Pansy Parkinson sat in the dim glow of the Slytherin common room, her gaze fixed on the murky green light filtering through the enchanted windows. The depths of the Black Lake pressed against the glass, shadows of fish and drifting plants distorting the faint light. Once, this sight had filled her with awe. Once, she had felt untouchable down here, shielded from the world above by cold stone and water.
She vividly remembered her first days at Hogwarts—a wide-eyed first-year, clutching her new robes and staring at everything with barely concealed wonder. The dungeons had felt like their own little kingdom, cut off from the noise and warmth of the upper castle. The other houses treaded lightly down here, eyes wary, voices hushed. The common room had been it's own little haven, its dark leather couches and emerald banners whispering of legacy and power.
But it wasn't the grandeur or the secrecy that had captivated her most—it was the promise. She remembered the prefects—sharp-eyed and self-assured—standing before the assembled first-years that first night. "You are Slytherin now. That means you are family. You watch each other's backs, and you stick together. If you have a problem, don't show it out there, in front of everyone. Family takes care of its own business, at home."
Family.
The word had struck her like a spark in a dark room. Pansy had grown up in a home of lies and deceit, where it was made clear that as a person, she was unwanted. Her mother manipulated her and her father with soft words and colder silences, while her father barely acknowledged her, his disappointment etched into every glance. A girl wasn't what he'd wanted. A daughter wasn't someone he could mold into a legacy. Girls were for breeding and making alliances. Boys were the leaders, the ones who shaped the world and made it run. Perhaps if he hadn't been cursed by a lucky shot early in the first War, he would have tried again. But the Healers at St. Mungoe's had made it clear that Pansy was their miracle child, and the chances of another Parkinson heir was dead in the water.
But Slytherin had been different. Here, she could have brothers and sisters—peers who would stand with her, not above her. Snape, though enigmatic and severe, could be something like a father figure—or at least a protector. With how viciously he protected his Slytherins from the rest of the school, and how he so obviously favored them in their potion classes, it was easy to replace the only male role model in her life from her father to Snape. Snape would never hit her or belittle her if she made a mistake. He would tell her that he expected better, that she was a Slytherin, that she could be more than what the world wanted her to be.
She had clung to those words like an oath, following Draco's lead not just because of her family's debt to the Malfoys, but because he seemed to understand what Slytherin meant. When he sneered at Potter, she sneered too. When he dismissed the other houses, she dismissed them without hesitation. Who needed Gryffindor's bravery, Ravenclaw's wit, or Hufflepuff's loyalty when she had the strength and solidarity of Slytherin?
She had been so certain.
But now... now everything felt different. The common room that had once been her sanctuary felt suffocating, the emerald light casting eerie shadows on familiar faces twisted by fear and suspicion. Fifth year had changed everything. With the Dark Lord's return no longer in doubt, and every one of her classmates having felt the weight of his presence, the bonds that had once tied them together had begun to rot.
The camaraderie of her first years had turned brittle and sharp-edged. Whispers carried venom instead of secrets, and every conversation felt like a duel—words chosen carefully, weaknesses probed relentlessly. Everyone was looking for an edge, a way to make themselves valuable in the Dark Lord's eyes, or at least to ensure they weren't the first to be sacrificed. Because if you weren't in the Inner Circle, if you didn't get a Dark Mark…then you were just spell fodder, a sponge for curses and hexes, whilst the real players made their moves in silence, manipulating the Ministry and Wizengamot alike with honeyed words and heavy purses.
She had tried to keep her head down, to maintain the alliances she had once thought unbreakable. But the smiles of her friends felt paper-thin now, their laughter hollow. Every glance carried suspicion, every compliment an ulterior motive.
Except for Draco.
Draco Malfoy, who had always been the ringleader, the center of their little circle, was different now. His pale face was drawn and tired, shadows heavy under his eyes. He spoke less, avoided unnecessary confrontations, and carried himself like someone bracing for a fight.
Or a war.
