After leaving Professor Snape's office, Draco did not go straight back to the Slytherin common room.
Instead, as the sun drew low behind the western hills, he climbed the castle stairs slowly, his mind circling the subject of Albus Dumbledore.
Without question, Dumbledore was a great wizard.
But greatness and perfection were not the same thing.
Draco had no faith in perfection. Since his rebirth, he had shed much of the reverence he had once felt for certain figures of authority, and had grown accustomed to looking at things from a greater distance — without sentiment, without deference.
This made him, perhaps, less warm in his assessments. But it also gave him something: a kind of objectivity, relative and imperfect as it was.
From that distance, even Dumbledore had visible flaws.
He was overconfident — arrogant, at times. When Draco had quietly raised concerns about the Goblet of Fire, Dumbledore had dismissed them, apparently certain that his own enchantments were unassailable. His trust in the false Professor Moody had nearly led to catastrophe.
He was indifferent to ordinary suffering — even when better options existed, he failed to use them. Harry had been placed with the Dursleys, of all people, to be mistreated and starved of any knowledge of his own world. That Harry had grown up to be kind, brave, and reasonably whole in spirit was something of a miracle. Draco didn't know what he himself would have done to people who spoke of his parents the way those Muggles had spoken of Harry's.
There were also traces of favouritism. Setting aside Dumbledore's obvious partiality toward Gryffindor, his decision to appoint Hagrid to the Care of Magical Creatures post was not especially rational by any objective measure. Professor Grubbly-Plank was clearly more qualified.
Although — Draco climbed the stairs, expressionless, thinking it through — perhaps it wasn't simply favouritism. Giving Hagrid a teaching position might have been a deliberate tactic to cultivate favour with the giant community, much as his tolerance of Professor Lupin had served a diplomatic function with werewolves.
But Lupin was different. Aside from his monthly difficulties, he had been a genuinely gifted teacher — someone who knew how to reach students. Hagrid, with the best will in the world, was not.
Draco had never cared strongly enough to be indignant about any of this. From a Slytherin's perspective, it was natural for someone in Dumbledore's position to think strategically about alliances and leverage. A Headmaster without any political cunning would be entirely laughable.
But he should not have used those methods on Hermione. That was the line.
And he had crossed it.
As someone whose mind ran naturally to darker interpretations, Draco could feel the manipulative intent behind the setup with full clarity.
He had not forgotten what Hermione's life had looked like in his first life — the slanders, the isolation, the cruelty directed at her because of her association with Krum. Designating her as Krum's Treasure had been the root of all of it. Rita Skeeter's article had been a significant blow, yes — but without the Triwizard Tournament's framing, those slanders would have had no ground to grow in. People seemed remarkably unwilling to examine the machinery behind events like that — the way a deliberate arrangement could prime the audience to interpret everything that followed in the worst possible light.
That wretched old man. Not a grain of consideration for her, in this life or the last.
And to think Draco had, at some point, considered him a reasonably trustworthy figure.
He had been thoroughly outwitted.
Draco walked toward the Headmaster's office with an expression that made several younger students press themselves against the walls to let him pass.
---
The stone gargoyle outside Dumbledore's office was fond of reminding visitors that the Headmaster of Hogwarts was a busy man and could not simply be seen on demand.
Draco was fortunate. Professor Dumbledore was, on this particular afternoon, entirely free.
In fact, when Draco pushed open the door to the Headmaster's office, he found the Headmaster seated behind his desk amid a considerable number of sweet wrappers, contentedly sampling a new delivery from Honeydukes — something labelled "Giant Cockroach Creams" — and offering Draco one with every appearance of genuine warmth.
"Draco, won't you have one?" Dumbledore said pleasantly.
"Professor Dumbledore, I have rather more pressing things to discuss than Cockroach Creams," Draco said, his expression not entirely concealing his bafflement.
"I can't quite imagine what would make a young man turn away from all the pleasures of youth to come and talk to an old man," Dumbledore said idly, glancing at the clear sky through the window behind him. "I heard Professor McGonagall has been in rather a state today."
"Your intelligence network within Hogwarts is truly impressive," Draco said. "I suppose the portraits weren't hung in those corridors by accident, were they?"
