When Harry Potter came round, the Hogwarts Express was moving again.
He pushed his glasses back up his nose as the carriage vibrated beneath him, and found Hermione and Draco crouched beside his seat, watching him.
"Are you alright?" Hermione asked.
"Fine," Harry said. He sat up quickly and peered toward the compartment door. "What happened?"
From the moment the Dementor had entered, he had lost all sense of his surroundings — dropped into a cold, dark place full of screams and terror.
Hermione studied his face and told him everything, quietly and carefully.
"I'm sorry — I didn't manage to wake Professor Lupin in time," Harry murmured.
"It's alright. Eat this." Draco pressed something into his hand.
Harry took it without thinking and bit down, and was surprised to feel warmth spreading immediately to his fingers and toes. He blinked, registering that he was eating chocolate, and after a moment asked in bewilderment, "Then who was screaming? I heard screaming."
"No one was screaming," Ron said from the doorway. He had come back with Ginny and Neville in tow. Ginny looked as shaken as Harry. Neville was swaying slightly, his face rigid. Hermione handed them both chocolate, which they ate in silence.
"But I heard it—" Harry looked around the compartment.
"Do you remember what I told you at Grimmauld Place?" Draco said, with the careful weariness of someone choosing their words. "Dementors draw out the darkest memories a person carries."
Harry's expression closed over. He said nothing, finished the last of his chocolate in silence, and stared at the floor. Hermione and Ron watched him with poorly concealed worry.
"Right. Since you're all alright, I'll head back." Draco rose slowly, straightened his robes, gave a brief nod to the compartment, and stepped out into the corridor.
The lights were blazing again — almost painfully bright after the darkness. He walked with his head down, hands in his pockets, turning things over quietly in his mind and feeling utterly hollowed out.
"Draco."
He stopped and looked back.
Hermione had followed him into the corridor. She was studying him with a small, worried frown. "You still don't look well."
Something in him loosened slightly. He reached out and patted her on the head — a brief, light touch, hardly even a decision.
"I'm fine. Your chocolate worked wonders."
Hermione hadn't expected it, but she didn't pull away. She tilted her head slightly, tolerating it with the air of someone who had decided the gesture wasn't worth arguing about. "If you feel unwell, you have to say so straightaway," she told him. "Don't bottle it up."
Draco nodded, quietly pleased she hadn't moved away.
"That's the first time I've ever seen anyone cast a Patronus Charm," she said, her eyes bright with curiosity. "You were brilliant."
She found herself wanting to keep talking to him.
Looking at his tired face, she felt as though something grey and cold had settled behind his eyes — something beautiful and desolate at once. She always felt the urge, at times like these, to say something that might reach past it.
"I barely managed it," Draco said, with a faint sigh of frustration. "I've only just started practising. My mother showed me a little at the end of the summer."
"Could you teach me?" Hermione asked, with real envy in her voice. "I hate that feeling — like being held under water, like everything good has just—"
She stopped and swallowed the rest of the sentence.
It wasn't only that she hated being overwhelmed by the Dementor's effect. What she hated more was that she hadn't been able to do a thing. He had been standing alone in front of that creature, and she had been utterly useless behind him — shaking, holding on, contributing nothing. The helplessness had been worse than the cold.
"Of course I'll teach you," Draco said. He lowered his hand from her hair, still mildly annoyed with himself about the spell. "Fair warning — you'd be learning from someone who's barely half-competent."
"That's fine. We can work it out together," she said warmly.
He found something genuine in her expression, and a faint smile settled on his lips at last.
"Alright," he said.
Hermione smiled back, the worry in her face easing. Then, with a slight rise of colour in her cheeks, she said, "I don't think I've actually thanked you yet. For standing in front of me."
"It was my pleasure," Draco said, and meant it — feeling, for the first time in hours, something close to ease.
Hermione, naturally, had no idea what was behind the look on his face. It was faintly glad, and yet somehow distant, as though part of him were somewhere else entirely.
They both fell quiet and, without quite deciding to, turned to the window beside them — across the corridor from the compartment door.
Outside, the rain swept grey across the countryside. Inside, the carriage was warm.
It was as if the Dementor had never come aboard.
But the impression of it was already carved in.
"Draco," Hermione said, after a moment. "Will the Dementors... will they come to Hogwarts?"
