Dark Reflections

Think of it like this: You’re a little boy born into wealth. Adored, pampered, spoon-fed with gold and silver. You have a pet, an albino peacock that roams your garden, only because owning a dragon is both illegal and, frankly too dangerous, so you settle for something more mundane. You have friends, or rather followers, who clap and cheer even when you fart. Life is all shiny and perfect. What could possibly go wrong?

The answer is everything. Perhaps it already has, and you just never realized it. Ignorance is both a blessing and a curse. You might die without ever knowing why, but would that really be a bad thing, when reality is nothing more than a string of tragedies, making death feel almost like a salvation? You watch your heaven fell apart, and your choices are to die, or to squirm and die. Doesn't matter. The higher you stand, the harder you fall. You feel every bone in your pathetic body shatter, and yet you refuse to accept that someone as honored as you could ever succumb to such a despicable fate. You, can’t get up.

But Draco Malfoy, at least before he went to Hogwarts, didn’t know that yet. He was still the young lord of his world, and his parents shielding him so well that he remained oblivious to a fault. Perhaps that, too, was a blessing, just one of the many privileges his birthright had bestowed upon him.

Something fascinating about the Malfoy was that while they had a notorious reputation for discriminating against muggles and muggle-born witches, most of their money came from the muggle world. Yes, they had old money, passed down through generations, but where that money originated, and how it not only endured but grew to rival the throne’s power, was an amazing irony. To put it simply, the Malfoys had roots that sucked the blood from the land they owned, and they were cunning enough to align themselves with whoever held the greater political power at the time, whether it was Dumbledore or Voldemort.

And so, even though most Malfoy patriarchs were utterly helpless without a house-elf, the fact that their wealth endured through centuries of chaos and war remained. That, in itself, was an undeniable talent. Because this world wasn’t a fairy tale where things magically worked out in your favor. It was a brutal yet mesmerizing dance of survival, to eat or to be eaten. The Malfoys might have been loyal only to gold, but nonetheless they survived while others fell. After all, life is a gift to those who won.

Still, perhaps times were changing. Whatever fairy godmother's blessings were graced on this bloodline would need to become stronger to see its people making out of this alive.

It was a peaceful night that marked the beginning of their nightmare. But Draco slept through it all, even dreaming quite pleasantly. Though, by morning, the dream had already slipped from his mind. He woke as usual, shook his bell, and waited for his elf to come and dress him. The only noticeable difference was the absence of his parents at breakfast. It was odd, considering they were both in vacation and had no tasks at the moment, but not troubling. The young lord simply enjoyed his toast, blissfully unaware of the tension in the room. The maid who usually stayed by his side to help him eat, who always smiled like a delicate doll, now was trembling. Her face pale as white as a sheet. The butler, usually composed, stared grimly at the ceiling, muttering something that sounded much like a prayer. May god have mercy on all of us.

“Cleo is dead?” Draco asked in mild surprise.

Cleo was his pet peacock. It was not a friendly animal, to say the least. Honestly speaking, it's an extremely territorial arsehole who aimed for the eyes when playing around. But it was pleasing to look at, so Draco still kept it in their garden, despite the peacock being a menace for those who worked here.

“Yes, young master,” the maid replied, voice quivering. She didn’t dare meet his gaze. Not his, not anyone’s. But Draco would only have noticed if her shaking hands had spilled his tea. They didn’t, so he didn’t care.

“Well, it was old anyway.” He shrugged. *Old*, in this case, had nothing to do with Cleo’s actual age. Draco had only gotten the bird as an egg two years ago. It simply meant he was bored of it. If anything, this was an opportunity to replace it with something newer. A silver lining indeed. He asked absently, “Did you bury it?”

“No, young master. We haven’t.”

The maid flinched hard as she spoke, her legs twitching, sweat dripping onto the floor. She closed her eyes, forced herself to stop thinking about the stack of meat and bones the gardener just piled up in the yard this unholy morning. It took them quite some time to gather Cleo's parts, with shovels and a wheelbarrow. There were probably still pieces scattered somewhere, waiting to be discovered by their stench. Poor thing was just an animal.

Cleo had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Such proud, vicious creature had seen something it shouldn’t have, and had intended to attack something it shouldn’t have. The bird never even made it to the doorstep where its supposed enemy stood before it exploded into a mess of blood and feathers. They could only hope it had died a swift death.

The staff had always thought that Cleo’s white feathers were beautiful. The pristine shade of purest white. But now, once stained with crimson, scattered like curses across the garden, they were something else entirely. Something sinfully... exquisite.

