Time rewound to an earlier moment.
"Stupefy!"
"Alohomora!"
"Sectumsempra! Reducto!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Moments before, Malfoy, Beacher, and the Golden Trio had reached the end of their journey. Draco stepped into the final chamber and approached the Mirror of Erised.
"Only someone who doesn't want the Philosopher's Stone can obtain it," he mused, lips curling into a faint smile. Reaching into his right pocket, he drew out a small red stone that gleamed faintly in the dim light.
"I'm sorry, but I have no shortage of money," he murmured. "And immortality, burdened with side effects, doesn't tempt me."
He turned the stone over in his palm, studied it with mild amusement, then slipped it back into his pocket. "As for you, Voldemort—you'll soon learn what it means to be trapped within a double illusion. If the Mirror and the Resurrection Stone show the same vision, that should be… fascinating."
He chuckled softly and drew another stone from his left pocket—the black Resurrection Stone he had retrieved from the Gaunt shack.
"This thing really is flameproof," Draco noted, smiling faintly at its stubborn surface.
"Seeing oneself resurrected—what a rare achievement that must be. Well then, Voldemort… thank me later."
And with deliberate care, he slipped the dark stone into the Mirror's frame.
The Mirror of Erised grants the Stone only to one who doesn't desire it. By the same logic, Draco reasoned, it could also grant the Resurrection Stone to one who didn't crave it. Voldemort and Quirrell, after all, sought only the Philosopher's Stone.
"The fall from heaven to hell must taste rather bitter," Draco murmured as he walked away. By the time the illusion took hold, he was already back in the Slytherin dormitory, pretending to study diligently.
Meanwhile, Voldemort, having received what he thought was the Philosopher's Stone, was drawn into a vision by the Resurrection Stone. For a few fleeting seconds, he believed in what he saw—until the stone cracked in his grasp.
Even the Deathly Hallows had limits. Having endured Fiendfyre once already, the Resurrection Stone could no longer withstand Voldemort's furious magic. Within moments, it shattered.
The sudden break in the illusion jolted him violently. The Dark Lord's spirit wavered, his power faltering. Even Quirrell's body, his unwilling host, convulsed under the strain.
"Quirrell!" Voldemort's cold, high voice echoed in the chamber. "You told me the Philosopher's Stone was here—where is it?"
"Master, I—I don't know! It must be with Potter! I'll kill him and find it!" Quirrell cried in terror. Realizing something was wrong with his magic, he lunged for Harry, who was already unconscious.
Quirrell's hands wrapped around the boy's throat—but agony followed instantly. His skin seared as though it were pressed to molten iron.
"Master! I can't touch him—my hand!" he screamed.
"Tom, you've truly returned." The voice of Albus Dumbledore, calm and ancient, resonated through the chamber.
"Damn it," Voldemort cursed silently.
"No, Master! Don't leave me—I can still kill Potter!" Quirrell begged. But his strength was failing fast. Voldemort's essence slipped away from him like smoke, and terror twisted his face—whether fear of death, Azkaban, or his master's wrath, none could tell.
"Fool," Voldemort hissed. "You've ruined everything."
He gathered the tatters of his will. It was humiliating, but there was no choice. With what little strength remained, the Dark Lord fled, leaving behind only a whisper.
"Dumbledore… I will return."
The old wizard did not pursue him. Perhaps he knew he couldn't, or that it was pointless. Behind his half-moon glasses, his weary eyes gleamed with sharp clarity—and a flicker of surprise.
"It's time I had a proper conversation with that young man," he murmured, touching the crooked bridge of his nose. The light in his eyes grew keen and calculating.
Just as before, news of the events in the dungeon spread like wildfire, exaggerated and distorted by rumor. Most students accepted the official account; Slytherins, however, found it hard to swallow.
"Draco, I have a bad feeling," Pansy whispered, sitting beside him in the Great Hall.
The hall shimmered with green and silver banners. Slytherin had won the House Cup for the seventh consecutive year, and the feast was in full swing. A giant serpent banner hung proudly behind the staff table.
