The flickering light of Severus Snape's wand cast long, jagged shadows across the walls of Draco's dormitory as he stepped inside, his expression grim. He closed the door behind him with a sharp, deliberate motion, his mind already bracing for the inevitable pushback from the boy lounging on his bed.

"Professor?" Draco Malfoy sat up abruptly, his silver eyes narrowing with suspicion. "What are you doing here? Actually, how did you get in here? I have a lot of wards on my door, and most of them are fire-based. I'm a bit disappointed you're not even a little smoky."

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Typical. Even now, when his life hung by a thread, Draco could not help but drape himself in bravado. "Your wards are as effective as your wit," he replied curtly, crossing the room in measured steps. "Get up. Gather your things. The Headmaster has decided to intervene."

Draco froze, his features twisting into a scowl. "You told him?" he hissed, his voice low and venomous as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "You promised—"

"I promised nothing," Snape cut him off sharply, his patience already wearing thin. "And if I hadn't told him, you would be walking into your death tomorrow with nothing more than that ludicrous Felix Felicis plan of yours, the same one that's been slowly killing you, if I must remind you." He leveled a piercing glare at Draco. "Tell me, Draco. Did you have anything else? Any fallback, any real strategy? No? Then stop whining and follow me, brat."

Snape's words hit their mark, and Draco's jaw clenched in frustration. But, wisely, the boy said nothing further. He grabbed his wand from the nightstand and stuffed a few books into his bag with jerky, irritated motions. Snape watched in silence, noting the tension in the boy's frame—the restless energy of someone desperate for control but finding none.

He understood that he had promised to keep Draco's activities a secret; however, that promise meant nothing in the face of Draco's survival. Did his godson really think that he would just let him stroll back into the arms of the Dark Lord without help? Severus would break any promise, no matter how big or small, if it meant that Draco lived another day. So yes, he had told Dumbledore everything. He'd shown him Penisive memories of him and Draco's discussion, as well as his altered Bludgers, and the boy's alliance with Potter. He left nothing out. So Draco could be mad all he wanted, but he would live to be angry.

When Draco was ready, Snape turned and led him into the dim corridors of the castle. The walk to the Headmaster's office was suffocatingly silent, but Snape could sense Draco's anger simmering just beneath the surface. It didn't matter. Let the boy seethe. Better anger than the terror that awaited him if he walked into Malfoy Manor unprepared.

By the time they reached the stone gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office, Snape's patience had nearly run out. He muttered the password, "Fizzing Whizzbee," and stepped aside as the staircase revealed itself.

Snape let Draco precede him into the Headmaster's office, keeping his face carefully neutral as they stepped inside. Dumbledore was waiting for them, standing beside his desk with that maddening air of calm he always seemed to radiate. His blue eyes twinkled faintly as they rested on Draco, though Snape noted the sharp intelligence beneath the surface. People thought that when Dumbledore looked at them, it was with kindness; they couldn't be more wrong. Albus Dumbledore looked at you like you were a puzzle, pulling apart what pieces made you whole, before deciding whether or not he liked the finished product.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said warmly, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk. "Please, sit. I must admit, I was rather surprised by what Severus and Mr. Potter told me. It seems you've decided to change sides. I am happy, though. It is always good to see the light shine even in the Darkest places."

Snape folded his arms and stood to the side, watching Draco closely. The boy's jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. "I didn't exactly have a choice, did I?" Draco snapped, his voice thick with bitterness. "Not unless I want to die the minute I walk into that house."

Dumbledore inclined his head, his expression sympathetic. "Severus mentioned as much. It is always a tragic thing, Mr. Malfoy when one's home becomes a battlefield. However, I would like to remind you, that you do have a choice. You could remain here, at Hogwarts, under my protection this Christmas. Voldemort wouldn't dare launch an assault on Hogwarts, not so long as I'm here. Yes, it would prove that the rumors he has heard about you are true, but, it would also keep you safe."

Snape saw the flicker of surprise in Draco's eyes, followed almost immediately by defiance. "No!" the boy spat. "There are things I need at the Manor—important things I left behind last summer. And I need to say goodbye to my mother and father. And if I don't go at all, he'll punish the two of them in my place. My father might be an arse, but my mother doesn't deserve anything that the Dark Lord would do to her."

He hesitated, and Snape's sharp eyes caught the faint tremor in his hands as he pressed on. "And I could gather information from the Death Eaters while I'm there. Things they won't tell Severus."

Snape's eyes narrowed, irritation bubbling to the surface. "That is reckless, Draco. I could obtain that information far more safely than you ever could."

