Fractured Reflections

The Hufflepuff common room is nothing like Slytherin’s.

Here, the sun filters through round windows carved into the earth, casting soft golden rays across worn armchairs and shelves overflowing with books. Warmth lingers in the air — not the strained heat of a fire battling the cold seep of the lake, but a quiet, natural warmth.

There’s no weight pressing on your chest here, no dark water pressing against the windows, no flickering green shadows cast by passing fish or creatures unknown. Just light, air, and the faint scent of wildflowers carried in through the low stone corridors.

The inhabitants of such a place bask in the sunlight like cats in a sunbeam — content, relaxed, untouched by the rigid structure Draco has always known. There’s no order here, no visible hierarchy. First-years sit beside seventh-years, trading jokes and food like old friends. No one bows their head, no one waits to be spoken to.

His arrival barely earns a glance. A few Hufflepuffs look up at him — curious, yes, but not intrigued. Their stares flicker to his green tie, linger for a breath, then drift away as though even the symbol of Slytherin isn’t enough to hold their attention. Whatever curiosity they have is brief and easily satisfied.

There are no rehearsed pleasantries, no calculated greetings. Instead, there’s noise — laughter, shouting, half-whispered secrets, and the warm hum of life unfazed by decorum. It’s chaos wrapped in comfort, and it unsettles him more than silence ever could.

Draco is overwhelmed.

Before he has more time to dwell on the unfamiliar warmth of the place, Arthur is already leading him deeper into the common room, weaving easily between clusters of students sprawled across couches and thick, colorful rugs. He greets people by name, flashing them a crooked smile or offering a casual wave — and every time, he’s met with easy familiarity. Laughter. Nods. A few hugs.

It seems like everyone knows Arthur.

Draco follows stiffly, trying not to brush against anyone. The sheer closeness of it all is overwhelming — people sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against each other like they haven’t a care in the world. A pair of girls are tangled together in one armchair, giggling over something in a shared book. A boy in year-five robes is lying flat on his back, eyes closed, one arm draped dramatically over his forehead.

It’s chaos.

Not loud, not unmanageable — but casual. Unrefined. Intimate in a way that feels almost indecent.

Draco barely stops himself from wrinkling his nose.

Then he notices the smoke — curling lazily toward the ceiling, catching in a shaft of sunlight from one of the high-set windows. It smells… earthy. Sweet, but burnt. Warm in a way that clings to the air.

He scrunches his nose.

“Why the smoke? Are we doing Divination?”

Arthur laughs — not mockingly, but with a warm, amused sound. “Something like that,” he says, tone intentionally vague.

Draco’s eyes sweep the room until he spots it: a group of older students circled near the hearth, slouched across pillows and one another like they’re part of the furniture. A long, carved pipe is being passed between them. One girl exhales a shimmering puff of smoke that briefly forms into a spinning flower before dissipating.

Draco stares, appalled. “Is that—?”

Arthur’s smirk is easy. “Puffroot.”

Arthur drops onto one of the oversized floor cushions like it’s second nature, legs stretched out in front of him, the flicker of firelight casting soft gold over his features. He takes the pipe from the student next to him with an easy grin, raising it to his lips. Smoke curls upward in a lazy ribbon as he exhales, eyes half-lidded, perfectly at peace.

Draco remains standing.

Awkward. Out of place. His eyes flit from the smoke to the faces around the circle, to the cushions on the floor — and then back to Arthur, who doesn’t even look up as he pats the empty spot beside him.

“Sit down, Draco.”

It’s not a command, but it leaves no room for debate. The group barely seems to notice him lingering like an outsider — or maybe they do, and just don’t care. That thought unsettles him more than he’d like to admit.

Draco hesitates, then lowers himself with care, sitting cross-legged but stiff as a statue. His back remains straight, hands folded neatly in his lap, like he’s been summoned to a Ministry disciplinary hearing. The cushion sinks slightly beneath him, but he refuses to lean back, even as his spine starts to ache.

Arthur glances sideways, offering the pipe.

“Want a hit?” he asks, casual as anything.

Draco doesn’t even look at it. “No.”

One of the older students — a boy with ink-stained fingertips and a Prefect badge half-tucked under his collar — lets out a laugh. “Aw, come on. What’s the matter, green tie? Scared it’ll muss up your fancy hair?”

Another voice chimes in. “Leave him be. He’s clearly a proper little pureblood prince.”

“Or just a pussy.”

The word hits Draco like a slap — not because of what it means, but who it’s coming from. Casual, dismissive, like he’s just some uptight joke they’ve already figured out.

His jaw tightens.

