Fractured Reflections

Draco doesn’t get a blink of sleep, his body slipping in and out of consciousness but never granting him enough rest. Frustration coils tight in his chest, his hands tangling in his hair as he muffles quiet, exhausted sobs into his pillow.

Back home, he would have taken a Sleeping Draught from his private stash, but here, he has nothing. No potions, no comforts, no control. Just the suffocating weight of his thoughts pressing down on him, relentless and inescapable.

His limbs ache, his mind raw from overuse, but sleep refuses to come. Every time his eyelids grow heavy, his thoughts claw him back into wakefulness — flashes of green light, the Dark Mark burning on his arm, his father’s cold voice, and the too-sharp gaze of Abraxas Malfoy studying him like a puzzle missing its most crucial piece.

He turns onto his side, curling in on himself as if that could shield him from it all. It doesn’t.

It never does.

During the night, someone entered the dorm — probably the prefect from before. Draco kept his breathing even, his body still, his wand hidden beneath his pillow just in case. He listened, tense beneath the covers, every muscle coiled in anticipation. But the footsteps passed without pause, fading into the quiet, and now, as the dim glow of morning filters through the curtains, he is still wide awake.

It is time to stand up.

He pulls the heavy fabric aside and is greeted by the sight of empty beds. The others have already left, slipping into their morning routines without him. A neatly folded uniform rests at the foot of his bed — Abraxas’.

At some point he must have fallen asleep. Not for long — just enough to slip past the edge of wakefulness, enough to miss the rustle of fabric, the quite shuffle of footsteps as his roommates dressed and left.

Draco runs his thumb over the embroidered Malfoy crest, exhaling slowly before picking it up. The robes are finely made, though a fraction too large on him, a subtle reminder that they aren’t truly his. Still, they are better than the worn, ill-fitting ones from the infirmary.

The water in the bathroom is cold, but he doesn’t linger. He keeps his eyes down, avoiding his reflection as he scrubs the war from his skin, letting the chilled water shock him into alertness.

With a flick of his wand, he casts a minor glamour — enough to smooth away the exhaustion beneath his eyes, to present the mask of someone well-rested and composed. His hair, though, is another issue entirely. Without his usual products, water would have to do. He slicks it back, the damp strands settling uncomfortably without their usual hold.

A quick Tempus reveals that he has enough time left before breakfast. He needs to get to the Great Hall, but going alone isn’t an option. It would raise too many questions. Someone has to accompany him — after all, he’s not supposed to know his way around Hogwarts.

With that in mind, Draco squares his shoulders and pushes open the door to the common room.

The space is already full, the warm glow of the fire casting flickering shadows over the stone walls. Conversations hum in the background, low and steady — but as he enters, the noise shifts. It doesn’t stop immediately, but there’s a ripple, a subtle pause, like a disturbance in still water.

His gaze immediately lands on Abraxas, seated near the fireplace, listening intently to the prefect — the one occupying the chair reserved for the Slytherin prince. A seat that had once been his.

Slowly, heads begin to turn. Draco recognizes the sharp, aristocratic features of a boy likely from the House Black, another with the refined arrogance of a Lestrange, and a Greengrass girl who looks strikingly similar to Daphne.

The crackling of the fire is the only sound left as conversations fade into silence. The prefect turns around, a slow, deliberate movement, and fixes Draco with a smile.

“Ah, Mister Draco. I’m truly glad you’ve managed to grace us with your presence.”

He gestures faintly, a mockery of hospitality.

“You see, there is one thing you will surely learn quickly.”

His fingers trace the carved wooden snakes along the arm of his chair, a casual, elegant motion. And surely, Draco is imagining it — but for the briefest moment, he swears the snakes shift beneath the prefect’s touch, twitching as though alive.

“We Slytherins are a unit. Conflicts are handled within these walls. Problems that can’t be settled among yourselves?” He tilts his head, his expression pleasant, but there’s a quiet warning beneath his words. “You bring them to me.”

His smile doesn’t waver. “If you are to stay here with us, I expect your best behavior. And if I hear otherwise, then we will have a talk.”

There is a pause. Just long enough to let the words sink in. Just long enough for Draco to wonder exactly what talk would entail.

Draco meets his gaze, unreadable, but inclines his head slightly. “I understand.”

“Excellent.”

The prefect rises, fluid and composed. And as though bound by silent command, the students around him follow suit, standing in unison.

The prefect is the first to leave the common room, his posture effortless, assured.