"They won't enter the school," he said quietly, watching her reflection in the rain-streaked glass. "They'll remain outside the grounds until Pettigrew is caught."
Hermione's expression settled into something approaching relief — though the look she gave his retreating figure still held a trace of worry.
---
When Draco returned to his compartment, Crabbe and Goyle were working through the last bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. The monogrammed case on the table between them was empty.
"We didn't keep them to ourselves," Goyle said quickly, catching Draco's glance. "We gave them out to everyone, like you said."
"I know." Draco didn't look cross. "Ron told me. Surprisingly, you managed it without starting a fight."
"That Weasley," Crabbe muttered, in a tone that was almost defensive. "He said thank you. I had to at least be civil—"
"Exactly right. Keep that up." Draco yawned and settled into his seat.
He dozed lightly until the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station.
---
Perhaps still shaken from the Dementor search, the students spilling onto the platform looked less like a school returning from summer and more like survivors of something. The scene was unusually chaotic.
Draco stood in the carriage doorway and spotted Hermione in the distance — following Harry and Ron through the rain toward the horseless carriages, with Ginny Weasley's hand held fast in hers.
Gryffindors. Always rushing headlong into things.
He watched the small brown figure disappear into the downpour, then turned his attention to the platform beside him — cramped, wind-scoured, and drenched — and felt thoroughly miserable.
Nearby, Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson were arguing at full volume; he could hear them from halfway down the platform.
"Alright, enough." He walked over and said, without much energy, "You have a full year to argue. Let's get to the castle."
The pair assessed the situation, declared a temporary armistice, and fell in behind him. They met Theodore Nott on the muddy path to the carriages and all four climbed in together.
A faint smell of damp hay and old leather immediately made the boys wrinkle their noses.
Pansy, predictably, could not let this stand. She produced a bottle of perfume and gave the interior a liberal spray, which combined with the existing smell to create something considerably worse.
"Have mercy," Draco said wearily, sneezing. "Put that away."
Pansy shrugged and pocketed the bottle — but her attention had already shifted to the ring on his finger.
"A ring! Draco, who gave you that?" she asked, with the gleaming eyes of someone who had just discovered something very interesting.
"One of his admirers, obviously," Blaise said, grinning. "A young witch smitten with a dashing Slytherin—"
"Why have you stopped arguing?" Draco interrupted. "I didn't actually mind."
"We're done arguing," Pansy said pleasantly. "Aren't we, Blaise?"
"Completely done." Blaise and Pansy exchanged a look of cheerful, mutual conspiracy. Enemies one moment, partners the next. "So. Is it a token of affection?"
"It's a birthday present." Draco fixed them both with a cold look, though he felt heat rising in his face. "The next person who mentions it will find their pumpkin juice has been tampered with."
"Alright, don't trouble him about it, Pansy," Blaise said magnanimously. "We'll find out eventually anyway." He turned back to Draco with a different sort of interest. "Is it true you cast a Patronus Charm and held off the Dementor?"
"My Patronus wasn't strong enough to drive it away — someone else managed that in the end," Draco said, looking out the carriage window.
"Crabbe and Goyle were telling everyone while handing out the chocolates," Pansy said.
"And you chose to trust the accounts of those two gifted individuals," Draco said, pressing two fingers to his temple.
"All the same — thank you for the chocolate," Theodore Nott said, simply.
Draco gave him a nod. He ignored the other two and looked out at the rain.
The line of carriages was approaching the tall iron gates of Hogwarts, where two Dementors stood motionless in the downpour like rotting sentinels.
Through the rain, he could just make out a small brown head poking from the window of the carriage ahead, gazing up at the turrets and towers of the castle.
*Reckless girl.* Not afraid of Dementors? Not afraid of catching a chill? He felt a dull ache somewhere behind his teeth.
He only breathed freely once the carriage had passed safely through the gates and onto the grounds.
---
The students climbed the stone steps in a clamour of wet cloaks, passed through the great oak doors, and flooded into the Entrance Hall. The torches chased the cold from the air. Draco was starving, and was making his way toward the Great Hall when a sharp voice called out above the crowd.
"Potter! Granger! And Malfoy! I need to see all three of you — now."
