The first proper day at Hogwarts dawns with excitement and nerves. Potions with Professor Snape proves intense, while Transfiguration brings wide eyes and quiet awe. Amid the lessons, friendships begin to bloom through shared laughter and whispered conversations. Minerva receives a long-guarded letter from Pandora, written years ago but heavy with meaning even now. As Quirrell fumbles and Dumbledore watches too closely, echoes of the past ripple through the present—soft, stirring, and impossible to ignore.
The first official day of classes at Hogwarts had arrived.
Sunlight streamed in through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, mimicking a soft autumn morning sky. It was unusually warm for early September. A hush of anticipation had fallen over the hall as first years filtered into their respective house tables, eyes still wide from the sorting, the castle, the magic of it all.
The Gryffindor and Slytherin tables sat across from one another as usual, though many of the first years kept sneaking glances at the opposite end, curious about their counterparts.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry Potter blinked groggily at his toast. Hermione Granger sat beside him, brushing invisible crumbs off her robes as she recited the timetable aloud, eyes gleaming with excitement. On Harry's other side, Neville Longbottom had already dropped his goblet of pumpkin juice, looking mortified as it dripped down his front.
"First Potions with Slytherins, then Transfiguration, and later Professor Quirrell's class," Hermione was saying, voice slightly too bright.
Ron Weasley groaned. "Brilliant. First day and we're stuck with the lot of slimy gits."
Fred and George Weasley, lounging several seats down among the older Gryffindors, exchanged knowing looks.
"Oi, Ron," Fred called out with a grin. "Make sure you don't blow up your cauldron first day. We've got a bet riding on it."
George added, "And ten points if Snape's eyebrow twitches."
"That's the first year bingo card complete," Fred finished with mock solemnity.
Ron flushed. "Ha-ha. Hilarious."
Harry cracked a smile, grateful for the tension to ease.
Meanwhile, at the Slytherin table, the atmosphere was decidedly cooler, but not hostile.
Draco Malfoy was buttering his toast with meticulous precision, flanked by Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass. Blaise Zabini sat nearby, flipping through a worn book with disinterest. Pansy Parkinson was already complaining about the draft coming from the enchanted windows.
"I'm giving this place a five," Theo announced blandly, examining the flagstones beneath his boots.
"A five?" Daphne raised a brow. "You gave the common room a seven."
"Exactly. Food is decent. Ambience's too noisy," Theo replied. "And I almost tripped over a third year near the stairs."
Draco didn't comment. He was busy scanning the Gryffindor table—subtly. His eyes lingered on Hermione for a second too long before flicking away, settling instead on Potter, who was laughing softly at something the twins said. For a moment, something inexplicable stirred inside Draco, like a whisper under his skin.
His chain was warm.
Subtle, but there.
The heirloom never acted like this without reason.
He absently rubbed the spot beneath his collar where the soulbond chain hung, hidden under his uniform. It had been his since birth—Lucius and Narcissa never explained where it came from, and it never quite felt like it belonged to the Malfoy name.
He hadn't asked. Not directly. But he'd overheard enough.
Not a Malfoy by blood. Loved still. Raised still. But not theirs.
And still, he'd never spoken of it.
"Staring too hard, Draco. Going to burn a hole through Potter," Theo drawled without looking up from his plate. "Or is it the girl with the frizz?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Theo."
"I give Potter's hair a two," Daphne offered helpfully. "Purely for effort."
"It's not even trying," Theo muttered, smirking.
Daphne nudged her plate forward. "I'm rating breakfast a six. Needs more strawberries."
Blaise didn't look up. "The jam's expired."
Theo raised a slow brow. "How do you even—?"
"Slytherin instincts."
There was a quiet ripple across the hall as the morning owls swooped in, dropping letters and packages. A few younger students ducked under the table in panic. One girl squealed as a barn owl dropped a heavy book on her porridge. The Weasley twins applauded.
Draco sighed.
"Potions next," Daphne murmured. "Snape's class."
Theo nodded. "The Dungeon Bat begins."
--
The first years filtered down to the dungeons after breakfast. Stone corridors coiled like veins beneath the castle, lit with flickering torches that cast long, eerie shadows.
The Potions classroom was just as Draco remembered it from visits with Snape over the years—cool, dark, and lined with shelves of peculiar jars. Pickled things floated in solutions of sickly green and yellow. The chalkboard was already filled with neat script, and a heavy cauldron simmered quietly on Snape's desk.
