The Slytherin dormitories weren't all that different from the other house dorms—at least, not in structure. What set them apart was how they evolved with each passing year, their level of luxury increasing as students advanced through Hogwarts.
First-year dorms were almost barren, offering only the bare essentials—hard mattresses, stiff pillows, and plain green wallpaper with silver borders. A subtle test, perhaps, to see how a Slytherin adapted to discomfort.
But by fifth year? The transformation was undeniable.
The once-spartan quarters had become lavish. The beds were always warm, the pillows softened to perfection, and rich green-and-silver drapes surrounded each sleeping area, offering privacy. Tapestries of serpents slithered across the walls, their enchanted forms shifting ever so slightly when one wasn't looking. The older students said that by seventh year, the dormitories were fit for kings and queens, boasting massive beds that felt like clouds, self-cooling pillows, and silencing curtains that closed themselves at will.
It was a symbol, they said—an unspoken lesson of Slytherin House. You started at the bottom, but through ambition and effort, you rose to the top.
Of course, that symbolism hadn't done Draco any favors when his dormmates abandoned him.
Ever since his not-so-subtle betrayal of their house's expectations, the other fifth-year boys had decided that sharing a room with him was beneath them. They had bullied their way into the third- and fourth-year dorms, claiming the younger students' beds and forcing them to sleep on the floor—all for the sake of making a point.
Honestly? Pansy hadn't seen Draco complaining.
Sharing a room with seven sweaty, snoring boys had never been her idea of comfort, and after all the fire-based wards he'd installed in their absence, she figured his dorm was significantly cozier without them.
Too bad he'd removed the wards after the holidays.
And too bad he had zero idea what Pansy Parkinson was up to tonight.
Pansy had planned this carefully.
One of the benefits of the fifth-year dorms was that students could enchant their bed curtains—a simple charm that muffled sound and light, usually used for late-night studying or hiding the fact that someone snored like a mountain troll.
Tonight, however?
Pansy had something else in mind.
Draco always went to bed first—which, for once, worked in her favor. It was much easier to sneak into his dormitory before the others arrived.
She settled herself comfortably under his blankets, waiting, grinning to herself. The moment he pulled the curtains back, she was rewarded with a startled gasp and a very undignified jump backward.
"Pansy!" he hissed, voice sharp but not nearly as threatening as he probably intended. "What are you doing here?"
She smirked up at him lazily, stretching her arms behind her head. "Lying in your bed. Is that not obvious?"
His face turned pink, and he immediately flicked his gaze toward the dormitory door, checking that no one else had seen her.
"You need to leave!" he whispered furiously. "The others will be here any minute!"
She tilted her head at him, looking deliberately unbothered. "Well, then, you'd better get in here quickly."
He opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment, the door creaked open. Laughter and conversation spilled into the room as the rest of the fifth-year Slytherin boys returned from wherever they'd been.
Draco made a split-second decision.
With a low curse, he slipped in beside her and yanked the curtains shut, casting a half-dozen silencing charms to muffle any sound from escaping.
Pansy stifled a laugh, watching him as he ran a hand through his hair, looking deeply unimpressed with his current predicament.
That's when she noticed what he was wearing.
Usually, Draco slept in luxury, favoring silk pajamas embroidered with serpentine or dragon-like designs—the sort of attire that practically screamed 'I am from a very long line of very rich people.'
Tonight, however, he was dressed far more casually—a simple gray undershirt and black shorts. But what caught her attention was the small checkmark logo on his shorts, along with a name she had never seen before.
Nike.
Her brows furrowed. Which wizarding brand used the name of a literal goddess? That kind of thing was tacky as hell—who in their right mind would scribble a deity's name on clothing?
And yet…
She had to admit.
They did look comfortable.
Draco, however, was not comfortable.
"What are you doing here?" he hissed again, keeping his voice low.
Pansy's lips curled into a slow, wicked grin.
"Duh," she murmured, shifting slightly closer. "I'm here to seduce you."
She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the warmth beneath his shirt.
Huh.
He was a lot more muscular than she expected.
She decided she liked it.
Draco, on the other hand, looked positively mortified. His face went so red that Pansy was almost worried it would glow in the dim light of his bed.
"Look, Pansy, I know we haven't really talked about this before, but… I like you. Like, a lot."
Oh.
Oh.
She had not expected that.
At all.
Draco was still talking, seemingly unaware of how red her own face was turning.
"But the thing is, I don't think I'm ready for something like this," he continued, his words spilling out in a nervous, breathless rush. "I just don't think now is the right time or place. Like, if we were still together—I mean, are we even dating? We've never actually asked that question before—but if we were still together in a couple of years, I had plans for the both of us, whether or not we're together, but—"
"Draco, I was joking."
He blinked. "What?"
"I was joking," she repeated, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed herself. "I'm not here to seduce you. That was meant to tease you. I just wanted to talk to you—and to make sure you don't sneak off in the middle of the night to do whatever it is you do that has you coming back to the common room at five in the morning."
"Oh."
Wow.
It could not be healthy to turn that red.
"…Can we just pretend none of that ever happened?" he muttered, groaning into his pillow and covering his face as if willing the universe to erase the last five minutes.
Pansy laughed, unable to help herself. Merlin, what a difference a year made.
The Draco she'd known last year would have never embarrassed himself like this. He would have been colder and more arrogant, using his father's name and influence to push people around. He had never been vulnerable—not even in front of her.
But this Draco?
This Draco was trying to make a name for himself.
This Draco let her see his cracks.
And she liked that too.
She reached out, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, something warm curling in her chest.
