novelraw Chapter 12: Potter’s Blind Trust
Chapter 12: Potter’s Blind Trust
Chapter Twelve: Potter's Blind Trust
In November, Hogwarts began its Quidditch season.
The news that "Potter is about to play as Gryffindor's Seeker" spread like wildfire through the castle, creating ripples of discussion and waves of predictions—some thought he would play brilliantly, while others expected a spectacular fall.
As for how Potter himself viewed the matter, Draco wasn't sure. However, on one occasion, he saw Potter sitting at the Gryffindor table, clutching the copy of Quidditch Through the Ages that Hermione had once borrowed, trying desperately to glean some confidence from its pages.
The sight was oddly satisfying.
Draco was torn between gloating that his once-confident opponent—who had defeated him several times on the Quidditch pitch—was now openly displaying his anxiety, and feeling something else entirely.
"You have absolutely nothing to worry about." One day, he finally couldn't help himself. He stopped beside Potter at the Gryffindor table.
Potter looked up at Draco, then at Crabbe and Goyle behind him, who were munching chocolate cake with gloomy expressions. Confusion crossed his face.
"If I were you, I'd visit the trophy room on the fourth floor. James Potter's name appears on several trophies there," Draco said, stopping short of elaborating further.
If family genetics couldn't boost Potter's confidence, Draco didn't know what would.
Students who merely needed to spectate from the stands had more time for their studies.
After the initial excitement of term wore off, nearly all students found themselves overwhelmed by mounting homework. More and more of them lingered in the library until curfew.
However, Hermione Granger's reasons for haunting the library were never quite ordinary—it was never just about completing assignments.
Sometimes she would grab Potter and Weasley by the backs of their collars and force them to finish their homework, or criticize their appalling parchments and demand rewrites without hesitation.
Other times, after Potter and Weasley had fled with their meager essays, she would sit alone at a table by the window, engrossed in reading beside the misty white curtains, often surrounded by mountains of yellowed books.
This piqued Draco's curiosity.
To satisfy it, he would occasionally manufacture reasons to walk past her table and glance at what she was reading. He was surprised to discover that her books were often completely unrelated to coursework, with content far exceeding what was expected of a first-year.
When it came to ambition, one couldn't help but admire Hermione Granger.
Draco casually flipped through an old tome about the dark wizard Ekrizdis and found himself impressed despite himself.
Why is she working so hard? he wondered.
Could it be that Hermione's experience of helplessness against the troll had ignited some extraordinary determination?
Draco understood that feeling of helplessness intimately. He had felt it when his father, Lucius, was imprisoned in Azkaban.
He'd been practically forced into becoming a Death Eater. He'd never experienced the burning sensation of the Dark Mark being branded into his skin—not in this timeline. Of course, he still boasted about it to the Slytherins. Through repetition, he desperately numbed himself, convinced himself it was glorious for the House of Malfoy.
The Dark Mark on his left wrist did inspire awe among the Slytherins. Sometimes, reveling in their heartfelt reverence, he would deliberately show them his forearm.
That way, perhaps opportunistic Slytherins wouldn't take advantage of Lucius's imprisonment. His life would be marginally easier.
In public, he wore a mask of smugness and arrogance. In private, he studied desperately—researching forbidden Dark Magic and obscure alchemy, anything that might prove useful.
He desperately wanted to prove to the Dark Lord that he was a valuable asset, someone worth cultivating, so his father might escape Azkaban's torment sooner.
Those horrible, poisonous memories threatened to overwhelm him. Draco rubbed his temples, forcing them back into the depths of his mind, and refocused on the book and parchment covered in dense notes before him.
Like Hermione, Draco often spent time in the library. Sometimes perfecting assignments he'd already completed, sometimes researching information about Ravenclaw's diadem.
Prying open the Grey Lady's mouth was no easy task. She was a ghost—nothing material could sway her anymore. Draco could only search for the key to unlock her secrets in dusty books.
That day, the library was packed. It seemed every student was scrambling to finish essays, as the Hogwarts professors had increased both difficulty and parchment length requirements to new heights.
