First Meetings
Draco isn’t sure how much time has passed. It feels like minutes and hours at the same time, blurring together in the quiet of the infirmary. He doesn’t know if he likes it — the silence.
The last few years have been nothing but turbulence, noise, and survival. There was never time to think, never time to overthink. Now, left alone with nothing but his own thoughts, it feels unfamiliar. Unsettling. It’s the kind of quiet that feels wrong — like the air before a storm, too still, too expectant, as if the world is holding its breath.
A soft rustle of fabric and the faint clink of glass vials announce the return of the matron. She moves with practiced efficiency, tidying up the bedside table before turning to him. Without a word, she places a neatly folded bundle of clothes at the foot of his bed, smoothing out the fabric with a flick of her fingers.
Finally, she speaks.
“You are free to leave, Mister Malfoy, but I advise you to avoid strenuous activities for the next week. Your school robes are here for you to change into, and Heir Malfoy has already been informed to escort you to your temporary dormitory.”
He nods and she leaves him to dress.
His body feels heavy, sluggish, as he reaches for the robes placed at the foot of the bed. The fabric is coarse beneath his fingertips — rough, unpleasantly scratchy in a way that makes his skin crawl. It’s worn, stretched thin at the seams, and the left sleeve has a loose thread dangling from it.
Cheaply made. Secondhand. Something Weasley would wear. The thought alone is enough to make his nose wrinkle.
A Malfoy wearing something like this — it’s almost laughable. Or it would be, if he had the energy to care. Yet, in his haze of exhaustion, the detail lingers, oddly significant in a way he can't quite explain.
He stares at it for a moment, unfocused, before exhaling softly and pulling off the infirmary gown.
The robes smell like soap and dust. They itch slightly, an unfamiliar contrast to the custom-tailored uniforms he used to wear. But right now, it doesn’t matter.
Nothing really does.
His movements are slow, methodical. Every joint aches as he dresses, his body protesting the simplest of motions. When he finally looks down at himself, fully clothed, the sight feels… strange.
Wearing these robes feels like a quiet declaration that he is someone else now. A no one. Someone meant to blend in, to disappear. The thought unsettles him. The fabric is too ordinary, too mundane — plebeian. He feels stripped of everything that once set him apart, reduced to something lesser.
Then another realization surfaces.
His wand. It’s missing.
“Where is it?”
The question slips out before he can stop it, sharper than he intended.
A wizard’s wand is his life. His power, his protection — the only thing that has ever truly been his. Even though this is his second wand. He hasn’t had it for long as Potter took his original one. The thought stirs something bitter inside him. A flicker of resentment, sharp and unwelcome. He had seen Potter handling it, watched as his wand responded to him — better than it had to Draco in the last two years.
It’s another thing Potter has taken from him.
It feels like a rejection all over again. Like the day Potter denied his hand in friendship, a wound that had never fully healed. But somehow, this is worse. Because the wand was supposed to be his.
It had chosen him. He had grown up with it. Maybe he had changed too much. Maybe he was tainted — so much so that even his own wand had rejected him.
A voice pulls him from his thoughts.
“I assume you are referring to your wand?”
Draco flinches slightly, turning his head. He hadn’t even noticed the matron lingering a few beds away, tending to a supply cabinet. She must have heard him.
He clenches his jaw, forcing his voice to stay level. “Where is it?”
She walks back toward him with measured steps, stopping beside the small table where his belongings rest. With a flick of her wand, the neatly folded pile shifts, revealing his wand placed carefully on top.
“It’s here, with the rest of your things.”
He tries not to show his urgency as he accepts the bundle, fingers tightening around the fabric. His clothes from before — washed clean, as if the war never touched them. No blood. No ash. But the singed parts from the Fiendfyre remain. His breath hitches when he spots something small, something familiar. The necklace.
A delicate golden chain with a dragon pendant resting at its center. His mother had given it to him for his fourteenth birthday, pressing it into his hands with a rare, soft smile.