"Don't worry about it," she said, smirking. Then, after a pause, she added, "Though, if two years go by and things don't change…"
"Pansy."
"Kidding, kidding," she said, grinning at his horrified expression. Then her face softened. "Look, I wanted to talk to you. We never really got a chance to discuss what happened at your house."
Draco stiffened slightly, but she pressed on.
"And I also refuse to let you go around looking like a very rich raccoon. Your mother did a fantastic job making sure you got some rest, and I don't intend to let her hard work go to waste. You actually look… well, wonderful now. I'd prefer you stay that way."
Draco peeked at her from behind his pillow, an unreadable look in his eyes.
Then, after a beat, he let out a reluctant sigh.
"Alright, alright. I'll talk."
At first, Pansy was eager to hear what Draco had been up to. She knew he'd been hiding things, sneaking around, getting himself involved in insane plots—because that was what the new Draco Malfoy did, since he had adopted most of his new mindset from Potter and his pack of Gryffindorks.
But ten minutes into his explanation, she began to suspect that maybe, just maybe, she didn't actually want to know.
Because the more Draco talked, the crazier things became.
Dumbledore and Snape had Confounded Draco—literally hexed his mind—and thrown him straight into the waiting arms of the Dark Lord.
That ridiculous, half-baked gambit had actually worked—and now Draco was apparently Voldemort's golden boy.
Voldemort, who had always been obsessively selective about his followers, had now opened his ranks to anyone and everyone willing to join his cause: Goblins. Vampires. Werewolves.
Even Squibs.
Pansy felt a shiver run down her spine. Not from disgust—but from fear and shame.
She never talked about it, not even to Draco, but… she had worried about being a Squib once.
Her magic had been weak as a child. She'd only had a few odd incidents here and there—nothing truly conclusive. A bottle rolling toward her when she was an infant. A locked door mysteriously opening when she was two. Saving herself from drowning when she was five. Always finding her lost toys with little effort.
Her father had started giving her strange looks as she grew older, and her mother—once warm, affectionate—had begun to distance herself. By the time her eleventh birthday came, she knew, deep down, that if her Hogwarts letter hadn't arrived…
She wouldn't be here right now.
Hearing that Squibs—the people she could have belonged to—were rallying behind Voldemort of all people made her stomach turn. The man had never hidden his hatred of inferior bloodlines. Muggles, Mudbloods, magical creatures, Squibs—he thought they were all beneath him.
Were things really so bad for Squibs that they'd rather throw their lot in with a genocidal maniac than continue living under wizarding rule?
She had always assumed she would join the Dark Lord because of her family. It was expected, inevitable. But the more she learned, the more the idea made her skin crawl. She didn't care about Voldemort's ideology. She didn't share his obsessive hatred of Muggleborns.
Yeah, she thought Granger was an insufferable swot, but she didn't want her dead.
Just preferably much lower than her in every social ranking.
Her fingers absentmindedly carded through Draco's hair as he lay in her lap, his head resting against her thighs. At some point during his story, she had shifted positions, and neither of them had acknowledged it. It felt... natural, somehow.
"If I can get my businesses running, I think I can head off a lot of these issues," Draco mused, staring up at the canopy of his bed. "Blood banks for vampires, enchanted weapons for Squibs, collaboration with goblins—if I can just sustain one business, I can use the profits to fund the others. I already own part of the Weasley twins' store, so the dividends from that will help. Dumbledore's already placed an order for his vigilante group, but it's not enough. I even thought about going into the Muggle world for extra cash. Maybe a car repair shop, catering to the ultra-rich, with a guarantee that I can fix anything in a week."
He smirked. "I could just use Reparo the whole time and make a killing. But it really skirts the Statute, so I'd have to be careful."
Pansy frowned, trying to imagine Muggles paying actual money for someone to fix those ridiculous machines they called "cars." She had seen one before—ugly, noisy, spewing black smoke like some sort of malfunctioning Knight Bus.
Why would anyone pay for something like when they could just use a horse and a carriage? Much less noisy, and probably far more comfortable.
She snorted. "Why not just drain the Malfoy vaults and bugger off?"
Draco's lips curled into a bitter smirk. "There are laws against that. If an heir suspects they're going to be disowned and does something to damage the family's financial standing, the head of the family can take the case to the Wizengamot and demand restitution—because it's technically theft. It's happened a few times in the Black family. Some idiot heir would take half the family fortune and try to run off, and then the family would drag them into court and demand it all back—with interest."
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I've been careful not to take too much—nothing that my father can't make back in a few weeks. But if I go over fifty thousand Galleons, that's grounds for him to call for restitution. And if he really wants to be a vindictive bastard, he can make a case that every Knut spent on me since my birth was wasted—and demand all of it back."
Pansy let out a low whistle. "It's nights like this that make me glad I'm not from a fancy pureblood family. With the way my father drinks and smokes, you'd think we had coin to spare, but we barely have two Galleons to rub together."
Draco stilled at that. "You know… we've never really talked about your family situation."
She flicked him on the nose.
"Ow!" He scowled, rubbing at the spot.
"There's a very good reason for that," she said smoothly, resuming her absentminded strokes through his hair. "And tonight is not the night we get into it. Tonight is for you to unwind and relax."
"Says the woman who took ten years off my lifespan."
"You know, most blokes would love to find a willing girl just waiting for them in their bed. You keep talking like that, and I'll start wondering if you prefer wands instead of cauldrons."
Draco made a choking sound, face flushing crimson in the dim light.
"Oh, sod off," he muttered, scowling at her, though the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. "You're such a pain sometimes."
She smirked. "I guess that makes you a masochist."
