Draco Malfoy, the true Slytherin snake, lingered in the shadowed corridor beside the Hogwarts courtyard, wary of the blazing, merciless sunlight.
Should he tell her — enduring the pain as he slowly peeled back his snakeskin — gradually revealing a corner of his dark world to her?
The snake coiled in his heart had barely survived the long winter with only a sliver of her light to sustain it, reviving slowly in the warmth of spring, and finally crawling to the edge of summer.
What was to be done next? The temperature was growing more and more dangerous. Could a weary, cold-blooded creature withstand such fierce heat?
But it struggled and writhed within him, hissing as it stretched out its tongue, yearning to lick her warm skin and burning soul — regardless of whether that touch would scorch the cool, exquisite, and fragile snakeskin.
Draco stared intently at the beautiful, smiling girl in the distance and steeled himself. He would seize this moment.
He was summoning every scrap of courage his timid heart possessed, preparing to approach the girl who occasionally cast gentle glances his way — Hermione Granger.
He wanted to warn her, carefully, that his parents — who clung to pure-blood doctrine and looked down upon Muggle-borns — might not treat her kindly.
What a daunting task. He would rather face a werewolf again, or hurl himself into the Black Lake.
He swallowed hard, and just as he lifted his foot to walk toward her, a cold voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Draco. My office. Now."
Professor Snape.
"But —" He stammered, turning to look at the girl.
Merlin — that courage had been so hard-won.
He had finally managed to shake the dust of hesitation from himself, had been ready to seize this rare opportunity to be honest with her —
Professor Snape's frigid gaze moved between him and the girl not far away. He pursed his thin lips, fixed Draco with a withering stare, and looked increasingly as though he were about to announce three days' detention.
Draco wouldn't have minded being confined with the two of them for three days — he might even have quietly looked forward to it. But he suspected Professor Snape would be far less accommodating.
The girl seemed to notice Draco's predicament. She gave a nonchalant wave, indicating she was fine, and smiled — gesturing for him to hurry up.
Hermione. She had no idea what she'd just missed.
Draco sighed, irritated, and followed the Head of Slytherin's billowing black robes as he swept away into the castle.
Severus Snape's urgency in fetching Draco was not born of fury at two young people exchanging glances, nor of discomfort at the peculiar pairing of Slytherin and Gryffindor, nor of any desire to cruelly disrupt the couple who so often scandalised the Slytherin table at dinner.
He did find them irritating — unsettling, even. He had received complaints from Slytherin prefects about "sitting haphazardly at the house table," which made him resolve to appoint a more tactful prefect next year to handle such trivialities. But at this particular moment, he believed he had a far more pressing reason than making things difficult for a pair of Outstanding Potions students to sacrifice five minutes of his rare rest.
"An improved treatment for Dragonpox." Back in his office, Snape withdrew a parchment covered in scribbles from his desk drawer and held it out to Draco with characteristic sternness. "I've been working on it for some time. It should be sound."
Draco took the familiar yet transformed parchment, astonishment flooding through him.
How did you —
"Because Draco Malfoy, who has apparently acquired Gryffindor carelessness, submitted this parchment tucked inside his Potions homework," Professor Snape said coldly. "Your materials and reasoning are fundamentally correct, but the proportions were slightly off, and you were missing one ingredient. I made some corrections."
A casual attempt? Draco's pupils dilated. He regarded Professor Snape's explanation with profound scepticism.
This parchment had been missing since the end of November — the day before Harry's first task in the Triwizard Tournament — more than six months ago.
Professor Snape had been working on it casually for over half a year?
Even Peeves, renowned for his tall tales, probably wouldn't believe that particular excuse.
However, a wise Slytherin never attempts to strip away the awkward pretence of his House's Snake King.
Peeling back a snake's cold skin was a revelation — you might be surprised to find that beneath it, the heart still held some warmth, and was not entirely cold.
But the act itself was deeply dangerous. The snake might lunge and bite you in its fury. Draco knew this all too well, being a true Slytherin himself — painfully aware of how he loved to snap and lash when someone tried to peel away his own armour.
"Thank you," Draco said at last, holding the parchment reverently in both hands. "It is my great fortune to have studied under a Potions master of your calibre."
Professor Snape appeared to be in an uncommonly good humour, and offered a rare word of praise.
