The windows of the History of Magic classroom faced the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Autumn sunlight streamed through the glass, scattering broken shadows of branches across the floor.
Professor Binns stood on the podium, one foot on a high stool, clutching a thick copy of Witch Trials of the Middle Ages. His voice floated gently, as always:
"In the 1492 Salem Witch Trials, the true cause was not 'witchcraft,' as Muggles claimed, but a political conflict within the Wizard Council. Certain members deliberately exposed wizard identities, using Muggles to eliminate their rivals."
Harry stared down at his open notebook. Several key points were underlined in blue ink—Draco's handiwork.
His fingertips brushed over the words political conflict. He remembered Dumbledore mentioning this piece of history once, which he had brushed off as irrelevant.
Now… it felt uncomfortably familiar.
Voldemort's rise, the Order's resistance—
Wasn't it all, at its core, a struggle for power?
"Potter."
Theo nudged him with his elbow, whispering, "Binns just asked, 'What method did the Wizard Council use to mitigate the fallout?' Do you remember?"
Harry looked up—and Binns' gaze landed right on him.
He recalled the underlined notes.
"They used Memory Charms on all the Muggles involved," Harry answered quietly, "and fabricated a fire to destroy the evidence."
Professor Binns' eyes brightened.
"Precisely, Mr Potter. You've done your reading?"
Harry instinctively looked sideways.
Draco, head bent over his book, had the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
Harry turned back.
"Yes, Professor."
A soft wave of murmurs rose from behind him. He couldn't hear the words clearly—but he knew they were about him.
He was used to it. Didn't mean he liked it.
The bell rang.
Binns floated toward the door after assigning homework:
"A one-foot essay on the significance of the Salem Trials in modern wizard–Muggle relations. Due Wednesday."
"Oh, I hate this," Draco muttered as he packed away his notes. "A waste of my time."
Harry was about to reply when he saw Draco's gaze shift toward the door—
Professor Snape was standing there, a rolled parchment in hand.
"Professor wants something," Draco said, handing Harry his bag.
"Wait for me at the library entrance. Don't go anywhere."
Harry took the bag, watching Draco walk to Snape.
They exchanged a few low words, then headed toward the staff room.
Harry didn't leave immediately.
He leaned against the corridor wall, watching their retreating figures.
Draco looked small next to Snape, tilting his head up slightly, posture respectful—so different from the indifferent "Professor Snape" he used in class.
At the staff room entrance, the hallway was quiet but for the rustling leaves outside.
Draco stopped, turning to Snape.
There was no stiffness in his voice now, only softness and familiarity.
"Godfather, what did you need me for?"
Snape handed him the parchment. His dark eyes were unreadable in the shadow.
"The supplemental notes for Advanced Potion-Making you asked for."
Draco's fingers brushed the cool parchment edge.
"Thank you, Godfather."
"Mm."
A pause.
Then, low and hesitant—rare for him:
"Keep an eye on Potter. He… seems a bit… off."
A flicker went through Draco's mind.
He'd always known his godfather's feelings toward Harry were… complicated.
Even in their previous life, for all the criticism, Snape had never truly looked away.
That he sensed something amiss so quickly—even in this timeline—
and yet didn't pry further?
That was already a concession.
"I understand," Draco said softly.
"I'll go back. Harry's waiting for me."
Snape nodded. Draco walked off quickly, parchment tucked against his chest.
Wind swept a few leaves across the stone floor.
Draco sped up—wanting to tell Harry everything, wanting to give him the notes, wanting Harry to know that his godfather wasn't an enemy.
Harry had been waiting at the library for ten minutes when Draco finally appeared.
"You're back. What took so long? What did he say?"
"Brought you something good."
Draco pressed the parchment into his hands.
"Supplementary notes for Advanced Potion-Making. Try reading it."
Harry unrolled it—and froze.
Clean, precise handwriting.
Snape's unmistakable script.
Notes under each recipe.
