Draco’s Dilemma

April 17, 1993, 4:00 PM, Hogwarts Castle

Draco Malfoy

Draco made his way deeper into the dungeons, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Each step took him further from the noise above, where the entire school still buzzed with frenzied discussions of the attacks and the world at large.

Eventually all he could hear was the soft whisper of his robes against the cold stone floor and the occasional drip of water from the lake seeping through centuries-old mortar.

He’d heard enough— more than enough, if one asked him— about how Dumbledore and the Ministry’s Aurors had driven back Grindelwald’s forces. Every conversation in the Slytherin common room seemed to revolve around the spectacular duels that had taken place across Britain, each retelling more dramatic than the last.

Some of his housemates had even started keeping tallies of the confirmed casualties on both sides, as if it were nothing more than a game of Quidditch. The thought normally would have  made him excited, but now it just didn’t sit well with him.

“Remember, Draco, we are the stewards of wizarding Britain. Our bloodline carries the responsibility to guide and protect our society from those who would corrupt it. Everything we do, we do to preserve our way of life for future generations.”

His father’s words from last summer rang hollow in his ears. They had been standing in his father’s study when Lucius had placed a hand on his shoulder and spoken with that practiced gravity he so often adopted for important occasions.

Draco’s lip curled slightly as he pushed open the heavy oak door to the abandoned classroom, its ancient hinges protesting with a drawn-out creak.

Some steward his father had turned out to be, hiding away while others fought for the very society he claimed to protect. Even the suits of armor in the corridors had shown more initiative, animated by the professors and officers alike to defend the school.

The thought sent a wave of familiar shame through him— what right did he have to question his father’s wisdom? He was just a second-year student, barely twelve years old. His father had lived through the first war with the Dark Lord, had navigated the treacherous waters of wizarding politics in the time that followed. Surely he knew better than to rush headlong into what might be a trap, or to show his hand too early in this dangerous game.

And yet… and yet Draco couldn’t shake the image of Lockhart— Lockhart of all people!— charging into Hogsmeade to protect its citizens, while the great Lucius Malfoy remained conspicuously absent from any reports of the fighting.

The irony of a preening peacock showing more courage than his father left a bitter taste in his mouth. Even that Mudblood-loving blood traitor Arthur Weasley had been regularly seen at Hogwarts, while his father sat safely ensconced behind the Manor’s wards.

Draco settled onto a worn workbench, its surface still bearing the scorch marks of long-ago potions accidents. A thick layer of dust covered everything except for the spot he’d claimed as his own over the past few months, whenever the weight of expectations and appearances became too much to bear.

The cool, damp air of the dungeons usually brought him comfort, a reminder of his place in Slytherin’s noble House. Today, however, it felt as oppressive and as suffocating as the doubts he couldn’t seem to suppress.

Draco found himself envying the lowborn for their simple existence, free from the constant pressure of upholding family honor while questioning everything he’d been raised to believe.

He knew, deep in his heart, that true Slytherin valor meant more than simple ambition and cunning, but this thought left him feeling strangely uneasy.

It was as if he were betraying his own house by admiring qualities that belonged to Gryffindor’s bravery, Hufflepuff’s loyalty, and even Ravenclaw’s wisdom. He felt a flicker of doubt creep in, questioning whether he was losing touch with what it meant to be a Slytherin. Were his ambitions starting to blur into something softer, something that craved belonging and understanding rather than mere achievement?

No.

What his father had done— or rather, hadn’t done— wasn’t clever caution or strategic restraint. It was something else entirely, something that made Draco’s chest ache whenever he tried to put a name to it.

It is cowardi—

He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. Fully naming it would make it real, would transform his growing doubts into an unforgivable betrayal of the man he loved and looked up to. His father and mother meant everything to him.

This whole situation was breaking his heart.

