The enormous oak doors of the Great Hall opened with a theatrical groan.
Before them unfolded the scene Draco had seen a thousand times on screens and in descriptions of ink: hundreds of candles floating in defiance of gravity and an enchanted ceiling reflecting a perfect Scottish night. The first-years gasped in awe. Granger was reciting facts from Hogwarts: A History in a low voice.
Draco didn't even look up.
Expensive special effects to hide a stagnant institution, he thought with boredom, adjusting his silver cufflinks. The ambient magic was dense, yes, but for him, this wasn't a fairy tale. It was a chessboard where he already knew the position of every piece.
He walked with a firm step between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables. Pansy, Vincent, and Gregory formed his natural escort, mimicking his disinterest in the pageantry.
Draco's grey eyes, cold and calculating, immediately went to the High Table. He wasn't looking for new faces; he was looking to confirm the integrity of the timeline.
He swept the table from left to right.
Snape returned his gaze with his usual expression of existential disgust. The spy, Draco cataloged. Useful, but emotionally compromised by a dead woman.
And then, his eyes landed on the purple turban.
Quirinus Quirrell.
Draco felt no surprise. He felt the clinical repulsion of seeing a malignant tumor you already knew would appear on the X-ray.
[TARGET CONFIRMED: QUIRINUS QUIRRELL][Status: Active Host (Voldemort).][Threat Level: Lethal at close range.][System Note: The parasitic entity is unstable. The smell of magical rot is perceptible to your enhanced senses.]
There you are, Draco thought, suppressing a grimace as he noted how Quirrell's dark aura distorted the air around him like sick heat waves. More pathetic in person than in the books. A Dark Lord reduced to living on the back of a stutterer's head.
He shifted his gaze to the center. To the golden throne.
Albus Dumbledore.
The old manipulator was watching him. His blue eyes twinkled behind half-moon spectacles with that spark everyone mistook for kindness, but which Draco knew was the glint of a general willing to sacrifice pawns for the "Greater Good."
Draco activated his defenses before the Headmaster could even blink.
[ALERT: Passive Legilimency Scan Detected.][Response: "Mind of Ice" Protocol at 100%.]
Draco lowered his gaze respectfully, hiding his pupils. You will not read my script, old man. In this version of the story, you do not pull my strings.
"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool," McGonagall announced, pulling Draco out of his tactical analysis.
The ceremony was tediously predictable. Hannah Abbott to Hufflepuff. Bones to Hufflepuff. Boot to Ravenclaw. Granger to Gryffindor (almost Ravenclaw, he noted, but her reckless bravery won out).
"Malfoy, Draco."
The murmur in the hall was audible. The Prince of Purebloods.
Draco separated from the group. He didn't walk to the stool with the arrogance of a rich boy, but with the assurance of an actor stepping onto the stage knowing the play is named after him.
He sat down. He felt the worn fabric of the Hat fall over his eyes, plunging the world into darkness.
"Hmm..."
The voice resonated in his skull. Old. Dusty. Intrusive.
"Curious. Very curious. I expected the chaotic mind of an eleven-year-old, full of fears and sweets... but this..."
The Hat tried to go deeper. Draco felt the mental "fingers" of the artifact's Legilimency searching for his memories, his origin, the truth of his transmigration.
But the Hat hit a wall of smooth steel.
[SUPREME LINEAGE SYSTEM][Memory Archive Access: DENIED.][Meta-Narrative Data Protection: ACTIVE.][Allowed Projection: "Pure Ambition".]
The Hat shuddered on his head. Draco could feel the magical object's confusion. It was as if the Hat had tried to read a book only to find the pages were made of mirrors.
"What are you?" the Hat whispered, its tone losing formality. "You are not a child. That coldness... that mental structure... It is ancient. I see a thirst for control that does not seek glory, but order. I see... plans that rewrite the future."
Save the psychoanalysis, Draco thought, projecting his mental voice with diamond clarity. You know where I'm going. Put me on my throne and let's get this over with.
"You have the qualities of all four founders perverted by an iron will," the Hat murmured, almost with fearful fascination. "But there is one house where that thirst for dominion will be fed. A house that will help you on your way to... whatever it is you are planning."
Do it, Draco commanded.
"SLYTHERIN!" the Hat shouted to the hall.
