A week after Draco celebrated his sixth birthday, he came down with a dreadful case of the flu. Among the many expensive presents he'd received that year, there was one that captured his special admiration: the broom his father had gifted him. Draco had spent a whole week soaring through the skies, scarcely touching the ground since he'd first mounted the broom—even when the weather turned sour. Flying through the pouring rain felt exhilarating, but, alas, it left him tucked up in bed, under layers of warm blankets, with a high fever and a nasty cough.

It was one of the earliest clear memories Draco had. His mother tending to him. Her gentle touch. Her kind blue eyes. Her soft, melodious voice.

Three whole spoonfuls of Pepper-Up Potion. Himself, coughing, sputtering, and grimacing, but drinking it down all the same. The awful, warm liquid sliding down his throat. Hot steam puffing out from his ears.

His mother brushing his forehead softly, murmuring sweet reassurances before stepping out quietly to let him rest.

His father entering the room shortly after and coming to sit at Draco's bedside. Tall, graceful, and proud. Reaching inside his robe pockets and taking out a small stash of Draco's favourite treats—Sugar Quills—to help with the bitter aftertaste of the potion.

Draco, devouring the sweets with an eager grin. His father flicking his wand, vanishing the wrappers with what might have been a wink. Their little secret: sweets were the one thing Narcissa had been stricter about than Lucius.

The memory whirled and blurred, its warm colours dulling and darkening. His father's almost-smile turned ghostly, disappearing into the encroaching darkness. His mother's pleasant voice grew distant.

As the taste of sugar melted on his tongue, the pain came back, and Draco was awake once again.

"Drink," someone said harshly, gripping his jaw.

Failing to comprehend his surroundings amid the blinding surge of light, Draco obeyed the voice and opened his mouth. At once, the foulest liquid he had ever tasted filled his mouth. He coughed and cringed, swallowing it down. There was no one to offer him sweets this time.

His insides burned and tingled. Every heartbeat throbbed painfully against his bones, and every breath sent shockwaves radiating through his entire torso. There was a weird sense of pressure, as though invisible hands were squeezing his ribs, pulling them together.

As Draco got used to the sensation, his mind began to clear. Slowly, things came into focus. From where he sat on a leather sofa, Draco stared up at the two figures before him: Severus Snape, holding a bottle with a skull-shaped lid in his right hand, and Ruth, who stood behind him, studying Draco's face with a deep frown.

With a blink, Draco recognized the room as the Headmaster's office, now much changed. Stripped of all the silly trinkets and decorations, it was rather neat, if not to say uncomfortably bare.

"What—" he began, attempting to rise.

In an instant, Snape's hands were on his shoulders, pressing him back into the sofa.

"Don't move," he said in a clipped voice. "Let the potion work."

Still dazed, Draco remained seated on the sofa, grasping at the myriad of fuzzy thoughts. The last thing he remembered was standing in the Gargoyle Corridor, wand out, waiting for something. Where was his wand? In the squid's eye. No, not that one—where was the other—

Then, the sequence of the night's events flooded back to him, from start to finish. He saw his friends' faces, their contempt and disappointment. But what happened afterward?

Snape's scrutinizing gaze bore into him. Ready or not, it seemed it was time for yet another test. But what could possibly convince this man after the scene he'd just witnessed? Should he show him the Dark Mark? Or bring up Snape's Unbreakable Vow? Or perhaps—

Draco was so very tired.

"Is there anything you'd like to ask me?" he simply said.

A pause.

"If you were a ghost, Draco, I would ask if you realized you've arrived a day early."

Draco. Did that mean Snape already knew he wasn't a pretender? But how?

"I'm not here for Halloween, professor—I mean, Headmaster."

"Clearly."

Snape glanced back at Ruth, who hovered awkwardly two steps behind him. Following a graceful wave of his hand, one of the chairs by the claw-footed desk in the other corner of the room slid out with a screech, clearly inviting her to sit. Ruth pressed her lips together and, after casting another wary glance at Snape, moved to take a seat, leaving them to their conversation.

"Yes, there are questions I would like to ask you," Snape said, turning his attention back to Draco, "but I'm afraid we don't have all day. So why don't we start with the most important one: why are you here?"

