The small incident from Potions class was quickly swallowed by daily routine.
Life at Hogwarts ran like a train locked onto its tracks—steady, predictable, and, for Harry and Draco, almost… dull.
In Charms, Professor Flitwick squeaked out "Wingardium Leviosa!" Neville's feather exploded, Ron's didn't budge, while Harry's feather floated gently in midair, as steady as if held up by invisible strings.
He could even make it sway faintly from side to side.
Draco, beside him, flicked his wand lazily. His feather obeyed just as perfectly, though the sneering "this is insultingly easy" look on his face drew more attention than his spellwork.
Defense Against the Dark Arts… ah, Quirrell.
Professor Quirrell's enormous turban reeked of garlic. He stuttered through every sentence, eyes darting everywhere, and managed to turn even the simplest spell demonstrations into shaky disasters.
Most students—especially Gryffindors—were either snickering or simply bored.
Harry sat in the back row, gaze fixed coldly on the man who looked pathetic and laughable up on the podium.
He knew exactly what hid inside that trembling shell, that hissing malice.
Killing intent coiled in him like a snake, scaling upward, threatening to rip apart his calm façade. His fingers curled unconsciously, itching for his wand—one flick, and a burst of green light—
Under the desk, a foot pressed down lightly yet firmly on the top of his shoe.
Harry snapped back to himself and turned to Draco.
Draco wasn't even looking at him—just doodling on his parchment with a quill, sketching a ridiculous cartoon of Quirrell fainting from garlic fumes. His lips held an amused sneer, the very picture of a bored Slytherin student.
But the foot on Harry's remained steady. A reminder.
Harry drew in a long breath, slowly unclenching his fingers, forcing the roiling urge back down.
Not yet.
He looked back at Quirrell, expression smoothing into cool indifference, even taking on the same bored contempt the other Slytherins wore.
Only then did Draco casually slide his foot away.
When class finally ended, Quirrell stammered out reading assignments, and students bolted for the hall, desperate for air not tainted by garlic.
"Merlin's moldy socks!" Draco dramatically waved a hand in front of his nose the moment they stepped into the corridor. "Did he shove an entire garlic field into that turban? I was suffocating!"
Pansy Parkinson burst into shrill laughter.
"Honestly, where did the school dig him up? If my father knew Defense Against the Dark Arts was being taught by… that, he'd write to the Board immediately!"
Draco snorted but didn't answer, only flicking a glance toward Harry. Harry was still pale, though his eyes had settled.
"Come on," Draco bumped his shoulder lightly, "library. Binns's essay still needs padding. Bloody nuisance."
Their chattering group headed down the stairs. At the turn of the second-floor corridor, they ran into Hermione Granger. She was carrying a stack of books so tall it nearly blocked her view, muttering under her breath as she walked toward the library.
Pansy let out a snort. Blaise wore an expression of pure mockery.
Hermione heard them, looked up, hesitated when she saw the Slytherins—especially Harry among them. She slowed down, caught between wanting to greet him and not daring to.
Draco arched an eyebrow and instantly switched into his patented Malfoy superiority, drawling,
"Well, if it isn't Miss Know-It-All. Studying so hard—hoping memorizing the whole library might make you look a little less… ordinary?"
Hermione's face flushed scarlet. Her fingers tightened on her books. She pressed her lips together, clearly wanting to retort but swallowing it. Her eyes flicked toward Harry—hurt, disappointed, "so that's how it is" written across her expression.
Harry kept walking, eyes forward, face blank, as though he neither saw nor heard a thing.
Draco snickered triumphantly as he and the others followed.
Only when they'd walked far enough that Hermione couldn't hear did he lean close to Harry, voice low and teasing.
"So? I kept things 'as usual' nicely, didn't I? Judging by her face, she probably thinks you've joined the evil Slytherin crowd and is absolutely heartbroken."
Harry didn't respond. He didn't care whether Hermione was disappointed. If anything, he preferred the distance—it would make future "contact" smoother and far less suspicious.
"But seriously," Draco's tone shifted, a flicker of genuine appraisal in his gray eyes, "one of the books she's carrying is A Treatise on Modern Magical History. Binns didn't assign that. The girl's brain works—she just doesn't use it right."
Harry looked at him. Draco shrugged.
"What? It's true. Value is value. Blood status doesn't change that."
He corrected himself smoothly, naturally:
"As long as she knows who to be useful to, she's not… well, completely worthless."
He said it like he was evaluating a tool. Pure-blood propaganda had long since worn thin for him; he'd seen plenty of pure-blood idiots and Muggle-born geniuses.
Power and usefulness were the real currency.
Not that this stopped him from perfectly playing the arrogant little pure-blood prince in public.
Harry hummed in agreement. This was exactly his plan.
They reached the library and settled into a secluded corner. Pansy and Blaise were already whispering to each other, clearly not planning to write their essays.
Draco spread open his History of Magic text, grumbling about Binns and his "copy-paste assignments," yet his quill moved quickly—arguments sharp, citations precise.
Harry picked up his own quill, but his mind wandered. Quirrell's frightened, deceitful expression hovered in front of him, the garlic stench clinging to memory. That cold tide of bloodlust stirred again—
"…so the taxation issue during the fourteenth-century Goblin Rebellions was entirely the Ministry's fault…" Draco was muttering as he wrote. When Harry didn't respond for a long time, Draco paused and turned.
"Oi. Listening?"
Harry jerked back to reality. His quill nearly snapped.
Draco narrowed his eyes slightly—then shoved his two finished rolls of parchment in front of Harry.
"Here. Copy mine. Hurry up, I'm starving."
Harry blinked at the neatly written essay. Draco's handwriting—beautiful, sweeping, and unmistakably Malfoy—was as striking as he was.
"You—" Harry started.
"I want to," Draco cut in bluntly, grabbing his bag and pulling out several higher-level Arithmancy texts. "Besides, I've got other things to read. Hurry up. Don't dawdle."
And with that he really did lower his head and start reading, the dim library light outlining his focused profile.
Harry stared a moment at the rolls of parchment, then dipped his quill in ink and began writing, matching Draco's text.
The scratch of quill on parchment, Pansy and Blaise's muffled gossip, Draco's occasional turning of pages—these small sounds blended into a strangely soothing hum.
The earlier killing urge, stirred by Quirrell, slowly settled.
He didn't have to face those dark memories and impulses alone. At least for now, in this place, someone was pulling him back onto a safer track.
Harry kept writing, catching glimpses of Draco's lowered lashes and tightly pressed lips. Draco was far more serious reading Arithmancy than he ever was in class.
He suddenly remembered Draco's quiet words in that sunlit abandoned courtyard at Malfoy Manor:
"It feels… different this time."
It did.
Harry lowered his head, speeding up the writing—no, borrowing.
He needed to finish quickly. Otherwise that guy beside him would probably start whining about being hungry again.
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