The morning after Halloween, the Great Hall didn't smell of fear. It smelled of burnt toast and fresh lies.
Draco spread bitter orange marmalade on his scone with deliberate calm. Around him, the school buzzed with the most potent rumor of the year.
"...and then Ron threw a piece of pipe at its head, BAM!" Seamus Finnigan was saying at the Gryffindor table, waving his arms. "And Harry hung from its neck to distract it. They say the Troll got so dizzy it knocked itself out!"
Draco chewed slowly. Dizzy. Knocked itself out.
The official narrative, carefully filtered by McGonagall to prevent parental panic, was a masterpiece of fiction: Potter and Weasley had "contained and confused" the beast until the teachers arrived to subdue it. No blood. No severed tendons. And, of course, no mention of the Malfoy heir.
"It's insulting," Pansy hissed beside him.
She wasn't eating. She held a silver fork in her hand and was stabbing it repeatedly into a sausage with a violence that betrayed her mental state.
"What is?" Draco asked without looking at her, turning the page of his copy of The Prophet.
"That they take the credit," she spat, glaring with hatred toward the lion table, where Harry and Ron were receiving pats on the back. "You killed it, Draco. You told me you opened its throat. And now Saint Potter is the hero again."
"Heroism is for those who need external validation, Pansy," Draco said, bored. "Let them have their applause. Fame attracts attention, and attention brings scrutiny. I prefer to operate in the shadows. Besides..." he lowered his voice, "...the professors know the truth. Snape knows the truth. Dumbledore knows. That is the only thing that matters politically. They fear me more than they admire me."
Pansy dropped the fork with a metallic clatter. She turned toward him, invading his space. Her eyes were dark, charged with the residual energy Draco had transferred to her the night before, but also with something more human and poisonous: jealousy.
"It's not just the credit," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You went for her. For the Mudblood."
Draco stopped reading. He turned his head slowly to look at her.
"Watch your tone."
"You left me in the Common Room to go save her," Pansy insisted, though she lowered her gaze, submissive but hurt. "You touched her. Your magic... that magic you put inside me... you used it to defend a nobody."
Draco sighed, closing the newspaper. He turned on the bench to face her, blocking the view from the rest of the table.
"Pansy, look at me."
She obeyed reluctantly.
"Granger isn't a 'nobody.' She is a resource," Draco explained with the patience of someone explaining to a child why they shouldn't eat glue. "She has the most efficient brain of her generation. Potter and Weasley were going to let her die out of incompetence. I secured an investment."
Draco reached out and stroked the nape of her neck, right where her short hair left the skin exposed. Pansy shivered, leaning into the touch instinctively.
"She is a tool, Pansy. A book I read and close when I want. You..." Draco let a small discharge of his aura flow into her, calming her magical anxiety, "...you are the case where I keep my power. Do not confuse utility with ownership."
Pansy released the breath she was holding. The reaffirmation of her place (even as an object/battery) calmed her.
"Fine," she murmured, leaning against his shoulder. "As long as you remember who belongs to you."
Draco looked forward again.
His gaze crossed the Great Hall toward the Gryffindor table.
Amidst the celebration, there was an island of silence.
Hermione Granger sat slightly apart from Ron and Harry. She wasn't eating. She wasn't laughing. Her gaze was lost on her empty plate. Her hands, resting on the table, trembled slightly every time someone banged on the wood.
Harry said something to her, laughing, probably a joke about the Troll's smell. Hermione forced a smile that looked like a grimace of pain and nodded, but her eyes weren't on them.
Her eyes sought the Slytherin table.
And they found Draco.
There was no greeting. Draco simply held her gaze with absolute coldness, and then lightly touched his breast pocket, where he usually kept his handkerchief. The message was clear: Never forget that moment.
Hermione shuddered visibly and looked down.
The narrative of "heroes and adventures" had broken for her. She now knew the world was a place where monsters existed, and that her friends played with wands while Draco Malfoy used knives.