The maid swallowed hard before repeating, “We haven’t buried it yet, young master. It… might take a while.”

“Is that so.” Draco simply resumed eating.

As long as it didn’t inconvenience him, he never questioned anything. The maid took that as her cue to step away. The morning continued, just as eerily as it had arrived.

"Never go to the chamber at the top of our mansion," his father said grimly over their shared dinner.

Yes, dinner. How time did fly. To Draco, it had been an utterly tedious day, so uneventful that he barely remembered any of it. Just the same cycle of eating, playing, and sleeping. His father, however, judging by his expression, had likely endured a far more eventful day.

While Lucius spoiled him rotten, Draco never dared to go against his father's words. Even he had his limits, and a direct command from Lucius was one of them. That said, the top chamber was nothing more than a storage room where his mother kept old paintings and clothes. Hardly a place of mystery. If anything, it was amusing to think of it as a Chamber of Secrets at home. Draco agreed without question and dutifully obeyed, mostly because he barely even remembered that room existed in the first place. Curiosity and the need to unravel secrets were never in his blood. Life continued as it always had, filled with sweets, carefully woven lies and intentional ignorance.

But then, a year later, something... or rather someone, came crashing into his life.

They were in the hallway. Draco had been heading toward the stairs when Lucius returned from a meeting and stopped him in his tracks. He couldn’t recall the exact time, but he assumed it was evening. His father placed a hand on the shoulder of a black-haired boy standing beside him and said, far too dryly for an introduction. "Draco, meet Harry. From now on, he’ll be living here."

The boy was pitifully thin, his small frame swallowed by oversized, baggy clothes. His dark, unkempt hair clung to his face, completely concealing his eyes. And the way he clung to Lucius’s pant leg made Draco suspect his father had suffered enough already. If not for the fact that Harry’s clothes looked clean enough, Lucius might have leaped to the ceiling the moment those small, bony fingers touched him. Draco stared, trying to process his circumstance. Basically, his father had brought home a rat and expected him to keep it as a pet.

This has to be the cheapest friend I’ve ever had, he thought. Still, orders were orders. The king had spoken, so he reached out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Harry."

Draco had no idea what his father intended with this arrangement, so he figured he’d just go along with it for now. Harry, in response, spoke like a nerd who had watched far too many plays. "A-a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Draco."

He never expected anything from the start, but that brief interaction did lift Draco’s mood. After all, who wouldn’t want to be held in high regard? Who wouldn’t want a servant? And so, the strange, questionable friendship between them began to take roots.

The first obstacle was that Draco couldn't stand Harry walking too close to him, walking with him, or even breathing the same air as him… You get the idea. The boy looked like a hobo, and every cell in his body screamed "pathetic". As it turned out, Draco wasn’t the only one who thought so. Apparently, someone had taught Harry to shapeshift into other people to avoid being an eyesore. It was unnerving at first to see his own face across the table struggling with a fork and knife. But over time, Draco got used to it. Harry was obedient. He followed Draco around, disappeared when needed, and, most importantly, took the blame and punishment in Draco’s stead. Once, the young lord accidentally broke his mother’s precious vase. Fortunately, all he had to do was hide in his room in peace, while his friend took his form and faced Narcissa’s wrath. That said, Harry wasn’t always around. Sometimes, he would shift into a taller man, vanish for days, and return looking like he had barely survived. But at the time, that wasn’t Draco’s concern. He was simply relieved that his decoy had come back to continue serving him.

For Harry, though, it wasn’t all that bad. In fact, he was… content, in a way.

Draco was not a good boy, but he was honest. He didn’t try to manipulate, simply barked orders left and right while expecting things to go his way. That blunt, ill-intended honesty was, strangely, something Harry needed in his life. With Draco, there was no need to guess whether he meant well. Draco never meant well. And yet, compared to training and missions, his time with Draco was arguably the most pleasant part of his childhood. Slowly, Harry opened up. He spoke more, reacted more, and, in a way, wagged his tail more whenever Draco took pity on him and handed him a piece of candy, metaphorically of course. And Draco, despite the initial resentment, got used to Harry’s presence. Their relationship was borderline animal breeding when two creatures forced into the same space, interacting out of necessity rather than choice. But, somehow, in that forced coexistence, something resembling a companionship did begin to blossom.

