The Hogwarts Express hissed steam as it slowed into Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
A short weekend break had just begun, and students flooded out of the carriages like a restless tide.
Harry stood amid the bustle, his black school robes making him appear even thinner—
but his back remained straight.
A week of Slytherin life had changed nothing obvious about him.
"Here, Harry."
Draco's voice carried its familiar, slightly drawled cadence.
His pale blond hair gleamed even in the dim station light. Those grey eyes locked onto Harry with precision, a faint, unreadable smile curling at his lips.
Beside him stood Lucius Malfoy—cold, immaculate, aristocratic as ever—and Narcissa Malfoy, graceful and composed, her expression warm enough to be polite but no warmer than necessary.
Harry inclined his head and walked toward them.
His gaze met Draco's briefly.
No words were exchanged, but both knew this visit was far more than a simple weekend stay.
"Mr Potter," Lucius said in his cool, drawling tone, the serpent head of his cane tapping lightly against the ground. "Welcome. Draco insisted you should spend the weekend with us."
The words sounded like a welcome.
His eyes, nearly identical to Draco's, held only sharp, evaluating scrutiny.
"Thank you for the invitation, Mr Malfoy," Harry replied evenly—neither warm nor timid.
He turned to Narcissa. "And thank you, Mrs Malfoy."
Narcissa's smile deepened, elegant and poised.
"No need for such formality, dear. Draco told us you've been looking after him at school."
Her tone was gentle, but the probing undercurrent was unmistakable.
She stepped closer and smoothed a perfectly fine fold on Harry's collar.
A soft, motherly gesture—
Harry stiffened almost imperceptibly, unaccustomed.
"Come. The car is waiting," Lucius said, clearly unwilling to linger among Muggles.
A polished black car glided to the curb.
A uniformed house-elf opened the door with a trembling bow.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of leather and expensive cologne.
Lucius asked occasional questions on the way—mostly about Slytherin House and Professor Snape.
Harry answered succinctly, careful with every word.
He praised the Slytherin common room, mentioned the difficulty of Potions class, and described Snape's "strictness" with a tone of "understanding."
Draco chimed in now and then, casually steering the conversation toward harmless topics—gossip, minor school happenings.
Still, Harry could feel Lucius studying him—
sifting his words like a fine sieve.
Evaluating the Savior's value.
His influence on Draco.
His potential usefulness… or danger.
The car turned through winding roads and passed an ornate iron gate into a vast, meticulously manicured estate.
The main building soon rose into view—a grand, fortress-like manor radiating old wealth and quiet menace.
Compared to Hogwarts' warmth and chaos, this place felt like a cold, armed palace.
White peacocks strutted past the window. Sculpted hedges blurred by.
Unbidden, fragments of Harry's last moments of his previous life flashed—
blinding curses, Draco's bloodless face, the bitter cold of despair.
His hands curled into fists, nails biting sharply into his palms.
He used the pain to steady himself.
A cool hand slipped silently over his tightened fist.
Draco's.
He didn't look at Harry, gaze still on the passing scenery—it seemed casual, thoughtless.
But the touch sent a faint current through Harry, smoothing the storm that had risen in him.
He slowly uncurled his fingers.
Breathed in.
Breathed out.
The car stopped before the manor's grand entrance.
A trembling Dobby opened the door.
Inside, the manor smelled of age and wealth—polished wood, old magic, and something colder.
Portraits with proud, disdainful expressions lined the hallways, their eyes following Harry with open judgment.
Their footsteps echoed on the gleaming marble floor.
"Your room is next to Draco's, dear," Narcissa said warmly as she guided him. "I hope it's comfortable for you. If you need anything, just tell Dobby or any of the elves."
A pause, her voice softer:
"I heard you lived with Muggles before… It must have been difficult."
Harry lowered his eyes, hiding the flash of coldness.
"I'm used to it, ma'am."
Narcissa seemed to understand and didn't press further.
She touched his arm lightly.
"Go settle in. Afternoon tea will be in the small parlor."
His room was lavish—silver and green décor, a four-poster canopy bed, a window overlooking a patterned garden.
Someone had neatly arranged his belongings already.
Harry washed his face, changed into a more comfortable robe, and tried to look like a slightly shy thirteen-year-old.
Afternoon tea was set in a sunlit parlor.
Silver teapots gleamed.
Three-tier trays held delicate sandwiches, scones, and tiny, immaculate pastries.
