A/N: Why hello there,
guys comment,review and give power ston. please give input about the chapter not just thank you for the chapter.
********
"Do it now, Draco!" Corban Yaxley snarled.
But Draco's hand was shaking so badly that his aim faltered, and he couldn't bring himself to follow through.
"Let me," Greyback said, with his particular brand of menace, stepping closer to Dumbledore. He spread his arms wide, revealing the points of his teeth.
"I said no!" Yaxley barked. A flash of white light, and the werewolf crashed sideways into the wall, snarling with rage and humiliation.
"Draco, do it now, or get out of the way and let us—" Alecto Carrow shrieked.
Draco couldn't move. The hand holding his wand trembled harder, the tip dipping lower and lower.
His eyes were fixed on Dumbledore.
The old man's face was growing paler; he seemed smaller than usual somehow, his body slowly sinking against the wall, his blackened, withered hand barely gripping the stone for support.
Dumbledore was looking at him. A strange, gentle smile played on his lips. He blinked with perfect calm, those serene blue eyes seeming to carry the words he had spoken only moments before: Draco... you are not a murderer...
Then the door behind them flew open with a bang.
For one desperate moment, Draco felt as though he'd been given a reprieve. He turned toward the sound with a flare of hope — that someone would come through that door and change everything.
The next second, the hope collapsed. Snape was standing in the doorway, wand in hand, dark eyes moving rapidly over the scene — from Dumbledore crumpled against the wall to the assembled Death Eaters.
He made brief eye contact with Draco — Draco couldn't read his expression — then looked away.
"We've run into a spot of trouble, Snape," Amycus Carrow said, his wand never leaving Dumbledore. "The boy doesn't seem to be able to—"
What happened next struck Draco like a blow.
He heard Dumbledore's voice — soft, quiet, unmistakable — pleading.
Dumbledore was pleading.
He had never, in all his years at Hogwarts, heard Dumbledore beg anyone for anything.
That was absurd. That was impossible. A wizard like Dumbledore — how could he beg?
And yet he was. He was calling Snape's name in that thin, exhausted voice.
"Severus..." He said it so softly.
Draco looked back at Dumbledore's face — the colour had almost entirely drained from it now.
And yet he was still smiling. That pale, strange smile — it had no business looking so unguarded, so naively trusting. It had no business carrying that trace of relief.
But Draco saw it. Clear as day, in that terrible moment, he saw it.
The relief.
And in that instant, he understood: even on the edge of death, Albus Dumbledore still trusted Severus Snape.
Dumbledore felt relief at Snape's arrival. He stopped trying to hold himself upright. He let go of the wall.
He hasn't understood, Draco thought, trembling. He hasn't worked out that Snape was the Dark Lord's man all along.
Snape said nothing. He stepped forward and shoved Draco roughly aside. The Death Eaters fell back without a word; even Greyback seemed to hesitate.
For once, Draco didn't feel angry at being manhandled. He was too frightened. Too stunned. Too utterly lost.
What would Snape do? He couldn't let himself think it — and yet he had to.
Could Snape really kill Dumbledore?
Snape stood over the old man, the harsh lines of his face set with deep disgust.
"Severus... please..." Dumbledore said.
Snape raised his wand, aiming it directly at Dumbledore. Draco flinched, his eyes dragged back to the old man's face.
That calm, resolute, almost trusting smile — just as it had always been when Dumbledore believed that Snape would produce the right answer — just as it had always been, all his life, the certainty that the final answer lay somewhere in those fading blue eyes.
But Draco knew. He knew that in the instant after this memory, those blue eyes would go dark. Because in that instant, Snape would say the words: Avada Kedavra —
"This is truly extraordinary."
Those same blue eyes — warm, sharp, entirely alive — looked at Draco now through crescent-shaped spectacles, with what might have been admiration.
"I confess I didn't have especially high expectations at the outset. I never imagined you would manage to chart a new course through hundreds of catalogue cards and library volumes in only three months, and make such meaningful progress."
In the Headmaster's office on the eighth floor, Dumbledore smiled with quiet interest. "You have put considerable effort into this, haven't you, Draco?"
It was Wednesday morning, just after breakfast. Hermione and Draco had successfully navigated the stairs behind the gargoyle and knocked on the Headmaster's door. They had just finished presenting their findings about the number "7."
"It's entirely Hermione's work, Professor Dumbledore," Draco said, eyes downcast. "My greatest contribution, I'm afraid, was performing the function of a very diligent house-elf — casting Scourgify on a great many filthy index cards."
