Draco Malfoy was confused.
He'd followed his plan to the letter. Nothing should have gone wrong, yet everything had. Well, not everything. But the most important thing. He still had no idea what Potter was up to.
He'd already had an altercation with Potter on the train by this point, which had happened before he looped, setting the tone for years of rivalry in his first life. This time, despite the train incident, Draco had been careful. He'd extended an invitation for a study group to all four Houses, certain that Granger, the insufferable know-it-all, wouldn't be able to resist. And where Granger went, Potter and Weasley would inevitably follow, their inexplicable loyalty dragging them like weights at her heels.
But Granger had come alone.
Draco watched her discreetly during those first few study sessions, his sharp gaze trying to peel back layers of her thoughts. Her quill scribbled furiously, her hand raised at every opportunity, yet there was something different, off-kilter, about her. He studied her as if sheer observation could unravel the mystery.
I should have learned Legilimency, he thought bitterly, running a hand through his perfectly combed hair.
His curiosity soon became an obsession. He began watching Granger in other places, at lunch, during classes, searching for answers. What he saw made even less sense. She was isolated, an outcast among her housemates. Gryffindors whispering behind her back, sneering at her enthusiasm. Draco's brow furrowed at the sight.
Where were Potter and Weasley?
In his memories, the three had been inseparable from the start, their obnoxious friendship like a fixture of the castle. Had he done this? Had his lack of antagonism somehow created a wedge? The thought unsettled him. Had he, simply by existing differently, changed the very axis of their relationship?
If so, he could use it.
Draco's mind spun with possibilities. Granger was isolated, friendless, vulnerable. He could pull her into his orbit, gain her trust, and use her to spy on Potter and Weasley. The red-haired idiot was still following Potter everywhere like a particularly dimwitted duckling.
Yes. He could work with this.
And then came Halloween.
When Quirrell burst into the Great Hall stammering about a troll in the dungeons, Draco froze. His thoughts scrambled, sifting through the hazy memories of his first life. Something about Potter fighting a troll? Yes. That had happened, hadn't it? He distinctly remembered the story circulating the school. A Gryffindor escapade that somehow ended with all three earning House points.
Draco glanced toward the Gryffindor table just in time to see Potter slipping away, Weasley trailing behind him.
Are they really going to fight the troll? he wondered, alarm flaring in his chest. Granger's absence prickled at the edge of his awareness. Had her isolation altered the timeline? Were they at risk because she wasn't with them?
He needed Potter alive. The entire success of his plan hinged on that singular fact.
Without a second thought, Draco pushed back from the Slytherin table.
"Cover for me," he muttered to Parkinson and Zabini, who blinked at him in surprise. He didn't wait for a response, slipping out of the Great Hall with far more urgency than he intended to show.
As the doors closed behind him, Draco's heart thudded in his chest. His carefully laid plans were unraveling.
And it was his fault.
He followed the two Gryffindors up the first staircase, then the second. Wasn't the troll supposed to be in the dungeons?
Frowning, Draco disillusioned himself and cast a Silencing Charm on his footsteps. He needed to be ready to intervene if things spiraled out of control, because, of course, they would, but he didn't have to be seen by the boys.
Why are they chasing a troll? he thought irritably. Stupid, fame-seeking Gryffindors.
By the time they reached the third floor, Draco spotted the troll lumbering into a bathroom. He cursed under his breath. Before the two idiots could follow, he muttered a quick Confundo, sending them stumbling back the way they'd come, muttering something about "needing to tell McGonagall."
Good. Crisis averted. Or so he thought.
Then a shrill, panicked scream shattered the hallway's silence.
Draco's heart stopped.
Is that Granger?
He spun back toward the bathroom. The troll was already inside. So was Granger.
Bloody hell.
Draco shoved open the door and froze for half a second. The bathroom was a wreck: shattered tiles, crumbled stalls, dust clouding the air like smoke. And there, lying among the splintered wood and rubble, was Hermione Granger, small, trembling, and alive. For now.
Move.
His wand was in his hand before he realized it, and in a few sharp spells, the troll was immobilized, its club twisting into chains that wrapped tight around its arms. The creature let out a bellowing roar before it crashed to the ground.
That was his second mistake.
In hindsight, dealing with the troll had been the easy part. What followed was far, far worse.
First, the story spread through the castle like wildfire. Overnight, Draco Malfoy became a topic of interest among the students. His Slytherin housemates hounded him with endless questions: "How did you do it?" "Did you really fight a troll?"
Pansy Parkinson became moodier than usual, shooting him narrowed looks from across the common room, while Blaise Zabini sported an insufferable smirk every time someone brought it up.
But then there was Granger.
Hermione Granger, who apparently decided that Draco Malfoy was now her new favorite person.