Arthur, to his credit, doesn’t laugh. He just exhales another puff of silvery smoke and glances between them. “Ease off,” he says lightly. “Draco’s still adjusting. Not everyone’s born with Puffroot in their lungs.”

That earns a few chuckles. Not cruel ones. Just amused.

The laughter fades, but the sting lingers. Draco stares at the pipe in Arthur’s hand, smoke curling lazily into the air between them like a challenge.

He isn’t a coward.

He isn’t weak.

And he is certainly not a ‘pussy.’

The word itself grates against his ears — barbaric, crude, and unnecessarily vulgar. It’s the kind of language he’d expect from drunkards in Knockturn Alley, not fellow Hogwarts students. Not that they seem to care.

Merlin, even the insults here are unrefined.

But it hits him all the same. Not because it’s true — because it’s so carelessly dismissive. 

His fingers curl into the fabric of his trousers, knuckles white. He can feel the weight of their eyes — not mocking anymore, but curious. Waiting to see what he’ll do.

Draco shifts.

“Give it to me,” he says, voice clipped and cool.

Arthur arches a brow, not in surprise — more like amusement. “You sure?”

Draco meets his gaze squarely. “Yes.”

There’s a beat. Then Arthur passes the pipe.

Draco takes it with fingers that only barely shake. The wood is warm from being passed around, and even through the herbal scent of the smoke, he can smell it — the unmistakable trace of someone else’s breath.

His nose wrinkles in quiet disgust.

Without a word, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket — not even thinking, just trained — and quickly wipes the mouthpiece. A few of the Hufflepuffs snort with quiet amusement, but Draco ignores them. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it properly.

He brings the pipe to his lips, trying to mimic what Arthur did. The motion is practiced, poised — but the hesitation at the last second is unmistakable.

Arthur leans in slightly, voice low. “Don’t overdo it. Just inhale slow, then hold.”

Draco glares at him, then draws in a breath.

Too sharp. Too much.

The smoke burns.

His lungs seize.

He coughs — violently — pulling the pipe away and doubling over slightly as his eyes water. His pride shatters somewhere in the back of his throat as a few of the Hufflepuffs chuckle, though no one says anything too loud. Not yet.

Arthur, to his credit, only smiles. “Everyone’s first hit tastes like dragon dung.”

Draco wipes his mouth again — this time with the same handkerchief, eyes still watering. “Charming.”

He passes the pipe on, forcing his posture back into something dignified, even as his lungs are still on fire. The burn lingers, but so does something else — a warmth blooming low in his chest. Not unpleasant.

And, more importantly, they’re not laughing anymore.

The effects are immediate.

Muscles that had been coiled tight for hours — maybe days — begin to loosen, like someone cut the invisible threads holding him upright. The tension in his shoulders melts first, followed by the tight line of his jaw. Even his fingers, clenched rigidly in his lap, begin to uncurl.

The warmth spreads. Slow and steady. Like slipping into a hot bath after being cold for far too long.

He blinks.

The light from the fireplace seems softer now, blurred at the edges like it’s been filtered through silk. The hum of conversation around him no longer grates — it becomes something else entirely. Background music. Familiar, even if the words don’t make sense.

Someone laughs — a bright, echoing sound — and Draco swears he can feel the shape of it in his chest. Round and golden and fizzy.

His head dips forward slightly, and he doesn’t correct his posture. That fact alone might terrify him later, but right now… he doesn’t mind.

He breathes in, and the room smells like honey and herbs, like parchment warmed by sunlight. Someone’s shampoo, maybe.

He exhales.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, his brain is quiet.

No screaming. No guilt. No Voldemort. No father.

Just… quiet.

The pipe makes its way around the circle again, passed from one languid hand to another, the smoke curling above them like lazy serpents.

When it reaches him a second time, Draco takes it without hesitation. His fingers move automatically — habitually — drawing the handkerchief from his pocket to clean the mouthpiece once more. No one comments this time.

He lifts the pipe, inhales.

This time, it’s easier.

The burn is still there — sharp and dry against his throat — but it doesn’t make him cough. It doesn’t make his eyes water. It settles more quickly now, the warmth unfurling deeper in his chest like a blooming flower.

Still uncomfortable. Still foreign.

But no longer unbearable.

He passes it along, slower this time, watching the way the smoke drifts between their fingers, the way the light dances in the haze.

It feels like everything is soft around the edges — not blurry, just… less sharp. Less urgent.

Someone off to the side mutters something about pudding.

“Is there any of the chocolate left?” a girl asks through a yawn, lazily stretching her arms over her head.

