Headmaster Dippet
The office is both familiar and foreign. At first glance nothing seems out of frame, but it’s the details that unsettle Draco — the subtle differences that mark this as a past he does not belong to.
Gone are the peculiar, smoke-emitting silver instruments that Dumbledore collected. The room lacks the warmth it once had, the light failing to brighten it in the way he remembers. Even under his godfather’s brief tenure, the office had not felt quite so… antiquated.
Severus, for all his meticulousness, had barely changed anything. It was as though he had been reluctant to erase the traces of a man who once ruled this office — the man he had killed. There is only one thing he has put away — the wooden perch where Dumbledore’s phoenix once rested. Perhaps it had been too much of a reminder.
Thinking of his godfather — Draco realizes that he doesn’t know whether the man is alive or dead. He hadn’t seen him at the Dark Lord’s victory speech. The thought lingers, but he pushes it aside. It doesn’t matter anymore.
He shifts his focus back to the room.
This office is older. Darker. More mysterious.
There is no dust — but there are books. Books upon books, stacked on every available surface, filling the space with their quiet, looming presence.
In front of the grand desk stands a frail, aged man, his posture slightly bent with the weight of years. Draco recognizes him instantly from the Hospital Wing.
Headmaster Dippet.
The man’s thin voice greets them.
“Ah, Mister Riddle.” His tone is gentle, but there’s an underlying sharpness to it. His gaze shifts, settling on Draco. “And Mister Malfoy, I presume.”
Dippet steps forward, and up close, the illusion of authority falters slightly. His skin is pallid, his frame feeble, like an old parchment stretched too thin. Yet his eyes are bright — far too perceptive for Draco’s liking.
“Headmaster,” Riddle responds smoothly, stepping into the office with the confidence of someone who knows he belongs there.
“Your assistance in guiding Mister Malfoy is appreciated, Mister Riddle. Ten points to Slytherin.”
Riddle inclines his head. “Thank you, Headmaster. It is but my duty.
Dippet nods approvingly, but his attention is already shifting back to Draco. “Well then, I would like to have a conversation under four eyes with this young man here.”
“Of course, sir.”
Without further protest, Riddle inclines his head once more and takes his leave, closing the door behind him. The silence that follows is heavy. Draco suppresses the irrational urge to adjust his posture.
He is alone.
And under scrutiny.
The weight of Dippet’s gaze is not the only one he feels. The portraits lining the walls, normally uninterested, now watch with quiet intensity. Some feign sleep, but their curiosity betrays them. They know. They sense something is not quite right.
“Please, take a seat, Mister Malfoy.”
Draco obeys, lowering himself onto the chair across from the headmaster’s desk. He would like to say he sits comfortably, but that would be a lie. Yet he does not shift. A Malfoy does not fidget. Instead, he folds his hands neatly in his lap, schooling his features into polite neutrality.
Silence lingers between them, stretching long enough for Draco to feel it pressing against his skin. He keeps his gaze trained on the headmaster’s face — not his eyes.
Dippet finally speaks.
“It is good to see you in better health than before.”
“Thank you, sir. House Slytherin has been very accommodating.”
Dippet hums in acknowledgment, steepling his fingers. “To be frank, Mister Malfoy, your arrival was quite the surprise. We do not typically admit students in the middle of the school term, especially under such… unusual circumstances.”
Draco does not react. He merely blinks, waiting for the man to continue.
The pause stretches again. Dippet clears his throat, and with a quiet pop, a goblet of water appears before him. He takes a slow sip, gathering his thoughts before speaking again.
“But you see,” he finally continues, setting the goblet down, “Lord Malfoy is a most… generous supporter of this institution. A strong advocate for tradition, for the preservation of our esteemed values.” His voice remains polite, but Draco catches the slight inflection — the unspoken weight behind his words.
A deal has already been made.
Dippet’s gaze sharpens slightly. “And so, an exception can be made.”
