MEMORY VIAL 9: DUMBLEDORE'S ADVICE (YEAR 3)

"Well? Here I am."

Draco stood in Dumbledore's office, watching as the wizened old man descended the staircase which led to the nook in the back of his study. He adjusted the collar of his robes, preparing for the lambasting he was sure was coming for the dementor stunt he, Flint, Crabbe, and Goyle had pulled off during the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Rather than decide all their punishments on the Quidditch field, however, the conversation had been delayed for later in the day when tempers had cooled.

Instead of lecturing him as expected, Professor Dumbledore paced the book-lined room with a thoughtful mien before coming to stand still in front of the Sorting Hat which he had placed upon his desk.

At last, he spoke. "Several times I have been asked why we continue to allow Slytherin students to come to this school, when all of the students who get sorted there tend to exhibit unsavory behavior at one point or another."

He approached Draco from around the desk with a piercing look that made Draco shrink and feel as if his innermost secrets were being read right on the spot.

"I always respond by asking my interlocutor to remember why Salazar Slytherin left Hogwarts in the first place…

"Isn't it astonishing, Mr. Malfoy, how some wizards can hate those who are different so badly that it brings them to the conclusion that they must act in the same way as their opponents, but for 'righteous' reasons? Becoming more selective of the students they are willing to admit seems like a good idea to those who have fallen victim to the wiles of the serpent's crest. They are convinced that if 'your kind' was banned from stepping foot inside this castle, it would eradicate all unnecessary conflict and make up for the years of torture and hectoring the other Houses claim to have experienced. Hogwarts would at last achieve the idealistic status that it boasts by erasing thousands of years of wizarding history and legacy, simply by pretending that what exists was never really there to begin with…

"But no one is beyond reach as long as I am Headmaster here. Slytherin belongs… and I can never see myself abandoning the most cunning of our kind when there are plenty of you who turn out to be upstanding wizards in the end. Slytherin behavior, if it could be reduced to such language, is deeper and more complex than any of us Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, or Hufflepuffs could hope to understand.

"Or am I misguided in my judgment, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco stood rigid, resolved to not let the decrepit man manipulate him into getting the responses that he wanted.

"If he gets you alone," his father had once warned him, "be aware that he may try to groom you… to shape you into the object that he needs for a time in order to—" But Lucius had been prevented by Narcissa from finishing that statement, citing the information as inappropriate for the still-too-young ears of their innocent son.

Draco's lack of response did not faze Professor Dumbledore, however. He began a slow and contemplative trek around the boy as he moved on to his next point.

"Mr. Potter could have fallen off his broom," he pointed out.

Draco stared at the floor between his shoes. He had thought about that, too, which is why he had taken his own broom and wand with him onto the Quidditch field under his disguise—but he couldn't tell the Headmaster that without drawing more questions to himself.

"He could have been seriously injured."

"Well, he wasn't," Draco said irritably.

"And then you took him outside the safety of the castle back in December, did you not?"

Draco lifted his eyes at that, surprised that Dumbledore was aware they'd been together at the Great Lake.

"Endangering him then, as well?"

"I wasn't… I wasn't endangering him," Draco said in his defense. "I was only trying to spend time with him alone, because all bloody week we'd been surrounded by—"

Draco minded his tongue.

Dumbledore, however, nodded knowingly and took a moment to assimilate the omitted parts of the half-formed confession. He peered at Draco from over his half-moon spectacles, blue eyes twinkling acutely. "Your father's hatred of unconventional wizards will ultimately break you. Even now, you are at the breaking point, are you not?"

Pressure was building somewhere behind Draco's eyes, burning, making them itch. "The dementor trick was Flint's idea," he said automatically, attempting to deflect where this was going. His nose reddened as he made a valiant effort to get a grip on himself. The compounding weight of three long years of manic denial seemed to be worsening by grades the more that he listened to this bent old man.

