Chapter Eight: Transfiguration, Potions, and Flight
Draco awoke beneath green silk hangings, the soft ripple of the Black Lake pressing against the windows of the Slytherin dormitory. For once, he had slept deeply.
The manor had been suffocating — every corridor haunted by memories of Voldemort's reign. Here, at least, he had space to breathe. Alone in his single room, a privilege of being the governor's son, he could drop the mask of innocence and let exhaustion show.
Silver and green surrounded him, colors that steadied his mind. Gryffindor's gaudy red and gold seemed vulgar by comparison. He smirked at the thought, then caught himself. Some girls, he admitted reluctantly, had looked rather striking in scarlet scarves. He shook the thought away. Sentiment was dangerous.
Pulling on his robes, he schooled his face into the familiar Malfoy hauteur and stepped into the common room. He moved like a shell‑bound creature, wary, watchful. The world had shifted; he needed to test its limits.
Already he had experimented with small changes. Neville's toad, rescued once, lost again, found again — proof that fate could bend. He had even pointed Potter and Weasley in the right direction twice, sparing them the embarrassment of lateness. Weasley had blushed and muttered thanks. That had startled Draco more than he cared to admit.
But these were trifles. He needed to know whether larger changes were possible. Was Potter truly the same boy as before? Or had destiny rewritten him too?
---
Transfiguration
The classroom buzzed with chatter. On the desk sat a tabby cat, eyes sharp as steel. Draco slid into the empty seat beside Hermione just as the bell rang.
She looked up, startled. "You can sit here," she said quickly, though her eyes flickered with uncertainty.
Draco inclined his head, settling with practiced grace. He felt her gaze on him, curious, wary. He caught it, and she flushed, turning back to her book.
McGonagall transformed with a crack, silencing the room. Firewood became needles; matches became pins. Draco's wand moved with precision, his match sharpening to a gleaming point. Hermione's was nearly as fine, though she frowned at its imperfection.
"You've done well," Draco murmured.
She blinked, surprised by the compliment. For once, her eyes held recognition instead of disdain. It was a small thing, but it warmed him more than he expected.
---
Potions
Friday brought Snape's dungeon and the acrid scent of boiling cauldrons. Students brewed cure‑for‑boils, fumbling with ingredients. Snape prowled, his voice a whip.
Potter wilted under his barbs. Weasley scowled. Hermione bristled. Draco, meanwhile, received praise. "Perfect," Snape said, watching him grind snake fangs with steady hands.
The contrast was intoxicating. Once, Draco had basked in it. Now, he studied Snape's face, searching for cracks. The man was a master of Occlumency, yet his hatred for Potter seemed to slip through. Why?
Later, bottling his potion, Draco leaned toward Potter. "Did you offend him?"
Potter sighed. "I've never met him before today. But he hates me."
Draco raised a brow. Hatred without cause was dangerous. There was a story here, one he would uncover.
And behind it all lurked Quirrell, his turban hiding Voldemort's twisted face. Draco's hand tightened on his wand. Should he tell Snape? Dumbledore? Not yet. To reveal too much would expose himself. He needed proof, timing, leverage. A Slytherin never moved rashly.
---
The Library
That evening, Draco retreated to his hidden study alcove in the library — a governor's privilege, warded from prying eyes. He found Hermione there, arms full of books, eyes bright with curiosity.
She startled when she saw him. "I didn't know you came here."
"You wouldn't," Draco said coolly. "You only watch Potter and Weasley."
Her lips tightened, but she did not leave. Instead, she asked about the potion. She admitted Snape's favoritism had angered her, but she refused to blame Draco. "Your technique was excellent," she said simply.
Draco studied her. This was not the grudge‑bearing girl he remembered. Perhaps she, too, had changed.
He offered her tea, brewed slowly, deliberately, with silver and porcelain. She hesitated, then accepted. The aroma softened her expression. For a moment, they were simply two students sharing warmth in the shadowed library.
---
Flight
Books could not teach flying. Draco knew that. Hermione, clutching Quidditch Through the Ages, clearly did not.
He led her to the broom shed, unlocking it with a whispered charm. She gasped. "Isn't this against the rules?"
"Rules are sieves," Draco said. "Fools break them. The wise use their gaps."
On the quiet lawn, he demonstrated. "Stand beside the broom. Hand out. Say 'Up.'" His broom leapt obediently into his palm.
Hermione tried. Her broom rolled lazily. She looked at him, frustrated.
"You must trust yourself," Draco said. "If you doubt, the broom will doubt too."
She bit her lip, tried again. This time, the broom rose, trembling, into her hand. Her eyes lit with triumph.
Draco allowed himself a rare smile. Perhaps, in this life, things could be different.