Draco took a deep breath, which, surprisingly, almost didn't hurt. Then he began explaining his situation. He watched Snape's face as he did so, but the man's expressions were difficult to decipher. There was no point in lying, so Draco didn't, only omitting a detail here and there.

He finished with a humble plea, "I need your help, Headmaster. Will you help me get my parents out?"

Snape regarded him for a moment. Only now did Draco notice the dark circles under his eyes and his weary posture. He looked as though he'd aged a decade.

"You understand the dangers this mission entails?" Snape said at last.

"Of course, I do. I know it's a lot to ask, but if anyone can do this right under the Dark Lord's nose—"

"The Dark Lord," Snape interrupted, "does not frequent Malfoy Manor much these days."

Draco blinked.

"However, that does not make it any less dangerous. I must ask you, why take such a risk? Your parents are safe—"

"For the time being, yes. But should they in any way displease the Dark Lord, they..." Draco trailed off, not trusting his voice.

Snape remained unaffected by this small display of emotion. "And have you considered your parents' views on the matter? Do you think they'd consent to staging their own—what is it you have in mind, their capture by the enemy or their deaths?"

"Their deaths. So no one would look for them."

"I see," Snape droned. "But even if we manage to fake their deaths convincingly, are you truly prepared for all the consequences? Are your parents? Once you escape with them, you'll have to hide in such a way that no one will be able to find you. Your wealth, your luxurious lifestyle, your very name—you'll be leaving it all behind. You must understand, this will effectively mark the end of House Malfoy."

Draco swallowed hard and stared down at his hands.

"It's already at its end," he whispered. "Saving my parents is all I care about now. I have considered the consequences. We'll have to spend our entire lives in hiding, somewhere far away and in conditions my mother will surely find appalling. We'll never be able to return home, for the Dark Lord and his regime will most likely outlive us all. We'll never—"

"And you're sure of his victory?"

Draco gave Snape a look. That was a very strange comment.

"You're not seriously suggesting that Scarhead and his sidekicks can defeat the Dark Lord?"

"I'm not suggesting anything; I'm simply asking a question."

Did Snape know something Draco didn't? Did the Order actually have a fighting chance?

And what if they did? It wouldn't change anything. The Malfoys would still never be welcomed in Wizarding Britain. They'd be thrown into Azkaban the moment they were spotted—only a slightly better fate than what awaited them if the other, far more likely outcome prevailed.

Draco replied, "I'm sure."

"Well," said Snape, "it seems you have indeed considered all the possibilities and have reached a logical decision that will serve your interests best. Your father would be proud."

Draco narrowed his eyes. He could tell the words were ingenuine. But why?

"Why does it sound like you disapprove?" he asked bluntly.

"Does it? I merely pointed out that fleeing would be perfectly logical for your family, given the circumstances."

So, he did disapprove. While his serious voice agreed with Draco, his eyes seemed to question: "Is this really the best plan you've come up with? I expected more from my top Slytherin student."

But what more was there to do? Did he miss something?

Just as Draco was about to speak, Snape jerked his head toward the door. Straining his ears, Draco heard the sound of the spiral staircase moving. His eyes widened. Before he could react, Snape waved his wand, flinging Draco and Ruth into an open wooden closet, the doors sealing immediately after. As Draco thudded against the inner wall, he felt no pain. At least there was some good news—his ribs were finally healed.

Not a second later, he heard the door burst open, followed by shuffling footsteps and a gruff, nasal voice breathlessly calling, "Headmaster! Headmaster!"

Filch. Draco grimaced.

"Something's happened in the Black Lake. The merpeople demand to see you straight away!"

Oh Merlin.

"Is that so?" Snape drawled.

A loud sneeze. Then the sound of something clattering to the floor.

"Sorry," Filch wheezed. "I'll pick it up."

"Leave it, Argus."

"These goddamn kids!" the caretaker rambled on. "Always smuggling something in. Didn't they hear there'd be no Halloween this year? No! Always breaking rules, getting detentions... Had to stay with them in the dungeons all week—froze my nose off! Can't follow no rules! Disobey the teachers. What a bunch of fools! Happy about it too!"

"Indeed," said Snape, moving toward the door. Then, just before it closed, his voice grew louder: "What a blessing, to be blind to all paths but one."

