Chapter Text
It could have been worse.
Two hundred points expunged, and four months of detention. The latter had been dangled like a carrot over her head to persuade her to betray her illiterate associate. Two months for her entry and no more if she named Kebbe. Draco had refused, and the sentence doubled.
Had they been able to bar her from competing, perhaps the punishment would not have been quite so severe. But despite Maxime's and Karkaroff's heated and lengthy protestations, it was made excruciatingly clear that Draco must perform- or suffer a horrible unnamed consequence for breaking the ancient magic's rules. The adults did not elaborate but Bagman made a gravely vague reference to a witch called Genevra Rosier that darkened the mood in the room.
"Not much left of her to take back..." He'd muttered, gaze black and far away.
Snape had of course volunteered to oversee Draco's punishment and that's where she was now- her first night of many in the potions classroom. She might have been grateful to be on friendly ground, but Snape had acted peculiarly from the moment she sat down.
Wordlessly, he dropped a stack of three large, odd-smelling books in front of her and commanded her to read.
"You will read," he said, his shadow falling long across the desk.
Draco glanced at the top volume: Catastrophes in Competition: A Look into the History of the Triwizard Tournament by Euphemia Blight, 1879. The cover showed a ship locked in battle with a tentacled beast; waves crashing endlessly over the scene.
"Yes...sir?"
She reached for her quill and parchment, but Snape's hand cut dismissively through the air.
"None of that, Malfoy. You will read. You will read and you will understand what it is you've entangled yourself in."
Draco, who had witnessed a few of Snape's detentions but never served a sentence in, was more than a little confused. She'd expected to scrub cauldrons at worst or get ahead on the curriculum at best.
"Professor, this is... unusual..." she ventured cautiously. Snape's dark expression did not shift.
"What is unusual, Malfoy, is that you have acted with the same reckless abandon as Harry Potter and bound yourself to a contest renowned for killing witches and wizards far more capable than you. Underage students are barred for a reason. I expect this idiocy from Potter, but you-" he leaned forward, voice dropping menacingly low, "You. Know. Better."
Draco's face warmed. She stared down at the bobbing ship on the cover; lightning flashed across it without sound.
"And Potter's escape from consequence," Snape continued, acidly, "should serve as a sobering lesson in misdoing. You are in detention alone, Draco, while Potter gallivants freely. Did you make any attempt to conceal your actions? Did you imagine you could deceive the Goblet with no consequence? Did you think at all?"
The reminder of Potter roaming free while she sat imprisoned in the Potions classroom burned like Pepperup Potion in her veins.
She knew the three of them were laughing at her; Scar-head with the buck-toothed braying mudblood at his side and Weasley's empty red head bobbing stupidly with them in the corridors as they gloated over his successfully fooling the Goblet and teachers alike. This was an unforgivable humiliation to her identity as a Slytherin and Snape was right to call it out.
It was all the more painfully embarrassing knowing that her peers felt the same.
Last night, she had returned to the Slytherin room and was met with a champion's celebration. If you could call it that. It was mainly the younger students applauding her; the older ones clapped out of courtesy—or caution. The ones staring daggers were mostly seventh years, she could tell.
Her house was divided between support and resentment. but pride won out just enough to keep them civil. Some had congratulated her deceiving the Goblet, and when asked if anyone helped her, she'd realized Kebbe was notably missing from the 'festivities". She supposed she couldn't be upset at that, but if she didn't receive at least a thank you for her loyalty, she'd have to have a word with Father after all.
It would not be surprising if they were miffed that the Slytherin entrants lost out to a Hufflepuff. Jealousy was expected in that case. They were jealous that she had dared and they had not. She was not a popular champion, but a champion nonetheless.
That would change with the Prophet article, she thought, pride rekindling.
-
It happened during the Weighing of the Wands earlier that day. Her interview with the Daily Prophet journalist, Rita Skeeter, was aggravatingly Potter-centered. At first.
"Tell me, dear," she'd purred through a heavily lipsticked grin. Her quill spun around madly though Draco had not spoken yet, "What were your feelings when you saw Harry Potter's name emerge from the fire? I'm sure it was quite the shock. And then your own name to follow! My word, two of the youngest contestants in Triwizard history, barred from entering but defiantly championing their own causes- how deliciously scandalous!"
"Potter wears scandal like an old cloak," she answered, coolly. "I'm hardly surprised at his antics, at this point." The quill twitched and jumped and Draco glanced to read.
'Draco Malfoy, pale and trembling, confesses she never meant to upstage poor Harry Potter…’
"I didn't say that!" Draco snapped.
“Oh, but you implied it,” Rita had said sweetly, tapping her bright nails against the table between them. “Readers adore implication. But that is a good line...” The quill scratched furiously at the parchment, crossing lines out and adding more.
'Betwixt heroic achievements, scandal sadly weighs on the shoulders of the Boy Who Lived- much like bearing a heavy cloak, say those who know him well…’
"No, that's not what I meant-"
"Yes dear, go on, tell me exactly what you mean. I only want the truth. Is it troubling watching him face such extraordinary difficulties? How do you reconcile friendship and competition with The Boy Who Lived?"
"I wouldn't know considering we are not and never have been friends." Draco hotly declared. "I’ll be competing with The Boy Who Cheated, not The Boy Who Lived. It's hardly fair- we both entered our names, yet only I had the decency to admit it. Potter has yet to do so and has faced no repercussions."
