When Malfoy opened his eyes, the first thing that came into view was a high, pale ceiling. The faint fragrance that reached his nose was not the damp, stale air of the Chamber but something soft and floral—lilies, perhaps, or jasmine. The scent alone was enough to tell him that he was safe. He took a slow, steady breath, feeling the warmth of the room seep into his skin, then pushed himself upright against the pillow. The linen sheets beneath him were spotless white, the kind one would only find in the Hogwarts hospital wing.
At the foot of his bed sat Pansy Parkinson. Her hands were folded beneath her head as she dozed in an awkward position on a wooden chair, her dark hair falling forward across her face. Malfoy noticed the faint glimmer of dried tear tracks on her cheeks. For a moment, a quiet warmth stirred in his chest. He hadn't expected anyone—least of all Pansy—to wait by his bedside.
He glanced around the room. The other petrified students were still lying motionless in their beds, pale and stiff as marble. The sight was almost eerie, a gallery of sleeping statues. But there was one more person now—a familiar bushy-haired girl in the next bed. Hermione Granger. She was still unconscious, her breathing slow and shallow, her face drained of color.
"Child, are you awake?" came a familiar, gentle voice. "Good morning."
Malfoy looked up. Dumbledore stood beside the bed, his eyes bright behind his half-moon spectacles, a small, knowing smile curling his lips.
"How are you feeling?" the headmaster asked.
Malfoy ignored the question. "Has the basilisk been dealt with?" he asked directly, his tone steady, almost cold. There was no deference in his voice, no attempt to show the respect students were expected to give their headmaster.
Dumbledore, however, seemed entirely unbothered. He twirled the end of his silver beard thoughtfully, then lowered his voice. "Of course. It was already dying when I arrived."
Malfoy's eyes narrowed slightly. "How did you do it, child?" Dumbledore asked softly, his gaze steady and piercing. The old wizard's blue eyes seemed to shimmer with light, but there was no trace of Legilimency—only the quiet curiosity of a man asking an honest question.
"That's for me to know," Malfoy replied simply.
Dumbledore inclined his head with a faint smile. "Quite right. Everyone is entitled to their secrets."
He turned his gaze around the hospital wing, taking in the still forms of the petrified students. "The mandrakes are nearly mature," he said at last, sounding relieved. "In a few days, we'll have enough potion to revive everyone. That's good news, wouldn't you agree?"
"Of course," Malfoy said evenly.
"But," Dumbledore continued, his eyes glinting, "our hero may not be able to enjoy the praise he deserves."
"Hero?" Malfoy echoed, feigning ignorance. "Who are you talking about? Me?"
He remembered, vaguely, the fragments of conversation before he'd lost consciousness—the confession he'd made, the truth he'd handed to Dumbledore in exchange for something yet unspoken. He had no idea what the headmaster had done with that information.
"So," he said at last, "how did you explain it to everyone?"
Dumbledore's expression softened, but his tone was careful. "Second-year Draco Malfoy was discovered to have been under the influence of a cursed diary," he said. "He inadvertently unleashed a basilisk upon the school. Fortunately, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—Gilderoy Lockhart—noticed certain irregularities and confronted him. Miss Granger, another second-year, was unfortunately caught up in the incident."
He paused briefly, watching Malfoy's expression, then continued. "After a fierce battle, Professor Lockhart used a flawless Transfiguration Charm to conjure a rooster and defeat the creature. However, in protecting his students, he suffered a blow to the head from the basilisk's tail and was knocked unconscious. Miss Granger fainted from shock after rushing to seek help."
Before Malfoy could respond, a furious voice rang out across the room.
"Headmaster! How can you do this?"
Hermione had woken. She sat up in her bed, trembling with outrage. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed crimson. "He saved me!" she cried. "It was Lockhart who was possessed! You're blaming Malfoy for something he didn't—"
"Obliviate," Malfoy said calmly.
A flash of light burst from his wand. Hermione froze mid-word, then collapsed backward onto her pillow, her expression blank and peaceful.
Dumbledore blinked, caught off guard. Even he had been too slow to stop the spell. He stared at the unconscious girl for a long moment, then looked back at Malfoy. The boy's expression was composed, almost indifferent.