One evening, young Draco glanced at the boy sitting beside him. The flickering fireplace bathed them both in warm light, and their small feet dangling over the edge of the couch, occasionally brushing against each other. The boy looked exactly like him, with silver hair and gray eyes. Put them in a glass case and they could pass for a pair of twin dolls, ready for exhibition.

Perhaps it was Christmas. The memory carried the faint, blurry image of presents scattered around the room. All of them were for Draco, none for Harry. It may have been the reason for their next conversation. He felt a twinge of pity for his friend, though not enough to share from his own pile. Instead, he asked, "When’s your birthday?" Draco liked that Christmas was his time. He wasn’t ready to share that, but he could compromise on the boy's birthday. "We can have a party on that day."

Harry tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. "Do I have a birthday?" He understood what Draco meant by that word. It was obviously a combination of "birth" and "day", nevertheless the concept still felt foreign to his ears. Not to mention that he wasn't sure why that would worth a celebration. 'Congrats on being born' sounded more like an insult than a compliment to him.

"Everyone has a birthday," Draco stated matter-of-factly. "Well, I wouldn’t call their little cake and cheap sing-song an actual birthday party, but a birthday is still a birthday." To him, a proper birthday celebration should be a grand display of wealth and status for the guests to see and admire. What was the point of having it if you had nothing worth showing off? It seemed meaningless to him. Still, the poor always looked up to the rich. He supposed they had to make do with their cheap copycat version.

Technically, Harry hadn’t been born, he had been created. If anything, he would have a createday, if such thing existed. But birth was just another form of creation, now wasn’t it? Did that make his day of creation a birthday then? Though even if it did, he had no way of knowing when it was exactly. Father was too terrifying to ask, and Snape never gave a damn in the first place. If he even remembered, he certainly wasn’t going to bother answering. It had been so long since the last time Harry had seen him that even the man’s face was beginning to blur in his memory. So, he just shrugged. "I don’t know… maybe June 8th?"

This was to humor Draco only, Harry didn't give a shit. Though. It wasn't a random day he chose on a whim. It was the day he arrived at Malfoy Manor, the day Harry the fish was hooked from water, skinned, and deep-fried. A torture buffet, basically. He still had a few good memories from before, but childhood amnesia would soon take those away. This place was hell, and his old life felt like a dream slipping through his fingers. Sometimes he couldn't help but wonder that did he really have an old life, or was it just something he hallucinate during mid daylight to soothe his own agony? So hard to tell.

Draco didn't know about his existential crisis at the moment. The boy just frowned. "Change it. My birthday is in June, and I don’t want to share it with you." Not that his parents couldn’t afford two parties in the same month, but it made him feel less significant. Nonetheless, Harry still didn't understand that concern, since Lucius and Narcissa never cared about him that much anyway. To them, he was not another child in this family, but rather a coworker, all serving under one particular lord. And he was a busy person too. Therefore the chance of having a birthday party for him is very unlikely no matter the date.

Draco continued: "Move it to November. I don’t have a vacation then, so it works better."

Most people would find it quite provoking to be told to change their own birthday for someone else’s convenience. But Harry didn’t mind. He was used to it, and found it endearing even. So, he simply smiled. "November it is. Let’s say… November 8th?"

Draco huffed. "Yeah, that works."

The exchange stopped there, and they fell into a comfortable silence after that. Draco was probably thinking about his upcoming trip next week when he would have another chance to see more of Europe. Harry, however, remained stuck thinking about their earlier conversation.

One drop of water could stir an entire pond. Before he knew it, he was lost in old daydreams, in fragments of a time when he was smaller, happier, always smiling. He chewed on someone’s robe (probably Severus) and climbed onto someone’s lap (definitely not Severus). The memories were too shattered to piece together properly, but he felt it deep in his heart. How much lighter he had been back then, how easily he could breathe. He could laugh, cry, yell, perhaps throw a tantrum here and there to have a birthday party. No one would break his bones to punish him. Not yet.

How funny it would be if this was all an illusion his mind had conjured to cope with intense pressure.

"Harry, if you had a wish, what would you want to do?" Draco suddenly asked, breaking the brief silence.

Harry lowered his gaze to the fire, once again lost in thought. After a long pause, he finally answered: "I want to apologize to someone."

"What? Really?" That was not the answer Draco was expecting. He had been thinking of something more physical. Maybe Harry wanted permission to leave the manor? But Harry already came and went as he pleased, so what was the point? And if the person he wanted to apologize to was dead, well… there was nothing Draco could do.

"If they’re alive, just go meet them," Draco huffed.