"It reminds me of you, my little dragon."
His throat tightens at the memory.
He shouldn’t feel this emotional over a piece of jewelry. And yet, his hands shake as he picks it up, thumb brushing over the finely crafted scales. He rubs its belly with trembling fingers. The tail twitches and a tiny puff of enchanted smoke curls from its mouth.
He exhales slowly, blinking away the sting behind his eyes as he fastens the chain around his neck, letting it disappears beneath the stiff collar of his uniform. Hidden. Safe.
Draco grabs his wand next, tucking it quickly into his sleeve.
Then his hands move instinctively, searching — only to come up empty. His heirship ring. It’s missing. A part of him tenses, but maybe… maybe that’s for the best. There would have been questions. Questions he can’t answer.
Tucking his clothes under his arm, Draco steps out of the infirmary — where someone is already waiting for him. It’s a student, standing tall with a poised elegance that feels familiar. Platinum blond hair catches the light, pale and fine, a distinctive Malfoy trait.
Draco’s breath stills.
He knows that face.
Abraxas Cassian Malfoy.
His grandfather.
The recognition hits like a jinx to the chest. The features are unmistakable — sharp angles, aristocratic lines, the same piercing grey eyes that seem to see too much. But he looks different from the man Draco remembers.
Not weak.
Not dying.
Not ravaged by dragon pox, his once-proud form reduced to frail bones, sallow skin and thin hair.
Money can buy a lot of things. Status. Power. Influence.
But not health.
Draco had only seen his grandfather fleetingly in his youth, his memories tainted by illness, by whispered conversations of an heir preparing to inherit too soon. But this boy — this young man — standing before him now is someone else entirely.
This Abraxas is alive. Whole. Strong.
And watching him.
Draco feels it — the weight of his stare, sharp and unrelenting. A slow, calculated gaze, dissecting him, analyzing every inch as if measuring his worth in mere seconds.
Draco grips his belongings a little tighter as he steps closer.
“I take it that you are Draco Lucius Malfoy.”
The way his name rolls off Abraxas’ tongue is smooth, measured — each syllable deliberate, as if testing how it feels to say aloud.
Draco nods in affirmation. A smirk flickers across Abraxas’ face.
“My dear cousin, what a most unexpected pleasure it is to finally make your acquaintance.” His voice is polished, effortlessly refined — not overly warm, but not cold, either. The kind of calculated politeness one would expect from the heir to the most noble House of Malfoy.
“Father has informed me that you are now under my care.” His gaze sweeps over Draco once more, assessing. Measuring. “And a Malfoy, of course, must always present himself as one.” His eyes linger on Draco’s uniform, his nose scrunching ever so slightly in silent disapproval.
A pause — just long enough to let the words settle.
Draco acutely becomes aware of the way the uniform sits stiffly on his shoulders, the fabric foreign against his skin.
“These are not fitting for a Malfoy”, his gaze pointedly remains on the uniform.
“You will wear my wear my school robes until we arrange for a proper fitting. I cannot have you looking anything less than your station dictates.”
His lips curve — not quite a smile, but something close. “Ah, but see how I let myself get carried away.” He steps forward, inclining his head in a gesture of controlled elegance.
“Abraxas Cassian Malfoy, heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy.”
He offers a short, precise bow — perfectly executed, effortless in its grace.
Draco straightens, mirroring the formality with ease.
“Thank you, Heir Malfoy.” His voice is steady, the words practiced.
Abraxas still does not look away.
Not suspicious, but not entirely trusting either. There is something in his posture, in the way his gaze lingers just a second too long, that suggests curiosity laced with caution.
As if he is deciding whether to welcome Draco as kin or regard him as an outsider.
Draco shifts under the weight of his scrutiny, but the motion does not go unnoticed.
Abraxas lifts a hand, casting a wandless Tempus with effortless precision. The golden numbers flicker into existence, suspended in the air between them — a casual display of advanced magic, executed without thought.
“It is late. Let me show you the way to the dormitories.”
