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Chapter 22 — The Mirror and the Mind
The feast ended quicker than most students liked. While everyone else grumbled for more pudding, Malfoy was ready to collapse into bed. Too much had happened in the past few days, and exhaustion pressed on him like a weight. Destroying a Horcrux—well, a "soul tool"—wasn't exactly restful work.
But before he could step out of the Great Hall, a tall black shape blocked his path.
"Mr. Draco. Professor Dumbledore would like a word with you regarding… your activities outside school grounds."
Malfoy looked up into Snape's sallow face. His voice was different from the one he used to torment Gryffindors—almost gentle. Kind, even.
"The headmaster's office is on the eighth floor," Snape added briskly. "You may go on your own."
He had already turned away when another thought seemed to strike him. "The password is butterbeer. Don't forget."
And with that, Snape swept out of the hall in a hurry.
"What's coming will come," Malfoy muttered, feeling suddenly drained.
"You okay?" Pansy nudged his shoulder. She'd obviously overheard.
"Silly girl. What could happen to me?" Malfoy ruffled her hair lightly. "He'll just ask a few questions. The Ministry already punished me."
"Fine," Pansy huffed, cheeks puffing out. She clearly didn't buy it.
"Go sleep. Girls need their beauty rest," Malfoy said, playing his final trump card.
"Oh—right!" Pansy slapped her own cheeks. "I stayed up way too late on Christmas Eve. I have to make up for it!" She dashed toward the Slytherin dormitory, tossing back, "If you get scolded, I'll comfort you tomorrow! Don't worry!"
"…Why do I feel like she's hoping I get lectured?" Malfoy rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
He made his way to the eighth floor. The corridor was empty, save for the stony gargoyle guarding the entrance.
"Butterbeer," he said.
The gargoyle sprang aside. The wall cracked open, revealing the moving spiral staircase. He stepped on; it carried him upward until the griffin-shaped brass knocker loomed before him.
"What a strange sense of aesthetics," Malfoy muttered.
He knocked three times.
"Please come in," Dumbledore's voice called.
Malfoy entered. The circular office was as magnificent as ever—ancient portraits lining the walls, each snoring softly; silver instruments ticking and puffing smoke; and Fawkes perched on a shelf, feathers glowing faintly.
"Sit down, child. Relax," Dumbledore said kindly.
"Headmaster, I'm sorry about… everything." Malfoy bowed deeply.
"Oh, I believe it was merely a misunderstanding." Dumbledore waved a hand, blue eyes glinting behind his spectacles—too sharp to read.
"I called you here because I wish to speak with you," Dumbledore continued. "I fear I've paid so much attention to Harry that I've neglected the finest student of our first year."
"You flatter me, Professor," Malfoy replied, heart tightening.
Please don't care about me. Care about your Harry—he's about to steal the Philosopher's Stone.
Dumbledore hummed in thought, then rose and crossed the room. Malfoy's eyes followed sharply.
"I think you'll find this interesting," Dumbledore murmured.
He whispered a spell. A black cloth flew upward as if alive—and an enormous mirror gleamed beneath it.
Reaching to the ceiling. Gold frame. Clawed feet.
And on top: Erisstraëhruayt Ubikafruayt Angvohs.
The Mirror of Erised, Malfoy concluded instantly.
"Go on. Tell me what you see," Dumbledore said gently.
"Yes, Professor."
The mirror showed one's deepest, most desperate desire. Harry saw his family. Ron, a future of trophies and glory.
So what would he see?
What would Voldemort see? Probably a godlike version of himself. Am I the same?
Malfoy stepped forward, slowly, as though walking through mud.
He closed his eyes. Then opened them.
"…Hah."
An awkward laugh slipped out.
"What do you see, child?"
Dumbledore's voice floated toward him—soft, soothing, coaxing an answer from his throat. Malfoy turned. Those bright blue eyes were fixed on him, piercing, probing.
