Draca Malfoid Gets Spanked: Draca Malfoy and the Philosopher’s Stone

 

Draca Malfoid Gets Spanked: Draca Malfoy and the Philosopher’s Stone

By Yu May

[Note: The banner image is a drawing made by @/maddiedobles who you can support on X. It captures how I personally would imagine a female version of Malfoy. On September 29, 2026, #Malfoid became a trending artist topic on twitter. I coincidentally had written some story notes on a spanking-centric romance following Harry and a female Draco Malfoy before the Malfoid meme. I decided to use this occasion to finish writing up these concepts. These short stories assume general knowledge of the Harry Potter universe, and are more of an attempt to keep to canon events of the world with the obvious change being Draco Malfoy’s gender and add spanking scenes, focusing specifically on Harry’s relationship to “Draca Malfoy.” Just for fun, I decided to gender bend Ron Weasley as well, renaming her Roz Weasley. I borrow extensively from the canonical events of the novels to establish the scenes. These stories depict sequences of corporal punishment. Reader discretion is advised.]

Chapter I: Robes Fit for a Witch

Draca Malfoy pouted as she stood on the footstool, and allowed Madame Malkin’s assistant to pin her dress robes to the right length. 

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. Then the doorbell rang, and she off to answer it. Draca could easily make out the witch’s cheerful voice. "Hogwarts, dear? Got the lot here–another first year being fitted up just now, in fact. A young lady."

Madam Malkin returned with a skinny boy, and stood him on a stool next to Draca.

"Hello," said Draca. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said the boy.

"My father's next door buying my books and Mother's up the street looking at wands," said Draca, casually. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

The boy looked uncomfortable.

"Have you got your own broom?" added Draca.

"No," said the boy.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," he said again, looking befuddled.

"I do–Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my

house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No," said the boy, lamely.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been–imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm," said the boy, looking embarrassed.

"I say, look at that man!" said Draca, nodding toward the front window. A giant half-breed was standing there, grinning at the boy and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.

"That's Hagrid," said the boy, looking pleased. "He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said Draca, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper," said the boy. He was looking more and more uncomfortable every second.

"Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of savage–lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"I think he's brilliant," said the boy coldly.

"Do you?" said Dracal, amused. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead," said the boy shortly.

"Oh, sorry," said Draca, trying to keep her voice cool. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?"

But before the boy could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear." 

Looking relieved, the boy hopped down from the footstool.

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said Draca, in her usual drawl.

As the boy disappeared, Draca examined her robes. “An orphan from a pure-blood wizarding family? Intriguing. Can’t be too many boys fitting that description at Hogwarts.”

***

Chapter II: The Right Sort of Friends

On a mission, Draca Malfoy hurried down the Hogwarts Express, checking every compartment. Crabbe and Goyle marched behind her. Draca was grateful to have found other pure-bloods, though she had to admit, Crabbe and Goyle seemed to be fit for little more than body guard work. Her father had warned her that brains didn’t run in the family for all pure bloods.

As she slid open the last door, Draca saw two first-years. One was a girl with shockingly red hair, freckles, and a befuddled look of surprise. Then Draca recognized the other as the scrawny boy from Madam Malkin’s shop, the pure-blooded orphan. "Is it true?" said Draca. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes," said Potter, glancing nervously at Crabbe and Goyle. 

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle, and…" said Draca, hoping they wouldn’t screw this up. Her father had made something perfectly clear: Draca was expected to make the right sort of friends at Hogwarts. And Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was a great potential ally indeed. Draca forced herself to keep cool.

"My name's Malfoy, Draca Malfoy."

The red-headed girl gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Draca looked at her.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

She turned back to Potter. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

She held out his hand to shake Potter's, but Potter didn't take it.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," he said coolly.

Draca struggled to contain her temper, but she felt her cheeks flush slightly.

He was rejecting her friendship? Just like that? Who did he think he was?

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," she said slowly. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."

Both Potter and Weasley stood up.

"Say that again," Weasley said, her face as red as her hair.

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" Draca sneered.

"Unless you get out now," said Potter, his voice steady. 

Draca was suddenly grateful to have Crabbe and Goyle by her side. "But we don't feel like leaving, do we, boys? We've eaten all our food and you still seem to have some."

Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to Weasley—Weasley leapt forward, but before she'd so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell.

A nasty old rat was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk deep into Goyle's knuckle—Crabbe and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung the rat round and round, howling, and when the rat finally flew off and hit the window, all three of them ran out of the compartment.

Draca slammed the door shut behind them, and gasped. “Good lord! That was a rat! Why is the Hogwarts Express infested with rats?”

Then they heard footsteps, and Draca saw a girl with frizzy brown hair approaching them. “Crabbe, Goyle, let’s just get out of here.”

***

Chapter III: The Only Choice

Draca groaned as she listened to the Sorting Hat finish singing its absurd song. The line about Slytherin caught her interest. “In Slytherin… You'll make your real friends, Those cunning folk use any means… To achieve their ends.”

Draca liked the sound of that. Finally, she would make real friends. Friends worthy of a pure-blooded witch.

Professor McGonagall called the names of each student, in alphabetical order. “Bulstrode, Millicent," a stocky girl, became the first student sorted into Slytherin, and the Slytherin table responded with polite applause. Draca grumbled. Crabbe and Goyle hadn’t been sorted yet, but they were sure to be in Slytherin. She could only hope to find more intelligent friends once she’d been sorted.

Draca glanced at the other first-years, and saw that Harry Potter’s face was pale. She smiled. It seemed the famous Harry Potter wasn’t as brave as he acted. He’d probably be a Hufflepuff.

Then, a strange thought occurred to Draca. What if Potter was sorted into Slytherin? Would they have to stay enemies forever, after that disastrous first impression on the Hogwarts Express. Draca scowled. Of course, it was possible. Her parents didn’t say much about the old days, when the Dark Lord was still strong, but Draca like to eavesdrop on her father, especially when his old cronies, Crabbe’s and Goyle’s fathers, came to visit. 