As they exited the office, Draco could hear Filch grumbling, "That's what I'm saying!"

When all grew quiet, Draco pushed open the closet door and let himself and Ruth out.

To be blind to all paths but one. What was Snape trying to say? What did it all mean?

Two masquerade masks lay on the floor near the entrance door—likely what Filch had dropped upon sneezing. Must have carried an armful of confiscated objects, the old hoarder.

There'd be no Halloween this year, he'd said. Now that Draco thought about it, the castle did feel particularly quiet and gloomy—no pumpkins or decorations in sight. This was highly unusual for Halloween's Eve. He wondered what else was different about Hogwarts this year.

Interrupting his thoughts, Ruth pulled Lucian's wand out of her pocket and handed it to Draco. Which reminded him of...

"What happened?" he asked her.

Brushing her tangled curls aside, she shrugged. "You fainted, is what happened. Fell right where you stood. Then this Headmaster of yours sent your friends to their dorm and told them not to speak of this. Said he'd deal with this, whatever that meant."

"And then?"

"Then he pulled you up and invited me in."

"And you just went along with it?"

"Well, you trusted him enough to seek his help, didn't you?"

"Truthfully, I'm surprised you managed to hold back from firing hexes. I thought you'd be the first one to attack."

"That's the thing," she said, frowning. "I was about to, but then something very strange happened. Suddenly, I started recalling the events of the past few months—vividly and rapidly, but in order, from yesterday all the way back to that night in July when you... found us."

Draco pressed his lips together. "Sounds like Legilimency to me."

"Thought so."

It could only be Snape. So, that's what he'd been doing while the four of them stood there, pointing wands at each other. But of course, examining her unfortified mind was the easiest way to confirm Draco's identity. This was precisely why he had planned to Obliviate her in the first place.

It made sense, then, that Snape hadn't asked Draco about the Lestranges or... anything, really.

But then... Then it meant that Snape had seen him saying traitorous things about the Dark Lord, had seen him engaging in muggle activities, had seen him consorting with a muggleborn witch... had seen everything and still decided to help him.

Why? Why? Why? None of this made sense.

Perhaps he wasn't helping Draco at all. Perhaps he was only pretending to do so to lower his defences. Perhaps he was on his way to fetch the other Death Eaters right now. Perhaps he had only healed him in order to subject him to torture later on.

No, that didn't make sense either. Why would he ask Theo and Blaise to keep it a secret if he himself wasn't going to? Theo. Blaise. Would they even listen? Maybe their friendship had ended the moment he'd pulled a wand on them, and now they couldn't care less about his well-being or that of his parents.

A panic-induced headache was settling in, and Draco rubbed his temples.

Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out.

One problem at a time.

Theo and Blaise wouldn't do that. Even if they didn't care about him at all, they wouldn't do that to his parents. They wouldn't do that to Lucius and Narcissa, who had spent many summers with them, who adored them, who almost treated them like their own children.

No, they would keep their mouths shut.

As if reading his mind, Ruth decided to bring up the subject. She looked away, suddenly interested in the stone walls, and began speaking in a seemingly nonchalant tone. "Listen, about what you did back there... Even though you fainted right after, it's the thought that counts. And that thought is... very much appreciated," she finished with a sigh. Then turned to him and added, in a more assertive voice, "That said, if you ever grab me like that again, I'll break more than a couple of your ribs."

Draco fought a smile. "That is a very clumsy way to express one's gratitude."

Ruth snorted. "Look who's talking."

She picked up the masks from the floor and, without much thought, pocketed one of them, leaving the other for further examination.

"I think you have a problem," Draco said, nodding at her cloak pocket. "Muggles have a word for that, don't they?"

She nodded absentmindedly, not taking her eyes off the mask. Her fingers traced the swirling patterns of silver and midnight blue before moving to the delicate lace ornaments that rose elegantly from one side. "Some call it kleptomania. I prefer to call it farsighted resourcefulness."

Draco hummed. "What kind of resource is this?"

Ruth twirled the mask in her hands and held the paper label closer to her eyes. "This little accessory will make you truly unrecognisable," she read aloud. "Let's see."

Before Draco could warn her against putting on unfamiliar objects, she slipped the mask over her face. In an instant, her black curls transformed into luminous strands of blonde hair, and her lips, now painted in the deepest shade of crimson, curled into a sly smirk, changing along with the contours of her jawline.