There was no usual dramatic pause. It was an expulsion. As if the Hat wanted to get him off as soon as possible.
McGonagall removed the hat, looking at him with an arched brow, puzzled by the speed. Draco stood up, his expression impassive. As he walked toward the green and silver table, where the cheers were polite but thunderous, the System confirmed his first official victory.
[Main Quest: "The First Step" COMPLETED.][Location Secured: House Slytherin.][Reward: +10% Affinity with Dark Magic, SKILL: SOVEREIGN PRESENCE.]
Draco did not head to the end of the table usually reserved for first-years, that social limbo where scared children clustered for safety in numbers.
He walked toward the center of the lower section, where a pair of second-year students were chatting. Seeing him approach, flanked by the immovable mass of Crabbe and Goyle, the older students hesitated.
Draco didn't say a word. He simply stopped in front of a space occupied by a rodent-like boy and raised an eyebrow, imperceptibly. The message was clear: You are in my seat.
The second-year, intimidated by the aura radiating from the Malfoy heir—or perhaps recognizing the ebony wand poking dangerously from his sleeve—moved aside, muttering an excuse.
Draco sat down.
Pansy Parkinson took the spot to his right instantly, smoothing her skirt with a smile of territorial satisfaction. Crabbe and Goyle sat opposite, forming a wall of flesh that blocked the view of the Hufflepuff table.
"Welcome to Slytherin," drawled a voice.
Gemma Farley, the fifth-year prefect, watched them from a few feet away. She had her arms crossed and a shiny badge on her chest.
"Thank you, Farley," Draco replied, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge her school rank, but without showing submission.
The prefect blinked. First-years usually said "Thank you, Prefect" or stammered. Malfoy had treated her like an equal.
"Uphold the honor of the house," she said, regaining her composure. "We do not tolerate weakness."
"Then I will fit in perfectly," Draco said, losing interest in her and focusing his attention on his empty golden goblet.
The murmur of the dining hall ceased abruptly.
"Potter, Harry."
The name resonated like a spell. Everyone craned their necks to see. Even the ghosts stopped. At the Slytherin table, Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini leaned forward, unable to hide their curiosity.
Draco, however, pulled out a silk handkerchief and began to clean an invisible smudge on the rim of his plate.
Harry Potter sat on the stool. The Hat fell over his eyes.
One minute. Two minutes. The hall held its breath.
"Why is it taking so long?" whispered Pansy, leaning toward Draco, brushing his shoulder with hers. "Do you think he's a Squib?"
"The Hat is trying to find some brain in there, Pansy," Draco replied, with a tone of lethal boredom. "It is a process that requires time when the supply is scarce."
Pansy let out a cruel giggle that drew the glares of several classmates.
"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat finally shouted.
The lion table erupted. The Weasley twins were shouting "We got Potter!". It was a deafening cacophony of heroic validation.
At the snake table, there was a disappointed silence. Many Death Eater children had hoped the "Vanquisher of the Dark Lord" was a secret dark wizard.
Draco yawned. He didn't cover his mouth with urgency; it was a slow, deliberate gesture of pure ennui.
"Predictable," he said, loud enough for those around him to hear. "Gryffindor is the house of martyrs. Potter will fit in well with those who die young for lost causes."
Zabini, sitting two seats down, let out a soft laugh. Nott smiled. The tension at the table broke. Draco had set the tone: We don't care about Potter. We are above that.
Dumbledore stood up, spread his arms, and the food appeared. Mountains of roast beef, potatoes, and rich sauces.
While Crabbe and Goyle threw themselves at the food like animals, Draco served himself a modest portion of pheasant. He ate with aristocratic precision, using the cutlery as if they were surgical instruments.
[SYSTEM: SOCIAL DYNAMIC ESTABLISHED][Current Status: Opinion Leader (Year 1).][House Tone: Aristocratic Cynicism has replaced curiosity.][Immediate Objective: Secure control of the Common Room after dinner.]
"Eat, Pansy," he ordered softly, noticing she was too busy glaring at the other girls at the table to touch her plate. "You will need energy. The night is going to be long."
Pansy looked at him, her eyes shining with adoration.
"Why, Draco?"
Draco cut a piece of meat and brought it to his mouth, chewing slowly before answering with a smile that boded nothing good for his year-mates.
"Because after dinner, we are going to clarify who rules the dungeons."
