A/N: I'm reworking the chapters. I'm not a professional writer, and English is not my first language, so please understand that it may not be perfect.
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Draco woke before breakfast in a four-poster bed draped with green silk curtains.
He stared for a long while at the medieval tapestry on the wall, which depicted the adventures of Slytherin.
Since gaining those nightmarish memories, he had hardly had a good night's sleep.
For him, Malfoy Manor was no longer the warm, joyful, safe home of his childhood. Although every room was peaceful, it was inevitably filled with broken and painful memories.
That place had once been a murder scene, a prison, and a cage.
For the past month, he had been unable to avoid feeling tense and worried in every corner of the Manor, and he had to try his best not to let his parents find out, which was driving him crazy.
Arriving at Hogwarts, Draco finally had a private space of his own, a place where he could shed his innocent facade and reveal his weary, hidden wounds. At last he had found the respite he had longed for.
A rare good night's sleep had restored some of his energy. Lying back in his dormitory by the Black Lake, watching the tranquil scene of gentle waves and shimmering light and shadow, he felt as if his brain had been emptied, and he finally stopped feeling panicked.
It was a Slytherin single bedroom, a "little privilege" Draco enjoyed as the son of a school governor. Emerald green and silver dominated the entire room—very Slytherin.
These two colors had a calming effect.
Very good.
Draco liked the silver-and-green color scheme.
The blatant gold and the arrogant red—what discerning wizard would like such a clashing, troublesome combination? He frowned, secretly comparing Gryffindor's colors with his own House's, and decided that Slytherin's still looked better.
Then again—some girls did look quite good in gold-and-red scarves, he thought absently.
Stop it, those are all unrealistic fantasies! He straightened his collar in front of the full-length mirror, glanced at his reflection with a gloomy expression, and immediately wiped the slight curve from his lips.
He walked out of his dormitory with a stern face, adopting a properly haughty Draco Malfoy posture, and passed through the Slytherin common room, numbly welcoming another boring day at Hogwarts.
Draco couldn't afford to let his guard down or be overly friendly with those around him. Like a frightened clam, he kept himself shut, observing the reborn world with vigilance.
He had already conducted some small experiments on "change" using Longbottom's lost-and-found toad.
But he still hadn't figured out where the tipping point for "change" lay. The only certainty was that the world in this life was capable of change.
What about the others? Would things change for them as well?
Although a month of observation had shown him that the Malfoy family was no different from his previous life, that didn't mean his classmates at school were the same.
If he had been able to start over, was it possible for others to do the same?
He needed to observe quietly for some time, especially where Harry Potter was concerned. Sitting at the Slytherin table, he popped some fried eggs into his mouth, lost in thought.
He needed to find out whether the Potter across the hall, grinning foolishly and clinking goblets with Weasley, was the same Potter as before, and whether his behavior was consistent with his previous life.
Before he could figure out the world, Draco thought, he had to dutifully play the role of a law-abiding first-year.
In such a strange world, familiar yet unknown, he could not attract too much attention; it would be dangerous.
Playing an eleven-year-old boy wasn't difficult, just mentally exhausting.
It often required him to think about problems from a child's perspective and react accordingly; but having been reborn, he always unconsciously looked at problems through the eyes of a seventeen-year-old, and it was difficult for him to feel the joy and excitement a child should feel.
For example, the coursework that intrigued the new students, and the novelties of Hogwarts—moving staircases, ubiquitous suits of armor, ghosts that appeared at will—did not interest him at all.
Draco had to feign surprise at those things at least three times a day, with no real feeling behind it, to pass as a new student.
Apart from that, he focused his attention on small experiments related to "change."
Without attracting attention, he tried making some small "changes" and observed the results.
He was testing the limits of "change."
For example, since "provoking Potter" was meaningless to him at the moment, he had deliberately abandoned the tense atmosphere that once existed between him and Potter.