Snape swept in, his robes billowing behind him, stopping at the center of the room.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," he began, his voice a silken threat. "As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. However…"
His eyes scanned the room, stopping for a moment too long on Harry.
"…For those select few… who possess the predisposition… I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death…"
Hermione's hand shot up.
Snape didn't acknowledge it.
"But only if you are not the dunderheads I suspect most of you to be."
Draco let out a small cough, muffling a chuckle. Snape didn't flinch.
From behind, Harry looked bewildered.
Snape continued with questions, none of which Hermione was allowed to answer despite her near-leaping attempts. Harry faltered, drawing a few smug snickers from the Slytherin side—but not from Draco. He was watching Snape closely.
Something was off.
Not in the way Snape sneered or prowled around the classroom—but in the way his eyes lingered again and again on Draco, and not in a critical way.
A flicker of recognition. Confusion.
Draco shifted uncomfortably under his godfather's gaze.
When Snape walked past his table, Draco muttered low under his breath, just loud enough: "Still watching me, godfather?"
There was a subtle stiffening in Snape's posture.
He didn't respond. Not verbally.
But as he turned, there was something else in his eyes—unreadable.
And then something stranger happened.
The tapestry near the back of the classroom, a faded piece of old fabric woven with house symbols and runes, fluttered. There was no breeze.
Just a tremor.
Snape's head whipped around. So did McGonagall, who had just stepped in silently to observe the class.
For a second, the tapestry shimmered faintly—symbols pulsing.
Snape's eyes narrowed.
McGonagall's brow creased.
But it was gone.
Draco's hand was on his chain again.
McGonagall exchanged a brief, unreadable glance with Snape.
Class continued without comment.
--
Afterward, McGonagall caught up with Snape just outside the dungeon classroom. Students filtered past them in clusters, heading toward Transfiguration.
"What was that?" she asked softly, nodding toward the wall.
Snape folded his arms. "I don't know. But that tapestry… it reacts."
"Draco Malfoy," she said pointedly. "It shimmered when he stepped close."
Snape didn't deny it. He stared at the fading threads.
"He called you godfather."
Snape exhaled. "Lucius made the request. Years ago."
"You believed that?"
"I never questioned it. Until now."
There was a long silence between them.
"Do you think it's her?" McGonagall asked finally.
"I don't know," Snape admitted. "But something is whispering."
--
Later that afternoon, Transfiguration.
Professor McGonagall stood tall at the front of the classroom, her tartan robes pressed to perfection, wand in hand. The classroom was bright and orderly, a stark contrast to the dark and moody Potions dungeon.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she began, eyes sweeping over the class. "Anyone foolish enough to mess around in my lessons will leave as something unfortunate. Permanently."
That set the tone.
Ron Weasley, sitting beside Harry and Neville, gulped audibly.
Hermione's quill was already scribbling.
At the front row, Draco sat with Theo and Daphne. This time, Blaise had traded seats with Pansy, who looked mildly offended until Daphne elbowed her for sighing too dramatically. They'd barely sat down before Theo resumed his commentary.
"Desk polish rating: Eight. Smells like lavender and fear."
Daphne smirked. "Fear's a nice touch."
"Clearly inspired by McGonagall herself," Draco murmured.
From behind, Hermione's ears twitched.
She was not listening.
She absolutely was.
McGonagall flicked her wand, and the wooden desk beside her transformed into a sleek Siamese cat with square spectacles, blinking mildly at the students.
Several students gasped. The cat leapt down, padded across the floor, and with another flick—back to a desk.
"Transfiguration is not only precise magic, but controlled magic. I expect focus, patience, and discipline."
The Gryffindors straightened up as if trying to impress her by posture alone.
"Let's begin with something simple—matchsticks into needles. Instructions are on the board."
There was a flurry of parchment, wood scraping, and the occasional frustrated grumble.
Draco's matchstick shivered, gleamed, and then morphed halfway before twisting into a spiraled... knitting needle.
"Artistic," Theo murmured, peeking over. "Going to stitch someone's mouth shut?"
"Tempting," Draco muttered.
He glanced sideways.
Granger was already waving her needle triumphantly. Of course she was.
Potter's was on fire.
McGonagall calmly extinguished it with a flick, not bothering to speak. Her eyebrows said enough.
"Maybe it heard it was meant to be a phoenix feather," Theo mused aloud.