—[
The path to the dungeons was not a descent into darkness; for Draco, it was a return to the womb of power.
The stone corridors grew colder as they went down, the air heavy with the brackish dampness of the Black Lake pressing against the castle foundations. The torches shifted from a warm orange to a spectral green, casting long shadows that seemed to revere his passage.
The first-years walked in a tight cluster, glancing nervously at rusty suits of armor and damp tapestries.
Draco, however, walked at the front, right behind the Prefects, hands clasped behind his back. His robes billowed with an elegance that contrasted with the clumsy gait of the others. Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle formed his personal phalanx, creating a physical barrier between "Draco" and "the rest of the rabble."
They reached a bare stone wall, indistinguishable from any other save for the worn relief of a coiled snake.
"The password changes every fortnight," announced Gemma Farley, the fifth-year prefect, looking at the novices sternly. "Do not forget it. Do not write it down. If you lose it, you sleep outside."
She turned to the stone.
"Pureblood."
The wall shuddered. The stones rotated and moved aside, revealing an archway.
The Slytherin Common Room opened before them.
It was magnificent. A long subterranean hall with rough stone walls and ceiling. Greenish lamps hung from chains, illuminating buttoned black leather armchairs, carved dark wood tables, and medieval tapestries depicting the victories of famous wizards. At the far end, windows looked directly into the depths of the lake; a giant squid drifted lazily past the glass, bathing the room in a soothing, aquatic light.
But Draco didn't look at the decor. He looked at the people.
The upper-year students were already there, clustered in small circles of influence. There was suppressed laughter, sidelong glances, and a general air of elitist conspiracy.
As the first-years entered, silence fell progressively. The old wolves were evaluating the cubs.
"Gather here," Farley ordered, pointing to the center of the Persian rug. "The Head of House, Professor Snape, will be here shortly. Until then..."
"...Until then, the rules are simple," a deep voice interrupted.
Marcus Flint, the Quidditch captain, stepped forward. He was a sixth-year boy with the build of a troll and teeth that didn't quite fit together. He was flanked by two seventh-years who looked at the first-years as if they were appetizers.
"Slytherin is the elite," Flint growled. "Here, we don't mix with trash. We are united. What happens in the dungeons, stays in the dungeons. And the first-years..." he smiled, showing his teeth, "...first-years listen, obey, and don't get in the way."
Several children stepped back, intimidated. Theodore Nott frowned. Daphne Greengrass crossed her arms, uncomfortable.
Draco sighed.
The sound was low, but in the tense silence of the room, it cracked through the air like a whip.
He walked forward, separating himself from the group of scared novices. He didn't look at Flint. He looked toward the fireplace, where the best armchair—a green leather throne with the silver crest embroidered on it—sat empty.
"An inspiring speech, Flint," Draco said, with a tone of drawling boredom. "Though a bit... rustic."
The silence became absolute. The seventh-years turned around. Flint blinked, incredulous.
"What did you say, runt?"
Draco stopped in front of the empty armchair. He turned slowly to face the entire room. A hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on him. The System hummed in his head, an orchestra in crescendo.
[ACTIVATING SKILL: SOVEREIGN PRESENCE][Cost: 20 Mana/second.][Effect: Projection of Authority + Passive Social Status Increase.][Objective: Subjugate the Hierarchy.]
"I said," Draco raised his voice, not shouting, but projecting it with crystal clarity, "that your definition of 'elite' needs an urgent update."
"Think you're funny, Malfoy?" Flint took a step forward, half-drawing his wand. The physical threat was real. He was much bigger and knew more magic.
Draco didn't even flinch. He didn't reach for his wand. He put his hands in his trouser pockets, a display of suicidal or divine confidence.
"Put that stick away, Flint. You are not going to hex the heir of House Malfoy on his first night. My father lunches with the Board of Governors; you can barely spell 'Governor.' Attacking me would be... the end of your career before it even begins."
Flint froze. Political logic crashed against his violent instinct. Slytherin didn't run on bravery; it ran on consequences. And the consequences of touching a Malfoy were nuclear.
Draco seized the moment of doubt. He turned his back on Flint and sat in the armchair reserved for prefects or seventh-years. He crossed his legs, rested his elbows on the armrests, and interlaced his fingers.
