Beneath the Lamb's skin is a Wolf's mind

Feet on the ground, eyes on the sky.

Calloused hands held strange mechanisms. Magic imbued into metal, magic in mechanical. The thought was absurd. Everyone knew that magic and technology never mixed—always against each other, always fighting for control. 

Many do not simply believe that things can be done. The impossible cannot be done, it cannot be understood. Humans had limited understanding of their surroundings—they could not easily comprehend things beyond the limits they knew. This was a simple matter. But for humans it was either being mortal humans. 

Or be a limitless god.

“You are a strange one.” Aleksia traced her fingers over metal—magic staining it gold. It was amazing. “How are you capable of doing this? Even the most ancient of us wixen were incapable of mixing mechanics with technology outside of runic arrays. How can you do this?”

Be human or be god.

Aleksia questions it everyday as the boy before her puts pieces together, creating something she cannot easily comprehend. Magic wears off when it comes to these things. It fades away—yet she stares at this… this magnificence and sucks in a deep breath. 

Magic was paradoxical itself. 

And yet her new charge was just the same. 

“It’s easy… if you understand.” The little Peverell whispered, wrenching his new mechanism, eyes darting between his new little toy and the messy plans he drew. Diagrams over diagrams, runes and magic stones and metal. There’s a strange tool in his hand that she doesn’t recognize. Neither muggle nor magical. It’s a tool, made of gold and metal and something. Aleksia thinks it’s one of the little gifts he received from his mysterious benefactor. 

“Many attempt to understand these things, little void.” Aleksia hummed, tilting her head. Void—she’s grown used to calling him that. He feels like one. So young, so much potential and ambition. But he felt like a void. “And yet you look at it and immediately know. You hide many things—are you a seer, child?”

“No. But the future is a cruel one I try to change.” Little Peverell laughed. 

“But can you tell me anything? Anything at all.”

“My name.”

“I already know your name. But… I want to know why you chose that one.” 

He tilts his head, discarding his toy. “Hyperion.” He whispered his chosen name with such fondness and hatred—it baffled her. 

“It’s from a Greek myth.”

Aleksia hummed again, “I know. One of Gaia and Ouranos' titan children. Heavenly light, correct?”

“The father of the sun, moon, and dawn. Hyperion means He who Goes Above. He was one of the pillars that held heaven and earth apart, the east to be specific.” Hyperion whispered softly, marvelling his own work. A strange mechanism—a weapon. She knows it is a weapon from the way he caresses it, from the way murder was veiled in his eyes gazed at it. Unfinished yet utterly dangerous. “I want to be like that. A pillar between the crushing sky and the world. I want to see through the eyes of birds that look down upon us.”

Magic singed the air and she could smell it. Aleksia leant against the wall, eyes narrowed as the pure fascination glazes his viridescent eyes. The mechanism awoke, a glowing emerald at its very base before the weapon extends and conducts green lightning through it. 

“You want to be god.” Aleksia frowned. “You will die if you keep thinking like that.” 

But Aleksia is ignorant to the cold and blackening hand that pressed against Hyperion’s shoulder. A looming presence behind him, lurking and lingering. The voice is cold and yet so warm and familiar to him.

“Don’t listen to her babble. You are capable of greater things.” Death whispered, leading Hyperion’s hand to the trigger.

Magic imbued in mechanical. Aleksia finally recognised the weapon—a gun. Made from magic and murderous intent. Her breath hitched, unable to decipher this feeling of terror that haunts her nerves. It is old, it is ancient magic that should have died long ago. Not even arcane studies could recreate this paradoxical power that bursted from that weapon. His finger against the trigger and his eye looking through the scope.

Magic burns and bursts and it shoots a hole into the wall. It burns green, like the killing curse, like Hyperion’s eyes. 

“Then I’ll die a god.”

The crystal ball keeps moving as he pushes it over the table, even as it falls, it continues to roll off the floor. Only when someone’s foot pressing against it, does the crystal ball stop. 

Green eyes travel up from the floor and to the face that owns that damn foot. 

Draco Malfoy looks more mature than he last saw him. His features were as sharp as both of his parents’, the clear indication he was a Black and a Malfoy. He must have been able to make his family proud from how he turned out. 

