November 5th, 1991

Draco Malfoy is volatile. He has always been, will always be, and, in fact, prefers to be volatile. He has always found it satisfying to snarl his way into what he wants —insulting Goyle usually does the trick and taking Crabbe’s sweets is enough to control him. These are, of course, things never to be done in front of his sister. She, too, is volatile. Malfoys are many things —prideful and wrathful chief among them. Thus, Draco would never allow himself to look weak to his sister –not over things such as power.

And so long as Draco’s sister views him as her equal —in charisma, magic, and intelligence— then she will stay by him, will continue to be his Pollux. His twin star. Thus, the very idea of Medea thinking he cannot control Crabbe and Goyle without fear is horrid. Draco is to be awe inspiring—and yes, he is to be feared, but Lucius is clear in what that fear should stem from. Power. And Draco has not yet grown to be magically powerful. Thus, the best he can do is manipulations. That was fine when Medea was the same –before they got their wands. Before Medea began to branch out.

Growing up, Draco had never noticed how much he had come to rely on his sister. He supposed he knew, on some level, that she was not as reliant on him. When they fought she never apologized –not once. If they were angry at one another, it took screaming out their grievances before they would reconcile. And all the things Lucius and Narcissa hated were Draco’s ideas. Yet when they got caught, Medea never made Draco take the fall but she would criticize his actions.

But, again, that was before. Ever since June, when their letters arrived, something about Medea became different. Distant. As if she was prepared to desert Draco at a moments notice. And it all came to a head with that broom. It was the first instance Draco found Medea against him.

Of course, Draco couldn’t know the truth, but that did lead him down a particularly incorrect rabbit hole.

The rabbit hole of thinking Medea was exactly what her parents had wanted. That she was his better in every way. That she could never rely on him —that he wasn’t enough.

Medea had cold fury that pushed out hexes and curses –that boiled under the surface but came up as droll tones and triple sided words. It was a dry anger, measured. Until she burst and Draco was certain it would turn out like their mother —a plot to turn the offender into rubble.

Draco had anger that screamed, that flung thoughtless insults just to relieve the pressure. It was fleeting rage, it was nothing. It led to embarrassment. It was, to his dismay, much like his father’s. Which meant he was bound to cast an unforgivable for a minor offense.

Draco was on the verge of despising Medea, teetering on an edge of resentment that had been formed of 1,000 things Medea knew and did and said that made Lucius listen to her and made Narcissa dote on her. But he never could.

In his memories, any thought of being unworthy —of being daft or soft or weak, was pushed back upon. If Medea heard it she would grasp Draco and remind him of his strengths —that while he was hot tempered he could be ever so cunning. That while he was not able to face off against their father, he was still leagues above their peers. That while he is bad with wit, he is great with art and poetry. Medea told him many things.

And he hates himself for the fear that snakes it’s way up into his throat whenever someone new enters her life —it’s just another chance for her to see Draco for who he is. A liability.

At the Governor’s social, Draco couldn’t help but be please with old Madam Longbottom dragged that chubby imbecile from his sisters. Or when Medea told him that she had wanted no part of befriending the Boy Who Lived.

After the first Quidditch game came a new threat to him and his sister.

Adrian Pucey.

Draco decided the moment Medea let him peck her cheek that Pucey would never be one of his.

No.

Pucey was getting cursed to hell and back —just as soon as Draco found out how to stop Medea from mocking him about it.

-

Adrian Pucey, meanwhile, was watching a very focused Draco scrawl notes on parchment in the library —a book on particularly hard to dispel curses open. One not from Hogwarts’ library he was sure. Adrian couldn’t help but notice how Draco’s form was as graceful as his sister’s —and how nice his handwriting was. All the extra loops and finishes. It was nearly a piece of art.

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Adrian was only a year and half older than the twins, but inside Hogwarts that felt like an uncrossable divide. It hadn’t mattered before —when he only saw the younger Malfoys at socials and dinner parties over summer. Even then, they had hardly paid him any mind —choosing instead to socialize with some of their closer ties, like Crabbe and Goyle and whatever younger purebloods their age attended.

