In the Muggle Studies office, the young professor sat on a sofa by the fireplace, casting a few deft little spells to brew tea.
Across from him sat a student too young for elective classes, silent for a long while until a bone china cup filled with tea slid across the table toward him.
"Our last chat was during the Forbidden Forest patrol, when we discussed the Malfoy family's recent business moves. I haven't heard about you bickering with Potter or Weasley in the Great Hall lately," Melvin said, sipping his tea. "Sounds like Mr. Malfoy has grown quite a bit."
Draco lifted the cup but didn't drink. The professor's calm, gentle voice seemed to pull him back to that night in the Forbidden Forest.
Since he could remember, Draco had always seen the Malfoys as the pinnacle of pure-blood supremacy.
Generations of ancestors had built a vast fortune, and his father's shrewd management kept the Malfoys atop the Sacred Twenty-Eight, unshaken even by the Wizarding War, the Dark Lord's fall, or the Ministry's purges.
The Malfoy name meant wealth and status—or so Draco had always believed.
But during his detention in the Forbidden Forest, the professor's few words had torn away the veil hiding the Malfoy family's vulnerabilities. The truth was so harsh he couldn't bear to dwell on it. Whenever he was alone or zoned out in class, those words crept back, burrowing into his mind.
The mass brawl had been serious enough for McGonagall to notify their parents. The Weasleys got a Howler the next morning, Pansy and Daphne had their allowances cut, but Draco faced almost no consequences.
His mother, Narcissa, didn't scold him, only asked if he was hurt and urged him not to be reckless, suggesting Crabbe and Goyle take the lead next time. His father, Lucius, sent a slightly sterner letter than usual but nothing more.
Neither mentioned the family's situation or the consequences of crossing the Longbottoms.
Before the detention, Draco hadn't thought much of it and replied as he always did.
After the forest patrol, with incidents piling up at school, Draco kept recalling the professor's words when writing home. Out of some mix of guilt or regret, he didn't mention or ask about them, instead writing in his usual tone, sending greetings and passing along news.
Two days later, his parents' reply came. Lucius still treated him like a child, revealing nothing about the family's affairs.
But Narcissa's letter contained two key pieces of information:
First, Lucius had planned to use the incident to pressure the Board of Governors to oust Dumbledore, but he scrapped the idea after learning Scrimgeour had visited the school.
Second, they planned to visit St. Mungo's at Easter to increase their annual donation.
The old Draco wouldn't have grasped the implications, but after the professor's explanation, he understood what such a donation meant.
Draco's heart twitched as he thought of his mother's letter.
Melvin noticed the young wizard's flickering gaze. A faint ripple of energy emanated from Draco, subtly merging into an almost imperceptible stream of magic.
The process was so discreet it went unnoticed.
"So, what do you want to discuss?" Melvin asked.
"It takes half a day to send a letter home, and telling Professor Snape right away doesn't feel right. I didn't know what to do, so I came to you, Professor."
Draco clutched the pristine bone china cup, his fingertips pressing hard against the handle. "After breakfast today, I saw Potter and his lot sneaking out of the castle. I followed them and saw… saw them with that gamekeeper, raising a dragon! A Norwegian Ridgeback!"
"They're not very careful, are they?" Melvin said, shaking his head slightly.
Professor Wright is in on it!
Draco's heart skipped a beat, nearly spilling his tea.
"What's wrong with reporting their shady secret to Professor Snape?" Melvin said, his tone guiding. "No matter what they've done—protecting the school, fighting a dark wizard, or how brilliant they are—raising a dangerous creature is absolutely against school rules. If you report it to the Board of Governors or the Ministry, the gamekeeper would surely be sacked. Even Dumbledore, who hired him, would take a hit. He might not be removed, but his reputation would suffer…"
"I don't want to do that."
"Why not?"
Draco's lips moved, but he couldn't answer right away.