"How do I look?" she asked in a voice that sounded like someone else entirely.

Lowering his eyebrows back to their neutral position, Draco replied, "It is a good resource, I suppose."

While Ruth searched for a mirror—and more things to steal, no doubt—Draco wandered in the opposite direction, slowly taking in the office around him. This wasn't how he remembered it at all. The last time he had been here, sent by McGonagall for some silly prank, everything had whirred, puffed, and clinked—unquestionably alive. In contrast, "dead" was the best word to describe the empty room now. The shelves, once crowded with curious little instruments and devices, were now lined with dark leather-bound books instead.

Even the portraits on the walls were all deserted, save for one.

Directly behind the headmaster's chair hung a portrait of an old man dozing in an armchair, his face obscured by a mane of long white hair.

"Dumbledore?" Draco blurted out.

The wizard stirred and yawned, slowly waking. Draco immediately cursed himself. A face-to-face interaction with dead Dumbledore was the last thing he needed right now. Alas, the regret was belated: the old man was already turning to face Draco, his painted blue eyes lighting up in recognition.

"A very good morning to you, Draco," the portrait said jovially. "It's rather early, isn't it?"

Draco had a feeling that this entire time the painted man had only been pretending to be asleep.

"Good morning," he muttered.

"I must admit I'm quite surprised to see you here, young man."

Draco didn't answer. He could say the same, though, honestly, he shouldn't have been surprised at all. Where else would they hang his portrait?

The old wizard gave him a kind, mischievous smile—the same smile he'd given him atop the Astronomy Tower as Draco had been preparing to kill him. This smile was now grating on Draco's nerves, even more than it had back then. As he turned away from the portrait, he accidentally bumped into Ruth, who had stepped closer to inspect it. Talking portraits were unheard of in the muggle world.

"And who might you be, young miss?" inquired the late Headmaster.

Startled, she removed her mask and stammered, "I—I'm—"

"Ah, miss Cooper!"

Both Draco and Ruth widened their eyes in shock as they stared at Dumbledore. Hesitantly, they circled around the desk and stepped closer to the portrait.

"How do you know my name?" Ruth demanded.

"One might say it is my job to know things," the painting said in a solemn voice.

She turned to Draco and whispered, "Can portraits read minds too?"

He shook his head, squinting at the man. "You did know her, didn't you? You know why she never got her Hogwarts letter."

"Oh yes. I never sent it."

Draco found himself taken aback by this simple confession. "What—Why?!"

Unhurriedly, Dumbledore removed his half-moon spectacles, wiped them methodically with his sleeve, and then placed them back on his nose with a thoughtful pause.

"Many decades ago, when I was not yet the Headmaster of Hogwarts, I was assigned a task," he began, his voice growing sombre. Draco wanted to groan. "I was to visit a muggle orphanage, find a boy who displayed magical abilities, and bring him with me to Hogwarts. The orphanage was not difficult to find, but what I discovered there truly disturbed me. The children, and even the staff, were all afraid of the boy, and when I met him, I understood why. There was a darkness in him; I could feel it. Yet, I brought him to Hogwarts all the same. That was my mistake."

Get to the point already, thought Draco. Ruth, however, stood motionless beside him, listening intently.

"So?" she pressed.

"The boy's name," said the Headmaster at last, "was Tom Marvolo Riddle. Now, otherwise known as You-Know-Who."

Draco almost gasped but caught himself. This was a lie. Such an outrageous lie.

"The Dark Lord," he growled, "is the descendant of Salazar Slytherin!"

"That he is, that he is," said Dumbledore in a placating tone. "But he is also an orphan, born of lies and love potions, abandoned by his muggle father, deprived of ever knowing his pureblood mother."

Draco gaped at the portrait. Could this be true? Could it be that—of course not! The Dark Lord, a halfblood? The Dark Lord, a son of a muggle? Never had there been a rumour so outlandish, so laughable.

But why would Dumbledore lie? Why would a painting lie?

Did Draco even know anything about the Dark Lord's parentage? Did anyone? He certainly couldn't recall any details about it, except for the connection to Salazar Slytherin.