"Your research was, in truth, very close to the final result," he said, with evident satisfaction. "I fear I have underestimated your talent, Draco. I shall be considerably stricter with you next term."
"Even the slightest error prevents the sweet nectar of success from forming." Draco's eyes shone as he carefully studied the amended formula. "The corrections and the missing ingredient on this parchment — I doubt I could have arrived at them on my own."
Snape was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "There is no need for false modesty. This improved potion formula is the result of both our efforts. It is, without question, a joint achievement."
No — it shouldn't be his achievement at all, Draco thought, guilt needling at him. The original formula had come from memories of his past life; it had nothing to do with his own brilliance.
But he could say none of that aloud. There was no way to explain it.
"There is one more thing. Having worked out the proportions does not mean you know how to brew it correctly." The Potions master turned to the wall of bottles and jars behind him, selected a small black vial, and set it in front of Draco. He studied the boy's expression and said slowly, "This is the potion I have prepared. I suspect — you intend to give it to your grandfather?"
"Yes," Draco said, gazing at the small vial with something close to awe.
"Then take it," Professor Snape said curtly.
He nudged the bottle forward slightly, then drew his hand back at once, as though any further display of care would constitute some form of curse. "Study the formula over the summer. If anything is unclear, you may write to me."
Draco gave a respectful bow, then left Professor Snape's office, closing the door gently behind him.
He turned the small black vial between his fingers as he climbed the stairs, his heart heavy with feeling.
Professor Snape was, without question, one of the finest Potions masters of the age — a genius, perhaps. He dared venture into territories other masters would not — Horace Slughorn, himself a capable enough apothecary, had no interest whatsoever in spending his time on an improved Dragonpox treatment — yet Snape had solved a mystery that had troubled Draco for so long.
And that was not the extent of his abilities. He had also brewed a potion to slow the spread of the curse afflicting Bagman, who had been struck by one of the Dark Lord's most vicious enchantments.
That was no small thing, Draco thought. Even Dumbledore might not possess such refined mastery.
He tucked the parchment and the vial carefully into his bag, then continued through a group of Hufflepuffs who were clustered in the corridor, all clutching copies of the Hogwarts Gazette and talking over each other with great animation.
"Yes, that shadowy figure —"
"There must be a conspiracy!" a fair-haired boy exclaimed with relish. Draco recognised him as Ernie Macmillan from Divination.
Hufflepuffs. Always gossiping.
Draco had no intention of acknowledging them, but Macmillan had already spotted him.
"Hello, Malfoy."
Macmillan — a boy apparently incapable of fear — offered Draco a perfectly friendly smile.
More remarkably, the Hufflepuffs around him smiled as well.
Outrageous. Utterly outrageous. Draco returned a stiff nod — purely as acknowledgement — and a cold shiver ran down his spine, accompanied by a deeply unsettling sense of indignity.
He was still turning over more pressing thoughts and had no patience to wonder why these neurotic badgers had suddenly developed such an unusual warmth for him, or why they had apparently ceased to fear his expression entirely.
He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not even notice his feet carrying him through the deep corridor back toward the courtyard.
Draco Malfoy was contemplating a most serious question.
Since the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, odd fragments of memory had been flickering in his mind like half-lit candles, insistently hinting at something important he couldn't quite grasp.
Inspiration would come, then slip away — always just beyond reach.
But today, after his meeting with both Dumbledore and Professor Snape, those glittering fragments seemed to be finding one another along some invisible seam, piecing themselves together.
It had all begun the previous afternoon, when he'd taken Hermione to see Madam Pomfrey again to collect the Sober-Up Potion.
Hermione had finally accepted the potion — under a combination of his coaxing and mild insistence — and, blushing, put it into her bag under his watchful eye.
Satisfied, Draco had asked, almost as an afterthought: "Is the curse on Mr. Bagman's arm fatal? Is there any cure?"
"That curse is vicious. I can tell you clearly — it is incurable. Death is only a matter of time." Madam Pomfrey had shaken her head with regret. "The only thing we can do is manage it with the potions Severus brews, and slow the curse's spread."
"Why not transfer him to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries?" Hermione had asked.