Harry tilts his head, staring at his crystal ball before he gestures—demandingly—for Draco to return it. The other young man looked irked, but bent down and picked up the ball. It’s cold in his hand, making Harry hum as he leans back against the chair.

“What brings you here, mister Malfoy.” Harry drawls, waving at him as he sets the crystal ball back on its stand. 

Silver looked directly into green eyes, curious and fairly shrewd. “I heard you spoke with Blaise—”

“Mister Malfoy, I am here as the assistant teacher of your Dark Studies professor. Kindly do not waste my time by talking about personal matters.”

Draco grits his teeth, narrowing his eyes at Harry. “It’s Heir Malfoy—”

“You’re at Hogwarts. No point in pulling rank here.” Harry doesn't simply say it—he laughs. It's absurd, almost familiarly ridiculous. It reminds him that he's not in Durmstrang, that Draco did not fall into the jaws of the institution and spat out with a sense of hopelessness. But that hopelessness that was drilled into fresher students was what hardened them along the years. 

“If you were a student of Durmstrang and had that sort of attitude with a teacher? Mister Malfoy, they'd make you run laps under the rain.” Harry grins, tilting his head. 

The way the young man stiffened was a sight to behold. Harry wasn't one to thoughtlessly bully someone, but then again, for all he's done in Durmstrang with the pompous purebloods, Draco was easy pickings. It wasn't hard to see through him, all that underlying anger and resentment. To hell with it, Harry didn't need Aurelia or Genevieve telling him he's gone soft. 

“So, again, what do you want, Mister Malfoy.” His scathing tone with the brightest smile he could muster. Draco—and it's better to call him that now—was visibly hesitant. So much for Slytherin decorum. “If it's in regards to your studies, then I'll gladly help. But if it involves our personal lives, then I must ask you to refrain. I'm on duty and it is our last day.” 

The other young man's body goes even more rigid, tense as his face shows a hint of surprise and agitation for a millisecond before it's carved into marble nonchalance. “You will be returning to Durmstrang tomorrow?” 

“Well of course. The others and I must return to our studies immediately, as Genevieve, Aurelia, and I are in our final year. You can understand the strain that has been placed upon us for simply volunteering with this… charity.” 

“You call this a charity?” 

“Absolutely! Are we not working to help those in need? I suppose that in your eyes, the students of Hogwarts are perfectly capable. But if you were to compare yourselves with that of other schools like Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and even Castelabruxo, you are quite… subpar.” Harry shrugs, tilting his head as he smiles at Draco. “But that is not the fault of students, no? The teachers should be condemned for it. Hence why we—the British students of Durmstrang—pitied our fellow Englishmen and decided to provide our assistance.”

Draco’s magic immediately flared at the jab, making Harry laugh internally. It was amusing to witness the rumoured well kept and disciplined Draco Malfoy let his emotions influence him. “You think you've been able to help? You're only students!” 

“And yet there's been a significant increase in productivity and student participation since we've arrived.” Harry drawls, “You are ignorant, to say the least. Even those of the dark families that educate their children of old Magicks are still fairly oblivious to things. As said, you people are influenced by stereotypes. The Patronus charm, remember?” 

The British isles weren't isolated, but they were conservative—to say the least. Their beliefs on magic were influenced by humans, by their history. But history was written by the victors, was it not? Not to mention the atrocious state of their education when they continued to let Binns teach even after death. Surely, the ministry had enough money to fund Hogwarts that salaries weren't so bad. But to think they were cheapskates who kept a ghost so they wouldn't have to pay another teacher. 

“Perhaps your parents should have sent you to Durmstrang back in fourth year.” Harry hums, “It would have been beneficial.” 

“Tsk… I wanted to ask more about some principles of dark magic. It runs in emotions, that's what we've been taught, but how does it actually work? Intent is strong as it gives spells a goal, so what does emotions do? Every spell has intent, a goal—so how did dark become dark?” Draco asks, clutching a book by his side. Silver eyes bore into him with malice and curiosity. 

Oh! Good question. Harry couldn't help but smile, leaning against his chair. Such questions should be applauded. Draco was putting in effort to thoroughly understand the principles of magic! Oh, Professor Tasev would have adored him. But wanting to know and being able to comprehend it was two different things. 