When Hermione Granger entered, there were hardly any seats available. Clutching several books, she wandered through the possible seating areas several times, nearly reaching the Restricted Section, but couldn't find a single empty table.
She sighed regretfully and, frowning, simply sat down on the floor between bookshelves, intending to read there—completely unaware that a pair of pale grey eyes were watching her from behind the stacks.
"What are you doing?" The owner of those eyes appeared, walking slowly around the bookshelf to stand beside her, looking down.
"Reading." She turned another page, reluctantly raised her gaze to glance at him, and said with a slight pout, "There are no seats. I'll sit here for a bit."
"I have an extra chair... perhaps you'd prefer to sit properly?" Draco asked hesitantly.
"Really? Is that all right?" She looked up at him, her eyes lighting up instantly like stars.
"Yes." He bent down and gathered her thick books from the floor, then extended his arm to help her up. "Come with me."
Draco led her to his secret corner of the library.
Draco Malfoy never helped anyone without reason. Yet strangely, he kept making exceptions for Hermione Granger, the know-it-all.
Perhaps it was simply mutual appreciation between top students.
Or perhaps he needed a touch of innocence and vitality—it made him feel alive, not like rotting wood being eaten away by memories.
Hermione made him experience the word vibrant.
Vibrant joy, vibrant worry, even vibrant anger—all awakened by her.
Since his rebirth, nearly all his intense emotions had been connected to her somehow.
The girl in his memories—who had only glared at him with wariness and suspicion—wasn't just intelligent, rigid, and foolishly kind. She was also lively, proud, mischievous, even endearing at times.
He hadn't held out much hope initially. He'd thought she would hate him, just as she had in his previous life. But she didn't seem to hate him. She didn't reject him.
"Would you like some tea?" he asked, skillfully preparing his tea set with a wave of his wand.
"All right." She sat happily on the extra chair, holding her books, legs swinging in mid-air, obediently waiting for him to pour.
"Better than sitting on the floor?" he asked casually.
"Much better! There's no better seat than this!" she exclaimed enthusiastically, sparing no praise.
He gently placed the teacup before her and smiled silently.
"But I can't usually find this place," Hermione said with a frustrated pout. "It seems I can only find it when you lead me here."
Draco sat back down and continued polishing his essay on the dark wizard Ekrizdis, embellishing the life of this short-lived but extremely cruel medieval practitioner of the Dark Arts with every legend he could find.
After teaching for so many years, Professor Binns must have grown bored. He appreciated seeing something beyond the textbook in students' essays. As long as you carefully noted in parentheses that certain details were unverified legends, Professor Binns would enjoy the small pleasure while grading and generously award an "Outstanding" to commend students' spirit of exploration.
As Draco corrected grammar and phrasing, he told her slowly, "The Hogwarts library has many secrets. You'll have to discover them yourself."
Hermione wrinkled her nose, half-believing his cryptic words. She sipped her hot tea and stole glances at his profile through the rising steam, certain he was being deliberately vague.
"It might be rude to ask, but... you seemed to be crying in the bathroom on Halloween. Why?" After writing for a while longer, Draco couldn't help but voice his question.
For some reason, the matter bothered him.
He... didn't like knowing she'd been crying.
"Honestly, I was being rather silly... but it wasn't important..." Hermione said, embarrassed.
"I'd like to know." He paused, setting down his quill, and looked at her sincerely with his grey eyes.
"Fine! I'll tell you, but you can't laugh." Hermione peeked at him. "Ron said I was like a nightmare... that nobody could stand me..."
Draco's quill snapped with a sharp crack, ruining the nearly finished parchment.
"Oh my goodness!" Hermione exclaimed. She jumped up and tried to help clean the ink-splattered mess. "Quick—move this parchment before the rest gets ruined! What's wrong with your quill? It's so unreliable..."
But Draco didn't move.
He simply continued staring at her, his expression darkening rapidly.
Hermione assumed he was flustered by the accident. She quickly snatched the broken quill from his hand, tossed it into the rubbish bin, and grabbed tissues from the table to wipe his hands. "You need to clean this up. What's wrong? Are you in shock?"
