Chapter 6
As they stepped out of the Floo into Diagon Alley, Draco immediately felt the difference. The usually bustling street was filled with witches and wizards going about their business, but no one spared him a second glance. In fact, their eyes seemed to drift past him as if he were utterly unremarkable.
Frowning, Draco quickened his pace to catch up with Harry. “Alright, Potter,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “what did you do to me?”
Harry didn’t even pause, hands shoved in his pockets as he walked with the easy confidence that Draco found increasingly irritating. “Relax, Malfoy,” he said breezily. “Just a Notice-Me-Not charm.”
“That’s not how that charm works,” Draco shot back, suspicion curling in his stomach. “People shouldn’t be able to focus on me at all, so why aren’t you and your merry band of misfits having any trouble?”
It was Remus, surprisingly, who answered with a thoughtful hum. “Harry must have woven the charm to exclude people who already know who you are,” he said, glancing at Harry with mild curiosity. “That’s advanced work—not bad for a spontaneous cast.”
Draco’s frown deepened. Charms had always been his strong suit, and he knew just how difficult it was to customize a spell on the fly. Most wizards couldn’t manipulate magic with that kind of precision, especially not a charm like this. The casual way Harry had cast it—without so much as a thought—was… unsettling.
He had heard enough from Percy Weasley to think Harry Potter was a mediocre wizard at best. Lazy. Lucky. But this—this wasn’t luck.
Draco glanced at Harry, whose face was openly amused, as if he had no idea how impressive his magic really was. If Draco didn't find him so irritating he might think he was being humble.
He mentally recalibrated his assumptions. Harry Potter, it seemed, was far more dangerous than anyone let on.
“So,” Harry interrupted his thoughts, flashing a grin, “are we going to spend all day admiring my brilliance, or do you actually want a new wand?”
Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. As much as it grated, he needed them—at least for now.
With that, they stepped into the towering white structure of Gringotts, the cool air heavy with the smell of parchment, gold, and old magic.
The goblins were just as rude as Draco remembered—sharp-tongued and glaring at every wizard who crossed their path as if they were vermin underfoot. He scowled in return, feeling a flicker of something familiar in the unspoken hostility. At least some things didn’t change.
Since the Black family was one of the oldest and wealthiest pureblood lines, they had a specially assigned goblin to manage their affairs as the account manager exclusive to the account. The goblin—narrow-eyed and wearing a polished silver badge—strode forward, inclining his head stiffly to Sirius.
“Lord Black,” the goblin said, voice oily but curt. “You wish to access the family vault?”
“Yeah,” Sirius said, sounding thoroughly bored. “Let’s get on with it.”
The goblin gave a low grunt and beckoned them toward the carts. Draco followed, feeling an unexpected twist of curiosity. He had heard a lot about the Black family from his mother and shuddered to think what were there in the vault.
The cart shot forward, the chill of the tunnels whipping through Draco’s hair as they plunged deeper and deeper beneath Gringotts.
When the cart finally screeched to a halt, Harry and Sirius were already stepping out. But to Draco’s surprise, Remus didn’t follow. He lingered by the cart, his expression unreadable.
Draco hesitated, then turned back. “Aren’t you coming?”
Remus smiled faintly, but there was something off about it. “Better not,” he said quietly. “The Black family wasn’t exactly welcoming to people who didn’t carry their bloodline let alone someone like me.” His voice was light, but there was an edge of bitterness beneath it.
Draco frowned. “What do you mean?”
Remus seemed to realize, too late, that Draco genuinely didn’t know. His expression flickered—something guarded sliding over his face. “I’m a werewolf, Draco,” he said, voice carefully even. “The Black family… well, let’s just say they weren’t fans of people like me. Their magic probably still remembers.”
For a moment, Draco was too stunned to respond. A werewolf. Lupin was a werewolf. Somehow, that fact jarred with the calm, kind-eyed man who had smiled at him over breakfast. He had always been taught that werewolves were monsters, but there was nothing monstrous about Lupin—if anything, he seemed too soft for a man who had survived so much.
