Chapter Four: Friends Make the Best Enemies

Chapter Summary: Henri is shocked when his new friend turns on him.

Henri's start at Hogwarts was everything he could have dreamed of. When his family moved to England almost a year ago, he had been distraught. Leaving behind everything he knew, including his best friend Philippe, had felt like losing a part of himself. Adjusting to England had been difficult: the language was different, the food was different, the weather was dreary, and even the TV programs felt foreign. He struggled to make friends at school. At first, there was some curiosity from his new classmates—he was, after all, the French boy with an accent—but once the novelty faded, they went back to ignoring him.

Then Minerva McGonagall showed up at his doorstep with news that changed everything. He was a wizard. Suddenly, all of Henri's feelings of being different began to make sense. He thought that maybe this was why he never truly fit in. When he got to Hogwarts, surely he would meet other kids like him, kids who would understand him.

His optimism felt validated when he met Draka on the train. There was just something about her that made him feel seen, as if she truly understood him. They had so much in common, and Henri felt a flood of relief wash over him. He had made a friend on his first day, and that was his biggest worry—being the boy who didn't make friends. He had always feared that after the first day, the friendships would be formed and he'd have to join in as an outsider.

He lost track of Draka when they reached Hogsmeade and were boarding the boats, but he figured they'd find each other at the castle.

When they arrived at Hogwarts, Henri met a few other first-years. There was one boy everyone seemed to be whispering about—a small kid with messy black hair and green eyes. Henri remembered reading about the boy; he was Harry Potter. He had defeated the dark lord Voldemort when he was only a baby. Henri didn't understand how a baby could defeat a dark lord but felt that it would be too rude to ask. Besides, he also read that the boy lost his parents that day; he was sure no one would want to be reminded of such a tragic day in their life, even if they had defeated a dark wizard. He felt a pang of sympathy for the boy. His parents were everything to him; he didn't know what he would do if he ever lost them.

He shivered and immediately removed such a thought from his mind. He wanted to say hello to the boy, but the boy was already swamped with kids with the same idea, so he decided not to. The boy was not a zoo animal; besides, the tall red-headed boy standing beside him didn't look too friendly. In fact, he looked menacingly at every newcomer who wished to meet Harry Potter, like a bodyguard, so Henri moved on.

He struck up a conversation with a nervous-looking boy named Neville, who seemed terrified just to be there. He was holding on to dear life to a toad in his hand. Henri smiled, remembering his earlier conversation with Draka on the train about certain people preferring toads as pets. Speaking of Draka, he tried to spot her again, but with all the first-years moving about and trying to find friends, he couldn't see her.

The Sorting Ceremony was far less grand than he had imagined. All the stories he'd heard, all the buildup, and it was simply a hat. You put it on, and it sorted you. When it was Henri's turn, it felt jarring when the hat started speaking directly into his mind. It muttered about how difficult it was to sort him, taking longer than it had for any of the students before him. Henri started to worry that they might send him back. But eventually, the hat shouted "Ravenclaw!" and the table full of students in blue and silver cheered as Henri made his way to join them.

He Introduced himself to a few of the kids sitting next to him but spent most of the meal searching the Great Hall for Draka. He was a bit disappointed when she was sorted into Slytherin, but surely, they could still be friends. Houses couldn't possibly stop them from talking to each other.

Dinner was fascinating. Henri had never seen food appear like that, out of nowhere. He was still adjusting to English cuisine, but he felt satisfied after the feast. He barely paid attention to the announcements, eager to finish the ceremony and talk to Draka.

When it was over, Henri had difficulty getting away from the group of first-years being shepherded toward the Ravenclaw tower. He met his roommates—Michael, Anthony, and Terry—and settled into their dormitory.

Once the first-years were given a bit of freedom to explore the castle, Henri made a point to search for Draka. He wandered the corridors, looking at the sprawling staircases and endless rooms until, by chance, he saw her. She was with six other kids—four boys and two girls. The blonde and brunette girls flanked her like bodyguards, and two of the boys, massive and imposing, seemed far too large to be first-years. The other two, a brunette and a black boy, stood close by.

Henri walked toward them confidently, happily. He had been waiting for a chance to reconnect with Draka.

"Look, there's another mudblood," the brunette girl sneered before Henri even reached them. Henri's step faltered. He wasn't a hundred percent sure she was talking to him because she looked very angry, which he couldn't understand. He'd never met this girl before in his life; why would she be angry at him? He didn't know what a mudblood was, but the way she said it sent a chill down his spine.

"Indeed, Pans," the black boy added with a lazy smile. "This one looks very lost. Not surprising—mudbloods aren't exactly known for their brains."

Henri's throat tightened as he realized they were talking to him—well, about him. His instinct was to turn around and walk away, but he kept his feet rooted to the spot, his eyes searching Draka's for reassurance.