From her corner, Daphne's matchstick had turned into what looked like a very pointy toothpick.
"Do I still get partial credit if it can stab someone?" she asked McGonagall.
McGonagall paused. "…Yes."
There were soft snickers from both houses, tension cracking just enough to let a little levity in.
Then—
A faint shimmer again.
Only this time, not the tapestry. It was Hermione's locket.
A faint, warm glow pulsed from under her robes. She blinked, startled, clutching it gently. Harry noticed.
"What's that?"
"Nothing—it just…" Hermione trailed off. "It's warm."
Harry looked confused. "Should it be?"
"I don't know," she whispered.
Across the room, Draco paused mid-spell.
He felt it.
The chain around his neck pulsed again—soft, insistent. Like something trying to wake up.
He froze.
McGonagall saw it—just a flicker in his expression, a rare crack in composure.
A chain. A locket. Two parts. Reacting to each other.
She knew it. She knew it.
She had seen that ring once. Nyra Le Fay had worn it the day she disappeared.
Minerva took a quiet step back from the desk she was inspecting.
And she cast a silent spell. A diagnostic charm. Ancient and delicate. It hovered for a moment, like mist.
Both Draco and Hermione flinched.
The spell shimmered violet, then burned gold—and vanished.
Soulbound.
McGonagall's heart beat faster. The tapestry. The ring. The child. The prophecy.
--
That evening, Gryffindor Tower.
The first years lounged in the common room, exhausted and buzzing from the day. Seamus had accidentally exploded his inkwell trying to turn it invisible, and Neville's toad had been found in a soup tureen at dinner.
Ron was still muttering about Snape playing favorites with Malfoy. "Did you see how he just ignored Granger? She had all the answers!"
"Snape looked like he was trying not to blink too hard," Harry added. "Especially when the tapestry moved."
Hermione frowned. "I thought I imagined that."
"No, I saw it too," Harry said. "Flickered right when Malfoy walked past."
Hermione glanced down at her locket. "Something's… weird."
"Magic weird or Hogwarts weird?" Ron asked, clearly hoping it was the second.
"Both," she murmured.
--
Meanwhile, in the Slytherin common room…
Theo was sketching something ridiculous in his notebook—possibly a diagram for "Which Hogwarts Professors Could Secretly Be Vampires."
Daphne leaned over. "Flitwick's a goblin, not a vampire."
"Not confirmed," Theo said.
Blaise sighed. "It's always confirmed with you."
Draco ignored them all.
He was sitting by the hearth, the soulbond chain clutched between his fingers. His thumb rubbed over the cold metal, feeling the thrum that hadn't stopped since Transfiguration class.
He didn't understand what it meant. But he felt it.
Like a memory he didn't own. Like a name on the edge of his tongue.
Granger.
No—not just her.
Something more.
He stood abruptly.
Theo looked up. "Rating the fireplace?"
Draco didn't answer.
He left the common room, heading toward the tapestry corridor, drawn by instinct.
--
And down in the staff quarters…
Minerva McGonagall stood before a sealed cabinet.
Inside it, wrapped in velvet, lay an old book.
The title had long faded, but she remembered its name.
The Whispering Heirloom: Records of the Soulbound
Only four women had ever opened it.
Nyra Le Fay. Lily Evans. Pandora Lovegood. Alice Longbottom.
And now her.
She placed her hand on the cover, and it opened with a soft breath of magic.
Inside, the pages shimmered, filled with old ink and older prophecies.
Ten children.
Seven present.
Three to come.
One ring.
One chain.
She traced the names written beside symbols she hadn't dared to speak in years.
The tapestry had whispered.
The heirloom had awakened.
And the children were no longer hidden.
--
Gryffindor Common Room – Late Night
She frowned, turning it over in her fingers. It had been a gift from her mum on her 11th birthday. "A family trinket," Elena Granger had said with a smile, brushing Hermione's hair behind her ear.
Only… Elena hadn't known where it came from.
Just found it one day in a velvet box. Said it felt right to give it to her.
Hermione didn't know why it sometimes throbbed gently when she was near certain people.
l
She didn't want to think about that.
Footsteps creaked on the girls' staircase. She froze, but it was only Harry, in his pyjamas, yawning.
"You too?" he mumbled, plopping down beside her.
Hermione nodded. "It's like… something's coming, and we're not ready."
He gave her a half-smile. "When have we ever been ready?"