He dragged two fingers across the air and the chair nearby moved, promptly startling Draco who was forced to take a seat. The other young man looked utterly baffled but Harry only waved him off, humming to himself as he rummaged through his bag before taking out a strange glass tablet. 

“Tell me about your understanding of magic. The intent vs. emotion theory, to be specific.” he mutters, taking a marker—because marker's were useful compared to simple ink. Aleksia would have scolded him and Hermione for walking out in the muggle world just to buy whiteboard markers. 

Draco watched in fascination as Harry continued to draw something on the reflective tablet. He was curious, but cleared his throat and began to explain his perspective of the situation. 

“Light magic constitutes spells that are driven by the purpose of a caster. It feeds off of the intent itself and manifests into a spell. Dark spells are spells that are created by emotions. These spells are fueled by human mentality—emotions in other words. Grey spells are the combination of both, hence why many spells are grey. However, pure light and pure dark are more powerful than grey spells because of the raw power that fuels them.” Draco dictates—definitions written on books. 

Harry hums, glancing up at him.

“Light magic is driven by intent. Not purpose.” He corrects, grabbing a red and green marker from his bag and continuing to draw. 

“What's the difference?”

Harry rolls his eyes. He takes it back—Tasev wouldn't like Draco. 

“Intent is ambition—of sorts. It is what the caster wants, their needs. Intent is what the caster intends to do. Light magic is made up of goals, desires, ambition.” He sighs, utterly exasperated by the ignorance. “Purpose is the ‘why’ of magic. Purpose means what something is designed to do, the reason. Function is what something does.” 

Harry flips the reflective tablet and presents it to Draco, “Every spell has a purpose and function.” He taps his marker on the surface, leasing Draco to the green diagrams and spells. Then he points to the red. “Everything has a purpose, a function. Spells are no different.” 

The green for light and the red for dark. 

“Light spells run on the intent of the caster. Their desires, their goals. Dark spells need pure and raw emotion. But!” He sets the tablet down, pressing his finger in the very centre. Two spheres emerge from the tablet, making Draco jolt and push himself away from the desk.

“But nothing is black and white. Though it is known that light and dark spells are stronger than grey, it does not mean that they are completely separate.” Harry points to the green sphere that symbolises the light. “If you were to have a goal and feel nothing, can your goal be clear? Do you see your objective clearly while feeling nothing?” 

Draco hesitates, staring at the green sphere before shaking his head. “No. All kinds of goals have emotions attached to them.”

“Exactly. Determination, love, anger—any and all emotions stain your goals.” He pressed his finger against the green sphere and the smallest bit of red bleeds from the centre and mixes with it. “The same goes with dark magic. Emotions are morphed from something. Take the celestial illusion spell—Astrum Illūsiō. It's a dark spell as it requires empathy, but there is always some sort of intent. To create, to deceive.” 

Like the green, the red begins to bleed some green at the centre. 

“Then what is the point of these categories if everything is grey?” Draco stammers, his mask melting away with his curiosity and bewilderment.

Harry can only shrug, “Humans need to define anything and everything. The concept of limitless and infinite is frightening to them.” He explains, his tone detached. 

“But to answer your question, it's the matter of which one is stronger. The intent will always be stronger for light spells. You can cast the killing curse with the same intent but your emotions can shift. You can feel anger, joy, whatever you can—but your intent will never change. For Dark spells, emotions are naturally strong. The intent will shift, even if a little. Orchidius will always use happiness and love but the caster can think: make me flowers, make this bloom, give me something beautiful. The intent shifts ever so slightly, but the emotion overpowers it.” 

The concept of the intent vs. emotion theory will always be confusing to him. Perhaps it was because it's the oldest known magical system in the world. The concept of light and dark never ceased to irk him. What was the point of giving magic some sort of moral category? This was why he liked the function system over anything else. 

“I see… so it's the overpowering aspect that defines the category. Grey just means that it's more balanced than the latter categories.” Draco murmurs, more to himself than to Harry.

“To summarise: all spells have a function and purpose. All spells include emotions and intent. Whichever aspect fuels the spell the most will dictate the category it falls into. Dark is mainly fueled by emotions; Light is mainly fueled by intent. But that does not mean they are completely absent from the other aspects.” 