For a few minutes, they simply sat in silence. Pansy felt his breathing start to even out, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. His eyelids fluttered, his body gradually melting into the mattress.
"I… I need to leave," he murmured, though there was no real conviction behind it. A yawn interrupted his words. "Need to start working on more stuff."
"Nope," Pansy said simply, stifling her own yawn. Merlin, she had to be careful. The plan was to get Draco to sleep—not herself. Once he was out, she'd slip back to her dorm when the others had already settled in. If she actually fell asleep here, the chances of them getting caught skyrocketed.
"Pansy, I'm being serious," Draco insisted, though his voice was already drifting. "If I don't get up now, I'm going to fall asleep, and I'll miss a whole night of work."
"Oh, the horrors," she teased, her own voice thick with sleep. "Whatever shall you do?"
He sighed, his lips curling faintly. "Damnable witch."
"Idiotic wizard."
A pause. Then, softly—
"…Thank you."
"Thank me by sleeping, fool," she murmured, still stroking his hair.
It only took a minute for Draco to fall asleep.
And it only took Pansy five more to join him.
In the morning, there would be panic—a scramble to cast a Disillusionment Charm on Pansy, a hastily conjured distraction, a weak Bombarda to shift the boys' attention long enough for her to slip out unseen.
But that was tomorrow's problem.
For now, they simply rested—safe, warm, and peaceful in the quiet comfort of each other's presence.
Everything about Hogwarts was rotten.
The staff's lackadaisical approach to proper teaching.
The blatant lack of respect the students had for authority.
Dumbledore's shameless favoritism of the Potter brat.
She hated it. Despised every inch of it.
If she had it her way, Hogwarts would be stripped down and rebuilt from the ground up. It would become a proper school—one that respected the Ministry, one that didn't house disgusting half-breeds or allow dangerous creatures to roam the halls. A place where every teacher was required to be licensed by the Ministry, where they possessed good, decent parentage, and where the Ministry's core beliefs and tenets were taught in every class, no matter the subject.
Today marked the beginning of that reform.
Over the break, she had come to a realization—she was just one woman.
A gorgeous, highly dependable, extremely intelligent, and versatile woman, of course. But a single woman nonetheless.
She needed allies—like-minded individuals of good breeding, those who understood the importance of the Ministry taking direct control, who recognized the necessity of ensuring that only students with a certain family history were extolled and praised.
And she already had someone in mind.
She approached the Slytherin table, her heels clicking smartly against the stone floor. The murmuring of students dimmed as she neared, her presence demanding attention.
She cleared her throat, a polite but unmistakable demand for silence.
"Hem, hem."
Draco Malfoy turned to her, silver eyes calm, his posture poised.
"Mr. Malfoy," she said, voice smooth, honeyed with carefully manufactured warmth. "Would you accompany me to my office? I have something very important to discuss with you."
To her delight, the young Malfoy smiled—a genuine, effortless thing—as he stood. "Of course, Professor. I'd love to."
His friends clapped him on the back, murmuring their encouragement. Parkinson pulled him into a half-embrace, whispering something into his ear before letting him pass.
Umbridge's lips curled into a satisfied smirk.
It was good to see order restored.
She had been concerned about Mr. Malfoy as of late. He had been fraternizing with Potter—the boy who lied, the one who spread dangerous falsehoods and sought to undermine the very foundations of their society. Obviously, his true friends had distanced themselves from him during that time. They had done the right thing, refusing to be tainted by Potter's toxic influence.
But it seemed Mr. Malfoy had come to his senses over the break.
And now, with his friends' support restored, and not so much as a glance spared for Potter, she could finally set things in motion.
Oh yes.
That would make what happened next all the sweeter.
Dolores Umbridge observed the young Malfoy heir with quiet satisfaction as they walked through the corridors toward her office.
Every single one of his steps was measured, graceful—effortless yet commanding. His head was held high, his chin lifted just so, exuding an air of quiet superiority. There was a certain swagger to the way he carried himself, an innate confidence that spoke of generations of power and refinement, as though the world was already his, and he knew it.
And why shouldn't he feel that way?
The Malfoy family was one of the oldest, most powerful lineages in wizarding Britain, with a legacy stretching back to Rome itself. Their wealth was legendary—vaults in Gringotts rumored to be so vast that one could swim in them and drown. Their bloodline was pure, untainted by the filth that was so recklessly allowed into their world these days.
It was men like Lucius and Draco Malfoy who were meant to rule. Not foolish, self-important little witches who believed their intelligence made them special, nor attention-seeking liars who sought to tear down everything the Ministry had built just because they craved the spotlight.
No, Draco Malfoy was different. Worthy. A young man of proper breeding, proper manners, and, most importantly, proper beliefs. Why shouldn't she ensure that his rise to the top was as smooth as possible?
A delighted little titter escaped her lips when he stepped ahead to open the door for her, his palm resting lightly against the wood as he gestured for her to enter first. Such politeness. Such respect.
Ah. If only she were a few years younger…
Once inside, she felt her confidence settle more firmly around her like a warm, familiar cloak. This was her domain, and here, she had complete control.
She took her seat behind her meticulously arranged desk, which had been subtly transfigured to give her a few extra inches of height, ensuring that she loomed ever so slightly over her visitors. A psychological trick—one of many she had learned over the years.
Draco, however, was not so easily dwarfed. He took the seat opposite her with perfect posture, his natural height and proud bearing negating the small advantage she had given herself. Their eyes met evenly across the desk.
As if they were equals.
She folded her hands primly atop her desk, her lips stretching into a saccharine smile.
