Draco paced for exactly twelve minutes. He counted.

The stone griffin stared down at him, formidable and intimidating. Daunting, like taking the O.W.L. for Advanced History of Magic, or fixing vanishing cabinets, or frankly, everything else in Draco's life.

He could lie to himself and pretend he wasn't sure what he was doing in this corridor. He could pretend he mindlessly went for a walk and somehow ended up here, but that was wrong.

He'd left the Great Hall from breakfast, shoving the letter in his pocket, and pushing the hair out of his eyes with a determined, yet slightly shaking, hand. Draco Malfoy fully intended to be in this exact spot. He consciously took step after rigid step along the way. Up each set of stairs, down this corridor, around that corner.

Draco intended to come here. He knew what he wanted… No, needed to do. But, now that he was here, just one stone staircase left to ascend, his resolve had weakened ever so slightly.

But Draco didn't want to turn around. He didn't want to leave. He could have. Maybe he should have. But he didn't want to. He wanted to be here. He wanted to climb the last staircase. He even thought he knew the right password. But something painful in his chest kept him from taking the final step. So instead, he paced, growing just a bit quicker with every lap. Up and down the corridor.

His thoughts whirled through his brain as fast as he walked. His mother, her letter, Hermione, flying, ghosts, his Dark Mark, his task.

His daunting. Impossible. Task.

Dumbledore was a brilliant man. Draco knew that. As Draco saw it, it was likely that Dumbledore already knew that he was a target.

More than likely.

And it was more than likely that this, coming here, was a bad idea.

So, still, Draco paced, as he waited for something, anything, maybe nothing. He knew he had been waiting far longer than these twelve minutes.

He had waited for so long, through the manipulation and the torment, because he was torn between not giving up on the family that raised him, the family he was part of, the family that he loved, and coming to terms with the fact that the family he loved no longer existed as it did in the pictures from his childhood… Everything had changed. Everyone he knew had changed. And it doesn't matter what anyone else has to say, that's a really difficult and painful thing to wrap your brain around. It takes a while to believe it. It takes a while to understand.

It takes a while to… trust it.

The griffin's wings opened wide the moment Draco placed his left foot on the bottom step. He was just about to retreat back down the corridor when the staircase began to move, spiraling upward. Despite the normalcy of moving statues, Draco was shocked by the sudden movement and the way the magical creature seemed to acknowledge that his choice was overwhelming.

So he let the stairs carry him, slowly, thinking of every possible negative outcome along the way, but it was too late to turn back. When the staircase came to a stop, Draco was standing face-to-face with Albus Dumbledore.

"Ah, Draco, yes, I was wondering when you'd decide to come up," the old headmaster smiled brightly. "Please, do come in. I've made tea."

Tea. It seemed so utterly mundane, so simple, so innocent.

Draco followed the headmaster into his study, taking in the scene. He had several large portraits of old headmasters behind his desk. Most of them appeared to be reading in their frames. Some of them were sleeping.

"How are your classes going this term, Draco?" the headmaster asked casually. "I hear Professor Slughorn is quite impressed with your potion-making skills. Are you managing your other courses?"

A confused fog clouded Draco's mind in his discomfort, making it difficult for him to articulate a proper response.

"Managing, yes," he said after a moment.

Managing schoolwork was easy. It was everything else that was difficult.

"Good, good. Professor Snape has also spoken rather highly of your abilities, Draco. I hear you've nearly mastered nonverbal defenses as well," Dumbledore praised brightly, conjuring up a plate of sandwiches. "Nonverbal work was a weakness of mine well into my adult life. I remember the first time I had been truly successful, I was having a disagreement with my closest friend, Elphias – Elphias Dodge, actually, I believe your father is an acquaintance of Elphias's, you might know him – Anyway, we were arguing over the uses of dragon's blood and how ethical it would be to further research the substance and its uses. After all, dragons had to die or be severely injured in order for the substance to be obtained…"

Draco stopped listening.