The malice and scrutiny in Draco's eyes suddenly shift to awe, envy, and admiration. He nods, understanding it all easily from the explanations alone before he turns back to Harry with a curious look. He's been more curious lately. Perhaps Theo has some idea as to why Draco Malfoy was so… 

“Why haven't you explained this to the class?” He asks and it's a good question. Amazing. 

Harry shrugs again, “Not many of you are willing to learn, to adapt. Humans are inherently stubborn, hence why I found no reason to provide more explanation. Why continue to teach them if they refuse to learn. It's a waste of time.” 

Draco frowns, “I never expected you to be so shallow.”

“Me? Shallow? Mister Malfoy, I am more gracious than you think!” Harry laughs, snapping his fingers as the illusions vanish. He waves his hand over the reflective tablet and watches his writing melt away, leaving the glass cleaner than ever. 

Very gracious. 

“Last question.” Draco finally sighs, seeing that Harry wouldn't give him a clear answer unless it's academic. “Why volunteer? You left for a reason, so why come back and show yourself?” 

“Why indeed.” Harry hums, staring off in the distance. It's complicated. Very much so. But he searches through all the hundreds of useless reasons and finds the suitable one. It's a fact, the truth in his heart as he drums his fingers over the desk. 

Green eyes are back on silver. Harry's reminded of Sirius. He wants to see the man who's somehow supporting Gaunt. He doesn't know why. He's a bit resentful, but Sirius most likely had his reasons. He was one of those reasons, if he had to speculate. A little laugh escapes him as he leans forward, looking at Draco with a smile. 

“Ron.”

“Ronald Weasley?” 

“I couldn't abandon him. I wanted to see him, to make sure he was getting a decent education. So if you want an honest answer from me, then that is it. I volunteered to assist Hogwarts for Ronald Weasley.” Harry hums to himself, “I cherish him, see. He is precious to us—my sister and I. In all honesty, none of you matter. Ron, however, does. He matters to me.”

Draco’s mannerism immediately changes. He looks at the boy from Durmstrang with utter annoyance. Because it's the truth. 

Hyperion looks at him and there’s the truth in his eyes. There is no lie that leaves his tongue. What’s the point of lying? There’s no benefit to it. Because, yes, Ron was one of his reasons as to why he returned. He also wanted to spite Dumbledore and the Ministry because they were utter arseholes. He wanted to show them how he’s thrived, how great he’s become. 

“Any more questions?”

“No… you’ve managed to answer everything I question.” Draco mutters.

“Hm… Oh! You’re in contact with Sirius, right?” Harry smiles brightly, “Could you give this to him?” He hands over a black envelope with golden wax.

It’s light. To him, it smelt of magic—crisp and a bit ashy, a bit like smoke. No one could open this, except for Sirius Black himself. Well, hopefully. If a certain resurrected Dark Lord got his hands on it, then Sirius wouldn’t be able to read it. Oh well, he’ll find a way to send another one. 

“Why not send it yourself?”

“Hedwig is a spoiled princess. I can’t send her off for one measly letter. Besides, she’s not familiar with Sirius so she might be difficult with him if he ever saw her.”

“...What’s the point then?”

“Careful now, that’s my familiar! But then again, I don’t send a lot of letters. People are annoying.” He blanches, detesting the thought of having to deal with thoughtless fools—like how he was being made to deal with idiotic students when they had signed up for an interview, not an internship. 

“Run along, little dragon. You have a Dark Lord to report to.”

Draco’s blood ran cold—Harry could feel it. Licking his lips, he tilted his head and grinned at Draco. Poor thing, he was frightened and visibly shaking. Deep down, a part of Draco Malfoy will always be cowardly—but that cannot be shamed. Humans were always scared. Their relationship with power was always complicated, Harry was intimately aware of that. 

Lacing his fingers together, he observed the boy carefully. The way the little colour on his face drained made it seem like his skin was almost transparent. It fascinated Harry to no end. What would happen if he just… took Draco by the jaw and dug his nails into that pale skin. Would he immediately bleed? Would he bruise? Would his skin turn red or purple? 

“Don't look so jumpy.” Like a wolf looking down at a ferret, Harry inclines his head to the side again. “It's a simple task, Draco.”

Draco Malfoy’s first impression of Harry Potter was of a small, fragile, and maybe stupid boy. Potter was antisocial, shy. He made little friends, his grades were mediocre, and he was brainwashed like the rest of the fools. He carried no such greatness that the stories told. 