"I'm so pleased to see that you're feeling much better, Mr. Malfoy," she said smoothly. "I must admit, I was terribly worried about you. Spending all that time around that nasty little boy, Potter… well, it was bound to do you more harm than good. For a while, I wondered if I should intervene, but I had faith that you would—eventually—come to your senses."
Draco returned her smile with practiced ease, his expression as smooth and polished as fine marble.
"Oh, Professor Umbridge," he said lightly, his voice warm with amusement. "You flatter me. I will admit, Potter's story intrigued me at first, but after speaking with him on several occasions, I quickly realized the multitude of holes in his tale. The more I listened, the more apparent it became that he might truly be… addled."
He let out a small, knowing chuckle, shaking his head in feigned exasperation. "That said, my presence does seem to calm him. I'm sure you've noticed that he hasn't been causing as much trouble lately?"
Umbridge's eyes gleamed.
She had noticed that the Potter brat had been unusually quiet these days. No more wild outbursts about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returning from the dead. No more grandstanding in class. Instead, he had taken to keeping his head buried in some book, or whispering in hushed tones with the uppity little witch and the gormless redhead in his company.
It was clear to her that Potter's friends were merely enabling his delusions, coddling him instead of letting him see reason. But if Mr. Malfoy's presence was grounding the boy—if his influence was enough to make him finally shut his mouth and stop spreading dangerous lies—then perhaps young Draco Malfoy had even greater potential than she originally thought.
She folded her hands atop her desk, giving him a saccharine smile.
"I have noticed, yes," she said smoothly. "It has been such a relief, being able to teach without the unnecessary disruptions of fearmongering and reckless hysteria. You have my thanks, Mr. Malfoy."
She paused, tilting her head in a way that made the pink bow on her head bob slightly.
"You know," she continued, her voice thick with warmth, "I have been watching you for quite some time now, and I must say… you are an exemplary student. Top of your year—if we ignore Dumbledore's blatant favoritism, of course—a well-liked young man, and a model of honesty, fairness, and decorum."
She leaned forward slightly, her smile widening.
"I was wondering… how would you feel about a bit more responsibility?"
Draco raised a curious brow, though she could already see the flicker of intrigue behind his eyes.
"I would be happy to help in any way I can, Professor," he said smoothly, "but as a prefect, my authority only extends so far."
Umbridge nodded, her expression turning conspiratorial as she carefully emphasized her next words.
"Yes, there is only so much a prefect can do…"
She let the weight of that statement linger before continuing, her tone syrupy and sweet.
"However, I am in the process of forming a very special group of students," she said, her eyes gleaming. "A select few who will hold powers even greater than the prefects. These students will act as my eyes and ears, ensuring that the entire student body is behaving in strict accordance with Ministry guidelines."
She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.
"I will handle the staff and Dumbledore," she said, her voice brimming with confidence, "but you and the other members of this fledgling group? You will patrol the halls, enforce the rules, and together… we will transform Hogwarts into a place that would make the Minister truly proud."
Malfoy's reaction was exactly what she had hoped for.
His expression shifted to one of astonishment and awe, his eyes widening just enough to make his excitement visible—but not so much that it appeared anything less than measured and composed.
"Professor…" he breathed, as though genuinely taken aback by the honor. "I would be delighted to join this group."
Then, with a careful, deferential dip of his head, he added, "If it's not too presumptuous to ask… would I be allowed to recommend others? I understand, of course, that you, as a professor, have the best judgment in these matters… but I believe there are many students deeply devoted to the Ministry's vision—students who would benefit from this opportunity, and who could serve with unwavering loyalty."
Umbridge practically preened.
She straightened in her seat, her smile stretching wide enough to show all her teeth.
"Oh, but of course, Mr. Malfoy! You see, this is the kind of initiative I love to see!" she gushed. "In fact, I think you would make an excellent leader of this group. Think of it as practice for your upcoming term as Head Boy."
Draco's breath hitched just slightly—not too much, not too little. Just enough.
"Me?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "As Head Boy? Are you certain?"
"Oh, come now, Mr. Malfoy," she said with a delicate laugh. "Who could possibly be more qualified than you?
"I know you will take to the task with grace, Mr. Malfoy," Umbridge said smoothly, her saccharine smile widening. "This will be your training ground—your first taste of the authority you will one day wield. No strings attached. No restrictions. Just a chance to… experience what it truly feels like to lead."
Draco inclined his head, his expression schooled into something akin to humble gratitude. "I cannot thank you enough for this, Professor," he said slowly, his voice measured, deliberate. "This will be an invaluable addition to my résumé when I graduate. You have done me a great boon."
Then, he leaned in ever so slightly, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "I think that I also owe you."
Umbridge's breath caught for the briefest of moments. A favor? From the Malfoy heir? That was not something to take lightly. A Malfoy's debt was no small thing—it was a currency all its own, traded among the highest echelons of society.
"Oh, Mr. Malfoy, I honestly could not presume to—"
"Nonsense," he interjected smoothly, waving away her false modesty with an elegant flick of his wrist. "You have extended your generosity to me, and it is only fair that I repay the kindness. After all, the information I give you will only serve to aid the Minister."
A tremor of excitement ran down Umbridge's spine, and she leaned forward instinctively. "What sort of information?" she asked in a hushed whisper.
Draco gave a measured pause, letting the tension build, before answering. "During my… regrettable time associating with Potter and his band of misfits, I learned a great deal. One particular tale, however, stood out to me. It concerns that oaf, Hagrid."
Umbridge's expression soured at the mention of the half-giant, but she held her tongue, waiting for him to continue.
