Draco Malfoy.

What an interesting child.

When Albus Dumbledore had first laid eyes on Draco Malfoy, all those years ago, the boy had been every bit as he had expected—a mirror image of the generations before him. Arrogant, entitled, with a smirk full of misplaced pride as the Sorting Hat barely touched his head before declaring Slytherin!

Dumbledore had dismissed him then, as he had dismissed Lucius and Abraxas before him. They were all the same: rich, spoiled, and steeped in the Dark Arts before they even had their first wands. Little boys who thought themselves men before their time, armed with poisonous secrets and deadly ambitions, convinced that wealth and power made them untouchable. Draco was no different. The only redeeming quality he seemed to possess was that, unlike his father and grandfather, he was neither as skilled nor as resolute.

That, at least, had been a small blessing.

Draco had always struck Dumbledore as a child who would follow in his family's footsteps out of duty rather than conviction. He lacked the spine to be truly dangerous, and for a long time, Dumbledore had believed that if Draco ever became involved in the war, it would be as a silent backer rather than an active combatant. A pawn rather than a player. Someone he could handle with a small show of power or a few poison-laced words.

And then Tom got involved, as he always did, and changed the game entirely.

When Draco returned from his summer vacation before his sixth year, Dumbledore noticed the changes immediately.

The new scar that marred his face.

The way he flinched at every sudden shadow.

How he stiffened whenever the Dark Lord was mentioned, his hands curling into fists as if bracing himself for a blow.

Dumbledore had observed many children over the years, but fear—true, deep, marrow-rotting fear—was unmistakable.

He had watched Draco through the enchanted window of his office, the same window that allowed him to observe the castle in ways even Severus Snape did not realize. The Potions Master likely assumed that Dumbledore only used it on rare occasions—perhaps when Sirius Black had been loose in the castle, or when he needed to keep an eye on Harry Potter during the Triwizard Tournament.

But the truth was, Dumbledore spent at least an hour every day watching the students of Hogwarts.

Not just Harry, not just the troublemakers, but all of them.

He took careful notes on each child:

Which ones were likely to follow the Ministry's lead?

Which ones were loyal to the old ways—the pureblood ways?

Which ones would eventually become his allies?

And which ones could be turned before they became enemies?

With the combination of the scrying window and the portraits that were loyal to the Headmaster, ergo, him, there wasn't much Albus didn't know about his students.

He watched the Slytherins and the purebloods in the other Houses—because not all Death Eaters came from Slytherin.

Hufflepuffs could be manipulated by their families, their loyalty twisted into fanaticism.

Ravenclaws were often tempted by knowledge—by the secrets Tom Riddle could offer them.

Even Gryffindors were not exempt. Some would fight for bloodlust, others for power. A few would even do it just to be infamous.

No House was truly free of darkness. Yes, Slytherin produced the most, but the others contributed their fair share as well.

Some would call his methods unethical.

Spying on children. Marking them as potential enemies. Deciding whether or not to manipulate certain students into becoming soldiers in his war.

But all Albus Dumbledore had to do was point to Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters, and the conversation would end right there. He had not watched and observed them when they had been under his purview, and now look at what they had become.

Draco Malfoy, though…

Dumbledore had first assumed that Draco was nothing more than another frightened boy, a child whose world had been upended by the horror of war. And in a way, he had been right. He had believed that it would take very little to turn Draco against Voldemort. That all he needed was an outstretched hand and a carefully placed offer.

But Draco Malfoy had surprised him.

Instead of cowering in the face of adversity, the boy had adapted. Not just adapted—he had thrived.

It had begun with his use of Felix Felicis, a potion so insidious in its efficacy that even the most meticulously laid plans could crumble beneath its influence. And Draco, shrewd as he was, had used it for a purpose no Malfoy before him would have ever considered: befriending Harry Potter and his inner circle. It was a calculated move, subtle and effective, executed with the kind of quiet precision that suggested far more patience and foresight than Dumbledore had given him credit for.

For weeks, he had observed, scrutinized the interactions between Draco and the Trio, waiting for the inevitable fallout, for the deception to unravel. But it hadn't. If anything, Draco had woven himself into their dynamic, not as an outsider looking to exploit, but as an indispensable ally. And more curiously, rather than undermining their efforts, Draco had helped them advance.

Then there was the matter of his late-night excursions.