And no matter how many times she’d been caught and caned for it, Draca had never lost her thirst for gossip about how Lord Voldemort, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, came to his untimely end.

Draca clapped politely as Crabbe was sorted into Slytherin, but her thoughts were fixed on the famous Harry Potter.

There was talk that any boy who could survive the killing curse had to be protected by some powerful form of ancient magic. Most likely dark magic. What if Harry Potter had hidden talents? Another dark wizard, to rival Lord Voldemort at his peak. As Draca took in the sight of Harry, she doubted it. He was a plain faced, weak, skinny boy. Hardly the sort of material to make a potential dark lord. But if Harry was sorted into Slytherin…

Draca smiled to herself. “Then I’ll be happy to accept your apology, Potter.”

After Goyle was sorted into Slytherin, Draca let her mind wander again.

Then, the tables erupted in laughter, and Draca snapped out of her daydream. A boy named, “LONGBOTTOM, NEVILLE,” had tripped on his way to the stool. Draca struggled to remember the name. She knew the Longbottoms were a pure-blood family, but her father had never mentioned them. When Neville was finally put into Gryphindor, and forgot to take off the Sorting Hat as he ran to the table, Draca howled with laughter, along with the rest of the hall. 

“Idiot,” thought Draca.

Another pure-blood wizard, Morag MacDougal, was sorted into Ravenclaw, and MacGonagal finally called, “MALFOY, DRACA.”

Draca swaggered forward. There was no question that her wish would come true. Her parents had made it very clear. Their daughter was expected to get into Slytherin. There was no other choice.

The hat had barely touched her head when it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!"

Draca went to join her friends Crabbe and Goyle, feeling pleased with himself.

There weren't many people left now. "Moon," "Nott," "Parkinson," then a pair of twin girls, "Patil" and "Patil," then "Perks, Sally-Anne" and then, at last–"Potter, Harry!"

As Potter stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

"Potter, did she say?"

“The Harry Potter?"

Everyone in the hall craned their necks to get a good look at him. Then the hat flopped down over Potter’s eyes. The seconds dragged on.

Draca watched, intrigued. Was the hat debating which house to put Harry into? That wasn’t unusual. “It could be Slytherin, after all,” thought Draca.

Potter might be a bit full of himself, but he would do well in Slytherin. Almost a full minute had passed. Harry was sitting stiff as a board, clinging tight to the stool. He looked positively terrified.

Finally, the hat shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!" There was a deafening roar of applause. Shaking, Potter took off the hat and walked toward the Gryffindor table.

Draca Malfoy scowled. Then, Malfoy felt a chill, like she’d suddenly been dunked in ice water. Draca turned, and saw a tall, translucent man in old-fashioned wizard robes, stained with silvery blood: a ghost. Draca recognized it from her father’s old school stories. The Bloody Baron was the ghost who had haunted Slytherin house for centuries. Silently, the Bloody Baron took his seat next to Draca, and leered at her.

Feeling a cold sweat on her forehead, Draca almost swooned, before she heard the sound of a boy, laughing at her. As she glanced around the hall, she saw Potter, smirking at her.

***

Chapter IV: A Natural Flyer

Draca had never met a boy she hated more than Harry Potter.

Still, first-year Slytherins only had Potions with the Gryffindors, so they didn't have to

put up with Potter much. Or at least, they didn't until they spotted a notice pinned up in the Slytherin common room.

Flying lessons would be starting on Thursday—and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together. Draca rolled her eyes. She had had a wonderful potions class, before that idiot Neville Longbottom had melted his own cauldron. Professor Snape had complimented her for stewing her horned slugs perfectly, and had even humbled the famous Harry Potter in front of the whole class.

The other Slytherins groaned, but Draca considered the possibilities. She had always been an excellent broomstick flyer. Even father had to admit she had a natural talent for it. Finally, here was a chance for her to personally take the beloved Harry Potter down a peg.

As they gathered in the Great Hall for breakfast, Draca started talking to Crabbe and Goyle, but she made sure to speak clearly, so all the Gryffindor’s could overhear from their table. “Did you know I’ve flown a Silver Arrow? It’s an old one Mother had, before they stopped making them.”

Daphne Greengrass’s ears perked up. “A real Silver Arrow? They say those were the best broomsticks ever made, before Nimbus became the standard.”

Draca chuckled. “Yes. Wicked fast. Unfortunately, I got a bit lost my first time flying it. Ended up in Muggle territory.”

Theodorre Nott sneered. “Then what happened?”

Draca cursed herself. Why did she have to go and run her mouth? She struggled to think of a way to end the story that wasn’t embarrassing. “Well… a group of them chased after me. They were flying in these ugly machines…”

Draca spotted Weasley, and shouted. “Hey, Weasley! You’re father’s obsessed with muggles and their little machines. What are those things muggles use instead of broomsticks?”

Weasley coughed. “I’m pretty sure they use broomsticks, Malfoy. What else would you sweep the floor with?” 

That earned a laugh from the Gryffindors. 

Draca scowled, then snapped her fingers. “Now I remember. Helicopters, that’s what they’re called.”

“What are they?” asked Greengrass.

“Ugly metal contraptions. Look like a great dragonfly. There was a whole squad of Muggles flying them, chasing after me. I barely got away, unscathed.”

Weasley’s ear twitched. “So you let Muggles see you? Sounds like a violation against the Decree Restricting Underage Sorcery. If it’s true, I’m surprised you didn’t get caught by the Ministry.”

Hermione looked nervous. “Would they expel you, just for something like that?”

