Chapter 1
Hermione Granger stared at the letter in her hand, the wax seal shimmering faintly in the dim light of the Gryffindor common room. Her heart pounded as she ran her fingers over the crest that was unmistakably Malfoy—two serpents intertwined around a stylized “M.” It didn’t make sense. Why would a letter from the Malfoys find its way to her, of all people? And on her birthday, no less. The parchment was heavy, the edges pristine, and despite her better judgment, curiosity gnawed at her insides until she could resist no longer. With trembling fingers, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
“DearHermione,” it began. “We have waited far too long to tell you the truth. For reasons of safety, we had to hide you, to shield you from the dangerous world we live in. But now, as you come of age, you must know who you truly are.”
Hermione’s eyes raced over the text, confusion blooming in her chest. She blinked, certain she had misread. But no, the words were clear. The letter went on to explain that she had been adopted as a baby. Her real parents? Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. A chill ran down her spine, and she clutched the letter tighter. How could this be true? She had grown up as a Muggle-born, the very thing the Malfoys despised. And Draco—Draco Malfoy, the boy who had tormented her for years—was her brother? The room spun, and Hermione sank into the nearest chair, struggling to make sense of it all. Her entire life had been a lie. Every argument with Draco, every sneer, every time she’d been called a “Mudblood”… It had all been rooted in a twisted irony she could never have anticipated.
It wasn’t long before the news of her true parentage reached the rest of the wizarding world. Returning to Hogwarts after the Christmas holidays, Hermione felt the weight of a hundred eyes on her. Whispers followed her down every corridor, a constant reminder of the secret that had shattered her sense of self.
And then there was Draco.
Draco Malfoy had always been a looming presence in her life, but now his existence carried a new significance. He was no longer just the arrogant boy who had made her early years at Hogwarts miserable—he was her blood. Her brother. She couldn’t avoid him for long. One morning, as she hurried to breakfast, she nearly collided with him in the Entrance Hall. His silver eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
“I suppose we have to talk,” Draco said, his voice stiff but devoid of its usual malice. Hermione clenched her fists. “What’s there to talk about? This wasn’t my choice.” Draco’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Nor mine, Granger—Malfoy. But here we are.”
The silence between them stretched, fraught with years of animosity. And yet, there was something else there now—an undercurrent of shared confusion, perhaps even fear. For all his cold bravado, Draco seemed just as unsettled by the revelation as she was.
“I’ll help you,” he said at last, surprising her. “Mother and Father… they expect you to fit into the family now. And you’re woefully unprepared for the world you’re stepping into.” Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but the truth was undeniable. She was unprepared. The life of a pure-blood, especially a Malfoy, was an entirely different existence. It was a world of carefully navigated alliances, unspoken rules, and dark legacies. Whether she liked it or not, she was now a part of that world.
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Moving into the Slytherin dormitories was a bitter pill to swallow. McGonagall had been hesitant, but after much discussion with Narcissa and Lucius, she had reluctantly allowed it. “For the sake of your integration,” they had said. Hermione could almost hear the sneer in Lucius’s voice when she read the note. Her new quarters were luxurious, far more so than Gryffindor tower had ever been. Rich emeralds and dark, polished wood adorned the walls, and the thick carpets muffled her footsteps as she explored her new space. Yet, despite the opulence, Hermione felt suffocated. The dungeons were cold, both physically and emotionally. She didn’t belong here. That fact was made painfully clear when she walked into the Slytherin common room for the first time.
“Look what we have here,” drawled a familiar voice. Pansy Parkinson, her sharp features twisted into a mocking smirk, lounged on one of the leather couches, her dark eyes flicking up and down Hermione with disdain. “Granger. Or should I say Malfoy?” Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she forced herself to keep her expression neutral. “Still me,” she said, though the words felt hollow. Was she still Hermione? Or had she already begun to change?
Pansy’s smirk widened, but there was no warmth in it. “We’ll see about that. Just because you’ve got the name doesn’t mean you can fit into our world.” The others—Slytherins she’d known only in passing, like Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott—watched in silence, their expressions unreadable. For the first time in her life, Hermione felt completely out of her depth.
But she wasn’t about to show weakness. “I don’t need your approval, Parkinson,” she snapped. Pansy’s eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement, or perhaps challenge. “Good. You won’t get it.”