Harry chuckled. "Yeah. But that’s not the issue. I can’t even remember who it is." And it wasn’t like he could just do as he pleased in this house. He already got his Death Eater mark, right on his chest, so no place of light would welcome him. Besides, it was too risky considering that the dark lord was in his paranoia period right at the moment. A sudden movement would disturb father's peaceful sleep and no one shalt live to tell what happened, including Harry himself.

"All I remember," Harry continued, voice seemingly quieter now, "is that I said something I shouldn’t have said to someone who had always been kind to me. And before I could apologize, we were already separated. I was too young at the time. It was before I met you Draco. Before I came here."

It was just misfortune. Tragedies, disasters, sadness... they always came suddenly, shaking one’s world until it crumbled. One day, he had been eating and playing in the dimly lit dungeon of a place he once called his home. A blurry figure had picked him up, holding him close in a warmth embrace that felt so safe. And then, the next thing he knew, he was forced to chew on insects to entertain someone's sick interest in the name of training. A hand of death had touched his chest, leaving behind a curse that scarred deeper than love, binding him to darkness forever. Sweet words laced with poison, harsh words accompanied by violence. In the end, it was just—

"A hurt-no-comfort foreplay." Harry suddenly laughed, amused by his own joke.

"What?" Draco frowned.

"You’ll understand when you grow up." He learned that line from Peter.

They were the same age, but it wasn’t surprising that Draco didn’t understand. A 7 years old child wasn’t supposed to be aware of such things, or making inappropriate jokes. But could anyone really blame Harry? What was life without humor as a coping mechanism?

Normally, he shouldn’t have remembered anything from his past, not with childhood amnesia creeping in. But every time he was reminded of how painful it was to breathe, he clung to that one hazy memory like a lifeline. Memory about the only person in his life who had been kind to him, had probably loved him. Only then could he push himself forward and open his eyes every godforsaken morning.

And go out there to commit astrocities. Kill kill and chop chop. Not very innocent now, was he? Still, to him, those fleeting moments of fond remembrance were something similar to opium. A temporary escape from reality, a way to fool himself, a distraction from his own misdeeds and curses.

"Good morning, dear. How was your dream?" A warm voice echoed in his mind, like a heavenly embrace from an angel. When things got harsh, he usually dreamt of the old days when that person still sat beside his bed, whispering a bedtime story. That kindness had flashed through his life like a shooting star. Brief, bright, and gone too soon. Their last day together had ended abruptly, neither of them knowing it would be their last. Why had he been angry in the first place? He didn’t remember. All he knew was that he had slapped that hand away, his voice breaking as he screamed his lungs out---

"I don’t want to see you anymore! You’re a liar! You big, big meanie!"

And then, he really never saw that person again. Severus had taken him to Father, and ever since then, he had stayed in the Malfoy mansion. Was all of this a punishment then? For being a bad boy, that was. He had hurt someone who had been so generous and loving toward him. So whatever happened to him now… did he all deserve it?

Unlikely. Those who slain by his hands didn't seem to deserve their death either. Fate had always been inherently unjust.

Draco didn’t say anything for the rest of the night, probably because he thought Harry’s idea of a wish was stupid. But Harry simply leaned against him, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

He would take what he could get. The milk had already spilled anyway.

___

Harry's maturity not just came from his 'interesting' life, but it was also the result of potion use. Severus had created something to accelerate his mental growth, embedding some of his own memories to compensate for Harry’s lack of experience. And the man was one of his mentors as well, specialized in occlumency and... well, potions obviously. Still, from time to time, Harry's childishness managed to slip through.

"Sometimes I wonder what 'Harry' means." Harry asked out loud.

It was a random afternoon. The two of them were in the library. Draco perched on a ladder, reaching for books, while Harry sat on the floor, cross-legged and half-buried in old pages. He practically lived in this library. Meanwhile, Draco was only here because he had promised his mother to read at least one book per week.

Draco slid a book back into its place on the shelf and arched an eyebrow. "You’re Harry. Go ask yourself."

Harry shook his head. "I meant the name, Draco."

Normally, looking at a child's name could give out quite an understanding about its parents. While the logical part of his mind told him not to dwell on it, he's still very curious. Father didn’t seem like the type to put much thought into it. It was most likely Snape who had chosen the name, then Father, happened to be in a good mood, just slapped the his own surname onto it. But if it was Severus, things got a little tricky. There were two possible answers: One was "Aaron," because it was the first name listed in baby name dictionaries. Two was "Mandrake," because Snape was a Potions Master, and mandrakes screamed like babies. Harry swore he still remembered that man's disdain towards him when he was in diaper crying and pooping.