A soft pop shattered the dungeon’s silence, making Draco start. Dobby the elf stood before him, large eyes gleaming in the greenish light, fingers twisting anxiously in the hem of his pillowcase. For one wild moment, Draco’s heart seized—  had Father somehow sensed his disloyal thoughts?

No, he shook his head, steadying himself. That was impossible. Father had likely sent Dobby with news of their family’s plans, nothing more.

“Dobby.” Draco addressed the elf, working to keep his voice cool and collected despite his earlier turmoil. “Why have you come here?”

The house-elf’s ears twitched as he bowed. “Young Master Draco asked Dobby to be telling him of any important happenings at the Manor, sir. Dobby is following Young Master’s orders, he is.”

Draco nodded slowly. It still felt strange, having given such orders to the house-elf.

A year ago, he would never have considered using a mere servant as an information source, but the world had grown more complicated, and after their encounter with Grindelwald’s forces, Draco had come to realize that even the seemingly pitiful creatures that cleaned their halls and served their meals were witness to countless private conversations. They heard things, saw things, and in these uncertain times, such knowledge could prove invaluable.

“I see.” Draco said, his earlier questions bubbling back to the surface. “Then perhaps you can tell me why Father didn’t join in defending against the attacks? He fought briefly at the tournament’s final stage, yes, but as soon as he got me to safety, he vanished.”

The words had come more bitter than he’d intended.

Dobby’s huge eyes went wider still, and a visible shudder ran through his small frame. Before Draco could react, the elf spun around and began slamming his head against the stone wall with a sickening thud.

“Stop that!” Draco commanded sharply, reaching out to pull the elf back. Understanding dawned even as he did so— Dobby had been about to reveal something Father had expressly forbidden him to discuss. The realization sent a chill down Draco’s spine. What exactly was his father hiding?

Draco frowned, his mind racing. If Dobby couldn’t tell him directly, perhaps he could work around it. Like solving a puzzle, he would need to eliminate possibilities one by one.

“Does this have something to do with Grindelwald?” He asked carefully, watching the elf’s reactions.

“No, Young Master.” Dobby answered promptly, seeming almost relieved to give a straight answer.

“Is it about Father?” The question came out softer than he intended.

Dobby’s head bobbed in a weak nod, his ears drooping.

Draco’s fingers drummed against the workbench as he thought. “The Ministry then? You told me about the attack there just days ago— the one they’re keeping hushed.” 

“There is… there is being a connection, Young Master.” Dobby managed, before his hands suddenly clenched into fists, ready to strike himself. “But only a very small one!”

“Dobby.” Draco said sharply. “I forbid you from punishing yourself in my presence. If you feel you must be punished, write lines instead.”

The house-elf’s eyes widened in surprise, then gleamed with grateful tears. With a snap of his fingers, he conjured parchment and quill, hurrying to a nearby table to begin writing.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Draco couldn’t help but drift closer, curiosity getting the better of him. He peered over Dobby’s shoulder at the shaky, childlike scrawl, which said: “I must not betray Young Master.“

A small smile tugged at Draco’s lips before the weight of the mystery settled back over him. Not Grindelwald. Connected to Father, but only tangentially related to the Ministry attacks. There was something else, something he wasn’t seeing. A terrible thought began to form in his mind, but he pushed it away. Surely not… it couldn’t be…

He stood in the dungeon’s silence, the quiet broken only by the scratch of Dobby’s quill against parchment, as though the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for him to voice the question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered.

“Dobby.” Draco said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “Does this have anything to do with the Dark Lord?”

The effect was immediate. Dobby froze mid-sentence, quill hovering above parchment, before suddenly beginning to write with such desperate intensity that the parchment nearly tore.

His muttering filled the classroom, a stream of “Bad Dobby, bad Dobby” barely audible over the frantic scratching of quill on paper.

Draco felt the blood drain from his face, but forced his features into the mask of composure his father had taught him. His next words came out with careful deliberation. “Is… is the Dark Lord… back?”