Before Draco can move to follow, Abraxas steps beside him, gripping his shoulder with casual familiarity, pulling him closer as if they’ve known each other since childhood.

His mind flashes back to the evening. It’s the same gesture as last night — only this time the intention is undeniable. A light touch, but the message is unmistakable — stay close, play along. Draco doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t resist. Instead, he lets himself be guided, knowing that in this moment, perception is everything.

With a perfectly poised smile, Abraxas turns to the gathered students.

“Well, my dear friends, let me introduce you to my cousin — Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

A beat of silence follows Abraxas’ words.

Then, like a charm breaking, the common room stirs to life.

"Draco Malfoy, you say?" A tall boy with sharp, angular features steps forward, his dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. A Black, almost certainly. His voice is smooth, edged with a lazy sort of amusement.

“What a pleasant surprise.”

A few murmurs ripple through the group, half-mocking, half-intrigued.

"Truly, Abraxas," a girl drawls from her seat by the fireplace, idly swirling a goblet of something deep red, "how have you kept such a handsome cousin hidden from us?"

Another snickers, adding, "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were being selfish."

Laughter follows, light but pointed, their teasing carrying the effortless sharpness of high society. Draco recognizes it for what it is — not quite mockery, but an evaluation.

Abraxas’ expression remains unreadable, his lips barely twitching in acknowledgment.

"What a tragic oversight on my part," he says, his voice smooth but devoid of warmth. "I can only hope you will all recover from the loss.”

The words should be amused, teasing, but they aren’t. There is something too cold about the way he says them, too effortlessly dismissive, like he is indulging them out of obligation rather than genuine interest.

Draco, for his part, forces himself to smile, though the feeling is hollow. The conversation is happening around him, about him, yet he feels curiously absent from it — like a prized pet being discussed at an auction.

The Black boy steps closer, his calculating gaze flickering with something sharper — an edge of madness, coiled tight beneath aristocratic grace. The kind of madness that runs in his bloodline.

"Orion Black, Heir of House Black.”

Draco bows as is proper.

A young woman with striking high cheekbones and dark curling hair steps forward. She does not offer her hand — not yet. Instead, she tilts her head, regarding him with the cool scrutiny of someone deciding whether he is worth her time.

"Diana Greengrass," she introduces herself at last, the barest curve of a smile gracing her lips.

Draco doesn’t miss a beat. He takes her offered hand and bows slightly, pressing a light, respectful kiss to her knuckles — not too lingering, not too detached.

Polished. Controlled. Perfect.

Daphne’s expression flickers — approval, faint but present.

One by one, the others follow suit — Lestrange, Rosier, Mulciber, Nott, Avery. Each heir, each name, a carefully placed piece on the board.

Draco moves through them effortlessly, playing the part of the well-bred pureblood prince, despite the sick feeling coiling in his gut. He thinks he might have to forgo breakfast.

When the last introduction is made, Abraxas claps once, a sharp, measured sound.

“Perfect. Let’s move to the Great Hall. We wouldn’t want Riddle to wait.”

They move as one through the corridors, a seamless unit of silk and shadows, their footsteps a quiet rhythm against the stone.

Draco keeps his posture straight, his expression composed, but his mind churns.

"Riddle?" he asks at last, keeping his voice deliberately neutral.

"Who is he?"

Beside him, Black glances at him, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.

"Our prefect."

Draco almost stops walking.

"A Mudblood?" The words slip out before he can temper them, his disgust unguarded. His lips curl instinctively.

It makes no sense.

How is it possible that someone not of pure lineage has been granted power over them? How could a Mudblood, of all people, be declared prefect — even better be considered the Prince of Slytherin — while multiple heirs of the most notorious houses in Britain walk in his shadow?

A sharp laugh cuts through the air, low and edged with something like amusement — but not quite.

Lestrange.

"Careful, Malfoy," he murmurs, voice smooth as silk but carrying a distinct undercurrent of warning. "You would do well to watch your tongue."

Draco stiffens, shifting his weight.

"You may be a Malfoy," he continues, tilting his head just enough that his dark eyes gleam under the torchlight, "but here, Riddle has earned his place. You’d be wise to remember that."

There’s no mockery in his tone — no teasing lilt like before. This is different.

This is a lesson.

Draco schools his expression, forces his lips into something neutral, unimpressed. He can feel the others watching — Black, Greengrass, Mulciber — all waiting to see how he will react.

"And if I wanted to see for myself?" His voice is quiet, but the challenge is unmistakable.