Draco didn’t know any of that. What he did know, however, was a more straightforward way to get an answer. He kicked the side of the bookshelf, pushing himself and the ladder to another section. After scanning the titles, he grabbed a book, then tossed it at Harry.

'A Dictionary of British Names.'

Harry stared at it. "..." Yeah. That could work. Thanks.

It wasn’t exactly what he had meant, but it was still a good place to start. Smiling slightly, he looked up and raised his opened hand to the boy above. "Come read with me, Draco."

Draco huffed but didn’t refuse. He hopped down from the ladder and settled onto the floor beside Harry. Together, they flipped through the pages. Draco read aloud: “Harry is the diminutive form of Henry and was popular in medieval England. The name Henry comes from the Germanic name Heimerich, derived from heim, meaning ‘home,’ and ric, meaning ‘power, ruler.’”

Draco wasn’t particularly impressed. Nearly every name had some grand meaning. Like Michael with some heavenly bullshit. He didn’t get why Harry found this interesting enough to question it.

But Harry, on the other hand...

Harry just stared at the words, seemingly still lost in the bookpage.

Yeah, that made sense. Why didn't he think of that.

As Harry stared at the words on the page, a strange, suffocating feeling coiled around his chest. He clenched his fingers against the pages, but his expression remained neutral, unreadable. He didn't remember much after that, but perhaps he had managed to thank Draco and move on to do something else. Or maybe not. Either ways, Draco wouldn't notice.

For a moment, he had the urge to laugh. Not out of joy, but the kind of laughter that bubbled up when everything was so absurd that you found amusement in your own despair. The kind that came when you realized all your effort had been meaningless. That kind of laugh.

How could he forget?

Every single soul in the wizarding world knew the name of the boy who had defeated the Dark Lord.

Henry Potter.

“… I see.” He said to Draco.

So that was why he was named Harry. He was created based on him, was a copy of him. A "diminutive" version of a miracle.

Did Severus know? Probably, though it would be conceited of him to assume that the man chose the name on purpose as some kind of cruel joke. His mentor could be much ruthless than whatever this was. Still, he had to give Severus some credit. The man was more thoughtful than he had expected. A reminder couldn't hurt.

Perhaps that was the moment when something first took root inside him. A seed of hatred. A quiet, persistent sadness.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. He was a child, and when your hands were full, it was easier to forget. Even reuniting with Severus had still been bearable. Painful, yes. But bearable. He had people who cared about him. Things to cling to. For now.

As for Draco, well, let's just say it was the same as always. Tediously uneventful.

___

Like every other friendship, theirs had its hardships. Though, have to say that it was surprising, given that Harry could agree with even Draco’s most ridiculous whims. Draco, for all his arrogance, wasn't going to give someone as submissive as Harry a hard time. But their struggles weren’t just childhood squabbles, but rather deeper, more unsettling.

Harry couldn't pinpoint the exact moment they felt apart. That year was especially harsh, and when he couldn't joke about his own suffering, he chose to forget. At some point, Harry stopped smiling. He stopped appearing before Draco at all. As Harry grew older, his abilities increased, and so did the demands placed upon him. Occasionally, Draco wondered where Harry had gone, but in the end, he simply shrugged and carried on with his life. Their bond was shallow that way, easy to set aside when inconvenient.

Then, one day, Harry came back. With blood and filth.

He laughed. He laughed too much, as if afraid that if he stopped, he would lose himself. He crawled on the floor, staining the perfectly clean carpet with his blood and vomit. His wide, unfocused eyes locked onto Draco as he clung to him, spewing some incoherent pleas, offering his own flesh, begging for his life. And that's all what happened. Harry’s sudden descent into insanity cracked their friendship. Not enough to shatter it, but enough to leave a lasting mark.

Draco didn't understand. He didn’t want to understand this terror, and he refused to. Harry wasn't so different from Cleo, Draco's pet peacock that suddenly died. It's not that Draco was oblivious to the tension and horror coming from the staff that day. He chose not to care. So he ran. He ran back to his room, locking the door behind him, leaving his friend alone in the hallway, drenched in blood and something worse, teetering on the edge of complete madness.

Years later, Draco would regret his decision that day. At the time, he was just a child. No one had expected him to do anything. Even Harry, in the future, wouldn’t blame him for it. And yet, Draco would still blame himself. If he hadn't abandoned Harry that night, maybe things could have been different. Maybe Harry wouldn’t have ended up so… broken.