Draco's voice took on an air of quiet revelation. "It turns out that years ago, Hagrid smuggled a highly dangerous creature into the Forbidden Forest. Not just one, mind you—he brought in a breeding pair. And since then, they've multiplied. Again and again, unchecked, until now, there is an entire colony of them within the forest."
Umbridge's fingers curled over the edge of her desk, her grip tightening. "What… creatures?" she whispered urgently.
Draco met her eyes, his lips curling into something just shy of a smirk. "Acromantulas."
Her heart stopped.
Acromantulas.
Class XXXXX.
Highly aggressive.
Impossible to domesticate.
Carnivorous.
A nest of fully grown, human-hunting monsters was thriving right next to Hogwarts.
For a rare moment, Umbridge forgot about her political ambitions. She forgot about her battle to undermine Dumbledore and bring Hogwarts under the Ministry's control.
For once, she was genuinely concerned for the students.
An entire colony of man-eating spiders lurked mere minutes from the school's grounds, lying in wait for foolish, unsuspecting children to stray too close.
And Dumbledore had known.
Dumbledore, who had the audacity to criticize Minister Fudge over a few stray Dementors on the Quidditch pitch two years ago—when he was knowingly allowing a den of monsters to thrive beside his students.
The Forbidden Forest was supposed to be dangerous because students could get lost in it.
Not because they could be eaten alive.
Her hands trembled with rage, her sharp nails digging into the polished wood of her desk, leaving behind shallow gouges.
Oh, this was far worse than she had ever imagined.
Her mind whirled with the implications, the sheer recklessness of it all. Monsters—actual, human-eating monsters—right next to a school full of children.
She was used to fighting her own battles against Dumbledore and Potter, exposing their lies and incompetence, but this?
This was something else entirely.
This wasn't about politics.
This wasn't about control.
This was about survival.
She took a steadying breath before speaking, her voice low and tight.
"Mr. Malfoy," she said in a hushed tone, barely concealing her urgency, "are you absolutely certain?"
Draco shrugged, the picture of calm. "You can ask Hagrid."
Her blood boiled at the very mention of that oaf's name.
"He won't deny their existence. In fact," Draco continued smoothly, "he seems proud of them. Potter told me that he raised the current colony leader from a hatchling, and the creature must have imprinted on him. That's the only reason they haven't swarmed Hogwarts already. However…"
He let the implication hang in the air, letting it sink in.
That creature was old now. If it died…
A cold, horrifying realization settled in Umbridge's bones.
If the leader was the only thing keeping the colony in check… what happened when it was gone?
Chaos. Bloodshed. A war on the castle grounds.
Students ripped apart in their dormitories.
Acromantulas scuttling over the walls, squeezing through the cracks in the castle.
The school drenched in screams and blood before anyone even knew what was happening.
She could not even relish this.
This was not a victory over Dumbledore.
This was not about exposing Potter as a liar.
This was a den of monsters, nestled right beside her, waiting to erupt the moment their so-called leader was gone.
Her hands clenched into fists.
She would end this.
Hagrid would be fired for this.
Dumbledore would answer for this.
And when the truth came to light, no one would be able to deny that Hogwarts needed Ministry oversight.
She rose from her chair, her voice sharp with newfound determination.
"Mr. Malfoy," she said firmly, "I have many calls to make. But I promise you this—the Inquisitorial Squad will be under your complete command. Hogwarts is plagued with incompetent teachers, but it seems that is the least of our worries."
Her lips curled into a thin smile.
"You have done a great service today. You may have saved many lives."
Draco stood as well, bowing deeply, the very picture of humble servitude.
A gesture that warmed her heart.
"I was only doing the right thing, Professor." His voice was smooth, respectful. "May Merlin guide you."
The moment Draco stepped out of her office, he exhaled deeply, running a hand through his platinum hair.
His carefully constructed mask slipped.
"Sorry, Hagrid," he whispered under his breath.
"But the last thing I need is those things attacking us during the Battle of Hogwarts."
It would hurt Hagrid, yes.
But it would help them all in the long run.
The castle was in absolute chaos over the next few days.
For some Merlin-damned reason, Draco Malfoy—of all people—had found out about the Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest, and instead of going to them or even Dumbledore, he had gone straight to Umbridge.
Harry was furious. Not because he particularly cared about Aragog or his brood of man-eating monsters, but because this was exactly the kind of thing that could get Hagrid sacked. Worse, it could land Dumbledore in serious trouble with the Ministry.
Sure, the Acromantulas were dangerous, but Aragog had kept them under control. Wasn't that enough?
Apparently, not everyone agreed with him.
Especially not Ron and Hermione.
"Harry, mate, I know we all love Hagrid," Ron said one night in the Gryffindor common room, his voice unusually firm, "but this is probably the only time I'll ever say this—I actually agree with Malfoy."
Harry whipped around to glare at him. "What?"
Ron leaned forward, his expression serious. "Those bloody things should've been dealt with back in second year. If it hadn't been for the car, we'd be dead, Harry. Aragog was perfectly happy to let us get eaten, and we were only saved because we ran. And then he didn't even bother to tell us what was in the Chamber! We nearly died, and he didn't care!"
Harry gritted his teeth. "Hagrid had it under control!"
"Did he?" Ron shot back. "Are you really sure about that? Are you willing to bet the entire castle on it?"
Hermione winced, wringing her hands in her lap. She had been quiet up until now, but it was clear she had been thinking about this a lot.
"Harry..." she said hesitantly, "I know you don't like Umbridge—none of us do—but you have to admit... this might actually be something the Ministry needs to intervene in."