"Miss Granger, St. Mungo's is not a panacea!" Madam Pomfrey had replied, sounding affronted. "It is full of talented people — I don't deny that — but between ourselves, there are very few apothecaries there who can brew potions to the standard Severus achieves."
"There aren't many Healers there with your skill and patience, either," Draco had added quickly, with a warmth he did not normally offer. "I visited once. They were quite terrible, honestly."
Madam Pomfrey had visibly softened.
"I wouldn't say they were entirely useless," she'd said, in a gratified, confiding tone. "But to speak plainly — outside Hogwarts, without Severus's hands at work, Ludo Bagman would likely have died far sooner. Without his potion every day, he wouldn't have survived more than a month, let alone three or four."
"That serious?" Hermione had exclaimed. "That curse truly is vicious."
It is, Draco thought at the time. Even a wizard of Dumbledore's stature was helpless against it. The curse had to be extraordinarily dark.
"Why do you ask about this?" Madam Pomfrey had suddenly fixed them with a suspicious look. "This is hardly something students should be asking about!"
"Purely academic interest. I've always been fascinated by healing magic — I've always wanted to learn from the finest, most experienced Healers." Draco had offered her a slight smile.
Madam Pomfrey had seemed startled to find herself on the receiving end of it.
"Oh — oh my —" Her face had flushed; she'd waved her hand at him, somewhere between flustered and pleased. "Mr. Malfoy, I really couldn't presume to accept such a title —"
And so Draco had made his sincere thanks and taken his leave before Madam Pomfrey could gather herself enough to scold anyone.
As they'd walked out of the hospital wing, Hermione, who had witnessed the whole exchange in silence, had let out a slow breath.
"Draco Malfoy," she'd said thoughtfully, "I've just realised that when you choose to be liked, almost no one can resist — your smile, your words, all your little tricks."
She'd tried to persuade him. "If you smiled more often, I have no doubt you could win over the entire school —"
"Hermione, I did promise to be more mindful of my manners, but that is not the same as maintaining a permanently ingratiating demeanour." Draco had looked at her pleasantly. "A Malfoy doesn't casually bestow his smile on strangers with nothing to gain from it. That would make the smile rather cheap."
"And yet you smile at me constantly." The girl's eyes had gleamed with quiet challenge. "You two-faced creature. What exactly do you gain from smiling at me every day?"
"You aren't a stranger..." the boy had muttered.
The next moment, the girl had smiled — a sweet, slightly smug smile.
Draco never underestimated her. He was right not to, because the questions that followed from those smiling lips were precise and sharp.
"So what do you gain from flattering Madam Pomfrey today? Why are you so interested in whether the curse on Bagman's arm is fatal?"
The memory dissolved, and Draco found himself standing in the courtyard.
Under the full weight of the midday sun, he looked around, but the girl with the sweet smile was nowhere to be found.
Where had she gone in so short a time?
Draco sighed and walked slowly to the covered colonnade along the courtyard's edge. He sat beneath a thick curtain of vines, gazing blankly ahead, prepared to wait for Hermione.
His thoughts drifted back to what Madam Pomfrey had said.
Madam Pomfrey could be something of a gossip in ordinary circumstances — he'd noticed her watching him and Hermione on more than one occasion, which only deepened his concern for the privacy of their relationship.
But on matters of magical healing, her professional competence was beyond reproach, and she was always precise. Healing was a discipline that demanded exacting, careful language; no responsible Healer would resort to exaggeration in any professional discussion of their work.
Which meant that Dumbledore, in his past life — his left hand charred and withered — had likely faced the very same predicament: he had needed a highly skilled apothecary to brew a potion to suppress the curse, one he would have had to take every day.
And looking around, there was only one Potions master who had remained at Dumbledore's side throughout that life: Severus Snape.
In his past life, Dumbledore's deterioration had been far milder than Bagman's — Bagman's arm had been ravaged — while Dumbledore's damage had been confined to his hand.
A wizard as powerful and learned as Dumbledore must have acted swiftly to contain the curse.
And yet the hand never returned to its former shape. The curse was still present, still doing its quiet work.
If Bagman, with his severe affliction, had three to four months to live —
How long did Dumbledore have, in that past life?
Six months? A year? Draco wondered, his face slowly draining of colour.
Had Dumbledore already known he was dying?
