The day after the uneventful trip to Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, Draco found himself walking toward the grand fireplace in the manor, luggage in hand. The echoes of his footsteps lingered in the hollow corridors. He felt the weight of the moment pressing against him, another return to Hogwarts, but this time, the air seemed heavier than before, the dread of his task settling in his stomach. He paused for a moment, glancing back at his parents. Bellatrix stood off to the side, her sharp eyes following his every movement, like a hawk awaiting its prey. His gaze caught his mother's—a brief, silent exchange of understanding.

With a curt nod to her, he turned on his heel and stepped into the fireplace, taking a handful of Floo powder. His voice rang out, clear and deliberate.

"King's Cross Station!"

The pull of the Floo Network hit him with its usual force. For a brief moment, he felt as though he were being sucked down a drain, an unsettling, twisting sensation that made him clench his teeth. His eyes shut instinctively, but they snapped open again just as quickly when the spinning stopped. With a practised grace, he landed firmly on the cold, stone floor of the fireplace room at the back of King's Cross Station. His boots clicked on the polished floor as he immediately began to brush the ash off his expensive suit, his movements smooth and controlled. His fingers flicked at his tie, adjusting it with precision.

Taking one last breath to steady himself, Draco left the confines of the fireplace room and stepped into the bustling station. The air was thick with the chatter of students reuniting with their friends, parents fussing over their children and the hum of excitement that came with the beginning of a new school year. The station was alive with motion, as students hurried in all directions, some laughing, others talking in hushed tones, and some simply walking aimlessly, caught in their own thoughts.

For a fleeting moment, Draco allowed himself to close his eyes, his shoulders tense from the weight of everything that had happened, everything that was yet to come. He inhaled deeply as if trying to push the worries of the world away, but then he felt it—subtle, but undeniable—the sharp burn of the Mark against his forearm. He instinctively rubbed the area.

Shaking off the unease that had crept over him, Draco squared his shoulders and began to move through the crowds. His steps were purposeful, cutting through the mass of students. His eyes remained focused ahead, avoiding the occasional glance from a student here and there, though he knew their gazes lingered.

As he reached the edge of the platform, the sound of the train's engine hissing in the distance, he felt a chill crawling up his spine. The uncomfortable, prickling sensation of being watched. He tried to ignore it, but the feeling grew. His eyes flicked to the side, and there, of course, were the three members of the Golden Trio. The trio—Potter, Granger, and Weasley, one of them, at least—stood together, their eyes fixed on him. Draco's heart skipped a beat. They were staring at him.

In that instant, his mouth twisted into a sneer, his lips curling in disgust at the sight of them, the muggle-loving pureblood, the half-blood, and that disgusting, know-it-all mudblood. Their eyes were wide with judgment as if they could already see through him, see everything he was hiding.

Without a second thought, he pivoted, turning his back on them and walking toward the red Hogwarts Express, the click of his boots a steady rhythm against the platform. The train's whistle cut through the air, sharp and clear, but to Draco, it was nothing more than a distant hum in the background of the blood rumbling in his ears.

As Draco settled into the nearly empty carriage, he exhaled, letting his body sink into the plush seat. His gaze drifted toward the window, watching as the station began to slip away, the train rolling forward with a slow, steady rhythm. Resting his head against his palm, he let the blur of the passing scenery lull his thoughts into a quiet hum, momentarily forgetting the weight pressing down on his shoulders.

The peace was short-lived. The carriage door slid open, and before he could turn to look, he heard his name spoken in a tone he knew all so well, one that carried warmth.

Draco looked up to find Theo, Pansy, and Blaise stepping inside, and for the first time in weeks, he felt something stir within him, something close to relief. A real, genuine smile, spread across his face.

"Fancy seeing you lot here," he drawled, smirking as he leaned back. "I thought you'd never come."

"Oh, come off it, mate," Theo laughed, dropping into the seat opposite him. "It just took a while to find you. But seriously, how was your summer? We haven't heard a word from you in weeks!"

Draco hesitated. The question sent shivers throughout his body. He faltered for a fraction too long, before turning his gaze back to the countryside rushing past the window. The hill merged into one big green smear, its colour stark against the golden hues of the setting sun.

"It was decent, I suppose," he answered finally, his voice carefully composed. "Standard summer."

