Draco was no longer on the Slytherin Quidditch team.

Harry wasn't sure how to feel about that.

Draco had always been on the Slytherin team, ever since their second year. It felt like another major change in their usual relationship, and Harry wasn't sure if he liked this one as much as the others.

Because it was obvious that Draco was doing something.

The bags under his eyes were becoming more prominent. His hair was getting messier. His eyes, once sharp and cool, now seemed fevered and manic.

Even Snape had noticed. He practically coddled Malfoy, shooting the boy undecipherable glances as he did his best not to draw attention to his ill-looking student.

Hermione thought the stress of the summer was weighing on him.

Ron assumed someone had cursed him and chuckled at the thought.

And Harry... well, he wasn't sure what to think. But he knew this much: if Malfoy had been treated even half as nastily as Voldemort had treated him in the graveyard at his rebirth, then Draco Malfoy would find no reprieve from his nightmares anytime soon.

But the thing was, even if he wanted to help Malfoy (and he wasn't quite sure how to even approach such a thing), there just wasn't time to do so. Too many things were happening, way too fast.

Umbridge had become the Hogwarts High Inquisitor, which basically meant she was second only to Dumbledore—and maybe McGonagall. This was O.W.L. year, so there was far more homework than ever before. He had another week of detention with the damn toad, which meant another week of cutting open his own hand. Everything seemed to be spiraling out of control, and Harry could barely keep up.

All he could do was keep an eye on Malfoy. And he could certainly see signs that the boy was trying to be better. He was fairer, punishing even members of his own house when they acted out in his duties as a Prefect. He was kinder, more polite to people from other houses, never acting like he was above them. And when Umbridge had come around asking for dirt on Hagrid during their next Care of Magical Creatures class, Malfoy did the unthinkable:

"Now, I hear there have been injuries in this class?"

Goyle gave a stupid grin and looked at Malfoy, poking him roughly in the arm.

"That was me," Malfoy softly said. "I was slashed by a hippogriff."

A hippogriff?" said Professor Umbridge, now scribbling frantically.

Harry opened his mouth to defend Hagrid, but Malfoy beat him to the punch.

"Yes, but it was my fault."

He, Ron, and Hermione looked at each other, stunned.

"Did he just—?" Ron started.

"Admit to him messing up?" Hermione finished. "Yes, I think so."

When they turned back to Malfoy, he and Umbridge were in a very quiet and polite argument.

"Yes, but if Professor Hagrid had introduced a less dangerous beast, then you would not have been injured!" Umbridge hissed.

"Regardless, he gave very clear instructions, instructions that I disobeyed," Malfoy said, a tired look in his eyes as he fed his bowtruckle woodlice by hand. "I did not really think that hippogriffs could understand English besides instructions from Hagrid. Rather daft, now that I think on it; they wouldn't be magical creatures if there wasn't something special about them. In the end, Madame Pomfrey fixed me that same afternoon, and I didn't even have a scar afterward."

Harry gave Hermione a harsh, but playful poke in the ribs.

"I told you the git was faking!" he whispered with glee.

Hermione poked him back even harder.

"I never said I didn't believe you, you prat!"

In the end, Umbridge left with a sniff, and Harry gave Malfoy a nod of thankfulness. The blond boy gave a faint smile in his direction but turned his attention back to the bowtruckle in his arms.

And yet, those acts of kindness were being punished.

Draco was being isolated by Slytherin house. When he sat to eat in the Great Hall, he sat at the end of the table by himself, while members of his house gave him confused and disgusted looks. In Potions, he was more likely than not to be paired with someone from another house, as the Slytherin students refused to work with him. Even Crabbe and Goyle seemed to have abandoned their longtime friend.

Harry felt for Draco. The boy was trying to do the right thing, going against everything he had ever been told, and he was being shunned by the people he'd grown up with since he was eleven.

And the worst part was, Harry could imagine it: First Year, when Gryffindor House had turned on him after he lost those points because of Norbert. Second Year, when damn near every house—even a few of his own dormmates—had thought he was the Heir of Slytherin. Fourth Year, when Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin had constantly been on his arse, and Ron had betrayed him. And even now, he could tell that people in the school were divided, some thinking Voldemort was back, while others believed he had murdered Cedric to get a bloody trophy.

So yeah, he understood that isolation, that loneliness. At least during all these events, he'd had Ron and Hermione. And even when Ron had turned his back on him last year, Hermione had stuck by him.

Draco didn't have that. Crabbe and Goyle had abandoned him. He was completely and utterly alone.

So, when Ron and Hermione brought up the ridiculous idea of him teaching them Defense Against the Dark Arts (as if he was some kind of expert), even when he initially rejected the idea, in his mind, he wondered.

If he lent out a hand to Draco... if he offered him a lifeline...

Would he take it?

