Chapter 146 - Not Unnecessary — Face to Face

Draco fell silent.

The silence came like layers of soft cloth, piling onto him one after another. He couldn't understand it, why should something so soft make his chest feel this clogged, this tight?

Praeris had said his father wanted him to be happy, to do what he wanted. But Draco knew, really, that was her own wish talking.

He thought, with a flicker of irritation, what did Praeris know? She was just a student.

The Dark Lord had entrusted him with a mission. How glorious was that? Who else, underage, had ever been given such an opportunity?

And beyond the honor of it, the mission was his family's last chance to claw their way back. Complete it, and Father would regain the Dark Lord's favor. The Malfoy name would rise again.

To accomplish something that important, what was wrong with letting go of a few trivial things? Why did she insist on framing that as some kind of betrayal of his past ideals?

Well. It was forgivable, wasn't it.

Because Praeris knew nothing. She didn't know what he was doing. She didn't know he was avenging his father, that he was laying stones in the foundation of the Dark Lord's great work.

Draco reached out and touched her face, gently. "Has someone told you that before? You always think too much." His thumb traced her cheek. "Believe me, what I'm doing right now is exactly what leads to happiness."

She didn't understand. She couldn't feel what was in him now. The desire for revenge. The desire to set things right. The desire to make his world something worth living in again.

Next to that, a childish dream like becoming an alchemist didn't stand a chance.

Praeris wasn't ready to let it go.

She had seen him bent over elemental structures and transmutation diagrams until his eyes ached. She'd watched him work through tome after tome on alchemy, practicing repair charms on magical objects until he got them right.

She knew. Draco hadn't stopped wanting alchemy. He'd just been blinded, by hatred, and by the false future Voldemort had dangled in front of him.

But Draco sighed, sudden and quiet.

"All right. All right."

He picked up the parchment. "What can I do? To make you happy," A faint, almost rueful note in his voice. ", to make you happy, what wouldn't I do?"

He barely paused before putting quill to parchment, scratching in a few quick strokes.

Then he looked up at her with a smile. "There, Miss. You've gotten your way."

Praeris looked genuinely surprised. She hadn't expected it to be that easy.

But she recovered quickly, rolling up the parchment with a proprietary air. "Wait here. I'll deliver this to Professor Snape myself."

Draco laughed again, propping his chin on one hand, eyes flicking toward the door in a clear, go on, then.

He watched her go. And as her figure disappeared from view, he turned over the thought that had surfaced just moments ago:

This kind of argument is completely pointless.

She's always known I'll give in eventually.

The second I remember she's only pushing because she cares about me, I've already lost.

Yes. He'd do it.

Just as he'd never leave his mother's side, no matter how much he might want to. Just as he could never stand to make her worry. Some surrenders weren't defeat. They were just what you did for the people you couldn't walk away from.

Praeris clutched the parchment scroll and crossed the Great Hall at a brisk pace, heading for Professor Snape's office.

"Sir," she said quietly. "Draco wishes to change his sixth- and seventh-year course selection."

Snape's gaze dropped to the parchment first. Then it moved to her face.

"How remarkable." His voice was cold, precisely sardonic. "Prefect Prince appears to have quite a gift for serving her fellow students. Or perhaps, in the span of a single half hour, Draco has broken both his legs and is no longer able to present himself before me?"

Praeris lowered her head and said nothing.

She knew Professor Snape well enough. Any excuse, any attempt at deflection, would only make her look worse.

The silence stretched. Snape gave a short, cold laugh, picked up the parchment, glanced at it, and dropped it back in front of her.

"Noted," he said, with a particular edge of mockery. "If that is the sum total of what you came to tell me, then I will say only this: in three years, you have gone backwards considerably. You are almost beginning to resemble your mother."

Snape never softened when he scolded Praeris. The way a parent strikes their own child, no holding back, no mercy given.

It was like a smile curve, really. The two ends that caught it worst: one was Gryffindor. The other was his own niece and the student he had raised himself.

