Toil and Trouble Chapter 16 : A year measured in magic - Part 1 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)

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April 30, 1994. Ilvermorny Castle

The Ilvermorny dining hall that evening was lively, glowing with warm lamplight, and students drifted toward the guest table in steady streams, eager to congratulate Hermione. Some simply offered a smile or a handshake. Others spoke in excited bursts about her performance, as if replaying it for themselves. Thomas Blackwell, the Ilvermorny representative came over to shake her hand and offer his congratulations. Although, from the sour look on his face, Hermione could guess that he was made to do so.

Hermione tried to take it all in with grace. Receiving cold looks from those whom she was outdone, was something with which she was quite familiar.

Then an older Ilvermorny boy, perhaps a third year, stopped directly in front of her. His expression was polite but a little too curious.

“So,” he asked, “what does your family do?”

Hermione answered as she always did. “My parents are dentists. I’m Muggle-born.”

The boy’s expression changed at once. That familiar flicker, disdain trying to mask itself as disinterest, passed over his face. He muttered something noncommittal and walked off without another word.

Hermione exhaled slowly. She had hoped, if only for today, not to see that look.

“Don’t let that kind of small-minded rubbish spoil your evening.”

She turned. Aput Nungak stood behind her, hands in his pockets, gaze steady and warm. There was something quiet but unshakeable about him. A steadiness Hermione already appreciated.

She gave him a small smile. “I won’t. But thanks."

“Good,” he said simply. “Come on. They’re waiting for us at the table."

Together they crossed back to the guest table, where the other visiting students and the accompanying professors sat talking in low, contented voices. Hermione slid into her seat, the trophy resting beside her like a silent companion. And for the first time that evening, she felt her mood settle again into something steady, grounded and whole.

Aput sat down next to her, and their conversation eased naturally into the hum of the hall, the sting of that fleeting prejudice already fading into the background.

The low murmur of conversation returned around the guest table, a softer current now that the earlier excitement had faded into warmth. Candles flickered gently overhead, their reflections trembling against polished silver and crystal.

Luca leaned forward and asked Hermione,
“Is it really true that one of your House Towers is built into the Black Lake? That you can actually see the water through a glass wall in the basement?”

Hermione’s lips curved, the image already clear in her mind. Cool green light filling the Common Hall. The slow, silent drift of creatures passing by.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s Slytherin’s tower. The lowest level looks directly into the Black Lake. When the light hits just right, everything turns… green and silver. It’s rather beautiful, actually.”

A few of the students exchanged looks of amazement.

“I'd probably spend all my time in front of that glass” Austeja muttered, smiling.

Katarina turned her attention to Aput. She studied him with thoughtful curiosity.
“Aput, forgive me, but I'm a bit surprised yhat your school is called the Northern Star Academy,” she said. “Given it's location and history… I assumed it would have a name in Inuktitut.”

Aput’s expression softened, a trace of quiet pride settling into his eyes. “It does,” he answered. “The true name of our school is in Inuktitut. Northern Star Academy is only what the outside world calls it. The real name is given to those who belong there. Students, teachers, the community. It’s not written on maps.”

There was something reverent in the way he said it, as though the words themselves carried weight. The conversation resumed gentler now, more sincere, a gathering not of schools or titles, but of minds slowly finding common ground.

After dinner, the hall slowly softened into a gentle murmur. The clinking of plates faded. Candles burned lower in their iron brackets, casting molten pools of gold light along the walls.

Headmistress Seraphina Thorne rose from her seat at the raised dais, her presence calm but commanding. Conversations dwindled at once.

“Students and honoured guests,” she said, her voice carrying effortlessly through the vast chamber, “Ilvermorny thanks you for the dedication, discipline, and extraordinary talent you have shared with us during this tournament. It has been an honour to host such remarkable young witches and wizards.”

Her silver-grey eyes swept the hall, resting just briefly upon Hermione.

“We hope that this is not the last time our schools will come together in the spirit of knowledge, magic, and unity. You will always have a place at Ilvermorny, should you return for future competitions which we may host.”