Draco nearly smirks. Some things never change, no matter the time period. Influence, gold, and a well-placed surname were still enough to turn in one’s favor.
Dippet leans back in his chair, fingers steepling as he considers Draco for a moment longer. Then, with the air of someone delivering a verdict already decided, he continues.
“Of course, there remains the matter of your education.”
Draco keeps his face carefully neutral, though something in his chest tightens.
“I have already discussed the details with Lord Malfoy, you will surely be informed in more detail. You will be required to take your O.W.L.s in three weeks’ time. Until then, you will attend classes as necessary.”
Three weeks. That wasn’t much time, even if he had already taken them before. Would they be the same? Would the questions, the content, have changed over the years? If he failed… No, failure wasn’t an option.
Dippet gives him a measured look. “In the meantime, as Mister Riddle has been most accommodating, I believe it would be wise for you to accompany him during his studies.”
Draco’s stomach twists, whether it is nervousness or anxiousness he doesn’t know. But it is an opportunity to observe Riddle more and get a better picture of him. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he could find a way to gather information. Knowledge, after all, was power.
“Mister Riddle is an exceptional student, having achieved the highest academic standing Hogwarts has seen in decades,” Dippet continues, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he speaks of him. “He holds the record for the most O.W.L.s ever received and is well on his way to achieving the same for his N.E.W.T.s.”
“There is another matter to address.”
Draco remains silent, waiting.
Dippet’s fingers tap idly against his desk, his voice taking on an air of careful consideration. “Hogwarts is not merely a school, Mister Malfoy. It is an entity of its own. It has its own will, its own magic. And my theory is that you… you were not placed here by accident.”
“You see,” Dippet continues, tilting his head slightly, “Hogwarts is no ordinary castle. It is alive in ways even the most skilled wizards fail to comprehend. It does not simply allow entry — it chooses. Had you not belonged here, Mister Malfoy, you would never have arrived at all.”
The implications lay heavily in the air.
Draco remains silent, forcing his expression to remain neutral, but something about those words unsettles him. The castle chose him? No, it was a fluke. A trick of fate. Hogwarts may be sentient, but it wasn’t supposed to want him here. Not after what he has done. It should have been Potter — hell he is even named the Chosen One.
Potter, who always fought back when the world tried to break him. Who defied fate instead of surrendering to it. Who faced a wizard whose name even the strongest dared not to speak.
Draco? He had never been the one to make a difference. He followed. He adapted. He did what was necessary to survive, to secure his place, to take the easiest road with the least resistance.
And yet, somehow, he was the one sitting here.
“As I do with all new students,” Dippet continues, “I consulted the school’s records to ensure your placement.”
Draco already knows what’s coming. The Sorting Hat made its decision long ago.
“Slytherin,” Dippet confirms, watching him closely.
Of course. Hogwarts remembers. Draco exhales through his nose, his fingers curling slightly against his palm. Even after being thrown across time, he is still Draco Malfoy, still a snake by name and nature.
“I see,” Draco says carefully. He meets Dippet’s gaze, his voice measured. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand how that’s possible.”
Dippet steeples his fingers, considering him. “Neither do I, Mister Malfoy. But Hogwarts does. And that, I think, is what matters most.”
A clock chimes softly, its sound reverberating through the office. At that moment, a small, enchanted bird flutters out from within, taking a brief, looping flight around the room. Its delicate melody fills the space before it vanishes back into the clock, as if it had never been there at all.
The headmaster stands, the goblet from before vanishes.
“Well, it seems I have let time get away from me — classes have begun.”
Dippet exhales, straightening his robes before turning his attention fully back to Draco. He studies him for a long moment, as if weighing something unspoken. Then, with a small sigh, he says:
“There is still much I do not know about you Mister Malfoy, but time will tell. But for now Hogwarts has made its choice, and I am merely its headmaster.”
Draco keeps his expression neutral, but the words send a strange chill down his spine. Hogwarts has made its choice. As if he had no say in the matter. As if this, too, was another fate forced upon him — another role he had no power to refuse.