"Only certain rooms and corridors receive any particular attention," Dumbledore said mildly. "Most of the portraits are quite carefree and cause very little trouble."
"Then you already knew I was coming here."
"They mentioned you were moving with rather unusual purpose. I did wonder whether you'd come for the cockroach tasting." Dumbledore's eyes gleamed.
"I'm afraid not." Draco allowed a thin pause. "I've come to confirm one thing. Was it your idea to make Hermione Krum's Treasure?"
He did not betray Professor Snape. The question was framed as a probe, even though he already knew the answer.
"Ah — and you have to admit," Dumbledore said, turning the paper bag of sweets with evident pleasure, "it was a rather inspired choice."
In the portrait behind him, Phineas Nigellus Black wrinkled his nose with obvious distaste.
"I don't agree," Draco said. "By what criteria was she chosen? She wasn't even Krum's partner at the Yule Ball. What was the reasoning?" He maintained a polite expression, but there was nothing warm behind it.
"To be candid, it was a personal experiment of sorts. I confess the outcome exceeded my expectations — a pleasant surprise," Dumbledore said, those blue eyes studying Draco through his half-moon spectacles with unabashed interest.
"A surprise implies an unexpected result. A shock implies consequences that went well beyond what was intended," Draco said. "I would call it the latter. The experiment was unnecessary. You could simply have designated Krum's own partner as the hostage."
"Krum has shown very little interest in his partner since the night of the Ball. He has barely spoken to her since. On the other hand, he visits the library with considerable frequency to see Miss Granger." Dumbledore's tone was perfectly conversational, as though discussing the weather. "She is, in all likelihood, the person he has felt most drawn to since his arrival at Hogwarts. A Golden Snitch tied to a rock at the bottom of the lake wouldn't generate nearly the same urgency — nobody is moved by a cold, inanimate object. Miss Granger is rather more compelling."
"At least a Golden Snitch isn't in any danger of being forgotten down there," Draco said flatly. "I imagine it would simply fly back up when the time came."
"I never anticipated that Krum would be incapacitated," Dumbledore said, with what appeared to be genuine regret. "Everything had been arranged carefully."
"Yes — you simply hadn't thought about her." The grey eyes had darkened. "You hadn't thought about how it would feel, to be left alone at the bottom of the Black Lake with no one coming. Had you?"
"Draco, you mustn't worry — there was never any genuine danger. The enchantment used on the hostages ensured they were completely unaware of their surroundings; they couldn't experience fear. They had also been given substantial protective charms — Warming Charms, shielding enchantments, and so on. If no champion came to retrieve a hostage, the merpeople themselves would have brought them to the surface when time ran out." Dumbledore set down his sweets with the air of a man exercising a degree of patience he considered generous.
To his visible surprise, the explanation made Draco angrier, not less.
"And then what?" Draco asked, keeping his voice level with some effort. "What will people say about her? A hostage abandoned by Krum. A so-called Treasure that no one came to claim. Have you any idea how many of Krum's devoted followers would turn on her for that? How many people throughout the wizarding world would care about who Krum's Treasure was — and what conclusions they would draw when she was left there?" His eyes were cold and steady. "Have you thought about what those whispers become, over time? What happens when people decide to make it her fault? What does it do to a fifteen-year-old girl when the cruelty of a crowd decides she was abandoned because she deserved to be?"
These were questions he had carried since his previous life. They had sharpened, since then, into something much harder.
The moment Hermione's name had been placed in that lake, she had been put in an impossible position. Whether Krum saved her or not, the story would be made ugly.
If he did — she would be cast as the girl caught between two admirers, playing men off against each other.
If he didn't — she was the abandoned treasure, the girl nobody wanted enough to come back for.
And then there was Harry. Even Harry's nobility — the fact that he had gone back to rescue her, Ron, and the others — was not a guaranteed conclusion to anyone watching from the stands. A different person in Harry's position, a less generous one, might have surfaced with Ron and not gone back. Draco had always known Harry's character. Most spectators had not.
Dumbledore had known. Or should have.
He had stared at the old man now for long enough to notice something else.
Perhaps the test had never been aimed only at Draco. Perhaps it had been aimed, in the first place, at Harry.