--
Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dorms
Draco lay in bed, his eyes wide open, staring at the canopy. The chain around his neck—light as it was—felt heavier tonight.
It had first appeared when he was a day old, glowing faintly in his crib. The Malfoys never explained it.
They loved him—he knew that. But he also knew… they hadn't told him everything.
Not about the chain.
Not about himself.
And when Hermione Granger had touched her necklace that morning, his chain had burned briefly—only for a second—but he'd felt it. Like something ancient stirring between them.
But no one knew.
Not even him.
--
Dungeons. Next Morning. Staff Room.
Minerva McGonagall's eyes scanned the parchment in her hand again, lips pursed. She knew the handwriting instantly—curved and elegant, a bit messy at the end.
Pandora Lovegood.
It had arrived months ago, long after Lily died, Alice lost herself, and Nyra disappeared.
"If I don't make it, trust the castle. Watch the children born under the thirteenth alignment. You'll know them not by name… but by echo. By magic. Especially the ones who hum with silence."
Cryptic, as always.
Minerva folded the parchment quietly.
Across the room, Severus Snape leaned against the fireplace, his arms folded.
"She never told me what she was planning," he said softly.
"Nyra?" McGonagall asked.
Snape nodded.
"She asked me to be the boy's godfather. I thought she was being sentimental. And then… she vanished. All we found was blood. Voldemort was furious. Said she was a traitor. Ordered her dead."
Minerva's voice was gentle. "You cared about her."
Snape's mouth twisted slightly. "She was infuriating."
"She was Sirius's," McGonagall said knowingly.
A beat passed.
Snape looked away. "Who in wizarding world doesn't know that. But still hey fought like—"
"Like fire and storm."
A faint smile tugged at Minerva's lips. "She once hexed Sirius so badly he crowed like a rooster for a week."
Snape's tone was unexpectedly soft. "And he still smiled at her like she was the moon."
--
Flashback: Snape's Memory – Hogwarts Grounds, Sixth Year
"You absolute bloody menace!" Nyra shouted, flinging a hex that singed the grass by Sirius's feet.
Sirius, laughing breathlessly, ducked. "I only said I liked your hair better when you weren't threatening me."
"You said I look like a cursed banshee!"
"I said you look like a gorgeous cursed banshee."
Snape, watching from the tree line, groaned. "Idiots. The both of them."
And then Sirius caught Nyra's wrist. Pulled her close.
"Still love you, banshee," he murmured.
Nyra didn't hex him that time.
She kissed him.
--
Back in the present
Snape's jaw clenched. He didn't understand how someone like Sirius Black—reckless, emotional—had held Nyra's heart.
But he knew this: she had died to protect something. Someone.
Yet he still didn't know where that someone was.
--
Great Hall – Breakfast
Dumbledore watched the students file in, his eyes calculating. He'd noticed the shifts in castle magic. The tapestry. The way three artifacts—Hermione's locket, Draco's chain, and something unknown—had pulsed.
He didn't know the details.
But he felt it.
The awakening.
And if magic was stirring this deeply, he would need control. Which meant acquiring all magical artifacts from staff and students—for their "protection," of course.
For the "greater good."
His fingers curled gently on the table.
Time to send for the Mirror of Erised.
And the Pensieve.
--
Defense Against the Dark Arts – Later That Morning
Professor Quirrell's turban wobbled precariously as he tried to explain a simple Stunning Spell. Theo leaned sideways and whispered to Daphne, "I give this class a solid four. Maybe five if he sneezes and sets something on fire."
Daphne nodded solemnly. "Points deducted for involuntary twitching."
From behind, Blaise added, "Is it just me or does that turban look alive?"
Hermione raised her hand. "Professor, what's the counter for a full-body bind?"
Quirrell blinked. "W-well, M-Miss G-Granger, that would be—"
The room suddenly flickered. Just for a second.
The torches dimmed. Something passed in the air—cool, ancient.
Draco felt the chain at his neck tighten slightly.
Hermione clutched her locket.
Quirrell froze.
Harry looked up sharply.
It was gone the next second.
But the silence that followed was not normal.
--
Later, Hogwarts Courtyard
Draco wandered to the edge of the courtyard where no one could see him. He pulled out the chain—smooth, blackened silver, cool against his palm.
He didn't know where it came from.
He didn't know who he was supposed to be.
But he felt like someone—somewhere—had left a part of themselves in it.
--