This chapter is the start of Draco's character development really kicking into gear. He's been slowly budging, becoming more reasonable, but he still deeply believes in the blood-supremacist ideals his parents have taught him and sees no reason to discard said beliefs. This fanfic is still about the Harrys and their adventure, but I also want to try my hand at writing a redemption arc on the side, you know?

That said, stuff is going to get a little weird with Draco. Believe it or not, one of the first ideas I had for this crossover was a Creature!Draco plot in which he didn't turn out to be part Veela, but related to something unfamiliar to the wizarding world (i.e. a magical race from Hyrule) and harder for his pureblood ideals to handle. And from there, I'd explore the cognitive dissonance he'd face, having a set of beliefs that are at odds with his existence. So yeah, that's what the "mild body horror" tag on Ao3 is for. I'm not going to get too graphic, but I'm giving a preemptive content warning just in case.

Harry dodged a third swipe of the Phantom's sword and skidded around the corner. His legs pumped with desperate speed as he fought to outrun the armored creature charging after him. The Phantoms of Hogwarts were much faster than those he'd seen in his sword-memories; even at a full sprint, he was just barely faster.

Though his breaths were coming in fast pants and his legs were begging him to stop, Harry kept going. He was only a couple turns away from getting to class, and there were no purple patches in sight for him to find refuge. All he could do was keep going and hope—

Something caught him by the ankle and Harry's hard-won speed was turned into unfortunate forward momentum. He slammed into the floor hard enough to see stars. Dazed, Harry lay sprawled out on his stomach. Sparks flashed in his unfocused eyes and he was dully aware of throbbing pain in his chin. His vision was terribly blurry, too. Had the fall-? Oh, no, wait, those were his glasses over there.

Before Harry could gather enough of his wits to crawl forward and grab his glasses, his body was dragged backward by whatever had caused him to trip. Harry flopped onto his back and kicked weakly at the thing holding onto him. It was cold and didn't feel quite real, like hardened air. He caught a fuzzy glimpse of purple-lined shadows and groaned. First a Phantom and now this?! He just wanted to go to History of Magic in peace!

The Floormaster pulled him into its puddle with a triumphant cry. The trip through its shadowy world was chaotic and dizzying. Harry felt like he was pin-wheeling around even as his body fell forward on a steady course. Before Harry could get nauseous from the disorienting tendrils of black and violet whirling around him, though, the vortex of shadows spat him out in front of the Great Hall's towering doors. Harry glowered up at them with simmering resentment.

Now he'd lost his glasses, was running even later for class, had gotten thoroughly separated from his other selves, and sported a bruised chin. Wonderful.

There was a thud and a groan next to him. Someone else had popped out of the floor via Floormaster magic and now lay in a miserable heap. Harry couldn't see the person too well without his glasses, but the short, sandy hair looked familiar.

"Neville?" he asked. The figure grunted in what Harry took to be the affirmative. "You need help there, mate?" Harry rolled to his feet and held out a hand for Neville to take.

Neville's clammy hand closed around Harry's and the boy climbed to his feet with difficulty. After summoning his Lenses of Truth, Harry saw why.

Scorch marks and scratches marked Neville from head to foot; he looked like he'd taken on a swarm of flaming Keese and sorely lost. On top of that, his face bore a couple of purpling bruises and he had a protective hand clamped against his side.

"Merlin, Neville, are you okay?" Harry asked. "What happened?"

"A Wizzrobe and a bunch of flaming bats attacked me outside of Charms, and then I ran into a Moblin on my way to History." Neville gingerly rubbed his bruised cheek. "It threw its lantern and punched me," the boy mumbled. "I didn't know they could punch."

Harry winced. Moblins were built like mountains. "I can take you to the Hospital Wing, if you like," he offered. Professor Binns was hardly going to miss him.

Neville sighed and nodded. "Yeah, that's probably best."

They set off toward Madam Pomfrey's domain. "You've been missing class?" Harry asked. He hadn't noticed, too caught up in the strangeness of his own life. Guiltily, he chewed on his lower lip. He had a habit of forgetting those outside his friend group when things at Hogwarts got weird.

"The monsters make it hard to get there," Neville said. "I know that fire spells can deal with some of them, but my magic is too weak to do anything. I can't use a Beater's bat well enough to slay monsters, either." He sighed. "The last time I tried to find a treasure chest, I ran into a room full of Skulltulas." The boy paled at the memory.

Unsure of what to say, Harry patted him on the shoulder. "Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall are figuring out how all this Hylian stuff works," he said in an attempt at reassurance. "I'm sure they'll come up with some effective spells at some point."

Neville sighed. "Yeah, but I probably won't be able to get them right. You know how I am at spellcasting."

"They might not be too difficult."

"Maybe."