Think of what Harry had faced when he reached the bottom: his best friend, recently reconciled after a bitter row. His loyal, brilliant companion, who had always supported him. The girl he admired from a distance. A small Veela child who would activate every protective instinct in anyone nearby. All of them, arranged like a test of character at the lowest possible point.
Perhaps Dumbledore had wanted to see what Harry would do when genuinely forced to choose — not in theory, but in practice. What kind of person Harry was when the stakes were real.
But why should the measure of a champion's soul be paid for by the emotional wellbeing of teenagers who never asked to be used this way?
"Some people are very interested in what a champion chooses in an impossible moment," Draco said. "They want to understand what it reveals about his character. But who considers the people who are put there to serve as that test? Whether they wished to be part of it, whether they consented? And once the game is over — once its result has stirred up a storm around them — who takes responsibility for cleaning up what it leaves behind?"
Hermione was a person. She was not a prop, not a symbol, not a convenient variable in someone's experiment. She was an individual, and she had never been given a single opportunity to say no.
Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of this century, had not expected to find himself without an adequate response to Draco Malfoy, a Slytherin fourth-year.
But he did not have one.
He had, in truth, overlooked this entirely.
No one had thought to point it out to him. His mother had never had the chance. His sister had been too fragile, too protected, and had never brought him the ordinary small troubles of growing up.
As the host of the Triwizard Tournament, he had carried a hundred different concerns. The emotional experience of the hostages had been, to him, a minor detail — safely handled, safely protected. He had been focused on larger things: the drama of the event, the values it could illuminate, the goals it could quietly serve.
Yes, he was willing to admit that his vision was broad enough to render certain mundane realities invisible. That was not a comfortable thing to acknowledge.
But it was true.
The boy in front of him had seen what he hadn't.
The room was entirely quiet.
Even Fawkes seemed to sense the weight of the moment. The phoenix tucked its head under its wing with quiet finality, clearly intending to remain uninvolved.
Draco had spent years feeling a creeping guilt whenever he was in Dumbledore's presence — an old weight from his previous life. But the anger that had risen in him over Hermione had dissolved that guilt cleanly. He looked at the old man without flinching, waiting, with no intention of accepting anything less than a real answer.
After a long silence, Dumbledore's voice came softly: "You cannot expect an old man to be infallible—"
"If you cannot be infallible, then at the very least, don't reach so far," Draco said.
"I think a great deal of your anger today comes from how much you care about Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, with a shift in tone and a gleam of genuine curiosity. "She means a great deal to you."
"Is that also one of the reasons you chose her as a hostage? To see how I would react?" Draco said. "Are you satisfied with what you saw?"
"Your reaction tells me a great deal," Dumbledore said carefully. "I see your sincerity."
"And I imagine," Draco said, "you saw Harry's reaction too."
"What makes you say that?" Dumbledore asked, his expression pleasantly neutral.
"Nobody likes being the one left behind, Professor — not even among friends," Draco said, with precision. "Harry chose Ron without hesitation. What do you suppose Hermione felt, watching the person she'd supported through everything choose someone else first? Will you tell me she won't be disappointed?"
"Oh." Dumbledore paused. "I had simply wanted to see—"
"You wanted to see who mattered more to Harry!" Draco said. "A disgusting test. You never stop to consider what it costs the person making the choice, or what it means to the one who is passed over."
"You've gone to such lengths for Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, and a quiet, wondering note entered his voice. "She is truly that important to you?"
"You use students as instruments to measure other people's feelings," Draco said. He thought of Hermione — of her earnest, absolute faith in Dumbledore — and felt something ache. "This is the same great Headmaster she has spoken of so fervently, trusted so completely. Doesn't that embarrass you, even slightly?"
"Be a little generous with me," Dumbledore said softly. His gaze moved to the middle distance. "I did not act with malice. My judgement, right or wrong, came from no ill intent. I confess that people of my age sometimes become so absorbed in witnessing life's brightness and vigour that they forget to notice the cost."
"Say whatever you wish. I'm not interested in the explanation." Draco's voice had lost its edge and taken on something quieter and more worn. "Only promise me you will not use her again."
"Two years ago, you asked me for assurances as well," Dumbledore said gently, his gaze sharpening with the focused quality of someone who misses very little. "That time, it was for your parents. This time, it is for you."