"Even if what you say is true," he said carefully, quickly adding, "and I have no reason to believe it is—how does any of this relate to Ruth?"

"So impatient, youth..." said the portrait. "I was just getting to that. Years and years after meeting Tom Riddle, years after my appointment as Headmaster of Hogwarts and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, a particularly horrific incident came to my attention. It involved a young muggleborn girl, not yet old enough for Hogwarts. It was a very sad affair, and I had a bad feeling about the girl. This time, though, I did not ignore that feeling. It seemed to me that the girl was better off not knowing about magic or the magical world. So yes, even though her name was written in the Book of Admittance, she herself was not invited to study at Hogwarts."

He paused, looking at the wand Ruth was holding. "I see now, Draco, that you took it upon yourself to remedy that. Maybe it's a good thing. I could have been mistaken after all. Only time will tell."

Ruth's face grew paler and more withdrawn with each word spoken by the painting. All while Draco felt anger and indignation seep from the deepest, darkest alcoves of his soul, rising steadily in his chest.

"You! You despicable old hypocrite—" he hissed, pointing his wand at the portrait, nearly puncturing the painted surface.

"Draco," Ruth said weakly, tugging at his sleeve.

"No!" He brushed off her fingers and turned back to the portrait. "You didn't expel Potter and Weasley when they flew that car for all muggles to see. You didn't expel Potter when he sneaked his way into the Triwizard Tournament. You didn't expel him no matter how many rules he broke! And you're telling me she did something that warranted that? What could she possibly have done? Stolen a lolly?"

Dumbledore said nothing, clasping his old, wrinkled hands. Draco's eyes flickered to Ruth. Her shoulders, clad in a black cloak, were slumped as she stared at a quill on the headmaster's desk, her eyes unseeing.

"I... I..." Her gaze dropped to the floor. Feeling his sore muscles tense, Draco waited for an answer. Seconds passed in silence. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. "I killed my parents, Draco."

He stared at her, unblinkingly.

"You're joking, right?"

She didn't meet his eyes.

"I was eight," she said, leaning her side against the desk. "My parents were going through a divorce. Probably should have done it years ago; they were fighting almost every day. That year, Raymond didn't come back for the summer break. Dad didn't live with us anymore. I barely saw him.

"They'd been promising me a trip to the planetarium for ages, but time and time again, for one reason or another, it kept getting cancelled. But on my eighth birthday, Dad came home and said we were going. I was so happy. But of course, we barely made it to the car when they began squabbling again.

"I don't even remember what it was about this time, only that eventually Mum yelled at him that she couldn't stand being in his presence a second longer. Then she turned back to me, apologised, and told me we would go another time.

"I was enraged. I cried and shouted, but they wouldn't change their minds. So I unbuckled my seatbelt and dashed outside. And when..." She paused and rolled her lips together. They looked particularly chapped and dry in the sparse lighting of the office. "And when I slammed the door shut, the whole car caught fire."

Draco stood frozen, watching Ruth as she took a deep breath before continuing her story. "I couldn't do anything—just stood there. And watched. And listened."

Then she finally looked at him. But her eyes were empty, no tears, no hint of emotion, nothing. Draco didn't know what to think or say.

For one thing, it certainly explained why she spoke so little of her parents while never shutting up about her brother.

"What then?" he asked, just to break the silence.

"Then I went to live with my aunt. Raymond returned from college to stay with us, too. I told them what happened, told them everything. Wasn't sure if they believed me, but then... My aunt—she invited some, uh, researchers; said they would help me. They gave her papers to sign, and Raymond became suspicious of them. While one of those researchers was in the kitchen with my aunt, going over the documents, the other stood at the front door, as if guarding it. Raymond wanted to leave with me, but the researcher wouldn't let us. By that point, I was very scared. So I threw a book at him—not enough to cause any harm, but enough to distract him so Raymond could land a blow and get me out. And, um, that's it. Ever since then, we've been hunted by them."

When Draco still couldn't offer her any response, she added, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I thought that if I did, you'd refuse to help me, that you'd think I deserved it all."

"You didn't deserve any of it," he said quietly.

Because she didn't. It wasn't her fault she wasn't born into a magical family. It wasn't her fault nobody ever taught her how to deal with accidental magic. It wasn't her fault the Ministry didn't bother to explain anything to muggleborns until they turned eleven. The fault lay with the ways of their society, not the eight-year-old girl.