"I don't doubt it was… But, ultimately, all these ploys, Draco, make it seem as if you are desperately seeking the Seeker's attention about something. I am not the only teacher who has noticed the erratic ways you treat your vaunted object of contempt."

It came out in the smallest of whispers, so that it was nearly indistinguishable to the guttering of the torches in their brackets.

"Professor," Draco said, shaking his head in an attempt to shut himself up, "I… hate… what I am…" Tears of panic filled his eyes as he allowed himself to process what he was saying. "Whatever you're thinking, it's probably true… And I thought Pansy… I thought she could…"

"Cure you?" Dumbledore said with a reverent nod. "And it turned out to be the opposite of what you expected, is that it?"

Draco's chest heaved. He blinked furiously through an unwanted mist of tears.

"Mr. Malfoy, please understand that I took a risk in speaking to you like this, about personal matters that are absolutely none of my concern. I am supposed to guide you forward on your academic career and not offer counsel on private matters. But a student like you cannot be reduced to compartments of School-Life and Personal-Struggles. I won't force you to talk to me if you don't want to, but I am extending an offer to provide you that space…"

Draco shut his eyes, tamped down all the feelings he had kept bottled up so far. He couldn't do it. Not to mention, this was probably the "grooming" his father had told him about.

After a considerable pause, Dumbledore decided it was time to offer his final thoughts. Unwilling to punish Draco in the way Professor McGonagall had hoped, he said, "Unlike your friends, I will not be writing you up this time or contacting your parents about what happened. I have spoken to Severus already, and he has vehemently agreed to that decision. I understand the immense pressure bearing down on you right now, but be warned, I will not be so understanding if anything like this happens again in the future.

"With that said… keep in mind that no matter how much others speak ill of you or your House—no matter how ugly the hostilities between you and them become—and no matter how much you grow to hate yourself—Hogwarts will always be your home as much as it is anyone else's.

"As for Mr. Potter… I am under the impression that he's a very tenderhearted and forgiving boy. If you only approach him, I am certain he will forgive you, even if it takes him time. Love is worth humbling ourselves for, Draco… but that is the extent of the advice I can offer you in good conscience about that."

Draco furrowed his brow when Dumbledore mentioned that word: Love…

He felt suddenly emboldened to ask a question—since who better to ask than a bent wizard?

"Isn't there a cure for this, Professor?" Draco blurted. "There's got to be some sort of magic…"

"Ah… I am afraid to say that nothing exists that can permanently alter how you feel. You see, Mr. Malfoy, love is the purest form of magic that exists in the world, as Mr. Potter has discovered for himself. It is unbreakable—it does wonderous things that even the greatest wizards can't explain or replicate with fabricated magic. No spell, no potion, and no incantation will ever be able to wrest it from you once it's ignited.

"As for your condition, I am sorry to say there is no cure for it. It is not a disease as some would have you think. It is simply who you are, and nothing more. Whether you choose to accept it or not is ultimately your own choice."

"I can't accept it," Draco said with an edge to his voice. "My parents expect me to—to get married…"

"And perhaps you will," Dumbledore said cryptically, deciding to leave the conversation there. "But like I already said, only you can make these decisions going forward. You still have many more years left to sort all this out, so panicking about marriage now will do you no good. Take your time, Mr. Malfoy… the answers will come to you if you are patient."

With a sympathetic smile, the Headmaster retreated up the steps, leaving Draco to consider what he had said.

After a minute of reflecting on the Sorting Hat—suddenly wondering how things might have turned out if he'd been sorted into Gryffindor—Draco left the office, feeling no better off personally, except for the fact that no owls would be sent to his father about the incident. That would spare him a deadly browbeating about how he was "still obsessed with Harry Potter" and needed to turn out a good record if he ever wanted to amount to anything other than a Transient Magician—which would render him as useless to society as a werewolf, according to his father.

As for the subject of love…

Draco believed he knew better than to take the advice of a perverted old man who had twisted the minds of the friends and allies who supported him. But he was still determined to get a kiss from Harry—if Harry was willing—but not bother with anything further beyond that.