"You're not a nightmare." He ignored the ink stains and firmly grasped her hand through the bundle of tissues.
He stared intently at her, his usually clear voice low but each word spoken with precision: "You are not a nightmare, Hermione. You're the best thing that could happen to anyone."
Hermione, who'd been busy wiping his hands, was forced to stop. First puzzled, then understanding dawned, followed by shyness at his unexpected praise. Then pure joy at being recognized bloomed across her face.
"Is that what you really think?" she asked happily, revealing an undisguised smile.
He nodded slightly without elaborating.
She studied him carefully and found his grey eyes clear as lake water, without any trace of mockery or deflection.
He was serious. Her smile widened.
"Do you need me to hex Weasley for you?" Draco said coldly, jaw clenched.
He didn't even know why he'd said it. He simply couldn't control his mouth.
"No need, Draco. He's already apologized. It was all a misunderstanding, really. I might have been showing off a bit when we were learning the Levitation Charm, and he probably felt resentful..." Hermione said cheerfully, clearly harboring no grudge.
"Good," Draco said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Then he registered that his hands were covered in ink and his nearly finished parchment was ruined.
She pulled the ink-stained parchment toward herself, glanced at it, and said in surprise, "Where did you find this information? It's much more detailed than what I found... I didn't know that Ekrizdis's rival, Godelot, passed on the Elder Wand through ritual combat..."
"Just some historical footnotes," Draco said.
He was angry on her behalf, worried about her, and she was concerned about his essay? Draco didn't know whether to laugh or despair.
"I'm fine now, Draco." Hermione noticed his concern and, having thoroughly shaken off her earlier melancholy, said brightly, "It wasn't just Ron, actually. I thought... I thought I had no friends and nobody liked me. But I was completely wrong."
She didn't want to tell Draco about the strange feelings she'd had during flying lessons, nor the inexplicable sense of connection she'd felt toward him under his Invisibility Cloak that day.
When his feather had floated above the classroom alongside hers during Charms, she'd felt simultaneously irritated and strangely pleased. Her feelings toward him had nothing to do with dislike.
Intuition told her these confusing emotions were best kept buried for now.
Perhaps it was simply because she'd begun genuinely considering him a friend, rather than just an intriguing Slytherin classmate.
She looked at Draco, a bright smile on her face. "My friends were there for me in my most dangerous moment, risking their lives to save me. And I was angry with them for breaking rules. But if you'd all followed the rules that day, I'd be dead."
Draco, having just calmed down, was refilling Hermione's teacup. At her words, he glanced up with a lazy smirk. "I'm glad you've realized that."
He admired people who understood flexibility.
"Draco, you saved me twice that day. I think I can trust you," Hermione said seriously. "Harry also asked me to thank you. We found his father's trophy in the trophy room, and he's training much better now."
She cleared her throat, sat facing Draco properly, accepted the fresh cup of tea, and announced triumphantly, "The three of us discussed it and decided to tell you a big secret."
To Draco's astonishment, Hermione—representing the Potter trio—proceeded to reveal everything:
Hagrid had been asked by Dumbledore to retrieve something from Gringotts. They'd accidentally entered the forbidden corridor on the third floor and encountered a three-headed dog. There was a trapdoor beneath the dog. Harry had even noticed that Professor Snape was injured.
Hermione told him everything.
"Harry and Ron suspect Professor Snape wants to steal whatever that dog is guarding!" Hermione said seriously, watching his expression carefully. "They even think Professor Snape released the troll."
Draco rubbed his temples and asked with difficulty, "Why are you telling me this?"
Were they truly this reckless? This trusting?
Had they gotten to know him that well already?
Shouldn't they report this to Professor McGonagall or Dumbledore?
"We trust you! You've been helping us all along." The girl before him had sincerity in her eyes—even a glimmer of faith.
Draco could only sigh.
Merlin's beard. With such bizarre logic and blind trust, how had Harry and his friends managed to survive until the end?
Don't blame him for being emotional about it.