And could he be trusted with it?

The Hog's Head was a small, dimly lit establishment, hidden away in a grimy corner of Hogsmeade. The air inside was thick and musty, saturated with an unsettling odor that seemed to be a blend of damp straw, wet animal fur, and a faint, acrid tang reminiscent of goats. The oppressive atmosphere was amplified by the cramped and claustrophobic space, where low ceilings seemed to press down on anyone who dared to enter.

The bay windows, nearly indistinguishable from the grimy walls, were caked with so much filth that it was impossible to tell whether daylight ever pierced the gloom inside. What little light managed to seep through was dulled into a sickly, muted glow, casting the room in an eerie, perpetual twilight. The bar's only real illumination came from the stubs of half-melted candles, their flames sputtering weakly. These meager lights cast restless, flickering shadows that danced across the uneven walls, creating the illusion of hidden figures lurking just out of sight.

The floor appeared, at first glance, to be packed earth, uneven and muddy in places. But as Harry stepped cautiously inside, he felt something solid crunch beneath his feet. Beneath the layers of grime and refuse that had accumulated over what must have been centuries, there were stones—large, jagged, and uneven. Some were worn smooth from years of foot traffic, but they were all caked in dirt that had long since resisted any effort at cleaning.

The bar itself was a massive, ancient slab of wood, darkened by age and neglect. Its surface bore the scars of countless years of use: sticky stains from spilled drinks, blackened scorch marks, and deep gouges that looked suspiciously like claw marks. Behind the bar, dusty shelves sagged under the weight of bottles filled with murky, mysterious liquids. Their faded labels were peeling, and some of the bottles held strange, unidentifiable objects suspended in their depths.

At the bar, hunched over a rickety stool, sat a man whose entire head was swathed in dirty, fraying gray bandages. His face was completely concealed, save for a narrow slit where his mouth should have been. Through this small gap, he gulped down glass after glass of a fiery, smoking liquid that hissed ominously as it slid down his throat. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though each sip required an immense effort, yet there was an air of grim familiarity to his routine, as if this was an act he had performed countless times before.

In the far corner, near one of the filth-encrusted windows, two figures sat at a table, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. At a glance, they might have been mistaken for dementors—their heavy cloaks draped over their forms, pooling like liquid shadows on the floor around them. But as Harry drew closer, he heard their rough Yorkshire accents. Their voices were gruff and coarse, unmistakably human, as they exchanged low, conspiratorial words punctuated by laughter that grated like the scraping of stones.

Near the fireplace, which offered little more than a weak, flickering glow, a witch sat cloaked in deep shadows. Her veil, a thick black curtain of fabric, cascaded from the top of her head to her toes, obscuring her entirely. Only the faintest outline of her nose pressed against the veil, forming a small, barely noticeable protrusion. She sat perfectly still, her presence almost spectral, like a ghost haunting the dark corner. For the briefest of moments, Harry thought it might have been Umbridge, but the woman was far too tall. Besides, subtlety wasn't exactly a skill in her repertoire.

The patrons of the Hog's Head spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones, their voices blending into the low crackle of the fire and the occasional clink of glasses. Dust hung heavily in the air, disturbed only when someone shifted or moved. The entire place felt stagnant, as though time itself had congealed within its grimy walls.

The Hog's Head, true to its reputation, was as revolting as Harry had imagined. Aunt Petunia would've taken one look, shrieked, and collapsed from sheer revulsion before even stepping inside. The thought almost made Harry laugh, and the corner of his lips twitched upward despite the oppressive surroundings.

"Bet we could order just about anything here," Ron said, taking a swig from the dusty butterbeer bottle in his hand. "Hey, Harry, wanna try firewhisky? Dad let me have a sip when I was twelve. Felt like my head was gonna pop."

"Ron. You. Are. A. Prefect," Hermione hissed, each word colder than the last.

"I was joking!" Ron replied hastily, raising his hands in mock surrender. But the moment Hermione turned away to glance at the door as it creaked open, he leaned toward Harry and whispered, "If I can sneak a few shots, you in?"

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn't help the soft huff of amusement that escaped him. Before he could respond, however, the door opened wider, and a steady stream of students began filtering into the dingy bar.

Neville, Dean, Lavender, Padma and Parvati, Cho, Luna, Katie, Alicia, Angelina, Colin and Dennis Creevey—and even a girl Harry didn't recognize—piled in, filling the cramped space.

"Oi, mate," Ron muttered, his voice pitched just loud enough to reach Harry's and Hermione's ears. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but has the word couple changed meaning recently? Pretty sure it still means two."

Hermione ignored him, her expression tight as she resolutely avoided Harry's gaze. Harry clenched his fist, forcing his anger to stay in check. This was fine—expected, even. Hogwarts was a breeding ground for gossip, and the idea of Harry Potter holding a secret meeting in the Hog's Head was sure to attract attention. That didn't mean he liked it, though, and the whispers and pointed stares of their audience weren't helping.