But then the boy vanished two years ago. 

Draco wondered about it every week. What happened to Potter? Where did he go? Did the Dark Lord truly kidnap him? Was he secretly stowed away under their manor? Paranoia was common amongst his mother's bloodline, so it wasn't much of a surprise when it got to him. Then more than a year ago, Sirius Black was proven innocent and was restored as Lord of the House. 

He visited often, wishing to have the company of his cousin, Draco's mother, and the two would reminisce or simply keep one another company. Whenever Draco speaks to him, the man gets all foggy eyed and nostalgic. His mother tells him it's because Draco reminds Sirius of his younger brother Regulus. The new Lord of Black wasn't unpleasant, he was a Gryffindor, yes, but he was civil enough with them that he didn't go manic all willy-nilly. 

His peers find his fascination with the golden trio strange. They think him mad for being suspicious of the disappearance of the two most formidable members of Gryffindor. Hermione Granger had been the brightest witch of their age—loathe it as he may, he must admit it. Harry Potter was the bloody boy who lived. 

Then he came back. 

Draco's first impression of Hyperion Peverell was a confident, borderline arrogant, and shrewd young man. He was taller, leaner, clearly more powerful than Harry Potter ever was. He was cruel sometimes. Stupidity seemed like a sin in his eyes and somehow he managed to make Draco feel inferior—again. 

Because Hyperion Peverell was the definition of natural genius. He spoke in ways that showed that he understood the literal principles of magic with pure and utter ease. Stubborn and hard-headed students were dealt with immediately, humiliated once he could dissect their arsenal of knowledge and questioned them where they didn’t understand. It was almost painful to watch once Potter—Peverell found a weakness. 

It reminded him of how snakes hunt. They used their tongues to smell their surroundings, tracked heat, and used their sight. Once they find their prey, they coil around their prey and squeeze until they die. Peverell gouged out your ignorance and walked around you, questioning you until your head spun. Draco had seen it when Cormac McLaggen opened his mouth and the wrong words were spoken. 

And it wasn’t long until his parents told him to gather information. Peverell was open, he was seen almost all the time. He ate with his peers in Solovyava’s office. He’d join them during dinner. He was always present, always had an alibi if anything happened.

And he was aware. 

The other Durmstrang students were highly reactive when it came to Peverell. Fawley was stuck to Peverell outside of their classes, she was always with him, he was always with her. Morganach looked to him for advice, for counsel whenever something happened. The younger two—Rowle and Vance—always looked for his approval. They wouldn’t do anything unless he gave a visible signal. 

Hyperion Peverell was the leader. Subtle as it was, Draco saw it clearly. He was detached. It was so strange for him, the way Peverell spoke about human nature as if he weren't one. 

The trip from the Dark Studies classroom to the common rooms was long. He could feel the cold sweat drip down his face, the way his body trembled slightly. 

He ignores Pansy once he passes through the stone walls, slipping away from the common room and to his own bedroom. Breathing out a sigh, he closed the door and locked it. He didn’t want to be bothered until he could give out his proper report to the Dark Lord. 

“You got what you wanted?”

Draco froze, snapping his head towards the figure on his bed.

Theodore Nott was an old friend and a new enigma. He lied on his bed, reading one of Draco’s books. The other boy was his roommate—unfortunately. His roommate is well known for the fact that he was close to Hyperion Peverell.

“That’s none of your business.” Draco snarls, tugging at his tie.

“Ron’s already warned Blaise.” Theo blankly looks at him. “Don’t pick a fight with Rion, Draco. He’s a madman.”

“Theodore—”

“I’m not on your side, Draco. I’m on his. So this isn’t me being concerned, or worried. No.” Theo rolls his eyes, tossing the book and quickly cornering Draco. He stepped closer and closer, eyes narrowed as he leaned closer. “He’ll eat you alive and spit out your bones, then use them as toothpicks.” 

“Threats don’t scare me.”

“They’re facts, little dragon.” 

Draco doesn’t want to admit that he flinched. Theo spoke like Peverell. He should have noticed, should have known. While he watched Peverell, Theo watched him. 

“Go to Snape. He’ll be waiting.” Theo hums, pulling away and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Rion doesn’t want me stopping you.”