Harry stared at her, betrayed.
"You're siding with Malfoy on this?"
She sighed. "No! I'm just—" She bit her lip. "Harry, there are extenuating circumstances here. Yes, Hagrid is going to get in trouble for this, but you have to remember—he was a child when he found Aragog. He didn't understand what he was doing when he released him into the forest. He probably thought he was just saving a pet."
Harry opened his mouth, but Hermione rushed ahead.
"But," she continued quickly, "what we need to do is make sure no one finds out that Hagrid brought Aragog's mate into the Forest later. When he was a legal adult. Right now, it's just a case of extreme negligence. If it comes out that Hagrid purposefully brought in a female at a later date so that they could breed…"
That shut Harry up.
Because that… was a much harder thing to defend.
Now, the Hogwarts grounds were swarming with Ministry officials. It was as if the entire Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had descended upon the castle overnight. Hitwizards, Aurors, and enforcers from the DMLE were all present, erecting containment wards, conducting deep surveys into the Forbidden Forest, and preparing for what was shaping up to be a long and brutal campaign to exterminate the Acromantula colony.
And Hagrid—Merlin bless him—was not helping his case.
"Now, hold on!"
It was impossible not to hear him.
Hagrid was standing in the middle of the Care of Magical Creatures paddock, arms crossed like a stubborn child, his booming voice carrying across the class as he argued with three stone-faced Ministry officials. His face was red, and he was speaking fast, too fast, as if the sheer weight of his words might somehow make them more convincing.
"Aragog and his kin ain't never attacked nobody that came in the forest!" he insisted, gesturing wildly. "Their nests are far back in the forest, away from the school! He's practically my baby boy!"
The three officials exchanged uncomfortable glances.
"He and Mosag raised a good, kind family!" Hagrid barreled on. "True, they might try an' take a nibble outta you if you stumble in uninvited, but—well, yeah, Aragog did tell 'em not to hunt humans 'cause he likes me, but he's got a heart of gold!"
A tense silence.
One of the Ministry workers, a grizzled-looking wizard with an official badge that gleamed in the sunlight, cleared his throat.
"Forgive me, Mr. Hagrid, but… did you just say that Aragog had to tell his children not to eat people?"
Hagrid hesitated.
"Er… well, yeah, but that don't mean—"
"And that means they would have if he hadn't?"
"That ain't fair!" Hagrid protested, his voice growing frantic. "Yeh see, when he was younger, sure, he wanted to eat people—I mean, he is a spider, can't blame 'im for nature!—but he learned self-control! He still asks me for meat besides cows and pigs, but he resists his instincts!"
The grizzled wizard's expression did not change.
"How old is Aragog now?"
"Blimey, I'd say 'round fifty-two… maybe fifty-three come March?"
That got another exchange of sharp looks between the Ministry men.
"Fifty-two," the official repeated flatly. "Which, coincidentally, is around the exact average lifespan of an Acromantula in captivity, give or take a few years."
"Well— yeah, but Aragog's healthy, strong as an ox! He'll outlive me, probably!"
Another Ministry official, a tall witch with severe cheekbones, stepped forward.
"And his children?" she pressed. "Do they listen to you?"
Hagrid froze.
"Er… well, no, not exactly—but in me defense, I missed a fair few o' their births, so they don't really see me as 'Uncle Hagrid'..."
The silence was deafening.
Needless to say, Hagrid was not happy with Malfoy either.
The newspapers had seized the story like wolves on fresh meat, hailing Umbridge as a savior. Every major headline across the Daily Prophet and half a dozen Ministry-affiliated papers had some grand declaration about how her sharp mind and impeccable leadership had saved Hogwarts from a lurking menace.
And, of course, she had ensured that Malfoy was rewarded.
Draco Malfoy, the darling of the hour, had been presented with a Special Services to the School Award, and there were whispers that he was being nominated for an Order of Merlin, Third Class.
Every morning, a storm of Howlers arrived at the Hogwarts breakfast tables—furious, red-faced letters screaming in outrage at Dumbledore and Hagrid.
But Dumbledore, for his part, simply vanished the letters with a wave of his wand before they could even reach the tables.
As if nothing was wrong at all.
The news of Malfoy alerting Umbridge to the Acromantula colony had done something no one had thought possible:
It made Draco Malfoy popular.
Even considering his past.
Hufflepuff wasn't exactly singing his praises, but there was a grudging acceptance that Malfoy had done the right thing. No one wanted to admit it openly, but when faced with the idea of giant, man-eating spiders lurking near their school, they couldn't deny that someone had to say something.
Ravenclaw, on the other hand, fully approved of Malfoy's actions. The move was logical, calculated, and undeniably effective—everything a Ravenclaw could respect. Many students even stopped him in the halls to thank him or congratulate him, much to Draco's surprise.
Gryffindor, predictably, was split.
Some students ignored Malfoy entirely, mostly out of loyalty to Hagrid, even if privately, they admitted within the safety of their common room that they were relieved that the Ministry was finally doing something useful. The idea that they had been sleeping next to a colony of Acromantulas for years unsettled them more than they were willing to admit.
Slytherin was positively smug—so much so that it was a wonder they weren't floating on air. Their golden boy had outmaneuvered everyone, proving that Slytherin was the true house of leaders, and now he was receiving national recognition for it. If the student body had doubted Malfoy's shift in attitude before, the tides were certainly turning now.
For days, it was all anyone could talk about.
"Man-eating spiders. Right next to us, mate. Where we were sleeping!"
"Look, Hagrid's a nice bloke, but you can't deny, this was bonkers—even for him. They're wizard killers."