He was kinder, he had made friends with Potter's little group, who had once been their greatest enemies. His soft edges had sharpened, and despite his tiredness, there was a presence about him now, a feeling that made all of them realize that over the summer, Draco had morphed into someone who couldn't be controlled by hissed demands and threats. Only real power could make Draco bow now, and with what he had planned, he was searching for that kind of power himself.
He wasn't playing the game anymore—at least, not the same one everyone else was.
Pansy wasn't sure when she'd realized it, but somewhere in the silence between their last conversation and the haunted look in Draco's eyes, she'd started to understand.
He was scared—truly scared—not of punishment from his family or the Dark Lord but of something deeper, something that clawed at him from within.
And, perhaps most terrifying of all, Pansy realized that Draco Malfoy—the boy who had once seemed untouchable, unshakable—was starting to crack.
The worst part? She couldn't blame him.
The promise of solidarity, the pledge of family, had unraveled into something twisted and hollow. Slytherin House no longer felt like a home. It felt like a prison, and she couldn't see a way out.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her armchair as she stared out into the depths of the Black Lake, her reflection faintly visible against the glass. Somewhere, far above, the castle was bathed in sunlight, the other students were laughing and chattering in the Great Hall.
But down here, in the shadows of the dungeons, Pansy sat alone, and the weight of Slytherin's so-called legacy pressed heavily on her chest.
She wished she had made friends outside her house. She wished she'd earned the trust of other teachers besides Snape. She wished she had something—anything—to hold onto outside these stone walls.
But most of all, she wished she could believe in the promise of Slytherin again—the promise Draco swore he would make come true.
And speaking of Draco, she caught a glimpse of him as the door to his room opened. He stepped out, a cloak draped over his shoulders, his face set in a cold, impassive mask.
The soft hum of conversation in the common room stilled immediately, the silence pressing against her ears. But Draco didn't seem to notice—or care. He walked past them all, his gaze never flickering, his steps unhurried, his poise unshakable. The heavy door closed behind him with a final-sounding thud.
That silence? That was supposed to be Draco's punishment. Isolation. Estrangement. A barrier between him and Slytherin House until he came to his senses, renounced the Gryffindors, and begged for forgiveness.
But instead of breaking him, it had done the opposite. Draco didn't seek their approval anymore. He didn't look for their validation. Most days, he stayed in his room, away from their whispers and glances. But on others, he would emerge and sit by the fire, a book in hand, seemingly content amid the oppressive quiet.
Ignore me all you want. You aren't worth my time. I'm a Malfoy, and the opinions of the lesser masses don't concern me.
A bold statement, considering this had been going on for most of the term. And as far as anyone could tell, Draco hadn't cracked.
But cracks were starting to show elsewhere.
"Fucking prick," Goyle spat as the door closed behind Malfoy.
Case in point: Gregory Goyle.
Pansy had never thought much of him despite sharing space with him for years. Goyle had always been part of the background, silent and unassuming. Draco trusted him, sure, but the trust in Goyle and Crabbe often felt less confident and more convenient.
But ever since Draco had become a so-called "blood traitor," Goyle had… changed. Or maybe he had just stopped pretending. Crueler now, with a sharper edge, and far more willing to wield his strength like a cudgel. He had stepped into Draco's vacant space in their little hierarchy, and he ruled with a brutal fist.
He reminded her too much of her father, and that was something he didn't like.
"You see how he struts around here like he owns the place?" Goyle growled, his lip curled. "Bet he'd stop if we gave him a little reminder of where he stands now. Show him why Slytherin House never tolerated Mudbloods and Blood Traitors."
"That's not nice," Crabbe whispered, voice low and startlingly soft.
Pansy's stomach twisted. Crabbe—simple, awkward Crabbe—had surprised her this year. Away from Draco's shadow, he had started showing fragments of himself. Not much, and not always pleasant, but something. And yet, it was becoming clearer every day that Crabbe was stuck. Immature, emotionally stunted, struggling academically and magically. A child in a world that would swallow him whole. If you actually talked to him for about ten minutes, you would come to the quick conclusion that Crabbe had never mentally grown past their first year. And after Goyle took over, it became very clear that Crabbe had been placed under Malfoy's control for his own safety, rather than Draco's.