The boys lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Harry wished he could lift Neville's spirits, but he wasn't sure how to do so without making his classmate more miserable. Neville's main skills lay in Herbology, not Charms or Defense Against the Dark Arts, or any other school subjects applicable to the slaying of magical monsters. He had no idea how knowledge of plants' needs and properties could help someone fight off a Moblin or a Wizzrobe.

Now that he thought about it, how many of his fellow students were helpless to defend themselves against the monster patrols? He hadn't spent much time to consider it, seeing as he and the people he regularly associated with did just fine. The teachers still seemed to have a lot of trouble keeping the hallways clear, though, which meant most Hogwarts students probably didn't have a chance.

"Are there a lot of people who miss class?" he asked Neville.

The other boy shrugged. "Not really. They'll show up late, sure, but usually they don't skip unless they're in the Hospital Wing." He kneaded the injury in his side. "I don't like going there if I can help it. Madam Pomfrey's going to put my name on one of those beds for good, I swear."

Neville's terrible luck combined with the pitfalls, ambushes, Marbles of Doom, monsters, and other assorted dangers littering the castle made for a nasty mix. And that was without monsters actively sabotaging him in class, like a Keese finding its way into his cauldron during Potions. Harry thought it spoke for the boy's courage that he kept trying to go to class despite the many trials that stood in his way.

They made it to the Hospital Wing without incident. While Neville shuffled over to his usual bed, Harry left to find something to do. He had another forty minutes before Charms started and he was reluctant to spend it trying to get to Binns' classroom. There weren't enough purple spaces for him to hide from the Phantoms in the area; the hallway had decided to be stingy that day.

He rubbed at the back of his head, which he'd noticed was throbbing dully. The curse that had split him into four didn't approve of Harry wandering about on his own. Blue was sure to complain later about the headache he was giving the rest of them. Truth be told, Harry wasn't entirely comfortable being a singular Potter at that moment. His memories of his previous selves showed them moving and acting in formation, rarely apart but for those rare puzzles that required them to work independently. He wondered: would that odd plural mindset carry on once he was a singular Harry again? But for the fear of what the Dursleys would do to his newfound brothers if he came home with them in tow, he wasn't sure he wanted to be put back together.

"Ergh?"

A Moblin's questioning grunt snapped him out of his thoughts. Harry jumped back as the head of a spear was thrust around the corner just in front of him. The monster behind that spear appeared soon after with an angry scowl on its piggish face. Its feet danced in tiny, quick steps as it readied a charge.

Harry leapt to the side, forgetting the distance between him and the wall. He bashed into it shoulder-first, sending shooting, tingling pain down his left arm. The pain wasn't agonizing, though, and he was able to draw his sword with his good arm.

As the Moblin ran at him again, Harry stepped to the side and hauled his sword around in a one-handed swing. He didn't have the strength to put much arm-power behind it, but a bit of momentum compensated for that. His strike drew a cry of pain from the Moblin.

"Eyah!" The beast drew its spear back like a bat and then swung with a huff of exertion. Harry's feet were swept out from under him.

"I hate that move," Harry groaned, peeling himself off the ground. His eyes shot open wide when he saw the Moblin readying for a second charge. This thing wasn't giving him an inch of breathing room!

Harry fumbled in his pocket for his wand and then whirled it over his head. His desperate light spell made the monster falter. Taking advantage of the Moblin's moment of disorientation, Harry fired off as many more spells as he could and then brought his sword down in a vertical slash. He cut a line of smoke from the monster's forehead to its belly.

Pleased by his successful hit, he paused for a split-second too long. The Moblin struck out with stunning speed, planting its massive fist in Harry's sternum. Harry's small frame was sent tumbling like a windblown leaf by the powerful punch.

As soon as he stopped skidding across the stone, Harry's first thought was "screw this!" He was less than half this monster's size and he was meant to operate as four. What was he doing, fighting on his own? He had no idea how to use a sword, for Merlin's sake!

:Heir, thisss way!:

Harry's head whipped around. An engraved snake was perched on a line of mortar in the wall next to him. It pointed forward with its nose and then slithered quickly along the stonework. Harry scrambled to keep up, mindful of the Moblin coming after him.

Following the snake became Harry's singular focus. He didn't consider his surroundings or the sound of the Moblin's hooves clicking on the ground behind him. His legs were moving at the same speed as the snake was moving, and that was what mattered. If he looked over his shoulder to keep an eye on the monster, he'd likely lose sight of his savior.

After a number of turns and doors, the corridors became narrower. The stone became darker and the ceilings dropped in height. Echoes became closer and louder. He didn't hear the Moblin behind him anymore. When had it given up the chase?