Theo and Blaise exchanged a look, but neither pressed him further. Pansy, sensing the uncomfortable shift, changed the subject with ease, pulling the group into talk of the upcoming year, of past misadventures, of trivial things that felt so far removed from the reality Draco had come to know.

And as they spoke—laughing at shared memories, speculating about the year ahead—Draco found himself grasping onto the moment, onto the familiarity of it all.

For the first time since that night, since the pain of the mark being burned into his skin, he felt something flicker inside him. A faint glimmer of hope, one that fought against the darkness that had begun to consume him.

Maybe, just maybe, he could see this through.

Soon enough, Blaise excused himself, muttering something about wanting to see what Slughorn's little club was all about. Draco barely spared him a glance, stretching out further along the carriage seat, folding his arms behind his head. The warmth of the compartment, combined with the exhaustion that had weighed on him since the start of the summer, was beginning to seep into his bones. The steady rocking of the train, the whispering voices of his friends—it was the closest thing to peace he had known in weeks.

An hour later, peace was rudely interrupted.

Draco was jolted awake by a firm shake to the shoulder.

"Sod off, would you?" he muttered groggily, batting away Blaise's hand before pushing himself upright, blinking against the dim light of the carriage. His limbs felt stiff and heavy.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Blaise smirked, dropping back into his seat with a lazy elegance. "I was doing you a favour. If you slept any longer, you'd have started drooling. Hardly the picture of aristocratic grace, Lord Pembroke."

"Fuck you, Zabini," Draco grumbled, running a hand through his platinum hair before reaching for his wand to cast a quick Tempus charm. "What was that bloody meeting about anyway?"

Blaise shrugged. "Just Slughorn collecting his new future little trophies. Even the She-Weasel was there."

Draco snorted, shaking his head. "Of course she was. He probably gave her an invitation out of pity."

Pansy, who had been lounging with her legs tucked beneath her, slowly swirled the last remnants of her pumpkin juice in its bottle. "I still don't get why you weren't invited, Draco," she mused, cocking her head. "You're supposed to be Slughorn's type—good breeding, wealthy family, title, all that nonsense he drools over."

Draco stiffened slightly but forced a smirk. "Perhaps he's not interested in those who openly associate with… certain groups ."

A thick silence fell over the compartment. Theo glanced up from his book, and Pansy suddenly became very interested in the hem of her robes.

Draco huffed. "Oh, don't look at me like that. It's not as if it's some bloody secret."

Theo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "That doesn't mean we like thinking about it, mate." His voice was quiet, careful.

Draco felt something uneasy twist in his stomach but said nothing if only they knew. Instead, he shifted, stretching out his legs.

They carried on talking after that, though the laughter felt a little more forced, the silences a little longer. The comfortable normalcy of their conversation from earlier had been broken, but Draco clung to it anyway, desperate to soak in the familiarity of his friends.

As the train rumbled forward, they eventually changed into their Hogwarts uniforms. As Draco adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, a faint rustling sound came from above. His gaze flickered upward, just in time to catch a pair of hands seemingly disappearing into thin air.

His stomach dropped.

Potter.

Draco lowered his eyes to his hands, flexing his fingers as he considered his next move. It was laughable, really—after all the things he had endured this summer, Potter thought he could spy on him?

Draco carefully schooled his expression before continuing the conversation.

As the train pulled into Hogsmeade station, and the group stood up, Draco suddenly stopped, "You three go on," he said smoothly, brushing invisible dust from his robes. "I want to check something."

Theo gave him a lingering glance before nodding. "Alright. Don't take too long, or Pansy will start whining."

"I do not whine," Pansy bit back, narrowing her eyes.

Draco huffed a short, amused breath as they exited the compartment.

Once they were gone, he swiftly waved his wand, pulling the blinds shut. Then, slowly, he turned around, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

"Didn't Mummy ever tell you it's bad manners to eavesdrop, Potter?" he drawled, voice dripping with mockery. "Petrificus Totalus!"

There was a dull thud as Potter's body fell from the luggage rack, landing unceremoniously on the floor. Draco took a step forward, looking down at him with a mixture of satisfaction and something else, bitterness.

He crouched down, tilting his head as if studying a particularly uninteresting animal.

"Oh, right," he murmured, "She was dead before you could wipe the drool off your chin."

Potter's frozen body remained unresponsive, his eyes wide and unblinking, pupils dilated.

Draco reached for his wand, twirling it between his fingers as he considered his next move. He could do anything right now. Kick him in the ribs. Stomp his face in. Break his fingers. He thought of the Dark Lord's eyes, black, cold and soulless, burning through him.