What was the old man going on about? Did he realize that Draco had absolutely no interest in dragon's blood research development? He'd memorized the twelve uses back in fourth year and honestly, that was more than enough.

Not to mention the agonizing way he kept cutting into, revising, and side-noting the story.

Brutal, it was, listening to Dumbledore speak. Fourteen minutes had passed and he was still (for some unknown reason) talking about his difficulties with nonverbal defenses.

The dull frustration was useful as it drove the extreme levels of anxiety from his mind...

Slightly.

Draco wondered aloud how Dumbledore's interest in dragon's blood started and conversation was lost for another 24 minutes.

"–Every magical creature has a purpose, a strength that allows it to be valuable to the natural hierarchy. I simply started thinking about the properties of each creature and their biological features that could–"

There were exactly 269 books on the shelf behind Dumbledore's left shoulder, but only 134 on the shelf to his right.

"Like blood of a unicorn, phoenix tears, or the liquified horn of a–

"Forgive me, sir," Draco interrupted rather loudly, clearing his throat before continuing. "I did not come all the way over here to talk about dead creatures."

A smile maintained through the headmaster's eyes. "Oh?" he asked.

They sat in a brief silence, Draco feeling uncomfortable for his abrasively rude comment.

"If you're not here for tea and good conversation, Mr. Malfoy, what are you here for?"

They sat some more. Dumbledore poured two new cups of tea despite the silence and took a sip of his own. Draco's sat on the desk and cooled.

Minutes passed in silence. Dumbledore refilled his cup.

"Right," the headmaster said, taking a sip. "I've always had a particular interest in science and research. It was my intention to pursue that avenue once I finished my own time at Hogwarts. Though life had other plans, as it usually does…"

And Draco wasn't listening again. He let the headmaster go on and on and on. He stared at his cooling tea, his mind restless and his thoughts frantic.

Why was he here? Was this a terrible idea? Would his mother approve? Did he care if his mother approved?

Would Hermione be proud of him? Could everything possibly work out? Would this idea completely and utterly blow up in his face?

"It's a shame that so few witches and wizards do the Grand Tour now. It was always a right of passage when I was a young man–

"I am in love with Hermione Granger," Draco blurted unceremoniously.

Though the interruption was rude and unexpected, the headmaster appeared completely unfazed. He sat calmly in his grand desk chair, fingers peaked together in what appeared to be nonchalant interest.

Dumbledore stared silently, then blinked.

"I- I'm," Draco stuttered, trying to explain. "It's foolish and I'm not entirely sure how it came to happen. I'm still trying to make sense of it. I don't know if I will ever be able to."

Dumbledore blinked again. "I see," he hummed meaningfully. "The greatest loves are like that, Draco."

Draco felt the words bubbling up inside him. Now that he started, he couldn't stop. "She's more than perfect, she's everything," he was saying. "She's brilliant. Her mind is constantly working, problem-solving, and imagining. She's strong. Merlin, that smile she wears as if the world hasn't been completely unkind to her is the most beautiful and overwhelming light of hope for me. She's genuine. She's so busy being exactly who she is that she has no idea how utterly unprecedented she is. She's funny. She doesn't even realize it half the time, but she can make me laugh on even the worst days.

"I've never met anyone with such a complex understanding of herself and the world. She- she believes in me, by some stroke of insanity, she thinks I can be a good person. I want to be a good person, Headmaster. I want to–"

Dumbledore blinked again, this time reaching for his tea, and Draco paused.

"I have no idea why I'm telling you this. This isn't what I came here to tell you."

"Isn't it?" Dumbledore quirked his head to an angle of polite curiosity.

Draco ran his hands over his face and let out a ragged breath. He took hold of the teacup and downed its contents in one gulp.

"I'm a Death Eater," He stated bluntly. "I have the mark. Voldemort has ordered me to murder you."