He had even pointed out two routes to Potter and Weasley, those two little devils who were forever running around—yes, in his eyes they were just little devils—to spare them the embarrassment of getting lost, and the professors' eye-rolls over their lateness, as had happened in his previous life.
Draco was slightly surprised that Weasley, with his freckled face, would blush and say "thank you," which made him rethink the Weasley family's upbringing.
Not that they had changed much. Although they had become a little more "polite," Draco still thought they were reckless and impulsive.
Look at them, running like mad down the corridor!
"Will these Gryffindors never learn to walk calmly down a corridor?" Draco thought to himself.
With half a minute to spare before class, Draco arrived at the Transfiguration classroom on the second floor right on time.
The classroom was already packed, but the teacher's desk was empty. A majestic tabby cat sat on the desk, sternly scrutinizing the noisy students below.
Draco dared not give it a second glance. That was Professor Minerva McGonagall, the most formidable professor in all of Hogwarts. Before she turned back into a human and began to torment him, he had to find a seat quickly.
Unfortunately, almost all the seats were taken. Potter and Weasley, who had just arrived, reluctantly sat in the front row. As they took books out of their bags, they whispered something to each other, seemingly relieved that they hadn't been late.
It seemed that the trivial matter of "Potter being late for the first Transfiguration class" had been casually "changed" by Draco—and so far without any side effects at all.
Draco withdrew his gaze and walked calmly down the aisle, looking for an empty seat.
He had only two choices. He could partner with one of Crabbe and Goyle, who followed him around, and have the whole lesson poisoned by their sheer silliness; or he could let Crabbe and Goyle go off together while he took the empty seat not far ahead, next to Miss Know-It-All.
To be honest, Draco, now reborn, had completely lost patience with his less-than-stellar study partners.
If the world could accept small changes, then something as trivial as "Draco Malfoy changing his study partner" should also be accepted by the world, right?
Let's give it a try.
"May I sit?" He stopped at her desk and asked the messy-haired girl, who was looking down at A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration as the school bell suddenly rang.
Hermione looked up at the sound and saw that it was the boy named Draco. He wore an exquisite black robe, his platinum blond hair was neatly combed, and—unfortunately—he wore a green Slytherin tie at his collar.
He was looking at her with an unreadable gaze, his face a mixture of arrogance and unease.
"Sure." The girl was a little surprised, her eyes flickering, and she gave him an awkward smile. "There's no one here, you can sit down."
Hermione wasn't sure how to deal with the boy who was about to sit next to her.
People said that Slytherin produced wicked wizards who wielded dark magic. That was what the books said, and what the older Gryffindors said too.
Draco didn't seem that bad. Apart from his somewhat cold expression, he had been quite polite to her.
Could he really be a bad wizard? Hermione wondered, peeking at the boy through the gaps in her thick, curly brown hair.
He pulled out a chair and slowly sat down. He sat upright, unlike the other boys, who slouched. His face was a little pale, his eyes deep-set, and his expression turned serious.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned his head slightly, his lowered gray eyes moving quickly from the book to her hair, keenly catching her flickering gaze.
He asked her, "What's wrong?"
"It's nothing," Hermione said hastily, turning to take the matches that Professor McGonagall was handing out.
She was fairly friendly, and she didn't ignore him just because he was a "ruthless, evil Slytherin." Draco couldn't help thinking so as he cast the spell on his match.
"Your needle seems a bit sharper than mine." While they practiced Transfiguration in class, Hermione couldn't help picking up his needle and examining it closely, saying enviously, "I still need to work harder..."
"You've become quite good too," Draco said. He lifted his eyelids and glanced at the needle on her desk. It looked perfectly decent now, and he wondered what she was struggling with.
This was probably just Hermione Granger's kind of strict self-discipline. Even though they were the only two students in the class who could turn matches into needles, and even though the exacting Professor McGonagall had found no fault, she still complained that her needle tips weren't sharp enough.
Draco silently fiddled with his wand, glancing at her now and then.
This lesson was too simple and too boring for him now; the only novelty was Miss Know-It-All's approval of him.