Draco rounded on him, his voice rising with uncharacteristic passion. "No, you couldn't. You don't know what it's like down there, in the lower ranks. They hate you. They think you're untouchable. They wouldn't tell you anything, even if you begged for it. You're as close to the Dark Lord as Bellatrix was. You were late, far later than any of the other Death Eaters, but you weren't punished for it. If anything, you were rewarded. You're more skilled than most of them there; the only one who trumps you in importance is my father, and that's due to his money and his Ministry connections. They envy and hate you, so unless the Dark Lord himself tells them to do so, they won't answer your questions.

"Me, though? I'm the impressionable Malfoy Heir, the one who will be entranced by them and their adventures. If they befriend me, they get a little bti of access to the Malfoy wealth and lifestyle without having to go through my mother or father. They'll brag to me, tell me things they might not even tell their family. And it'll give me more information on what the ground troops are actually doing."

Snape opened his mouth to retort, but Dumbledore held up a hand, silencing him with a glance. The Headmaster studied Draco with an unreadable expression, as though weighing the boy's words against some invisible scale.

"You would be alone, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said finally, his tone grave. "Surrounded by Death Eaters for two weeks. A rescue would be nigh impossible, and only in the first of those weeks will you have luck to guide you. Are you truly ready for that?"

Snape watched as Draco hesitated, the boy's face pale but determined. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken fears, before Draco finally nodded. "Yes," he said firmly. "I'm ready."

Snape exhaled slowly, his irritation tempered by a flicker of reluctant admiration. The boy was arrogant, reckless, and insufferable—but he wasn't a coward. Not entirely, at least.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "Very well. Then let us discuss how I can help you survive the not-so-gentle ministrations of my former pupil."

Hermione stood before the stone gargoyle leading to the Headmaster's office, shifting her weight uneasily from foot to foot. The Hogwarts Express was set to depart in twenty minutes, and yet, here she was—summoned by Professor Dumbledore for reasons unknown.

She was worried.

Neville had only given her vague details—something about Harry having a fit, and Ron and the rest of the Weasleys being called to Dumbledore's office. But no one had seen them since. Even Umbridge had no idea what was going on, and the temper tantrum the witch was launching would have been amusing if Hermione wasn't so concerned about her friends.

And then there was Draco.

She hadn't seen him all morning. While she wasn't exactly worried about him, it was… strange. She figured he would have made some kind of effort to say goodbye before the holidays—if only to tease her about her ski trip(something Ron had not hesitated to do) or discuss one of his research projects, whether it was finding out more about the origin of magic, or delving more about wandless magic. But this morning?

Nothing.

Maybe he was already on the train. Maybe she'd find him there.

There were things she needed to discuss with him, particularly about the Department of Mysteries. She had spent weeks compiling a list—artifacts, weapons, magical oddities mentioned in wizarding history—but she'd narrowed it down to the ones that made sense. These were items that had abilities that Voldemort couldn't do without, powers he wouldn't already be capable of. She needed Draco's insight before finalizing her conclusions and passing them on to Harry, and the four of them could figure out how to prepare properly when they got back to school.

Shaking off her unease, she knocked on the heavy wooden door.

"Come in."

The moment she stepped inside, she was struck—as always—by the grandeur of Dumbledore's office.

The circular space hummed with quiet energy. It was filled with whirring silver instruments, each puffing occasional wisps of blue smoke. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, interspersed with portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses, most of whom were snoozing in their frames. High on a shelf, the Sorting Hat rested, its brim slightly curled, as if in deep thought.

And at the very center of it all, behind a magnificent claw-footed desk—where an unmistakable leather bag sat, one that looked oddly like Draco's—was Albus Dumbledore.

Even in a room filled with wonders, the Headmaster commanded presence.

He exuded power and mystery, the kind Hermione secretly aspired to cultivate herself one day. His piercing blue eyes twinkled up at her, and she found herself wondering, was that a spell, or just a Dumbledore thing?

"Professor? You called for me?" she asked as she took the seat he gestured to.

Dumbledore smiled, but there was a weight in the air now. "Yes, Miss Granger. I wish I had called you here merely to wish you a happy Christmas, but unfortunately, the stars do not align so. There are things I must inform you of… and a favor I must ask of you."

A favor? From her? Ok, wow. The most powerful and respected wizard wanted to ask her for a favor. Cool. Okay. She could do this.

She straightened her posture. "Of course, sir."

Dumbledore's smile remained, but something about it felt solemn. "Thank you. But first, we must address the unpleasant matters, as we must with all things in life."

His expression darkened.

"Last night, Arthur Weasley was critically injured at the Ministry of Magic. He was attacked by Voldemort's snake, Nagini. He is stable now, but it was a near thing."

Hermione's heart stopped.

Mr. Weasley. Attacked. By Nagini.