“I—” Draco started, but Remus shook his head, cutting him off.
“It’s fine,” he said easily. “Harry and Sirius won’t have any trouble. You won’t either—your mother was a Black, after all.”
Draco still felt a gnawing sense of unease, but he didn’t push. Instead, he turned on his heel and followed Harry and Sirius toward the massive iron door of the Black family vault.
As soon as they stepped inside the vault, the air turned heavy with old magic—ancient and oppressive. Draco’s eyes widened as he took in the treasures surrounding him. Stacks of gold and silver glittered in the dim light, but it was the artifacts that drew his attention—twisted, shadowed objects practically humming with dark energy.
Sirius turned sharply to face him, his expression serious for once. "Don’t touch anything unless I say so," he warned. "The magic on these objects—some of it’s cursed, and I’d rather not drag you out of here as a pile of ash."
Draco swallowed hard and instinctively clasped his hands behind his back. He wasn’t about to test whether the infamous Black family curses still worked. “Right,” he said, keeping his tone casual to hide how unsettled he felt.
Harry, however, seemed unbothered—probably because he had no sense of self-preservation, Draco thought dryly—as he followed Sirius deeper into the vault. Draco trailed behind them as they made a beeline toward a shelf tucked in the far corner. It was less dusty than the others, and Draco realized that these must be the wands—passed down through generations.
Sirius crouched and rummaged through the small chest before pulling out a sleek, black-handled wand. "Try this one," he said, handing it over.
Draco took it cautiously and gave it a light flick. Nothing. Not even a spark.
Sirius shrugged and passed him another—this one was shorter and knotted with age. Again, nothing.
“Third time’s the charm,” Sirius muttered, pulling out a polished wand with a faint silver sheen. "This one belonged to your grandmother—should be close enough in blood to work."
Draco hesitated before curling his fingers around the handle. The moment he did, a faint warmth spread up his palm. He flicked his wrist, and a thin ribbon of silver sparks danced in the air. It wasn’t a perfect match—he could feel that—but it would do.
Sirius gave a satisfied nod. "That’ll hold until we figure out how to get your own wand back—or a new one."
Draco relaxed slightly, tucking the wand into his borrowed robes. He might be out of place, but at least now he wasn’t defenseless.
They made their way back out of the vault, leaving the eerie weight of the ancient magic behind. Remus was waiting near the cart, and when he spotted the wand in Draco’s hand, he gave him an approving nod.
Once they exited the bank, Sirius led them straight to the Floo Network without lingering in the alley. Draco noticed the way Remus was slightly tense—whatever this bounty on him was, he weren’t taking any chances.
Sirius tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the nearest fireplace, and the green flames roared to life. "Three Broomsticks!" he called, stepping through with his usual careless swagger.
Harry followed next, disappearing into the flames. Draco took a breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped in after them—feeling the familiar whirl of magic carry him away.
Draco cautiously followed behind Harry, Sirius, and Remus as they stepped into the Three Broomsticks. The familiar scent of butterbeer and polished wood filled the air, but the place was quiet. Only a few scattered patrons occupied the tables—but in the far corner, there was a distinct cluster of people that immediately caught his attention.
The Order, Draco realized.
His horror deepened as he registered the sheer amount of redheads occupying the booth. How many Weasleys could there possibly be? It was like they multiplied when no one was looking.
The sound of laughter rang out the moment Ron spotted him. He nearly fell out of his seat, pointing at Draco’s hair with an obnoxious cackle.
"Merlin’s beard—what happened to your hair, Malfoy?" Ron wheezed between fits of laughter, his face turning almost as red as his hair.
Draco’s sneer was automatic. "At least this is temporary, Weasley. What’s your excuse?" He arched a brow, smirking as Ron’s laughter stuttered.
That comment, however, only seemed to encourage the twins. Before Draco could react, Fred and George flanked him on either side, their arms slung casually around his shoulders.