"Hagrid's not like Longbottom—he's got no ties to the Aurors. Your father despises Dumbledore, and you can't stand Harry Potter. Overall, exposing them wouldn't hurt the Malfoy family, would it?"
"I… I don't think so. Dumbledore's got a big reputation and close ties with Aurors like Scrimgeour and Mad-Eye Moody, not to mention his allies in the Wizengamot. This might not even faze him, but it could make things harder for our family."
Draco looked up at the professor, struggling. "Honestly, I don't get it. My father's so clever—why does he keep clashing with the headmaster?"
His father always called Dumbledore an incompetent, foolish headmaster who let half-bloods and Muggle-borns trample pure-bloods. The Malfoys seemed staunch pure-blood advocates, but after recent reflection, Draco wasn't so sure.
Pure-blood ideals might be no different from charitable donations—a means to maintain and spread their reputation.
Melvin raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. The family's struggles and his parents' awkward position seemed to have matured him.
"Because your father was a key Death Eater. He might've wanted to build a good relationship with Dumbledore but couldn't earn his trust. If they can't be friends, they're enemies. Only by bringing Dumbledore down can your father feel secure."
Draco frowned, puzzled. "Professor Snape was a Death Eater too."
"Exactly," Melvin nodded. "He gained Dumbledore's trust as a Death Eater. Want to ask him how he did it?"
Draco sensed a deeper meaning in the professor's words. Thinking of Snape's piercing glare, his neck stiffened.
After careful thought, he nodded reluctantly, his expression stubborn. "If I get the chance…"
Still growing, but not quite there.
Melvin looked at the still-youthful student and shook his head. "Mr. Malfoy, if I'm understanding you correctly, you're asking how to use this information to benefit the Malfoy family."
Draco lowered his head, avoiding the professor's gaze. His blond hair fell over his forehead as he gave a barely audible hum.
"You want to use this to threaten Dumbledore?"
"!!"
Draco's face paled, and he shook his head frantically, not daring to even consider it.
"You want to blackmail Hagrid?"
Draco kept shaking his head, oblivious to the fortune he was passing up.
"Then keep it quiet and earn their gratitude."
Draco hesitated, then shook his head again. He and Potter couldn't stand each other—helping him would feel like admitting defeat. As the Malfoy heir, that would be too humiliating.
"In that case, why not talk to Longbottom?"
Seeing Draco's head snap up, Melvin continued calmly, "If direct confrontation is too tricky, find a way to achieve your goal indirectly, like your father did.
"You don't want to help Potter, but you could help Longbottom, who'd help his roommate. If I recall, he's still sore about last time. This is your chance to earn his forgiveness."
Draco's eyes lit up, then dimmed. "Will he forgive me…? His parents are still in the locked ward."
Melvin gave him a deep look. "What do his parents have to do with you? You're not a Death Eater."
"I get it! Thank you, Professor! Goodbye, Professor!"
Enlightened, Draco hurried out of the office. After shutting the door and walking a bit, his excitement faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression.
Professor Wright didn't seem clueless about the dragon. He likely knew exactly what Potter and his friends were up to. Instead of stopping them, he'd subtly guided Draco to profit from it.
He might be giving Draco a chance to reconcile with Longbottom.
Or maybe he was scheming something himself…
Draco concluded that Professor Wright was a very interesting person.
…
Behind a statue at the corridor's corner, Harry, Ron, and Hermione poked their heads out from their hiding spot.
They watched Draco emerge from the office, gently closing the door and even offering a knightly bow, looking oddly polite. His face carried a smug, dazzling smile.
Harry looked up, Ron down, and their eyes met.
Hermione, at the bottom, felt conflicted.
Given that Draco had seen Norbert breathe fire and was just fleeing in panic, his cheerful exit from the professor's office made it hard not to guess what they'd discussed.
Hermione's mind raced, itching to storm into the office and demand the truth. But recalling Professor Wright's words from that day, she restrained herself.
The two boys whispered about luring Draco into the bathroom for a thrashing.