Harry had spoken about the creature before—a monstrous serpent that never left Voldemort's side. But what would Nagini be doing at the Ministry? She was supposed to be Voldemort's symbol of power, his one companion. Why would she be away from her master? The only reason why he would send such a valuable asset into the Ministry was if-

Then, suddenly, it clicked.

The Department of Mysteries.

The pieces aligned in her mind instantly. Mr. Weasley must have been guarding something, the weapon in the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort must have sent Nagini to scout the area.

Her voice was tight with urgency. "Does this have anything to do with the Department of Mysteries, sir?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, his smile widening slightly. "Very well deduced, Miss Granger! I take it the information Mr. Malfoy provided helped you reach that conclusion? Severus confirmed it not too long ago. We already had the big pictures, but Mr. Malfoy provided a lot of details we were unaware of."

She blinked. "Yes, sir. Actually, speaking of Draco—have you seen him? I've been looking for him all morning."

At this, Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but something in his gaze dimmed.

"Ah, and now we come to more unpleasant news."

A chill ran down her spine.

"Mr. Malfoy is already on the train. He has chosen to return home to Malfoy Manor for the holidays."

Hermione's stomach dropped.

"Wait, he wants to go back? But sir, isn't that dangerous for him? The other Slytherins must have noticed how much time he's spent with us; they isolated him just for that. Won't he get in trouble at home for that?"

Or with Voldemort?

Dumbledore folded his hands. "Precautions have been taken. If all goes well, Mr. Malfoy will be fine. And if things go sideways… there is a contingency in place."

That didn't ease her nerves. At all.

"But—"

Dumbledore cut her off gently. "Rest assured, Miss Granger, you will see Mr. Malfoy again in two weeks. However, there are certain conditions that must be followed to ensure this plan succeeds. And despite how contradictory the instructions I am about to give you might be, you must follow them to the letter."

Hermione sat up straighter, instincts on high alert. "Okay, I can handle that."

Dumbledore's expression was unreadable. "Wonderful. You must not seek him out on the train. You must send him messages over the break, at least once every three days. These messages should only contain news about day-to-day activities, but I will send Sirius to give you some information that you must put in one of these messages, preferably at the tail end of the first week. If, by chance, you see him during the holiday, you must interact with him exactly as you would with Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley. Most importantly, should any of your friends—particularly Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley—encounter him, they must treat him with absolute friendliness. No hostility. No animosity. Even young Ronald must put aside his feelings."

A confused silence filled the room.

Hermione stared. "So… we just treat him like a friend? That's it? Isn't that kind of rubbing it in Voldemort's face? I thought you'd tell us to cut contact with him if you wanted him to stay safe."

Dumbledore shook his head. "Oh no, Miss Granger. I understand your confusion, but it is imperative that if you meet Draco in public, you must convince everyone that you are the most devoted of friends. His life may depend on it."

This was… weird.

Sure, she liked Draco, and she was fine treating him as a friend. But if she understood correctly, Dumbledore was asking her to ham it up—to go out of her way to act like Draco was Harry or Ron.

And that was… a lot.

She trusted him, yes. She had forgiven him for the past. But they had only just become casual friends. They weren't that close yet. She liked talking with him. His notes were meticulous, and the conversations they'd had were stimulating: Draco had a way of combining Mgaioc and Muggle topics in ways even she hadn't thought of. But her instinct was to keep him at a bit of a distance.

Then again… Draco had isolated himself for them, given them critical information on Voldemort, and taken huge risks to help.

If pretending to be his best friend was all it took to keep him alive, then that was the least she could do.

Hermione's fingers curled against her skirt. "But why would I even see him over the holidays? I'm going skiing in France with my parents. Harry and Ron will be staying here, won't they? Close to Mr. Weasley?"

Dumbledore winced, the twinkle in his eyes receding. A rare sight.

He exhaled slowly. "Ah. And now we come to the unfortunate favor I must ask of you."

A sense of dread coiled in Hermione's stomach.

She could practically hear her holiday plans dying a violent death.

Hot cocoa by the fire. Gone.
Making smores with her parents. Gone.
The crisp, cold air as she glided down the slopes. Gone.

All of it withering away, fading into nothing, as the Headmaster continued speaking.

****************************************************************************

Narcissa Malfoy was scared.
And she had been scared for a very long time.

Ever since the Dark Lord's return, her once-stable life of opulence and control had turned into an unrelenting nightmare. The gilded halls of Malfoy Manor, which had once brought her pride and comfort, now felt oppressive. The wealth and power she had spent her life cultivating were no longer shields; they had become chains, binding her and her family to a monster.

Her husband, Lucius—once the picture of arrogance and cunning—was now a shadow of himself. The man who had commanded respect and fear in equal measure now sat quietly, his once-icy confidence shattered. In the presence of the Dark Lord, he barely spoke, his hands often trembling as he kept his eyes downcast.