Praeris shook her head quickly. "No, I have other questions. How can you be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts? You know that position has been, "

"Cursed?" Snape cut her off, the mockery sharpening. "Given that Remus Lupin is still out there alive and kicking, I have nothing to worry about."

He waved a hand. "That's enough, Praeris. I don't have time to waste on pointless questions."

"One more," she said quickly. "Just one. What happened to Headmaster Dumbledore's hand?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "I am not Dumbledore's personal health advisor, Miss Prince. Go ask Madam Pomfrey. Or ask the man himself."

She left with nothing.

Snape had batted back every single question she'd put to him, barely pausing between swipes. But that was the thing about Praeris, a refusal was still a kind of answer. Not answering was sometimes more informative than speaking.

She filed it away and went to class. There was an advanced Transfiguration session with Professor McGonagall this morning.

After a brief review of the last five years, Professor McGonagall announced that this year's focus would be Human Transfiguration.

"I trust some of you still remember what I have said before." Her voice was measured, serious. "Transfiguration is among the most complex and dangerous subjects we teach. Human Transfiguration, in particular, is its most dangerous branch. It demands exceptional magical power and precise control."

"If anyone fails to follow my instructions during these lessons — if anyone attempts to transfigure themselves or a classmate without authorization — they will be removed from this classroom. Permanently."

The warning settled over the room. Then Professor McGonagall's tone eased, just slightly.

"Now. Who can tell me — when I say Human Transfiguration, what comes to mind?"

Praeris hesitated, then raised her hand. "Metamorphmagi?"

"Very good, Miss Prince. Five points to Slytherin." Professor McGonagall nodded in approval. "Metamorphmagi possess Human Transfiguration as an innate ability, they can shift their appearance at will. Other witches and wizards lack this capacity, which is precisely why rigorous study is required..."

Praeris thought of the time Dumbledore had stretched her arm, a casual, almost offhand demonstration of Human Transfiguration in practice.

And it wasn't only about changing size. Turning a person into a creature altogether was Human Transfiguration too.

Barty Crouch Jr. turning Draco into a ferret. Circe turning sailors into pigs. And Animagi.

Animagus transformation occupied its own special category, generally kept separate from what was taught in standard Human Transfiguration.

Listening to Professor McGonagall speak, Praeris felt the weight of what had happened in fourth year settle more clearly than ever. What Barty Crouch Jr. had done to Draco had been genuinely dangerous.

Though, if she was being honest, her own intervention hadn't exactly been safe either. She hadn't reversed the transfiguration properly. She'd hit it with Finite Incantatem and hoped for the best.

Between the two of them, it was something of a miracle Draco had come out intact.

Professor McGonagall filled the entire lesson with failed Human Transfiguration cases, safety requirements, and critical technique notes. Not a single moment of practical work.

The message was impossible to miss: this subject could hurt you. She wasn't being cautious for the sake of it.

Two Potions lessons waited in the afternoon. Praeris decided to use the lunch break to pay Dumbledore another visit.

When class ended, she held back until the room had emptied, then approached Professor McGonagall on the pretense of a question.

"Miss Prince." Professor McGonagall studied her. "What is the reason this time? I would think Professor Snape and I could manage most concerns between us."

"Er..." Praeris came up empty. "Roughly the same reason as last time?"

Professor McGonagall looked at her, that long, unreadable look that usually preceded a flat refusal.

"Sour Fizz," she said. "That is the password. Though it would be better to go a little later."

Praeris blinked. "Why?"

"If you go too early, Dumbledore may still be in the Great Hall having lunch."

Meaning, no one in the office.

"Er. All right?"

Professor McGonagall smiled, sudden and brief, and patted her on the shoulder. "We should both go have our lunch, Miss Prince."

At the table, Praeris watched Dumbledore from the corner of her eye. The moment he set down his fork and knife, she wrapped up her own meal and followed.