Lestrange’s mouth curls at the edges. Not quite a smirk — something sharper.

"Then you would be my guest."

It’s not an invitation. It’s a trap wrapped in velvet.

Draco exhales slowly, keeping his expression unreadable. The corridor feels colder as they step into the entrance hall, the looming doors of the Great Hall standing tall and unyielding before them.

He doesn’t have to feign awe at the sight within.

The Great Hall is different from how he remembers it. Not in any physical way — the enchanted ceiling still stretches above them, the candles still float, flickering like stars in an artificial sky. The long tables, the gleaming plates, the endless hum of voices — it’s all the same.

And yet, it isn’t.

For a moment, he feels small again — not the war-hardened Draco Malfoy, not the reluctant Death Eater, but the eleven-year-old boy who once sat beneath the Sorting Hat, waiting to be told where he belonged.

Maybe he has grown old.

Maybe the world simply loses its glimmer when you’ve seen too much of it.

But this sight — this familiar, unchanging view — never ceases to pull at something deep within him. Not when he knows what the alternatives look like. Not when he has seen Umbridge’s iron fist smothering every light with new rules. Not when he has stood beneath the Carrows’ cruelty, their punishments hanging over them like a guillotine.

Draco follows the others as they cross the hall towards the Slytherin table. Uncertain of the group’s dynamic, he lets himself drift toward the back, observing rather than assuming his place. His seat, however, is decided for him. One by one, the others settle near Riddle, their position already established, leaving Draco at the farthest end — a silent reminder that he has not yet earned a seat of value.

His gaze drifts over the spread of food laid out before them, taking in the differences from what he once knew. Gone are the heavy fried dishes — not that he had ever cared for them.

Yet even the smell of freshly baked bread does nothing to ease the discomfort twisting in his stomach. He had already decided he might have to forgo breakfast, and his body seems intent on agreeing.

His plate remains untouched. He stares at the food without hunger, but etiquette demands at least the pretense of an appetite.

Desperate for distraction, he forces his gaze elsewhere. Across the table, a newspaper obscures most of Riddle’s face, only the dark sweep of his hair visible above the parchment.

Draco studies him, frowning slightly.

What is it about him?

Power clings to him — not just magical, but something else, something crafted. Draco has seen men like this before. His father, the Dark Lord, even Dumbledore in his own way. People who command attention, who make others lean in when they speak. But this is different.

The whole picture — the precise way he moves, the deliberate way he sits — feels too seamless. As if it was designed, calculated. A mask worn so well it becomes the face beneath.

Draco exhales, forcing himself to slowly fill his plate, selecting something that won’t worsen turmoil in his stomach. Eggs seem like a safe option. He picks up his fork, cutting them into smaller pieces to make it appear as though he’s eating more than he is. His movements are careful, measured. When the act becomes too tedious, he reaches for his goblet, fingers curling around the cool metal as he lets his gaze drift again.

He doesn’t recognize a single face. Not among the students. Not among the professors. Only strangers.

A rustling of parchment pulls him back.

“Mister Draco.”

Draco tenses. The newspaper has been lowered just enough for him to meet a pair of dark, assessing eyes.

Riddle.

He isn’t smiling. Not quite. His expression isn’t impatient, nor cruel — just expectant.

“I worry. You’ve barely touched your food.”

The words are soft, deceptively polite, but Draco feels his stomach clench. He hadn’t thought anyone would notice — shouldn’t have noticed — but now all eyes are on him. Watching. Waiting. The air around the Slytherin table shifts, interest sharpening like a blade against stone. Heat prickles at the back of his neck. His fingers tighten around his fork, as if to ground himself, but the weight of their scrutiny makes his movements feel stiff. Clumsy.

Slowly, under watchful eyes of the others, Draco lifts his fork and forces himself to swallow. Despite the bland taste and the urge to gag, he manages to keep his expression neutral.

The clinking of cutlery fills the silence before murmurs of conversation resume. Across the table, Nott exhales through his nose, shaking his head.

"I wouldn’t have an appetite either if I had a meeting with Dippet," he mutters, shuddering.

"At least it’s not Dumbledore," Black quips, smirking.

A flicker of something sharp crosses Riddle’s expression — a brief twitch at the corner of his eye, barely noticeable, but enough to silence the table.

Draco idly scratches his left forearm at the tension.

“Then I’ll make my leave. Dippet is expecting me,” Draco says smoothly.

The tension dissipates as Lestrange offers, “I will show you the way.”