Warnings, adjustments, alternative processes.
"…Thank you," Harry said quietly.
"And—he said he thinks you're a bit strange. Impressive intuition." Draco shrugged lightly. "Just be careful."
He took Harry's bag and slung it over his shoulder.
"Come on. Let's go back. I'll help you read through it tonight. If anything's unclear, you can ask him tomorrow."
Harry didn't question further.
He followed Draco down the dim corridor, where only a handful of students passed, hugging books to their chests.
When they saw the two of them together, their steps slowed—then quickened again as they hurried past.
No hostility in their eyes.
Just curiosity.
And scrutiny.
Halfway down the hall, voices drifted from a side corridor—
Gryffindors.
Harry recognized Ron's voice instantly.
"…I still don't get it. Why would he be put in Slytherin? And Malfoy—always sticking to him—what's he plotting…"
Harry didn't hear the rest.
His expression went cold.
Draco stopped at once, stepping in front of him.
His voice cut sharply through the air.
"Gryffindors—mind your tongues."
The voices ceased instantly.
Ron and two Gryffindors leaned out from behind the corner.
They blanched when they saw Draco's expression.
Ron opened his mouth, then closed it again as the others tugged him away.
They fled.
Draco turned back.
"Let's go. Not worth responding to."
"Mm."
Harry's face stayed cold.
Draco raised an eyebrow and patted his shoulder lightly.
"Angry?"
Harry looked up.
Draco's eyes were bright in the evening light.
He suddenly remembered a moment from their past life—
after he'd cut Draco with Sectumsempra.
The expression Draco wore then—
not hatred, but confusion, hurt… and eventually, acceptance.
He hadn't understood it then.
He still didn't.
But one day—he would.
"No. Not angry. Not worth it."
They walked on.
Their shadows stretched long beside each other, nearly touching.
Then Draco said, casually:
"I talked to my father. I asked if you could come to the manor for the weekend. He agreed. Mother's having the elves prepare a feast."
Harry stopped for half a second.
"Your father agreed to see me?"
"Why wouldn't he?" Draco smiled.
"Harry, this is an opportunity. A chance for him to see you for who you are.
If you can gain the Malfoys' support, your path gets much easier."
Harry's emotions twisted.
Lucius Malfoy—
prideful, calculating, dangerous.
In his past life, openly hostile.
Now he was opening his doors.
Because of Draco, yes.
But also because Harry was… valuable.
Still—
it was a beginning.
"Alright," Harry said softly.
"I'll go with you this weekend."
Draco's smile widened.
"Good. Mother will be thrilled. You're the first friend I've ever brought home.
Oh—and tonight we'll go over my godfather's notes. Tomorrow's free practice—you and I can try the variant recipe."
Harry followed Draco into the dormitory hallway.
In their room, Draco heated water, poured Harry a mug of hot cocoa, and spread Snape's notes across the desk.
"Look here," he said, tapping a paragraph.
"This variation replaces wormwood with absinthe and adds a drop of dragon blood. Triples the potion's efficiency. But the heat control has to be perfect, or it'll blow your cauldron apart."
Harry leaned in, studying the neat handwriting, listening to Draco's explanations.
His fingers eased, his breath calmed.
Outside, the sky darkened.
Firelight flickered warmly across both their faces.
He suddenly thought—
maybe this was the life he wanted.
No destiny. No titles.
No weight of the entire wizarding world.
"Here," Harry said, pointing at a step.
"Why do you add dragon blood at the five-minute mark? Too early or too late won't work?"
Draco leaned in too, their shoulders almost touching.
"Because at five minutes, the potion hits the exact activation temperature. Too early and the dragon blood breaks down. Too late and it won't bind with the other components—here—look…"
The lamplight was soft.
Their heads were close.
Their breaths mingled faintly.
Listening to Draco's calm, steady voice, watching his focused profile—
something inside Harry shifted.
Something subtle.
Something long-buried beginning to rise.