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Chapter 54
Malfoy opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the high, familiar ceiling of the hospital wing. A moment later came the soft scent of fresh flowers. Safe. Completely safe.
He pushed himself up slowly, noticing the crisp white linen sheets draped over him. At the foot of the bed sat Pansy Parkinson, arms propped behind her head. She had fallen asleep sitting upright. Tear tracks glimmered faintly at the corners of her eyes.
Warmth spread through his chest.
He glanced around. The other petrified students still lay on their beds exactly as before. But there was one more patient now—Hermione Granger—unconscious, though no longer petrified.
"Child, awake at last? Good morning."
Dumbledore's smiling face suddenly filled his vision.
"How is it? Did you take care of the basilisk?" Malfoy asked, skipping any show of respect.
Dumbledore didn't seem to mind. He stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"Why, yes. When I arrived, it was already dying."
He leaned closer, voice low and gentle.
"How did you do it, my boy?" His bright blue eyes swept over Malfoy—curious, but without Legilimency, no pressure, just the question of an elder who wanted a story.
"No comment," Malfoy said flatly.
"Well," Dumbledore said with a small nod, "everyone is entitled to their secrets."
He looked around the room, then brightened.
"In a few days, the Mandrakes will be fully mature. Everyone will be restored. Wonderful news, isn't it?"
"Of course," Malfoy replied.
"But," Dumbledore went on, eyes sharpening, "our hero may not receive the public glory he deserves."
"Hero? Who's that supposed to be—me?" Malfoy asked casually. He vaguely remembered talking to Dumbledore before fainting, but he had no idea what the headmaster had done with that information.
"So?" Malfoy tilted his head. "What was your story for the outside world?"
Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back.
"Draco Malfoy, second-year student, was controlled by the diary and responsible for the basilisk incidents. On Christmas Day, he exposed himself and was discovered by Professor Lockhart. Miss Hermione Granger was merely caught up in the affair."
He watched Malfoy's face carefully, but Malfoy showed no reaction.
"After a difficult battle," Dumbledore continued mildly, "Professor Lockhart—using a perfect Transformation Charm—turned into a rooster and defeated the basilisk. Sadly, he was struck on the head protecting his student and remains unconscious. Miss Granger, after running for help, was deeply frightened and has not awakened."
"That's outrageous!"
The furious cry came from a nearby bed. Hermione had awakened at the worst possible moment, eyes wide and burning with indignation.
"He saved me! Lockhart was the one controlled! This is slander—this is—this is—!"
"It's all for nothing."
Malfoy flicked his wand with calm precision. Hermione stiffened instantly and fell back onto her pillows, frozen once more.
Dumbledore hadn't expected such a direct attack. He tried to intervene, but age slowed even a great wizard's reflexes. Too late.
Slower and slower…
The thought chilled him. Time was catching up, and Voldemort would return. He needed allies. Even this boy—pure-blooded, cunning, but not the usual brand of Slytherin—was worth cultivating.
"Attacking another student before the Headmaster… Slytherin loses one hundred points," Dumbledore announced. His tone almost sounded amused. He had accepted the situation far more easily than expected; fewer people knowing the truth was, admittedly, convenient.
"Are we in the negatives yet?" Malfoy asked.
"It should still be a double-digit number," Dumbledore said after a moment's thought.
"If harm were intentional, expulsion would be required. But since it was the result of outside influence—like the Imperius Curse—we will settle for deducting three hundred points."
Dumbledore paused, watching the boy.
"I'm not expelled? Wonderful."
Malfoy clapped lightly, genuinely pleased.
"This is merely a way to clean up the mess your father created." Dumbledore adjusted his glasses. "Now then—how shall I compensate you, child?"
There it is.
Malfoy's eyes glinted. He had no intention of wasting the opportunity. And his plans required certain items.
"The basilisk's corpse," he said.
"Of course. Your rightful trophy." Dumbledore smiled.
"Phoenix tears."
"No problem. I daresay Fawkes will be moved to tears by your bravery," Dumbledore said with a rare bit of humor.
"And Gryffindor's sword."
This time, the headmaster truly hesitated. His brows knotted; silence stretched.
At last he spoke.
"Your courage is not inferior to any Gryffindor."
He adjusted his half-moon spectacles and nodded.
"I hope you continue to hold fast to that courage."
"Thank you," Malfoy said sincerely. He understood: this was Dumbledore's recognition—and the beginning of an alliance.
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