When Goyle's fist crashed into Crabbe's skull, the sound was loud enough to echo in the stunned quiet. And yet, no one reacted. No one cared.
Business as usual, Pansy thought bitterly.
"You stupid lump," Goyle hissed. "How many times do I have to tell you? He's not our friend. He's a traitor. He wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire. You think he cares about you?"
"That's enough, Goyle," Theo Nott interjected, his voice steady despite the tension thrumming through him. "Beating him isn't going to change anything."
Goyle's head snapped toward Theo, his glare sharp and dangerous. "Did I ask for your opinion, Nott?"
Theo raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just saying, mate. You know how he is. Violence won't fix it."
"He's my cousin, and I'll deal with him how I see fit."
A shadow crossed Theo's face, but he wisely said nothing more. Goyle, while not particularly powerful, knew a handful of nasty curses, and wasn't afraid to fight dirty. Add in his love for brawling like a muggle, and well…not very many of their yearmates wanted to tangle with Goyle.
Goyle turned back to the room, chest heaving. "We need to remind Draco where he stands. There hasn't been a blood traitor in Slytherin for five generations, and I'll be damned if one gets away with it now."
"You can't touch him."
The words slipped from Pansy's mouth before she realized she had spoken. Goyle's attention snapped to her like a predator scenting blood.
"Oh yeah? And why not? Still holding a candle for your little boyfriend?" His grin was sharp and unpleasant. "Face it, Parkinson. He never cared about you."
A wicked smile crossed his face.
"Unless it was for a quick shag in a broom cupboard."
Dark laughter echoed throughout the room, and her stomach churned, but she forced herself to stay still, to stay calm.
A part of her wanted to yell back that she had never done anything like that with Draco or anyone, but she knew that one wrong move would end with her on the floor, in pain, and Goyle the winner.
She needed to focus. To push away the fear and act confident. To appear untouchable.
Like Professor Snape.
Like Malfoy.
She straightened her spine, schooling her face into something cold and unimpressed.
"Go ahead, Goyle. Run your mouth. But you won't lay a finger on Draco."
"And who's going to stop me? You?"
"No," she said smoothly. "But Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy will. And if they don't, your father will. Do you really want to gamble on who they'll side with?"
Goyle froze. The mention of Lucius had rattled him, but the mention of his father had turned his face an ashen gray.
Despite what she had gone through in her home, Pansy knew she had been treated better than most people in Slytherin did. Goyle had never talked about his home life, but the few times she had seen him around his father, he'd always looked a few seconds from bolting out of there.
Pansy pressed her advantage.
"You think the Dark Lord will care about your petty grudges? Malfoy has power, influence, and a clear path to the Inner Circle. Do you really want to bet your family's standing on this?"
The common room had fallen silent again, every eye trained on them.
Goyle's scowl deepened, but he said nothing. Slowly, he dropped back into his seat, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His hands were trembling.
So were hers.
She rose to her feet, smoothing down her robes, her face perfectly composed. Around her, she caught glimpses of something she hadn't seen in months.
Respect.
But it didn't feel like a victory. Not really. Slytherin House was broken, splintered beyond repair. And despite being surrounded by people she had known for years, Pansy Parkinson had never felt so utterly alone.
"I'm going out," she said quietly. "Don't bother waiting up."
As the common room door closed behind her, she couldn't help but wish—just once—that they could all go back to their first year.
And stay there. Forever.
It wasn't a planned meeting.
Pansy liked the stars, even if she didn't care much for Astronomy itself. After finishing her nightly patrols, she had wandered to the Astronomy Tower, seeking a breath of fresh air and a quiet moment away from the simmering tensions in the Slytherin Common Room.
But Draco was already there.
