The banquet ended quickly. Most of the students still seemed unsatisfied, while Malfoy was already preparing to return to the Slytherin dormitory to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Too many things had happened in the past few days, leaving him exhausted—especially the day he destroyed a Horcrux. That had been thrilling enough for a lifetime.
But just as he lifted his foot to leave the Great Hall, a tall, dark figure stepped in front of him.
"Mr. Draco, in light of certain activities outside the school, Professor Dumbledore would like to speak with you privately."
Looking up, Malfoy met Snape's sallow face. Yet unlike his usual harshness toward Gryffindors, there was even a faint trace of gentleness in his tone.
"The Headmaster's office is on the eighth floor. You can go there yourself later," Snape said hurriedly, as if other matters awaited him.
"Oh, and one more thing." He had already turned to leave, but paused, glancing back. "The password is Butterbeer. Don't forget."
Then he swept out of the hall, his black robes billowing behind him.
"What's meant to come will come," Malfoy murmured, feeling strangely powerless.
"Are you all right?" Pansy bumped his shoulder; she had clearly overheard the conversation.
"Silly girl, what could possibly happen to me?" Malfoy ruffled her hair, trying to comfort her. "He's probably just going to ask a few questions. Don't worry—the Ministry already handed down its punishment long ago."
"Fine," Pansy muttered, puffing her cheeks. She was obviously dissatisfied. Her instincts told her things weren't that simple.
"Go get some sleep. Girls need their beauty rest, you know," Malfoy teased.
"That's right!" Pansy suddenly slapped her cheeks. "I stayed up too late on Christmas Eve—I have to make up for it tonight." She hurried toward the Slytherin girls' dormitory, calling back, "If you get scolded, I'll comfort you tomorrow. So don't worry!"
"I feel like she's hoping I get scolded," Malfoy said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
He sighed, then started climbing the stairs toward the eighth floor. The corridors were silent, empty except for the stone gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office.
Standing before it, Malfoy said, "Butterbeer."
The gargoyle sprang aside, and the wall behind it split open, revealing a moving spiral staircase. Stepping onto it, Malfoy rose higher and higher as the stairs turned, until he reached the heavy wooden door with a brass griffin-shaped knocker.
"What peculiar taste," he muttered, knocking three times.
"Come in," said Dumbledore's calm voice from within.
"Good evening, Professor," Malfoy greeted as he entered the circular office.
The room was magnificent—spacious and elegant. Portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses lined the walls, most dozing lightly in their frames. A massive claw-footed desk stood in the center, cluttered with delicate silver instruments that ticked, spun, and released faint puffs of smoke. On a perch behind the door rested the phoenix, Fawkes, its scarlet feathers glowing softly in the lamplight.
"My boy, sit down. Relax," Dumbledore said kindly.
"Headmaster, I'm sorry for the recent incident," Malfoy replied, bowing before him rather than sitting.
"Oh, I believe it's merely a misunderstanding," Dumbledore said, waving a hand dismissively. His blue eyes glimmered behind his half-moon spectacles, unreadable.
"The reason I called you here today," he continued, pressing his fingertips together—a familiar habit—"is simply to talk. I fear I've spent too much attention on Harry and nearly forgotten about our most remarkable first-year student."
"Professor, you flatter me," Malfoy said modestly, though a chill ran through his heart. Old man, please focus less on me—your precious Harry is about to steal the Sorcerer's Stone. Of course, he didn't show any of that on his face.
"Hmm…" Dumbledore fell silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.
Then, without warning, he rose and crossed to a corner of the room. Malfoy's gaze followed him curiously.
"I think you'll find this interesting," Dumbledore said softly. He whispered a spell, and the black cloth covering an object lifted away, revealing what it concealed.
A tall, ornate mirror stood there—its frame gleaming gold, its top etched with the words: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
"The Mirror of Erised," Malfoy murmured, recognizing it immediately.
"Step closer and tell me what you see," Dumbledore said, his tone still gentle.
"Yes, Professor." Malfoy hesitated, but complied.
He knew what the mirror did: it showed one's deepest and most desperate desire. Harry had seen his family in it, and Ron had seen himself as Head Boy, holding the House and Quidditch Cups.
What about me? he wondered as he walked slowly toward it. Voldemort would probably see himself as a god—omniscient, omnipotent. But what will I see?
The few steps to the mirror felt endless. At last he stopped in front of it, closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them slowly.
"Heh." He gave a short, awkward chuckle at what appeared before him.
"My boy, what do you see?" Dumbledore's voice drifted toward him, calm yet strangely compelling—as if laced with magic, urging him to answer. Malfoy turned his head; Dumbledore's sharp, penetrating gaze seemed to look straight through him.
