If he hadn’t known the room belonged to Dumbledore, Draco would have thought it was a place worth visiting often.
It was a wide, beautiful circular chamber, filled with all sorts of curious little noises. On the long, thin-legged tables sat many odd silver instruments, whirring as they spun and letting out small puffs of smoke.
Looking around, Draco saw the walls covered with portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses. A few of them had noticed Draco and his companions and were watching with interest, while most simply dozed in their frames, snoring softly.
A massive desk with claw-shaped legs stood in the room. On it rested a battered, wrinkled wizard’s hat—the Sorting Hat, which only appeared at the Sorting Ceremony.
And behind the desk sat the greatest wizard of modern times.
Dumbledore...
But it wasn’t the solemn Dumbledore who spoke first. It was one of the portraits.
“Another promising Slytherin, from the Malfoy family... ah, pureblood!”
Draco turned toward the voice. It was an elderly wizard with a pointed goatee. The nameplate beneath the frame identified him as a headmaster of Hogwarts in the late nineteenth century.
Judging from his tone, he had clearly been a Slytherin himself—and a pureblood supremacist at that.
“Phineas, we’ll have plenty of time for you to acquaint yourself with young Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said calmly, his eyes hidden behind crescent-shaped spectacles. “For now, let us first address the matter of the Chamber of Secrets.”
Draco, who had just glanced at the name Phineas Nigellus Black beneath the portrait, suddenly felt the weight of Dumbledore’s gaze on him.
Snape’s warning came back to him at once. His body tensed, and he forced himself not to look directly at the headmaster...
...
Though it might have seemed rude, Draco fixed his curiosity on the phoenix with its red and gold plumage, as if Dumbledore’s eyes on him meant nothing.
In truth, he really was curious about how Dumbledore had managed to tame a phoenix. Although its danger level was only four stars, no wizard in history had ever succeeded—no wizard except Dumbledore.
Perhaps because Draco’s composure set the tone, and because Dumbledore didn’t appear offended, Hermione—who had been holding back—allowed herself to be drawn in as well.
At last, unable to resist, she stepped up beside Draco to admire the magnificent creature.
“It seems Fawkes is quite fond of you both. Now, Mr. Malfoy, perhaps you can tell us what you encountered?”
The words sounded like a polite inquiry, but Draco felt the weight behind them—a pressure that compelled honesty.
He pulled back the hand he had been about to extend toward the phoenix. To avoid looking suspicious, he instead shifted his gaze to the pale and weary Ron Weasley.
“This all began with that diary...”
The room fell completely silent as Draco started speaking. Everyone listened closely.
He recounted what they had learned from Hagrid about the Chamber having been opened before, how he and Hermione had discovered the entrance, and what they had encountered inside. Aside from leaving out Norberta and Lockhart, Draco revealed everything.
“And that person... called himself Tom Marvolo Riddle.”
“...”
“...”
At those words, Draco noticed Ron Weasley’s body give a sudden tremor.
So he wasn’t entirely ignorant after all.
The uneasy silence reminded Hermione of the strange power tied to that name. She tugged discreetly at Draco’s sleeve, while Harry—having no one to ask—looked around the room in confusion, scanning the expressions on everyone’s faces.
It seemed that he alone didn’t understand the weight that name carried.
“Draco, is that true? You really met that person...?”
“You could put it that way—or rather, it was another Dark Lord.”
“Huh?”
Hermione looked even more bewildered. What did he mean by another Dark Lord? Could there really be more than one?
After a moment of silence, Professor McGonagall finally spoke in a dry tone.
“Very well, so you found the entrance. But I must add—you broke over a hundred school rules along the way. How exactly did you manage to escape alive, Malfoy?”
Especially from him—though she left those words unspoken.
“Actually, that brings us back to the diary. I believe the reason is that what I encountered was just a Horcrux, not the real person.”
“Horcrux? Why would you kno—”
“Our Mr. Malfoy is correct, Minerva.”
“Albus?”
“This was indeed a Horcrux created by one of my most brilliant students.”
While calming Professor McGonagall, Dumbledore lifted the diary from the desk, its surface marked by obvious scorch marks.
The sight made Draco’s eyes narrow. If his memory was right, Lockhart had taken that diary away. So why was it now in Dumbledore’s possession?
Did that mean Lockhart had handed it over willingly?
And judging from the situation, he hadn’t mentioned Norberta’s existence either. If so, then was it Lockhart who had actually destroyed Voldemort’s Horcrux?
But if that was true, then what was Lockhart’s real purpose in helping him...
...
At that moment, Dumbledore was absorbed in examining the diary and didn’t notice Draco’s furrowed brow or the tension in his expression.
“Remarkable. Without question, he may well have been the most gifted student Hogwarts has ever seen.
But now, it seems Hogwarts has gained another outstanding student.”
The weight of Dumbledore’s gaze pressed down on Draco, filling him with unbearable pressure.
Was that a compliment with a hidden meaning?
Or was he being suspected of something?
Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. His limbs stiffened, and for an instant, his mind went blank. Realizing this, Draco clenched his fists, the golden slits in his eyes threatening to burst forth with raw magic.
At that moment, the door—previously closed—was suddenly pushed open.
“Good evening, Lucius.”
“Well, you’ve returned. The Board suspended you, and yet you’ve taken it upon yourself to come back to Hogwarts.”
The figure now standing between him and Dumbledore’s piercing stare cut off the crushing pressure, and Draco, regaining his senses, froze in surprise.
He had never expected his father to appear here...