Dumbledore had long been aware that Draco frequented the Room of Requirement, slipping from the safety of his dormitory under the cover of darkness. At first, he suspected a secretive mission on Voldemort's behalf—perhaps some attempt to finish what Tom himself had once started within the castle's walls. But no. Draco had no interest in fighting for Voldemort—only creating things to aid his downfall. He was building and crafting enchanted objects that bore his unique ingenuity. Forging his own path in ways no Malfoy before him had ever dared.

And Merlin, the boy was inventive.

His Animagus Rings, in particular, were a stroke of brilliance. A deceptively simple yet effective shortcut around the arduous Animagus ritual. Of course, the transformation was not as seamless as the traditional method—true Animagi could shift at will, instinctively embracing the duality of human and beast. But Draco's rings allowed for selection, choosing the creature best suited for any given scenario. And, most notably, they bypassed the month long ritual entirely, a feat even Albus himself had attempted—and failed—three times. Thinking about how three children had succeeded where he had not was a mystery that still made him chuckle.

Then came his alliances.

Draco had secured a profitable partnership with the Weasley twins—two of the most resourceful young minds Hogwarts had produced in centuries. The very notion was baffling; A Malfoy in business with Weasleys? And yet, it made perfect sense. If Draco had even an ounce of Abraxas' hunger for expansion—and the well-documented Malfoy greed—he would not stop at being a silent partner. No, he would either buy them out of their own store or establish an empire of his own.

And then, of course, there was Pansy Parkinson.

Dumbledore had never considered her a key player in this war. She had seemed content to exist within the shadows of stronger men, an insufferable sycophant whose greatest ambition had been to bask in the reflected glory of her peers. But Draco had reshaped her—molded her into something sharper, more purposeful. She was no longer a lackey. She was a lieutenant. True, she had only made middling moves to show her support of Draco, and had not really shaken any foundations. But the fact that he had taken what would have been a liability and made it an asset was certainly intriguing. And if Draco could convert someone like Parkinson, what else was he capable of?

Perhaps most surprising of all, however, was Severus Snape.

That, of course, was not entirely unexpected. As powerful as Severus was, he had always been a man who followed. He had followed Lily. He had followed Voldemort. He had followed Albus. And now, it seemed, he was beginning to follow Draco.

A sad but unavoidable truth—Severus Snape had never truly been a leader; he didn't have the stomach for it. For all his cunning, all his power, he had always sought to stand in the shadow of men he could challenge, but never surpass. If Draco Malfoy could command his loyalty, even in part, it meant one thing:

Draco Malfoy was, in a way, becoming a juggernaut much like he and Tom were.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Albus Dumbledore was intrigued. For years, it had been Harry and his friends who continually surprised him, defying expectations, shattering limitations, and rewriting the rules of this shadow war. But now—now, Draco Malfoy had stepped onto the board, no longer a passive bystander, but an active participant.

And that, in itself, was dangerous.

If Severus had noticed this shift, then it meant Draco was becoming a force to be reckoned with.

Of course, the unique relationship they shared—the godson and his godfather, the reluctant mentor and his reckless ward—allowed Severus something he could never do with Dumbledore.

Yell.

"-You absolute, reckless, insufferable idiot!" Severus seethed, his voice a sharp hiss, his black robes billowing as he paced in front of Draco like a furious storm. "I told you—I told you—to stop with this madness! This insane obsession with becoming some kind of human chimera! But could you listen? Could you stop? No! Now the Dark Lord expects results from you for this utterly impossible task! Do you even have the faintest idea where to start?!"

Draco, to his credit, had the grace to squirm in his seat, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. Whether that discomfort was genuine or merely a well-practiced act, Dumbledore couldn't quite say—but at the very least, it allowed Severus to vent in a way he rarely, if ever, could.

How many times had Severus watched Dumbledore or Voldemort make reckless, catastrophic decisions—choices that would alter the course of lives, if not history itself—but been forced to bite his tongue? How many times had he had to swallow his words, suffocate his instincts, obey in silence because defiance was simply not an option?

This must have been cathartic for him.

But it had been ten minutes of unrelenting fury now, and while Dumbledore appreciated the lecture's educational value, he did have other matters to attend to.

