Chapter Twelve: Potter's Blind Trust
November brought frost to the castle walls and the first whispers of Quidditch season. Hogwarts buzzed with speculation: Harry Potter, the boy who lived, would debut as Gryffindor's Seeker.
The news spread like a stone cast into the Black Lake, rippling through every corridor. Some predicted brilliance, others disaster. Draco Malfoy, watching from the Slytherin table, found himself oddly uncertain. Once, Harry had been his rival in the skies, confident and unshakable. Now, he sat hunched over Quidditch Through the Ages, searching for courage in its pages.
Draco almost pitied him. Almost.
"You've nothing to worry about," Draco said one day, pausing by the Gryffindor table. Harry blinked up at him, confused, as Crabbe and Goyle loomed behind. Draco leaned closer, voice low. "Go to the trophy room. You'll find James Potter's name etched on more than one cup. If family legacy can't give you confidence, nothing will."
He left it at that. Malfoys did not linger.
---
The Library
As the excitement of term faded, homework grew heavier. Students crowded the library, parchment piled high, quills scratching late into the night. Hermione Granger was always there — but not merely for assignments.
She dragged Harry and Ron by their collars, scolding their sloppy essays, forcing rewrites. When they fled, she remained, alone by the window, surrounded by towers of books. Draco, curious, sometimes pretended to stumble upon her. He discovered she read beyond her years: alchemy, medieval curses, obscure histories.
Her diligence unsettled him. Was it the troll encounter that drove her? That helplessness, the terror of being unarmed? Draco understood. He had felt the same when his father was taken to Azkaban, when the Dark Mark burned on his arm in another life. He had worn arrogance like armor, but beneath it had studied desperately, clawing for worth in Voldemort's eyes.
The memories pressed against him like poison. He rubbed his temples, forcing them back. He was eleven again. He had another chance.
---
The Hidden Alcove
One evening, the library overflowed. Hermione, unable to find a seat, sank to the floor with her books. Draco's pale eyes watched from the shadows.
"What are you doing?" he asked, stepping forward.
"Reading," she muttered. "No seats left."
"I have a chair. If you want it." His voice was hesitant.
Her face lit up, bright as starlight. "Really?"
He gathered her books, offered his arm. "Come with me."
He led her to his hidden alcove — his sanctuary of parchment and tea. Malfoys did not help without reason. Yet with Hermione, he broke his own rules. Perhaps it was the kinship of scholars. Perhaps it was her vitality, reminding him he was alive, not a relic gnawed by memory.
She made him feel fresh.
---
Tea and Confession
"Tea?" he asked, already preparing the set.
"Yes, please." She perched on the spare chair, legs swinging, waiting like a child.
"Better than the floor?"
"Much better! The best seat in Hogwarts!" she declared. He smiled despite himself.
As he worked on his essay about the dark wizard Meric, he asked, almost casually, "On Halloween… why were you crying in the bathroom?"
Hermione stiffened. "It was silly. Nothing important."
"I insist." His grey eyes held hers.
She hesitated, then whispered, "Ron said I was like a nightmare. That everyone hated me."
Draco's quill snapped in his hand, ink splattering across parchment. Hermione jumped, rushing to clean the mess. But Draco ignored the stains. He caught her hand, firm, steady.
"You are not a nightmare," he said, voice low but clear. "You are the best dream anyone could have."
Hermione froze, cheeks burning. Then, slowly, she smiled — radiant, unguarded.
---
Trust
They spoke of Ron's apology, of essays and legends. Hermione's gloom lifted. She laughed, confessed she had feared she had no friends, but realized she was wrong.
"My friends saved me," she said. "Even if they broke rules, they were there. If they hadn't, I might have died."
Draco poured her tea, lips curling faintly. "I'm glad you see it that way."
Then Hermione leaned forward, eyes bright. "Draco, you saved me twice. I trust you. Harry asked me to thank you. And… we want to share a secret."
She told him everything: Hagrid's mysterious package from Gringotts, the three‑headed dog guarding a trapdoor, Snape's injury, their suspicion that he sought the treasure.
Draco pinched his brow. "Why tell me? Why not McGonagall? Or Dumbledore?"
"Because we trust you," Hermione said simply.
Draco nearly laughed. Gryffindors — reckless, blind with faith. In another life, they had distrusted him to the end. Now, they offered trust too easily. It felt unreal. Yet it was useful.
He knew the truth: Quirrell was the danger, Voldemort the shadow. But he could not reveal it. He suspected Dumbledore meant these trials as tests for Harry, shaping him into the savior he must become. If Draco interfered too much, would he weaken Harry's growth?
Hermione stirred her tea, watching him. "You're Snape's student. You could observe him. Help us understand."
Draco studied her — clever, bold, sly in her own way. He admired her composure.
"Snape is cruel, yes. But he is not a thief," Draco said. "If anyone deserves suspicion, it is Quirrell. Think: he discovered the troll missing, shouted in the hall, caused panic. And when the professors searched, he was conveniently absent. No one knows where he went."
Hermione's eyes widened. She had never considered it. She sipped her tea, burning her tongue, laughing at herself. Draco watched, amused, then turned serious again.
"Perhaps," he said softly, "the stammering professor is not so innocent as he seems."