He scanned the crowd, but there was only one person he was truly waiting for.

"I think that's everyone," Hermione said at last, sounding unsure. "Shall we start?"

"Not quite yet," Harry interrupted, keeping his tone calm. "We're waiting on one more."

Hermione frowned. "You invited someone else?"

"Not exactly. I told them we'd be meeting in Hogsmeade today. You were the only one who knew the exact location, but if he's as smart as he claims to be, he'll figure it out."

Hermione's frown deepened. "He?"

Before Harry could answer, the door creaked open once more. The bar fell silent as Draco Malfoy stepped inside, looking distinctly out of place in the grubby establishment.

Ron shot to his feet, his expression livid. "What the bloody—"

"Draco," Harry said loudly, cutting across him. "Glad you could make it."

Draco gave a curt nod, his posture as guarded as ever. "Potter. Directions would've been appreciated."

"Yeah, they probably would've," Harry said with a shrug, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

The corners of Draco's mouth twitched in return, and for a fleeting moment, Harry found himself smiling too. The irony wasn't lost on him—after years of animosity, this strange camaraderie felt like some warped product of their shared history.

Was this the only way they could connect? Taunts and veiled jabs, courtesy of their years as enemies?

"Harry," Hermione began, her tone heavy with warning.

"See, Hermione?" Harry cut her off, gesturing to the room. "Notice how when I said one person, one person showed up? Not a Quidditch League." He turned to Ron, who was still standing. "And you—sit down. Don't say a word."

Ron dropped into his seat with a huff, but the tension in the room remained palpable. The gathered students had shifted their attention from Harry to Draco, their glares full of animosity. Harry didn't blame them; Draco had probably spent years bullying most of them. If he wanted to change, he'd have to prove himself.

Draco, for his part, chose a seat far from the group, his expression carefully neutral.

Hermione cleared her throat, her voice wavering. "Er…hello, everyone. Nice to see you all here today."

The crowd's focus reluctantly shifted back to her, though their attention flitted between Harry and Draco.

"Well…you know why you're here," Hermione said, fumbling slightly. "Harry had the idea—"

Another sharp look from Harry made her pause.

"I had the idea," Hermione corrected herself, her voice steadier now, "that it might be useful for those of us who want to study Defense Against the Dark Arts—really study it, not the rubbish Umbridge is teaching us—to take matters into our own hands."

"Hear, hear!" Anthony Goldstein called out, and Hermione's confidence seemed to grow.

"I'm not talking about just passing our O.W.L.s," she continued. "I mean learning proper spells, things we'll need to defend ourselves because…because…"

She took a deep breath, steeling herself.

"Because Voldemort's back."

The room erupted in chaos—gasps, shrieks, and nervous whispers filled the air.

Harry caught Draco raising an eyebrow, their gazes meeting briefly. The question in Draco's eyes was obvious:

You wanna teachthese kids how to defend themselves?

It was going to be a long meeting.

Well . . . that's the plan anyway," Hermione began hesitantly. "If you want to join us, we need to decide how we're going to—"

"Where's the proof You-Know-Who's back?" a blond Hufflepuff player cut in aggressively.

Hermione started, "Well, Dumbledore believes it—"

"You mean, Dumbledore believes him," the blond boy interrupted with a sneer, nodding toward Harry.

"Who are you?" Ron asked rudely, scowling.

"Zacharias Smith," said the boy, his tone heavy with disdain. "And I think we've got a right to know exactly what makes him say You-Know-Who's back."

"Look," Hermione interjected quickly, "this meeting wasn't supposed to be about—"

"It's okay, Hermione," Harry said, his voice low and steady, though tension rippled through him. After all, he'd been expecting this.

"What makes me say You-Know-Who's back?" Harry repeated, locking eyes with Zacharias. "I saw him. But Dumbledore already told the whole school what happened last year. If you didn't believe him, you won't believe me. I'm not wasting an afternoon trying to convince anyone."

Smith's expression darkened, and he spat, "Easy for you to say that when Cedric Diggory's in a grave and you're here walking around like nothing happened. Convenient, isn't it? Every year, you get tangled up in something shady, and all we hear is the same excuse: Dark Lord this, Dark Lord that. You're the only one who's seen him in the last fifteen years. Mighty lucky for you, isn't it? No witnesses. No one to contradict you. Just the word of the Boy-Who-Lived."

The words hit Harry like a hex. For a solid moment, his ears rang, and he simply stared at Smith. Did this idiot—did this bastard—just insinuate that I killed Cedric? That all the times I risked my life, all the times I nearly died, were just...what? Games? A farce?

