Chapter Text

Chapter 1: What’s Going On

“Make friends with Harry Potter. Make him need you.”

Draco sighed, leaning his head back against the cool glass of the train window. The countryside blurred past in streaks of green and gold, too fast to focus on—too fast to matter.

He drew one knee up, resting his chin against it, arms loosely wrapped around his leg. The compartment door had been spelled shut hours ago. No interruptions. No witnesses.

For once, he didn’t want an audience.

The words wouldn’t leave him.

The drawing room had been too quiet. Too clean. Too controlled.

Draco stood just outside the doorway, unseen, a glass in his hand he didn’t remember pouring.

“He has his own life,” his mother said, her voice tight, fraying at the edges. “You can’t decide who he associates with.”

“He is a Malfoy.” Lucius didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “His life is not his own. It belongs to the family.”

Draco swallowed hard, the burn of amber liquor sliding down his throat.

Narcissa stepped forward, just slightly. “He’s sixteen.”

Lucius turned his head.

That was all it took.

She stopped.

Draco’s fingers tightened around the glass.

“You will do as you’re told,” Lucius continued, his tone returning to something almost conversational. “As you always have.”

A pause.

“This year, you will gain Potter’s trust.”

Draco’s breath caught.

“Get close to him. Make him rely on you.”

Another pause.

“Bring him to me.”

The train lurched, jolting Draco back into the present.

Voices flooded in from the corridor—laughter, movement, life continuing as if nothing had changed. As if everything hadn’t.

He exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright as the train came to a stop. Students began filing out, chattering and careless.

Draco stayed seated.

Waited.

He always waited.

Only when the noise thinned did he finally stand, brushing invisible wrinkles from his robes. His hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the small hidden device within.

A faint hum filled his ears as he stepped off the train.

“I take a deep breath and I get real high…”

The music grounded him—just enough.

“…and I scream from the top of my lungs—what’s going on?”

His lips barely moved with the words.

The castle loomed ahead, tall and unchanging.

Mocking.

He passed the first-years gathering for sorting, their nervous excitement thick in the air. For a brief moment, something bitter twisted in his chest—a memory of a hand extended, refused.

“Draco?”

He blinked, pulled back into himself.

Pansy.

Of course.

A practiced smile slipped into place as he turned toward her, offering his arm. “Pansy. Always a pleasure.”

She took it, though her eyes lingered on him, sharper than her smile. “You’re distracted.”

“Am I?” he said lightly, guiding her toward the Great Hall.

“And you sealed your compartment on the train,” she added, her voice dropping slightly. “Care to explain?”

“Not particularly,” Draco replied. “But we can pretend I said yes, if it helps.”

She huffed softly but didn’t press—yet.

Draco pulled out her chair with effortless grace before taking his seat beside her, pouring drinks for them both.

“The house was… tense,” he said, tone carefully neutral. “Given recent events.”

“Tense,” Pansy repeated. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

Draco lifted his glass, studying the amber liquid for a moment before taking a measured sip. “I find it’s best not to dramatize things we can’t control.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Across the hall, the Sorting Hat had begun its song, the first-years gathered near the stool. Draco didn’t look.

Pansy leaned in slightly. “You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m speaking to you, aren’t I?”

“You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re pressing,” he replied smoothly. “We all have our habits.”

A beat passed.

“If something’s wrong—”

“Nothing is wrong.” The words came too quickly.

Draco exhaled, smoothing it over. “I appreciate your concern. Truly. But there’s nothing here that requires your intervention.”

Pansy didn’t reach for her drink. “Since when do you not want help?”

A flicker—gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“Since help became… unreliable.”

Another name was called. Applause followed, bright and careless.

Draco didn’t listen.

“Let’s try not to interrogate each other before the feast,” he added lightly.

Pansy leaned back, unconvinced. “For now.”

“Of course.”

His hand drifted beneath his sleeve, fingers pressing lightly against his forearm, scratching at the skin where the Dark Mark lay hidden. It itched. It always did when he thought about it.

The applause rose and fell around him as the Sorting continued. A house. A place. A certainty.

There had been a time he believed in that.

Now, he knew better.

Paths could be decided long before you realized you were walking them—and by the time you did, it was already too late to turn.

The final name was called. Silence followed.