He sat slumped against the battlements, back pressed to the cold stone, knees drawn up loosely. The dark rings beneath his eyes looked like bruises, stark against his pale skin. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, until the soft echo of her footsteps stirred him. One eye cracked open, bloodshot and sharp in the moonlight, before sliding shut again with a faint grunt of acknowledgment.
For several minutes, neither of them spoke. They simply existed in shared silence, the only sounds the whisper of the wind and the distant hoot of an owl on its hunt.
It was such a stark contrast to the Draco she knew. He had always been restless, filling quiet spaces with chatter or sarcastic quips. Even when he wasn't speaking, he enjoyed soaking in the chaotic energy of the Great Hall at mealtimes—the clatter of cutlery, the hum of a hundred conversations, the bustle of students moving about.
Chaos was comfort for Draco Malfoy. And yet, here he was: still, silent, utterly spent.
Pansy broke the quiet first.
"Have you eaten dinner?"
"Hmm."
"Is that a yes-hmm or a no-hmm?"
"It's a 'hmm-hmm,'" he rasped. His voice was low and scratchy, like parchment rubbed raw. "It means… I don't remember. I ate something today, I think. Couldn't tell you what or when."
She sighed, long and exasperated. "If you collapse in the middle of class, you won't be able to protect anyone, least of all the Slytherins you promised to look after."
One corner of his mouth twitched into a dry, humorless smirk. "I'm not that far gone. Not yet, at least. Things are… better now. Saint Potter actually trusts me. Granger, too."
"And Weasley?"
Draco's smirk sharpened into something colder. "Weasley and I will never be friends, but his opinion doesn't matter. He's a decent enough bloke, but his only claim to fame will be as Potter's sidekick or another entry in the oversized Weasley clan."
Pansy felt her lips curve into a small smile. It was oddly comforting to hear Draco like this—sharp-tongued, dismissive, familiar.
"You're underestimating the Weasel," she said lightly, tilting her head. "You always have. He has more potential than you give him credit for."
"How?" Draco scoffed. "The Wizarding World doesn't exactly hold eating contests in high regard."
"As annoying as they are, the Weasleys are never unskilled. Every single one of them finds their place eventually. Ronald just hasn't found his yet."
"And he never will." Draco's voice held an edge of finality, cold and resolute. "Look, I know being nice means pretending everyone is special, but there's nothing extraordinary about Ronald Weasley. He's the epitome of average. He's content to drift, to exist without forcing the world to notice him. He wants attention, but he won't fight for it. He wants praise, but he won't earn it. He wants fame, but he doesn't ache for it."
Draco shook his head, letting out a faint breath. "He'll be a footnote in the war. Maybe a chapter, if Potter insists."
Pansy chuckled softly under her breath. There it was again—that glimpse of the boy she knew, the one who measured the worth of things on how shiny they were: top-of-the-line broomsticks, enchanted items with fascinating powers, or even simple precious metals and gems.
Draco liked shiny people, too—Potter, with his immense power for an underaged wizard, and Granger with her voracious hunger for knowledge. But to Draco, Ronald Weasley wasn't shiny. He was dull, a common stone kicked along the side of the road.
What Draco couldn't see, what he refused to see, was the quiet strength in Ron's ordinariness. Ronald Weasley, for all his lack of sparkle, had followed Harry Potter into the jaws of danger time and time again. He might not have the hunger for power that Draco admired, but he never turned away when it was time to fight.
Lazy he might be, but cowardly he was not.
Bravery might not be a measure of talent, but with how many people had bowed their heads in the last war, even bravery on its lonesome was a valuable tool. And even so, she was sure that Ronald had something in him, a gift he hadn't tapped into yet. He just hadn't gotten the proper motivation to access it yet. Look at Draco: a year ago, he had been little better than Ron Weasley. But after the events of his summer, he had grown by leaps and bounds.
"Do you know what your problem is, Draco?" Pansy said finally, her voice soft but pointed.
Draco's tired gaze slid toward her, one pale brow raised in question.
"You can't see that not everyone shines the same way. People aren't like enchanted items; they don't have special abilities for you to use and exploit at your leisure. They need time to grow, become better, learn. Someone that's useless today might turn out to be the next Dumbledore if given enough time and incentive. "
Draco didn't answer. He just let his head fall back against the battlements, eyes closing once more.