Severus was still fuming. "You could have died, Draco! Died! Do you even comprehend that? And the only reason you didn't is because you drank Felix Felicis like it was water—a potion, might I remind you, that you can no longer take! You have already torn a hole in your heart, Malfoy! A hole! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to heal a magic-induced injury of that nature? It would take months in St. Mungoes to correct—months that you do not have! Months that I do not have!"

Draco's mouth tightened. His fingers curled slightly into his lap. A flicker of defiance, barely restrained. He was growing tired of this.

That was enough.

Dumbledore finally interjected, his voice calm but firm.

"Severus," he said gently, "I believe the boy understands the gravity of his actions."

Severus whirled on him, eyes blazing.

Dumbledore only smiled serenely. "Though, I must say—this fatherly side of you is quite interesting to witness. One might even say endearing."

Severus stiffened as though hexed.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he pressed on, a picture of innocent curiosity. "I do wonder, why did you never consider childcare before I offered you this job?"

There was a visible twitch in Severus's left eye.

His answer came in the form of a sharp glare, an impressive snarl, and two red circles of mortification blooming on his pale cheeks.

But at the very least—the rant was over.

Dumbledore, ever composed, turned his attention back to Draco. "Well, young Draco, I trust you had a productive Christmas?" he asked, his tone light but edged with curiosity.

Draco nodded, his expression unreadable. "It was… enlightening, to say the least," he said slowly. "I've confirmed what I suspected—my father cannot be turned. And my mother… she won't leave him. She supports me, but she won't betray him. She won't betray me either. But if you're asking if she'll abandon my father and switch sides? That won't happen."

Severus stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "Narcissa knows?" he asked, sounding genuinely startled.

Draco gave him a flat look. "Of course she does," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "What son hides things from his mother?"

There was a beat of silence. Severus' lips thinned ever so slightly.

"...Sometimes, Draco," Severus murmured, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, "mothers cannot bear their sons' burdens. And so, it falls to the son to protect her from his own choices."

Huh. An introspective moment from Severus Snape, of all people.

Dumbledore did not comment, but he found it fascinating how the sentiment flowed out so naturally in front of Draco. A rare moment of vulnerability from a man who had spent decades excising all traces of his past.

The ghost of a regret never voiced aloud.

And yet, Draco merely inclined his head. "My mother is strong," he said after a pause. "She can handle herself." Then, as if shaking off the moment, he straightened. "But I didn't come here to talk about her. I have information for you."

Draco launched into his report, and the contents were worrying

The goblins—a faction that was plotting to overthrow the current ruling line had decided to throw their lot in with Voldemort. They were led by Bragbrock, a goblin Albus had heard of before. It was goblins like Bragbrok who had led the Goblin Nation into their many wars against Wizardkind.
The vampires—a French clan called Les Enfants de l'Ombre had been promised the chance to hunt Muggles freely in the streets of Britain. An action that showed blatant disregard of the Statute, and lent credence to Draco's earlier claims of Tom wanting to destroy the Statute to take over Britain.
The werewolves—led by the enigmatic Edward, a figure mentioned by Remus before. He represented a significant portion of the werewolves that were neutral; not tied to Greyback, but no great love for wizarding society. He was surprised to hear that many of the werewolves didsdained both him and Remus. He knew that wizarding children who were bitten young did not get the chance to go to Hogwarts, but Remus was supposed to be the bridge between the two worlds. How had he failed so utterly?

An imminent break out from Azkaban. This was something he'd known was going to happen, ever since Tom came back. Bellatrix alone was worth the effort, let alone people with extensive knowledge on the Ministry such as Rookwood, or juggernauts like Rowle and Dolohov. However, Draco had given him a potential date: January 13th. That was more than enough time to prepare.

A return of the Taboo was in the works—the true reason why people had been afraid to speak Voldemort's name in the last war. In the final month of the war, before Tom had come to face Harry, he had coursed his name, allowing him to find people who said the name Voldemort. But apparently, the new version of the Taboo could break down wards and alert other people to the location of those who spoke Voldemorts name. Now he was starting to regret encouraging people to speak his name, because Harry was definitely going to say it more than once.

And, surprisingly enough, the Squibs had decided to join forces with Voldemort of all people.

Severus let out a sharp, derisive snort at that last bit. "Oh dear," he drawled. "The magicless plebs are rising against us. Whatever shall we do?"

"Severus."