"I guess I was kind of wrong about Malfoy? I mean, he was acting a lot nicer this year anyway, right? People grow up. And he's friends with Potter, so they had to have known about this, right?"
That last comment put Harry in a foul mood for the rest of the day.
Because that was the thing that truly ached at him—the thing that nagged at his chest like a thorn buried deep in his ribs.
He had thought Draco was his friend.
Draco had given them his time, his inventions, his knowledge about magic and Voldemort. He had stood by them, worked with them, fought alongside them.
So why had he hidden this?
Why hadn't he come to him?
Why hadn't he gone to Dumbledore? The headmaster could have handled this quietly, discreetly—without the need for the Ministry, without handing Umbridge the biggest political victory of her life.
But instead, Draco had gone straight to the woman who had tortured him, the woman who had forced him to carve words into his own skin.
And now she was being portrayed as a hero.
And Hagrid—dear, kind Hagrid, who had been with him from the very beginning—might be facing another stint in Azkaban at worst, or losing his job at best.
Harry clenched his fists.
At the very least, the upcoming battle against the Acromantulas was keeping Umbridge preoccupied. Half the time, she wasn't even in class, instead delegating her lessons to some dull, uninspired Ministry official who droned on endlessly about proper wand-holding techniques and spell-theory. But—if there was one silver lining—it was that the substitute at least let them practice a few spells, something Umbridge had strictly forbidden.
And, with her constant absence, it had become easier than ever to sneak around for the DA.
Since Umbridge was gone for most of the day, seemingly in charge of the Ministry's operation to purge the Acromantula nests from the Forbidden Forest, many students had simply stopped following her Educational Decrees altogether.
That, at least, was a relief.
But none of that changed the growing weight pressing down on his chest.
He still didn't know what hurt more—that Draco had done this, or that, deep down, he wasn't sure Draco was wrong.
Because, despite everything—the betrayal, the secrecy, the political mess—there was one fact that couldn't be ignored:
Draco Malfoy had been right.
The Acromantulas had been a real and dangerous threat. And now, because of him, they were finally being dealt with.
And Draco?
Draco had not once spoken to him since the news broke.
Not one word.
Not one glance.
Every time Harry even tried to talk to Draco, there was a wall of Slytherins between them, as if Malfoy had built a fortress out of his housemates. It was like watching a man be reabsorbed into his old world, piece by piece.
Crabbe, Pansy, the Greengrass girl, Blaise, Theo Nott—all of them were part of Draco's new circle, their gazes smug whenever they caught sight of him in the corridors.
Harry knew what it looked like.
It looked like Malfoy had gotten all his old friends back—and made some new ones in the process.
Maybe… maybe Draco had never really been their friend at all.
Maybe Harry had been a convenient alliance, nothing more.
That thought twisted in his gut.
It wasn't until January 12th, during one of their now supervised Care of Magical Creatures lessons, that Pansy slipped a note into his hand as she walked past, the briefest smirk on her lips before she sauntered off, as if nothing had happened.
Harry unfolded the parchment, his pulse quickening as his eyes scanned the message.
One sentence.
Let's meet up in the old classroom. We've got some stuff to talk about.
His grip tightened on the note.
For the first time in days, hope and anger tangled in his chest in equal measure.
Maybe—just maybe—he'd underestimated just how pissed off he was at Draco.
Because the moment they stepped into the empty Potions classroom, Harry didn't hesitate.
He grabbed Draco by the collar, slammed him against the stone wall, and pressed his wand to the other boy's throat, his knuckles white from how tightly he was gripping his robes.
"Harry!" Hermione gasped, her voice filled with shock and horror.
He ignored her.
"Why?" he hissed, his breath hot with fury. "Why the actual hell would you sell Hagrid out like that?! He was on our side!"
Draco's usual smug, haughty expression didn't appear—no, instead, his gray eyes turned cold as ice.
"Potter," he said, voice low and dangerous, "I understand that you're upset, and that is the only reason I'm allowing this." His hand pressed firmly against Harry's chest, his fingers flexing slightly—a silent reminder.
Harry stiffened as he suddenly remembered that Draco could cast Incendio wandlessly.
His jaw clenched, but he didn't lower his wand.
"Mate, come on," Ron said, stepping forward cautiously. He placed a firm hand on Harry's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "Settle down. At least let the bloke defend himself."
For a few seconds, Harry glared at Draco, his breath coming in sharp bursts, but with a frustrated growl, he ripped his hand away, shoving Draco back against the wall before stepping away.
But he didn't lower his wand.
"Why the hell would you help Umbridge?" Harry demanded, still seething. "When all she's done is make Hogwarts miserable for everyone! When she and Fudge are turning the entire Wizarding World against me? When she's going after Hagrid—when Hagrid could end up in Azkaban because of this?"
Draco exhaled sharply and straightened his collar, his expression returning to one of bored indifference.
"The Headmaster still has enough influence to keep Hagrid out of Azkaban," he replied coolly. "At most, he'll be sacked."
"And you're just fine with that?!" Harry snapped, his voice rising.
"YES!"
The sudden roar of fury from Draco stunned him.
It wasn't the usual sneering insult or mocking smirk—no, Draco's face was twisted in pure, unfiltered rage, his eyes burning with frustration.
Harry instinctively took a step back, and even Ron and Hermione froze in shock.
"This isn't some bloody accident like me screwing up with a Hippogriff and getting myself mauled," Draco spat, his breathing ragged. "This isn't just some inconvenience! This is a situation where there is a colony of man-eating spiders next to a school full of children, where the only thing keeping them from eating us is an ancient spider that is probably only a year away from death—and you're telling me I should've just ignored that?!"