Draco perks up — or at least, he thinks he does. It’s more of a tilt than a perk. The word chocolate suddenly carries divine significance.

“The pudding here,” he says solemnly, gaze unfocused, “is better than at Malfoy Manor.”

This earns a few chuckles — surprised ones. Someone raises an eyebrow.

“Really? You lot don’t have house-elves churning it out on gold-plated cauldrons or something?”

Draco snorts, too high to be offended. “We do. It’s just — ours is too formal. It’s all stiff peaks and unnecessary garnish. The pudding here is…” He blinks slowly, searching for the word. “Reckless.”

Laughter breaks across the circle like a ripple. Even Arthur’s shoulders shake with quiet amusement.

“Reckless pudding?”

Draco nods gravely. “It dares. It doesn’t care who it melts for.”

Someone wheezes. Another repeats, “It doesn’t care who it melts for,” like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all term.

By the sixth hit, Draco isn’t so much sitting anymore as he is melting. His legs have gone numb, and his limbs are no longer operating on any discernible logic. He feels like he’s floating — or maybe sinking. Or both. Is that possible?

He tries to lift his hand. He sees it rise. Then, just as suddenly, it drops. Right onto his face.

“Ow,” he says flatly, blinking in mild betrayal at his own fingers. “Why — why did it do that?”

The group bursts out laughing again, but Draco is too focused on his traitor hand to care. He stares at it, expression serious.

He experimentally tries to raise his thumb.

His pinky goes up.

Draco frowns. “That’s not… that’s not the right one.” He stares harder. Tries again. Pinky again. He groans.

Arthur leans over, brows lifted in mild concern. “You good, mate?”

Draco is now lying flat on the floor, arm flopped uselessly across his chest, eyes half-lidded as he stares up at the floating smoke above.

“I’m fairly certain I’ve been cursed,” he mutters, glaring at his own hand like it’s betrayed him.

Arthur laughs, but it’s gentle. He nudges Draco’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Alright, I think that’s enough hits for you, drama prince. You take one more and you’ll start naming the ceiling tiles.”

Draco blinks slowly. “Too late. That one’s Gregory.”

Just as Draco is about to name a second ceiling tile (definitely a Meredith), a voice cuts through the haze.

“Malfoy.”

His body jolts — or tries to. There’s no grace in it, no poise. Just a sudden, startled twitch as if the name itself yanked him halfway back into himself.

He attempts to sit up, to straighten, to summon that old posture burned into his spine — chin high, shoulders square, control etched into every line.

But he’s still sprawled inelegantly across the floor, one arm beneath him, one leg tangled in someone’s discarded blanket, and the smoke still humming behind his eyes like a lullaby he can’t quite turn off.

Arthur leans in, voice gentle, amused. “Alright, Draco. Let’s get you vertical.”

From the doorway, a Hufflepuff student — tall, composed, neutral — glances over the scene without judgment. He speaks plainly, politely.

“Tom Riddle is waiting outside the barrel entrance. He’s looking for you.”

Arthur nods once. “Thanks.”

Then, to Draco, quieter: “You heard him. Your escort awaits.”

Draco squints, not at Arthur, but at the general upward direction he assumes the door is in. He doesn’t speak, but his fingers twitch as if that might count as movement.

Arthur chuckles and crouches beside him, sliding an arm around his shoulders.

Together, they begin the slow, awkward process of peeling Draco off the floor.

Somehow — through determination, stubborn pride, and Arthur’s steady arm — they make it outside.

The cool corridor air hits Draco like a slap. It doesn’t sober him, not really, but it slices through the haze just enough to make everything feel too sharp.

Tom Riddle is already waiting.

He stands with perfect stillness, hands behind his back, posture impeccable. At the sight of Draco, his mouth twitches downward in the faintest flicker of disapproval. Not exaggerated. Not theatrical.

Just a silent verdict: unimpressed.

Arthur shifts beside Draco, the tension subtle but visible. His hand lingers a little longer on Draco’s back, like he doesn’t quite want to let go.

“He may have… indulged a touch more than intended,” Arthur offers, voice carefully neutral.

Riddle’s eyes don’t leave Draco’s face. He doesn’t blink.

“I see.”

Then he turns his full attention on Draco — and even in his haze, Draco feels it. That weight. That scrutiny.

“You are indecent,” Riddle says quietly. Not cruel, not angry. Just… cold.

“It’s unbecoming.”

Draco doesn’t respond. His mouth is dry, and his limbs still feel like they belong to someone else.

Riddle glances over Draco’s shoulder, and whatever silent message he sends is understood instantly.