Dumbledore's voice was mild, but firm. Severus rolled his eyes but begrudgingly held his tongue.

Dumbledore exhaled softly, stroking his beard in thought. "This is… disheartening," he admitted. "I had hoped that the laws I worked so hard to pass—for werewolves, for Squibs—would be enough to stay their hand. But if they choose to willingly join Voldemort in his return to power, there will be nothing I can do to protect them. They will be branded traitors and hunted en masse. Not just in Britain, but across the wizarding world.

"A return to the bad old days."

His fingers tapped lightly against the arm of his chair. "As for the vampires… they have never been allies of ours. They have always believed themselves above us—viewing wizards as apes wielding sticks. I doubt that has changed.

"The goblins, however…" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with quiet calculation. "They are dangerous. But a small faction is not beyond our ability to handle."

Draco, to his credit, did not immediately agree.

"We don't need to fight them," he said, surprising them both. "They all have something they want. Something we can provide without a single drop of blood being spilled."

Dumbledore raised a brow, intrigued. "And how, pray tell, would you accomplish that?"

"The vampires first." Draco leaned forward, eyes glinting. "They don't actually care about hunting in the streets. They just want fresh, easily accessible blood that isn't infused with candies and sweets like the ones Honeydukes sells. That's the real issue."

Severus scoffed. "And what would you propose?"

Draco grinned. "A Wizarding Blood Bank."

Oh?

"The Muggle world prohibits the sale of human blood," Draco continued, "but the wizarding world has no such laws. We start a wizarding blood bank. It's so simple, I'm honestly shocked no one's done it before." His voice picked up momentum as he spoke.

"There are plenty of spells—even enchanted blades—that induce blood loss at a controlled rate. We collect one pint per donor, give them a Blood-Replenishing Potion, and pay them two or three Galleons before sending them on their way.

"We sell the fresh, untainted blood to vampires at five Galleons a pint. We make a profit, and we avoid a war."

Dumbledore saw Severus open his mouth to immediately tear the idea apart, but he raised a hand, stopping him.

It was a fascinating proposition.

Vampires viewed wizarding blood as a delicacy—a luxury item, something rich with magic that they prized above all else.

And wizarding society?

It was not nearly as wealthy as it liked to pretend. The upper echelons would condemn this, certainly, but the lower classes—?

They would line up in droves.

A fascinating and greedy plan.

"And the others?" Dumbledore finally asked. "How would you sway them?"

Draco smirked. "The goblins are even easier. We propose a collaboration. Something that gives them exactly what they want—without a war."

Dumbledore frowned slightly. "And what, precisely, do you think the goblins want?"

"Goblin-wrought weapons, enchanted by wizard magic."

Severus let out a sharp laugh. "You mean to suggest that wizards hand over their most sacred enchantments to goblins? Give them that kind of power?" His lips curled. "There is a reason we never gave them wands, Draco. And it is not because we're generous."

Draco rolled his eyes. "See, this is the problem with you old people," he said, crossing his arms.

Severus bristled.

"This is a better alternative than them taking wands by force," Draco continued. "We enchant their weapons, yes. But we do it on our terms. We control the process. Goblins aren't stupid. They'll spend years trying to reverse engineer our enchantments—and no matter how good they get, they will never surpass the ease and power of wandwork.

"This keeps them in check. It gives them a taste of what they want—but we decide how far it goes. I'm not saying go crazy and enchant their stuff with Fiendfyre or Sectumsempra. Simple spells like Glacius, Ventus and even the Disillusionment Charm would be something that'd have them going wild, and we have easy counters to each one. And the best part?

"It turns them from generational enemies into business partners."

Dumbledore leaned back, studying Draco carefully.

Bragbrok.

That was a name he had not heard in some time.

A shrewd, vicious goblin. One of the few who might be willing to listen to wizards if they could get him a voice in the Goblin Nation.

If Draco could secure a deal with him, they wouldn't just gain an ally.

They would gain a foothold inside the Goblin Nation itself.

Something not even the Ministry had managed to achieve.

Albus Dumbledore, for the first time in a very long time, smirked.

Draco Malfoy was truly playing a game no Malfoy had ever played before.

And it seemed he was winning.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, watching the young man with genuine interest.

This boy was intriguing. His ideas—his strategies—even more so.

He had anticipated defection, perhaps even rebellion from Draco. But what he hadn't expected was ingenuity.