“You take orders from him.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Never took you for a mutt.”

Theo smirks, “Draco Malfoy, your family follows a powerful man. I’m simply doing the same.” 

Draco gulps, sneering at Theo before he marches out the room with his written report on the events he’s followed. He swallowed thickly, hurrying off to Snape’s office. Thankfully, he wasn’t stopped, no one dared to do so. With a single knock, the door opens and Snape ushers him inside. 

“How did it go?”

“Awful.” 

Snape raises a brow, scrutinising Draco. “You were caught.”

“He knew. I think he’s always known.” Draco grits out, “And Nott is a cunt.”

“Language.” Snape sighs, shaking his head as he turns to the fireplace. “He is waiting. I can only spare you two hours, Draco. Be quick about it and don't fail.”

“I won't.” Draco shakes his head, glancing at the portkey. He reached forward, faltering as his hand shook. But Severus held his hand for a moment, directing Draco's gaze back to him. He could see the firmness in those eyes as he steadied Draco. With a shaky breath, he shook his head again and took the empty ink bottle in hand.

The world swirled around him until he lands on an intricately designed floor pattern. The mixture of green, gold, and white. It was a familiar place, making Draco shudder as he heard his mother's familiar voice echo across the foyer. 

“Draco, my son.” Narcissa reaches forward, cupping his cheeks as she smiled softly at him. She was always so soft and kind, but he had to remind himself that her mother was a Black first and a Malfoy second. “Were you successful?” 

Draco purses his lips, “I've gathered as much as I could, mother…”

Narcissa frowns for a second, before her expression falls blank. She nods silently, leading him to the drawing room where their lord and his other followers awaited. 

His nerves were gradually getting to him, making Draco's hands shake. 

Sirius was present, as expected, lounging in one of the seats in the middle of the long table. Barty sat to the right of the Dark Lord while his father sat on the left. His mother was quick to usher him to the other end of the table, where he remained standing as his mother took her seat beside his father. He noticed Dolohov sitting beside Barty, between the seemingly mad man and Sirius—who was also mad. 

“Welcome back, Draco. I expect that you've done well in your research.” Gaunt smiles, cocking his head to the said with his fingers laced together. “Now… what have you discovered?” 

Draco quietly fidgets with his notes. It feels like he's presenting a thesis to his professor, it's just that failure was not met with verbal lashing, but a curse. He gulps, coughing into his hand before quickly skimming through them. 

“Harry Potter, now known as Hyperion Potter. He's the current student-assistant for our Dark Studies class and is well versed in the principles of magic. From his demeanour alone, he does not tolerate any sorts of bigotry or forms of stupidity. He has little patience, in truth, and a terrible temperament.” Draco grimaces, reminded of how Peverell detested being kept waiting. “He has the tendency to humiliate anyone on the spot if they were to show naive ignorance. Multiple students have run out of the class crying from his cruelty alone.”

There were three accounts of that. A fifth year Gryffindor, a seventh year Hufflepuff, and a sixth year Slytherin. It's in his notes written in bold red ink. But Peverell was gentler with those in fourth year and younger. It reminded him of a watered down version of Severus. “His progress in Hogwarts is commendable. Dark Studies has significantly improved since his arrival and many participate more.”

“Because they're excited or because they're scared?” Dolohov snorts. 

“A mixture of both, Lord Dolohov. Just yesterday, he had asked for the names of absent students and hunted them down. Many witnessed him levitating Arthur Bagman and Trinity Fawcett—gryffindors—through the halls. He stuck them to their chairs once they were seated.” 

Sirius barks out a laugh, more canine than human as he grinned roguishly at Draco. 

“Anything else?” 

“Er… I asked him about his views on the magic system. He explains it as magic being categorised by the aspect that plays as its strongest component. Light is based on intent but there is still emotion there, while Dark is fueled by overpowering emotion yet intent is not completely removed. He essentially explains that all kinds of magic have the same aspects, just different capacities of it.” Draco shrugs, trying not to place his hand in the back of his neck. 

“What? It's not that simple!” Barty protests, clearly disgruntled by Draco's words. “The magic system is complicated. He can't just declare that light has emotion and dark has intent. It's absurd!”

