The bell rang, signaling the end of Ancient Runes. Yet most students lingered, still immersed in the intricacies of the subject. Though difficult, the class was undeniably fascinating. Most of the students confident enough to take the course were Ravenclaws—knowledge-lovers who viewed the challenge as a gateway to enjoyment rather than frustration.
"You go on ahead," Pansy said to Malfoy, waving him off. "I still have a few questions for the professor."
"You're stealing my lines," Malfoy replied, giving her a puzzled look. Even though he could sense that she had changed in small ways, he still wasn't used to it.
"Is it so strange that I'm studying seriously?" Pansy rolled her eyes.
"I think the questions you're wrestling with could be answered just as well by me," Malfoy said with a shrug.
"I don't want you to answer them," Pansy muttered, pushing him toward the aisle as if physically shooing him away.
"Alright, alright." Malfoy raised his hands in surrender. "I have something to take care of anyway. If you can't figure something out, just ask Professor Babbling—and remember to be polite."
With that reminder, he left quickly.
Hermione had been watching their exchange, unable to join the conversation. Once Malfoy left, she felt an odd mix of relief and disappointment—feelings she herself barely understood.
Just as she finished packing her books and prepared to leave, a figure stepped in front of her desk.
"Miss Parkinson, do you need something?" Hermione asked coolly as she straightened her stack of Ancient Runes notes. With a Slytherin student blocking her path after class, the most reasonable expectation was trouble. She certainly didn't imagine Pansy seeking her help—not academically, and definitely not patiently. If Pansy wanted tutoring, Malfoy was more than capable.
Hermione didn't realize the faint bitterness in her own thoughts—the unconscious comparisons, the subtle twist in her chest.
But the provocation she expected didn't come. Instead, Pansy stood in front of her with an expression Hermione had never seen on her face before. She looked conflicted, brows drawn together, hands behind her back, the toe of one shoe tapping lightly against the floor. More importantly, there was no hostility in her posture.
Suddenly Pansy leaned forward. Hermione instinctively gripped her wand, remaining on guard.
"Thank you," Pansy said at last. She bowed—a formal, solemn motion.
"Huh?" Hermione froze, still half-prepared to defend herself. She hadn't the faintest idea why Pansy Parkinson would thank her. Their last interaction had been their unpleasant duel in the Dueling Club. They had barely spoken since. What gratitude could Pansy possibly owe her?
"Thank you for alerting the headmaster and saving Draco," Pansy continued, explaining her purpose.
"He wouldn't want to owe anyone a favor," she added with confidence. "So saving Ron should count as repayment. You three are close friends—should balance things out."
"That has nothing to do with me," Hermione said, lowering her gaze to her textbooks again. "If the rumors are true, then I helped him last year because that's what any Gryffindor should do, no matter who he is. Not because I expected anything back."
Hermione paused, then looked up and met Pansy's eyes.
"And him saving Ron was his own choice. Please don't dress it up as repayment."
She deliberately emphasized the word saving, making her disagreement clear.
"That's fine," Pansy replied lightly. "Then let's say I'm thanking you simply because I want to. Whether you accept it is up to you. I didn't tell Draco I was coming."
A small, subtle smile touched her lips before she turned and walked away.
The conversation extinguished Hermione's intention to thank Malfoy. She'd spent all morning working up the courage, but now she could only bite her lip and watch Pansy leave.
Sometimes courage lasts only a moment. And once that moment is interrupted, the determination fades. Hermione suddenly realized her resolve wasn't as firm as she believed. She was still afraid—though she couldn't pinpoint what exactly she feared.
Wanting to get close, yet not daring to? Perhaps.
Meanwhile, the person causing her turmoil was in the library, speaking with Madam Pince—blissfully unaware of the emotional chaos he'd sparked.
"Child, what do you need?" Madam Pince asked, forcing a stiff smile. Her tone gave the impression of praising his studiousness, but her eyes were sharp with disapproval. She had never seen a first-year who walked the Restricted Section as confidently as the staff themselves, and casually browsed titles like Secrets of Advanced Dark Arts or The Rise and Fall of Dark Magic. Was the boy planning to become the next Dark Lord?
What troubled her more was that the headmaster had given explicit permission. Even if she disliked it, she could only pretend not to notice. And given how last semester turned out—supposedly caused by a cursed diary—she doubted Malfoy's innocence. She suspected he was the true culprit.