Roz shrugged. “Dunno. There was the time Charlie let me take his old broom out for a spin. I almost crashed right into a Muggle in one of those kite things they use. A hang-glider? But I never got a note from the Ministry about it. Mum just gave me an earful.”

Draca felt her head swimming. The truth was, when she was eight-years-old, she had gone flying on her Mother’s broomstick, and she had been spotted by Muggles. After a terrifying flight back home, Mother had been waiting for her. She had screamed at Draca, then spanked her. 

Draca had laid on her stomach in her bedroom, crying, before her father arrived late at night. She had hoped he had come to tell her she was forgiven. 

Instead, father had caned her. The caning had left six red welts that faded into purple bruises.

Later, Draca learned that her father had briefly faced an inquiry at work, before he called in a favor from his old friends at the ministry. Draca had never been cited by the Ministry for the incident.

Then, the mail arrived. Draca’s parents had sent her a package of her favorite sweets from Sugarplum's Sweet Shop. Then, Draca spotted a barn owl diving toward Neville Longbottom. Craning her neck, Draca stood to watch as Neville opened his package. “Crabbe, Goyle! Get a load of this. Longbottom’s finally got a package from home.”

"It's a Remembrall!" said Neville. "Gran knows I forget things—this tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red—oh..." His face fell, because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet.

"You've forgotten something..." said Potter.

As Neville was trying to remember what he'd forgotten, Draca strode to the Gryffindor table and snatched the Remembrall out of his hand.

Potter and Weasley jumped to their feet. They looked ready for a fight, but Professor McGonagall, who could spot trouble quicker than any teacher in the school, was there in a flash.

"What's going on?"

"Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor."

Scowling, Draca quickly dropped the Remembrall back on the table.

"Just looking," she said, and she sloped away with Crabbe and Goyle behind

her.

At three-thirty that afternoon, Draca, Crabbe, Goyle, and the other Slytherin first years arrived at the grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance. 

The Gryffindors arrived shortly after them.

Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk. She had set out twenty broomsticks, lying in neat lines on the ground.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a

broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

Draca was disgusted at the sorry state of the school broomsticks. If only she could use her personal broomstick, a Comet 260, she’d mop the floor with anyone here. Draca glanced at Potter, directly across from her in the Gryffindor line, and was pleased to see he had a particularly ratty old broom, with broken sticks jutting out at odd angles.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the front, "and say 'Up!"'

"UP!” everyone shouted.

Potter’s broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few

that moved. Draca called a second time, and she caught it neatly. The rest of the students were struggling.

Hermione Granger's had simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. 

There was a quaver in Neville's voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground.

Draca took a deep breath. Similar to wands, a broom had a magic of its own that responded to the wizard. But unlike wands, brooms had to be commanded. Potter had nailed the commanding voice on his first try, without practice. How had he done that? He must have practiced it beforehand.

“But no,” thought Draca. “If the rumors were true, and Potter’s being raised by a bunch of filthy muggles, there’s no way he could have practiced flying with a broomstick at home.”

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips.

“Draca, don’t choke the handle. You need a relaxed grip.”

Draca grit her teeth. “But, professor, that’s the way I’ve done it for years.”

“Then you’ve been doing it wrong for years.”

Potter and Weasley barely managed to disguise their smirks from Professor Hooch, but Draca saw the mockery in their eyes. She clenched her fists until her knuckles went white, then relaxed her grip. 

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle—three—two—"

But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips.

"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle—twelve feet—twenty feet. Draca saw Neville’s scared white face looking down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and—

WHAM—a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight.

Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his.

"Broken wrist," Draca heard her mutter. "Come on, boy—it's all right,

up you get."

She turned to the rest of the class.

"None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You

leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before

you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."

Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with

Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Draca burst into laughter.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

The other Slytherins joined in.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."

"Look!" said Draca, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as she held it up.

"Give that here, Malfoy," said Potter quietly. Everyone stopped talking to watch.

Malfoy smiled confidently. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find—how about—up a tree?"

"Give it here!" Potter yelled, but Draca had leapt onto her broomstick

and taken off.

She felt the old broom shaking, but she kept it steady. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak she called, "Come and get it, Potter!"

Potter grabbed his broom.

"No!" shouted Hermione Granger. "Madam Hooch told us not to move—you'll get us all into trouble."

But Potter ignored her. His face was furious, and his eyes were fixed on Draca.

He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him. 

As Potter pulled his broomstick up to reach Draca’s level, she heard the screams and gasps of all the other girls back on the ground, and an admiring whoop from Weasley.

He turned his broomstick sharply to face her in midair. Draca almost fell off her broomstick. It had taken her years of practice to control her broom that well.

"Give it here," Potter called, "or I'll knock you off that broom!"

"Oh, yeah?" said Draca, trying her best to smile.

Then, Potter leaned forward and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Malfay like a javelin. 

And in a rush of panic, Draca realized that Potter could fly better than her, and he was charging directly for her. 

Draca only just got out of the way in time; Potter made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady. A few people below were clapping.

"No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," Potter called.

Draca tensed. Up here, she had no friends to watch her back. She was alone. 

"Catch it if you can, then!" she shouted, and he threw the glass ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground.

Glancing over her shoulder, Draca saw the ball rise up in the air, as if in slow motion, and then start to fall. She just had to get back to the ground, and she was safe. Then, she saw Potter streaking across the sky like a bolt of red lightning. 

Just as Draca landed, she tripped, and rolled across the grass. As she got to her feet, dusting off mud and grass, she heard the Gryffindors cheering. Then she saw Harry Potter pulling out of a swan dive, narrowly missing the ground, before he pulled his broom straight just in time, and came rolling to a halt. Potter threw his fist high.

In horror, Draca understood what had happened. In the time it had taken her to make a clumsy crash landing, Potter had just caught the Rememball.

"HARRY POTTER!" Professor McGonagall was running toward them. Harry got to his feet, trembling.