Rita Skeeter's face positively glowed. Her grin slowly widened, and her eyes glinted with a hungry light behind her sparkling spectacles. The Quick Quotes Quill scratched out line after line and froze poised at the ready for the first time since the interview started.
"Oh really..."
-
What followed was an expert presentation of all the ways Potter was an illegitimate candidate, complete with examples of his prior "heroic-isms". Skeeter looked especially thrilled and shocked to learn how the entire school had been convinced he was the heir to Slytherin, and how even in his first year, he'd been believed to let a troll in to attack the students. Draco was happy to spare no expense recalling the danger he constantly flirted with and how it affected the students. Maybe Draco threw in a few other unconfirmed accusations; who could say for sure? Not the readers.
Not once was her own legitimacy questioned, and that was how Draco wanted it to stay.
After twenty minutes- twice as long as any of the other champions' interviews- Skeeter emphatically shook her hand and skipped away in a cloud of perfume and self-satisfaction. She promised to directly send Draco her very own copy of tomorrow's issue of the Daily Prophet.
She imagined the look on Potter's face as he'd be forced to read all about himself. It put her in a considerably better mood as she now read about the infamous floating bridge explosion of the 1637 games. Snape had to chide her for humming.
-
An unexpected visitor arrived an hour into her detention.
Snape rose from his desk at once, the chair scraping sharply against the flagstones.
"Good evening, Severus," came the warm breathy voice of Professor Dumbledore. "I wonder if you'd grant me a minute with your charge? We have much to discuss."
"Of course, Professor Dumbledore."
Snape began to put his ink and quills away with deliberate precision. "Draco, you may be excused afterwards. But do not imagine this leniency will extend to your future detentions."
"No, sir," she responded with considerable willpower to keep her eyes from rolling.
He paused at the door, gaze lingering just long enough to catch the flicker of defiance she tried to hide. Then, with a sweep of his robes, he was gone.
The dungeon seemed to exhale and brighten in his absence.
Dumbledore stood before her desk, his presence soft but commanding, the torchlight gilding the silver threads in his beard.
"Professor," Draco greeted, forcing eye contact. Though, he wasn't looking at her. His attention was on the open book before her. His expression was a mixture of fond recognition and something close to regret.
"Ah, Mrs. Euphemia Blight," he smiled, fingertips brushing the page. "A wonderfully knowledgeable witch. I had the pleasure of meeting her once. We argued over her coverage of the fiendfire incident of the 1792 Tournament. I thought it rather too brief. It is a personal favorite."
"You have a favorite catastrophe?" Draco asked, incredulous.
Dumbledore nodded, eyes twinkling mysteriously. "All headmasters do. It keeps us humble."
He closed the book gently and continued.
"Tell me, Miss Malfoy, do you understand what it means to be chosen by ancient magic, and what it demands in return?”
"Y-yes," she replied. It took a moment for her to find her voice, but she thought of her father and his father and the Malfoys who came before. "It's a covenant. It protects us. In return... we obey and keep the covenant alive."
Dumbledore's great silver beard twitched in a smile. "That is very good, Draco. Very good. That would be the magic you've encountered, yes."
Her chest warmed at the praise. She tried to stamp out the feeling but found it impossible. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he'd come all the way to the dungeons just for her.
The sage smile disappeared, replaced by a pensive stillness. "Let us say that the magic you've described is much like Hogwarts. Protective, guiding, ever learning... The castle grows wiser with each student who passes through its halls.”
He paused, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling.
"The magic of the Goblet, however, is of a different nature. This magic binds. It demands. It owes no loyalty to bloodlines or ambition. It tests the spirit of those it chooses, and ancient magic does not choose lightly."
He paused, weighing his next words. Draco sat spellbound. She had no trouble meeting his somber gaze, now.
"I fear you will learn too late what you have signed your name to. The Tournament was born when Hogwarts was scarcely three centuries old. It was meant to unite us - instead, it reminded us how easily pride divides."
"You... you don't think I can win..." Draco said softly, her heart pounding.
“Winning is not what concerns me,” he said with no further explanation. She could guess what it was that did concern him.
He stood in silence for a moment, the air between them growing heavy with unspoken consequence.
"You have potential, Draco," he said at last. "And you have pride. Neither alone will see you through the competition. You must learn quickly, and you must learn to listen- even to those you would rather ignore.”
She couldn't speak. The shame and rage in her was too great. If she opened her mouth, a bubbling black tar would spill forth.
"Your teachers are forbidden to assist you. You know this. Although it appears Professor Snape has made steps to prepare you," he said nodding at her books. "I will not break that rule, but you must remember that guidance can come from a number of unlikely places. You only need to listen for it."
And with that he left the classroom. The door closed behind him, and Draco was left sitting silently with the shimmering candlelight obscuring her expression from no one.
-
A ways down the corridor, Dumbledore stopped- troubled and inspired.
There was no one to hear him; no one to witness him place a hand on a stone wall and whisper a small wish. In the quiet of the corridor, only the intended could know the wish he made.
In the comfort of his office, he thought of this wish. He thought of how much he wanted it to be granted. He thought of a girl sitting alone in the dungeon, too angry to hear anything at all.
He hoped, at least, that his wish had been heard.
"Please help her."