"I see…" The words nearly spilled out before he felt his mind pull—
His vision tightened. Something pushed at the edges of his thoughts.
Legilimency?
Malfoy's eyes hardened instantly.
His fists clenched.
My mind is not a book for you to read.
He slammed his mental doors shut, focusing with sharp precision. Walls rose. Fog thickened. And then—he projected a scene. Something half-real, half-illusion, but powerful enough to burn.
Dumbledore staggered.
He coughed violently, beard trembling, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. He had clearly not expected the image Malfoy forced into the surface of his mind.
"Professor," Malfoy said coldly, "invading a student's mind is a poor habit."
"You've learned Occlumency," Dumbledore murmured, embarrassed as he adjusted his glasses.
"Otherwise, my secret would be out," Malfoy snapped.
He could understand Dumbledore's motive—the wizarding world wouldn't survive a second Voldemort. Nipping potential threats early made sense.
Understanding, however, did not mean forgiving. Not when his greatest secret was on the line.
"You remind me of someone," Dumbledore said quietly. "In fact… you surpass him."
Dumbledore slumped into his chair, looking suddenly older.
"I am not him," Malfoy said softly. "I have love."
He turned to leave.
"What was that image?" Dumbledore called after him.
"A dream," Malfoy replied.
"He wouldn't—"
"Who knows," Malfoy cut him off. "Maybe the person he hates most isn't the Dark Lord… but you."
He slammed the door behind him. The sound echoed like thunder. Even Fawkes stirred, sensing the disturbance, and began to sing.
Phoenix song strengthened the pure.
It stripped fear from the corrupt.
Only after a long while did Dumbledore's shoulders relax. His expression remained troubled, thoughtful, softened only by the faintest smile.
"I hope so," he whispered.
---
Gryffindor Tower was lively that night—students chattering about holiday stories.
"Hermione, you missed it!" Ron said excitedly. "Harry and I found a magic mirror. It's incredible!"
"It really is," Harry nodded. "I saw my parents standing right in front of me."
"I saw myself as Head Boy, with both the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup!" Ron added proudly.
"Ron, it's just an illusion," Hermione said.
"I know, but it's still brilliant, isn't it?"
"People can't live in dreams. You can't forget real life," Hermione said.
"Dumbledore said the same thing," Harry agreed. "It won't come true for me… but your dream might, Ron, if you work hard."
"Let him learn to finish homework first," Hermione sighed, then stood up to leave, clearly not in the mood.
"Seriously? Can't she say anything nice?" Ron groaned.
"Honestly, Ron… she has a point," Harry said.
Ron clutched his forehead. "Fine. I'll try harder."
Hermione was inches from the dormitory stairs when a soft voice called—
"Hermione!"
"Neville? What's wrong?" she asked, surprised.
"I heard what you said earlier," Neville mumbled. "I think you're right."
"What did I say?" Hermione blinked.
"About the Great Hall… You were talking about Malfoy." Neville lowered his voice. "I believe he wouldn't do that."
"How do you know?" Hermione's tone sharpened. "Do you trust him that much?"
"He helped me."
"You're a pure-blood."
"But even for a pure-blood, I'm barely stronger than a Muggle…" Neville swallowed. "He helped me find Trevor. And he saved the crystal ball. He's… he's not a bad person."
Neville looked at her earnestly. "You think so too, right? Malfoy is a good person."
"I'll explain it to Harry and Ron when I can," Neville said quietly but firmly. He clenched his fist and walked away.
Hermione stood frozen.
"A good person…?" she whispered.
"Am I really less brave than Neville?"
Her chest tightened with mixed emotions—admiration for Neville, and a sharp sting of guilt.
Later, in her room, Hermione sat at her desk. Under the warm glow of the lantern, she touched the small piece of parchment.
Just a few lines.
A single spell.
Yet she stared at it as if it were a treasure.
Tonight… she wasn't going to sleep early.
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