How stubborn and foolish he had been, insisting that muggleborns shouldn't be allowed into the wizarding realm. He could see now that, whether they wanted to or not, whether they knew about it or not, they belonged here—at Hogwarts and beyond. Even though they had been born and raised among muggles, their place was here, alongside pureblood witches and wizards. For their muggle parentage didn't make them any less deserving of their place in the magical world. They were just as smart and just as capable, and not at all filthy or ill-mannered or wild.

But a part of him already knew that, didn't it? After all, it was he who had just shouted at a painting about the unfairness of keeping a muggleborn witch from attending Hogwarts.

He had known that, at some level. However, even with the many layers of meaningless bigotry peeled away, he still refused to acknowledge the simple fact of being wrong—about everything.

Draco Malfoy was a fool.

All this time, he'd kept himself busy, carefully trimming the marble busts of his idols with a sculptor's care, preserving them, clinging to them, and ignoring, ignoring, ignoring the foul smell emanating from within (for they were hollow and hid nothing but rot).

All this time, he'd been making excuses for a cult of psychos, quick to defend their leader's honour even now, after everything. Their leader, who preached blood purity and turned family after family against muggles when he himself was one by half.

All this time, he'd been afraid of the hammer. Afraid of uncertainty. Afraid of letting go.

Well, screw that.

Draco Malfoy was afraid no longer.

He placed his hands on Ruth's shoulders and lowered his head slightly, meeting her gaze.

"You didn't deserve any of it," he repeated, his voice and his hold on her shoulders growing firm.

She gave him a cynical smile.

Draco wanted to shake her and repeat the words until they finally sank in, but the sound of a shifting staircase interrupted them. Without another word, they both dashed across the room and into the wooden closet.

The moment the closet doors closed, the entrance door opened.

After a few seconds of silence, Draco heard Snape's smooth voice again. "You can come out now."

So they did.

With a single glance at Draco, Snape turned, his worn cloak billowing dramatically, and walked to his desk, taking a seat behind it. Draco followed and sat down in the smaller chair opposite him, deliberately avoiding looking at the painting smiling benignly behind Snape's back. Ruth lingered near the entrance, choosing not to follow them.

"You've made quite a mess, Draco," Snape said sternly. Before Draco could interject with a question, he continued, "I've dealt with it."

Draco let out a relieved sigh. "Thank you, Headmaster."

"Don't."

Snape held up a hand, then reached into his pockets and produced Draco's wand—or rather, what was left of it. The bloodied hawthorn wood, snapped in half, clattered against the desk. It looked hopelessly beyond repair.

Draco's heart twinged at the sight.

Clenching his jaw, he grabbed the remains and put them in his pouch. There was no time to grieve—the sun would be rising soon.

"You have a replacement, I take it?" asked Snape.

"Yes."

"Let's make a plan then, shall we?"

But in the silent moments that followed, it wasn't the rescue mission that occupied Draco's mind. Instead, he found himself studying Snape's sleep-deprived features. He looked almost ill, thin and deeply... unhappy. Yes, the Potions professor had never appeared all that happy to begin with, but this was the first time Draco had seen him so miserable.

He should have been more content. Without Bellatrix, he likely assumed her place as the Dark Lord's right hand. The Headmaster of Hogwarts—a man in a position of real power. Why didn't he look content?

Why was he helping Draco? Why did he seem unbothered by the presence of a muggleborn inside his castle, let alone his very office?

And you're sure of his victory?

What a blessing, to be blind to all paths but one.

What did it mean? What did it all mean, coming from a double agent who'd betrayed the side of Light, leaving them crippled and weak?

Draco spared a fleeting gaze in Dumbledore's direction and found him looking down at the hunched form occupying his former seat. Looking down with a sad smile on his face.

It all clicked then.

"You were always on their side," Draco said slowly, marvelling at Snape. "Dumbledore knew. He asked you to do this."

Snape's face betrayed nothing. He didn't say anything, neither confirming nor denying. He didn't have to.

"You don't want me to run," continued Draco. "You want me to stay and fight for the Order. But—but they're losing! Do you really think a single foot soldier can change anything?"