This was not a Malfoy content with simply breaking away from his father's influence.

This was a Malfoy who was building something entirely new.

Dumbledore's voice was calm, but his mind raced.

"And what of the Squibs and werewolves?" he prompted.

Draco leaned forward, eager, confident, and unashamedly ambitious.

"I'm working on something for the Squibs," he said. "An idea that might change things for them permanently."

Dumbledore raised a brow, intrigued.

"I'm thinking of establishing a business. An arms dealership, one that sells directly to the Ministry and to the public. A civilian and military line of enchanted weapons and magical equipment."

Severus scoffed. "Selling military-grade weaponry to civilians? That's madness."

Draco smirked. "I won't be handing out wands, Severus." He waved a dismissive hand. "The Aurors will get the highest-grade enchantments—combat-ready weapons. Civilians, on the other hand, will have access to weaker, tamer versions that focus on self-defense."

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. "And where do the Squibs fit into this vision of yours?"

Draco's smirk widened.

"I checked the research, and it turns out Squibs can wield enchanted items just as well as any wizard. Meaning—" he tapped his temple, "—that if I sell weapons designed specifically for them, they could have a fighting chance against wizards and magical creatures alike."

Dumbledore remained silent, letting the boy continue.

"I came up with something a while ago," Draco continued. "Animagus Rings."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "That's impossible."

Draco grinned. "Nothing's impossible, Professor. You're thinking of the Animagus ritual, which takes months of effort and self-mastery to achieve. My rings circumvent that entire process."

The Potion Master frowned, his curiosity piqued. "And how exactly do they work?"

Draco shook his head. "Trade secret. But they're foolproof. You get to pick what animal you turn into— for a fee, of course—and you don't have to put a mandrake leaf in your mouth and have hallucinations and the runs for a month.. The only drawback is that the transformation isn't fluid—the user cannot switch back and forth at will like a real Animagus. Once activated, the ring locks them into the chosen form until the time is up, and the enchantment needs to rest for a period of five minutes before it can be used again."

Dumbledore's fingers drummed against his desk.

A crude imitation, but no less revolutionary.

Draco continued, his voice smooth, self-assured.

"Squibs want power, Headmaster. They want to matter. If I give them that, even at a discounted price, they'll remember who gave them their first taste of magic, who gave them the ability, the right to challenge those who wish to bring them down. And the loyalty that it will produce? That's priceless."

Severus gave a skeptical snort. "You're playing a dangerous game, Draco. Giving Squibs combat capability is a decision that will shake the very foundations of our world. People have thought them less than Muggles for generations; the Ministry definitely won't like it."

Draco shrugged. "Then let the foundations shake. Either we probabaly control how Squibs integrate into wizarding society, or the Dark Lord recruits them in droves out of sheer resentment. I'd rather have them fighting for us than against us."

Dumbledore's lips twitched in amusement. It was fascinating to watch, really; the cunning of the Malfoy's directed toward reform rather than supremacy.

"And what of the werewolves?"

Draco hesitated. For the first time in this conversation, his confidence wavered.

"The werewolves…" He exhaled. "That's trickier. Other than making Wolfsbane more affordable, I'm not sure what to do with them yet."

A pause. Then—

"I do know that there's a werewolf clan in the Forbidden Forest. One made entirely of the offspring of two werewolves—meaning they were born as wolves. Not turned."

Dumbledore's brows lifted.

"I don't know how, or even if, I can work with them. But something tells me that the answer to integrating werewolves into our society lies with them."

Silence stretched across the room.

Dumbledore studied him, the firelight flickering in his half-moon glasses. His gaze wasn't probing, but thoughtful, as if weighing something unseen.

Then, after a long moment—

"What is it that you truly want, young Draco?" the old man asked, his voice quiet but pressing.

Draco looked up sharply.

"All these plans, these businesses," Dumbledore continued. "They are clever, ambitious—profitable. They will make you rich, no doubt, but you already have the wealth of several generations behind you. So why? Why do you concern yourself so much with money, when you have never wanted for it before?"

For the first time, Draco hesitated.

Then he sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He suddenly looked… tired. As if the weight of everything he was juggling had finally settled onto his shoulders at once.

"There's no way my father is going to keep me as his heir once the truth comes out," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I will be disowned. I'm not naïve enough to think otherwise."