Dumbledore turned to Hermione with a warm smile. "Miss Granger. Your sharpness and intelligence have impressed me once again."
Hermione smiled, a little embarrassed by the praise.
"Draco and I did this together," she said. "He did just as much research as I did. I was simply lucky enough to find the book first." Her gaze drifted briefly, almost involuntarily, to Draco's profile.
The boy, eyes still lowered, turned his head slightly — a quick, sideways glance — and finally allowed the faintest smile.
Behind his desk, Dumbledore watched the pair with quiet amusement.
"In the name of Merlin, can we save the mutual compliments for later?" Sirius Black said from his chair to the side. "Get to the point."
Hermione had already given Dumbledore the full account of how they had stumbled across the annotation. Now she asked him directly, "Do you think this discovery has any real value?"
Dumbledore considered for a moment. "It's a direction worth pursuing," he said, and picked up "An Easy Introduction to Ancient Runes" to examine the circle drawn in faded Klein blue over the numeral 7.
"Miss Granger," he said gently, "do you have any further thoughts on what this number might signify?"
"In Ancient Runes class, Draco and I discussed some ideas about the number seven..." Hermione stepped forward and began walking Dumbledore through her arguments.
Draco watched her retreating back and murmured to Sirius beside him, "What are you doing here?"
"Speaking to Dumbledore about Harry," Sirius said quietly. "I believe he's already guessed what Harry's scar truly means — which is why he avoided seeing Harry yesterday."
"Didn't they see each other on the day of the final?"
"I was there. He asked Harry and Cedric a few brief questions about the graveyard and sent them back almost immediately. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding any private contact with Harry." Sirius paused. "That's my read of it, at least."
"If he suspects there's something dangerous in Harry's mind — and I wouldn't be surprised if he does — he'll likely suggest Harry learn Occlumency," Draco said, keeping his voice low. "Sirius, if that happens, you should teach him yourself. Don't let anyone else do it."
He had no wish to watch Harry and Professor Snape waste another year making no progress whatsoever.
Sirius teaching Harry directly might actually work — Harry didn't resent his godfather, which was rather the point.
Besides, Sirius was undoubtedly a skilled Occlumens. Anyone who hadn't mastered the discipline simply wouldn't have survived eleven years in Azkaban with their mind intact.
This had led Draco to think more carefully about how different students responded to different methods of instruction.
He could admit — with some reluctance — that he himself was the sort of person who performed better under pressure. Bellatrix's relentless methods, unpleasant as they were, had driven him to master Occlumency with surprising speed. The task of repairing the Vanishing Cabinet — daunting and solitary — he had ultimately managed through sheer, furious stubbornness.
Many Slytherins shared this trait. Their pride, when challenged, could be remarkably productive. The more you provoked them, the harder they worked — with the notable exceptions of Crabbe and Goyle. Within Slytherin, friendly provocation was even a sign of genuine regard; they didn't bother provoking people they held in contempt.
Gryffindors were built differently, and it had taken Draco most of his previous life to properly understand that.
Harry was precisely the kind of student who thrived on encouragement. He had flourished under Lupin. Snape's contemptuous approach had drained him of confidence in Potions. As Draco had pushed Harry through duelling practice this year, he'd noticed Hermione quietly offering small words of praise, carefully smoothing over whatever unintentional edge Draco's sarcasm had left behind.
As for Hermione herself — she was rather more complicated than either of them.
Encouragement worked better on her than suppression, as a general rule. Draco had never had any hesitation about telling Hermione Granger when she had done something well — she was the only person he had ever had the patience to speak to quite that way — and she genuinely deserved every word.
But occasionally — and this was key — a well-placed provocation could be exactly the right instrument. Her pride was fierce. She found it almost physically uncomfortable to be underestimated.
Draco Malfoy's proudest social achievement — the one Pansy still mentioned with grudging admiration — was having successfully invited Hermione to the Christmas ball by employing just the right degree of challenge at just the right moment. In certain circumstances, with certain people, that approach was irreplaceable.
He looked at Hermione now, expounding her views on the number seven with spirited confidence, and felt a quiet, warm amusement.
"Yes — Dumbledore has already suggested I teach Harry Occlumency myself," Sirius said softly beside him. "I'll do it."
"...I have a rather untested hypothesis," Hermione was saying, voice animated. "Last night I tried to work out Tom Marvolo Riddle's numbers through numerology — personality number, spiritual number, social number—"
Both Draco and Sirius looked up.
"I've been wondering whether he might have used this method to determine how many Horcruxes to create," she said.