The sense of recognition was almost overflowing—it had to be said that it felt far more comfortable than contempt.
Who would have thought she could look at him with such approval? In his previous life, those brown eyes had mostly been filled with disdain, wariness, and undisguised disgust.
Draco gave a mocking smirk and roughly shoved certain replaying memories back into the depths of his brain.
What was the point of dwelling on all this? It was better to keep watching Miss Know-It-All and see how else she could torment that needle.
Friday's Potions class was the same old routine. The students had to prepare a potion to cure boils and got a good taste of the Slytherin Serpent King's power.
It was a long class that began and ended with picking on Harry Potter.
Just as in his previous life, Potter and his friends were ridiculed mercilessly by Professor Snape, while Draco was praised lavishly.
It was hard for any student to resist a professor's open and honest liking. Especially when a certain Slytherin Serpent King was so difficult to please, harshly criticizing the potion-making of the entire class, yet singling out Draco's method of steaming horned slugs as "perfect."
Such pointed praise was an almost irresistible source of vanity and pride for a young wizard.
Professor Snape had been Draco's favorite professor, and perhaps still was; the students also considered Draco to be Snape's favorite student.
Even the uninformed Hogwarts students spread rumors that Professor Snape was Draco's godfather.
Professor Snape was certainly not Draco's godfather; that was all baseless speculation.
As a pure-blood wizard, Lucius had never believed that his son needed a "godfather." And if anyone had insisted on giving Draco one, Lucius—a staunch advocate of pure-blood supremacy—would not have allowed a half-blood to be his son's "godfather," even if he admired Snape.
However, it was undeniable that Professor Snape had a very close relationship with the Malfoy family.
Not to mention that the Malfoy family had a tradition of recruiting talented wizards, and that within Slytherin itself, the worship of the strong was common practice.
Draco recalled that, as Head of House, Professor Snape had been very popular within Slytherin, and most Slytherin students and their parents respected him.
Even Lucius, who was always arrogant, had found it reassuring to entrust his son to Snape.
Professor Snape's excellence was beyond question: the youngest Head of Slytherin House in history, a Potions professor, a recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second Class, and proficient in many disciplines, including the Dark Arts and the defense against them, Potions, Charms, and Occlumency.
That a half-blood wizard had been recognized by a wizarding community that revered pure-bloods was, to some extent, proof of his absolute strength. Draco's thoughts drifted as he ground the snake fangs into powder.
However, everything had changed after the Malfoys fell to their lowest point and Lucius was imprisoned in Azkaban. Many Slytherins distanced themselves from the Malfoys, which was understandable; it was simply a matter of self-preservation.
If Professor Snape had merely distanced himself from the Malfoys, Draco would have been extremely disappointed, but it wouldn't have puzzled him. What puzzled him was Snape's ambivalent attitude.
He never pleaded for Lucius before the Dark Lord, and he remained indifferent to all the oppression the Malfoy family faced; yet he did not distance himself from Draco. Instead, he drew close to him, actively probing for what Draco's mission and plans were.
What a terrible burden, to ask a sixteen-year-old boy to kill Dumbledore.
Draco knew, of course, that Snape's help would have made things much easier; however, to prove his abilities to the Dark Lord and regain the Dark Lord's trust in the Malfoys, he had to complete that terrible task alone, without "leaking" anything or having his credit stolen.
Draco had dared not trust anyone, especially Snape, who was so eager to find out about him. The more Snape inquired, the more sensitive Draco became, suspecting that Snape had ulterior motives.
At that time, in order to protect himself, he had to climb out of the well of naivety and ignorance and begin to think about reality.
On a darker note, how much of Professor Snape's preferential treatment of Draco was due to his personal relationship with Lucius, and even the exchange of benefits behind that relationship; and how much was out of appreciation for Draco himself?
Since Snape had stood by and watched the Malfoys be destroyed in front of the Dark Lord, how could anyone expect him to suddenly have a change of heart and genuinely help?