Draco smiled and returned to his marmalade.
The crack was open. He just had to drive the wedge in.
—[<>]—
The journey from the Great Hall to the dungeons was an exercise in aristocratic hypocrisy.
On the outside, due to Draco's admonishment, Pansy Parkinson was the image of composure. She walked with a straight back, chin held high, and light steps, greeting housemates with slight nods. There were no frowns or tantrums.
But inside her head and Draco's, she was a forest fire.
The Vassalage Bond didn't just transmit magic; it transmitted states. And Pansy's current state was a cacophony of acidic insecurity and boiling hatred toward Hermione Granger. It was like having a badly tuned radio at full volume at the base of his skull.
"Look at her... filthy... he touched her... he saved her... why her?... I'm the one who bled..."
Her residual thoughts filtered through the connection, distracting Draco from his mental planning.
Draco stopped abruptly in front of a tapestry of Salazar Slytherin in the third-floor sub-basement corridor, a blind spot for portraits and prefects.
"Enough," Draco said. His voice was low, but cutting.
Pansy stopped, blinking. Her social mask didn't slip.
"Draco? Is something wrong?"
"You are screaming, Pansy." Draco grabbed her arm and pushed her gently but firmly into the darkness of the niche behind the tapestry. The stone was cold and damp, the confined space forcing an unwanted intimacy.
"I haven't said a word since breakfast," she retorted, maintaining external composure, though her eyes shone with defiance.
"Not with your mouth," Draco cornered her against the wall, resting a hand beside her head. "But in my mind, you are unbearable. Your jealousy is polluting my frequency. You are projecting so much hatred it tastes like bile in my throat."
Pansy swallowed, her facade finally cracking in his proximity. The internal fury she had been suppressing rose to the surface, flushing her cheeks.
"Then make it stop," she whispered, defiant and desperate at once. "Get her out of my head, Draco. Make me forget you gave her your handkerchief."
Draco looked at her with a mix of annoyance and dark amusement.
"Jealousy is an inefficient emotion, Pansy. But if that is what you need..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He lowered his hand directly to the center of her chest, over her uniform blouse, right where the silver rune scar rested over her heart.
Pansy gasped, arching her back instantly. Even through the fabric, Draco's touch on the mark was electric.
"Granger has my strategic attention," Draco murmured, sliding his other hand to her waist, pulling her body until their hips collided. "But you have my imprint."
Draco sent an impulse through the bond. It wasn't a transfer of raw magic this time; it was a nerve command. He manipulated the sensitivity of the rune, converting her emotional pain into pure physical pleasure.
"Ah!" Pansy bit her lip to keep from screaming, her hands clutching Draco's robe lapels. Her knees shook. The cold fury she felt dissolved instantly into a liquid heat pooling in her belly.
"No one else feels this," Draco assured her in her ear, his voice dropping to a predatory purr. "No one else has me inside their skin. Do you think I would give this to the Mudblood?"
He slid his leg between hers, pressing upward, pinning her against the stone wall. Pansy threw her head back, exposing her throat, completely surrendered.
"No..." she moaned, drunk on sensation. "Only me... only me..."
"Exactly. Only you."
Draco kissed her. It was a deep, territorial kiss, designed to erase any coherent thought. Pansy responded with hunger, her fingers tangling in his platinum hair, desperate to claim him as much as he claimed her.
The "noise" in Draco's mind ceased. The chaos of jealousy was replaced by a clear, one-way signal of devotion and ecstasy.
Draco broke the kiss but stayed close, their foreheads touching. Pansy breathed raggedly, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her lips red and swollen. The mask of coldness had vanished; now only the woman who lived and died for his touch remained.
"Silence," Draco whispered, satisfied.
He stroked her cheek with his thumb, wiping a trace of moisture from the corner of her lip.
"Much better. Now your mind is tidy."
He pulled away, adjusting his tie calmly.