The quill’s desperate scratching reached a fever pitch until— snap— it broke in two, the sound sharp as a thunderclap in the dungeon’s silence. Ink splattered across the parchment like tiny black stars.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Draco straightened his spine. “Thank you, Dobby. You may go.”

The house-elf looked up at him with those huge, tennis-ball eyes, wearing the same expression of confused wonder he always did when Draco dismissed him without punishment. For a moment, Dobby seemed about to speak, but then with a crack, he vanished.

Alone once more in the abandoned classroom, Draco stared unseeing at the spot where Dobby had disappeared, his mind reeling from the revelation.

“The Dark Lord is back.” He muttered, taking a few unsteady steps backward until he bumped against one of the ancient wooden workbenches, nearly knocking over a dusty collection of empty vials.

His hands gripped the edge of the workbench, fingers brushing against years of knife marks and burn spots left by generations of students. Questions tumbled through his mind like ingredients in a poorly mixed potion.

His father, who had always prepared him for everything and had drilled into him the importance of keeping a working information network to be ready for any change in the delicate balance of power— why hadn’t he told Draco anything?

A bitter laugh echoed off the stone walls. How long had his father been preparing for all of this? Had he even been? From the few times Draco had seen him this year, his father merely seemed preoccupied with the political game behind the scenes of the Tournament. He hadn’t seemed stressed or preoccupied by anything else.

Draco wouldn’t presume to know all of his father’s secrets, but he had a good read on Lucius Malfoy, and this would not have been the sort of thing his father would keep a secret.

If that were the case, and his father hadn’t been involved, how had no one else noticed the Dark Lord’s plans?

The answer came to him immediately, of course.

“Grindelwald.”

The escaped Dark wizard had commanded everyone’s attention, from the Ministry to the press to the general public. His dramatic attacks, his gathering of followers, the very tournament itself— all of it had provided the perfect cover for a different darkness to rise unnoticed.

Draco began to pace between the rows of workbenches, his footsteps echoing in the empty classroom. He was safe, wasn’t he? The Malfoys had always been loyal to the Dark Lord.

Their family had suffered after his fall, had faced scrutiny and suspicion, but they had maintained their position, their influence; if anything, they’d increased it.

On the other hand, Father had always spoken of the Dark Lord’s power with reverence and had taught Draco to respect that power.

But Adam…

His steps faltered beside a shelf of broken jars. What about his friendship with Adam Clarke? They’d been careful, maintaining their public facade of rivalry. Their insults in the corridors had been convincing enough— they’d had plenty of practice, at this point.

Even during the tournament, their interactions had been limited to formal occasions, nothing that would raise suspicion. No, surely no one knew about their secret alliance, their shared adventures, the times they’d helped each other despite their houses’ rivalry.

Yet, uncertainty gnawed at him like acid on cauldron metal. The Dark Lord was known for his ability to uncover secrets, to root out disloyalty. If he ever discovered that Draco had befriended someone who stood against everything the Death Eaters represented…

Draco sank onto one of the worn wooden stools, its legs scraping against the stone floor. How did he feel about all of this? The answer wasn’t as clear as it would have been a year ago. Back then, he would have felt pride, excitement even, at the prospect of the Dark Lord’s return.

His father’s teachings about pureblood superiority and the natural order of things would have made this moment feel like a triumph.

But now… now he had seen different kinds of strength. He had witnessed Adam, a Mudblood, perform magic that defied everything that was expected of him. He had seen unity between the magical schools (before the betrayals), had experienced firsthand how power could come from cooperation rather than domination. The recent battle had shown him that bravery wasn’t confined to Gryffindor, nor cunning to Slytherin.

His fingers traced old writing carved by past students into the workbench as his thoughts continued to spiral. Two paths stretched before him, diverging like the river fork. One led down the road his father had paved for him, toward the Dark Lord and everything he represented. The other… the other led somewhere unknown, somewhere that both terrified and intrigued him.

