Although Draia was never overly impressed by anything (or so she claimed), the architecture of Hogwarts left her momentarily speechless. As she stepped out of her carriage, her eyes were drawn to the many towers, the lake, the Forbidden Forest on the outskirts- it was odd to see the location of so many of her father's stories. She found herself staring at the huge front doors while her father stood off to the side seeing about the house elves carrying their belongings and talking to Minerva McGonagall. After a minute he called Draia over. She hastily brushed invisible dirt off of the shoulders of her olive woolen cloak, and sauntered towards McGonagall.

"Professor- I mean, Headmistress McGonagall, this is my daughter Draia. Draia, this is the Headmistress." The two women shook hands, and McGonagall looked over Draia appraisingly. "It's wonderful to finally meet you, Miss Potter." The old professor glanced at Harry, and then back to Draia. "You have your father's eyes. And your mother's smile. Though I'm not quite sure where that hair's from..." she said, eying Draia's platinum locks.

"Bribery. And hair dye," answered Draia, "I was pushing for blue but Dad really liked the blonde, so I kept it." McGonagall snorted. "I wonder why. At any rate, we need to get you sorted- we don't usually accept transfer students, so having you at the Sorting Ceremony with all the first-years would be most inconvenient. Follow me, please." With that, she turned on her heel and walked towards the castle, expecting Harry and Draia to follow her. The younger Potter turned to her father, raising an eyebrow. "Is she usually so no-nonsense?"

Harry laughed. "No. She's often worse."

******

The Headmistress' office hadn't changed since Harry's years at Hogwarts, and he could almost feel the presence of Dumbledore in the décor. McGonagall even went so far as to keep a jar of Udo's Ultra-Sour Lemon Drops on her desk. Paintings on the wall smiled and waved at Harry in recognition- a rather large portrait of the old Headmaster himself gave Harry a knowing wink. As soon as Harry and Draia seated themselves in plush chairs, the elderly Headmistress retrieved the Sorting Hat and made her way back to the sitting area. "Hopefully we'll get this done quickly," she said as she placed the hat on Draia's head.

The hat instantly sprang to life, speaking only to Draia. "Hmmm, well now, let's see- oh! Another Potter. Perhaps we should just put you in Gryffindor and get it done with- oh, but look at this... you may be brave, but only when it suits you. You're loyal to those who you feel have earned it, and intelligent only when it interests you to be so. I think it's clear that you belong in..."

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat announced to its startled audience. Harry turned a lovely shade of pale. "Slytherin? But... you're..." McGonagall was just as shocked, but shook her head. "The hat is always right, Professor Potter. I suppose I'll just be contacting the Head of Slytherin to take Draia to the dungeons." With that, she left abruptly.

"Umm... the dungeons?" asked Draia, confused.

"Oh, that's just where Slytherin is," responded Harry. "But... Draia, do you think that's right? Are you alright with being a Slytherin? Because, you know, if you don't want to..."

"Dad, it's okay. I'm okay with it. Besides, can you imagine how horrible it would be if you were my head of house? It's a damned good thing I didn't end up in Gryffindor."

"Well, if you're sure, then... I'm...." Harry gradually stopped speaking as McGonagall walked back into the room followed by the Head of Slytherin. Harry blinked to make sure he wasn't hallucinating: icy gray eyes, pale blonde hair, lean figure, vague sneer. No, he wasn't seeing things, much to his shock.

"Professor Potter, I'm sure you remember Draco Malfoy, our Professor of Potions and Head of Slytherin. Professor Malfoy, this is your new sixth-year, Draia Potter."

Malfoy nodded politely at Draia, no break of composure evident in his manner. "Fantastic to have you in Slytherin, Miss Potter. I'm confident you'll find yourself welcomed in our house. If you'd follow me, I'll show you to your room." With that, he turned around and began to walk out of the room. Draia cast an apologetic glance at her father before rushing after Malfoy. Harry, for his part, sat silently in his chair, confused and a little hurt. "He didn't even say hello... he's alive? He's a Professor here? My God, you put him in charge of children?"

McGonagall smiled at Harry. "I think you'll find he's actually quite talented with the children. This is his sixth year here- he took over for Severus Snape when the man finally had his fill of teaching and took his retirement."

Harry couldn't find any words. When McGonagall gave him a strange look, he shook his head. "You have to pardon me, Headmistress..."

McGonagall shook her head. "Please, Harry, it's Minerva now. You're thirty-five years old, there's no need to act like a scared second-year around me."

Harry nodded. "Well, fine then, Minerva... you understand why I'm a bit..." Once more, Harry was a loss for words, but McGonagall understood and nodded. "I understand completely, Harry. After all, I wasn't blind during your seventh year here."

"And sixth year," added Harry, under his breath. McGonagall blinked, and then laughed. "Perhaps I was a bit blind after all." You weren't the only one, thought Harry.

******

Later that evening, the Hogwarts professors gathered at the Head Table for their last student-less meal. Well, mostly student-less: Draia was sitting at the table next to her father, eating daintily to avoid messing her new Slytherin robes, and a dark haired girl Harry couldn't quite place who was quietly eating next to Malfoy. Upon closer inspection he noticed she was in Gryffindor; he'd find out who she was later. Currently, the conversation at the table was too engaging to avoid, and Harry listened intently as McGonagall and Draia discussed the differences between Durmstrang and Hogwarts. Most of the other Professors, half of which Harry was unfamiliar with, participated in the conversation; only Malfoy didn't contribute, instead conversing softly with the girl next to him.

As the meal concluded, Malfoy gave the girl a kiss on the cheek (Harry could have sworn he was hallucinating) and exit the room. Harry quickly pat Draia on the shoulder, diverting her attention from the discussion she was engrossed in. "Good luck tomorrow, poppet." She smiled and nodded, "Thanks, Dad," before returning to the talk, allowing Harry to run out of the room after the blonde man.

"Malfoy! Wait!" Harry called out, running after him. When the man didn't respond, Harry tried again. "Draco... please!" Malfoy stopped, and turned around. "Potter- do me a favor? And shut your gob until we get to my rooms." With that, he started walking again, as a stunned Harry followed. As he walked, he allowed his mind to wonder- he knew his way to the Slytherin dungeons by heart, anyway. But what was wrong with Malfoy? He was just being so... cold, perhaps? Almost like fifth year, before... Harry sighed quietly as the two reached the rooms that once belonged to Snape.

"Liquid silver" Draco muttered at the painting guarding his door, an angry looking wizard, and Harry followed him through. Nice furniture, thought Harry- he couldn't help noticing how grand- and expensive- the décor in Malfoy's rooms appeared to be. Harry briefly closed his eyes, then settled himself on an end of the plush green couch in the sitting room. Malfoy sat on the opposite side, looking down.

"Malfoy..." Harry started. Malfoy looked up, and grey eyes met green.

"Harry." The unguarded emotion carried by that word alone struck the dark haired wizard by surprise- this wasn't the cold Malfoy he had encountered in the halls, but...

"Draco?" Having spent the day being strong, Harry couldn't help letting the feelings leak out through his voice. Pain, sadness, hope. "I... I thought you were dead. They all said you were dead. The bloody Ministry said you were dead. Why aren't you dead?"

"Harry..." Draco caught himself before his voice could waver too much. He paused for a second, trying to regain his composure. "I think we have a lot to talk about."