Hermione stepped out from behind the statue, her expression resolute, her voice clear. "We're going to Hagrid. He needs to take responsibility for this himself."
…
The sun sank, twilight settling in.
Owls circled above the castle, the fading sunset casting a dim yellow glow on the tower walls. A cold wind whipped through, making the silver-green serpent-embroidered wizard robes flutter, accentuating the tall, slender figure.
A slightly stockier figure, a lion in gold and red embroidered on his chest, climbed the tower.
"You're here."
"I'm here."
"You shouldn't be."
"Huh?"
Neville blinked, confused, pulling a crumpled note from his pocket. "Didn't you ask me to come?"
"Ahem, yes, I did," Draco coughed awkwardly, turning to face him.
The wind was strong. He'd been fine standing with his back to it, but turning around, his shirt collar flapped against his lips, like a series of slaps. It took several tries to smooth it down.
Not very dignified.
Neville frowned at him. "What do you want?"
Draco's cheeks burned. The mood he'd built up was scattered by the wind, and he suddenly didn't know how to start.
He usually clashed with Potter and Weasley, not Longbottom. He barely knew how to talk to him. The only real interaction was that night in the Forbidden Forest, when Professor Wright had advised Neville about changing his wand.
How had he phrased it?
Draco mimicked the professor's thoughtful pause. "Longbottom, you don't want your roommate getting expelled, do you?"
"?"
Neville tilted his head, a question mark slowly forming on his face.
…
At the high table in the Great Hall, the professors clinked glasses. McGonagall's lips curved in a faint smile, while the other Heads of House showed mixed expressions. Flitwick and Sprout were in good spirits, but Snape's face remained icy.
Moments ago, Melvin had convinced them to take turns covering Defense Against the Dark Arts, easing McGonagall's burden.
"No way, Melvin, you're teaching too!" Flitwick said, his voice high-pitched.
Melvin wiped his mouth, grinning. "I'm fine with it, but with final exams coming, are you sure you trust me to teach new material?"
Flitwick poured him a whiskey, annoyed but confident. His only worry was whether Minerva would agree.
A chair scraped harshly against the floor as Hagrid, the gamekeeper, approached. He gave Melvin and the Heads an awkward, forced smile. "Melvin, we've got a few hours before lights-out. Fancy a visit to my place?"
Expelled in his third year and working as gamekeeper ever since, Hagrid had never asked a friend for help with a rule-breaking issue. The near-ten-foot half-giant was visibly embarrassed.
The Heads, sharp as ever, didn't know the details but could see Hagrid's discomfort and smirked at his expense.
Melvin noticed the small witch behind Hagrid, her hands clasped, pleading silently. With no intent to make things hard for them, he chuckled and agreed, letting the students tug him by the sleeve toward the Forbidden Forest hut.
Just then, two pure-blood heirs finished their talk and descended from the tower.
Neville opened his mouth but didn't call out as his friends crossed the entrance hall. He sighed. "I'll talk to them tonight…"
Draco, in high spirits, headed to the Great Hall, replaying the negotiation.
Meeting secretly atop a tower, away from the school, and securing his gain with a few words—very Malfoy of him.
As he sat at the Slytherin table, Draco reflected on the scene, wondering if Professor Wright was angling for something.
Some older students were whispering that Wright had worn the Sorting Hat and been placed in Slytherin. Draco nodded in agreement. No matter how chummy he seemed with those Gryffindors, the professor was absolutely, undeniably Slytherin.
…
Night fell, the grounds damp with evening mist. The Whomping Willow's vines sprouted new buds, and the forest's edge bloomed with spring green. Hagrid's hut wasn't far, and soon, the group of young wizards escorted Melvin to their destination.
Fang, waiting inside, caught their scent and bounded over, his patchy tail wagging. He circled Melvin's trouser legs, whimpering with a hint of grievance.
From inside the hut came a dragon's roar—young, high-pitched, but fierce.