"Go to class, Pansy. And next time you feel like you're going to explode, find me before you give me a headache."
Pansy nodded, still leaning against the wall to keep from falling, looking at him with absolute adoration. The rage was gone, washed away by the intensity of his possession.
"Yes, Draco."
Draco stepped out of the niche, leaving a flushed and trembling Pansy in the dark, and headed toward the library with a clear mind, ready for his next move.
—[
Draco entered the library with a firm step. Now, the board shifted from the carnal to the cerebral.
The library was plunged in that dense mid-morning silence, when most students were in class or enjoying the autumn sun on the grounds.
He didn't need to search long. Hermione Granger was a creature of habit, and her natural habitat was the farthest tables, protected by walls of encyclopedias.
He found her in the Dangerous Magical Creatures section.
She was alone. She had three books open in front of her: Trolls: Habits and Weaknesses, Theory of Defensive Magic, and a copy of The Prophet mentioning the incident without giving details.
Draco approached. He made no sound, but Hermione tensed before he reached her table, as if her body had learned to detect the frequency of his magic.
She looked up. She had deep circles under her eyes.
"Malfoy," she said, her voice lacking its usual hostility, replaced by a nervous caution.
Draco didn't ask for permission. He dragged a heavy oak chair over and sat opposite her, on the other side of the book barricade.
"You are looking for a justification," he said, pointing to the book on Trolls with an elegant tilt of his chin. "Searching the text for some secret weak point. Some gland I exploited, or an exposed artery that justifies why it died so fast."
Hermione slammed the book shut.
"A mountain Troll's skin repels most basic spells," she recited, almost mechanically. "Blunt force impact or advanced magic is required to penetrate it. What you did... that cut..."
"Was illegal," Draco finished, leaning back in the chair with a lazy smile. "According to the Ministry, a first-year student shouldn't have the magical capacity nor the intent to cast a lethal curse."
Hermione swallowed hard. She looked around to make sure the librarian, Madam Pince, wasn't nearby.
"It was Dark Magic," she whispered accusingly. "I felt the cold. I saw the color of the spell."
"And it worked," Draco replied.
"That doesn't make it right!" she hissed, leaning forward, her need for moral order battling her trauma. "There are rules, Malfoy. There are laws. If we start using that kind of magic..."
"Then you die," Draco cut her off. His voice lost its mocking tone and became hard as granite. "That is the alternative, Granger. The rules are written by old men living safely in their offices. But in that bathroom, under that club, rules didn't exist. Only force existed."
Draco leaned over the table, his grey eyes locking onto hers.
"Your friends, Potter and Weasley... they played by the rules. They threw debris at it. They used first-year spells. And if I hadn't walked in, right now they would be writing letters of condolence to your muggle parents explaining that you had a 'regrettable accident'."
Hermione shivered. The image of her own death was something she had been replaying on a loop all night.
"They were brave," she defended weakly.
"Bravery without competence is just a fancy form of suicide," Draco sentenced. "I wasn't brave. I was efficient. I used the necessary tool for the job. The Troll was a problem; I was the solution."
Draco reached inside his robes.
Hermione's heart skipped a beat, expecting to see his wand.
But Draco pulled out a book.
It wasn't a library book. It was small, bound in worn black leather, with no title on the spine or cover. It smelled of ozone and ancient incense.
He slid it across the table, pushing the school-approved textbooks aside.
"What is this?" Hermione asked, eyeing the object warily.
"It is called The Ethics of Necessity," Draco emphasized the title. "I took it from the Restricted Section last night."
Hermione's eyes went wide.
"The Restricted Section! Malfoy, if you get caught..."
"If I get caught, it will be for seeking knowledge that can save lives," Draco said indifferently. "This book won't teach you to levitate feathers. It will teach you that magic isn't divided into 'White' and 'Dark.' It is divided into 'Intent' and 'Result'."
Hermione looked at the black book. It was a violation of school rules. It was dangerous.
But her fingers itched to touch it. It was the answer to the mystery of how she had survived.