In his past life, they'd been perpetually wary of him. In this life, their trust came too easily, making everything feel surreal.
He knew this trust was advantageous. It meant Harry and the others regarded him favorably—or at least without animosity.
Because of his memories, Draco knew exactly what was happening. Quirrell had released the troll. Quirrell wanted past the three-headed dog—Fluffy, wasn't it?
Quirrell wanted the Philosopher's Stone to create the Elixir of Life for the Dark Lord living on the back of his head. But Draco couldn't explain this directly.
Moreover, as Draco re-examined the events of first year, an idea gradually crystallized.
All of this seemed to be a test—a trial Dumbledore was setting for Potter, the future Savior.
Interfering might solve the immediate problem but would hinder Potter's development. How could Potter shoulder the burden of being the Chosen One without these trials?
Hermione stirred sugar into her teacup, then hesitated before continuing. "Actually, I don't believe any Hogwarts professor would endanger a student. You're in Professor Snape's House—you know him better than we do. Perhaps you could observe him and give us your opinion?"
So they'd shown sincerity, though not purely from simple trust—there was also strategy involved.
"You want me to be a spy?" Draco couldn't help asking.
"Not a spy—an observer," Hermione corrected seriously. "Don't you want to know what kind of person your Head of House truly is?"
This tactic had to be Hermione's idea. Potter and Weasley would never devise such an approach. Draco studied the girl before him with an inscrutable expression.
Quick-witted, bold, and cleverly manipulative. He regarded her with newfound appreciation as she calmly sipped her tea and smiled serenely at him.
Draco could understand their suspicion of Professor Snape, but he didn't share it.
Professor Snape had a terrible temper and could be viciously cruel with his words, especially toward non-Slytherins.
However, Draco trusted his professional ethics as a Hogwarts professor. In all his memories, Snape might make cutting remarks or dock points excessively, but he would never harm a student. Nor did he have any interest in mysterious treasures.
If the Philosopher's Stone were replaced with African tree snake skin, Professor Snape might show interest.
But the Philosopher's Stone? Hardly.
Poor Professor Snape—his sinister personality and eccentric behavior made him the perfect scapegoat.
Out of secret sympathy, Draco couldn't help asking, "Don't you think Professor Quirrell is more suspicious than Professor Snape?"
Hermione froze, lowering her empty teacup to stare at Draco.
"Professor Quirrell?" she asked uncertainly.
"You weren't at the Halloween feast, so you don't know the full story," Draco said slowly, refilling her tea.
"The first thing I did after returning to the Slytherin common room was ask students who'd witnessed everything in the Great Hall. Interestingly, they told me that Professor Quirrell was the first to notice the troll. He ran into the Hall, shouted his warning, and immediately caused chaos."
Hermione was disturbed by his words.
She'd never considered such a possibility. Distracted, she took a large gulp of tea—too hot—and fanned her mouth while simultaneously squinting with satisfaction at the taste.
Not very polite, but the simple, unrestrained vitality wasn't unpleasant.
Draco caught Miss Know-It-All's amusing expression—wanting to drink but afraid of burning herself—and chuckled. Before she noticed, he straightened his face and continued. "Under normal circumstances, Quirrell should have quietly informed Dumbledore to avoid student panic and prevent stampedes."
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Draco continued. "What's more interesting is that nobody knows Professor Quirrell's whereabouts between when students returned to their dormitories and when we heard him dealing with the troll in the corridor."
"Didn't he faint?" Hermione interjected, puzzled.
"Yes, he appeared to faint. So when Dumbledore led the professors to search for the troll near the dungeons, Quirrell was the only one who didn't participate because he was supposedly unconscious. After students left, no one in the Great Hall could confirm where Professor Quirrell had been during that time." Draco tapped his fingers lightly on the table, analyzing methodically.
"I agree with you, Hermione. I don't believe any Hogwarts professor would endanger students." Draco rested his pointed chin on his interlaced fingers, studying Hermione's confused, scrunched-up expression.
"But if we must suspect someone, let's consider: is the stammering Professor Quirrell really as innocent as we assumed?" he asked calmly.