Professor McGonagall was cutting through the crowd toward them, her expression set, her hair pinned tightly, her square spectacles catching the torchlight.
"Are you alright?" Blaise murmured beside him, a brief flicker of actual concern crossing his face.
"Fine. Save me a seat." Draco kept his expression easy, gave Blaise a casual wave, and turned.
Harry and Hermione were already pushing through the crowd toward him, both looking somewhat strained. Ron hovered behind them, staring after them with wide eyes. Harry raised a hand in a brief, reassuring wave.
"There's no need to look so alarmed," Professor McGonagall said briskly. "I simply wish to speak with you." She turned and led them through the Entrance Hall, up the marble staircase, and down a corridor to a small, tidy office.
They filed in and stood in a row.
Professor McGonagall began to explain that Professor Lupin had sent an owl ahead from the train—
She was interrupted by a crisp knock at the door.
"Come in."
Madam Pomfrey swept into the room like a force of nature. Without preamble, she descended upon Harry, checking his forehead and pulse with brisk, efficient hands, clucking the entire time.
"I have said to Professor Dumbledore before — stationing Dementors anywhere near the school is unconscionable, Minerva! Look at this boy—"
Harry, for his part, looked caught between mortification and the strong urge to say something he would regret. His face was scarlet.
"Potter, let her finish," Professor McGonagall said, with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Her findings go directly to Professor Dumbledore."
Draco and Hermione had both quietly taken a step back at Madam Pomfrey's entrance, in the hope of becoming invisible. While the Matron and Professor McGonagall occupied themselves with Harry, Draco glanced sideways and noticed that Hermione's hair was damp from the rain on the platform.
He quietly drew his wand from behind his back and cast a Drying Charm.
Hermione turned her head immediately. Her brown eyes fixed on him, catching the warm light of the fireplace.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting soaked in the rain is bad for your health." His fringe fell forward slightly, masking whatever was in his expression. He thought, with mild irritation, that she had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever.
Hermione gave him a delayed smile.
By this point, Madam Pomfrey had satisfied herself with Harry and, apparently remembering something, turned sharply and seized Draco next. He stood very still, enduring it with great dignity and burning ears, while Harry and Hermione failed to quite suppress their amusement.
"I understand you organised the chocolate distribution," Madam Pomfrey said approvingly as she checked his pulse. "Excellent presence of mind. You have a natural aptitude for both Healing and Defence Against the Dark Arts."
Draco managed a polite, uncomfortable smile.
"Nothing serious — the chocolate and a proper night's sleep will do. However," she said, peering at him closely, "you don't look as though you've been sleeping well. Would you like a Sleeping Draught?"
"Thank you, but no." He was acutely aware of Hermione's curious sidelong glance. "The fatigue is from the Dementor encounter. My sleep is perfectly fine."
"Children your age generally sleep perfectly well," Madam Pomfrey said, with the tone of someone who was not entirely convinced. "Unless, of course, they are the sort who cannot stop thinking—"
"Thank you," Draco said, with finality.
Madam Pomfrey gave him a sceptical look, muttered something under her breath, and departed for the hospital wing.
"I don't understand why she checked me at all," Draco said, once the door had closed. "I didn't faint."
"Because Professor Snape requested it, Mr. Malfoy," Professor McGonagall said. "Casting a Patronus Charm at your age puts considerable strain on a young witch or wizard. Magical exhaustion is a real risk."
"He was protecting us — the situation was critical," Hermione said at once.
"Yes," Harry added.
"That is precisely why the school will not be issuing a formal reprimand." Professor McGonagall's expression was still severe, but there was something different in it. "What Mr. Malfoy did was, strictly speaking, a violation of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Wizardry. Ordinarily, this would warrant a written record. However." She paused. "In the face of genuine danger, Mr. Malfoy showed courage in protecting his fellow students and demonstrated sound judgement in the care of those affected. For that, Slytherin will receive ten points."
Draco looked up in surprise.
McGonagall looked back at him steadily — and there, briefly, was a smile.
It was not easily won from her. Draco knew that as well as anyone. For a Slytherin, earning Professor McGonagall's approval was roughly as rare as receiving a word of praise from Professor Snape, if you happened to be a Gryffindor.