"What's wrong, Pansy?" Draco asked.
She pointed toward the doors, her lips pressed tight. Harry Potter had just entered. The moment he stepped inside, the hall fell silent—then erupted in a storm of whispers.
"I just know Dumbledore's going to shower him with points," Pansy muttered. "He always does. When we went into the dungeon, that was grounds for expulsion!"
"More like a deluxe four-person point-awarding package," Draco thought dryly. But he felt no resentment; whether in his past life or this one, he'd never cared much for house pride.
"Then prepare yourself," he said lightly, ruffling Pansy's hair. "You're about to witness how ugly the adult world can be."
"Are we really going to lose?" she asked softly.
"I never said that." Draco smiled faintly, hands raised in mock innocence.
Moments later, Dumbledore appeared. The hall fell into respectful silence.
"Another year has passed!" he began cheerfully. "Before we enjoy this wonderful feast, please indulge an old man's ramblings. What a marvelous year it has been! Your little minds have grown richer—and I hope you'll use the summer to digest all that knowledge before returning next term, refreshed and ready."
Polite laughter rippled through the crowd.
"Now, to business—the House Cup! Here are the results: fourth place, Gryffindor, three hundred and twelve points; third place, Hufflepuff, three hundred and fifty-two; second place, Ravenclaw, four hundred and twenty-six; and in first place, Slytherin, with four hundred and ninety-two points!"
A roar erupted from the Slytherin table. Students pounded the air with their fists, cheering wildly. Draco remained expressionless. Beside him, Pansy's smile faltered; the unease in her heart refused to fade.
"Yes, yes, splendid work," said Dumbledore, twinkling. "However… certain recent events must also be taken into account."
The cheers faltered. Every Slytherin went still.
"Let me see… first, Mr. Ron Weasley." Dumbledore smiled at the red-faced boy. "For the most brilliant game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor fifty points."
The Gryffindor table exploded in cheers so loud that the enchanted ceiling seemed to tremble. Percy was shouting himself hoarse: "My brother, you know—my youngest brother!"
When silence returned, Dumbledore continued.
"Second—Miss Hermione Granger. For her logical reasoning in the face of Fiendfyre, her quick use of spells on the chessboard, and her Herbology knowledge in overcoming Devil's Snare—sixty points to Gryffindor."
Hermione buried her face in her arms. Harry thought she was crying from joy, but her heart ached bitterly. He knows everything, she thought. Devil's Snare, counter-curses, everything—and yet only we are being rewarded. She looked toward the Slytherin table. Draco sat straight-backed, unreadable. These points should have been his.
"Third—Harry Potter." The hall fell silent again. "For his extraordinary courage and fearlessness in the face of danger—seventy points to Gryffindor."
The hall erupted once more. The quick thinkers realized that Gryffindor now had exactly four hundred and ninety-two points—the same as Slytherin.
Dumbledore raised a hand. "There are many kinds of courage," he said warmly. "It takes bravery to stand up to our enemies—but just as much to stand up to our friends. Therefore, ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom."
The hall exploded as if struck by lightning. Gryffindors screamed and hugged one another. Neville stood frozen in disbelief as his housemates lifted him high. For once, even the other houses cheered—Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs alike celebrating Slytherin's sudden defeat.
Dumbledore's voice barely carried over the uproar: "Which means, of course, a few minor changes to the decorations are in order."
He clapped his hands. The hall instantly transformed—green turned to scarlet, silver to gold, the serpent replaced by a roaring lion.
At the staff table, Snape shook hands stiffly with Professor McGonagall, his smile painfully forced. His dark eyes flicked toward Harry, cold as ever.
Harry didn't care. Tonight was the best night of his life—better than Quidditch, better than Christmas. He would never forget it.
"How did you know we'd lose?" Pansy asked miserably. Draco's prediction had come true. "Our seven-year streak, broken in our first year! Why didn't you earn us more points? You're top of every class!" She pounded his shoulder, half crying, half furious.