Applause rose from every table, warm and respectful.

Soon after, students gathered their belongings. Polite goodbyes echoed through the stone corridors. The echoes of laughter and well-wishes followed Hermione and Professor McGonagall all the way to the entrance hall.

With a small nod and a quiet “Hold tight, Miss Granger,” Minerva activated the Portkey.

The world once again folded in upon itself.

They arrived inside the Deputy Headmistress’s office at Hogwarts, the air cool and faintly scented with lemon and old parchment. It was well past dinner now, and the castle had settled into its nightly hush. Only the distant crackle of moving staircases and the whisper of wind against the towers disturbed the silence.

Minerva watched Hermione for a moment, her sternness softened by unmistakable pride.

“Your performance in the tournament was par excellence, Miss Granger.", she said softly, "And I understand that your victory was followed by some rather uncomfortable interactions, but you conducted yourself with exceptional composure",

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione replied, cheeks flushed.

A pause.

“And I'm well aware that the House into which you were sorted has been less than welcoming,” Minerva continued. “But let me tell you now, my dear, Slytherin will test you in ways you do not yet expect. Many students in that House have… unfortunately been taught to believe themselves superior. Particularly to someone of your birth.”

Hermione’s expression did not change, she simply nodded.

“But there is also strength there,” Minerva added. “Cunning. Strategy. Ambition. If you allow them to see your worth, if you make yourself invaluable to their successes, then you will hold an advantage very few possess.”

She stepped closer and placed a hand gently on Hermione’s shoulder.

“Slytherins admire power. And they worship one thing above all else. Winning.”

Hermione lifted her chin, thoughtful. “Then,” she said simply, “I’ll make sure I’m essential. And I'll make sure they know it.”

The corner of Minerva’s mouth curved, approval, quiet and proud.

“Well said, Miss Granger.”

A knock sounded at the door. Moments later, a Prefect entered, bowing their head slightly.

“I’m here to escort Miss Granger to her House tower, Professor.”, said Percy Weasley.

Minerva nodded. “Of course. Goodnight, Hermione.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Hermione turned and followed Percy into the dimly lit corridor. As they walked the familiar stone corridors toward the Slytherin tower, the castle felt unusually hushed, the last echoes of dinner long faded into the rafters. Torches guttered softly along the walls as Percy kept an even, measured pace beside her.

“So,” he said at last, glancing sideways, “you won.”

Hermione looked up at him, surprised. “How did you know?”

“Professor McGonagall sent a messenger Patronus to the Headmaster,” Percy replied. Then, after a moment’s pause, added, “You do know what that is, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Hermione said, unable to keep a faint smile from touching her lips.

“Well then,” Percy said, and allowed himself the smallest hint of approval. “Congratulations, Granger. I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest at the words. Praise from Percy Weasley was rare currency. Carefully measured, rarely given, and never wasted. It meant more to her than the roaring applause of a hundred strangers.

They reached the entrance of the first-year floor, “Good night, Percy", Hermione said.

“Good night,” he replied with a slight, formal inclination of his head, before turning and disappearing back down the corridor.

---

May 1, 1994. Hogwarts Castle

The next morning rose golden and fragrant. It was Beltane, that too on a Sunday.

The castle seemed to breathe with the season. Students adorned their House towers with garlands, bright ribbons, and twisting vines of hawthorn and soft yellow mayflowers. Laughter drifted through corridors where there was usually only echo.

Just before breakfast, Harry decided to go to the Owlery and, as expected, he had a letter from Ginny.

Dear Harry,

Mum has decided that preparing me for Hogwarts is now a full-time occupation, as though I haven’t been waiting for this my entire life. I am being made to practise with her wand - just some simple spells. But she makes sure I do them again and again.

She keeps saying, “Ginerva, you must be ready for September!” as though I might somehow forget when I’ve been counting the days for years. Still, I suppose I should be grateful she’s helping. I honestly can't wait for my letter.

Aunt Muriel has come to visit as well, and honestly, Harry, she is insufferable. She keeps telling me to “act like a lady” and that a young witch must always sit with her ankles crossed and her hands folded. Can you imagine?