The anger that had simmered since Cedric's death, the anger that had burned under his skin through Umbridge's taunts and the Ministry's denial, flared dangerously close to the surface. He wasn't sure what he was about to do, but he knew it wouldn't end well for Smith.

And then Draco laughed.

It was a soft, chilling sound, more of a knife's edge than mirth, and it cut through the room like a spell. Heads turned toward the Slytherin as the tension shifted.

"I'm sorry," Draco drawled, his voice dripping with scorn, "but are you actually suggesting that Saint Potter, Patron of Mudbloods and Blood Traitors, killed Cedric Diggory? And then—what? Dragged his corpse back to Hogwarts? In front of half the Ministry, a crowd of spectators, and a Triwizard Tournament panel? Well, my mother always said Hufflepuffs were duffers, but you, Smith, you take the bloody cake."

Smith shot to his feet, face red with fury. "You don't get to—"

"Oh?" Draco stood smoothly, advancing a step. His voice dropped, silky and dangerous. "Perhaps it's too hard for your little badger brain to grasp, but we're standing on a precipice. The worst Dark wizard in a century is alive—but he's not well. Whatever he did to claw his way back to life has left him unstable, both mentally and physically. Don't get me wrong, he could still wipe the floor with ninety percent of the population. But back in his prime? It was ninety-eight. So, if you're just here to throw baseless accusations, then kindly fuck off and let the people who actually want to fight get on with it."

"Why should we trust him?" Zacharias shot back, his finger jabbing toward Harry. "If he's cozying up to you, that already tells me the kind of person he is."

"We're not friends, you daft twit," Draco snapped. "But unlike you, I have a functioning brain. If you took five seconds to think, you'd understand why I'm here."

Draco began circling Zacharias like a predator, his voice sharp and deliberate. "For some reason, the Dark Lord can't kill Potter. He tried when he was a baby—managed to take out two fully grown magicals, but him? He got obliterated so thoroughly that there wasn't even a body to bury. Eleven years later, rumors started about Quirrelleither being in league with the Dark Lord or hosting him. We don't know what happened, but Quirrell ended up dead, Potter in the hospital wing, and the Sorcerer's Stone destroyed. Suspicious, yes. But if Dumbledore thought Potter killed a teacher for kicks, he wouldn't be standing here today."

Harry blinked, taken aback. Quirrell hosting Voldemort? That had never been public knowledge, had it? How did Draco—?

"Second year," Draco continued without pause. "Heir of Slytherin fiasco. Potter was caught speaking Parseltongue—odd, but not damning. People forget that Parseltongue isn't even British in origin. It comes from Greece, isn't that right, Granger?"

Hermione looked startled but nodded. "Well, yes. It's not common in Greece, but it is revered there rather than shamed. Many rich and powerful wizards throughout Grecian history have been notable Parseltongues. It's far more likely that Harry just has a Grecian ancestor, rather than being a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself, considering how little information there is in his family line."

Huh. Grecian ancestry. He had never even thought that his gift of Parseltongue could have come from anyone but Voldemort. True, it was because Dumbledore had told him that he thought it was because of the man, but in truth, Dumbledore wasn't infallible. The man could have made a mistake, looking for an extraordinary reason, rather than a simple one.

"Thank you. My point stands." Draco turned back to Smith, his smirk deepening. "No deaths, no murders, just rumors, and panic, In the end, though, the general consensus was that Potter did something to stop the attacks. Third year? Black escapes, yes, but Potter was involved in his capture."

Harry nearly opened his mouth to defend his godfather, but a swift pinch from Hermione and an elbow to the ribs from Ron had him shutting up and watching the show.

"Once again, no real answers," Draco continued. "But fourth year? Oh, now that's where it gets interesting."

Draco's tone grew icy as he leaned in. "Let's not pretend Potter wanted to be in the Tournament. He looked like he wanted to vomit when his name came out of the Goblet."

"He still played!" Smith said angrily. "If he didn't want to be in it so bad, then why didn't he just get out of it, let Cedric have his turn in the spotlight?"

"Because he couldn't. The Goblet's contract is unbreakable. He either competed, or he faced magic older than the Founders punishing him. And as for the final task? There was a Portkey on the Cup. It was supposed to take the winner to the stage after the Task was finished. Potter and Diggory vanish. An hour later, Potter returns—broken, bloody, and carrying Diggory's lifeless body. Now, you may say that this is, of course, because Diggory died at Potters' hands and fought him to the death, but I, unlike a majority of everyone in this room, am rich and connected, and I know what the Auror's wrote about their investigation before Fudge shut it down."

Harry froze. There had been an investigation?

And Fudge had stopped it?

"First point," Draco began, his tone sharp, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "The Portkey charm on the Cup? It wasn't Potter or Diggory. The magical traces led directly to our dearly departed Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Barty Crouch Junior. The man spent the entire year masquerading as Mad-Eye Moody, who, by the way, was stuffed into a magical trunk."