His outburst is immediately tamed once Gaunt raises a hand, to which Barty immediately sits back down. The Dark Lord quietly contemplates the explanation, humming softly. “Indeed, the intent against emotion theory is a complicated structure. Yet Peverell has managed to simplify it.” 

“My lord—”

“Emotions and Intent cannot be easily separated. They are severely tangled and connected, hence they cannot be completely absent from one another. Peverell is correct, young Malfoy, listen to him.” Gaunt explains, calm and patient and intrigued. 

Draco flinches at the flash of red in those eyes, grimacing quietly. 

“What else?”

“He returned for Ronald Weasley. In his words, we don't matter but Weasley does. So he came back to make sure he had some decent education.” Draco fidgeted again, swallowing thickly as he tried to continue speaking. 

“Were there any problems?” 

Ah… that. 

“Yes.”

Gaunt narrows his eyes, leaning back against his seat. 

He saw the way his parents stiffened, dreading what must happen as their son admitted that there were complications in his mission. It was so simple. All he needed to do was gather information and he still went through trouble. 

“What happened?” 

“Po—Peverell knew. He knew about you. He… he knew I was gathering information on him.” Draco whispers, swallowing again. 

His father paled and his mother closed her eyes. 

Gaunt says there, inquisitive and clearly irked. “He knew… who else knew?” 

“Theodore Nott… I met him before coming here… he explained that he allowed me to continue spying as per Peverell’s orders.”

Dolohov chokes, “Peverell told him not to stop you? I told you!” He slams his hand on the table, pointing an accusing finger at Lucius. “That boy would immediately go against us after we tried to free his father. Peverell is why Thaddeus’ trial is on the verge of being denied.” 

“Enough.” Gaunt snaps, “Thank you, Draco. Take a seat.” He glances at Barty, “Anything to add?” 

“About Theodore Nott.” Barty immediately latches on to the topic, summoning a file and hurriedly rummaging through numerous papers. He whipped out a report on someone's profile—Draco could see Theo's picture plastered at the top right of the paper. “Excelled in Warding, Ancient Runes, and Durmstrang’s combative classes. He's adept at duelling, a good swordmaster, and was well known for the fact that he was Hyperion Peverell's sparring partner. As said, they were always together regardless of the situation.” 

“We don't need you vying over the Durmstrang students, Crouch. Get on with it.” Sirius huffs, arms crossed over his chest as he impatiently tapped a finger on his arm. 

“You're just snippy over the fact it's not your godson.” Barty snaps right back, shaking his head and looking utterly exasperated. “Anyways, Theodore Nott was a person students knew to be wary of. Despite being a new student who was at the bottom of the hierarchy when he transferred, he managed to tear himself up until he stood just below Peverell at the top. As we suspected, the change in power dynamics was mainly caused by Hyperion Peverell himself.”

Draco shudders, unable to fathom that the golden boy would quite literally break through a hierarchy so he could sit on a throne at the very top. 

“I discovered that Nott had a nickname, a title given by the students.” Barty smirks, glancing at Sirius with a mocking look. The Lord of House Black let out an almost animalistic growl, once again reminding them that he was often more dog than he was man. 

“Peverell's Bloodhound.” 

Draco felt the colour drain from his face. He was sharing a room with a boy known to be a fucking bloodhound. 

“Nott was well known for the fact that he sniffed out anyone who tried to oppose Peverell. He'd drag them out from the shadows and did one of two things. Deal with the issue himself or drag his target to Peverell. He's essentially Peverell's second in command until he transferred, and that position was then passed to Aurelia Fawley.”

“She's with Snape.” Draco mutters. 

“Is he perhaps joined by a… Genevieve Morganach?” 

He immediately recoils at the familiar name. “Transfiguration assistant.”

“Wonderful! Durmstrang's court of rulers are in Hogwarts!” Barty cackled. “Morganach the saintess, Fawley the fury, Nott the bloodhound, and Peverell the emperor.” 

“That's what the student population calls them?” Narcissa sucks in a deep breath. 

“Peverell is obviously the leader. Fawley is tasked with identifying the problems and planning for it. Nott is their hunter and deals with it. Morganach, on the other hand, plays the role of the nice one. She's trusted by others because of it. And when people trust her—”

“They give her information.” Gaunt grins, “And she gives it to Peverell.”