"We like this one," Fred declared, grinning wickedly.
"Definitely a keeper," George agreed. "Harry, you always find the best strays."
Draco stiffened beneath their weight, debating whether hexing them with his borrowed wand would be worth it. Before he could decide, Harry stepped back over and shrugged the twins off him.
"Leave him alone," Harry said, rolling his eyes as he steered Draco toward the booth where the rest of the group was gathered. "And for the record, you don’t get to bully dear Draco."
"Well, that’s disappointing," Fred huffed, dropping back into his seat with exaggerated sulkiness.
"Tragic, really," George added, flashing Draco an impish wink.
Draco stiffened as Harry steered him toward the booth. The warmth of Harry’s arm around his shoulders was unfamiliar—and unwelcome, he told himself firmly. He slid into the seat beside Harry, brushing his now-ginger hair back with a scowl.
As the twins retreated to their own seats, still chuckling, Draco huffed and shot Harry a glare. "What, Potter? Do you think you’ve got a monopoly on bullying me?"
Harry grinned, completely unbothered. "Well, someone’s got to keep you humble, Malfoy." He gave Draco’s shoulder a light squeeze before leaning back comfortably. "And, let’s be honest—you make it too easy."
Draco rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the faint warmth spreading across his neck. "Lucky me," he drawled, flicking his gaze across the crowded booth.
Ginny, sitting across from them, had her arms folded tight against her chest. Her eyes darted from Harry to Draco with an expression that could only be described as a glower, though she said nothing.
Draco raised an eyebrow at her but didn’t comment. He had enough on his plate without poking at whatever that was about.
Instead, he let his gaze drift further down the booth. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were there—a rare sight, from what Draco had gathered—both watching the group with varying levels of amusement. Hermione was tucked beside Ron, who still hadn’t quite stopped snickering at Draco’s hair.
The sheer number of Weasleys gathered in one place made Draco’s head spin. With a scoff, he leaned closer to Harry and muttered under his breath, "So, what is this? Are you collecting Weasleys? Should I expect more to pop out of the woodwork?"
Harry laughed softly. "Only Bill and Charlie are missing," he said, his tone light. "Consider yourself lucky."
Just as Draco was about to make another snide remark, the door to the Three Broomsticks swung open with a soft creak. The scowl on his face deepened as his gaze swept the room, lingering only a moment too long on their crowded booth.
Without a word, Snape turned sharply and stalked toward the farthest corner of the room, settling himself at a separate counter.
A few moments later, Professor McGonagall arrived, her green tartan robes crisp as ever. She cast a long, appraising glance at their group before turning to where Snape sat in his self-imposed exile. With a sigh that spoke of long-suffering patience, she made her way toward the former Potions Master and slid into the seat across from him.
Sirius, of course, couldn’t let that go unremarked. "Oi! Minnie!" he called, his voice far too loud for the cozy pub. "You don’t have to slum it up with Snivellus—there’s plenty of room over here with the fun crowd!"
Draco bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. He would never admit it, but there was something amusing about watching Sirius Black—the lord of the noble and ancient house of Black—revert to a schoolboy when faced with Snape.
McGonagall turned her head slowly, her expression so sharp it could cut through steel. "Mr. Black," she said in a tone that instantly silenced the booth, "you will not bully in my presence." She narrowed her eyes. "If you do, I will not hesitate to deduct points from Gryffindor—even for an alumnus’s behavior."
Sirius blinked, looking genuinely alarmed. He turned to Remus, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Can she do that?"
Remus, his lips twitching in barely concealed amusement, leaned back and shrugged. "Probably," he said, and laughed softly when Sirius swore under his breath.
Harry, meanwhile, was biting back a grin. "What’s the matter, Sirius? Scared of Professor McGonagall?"
"He would be smart to be.," Remus murmured with a smirk.
Sirius huffed, crossing his arms. "I’m not scared—I’m just not stupid enough to cross Minnie when she’s in a mood."