"Never—in all my time at Hogwarts—"

Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, "—how dare you—might have broken your neck—"

"It wasn't his fault, Professor—"

"Be quiet, Miss Patil.”

"But Malfoy—"

"That's enough, Miss Weasley. Potter, follow me, now."

As Potter was led away, Draca rushed to Crabbe and Goyle, and sighed with relief. She caught Harry’s eye, and smiled. McGonagall must not have seen Draca flying, or else she’d be in trouble too. With luck, maybe Potter would be caned, or even better, expelled.

Draca Malfoy was shaking. It was too bad. It had only been two weeks, but she had been looking forward to showing up Potter. To prove to him that good blood counted for something.

Now she’d never get the chance. The rest of the students were gossiping about what had just happened. Draca relished in the furious looks from the Gryffindors just as much as the congratulations from her fellow Slytherins. Potter may have stolen the show with his showboating, but now, everyone here knew exactly who was the best flyer on the field.

***

Chapter V: Six of the Best

When Madam Hooch arrived, and all the whispered talk went silent. “All right, what’s going on here? What’s this I hear about one of you flying without permission?”

Draca stiffened. Of course, she had broken the same rule as Potter.

Scowling, Weasley pointed right at Draca. “It was all her fault, Professor. Malfoy stole Neville’s Remembrall, and took off with it.”

Madam Hooch glanced at Draca, then turned back to the Gryffindors. “Malfoy? I heard about Potter already, but not her. Was there anyone else?”

Hermione Granger raised her hand. “No. First it was Malfoy, then Harry followed her. I tried to tell him it was stupid, Professor, but he just wouldn’t listen to–”

“Yes, thank you, Miss Granger. So you all saw Miss Malfoy take off first?”

The Gryffindors all nodded. Then Hooch turned to face Draca. “Well? Is that what happened?”

Draca swallowed. Then, all the other Slytherins stepped forward. “That’s a lie, Professor. They’re just trying to get Draca in trouble,” said Greengrass.

Nott nodded. “Yeah, it was all Potter. Draca had nothing to do with it.”

“You lying snakes!” roared Weasley.

“Quiet!” barked Madam Hooch. Then, she stared at Draca. “Well, Miss Malfoy? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Draca shook her head. 

“Then we’ll have to speak with Professor Snape.”

Draca blinked. “W-what? Why him?”

“As your Head of House, he’s ultimately responsible for you. Come along, Miss Malfoy.”

Draca felt her cheeks burning as she marched to follow Madam Hooch. “P-professor? What are you doing? What about our lesson?”

“This is more important, Miss Malfoy. Keep up.”

Madam Hooch marched quickly, and Draca struggled to keep up. “Professor, I swear, I didn’t do anything!”

Madam Hooch paused. “The Gryffindors say you did, but the Slytherins say you didn’t. I’m not interested in getting involved in these house rivalries, Miss Malfoy, so when I have to deal with this nonsense, I trust the heads of each house sort out matters of student discipline.”

“But… but I’m innocent! I don’t need discipline!”

Madam Hooch shrugged. “Then you should have nothing to worry about when I bring this matter to Professor Snape’s attention.” 

Malfoy’s mind raced. Professor Snape seemed to favor her work in potions, but she had only had a few classes with him. Would he believe her? “Please, professor, can’t… can’t we handle this some other way, without bothering Professor Snape?”

“Handle what, Miss Malfoy?”

Draca wanted to kick herself. “I only meant that—I don’t see why it has to be him who–”

Madam Hooch bowed low to reach Draca’s eye level. “Let me give you some sound, general advice, Miss Malfoy. If it were up to me, any idiot who went flying would be tossed out, or get a month’s detention at the very least. But there are only two people at Hogwarts who have the authority to expel you. First is Headmaster Dumbledore—and I’m certainly not going to bother him about this–and second is Professor Snape. If you want to maintain your innocence, then it’s out of my hands. But on the other hand…”

Madam Hooch straightened to her full height. “For a simple matter of student discipline, short of expulsion, we teachers have other methods at our disposal. Detention, a penalty to your house’s points, the ruler, writing lines—that sort of thing. If a student is honest with me, I try to be fair with them. So, Miss Malfoy, I will ask you again. Did you, or did you not go flying without my permission?”

As she came to understand the gravity of her situation, Draca felt her throat go dry. If she maintained her innocence, Hooch would take her straight to Professor Snape. Would he have her expelled for this? But if Draca confessed her guilt, Hooch was suggesting a lighter punishment, short of expulsion. But what if Hooch was lying?

Draca remembered the last caning she had received from her father, only a week before leaving home for school. If she did anything to bring shame upon the family name…

Draca knew there was only one route to safety. Any punishment short of expulsion was worth it to avoid disgracing her family. “I… I did try to fly for a bit, Professor. But I came right down.”

For several moments, there was a dreadful silence. Madam Hooch didn’t so much as blink. “Thank you for telling me that, Miss Malfoy. I assume this was before Mister Potter made this catch I heard all about?”

Draca felt like she had just caught hold of a life line. “Yes! It was Potter who nearly crashed into me! I had to land before he–”

“That’s quite enough. I’m not concerned with whatever games you two were playing. I’m sure Professor MacGonagall will sort her student out. As for you, I don’t think this is a matter that’s serious enough to have you expelled over. So, I think I’ll let you off with a warning. Come along, to my office. It’s right around the corner.”

Draca took a deep breath. She was free. “Thank you, Professor, I promise you’ll never have a problem with me ever again! I’ll be the best flyer you ever–”

Draca faltered as Madam Hooch ushered her inside her private office. 

Behind her workdesk, Madam Hooch had a collection of pristine, antique broomsticks encased in glass. Madam Hooch rifled through the drawers of her desk. “Let’s see, where did I put the ruler… Ah, here it is!”