Arthur exhales — frustrated, but without protest. His hand slips away from Draco’s back.

“Feel better,” he murmurs under his breath, before turning and slipping back through the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room.

The barrel door rolls shut behind him with a soft click.

And then it’s just Draco.

And Riddle.

Alone in the quiet corridor.

No laughter.

No smoke.

No safety.

Just silence and the sharp, clinical sound of Riddle’s footsteps as he turns, clearly expecting Draco to follow.

They walk in silence.

Not the comfortable kind. Not even the neutral kind.

It’s deliberate — a power move.

Riddle doesn’t speak. Doesn’t slow his pace.

He simply walks, poised and precise, as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

As if Draco isn’t stumbling behind him.

The corridors blur slightly at the edges — too long, too bright in places, too shadowed in others. Draco’s limbs feel like they’re reacting on delay, like he’s moving underwater while everything else is moving just a little too fast.

He trips once. Catches himself.

Trips again.

By the sixth or seventh — or maybe hundredth — stumble, Riddle stops walking.

The sudden halt is so abrupt that Draco nearly walks into him.

Then, without a word, Riddle turns, opens the nearest classroom door, and pulls Draco inside with one sharp tug of his sleeve.

The door clicks shut behind them.

The room is dim, the only light filtering through dust-smudged windows. Empty desks, forgotten quills, the faint smell of old ink.

Draco sways slightly on his feet, the silence closing in like a vice.

And Riddle finally turns to face him.

Draco is too slow to react.

Riddle’s hand closes around his wrist — not violently, but with enough force that escape isn’t an option. Draco flinches, but his body doesn’t obey fast enough to pull away.

Not violently, but with enough force that escape isn’t an option.

His sleeve is tugged back with precision, baring his forearm.

The Dark Mark is exposed.

Dark. Inert. But humming beneath the skin like something waiting.

Riddle studies it in silence.

His grip remains tight, but then his fingers shift — brushing against the skull etched into Draco’s skin. The touch isn’t rough. It’s almost gentle. Too gentle.

In contrast to the earlier pressure, his thumb now moves with something dangerously close to reverence — tracing the curve of the Mark with quiet curiosity. Goosebumps rise in the wake of that touch.

Draco shudders.

He slumps against the nearest desk, his drug-fuzzed brain latching onto the sensation — trying to focus, to stay present, but failing.

“Do you know what this is?” Riddle asks softly.

Draco jerks his head in a violent shake — no. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

No one is supposed to know.

Riddle doesn’t release him.

“This has some very dark magic inside,” he says, voice dipping into something almost awed.

His thumb presses down on the skull — and Draco, wide-eyed, watches it move. Twisting, just slightly. He knows he’s hallucinating, that it’s the Puffroot clouding his senses, but it feels real.

He gasps — softly, involuntarily.

“How curious,” Riddle murmurs his thumb ghosting over the Dark Mark. “That my magic resides in you… and yet we’ve never met.”

He falls quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the symbol as if it might offer answers. Then, almost absently — as though voicing a thought that only just occurred to him —

“Do you know about Magic Marks, Draco?”

The way he says his name — slow, deliberate, intimate — makes Draco’s stomach drop.

He doesn’t answer. Can’t.

Riddle doesn’t wait.

“There’s only one Magic Mark documented in history.”

His voice softens — not out of kindness, but reverence.

“Merlin.”

He lets the name settle like ancient dust.

“The most powerful wizard’s Magic Mark — a bond so deep, so old, it could only be placed by magic itself. Not cast. Not forced. Chosen.”

His eyes flicker back to the Dark Mark.

“Magic of that prowess doesn’t obey orders. It selects.”

He leans closer.

“In Merlin’s case, it chose Arthur. The one destined to help him shape the world.”

The silence afterward isn’t empty. It’s loaded. Suffocating. Riddle lets it hang, like prophecy. Then he lifts his free hand — and gently, deliberately, places it against Draco’s cheek.

The touch is warm. Steady. Possessive.

Draco goes still.

His mind slips somewhere distant — a soft, slow current he can’t quite swim against. Riddle’s voice continues, low and close, but the words have stopped mattering.

He hears only sound, not meaning — that smooth, deliberate cadence, threading through the fog in his head like a charm. It doesn’t pull him back. It pulls him in.

One word cuts through everything else.

Draco.

The way Riddle says it — slow, sharp-edged, almost tender.

It echoes.

Repeats.

Wraps around him.

He doesn’t know what Riddle’s saying anymore. He’s not even sure Riddle is still speaking. It’s just that voice, and that name, and the strange pressure behind his eyes.