"Mudblood?" he asked her quietly. Draka was the one he knew, the one who had been kind to him on the train. Surely, she'd explain and diffuse whatever misunderstanding this was.

But Draka didn't offer comfort. Instead, she looked at him with cold, detached eyes. "It means dirty blood," she said calmly, as if explaining the weather. "The very lowest of the low. Mudblood."

Before Henri could respond, Draka spat at him. The spit hit his cheek, but it was the venom in her words that stung the most. "You're dirty and filthy and not worthy to be breathing the same air as me," she said.

Then she turned and walked away, her entourage trailing behind her, tossing smirks and sneers at Henri as they passed.

Henri stood frozen, unable to comprehend what had just happened. His heart felt like it was being crushed in his chest. He had no idea what had changed between the train ride and now, but the hate in Draka's eyes was undeniable. It was real; that kind of hate cannot be faked. So does that mean the warmth and friendship they had shared earlier was false?

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but he fought them back. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't give her that power over him. But the confusion, the betrayal, and the pain swirled inside him like a storm he didn't know how to stop.

He didn't want to explore anymore. Henri made his way back to Ravenclaw tower, keeping his head down. He managed to interact with his roommates, putting on a brave face, but after everyone had gone to bed, Henri slipped into the boys' bathroom.

There, in the silence of the night, he allowed himself to cry.

For the first few weeks at Hogwarts, Draka was governed by the fear that one day she'd be exposed for her past friendliness with Henri—a Mudblood. She didn't know what she'd do if that ever came to light. The thought of it sent shivers down her spine. She'd lose everyone's respect. The shame would be unbearable. No one would understand; he seemed so normal. How was she to know that he was a filthy Mudblood? If word ever got back to her father that she interacted with a Mudblood… The thought of it made her stomach churn.

This fear drove her to ensure that Henri—she could never quite bring herself to call him Granger, that filthy Muggle name was too much for her—would never want to discuss her with anyone. The torment she directed at him over the course of the following weeks was not just about asserting her superiority; it was a calculated effort to erase any trace of their past acquaintance. She wanted to make even the thought of her painful to him. She wanted to ensure, if possible, that he should never utter her name again. She needed to maintain her standing, avoid any scandal that might tarnish her reputation, and also make herself forget just how much she had liked him before. Because she couldn't—he was filthy.

The Slytherin-Gryffindor and Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff class schedules kept Draka and Henri apart for most of their school day, which she was happy about; the less she saw him, the better. Their paths rarely crossed, but whenever they did, Draka seized the opportunity to make Henri's life miserable. Her cruelty was relentless, designed to drive him to the brink of desperation and ensure that any connection to her was thoroughly obliterated.

Draka's bitterness wasn't reserved solely for Henri. Her anger at Harry Potter for the humiliation she felt on their first day at Hogwarts had not faded. She saw him as the root of her troubles; his presence had overshadowed her own, and she resented how her standing in Slytherin had failed to translate into respect across other houses. Her frustration only grew as Potter and his dumb Weasel friend managed to outwit her attempts to bring them down so far.

Mail time was a happy event. Students were eager to receive word and, most often, treats from home. On the very first mail day, Draka received a letter from her father detailing how she had disappointed him in the few days she had been at Hogwarts. He went to great lengths to explain how her failure to secure Potter as an ally was disappointing. Her mother's letter contained no greetings or questions about Draka's health. Instead, it was a detailed plan of the outfits Draka was to wear for the rest of the term. It was meticulously planned to the smallest detail. She got treats as well, but she knew they didn't come from her parents. They came from Dobby, their house elf. Draka could feel her lip curl in disgust. How dare that elf think he knew anything about her? She tossed the chocolates away and watched with barely concealed derision as Crabbe and Goyle jumped out of their seats and picked the chocolates from the floor, immediately starting to stuff their faces. Pathetic.

While her friends swooned over gifts from home, Draka ground her teeth and pretended to be happy. Every owl post was a reminder of expectations and expressions of disappointment, always signed not with love but with the emphasis on the need to focus on maintaining a perfect image. Draka thought with poorly constrained anger when she looked at Pansy, who had copied her outfit yet again. She was not allowed to do even the most basic thing, like wearing what she liked, but this moron—she often found Pansy to be trying and often had unkind thoughts towards her—who had a choice decided to make herself a carbon copy of someone else.

Mail days made Draka very dangerous. The expensive, unwanted gifts and the constant critique from her parents, combined with the ever-tightening metaphorical leash around her neck, left her in a foul mood. On these days, she was especially volatile, her irritation and sense of inadequacy spilling over onto anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path.

Henri, in particular, was a convenient target for Draka's pent-up frustrations. Unlike Potter and the Weasel, he never fought back; instead, he always looked at her with that wounded look of betrayal on his face. That look did something to her more than anything that Potter and the Weasel could throw back at her. That look made her feel guilty, which made her feel angry because she had nothing to feel guilty about, which made her torment him more, which led to the look, rinse, and repeat.