So, I might have done a small thing. I caught a few frogs from the pond and put them in her bed.

Only a few.

Well… several.

I wish you could have heard the shriek.

Unfortunately, Mum found out almost at once. She says only I would ever think of something like that, and she’s right, of course. None of the others are even home, so I couldn’t blame them even if I wanted to. I was meant to be punished, but she was far too busy hosting neighbours and relatives for Beltane, so I escaped for now. Don’t tell Ron, he’d never let me hear the end of it.

I reckon I won't see you until after your year-end exams. You must be busy studying. Please write back and tell all about the Quidditch matches. You said Ravenclaw Seniors will represent Hogwarts against Durmstrang. Will the match be held at Hogwarts? I want every detail, especially about the Durmstrang team. Who’s the best, who nearly falls off their broom... everything.

I know I will get my letter soon. I can almost feel it, as if it’s already on its way.

Write soon.

Love,
Ginny

"Mate, what are you smiling about?", asked Dean, eyeing Harry with a bemused expression.

“It’s... it's nothing,” Harry said quickly, folding the parchment and slipping it into his pocket.

Dean snorted. “Right. Come on then, we’d better get to the Great Hall before Ron finishes everything off.”

Harry laughed, falling into step beside his friend as they headed down the corridor, Ginny’s words still echoing warmly in his mind.

On school days, students at Hogwarts were expected to have breakfast and dinner at their respective House tables. But on weekends, this rule was relaxed. So Hermione Granger made a beeline for the Gryffindor first year table as soon as she entered the Great Hall.

“Look who's finally here!,” Ron said, grinning around a mouthful of toast.

Harry’s face lit up when he saw her. “Morning, Hermione.”

Dean, Katie, and a few other Gryffindors nearby leaned closer, eyes alight with curiosity and pride.

“So it’s true?” Katie asked. “You actually won the tournament?"

“And beat all those third and fourth years from those other schools?” asked Ron.

Hermione smiled faintly. “Yes. It’s true. I think Dumbledore will announce it to the school tomorrow, Monday morning."

“How was it?” Harry asked, pushing a plate of eggs toward her. “Were they good?”

“They were… extraordinary,” she answered honestly. “Each of them. The whole competition... it really made me push myself."

Katie grinned, “That’s the most Hermione Granger answer ever!"

She huffed a small laugh. “And Ilvermorny was beautiful,” she added. “Different. The magic there feels softer somehow, as if it's.... younger. Which, it obviously is."

“And the Headmistress?” Dean asked. "Seraphina Thorne, isn't it? What was she like?"

“Formidable,” Hermione replied. “But kind. In her own way. A bit like Professor McGonagall, actually."

“Well,” Katie said, lifting her goblet, “to Hermione Granger! Whose brilliance knows no bounds!"

They echoed her cheer, while Hermione tried and failed to suppress her blush.

Just as the hall began to thin, a voice called her name.

“Hermione!”

Padma Patil approached, her Ravenclaw tie already decorated with a sprig of yellow bloom twined like a charm around the silk.

“I just wanted to ask, do you want to join the Beltane decorations in the Ravenclaw tower? We'll begin in the afternoon. It’ll be fun. And we need your Transfiguration skills before Terry tries to turn the whole common room into a shrubbery.”

Hermione smiled more openly now. “All right. But just for a little while, because I do have a lot of studying to do."

“Perfect,” Padma beamed. “See you after lunch!"

Hermione rose, giving Harry and Ron a small nod. “I’ll see you later.”

At the Ravenclaw tower the air buzzed with soft excitement. Hermione raised her wand, and with precise movements began her transfiguration. The petals of the mayflowers trembled, then unfurled upward, as though touched by a breeze only they could feel.

One by one, they lifted into the air.

Their golden petals beat like tiny wings, fluttering and circling the tower in a graceful spiral, a living crown of spring. They dipped, hovered, rose again - a delicate flock dancing in sunlight.

Even the older students stilled in awe.