The distant sound of footsteps in the corridor outside startled him from his reverie. He waited a few moments until the loud students were gone before breathing calmly again. He couldn’t sit here forever, paralyzed by indecision.

Whatever path he chose, he needed to be smart about it. Survival had always been a Slytherin specialty, after all.

Rising from the stool, Draco straightened his robes and schooled his features into their familiar mask of cool indifference. He had information now— valuable information— and that meant he had power.

The question was no longer just about what he should do, but about what he would do.

Draco stared at his reflection in one of the large, mostly untouched jars on the shelf.

He was different now. As much as it pained his Slytherin pride to admit it, that other path— the unknown path which required an unholy mixture of all the Houses’ qualities— called to him with an intensity he couldn’t ignore.

“Father would be so disappointed.” He muttered, a bitter smile playing across his lips, but the thought of following in Lucius’s footsteps, of bowing and scraping before the Dark Lord, of betraying himself…

He couldn’t even finish the thought. No, he had made his choice. If he was going to be an idiot and risk everything by playing the hero in search of glory and greatness, he might as well do it properly.

Draco straightened his robes and squared his shoulders. He was still a Malfoy, still a Slytherin. If he was going to walk this foolishly brave path, he would do it with cunning and calculation. He knew exactly where to start.

He strode toward the Transfiguration Courtyard, his heart hammering against his chest even as his face maintained its practiced mask of superiority. He knew who would be here before he even looked.

He’d had tabs on her, after all.

Draco spotted Nymphadora Tonks at her usual post near the archway, her purple hair impossible to miss as she chatted with a pair of sixth-year Hufflepuffs. His father would have called it unseemly, an Auror-trainee being so familiar with students. Perfect.

The courtyard was busy with students enjoying the brief respite between classes. Draco’s eyes darted around, noting faces, calculating witnesses. A group of Slytherins lounged near the fountain— good, they’d praise his behavior soon enough.

A few Ravenclaws studied beneath the oak tree, and scattered groups of younger students hurried through with their books clutched to their chests.

He spotted his target: a Gryffindor Third-Year sorting through her bag as she walked, her attention completely absorbed in her task. Taking a deep breath, Draco quickened his pace, timing his steps perfectly to collide with her just as she passed in front of Tonks.

The impact sent both their bags sprawling, books and parchment scattering across the stone path. The girl stumbled backward, catching herself against the wall.

“Watch where you’re going, you filthy Mudblood!” Draco snarled, letting years of practiced prejudice color his voice. He made a show of brushing off his robes as if contaminated. “Think you own the courtyard, do you? Probably can’t even see properly through that common blood of yours.”

The girl’s face reddened as tears welled in her eyes. A perfect performance— he’d have to find some way to make it up to her later, perhaps get Dobby to deliver an anonymous gift.

“That’s quite enough, Mr. Malfoy.” Tonks’s voice cut through the sudden silence that had fallen over the courtyard. She strode forward, her hair shifting from purple to a dangerous red. “For that atrocious behavior, you’ll be coming with me.”

Draco drew himself up, channeling every ounce of his father’s aristocratic disdain. “I don’t take orders from blood trai-“

“That wasn’t a request, cousin.” Tonks grabbed his arm, firm but not rough. “The rest of you, off to class. Miss Thompson, are you alright?”

The girl nodded, already being consoled by her friends who had rushed to help gather her things. Perfect— witnesses would remember her name, her tears and most importantly, his cruelty. The story would spread.

“I’ll be writing to my father about this.” Draco sneered as Tonks steered him away from the courtyard. He maintained his struggle just long enough to be visible to the watching crowd before allowing himself to be led around the corner.

Only then, when they were out of sight of the courtyard, did he let his shoulders sag slightly. Now came the difficult part— convincing Nymphadora Tonks, his disowned cousin and trained officer, to listen to what a seemingly prejudiced, spoiled Pureblood princeling had to say.