"The House Cup can't be eaten," Draco said mildly, pulling her into a light embrace and patting her back until her tears subsided.
When the feast ended and the students dispersed, Draco lingered, exhausted from the week's scheming. The enchantments really are reusable, he mused. As long as the three-headed dog survives, the key just changes shape, the chessboard resets itself… as for the potion— He shuddered, recalling the poison Dumbledore would one day drink five years hence.
"Professor Dumbledore is expecting you, Mr. Malfoy." Professor McGonagall's voice interrupted his thoughts. She looked faintly puzzled. "He says it's about the final exam."
"I see, Professor," Draco replied evenly. He knew full well what this was about.
"Oh—and the password is 'Cockroach Cluster,'" she added.
"Thank you."
Draco made his way to the Headmaster's office. The gargoyle leapt aside at the password, revealing the spiral staircase. The office door stood ajar.
Inside, Dumbledore sat behind his desk, unwrapping a Fizzing Whizbee. Silver instruments puffed gentle streams of smoke. Hearing Draco enter, he looked up and smiled warmly.
"Ah, Draco! Don't stand there—come in, my boy."
Draco blinked. Has he forgotten our last meeting? We were practically at each other's throats. Perhaps age really did make one shameless.
"You were robbed of the House Cup this year," Dumbledore said kindly.
"Professor, I don't understand," Draco replied innocently. "Wasn't there something about my exam results?"
"Heh." Dumbledore chuckled, stroking his beard. "You're too talented, that's all. I thought you deserved a reward."
"Thank you, Professor, but I really don't need one. My girlfriend cried herself sick tonight—I should probably go comfort her." Draco grinned inwardly. Let's see how far I can push this act.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I think a wounded soul deserves something like this."
He produced a delicate glass vial filled with crystal-clear liquid. Even through the glass, the magic radiating from it felt alive—pure and holy.
Phoenix tears? Draco thought. They don't heal the soul, old man. But I'll take them anyway.
He accepted the bottle with a polite nod. "Thank you, Professor. I'm sure it'll come in handy. Oh—by the way, I found a peculiar stone around the castle a few days ago. Could you take a look?"
He reached into his pocket and set the Philosopher's Stone on the desk.
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses. "Ah, what a remarkable object. I'll need to study it for a few days." He pocketed the stone carefully, then added, "Harry mentioned he also saw a strange stone. Do you know anything about that?"
Draco smiled faintly. "Whoever holds that stone will see the same person they saw in the Mirror of Erised. It's of a kind with your wand, Professor—but I'm afraid it's already turned to ashes."
He turned and walked out, leaving Dumbledore staring after him. The old man's hand trembled slightly, gripping the edge of his desk. His sister's death—still the deepest wound of his life—echoed in his heart.
Outside, Draco exhaled in relief. "Dealing with old Dumbledore is exhausting," he muttered, studying the vial in his hand. The magic inside almost shimmered through the glass.
His last meeting with Dumbledore had proven his strength; this one, his value. The Headmaster might still harbor doubts, but Draco knew the man's type. Dumbledore always sought to win over talent, not destroy it.
He's not so different from Voldemort, Draco thought. Both use whatever means they must to reach their ends.
He considered Tom Riddle's childhood—stealing, tormenting animals, luring children into dark places. Dumbledore's response? To meet violence with violence, forcing a confession with fire. Always preaching love, yet treating an orphan that way.
When you crush someone into submission, you plant the seed of vengeance.
But he dismissed the thought with a shrug. "Philosophy won't buy me anything. Real benefits will."
He held the vial up to the light, watching it glow. "This might be worth more than the Elder Wand—an extra life in a bottle."
Whistling cheerfully, Draco pocketed the phoenix tears and strolled back toward the Slytherin dormitory. Some students saw him and whispered that he'd gone mad from losing the House Cup.
Draco only smiled.
[End of Chapter 27]
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