"I had a nightmare, Draco. I'm sorry, it won't happen again."

Harry’s voice was muffled through the door, raw with something Draco didn’t want to name. Days had passed since that night. Severus came, and probably brought bandages to patch up his mentality. Harry was back to his normal, but Draco still refused to see him since.

"Please don't avoid me. I only have you…"

Draco's world had many people, and Harry just happened to be one among them. But Harry's world was so small and crumbled, that after some time, it only had Draco. Noone else. Nothing else.

And still, Draco didn’t open the door that night.

It hurted more than any curse Harry had ever endured. More than the Cruciatus, more than anything his father or the Death Eaters had inflicted on him. It was November 8th, the birthday Draco had chosen for him. Harry had just turned nine. Too young, and yet already taste the desperation of existence.

Their friendship didn’t end there, but it fractured. They drifted, despite having spent their entire childhood side by side. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Tragedy didn’t need permission. It simply happened.

The years passed, but some things never truly healed.

Harry slowly learned. He learned that Draco couldn’t handle certain things, learned that their so-called friendship had its boundaries, learned that even the one person who mattered in his small, crumbling world would run away when faced with the true, horrid parts of him.

So, Harry learned to control himself. Even when it hurt, even when his hands were raw from whatever his latest task had been, even when his reflection in the mirror barely looked human anymore. He had to be normal, because that was what Draco needed to see. The boy never dealt well with changes, he had to compromise.

Because it was easier that way, for both of them.

It was easier to believe that the Harry who returned was the same as the one who had followed him around like a puppy. It was easier to ignore the cracks in his voice, the occasional deadness in his eyes, the way his smiles never quite reached as deep as they used to.

Draco was a child, after all. Whatever was wrong with Harry would be none of his responsibility. And besides, Harry let it happen. He chose to act like nothing had changed. Eventually, Draco himself didn't bring that up either.

And so, they fell into an uneasy rhythm.

A year passed, then another.

Harry was careful. He washed off the blood before Draco could see. He kept his hands clean. He tucked away the things he didn’t want Draco to know. And in return, Draco let him stay by his side.

It was fine.

It had to be fine.

Because if it wasn’t... If Harry let himself think, even for a second, about what it all really meant, then he might just crumble along with his world, entirely lonely.

And just like that, they were friends again. As if nothing had ever happened.

He didn't want to care anymore.

___

Back to present at Hogwarts, Draco, by all means, hadn’t expected to see Harry. In fact, Harry wasn’t even sure the boy knew Harry was the same age as him. But when this particular face was revealed in such a grand fashion, it was impossible not to notice.

They met again that night when Harry was leaving the Owlery, heading back to his dorm. What he didn’t expect was to be cornered by Draco and his usual entourage.

"Hey, you."

Draco and his two friends (what were their names again?) had backed Harry against the wall, their faces full of suspicion.

"Who the fuck are you? What’s up with your face? And why is your name ‘Riddle’?" Draco demanded.

Typical, Harry thought. Always one to get straight to the point, if not in the most tactful way. Draco had always idolized his father and, by extension, their lord - Harry's father. So it was only natural for him to investigate someone bearing that name. Though, admittedly, this approach was a bit too straightforward.

Instead of being offended, Harry chuckled, bringing a hand to touch his own lips. "Now, that was hurtful, Draco. Are you saying you don’t recognize your childhood friend?"

Draco froze. His expression shifted from hostility to hesitant confusion, as if trying to recall the name professor McGonagall had called out. "...Harry?"

"Harry Riddle, at your service." Harry smirked, lifting one side of his robe and offering a slight bow, all while keeping his gaze steady. "How was your evening, Master Draco?"

Draco barely heard him. His eyes had locked onto Harry’s face, onto 'that' face. His mind was already piecing things together. "...Oh. That explains it."

Of course. If Harry was here, looking like that and using that name, then he must have gotten permission. He must have been assigned a role. Draco had always thought of Harry as some sort of ghost. Some shifting, restless entity that took on the forms of others. Harry never bothered correcting him. If that’s what Draco wanted to believe, then fine.

Draco crossed his arms. "So? Are you here for work, or did you stalk me?"

"As tempting as that sounds, no, I’m here for work," Harry admitted with a helpless smile. "But we’ll be housemates for… let’s say, seven years, if nothing goes wrong. Care to introduce me to your friends?"

Draco shrugged. "Meh. Harry, Boyle, and Crabble. Crabble and Boyle, Boyle and Crabble. And Harry is a ghost that lives in my house and can transform into people. That’s all you need to know."