His hands curled into fists, shaking slightly.
"Acromantulas are exactly the kind of creatures the Dark Lord would love to unleash into the streets of London," he continued, his voice low, sharp, and brimming with conviction. "He would happily let them slaughter Muggles by the thousands—men, women, children—and if you think for a second that he won't, then you're a bloody fool!"
Harry stared at Draco, his pulse pounding in his ears, each beat fueling the storm of emotions inside him.
"I'm sorry about Hagrid," Draco said, his voice flat and unwavering. "I am. But I am not going to let one man's obsession with dangerous creatures get us all killed in the war that's coming."
His eyes were sharp, glinting in the dim torchlight.
"Look me in the eye, Potter, and tell me that the second Aragog died, we wouldn't have been completely screwed." His voice rose slightly, heat creeping into his words. "Tell me that once Hagrid dies, and the only human those monsters respect is gone, they won't just swarm the castle and tear students apart."
"They haven't done that before!" Harry shot back, clinging to that one undeniable fact.
Draco snorted, exasperated. "Because Hagrid and Aragog forbade them!" He threw his hands up. "We are not Hagrid! And maybe he can survive a tussle with those things, but we can't!"
Harry clenched his fists, anger boiling in his chest. "At the very least, you should have told us! Why the hell keep it from us? Why not go to Dumbledore? Why—of all people—help Umbridge?!"
Draco didn't break eye contact.
Instead, he grabbed Harry's wrist—firm, but not rough—and held it up to the torchlight.
The scarred words gleamed in the dim glow, carved into his skin like an eternal reminder.
I must not tell lies.
Harry ripped his hand away, his jaw tightening.
"I'm not the only one keeping secrets," Draco said, his tone like frozen steel. "But unlike you, I share them."
Harry's fingers twitched over his wand, but Draco pressed forward.
"You think Umbridge getting a few days of good press matters? You're so busy being pissed at me that you're not even thinking about what we've gained from this." Draco took a step closer, eyes blazing. "The Educational Decrees are practically useless now that she's too busy to enforce them. The teachers aren't under constant surveillance anymore. We can actually use magic in Defense Against the Dark Arts. And, most importantly—"
His smirk turned razor-sharp.
"She's too distracted to focus on your little defense club."
Harry's blood turned to ice.
Ron swore under his breath.
Hermione gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "What?!"
Draco smirked, taking pleasure in their shock. "Oh, come on, Potter. You really thought you'd been lucky all this time?" He folded his arms, looking insufferably smug. "Your little resistance movement and the traitor you've been hiding—it's only because of me that neither of them have been exposed."
Harry's stomach dropped.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded.
Draco gave him a slow, taunting look. "Marietta Edgecombe."
Harry's breath hitched.
"Chang's friend," Draco continued, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "She's been teetering on the edge for weeks now—trying to work up the courage to go to Umbridge. She's even been slipping notes under her office door, trying to tip her off."
Harry's fingers clenched so tightly around his wand that his knuckles went white.
"You're lucky I took care of that," Draco added.
Hermione let out a horrified sputter. "But—but the curse!" she choked out. "The jinx was supposed to stop her from snitching!"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, but it's conditional," he drawled. "The second she says something about Dumbledore's Army to someone who doesn't know about it, then it activates." He tapped his temple. "Since I've been destroying her notes before Umbridge could read them, she's never had the chance to speak about it." His smirk widened. "So, the curse hasn't activated. Yet."
"Damn it!" Hermione hissed, running a shaky hand through her hair. "I knew I should've been more careful with the wording!"
Harry could barely hear them over the roaring in his head.
Because as much as he wanted to hate Draco—as much as he wanted to rage at him for siding with Umbridge—he couldn't deny it.
Draco had protected them.
And that was the most frustrating part of all.
Ron scowled, crossing his arms. "Don't pretend you did this out of the kindness of your heart, Malfoy," he snapped. "You came out of this smelling like roses. Special Services to the School, an Order of Merlin, Third Class on the way if the rumors are right."
Draco shrugged, unapologetic. "I needed clout with the Ministry, and for my reputation to extend beyond just being Lucius Malfoy's son. Or, at the very least, for people to know my name in a way that isn't tied to my father's legacy." His lips curled slightly. "When the Dark Lord returns, I need to be a known and trusted quantity—on my own terms."
Harry's stomach twisted at the phrasing. "Plans we're not a part of?" he asked, his voice dark.
Draco sighed, rubbing his temples as if speaking to them was a draining experience. "Stop being a child, Potter. Everything I do, I do to help myself—and help you." His grey eyes flicked between the three of them. "I'm sorry your friend got caught in the crossfire, but this is a war. There are casualties. And if I had to choose between someone losing a job or someone losing their life to one of those beasties later, I'll take the former every time."
He huffed, shifting to lean against the wall, the sharp lines of his face cast in shadow.
"Besides," he added, "the Ministry is about to be in hot water soon enough."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah? And how do you figure? Right now, they look like heroes."
Draco let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Probably because by this time tomorrow, the Dark Lord will have broken his most loyal Death Eaters out of Azkaban. And once that happens, it's going to be a lot harder for Fudge and Umbridge to keep denying he's back—especially when the only prisoners who manage to escape are His servants."
A heavy silence followed.
Ron let out a harsh exhale, rubbing his face.
Harry swallowed, his heartbeat pounding in his throat.
And Hermione—Hermione let out a deep, exhausted groan, dropping her head into her hands.
"Why," she moaned, "why can't you ever just come bearing good news?"