The next morning, Malfoy boarded the train back to school.
There was one thing in the world that spread faster than anyone could imagine—rumours.
He had barely taken his seat when whispers drifted into his ears without him even trying to listen.
"Did you hear? Draco's wand was confiscated by the Ministry of Magic."
"Why?"
"I heard he was caught using spells to torture Muggles."
"Really? He always seems so gentlemanly, so refined," a few girls murmured.
"If you don't believe me," someone added, "go see if his wand's still there."
Soon enough, several girls wandered past his seat, pretending to do so by chance, only to scurry away afterwards, their faces flushed with curiosity and fear. Clearly, they believed most of what they'd heard.
Malfoy, however, was content to let the nonsense swirl. Silence suited him fine; after all, Slytherin's reputation had always been like this.
A gentle female voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Is anyone sitting here? If you don't mind, I'll take this seat."
A girl sat down beside him before he could respond.
"I haven't agreed yet," Malfoy said dryly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Besides, I'm the terrible villain who cruelly tortured a Muggle a few days ago. Emima, aren't you afraid?"
Emima shook her head, meeting his eyes with quiet resolve.
"I still trust my own judgement," she said softly. "Can you tell me what really happened?"
"I've nothing to say."
There was no way he could risk talking about it. If Voldemort ever caught wind of this, it would be disastrous. In the previous timeline, Emima had once been known to let things slip; even if that might not be true now, lying held no interest for him.
Emima sighed, disappointment flickering across her face, but she persisted.
"No matter what others say, I still believe in you."
"Thank you," Malfoy replied politely, inclining his head before turning his attention to the latest issue of The Quibbler.
The journey seemed shorter than usual. By the time the train reached Hogwarts, the setting sun was already fading, and dinner time had arrived.
As Malfoy crossed the familiar grounds, students passed in groups, some whispering, others pretending not to see him. Those approaching from the front averted their eyes, afraid to be noticed; those walking behind found ways to take alternate paths.
Of course, a handful of Slytherins trailed him from a distance—young followers drawn to the dark glamour of the rumours. The Malfoy they'd heard about was powerful, decisive, and dangerous—all qualities Slytherin prized. Strength commanded respect; that was tradition.
I've really done it this time, Malfoy thought grimly. Old Dumbledore's probably waiting to summon me for a nice long talk.
It was almost comical: at this moment, he was practically a teenage version of Voldemort—talented, charismatic, and rumoured to have a streak of cruelty. Of course Dumbledore would be wary.
One step at a time, he told himself, and headed towards the Great Hall.
The Christmas feast seemed to be still in full swing. Plates were piled high, laughter rang across the hall, and candles floated lazily above the four tables. Hogwarts always had a reason for a banquet—and the end of the holidays was as good a reason as any.
As soon as Malfoy found a seat, Pansy leaned close, her eyes full of worry.
"Are you all right?"
"What could possibly be wrong?" Malfoy asked lightly, waving her concern away with a small smile.
Seeing that his smile wasn't forced, Pansy relaxed. She leaned back, whispering,
"I knew you'd be fine. Some of the things you've told me before—even about Muggles—didn't sound like what people are saying now."
She hesitated, then muttered,
"But I still hate them."
Malfoy said nothing. Attitudes didn't change overnight.
Pansy tapped the table suddenly.
"I'm very dissatisfied with the Christmas present you gave me! That pen and ink—honestly, shouldn't you have given them to that Mud—"
She caught herself mid-word, her face colouring.
"—to that Muggle witch?"
Before he could reply, she rushed on,
"Still, I did like the colour of the ink."
Her eyes flicked towards his hands.
"And you've actually been wearing those gloves…"
Malfoy raised his hands and examined the mismatched gloves—an odd blend of colours, with bits of yarn poking out here and there.
"Put those down!" Pansy exclaimed, her cheeks turning pink.
"You dared to knit them; I dare to wear them," Malfoy said with a grin. "Am I supposed to be afraid of people looking?"
Pansy's eyes widened, and she puffed out her cheeks.
"If you laugh again, I'll take them back! Give them to me!"
She half-rose from her chair, clearly tempted to snatch them.
"Weren't you full of confidence when you sent the letter?" Malfoy teased.
"Don't mention it."
Her head drooped, her tone suddenly low.
"I took a picture wearing them, and my mother saw it. She laughed at me."
Then she looked up, determination blazing in her eyes.
"If you really give them back, I'll rework them. I know I can make them better."
Malfoy smiled faintly. Her competitive spark was almost adorable.
"There's no taking back a gift once it's given. I'll treasure them till the day I die."
"Disgusting!" Pansy hissed, though her ears had turned bright red.
"All right, all right," Malfoy said, straightening up. "In all seriousness, I'm deeply grateful to Miss Pansy for knitting these gloves for me in her busy schedule. I'm honoured—and given the special nature of this first gift, I've decided never to part with it."
"When did you get so smooth-tongued? Bring back the old you—the one who didn't know how to flirt!"
"Growth is irreversible, Miss," he said with a smirk.
And that was that—the gloves stayed on his hands, and Pansy kept stealing glances at him for the rest of dinner.
Meanwhile, over at the Gryffindor table, Ron was in his usual spot, cracking open a Christmas cracker.
"Harry, did you hear?" he said excitedly.
"Hear what?" Harry mumbled, his mouth full of chicken.
"It's all over the school! You really don't know?" Ron leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Draco was caught by the Ministry. They say he used dark magic on Muggles. If it weren't for his father, he'd probably be in Azkaban by now."
He sounded rather pleased about it.
"And even then, they confiscated his wand," Ron added smugly.
Harry swallowed, a strange pang of relief washing over him.
"Lucky for him," he said quietly, pressing a hand to his chest. His heart was pounding. "It's hard to believe I actually thought of asking him about Nicolas Flamel. Ron, that was clever of you."
"Of course it was," Ron said, grinning, clearly proud of himself.
But Hermione suddenly slammed her hand on the table.
"That's not how it happened!"
The loudness of her voice startled half the table; several students turned to look at her, and even some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws glanced over curiously.
"What's not how it happened?" Ron asked, frowning. He hadn't expected Hermione to defend a Slytherin of all people.
For a heartbeat, Hermione hesitated, the fire in her eyes dimming.
"It's nothing," she muttered. The words had burst out before she could stop them, a reflex born of something she didn't fully understand. Once spoken, she couldn't take them back—but she also couldn't explain. She wasn't ready to admit that she'd been speaking up for him.
The thought of everyone staring at her strangely was unbearable.
Harry broke the awkward silence.
"Hermione, we were worried about you over Christmas. You seemed… off. But you look much better now."
Ron nodded.
"Yeah, you're back to your normal self."
Hermione didn't answer. She couldn't tell them the real reason—the small folded note she'd received. Just a few nonsensical lines and a simple spell, but somehow it had made her smile again.
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