He swallows back the bitter taste rising in his throat.
A shift in the air makes him glance toward the window. The office grows brighter — not suddenly, not abruptly, but with a slow, deliberate ease, as if the castle was breathing. The high, arched windows stretch wider, allowing shafts of golden morning light to spill into the room. The dust motes that had hung heavy in the dim space now gleam like tiny stars, suspended in the air.
For a moment, the warmth of it touches Draco’s skin, but it does nothing to settle the cold unease pooling in his stomach. The office feels different now — less like a place of authority, more like a living thing that is watching, listening.
Draco had spent his whole life trying to control his fate — trying to make the right alliances, say the right words, be exactly what was expected of him to ensure his survival. And yet, here he was again. Another place, another time, another hand shoving him into a role he didn’t ask for.
It was the same as before, wasn’t it?
The Dark Lord had marked him, and there was no escaping his will. Draco had obeyed because he had no choice. Because the alternative had been worse. Because defiance would mean something worse than death.
Now, the castle itself had claimed him, and he had no more say in it than he had when the Dark Lord pressed his wand to Draco’s arm and burned his fate into his skin.
He feels sick.
Dippet, seemingly unaffected, continues as though nothing has changed. “Your accommodations have been arranged. You will attend your classes as expected. Here at Hogwarts, we expect excellence.”
"Of course, sir.”
Draco is always expected to be at his best. At home, at school, among his peers. The weight of expectation is familiar, settled into his bones — a quiet, constant presence.
He watches the quill glide across the page, listening to the soft scratch of ink against parchment. The sound is oddly soothing, grounding him for a fleeting second.
His eyes flicker to the quill itself, and recognition settles like a weight in his stomach. The feather — pale, silken, with faint silver streaks — is unmistakable. It comes from a Malfoy-bred bird, a lineage of white peacocks exclusive to their estate. A rare breed, coveted for their elegance. And here it was, in the hands of Headmaster Dippet, as if it were nothing more than an ordinary writing tool. It seems like the claws of the Malfoys are deeply seated, woven into the very fabric of this institution.
And yet, beneath that fragile moment of normalcy, his mind still lingers on the light — the way the castle had shifted, the way it had expanded, stretched, and claimed more space.
The glow was no act of welcome, no gentle embrace. It was a quite declaration — one that echoed Dippet’s own words.
As if, like the Dark Lord before, Hogwarts had already decided what Draco Malfoy was meant to be.
And all he could do now was obey.
“Take this,” he says, extending the parchment. “It’s a note excusing both you and Mister Riddle for your absence.”
Riddle.
Draco doesn’t know how often he has heard it. The name is everywhere. Spoken in passing, murmured in reverence, stitched into the very fabric of the school. It follows Draco through the corridors, through whispered conversations and lingering glances, settling in the air like an enchantment.
Not oppressive. Not suffocating.
Something softer. A siren’s voice curling around his thoughts, smooth and compelling. A mystery that refuses to be ignored.
It itches at his fingers, unsettles something restless inside him. Like a puzzle waiting to be solved, its edges sharp, its pieces scattered — begging to be set into place.
Draco wants to reach for it. To start with the frame, to build the edges first, to define its boundaries before daring to piece together what lies inside.
Draco takes the note, folding it neatly before slipping it into his pocket.
“Thank you, headmaster.”
Draco steps into the corridor, the heavy door closing behind him. The dim candlelight flickers against the stone walls, throwing elongated shadows across the hallway. He isn’t alone.
Riddle stands a few steps ahead, posture as relaxed as ever, hands folded neatly behind his back as though he has all the time in the world. There is something unbearably poised about him, as if waiting for Draco had been the most natural thing in the world.
“You took your time,” Riddle says, voice smooth, devoid of urgency.
Draco meets his gaze, expression carefully neutral. “Didn’t realize I was expected.”
Riddle’s lips twitch — quite a smirk, not quite a smile. There’s an ease to the expression, a casual amusement that doesn’t feel forced. He steps forward, his movements fluid, calculated.