Sirius gawks, “Why the fuck are you all talking like they're running a criminal organization? It's a school!” 

“Had you been sorted into Slytherin, you'd understand the importance of a hierarchy.” Narcissa scoffs, “Durmstrang has a much stricter one that students have created. Even though the teachers are known as the proper authority, so long as someone conquers, they become king.”

“Think of it this way!” Dolohov joyously laughs, “It's preparation for the real world.”

“And so you're saying that my godson, who's only been in Durmstrang for two years, has managed to put himself on a metaphorical throne and is bordering on becoming a dictator.” Sirius frowns, turning to Draco then to Barty. “Surely you are exaggerating.”

Barty cackled, “Tell that to the alumni I dealt with. Your little godson overthrew and dethroned someone and forced his way to the top. He's vicious, alright.” 

Great. Just great. He was dealing with a schoolboy who might end up trying to dominate the world once he graduated. Draco might as well have made an enemy of a potential future Dark Lord and his bastard of a second in command. Was he going to get killed in the future? Peverell seemed like the type who held grudges. If not him, then most likely Theo. 

“Other things in regards to their hierarchy?” Gaunt drawls, waving at Barty to continue. 

“Theseus Rowle and Cecilia Vance.” Barty hums, “Vance is known to be Peverell's favourite. It's a known rule to never mess with her, lest you catch Peverell's wrath—personally.” 

“Hm… seems like our chosen one has undergone quite the change. What else do we have on Nott?” He gestures belligerently, snapping his fingers at Barty who fidgeted nervously. 

“The boy hides his tracks well. Since their enrollment, there have been multiple incidents that have lead to numerous purebloods heirs being discredited or almost expelled from Durmstrang.” Barty clears his throat, sneaking a glance at Draco. “Theodore Nott was suspected to cause the incident with the Dobzhansky heiress. She almost died when she snuck out the castle to go ice skating when the ice cracked beneath her. A passing teacher witnesses it and managed to save her before she died of hypothermia.” 

Gaunt snarls, “Why was Nott suspected to cause it?” 

“Because Valentina Dobzhansky sabotaged Hyperion Peverell's potion the week before and almost killed him when it blew up the entire hall.” Barty clicks his tongue, “He's a loyal dog, that's what. But Peverell has done the same things for him. One student apparently targeted Nott during a duel and injured his arm, which was almost lethal if not for the immediate treatment. That student ended up being sent home for an entire month after he stole himself some wine and got drunk. He fell down the stairs.”

“Let me guess, Peverell?” 

“Most likely. The boy broke an arm.”

“My godson is not capable of such things!” 

Draco sneers at Sirius, unable to understand why the man was adamant in believing that Potter—Peverell was some sinless angel. He shudders, admittedly preferring Harry Potter over the new Hyperion Peverell. At least Potter was borderline harmless when it came to the student hierarchy. Peverell was obviously tyrannical. 

“Hm… what about Ronald Weasley? Was something wrong with him?” Dolohov asks, turning the attention to Draco who felt utterly out of place. 

Again, he can't help but cringe away. 

“He's also an issue. Blaise Zabini is close with him and when he tried to pry information from Weasley, Blaise got a warning. Something along the lines of getting killed if he meddled with Peverell.” And wasn't that alarming? The heroic advocate of innocent children telling someone that they'll die if they try to stick their noses in the wrong place. 

“So he's in the know with… whatever the hell Peverell is doing.” Dolohov scoffs, “Your godson has an inner circle. Anything else?” 

Barty looked utterly giddy once he was asked that. “His inner circle, as you say, isn't limited to Durmstrang. Beauxbatons has been taken by storm as well.”

“By who?” 

Barty laughs, handing Gaunt the file and crossing his arms. A grin across his face, almost manic. 

“Well isn't that interesting…” Gaunt chuckles, “So that's where she went.”

“Who?” Sirius frowns. 

“Hermione Granger is Beauxbatons.” Barty snickers, “Well… Hermione Peverell.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?!” 

And Draco might as well faint. 

Granger and Potter becoming Peverells. Taking over other schools of Europe. What the hell has the world come to?

Back in France, Hermione frowns as René frantically tried to help her pick out a proper outfit to use. 

Maybe she'll stick to blue. Or perhaps their signature silver.