“No need,” Riddle interjects, placing the folded newspaper on the table.

“I’ll accompany him.”

Draco's unease deepens as he stands, casting a fleeting glance toward Abraxas, silently pleading for intervention. Abraxas, however, remains impassive, his attention deliberately elsewhere. Left with no alternative, Draco rises and follows Riddle out of the Great Hall.

The corridors stretch ahead, dimly lit and echoing with their footsteps. Riddle maintains a brisk pace, a step ahead, guiding the way without a word. Draco trails behind, his mind oddly numb. With each turn, he silently counts, familiar with the route to the headmaster's office and calculating the remaining corners they need to navigate.

As they navigate the hallways several students greet Riddle warmly, attempting to engage him in conversation. Each time, Riddle acknowledges them with a brief nod, a few words, but never lingering long enough to invite further conversation. Draco observes this with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, noting the effortless authority Riddle commands.

But not only the students react to the Slytherin prefect. Draco notices the portraits. Their painted residents turn their heads as they pass, some watching in silence, others murmuring to one another behind their hands. One of the older witches — dressed in 18th-century robes — leans forward, squinting at Draco as though trying to place him.

Another, a wizard with a long silver beard, exchanges a glance with a knight in chainmail before disappearing from his frame entirely. Draco’s gaze flickers up as they turn a corner.

The same wizard reappears in a different painting ahead. Following them.

His skin prickles.

"I trust you are beginning to feel welcome, Mister Malfoy?”

His tone is pleasant, effortless, like the question is nothing more than polite curiosity — which it probably is.

“I suppose I am,” Draco relies. “Everyone has been … accommodating.”

Riddle hums, a soft, considering sound.

Draco briefly catches the eye of a portrait near the stairs — an old headmistress, her gaze sharp behind half-moon spectacles. She doesn’t look away.

“It is not often we receive new students so late into their schooling, “Riddle muses. It’s not a question but a statement.

“Magic does have its wonders,” Draco matches his tone, light, unbothered.

Riddle finally glances at him.

"That it does," he agrees, though the words feel less like an answer and more like an acknowledgment of something unspoken.

They ascend another floor. Draco briefly glances to his right. Two portraits are empty. Their occupants have left.

To talk about him? To report back to someone else?

Draco keeps his breathing steady and slips his hands into his pockets before Riddle can notices the slight tremor on his fingers.

"It is fortunate, isn’t it?" he says instead, keeping his voice carefully light. "A most timely stroke of luck."

"Fortunate," Riddle repeats, as though testing the weight of the word.

Then he smiles, the torchlight catches his teeth, making them appear sharper.

"I have never been one to believe in luck."

Draco keeps walking, keeps his posture easy, though every instinct is on high alert.

"Perhaps you should," he says mildly. "It makes life more interesting."

Riddle laughs — soft, quiet, as though truly amused.

"Interesting, indeed."

They turn a corner, the entrance to the headmaster’s office growing closer, and Draco decides to test the waters just a little further.

"I must admit," he says idly, his voice the perfect blend of curiosity and detached amusement, "for someone not of pure blood, you seem to have positioned yourself quite well within Slytherin."

Riddle does not pause. Does not stiffen. But Draco sees it — the slightest flicker of something sharp in his gaze.

"Ambition," Riddle replies smoothly, „is a rather useful thing, don’t you think?"

Draco tilts his head slightly, mirroring the same idle tone.

"Oh, undoubtedly," he muses," but ambition can only take one so far. Influence, after all, is not so easily acquired. At least, not in Slytherin."

A beat of silence.

Draco can feel Riddle watching him again. Measuring. Calculating.

Then — Riddle smiles.

"It’s quite curious that you know so much about the intricacies of the House Slytherin when you have only stayed for one night.”

“It’s all the same in these circles,” Draco waves off the question with practiced ease.

Riddle lets it go, but Draco knows that he hasn’t forgotten it — he has to tread carefully.

“Regardless, you are quite right," he agrees, his voice as smooth. "Influence is not given. It is taken."

He slows his steps just slightly, just enough that Draco notices.

"And once taken, it is rarely surrendered."

"Perhaps," Draco allows his voice careful. "But I have yet to see an example strong enough to prove it."

Draco's stomach twists, but he does not let it show.

Riddle stops before the door, muttering the password and turning back to Draco.

“Then I do hope you’ll be staying long enough to see it unfold, Mister Malfoy.”

The gargoyle moves away, forcing the doors to swing open. And with that, Riddle steps inside, leaving Draco to follow.