Draco's knuckles turned white as he gripped the table for support. He was expecting Dumbledore to say something, to do something. To raise his voice, to expel him, to curse him.

But Dumbledore remained there, silently sitting, a fixed expression of intent listening, his old features failing to express any kind of emotion.

And that pissed Draco off.

Who doesn't respond to that sort of information? Who takes 'I'm here to murder you' with a smile?

The room surged with heat and, suddenly, Draco was unbuttoning his left sleeve and pushing it angrily up his arm.

"I'm a Death Eater!" Draco half shouted this time, shoving his grossly decorated arm in front of Dumbledore. "Do you see this hideous thing?! Hermione cried when she saw it but you're just sitting there like– Didn't you hear me say that I've been sent to murder you?!"

Dumbledore remained still. "You are not a murderer, Draco Malfoy," he demurred calmly. With a nonverbal spell, he sent the pot of tea to refill Draco's cup.

Dumbfounded, confused, and growing angry, Draco stared down at the little cup, the steam rising in delicate swirls. He contemplated splashing the drink in Dumbledore's face. Would it wake him up to what was happening? He visualized himself throwing the flowery teacup at the wall and watching it shatter. Would the headmaster see his desperation then?

Irritation, shame, frustration, sadness, and adrenaline all mingled in his veins, creating an unnerving anxious mind that did not know what to do. So, instead, Draco took another drink and gently returned the cup to its matching saucer.

"It was me," Draco started, clearly at first, until he faltered. "I cursed Katie Bell in the bathroom at the Three Broomsticks." He hung his head.

He hadn't cursed her directly, but that didn't matter one bit. It was his fault entirely. Rosemerta. The necklace. The Imperius Curse. It was all him.

Draco would never forget it: his first assignment for the Dark Lord. How difficult it was to keep his face neutral when he'd heard, to not let his horror show. Draco had vomited up every bit of guilt when he heard the news of Katie spreading throughout the school.

He almost felt the urge to spill the contents of his stomach again just thinking about it.

"I didn't mean to– I–" Draco confessed, voice breaking. "I wasn't good enough with the Imperius Curse, but He was impatient, The Dark Lord. He was threatening my mother and I– It was sloppy. I know. The necklace was meant for you, sir. I was meant to murder you. I never intended for anyone else to get-"

"Miss Bell is expected to make a full recovery. You are not a murderer, Draco. You are a brave, brave man," Dumbledore assured repeatedly, then beamed.

This reaction confused Draco to no end.

"I'm not brave. I'm a coward. I cursed an innocent girl. I took the Mark. I lied to Hermione–"

"Owning up to one's choices and mistakes is a feat most men cannot accomplish," Dumbledore explained, "yet, here you are, Draco."

The boy shook his head in annoyance and disbelief. "How can you sit there, hearing this, and still call me a man? I've done terrible things, things that have hurt people, and I can't take it back. I can't– I'm not– I'm a monster!" Draco shouted, stormy eyes feeling wet. "There is no way to fix what I've done, what I'm supposed to do."

"We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act upon. That's who we really are. You still have a lot of time to make yourself be what you want."

"Time? There is no time!" Draco scoffed, now shouting. "You don't understand what He is like. If I don't kill you, he's going to kill my mother. And then he's going to kill me."

"That certainly is a heavy burden to bear, Draco, but the choice is still yours." Dumbledore's voice grew firm as his eyes sharpened behind his thick glasses, authoritative and heavy. "You are a brilliant, brave young man. You've seen both light and dark. You don't have to let the choices you've made, the choices you make now, haunt you for the rest of your life. I promise you this: they will haunt you, Draco, and a day won't go by without you wondering what it would have been like if you hadn't let circumstances blind you. Regret is my constant companion. Do not let it become yours."

A sad fierceness leaked through the old man's blue eyes. Though still bright, Draco felt heavy with the weight of Dumbledore's gaze. Draco fiddled with the cup in his hands, thinking over what had been said.