Across the room, McGonagall was already speaking quietly to Snape, whose expression hadn’t shifted from its usual sourness.
Draco leaned toward Harry, his curiosity getting the better of him. "What’s his problem?" he asked quietly, nodding toward Snape.
Harry sighed, a smirk still lingering on his lips. "Long story," he muttered, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "But let’s just say… he’s never been a fan of Griffindores in general and Sirius in particular."
Draco scanned the group seated around the crowded booth, his sharp eyes drifting from one familiar face to the next. "Is this it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is this the entirety of the Order?"
Hermione, ever the one to provide answers, shook her head. "No, this isn’t everyone. There are other members stationed elsewhere, but a lot of the core group is here today."
Draco hummed thoughtfully, leaning back in his seat. "And just what does the Order do, exactly?" he asked, his voice edged with curiosity—and perhaps a trace of skepticism.
Before Hermione could launch into one of her detailed explanations, Arthur Weasley cleared his throat. "Before we discuss anything further," he said, his tone gentle but firm, "there’s something that needs to be done first."
Draco’s gaze snapped to the older man as he produced a neatly rolled parchment from his robes and placed it on the table. "This," Arthur continued, "is a magical contract drafted by Professor Dumbledore. Everyone who’s privy to Order business is required to sign it."
Draco frowned, suspicion creeping in. "And what exactly am I signing away?"
Arthur’s expression softened, as though he anticipated Draco’s reaction. "This isn’t a membership contract," he assured him. "Signing it doesn’t mean you’ve joined the Order. It’s a secrecy-binding document—a safeguard. Given that you’re under our protection, you’ll be exposed to information that can’t fall into the wrong hands. This contract simply ensures you won’t be able to share any Order secrets with anyone outside of this group—intentionally or otherwise."
Draco hesitated, staring at the parchment. The Malfoy in him bristled at the idea of signing anything blindly. His father’s voice echoed in his head—Always read every contract, Draco. There is no excuse for ignorance.
That thought stung. His chest tightened with a sudden, unexpected ache, but he shoved it down—compartmentalized it the way he always did. Bottling things up was, after all, the Malfoy way. It wasn’t healthy, but it was effective.
Without a word, he took the parchment and unrolled it, scanning the fine script carefully. The terms were binding but straightforward—he would be unable to speak or write about anything classified as Order business. If he tried, the magic would prevent it. There was nothing hidden in the wording—no traps, no ambiguous phrasing. That, more than anything, told Draco this had been crafted by Dumbledore. The old man’s idealism practically bled through the ink.
As he read, Harry’s laughter rang out from across the booth, pulling Draco’s attention. The Weasley twins flanked Harry on either side, their expressions positively gleeful as they leaned in to talk in rapid, conspiratorial whispers.
"I’m just saying," Harry was grinning, "if you tweak the trigger on your Canary Creams, they could last twice as long—and you could probably make the feathers stick for an extra hour if you adjust the binding charm."
Fred gasped in mock outrage. "Are you suggesting our work is incomplete, Harrykins?"
"Blasphemy," George agreed, shaking his head solemnly.
"Just offering my expertise," Harry said, all innocence.
Hermione, who had been listening with growing disapproval, huffed. "Honestly, Harry! Do you really think helping them perfect their pranks is a good use of your time?"
Harry just laughed. "It’s all in good fun."
Fred and George, clearly delighted, threw their arms around Harry in a synchronized motion. "Now now, Hermione, you know we’ve decided long ago," Fred declared, "that Harry is—"
"—an honorary twin," George finished proudly.
Draco snorted softly and rolled his eyes before turned back to the parchment, rolled his shoulders, and signed his name with a flourish. As soon as the quill left the parchment, a faint golden shimmer ran across the page—binding the contract.
"There," he said, handing it back to Arthur. "Satisfied?"
Arthur gave him a warm, approving smile. "Thank you, Draco. It’s an important precaution, but I appreciate your cooperation."