Harry smiled and extended a hand. "Harry Riddle, as Draco said. A pleasure to meet you both."

They shook his hand eagerly, bombarding him with a million questions. Harry could feel his patience thinning with each passing second.

"No, don’t tell anyone. Please keep it a secret that I’m a ghost."

"No, ghosts can’t attend Hogwarts. But ghosts with physical bodies can. Education is for everyone."

"Why I chose this face? It’s related to my work. And no, I can’t tell you about that."

He sighed. It was going to be a long night.

Thankfully, Draco never liked being pushed aside. He quickly shooed the boys away before things could get any more irritating, and they all made their way back to the Slytherin dormitory.

As expected, everyone in this dorm room automatically let Draco pick his bed first before dividing the rest among themselves. It was an unspoken rule, one Harry found amusing but not surprising, to give the boy whatever he wanted to avoid getting on his bad side. What was disappointing, however, was the lack of windows. Unlike the Gryffindor tower, the Slytherin dungeon had no open view of the sky. That meant Hedwig wouldn’t be able to visit as freely as he’d like. He’d have to figure out a way to sneak her in later.

The night passed quietly, though Harry found little comfort in it. He wasn’t used to sleeping with so many people in the same room. There were five beds in total, which meant four other boys shifting, snoring, and occasionally getting up to use the bathroom. The slightest noise was enough to jolt him awake. By the time 3:00 AM rolled around, sheer exhaustion finally managed to drag him under. His last thought before succumbing to sleep was that next time, he should bring a brick to the bed to knock himself out.

Morning came far too soon.

When Harry finally stirred, all other beds were empty. Everyone else had already dressed and preparing to be off to breakfast and their first day of lessons. Harry, on the other hand, had no such motivation. Yesterday, fatigue had managed to save him from thinking about school life. Now that he was better, somewhat, he realized this place was another hell. Just thinking about breakfast made his stomach churn uncomfortably. The idea of walking into the Great Hall and being hit with the smell of greasy food was more than enough to make him want to disappear.

So, instead, he stayed in bed with his textbook, flipping through the pages with mild disinterest.

Draco and the others were halfway out the door when Boyle paused. “Aren’t you coming to breakfast, Harry?”

“Can’t,” Harry mumbled, not bothering to look up. “Just go without me.”

"You should’ve been in Ravenclaw," someone muttered.

Harry didn’t bother responding. The truth was, he hated books. But, as the Sorting Hat had said, want and need were two different things. Books had kept him alive for a long time. Boredom was a small price to pay.

"You know you're, like, super skinny, right?" another boy pointed out. "Just eat whatever you can."

Harry sighed, finally closing the book to talk to those guys. "Back home, I mostly survived on nutrition potions. My digestive system’s weak, so I can only eat really soft food." He frowned. "Meaning, if I go down there, I either sit and watch you eat, or I eat something and die."

Crabbe poked his head out of the bathroom. "Is that a ghost thing?"

There went the promise to never speak a word about Harry being a ghost, just straight up flushed down the toilet.

"No. Just convenience," Harry said dryly. "Now please proceed without me."

Seeing that he wasn’t going to change his mind, the boys left. But as they walked to the Great Hall, the discussion picked up again. One of the Slytherins turned to Draco. “He’s your friend, Draco. Do something.”

Draco gasped, scandalized. “What? No. If you care so much, you do something.”

The other boy shrugged. “You want to be Head Boy, don’t you? It’s part of a Head Boy’s job to take care of those in need.”

He didn’t actually mean it, of course. They were all young Slytherins, and at this age, most of them just enjoyed stirring up trouble.

Honestly, Draco had no idea what a Head Boy actually did beyond bossing people around. He just liked the idea of being above others. But still… the guy did have a point. So Draco took the bait. Without another word, he spun on his heels and walked away. But he didn’t head to the Great Hall. Instead, he went straight to the kitchens.

Harry had heard the footsteps long before the door swung open, but he still wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Draco Malfoy, standing there, holding a steaming bowl of—

"Porridge?" Harry blinked, half-convinced that he was hallucinating.

Draco strode in like he owned the place, placed the bowl on the counter, and folded his arms. “Here. I went to the kitchen and had the elves make this for you.”

Harry stared, at a complete loss for words. Draco continued, unfazed. “Pass by the kitchens from now on. The porridge will get thicker over time until you can eat solid food. You’re good at potions, right? Heal yourself. If you can’t, go see Snape.”