Narcissa asked gentle questions—how he and Draco were doing, which classes they liked, whether they'd made new friends.
Harry answered carefully, letting Draco handle most of it.
He nibbled a scone with polite awkwardness, mindful of etiquette.
He could sense it—
this warm scene was merely the prelude.
Lucius Malfoy's patience had a limit.
As Narcissa left to ask the elves for more tea, Lucius lowered his cup with a soft clink.
The air shifted at once.
"Well then, Mr Potter," Lucius said, fingers stroking the serpent cane. "Slytherin. An… intriguing choice. Not everyone appreciates the House's true value."
There it was.
Harry set down his teacup and met Lucius' gaze calmly.
"The Sorting Hat believed I possessed certain Slytherin qualities, sir. Such as…"
A thoughtful pause.
"Judgment. Talent. And… ambition."
"Judgment?" Lucius arched a pale brow. "Such as choosing to befriend Draco?"
"Draco has helped me tremendously," Harry said without hesitation.
He glanced at Draco—who was casually spreading clotted cream on a scone as though none of this concerned him.
"He's helped me understand the wizarding world—and how it works."
A strategic answer.
It framed their friendship as a practical alliance—something the Malfoys respected.
Lucius didn't contradict him.
A small victory.
He changed direction.
"And the Ministry? Cornelius Fudge, I hear, is quite aligned with Dumbledore."
A trap.
Testing Harry's stance on Dumbledore's camp.
Harry chose his words:
"Minister Fudge seems intent on preserving… appearances. Rather than addressing actual issues."
He carefully avoided judging Dumbledore.
"Relying too heavily on any single man's reputation can make the entire system… fragile."
A subtle implication—
Dumbledore's influence wasn't infallible.
Lucius' mouth twitched upward by perhaps a millimeter.
Almost a smile.
"And blood purity? I imagine the Dursleys gave you quite a… 'vivid' perspective on Muggles."
The phrase was barbed.
Sharp and poisonous.
A cold knot tightened in Harry's stomach.
Not from fear—
from the irritation of being forced to think of the Dursleys.
Still, he controlled his voice.
"Muggles vary as much as wizards do. But I believe magic—our heritage, our bloodlines—carry a certain strength and responsibility. Ignoring that is foolish."
Not pure-blood fanaticism.
A pragmatic acknowledgment of power and lineage.
Lucius studied him thoughtfully.
At last:
"Responsibility. Well said. Power requires responsibility—and…"
His gaze sharpened.
"…the ability to make the correct choices."
Draco interrupted smoothly, tone tinged with mild annoyance:
"Father, your questions are worse than my godfather's Potions interrogation. Harry's here to relax, not undergo a Wizengamot hearing."
Lucius gave Draco a sidelong look—not angered, but faintly amused.
He relented.
"Quite right, Draco. My apologies."
He sipped his tea.
"Mr Potter is simply… more mature than I expected. I look forward to seeing your future in Slytherin."
The rest of tea was quiet on the surface, though tension still coiled beneath.
When it finally ended and Narcissa suggested Draco take Harry to explore the estate, Harry felt something in him ease—a string pulled too tight finally loosening.
As they walked through another hallway, Draco murmured at his side, lips curving faintly:
"Good job, Harry. Father seemed… impressed. At least he didn't throw you out immediately."
Harry's eyes moved over rows of priceless artifacts.
"No. He's assessing me.
A new acquisition—potentially dangerous, potentially useful."
"Malfoys are very good at investing in valuable acquisitions," Draco said matter-of-factly.
Harry turned, studying him.
No teasing hid in Draco's eyes—only understanding beyond his years. Calm awareness.
Harry realized then that Draco, too, had stepped into a different place in this new timeline.
He knew how to navigate power, how to bend the rules of the world he'd been raised in.
The realization brought Harry a strange comfort—
and something else, softer, harder to name.
They stopped before a tall glass window.
Outside, the gardens glowed under the golden edge of sunset.
They stood side by side in silence.
"It's beautiful here," Harry murmured. "But also… cold."
Draco paused before answering.
"It takes time to get used to it.
Like Slytherin."
Harry didn't reply.
He looked out over the flawless scenery.
Malfoy Manor was exquisite—untouchably so, like a treasure without warmth of its own.
It was a potential stronghold for his future war.
A chessboard in the coming power struggle.
But not his home.
Not yet.
Perhaps never.