Draca stared as Madam Hooch held up a long, wooden ruler, a full yard in length. “What is that?”

“It’s a ruler–of course–Miss Malfoy.” 

“But what’s it for, Professor?”

Madam Hooch traced her finger admiringly along the ruler. “Ah, I don’t care much for the usual detentions my colleagues favor, except in extreme cases. Usually, I find a quick dose of the ruler is more than enough to act as a warning, for first years.”

“A dose of the ruler?”

“A spanking, Miss Malfoy. I assume you know what a spanking is?”

Draca almost fainted. Of course, she was painfully familiar with her father’s cane, but she’d never heard of a ruler being used. “B-but, I thought that old–I mean–I thought Dumbledore banned the cane? I remember my father was furious about the news.”

Madam Hooch nodded. “Professor Dumbledore banned use of the cane on first years, and discourages its use in all but the most extreme cases. But teachers at Hogwarts still have authority to administer student discipline, within certain limits. I promise you, a quick spanking with the ruler is far less terrifying than some of the creative detentions I’ve heard cooked up for misbehaving students over the years.”

Draca felt tears springing to her eyes. “No! Please don’t do this, Professor! Not a spanking! Anything but that!”

Madam Hooch shook her head. “No, Miss Malfoy. I’m not going to argue this matter. You can either lift your skirt, and assume the position, or I’m taking you straight to Professor Snape. And if I have to do that, I’ll be sure to strongly recommend expulsion, for your disgraceful behavior. Now, skirt up, and hands on the desk. As this is your first time, there's no need to bare your bottom—just this once.”

Her lip quivering, Draca lifted her skirt, and assumed the position, bending over to place her hands on the desk, with her feet set apart. She had already learned how to assume the position long ago, after her first caning from Father.

Seemingly impressed, Madam Hooch nodded. “That’s more like it. I can tell this isn’t your first time around the block, Miss Malfoy. Keep yourself in position, and we should have this over in a trice. Grit your teeth, young lady.”

Draca bit her lip, before she felt the ruler bite across her bottom, leaving behind a long, stinging stripe that stretched across both of her bottom cheeks. Draca squealed, and covered her bottom with both hands.

Madam Hooch clicked her tongue. “Tsk, tsk—Gracious, Miss Malfoy, that simply will not do. Take a deep breath, and try again.”

“Professor Hooch! Nooooo!”

“Now, Miss Malfoy.”

“Y-yes, P-P-Professor!” Her face burning with shame, Draca put her hands back on the desk. No matter how many spankings she endured, no matter how hard she tried to keep her composure, just the simple humiliation of knowing that she was about to be spanked was enough to bring her to tears. But no matter how hard she cried, her Father never spared her.

Then, Madam Hooch landed the second stroke with the ruler. “One,” said Madam Hooch, stoically.

Malfoy pressed her lips together, trying to resist the urge to cry, but already, the nagging sting left by the first stroke had started to build into a steady, angry burn. And the second mark left by the ruler was quickly catching up. Draca had just enough time to process that the ruler wasn’t quite as bad as her father’s cane before she felt the third stroke land. “Two,” counted Madam Hooch.

Draca yelped. Sure, the ruler wasn’t quite as the cane, but Madam Hooch certainly knew how to use it. 

Draca felt a pang of fear, but told herself that plenty of wizards and witches had been caned at Hogwarts before her, for centuries at least. 

After that, it became slightly easier to endure the ruler. All she had to do was fix her mind on a clear picture, something to distract herself from the pain. When she had to endure a caning from her father, Draca always imagined herself at Hogwarts, and how she would finally become a witch worthy of the name of Malfoy.

She knew that once she had a chance to prove herself, her Father would look at her differently. Concentrating on controlling her breathing, Draca endured the next few strokes, without moving.

“Six,” counted Madam Hooch, before she paused, and strolled around the desk. “Six of the best instructors would be a traditional punishment, for a caning at least. But a ruler has a distinct advantage over the cane. Very little risk of bruising. Meaning I can go well beyond the standard six strokes, without issue. Tell me, Miss Malfoy, what exactly was it that Mister Potter caught? I heard the other teachers raving about it, but I didn’t quite catch all the details.”

Draca tried to breathe. Her chest was shaking. “Potter… caught a Remembrall.”

Madam Hooch finished strolling around her desk, and stopped at Draca’s other side, before tapping the ruler along Draca’s bottom. “Whose Remembrall?”

“Longbottom’s!”

Madam Hooch nodded. “Yes, that makes sense. I’d heard from the other teachers about Longbottom’s Remembrall. His grandmother is an old friend, you see. Poor Longbottom must have dropped it after injuring himself. So, if Mister Potter caught the Remembrall… then who threw it?”

Malfoy tensed, then looked up at Madam Hooch, tears spilling down her face. “Please… I didn’t mean to—”

“Someone had to throw it, Miss Malfoy.”

“It was—It was me, b-b-but—”

Madam Hooch cut Draca off with a ferocious swing of the ruler, aiming the stroke along her locker bottom. Draca squealed, before remembering to control her voice.

“I’m not interested in hearing any ‘buts,’ Miss Malfoy. Why did you have Mister Longbottom’s Remembrall?” 

“I was going to return it later! It was only supposed to be a little joke, but then Potter—”

Another stroke of the ruler. Draca screeched, unable to contain it any longer.

“No excuses, Miss Malfoy,” said Madam Hooch. “I only want to hear the raw facts. Did you pick up Mister Longbottom’s Remembrall?”

“Y-yes, but–”

This time, Madam Hooch aimed the ruler across Draca’s upper thighs. Caught off guard, Draca howled, and lurched forward, catching herself on the desk, before she quickly remembered to straighten herself back up, and maintain her position.