But it was her son, Draco, who weighed most heavily on her heart.

Draco had been her light, her sweet, mischievous little dragon. He had Lucius's sharp mind and her cool poise, but he was more vibrant, more alive. Even as a child, he had been cheeky and full of life, quick with a laugh or a sly remark. Yet now… now that spark had dimmed.

After the attack, everything had changed.

The memory was burned into her mind, a wound that refused to heal. She had been pleading with the Dark Lord, begging for leniency for Lucius. He didn't know! He couldn't have known the diary was more than a tool. He couldn't have believed the Dark Lord had survived when the entire wizarding world thought him dead. And Lucius had been loyal! He had spent years passing laws to pave the way for the Dark Lord's return, weakening the Ministry's grip and bolstering the old ways. Surely, that counted for something!

But her words had been cut short by a crack that echoed in the grand hall. The Dark Lord's hand had been lightning-fast, the strike sharp and vicious. She had crumpled to the ground, joining her husband in his forced supplication. Lucius had stared at her, stunned, as though even he couldn't believe what had just happened. To be fair, she couldn't either. No one, not even her mother, Druella Black, had struck her before.

And then, before anyone could react, Draco's fury had ignited. A red beam of light shot from his wand, his face twisted in pure, unbridled rage.

She hadn't even seen the Dark Lord retrieve his wand, but he had already countered. A jagged, dark purple blade of energy hissed through the air, cutting through Draco's spell as though it were paper.

It struck her son squarely in the face, and Narcissa's world fell apart.

She had screamed, casting spell after spell in desperation, trying to stop the flow of blood. But nothing worked. Lucius, finally snapping out of his stupor, tore a piece of his robes and pressed it to Draco's face, trying to staunch the bleeding.

And the Dark Lord… he had laughed.

His cold and hollow laughter echoed through the hall, as he turned and walked away. His serpent, Nagini, slithered after him, hissing as if mocking their pain.

Severus had been summoned to save Draco. He had closed the wound and mended as much damage as he could, but the scar remained—a pale, jagged line marring Draco's perfect features.

It was a permanent reminder of her failure. She hadn't protected her son, and she could see in his eyes that he blamed her for it.

Since that day, Draco had withdrawn from them. He avoided her touch, spoke to Lucius only when necessary, and seemed to prefer the company of the house-elves over his own parents. The bright, mischievous boy she had known was gone, replaced by someone quieter, colder, and angrier.

This semester, he hadn't sent a single letter. The only sign of life from him was the fifteen thousand Galleons he had withdrawn from the family vault. Lucius had dismissed it, saying that giving Draco financial freedom might repair their strained relationship. Narcissa had hoped he was right, but deep down, she feared otherwise.

And now, as she stood on Platform 9¾, waiting for the Hogwarts Express to arrive, she prayed for a chance to reconnect with him.

The train's whistle pierced the air, its red carriages gleaming under the faint winter sun. Steam billowed around the platform, and students poured out in a noisy tide, their laughter and chatter filling the air.

She did not like this. There were too many people out here for her liking.

Narcissa scanned the crowd, searching for the familiar platinum-blond head. The noise was grating, the crush of bodies oppressive, and for a moment, she felt disoriented.

"Mother?"

The voice came from her side, soft and familiar.

She turned, startled. Draco was standing beside her, his expression calm but tired.

Narcissa's heart clenched. He looked pale, with dark shadows under his eyes, and his hair was slightly mussed.

"Have you been sleeping, my dragon?" she asked softly, reaching up to cradle his face.

Draco squirmed under her touch, but the use of his childhood nickname seemed to soften him enough to let her linger. "I'm fine, Mother," he sighed. "I've just been… working on some personal projects."

"Projects that cost fifteen thousand Galleons?" she asked, her tone sharper than intended.

"Yes," Draco replied without hesitation. "It's important, though! This is for the Dark Lord."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "When he sees how far I've come, what I've accomplished this semester, he'll be so pleased."

Narcissa frowned, her worry deepening. There was a strange spark in his eyes, a feverish intensity that felt foreign. "Draco, are you quite alright?"

Draco smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Of course, Mother. I've never been better." He straightened, adjusting his robes. "Now, can we go home? I heard our Lord is waiting for me. I can't wait to speak with him again."

Her heart ached at his words, but she forced a smile, nodding. "Of course, my dragon. Let's go."

As they made their way to the carriage, Narcissa stole glances at her son, her mind racing. Something had changed in him—something she couldn't quite name. The thought of him meeting with the Dark Lord filled her with dread, but she knew there was no way to shield him from it.

Draco should have been afraid. He had flinched from the Dark Lord, those last few weeks in the Manor. And yet now, he was eager to meet him.

Something had happened to her precious Dragon, and she needed to figure out what it was, soon.