“Dippet has a habit of dragging things out,” he says idly. “I assume you’ve been assigned your place?”
Draco nods once. “I’ll be in your classes for now.”
Riddle hums in acknowledgment. Not surprised. Not curious. As if it was always going to happen.
Draco resists the urge to cross his arms. There’s something about the way Riddle accepts things so easily that unsettles him. There should have been more questions —more interest. A stranger appears at Hogwarts with no history, no record, and yet Riddle doesn’t ask a single thing.
It makes Draco wary. It makes Riddle dangerous.
Riddle gestures lazily toward the corridor, already turning. “Shall we?”
Draco falls into step beside him. The silence between them is not uncomfortable, but neither is it easy. There’s something expectant in it, like a conversation is waiting to be had but neither of them is willing to be the first to start it.
He feels Riddle’s gaze flicker to him in passing. Subtle. Controlled. Watching.
Draco knows the feeling of being studied. His father did it. His professors did it. Even the Dark Lord, when hebothered to acknowledge Draco, had done it. But this is different.
It’s not scrutiny. Not an interrogation.
It’s assessment.
Like Riddle is weighing something in his mind.
“You’re rather composed,” Riddle says eventually, as if the words are an idle observation rather than a pointed remark.
Draco raises an eyebrow. “Should I not be?”
Riddle doesn’t answer right away. He glances at him, dark eyes sharp in the low light, before returning his gaze ahead.
“It’s simply uncommon.”
Draco scoffs. “You don’t seem particularly concerned.”
That almost-smile flickers at the corner of Riddle’s lips again. “Should I be?”
Draco clenches his jaw. He hates that answer.
Riddle’s reactions — or lack thereof — put him on edge. Most people are predictable in some way, but this boy? This Slytherin prince? He does not react. There are no tells, no unnecessary movements, no wasted words.
He’s not stiff or awkward — just controlled.
Too controlled.
Draco has spent his whole life learning how to read people. It’s a skill born out of necessity, out of survival. But with Riddle, there is nothing to read. Every movement, every glance, every carefully chosen pause feels… effortless.
Which means it’s not.
It’s designed.
And that realization makes Draco’s stomach twist.
They descend a set of stairs, their footsteps quiet against the stone.
“I imagine Abraxas will see to your introductions,” Riddle says eventually, voice as smooth as before.
Draco exhales slowly, glancing at him. “You say that like it’s a formality.”
Riddle hums. “Isn’t it?”
Draco doesn’t answer.
It is. Of course, it is. But there’s something else happening here. Something unsaid.
And Draco knows better than to ask questions when he doesn’t yet understand the rules of the game.
Riddle leads the way effortlessly, never second-guessing his direction. Draco recognizes this kind of power — it’s not the commanding kind, the loud kind that demands attention. No, this is the kind that makes people fall in line without realizing they’re doing it.
And that is why Draco doesn’t trust him.
They pass through another corridor, the torchlight casting their shadows long across the walls.
“Hogwarts is an old castle,” Riddle says suddenly. His tone is conversational, yet there’s something thoughtful beneath it. “It has ways of keeping its secrets.”
Draco stiffens. It’s the second time today he’s heard something along those lines.
He keeps his face neutral, giving a nonchalant shrug. “I’m sure it does.”
Riddle tilts his head slightly, watching him again — always watching.
Then, after a pause, he simply says, “Yes.”
Nothing more.
Draco’s grip tightens at his sides.
Everything about this boy — this perfect Slytherin — feels wrong. Not openly, not obviously. But there’s something beneath the surface, something just beyond Draco’s reach.
And the worst part?
Riddle knows it.
Knows that Draco sees something — feels something — and is perfectly content to let him wonder.
This isn’t power as Draco has known it before. It’s not brute strength, or wealth, or even status.
It’s something more insidious.
And for the first time in a long while, Draco doesn’t know if he wants to figure out what it is.