But this year was the year they entered Hogwarts and his mother had told him they were bound to be Slytherin, “Darling, do your best to see what they like. I want to be able to write Narcissa a missive about them.” She had wanted to raise their standing. His mother always had been ambitious. Only, on the very first day of Hogwarts, Medea had approached him. It was a simple thing to cast engorgio, and he could see it in Medea’s eyes that she caught the wand movement. But she came back to ask again the day after. And the next day. And eventually that led to sitting with the firsties on occasion and chatting with Draco —who seemed to dislike Adrian, which brought a smile to his lips whenever he thought about the sneer the boy sent his way whenever Medea wasn’t looking.

Little snakes can be quite adorable.

-

Neville Longbottom was a friendly sort, even if he was more than moderately timid. Thus, when Harry Potter wound up being one of his dormmates, he simply did his best to be friendly to the god amongst men. After all, it was no small feat to win against Lord Voldemeort -and at under a year old.

He had also done his best not to hide behind a column whenever he was approached at a social —a social which his grandmother always told him was required. Though speaking without stuttering was beyond him —his anxiety welling up like a snake and constricting his voice for so much as a hello.

“Everyone shows off young wizards, Neville, I won’t have the world thinking you’re a squib. Merlin knows we finally convinced ourselves.”

Augusta Longbottom was not a kind woman. She held the same beliefs they all did —muggles are separate creatures and they should remain so. She simply was not a fanatic about her views —most aren’t. But Augusta Longbottom was still full of hatred for those who took her Frank away from her.

“I understand not wanting to be around muggles —but Malfoy takes a vile turn whenever they appear.” She would hiss to her friends after sending Neville to bed, “And Narcissa! That wretched woman —born of the same seed as that hag. There’s no good in her. Never was.”

Neville knew fear. It came in the form of Augusta threatening to send him out of country if he was poor at charms —or didn’t fix his speech problems, or didn’t get into Gryffindor, or use his father’s wand. There were conditions to a happy life —and they were conditions Neville struggled to meet.

Neville was an unfortunate boy, with unfortunate parents, living an unfortunate life.

No one coddled him, or gave him love freely. But still Neville did his best to be kind. And he knew right from wrong and tried to stay on that path. But Neville couldn’t decide if it was wrong to want to befriend a snake who had approached him. Who, despite cold words and goading, had not seemed hurtful –not until after he had purposefully avoided her. And even then, she hadn’t truly been cruel. Just sharp.

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan buzzed around Neville, casually chatting here and there –and the same could be said of Harry and Ron. And Neville had started to consider them friends early on. Until he began running with the Slytherins. They weren’t kind to him, no –quite the opposite really. And they very much were a snake pit –constantly pushing each other’s boundaries and vying for dominance, but ultimately just laying in a pile using each of their cold attitudes to warm the group. Then there was Greengrass’ invitation for Samhain –that even Bulstrode had encouraged. Despite the coldness of them all, the mocking, they wanted him to attend somewhere that he had never been allowed.

Somewhere his grandmother had gone but denied him.

And then Harry and Ron had tried to come with when he snuck out, and that had been difficult in its own right. After all, Neville wasn’t the type to casually break school rules –and they had already seen that terrifying dog. But they were not raised with the old ways –the ways of Rites and rituals practiced but not participated in. Perhaps his grandmother simply thought him too weak willed and squeamish. Neville wasn’t sure if he would even be able to carry out the rite. But he had wanted to try. To be brave. To take the leap.

And then there was the snake who had constantly been challenging him.

Medea Malfoy.

She had given him flowers from her hair –flowers the color of a spring sky. She had been angry, she had called him a cowardly lion, but still she had been soft once he found his words. In fact, she had helped him find his words.

That had been the moment Neville became aware just how close they were and promptly reminded himself that Medea was a snake –a snake who barely tolerated him running with her. And, both luckily and unluckily, Slytherin had won the game against Gryffindor –and Medea had run to her friends.

Only Adrian Pucey wasn’t just a friend, was he?

Neville found himself put off by the thought and spent the next three days helping Professor Sprout in the greenhouse whenever he had time. He did, however, continue to show up to run with the snakes.