If the curse required a potion brewed by Professor Snape to be suppressed, then Snape would have needed to know the full extent of Dumbledore's condition.
Which meant Snape may have known — all along — that Dumbledore was going to die.
In the sunlit, summer-green walkway, Draco closed his eyes.
In the dark behind his eyelids, the storm above the Astronomy Tower in his past life erupted once more.
Avada Kedavra.
A jet of green light flew from the tip of Snape's wand and struck Dumbledore squarely in the chest.
Draco had wanted to scream. Fear had sealed his throat.
He had watched, helpless, as Dumbledore was thrown from the battlements.
How could the greatest wizard of the age die so easily?
It was impossible. Absolutely impossible —
For one desperate moment, he'd convinced himself it was a nightmare.
But the figure at the heart of it had only lingered for a second beneath that gleaming skull in the sky before falling — slowly, cruelly — backward like a discarded doll, disappearing through the crenellations of the parapet.
That was the last image of Dumbledore in Draco Malfoy's memory from that other life.
A tragic, terrible death.
Severus Snape had killed Albus Dumbledore. Draco Malfoy had been an accomplice — a witness.
Draco had always believed this was the whole truth of what had happened on the Astronomy Tower.
But if both men had known — if they both understood that Dumbledore was beyond saving — then Snape's Killing Curse would have been utterly unnecessary.
Just as Draco's year of assassination attempts, in that other life, had been utterly pointless.
Because Dumbledore was going to die regardless. Was that it?
Are they acting?
The thought surged through him like a thunderclap.
Reflecting on everything that had unfolded that night on the Tower, Draco felt certain that Dumbledore's behaviour had been deeply unusual.
His death had been too sudden, too composed, too quiet. Too simple.
No one, however great, should face sudden death with such tranquillity.
Dumbledore — who had cared so profoundly about the future of the wizarding world, who had vanquished a dark wizard as formidable as Grindelwald, who had so many tasks unfinished and the Dark Lord still at the height of his power — how had he faced the end with such serenity?
Shouldn't he have fought back? At least struggled?
Instead, he had stood there calmly, almost peacefully, as if waiting for something — even finding the leisure to speak at length with a disarmed Draco, urging him to find a better path.
But what had Dumbledore been waiting for?
It had been an encirclement by more Death Eaters.
And then — Severus Snape, arriving in apparent haste.
When Dumbledore saw Snape arrive, there had been something in his expression — a heart-wrenching, unmistakable relief.
Draco had initially attributed that smile to an old man's naive faith in Snape. But now he was no longer so certain.
If the relief came from trusting Snape — trusting him to do what, exactly?
What had that faint, resolute, serene smile meant in his final moments?
If he had believed, utterly and completely, that Snape would provide the right answer — what was that answer meant to be?
And that shattering plea — "Severus... please..." — what had he truly been asking for?
Not a swift death — surely not merely that?
Why had Dumbledore done it?
Was it to purchase Snape's complete and unassailable credibility with the Dark Lord, using his own death as the price?
Over the past four years, through careful and persistent observation, Draco had grown increasingly certain that Severus Snape was no devoted Death Eater.
The Marauder's Map had shown him as much.
Throughout his own second year at Hogwarts, Snape had repeatedly entered and exited the cellar where Quirrell's body — and the Dark Lord's lingering wraith — were contained, studying it meticulously alongside Professor Flitwick.
He'd had countless opportunities to free his former master. He had taken none of them.
Draco had once supposed that Snape's inaction was simple Slytherin self-preservation: watching, waiting, biding his time. A plan before any action.
But later, through a chain of small coincidences and careful reasoning, he'd discovered something he could not then unsee: Snape's love for Lily Potter — evidenced by the Patronus that took the form of a doe — was something that could not be concealed, any more than one could hide poverty or a persistent cough.
Once viewed through the lens of Lily Potter, every strange thing about Snape over the years became comprehensible: why he was so volatile and erratic when faced with Harry, so unlike the composed, calculating Head of Slytherin House he was in every other context.
Snape had always been quietly protecting Harry. In their first year, he'd been in the stands casting counter-curses during the Quidditch match. In their third year, he'd placed himself between the werewolf and Harry without hesitation.
And then there were the barely concealed surveillance, the clumsy monitoring, and the transparent attempts to reduce Harry's exposure to danger under the guise of punishment.