A dry chuckle escaped Draco. "You have to admit, it's ironic. Mad-Eye Moody, the infamous Dark wizard catcher, caught off guard. Humiliating, really, considering the...less-than-legal methods he employed in his raids."

"Draco," Hermione interrupted with a pointed cough, her disapproval evident.

"Right, back on track," he muttered. "Second point: the Portkey's coordinates led to a graveyard. A grave there had been desecrated, its bones removed and used in a potion. Third, a cauldron reeking of death magic was found at the site. I'm not sure what Potter would have done with that, Smith, but you seem to have some ideas?"

The boy in question clenched his fists, his face burning with suppressed anger.

"Fourth," Draco continued coolly, "the spell residue. There were signs of a battle—powerful magic cast by multiple adult wizards. Far more than just Potter and Diggory. Fifth, the Aurors checked both Potter's wand and Diggory's. Neither cast an Unforgivable. So unless Potter had a second wand shoved up his—"

"Draco!" Hermione snapped, horrified.

"—robe," Draco corrected smoothly, earning a few muffled laughs. "He couldn't have killed Diggory."

Harry turned to Ron and Hermione, his voice low and furious. "When did this investigation happen? No one told me anything about it!"

"Probably because it was shut down," Ron whispered back, his brow furrowed. "Amelia Bones—Dad calls her a firecracker—must've launched it right after you returned with Cedric. The evidence couldn't have been hard to gather if the Death Eaters didn't clean up. You said the graveyard was near a Muggle village, right?"

"As far as I could tell," Harry replied.

"Then it would've triggered the Ministry's detection spells. They'd have sent an Obliviation team immediately. Bones wouldn't have wasted time, but Fudge? He would've shut it down the moment he heard. He's too scared of the truth."

Harry's jaw clenched, his fingers curling tightly around the edge of the table. Fudge knew. There had been evidence—proof that Harry wasn't a murderer. Proof he'd been attacked, that Dark Magic had been used.

And Fudge had buried it.

The Daily Prophet's smear campaign replayed in Harry's mind. All the insinuations, the accusations that he was unhinged. Fudge knew Harry was innocent. He knew Voldemort was back. The anger simmering in Harry's chest ignited into a roaring inferno.

Draco's voice cut through his thoughts. "Lastly, Madame Pomfrey and Professor Snape reported that Potter showed signs of having been cut with a sacrificial dagger. Blood forcibly taken—likely for a potion or ritual. Virgin blood, blood of a foe, or blood of an innocent. None of those bode well, do they?" He paused for effect, his gaze sweeping the room. "Now, I'm not saying the Dark Lord has returned. My word means nothing to most of you. But I trust you're all smart enough to put the pieces together."

Fred crossed his arms, his tone skeptical. "How do we know you're not lying? You're a Slytherin; that's what you lot do. And why are you defending Harry? Shouldn't you be celebrating that your dad's boss is back?"

Draco rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath before responding. "Ask Bones if you doubt me. She can't share the details, but she can confirm there was an investigation—and that Potter wasn't implicated."

All eyes turned to Susan Bones, who shrank back in her seat.

"M-me?" she stammered.

"Yes, little badgerette," Draco drawled. "Your aunt can at least confirm that much."

He then turned back to Fred, his expression disdainful. "And as for why I'm not groveling at the Dark Lord's feet? Let me spell it out: he's a loser. Routinely outplayed by a child. Crippled by a baby. Defeated by an old man addicted to Muggle sweets. If I'm going to follow someone, it'll be the strongest there is—not a man who's lost to Harry Potter more times than I can count."

Harry bristled, offended—but he couldn't entirely refute the point. Draco's logic, twisted as it was, held a kernel of truth.

Harry had technically never lost to Voldemort. Sure, the man had outclassed him in magic at every term, but on each engagement, Harry had escaped or achieved his objective. The Stone had been destroyed. Ginny had been saved and the Basilisk had been killed. Yeah, Wormtail had gone free, but Sirius had escaped with Buckbeak. And even with Cedric's death…that was still a win. He was alive. People knew that Voldemort was alive, and that ones that were ready for him were prepping right now.

It was sobering, to realize that he had done more against Voldemort than most adult wizards.

Hermione stood up, once again drawing everyone's attention. Harry noticed that even the other patrons of the bar had begun to watch them out of the corners of their eyes. Conversations had halted; everyone was eavesdropping.

"We're getting off track," the bushy-haired girl said gently. "The main reason we're here isn't to debate whether or not V-Voldemort is back. We're here to learn defense, because whether or not it's true, we still need to know how to protect ourselves and our families. The Dark Arts have never stopped growing. Dementors have grown in numbers and strength. More and more wild magical creatures are appearing. And Dark Wizards and Witches have always been there and will always be there. Just because they don't have a Lord in front of their name doesn't mean they're any less dangerous.