Madam Hooch narrowed her eyes. “If I hear one more ‘but,’ Miss Malfoy, I’m starting this spanking all over from the beginning, and this time… it will be on the bare. After you picked up Mister Longbottom’s Remembrall, that was when you started flying, without supervision, correct?”

Draca took a shaky breath, fresh tears misting her vision. “Yes, Professor!”

“And Mister Potter took to the skies immediately after that?”

“Yes, Professor! He’s the one who charged me! Potter’s the one who–”

Madam Hooch snapped the ruler down, aiming it squarely across the center of Draca’s backside. “Stick to the bare facts, Miss Malfoy. Potter joined you in the sky. You threw the Rememberall, and then landed?”

“Yes! That was it! I just wanted to get away from Potter, before–”

Madam Hooch landed three mean strokes with the ruler, all in quick succession. Draca barely had time to process the first one, before she started wailing, her tears spilling freely down to drip on the desk in front of her.

Madam Hooch waited a few moments, before tapping the ruler across Draca’s bottom. “I think I have a clear understanding of the situation, Miss Malfoy. Let me be perfectly clear: you are not to touch Mister Longbottom’s Remembrall. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Professor! I’ll never play with it again!”

“I should hope not. Now, Miss Malfoy, just because you confessed to what you did, that doesn’t mean I can let you off easy. You are going to get an additional six strokes, and that should suffice. I think I’ll have you count these out for me. That should help you stay keenly aware of each stroke you’ve earned for yourself, thanks to your misconduct. Take a deep breath, and don’t lose count.”

Already starting to weep, Draca struggled to control her heaving chest. “Y-yes, Professor.”

Draca didn’t know how she managed it. She struggled to speak as she counted each stroke, but Madam Hooch didn’t seem to be in a hurry. After landing each stroke, she gave Draca plenty of time to feel the sting and catch her breath. But the moment that Draca finished stammering out the number for her count, Madam Hooch would immediately land the next stroke.

After the sixth stroke was finally done, Draca could feel all of the long, searing, scorching stripes. They were well over a dozen, and where the stripes overlapped one another, Draca could feel them throbbing. As she felt snot dribbling down her nose, Draca made a stupid, choking noise. Then, Draca stiffened as she felt Madam Hooch tapped the ruler across her bottom again.

“Speak up, Miss Malfoy. Finish your count.”

“Six, Professor…” Draca wanted to add, “I’m sorry,” but at the last moment, she remembered not to apologize. A pure-blood did not apologize.

Madam Hooch sniffed, then put away the ruler. “That will do for a lasting reminder, I think. Stand up, Miss Malfoy. You endured your first drubbing as well as could be expected—for a first time offender, at least. Of course, if I have to repeat this conversation, it will go much harder for you. So let’s have no more flying without my supervision, agreed?”

Quickly, Draca stood, and tried to clutch her bottom. Instantly, she regretted it, and dropped her hands down, clenching her fists tight. “Yes, Professor!”

Madam Hooch waved a hand, then strode to the door. “That will be all. I’m going to see to the rest of the class, but you are excused from the remainder of the lesson. You may see yourself out, Miss Malfoy. Remember to fix your skirt.”

Not listening, Draca nodded furiously, trying to wipe away the tears from her eyes, only for more tears to immediately wet her cheeks. “Y-yes, Professor Hooch.”

After a minute alone, Draca held her head high, and stomped out of Professor Hooch’s office. “Damn that Potter, this is all his fault. Thinks he’s so cool, flying around, catching that stupid thing. Just you wait, Potter, I’ll show you what a real witch can—”

As Draca rounded the corner, she saw Potter, Weasley, and Granger standing in front of a Quidditch trophy case. Just as Potter started to notice her, Draca turned and fled, sprinting back down the hall and around the corner. As she paused to catch her breath, Draca felt a cool breeze tickling her from behind. Glancing at her bottom, Draca noticed that her wizard robes and skirt were still hiked up behind her back, showing off her underpants for all the world to see! 

She’d forgotten to cover her bottom! Blushing furiously, Draca fixed her robes. “Curse you, Harry Potter!” whispered Draca.

***

Chapter VI: A Wizard’s Duel

After Draca found Crabbe and Goyle, she carefully avoided answering any questions about what happened with Madam Hooch.

As they entered the Great Hall, Draca spotted her hated enemy. "Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?"

"You're a lot braver now that you're back on the ground and you've got your little friends with you," said Potter coolly. 

Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles and scowled, but noticing all the teachers at the High Table, Draca nudged them both and shook her head. "I'd take you on anytime on my own," said Draca. "Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel. Wands only–no contact. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?"

"Of course he has," said Weasley, wheeling around. "I'm his second, who's yours?"

Draca looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.

"Crabbe," she said. "Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room; that's always unlocked."

As Draca walked away, another student caught her eye. Draca recognized the frizzy haired witch, who’d tried to play tattle tale on her. “Hermione Granger,” muttered Draca to herself.

There weren’t many old pure-blood wizarding families left. Granger certainly wasn’t one of them. “A half-blood, at best. Maybe even a mud-blood.”

But Draca wasn’t worried about that today. After all, she was going to get back at Potter. So what if he’d gotten lucky today? If Harry Potter was as gullible as Draca suspected, he’d be expelled by this time tomorrow.

Draca strolled up to the old caretaker. “Evening, Mister…Filch, was it? My Father says you started as caretaker while he was in school.”

Filch rounded on Draca, cradling his evil-eyed cat, Mrs. Norris, close to his chest. “And whose your father, girl?”

Draca was taken aback. Something about the cat’s red eyes unnerved her. “My father is Lucius Malfoy.”

Filch’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “What you want, then?” 

Draca cleared her throat. “It’s just that… I couldn’t overhear some students talking. Apparently, they’re planning to go sneaking around the castle, at midnight.”

Slowly, Filch’s mouth curled into an ugly smile. “Oh, are they, now?”