His hand twitched, as the mark sent bolts of pain through his body.

Then, suddenly, the moment passed.

Draco exhaled sharply. He pulled Potter's discarded invisibility cloak from the floor, tossing it over his paralysed form.

"Enjoy the ride back to London, Potter," he muttered, before spinning on his heel and marching out of the compartment.

His hands were trembling. He shoved them into his pockets.

As Draco sat down next to his friends in the Great Hall, Theo leaned in slightly, curiosity evident in his sharp gaze.

"What was the hold-up?" he asked, voice casual but laced with suspicion.

Draco frowned as he picked up his goblet, swirling the pumpkin juice inside before taking a slow sip.

"Nothing important," he replied coolly. "As I mentioned, I had to check something."

Theo raised his eyebrows but simply shrugged. He knew better than to push Draco when he was being evasive. Blaise, too, gave him a look but said nothing, while Pansy was too busy gossiping with Daphne to pay much attention.

The Sorting Ceremony began, as it always did, with the Sorting Hat's customary song. Draco sat through the entire process as if in a trance. He barely registered the nervous first-years stepping forward one by one. The usual chatter and laughter around him blurred into nothingness.

His fingers traced patterns against the polished wood of the Slytherin table as his mind drifted elsewhere—back to the mark burned into his wrist, back to the task he had been given, back to the way his mother had looked at him before he left the Manor.

Strangely, he felt the distinct sensation of being watched.

Lifting his gaze slightly, his eyes met Snape's across the Great Hall.

The older man's dark, beady stare bore into him.

Draco quickly averted his eyes, suddenly finding the silver fork in front of him infinitely more interesting. His fingers twitched around the handle as he fought the urge to rub his forearm, the faint sting of the mark a reminder of why Snape was probably watching him.

Halfway through the meal, movement at the other end of the room caught his attention.

At the entrance of the Great Hall, Potter and Lovegood walked in.

Draco's lips curled into a scoff.

Unfortunate luck, Potter, he thought bitterly, watching the Gryffindor make his way over to his table, looking only slightly worse for wear. Maybe next time.

As the feast came to an end, Draco was approached by Professor McGonagall, who sternly eyed him for a moment, before giving him a tight smile, "Mr. Malfoy, there will be quick patrol assignments in my classroom in a moment, please be there."

Draco stood speechless for a moment, having completely forgotten that he was a prefect his year, before regaining his wits and smoothly answering, "Yes Professor," and turning towards his friends once again.

"And bring Mr. Nott with you," she called after him.

After making his way with Theo to the Transfiguration classroom, Draco leaned against the cool stone wall near the back, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping over this year's assembled prefects.

Surprisingly, Saint Potter was absent. Instead, Granger and the Weasel took their places as the Gryffindor prefects, radiating a sense of self-importance that made Draco's fingers twitch with irritation.

"I will now call out your assignments," Professor McGonagall's voice rang out. "Nott and Clearwater, Weasley and Goldstein…"

Draco tuned her out, his focus drifting instead to the faces around him. All of them looked so at ease—so relaxed. His jaw clenched as something ugly curled in his chest.

They don't have a Dark Mark on their arms. They don't have a price on their heads.

For a moment, a bitter envy flared within him. But he immediately crushed it, disgusted by his thoughts. He was a Malfoy. He had it all. Malfoys were not jealous of anyone.

"Malfoy and Granger."

His thoughts screeched to a halt.

Draco snapped his head up, staring at McGonagall in disbelief. He barely had a moment to register his reaction before Weasley's outraged protests filled the room.

"No changes, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall cut in, handing out the patrol schedules. "I suggest you return to your rooms and get some sleep."

Draco scowled, stuffing the parchment into his pocket as he stalked out of the room, Theo falling into step beside him. They made their way through the dimly lit corridors toward the dungeons, their footsteps echoing against the stone.

"I cannot believe this lunatic has me patrolling with the mudblood every Tuesday and Friday," Draco spat, his voice laced with venom. "Can you believe that's how I'll be wasting my evening tomorrow?"

Theo chuckled. "Maybe you'll find some hidden side of her, mate. You never know."

Draco let out a snort, shoving Theo's shoulder. "Yeah, right. I'll try not to catch a disease."

Theo smirked but then let out a sigh, rolling his shoulders. "I'm knackered. I think I'll turn in for the night."