Yet the headmaster hadn't punished him, not really. And today he appeared again, clearly with some purpose. But Madam Pince doubted he needed her help with anything related to the dark arts.
"Of course, Madam Pince," Malfoy said politely, bowing. "I'd like to donate some books to the library. I collected these over the holiday. They are… meaningful in various ways."
He placed a black box on the table. With a light touch, a mechanism clicked, and the box opened.
Madam Pince should have felt pleased—more books meant more knowledge for Hogwarts. But Malfoy's reputation soured her expectation. Sure enough, when she saw the gilded title Born Noble: Wizarding Genealogy, her brows shot up.
Another pure-blood, pat-yourself-on-the-back book. To her, it was simply a group of old families praising their own importance.
"First, I must check that there are no… questionable spells in these books," she said coldly. After last year's chaos, she had no intention of letting anything dangerous slip into her library again.
"Of course," Malfoy said smoothly, gesturing for her to proceed.
The set appeared to be a whole series. Madam Pince opened one at random.
The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. She snorted.
But the name stirred a memory. Years ago, before exams, a group of students used to study in her library. Among them was a lovely girl with deep red hair and almond-shaped green eyes. She remembered watching them with vague amusement during her rounds. The pair who looked most compatible hadn't been a couple—an irony that had stuck with her.
And the surname Black… yes, there had been a boy like that. Devastatingly handsome, with an effortless arrogance that made girls fawn. Even she—decades too old to behave like a schoolgirl—had felt her heart skip for a moment. Sirius Black. She remembered now.
She turned the pages more quickly.
A crest appeared on the next page: a mountain-shaped chevron, two silver stars, and a sword. Flanked by rampant greyhounds. Classic pure-blood heraldry.
Her eyes moved down.
Sirius Black, born— The record stopped abruptly. Early death. Nothing more.
She scanned further.
Phineas Nigellus Black (1847–1926). Former headmaster, famously unpopular. As she finished reading, the portrait in the book turned its head and sneered at her.
"A simple Transfiguration charm," Malfoy explained lightly. "It helps readers remember them better."
Madam Pince nodded without emotion, but her fingers turned the pages faster. Soon she reached the photograph she'd been unconsciously seeking.
— Sirius Black
Sharp gray eyes, cool and aloof. Arrogant, untouchable. The kind of youth whose confidence bordered on cruelty. She felt a faint, unexplainable ache of nostalgia.
"Very well. There doesn't seem to be anything dangerous in these," she said briskly, snapping the book shut. Her sudden approval surprised Malfoy.
Anyone with basic emotional awareness could read the shift in her demeanor. Malfoy had fully expected to be given a hard time. Instead, the stern librarian seemed oddly cooperative.
"Thank you," he said with genuine relief.
Perhaps she was simply in a good mood.
If he'd known the real reason—nostalgia stirred by a long-gone handsome troublemaker—he wouldn't have known whether to laugh or sigh.
"Is that all?" Madam Pince asked sharply. Malfoy had the impression she wanted him gone sooner rather than later.
"I'd like to see these placed on the shelves," he said after a moment.
"Troublesome boy," she muttered under her breath, but she rose and led him toward a sparsely filled bookcase. "They can go here."
Dust coated the shelves. Malfoy immediately cast a Cleaning Charm. The dust vanished, leaving the wood polished and pristine.
For a moment, Madam Pince's expression softened—the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"Maybe he isn't so awful after all," she thought. Librarians developed certain instincts; Malfoy's automatic respect for the books warmed her opinion more than any polite words.
Malfoy placed the volumes carefully:
Weasley Family
Malfoy Family
Avery Family
…and on it went.
After the last book slid into place, he brushed off his hands.
"Thank you for handling this so wisely," he said with a small bow. "I'm sure the students will appreciate learning about their families' histories."
The family trees contained not just names and dates but detailed records, achievements, and even moving photographs. More thorough than the families' own archives. Malfoy had spent considerable time and gold collecting them—especially tracking down women who'd once adored Sirius Black and buying their old photos.
Of course, all of this was a distraction.
His true intention lay hidden in a single book.
As he stepped away, he cast one last glance at the neatly arranged volumes.
The seeds have been planted, he thought. Now I simply need to wait for them to sprout.
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