Yet it was this enigmatic man who had saved Draco when Potter's Sectumsempra nearly killed him.
Snape could have stood by and done nothing, if he had been the kind of person who would let someone die.
In the end, Draco was full of questions and had no idea how to deal with Snape.
At this crucial moment in the preparation of the boil cure, Draco temporarily stopped thinking. He focused intently on adding porcupine quills to the cauldron after putting out the fire—pink smoke rose from it immediately.
Judging from the expression on Professor Snape's face, he was quite satisfied with the finished product.
Perhaps because of everything he had experienced in his memories, the once willful and reckless Draco Malfoy had learned to read people's expressions.
He had learned to calmly observe the expressions and actions of those around him, and even to guess at their true thoughts.
Just as Draco could see the faint approval on Professor Snape's face when he came across a good Potions assignment, he could also see that Snape's emotions fluctuated more than usual when he dealt with Potter.
Professor Snape was usually calm and even aloof. Draco understood this quite well: you would rarely see a master of Occlumency going on a rampage every day; they tended to keep their emotions locked inside their minds.
But seeing Professor Snape's state when he picked on Potter, yelled at Hermione, and roared at Longbottom... it seemed he had an extraordinary aversion to Potter and his friends, and even Occlumency wasn't helping much.
Draco didn't believe that this outburst was entirely due to the students' poor academic performance.
Goyle and Crabbe were both Potions disasters, exploding cauldrons as frequently as Seamus Finnigan of Gryffindor. But Professor Snape responded to them with a cold laugh and indifference, at most a few sarcastic remarks, rather than a furious outburst.
Most of the time, Professor Snape ignored students who had little talent for potions, as long as they didn't go looking for trouble. To single out a student he disliked and lose his temper was, frankly, a little immature and out of character.
At this moment, Draco selectively ignored the fact that he himself used to be the one who most liked to provoke Potter and the others.
"Have you offended Professor Snape?" Draco asked Potter in a low voice as the potions were being bottled.
He had wanted to ask this question for a long time.
"Never. This is my first time dealing with Professor Snape," Potter said listlessly, looking somewhat dejected.
"Professor Snape seems to have a bit of a prejudice against you." Draco discreetly scrutinized his expression, looking for any trace of guilt.
"Oh, prejudice? I even think he hates me." Young Potter made no attempt to hide his feelings; he was too preoccupied with his dejection.
Interesting.
Draco raised an eyebrow. There was no such thing as hatred without a cause. There had to be a story behind this.
Of course, as unsettling as Professor Snape's empty, unfathomable eyes were, Draco was most worried about Professor Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Barring surprises, probably no one but Draco knew that under Quirrell's garlic-smelling turban lay the Dark Lord's distorted face.
Draco was unsure whether he should tell Professor Snape about it.
If this master of Occlumency turned out, in the end, to be on the Dark Lord's side, telling him now would be tantamount to giving the Dark Lord, who was preparing to make his comeback, a significant boost.
Draco didn't want to act rashly and increase the chances of the Dark Lord's successful resurrection.
Draco decided that telling Dumbledore was the safest course of action. However, first-years weren't really in a position to bypass Professor Snape, their Head of House, and communicate directly with the Headmaster.
Two things held him back. First, Draco didn't want to expose his unusual condition. By exposing Quirrell, he would also be exposing himself: how did a first-year figure all this out? How could he explain it?
Second, going over his Head of House to someone far above his station could easily incur Professor Snape's displeasure, causing this unfathomable former Death Eater to change his attitude toward him from admiration and appreciation to wariness and suspicion.
From any perspective, this was not a risk a prudent Slytherin would be willing to take.
On Friday afternoon, Draco was writing furiously in the library on the second floor of the castle. He wrote lines of beautiful cursive on the parchment of his Charms homework while secretly pondering how best to tell Dumbledore.
Ideally, someone else's words would clear him of any suspicion.
At the same time, the timing of reporting Quirrell needed to be carefully considered.