“That's really impressive,” one of them breathed.

Hermione lowered her wand slowly, watching the petals drift into place along the archways and windows, settling like sunlight made solid.

For a moment, just one, she did not feel like she belonged to any House at all. She felt like she belonged to the magic.

After an hour of fun with the Ravenclaws, Hermione was on her way to the library when a familiar voice cut across the corridor.

“Granger.”

She slowed and turned. Marcus Flint stood a few paces away, arms loosely folded across his chest. He wasn’t blocking her path, exactly, but there was no mistaking that he’d been waiting for her.

“Yes?” she replied, cautious but polite.

“Just wanted to say, congratulations,” he said. “The tournament. Word travels fast around here.”

Hermione inclined her head slightly. “Thank you, Flint".

To her surprise, he stepped closer and extended his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it. His grip was firm, too firm, perhaps. And she felt he held on a second longer than necessary.

“Did you have fun?” he asked, his grey eyes studying her face as if searching for something she couldn’t quite name.

“It was… an experience,” she said, carefully, and gently pulled her hand away.

Flint smirked, a fleeting expression that vanished almost as soon as it appeared. “Figures you’d say that.”

Without waiting for anything further, Hermione offered a small nod and moved past him, her footsteps quickening almost imperceptibly as she walked away.

The interaction hadn’t been openly unpleasant… and yet it sat oddly with her. Like a chill that lingers long after you’ve left the cold behind.

Shaking the thought away, she entered the library. The familiar scent of parchment and dust wrapped around her, grounding, reliable.

Exams were little more than a month away. There was no time for distractions.

Hermione squared her shoulders, made her way to a quiet table, and opened her books.

Focus returned. The rest faded into silence.

By the time the sun dipped behind the Hufflepuff Tower, the air itself seemed to hum with anticipation.

It was Beltane night, when the veil between seasons grew thin and the earth remembered its own music. Within the castle, corridors that were usually cool and solemn now pulsed with soft colour and warmth. Floating candles had been charmed to glow in shades of honey-gold and pale rose. Garlands of mayflowers and woven ivy trailed along stair railings, climbed the banisters, and looped around the suits of armour, which stood unnaturally still, as though even they were aware of the magic in the air and dared not disturb it.

From the upper floors of the house towers, the delighted chaos of the fourth to seventh years spilled out into the staircases. Doors to dormitories stood open. The scent of perfume and potion-brewed hair gloss mingled with the smell of fresh flowers. Girls hurried past with ribboned braids and shimmery fabrics held carefully away from the stone walls; boys tugged at collars, struggled with ties, and attempted, sometimes unsuccessfully, to tame unruly hair. Occasionally, even a few ghost would stop to complement the particularly well dressed ones.

Even Peeves refrained from his usual pranks. But this could be attributed to a stern warning he'd recieved earlier from the Bloody Baron.

All in preparation for the Beltane Ball.

Excited whispers echoed, “Have you seen the decorations in the Great Hall?” “Do you think they changed the ceiling for tonight?” “He’s actually bringing her?” “I heard the band is a magical quartet from Vienna..."

The Great Hall itself had been transformed into something almost unreal. The ceiling mirrored a twilight sky dappled with the first stars, but instead of simple starlight, ribbons of soft aurora-like colour shimmered above the tables. Vines laced with mayflowers twined up the pillars, and crystal lanterns hovered in the air, glowing faintly like captured fireflies. Where the long House tables usually sat, a polished dance floor now gleamed, reflecting candlelight and starshine.

As if the Castle itself was ready welcome summer with open arms.

And yet, outside the castle walls, another celebration bloomed. Quieter, simpler, more childlike and just as magical.

On the lawn sloping down toward the lake, the first through third years gathered under the careful watch of professors. Small bonfires had been built in neat, safe circles across the grass, each flame blessed and contained by protective charms. Their light flickered against the ancient stones of Hogwarts, painting them gold and amber.

The younger students, for now free from the formalities of the ball, had turned the night into something joyfully wild.