"Umbridge tells us that we should call the Ministry and its Aurors for help. But I can tell you this: sometimes, you don't have a choice. When evil is standing right in front of you, ready to cut you down, the only thing capable of stopping it is you. Not an Auror, not a Hitwizard—you. Wouldn't you at least like to know how to cast a Shield Charm? Or a Patronus? Or even a simple Stunner? Those are the kinds of things we'll be going over. Nothing crazy, nothing outside of what we're already learning. We'll just be going over them with a finer brush, getting everything we can out of those spells. That's what this group is for. That's what we're all here for."

"And what if we don't want to be in a group that has Draco Malfoy as a member?"

The voice cut through Hermione's speech like a knife. It took Harry a moment to remember the name of the girl who had spoken, now glaring daggers at Draco.

Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff.

Harry's mind flashed back to second year, when Hannah had believed he was the Heir of Slytherin and worn those "Potter Stinks" badges.

He hadn't liked her much since.

Hermione hesitated. "...Draco has recently had a change of heart. I understand that you might have your grievances against him, but right now, we're giving him the same courtesy that we're giving everyone else here—"

"He cursed me."

The silence was deafening.

"I don't even remember what curse it was," Hannah continued, her voice steady but sharp, "I just remember it felt like my eyes were boiling out of my skull. I couldn't see for an hour. I nearly fell off the Grand Staircase three times as I tried to get to Madam Pomfrey, and she had to keep me overnight for observation. She told me if I had come to her a few hours later, the damage could have been permanent. Do you even remember why you did it?"

Draco's face was like stone as he answered.

"No."

"I bumped into you on the staircase. That was it. I didn't even get the chance to apologize; you just whipped out your wand and cursed me. Do you remember what you said to me? I do, even though it's been two years since then.

"'Half-breeds should know their place.' That's what you told me. That was my great and terrible crime against you: being me. I was in third year. I was a kid. And you used a curse that could have ruined my eyes permanently, for the sin of not being pure enough," Hannah hissed. "I don't care if you've changed your spots or turned over a new leaf. It'll be a cold day in hell before I join any group you're in."

The tension in the room was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. Harry could see Hermione struggling to find something to say, but she was drawing a blank. Honestly, so was he.

How do you even respond to something like that? Harry had always known Malfoy was no good, but hearing this… it made him almost want to reconsider listening to the boy.

And of course, that was when another voice spoke.

"He broke my camera."

Colin Creevey.

"Not as bad as getting hexed and being left on the Grand Staircase, mind you. But my parents bought that for me. It was expensive. It was the camera I learned to make magic photos with. And he broke it. For fun."

"He had his goons, the big ones, punch me in the stomach back in first year after he cast the Body-Bind Curse on me," added Dean Thomas. There was a cold look in his eye as he regarded Malfoy. "Said he wanted to see if the spell turned me into a statue-like being, or if my muscles were just frozen. He wanted to see if I could feel pain."

More and more people spoke up. Not everyone, but a lot. Not all of them had physical scars; many were verbal abuse. Slurs and insults about friends and family. Swift punishment if they dared to respond. Draco had always been talented with a wand, perhaps even more so than Harry, but he had used those talents for his own amusement.

And Draco could be very cruel when he was having fun.

By the end, there was a clear consensus:

Nobody wanted Draco Malfoy in the group.

Hermione tried, of course.

"Everyone, I do understand your grievances with Draco, and I empathize with them greatly. Trust me, I've been on the other end of Draco's wand and his big mouth more times than I can count over the years. But we should try to give everyone a second chance—"

"No."

Draco looked very tired, with a strange mix of emotions on his face that Harry couldn't decipher. Was that anger? Frustration? Guilt?

"It's quite obvious that me being here is a major sign of contention. If I joined the group regardless of what the others said, it would brew resentment and anger. Righteous anger, at that. No point in alienating the few allies you have left just so I can join your little club."

Draco cracked a small, bitter smile.

"After all, it's not as if I need protection from the Dark Arts."

Without another word, Draco walked toward the entrance.

Throughout all of this, Harry hadn't spoken. Mostly because he didn't know what to say. He knew Draco was trying to be better; he'd seen it. But that didn't change his history. Malfoy had spent four years talking about how Mudbloods would get their own, cursing people left and right, gleefully extolling the privileges he abused as a pureblood, cementing himself in everyone's minds as "Dark." No one knew about the summer he spent with Voldemort. None of them knew he'd been scarred trying to help his mother.

Aside from Harry and the others who had been in the train compartment that day, no one knew that Draco Malfoy had a very good reason for wanting Voldemort dead and gone.