"I see…" The words almost slipped from Malfoy's mouth—then his eyes hardened, struggling for a moment before clearing.
"Legilimency?" He realized instantly what was happening. Fury flared in his chest. His fists clenched. No one has the right to pry into my thoughts.
Fine then—if Dumbledore wanted to look, he would give him something to look at.
Malfoy steadied his mind, locking away his true thoughts behind a wall of practiced calm. Then, deliberately, he conjured a vivid false image—one so strong it would pierce through the connection.
"Cough—cough!" Dumbledore staggered back, his silver beard trembling as his pupils contracted sharply. Whatever he had seen clearly shocked him.
"Professor, it's not a good habit to use Legilimency on your students," Malfoy said with a cold smile.
"You've actually learned Occlumency," Dumbledore admitted awkwardly, adjusting his glasses.
"Otherwise, my secrets would have been exposed just now," Malfoy replied, still displeased.
He could understand Dumbledore's reasoning. The wizarding world could not tolerate the rise of another Dark Lord; such a threat would shake it to its foundations. Dumbledore wanted to eliminate that danger before it began. Malfoy understood that—but understanding was not the same as forgiveness. His mind was his own, and he would defend it.
"You remind me of someone," Dumbledore said quietly after a pause. "Someone… even more gifted than he was." He sank back into his chair, looking suddenly older, wearier.
"I'm not like him," Malfoy answered softly. "I have love in my heart."
He turned to leave. The conversation had left a bitter taste for both of them.
"What was that image just now?" Dumbledore asked suddenly.
"You could take it as one of my dreams," Malfoy said, hand on the doorknob.
"He wouldn't do that," Dumbledore murmured.
"Who knows?" Malfoy's lips curled into a faint smile. "Maybe the person he hates most isn't the Dark Lord—but you."
With that, he slammed the door shut behind him. The sound echoed like thunder through the tower. Even Fawkes, sensing the tension, began to sing.
The phoenix's song carried magic: it strengthened the hearts of the pure and eased the fear of the corrupted. After a while, Dumbledore's breathing steadied, but his expression remained troubled. He gazed silently at the shimmering instruments on his desk, a faint, bitter smile flickering on his lips.
"Let's hope so," he whispered.
Meanwhile, the Gryffindor common room was still buzzing with laughter and chatter. Students home from the holidays swapped stories about their Christmas adventures.
"Hermione, you wouldn't believe it if you hadn't seen it yourself! Harry and I found a magical mirror—it was amazing," Ron said excitedly at the table.
"Yeah," Harry agreed. "I even saw my parents standing right in front of me."
"I saw myself as Head Boy, holding the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup!" Ron added proudly, eager to show off.
"Ron, those are just illusions," Hermione said matter-of-factly.
"I know, but they still looked brilliant!" Ron protested.
"One cannot live in dreams," Hermione reminded him. "Don't dwell on dreams and forget to live."
"Dumbledore said something like that too," Harry nodded. "I guess he's right. It's only an illusion after all. We have to face reality. But Ron—my dream may never come true. Yours still might, if you work hard enough."
"Let him start by finishing his homework," Hermione muttered as she stood up to leave, clearly in a mood. She headed toward the girls' dormitory.
"Can't she ever say something nice?" Ron groaned, slamming the table in frustration.
"Actually, she's not wrong," Harry said softly.
"Harry! Not you too." Ron threw his hands up. "All right, all right—I'll try harder."
Hermione had nearly reached the stairs when a hesitant voice called out behind her.
"Hermione!"
"Neville? What is it?" She turned to see him standing near the fire, clutching his toad nervously.
"I heard what you said earlier," Neville said slowly. "And I think you're right."
"What did I say?" Hermione asked, puzzled.
"About what happened in the Great Hall. I know you were talking about Malfoy." Neville lowered his voice. "I believe he wouldn't do something like that."
"How can you be so sure? Do you trust him that much?" Hermione's tone softened slightly.
"He helped me once," Neville said. "Even though I'm a pure-blood, I'm not much stronger than a Muggle. But he still helped me find my toad and get back my crystal ball. I don't think he's a bad person." He clenched his fists. "Hermione, you think so too, don't you? Malfoy's a good person."
"If I get the chance, I'll explain it to Harry and the others," he added firmly. "I believe in him." Then he turned and left through the portrait hole.
"A good person?" Hermione repeated under her breath. "Am I not even as brave as Neville?"
Her heart churned with conflicting emotions—admiration for Neville's courage and regret for her own hesitation.
Back in her dormitory, Hermione sat at her desk under the soft orange glow of a lamp. She picked up a small sheet of parchment, running her fingers absently over the lines of ink as she stared in silence.
It seemed that tonight, sleep would not come easily.
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