His hand tightened around his wand in his pocket, not in threat but in nervous habit. Everything depended on the next few minutes, on his ability to make her understand without explicitly saying anything. After all, the walls of Hogwarts had ears, and not all of them belonged to portraits.

“I didn’t…” Draco began as soon as they were alone, but Tonks cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand.

“Save it, Malfoy. I’ve heard all the excuses before, and frankly, I’m not interested.” Her hair had settled into a stern gray that reminded him uncomfortably of McGonagall. “Professor Snape will be hearing about this, and I’ll personally ensure appropriate punishment is arranged.”

Something hot and frustrated flared in Draco’s chest. This wasn’t going according to plan at all.

“You don’t understand—” He started, his voice rising with genuine anger before he caught himself, forcing his breathing to steady. Think, you idiot. Think like a Slytherin.

“Are you quite finished?” Tonks asked, her eyebrow raised. “Ready to go see the Professor?”

Draco straightened his shoulders, knowing he was about to take perhaps the biggest risk of his life.

“I created that scene because I needed to be seen acting like myself.” He said carefully, measuring each word. “What I actually want is to speak with Adam Clarke.”

Tonks blinked, surprise briefly replacing the stern expression on her face before suspicion took over. “And why exactly would you think to ask me where Adam is?”

A small, knowing smile played across Draco’s lips. “Let’s just say I know more than I probably should.”

The words came out with just the right touch of his usual smugness, but his heart was pounding so hard he was sure she must be able to hear it.

Her eyes narrowed, and he felt the weight of her scrutiny. He’d seen that look before— it was the same calculating gaze his father used when trying to determine if someone was lying. But where Lucius’ stare was cold and threatening, Tonks’ held something else… something almost like concern beneath the suspicion.

“I don’t care if you take me to Professor Snape.” Draco said, dropping the smile and letting his mask slip just enough to show his sincerity. “I don’t care if you march me straight to Dumbledore himself. But I need to see Clarke first.”

He hesitated for just a moment before adding, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

The word hung in the air between them. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d said ‘please’ to someone and actually meant it. From the way Tonks’ eyes widened slightly, her hair shifting to a surprised pink at the tips, she hadn’t expected it either.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Draco held his cousin’s gaze, letting her see past the arrogant facade he’d spent years perfecting. For once in his life, he needed someone to see not the Malfoy heir, but just… Draco.

Tonks regarded him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face as if trying to read the truth written there. Finally, she spoke in a carrying voice that seemed deliberately loud in the empty corridor.

“Very well, Mr. Malfoy. I’m going to confine you to a room until Professor Snape arrives to deal with your behavior.”

Draco followed her through the winding hallways, moving further and further from the Transfiguration Courtyard. His heart quickened with each step— were they really going to see Adam? The route seemed wrong somehow, but then again, perhaps the roundabout path was intentional.

Tonks came to a stop beside a weathered wooden door, gesturing toward it with an exaggerated sweep of her arm. “After you.”

Adam was here? Something felt off. Draco frowned but stepped through the doorway, his eyes scanning the empty classroom. There was no sign of anyone else.

What—?

His instincts screamed a warning. Draco spun around, his wand already moving to deflect the incoming Stunner. The red jet of light bounced harmlessly off his hasty deflective Shield Charm. The follow-up Disarming Charm he also managed to dodge, but he hadn’t anticipated the silent sweep at his legs. His feet flew out from under him, and Draco felt his stomach lurch as he crashed toward the stone floor. His mind raced— was this a test? A trap?

Either way, he had precious little time to react.

He aimed his wand at Tonks from his falling position, a spell forming on his lips, but he was too slow. The red light of another Stunner filled his vision.

The last thing Draco registered before unconsciousness took him was a hint of grudging respect in Tonks’s expression. At least he hadn’t gone down without a fight— though that thought wasn’t particularly comforting as darkness claimed him.