***

The plan was so simple, it was elegant. 

When Potter and Weasley showed up for their wizard duel, they’d run right into Filch and Mrs. Norris.

Except it didn’t work.

Draca couldn't believe her eyes when she saw that Harry and Roz were still at Hogwarts the next day, looking tired but perfectly cheerful. 

Even worse, by now the whole school was abuzz with the news that Harry Potter had been chosen for the position of Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. First years weren’t even allowed to try out!

It had been a week since the failed attempt to trick Harry.

Draca wished she could bore a hole through Potter’s skull with just her eyes. “It’s not fair! He broke the same rule I did. I get dragged to Madam Hooch’s office and—well, nevermind. But he gets… rewarded? Why does he get special treatment?” 

Crabbe stared at Draca. “Eh? Who gets special treatment, Miss Malfoy?”

“Potter, you idiot! I could make Seeker, if they’d only let me try out!”

Goyle stared at Harry. “But I thought you were gonna get rid of Potter, Miss Malfoy?”

Draca ran her fingers through her hair. “Well–obviously–the plan didn’t work, did it?”

Crabbe and Goyle only stared at Harry Potter. 

“It didn’t?” said Crabbe.

“Or… it did?” said Goyle!

Draca slammed her fists on the table. “No, it didn’t!”

“Then why’d you say… did it?” asked Goyle.

Then, there was a screech as the owls arrived. One of them dropped a large, thin package in front of Harry Potter, knocking his bacon to the floor. Some of Harry’s Gryffindor friends gathered around him, examining it.

Draca saw Potter examine a card, before he and his little pals ran off. But Draca already knew what was in the package. “Crabbe, Goyle, quickly, we can cut them off at the stairs if we hurry.”

Sure enough, Potter and Weasley arrived at the foot of the stairs. Draca snatched the package roughly away from Potter and felt it. "That's a broomstick," she said, throwing it back to Harry with contempt. 

"You'll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren't allowed them."

Weasley smirked. "It's not any old broomstick," she said, "it's a Nimbus Two Thousand. What did you say you've got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?" 

Weasley grinned at Potter. "Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same league as the Nimbus."

"What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn't afford half the handle," Draca snapped back. "I suppose you and your brothers have to save up twig by twig."

Before Weasley could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared at Draca's elbow.

"Not arguing, I hope, children?" he squeaked.

"Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor," said Draca quickly.

"Yes, yes, that's right," said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Potter.

"Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?"

"A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir," said Potter, barely able to contain his urge to laugh.

Draca was too horrified to speak.

"And it's really thanks to Malfoy here that I've got it," Potter added.

Draca twitched, struggling to hide her rage and confusion. She could clearly make out Potter and Weasley’s smothered laughter as they headed upstairs.

Potter got a broomstick? It wasn’t fair! Nothing was fair!

***

Chapter VII: Christmas

Draca’s hope that Potter would embarrass himself at his first Quidditch match was dashed when Harry’s broom had malfunctioned. For a moment, Draca had felt a thrill, wondering if it would throw him off. But Potter ended up holding on long enough to trip over the snitch, catch it in his mouth by accident, and win the game.

At the next flying class, Draca had done her best impression of a tree frog. “Grroak! Hey, Potter. I hear you’re going to be replaced as Seeker by a wide-mouthed tree frog at the next match.”

Weasley looked like she was ready to punch Draca on the nose, before Harry held her back.

Crabbe and Goyle stood watching Draca, with vacant expressions.

“Why are they gonna replace Potter with a frog, Miss Malfoy?” said Crabbe, looking perplexed.

Draca gestured at Harry. “Because they’ve got a big mouth, that’s why!”

“So, Potter’s gonna turn into a frog, Miss Malfoy?” said Goyle, scratching his head.

“It’s because he almost swallowed the snitch hole, you buffons!”

“You mean… when Potter’s broom was trying to kill him?” said Goyle.

“Before Potter won the game for Gryffindor?” added Crabbe.

At this, Potter stifled a laugh. 

***

After a week of trying to make “Harry Frogger” Potter’s new nickname, without success, Malfoy had given up. Last night, Draca wasn’t able to sleep. She kept trying to think of something, anything she could say to Potter. There had to be some combination of words that would do the trick. She needed him to understand, truly understand, her loathing for him.

Finally, the answer had come to her, with a flash of inspiration. Of course–Potter was an orphan.

"I do feel so sorry," said Draca, one Potions class, "for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they're not wanted at home."

She made sure to look right at Potter as she spoke. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled. Finally, a joke even they could understand.

Potter, who was measuring out powdered spine of lionfish, ignored her.

Draca kept glancing at Potter for the rest of the class. When Potter and Weasley left, she followed them. Up ahead, she saw an enormous fir tree blocking the corridor. Confused, Draca took a closer look, and noticed the giant half-breed, Hagrid, was carrying it with his bare hands. 

"Hi, Hagrid, want any help?" Weasley asked, sticking her head through the

branches.

"Nah, I'm all right, thanks, Roz."

"Would you mind moving out of the way?" said Draca, using her coldest drawl.

"Are you trying to earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping to be gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I suppose—that hut of Hagrid's must seem like a palace compared to what your family's used to."

Roz dived at Draca, grabbing her by the robes. Draca tensed as she felt Roz easily pull her off balance.

At that moment, Snape came up the stairs.

"WEASLEY!"

Weasley let go of the front of Draca’s robes.

"She was provoked, Professor Snape," said Hagrid, sticking his huge hairy face out from behind the tree. "Malfoy was insultin' her family."

"Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid," said Snape silkily. "Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn't more. Move along, all of you."

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle smirked, then pushed roughly past the tree, scattering needles everywhere.

Behind her, Draca could hear Weaskley, grinding her teeth. "I'll get her, one of

these days, I'll get her–"

Then, from a distance, she could just barely make out Potter’s voice. "I hate them both. Malfoy and Snape."