Dumbledore rose.

“Welcome,” he began warmly, “to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

His tone remained calm, but something beneath it had shifted.

“This year, our world finds itself in… uncertain times. It would be unkind to pretend nothing has changed. However, Hogwarts remains a place of safety—and unity.”

Draco’s attention sharpened.

“A new measure has been implemented. You will each be paired with another student. These pairings have been determined through magic both ancient and impartial.”

Whispers broke out across the hall.

“A bond will be formed—one that will encourage cooperation… and understanding. You will remain within a reasonable distance of your partner. The bond is not symbolic. There are consequences for disregarding it.”

Silence snapped back into place.

“For tonight, the bonds will not yet be active. However, your rooming assignments will change accordingly. Tomorrow, the bond will take full effect.”

Food appeared, and conversation followed—loud, uneasy, threaded with confusion.

Draco drank. Watched. Waited.

Then a chair scraped loudly across stone.

“You’ve got to be joking!”

A student stood, face flushed with disbelief. “Malfoy is partnered with Harry Potter?!”

The hall erupted.

“What—?”

“That can’t be right—”

“Is this a joke—?”

Ron Weasley was on his feet almost instantly, outrage written plainly across his face, while Hermione tried—and failed—to pull him back down.

Draco stilled.

His gaze snapped toward Harry.

Potter was staring at his parchment, jaw tight, eyes scanning as if the words might change.

They didn’t.

Slowly, Draco unfolded his own.

Draco Malfoy
Harry Potter

A faint warmth sparked beneath his wrist. Then a pulse.

He stood.

And left.

The corridors blurred as he moved, the noise of the Great Hall fading behind him. The further he went, the quieter it became, until only the echo of his own footsteps remained.

He didn’t slow.

He couldn’t.

By the time he reached the Slytherin dormitories, the castle felt distant, muted. He pushed the door open without hesitation—

And stopped.

The room was empty.

Beds made. Curtains drawn.

But everything else—gone.

His trunk. His clothes. His books.

Gone.

The breath left him in a rush.

“No.”

The word came out broken.

His chest tightened—fast, sharp, familiar.

Too familiar.

His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, each inhale catching before it could fully settle. The room seemed to close in around him, the walls just slightly too near, the air too thin.

Not here. Not now.

His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else.

Too much.

Too fast.

No control.

Draco staggered back, his shoulder hitting the wall as his hand clawed at his sleeve, pressing hard against his arm as if that might anchor him.

Count.

He always counted.

Four in.

Hold.

Four out.

Again.

Again.

Slowly—painfully—the world steadied. The roaring dulled, the walls stopped shifting, and his lungs finally pulled in air that stayed.

Control.

Forced. Fragile. But his.

“Of course,” he murmured hoarsely.

Rooming changes.

Across the castle, Harry shifted slightly, frowning as a faint warmth brushed against his wrist. It wasn’t painful—just there, a soft, uneven pulse that didn’t quite feel like his own.

He pressed his thumb against the spot, brows knitting.

Weird.

For a moment, something unsettled brushed through him—sharp, fleeting, gone before he could name it.

“Malfoy,” he muttered under his breath.

Of course.

Draco turned sharply and made for the corridors again.

Snape.

He reached the office door and stopped. For most, it would have been simple—draw a wand, cast a spell, knock if necessary.

Draco didn’t.

His hand lifted instead, hovering just inches from the wood. For a brief moment, he hesitated—not out of doubt, but habit. This was not something he showed. Not unless he had to.

The faint pulse in his wrist flickered again.

Draco’s jaw tightened.

Fine.

A subtle shift—more intent than motion—and the magic answered. The lock clicked softly, and the door opened without incantation or wand.

Draco stepped inside.

Snape was already there.

Of course he was.

Standing behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable.

Waiting.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to arrive, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t bother with pretense. “My belongings are gone.”

“Yes.”

“My room has been cleared.”

“Yes.”

“You have been reassigned.”

“I gathered.”

“Tomorrow, the bond will take full effect.”

“This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“I expect you to adapt.”

The words landed harder than any reprimand.

The pulse returned—sharp, insistent.

Too far.

Draco forced his expression smooth. “Where am I meant to go?”

Snape held his gaze for a moment.

“Gryffindor Tower.”