Draco nodded curtly before splitting off, heading toward his dorm. He could already feel the beginnings of a headache forming at the thought of tomorrow night.

As he sank onto his mattress, Draco let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle deep in his bones. He unbuttoned his crisp white shirt with sluggish fingers, slipping out of his tailored clothes and replacing them with his night attire. The room was still. He rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply as his eyes landed on his wrist.

The Dark Mark stood out, stark and ugly against his pale skin. His throat tightened. No matter where he turned, no matter what he did, the walls of his cage only seemed to press closer. He was trapped beneath the expectations, the fear, the future.

His breath hitched, coming out in uneven, shallow gasps as he placed his head between his hands, fingers tugging at his soft hair. He needed to silence the noise in his mind, to grasp at something real.

With an erratic motion, Draco pushed himself up, stepping over to his trunk and pulling out a book. He flipped it open, turning past the pages until his fingers found the object hidden within the binding—a slender, shiny blade.

For a moment, he simply stared at it, his reflection distorted in the metal. Then, without hesitation, he dragged it across his forearm in one swift, clean motion. A sharp sting developed into a slow, burning ache. His mind went still. He watched as a thin line of crimson surfaced, trickling down in delicate drops. Another stroke. Then another.

The pain was tangible. It was real, something to anchor him. Unlike the torment in his mind, this was something he could control.

Draco exhaled shakily, his chest rising and falling in a more even rhythm now. After a few moments, he methodically cleaned his arm, wiped the floor, and tucked the blade back between the pages of the book.

He slid beneath his silk sheets, pressing his head into the cool pillow, his body sinking into the familiar mattress. The pain dulled, leaving only a hollow ache behind. His eyelids grew heavy, and before he could think any further, sleep finally claimed him.

Draco woke before the rest of his housemates, his eyes snapping open to the warm light filtering through the enchanted windows of the Slytherin dormitory. The Black Lake above cast shifting shadows across the stone ceiling. He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before throwing off the sheets. His body was stiff—his muscles tight, his head heavy from too little sleep and too many thoughts.

The cold stone floor sent a shiver up his bare feet as he stood, retrieving a pressed uniform. After folding it, like a cat, he crept into the empty corridors, his footsteps nearly silent against the floor. The showers were vacant, Draco sighed as he let the hot water burn away the stress of the day before.

He carefully buttoned his shirt, slipped on a grey cashmere sweater and reached for his tie, looping it around his collar. A final tug, and it sat perfectly in place.

While fixing his hair, he lingered in front of the mirror, his reflection staring back at him with unfamiliar hollowness. He looked paler than usual, if that were even possible—his cheekbones sharper, the shadows under his eyes darker. How long had it been since he'd had a full night's rest? He scoffed under his breath, It didn't matter.

By the time he re-entered the common room, life had begun to stir. Students moved about, buttoning their robes, chatting in small clusters, and idly flipping through textbooks. A few first-years rushed past him, their laughter grating against his ears.

Without waiting for Theo, Blaise, or Pansy, he gathered his books and strode towards the Great Hall. The moment he sat at the Slytherin table, he reached for a piece of toast, but after one bite, he set it back down. His stomach churned. He couldn't eat.

His gaze wandered, drifting across the hall before inevitably landing on the Gryffindor table. His scowl deepened as he spotted Granger, a smile on her face, her honey-coloured eyes sparkling as she sat with the Weasley girl, the two engaged in what appeared to be a lively discussion. He exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temples. He would be spending the evening with her, patrolling the castle like some oversized guard dog. Another humiliation to add to the ever-growing list.

His thoughts raced. The task. His parents' lives hanging in the balance. The Vanishing Cabinet from Borgin and Burkes.

"Draco," Theo's voice pulled him from his thoughts, "you look like you've just seen a bloody dementor. You alright?"

Draco forced a smirk, though it barely reached his eyes. "I'm fine, Nott. Just looking forward to an evening spent with Granger. I'm sure it'll be a delight."

Pansy snorted from across the table. "Oh, do try not to hex her on sight, darling. You might actually get expelled this time."

Draco rolled his eyes, "Believe me, Parkinson, if I had my way, she wouldn't even be breathing the same air as me."

Theo chuckled, shaking his head. "Careful, mate. Sounds like an obsession to me."

Draco shot him a glare. The conversation drifted around him, but his mind remained elsewhere.