They ran barefoot across the cool grass, their laughter rising and falling like birdsong. Flower crowns, woven hurriedly that afternoon, now sat crooked on some of their heads, slipping over eyes as they tilted back to look at the stars. Some danced around the fires in loose, clumsy circles to a violin spell playing somewhere unseen. Others toasted honeyed bread over the flames, their fingers sticky with sweetness and smoke.

Giggles burst out every time a spark leapt too high or a breeze made the flames bend and bow.

Near the edge of the gathering, a group of Hufflepuffs set up a small table covered in bread, cheese, and wild berries gathered from the far side of the grounds under supervision. A Ravenclaw had charmed a cluster of mayflowers to float in the shapes of birds, and they dipped and twirled above the children’s heads, their glowing petals fluttering like wings made of light.

It was as if Hogwarts existed in two worlds at once that night.

Indoors, there was soft music, swirling gowns, the shy certainty of first dances and hopeful glances. Outside, there were grass-stained knees, ringing laughter, and firelight on wide, wonder filled eyes.

And over it all, the moon watched, casting silver across the lake, across the towers, across the moving forms of young witches and wizards.

"Hermione, what happened to your hair?", asked Ron, seemingly confused by the sight of flowers braided into it.

"It's called a braid, Ronald Weasley", said Parvati’s, before Hermione could respond. She then turned to Hermione and whispered loud enough for Ron and Harry to hear, "Boys!".

Hermione smiled. Parvati had insisted on doing her hair, and she had to admit, the result really was better than she'd expected. The older girl had tamed her curls into a thick braid, and the flowers added a lovely touch.

"Looks nice", said Harry biting into a slice of honeyed bread.

The teenagers sat around their bonfire. Parvati and Padma talked about seasonal festivals in Indian culture.

As the faint sound of music could be heard from the castle, Parvati gazed longingly up at the glowing windows.

“I can’t wait until I’m in fourth year,” she said, her voice dreamy. “Then I’ll finally get to attend the Yule Ball and the Beltane Ball too. You know, the Beltane Ball is a real masquerade… with a mask and everything.”

"Hmmm... sounds fun." Hermione remarked, "you'll only have to wait another year till you can attend."

“Akka, you’ll have every boy asking you to dance,”, Padma said with a chuckle.

“That’s exactly the point.”

A fellow third year gestured for Parvati to join them. She rose to her feet gracefully, and made off to join her friends.

"Well kids, it's been fun", she said, "but your Akka must now be with her own age group."

"You're only two years older, but OK.", said Harry, grinning.

Soon, Padma and some of the Hufflepuffs who had joined them left to join their own friends, and it was just Ron, Harry and Hermione.

Warmed by the flames, conversation flowed easily. Ron poked at the edge of their bonfire with a stick, sending a swirl of sparks upward, as he talked about Beltane traditions his family followed. He said he actually felt bad for Ginny, as aunt Muriel was visiting the Burrow this year. Harry sat beside him, the firelight catching in his glasses. He and Hermione shared how, sadly, the Muggle world had largely forgotten these millenia old holidays.

It was past their bedtime, but the children were allowed to stay up just a bit longer. After all, Beltane didn't come every day.

As the celebrations came to an end, Hermione had bid Harry and Ron goodnight and was about to head for Slytherin Tower, when she heard her name being called.

“...Hermione!”

Parvati’s voice was soft, almost playful, yet edged with curiosity as she hurried to fall into step beside her. “Wait..."

Hermione slowed, glancing over.

Parvati leaned in, her bangles chiming faintly as she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So… Millicent Bulstrode's limp. Did you notice it? I heard she twisted her ankle badly. And Pansy Parkinson....” she continued, eyes widening for effect, “Goodness! Her scars are so bad, she’s been keeping her face constantly glamoured. I saw her in the bathroom yesterday. A third year Slytherin girls was helping redo it because it kept flickering. Poor thing was....” Parvati paused, then smirked. “Crying.”

Hermione kept her expression serenely blank, as if hearing about the weather rather than anything remarkable.

“And Warren Mulciber,” Parvati added, her voice lowering even further. “His left side has been wrapped in bandages for days. He can’t even hold his wand properly. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about all that… would you?”