As far as they could tell, Draco Malfoy hadn't stopped being evil. He had just been quieter this year, a little easier to ignore. So unless Draco did something crazy, like denouncing Voldemort in the middle of the Great Hall during breakfast, well… they really couldn't force anyone to accept him.

So all Harry could do was watch Draco walk out that door, a look of such palpable loneliness on his face that you'd think he was the last man on Earth.

And maybe, from his perspective, he was.

The rest of the meeting had gone well. Hermione had everyone sign their names on a piece of parchment, agreeing to meet once a week while ensuring their sessions wouldn't conflict with Quidditch practices. All they needed now was a place to practice. That should have been Harry's first priority.

But he couldn't stop thinking about Malfoy.

And by the conflicted looks on Ron and Hermione's faces, he knew they couldn't either.

It was after midnight when the rest of the Gryffindor House had gone to bed, leaving just the three of them in the common room. The fire crackled softly in the hearth as they finally broached the subject.

"So… the meeting could have gone better," Hermione said, setting down her knitting needles. She had recently taken up making hats and scarves for the house-elves, planning to hide them beneath trash so they'd be "set free."

Harry didn't have the heart to tell her that house-elves could clean the entire tower with a snap of their fingers and that, since none of them were the elves' masters, the clothes wouldn't change anything.

"I wish you'd told me about inviting him before," Hermione added, frowning slightly. "I could've planned for it."

"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing," Harry said. "We were chatting during Care of Magical Creatures, and I just mentioned it. He said he'd come. I didn't know that so many people hated him—or that they had such good reasons to."

"It's not like it's surprising," Ron said with a shrug. "We've always known he's a nasty git—spewing filth, cursing people in the back. Still, I didn't think anyone hated him as much as we do. Guess I was wrong."

"...do you guys think this is a good idea?" Harry asked quietly. "Helping Malfoy? After everything he's done?"

"...Harry, I know I said I wanted Malfoy on our side for the intel on the Death Eaters," Hermione said slowly, her voice carefully measured. "But that's not the only reason."

Harry tilted his head. "What's the other reason?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "Harry, tell me honestly. If you were on a battlefield, and Malfoy was on the other side, knowing he asked us for help, that he wanted to change… could you kill him? Could either of you?"

Harry opened his mouth to respond—yes, of course, he could—but the words refused to leave his lips.

Draco Malfoy had been part of his life since they were eleven. They'd grown up in the same castle, taken the same classes, eaten in the same hall, and played against each other in Quidditch. Like it or not, those shared experiences formed a bond, however twisted and antagonistic it had been.

As much as Harry disliked Malfoy, he didn't want him dead.

And judging by the silence stretching between them, Ron didn't either.

"I don't like Malfoy at all," Hermione continued, her tone firm. "He's been a representation of everything wrong in the wizarding world since the day we met him. He made fun of my teeth, my hair, my blood, my family. He's insulted your parents, Harry, and made fun of Ron's. He's hexed us, bullied us, and stood for things we all hate."

Ron huffed in agreement, crossing his arms.

"But he's fifteen," Hermione pressed on. "He grew up in a family that taught him to hate, and it only took him one summer to realize that everything he believed in was a lie. And what did he do with that realization? Did he double down? Pretend nothing was wrong? No—he came to us. He told us why he's changing sides. He even apologized. And yes, Ron, it was a terrible apology. But he still did it. Can you really compare the Malfoy of today to the Malfoy we knew six months ago?"

Ron scowled. "A lousy apology doesn't make up for four years of being a prick. And it's not like he apologized to the blokes at the meeting today."

"Would it have mattered if he did?" Hermione countered. "Or would it have sounded hollow, meaningless to them after everything they've been through because of him?"

Ron's scowl deepened, his frustration mounting. "Why are you so desperate to believe he's changed? You fancy him or something?"

A cold, sharp look passed over Hermione's face. "Ron," she said icily, "we've been friends for four years, right?"

Ron shifted uneasily. "Er… yeah?"

"Then answer me this: What's science?"

Ron blinked, completely taken aback. "What?"

"You heard me. What is science?"

Ron glanced helplessly at Harry, who shrugged.

"Uh… I don't know."

"What's technology?" Hermione pressed.

"That's not a real word."

Harry winced. He understood Ron had grown up in a very different world, but it was moments like these that made him realize just how vast the gap between them could be.

"What's electricity?" Hermione asked, her tone razor-sharp.

Ron brightened slightly. "Oh, I know that one! It's what Muggles use!"

Hermione folded her arms. "For what?"

"Er… Muggle things," Ron offered weakly. "Like fellytones and… cars and… you know… things."

Hermione turned to Harry. "Four years of friendship, and he still knows almost nothing about the world we come from. His dad works with Muggle artifacts, his best friends are Muggle-born and Muggle-raised, and yet he's barely made an effort to learn. Meanwhile…"

She paused, her eyes narrowing.