Draco merely nodded. With the magical contract signed and tucked safely away, Draco’s curiosity got the better of him. He glanced around the crowded booth and asked, “So… are all of you working for the Order full-time?”
As expected, Hermione was the one to answer. "No," she said, shaking her head. "Most of us have other jobs. The Order is important, but it’s not a full-time occupation for everyone."
She gestured toward Arthur Weasley. "Mr. Weasley still works at the Ministry—he’s in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. And Fred and George run a joke shop in Diagon Alley—Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. It’s quite successful."
Draco raised an eyebrow at that. A joke shop? He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, considering how ridiculous the twins were.
"As for Percy," Hermione continued, "he used to work for the Ministry as well, but he left his position to work for the Order full-time."
Draco filed that information away. A former Ministry official turning his back on his career to work against Grindelwald? That was… interesting.
"And the rest of you?" Draco asked, his gaze sweeping across the younger members of the group.
Hermione smiled faintly. "We all recently graduated from Hogwarts—well, except for Ginny. She’s in her final year, but with the political climate being what it is, she dropped out and is being homeschooled by Mrs. Weasley."
Ginny, sitting across from Draco, huffed in annoyance. "It’s ridiculous," she muttered. "I could handle Hogwarts just fine."
Draco smirked. "What, worried you’d lose your top student status?"
Ginny narrowed her eyes at him. "I’m not worried about anything, Malfoy."
Ignoring her glare, Draco leaned back in his seat. That's when he noticed Hermione regarding him thoughtfully.
"You know," she said, frowning slightly, "I don’t remember ever seeing you at Hogwarts. Where did you go for your magical education?"
Draco leaned back against his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. He hesitated for a moment before replying, "I was supposed to go to Hogwarts." His tone was neutral, but something flickered behind his eyes. "Father even considered Durmstrang at one point. But in the end, they decided on homeschooling."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Homeschooling?"
Draco nodded, his expression carefully blank. "Because of the political climate. My mother was too worried." His voice dipped slightly at the mention of her, and he quickly looked away, focusing on some invisible point in the room. He wasn’t ready to dwell on that grief just yet. "I had private instructors. The best, of course."
Ginny let out a sharp scoff. "Of course you did. Malfoys wouldn’t settle for anything less. Bet they were all pureblood elitists too."
Draco didn’t so much as glance at her, choosing instead to continue as though she hadn’t spoken. "So… I’m guessing you all went to Hogwarts, then?"
"Of course," Hermione confirmed, but before she could elaborate, Fred and George cut in with matching grins.
"Guess which house we were in," Fred said, bouncing slightly in his seat.
Draco rolled his eyes, but indulged them. "Considering your family’s obsession with reckless behavior and poor life choices," he said dryly, "I’d wager Gryffindor."
Ron beamed proudly. "Too right! All Weasleys are Gryffindors—through and through."
Hermione chuckled softly. "The Hat considered Ravenclaw for me," she admitted, "but in the end, it placed me in Gryffindor too."
Draco turned his gaze to Harry, who had been unusually quiet during the conversation. He was watching Draco with that infuriatingly charming smile, and for some reason, Draco had to fight the sudden urge to blush.
Clearing his throat, Draco tilted his head and said, "And you, Potter? Let me guess… Slytherin?"
The entire table burst into laughter. Even Ginny—who had been glaring at him moments before—giggled into her palm.
Draco scowled. "What’s so funny?"
Still chuckling, Harry leaned closer, his voice low and far too amused. "I never went to Hogwarts," he said. "No magical education. I’m just a glorified delinquent with a wand."
He said it with a disarming smile, but there was something behind it—an edge that made Draco’s frown deepen. How was that possible? The level of skill Harry had shown already—no formal training, and yet, he was better than most wizards Draco knew.
Before he could voice his disbelief, Fred and George doubled over in laughter again.