"Fairly obvious, isn't it?" Draco murmured, pressing a finger to his chin.
Perhaps no one else would ever see past the cold expression and the contemptuous words to the real thoughts of this Occlumency master. He hid himself perfectly behind that fortress of hostility.
But what it all meant was perfectly clear to Draco — a fellow Slytherin who, in his own quiet way, had shared that same protective obsession regarding Harry Potter.
Snape absolutely did not want Harry to die.
In that past life, even the Dark Lord's inner circle had harboured doubts about Snape's true allegiances.
And yet, he had held Dumbledore's trust for more than a decade — an undeniable fact. No matter how much intelligence Snape fed to the Death Eaters, no matter how many Order of the Phoenix members perished because of information he had provided, the Dark Lord had never granted him complete trust. He'd even set Peter Pettigrew to follow Snape like a shadow.
Then the Astronomy Tower changed everything.
Overnight, Snape became the Dark Lord's most trusted servant. His position became unassailable. How could a man who had murdered Dumbledore possibly be a traitor?
And so Snape became the Death Eater "least capable of betrayal," seated at the place of honour at Malfoy Manor, the recipient of the Dark Lord's trust and favour in equal measure.
But what if it had all been a performance — a spy's arrangement that Dumbledore had paid for with his life?
A cold, terrible storm of realisation surged through Draco. Even with his habitual tendency to reason clinically and his unsentimental understanding of human nature, he was horrified by the thought.
That's insane.
Was Dumbledore truly so willing to exploit his own death?
And Snape — frantically playing the lead role in a plan that had required everything of him?
Were they both truly that mad?
Draco recalled how ceaselessly Dumbledore had urged him to lower his wand that night, as though nothing else in the world had mattered.
The Dark Lord had wanted Draco Malfoy to kill Albus Dumbledore.
But if Draco had done it, it would have served Dumbledore's plan not at all. A Draco who'd murdered Dumbledore, who'd earned the Dark Lord's favour through that act, would have been useless to Harry and his friends when it mattered most.
Only Snape could do what needed to be done.
Was it possible that Draco's accidental Disarming Spell — stripping Dumbledore of his wand — had very nearly ruined everything?
In the original plan, Snape would gain the Dark Lord's absolute trust by killing Dumbledore himself.
He would have known every movement and decision the Dark Lord made, and could lend Harry aid in secret when the moment came.
That made sense.
And frankly, Draco had always struggled to understand how Harry — reckless, impulsive Harry — had managed to evade the Death Eaters' pursuit for nearly a year in that other life.
He'd assumed it was entirely Hermione Granger's brilliant mind that had kept them alive.
Otherwise — did they rely on Ron? On Ron's schemes — if you could call them that? Were a few unlikely plans and a quick temper enough to outrun the entire Death Eater network?
Now it seemed that Hermione and Ron's help alone hadn't been sufficient. Someone inside the Death Eaters had been quietly helping them at every crucial juncture.
That wasn't hard to understand.
Hadn't Draco himself gone easy on them?
Hadn't he felt a guilty, hidden relief when they'd escaped Malfoy Manor, even as despair had gnawed at him?
Whenever Snape encountered Harry, he would tell the other Death Eaters not to touch him — to leave him for the Dark Lord — and let him slip through their fingers, again and again.
Draco had done exactly the same.
Hadn't he also tried to talk Crabbe and Goyle out of killing them in the Room of Requirement?
What had he been thinking in those moments — only fear of the Dark Lord's wrath?
No. There had been something else.
He hadn't wanted to hurt them. He hadn't wanted to see the light in those fearless, curious, bright eyes extinguished.
Even in his cowardice, he'd known that if the Dark Lord ever discovered those feelings, he would be destroyed.
Had Snape felt the same?
Was there, for him too, a pair of eyes he could not bear to see go dark — someone for whose sake he was willing to attempt the impossible?
Was Severus Snape a pure Death Eater — or a desperate, silent, unsung undercover agent, burning himself alive for a love that could never be proven?
Under the ever-climbing sun, Draco Malfoy sat deep in thought.
A warm, dry breeze swept across his face in the last days of June, and the cold, damp mist of his fears seemed, very slowly, to be carried away on it.