbledore said a few strange words—“Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”—and then the empty golden plates in front of them magically filled with food. It was the most magnificent feast Harry had ever seen. Roast beef, chicken, pork chops, potatoes of every kind, mountains of vegetables, and jugs of pumpkin juice. Harry, suddenly ravenous, piled his plate high.

And as he ate, surrounded by the loud, cheerful chatter of his new housemates, his eyes strayed across the Great Hall. They drifted past the blue-and-bronze of Ravenclaw and the yellow-and-black of Hufflepuff, landing inevitably on the Slytherin table.

It was a different world over there. Quieter. More restrained. Their cheers had been more like a polite, unified roar, and now they sat with a certain self-contained composure. And right in the middle of it all, like the pale, cold center of a storm, was Dracy Malfoy.

She wasn’t just sitting with the other first years. She was holding court.

People were leaning in to speak to her. Not just Pansy Parkinson or the two hulking boys from the train, but older students, too. Harry watched as a slick-haired boy with a prefect’s badge—he had to be a fifth or sixth year—paused behind her, murmuring something in her ear. She didn’t even turn to look at him, just gave a slight, regal nod. A group of third-year girls were watching her with open admiration, giggling whenever she glanced in their direction.

Everyone wanted a piece of her. A moment of her attention. It was a clear, unspoken demonstration of power. The Malfoy name, the connection to the Minister, it wasn't just something she’d bragged about on the train; it was currency here. Real currency.

He hated to admit it, but she wore the attention well. She wasn’t flustered or overwhelmed. She handled it with a cool, practiced ease, a small, knowing smile on her lips as she spoke to a boy sitting across from her. It was like watching a queen dealing with her fawning courtiers.

It was pathetic, really. All of them, sucking up to her just because of who her father was.

She must have felt him staring, because her head lifted. Her silver-grey eyes met his from across the vast hall. The polite, cool mask she wore for her housemates vanished in an instant. Her expression sharpened into the pure, unadulterated contempt he was starting to get used to. Her lip curled just slightly.

Harry didn’t look away. He just raised a piece of roast potato on his fork in a mock toast, popped it in his mouth, and gave her a slow, deliberate wink.

The flash of outrage on her face was immensely satisfying. Her cheeks flushed that furious, delicate pink again, and she immediately turned away, presenting him with the back of her ridiculously perfect, white-blonde head.

“You’re still staring at that Malfoy girl,” Neville mumbled beside him, his mouth full of mashed potato. “She’s bad news, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry said, turning back to the joyous chaos of his own table, the grin not leaving his face. “That’s what makes it so brilliant.”