And then Riddle leans closer.

Draco’s gaze, unfocused and glassy, crosses.

He falls into the darkness of Riddle’s eyes — vast, endless, unreadable. There’s nothing warm in them, but they pull all the same.

His breath catches.

And just like that — Riddle moves away.

Yet spell doesn’t break. It shifts.

Riddle straightens his posture, smoothing the front of his robes with the same composed efficiency he applies to everything. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world — a continuation of the silence between them — he reaches out.

His fingers brush Draco’s collar, slow and deliberate, before adjusting his tie.

Tightens it just slightly. Neatly. Professionally.

Then, with the other hand, he brushes Draco’s hair back into place — fingers combing slowly through the strands, flattening them into something tidy.

Presentable.

Draco doesn’t move. He just watches, wide-eyed, dazed — unable to react, unable to understand. He doesn’t know what’s happening. Doesn’t know why Riddle is doing this, or what it means.

But the touch lingers. The weight of it. The quiet control of it. And then Riddle moves away completely.

The warmth of his hands disappears, and with it, the brief illusion of closeness. He takes a step back, straightening his robes with brisk, methodical precision.

When he speaks again, his voice has changed.

No longer low and coaxing — no longer intimate.

Now it’s clipped. Polished. The tone of a prefect delivering a reprimand.

“Your behavior tonight was highly inappropriate,” Riddle says evenly. “Stumbling through the halls, presenting yourself in such a state — it reflects poorly on you.”

Draco blinks.

The room shifts.

The haze in his mind doesn’t lift, but it twists — like something shattering through cotton. He sways slightly, trying to reconcile the soft touch from moments ago with the cold disapproval now standing before him.

Riddle continues without pause.

“You are a representative of Slytherin House. Of your family. You ought to remember what’s expected of you.”

Draco stares at him, throat dry, pulse hammering. It’s like watching someone switch masks mid-sentence. Like the warmth in Riddle’s hands was never there — like Draco imagined it.

The air between them is colder now.

Professional. Distant.

And Draco feels the backslash of it all — a crash of confusion, vulnerability, and humiliation that rises fast in his chest. He doesn’t know if he wants to argue, apologize, or collapse.

Then, almost as an afterthought — too casual to be anything but deliberate:

“We will discuss the Boggart lesson tomorrow. You’re in no condition to hold a meaningful conversation tonight.”

He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve with practiced ease, then turns toward the door.

Draco hesitates, still leaning against the desk. The command is simple — but it echoes like a summons.

This time, Riddle doesn’t stride ahead without looking back.

He walks just ahead, but only slightly — enough to lead, but close enough to reach out if Draco stumbles again. It’s precise. Measured. As if he’s gauged the exact distance at which Draco can move without falling, but not without feeling watched.

Draco follows.

His steps are uneven, legs still heavy with smoke and tension, but the silence between them has changed. It’s no longer full of cold disapproval. It hums — low and charged.

At one point, he falters on a stair. Before he can tip forward, a hand brushes against his arm — light, steadying, then gone again.

Riddle doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

The contact was intentional.

By the time they reach the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Draco’s thoughts are a muddled blur — half smoke, half heartbeat.

He really needs some rest.

Riddle doesn’t leave him at the entrance. He follows silently down the narrow corridor, through the shadows of the common room, and into the hallway that leads to the dormitories. As they pass the carved archway of the bathroom, Riddle peels away — wordless, precise — turning toward the corridor’s gleaming tiles without looking back.

Draco watches him disappear into the dark, then turns toward his own dorm.

He won’t freshen up. He doesn’t have the energy. His skin still feels like it doesn’t belong to him, and the thought of standing under cold water right now feels unbearable.

He pushes open the dormitory door as quietly as he can, careful not to disturb the slow rhythm of the other boys’ breathing. The darkness is thick, but familiar.

He crosses the room, every step feeling heavier than the last, and lets himself collapse onto his bed. The mattress gives beneath him — soft, welcoming — and for a moment, he just lies there, face down, breath shallow.

Somehow, his fingers find the clasp of his outer robe and pull it loose. It slips from his shoulders in one heavy motion, falling onto the floor beside his bed. As he shifts onto his side, something cold presses against his chest — the tiny vial tucked inside the lining.

He exhales shakily and reaches for the glass of water on his bedside table, hand trembling just enough to make the surface ripple. Uncorking the vial takes more focus than he thought he had left.

One drop.

Just one.

The potion glows faintly as it falls, dissolving into the water without a sound.

A dreamless sleep. That’s all it promises.

He drinks it all, without thinking of the consequences.