"If Harry had gone to Hogwarts and ended up in Slytherin," Fred wheezed, "Snape would’ve had a breakdown!"
George grinned wickedly. "Or retired out of sheer frustration!"
Sirius, however, cut through the laughter with a snort. "As if," he said dismissively. "There’s no way Harry would’ve been a Slytherin. He’s a Gryffindor, through and through."
Draco raised an eyebrow, but it was Remus who mockingly whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Sirius is in denial."
Harry just laughed and leaned back, entirely too comfortable with the chaos around him. But Draco wasn’t laughing.
The fact that Harry hadn’t been formally trained, yet moved through magic like it was second nature—that bothered him. There was something about Harry Potter that didn’t add up.
And Draco Malfoy hated not having all the answers.
Draco, still processing the chaos of the conversation, turned back to Hermione with a questioning look. “So… are we really having the Order meeting here? In the middle of a pub?”
Hermione shook her head, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “No. There’s a private room upstairs,” she explained. “We’re just waiting on Professor Dumbledore to arrive before we start.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “I thought Grimmauld Place was your official headquarters?”
“It is,” Hermione confirmed, “but we use the Three Broomsticks as a sort of… public-facing office. It’s a neutral location where we handle quick meetings, receive information, and—on occasion—take requests for help.”
That piqued Draco’s curiosity. “Requests? You mean the Order takes on… clients?”
Hermione gave a small smile, clearly anticipating his skepticism. “We do—but only from trusted sources,” she clarified. “A lot of people oppose Grindelwald, but not everyone has the resources or connections to fight back directly. When they need help—discreet help—they come here. And of course our operation requires funding, so we do also take missions that offer compensations that seem worth our while. Madam Rosmerta is one of our allies and screens who gets through.”
Draco hummed thoughtfully, glancing around the warmly-lit pub. It seemed so ordinary—too ordinary—to be the front for a secret resistance. And yet, with everything he’d seen in the last few days, nothing about this world seemed ordinary anymore.
“And what kind of… help do you offer?” he asked, curiosity still gnawing at him.
“Protection, intelligence, sabotage—whatever’s needed,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “Sometimes it’s as simple as providing safe passage for someone in danger. Other times…” She trailed off, her expression darkening slightly. “Well, let’s just say it’s not always simple.”
Draco let that settle in his mind, trying to imagine his father ever asking for help—let alone from a ragtag group operating out of a village pub. The thought was absurd. Yet here he was, a Malfoy, sitting in the middle of it all.
“How charmingly rebellious,” he drawled, though the weight behind the information wasn’t lost on him. “You lot must feel like such heroes.”
Harry, still lounging beside him, smirked looking like he was about to make a acomment but Ginny beat him to it with a sneer. “Better a rebellious hero than a coward who hides behind his family name.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t hiding,” he snapped.
“No,” Harry said quietly, voice losing its playful edge. “You weren’t.”
The mood shifted—heavier, just for a moment—before Fred loudly declared, “Well, that’s enough brooding! Who’s up for a butterbeer before the serious business starts?”
As if on cue, Madam Rosmerta appeared with a tray of drinks, casting a knowing smile toward their booth. Hermione shook her head in exasperation as Fred and George immediately began arguing over who could chug a butterbeer faster.
Just as the conversation around their booth grew louder, the door to the Three Broomsticks opened, and Albus Dumbledore stepped inside. His arrival was subtle—no fanfare, no dramatic entrance—but his presence immediately shifted the atmosphere. Conversations quieted, and even the ever-boisterous Weasley twins straightened up slightly.
Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes twinkled as he surveyed the group. “Ah,” he said warmly, “what a delightful gathering. Shall we move upstairs?”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and began ascending the staircase, the sound of his polished boots barely making a sound against the creaking wood. The others followed suit, with Harry and Sirius flanking Draco as they moved toward the meeting room.