"This does not mean that casting spells outside of school is to be encouraged," she added, with equal briskness. "We are reserving the right to note the incident, and I hope it will serve as a reminder to exercise caution. You are dismissed — Mr. Malfoy, wait in the corridor, please. I need a brief word with Miss Granger."
Draco and Harry filed out.
The corridor was quiet. Neither of them moved to leave — it was unspoken, but they both stood waiting.
Harry was staring at the floor, his expression somewhere far away.
"Hey." Draco nudged Harry's shoe lightly with the toe of his own. "Don't look like that. Fainting in front of a Dementor isn't something to be ashamed of — if anything, it says something about you."
Harry looked up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"The Dementor affected you worse than it affected the rest of us because you've been through worse than the rest of us," Draco said quietly. "What was it you heard? You said there were screams."
Harry looked back down.
"A woman's voice," he said. "I think it was my mother. When she died." His voice came out flat and careful, as though he were carrying something heavy. "She was saying, 'Not Harry — please, not Harry.'"
Draco went very still.
"I heard her speak," Harry said. "That's the only time I ever have."
For a moment, Draco was entirely speechless. What was there to say that wasn't hopelessly inadequate?
"She loved you," he said at last. "There's no question of it."
"I know." Harry was quiet for a beat. "I believe that." Another pause. Then, with something that might have been envy underneath the words: "I watched your mother hug you on the platform. She — loves you very much."
"She does." Draco considered his next words carefully. "Your mother loved you just as much. They were both mothers who loved their children with everything they had. The difference was only in circumstance, not in how much."
His own mother — who had handed over her wand to keep him safe, who had stood unarmed before the Dark Lord to do it.
He had always known he was lucky. He had never quite understood, until now, the true scale of it.
Harry had grown up in a cupboard under the stairs, wearing handed-down clothes, raised by people who couldn't have cared less about him. The only memory he had of his mother was the echo of her final moments, pulled to the surface by a creature that fed on misery. Draco had never spent a single day without knowing he was loved.
"They'll probably have a go at me for fainting," Harry said with a grim half-smile.
"They won't," Draco said flatly. "And if they do, they don't know the first thing about Dementors." He looked at Harry steadily. "You've been through things that would break most people. And you're still here. Still decent, somehow, after all of it. No one has the right to laugh at you for what a Dementor does to you."
He meant it.
"Thank you," Harry said, after a moment. His voice was rough. He looked up, his eyes bright. "I think I understand now — what you meant about Dementors. They're the worst thing I've ever encountered."
The office door opened, and Hermione stepped out, bright-faced and clearly trying to contain some private joy. Professor McGonagall followed, expression as composed as ever.
"Come on — dinner!" Hermione said to them, with a beaming smile entirely out of proportion to the circumstances. "I absolutely cannot wait to see what's been laid on."
"What did she say to you?" Draco asked, as they fell into step behind Professor McGonagall toward the Great Hall.
"It's a secret," Hermione said, her smile curving into something deliberately mysterious.
Draco said nothing. Something in his mood, which had been slowly lifting all through the corridor, sank again. Even Hermione, who believed in honesty above almost everything, had things she wouldn't tell him. He was surprised by how much it stung.
*Why should she tell him?* he thought, following the others into the Great Hall.
---
The Sorting had concluded. Professor McGonagall swept toward the staff table. Harry and Hermione moved toward the Gryffindor table. Draco turned toward the green and silver end of the Hall.
Blaise had saved him a seat.
Before he had even sat down, a wave of applause broke out from the Slytherin table — spontaneous, genuine. He glanced at Blaise, who leaned over with barely contained excitement. "Your Patronus. Everyone in the carriages heard about it."
Draco settled into his chair and managed what he hoped was a composed smile at the faces around him. He was not in the mood. A grey, hollow feeling had followed him in from the corridor and showed no sign of leaving — the after-effects of the Dementor, perhaps, or perhaps Hermione keeping a quiet secret, which he had no business caring about but somehow did.
He would have preferred to take his meal straight down to his dormitory at the bottom of the Black Lake and eat alone in peace.
"Stop looking like you're at a funeral," Blaise said, with quiet practicality. "Half the school is watching you. You're the first student this year to earn points for the House. Look like it meant something."
"Of course," Draco said, and straightened up.
