Chapter 91
The bell rang, marking the end of Ancient Magic.
A low murmur of dissatisfaction swept through the classroom. The subject was undeniably difficult, but it was also fascinating.
Most of the students confident enough to take the class were Ravenclaws; once the initial challenge was overcome, what remained—for those who loved knowledge—was pure enjoyment.
"You go on first," Pansy said, waving lazily at Malfoy from her seat. "I still have a few questions for the professor."
"You're stealing my lines," Malfoy replied, giving her a strange look. He could feel that something about her had changed, yet he still hadn't quite adjusted to it.
"Is it so strange for me to take my studies seriously?" Pansy rolled her eyes at him.
"Then I think the questions you're confused about would have the same result whether you ask the professor or me," Malfoy said with a shrug.
"They wouldn't," Pansy shot back, irritated. She shoved him away from her desk, clearly trying to chase him off.
"All right, all right." Malfoy raised his hands in surrender. "I have something to take care of anyway. If there's anything you don't understand, ask Professor Barbulin. And remember—be polite."
After one last reminder, he turned and left the classroom quickly.
Hermione, who had been sitting nearby, hadn't managed to get a single word in during their exchange. Watching Malfoy leave, she felt both regret and relief at once. As for why—perhaps only she understood.
She packed away her Ancient Magic books and was just about to stand when she noticed someone stop in front of her desk.
"Miss Parkinson," Hermione said coolly, without looking up, "what can I do for you?"
As she organized her books, Hermione couldn't think of any reason a Slytherin girl would seek her out after class—except to cause trouble.
She certainly didn't believe Pansy would come to her humbly for advice. Whether it was knowledge or patience, Malfoy seemed more than capable of teaching her.
What Hermione didn't notice was the faint, indistinct jealousy stirring in her chest, nor how unconsciously she compared herself to the girl standing before her.
But the sharp, provocative words she had braced herself for never came.
When Hermione finally looked up, she found Pansy's expression conflicted. Her brows were drawn together, her hands clasped behind her back, one foot tapping lightly against the floor. There was no trace of hostility on her face.
Suddenly, Pansy leaned forward.
Hermione's fingers tightened around the wand at her side. She remained on guard, uncertain what the girl intended.
"Thank you."
Pansy seemed to have made up her mind. She bowed formally, her voice soft but solemn.
"…What?" Hermione froze, already half-prepared to defend herself. She couldn't imagine why Pansy would thank her. Their last meaningful interaction had been the unpleasant duel at the Duelling Club, and they'd barely spoken since.
"Thank you for informing the headmaster and saving Draco," Pansy continued quietly, finally revealing her reason.
Hermione stiffened.
"He wouldn't be willing to owe anyone a favour," Pansy said with certainty. "So consider saving Ron his way of settling the debt—for now. You three are close. That should make things even."
"That has nothing to do with me." Hermione lowered her head and resumed packing her books. "If the rumours are true, then helping him last year was simply what a Gryffindor should do. It had nothing to do with who he is—and it certainly wasn't for compensation."
She paused, then looked up sharply at Pansy.
"And he saved Ron because he chose to. Don't talk about repayment or anything so grand." Hermione put deliberate emphasis on the word saved.
"That's fine, then." Pansy didn't seem bothered. "By your logic, I'm just thanking you of my own accord. Whether you accept it is up to you. I didn't tell him I was coming."
As if struck by a sudden thought, Pansy smiled faintly, the corner of her mouth lifting, before turning and walking away.
That brief exchange completely extinguished Hermione's intention to thank her in return.
She bit her lip, watching Pansy leave.
The courage she had struggled so hard to gather was snuffed out once again. Pansy's words hadn't forced her to give up outright—but courage, sometimes, only lasted for a moment. That fleeting impulse had passed, and the interruption was enough to make her waver.
Hermione realized, suddenly and painfully, that her resolve was not as firm as she had believed.
She was still afraid—yet she didn't know what she was afraid of.
She wanted to get closer… but didn't dare.
Perhaps that was the truth.
And the person responsible for all this inner turmoil was currently in the library, speaking calmly with Madam Pince, utterly unaware of how much trouble he had caused elsewhere.
---
"Child, what is it this time?" Madam Pince asked Malfoy, her polite smile perfectly measured, distant enough to keep anyone at arm's length. The tone sounded like praise for his frequent visits to the library—but beneath it lurked unmistakable mockery.