There. Perfect Head Boy behavior. If Draco could grade himself, he’d give it a 100 out of 10 and an immediate promotion.

Harry, however, remained motionless, still processing the scene. Then, finally, he spoke. “Thank you, but... who are you, and what have you done to Draco Malfoy?” His voice was laced with genuine bewilderment. “Because my friend Draco would have to hit his head very hard to be this thoughtful.”

Draco huffed. “Only this time. I’m not your babysitter.” Which was ironic, considering that if anyone were the babysitter in their friendship, it was Harry. But he could live with that. Instead of making a snarky remark, he simply nodded and smiled.

“This is… unlike you,” he admitted, though there was no malice in his tone. They had known each other long enough for Harry to understand that generosity wasn’t exactly Draco’s strong suit. “You don't have to do this. But since you went out of your way for me, the least I can do is appreciate it.”

He took a spoonful of porridge, raised it slightly, and smirked.

“A toast to the abnormal Draco.”

Then he took a bite...

And it was better than he thought it should be.

___

The first lesson, and the rest of the morning, went smoothly.

Flying class was boring. Harry already knew how to fly before coming here, yet he chose to lay low, spending the entire period deliberately spewing nonsense at a broom on the ground. Potions was fine. Severus favored his Slytherins, so they weren’t given a hard time. Harry and the man didn't interact more than necessity.

Before Harry even realized it, the morning had come to an end, and he found himself being dragged to the Great Hall by his so-called friends. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew exactly what they wanted by this. They wanted chance to interrogate him about his face. And what's the better time than the midday break?

What he didn’t realize, however, was that they were actually there for lunch.

Harry stared at the plate in front of him, completely still. Due to quite an unique upbringings, Harry had a lot of misconceptions about this world. It was not severe, as he could still know that in public view, hurting people was bad, and protecting the weak, no matter how absurd it was, was good. The misconception lied in the minor things.

“Draco, one question, if you don’t mind?”

Draco looked up from his bowl, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. Narcissa wasn’t here to scold him for his manners, so he could eat however he wanted, which included the unforgivable crime of talking and chewing at the same time.

“Make it quick.” he mumbled. “I’m hungry.”

Harry tilted his head. “We hardly did anything today, so why are we eating?”

The boy next to him answered instead. “What do you mean? It’s lunchtime.”

Harry sighed. “That’s not what I meant. Food is… a reward, isn’t it? We work hard for it.”

At least, that was how it worked back home. Not actual food, of course, more like ingredients for nutrient potions. He could eat if he wanted to, but after a long, excruciating day of hard labor, he would rather die than waste time torturing his stomach. The point was simple: if he didn’t work, he didn’t get anything. It wasn’t some apple-and-stick discipline, more like food or no food. (Was basic human needs counted as apples and starvation considered the stick?)

“I can understand breakfast,” he continued, “but lunch feels uncalled for. We haven’t done anything to deserve it.” Learning didn’t count as work in his book.

Now everyone were giving him weird looks, so perhaps he shouldn't have asked Draco considering how many people out there watching his every movement. “Yes and no.” A girl across from him answered, her voice oddly mature and understanding for her age. “Eventually, when we grow up, we will have to work for our food. But for now, we’re children. Just eat, Riddle. No one’s going to charge you for it.”

Draco, on the other hand, was far less understanding.

“What do you mean ‘lunch is uncalled for’?” He scoffed. “I get that you’re anorexic, but we’re not. Stop ruining my appetite.”

“…Right. My apologies.”

Harry took that as his cue to shut up.

He picked up his fork and knife, staring at the greasy sausage and mashed potatoes on his plate. His stomach twisted in protest.

…

Yup, Draco was right. He may have a severe case of anorexia.

During lunch, he answered all of their questions.

Most of them were about his face, but what was he supposed to say besides “I was born with it”?

It was pointless, but they refused to leave him alone.

Eventually, Draco, predictably, dragged him away from the crowd. Not out of concern, of course. Harry knew that Draco didn’t actually care. He just didn’t like the fact that his friend (follower) was getting more attention than him. Draco Malfoy was selfish. Self-centered. He never meant well.

But that was fine.

Harry accepted this kind of friendship. Because in this world, very few people would ever extend a hand to him. He had already slapped one away. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Even if the hands that reached for him now weren’t very gentle.

“Right, Meanie?”

Harry whispered to the cracking, but never disappearing, shadow by his bed. He smiled, then leaned over to blow out the candle. The night swallowed them whole.