When the hallways had become rugged blue-gray granite, the snake slowed down. It passed a number of doors along the wall, its medium shifting from wood to stone, metal to stone. Harry was tempted to open a set of doors, but his ancient half-memories urged him not to. Those places were for the eyes of others, they whispered.

He was led to a simple, rectangular wooden door. Its grain and color reminded him of his wand.

:Claim what is yours and nothing more,: the snake's voice hissed in his ears.

Harry stepped forward and the door opened him. He continued without pause, feeling as though he were sliding through a dream. His gaze settled on a slim book bound in worn brown leather. It sat atop a plain table in a room his eyes couldn't seem to focus on. The book held his attention too firmly for him to notice anything else.

A small, calloused hand fell upon the book and Harry brought it to his chest. With his prize claimed, he wheeled around and walked out the door without looking back.

If he'd faltered, he would have seen the room of ancient, deadly treasures that lay beyond the journal's resting place.

Harry emerged into a spacious corridor lit by a mixture of sunlight and torchlight. The sudden brightness startled him. He blinked and looked around. What on earth had just happened?

The boy threw a glance over his shoulder. There was only a stretch of wall. Where had he stepped out of?

'What is it with me and following random snakes?' Harry thought, disgruntled. He went to run a hand through his hair and realized it was busy holding a book.

Harry frowned in confusion and turned the object over in his hands. The little thing was smaller than a standard piece of paper, and probably not much more than a hundred pages thick. It had no title on its front, so he opened it to its first page.

Wide letters in childish scrawl crowded the top of the yellowed parchment, hovering uncertainly above a slanted line. "'Ravio's Sword Journal'," Harry read aloud. A slow smile spread across his face.

Draco flinched at a sudden surge of invective from Crabbe's Howler. Professor Snape had sent his letters out some time ago and the replies of those parents involved had only just gotten through the weakened barrier around the castle. There was a strange time difference between Hogwarts and the world beyond Vaati's curse, causing even the fastest of owls to take several days to make their deliveries. Blaise had received his letter during breakfast, in a vivid green envelope that had made the boy go pale as he'd carefully taken it from his owl's leg. Millicent had been next. She'd hit Draco with a Stinging Hex under the table before going to her dorm to read her letter. Then, at lunch, there had been an owl for Goyle, and now there was Crabbe's dinnertime Howler, which had been yelling for at least a solid minute now.

Narcissus, Father's white-feathered eagle owl, had flown through the common room's recently-installed owl door at the start of breakfast. He'd eyed Draco coldly as the boy had taken his letter, too proud and well-trained to peck a Malfoy but clearly considering it. Draco had removed the letter as quickly as he could and given the owl a treat to placate him.

The sharp edges of a pale gold envelope bit into Draco's hands as he huddled in the most feared corner of the Slytherin dungeon. Water, restrained by ancient and heavily-enchanted glass, surrounded him on almost all sides. The "Drowning Room", as some called it, had been invented several centuries ago as a place to lock up troublemakers for punishment. Only a small percentage of Britain's magical population knew how to swim, and that number had been even lower in 1562; additionally, Grindylows, Kappas, merpeople, and the Giant Squid could often be seen passing by in the murky gloom of the Black Lake's muddy floor. It was said that more than one of those students who'd spent hours locked in the room had been sent into fits at the sight of water for the rest of their days. Even in modern times, Slytherins mostly avoided the place like the plague, though there were a few who weren't bothered by the sense of being trapped in a closet-sized air bubble underneath the Black Lake.

Draco stared out the window above his head to distract himself from the letter that he was too scared to read. According to his father's bedtime stories, the Malfoys had once been seafaring merchants who'd crossed the Atlantic and Mediterranean to sell and collect unusual magical items. They'd had unmatched skills in building connections, identifying genuine articles among counterfeits, and haggling for the best prices from product sources so they could sell for a maximized profit. Before pirates had begun targeting them, souring so many deals that the Malfoys had been exiled from France by those who'd felt cheated, it had been traditional for every Malfoy child to be taught the ways of the sea from an early age. Though Draco had never been on anything larger than a French river barge, he knew how to swim and sail and had always had an affinity for water. That was why he'd squirreled himself away in the Drowning Room, where he could hide in water's impersonal embrace.

Hugging the letter to his chest, Draco shivered. The only drawback of the Drowning Room was that it was colder than the rest of the Slytherin quarters due to the glass walls and the frigid lake just beyond them. He wished he'd brought Dog in here. His angry friends would have spotted him going to hide, though, with a massive black hound following him, and he didn't want to endure their glares. They couldn't do much to him—not when his father could ruin their families' standing—but Draco couldn't stand to be looked at with disapproval. It wasn't right for someone like him to be glared at, yet he couldn't blame his friends for being unhappy.