Quirrell would have to leave a clue first. Only then would a student's suspicion of a professor seem reasonable.
After writing the last period, he put down his quill, rubbed his temples in frustration, and prepared to get up and look for some extracurricular materials—he had other things to do besides his studies.
At Hogwarts, diligent first-years like Draco were rare. In fact, aside from Miss Know-It-All, there seemed to be very few other first-years in the library.
That messy clump of brown hair was really hard for Draco to ignore.
Why weren't Potter and Weasley, her two "good friends," with her?
Draco gave a lazy hum and stood beside the bookshelf, trying to pull out a book about the Disillusionment Charm. Just then, a book on the other side of the shelf was pulled out, and through the gap he saw the girl's brown eyes, sparkling with curiosity.
"Draco!" The eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't notice you were here."
Of course you didn't, Draco thought wearily. All you care about are Potter and Weasley.
Aside from his Slytherin classmates, few would have noticed that Draco, who had consistently ranked in the top ten of his class in his previous life, was also a frequent visitor to the library. He also devoted considerable thought and time to his studies.
Otherwise, had his achievements just fallen from the sky?
"I thought that after Potions class, you wouldn't want to talk to a Slytherin anymore." Through the gap between the books, Draco's pale gray eyes gleamed with a light that Hermione couldn't decipher.
After witnessing Professor Snape's blatant favoritism and his venomous words toward the Gryffindors, Draco had clearly sensed a flame of hatred for Slytherin rising among them.
He had seen the disdainful looks the Gryffindors gave him in class.
He assumed Hermione would be no exception.
After all, this proud little girl had just been ignored and mistreated like that.
"I was indeed quite angry at the time. I didn't approve of what Professor Snape did." Hermione raised her little face with a hint of pride, but spoke pragmatically. "However, I know it wasn't your fault. It was only right that he praised you. I've been watching your technique, and it's indeed very skillful."
Hermione knew that Draco had done nothing to start this Gryffindor-Slytherin hostility. He was simply caught in the middle of the conflict between the two Houses because of his superior potion-making skills. How could she arbitrarily pin her bad impression of Professor Snape on a talented, innocent student?
Miss Know-It-All had a rather broad mind, quite different from the way she had held grudges in his previous life. Draco looked at her, unsure how to answer.
"Speaking of which, I was just about to ask you about that potion from last class. There's one of the ingredients that needs to be ground up—" Before she could finish, Hermione came over cheerfully from the other side of the bookshelf, then suddenly opened her mouth wide in a look of surprise that Draco loved to see on the face of the know-it-all girl.
She had thought she had explored the library thoroughly, but this was the first time she had ever seen the study space hidden behind the stacks of bookshelves.
It was a comfortable, secluded study space with a classical ambiance.
Hermione was immediately drawn to the antique mahogany desk in the center. It was covered with all sorts of ornate quill pens, carved storage boxes, bundles of scrolls, and three-dimensional astronomical models.
The star models were made with exceptional detail and realism; some of the twinkling stars drifted slowly along mesmerizing trajectories, making it hard to look away.
Not far from the desk was a beautifully decorated fireplace, adorned with carvings of little figures. The flames inside flickered slowly, sending warmth through the room.
Any bookworm would be happy here and would gladly spend a quiet afternoon immersed in books.
"Since you're here, have a seat," Draco said, leading her to a caramel-colored leather sofa with armrests in the corner and gesturing for her to sit down.
He casually took the large stack of books she was carrying and placed them on the walnut-colored solid wood coffee table, which had drawers and brass trim. Hermione glanced at it and noticed a single piece of agate set into its surface.
"Some black tea?" Draco asked, fiddling with the gilded sterling silver tea set and a rosewood tea box inlaid with mother-of-pearl on the table.
Hermione's first instinct was to refuse, as she didn't want to cause trouble for others.
In particular, he was a Slytherin.
Was this level of private contact acceptable for a Gryffindor?