For a while longer, they sat there in silence under the watchful gaze of the stars, two Slytherins getting ready for a war they weren't sure they'd survive.
And for that moment, it was enough.
Draco looked up at Pansy, still sitting on the cold stone floor, his silver eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight.
"Is your favorite animal still Potter's snowy owl?"
Pansy froze for a moment, her brows lifting slightly. That had been an offhand comment, made during their first year when they were still wide-eyed children trying to navigate Hogwarts' endless stone corridors. She hadn't expected him to remember—Draco never seemed like the type to hold onto small, trivial details.
Yet here he was, throwing it back at her years later.
Outwardly, she smirked, crossing her arms. "Yes. Why? Are you planning to get me one for Christmas?"
Draco reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a small golden ring. It was simple, unadorned, but even in the faint moonlight, Pansy could feel the subtle pulse of magic radiating from it. She took it gingerly, turning it over in her fingers as if it might bite her.
"There's magic on this," she said softly, her brow furrowing as she studied it. "Some kind of enchantment. I can feel it, but I'm not clever enough to tell what kind."
Her lips curved into a dry smirk. "If this is supposed to be a proposal ring, I'd like a few more diamonds on it."
Draco rolled his eyes, letting out a short huff of amusement. "As if the two of us are ready for anything big like that."
Pansy raised an eyebrow, placing one hand on her hip. "So, you can plot to dethrone the Dark Lord or whatever it is you're scheming, but marrying me is too big a thing for you?"
Draco's head snapped up, his mouth slightly open as if trying to form words. The look of pure, unfiltered bewilderment on his face was too much for Pansy, and she burst into laughter, the sound sharp and bright against the still night air.
Draco scowled, his face flushing a pale pink as he turned away from her, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
It was nice, Pansy realized, to joke like this with him—to feel at ease instead of walking on eggshells the way she did around the rest of their Slytherin yearmates.
"Shove off," Draco muttered, but his voice lacked any real bite.
After a brief pause, his tone softened. "Do you trust me, Pansy?"
She tilted her head slightly, considering him. "If you'd asked me that a year ago, I would've said no. But now...well, you're buddies with Potter. You can't be too mean to me anymore. So yes, Draco. I trust you."
Draco nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line before his eyes flicked back to the ring in her hand. "Put it on and say 'quintessence.'"
Pansy hesitated. "Why?"
Draco's lips curled into a mischievous smile. "It's a surprise."
For a brief moment, she considered refusing. But something in his expression—a rare openness, an earnestness she wasn't used to seeing—softened her resolve. Against her better judgment, and to her own surprise, she realized she genuinely did trust him.
Slipping the ring onto her finger, she took a deep breath and said, "Quintessence."
The change was immediate.
A strange warmth spread through her body, starting at her chest and unfurling outward like a ripple across still water. Her bones felt as if they were shrinking, condensing, her joints twisting and reforming in ways they never should. Her arms melted into soft, stiff appendages, her fingers fused and feathered. Her lips and teeth melted together, before hardening into a small, hooked beak. Her hair seemed to flow back into her scalp, replaced by downy white feathers, and her eyesight—Merlin, her eyesight—sharpened into something impossibly crisp and clear. When it was over, she felt weightless, alien in her own body, yet somehow... natural.
She opened her mouth to yell at Draco, but the only sound that emerged was a sharp, indignant, "Hoot! Hoot!"
Realization crashed over her like ice water.
He turned me into a owl. A bleeding snowy owl.
Before she could properly panic, Draco leaned forward, kneeling until his face was level with hers. "Okay, I see that you're starting to panic. Don't panic," he said, his voice calm but edged with guilt. "It's temporary. Five minutes, tops. I promise."
She let out an infuriated screech, flapping her wings aggressively.
Draco winced and gave her a sheepish grin. "Okay, okay, this whole scenario played out a lot better in my head, all right?"