A mermaid passed by one of the windows, her tail flicking idly. She did a double-take when she saw him and then pressed her face against the glass. Draco shuddered at her inhuman features. 'Fish and humans were never meant to be combined in one creature,' he thought. Her eyes were wide-spaced and strangely reflective, placed on either side of an ugly, flat nose. The mermaid's wide mouth hung slightly open as she pushed water through the gills on her neck. Why Muggles had legends about the beauty of such things, he had no idea. Even the "pretty" strains of merpeople that resided in the warmer waters of southern Europe had a subtle strangeness to their faces that was arguably more disturbing than the obvious fishiness of Selkies.

The mermaid stared at him for a little while and then lost interest, disappearing into the dark water with a swish of her tail. Draco curled up tighter once he was sure the thing had left. A shiver unrelated to the cold went through him. He hated merpeople and their uncanny, froglike faces. They were almost as bad as goblins in terms of being unsettlingly not-quite-human. House-elves were at least kind of cute.

He slid his letter out from where it sat trapped between his knees and chest. The room's bluish light dyed the envelope a sickly greenish color. 'I'll have to read it eventually,' he thought with dread. 'Father will only send more letters if I don't reply to this one soon enough. He might even get Mother involved.' As angry as Father could get, Mother's wrath was far more cutting. She knew all the secrets a child told their mum and had the cold ruthlessness of a true Black when it came to using that information to punish.

Draco hesitantly pried open the wax seal holding the envelope shut and pulled out the letter. He took a deep, preparatory breath as he unfolded the missive.

His eyes slid along the lines of closely-packed, elegant cursive. Father had written this in a fit of temper, he could tell; the man's writing was more spread out when he was in a more pleasant state of mind. It was oddly non-accusatory, though. Father was writing around the issue as always—he never liked to say things too directly—but Draco could surmise what Professor Snape had told him.

Nearly all the blame had been placed on Harry and the other Gryffindors, with a slim slice of disappointment in Draco's social choices as the remainder. Draco's spirits lifted marginally. He wasn't in trouble. His parents weren't going to punish him.

He continued reading in a tentatively hopeful mood until the last few lines: It displeases us that you have faced such dangers at a school that claims to be the safest in Europe. Therefore, we have decided to reevaluate which institution may be worthy of your enrollment. We hope you agree with our future decision, dear Draco.

Draco read the words, read them again, and then said them aloud in a pitiful warble. His parents were going to send him away. He could agree with it or protest it, but their decision was final.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the hot tears stinging at their corners. Why did his parents get to decide everything for him? He'd had to fight tooth and nail to get Father to let him go to Hogwarts, and now he was going to have that victory taken from him. It didn't matter if his parents let him have whatever sweets and owls and books and clothes he wanted if he couldn't have his own future. Father wanted him to go to Durmstrang and then become a politician like him, and that was it. He couldn't have a Quidditch career like he wanted because that was below a Malfoy. He couldn't go into potion-making, either, because that was a quiet, reclusive occupation that wouldn't bring his family the kind of recognition it deserved. What could he have, if not the things that mattered?

His hands curled into fists. He was a Malfoy and a Black! He deserved to make his own life choices! Draco slammed one hand into the glass behind him.

A loud, sharp crack made his heart skip a beat. His spine went ramrod-straight and the letter fell from his numb fingers.

Draco sprang to his feet with his wand in hand, though he wasn't sure what he planned to do with it. His frightened gray eyes took in the sprawling crack that had appeared in the Drowning Room's rounded glass wall. It was huge, though quickly sealing up as ancient spells took effect. His wand-arm sagged to his side as he dumbly watched the window heal itself.

That window had withstood the pounding fists of hundreds of terrified Slytherins in its long existence. No amount of kicking or punching or desperate flailing had ever managed to damage it. When one seventeenth-century student had attempted to stab through it with a dagger, the knife had snapped and the rebounding blade had embedded itself in the boy's shoulder. Draco knew this. He'd read about it.

So why had one hit from a Malfoy's slim-fingered fist been enough to put a five-foot crack in that very same window?

Something moved in the murk beyond the room and Draco raised his gaze from the fading lines of damaged glass. Eyes glinted like coins in the room's soft blue glow. A veritable army of merpeople stared at him.

Draco took in a shuddering gasp of air. Suddenly, he understood why everyone feared the Drowning Room. Leaving his letter behind, the boy fled.

Fun canon fact, for anyone who hasn't seen it passed around a million times already: Malfoy comes from the French "Mal Foi", meaning "bad faith". I decided to creatively interpret it to mean the family became known for making bad deals to the point it became their surname.

I did an illustration of the Drowning Room! Check it out in the "personal fanart" tag on the garden-eel-draws tumblr! I wish I didn't have to be vague about my art links, but FFN eats URLs ;_;