"I hear Slytherin hasn't won the House Cup in six years," Draco said from his usurped throne. His gaze swept over the older students, accusing. "Six years. You speak of superiority, of pure blood, of power... and you let a bunch of badgers and ravens surpass you year after year."
There were uncomfortable murmurs among the fifth and sixth years. He had touched an open wound.
"Gemma," Draco said, looking at Prefect Farley. "You spoke of unity. But the unity of the mediocre only creates organized mediocrity."
"Malfoy, get up from there," Farley hissed, though she didn't move to force him. She was fascinated by the audacity.
"No." Draco smiled. It was a shark's smile. "Slytherin has forgotten what Ambition means. You settle for scaring first-years and casting hexes in the corridors. That is pathetic."
He leaned forward, and the pressure of his magical aura (boosted by the System) made the flames in the fireplace crackle and dim, turning a darker green.
"Things are going to change. Starting tonight, Slytherin ceases to be the house of bullies. We are going to be the house of Rulers. Academic excellence. Political dominance. If anyone in this room scores less than an 'Exceeds Expectations,' it is an insult to my presence."
He looked at the first-years: Nott, Zabini, Greengrass, Parkinson.
"You are my generation. Do not bow your head to anyone. If these people," he pointed at the older students with disdain, "have forgotten how to win, we will teach them."
Flint was red with rage, but he looked at his seventh-year peers for support and found only hesitation. No one wanted to be the first to attack Lucius Malfoy's son when he was speaking uncomfortable truths with such authority.
Draco leaned back again, relaxing the aura but keeping his gaze fixed on Flint.
"You can stand there mouth-breathing, Flint, or you can go ensure the Quidditch team is ready to win this year. Because if we lose to Gryffindor..." Draco left the sentence hanging, but the implication that he would ensure there were consequences was clear.
The Quidditch captain huffed, sheathed his wand roughly, and stomped off toward the boys' dormitories, grumbling. His retreat was a tacit victory.
Draco had won. Not by magic, but because no one dared to bet their future against his.
The room remained silent for a few more seconds, until Blaise Zabini, from the first-year group, began to clap. Slow. Sarcastic. But applause nonetheless.
[QUEST COMPLETED: THE SILVER CROWN][Result: Successful Psychological Coup.][Reward: New Title, Physical Enhancement (Genital).][New Title Equipped: "The Prince of Serpents".][Effect: Students Years 1-4 will obey your direct orders. Years 5-7 will hesitate before opposing.]
Gemma Farley sighed, rubbing her temple.
"It's going to be a very long year," she murmured, but she didn't order him out of the chair.
Draco looked at Pansy, who was at his feet, looking at him as if he were a god incarnate.
"Pansy," he said softly. "Fetch me a glass of water. My throat is dry from educating my elders."
Pansy returned a moment later with a cut crystal goblet full of ice water. Her hands trembled slightly as she handed it to him, not from fear, but from the adrenaline of being so close to the room's center of gravity.
Draco took the goblet without thanking her verbally; a slight nod was payment enough. He took a sip, letting the cold soothe his throat, and stood up.
The Common Room, which minutes before had been a nest of conspiratorial whispers, was now plunged into respectful silence. The seventh-years avoided his gaze, suddenly focused on their scrolls or chessboards. Flint had disappeared.
"Rest," Draco said to his first-year court, with the soft voice of one concluding a royal audience. "Classes begin tomorrow. And remember: perfection is not a goal, it is the minimum standard."
He turned and walked toward the corridor of the boys' dormitories. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him automatically. Nott and Zabini followed at a prudent distance, exchanging glances that were no longer of doubt, but of calculation: being close to Malfoy was dangerous, but being against him was political suicide.
Upon entering the circular room they would share, Draco saw his bed: a dark wood four-poster with silver silk sheets. His trunk was already at the foot.
As he removed his robes and undid his silver cufflinks, the System flickered one last time in the darkness of the dormitory.
[SUMMARY OF DAY 1][Status: Lord of the Dungeons (Provisional).][Key Allies: Pansy Parkinson (Submissive), Crabbe/Goyle (Vassals).][Threats Neutralized: Marcus Flint (Intimidation).][Next Milestone: Academic Dominance.]
Draco slid between the cold sheets. He closed his eyes, listening to the heavy breathing of his dorm-mates and the soft lapping of the lake water against the reinforced windows.
He didn't need to dream of power.
He already had it.