Perhaps because the new term had just begun, the library was not very crowded, even on a weekend.
Flins glanced around, spotting only a few upper-year Ravenclaw students sitting by the windows.
Thick books lay open before them, and they were writing furiously on parchment without once looking up.
As for students from the other houses, there were none to be seen.
Flins hadn’t arrived particularly early.
Instead of rushing to find a seat, he strolled leisurely along the bookshelves.
By the time he picked out a few books of interest and walked toward his usual corner by the window, he was surprised to find that Hermione was already sitting there.
She had an open Charms textbook spread out before her, surrounded by several rolls of parchment, and was buried in writing.
Her brown, curly hair fell forward to hide half her face.
Flins made no sound, quietly taking a seat at the table right next to hers.
Hermione glanced up.
Seeing that it was him, she offered a simple nod of greeting, then lowered her head right back to her essay.
Flins nodded slightly in return, opened his own book, and was soon absorbed in the pages detailing the evolution of ancient spells.
The library was so quiet that only the faint rustle of turning pages could be heard.
After who knows how long, a light tap-tap sound came from the tabletop.
Flins looked up.
Hermione had stood up by his desk, holding her wand and lightly tapping the air with the tip.
A line of light blue characters materialized in that direction, neatly and clearly reading: “Ten minutes to twelve.”
She then pointed toward the door and made a “time to go” expression.
Flins closed his book without objection, stood up to pack his things alongside Hermione, and walked out of the library side by side.
“Kyryll,” Hermione walked beside him, her voice lower than usual.
“I wanted to ask…
did Malfoy go out last night?”
Flins turned his head to look at her, raising an outer corner of his eye:
“Draco?
He fell asleep rather early last night.
Why?”
Hermione’s eyebrows jammed together fiercely, an unsuppressible, teeth-gritting edge to her voice:
“Malfoy and Harry arranged a duel for last night, and Malfoy didn’t even show up!
We got ambushed by Peeves…”
Her voice paused, a rather unnatural flush flashing quickly across her cheeks, and she lowered her voice to continue:
“We almost got caught by Filch.
He didn’t go at all!!!”
Looking at Hermione’s slightly flushed, angry face, Flins mentally replayed what Draco had looked like in the dorm last night.
Draco had been lying on his bed flipping through a Quidditch Stars picture album, a smug smile plastered across his face the entire time.
Understanding dawned in his bright yellow eyes, and Flins smiled:
“It seems Young Master Malfoy is indeed far better at practical jokes than he appears.”
Hermione froze, seemingly failing to process whether that sentence was meant to defend Malfoy or not.
“Escaping a scrape by pure luck is also something worth being happy about.”
Flins added another line in his usual flat tone, though the corners of his mouth curved into a very faint smile.
Hermione opened her mouth as if wanting to say more, but seemed to think better of it.
She pressed her lips together, then changed the subject, a hint of curiosity coloring her tone:
“Well, I suppose you’re right.
But…
I heard from Harry that you grew up in the Muggle world too?
And when you caught Neville last Thursday, your reaction time and movement—”
She looked Flins up and down.
“It almost makes me wonder if you were trained by some sort of mafia.”
It was rare for Flins to sit reading in the common room.
The firelight from the hearth danced across the pages, making the printed letters flicker in and out of shadow.
He was turning through a book on spell structures from the early days of Hogwarts, his finger resting on a footnote, when the stone door burst open with a loud bang.
Draco walked in alone, without Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him.
His complexion looked rather poor, flames flashing in his gray eyes.
His strides were fast and heavy, the hem of his robes snapping angrily behind him.
Flins glanced at the clock on the wall; the hands pointed straight to twelve.
Lunchtime.
He said nothing, simply closing his book, leaning back into his armchair, and quietly watching Draco pace back and forth twice in front of the hearth.
Draco walked over to the low table where Flins was sitting and came to a halt.
He looked down at Flins, pressed his lips tight, and pulled out a seat.
“Aren’t you going to eat?
Slytherins don’t forbid you from eating.”
Flins closed his book completely, looking at Draco with keen interest:
“What is this?
Did someone tick off Young Master Malfoy?”
Draco glared at him.
“I recall we were having an argument.
Why are you still calling me Young Master Malfoy?”
“Isn’t this just you being angry all by yourself?” Flins said, his voice entirely devoid of ripples.
“I wasn’t mad.”
Draco looked as though those words had choked him.
His mouth moved twice, unable to find a suitable comeback.
Abandoning the point entirely, he pivoted to vent his frustration elsewhere:
“That damn Saint Potter!
McGonagall that old hag actually sent him a broomstick!”
His voice rose a pitch in anger.
“I begged my father for one for ages, and he refused, talking nonsense about rules…
Look at now!
Dumbledore that old madman only knows how to favor Gryffindors!”
As he spoke, he unconsciously clawed at his neat blonde hair, mussing up the strands that had previously laid flat.
Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he turned his head to glare at Flins:
“Aren’t you on good terms with that scarhead?
Why didn’t he mention this to you?
I had to be the one to tell you.”
“When you were first sorted into Slytherin, we treated you well.
You’re a proper Slytherin—why won’t you even bother keeping up appearances for the sake of those stupid lions?”
Flins watched him in silence for two seconds.
“Draco,” he said, his voice a shade softer than before.
“Do you think I chose Slytherin because I like Slytherin’s stance?”
Draco’s lips twitched, but he didn’t answer right away.
Without waiting for a reply, Flins pressed on:
“I chose Slytherin because it suits me.
But what suits me and forcing myself to abandon what I believe is right—those are two entirely different things.
I didn’t stay in this house just to ‘play the part of a good Slytherin’.”
After a long moment, Draco looked away, staring into the dancing flames of the fireplace with a muffled voice: “…So you’re still going to hang around with that scarhead and his friends?”
“Yes.”