Hiding the Philosopher's Stone inside a school for young children, while a suspicious figure drinks a unicorn's blood in the forest beside the grounds—and on top of that, "You-Know-Who" himself is likely slipping into the castle, by some means or other.
The wizarding world is finished. Lawless, absolutely lawless.
What makes it worse is that it isn't just some sympathizer—it's Lord Voldemort himself. If one of his agents were someone who knows how I behave day-to-day—say, Professor Snape—then it'd already be obvious I'm not the sort of Slytherin who blindly follows the dorm's "way." I should have been more cautious from the moment I enrolled. But who could have predicted the real body would show up the very year I arrived at Hogwarts? …No—of course it's predictable. Showing the final boss's face at the start is a classic technique. I've clearly underestimated the world of Harry Potter.
If I press the deduction further, the one who let slip the matter of the Stone to Harry and his friends must have been Hagrid. If centaurs can read the stars and foretell things, it's hardly strange that the gamekeeper who lives beside them might overhear. Still… loose-lipped doesn't begin to cover it. Thanks to him, they're walking straight toward Voldemort without even realizing it. Gryffindor courage may be what drives them to "defend" the Stone, but, please—don't put deathtraps at the end of the road in the first place.
It's becoming painfully clear that Hagrid is the last person who should be near the protagonist. The trouble is, he's Dumbledore's employee. The Headmaster's indulgence only makes solving the problem more complicated.
The dragon fiasco didn't explode into a full-blown scandal, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement didn't descend on Hagrid's hut—obviously because Dumbledore intervened. What on earth is he playing at? If there's a plan, fine. If it's simple senility, then we're doomed.
So I racked my brains for how to remove Hagrid with the least controversy. He probably isn't evil at the core and can occupy "protagonist's friend" for a time. He's straightforward to a fault—stubborn, and blind to everything once he decides on a course. Press him too hard and he might do something unpredictable. After making the mess worse already, I've learned the hard way to be cautious about meddling with the relationships around the hero.
As for guarding the Stone itself, I wasn't all that worried. I'd finally guessed why the prime suspect hadn't been eliminated.
Voldemort, who keeps himself alive by drinking unicorn blood, must be terribly feeble right now. Yet his ability to escape is beyond doubt—he's evaded capture for ten years. Which means a plan is necessary. Just as I chose the moment of transport to catch the dragon, Dumbledore has laid a trap at Hogwarts and is waiting. He's waiting for that one moment when Voldemort must take on enough substance to use the Philosopher's Stone—and cannot immediately flee. I do wish he wouldn't stage it at a school, but the Headmaster's "home ground" is Hogwarts. Hagrid babbling the inside story to students is outrageous, but I can at least understand why Dumbledore would choose to hold the field here.
Judging by how long the Harry Potter series is, Dumbledore won't be able to destroy him now. But he certainly doesn't intend to let the Stone itself be taken.
The end of this "Philosopher's Stone" arc was coming into focus. Watching the Gryffindor trio grow more haggard by the day, I felt a small weight lift from my shoulders.
The end of term crept closer by the hour. In June, Hogwarts swarmed with students bent over revision. I, too, found myself visiting professors more often with questions before my first exams.
One clear afternoon, I went—as usual—to Professor McGonagall's office on the second floor. I knocked, the door opened… and there stood someone I hadn't expected to see: Albus Dumbledore.
In the early summer light, his snowy beard shone. Facing the Headmaster for the first time, I heard him greet me with a warm smile.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy."
"Good afternoon, Headmaster."
I was quite startled inside, but grateful my body could run on "automatic" manners for teachers. Perhaps he was here to see Professor McGonagall? I looked around, but she was nowhere in sight.
While I tried to take the measure of the situation, Dumbledore only smiled in that kindly-grandfather way.
"I came to ask Professor McGonagall about Transfiguration…"
"So I imagine. But it seems she's out for the moment. If not as a substitute, may an old man borrow a little of your time instead?"
What was this? The son of Lucius Malfoy getting a little "chat" to keep him in line?
Truthfully, finding the most powerful wizard in the world suddenly in front of me frightened me—but there were things I wanted to ask as well.
"Yes. In fact—please do.
I think I also… have something I ought to tell you."
The Headmaster spoke first. His smile faded; his manner turned serious.