He sat with his back very straight and his expression carefully arranged — the composed, slightly elevated look of someone who was absolutely fine and had not recently been doing battle with a Dementor — and quietly felt like a very well-dressed coat-rack.
Across the table, Marcus Flint was radiating misery from every pore.
"He repeated a year," Blaise said, barely moving his lips. "Failed a subject."
Draco caught Marcus's eye and gave him a simple nod. Marcus nodded back, something in his expression easing slightly.
He managed to eat a little at Blaise's prompting, though it tasted of nothing much. He ignored Dumbledore's announcements about the Dementors and the new teaching staff — all of it familiar — and instead let his gaze drift to the staff table, where he caught something unexpected on Professor Snape's face: a barely-concealed expression of cold, twitching fury, directed not at any student but at the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
Draco hadn't noticed that before.
Even Harry's most spectacular cauldron explosions had never produced that look in Snape. But Lupin had managed it simply by existing.
He cut a piece of steak and turned this over thoughtfully. Did Snape already know about Lupin's condition? Or was this simple professional resentment — a newcomer occupying the post Snape had long wanted? Or was there something older and more personal between them?
He was still no closer to an answer by the time Dumbledore finished speaking.
Professor Lupin received a muted and largely indifferent reception from the Hall — a few scattered claps, mostly from the Gryffindors who had encountered him on the train. Lupin took his seat with quiet composure, and the staff table rearranged itself around him.
Draco's gaze drifted to the Gryffindor table.
Hermione had finished clapping and was pouring herself a goblet of pumpkin juice. She drank it with evident contentment, whatever private happiness she'd brought out of McGonagall's office still sitting warmly on her face.
He watched her for a moment, then poured himself a goblet of pumpkin juice and drank.
It was, he had to admit, rather good.
The first dinner of the year was always generous — the table was crowded with dishes and glasses — and by the time the Slytherins made their way through the stone wall to the common room, clutching their stomachs, Draco had managed to eat a reasonable amount and had recovered, if not his mood, at least his appetite.
As they filed through the entrance, Draco fell into step beside Marcus Flint.
"How do you feel about reclaiming the Quidditch Cup?" he said.
It was precisely the right thing to say. Marcus was the sort of person that most students gave a wide berth — an aura of accumulated frustration clung to him this evening like weather — but Quidditch cut through all of it.
"Obviously," Marcus said, his expression transforming for the first time that evening. Something like enthusiasm crossed his face. "Good work today, by the way. Ten points and we haven't even been here a day." He clapped Draco on the shoulder with the full weight of his hand. "Strong start. Very strong." He gave a satisfied nod and shouldered off toward the dormitories.
Draco had barely registered the compliment before he found himself surrounded.
"Tell us what actually happened," Graham Montague said. Several members of the Quidditch team had gathered, all looking at Draco with great interest.
"How did you hold it off?" Daphne Greengrass asked.
"There's not much to tell," Draco said, dropping into an armchair by the fire. "I haven't fully mastered the spell, and the situation was critical. I did what I could."
"Apparently Potter fainted," Millicent Bulstrode said, from somewhere nearby. A few Slytherins nearby seized on it at once, performing theatrical swoons.
Draco watched them with undisguised contempt.
*People who have never been within twenty feet of a Dementor.*
"There's nothing funny about it, Bulstrode," he said coldly. "And if you think you'd fare any better, you're flattering yourself."
The laughter stopped.
"Did you say attacked?" Theodore Nott asked, in his measured way.
"Yes. The Dementor that entered our compartment wasn't conducting a routine search — it was attempting to attack." Draco sat forward slightly. "I'm telling you this because it is important. Stationing Dementors around the school perimeter is dangerous. They are not reliable. They cannot be reasoned with. They attack anything that carries strong emotion or painful memory, and they don't distinguish between a fugitive and a third-year student."
The room had gone quiet. Slytherins didn't like the idea of being in danger — it had a remarkable focusing effect.
"Joking about Dementors is foolish. Any sensible person stays well clear of them. They may be targeting Harry Potter today," Draco said, his calm gaze moving deliberately around the room. "But they could target any one of you tomorrow. Be vigilant — and don't mistake someone else's suffering for entertainment."
He let the silence settle for a moment, then stood, gave the room a last, cool glance, and walked back to his dormitory.
The door closed behind him, and the common room stayed quiet a little longer than usual.