"The reflexes of youth," Dumbledore thought grimly. "And mine grow slower every year."
He sighed inwardly. Age had dulled his speed, though not his mind. Somewhere deep within, he worried—about the future, about the enemies who still waited in the shadows, and about the choices he would soon have to make. The child before him—sharp, cunning, unpredictable—was not the typical Slytherin molded by arrogance and tradition. There was something else there: dangerous intelligence, but also restraint. A mind worth cultivating.
"Attacking another student in front of the headmaster," Dumbledore finally said, clasping his hands together, "Slytherin loses one hundred points." His tone was light, almost teasing, though his words carried weight.
Malfoy gave a faint smirk. "What's our score now? Negative, I assume?"
Dumbledore chuckled. "Not quite. I believe it's still somewhere in the double digits."
The boy's expression didn't change. Dumbledore studied him for a moment longer before continuing. "Even if your intentions were unplanned, harm was still done. And if we were to consider intent…" His voice dropped. "Expulsion would be the usual course of action. But considering you were acting under the influence of dark magic—let us say, the Imperius Curse—we will merely deduct three hundred points from Slytherin."
Malfoy raised his brows. "I'm not expelled? That's wonderful news." He clapped his hands once, almost mockingly, but there was genuine amusement in his eyes. The fact that he had escaped real punishment seemed to delight him more than it should have.
"This is merely a way to help your father save face," Dumbledore said mildly, adjusting his glasses. "Lucius Malfoy will, of course, protest your supposed victimization. But for now, your record will remain clean."
He paused, his tone softening. "Now, child, how can I compensate you?"
Ah, there it was—the heart of the matter. Malfoy leaned back against his pillows, his eyes thoughtful. Dumbledore's calm, unshakable demeanor reminded him of something he'd once heard: 'Only fools die in their apprenticeship.' Wizards who lived long enough to become legends never relied on power alone. Dumbledore, the so-called greatest white wizard of the age, was no fool. He played a deeper game—one Malfoy was just beginning to understand.
"Finally, we're getting to the point," Malfoy thought.
He smiled faintly. "The basilisk's corpse," he said.
Dumbledore nodded without hesitation. "Naturally. It was your victory; it belongs to you."
"Phoenix tears," Malfoy added.
The headmaster's eyes twinkled. "I'm sure Fawkes would be moved to tears by your bravery," he said with a trace of humor.
Malfoy's next words, however, wiped the smile from Dumbledore's face.
"The Sword of Gryffindor."
For a long moment, silence filled the hospital wing. The air seemed to grow heavier, and even the candles flickered as if uneasy. Dumbledore's brows furrowed. His hands rested lightly on the edge of Malfoy's bed, and he looked down at the boy with unreadable eyes.
"The Sword of Gryffindor," he repeated quietly. "That is not a request to be made lightly."
"I'm aware," Malfoy said calmly. "But I'm also aware that it appears to those who show true courage. Perhaps it's time the sword decided for itself."
Dumbledore said nothing. The only sound was the soft ticking of the clock on the far wall. After what felt like an eternity, the old wizard let out a slow breath. "Your courage," he said finally, "is no less than that of any Gryffindor I've known."
He pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and gave a small, approving nod. "May you continue to persevere with such courage, Mr. Malfoy."
Malfoy inclined his head, his expression softening for the first time. "Thank you," he said quietly. And for once, the gratitude in his voice was genuine. Beneath the layers of cunning and calculation, he understood what Dumbledore had just granted him—not merely an item, but a kind of recognition. A silent acknowledgment of equality.
Perhaps, he thought, this was the beginning of something more—a partnership, tenuous though it might be. Dumbledore wanted to win him over; Malfoy intended to use that to his advantage. Yet somewhere, between their mutual deceit, there was the faintest glimmer of trust.
As Dumbledore turned to leave, the early sunlight spilled through the hospital windows, painting long golden lines across the beds. Pansy stirred in her chair, murmuring his name. Malfoy leaned back against the pillow, closing his eyes again. The faint scent of flowers lingered in the air.
A rare, quiet smile crossed his lips.
The game had only just begun.
For more chapters
patreon.com/Jackssparrow