Cupping his hands together, he lowered them towards her in invitation. Tentatively, Pansy gave a little hop, flapping her wings and landing in his palms. The moment she settled, her new owl senses overwhelmed her.
The cold no longer bit at her skin; it barely registered at all. Her entire body felt impossibly light, as if she could be carried away by the faintest breeze. And her vision—it was sharp, sharper than anything she had ever experienced as a human. Every minute detail of Draco's face was crystal clear: the faint stubble on his chin, the way his lashes caught the moonlight, even the individual fibers of his robes.
"Are you okay?" Draco asked softly.
Pansy stared up at him, her large golden eyes narrowing slightly in contemplation—before she lunged forward, pecking at his head and flapping her wings wildly as she beat him with them.
"Ow! Ow! All right, I get it! No more surprise transfiguration!" Draco yelped, unsuccessfully trying to shield his head with his arms all the while still holding her in his hands.
Satisfied, Pansy backed off, letting out a triumphant hoot.
Once Draco was certain the onslaught had ceased, he lowered his arms, a hesitant smile on his face. "Look, I know you hate flying. But that's as a human—dangling from a thin strip of wood, miles above the ground. This time, you're in a body made for it. You are flight. Do you want to try?"
Fear flickered in Pansy's chest. Her mind conjured up a dozen worst-case scenarios—what if the enchantment failed mid-air?
What if she couldn't fly like a natural owl?
What if a hawk decided she looked like a tasty snack?
But…for once, she pushed the Slytherin survival instincts aside. Just this once, she wouldn't think about what could go wrong.
She'd take a leap of faith.
With a determined hop, she leapt from Draco's hands and over the edge of the battlements.
For a brief, heart-stopping moment, she fell. Panic surged through her small chest, but then—
Her wings caught the air. Instinct took over.
She soared.
The night wind streamed over her feathers, lifting her higher and higher as she stretched her wings wide. Every tilt of her body, every flick of her feathers, guided her effortlessly through the sky. She could feel the currents of the air, the invisible hands of the wind cradling her, pulling her forward and upward.
She let out a triumphant hoot, her voice echoing through the vast night sky.
For once, Pansy Parkinson felt free.
Pansy soared through the night sky, exhilaration thrumming in every feather as she sliced through the cold winter air. The moon hung fat and bright above her, casting silver light across the vast expanse of Hogwarts' grounds. She tried a tentative dive, her small owl body tucking in its wings as she plummeted downward, going farther and farther, almost hitting the forest floor, before spreading them wide and rising sharply.
A Wronski Feint—in bird form. She almost couldn't believe it worked.
Letting out an excited screech, she leveled out and tried a barrel roll, spinning effortlessly through the sky. It felt natural, instinctual even, and when she righted herself again, she couldn't stop the joyful cry that escaped her beak. Who would have thought she'd acclimate so quickly to this form, that something as simple as air and wings could feel so freeing?
But then—movement. A shadow passed over her, followed by a sharp, familiar screech. Pansy tilted her head and spotted a brilliant, pure-white eagle gliding alongside her. Its wings were massive, sharp-edged, and regal, each feather catching the moonlight like polished porcelain.
She didn't need to guess who it was.
Of course, she thought, even as a bird, Draco Malfoy has to be the rarest, most eye-catching thing in the sky.
They flew together, wings beating in tandem, spiraling higher and higher until the wind turned thin and sharp. For a while, they simply glided side by side, but then the race began—a sharp, unspoken challenge.
Who could climb the fastest, who could dive the furthest, who could glide the longest without a single flap of their wings? Pansy let herself laugh inwardly, her competitive streak sparking to life. For the first time in months, she wasn't thinking about appearances or alliances or survival.
She was just flying. Free.
But as she began another ascent, she felt it—a faint buzzing deep in her chest. It wasn't painful, but it was growing stronger with every beat of her wings, every sharp pull of icy air into her small owl lungs. Warmth spread slowly, pooling under her feathers and building toward something undeniable. Her wide eyes blinked as realization crashed into her—the spell was fading.
