---
Chapter 27
Some time before
"Stun on impact!"
"Summon-key!"
"Shadowless Blade—Bonebreaker!"
"Petrificus!"
Well before Quirrell or the Golden Trio reached the last chamber, Malfoy had already arrived. He stepped into the final room, approached the Mirror of Erised, and stood before it quietly.
"Only someone who doesn't want the Philosopher's Stone can receive it." Malfoy chuckled. He reached into his right pocket—producing a gleaming red stone. "Sorry, I'm not short on money. And I don't care for immortality with… side effects." He flicked the Stone between his fingers, quickly bored, and slipped it away again. "As for you, Voldemort… you're about to witness how deep this illusion runs. The Mirror and the Lifestone will show the same image. You'll love that."
His voice softened. He drew another stone from his left pocket.
"This little thing really does burn," he murmured, smiling faintly.
The Lifestone he'd collected in the Gaunt mansion.
"Seeing your own 'resurrection' ought to feel like quite an accomplishment, hm? Voldemort—don't say I never did anything for you." With a strange, almost casual motion, he pressed the second stone toward the Mirror's surface.
If the Mirror could grant the Philosopher's Stone to someone who did not desire it, it could just as easily hand over the Lifestone to someone who did not want that. Voldemort and Quirrell had both been longing for it.
"A fall from heaven straight into hell must be… unpleasant." By the time he finished speaking, Malfoy was already back in his dormitory, pretending to study.
Voldemort held the Lifestone tightly. For a short, intoxicating moment, he basked in the illusion—but the stone shattered almost immediately. The three Hallows could survive nearly anything, but once actively wielded, their endurance dwindled.
Even the greatest Dark Lord had limits to his resistance against illusion magic. Normally, he would have been able to break free after several seconds. But the Lifestone's illusion caught him completely. Less than three seconds later, it splintered in Voldemort's hand.
The moment he understood he'd been deceived, Voldemort erupted in fury.
The Lifestone's power rattled even his spirit. He felt his remaining magic drain away—and tug Quirrell down with it.
"Quirrell! Didn't you tell me the Philosopher's Stone was here?" Voldemort's voice, high and cold, sliced through the air. His regained calm only made him more terrifying.
"Master, I—I don't know! The stone must be on Potter—once I kill him, I'll find it!" Quirrell cried, scrambling to redeem himself. Panicking, and with his magic crippled, he lunged at Harry physically—clumsy, desperate.
Harry was already unconscious. Quirrell seized his throat—
And shrieked as searing agony flashed through his hand.
"Master! I can't touch him—my hand—my hand!" His palm burned red, as if pressed to a furnace.
"Tom. So you really have returned," an ancient voice echoed through the chamber.
Voldemort fell silent immediately.
"No, Master—don't leave me! I can still kill Potter!" Quirrell's body trembled as Voldemort's presence began peeling away. Terror twisted his face—not knowing which fate awaited him first: Voldemort's wrath, or Azkaban's cold future.
"Fool. You've ruined my plans." Voldemort steadied himself with effort. It was humiliating, but he had no choice except escape. He would never have imagined that the day's disaster had been crafted by someone who claimed absolute loyalty to him.
"Dumbledore… wait for me. I will return." With a final snarl, Voldemort tore himself free and fled like a wounded shadow.
Dumbledore made no effort to stop him. Perhaps he knew it was impossible… or pointless. But behind his spectacles, a flash of sharp clarity lit the old man's tired eyes—almost a hint of satisfaction.
"It's time I had a proper talk with that young man," he murmured, rubbing his long-broken nose. A startling sharpness replaced his usual mildness.
---
Very little shifted from the original timeline. Word of the events in the underground chambers spread through the school almost instantly—exaggerated in some versions, completely distorted in others. Most students accepted the official explanation; Slytherin most certainly did not.
"Draco… I've got a bad feeling," Pansy whispered as she sat beside him.
Festive cheers filled the Great Hall for the year-end feast. All four Houses were gathered under banners of green and silver—Slytherin celebrating its seventh consecutive victory. A colossal serpent banner hung behind the staff table.
"What's wrong, Pansy?" Malfoy asked.
Pansy pointed toward the doors. Harry had entered. The entire hall went silent—then erupted in whispers.
"I just know he's going to earn Gryffindor a ridiculous number of points. Dumbledore's announcement was so biased. He should've been expelled for going down there," she muttered, glaring at Harry as if watching her greatest rival.
And that's only part of it, Malfoy thought. Dumbledore's about to give the four of them a gift basket.
He felt nothing. In either lifetime, he'd never cared about collective glory.
"Prepare yourself to see how ugly the adult world can be," Malfoy said, ruffling Pansy's hair.
"We're really going to lose… aren't we?" she whispered.
"I never said that," he replied innocently.
A few minutes later, Dumbledore arrived, and the hall quieted.
"Another year gone!" he began cheerfully. "Before we enjoy this magnificent feast, let an old man indulge his annual ramble. What an exciting year it has been! Your minds are undoubtedly fuller—please take the summer to clear them out again."
He lifted his arms.
"And now, the final House Cup standings:
Fourth place, Gryffindor—312 points.
Third, Hufflepuff—352 points.
Second, Ravenclaw—426 points.
First place, Slytherin—492 points."
Thunderous cheering erupted from Slytherin. Pansy still looked gloomy.
"Yes, yes, well done indeed," Dumbledore said. "However, certain recent events must also be taken into account."
Silence fell instantly.
"First—Mr. Ron Weasley."
Ron went scarlet.
"For the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in years—Gryffindor earns fifty points!"
The Great Hall shook with cheers.
"Second—Miss Hermione Granger. For exceptional reasoning under pressure, mastery of charmwork and herbology, and cool-headed teamwork—Gryffindor earns sixty points."