At first, it was small things, catching her glancing his way during class, or asking to partner up in Potions. She'd looked so hopeful when she asked, her expression almost painful to look at, that Draco couldn't refuse. He told himself it was fine. At least she was competent. But her habit of staring at him when she thought he wasn't looking? That was less fine.
And it didn't stop there.
She followed him to lunch, sitting next to him or close enough while sneaking glances at him between bites. She appeared outside his classrooms with frustrating regularity, asking questions about essays, spellwork, or some book she'd just read that she absolutely had to discuss. She even started showing up during his free time, popping out of corners like some bushy-haired specter.
How does she keep finding me?
Draco was running out of places to hide. The only sanctuary left was the Slytherin common room, where she couldn't follow, but he couldn't lock himself inside forever. He had plans to execute, spells to practice, a body and mind to train. He needed to be seen interacting with the other houses, fostering goodwill to create a useful network of contacts.
And yet, no matter where he went, she was there, wide-eyed, relentless, and maddeningly persistent.
He just wanted a moment's peace. But as he learned all too quickly, there was no escaping Hermione Granger.
At least she hadn't followed him to the first Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Small mercies.
Naturally, Slytherin won.
Draco had expected nothing less, but something gnawed at the edges of his mind as he watched the game. Something was missing. It wasn't until he noticed Potter sitting uselessly in the stands that it hit him.
Wait.
Wasn't Potter supposed to be Seeker by now?
Draco's brow furrowed as he replayed his memories. In his first life, Potter had been made Seeker almost immediately, practically dragged onto the team by McGonagall. It had been the first step toward Potter's ridiculous legend as the Boy-Who-Could-Do-Everything.
So why wasn't he on the pitch?
What is happening?
This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Draco had been careful this time. Discreet, methodical. But somehow, his changes were beginning to throw everything off track. A spiraling sense of dread prickled at the back of his mind.
He needed to do something, and fast. If Potter wasn't in place, if events didn't unfold as they should, this loop could end up worse than the last.
Draco clenched his jaw, turning over his options. The solution, irritatingly, was obvious.
Granger.
She was already following him like a particularly enthusiastic puppy, clinging to his every word. It was time to put that to use.
"Granger," he said the next morning, catching her after their study session.
She turned toward him so quickly that he wondered if she'd strained her neck. Her brown eyes lit up with that ever-present eagerness, her books clutched to her chest like a lifeline.
"Yes, Draco?"
Merlin, she was hopeless. He ignored the slight twitch of annoyance in his chest and pressed on.
"I need you to set up a meeting between me and Potter," he said, his tone quieter than usual, as though testing the words as they left his mouth.
Her eyebrows shot up. "Harry? Why?"
Draco exhaled, a flicker of frustration tempered by restraint. He couldn't dismiss her entirely; she wasn't stupid. And if he wanted her to trust him, he couldn't alienate her either.
Draco fixed her with a look that was just patient enough not to seem patronizing. "Because I need to talk to him about something important, and I can't exactly approach him myself without looking suspicious." He tilted his head slightly, voice dropping to a quieter tone. "You do want interhouse cooperation, don't you? This is your chance to make that happen."
Hermione blinked at him, clearly taken aback, but her thoughtful expression returned quickly. "I suppose that makes sense," she murmured, almost to herself. After a beat, she nodded, determination flickering in her expression.
"Alright," she said. "I'll talk to Harry and see if he'll meet with you."
"Good." Draco let out a breath, a fraction of the tension in his shoulders easing. "And… thank you."
Her eyes widened a little at that, as though she hadn't expected the words. Draco, for his part, refused to meet her gaze, already turning away with a casual air.
At least she was reliable. Grudgingly, Draco admitted to himself that having someone like Granger on his side, clever, determined, and entirely too curious for her own good, was a valuable asset.
Minion, he thought dryly. The cleverest minion I've ever had.
"He'll only meet with you if it's in public," Hermione said the next day, her voice tinged with apology as she wrung her hands nervously. "I... don't think he likes you very much."
Draco arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "That's hardly news, Granger. Potter's about as subtle as a bludger."
Hermione flushed slightly, looking down at her shoes. "I'm sorry. I tried to tell him you were... well, that you weren't bad, but he..."
"It's fine," Draco interrupted smoothly, though his tone held no bite. "I'll meet him wherever he wants. Public, private, it doesn't matter."
The sharp edge of her nervousness eased, and Hermione let out a small sigh of relief. "Oh. Good. I… I was worried you'd be upset."
Draco regarded her with a cool, assessing look. "Why would I be? You did what I asked."
Hermione blinked at him, startled into silence. After a beat, she nodded, her voice a little unsure. "It's in the courtyard after lunch. He said you'd find him there."
"That's fine," Draco replied. "I'll meet him wherever he wants."
"Perfect." Draco gave a slight nod and turned on his heel, already filing away the details. He didn't care where the meeting happened, only that it did.