Hermione’s lips curved into a small, perfectly composed smile. In the soft light, her amber eyes gave nothing away.

"Why Parvati, I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said lightly. “Terribly unfortunate, though. Such… ghastly accidents.”

Parvati studied her for a heartbeat, then broke into a slow, knowing grin.

“Terrifying indeed,” she murmured, as she gave Hermione a hug. A gesture of silent sisterly approval.

They shared a quiet look, equal parts mischief and understanding, before going off to their respective towers.

---

May 1, 1994. Malfoy Manor

Beltane at Malfoy Manor was nothing like the rustic merriment of bonfires and giggling students on school grounds. It was an ancient and elegant celebration, a whisper of pagan splendour wrapped in generations of aristocratic magic.

The Manor itself seemed to glow.

Every window blazed with warm, enchanted light that spilled across the manicured gardens like molten gold. Floating lanterns drifted through the night air, bewitched to resemble pale moons and silver stars, their soft radiance catching in the silk hedges and marble fountains. May blossoms twined up the white stone pillars, their petals shimmering faintly, enchanted so they never fell or wilted. Vines crept along balconies and balustrades as though the house itself were being crowned by spring.

Inside, the grandeur was almost overwhelming.

The enormous ballroom had been transformed into something out of legend. The ceiling glimmered with an illusion of a night sky alive with constellations, moving slowly as if time itself had softened. Floors of polished black marble reflected the dancers like glass. Tall mirrors, framed in gold and silver, lined the walls, multiplying the spectacle into infinity.

Tables were covered in silver platters of delicacies - sugared fruits, jewel-toned desserts, glistening pastries shaped like roses and swans. Crystal goblets chimed softly when touched. Music, played by an enchanted quartet of invisible musicians, floated through the air, a haunting blend of elegance and old magic.

And everywhere, masks. Faces hidden behind veils of gold and platinum.

The masquerade was Malfoy tradition at its most theatrical. Guests wore elaborate creations of enchanted silk, carved ivory, peacock feathers dipped in gold. Some masks shifted subtly with the wearer’s breath, others veiled faces in drifting starlight or fine mist. It was nearly impossible to recognise anyone at a glance. And that, of course, was the point.

Among the black, silver, emerald and ice blue finery, Draco Malfoy was unmistakable.

His dress robes were immaculate, deep black, shot through with threads of silver that caught the light when he moved. The cut was sharp, regal, made to accentuate every inch of his tall, lean frame. A silver fastening at his throat bore the Malfoy crest. His mask, crafted from pale metal shaped like interwoven serpents, left only his mouth and chin visible, and even that carried the cool, distant arrogance expected of him. He looked every bit a younger, if less refined, version of his father.

Yet something was…off.

He stood slightly apart from the whirl of dancers, his gaze unfocused as it drifted across the room without really seeing anyone. Around him, the crème of pureblood society glittered and laughed, their voices mingling with music and clinking crystal. Daphne Greengrass was nearby, speaking with practiced ease to a masked boy from Spain. Blaise stood in animated conversation with an older witch in crimson velvet. Crabbe and Goyle hovered not far, unsightly, but obedient as ever.

And Pansy Parkinson clung resolutely to Draco’s side.

Her gown was, as expected, was an extravagant deep wine-red silk, her mask feathered and dramatic. She leaned toward him, lips close to his ear.

“Draco, you’ve hardly said a word. This is dull to you?” she murmured, attempting flirtation, her fingers brushing his sleeve.

“Fetch me an appetiser,” he replied coolly, not even turning to look at her.

The words were dismissive in the way only Draco Malfoy could manage. Pansy stiffened, her annoyance briefly flashing across her eyes behind the mask, then masked it with a brittle smile.

“Of course,” she said, and swept away into the crowd.

Draco exhaled slowly through his nose.

He felt uncomfortable in his own world tonight, feeling trapped in silk and silver, surrounded by people exactly like him, yet strangely disconnected from them all. The laughter felt hollow. The beauty of the hall felt artificial. Even the power in the air, usually comforting, now pressed against his skin like a weight.