But no little girl dislikes pretty things. She was captivated by the pumpkin-shaped teapot, which was decorated with low-relief roses and daisies. The detail was delicate: every petal was distinct, and the veins of each stem and leaf were clearly visible, making it extremely lifelike.
Moreover, Draco behaved like a hospitable host, treating her with great politeness.
Although he looked somewhat serious, he wasn't off-putting; in fact, he gave her a kind of approachability that was different from before.
For no apparent reason, she suddenly wanted to find out what kind of tea would be worthy of such a beautiful teapot.
"Okay, just a little," she couldn't help saying, her face turning slightly red.
Draco then used a small gold key to open the tea box, which was inlaid with light gold floral and mother-of-pearl patterns, and took out a small, pure silver tea caddy embossed with a fairy and flowers.
Hermione watched curiously as he lifted the teapot's lid by its delicate three-dimensional morning glory knob. Then, with the silver tea tongs, decorated with an animal pattern, that lay beside the tea box, he slowly took some tightly rolled, dark, oily tea leaves from the silver caddy and put them into the pumpkin teapot.
He noticed her gaze. "It's Qimen black tea," he said to her as he added some hot water to the teapot.
A faint aroma of tea wafted through the air, and Hermione thought she smelled freshly baked bread, a soft, sweet scent that made her feel pleasantly languid and made the sofa seem even more comfortable.
"It smells nice," she said. This made Draco's lips curl into a slight smile.
It was his favorite tea—Miss Know-It-All had a good eye for quality.
Brewing tea was a peculiar hobby that Draco had cultivated since his rebirth. For some reason, it brought a sense of calm to his agitated mind.
He could certainly have waved his wand and conjured a pot of hot tea in an instant; however, when he had time to spare, he preferred to clear his mind and simply savor the subtle sense of accomplishment and satisfaction that came from such simple, trivial things.
"Try it?" Draco didn't say much, but simply handed her a silver-trimmed porcelain cup.
Hermione smelled the bright red tea, took a sip, and was surprised to find that it wasn't as bitter as she had imagined. Instead, it had a fruity, honey-like aroma, and was mellow and smooth.
A smile immediately bloomed on her face, and her expression became lively. "Thank you. Although I don't drink black tea much, I must say I quite like the taste."
"Pleasure," he said briefly, his expression unchanged.
(Pleasure often refers to unexpressed feelings of satisfaction or joy.)
"Why haven't I found this place before?" Hermione asked casually, savoring the pleasant, faintly sweet scent.
Draco did not answer her question directly. The Hogwarts Board of Governors had the right to reserve a quiet, undisturbed VIP seat in the library, apart from the noisy study area.
When Draco occasionally helped Crabbe and Goyle with their homework, he would reluctantly go to the study area to make a show of it; when he was studying alone, he preferred to come to this secluded corner.
It was his own private paradise, a place where he could return to being the gloomy, weary Draco Malfoy.
This was why the Potter trio hadn't often seen Draco in the library in his previous life. Draco could activate an invisibility spell, disguising the area and preventing anyone from disturbing it.
Students passing by would usually see only a pile of broken metal with a sign in front of it reading either the Hogwarts motto or "Danger, Do Not Touch."
Draco wasn't sure whether he could tell Hermione Granger about this.
Especially when they were not yet very familiar with each other.
He needed to observe her further.
He gave a distant yet polite smile and made a shushing gesture. "I think I'll have to ask you to keep this a secret again."
"Okay! You're always so secretive," Hermione said, scrunching up her little face.
She felt that he was like a pearl oyster, covered by a cold, hard shell, impossible to see through.
But his attentiveness to her, always promptly refilling her empty teacup with steaming hot tea, won her over.
Perhaps that was just his personality. Everyone had their little secrets, right? Forcing someone to be honest with her about their secrets seemed a bit stubborn of her, Hermione thought quietly.
"What are you reading? Quidditch?" Draco changed the subject skillfully, casually pulling a book out of her stack and flipping through it.