"Go on," said Dumbledore.
"The results surprised me. His personality number is eight, his social number is one, and his spiritual number is seven. Given what we found in the runes book — isn't that rather too much of a coincidence?"
Draco stroked his chin. He had never thought to approach the problem from that angle.
"I know this method," Dumbledore said, nodding. "In my view, the Mind Number may be closer to the choices of the soul — it reflects a person's inner life and tends to reveal what they truly desire."
"So, in an ideal scenario — if Tom Riddle had completed the process without any accidents — he might have created seven Horcruxes outside of his own soul. And the social number, one, would represent himself."
As she spoke, Hermione's expression clouded. She glanced back at Draco with unease.
He knew what she was thinking before she could say it. "We still need more direct evidence to confirm that he had a genuine and specific interest in the number seven," Draco said, stepping forward smoothly before she could raise anything more alarming.
"I agree," Dumbledore said gently. "Slughorn would be better placed to verify this more directly. Persuading him to speak honestly, however, will take some time."
Hermione and Draco exchanged a look.
"I hope to extend him an invitation to return to Hogwarts before long," Dumbledore said, with measured optimism. "More contact will give us better opportunities to soften his position."
"Have you been in contact with him recently?" Draco asked.
"I saw him only yesterday. He mentioned both your names — he seemed quite taken with you both." Dumbledore regarded them with mild interest. "I wasn't aware you had been studying Potions with him over the summer."
"It was a chance encounter," Draco said. "I only asked him a few questions about potion-making."
Dumbledore gave them both a look that said, very pleasantly, that he believed none of this.
"Vacationing in the same city, meeting almost daily, conducting academic research together?" he said, cleaning his spectacles with a handkerchief, with an expression of deep and thoroughly unironic appreciation. "The passion young students have for scholarship is truly unparalleled. I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn you'd been exchanging owls in the middle of the night, debating philosophy and the meaning of life."
"We didn't use owls—" Hermione said, looking slightly uncomfortable.
She hesitated under Dumbledore's attentive gaze. "I only used a Muggle telephone. Occasionally."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise. He glanced at Draco, as though the idea of a Malfoy willingly using a Muggle telephone was a source of some private delight.
He studied the pair's slightly pink faces and smiled warmly, then moved on. "But returning to the matter at hand — if even two such excellent Potions students can't move him, I'm afraid I'll have to resort to my final argument."
His final argument being, of course, Harry Potter himself — whose golden presence had a tendency to make ambitious collectors of notable students forget their better judgement.
Draco suspected Harry would eventually be drawn into that particular exercise, accompanying Dumbledore to Slughorn as the irresistible lure.
"Forgive me for asking directly, Professor — if Professor Slughorn comes to teach here, what would become of Professor Snape's position?" Hermione asked, with the precision of someone who had been wondering this for some time. "They're both masters of Potions."
Dumbledore glanced at her. "In that case, he would teach Defence Against the Dark Arts."
Hermione blinked. "Is that... I don't doubt his qualifications, but that position is—"
"Severus has wanted that post for many years," Professor Dumbledore said, with the serene air of a man describing a perfectly ordinary arrangement. "I think it quite appropriate to grant him that wish when the occasion arises."
His tone implied that the string of Defence professors who had left Hogwarts under unfortunate circumstances had simply been the victims of their own carelessness, rather than casualties of a deliberate jinx placed on the position.
Draco was not especially surprised. In his previous life, Snape had taught Defence Against the Dark Arts — the difference was that it had been during his sixth year; it was happening a year earlier now. And as far as his memory served, Snape's tenure had passed without incident.
"Hermione, don't lose any sleep over that," Sirius said lazily. "I was a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for a substantial period, and I came through it perfectly intact."
"A substitute professor," Draco said, with a look of measured disdain, "does not quite constitute a full member of staff."
He kept to himself the observation that Professor Moody — who had actually signed a contract — had subsequently spent a considerable time at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies.
"An ungrateful student," Sirius said, turning to him with the expression of a man deeply wronged. "Do you have any idea what I went through? Lesson preparation. Daily performances. Dumbledore, I should be paid double—"
"Do you genuinely need a teacher's salary, heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?" Draco said, unmoved. "Would it even cover a single twig for Harry's Firebolt?"
"This is not about the salary!" Sirius said, with great feeling. "It is a matter of principle. Of the rights and dignity of the teaching profession—"
Hermione watched them from the side and bit down on a smile.
Dumbledore, meanwhile, was unhurriedly opening a drawer, apparently preparing to file the book away.