Finally, he spoke. "The Dark Lord has tasked me with mending a vanishing cabinet so I can bring Death Eaters into the castle. I have to kill you and they want to watch. They want to destroy the school."

But Dumbledore's face seemed set in stone, unchangingly calm as if he was not afraid of death. The old man's eyes grew bright once again and Draco wondered if the hardness from before was only an illusion.

"I praise you for your honesty," the headmaster responded. "Confession is a relief, I'm told. This freedom that comes with it–"

"Freedom?" Draco demanded with a scoff, slamming his teacup onto the table, the liquid splashing on the wooden surface, finally succumbing to his anger. "I'm a Death Eater, sir. I belong to the Dark Lord, branded by him. I'm a fucking slave. I don't think you understand."

Dumbledore leaned forward, lowering his gaze to the table before taking another drink of his tea and meeting Draco's gaze sternly.

"Why are you here today, Draco, if not to ask for help?"

It was direct and impossible to avoid anymore. He'd asked the question Draco had been contemplating for weeks.

He felt frozen in his tracks again, unsure of himself, like always.

Cowardly.

He should know how to answer this simple question.

But it wasn't fucking simple. And he didn't fucking know.

He thought of Hermione, always so sure of herself. Valiant and fearless. He doubted she could ever be speechless when asked a question. She always knew the right answer.

She always knew…

Draco's hands were shaking and his stormy gray eyes were darting around the room, unable to meet the old Headmaster's eyes.

"I need to keep my mother safe," his voice cracked. "I– I want this to be over. I want to be free. I– I need help… I don't want to do what… He is asking me to do."

Draco exhaled. For a moment, he no longer felt ill, or afraid of dying, or even angry or bitter. A slow relief washed over him, as profound as despair, and what he'd said was done.

He took another breath.

"Sometimes I think we Sort too soon," the headmaster replied coolly.

A silence hung. Dumbledore waved his wand, sending the kettle to refill their cups wordlessly.

"I see Gryffindor bravery in you, Draco." The old man's eyes shined as he spoke. "You face your most terrible fears every day. Lord Voldemort and his task, your father and his expectations, your love of Miss Granger and the trouble of losing her. You are self-sacrificing in the way you are savagely protective of the things you care about. Your mother, for example. Miss Granger, for another. And there is no denying the sheer nerve you are showing to me right now with your confession, your honesty, and your ability to stand up for what you know is right despite the expectations placed on you."

Draco just sat, listening, unsure how these words were affecting him. He felt something, pride almost, at this… Observation? Compliment? He wasn't sure what it was.

But he also felt his muscles tensing at each reminder of his failures as the Malfoy Heir. Where was his sense of duty? Of pride for his family? Of Slytherin pride?

He expected doing the right thing would make him feel good, but he didn't. Not entirely. His confession momentarily put him at ease. Dumbledore was still praising him, but his mind was spinning again, too fast to listen. He could not handle things on his own. He was a disgrace to so many people whose expectations he couldn't meet. He was betraying his family. He was giving up on everything he had known.

So much uncertainty was left in that. He had asked for help, but the feeling of peace that was supposed to come after… When would that come?

"That, Mr. Malfoy, is remarkable, utterly Gryffindor, and you should be proud of that courage."

"But I'm ambitious, sir," Draco reasoned, clinging onto that ego with a weakening grip. "Slytherin is ambition."

"Why, yes, Draco. Of course. Believing you can take on the task that Voldemort has set you proves just that. What's more, I see your ambition to be better than your father, too. That is not something I wish for you to think I overlook."

Draco nodded, feigning interest in one of the many instruments on the headmaster's desk. Draco noticed the portraits behind the old man appeared to be sleeping, but he knew that they weren't.

He wondered what the old heads of Hogwarts would think about this conversation. A silence fell, and it was mildly comfortable. Dumbledore poured himself another cup of tea. The cups were incredibly small, after all.