Hermione's face immediately turned red.
"Worried about next week's flying lesson?" Draco looked up at her and asked pointedly.
"Ah... yes," Hermione stammered, taking a sip of tea to cover her embarrassment. She had intended to appear nonchalant, but Draco seemed to see right through her.
She stole a glance at him and, seeing that he didn't seem to be mocking her, hurriedly explained in a low voice, "I've never ridden a broomstick before. It seems like all my classmates have experience with it. Seamus in my House has been riding one since he was little, and so has Ron. They're both really good at it. I thought maybe reading some books would help me learn how to fly one beforehand..."
"No." Draco shook his head slightly, interrupting her.
"Flying isn't something you can learn from books alone. You have to actually fly and experience it." It was rare for him to say something this long.
Miss Know-It-All probably had only one weakness—she was never very good at flying brooms.
Speaking of which, when she had been fleeing the raging fire in the Room of Requirement, she had seemed quite unskilled at riding.
How could Hermione Granger be so weak at such an essential wizarding skill that first-years were expected to master?
At the very least, when it came to saving your own life, you couldn't afford to fail like this, right?
Draco secretly rolled his eyes, tugged at the sleeve of her robe, and headed toward the library entrance. "Come with me."
"Hey, wait a minute, the books on flying that I need to borrow—" Hermione kept turning back to look at the books she had painstakingly gathered.
"We don't need those books," Draco said firmly, continuing to pull her along.
Draco led a visibly uneasy Hermione straight to the broom shed. It was quiet and deserted, and the door was locked.
Draco knew that, in addition to being Hogwarts' flying instructor and Quidditch referee, Madam Hooch also worked outside of school as the editor of the magazine Complete Guide to Flying Broomsticks. The magazine was published every Saturday, and Friday was their busiest time for deadlines, editing, and layout.
That meant there was absolutely no one in the broom shed at this hour.
Draco took out his wand, tapped the lock, and whispered, "Alohomora." The lock clicked, and the door swung open.
"Isn't this against the school rules?" Hermione was completely stunned as she watched Draco do it with such ease.
"The school rules only say that first-years cannot bring their own brooms to school. There's no rule that says students can't borrow brooms from the shed to practice," Draco said nonchalantly.
"But—" Hermione said with difficulty, her expression somewhat worried.
"At Hogwarts, only fools break the rules. To the wise, the rules are a sieve full of holes." Draco interrupted her agonizing, unusually willing to explain a few more points.
A Slytherin never broke the rules, but used them. Some considered this idea overly cunning, but Draco saw it as the survival wisdom of a Slytherin.
He quickly led Hermione to two well-kept brooms.
"Come on, let's try it out on the training field while no one's around." He lazily picked up a broom.
Hermione didn't move; she was still hesitating.
Convincing someone he used to clash with was a novel experience for Draco. Seeing Hermione's conflicted look, he coaxed her. "What's better preparation than hands-on experience? You don't want to go to class unprepared and embarrass yourself, do you?"
The moment "embarrass yourself" was mentioned, Hermione Granger, with her strong sense of self-respect, was sure to fall for it—one hundred percent.
"Alright." Sure enough, Hermione made up her mind. She copied him, picked up the other broom, and went out the door with him.
"Come, stand next to the broom." On a flat, quiet patch of grass at the edge of the training grounds, Draco, extremely serious, demonstrated for her himself. "Hold out your right hand over the broom and say 'Up!'"
"Up!" Hermione called tentatively.
The broom only rolled once on the ground. Hermione looked up and glanced at Draco. Draco's broom had already risen obediently from the ground and was now firmly in his hand.
"You have to have confidence in yourself," Draco said sternly. "The broom senses your determination. If you don't trust yourself, how can it trust you to control it?"
"But..." Hermione said, frowning, "I don't quite believe that a broom can really fly... What's the principle behind it? It makes no sense."
"Is that what's been bothering you?" Draco asked, as if suddenly realizing something.