Severus inhaled sharply, but Draco ignored him.

"And that means," Draco continued, "I won't have access to the Malfoy fortune. I won't have access to the investments, the estates, the family vaults—nothing. And that's going to cripple me. Everything I want to build, everything I want to do, will be impossible without resources."

Dumbledore gave a small nod, as if he'd expected that answer. But Draco wasn't finished.

"These businesses? They're not just for profit. Yes, I want to make money. A lot of money. But I also want to make things that actually help people. I want to sell weapons to the Ministry because they're desperately unprepared for the war ahead. I want to arm civilians with defenses because no one else will."

His jaw tightened, and his grey eyes burned with conviction.

"There's a saying in the Muggle world: If you're good at something, don't do it for free."

Severus let out an exasperated scoff, but Draco kept going.

"Why should I punish myself for being useful? Why should I sacrifice everything while I help people? Is it so bad to want to enjoy the fruits of my labor?" He gestured vaguely, as if trying to explain something only he could see. "Yeah, I'm greedy. I like nice things. I like silk robes and expensive wine. I like the lifestyle I grew up with. So what? I'm not stealing from people. I'm not hurting anyone. I'm making them safer. Giving them a chance to survive."

He exhaled, then—his voice dropping, his tone colder, sharper.

"And as for what I really want?"

The air in the room shifted.

His fingers curled into fists.

"I want to become a titan. A household name. A person who is recognized no matter where I go."

His voice was steady, but the weight of his ambition was crushing.

"There are so many ideas in my head that sometimes it feels like I'm going to pop." His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "But I refuse to take the easy route."

"I am actively going against the strongest Dark Sorcerer Britain has seen in a hundred years. I am helping the disenfranchised groups of wizarding society—because no one else will."

His eyes burned.

"I want their loyalty. I want them to answer to me. I want them to be grateful. But I'm willing to earn it. To fight and claw my way to becoming the titan I want to be."

Silence.

Long and heavy.

Then—Dumbledore smiled.

A slow, knowing smile.

"It is truly refreshing," he murmured, his blue eyes twinkling, "when a Slytherin speaks plainly."

He chuckled, almost to himself.

"No riddles. No half-truths. No smoke and mirrors to hide behind. Just plain intent."

He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his lap.

"I quite like that."

Draco studied him cautiously, as if waiting for some hidden barb, some well-placed rebuke. When none came, he exhaled lightly, inclining his head.

"Thank you, sir."

Dumbledore nodded, but his expression turned thoughtful. "Before I let you go about your day, I have one last question."

Draco straightened, watching him warily.

"This potion," Dumbledore continued. "The one that has alarmed Professor Snape and intrigued my former student in equal measure. Tell me—what exactly is the final product you wish to create?"

Draco's tongue darted out, wetting his lips—a nervous habit. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering.

"The potion—Chimera's Grace—if it works, should allow a wizard to infuse themselves with the magical properties of any magical creature."

He waited for the inevitable reaction.

Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, but he remained silent, gesturing for him to continue.

Draco took that as permission.

"It consists of two parts," he explained. "A potion—which I'm still refining—and a ritual that I have a vague idea for."

Snape scoffed softly. "What are the chances of mutation?" he asked, arms crossing over his chest. "You do realize that tampering with magical creature essence has resulted in some of the most grotesque abominations our world has ever seen?"

"Yeah, I figured." Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. "That's actually one of the problems I've been working on—stabilization. Over the break, I figured out a major part of the puzzle. Ratios."

Snape gave him a wary look. "And how, pray tell, did you come to this conclusion?"

"Hagrid and Fleur Delacour helped me."

Dumbledore's lips twitched. Snape looked like Draco had just confessed to learning Arithmancy from a blast-ended skrewt.

"Are you quite sure," Snape said, his tone dripping with disbelief, "that you wish to take advice from Hagrid on a matter of this delicacy? And wasn't Delacour the Beauxbatons champion? How did she factor into this?"

"No, no, not like that," Draco clarified quickly, shaking his head. "I didn't go to them for potion-making advice. But they both helped me figure out how to make the mutation stable."

Snape didn't look much less appalled.