Without another glance, he turns away, fully expecting Draco to follow.
Draco follows without a word, his footsteps quiet against the cold stone floors as he trails after Abraxas.
The corridors are dimly lit, the flickering glow of torches casting long shadows along the walls. The knights stand frozen in place, lined up in rigid formation. Yet Draco can’t shake the feeling that they are watching. Waiting. It feels as if unseen eyes lurk behind the hollow visors, tracking his every move. The grip of their weapons remains firm, their silence almost expectant.
“Tell me, cousin,” Abraxas begins, his voice smooth as silk, breaking through Draco’s thoughts.
“How much do you know of Hogwarts’ history?”
Draco exhales slowly, schooling his expression into something neutral. “A little bit. I’ve read Hogwarts: A History.”
Abraxas hums in amusement, clearly unconvinced. “So, not much at all. History is never as objective as it pretends to be. Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago by the four great witches and wizards whose names you already know — Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. “
“Each of the Founders had their own attributes, their own vision for what Hogwarts should be. The school was designed to be a sanctuary, a place for young witches and wizards to learn, to grow. But not all of them agreed on what that meant.”
The air grows colder as they descend deeper into the castle, the warmth of the upper floors fading with each step.
“A division formed, and a fight broke out. And Salazar Slytherin, the only one who truly understood the dangers of allowing just anyone into these halls, was forced to leave.”
He glances at Draco, his expression unreadable. “He knew the truth. That Muggle-borns were the real danger. Stealing our traditions, diluting our bloodlines, robbing us of our culture and beliefs. Their recklessness endangers us all. And yet, the others refused to see it.”
“He left behind a great legacy,” Abraxas continues. “And despite what others may think, Slytherin House has always been the foundation upon which the strongest of our kind are built.”
Draco nearly scoffs. In his time, Slytherin’s name had been dragged through the mud, its students treated with suspicion even years after the war. The house of ambition, cunning, and leadership had become something else entirely — a brand of infamy, a legacy of wrong choices and broken loyalties.
His gaze flickers to the passing portraits, some of which watch him with curious eyes, while most remain still, their subjects sound asleep within their frames. They stand like silent sentinels before the entrance to the Slytherin common room.
Abraxas steps forward and utters a single word.
“Necromancy.”
Abraxas spreads his arms sightly. “Welcome to the Slytherin common room. I reckon its one place you will frequent often.”
Draco steps inside, the familiarity of the room hitting him all at once.
The same low, arching ceiling, the same dark green lamps casting shadows against the stone walls. The furniture is still arranged neatly around the grand fireplace, a quiet glow flickering against the deep emerald tones of the room. Maybe one or two chairs have been replaced over the years, but otherwise, nothing has changed. His fingers drift along the back of the couch — the same spot he had occupied so many evenings, tucked away in the dim warmth of the common room. The familiarity of it is jarring. Pulling himself away, he follows Abraxas toward the dormitories, his steps quiet against the cold floor.
Abraxas stops just before the entrance to the dormitories, his voice dropping almost to a whisper.
“You will be staying with us — me and a few others in this room. Your bed is the one in the middle, right in front of the door.”
Draco tenses. It’s the worst position to have. It’s the farthest from the exit, surrounded on all sides, the first thing anyone sees when they walk in. Exposed. Vulnerable.
Being the one farthest from the door, surrounded on all sides, makes him an easy target. But it also tells him something about its occupants. Being a Malfoy means something here. It secures a place at the top of Slytherin’s hierarchy, at least among the upper cast. It means that those in this room have to be heirs to one of the Noble Houses.
“The bathroom is around the corner,” Abraxas continues, either unaware or unconcerned with Draco’s reaction.
“I’ve placed some nightclothes and a school uniform on your bed. We wake up at seven, and half an hour later, we’ll be in the Great Hall for breakfast. I suggest you get some rest — you have an appointment with Headmaster Dippet right after.”
Draco pulls himself from his thoughts, his brows furrowing slightly. “Headmaster Dippet?”