Draco wasn’t sure what to make of Dumbledore. He had, of course, heard of the man—who in the wizarding world hadn’t? His father had spoken of him with both respect and disdain, often calling him a relic of an older, more idealistic time. A wizard of great power, yes—but perhaps a touch mad, if the rumors were to be believed. Seeing him in person did little to dispel that impression. His long silver beard, half-moon spectacles, and eccentric purple robes gave him the appearance of someone who had long ago stopped caring about how the world viewed him.
Senility, Draco thought cynically. Perhaps age had caught up with even the great Albus Dumbledore. And that—the idea that this odd old man was leading the primary resistance against Grindelwald—did not bode well for their chances.
The upstairs meeting room was a sharp contrast to the cozy pub below. It resembled an office with desks lined the walls, stacked with parchment, quills, and various magical instruments. Filing cabinets stood in the corner, one of which softly hummed with enchantments. A large bulletin board displayed maps of Britain, with red and blue markers scattered across it—clear indicators of active conflict zones and safehouses.
Hermione, always efficient, led Draco around the room. “Over here,” she said, gesturing to a cluttered table, “is where we process incoming requests. This shelf holds classified reports, and—oh, that’s the communication station. We use enchanted mirrors to maintain contact with our teams in the field.”
Draco observed the space with a critical eye. It was… organized, yes, but there was a distinct feeling of controlled chaos beneath the surface. Far different from the cold, calculated efficiency he had grown up with in Malfoy Manor.
Dumbledore settled himself behind a large oak desk and gestured for everyone to take a seat around the long table in the center of the room. Once they were settled, his gaze fell kindly on Draco.
“I trust,” Dumbledore said, his voice as calm and warm as a crackling fire, “that my dear friends here have explained the nature of our work to you?”
Draco shifted slightly under the weight of that gaze but nodded. “Yes, they have,” he answered, his voice steady.
“Excellent.” Dumbledore inclined his head. “I understand that you are in a rather… delicate position, young Mr. Malfoy. And while we do not expect an immediate decision, I would ask you to consider whether you wish to work with us—truly work with us.”
Draco blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. He had half-expected some kind of recruitment speech—forceful persuasion or veiled threats. Instead, Dumbledore seemed content to leave the choice in his hands.
“You are under our protection, and that will not change,” Dumbledore continued, his fingers steepled in front of him. “But if you decide to take an active role, you may find that there is much more at stake here than any one person’s survival.”
Draco swallowed, feeling the weight of the words settle in his chest. An active role. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it—but hearing it put so plainly made the decision feel all the more real.
Dumbledore’s eyes softened. “Take a few days to think it over. There is no rush. Such choices, after all, should not be made lightly.”
Draco inclined his head in a respectful nod. He should have felt relieved not to be forced into a decision on the spot—but instead, there was a gnawing sense that he was being ungrateful. This organization—these people—were risking everything to protect him. Could he really sit on the sidelines while they fought a war that had already cost him so much?
Dumbledore’s expression remained calm, but there was a distinct gravity in his tone as he continued, "While I will not pressure you to make a decision immediately, Mr. Malfoy, you must understand the reality of your situation. With the bounty on your head, you are a target. Whether it is Grindelwald’s forces directly or independent bounty hunters seeking to claim the reward, there will be no shortage of people willing to hunt you down.”
Draco swallowed hard. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought about the bounty—he had—but hearing Dumbledore spell it out so plainly made the danger feel far more immediate.
“And,” Dumbledore added, his gaze sharp behind his half-moon spectacles, “we cannot dismiss the possibility that the bounty itself was placed by Grindelwald’s followers. They are not above using such methods to draw their prey into the open.”
Draco felt a tight knot form in his stomach. He already knew the danger he was in—but the idea that the most powerful magical force in Britain could be actively trying to lure him out made it much worse.
Dumbledore’s voice softened slightly. “Are you familiar with the structure of Grindelwald’s forces within Britain?”