"Hagrid is half-giant, right?" Draco continued. "His mother was a giant, his father was a wizard, and he ended up with a rough fifty-fifty split of their traits." Draco grimaced slightly. "Which, at first, was what I was aiming for—fifty percent human, fifty percent magical creature." He exhaled. "But if I followed that ratio, I'd probably end up looking somewhat like Hagrid."

Snape did not look reassured.

"But Fleur," Draco pressed on, "is a quarter Veela. Her mother was half-Veela, and she came out looking almost entirely human—but she still has the Veela's Allure. That's the balance I need. Three-quarters human, one-quarter magical creature."

He sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

"This whole thing is bloody difficult."

Dumbledore chuckled, eyes twinkling. "The greatest feats of magic often are."

"But I know that if I crack this," Draco said, lifting his gaze, "I'll have a chance. A real chance."

A pause.

A heavy, charged pause.

Then, he said it:

"Even the Dark Lord himself admitted that a potion like this was beyond his knowledge."

The words hung in the air.

Dumbledore, outwardly, remained as placid as ever.

But Severus Snape noticed how for just a second, Albus went utterly still.

A potion beyond his knowledge.

A power he knows not.

No.

No, it couldn't be that easy.

The answer to his hopes and prayers could not be sitting in front of him, in the hands of a Malfoy, of all people.

It could not be that simple.

But…but if it was. If there was even a five percent chance that this was it…

Dumbledore inhaled deeply, settling his hands on his desk as he regarded the young Malfoy before him.

"I have a proposition for you, Mr. Malfoy," he said, his voice slow and deliberate.

Draco tensed, his silver eyes sharpening in an instant.

"I will lend you my assistance in finishing this potion. Once a week, on a night I select, you will come to my office, and together, we will decipher its final formula."

The boy's eyes widened, but Dumbledore was not finished.

"To ensure the security of your creation, I am perfectly willing to swear an Unbreakable Vow—binding me to secrecy and ensuring I will never betray your work." He let that sink in before continuing, "And, should you wish for further precautions, I will Obliviate myself of the formula's specifics once we have completed it."

Severus jerked forward in his seat.

"Headmaster—!"

Dumbledore held up a hand, stopping the brewing storm of Snape's protest before it could begin.

"In addition to this," he continued smoothly, "I will give you your first business deal. Not only will I be your first customer, ordering twenty of your Animagus Rings, but I will also pay top Galleon for twenty sets of your finest military-grade enchanted weaponry—for the members of my Order."

Draco choked.

"Wait, hold on—"

Dumbledore pressed on, undeterred.

"I will also entrust you with five spells of human-to-magical-beast transfiguration—ancient magic, long forgotten, and no longer taught in schools. You may do with these as you see fit."

Draco was staring at him now, a strange mix of shock and hunger flickering across his face.

"And in return," Dumbledore finished, "I ask for one free dose of Chimera's Grace—for a person of my choosing. With the essence of any magical creature that I select."

Silence.

Draco sat frozen, lips slightly parted, his mind clearly racing through the implications.

Across from him, Severus Snape looked as though he were about to have an aneurysm.

"Albus, this is utterly inappropriate—"

"Sold."

Draco's voice was faint, but there was no hesitation.

Severus whipped toward him, aghast.

Dumbledore smiled.

He did not care about Severus' objections.

Not this time.

Because if there was even a chance—a single, fragile chance—that this potion could give Harry the edge he needed to win this war, then Albus Dumbledore would ensure that Draco Malfoy completed it and that it was safe.

Not just for the war.

Not just for the prophecy.

But for Harry himself.

That Harry could not only defeat Voldemort—but survive.

That, after everything Albus had put him through—after eleven years of suffering, neglect, and sacrifice—Harry could finally have a real chance at something beyond battlefields and destiny. A chance at a future of his own making.

For years, Dumbledore had told himself it was for the greater good. That every hardship, every burden placed upon that boy's shoulders, was necessary. But this? This was something he could give Harry—not take from him.

That, if nothing else, was a debt Albus Dumbledore owed him.

His gaze flickered to Fawkes, perched high upon his golden stand, watching with silent, almost knowing intensity. The phoenix was still and regal, his radiant feathers catching the dim candlelight, his piercing golden eyes locked onto them all.

A soft smile curled at Dumbledore's lips.

Because he already knew the perfect magical creature.

The Boy-Who-Lived.

And the creature that always returned from its own ashes.

Was there a more poetic pairing in all the world?