Draco was very helpless—yes, very helpless.
After the initial novelty faded, he lost interest in most of the lessons.
Would a secondary school student returning to a primary classroom listen with enthusiasm? Unlikely—unless he were a dunce.
Draco was obviously not a dunce. At present, the only subject that interested him even slightly was Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration. It was notoriously complex and demanding—occasionally even dangerous.
In addition, Draco found the development of this timeline rather strange. Slytherin and Gryffindor now shared most of their lessons.
"Is this the butterfly effect?" Draco wondered.
"Is Professor McGonagall late? I didn't expect such a stern witch to be late," Pansy whispered, tugging at Draco's sleeve.
"Don't speak. Did you notice the cat on the desk?" Draco murmured.
The bell rang. The tabby cat leapt down and transformed mid-air into Professor McGonagall.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone who fools around in my class will leave and not return. I have warned you."
Her gaze rested briefly on Pansy.
"I'm finished. She heard me," Pansy muttered, shrinking behind Draco.
"She isn't petty," Draco reassured her quietly.
The lesson began. With a flick of her wand, Professor McGonagall transformed her desk into a pig, then back again.
Gasps echoed through the classroom—including Draco's. No matter how often he witnessed such things, they still felt extraordinary.
After pages of notes, Professor McGonagall distributed matches and instructed them to turn them into needles.
"Professor, look! Mine's changing!" Hermione cried. So far, only her match showed any alteration.
"Good," Professor McGonagall nodded. "Gryffindor, five points."
Hermione beamed. The Gryffindors cheered.
"Mr Draco—if I had not seen it with my own eyes, I might have thought you had secretly produced a needle. Slytherin, ten points."
Draco had completed the transformation flawlessly.
Hermione lowered her head, stealing glances at Draco's work.
"Serves you right for showing off," Pansy muttered mischievously.
"He must have practised at home," Harry whispered to Hermione. Ron remained silent, his face reddening.
"I've never been second to anyone in study," Hermione said fiercely.
Draco, meanwhile, restored the needle to a match with a flick of his wand.
Creativity—that was what truly mattered, Draco reflected. Memorisation alone was no longer enough.
There were two kinds of excellent students: those who completed tasks perfectly and those who created something new. Snape belonged to the latter.
"For now, I can only be the former," Draco thought.
Defence Against the Dark Arts was highly anticipated—but disappointing to most. Professor Quirrell smelled strongly of garlic, and the lessons felt underwhelming.
Draco, however, listened attentively.
"Poor man," Draco thought.
"You think it's dull too, don't you?" Pansy prodded him from behind.
"It's tolerable," Draco replied.
"Listening to him discuss vampires isn't nearly as interesting as your story," she teased.
"Didn't you call it rubbish halfway through?" Draco replied dryly.
"Only to irritate the lions."
"I'll stick with garlic solutions," Draco said.
"Boring."
The days passed uneventfully—at least in Draco's view.
Though other students groaned about homework, Draco's performance exempted him from much of it.
"How do I access the restricted section?" Draco mused, leaning against a bookshelf in the library.
The public shelves held little interest. He selected The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts merely for distraction.
"Terrible political instincts," Draco concluded. Voldemort relied excessively on fear and personal power. Once that power vanished, his followers scattered.
"A tragic childhood, paranoia, contradiction…" Draco pondered. Voldemort himself was not pure-blood, yet preached pure-blood supremacy. Perhaps it was merely a political compromise.
"Had it been me, I would have worked more subtly," Draco thought.
"Should I expose Quirrell to Dumbledore?" he considered. Then dismissed it. Dumbledore likely already knew.
"Excuse me, may I pass?"
Draco stepped aside.
"It's you!"
Hermione stood behind him, clutching books.
"Ah, a Gryffindor lion," Draco said coolly. "Perhaps I should avoid you."
"Wait!" Hermione called.
"Miss Granger, this is a library."
"I'm sorry… I meant—about the train."
Draco raised an eyebrow.
"I was prejudiced. I apologise. There are no evil Houses or bloodlines—only evil wizards. I hope you will forgive me."
"Should I deliver a speech about Gryffindor courage?" Draco said lightly.
Hermione's face paled.
"I'm joking. I accept. There's no need to involve the others."
She exhaled in relief.
"I'll surpass you eventually," she added.
"I look forward to it," Draco replied.
On Friday, Pansy looked miserable at breakfast.
"Potions next. I detest bubbling concoctions. What's the professor like?"
"Didn't I highlight the likely questions?" Draco asked.
"I can't memorise everything like you."
"You didn't read it at all."
"But our saviour will suffer."
"That's promising," Pansy said brightly.
Potions were held in a cold dungeon classroom lined with jars of preserved creatures.
"Repulsive," Pansy muttered.
Professor Snape swept in, black hair framing his pale face.
"Ah, yes. Harry Potter," Snape said softly. "Our new… celebrity."
He delivered his chilling introduction.
"Potter—what would I obtain by adding powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Tsk. Fame isn't everything."
"Where would you find a bezoar?"
Silence.
"What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"I don't know."
"Draco," Snape said.
Draco rose.
"Asphodel and wormwood produce a powerful sleeping potion, known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone from a goat's stomach, used as an antidote. Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant—aconite."
"Excellent. Ten points to Slytherin."
Ron muttered.
"One point from Gryffindor," Snape said coldly.
Later, while brewing a scabies cure, Neville's potion began to smoke dangerously.
"Aguamenti!" Draco cast quickly, containing the spill.
"Idiot!" Snape barked at Neville.
"Well done. Five points to Slytherin," Snape told Draco.
"Potter, why did you not stop him?" Another point from Gryffindor.
Harry swallowed his protest.
At last, the lesson ended—along with Gryffindor's dignity and several of its house points.
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