"Draco Malfoy—Malfoy—went to the Muggle world this summer. He didn't just wander around; he studied it. He called it beautiful. He called Muggle history, science, and technology a kind of magic. He didn't have to do that. No one made him. But he wanted to learn about the people he'd been taught to hate. So why is it that you, the one that's so much better than him, know less about the Muggle world than he does? And mind you, he didn't use four years to figure it out either. It took him one summer to learn these things."

"Hermione, I… it's not…"

Ron stammered, his ears reddening as he struggled to find the words. In the end, he turned away, shame etched on his face.

Hermione sighed, her frustration softening into something more vulnerable.

"Look, I'm not happy about this either. Half the time, I look at him, and I want to punch his face in like I did in third year. He's hurt me, Ron. If I'd died in second year, he wouldn't have cared. I can't forget something like that. Even if he suddenly became some faultless saint, I don't think I could ever truly forget. But I can acknowledge that he's changed. And… I can forgive him."

Her voice wavered, her face turning fragile as she added, "I don't want him to die knowing I could have changed it."

There was a moment of heavy silence before Harry spoke, his voice quiet and measured.

"I understand him," Harry said, staring into the flames of the common room hearth. "Being alone. Nobody believing in you. Thinking it's you against the world. I just… I don't know if I trust him. I can't just… put my life in his hands like that. Because that's basically what this is. This group is about teaching people to survive against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. It's too important to risk on a variable like Malfoy.

"With the Ministry on our necks, Voldemort plotting in the background, and more and more Dark creatures joining his side… the kids in that tavern might end up being the only people strong enough to fight back."

Harry sighed, the weight of the responsibility settling on his shoulders.

He thought about how easily Mad-Eye Moody, supposedly one of the best Auror's ever, had been taken down by a Death Eater who'd been under the Imperius for most of his adult life. How unprepared the average wizard seemed when faced with real danger. Dementors were a thing, but as far as he knew, him and the teachers were the only ones who could perform a Patronus charm.

The more he thought about it, the more it amazed him that Voldemort hadn't won the first time.

"I won't give up on him," Harry said finally, his voice resolute. "If there's a chance he's legit… I'll risk it. But I'll do it personally. It's not fair to ask others, especially people he hurt, to risk their lives for him. If this backfires, I'll make sure the blowback is on me."

"I'm in," Hermione said without hesitation.

Ron hesitated, his face a mix of turmoil and frustration. Harry could see his internal struggle—Ron hated Malfoy more than anyone. But then Ron straightened, a determined look in his eyes.

"I don't trust him, but I trust you two," Ron said seriously. "If you're taking a chance on him, then I'm with you. I think it's a bad idea, yeah, but I'm not letting you two deal with this alone.

"Not ever again."

The next Care of Magical Creatures class gave Harry the perfect opportunity. Without bothering with pleasantries, he grabbed his bowtruckle, marched straight over to Malfoy, and pulled him aside, ignoring the whispers and curious glances of the rest of the class.

"You know, you could have at least said hello before dragging me off like a child," Malfoy drawled, carefully feeding his bowtruckle a handful of woodlice.

Unlike the old Malfoy, this version seemed more inclined to care for the creatures rather than torment them.

"Cut the act. Give me a reason to trust you."

Malfoy stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "Are you serious? After everything I've said—"

"Yes, I'm serious!" Harry interrupted, his frustration bubbling over. "Because despite seeing that you've changed, you've spent years being the world's biggest arse. Do you know how many people here hate you? How many people you've hurt? You need to give me a reason I can believe, a reason that makes sense coming from the Draco Malfoy I've known. Otherwise, I can't trust you."

Malfoy's eyes sparked with anger. "Me not wanting to serve a lunatic who's been losing to a schoolboy doesn't count?"

"I need more than that," Harry shot back. "Malfoy, you've spent years making me hate you. Do you have any idea how hard it is to put that aside? I need to know why you, of all people, want to switch sides. What's in it for you?"

For a moment, Malfoy said nothing. He simply fed his bowtruckle, his expression unreadable. Harry was about to press further when the Slytherin finally spoke.

"You want an arsehole reason? Fine." Malfoy's voice was cold, his eyes locking onto Harry's with startling intensity. "I want power. Power like Dumbledore's. I want people to trust my word like it's gospel. I want people to rely on me so much that just hearing my name makes them feel safe. That's what I want."

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the raw honesty in Malfoy's words.

"I can't get that kind of power from a madman who loses every year to you," Malfoy continued bitterly. "Dumbledore never needed Dark magic to match the Dark Lord. And you—you've beaten him without meaning to, without even trying. That means there's something about your side worth following. I'm in this for the win, Potter. That's all I care about."

For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then, slowly, a smile spread across Harry's face.

"I can work with that."