Draco hesitated before nodding. “A little,” he admitted. “My father told me some things. Mostly about Lord Voldemort and his followers.” The name felt heavy on his tongue, but he refused to flinch. “The Malfoys never aligned with either side officially, but… my father believed in knowing who held the power.” His lips twisted slightly in distaste at the memory of Lucius’s cold, calculating lectures.
Dumbledore inclined his head, as though Draco had confirmed something he already suspected. “An understandable stance,” he murmured. “But I fear that neutrality will not protect you now. It is vital you understand the enemy—particularly Voldemort and his closest followers, who call themselves Death Eaters.”
With a casual flick of his wand, Dumbledore conjured a ghostly image in midair—a skull with a serpent curling through its mouth. Draco shuddered at the sight, even as Dumbledore’s voice remained calm.
“This,” Dumbledore said, “is the Dark Mark. All known Death Eaters bear this mark on their forearms. While they may conceal it in public, if you ever encounter someone bearing this symbol…” His voice grew unusually stern. “Your only priority should be to escape. Under no circumstances should you engage.”
At that, Percy cleared his throat and stepped forward, his posture stiff with professional pride. “If I may, Headmaster?”
Dumbledore gestured for him to proceed. Percy wasted no time, conjuring a crisp, enchanted portrait that hovered mid-air. The image showed a pale man with sharp features, his dark eyes burning with cold intensity.
“This is Barty Crouch Jr.,” Percy said, and even his usually controlled voice betrayed a trace of tension. “He’s one of Voldemort’s inner circle—high-level and extremely dangerous. From our intelligence, we know that he oversees the bounty system. If anyone is coming after you directly, it will likely be under his orders.”
Draco stared at the image, his mouth suddenly dry. Barty Crouch Jr.’s face was one he had heard of—even in the shadows of the Malfoy estate—but seeing him felt different. More real.
“And,” Percy continued, flicking his wand to produce a second image, “there’s one more name you should be aware of.”
The new portrait revealed a boy who looked to be around Draco’s age. His face was lean, his expression cold, but there was a sharp intelligence in his dark eyes.
“This is Theodore Nott,” Percy said, his tone clipped. “Don’t let his age fool you. He’s as ruthless as the rest of them—and talented. I’ve personally encountered him during an assignment and only barely escaped. If you see him, run.”
Draco’s stomach twisted uncomfortably as he examined Theodore’s image. It was hard to reconcile that someone his own age could already be so deadly. But the way Percy spoke—tight-lipped and serious—left no room for doubt.
He tried to push back the rising hysteria threatening to creep in. What exactly were his chances of survival when one of the most powerful magical organizations in Britain was actively hunting him? Slim—very slim.
But he shoved the thought down and forced himself to focus. Panicking wouldn’t help.
A flicker of movement drew his gaze to Harry, who was still leaning back in his chair—but his expression had shifted. His usually easy, charming demeanor was gone, replaced by something colder, more calculating, as he stared at Theodore’s portrait with unnerving focus.
Without thinking, Draco’s eyes lingered on him, trying to read that expression. As if sensing the weight of his gaze, Harry tilted his head slightly—and then, just as swiftly, his face melted back into that casual, lazy charm. He caught Draco’s eye and smiled.
It was the kind of smile that had no right to be so devastating, especially paired with those impossibly green eyes—a shade so vivid they seemed almost unnatural. Draco felt warmth creeping up the back of his neck—again—and quickly dropped his gaze, forcing himself to focus on the table instead. What the hell was wrong with him?
When he glanced up again, he caught Ginny Weasley glaring daggers at him across the room, her lips pressed into a tight, disapproving line. Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. What was her problem?
Dumbledore, meanwhile, observed the exchange with his usual serene expression, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I trust this information has been… illuminating, Mr. Malfoy?”
Draco exhaled quietly and nodded. “Yes,” he said, somehow managing to keep his voice even. “It has.”
But as Dumbledore moved on to the next point of discussion, Draco couldn’t shake the feeling that his life had just grown even more complicated—and that Harry Potter was going to be a significant part of that chaos.