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Chapter 21 — Rumors on the Train
Malfoy boarded the train back to Hogwarts the next morning.
If there was one thing in the wizarding world that traveled faster than a Firebolt, it was rumors.
He had barely settled into his seat before whispers drifted straight into his ears—he didn't even need to listen carefully.
"Did you hear? Draco's wand was confiscated by the Ministry."
"Why?"
"I heard he tortured a Muggle with a hex and got caught."
"No way. He's usually so elegant," a girl protested.
"If you don't believe me, go see if he still has his wand."
A few girls "accidentally" walked by his seat, peeked at his hands, squeaked, and ran off in a panic. Clearly, most of them believed the rumor.
Malfoy didn't mind. Peace and quiet were rare enough, and Slytherin's reputation had always leaned that way.
"Is this seat free?" A soft voice interrupted. "If you don't mind, I'll sit here."
A girl slid into the seat beside him.
"I didn't say yes," Malfoy muttered, half amused. "And I supposedly tortured a Muggle last week. Aren't you frightened, Cho Chang?"
Cho shook her head, meeting his eyes. "I trust my own judgment." Then she asked, "Can you tell me what really happened?"
"No comment."
If Voldemort ever heard the truth, it would be disastrous. Cho had leaked secrets before in the previous timeline; Malfoy wasn't about to test fate. And he had no interest in making up a lie.
"Oh…" Cho looked let down, but she still said quietly, "No matter what others say, I believe you."
"Thank you," Malfoy replied with polite warmth and nodded before opening the newest issue of The Quibbler.
The train ride felt short, and by the time they reached Hogwarts, the sky was streaked red—dinnertime already.
Students streamed through the halls. Some avoided him like he carried a deadly curse. Those ahead of him didn't dare meet his eyes; those behind him slipped away down side corridors.
A handful of Slytherins trailed after him at a distance, clearly pleased by the rumors. Strength meant everything in the House of Snakes.
Wonderful, Malfoy thought. My life is over. Old Dumbledore will probably summon me for a good scolding.
A talented Slytherin with a questionable reputation was exactly the sort of thing that kept the old wizard awake at night.
One step at a time, he told himself and headed for the Great Hall.
The feast had only just begun—plates were piled high, and Hogwarts never missed a chance for celebration, even for the end of Christmas break.
He slipped into his seat. Pansy leaned in the moment he sat down.
"Are you alright?" she whispered.
"What could possibly happen to me?" Malfoy smiled, waving her concern away.
His easy expression reassured her. She relaxed, sinking back into her chair.
"I knew you'd be fine. You told me all about equality between races before." Then she added in a lower voice, "But I still hate Muggles."
Malfoy didn't respond. Mindsets didn't change overnight.
"I'm not satisfied with my Christmas present from you!" Pansy tapped the table sharply. "Shouldn't you have given that ink and quill to that mud—" She caught herself. "To that Muggle-born witch?"
Before he could answer, she barreled on, "But I do like the ink color."
She glanced quickly at his hands. "And at least you're wearing them."
Malfoy lifted his hands to inspect the odd-colored gloves, fuzzy with stray yarn.
"Put them down!" Pansy hissed, cheeks flushing.
"You dare to knit them; I dare to wear them. Why should I care who sees?" Malfoy grinned. Pansy was being so adorable he couldn't resist teasing.
"Stop laughing! Give them back!" She half-rose, pretending she meant to snatch them away.
"Weren't you brimming with confidence when you wrote your letter?"
"Don't remind me." Pansy drooped in exaggerated misery. "I took a photo as a keepsake. My mum saw it—and laughed at me."
Then she straightened and declared, "If you really give them back, I'll redo them. They'll look way better." A spark of determination lit her eyes—she was clearly gearing up for a rematch against her mother.
"How could I take back a gift once it's given? I'll treasure it forever." Malfoy said it lightly, but with genuine affection.
"Ugh, disgusting." Her face turned scarlet to the tips of her ears.
"Alright, I'll stop." Malfoy sobered. "Thank you, Miss Parkinson, for knitting these for me. I'm honored. But because they're your first gift, I refuse to return them."
"When did you get so sly? Bring back the clueless boy from before," she muttered.
"Growth is irreversible, my lady," Malfoy said smoothly.
The gloves stayed firmly on his hands, and for once Pansy didn't glare.
Meanwhile, over at Gryffindor table—
"Harry, did you hear?" Ron said, grabbing a pancake.
"Hear what?" Harry mumbled around a chicken leg.
"It's all over the school! Draco got taken by the Ministry. Supposedly tortured a Muggle. If not for his father, he'd be in Azkaban!"
Ron was practically glowing with schadenfreude.
"And they confiscated his wand," Ron added triumphantly.
"That's… unbelievably lucky," Harry muttered. His heart thudded hard. "I actually suggested talking to him about Nicolas Flamel… Ron, that could've ended horribly."
Ron puffed up. "See? I told you I'm helpful."
"That's not true at all," Hermione snapped, slamming the table.
The sound made Gryffindors, and even a few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, turn to stare.
"What's not true?" Ron blinked at her, confused. No one expected Hermione to defend a Slytherin; they assumed she was thinking about homework.
"N-nothing," Hermione said quickly. She hadn't meant to speak—words had burst out before she could stop them. Her courage fled instantly.
"Hermione, we were worried," Harry said gently. "Over Christmas you didn't seem… well." He hesitated. "But you look better now."
"Yeah," Ron agreed.
Hermione didn't tell them that the real reason she'd been smiling again was a small piece of parchment—just a few lines and a single spell—but she read it over and over as if it were treasure.
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