As the drawer slid open, Draco caught a glimpse of something inside — an old wand, and beside it, a ring.
A thought struck him, sudden and sharp.
"Professor Dumbledore — might I see that ring?"
Dumbledore's blue eyes moved to him at once, very quick and very sharp. A brief pause. Then he took the ring — still wrapped in a handkerchief — and placed it on the desk.
"Go ahead," he said, watching Draco with careful attention.
Draco didn't pause to consider what that look might mean. His attention had gone entirely to the stone.
It was a heavy black stone, cracked through the centre with a jagged fracture — the mark left by the Sword of Gryffindor — cutting almost across the symbol carved into its face: a triangle, a circle, a vertical line, all clearly visible in the morning light.
He had seen that symbol before. It was the Peverell crest.
He had encountered it at Grimmauld Place, in an old volume on wizarding genealogy — "Of Noble Blood." The same three elements: a vertical line, a triangle, a circle.
The meaning of each was not, for someone raised in a wizarding household, obscure.
The vertical line represented the Elder Wand. The triangle, the Invisibility Cloak. The circle, the Resurrection Stone.
If the legend of the three brothers was true — as his mother Narcissa had always maintained it was — then this unremarkable, almost ugly black stone on Dumbledore's desk was very likely the Resurrection Stone itself.
The stone was remarkable, Draco thought, examining it closely. It had withstood a blow from the Sword of Gryffindor and sustained only a hairline crack. Beyond that, it was one of Slytherin's own relics, chosen by the Dark Lord as a Horcrux — an object of exceptional and layered significance.
He found himself wondering whether the Resurrection Stone would still function after being cracked. His gaze shifted to the setting — large, crude, apparently gold.
He recognised it.
Ever since Sirius had described it at the Three Broomsticks, Draco had wanted to see this ring. He had been waiting to confirm one particular thing.
Now he had confirmed it.
He had seen this ring before. In his previous life, it had been on Dumbledore's hand.
A withered, blackened hand — as though the flesh had been seared away — exactly like Bagman's hand, slipping from beneath a sheet outside the hospital wing. How could he have missed that?
Yes. In his previous life, Draco Malfoy had monitored his assassination target with the exhausting, meticulous attention of a boy who knew his life depended on it. Every detail. Every change.
Dumbledore had worn this ring — and then, later, stopped wearing it.
According to Sirius, Bagman's hands had become that way because of a Dark curse placed on this very ring by the Dark Lord.
Which meant that in his previous life, Dumbledore had also found this ring — and had, for reasons Draco couldn't entirely fathom, put it on his finger. And been struck by the same curse.
What could the Resurrection Stone possibly offer that even the greatest living wizard could not resist its pull?
These thoughts moved through him in a matter of seconds.
Draco set the ring down and gave Dumbledore a small nod. "Thank you. I've seen what I wanted to."
Dumbledore studied him. "Was there something troubling you?"
"No. I was simply curious to see what Slytherin's legendary jewelled ring actually looked like," Draco said, watching as Dumbledore put it carefully away.
Since Dumbledore had not been harmed in this life, there was no need to dwell further on what had happened in another one.
And yet — one thing nagged at him.
When Dumbledore had argued with Fudge, he had mentioned that Bagman was close to death.
Bagman was dying because he had been cursed by this ring.
Which meant that in his previous life, Dumbledore — having worn the same ring, having been struck by the same curse —
Draco looked up sharply.
Something in his mind seemed to clear all at once, as though a wind had swept through the fog.
"I can see you have a question," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "You may ask, Draco."
Draco glanced around the room quickly, searching for any other subject — anything he could plausibly pivot to that wouldn't reveal far more than he was prepared to share.
His eyes landed on the large chest in the corner.
A pale-faced man with a scattering of freckles and untidy sandy hair was confined inside, quite still.
"I was going to ask—" Draco looked at Dumbledore's expression carefully. "You're not going to hand Barty Crouch Junior over to the Ministry of Magic, are you?"
"Your perception is sharp," Dumbledore said, without missing a beat. He too turned to look at the chest. "No, I'm afraid I cannot. Not presently. For reasons of protection."
"Protection of the last surviving member of an ancient wizarding family," Draco said, his voice slightly clipped, "in spite of everything he's done?"
"You could put it that way," Dumbledore said, with a faint note of weariness.
Hermione and Draco exchanged a look.
Her expression held a quiet conflict.
The implication was plain. Even Professor Dumbledore no longer trusted the Ministry of Magic enough to hand a prisoner over to them.