Abraxas nods. “Indeed. You’ll be sorted out properly — see how things will continue for you. It’s quite unusual for students to arrive unexpectedly, especially without proper documentation. Father has already sent an owl to the headmaster, so it will likely be nothing more than an introduction.”
Draco exhales, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him.
“Then I should get to bed. I have a long day ahead.”
He is tired. Bone-deep tired. He wishes he were home, tucked beneath the soft weight of his Egyptian cotton sheets, his head resting on his smooth pinewood pillow.
Abraxas lets out a small laugh.
“That’s true. Well, good night.”
Draco turns toward his door, his steps slow, exhaustion pulling at his limbs. But just before his fingers reach the doorknob, a hand grasps his shoulder — firm, lingering. A thumb brushes against the side of his neck. The touch is light, but the weight of it settles uncomfortably beneath his skin.
Abraxas stands too close when he leans in, voice low. “I’m really glad that you are here, cousin Draco.”
Then, just as easily as he invaded his space, he steps away, moving past him to open the door. He doesn’t look back as he disappears into the room, leaving the door open behind him.
Draco remains still, his muscles locked in place.
The fine hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. A strange discomfort coils in his stomach — not fear, not quite, but something that feels just as unsettling.
Gathering himself, he forces his feet to move, turning away and heading toward the bathroom.
At least the bathroom hasn’t changed.
He grips the edges of the sink with both hands, his knuckles white against the porcelain. Breathe in. Breathe out. The silence presses in around him, heavy, suffocating, and before he can stop it, his vision blurs.
The dam breaks.
Tears slip down his face, warm in contrast to the chill clinging to his skin. His breath hitches — uneven, shallow — as he grips the sink tighter and finally looks up.
The reflection staring back at him is a stranger. Dark shadows beneath his eyes, skin pale, bloodshot eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
He looks as horrible as he feels.
His collar suddenly feels too tight, suffocating. He exhales sharply, fingers shaking as he fumbles with the first few buttons of his school uniform, loosening the fabric, trying to find air. The relief is minimal, his pulse is still too fast.
A sound breaks through the quiet — footsteps.
Draco stiffens, his senses sharpening. It’s not Abraxas. The weight of the steps is different — lighter, but just as steady, just as assured.
He straightens, forcing himself to regain control. Get it together. Turning back to the sink, he splashes cold water on his face — once, twice, a third time. As if the icy sting can erase the evidence of his moment of weakness, as if he can wash away the heaviness pressing against his chest.
Taking a slow breath, he steps out of the bathroom. And stops.
Standing before him is, without a doubt, one of the most striking men he has ever seen.
Jet-black hair, perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. Aristocratic cheekbones, sharp and symmetrical. Posture straight, effortless in its control.
Then, dark eyes meet his. Piercing, assessing. A single brow lifts in mild curiosity.
"And you are?"
The voice is smooth, cultivated — carrying the kind of charm that doesn’t need to be forced. A small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips, just enough to disarm, just enough to draw people in.
Draco holds his gaze. "Draco, from the House of Malfoy."
Something shifts in the prefect’s face.
"Ah. Our temporary house resident." His expression opens up slightly, though it’s impossible to tell if it’s genuine or merely practiced.
Draco watches as his gaze flicks downward — slow, deliberate. It moves over his form, taking him in from head to toe, pausing briefly at the open collar of his uniform, the golden chain glinting against his exposed collarbones.
A strange, instinctual urge flickers through Draco. He wants to button his shirt. But that would be admitting something. Showing discomfort. Showing weakness.
So, he does nothing.
"I’m the prefect of this house, and I trust you’ve been welcomed accordingly," the boy continues, tone still smooth, still perfectly controlled. "Well, I must continue my rounds, but I suspect we will be seeing each other often, Draco of House Malfoy."
Then, just as effortlessly as he had appeared, he turns and walks away.
Draco remains where he stands, watching the prefect’s retreating figure.
He hasn’t even gotten his name.