She had never seen a first-year student wander through the Restricted Section so casually. And the books he read—Secrets of Advanced Dark Magic, The Rise and Fall of Dark Magic—was he trying to become the next Dark Lord?
What was stranger still was that the headmaster had approved his access.
Even if she found it unacceptable, she could only pretend not to see.
And the result? Last semester's chaos. Madam Pince refused to believe the boy had merely been controlled by the Imperius Curse. In her mind, the child standing before her was the true culprit.
Yet the headmaster hadn't punished Malfoy severely—if it could be called punishment at all.
And now he was here again.
She doubted she possessed any expertise in Dark Magic that he could possibly be seeking.
"Of course, Madam Pince," Malfoy said with a courteous smile, bowing slightly. "I'm hoping to donate several books to the library. They're rare volumes I acquired over the holidays. No matter how you look at it, they're quite meaningful."
As he spoke, he placed a black box on the desk. His fingers brushed across its lid, and with a soft click—triggered by some hidden mechanism—the box opened.
In theory, Madam Pince always welcomed new books. She wanted Hogwarts students to have access to complete knowledge. But Malfoy's presence alone dampened any expectation she might have had.
Sure enough, when she saw the faded pages and the gilded title—Born Noble: A Genealogy of Sorcerers—her brows knitted together.
As expected. A book glorifying pure-blood lineage and aristocracy. To her, it was nothing more than a relic of self-flattery.
"First, I'll need to check for any dangerous enchantments," she said flatly, her earlier smile gone. After last semester's incident, she had every reason to be cautious.
"Of course," Malfoy replied calmly, gesturing for her to proceed.
The box contained an entire series. Madam Pince selected one volume at random and opened it.
"Black—one of the oldest noble families…" she read aloud, then gave a short, humourless laugh. The name stirred memories she hadn't expected.
There had been students years ago—around exam season—one group in particular. Among them was a striking young man with that very surname. Handsome, arrogant, sharp-eyed. Even now, decades later, she could remember him clearly.
She pushed the thought aside and continued reading.
A detailed coat of arms caught her eye: a shield bearing a mountain flanked by two five-pointed stars, a sword beneath, silver on black, greyhounds leaping at either side.
She murmured as she read. "Sirius Black… born—"
Her eyes paused.
Died at eight years old.
She frowned and moved on.
"Phineas Nigellus Black (1847–1926)." She remembered him—former Headmaster of Hogwarts, infamous rather than respected.
As she finished the entry, the portrait on the page suddenly shifted. The man in the frame turned his head, sneering at her with unmistakable disdain.
"It's a simple transformation charm," Malfoy explained smoothly. "It helps leave a stronger impression on the reader."
"Oh." Madam Pince responded noncommittally, though her fingers began turning the pages faster.
Then she saw it.
— Sirius Black.
Dark grey eyes. Sharp, arrogant, untamed. This was him in his youth, long before Azkaban had ground down his edges.
"That will do," Madam Pince said abruptly, snapping the book shut. "There shouldn't be any problems. These can be stored in the library."
Her tone remained cold, but the decision caught Malfoy by surprise.
"Thank you," he said politely.
It saved him considerable effort. Several of the precautions he'd prepared now proved unnecessary.
"Anything else?" Madam Pince asked impatiently, already sounding eager to be rid of him.
Malfoy hesitated. "No—but I would like to see the books placed on the shelves personally."
"Tiresome child," she muttered, standing. "I'll find an empty shelf."
She led him between the towering rows, eventually stopping before a dusty, unused section.
"Here."
Malfoy raised his wand and cast a cleaning charm. The shelf gleamed instantly.
For the first time, Madam Pince's expression shifted—just barely.
Unbeknownst to him, that small, unconscious gesture restored a fraction of his image in her eyes.
For a librarian, respect for books was instinctive. And Malfoy, at least in that moment, had shown it.
The volumes were shelved one by one.
"Weasley… Malfoy… Avery…"
When the final book was placed, Malfoy dusted off his hands.
"Thank you for your wisdom," he said lightly. "I'm sure the students will appreciate learning the glorious history of their families."
These genealogies were far more than lists of names and dates. They contained deeds, portraits, and detailed accounts—information acquired at considerable expense.
Including, for instance, photographs bought from a woman once madly infatuated with a certain Black.
Of course, all of it was merely a smokescreen.
His true purpose lay hidden within a single book.
As he left, Malfoy glanced back at the neatly arranged shelf.
The seed has been planted, he thought calmly.
Now, all that remains… is to wait.