"Please make me this promise," Draco said, not moving.
"I promise." Dumbledore set down his sweets with the expression of a man relinquishing something he'd been rather looking forward to.
"One more question." Draco abandoned his usual Slytherin caution. The question had been pressing at him since Professor Snape's office. He asked it the way Hermione would have — directly, without circling. "Will you use her to put pressure on me, one day?"
Dumbledore studied him.
A true Gryffindor, he reflected, would often process these things through humour — Ron Weasley had, apparently, taken a certain pride in being a hostage, without pausing to wonder at the architecture of it. But a Slytherin could not be fooled by the surface of things. A Slytherin would always find the darkest credible interpretation, and would never mistake a manoeuvre for a coincidence.
Most importantly, there had been, in this particular arrangement, a small amount of exactly the probing intent the boy had identified — undeniable, though the amount was very small.
Dumbledore could feel the precision in those words. Draco Malfoy valued Hermione Granger considerably more than he had estimated.
He owed this boy a serious answer, if he still wanted any goodwill from him.
"Don't think so poorly of me, Draco Malfoy." Dumbledore used his full name, rather than just "Draco." His voice dropped slightly and he held the boy's wary gaze with a measured calm. "I am not without feeling. My aim is always to guide people toward the light, not to break them in service of it."
"I don't doubt your intentions, Professor. But I have people I intend to protect. If achieving your aims should ever require sacrificing any of them, I will not permit it. And I will not stand by." Draco's expression was direct and entirely unadorned.
"That I respect," Dumbledore said simply.
"I'm glad we've made that clear." Draco straightened, the formality returning to his bearing. "Thank you for your time, Professor Dumbledore."
He gave a perfectly composed bow, met the old man's eyes once more, and walked out of the Headmaster's office without looking back.
---
That night's Astronomy lesson was thoroughly unpleasant.
On the high tower, the late-March wind was bitter and cutting, and Professor Sinistra's voice was half-swallowed by the gusts as she directed students to work in pairs, select a satellite, and record its trajectory over an observation period.
"How did it go? Was Professor Snape very hard on you?" Hermione asked quietly, adjusting a telescope in their corner of the tower, with a look of studied nonchalance.
"Not particularly. He was more restrained than I'd expected." Draco lowered his head and pressed a light kiss to her hair — the scent of it carried on the wind, and the last of his tension lifted. He reached past her to steady the heavy telescope barrel. "I was more worried about you. Did Professor McGonagall come and find you for a serious talk?"
"What sort of serious talk?"
"The sort where she warns you against me. Tells you I'm a bad influence, a Slytherin with questionable intentions." He said it lightly, but something behind his eyes was less so. "Judging by her tone this morning, she seemed convinced I'd coerced you."
"She hasn't said a word to me." Hermione leaned slightly closer to him in the wind. "Don't be unfair to Professor McGonagall. You know she's always been genuinely fair. She's just — I think she needs time to make sense of it all."
"Even if she has doubts, it doesn't matter." He smiled, tucking a strand of her wind-blown hair behind her ear, and let his gaze rest on her face — then noticed something. "What's wrong? You've gone pale."
"I'm fine."
"You're not — your face is entirely white." He touched her cheek. "You're cold."
"I really am fine—" Hermione started, and then the wind surged through the observation gaps in the tower wall, and she shivered visibly.
Something must have happened. A severe dressing-down, or worse, and she was keeping it from him to protect him from his own temper.
A wave of protectiveness, sharpened by irritation, moved through him. Couldn't those interfering professors leave them alone for five minutes?
"You're shivering. Tell me what Professor McGonagall actually said to you." He turned her gently by the shoulders and looked at her directly. "Did she threaten you?"
"No — truly, nothing like that—" Hermione stumbled over her words.
She didn't want to answer, which was obvious, and she seemed to be trying to find an alternative explanation. But the heat that had begun to rise in his grey eyes made it clear there was no comfortable way out of this.
She felt the warmth of his hands on her shoulders. A flush crept slowly onto her cold cheeks.
She lowered her eyes and said very quietly, close to his ear, "It's just that I'm on my period."
"Oh—" The annoyance left his face at once, replaced by something thoroughly bewildered.