His gaze strayed toward the tall arched windows overlooking the gardens. He watched the floating lights drift above the dark yews, watched the pale May flowers sway under invisible spells.

And without understanding why, the thought of Hogwarts intruded.

Bonfires on the grounds. Younger students laughing. The scent of earth and smoke. And somewhere among them, that clever Mudblood.

He had heard of her victory at Ilvermorny. And ever since he'd been in a sour mood. How had she even managed. She wasn't that good. Was she?

He hated how the thought of it coiled in his chest. Not anger, not quite. Something dangerously close to awe. And envy.

The idea of Hermione Granger standing beneath some ancient ceiling in a foreign land, magic bending to her will like silk on a loom, was an image he could not seem to shake. Brilliant. Impossible. Infuriating.

And then, softly, almost tenderly, came a single word behind him.

“Legilimence”

Ice flooded his spine.

For a fraction of a second he was a child again, standing too small in the great drawing room, books slipping from nerveless fingers. He had no time to lift his walls. No time to close the gates of his mind.

Magic, cool and precise, slipped inside him.

His mother, the stately Narcissa Malfoy, stood just behind his shoulder. Elegant as ever in silver-gold silk, her own mask inlaid with diamonds and sapphires, rested in her hands. To anyone watching, they were merely standing together. A perfect portrait of a noble family.

Inside his mind, however, Narcissa Malfoy walked through his thoughts as if they were a familiar corridor.

She saw his doubts, all the questions he never dared voice. She saw the tight, quiet fear he buried beneath pride. She saw the moment he had overheard the tournament’s result. The flicker of reluctant admiration. The sharp, bitter envy. And beneath all of it, something softer. Treacherous.

Hermione Granger, that Mudblood who had become the bane of Draco’s existence, bathed in light, her intellect blazing like a constellation.

For one eerily intimate heartbeat, their minds were bound in silence.

Then she withdrew. Gracefully, as if she had merely lifted a veil and let it fall back into place. He felt the chill as her magic left him.

“You must be careful, Draco,” she said quietly, her voice hardly more than a whisper beneath the music. “Your mind is far too… loud, tonight.”

His jaw tightened. The ballroom came back into focus. Dancers spinning, masks flashing, the world resuming as though nothing had happened.

“And what, exactly,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on the gardens, “did you see?”

A pause. Then, gently, not unkindly, “A great many dangerous thoughts. Thoughts unbecoming of my son."

Draco couldn't meet his mother's gaze.

“You must banish such thoughts, Draco,” Narcissa said softly. “They are not harmless, my darling. They are the roots of doubt, and doubt is that fire that devours its own.”

He said nothing, but the faint tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

“This fixation on that… low born girl,” she continued, her voice gentle, damning. “It could be your undoing if the wrong person were ever to touch your mind. And besides Draco, such thoughts... they can taint you. So cleanse yourself of them."

Draco nodded, "I will, mother..."

Remember who you are, all that you were taught. Remember the Doctrine.”

Her gloved hand brushed his sleeve, the touch light, almost tender.

“Her stolen magic, borrowed magic, will always be lesser than the blood that flows in your veins. That is all you need to know. You must close yourself to her, to these doubts, all of it. Your duty, your family, your future… they demand clarity.”

The orchestra struck a new movement, brighter now, as if to drown out the moment.

Just then Pansy returned, in her arms she held a silver platter crowned in delicacies.

“For you, Draco,” she said sweetly, then turned reverently to Narcissa. “Lady Malfoy, you look absolutely magnificent this evening. Truly.”

Narcissa inclined her head, a perfect, distant smile curving her lips. “And you look… lovely, Pansy.”

As Pansy beamed, Narcissa gave Draco one final assessing glance before dissolving into the throng of nobility, her pale garments vanishing like winter mist.

Draco remained still.

The ballroom spun on around him. The masks, laughter, music, power, yet...

…and a girl with wild curls and a mind sharp as a sword refused to leave his thoughts.