With a screech of alarm, she angled herself back toward the Astronomy Tower, wings working frantically against gravity. The buzzing grew unbearable, vibrating through her bones, driving her forward with an urgency she couldn't ignore. She pushed harder, faster—
And then, just as she cleared the battlements, her small owl body turned gold in a flash of light.
Her triumphant screech morphed into a very human yelp as she tumbled through the air and landed hard on the stone floor with an audible thud.
"Merlin's bloody beard," Pansy groaned, flopping onto her back and clutching her ribs as she glared up at the sky. Every breath felt like gravel scraping against her insides, and she was pretty sure she'd have a spectacular bruise tomorrow.
But she couldn't stop the manic grin from forming on her lips.
A sharp cry from above caught her attention. The eagle—Draco—swooped down gracefully, landing on the battlement before transforming back into his usual self in a cascade of golden light. He hopped down from the ledge, his face lit with wild, boyish glee.
"Well? How was that? Tell me that wasn't the most fun you've ever had!"
Pansy let out a groan, playfully glaring at him from her spot on the floor. "You're insane."
Draco's grin faltered slightly, and he crouched beside her. "Are you okay?"
She waved him off, sucking in a deep breath as the ache slowly dulled into something manageable. "I'm fine. You, on the other hand, are an absolute menace."
Draco snorted, plopping down beside her on the cold stone floor as they both caught their breath. After a moment, Pansy lifted her hand, inspecting the golden ring still snug around her finger. The faint hum of magic still lingered, a whisper rather than the comparative roar it had been before.
"What is this, Draco?" she asked, turning the ring in the moonlight.
His smirk returned, softer this time. "Animagus rings."
Pansy barked out a laugh. "Bullshit."
Draco raised an eyebrow, but she pressed on. "Becoming an Animagus is insanely difficult. There've been, what, five successful transformations this century? Even Dumbledore isn't one. And you're telling me you managed to condense that entire nightmare ritual into a bloody ring?"
Draco laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. "No, of course not. The ring doesn't make you a real Animagus. It's enchanted to transform the wearer into a specific animal for five minutes. With how many human-to-beast spells there are, I was spoiled for choice. I have forms for combat, for stealth, for land, air, and sea. After a specific activation phrase is uttered, you turn into the animal each ring is enchanted to. After that, it needs ten minutes to recharge, before you can use it again."
Pansy stared at him, awe creeping into her expression. "That's… brilliant."
Her voice was barely a whisper, but Draco heard it. His smirk shifted into something softer, something almost shy.
"It's not perfect yet," he admitted, leaning back on his hands. "I want the final version to let the user transform into any animal at will, activate with a thought, and let them change back whenever they want. But this version works well enough for now. I just wanted you to be the first one to see it. To use it."
Pansy's heart gave an odd little flip, and her cheeks felt warm despite the cold night air. This wonderful, stupid, brave, idiotic mess of a boy-
She took a deep breath, steadying herself.
"What do you plan to do with it?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
Draco's expression turned serious. "Sell it. First to the Auror Corps, then to the general public."
Pansy frowned. "Why not keep it for yourself?"
Draco hesitated, then shrugged. "Two reasons. First, it's a powerful tool for survival. When the Dark Lord stops hiding and starts waging open war, being able to turn into a bird or a mouse for five minutes could mean the difference between life and death."
His voice dropped slightly, almost like he didn't want to say the next part aloud. "And second… I need my own money. When this is all over, I'm probably going to be disowned. I like being rich, Pansy. I'm not going to pretend otherwise. This thing can make me a lot of Galleons."
Pansy stared at him, realization settling heavily in her chest. He's giving up everything. His fortune, his future, the comfort of Malfoy Manor—all traded away for something as intangible as hope. For a different kind of future.
"Are you sure all of this is worth it?" she asked softly.
For just a moment, Draco's face crumpled, his sharp features softening under the weight of doubt. But then his chin lifted, and his silver eyes hardened with steely resolve.
"It has to be."