His lips moved. His ears went scarlet. He seemed to be searching for an appropriate response. "Oh. I see. I — didn't think of that—"
Which was natural, he supposed — she was, after all, a young woman. The fact simply hadn't crossed his mind.
A girl's monthly difficulties had remained, from his previous life to this one, something of an undiscovered country for Draco Malfoy.
He had seen Pansy make her feelings on the subject very loudly known, with great theatrical flair, on multiple occasions in the Slytherin common room. He had a vague impression of the phrase "Blaise, I'm in agony, come and hold me right now or I'm going to make your life very difficult."
Hermione was the opposite of Pansy in almost every way. She was private, self-sufficient, and determinedly reluctant to be any trouble to anyone. She wouldn't ask unless she was desperate, and she wouldn't let herself be desperate if she could help it.
This was not, Draco decided, a good habit. He wanted to be relied on. He didn't want her to manage things alone in silence.
He wanted very much to help, and had almost no idea how.
Faced with her lowered eyes, he found himself oddly flustered. "What should I — is there anything — does it hurt?"
"Not terribly at the moment," Hermione said, in a small voice, with a faint blush. "I'm just sensitive to cold. And it's very windy up here—"
"Right." He moved immediately, turning so that his back faced the observation gaps, trying to block the worst of the wind with his body.
It was not a very effective solution, given that the observatory was open on all sides. He looked at her dishevelled hair and her wind-whitened face and frowned.
He looked around the tower: Professor Sinistra was somewhere out of sight; the other students were busy with their observations, squinting into eyepieces and arguing in low voices about star positions; the observatory was dimly lit by design, to preserve night vision, and they were in the most sheltered corner.
"Come here." Draco made up his mind and opened his arms. "Let me warm you up."
"We can't—" Hermione glanced around nervously. "We're in class, Draco. Professor McGonagall only just—"
"Only for a moment. I'll keep watch." He coaxed her quietly, a hint of warmth in his voice. "I promise no one will notice. I won't let go until the wind dies down a bit."
She hesitated.
She knew perfectly well it was improper. But the cold air that kept finding her despite everything was genuinely unpleasant, and she was, today, less resilient than usual. She was, if she was honest, hoping for exactly this — without quite being able to ask for it.
"Let me be useful to you," the boy said, unfastening the front of his outer robe with efficient fingers, a quiet amusement in his voice. "Give me the opportunity to act as a proper boyfriend."
The word "boyfriend" did something to her resolve.
She stepped into his arms without further argument — a quick, decisive movement, like a bird coming in to land — and tucked herself against him.
He was warm. His thin jumper smelled of cedar and something that was simply his. Hermione slid her arms around his waist and pressed closer, feeling the chill begin to leave her by degrees.
She rested her head against his shoulder. From this angle, she could see the high colour on his ears and the small mole just in front of his left one. She felt him drape the front of his outer robe carefully over her back, enclosing her in it.
Then his hand settled at the small of her back and began to move in slow, easy circles.
She closed her eyes.
"Better?" he asked, after a while. The soft, warm weight of her against him reminded him, obscurely, of something pleasant and uncomplicated — purely good. He found, somewhat to his own surprise, that he had no interest in letting go.
"So much better," Hermione said, in a contented murmur. "This is lovely."
He held her closer, and the observatory seemed to recede — the wind still present, the other students still somewhere nearby, but none of it quite touching them. A scatter of stars moved slowly overhead, indifferent and bright.
Hermione gradually let go of the tension she'd been carrying. She grew heavier in his arms, easier, leaning into him the way one leans into something reliable.
"Am I too heavy?" she asked, in a sleepy voice, her face tucked against his neck.
She heard the soft sound of his laugh — barely a laugh, more like an exhale of quiet pleasure — and then his voice, close to her ear: "You're nothing at all. I could hold you like this indefinitely. It feels like you're entirely mine."
"On the contrary," she said, without moving, "I believe you are mine."
She tightened her arms, childishly insistent.
"All right," he said, and she heard the smile in it. "I'm yours. I always will be."
She breathed him in — the cedar, the cold night air, the warmth underneath — and smiled into the dark of his shoulder, not quite awake and not quite asleep.