After a moment, Draco posed the question that was weighing on him, "What do I do, Headmaster? Where do I go from here?"

Dumbledore was thoughtful for a moment. "You go forth, dear boy. You continue down the path you're already stumbling down."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes one must continue to make the wrong choice in order to achieve the right thing in the end."

Draco breathed and quirked his head at an angle, questioning.

"You're familiar with the game Wizard's Chess, I presume?" Dumbledore asked airily. Draco mentally groaned and suppressed a sneer at the metaphor. Gryffindors had a way of being direct with absolutely everything they do, but they speak in circles that would surely test even the best Hufflepuff's patience.

Still, Draco nodded in response, "Of course, sir."

Dumbledore smiled brightly. "Sometimes we must sacrifice a piece or two in order to win the game," he explained.

"This isn't a bloody game, sir. This is your life." Before he could bite his tongue, the words slipped from Draco's mouth, annoyance dripping with each word. "This is mine."

Dumbledore's expression turned stern, a stark contrast to the jovial, friendly old man he had been. His thin eyebrows narrowing, his smile turning thin. Draco listened in understanding.

"If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: in love, we find out who we want to be; in war, we find out who we are. This is war, Draco. The beginnings of it, sure, but war is war. This is the time when both choices and sacrifices, one and the same, need to be made.

"What side of the board are you going to sit on? Will you utilize your pawns, or rely on the queen? Are you willing to make a few sacrifices, not if, but when it becomes necessary? Are you prepared to do the wrong thing in order to achieve the right end?"

The steadiness, the passion in the headmaster's tone sunk into Draco's skin as if it was salt poured into an almost-healed wound. Dumbledore spoke with the calm conviction of someone who was already seven moves ahead.

The questions had nothing to do with chess.

The faint glossiness that now adorned the corners of Dumbledore's bright blue eyes had the Slytherin wondering why the headmaster had such conviction. Surely Dumbledore had not ever had to sacrifice anything.

Choices. Sacrifice. War.

Draco nodded his head slowly, contemplatively, and echoed, "Do the wrong thing to achieve the right end."

"Yes, Draco. Exactly. War, like chess, is won by being logical and calculated, keeping your strategy to yourself, and above all, staying one step ahead of your opponent. Whichever you choose, Mr. Malfoy, your greatest strength lies with your ability to keep a secret."

The words turned around in Draco's mind. Pieces were starting to fall into place.

He cleared his throat, looking down at the tea before looking back at the headmaster. "Are you saying I should continue with the plans the Dark Lord has set out for me? That I should keep trying to–"

Despite his efforts to summon similar calm conviction, the sentence hung in the air.

"Kill me?" the old man provided brightly. "I think the choice is ultimately yours, but yes, if you continued down the path of half-hearted, poorly thought-out murder attempts, I wouldn't be unsupportive," Dumbledore strummed.

Draco stared. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Yes, you do," the headmaster said lamely without any sort of elaboration.

Draco pondered his words again, wondering if, and how, and where he missed something. Dumbledore had told him the answer, but where in his words was it hidden? He couldn't possibly mean...

"Mr. Malfoy, I assure you that a plan is very much in place for preventing you from murdering me. I recognize that there is value in having you continue to attempt to fulfill his demands. As you will, your Dark Lord will not be aware that your allegiance has changed. Nor will your mother's safety be compromised."

Draco stared for several moments, watching the Headmaster's unblinking calmness.

"Just to be clear, again," Draco was saying carefully, "you are okay with me continuing my attempt to murder you."

"I suppose, yes. But you are no murderer, Draco. And for that reason, you will never be successful."

It was an insult and a compliment all at once. Draco was not sure how to respond so again, the two men sat in silence for some time.

After a few minutes, Dumbledore ended it. "As for Miss Granger," he started, a gleam back in his eyes. "I think she may respond positively to your honesty. Most young women do."