With a quick look around the room, Snape cast Muffliato around the desk, muting the background sounds of flickering torches and Ruth's incessant pacing.

"You underestimate yourself, Draco," he said. "Let me tell you this: you're one of the few people who can turn the tide of war. The only question is—do you want to?"

"Confusion" didn't even begin to describe what Draco felt in that moment. He could turn the tide of war? How? And what if he could?

Draco was tired. Tired of being a pawn in someone else's game, of running and hiding, of turning a deaf ear to pleading women and then quashing his guilt, of quietly hoping and waiting for Potter to save the day. He wanted to play his own game.

"I do," was all he said.

For a long moment, Snape did nothing but stare at him. Draco didn't look away.

At last, Snape's expression shifted slightly, now carrying a hint of curiosity that hadn't been there before, along with a subtle trace of something distantly resembling warmth.

He reached inside his cloak and slowly drew forth an object: a wand. It had a simple design and was made of weathered, dark wood. Its long, smooth shaft ended in a handle formed by two conjoined spheres. It seemed familiar, though Draco couldn't remember where he'd seen it before. He met Snape's gaze again and waited for him to elaborate.

"As I've already told you," Snape spoke, "the Dark Lord has left the Manor. The reason for his departure, however, is kept a secret; it is known to me only. He told me he'd be travelling the world in search of a single magical artifact that he believes will help him defeat Harry Potter once and for all. He knows it through dark rumours and its bloody history. What he doesn't realize is that there's more to it—that it is also an object of ancient tales and myths."

Still as puzzled as before, Draco shifted a bit closer to the edge of his seat.

"I wouldn't have made the connection either, had I not stumbled upon a book hidden in this very office. A children's book. I've destroyed it since, but it did provide me with invaluable insight. The artifact the Dark Lord seeks is known to him as the Deathstick or the Wand of Destiny, but any child raised in the magical world would know it as—"

"The Elder Wand," finished Draco in a whisper.

"Precisely," Snape said with a slight nod of his chin. "Once I figured out it was real, I knew it could only belong to one wizard. A wizard I happened to know intimately."

Involuntarily, Draco held his breath.

"The Dark Lord would travel to the ends of the world to find this magical artifact, all the while it's been here, hidden in plain sight."

Absorbing all this new information and observing the wand in Snape's hands with newfound reverence, Draco still couldn't find an answer to one pressing question.

"But what does this have to do with me?"

"Everything," Snape replied with the most serious expression on his face. "While many believe that to win the Wand's loyalty, one must kill its previous owner, I for one know it isn't true."

Turning the wand in his hands, he continued, "This wand doesn't belong to me. I can feel it."

Draco's mouth went dry. "Who does it belong to then?"

"I have a guess."

With that, Snape extended the wand to Draco, handle first. Barely managing to keep his hands from trembling, Draco accepted it.

The air around him seemed to still. As his fingers closed around the dark wood, a surge of energy coursed through his veins. Immediately, he was struck by a sensation unlike any he had felt before—power, raw power tingling under his fingertips.

A memory flashed in his mind.

The old hand holding out a wand. The Wand.

I shall make it easy for you.

The Elder Wand was real, and it belonged to Draco. The most powerful wand in existence belonged to him, of all people.

And he knew exactly what to do with all this power.

His parents were safe for now. He would come for them later, once he secured a place for them in the future world—a world free of Voldemort.

He wouldn't join the Order. Not now. Not until they were ready to welcome him on his own terms.

"I hope you remember what led to the downfall of the eldest brother," said Snape with a touch of warning in his voice.

"His arrogance and dull-wittedness."

"Never reveal to anyone the nature of this wand. Do not tell a soul. Do not drop even a single hint."

Draco nodded, casting a glance at Ruth. She stood near the door, tapping her foot impatiently. If the Resurrection Stone was also real, he couldn't tell her about it.

"You weren't planning to give me the wand if I chose to run, were you?"

Had Draco given a different answer, Snape might have been inclined to disarm him and take the Elder Wand for himself.

"Draco." The corners of Snape's thin lips lifted slightly. "I knew the boy you once had been. That boy would be the last person I'd give the Elder Wand to. But today, I caught a glimpse of the man you can become. And while I don't deem you worthy yet, I believe you will be someday."