Step one, complete, he thought.
The meeting hadn't gone how Draco thought it would.
It had started badly, predictably badly, when Potter brought Weasley along. Of course he did. Draco should have expected it; Potter never went anywhere without his ginger shadow.
Weasley had been antagonistic from the moment they arrived, bristling like a territorial Kneazle. Draco had, for once, tried to extend an olive branch, swallowed his pride, bit his tongue, and even managed something close to civility.
"Look, Potter. I just wanted to..."
Apparently, that was all it took to set Weasley off.
"Oh, shove off, Malfoy," Weasley snapped, stepping forward like an overeager troll. "We know you're up to something."
Draco rolled his eyes and smirked, his voice taking on a drawl that could have cut glass. "It's called thinking, Weasley. I wouldn't expect you to understand." It was reflexive, really. Years of practice.
Ron's face turned crimson, his ears glowing like embers. "Shut it, Malfoy," he growled.
Draco didn't stop. He couldn't help himself. The words slipped out, sharp and effortless.
"Well, someone's touchy," Draco said, tilting his head with faux curiosity. "What's the matter, Weasley? Worried you'll embarrass yourself in front of your precious Potter? You must be used to it by now, trailing after him like a particularly useless shadow."
Ron's fists curled at his sides, but Draco wasn't done.
"Or maybe it's just exhausting, isn't it? Watching everyone look at Potter like he's something special while you're stuck being the dead weight he has to carry. I'd almost feel sorry for you if it weren't so..." He gave a theatrical pause, smirking. "Pathetic."
To Draco, it was harmless. Practiced. Banter he'd perfected over lifetimes, so much so that he barely thought about the words anymore.
Ron certainly did.
With a roar that Draco had absolutely seen coming but didn't dodge in time, Weasley lunged at him, fists flying like a wild, angry Bludger.
Draco's smirk faltered as a fist caught him across the cheek. Pain flared hot and sharp, and for one furious second, Draco couldn't believe he'd let himself get hit.
The shock jolted Draco out of his smugness. He hit me.
"You absolute menace!" Draco snarled, swinging back without thinking. Potter dove in between them, yelling, but it only made things worse. In seconds, the three of them were tangled in a chaotic mess of fists, elbows, and half-shouted insults.
"Stop it! Stop it!" Hermione's voice shrieked from the sidelines.
Finally, Professor Flitwick's magic separated them, leaving them gasping and glaring, robes askew. Draco touched his throbbing cheek, scowling murderously at Weasley.
They lost points, a lot of points. Gryffindor took the brunt of it, ten for Weasley starting the fight, five more for Potter's useless attempt at intervention. Draco only lost five for "retaliating in kind."
Small victories, Draco thought, gingerly prodding his bruised cheek.
Detention that evening was spent with Snape, which Draco considered a minor blessing. His godfather was unlikely to waste too much of his time, though Gryffindor would still suffer appropriately.
The dungeon classroom was steeped in silence, broken only by the grating sound of cauldrons being scrubbed. Hermione sat stiffly on one side, her dark looks aimed squarely at Weasley, who scrubbed furiously, his mutinous glare flicking toward Draco whenever he thought Snape wasn't watching.
Draco ignored him, instead focusing on Potter, who sat at the far end of the table, unusually quiet. The Boy Who Lived looked tired, exhausted, even, as if he regretted his very existence in that room.
Draco seized the opportunity.
"Potter," he said, keeping his voice low enough to avoid Snape's attention but loud enough to carry across the table. Both Weasley and Granger stiffened, but Draco ignored them. "Look, I'm sorry."
Potter blinked, clearly caught off guard. "What?"
"That's what I was trying to say earlier." Draco straightened slightly, forcing himself to sound calm and deliberate. "I wanted us to start over. Without acting like, well, children."
Weasley scoffed audibly, his scrubbing growing louder. "Start over? You? Give me a break, Malfoy."
Hermione shot him a glare. "Ron!"
Draco ignored the interruption, his pale eyes fixed on Potter. "Believe it or not, I'm not interested in fighting with you for the next seven years. I'd think even you could see we've got bigger things to worry about."
Potter frowned, his brows knitting together as he studied Draco carefully. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Figure it out," Draco replied cryptically, falling back into silence as Snape's cold gaze swept across the room, daring anyone to make another sound.
Potter glanced at Draco with suspicion, as though trying to piece together what game he was playing. Weasley muttered something under his breath that Draco couldn't quite catch, though it probably wasn't flattering.
Draco allowed himself the faintest of smirks. Step two wasn't going perfectly, but it was progress. A seed planted.
They'll see soon enough, he thought, scrubbing his cauldron with the calculated indifference of someone who wasn't nearly as calm as he looked.
AN:
Edited a line for clarity. Draco's timeloop resets at his sorting, so the events before (like him insulting Ron on the train and before the sorting) already happened