Draco inwardly groaned, a sour taste filling his mouth. He wished he hadn't mentioned his romantic feelings to the headmaster at all. Still, a response was expected.

"So far when I've been honest with her," Draco shared, "I've been screamed at, cried on, punched, hexed, and slapped." He ran a hand through his unkempt hair.

Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head. "True, true. However, this time you have new intentions and a new truth. At least, so it seems."

The idea of not only seeing Hermione again, but getting her to agree to have a conversation with him, and then finding the strength in himself to be honest set his heart racing in his chest.

"Do you think I have a chance?" Draco asked after a pause.

Dumbledore smiled. "I think wiser men have wasted their lives wondering that question. Yet, it is the men who act on that question, the ones who do something, that actually see results."

Draco blinked. "Do you ever just answer a question outright?"

"The brain that does the thinking is the brain that does the learning, Mr. Malfoy." Dumbledore stood, presumably edging their conversation to an end.

Standing too, hands wringing as they released the arms on the chair from his attack on them, Draco pressed further. "So I should talk to her, you think?"

Another smile graced Dumbledore's lips.

"I think you should do what your heart tells you, Mr. Malfoy."

The broom hummed underneath him in the calming way it always did, but the familiar feeling did little to assuage the stirring in his cluttered brain.

"Do what your heart tells you, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco's grip on the ebony handle tightened, sending the sweaty hair around his face to blow haphazardly in the increased wind.

Fucking. Bloody. Dumbledore. Nutcase. Certifiable. Completely and absolutely unhelpful.

What was his heart telling him?

How could he be sure he understood?

He wove his way between the goalposts, speeding up with each loop.

The Headmaster's advice did not seem to be very helpful in the end. Draco still felt lost and more than a little bit confused. His mind was swimming in analogies and metaphors, and the scar on his left arm felt tingly.

What was he supposed to do next?

Should he really continue to try to kill the headmaster? That seemed completely mental.

Would that mean having to use that damn vial Snape had given him weeks ago?

Should he tell Dumbledore those plans?

"Your greatest strength lies with your ability to keep a secret."

What did he mean by that?

Obviously, Draco wasn't going to run into the Dark Lord's chambers to let him know he was abandoning his post. Of course, he had to keep a secret! Otherwise, he'd bloody fucking die.

"Sometimes we must sacrifice a piece or two in order to win the game."

Was Dumbledore the sacrificial piece? Was Draco?

Draco felt like his chess board had been upended, pieces strewn across the floor, with many hands reaching to move his pieces.

Chaotic. Confused.

Draco very nearly clipped the center ring with the tail of his broom, deftly swerving out of the way at the last moment. His heart racing, he moved to land on the soft grass, taking his broom into his right hand.

At least one thing had come out of that conversation.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and started walking back to the castle.

Draco was undeniably in love with Hermione Granger.

And she may be the death of him.

And he may be okay with that.

Check-fucking-mate.

Thank you so much for your support! Every time you give kudos, comment, and share your kind thoughts with me, it warms me up and motivates me to keep writing! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. What do you think of Dumbledore? What was your favorite line from this chapter? Let me know in the comments!

I made new cover art for Better Than Revenge, but can't figure out how to add it to the chapter post. You can see it here on my Tumblr: Better Than Revenge Cover Art

I'm also making chapter art and creating a playlist for this fic. The song for this chapter is Man or a Monster by Sam Tinnesz featuring Zayde Wolf. In my mind, it plays darkly behind the image of Draco walking away from Dumbledore's office as he contemplates his choices and what lies ahead. You can view the chapter art here on my Tumblr: Chapter 26 Art & Song

Big beta love for the_shitshow_must_go_on who has worked to eradicate run on sentences, comma splices, and grammar violations from my story. Sometimes I defy her wishes and leave some in for "style" ? So as such, any mistakes that remain are my own.

Disclaimer: All publically recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of J.K. Rowling.

Many thanks to anyone who takes the time to read this story, OxfordElise