Hermione hid her face in her arms.
He knows everything, she thought bitterly. Devil's Snare, simplified counterspells… Malfoy helped us. He helped us.
But only Gryffindor received the reward.
She glanced toward Slytherin. Malfoy sat perfectly straight, expression unreadable.
These points probably belonged to him, she thought.
"Third—Harry Potter," Dumbledore continued. "For courage beyond measure—seventy points!"
Gryffindor erupted. They now matched Slytherin—492 points each. One more point would push them over.
Dumbledore raised his hand.
"There are many kinds of bravery," he said. "It takes courage to face our enemies—but just as much to stand up to our friends. For that reason… ten points to Neville Longbottom."
The hall exploded. Even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff joined the cheers. Neville went white, then vanished beneath a pile of overjoyed classmates. Harry and Ron shouted themselves hoarse.
Hermione simply stood and clapped quietly.
"With that," Dumbledore cried above the roar, "some adjustments are in order!"
The green banners morphed into bright red and gold. The great serpent dissolved, replaced by a roaring lion.
Snape shook Professor McGonagall's hand stiffly, his smile pained. He met Harry's eyes with the same cold dislike as ever. Harry felt oddly relieved.
Next year would be… normal. Hogwarts-normal.
It was the happiest night of Harry's life—better than Quidditch, better than Christmas. He knew he would remember it forever.
Pansy, however, looked devastated.
"You predicted we'd lose," she said bitterly. "Seven years of champions, ruined the year we arrived. Why didn't you earn us more points? You did so well—why didn't you—"
She broke off, trembling, overwhelmed by the unfairness of it all.
Malfoy drew her into his arms, patting her back gently. "Don't cry. You can't eat a House Cup."
Eventually, she quieted.
As the feast ended, students drifted out. Malfoy turned toward the dormitory. He was exhausted—the past few days of deceiving Voldemort had drained him beyond measure. He found himself admiring the repeatability of Hogwarts' ancient defenses: Fluffy would recover; the flying keys only changed shape; the chess pieces reset automatically. As for the potions…
Malfoy shuddered, remembering the poison Dumbledore would drink five years later.
"Mr. Draco—Professor Dumbledore is waiting for you," Professor McGonagall called, stopping him. Her expression was puzzled. "Something about final exam questions, he said."
"Oh, I understand," Malfoy replied politely.
"The password is 'cockroach cluster,'" she added.
"Thank you."
Malfoy made his way to the Headmaster's office again. He spoke the password, and the gargoyle leapt aside. The door was open.
The office looked the same as before—silver instruments puffing smoke. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, unwrapping a sherbet lemon. Hearing Malfoy enter, he waved warmly.
"Come in, my boy. Sit down."
Malfoy wondered if his memory was faulty—or Dumbledore's. Their last encounter had been anything but friendly. Now the old man acted as though greeting a favorite pupil. Age did wonders for one's shamelessness.
"You worked very hard for this year's House Cup," Dumbledore said kindly.
"I'm not sure what you mean, Professor. I thought you called me about my exam results?" Malfoy answered smoothly.
Dumbledore chuckled. "No, no. You did too well. I believe you deserve a reward."
"Thank you, Professor, but I don't need anything. I should go comfort my girlfriend—she cried so much today."
A polite refusal, masking caution. Malfoy wasn't about to accept charity blindly.
"I suspect this may mend more than her heart," Dumbledore said, producing a small bottle of shimmering liquid. Even through the glass, its holy power radiated.
Phoenix tears, for emotional trauma? You're lying, old bee, Malfoy thought.
But he accepted the bottle without hesitation.
"I'm sure it will come in handy. Thank you." He paused. "By the way, I happened to find a curious stone while wandering the grounds. Could you take a look at it?"
He casually placed the Philosopher's Stone on the desk.
"How extraordinary," Dumbledore murmured, adjusting his glasses. "I may need a few days to study this." He pocketed it without shame. Then he asked, "Harry mentioned he saw another stone. Do you know anything about that?"
"Take it," Malfoy replied. "If you had it, you'd probably see the same person you saw in the Mirror of Erised. It's from the same family as your wand. But it's dust now."
He turned and left.
Dumbledore's hand clamped the table edge, knuckles white. His sister's death was the wound he could never heal.
Outside, Malfoy exhaled heavily.
"He really is troublesome to deal with," he muttered. "But he's going all out to rebuild the relationship." He studied the vial of phoenix tears. Its concentrated magic was astonishing.
Last time, he had shown his strength. This time, he had shown his stance.
Dumbledore still doubted him—but talent and power drew trust. Unlike Voldemort, Malfoy had family, and possibly friends. Dumbledore would naturally try to draw him in.
In many ways, he and Voldemort were alike—both willing to do anything to achieve their ends. Dumbledore, too, could be terrifying when determined. Malfoy knew the truth: when forced into a corner, Dumbledore was even scarier than Voldemort.
And if Malfoy had been a poor Muggle-born, Dumbledore might have shaped him easily. But the son of a governor? A boy from a powerful family? Dumbledore could only tempt, not command.
"Old Dumbledore… you really aren't suited to teaching," Malfoy thought. Riddle's childhood flashed in his mind—his cruelty, his crimes, the burning wardrobe Dumbledore used as discipline. "You talk about love, but rule with fear. You teach submission—and reap rebellion."
None of it mattered. What mattered was profit.
Malfoy examined the phoenix tears again, admiration flickering across his face.
"More useful than the Elder Wand," he said. "Could even save my life."
Whistling cheerfully, he walked back to the dormitory. Several Slytherins stared, thinking he'd gone mad after losing the House Cup.
---