Draca froze glancing behind her. Hagrid and his stupid fir tree were completely blocking the boys from her sight. “I hate you too, Potter,” whispered Draca.

***

Finally, the Christmas holidays came. Draca sat sulking on the Hogwarts Express, glad to be rid of the school. She was sick of hearing all about Potter and his escapades. Finally, when they arrived at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, Draca found her mother, Narcissa Malfoy, waiting for her. After a brief hug, Draca pulled away, and her father, Lucius Malfoy, turning to face her. “Welcome home, Draca. I hope you’ve made some proper friends.”

Draca swallowed. She’d been warned before she left what was expected of her. She had known this was coming. “Crabbe and Goyle do whatever I tell them.”

Lucius sniffed. “Yes—well—like father, like son, I suppose. Their families are all right, I suppose, if you need some rough work done. But they’re hardly… a connection. What about Susan Bones?”

Draca blinked. “But she’s in Hufflepuff?”

Lucius rubbed his temple. “And her mother is Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Half-blood, but highly influential. Think, Draca. Being a Slytherin helps, but there’s more to politics than just your house. Who else did you make friends with?”

“There’s… Theodorre Nott.”

“Nott? Yes, I suppose you’d run into their brat. Pity we lost the parents. Not many pure-bloods left. Does Theodorre display much talent?” 

“He’s a pretty good flyer. Not as good as me, though.”

Lucius sighed. “Any other witches or wizard of note?”

Draca was shivering. Just from the tone of her father’s voice, she knew that this was hardly enough to satisfy the Malfoy family pride. “There’s… Parkinson. I think she likes me.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. “That’s more like it. Their family is nearly as old as ours. Remember Draco, it’s not enough for someone to have both a witch and a wizard for their parents. Hardly counts for much. Otherwise any half-blood could call themselves a pure-blood, even if they were born of a mud-blood. You have to dig, Draca, or you’ll never find a suitable mate, to carry on the Malfoy bloodline.”

Gently, Narcissa squeezed Lucius’s sleeve. He sighed. “Well, I suppose there’s still plenty of time for you to find an appropriate mate to bring home for Christmas. Let’s get home, Draca.”

“Father, what do you know about Harry Potter?”

Lucius narrowed his eyes. “Ah, we did discuss Potter, didn’t we? I’m told he was sorted into Gryffindor. Pity. The Potters were a very distinguished pure-blood family, once upon a time. It’s a shame about the mother. Imagine someone from that lineage, marrying a mud-blood. What’s your interest in Potter, Draca? Does he, perhaps, display an interest in true magical breeding?”

Draca shook her head. “No, father. I tried to explain about magical blood to him. How important it was, but—he wouldn’t listen. I think… I think Harry Potter is our enemy.”

Lucius sighed. “A shame. There were some old friends of our family who hoped to see the Boy Who Lived grow up to achieve… great things. Take my hand, Draca.”

As Draca took her father’s hand, he clutched her tight. And then, with a snap, they disappeared.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, an owl arrived at their family manor, bearing the results of Draca’s midterm exams.

Later that night, after Lucius had finally finished caning Draca, she cried herself to sleep.

On Christmas Day, Draca Malfoy was confined to her room for the entire day.

She was still in disgrace, and so was not welcome to join the family.

***

Draca stood pacing for most of the ride home on the Hogwarts express, before she finally risked seating herself on a particularly soft cushion. 

By the time the Christmas holidays had ended, Draca Malfoy had been left with a fresh set of red stripes, along with lingering purple and green bruises from previous encounters with the cane. 

Her father had determined that multiple canings were necessary to reinforce the message about the importance of her studies. Malfoy had spent most of New Year’s Eve cramming on her hexes, before enduring her final caning of the week. Then, a thoroughly sorry and sore-bottomed Draca was sent to bed, before the Malfoy’s old friends arrived to celebrate New Year’s Day.

It had been the Leg-Locker Curse that had earned her that last caning. She thought she understood the theory, after practicing the motion and incantation from her spellbook. If only she’d had a guinea pig to test it on.

Not all the students had made it back yet. After New Year’s Day, Lucius Malfoy had made it clear that now that the holidays were over, Draca might as well be sent back to Hogwarts. “I don’t want to hear any more about your petty rivalries, Draca. We have paid dearly to provide you with a first-class education in the magical arts. Make an effort.”

After her first few days back at Hogwarts, Draca had spent most of her time in the library. She couldn’t help but overhear Potter and his cronies chattering about their research project. Apparently, they were looking for any books about Nicholas Flamel? 

As Draca strained her memory, she recalled that Flamel was the name of a very old wizarding family. But he thought they had died out centuries ago. What could Potter’s interest be in such an old wizard family tree?

Draca was intrigued, but she forced herself to keep studying. Hopefully, Potter and friends would get themselves into enough trouble to get kicked out, without Draca having to do anything. As she noticed the sun setting, Draca rubbed her eyes and put her books away. No sense getting caught out of bed after dark. 

As Draca left the library, she ran into Neville Longbottom.

Remembering the stupid Remembrall, Draca tensed, and reached for her wand in her pocket. 

Completely oblivious, Longbottom waved to her. “Oh, hello Draca. You catching up on homework, too?”

Draca looked around. No one was watching them. Then, slowly, she drew her wand. “Yeah. I’ve been looking for someone to practice the Leg-Locker Curse on… Locomotor Mortis!”

As Draca’s curse landed, Longbottom’s legs locked up. He squealed like a pig, then caught himself against the wall, before he lost his balance and fell forward, flat on his face.  

With a snort, Draca pocketed her wand. “You know, Longbottom, if the Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor, I wonder if Godric Gryffindor was just as big a coward as you are.”

Then she walked away, ignoring Longbottom’s pathetic pleas.

***