He probably understood Hermione Granger's way of thinking now.
After working with her twice in Transfiguration, he had discovered that she was a meticulous girl who wanted to get to the bottom of everything. That meant that if he couldn't explain to her the principle behind how a broomstick could fly, she wouldn't be able to have confidence in the fact that "a broomstick can fly."
Without confidence, the broom would never obey her.
In his previous life, probably no one had ever properly explained the principles behind flying brooms to her—they were practically trade secrets.
Children learned to ride brooms well enough; who would bother to figure out how they worked?
"You've come to the right person." Draco picked out words she could understand and added a few more details. "You see, this isn't an ordinary broom. It's made with special magical materials and a magical coating. Look at the handle: it's made from a special wood that has magical properties."
Hermione nodded, stroking the broom handle with curiosity.
Draco glanced at her, finding her expression as amusing as that of a cat cautiously exploring something new. He smiled slightly and continued, "There are also propellers and steering mechanisms inside the handle, which is hard to explain unless I risk being hunted down by Madam Hooch and take this broom apart for you right now—"
"No need, I don't want you to get caught or punished," Hermione said hastily, waving her hand.
"Alright." Draco shrugged, his tone relaxed. "Also, a wizard's confidence and magical power play a part in flying... In short, although it looks like a Muggle broom, it's far more than that. It has a whole set of workings and isn't as simple as it looks. You don't need to worry about it too much."
Hermione's expression softened slightly, but she still didn't like the broom. However, Draco looked so serious that he didn't seem to be lying to her. So she composed herself and forced herself to call out twice more.
This time, the broom drifted up and landed in her palm.
"That's much better," Draco said approvingly. "You learn very quickly." Hermione smiled at him hesitantly, still looking a little uneasy.
Next, Draco broke down the movements, showing Hermione how to ride the broom without slipping off.
In his previous life, Madam Hooch had certainly put him through a lot of trouble in this regard. Her strict demands had instilled in him a perfect posture. He even corrected the way the girl held her hands several times.
Some bad habits were hard to break once formed, so it was best not to form them in the first place.
Draco must really love flying, Hermione thought involuntarily as she watched him slowly demonstrate the movements.
Ever since she had met him, he had been a boy of few words, sparing with his speech. He had never spoken as much as he had today.
He seemed much more lively when the topic turned to brooms and flying. She gripped the broom handle tightly and couldn't help looking up at him.
At this moment, the serious, indifferent expression the boy usually wore seemed to ease a little, and he radiated a confident and cheerful light.
"Alright, you finally have the grip right. Now all that's left is to push off with both legs and leave the ground." He patiently repeated the details and tips, completely unaware of what the girl in front of him was thinking.
He explained with great enthusiasm, "You need to be careful to hold the broom firmly, rise a few feet, then lean your body slightly forward and come straight back down."
Having heard this much, Hermione finally began to turn pale.
She said cautiously, "I think I probably can't do it. How can two first-years like us fly without any teachers or protective measures?"
"That's true." Draco didn't want to make things difficult for her. "If you master these steps, it'll be enough for the first flying lesson. Let's practice them one more time."
Draco discovered that helping Miss Know-It-All learn to fly was a good way to distract himself, besides making tea.
His anxieties were temporarily forgotten. Now, all he could think about were the awkward movements Hermione might make when she held the broom.
By the time they quietly returned the brooms, only the last rays of the setting sun remained on the horizon. They had achieved great success—except for the flight itself, Hermione had mastered the standard procedures and postures.
Draco was right, Hermione thought; flying really couldn't be learned from books alone. After the hands-on practice, the panic and fear she had felt about the flying lesson had eased, and a faint confidence had begun to stir in her.
"Draco, you're a good teacher." Before heading to the Gryffindor table, Hermione turned back, smiled at Draco, and said shyly, "Thank you."
"Pleasure." Draco lazily tilted his chin, reverting to his taciturn self, and walked toward the opposite table, transforming back into a haughty and aloof Slytherin.