He was almost certainly worried that Fudge would arrange for Barty Crouch Jr. to receive the Dementor's Kiss — an irreversible, untraceable way of ensuring he never spoke about the Dark Lord's return to anyone who might be believed.
Something had shifted in Dumbledore. He was not the same man who had vowed, a few months earlier, to return prisoners to Azkaban without question. The Death Eater incident during the maze had destroyed whatever remained of the trust between him and Fudge.
In his previous life, Draco had never once encountered Barty Crouch Jr. — not before Azkaban, not after, not even in the Dark Lord's inner circle. He had been entirely absent.
The most likely explanation, Draco had come to think, was that Crouch Jr. had also been captured by Dumbledore after the Tournament — and had then met with a very quiet end, arranged by Cornelius Fudge. A Dementor's Kiss was clean and left no evidence, and the creature that performed it could hardly be called to account.
Wasn't it convenient, how inconvenient witnesses kept disappearing.
Cornelius Fudge — so innocent. So blameless. Dementors, after all, responded only to instinct. Who could possibly hold him responsible?
The Ministry must have some method of directing them, Draco thought grimly. The question was never one of capability; it was always one of willingness.
By the time the matter had become urgent, Bagman was dead and Crouch Jr. was thoroughly contained — and the details ceased to matter.
For his own part, Draco had no particular desire to see Crouch Jr. handed over to the Ministry either. A prisoner that dangerous — that brilliant and that unstable — given even the smallest opportunity, with the Dark Lord's potential support from outside, could resurface as a formidable threat.
Better, far better, to leave him exactly where he was: in the hands of the most powerful wizard alive, held by the most powerful wand in existence.
He was still thinking through the logic of it when Professor McGonagall knocked and appeared in the doorway, wearing an expression of composed and very deliberate purpose.
"Dumbledore. I need a word."
"Very well, let us stop there for now." Dumbledore rose with his customary unhurried grace and nodded to the three of them. "Good morning."
It was as civil an eviction as had ever been issued.
Draco cast one last glance at the heavy chest and followed Sirius and Hermione to the door.
Minerva McGonagall, stepping through as they stepped out, paused at the sight of them. Her expression tightened. She looked from Sirius's mild smile to Hermione and Draco's nods, and a new layer of uncertainty settled over whatever had already been accumulating.
After the door had been considerately pulled shut behind them, Minerva turned to face Dumbledore and drew herself up to her full height.
"I need an explanation," she said.
"Why is a Slytherin student on such apparently easy and frequent terms with Harry Potter's godfather? Why do they seem to come and go from your office at will — what have they been doing here — did you give them the password?"
Dumbledore looked back at her with perfect serenity.
"You didn't tell me." Her voice had an edge now. "Am I less trustworthy than they are? And why do you continue to seem so entirely undisturbed by Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger's — involvement? Can you not see the difficulties it creates for her?"
"Oh, Minerva," Dumbledore said, with warm interest. "I didn't realise you followed these things so closely. If I'd known, I might well have suggested you join Bobby and Irma for their Saturday afternoon tea—"
"That is entirely beside the point, Dumbledore! I am not interested in gossip — I am worried for Miss Granger!" Professor McGonagall said, her cheeks flushed, hands pressing together tightly. "And that is only the beginning of what I need to discuss."
Dumbledore looked at her calmly, waiting.
She gathered herself and pressed on.
"I still don't know what actually happened on the day of the final. Where were you? When did you return? Why did you go directly to this office rather than back to the arena — and why were you with the missing Bagman when you did? Do you have any idea how difficult that situation was — how impossible Fudge was being? And above all: what is truly behind the claim of You-Know-Who's return? I didn't know until later that you had other people positioned elsewhere. What were you doing?"
Dumbledore asked gently, "Is there anything else?"
"A great many other things. But I would like you to begin with those," she said, nostrils flaring. "I have stood beside you without question through decisions I did not always understand. On that day, you left every teacher and student in this school without a word of warning. I believe I have earned, after years of that loyalty, a proper explanation."
"Minerva." Dumbledore's blue eyes were quiet. "You certainly have. I have always been deeply proud of what you did that day — your willingness to hold Hogwarts together, your absolute commitment to every student here, was precisely the reason I was able to leave when I had to."
Professor McGonagall's expression shifted, just slightly.
Dumbledore met her eyes with steady sincerity. "I cannot promise to answer everything — I am not an oracle — but I can tell you what I am able to. Shall we begin with the matter of the Dark Lord's return?"