"Why are you giving me this?" she asked, not daring to touch it yet.
"Because you have a Debt to me," Draco replied, standing up. "And an ignorant investment is a bad investment. You are of no use to me if you die the next time a monster looks at you wrong."
He adjusted his shirt cuffs, looking down at Hermione.
"Read it, Granger. Or go back to Weasley and celebrate that you got lucky. But remember: luck runs out. Power doesn't."
Draco turned and began walking toward the exit, leaving her alone with the temptation bound in black leather.
Hermione watched Draco's back retreating. Then she looked at the Gryffindor table in the distance, where Ron was laughing with his mouth full. Finally, her gaze fell on the black book.
Slowly, as if it had a will of its own, her hand reached out. Her fingers grazed the cold leather.
She opened it.
[SYSTEM: CORRUPTION PROGRESS][Target: Hermione Granger.][Status: Intellectual Curiosity > Moral Fear.][Action: Forbidden knowledge accepted.]
Draco smiled as he walked out of the library.
The first link of the chain was forged.
—[
Hermione left the library hugging the black book against her chest, hiding it under the folds of her robes. The cold leather seemed to burn her through the fabric, a heavy secret beating in time with her racing heart.
The corridor was full of midday light, a blinding contrast to the conspiratorial gloom of the shelves.
"Hermione!"
Ron Weasley's voice boomed down the corridor. He and Harry were trotting closer, faces flushed from the cold outside. They looked... normal. Terribly, insultingly normal.
"We've been looking for you everywhere," Harry said, adjusting his glasses. "We're going down to Hagrid's hut. He says he has rock cakes and wants to know what happened last night with the Troll."
"Yeah," added Ron, with a lopsided grin. "Imagine telling him. 'And then Harry climbed up its nose...'. It's gonna be brilliant!"
Hermione stopped. She looked at them.
She really looked at them.
She saw Ron's crooked tie. She saw the ink stain on Harry's sleeve. She saw, for the first time, not two brave friends, but two children treating death like a playground anecdote.
They think it was an adventure, Hermione thought, feeling a chill. They didn't see the blood. They didn't see the light go out in the beast's eyes. They only saw the noise.
"I can't," Hermione said. Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. Distant. Metallic.
Ron's smile faltered.
"What do you mean you can't? It's Saturday. There are no classes."
"I have to study," she replied, pressing the hidden book against her ribs.
"Study?" Ron let out an incredulous laugh. "Hermione, a monster almost killed us yesterday! Give it a rest! We survived!"
"We survived by luck, Ron," she snapped, with a sharpness that made Harry step back. "And luck is not a strategy."
There was an awkward silence. Harry frowned, looking at Hermione with concern.
"Are you okay, Hermione? You're... pale."
Hermione thought about telling them the truth. She thought about telling them about the book, about Malfoy, about "Efficiency." But looking at their open, naive faces, she knew they wouldn't understand. They would call it "evil." They would tell her to return the book.
And she didn't want to return it. She needed to know.
"I'm fine," she lied. It was the first real lie she told her friends. "Just... you go. I'll see you later in the Common Room."
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked quickly toward the stairs, moving away from the sunlight, seeking the solitude of her dormitory to open Draco Malfoy's poisoned gift.
Harry and Ron stood watching her walk away, confused.
"Girls..." muttered Ron, shrugging. "Who understands them. Come on, Harry. Hagrid's waiting."
Twenty meters away, leaning in the shadow of a stone column, Draco Malfoy watched the scene.
He didn't laugh. He made no gesture of triumph. He simply nodded once, slightly, confirming the fracture was real.
[SYSTEM: SOCIAL DYNAMIC ALTERED][Group "Golden Trio": Destabilized.][Hermione Granger: Self-imposed Isolation.][Cause: Maturity Divergence.]
Draco pushed off the column and headed toward the dungeons.
"Winter is going to be cold for the lions," he muttered to himself.
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