She found, quickly, that the password had been unnecessary. Dumbledore had opened the office door and then simply stopped, waiting in the doorway.

Just like she'd once held the compartment door open for Harry Potter.

"Sir, how did you injure your hand?" Praeris asked, straight to the point. "It wasn't like that in mid-July."

Dumbledore made a soft sound. "Praeris. It happened after that... It is a rather long story."

"Then give me the short version," she said. "Was it a Horcrux? Why haven't you had it treated? Is it that difficult to treat?"

This was not the moment to let him steer the conversation.

The Death Eaters had been killing Order members and officials who stood with Dumbledore. What he needed now was to project strength, not to leave visible proof of his own limitations on display.

Praeris couldn't think of anyone in the world who could genuinely harm Dumbledore. No one except through Voldemort's scheming.

She preferred to call it scheming, even with an enemy. In every Slytherin's understanding, a plan executed for victory, whatever methods it required, as long as it achieved its end, was simply a brilliant stratagem. Not a sinister plot.

Back to the matter at hand. If that was indeed what had happened, then a Horcrux was almost certainly involved.

Dumbledore's tone remained gentle. "I must always marvel at you, Praeris. After obtaining the golden cup, I found the fourth Horcrux. In Voldemort's old home. It was a ring, passed down through his mother's family."

The diary had represented his Muggle life. That would be the earliest. The relics tied to the three founders spoke to his student years, to Hogwarts.

The ring, perhaps after he had left Hogwarts, and tracked down what remained of his mother's side.

"Even knowing about this one, I still have no idea where the rest of them might be." Praeris shook her head. "But Headmaster Dumbledore, let's set the Horcruxes aside. Using them to redirect my attention isn't going to work."

Dumbledore laughed, full and unguarded. "It seems I've made yet another arrogant mistake."

"Have you let Madam Pomfrey examine your hand?" Praeris didn't follow the laugh. She just asked it plainly.

"I don't think that's particularly necessary," Dumbledore said, serene.

"Sir." Her voice sharpened. "Is it that it isn't necessary, or that it's already too late to be necessary?"

She had to acknowledge something: she had, in growing up, largely stopped prying into other people's secrets. Out of respect. For her own peace of mind.

But Dumbledore was a particular kind of bad elder, one who neither lied outright nor told the truth, who worked the art of misdirection with decades of practice, who hid things in plain sight through careful arrangement of words.

Dumbledore looked at her with something warm in his eyes. "Wizards always lean on magic. I am no different, it is a bad habit. And it makes us forget, time and again, that some talents exist entirely outside of magic."

Both of them in this room knew Occlumency. Both of them could use Legilimency. But Praeris was a special case, an anomaly. She didn't need magic to read a person.

She stood very still.

She could not fully believe what she was hearing. Could not quite fit the idea of Dumbledore's death into any shape that made sense.

Then, from somewhere distant, a memory surfaced. Third year. The Christmas feast. Trelawney had said that if thirteen dined together, the first person to stand would die.

At the time, Praeris hadn't been at the table. She'd left on her own and paid the death omen no real attention.

But now, thinking back carefully, Dumbledore had already risen before she did. He'd stood to welcome Trelawney long before Praeris had moved at all.

"Headmaster Dumbledore." Her gaze was steady. Certain. "This is not unnecessary. You cannot die. We will find a way."

"The curse." She pressed both hands flat against his desk, leaning forward. "Madam Pomfrey, Professor Snape, Winnie, and I, between all of us, we will find a way for you to live. The Sorting Hat told us to stand together. If we do — if we actually try — we will find hope."

She could not imagine fighting Voldemort without him. She could not picture any version of that ending well.

On the strength of an underage Savior?

And besides, so what if Dumbledore had stood first? She hadn't been at the table. She hadn't been one of the thirteen. The prophecy couldn't count someone who wasn't even there.

Her own contrary will had made its choice that night: she left the table so that no one would die. Fate had made room for it.

That sliver of a chance still existed.

➤ Next: The Conversation with Dumbledore