"I believe you have been subjected to considerable unfairness regarding Hagrid, and treatment you did not deserve. Allow me to begin by offering an apology."
He bowed deeply. I lost my footing for an instant, blindsided by the angle he'd chosen. Of course he knew about the dragon incident—but that he knew my involvement, and would consider it his own failing and come address it personally? I'd thought Albus Dumbledore considered such campus squabbles trifles, beneath his notice. Being treated—by someone half above it all—as a "conscientious schoolmaster" would treat a student left me wrong-footed.
"…You weren't directly responsible, Headmaster."
"And yet the responsibility is mine—as you know."
He smiled, but the contrition didn't waver.
Between the lines, it also said this: he understood that I—Draco Malfoy—might use the incident to challenge the Headmaster's judgment.
"Right now you hold both the standing and the grounds to report Hagrid to your father, who sits on the Hogwarts Board. That is what brings me here. I ask that you keep this from your father—at least until the end of this school year."
For all his sincerity, the proposal itself lacked it.
I'd planned to avoid telling Father anyway—obviously it would only make everything explode—but I couldn't help feeling suspicious at his phrasing.
"…Time will erase the evidence, and my report won't be believed. You do realize you're asking a child not to do the right thing, don't you, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore nodded firmly—no evasion, no condescension.
Despite the content, he was remarkably open with a mere first-year.
"I am imposing unfairness on you. It is no true compensation, but when term ends—if you still wish it—I swear on my wand to prove Hagrid's mishandling of his beloved creatures by every means at my disposal."
Why was he so willing to cooperate with me? I couldn't see his aim—and that was frightening. His uncanny earnestness pressed me back.
"…If there's an explanation that truly justifies continuing to employ Hagrid, I could keep silent not merely to term's end—but indefinitely. But as things stand, the creatures he handles might harm students, yes? If he remains ignorant of the danger his beasts pose, and you leave him as he is, won't this happen again?"
"I cannot, from your vantage point, defend Hagrid completely," he admitted. "What I can do is promise I am keeping watch so nothing fatal occurs. In fact, within my sight, none of Hagrid's friends has ever inflicted mortal harm upon a student."
"…The past doesn't guarantee the future."
He nodded deeply. He'd accounted for every objection. And from the start, this offered me only advantages: the Headmaster was promising to take reliable action where my clumsy, roundabout schemes would have failed.
Even so, one question gnawed. Why "until the end of this year"?
"…Why only this school year?"
"That," he said, "is one of the things I can tell you precisely because I am asking you for this silence."
"One of the things?"
"To begin with—this: Professor Quirrell or Professor Snape—which of the two you should truly be wary of."
A chill went through me. He hadn't uncovered anything about "the story," surely, but he had seen that I lived with a constant sense of crisis in this supposedly peaceful Hogwarts. How had he read so much, when he'd never had the chance to pry into my inner life?
Sensing my fear, Dumbledore lightened his tone.
"You've been a touch conspicuous this year. Extraordinary quickness of mind from the start, a certain well-armed contrariness. And—though I spotted you at the Quidditch stands—during Gryffindor–Hufflepuff you seemed curiously uninterested in the players."
So he'd seen me watching Quirrell and Snape. Of course. Standing out near the protagonist means standing out in front of both enemies and allies who matter to the narrative.
Realizing my mistake, I fell silent. He went on, gently.
"Professor Snape is among those I trust most. He will not truly endanger Harry Potter's life. I'll give you my word."
"…'Truly endanger his life,' is doing quite a lot of work."
He gave a small, regretful nod.
"As you suspect, he has a habit of slighting the wounds of others—and his own."
If even Dumbledore couldn't reform Professor Snape, that said enough.
I pushed my sigh down and moved the talk along. "Then Professor Quirrell serves the Dark Lord."
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, as if to read my face. "Do you understand what it means that Professor Quirrell drank a unicorn's blood?"
So the figure in the forest had been Quirrell? I'd assumed it was the Dark Lord himself… Perhaps he meant to return through the professor's body.
My thoughts snagged on that new piece of information. Without claiming certainty, I nodded anyway.
"He's terribly weakened—and willing to take power back even under a curse. He needs the Philosopher's Stone to regain life—so even now, as he keeps drinking, the Dark Lord may be recovering, little by little."
Dumbledore inclined his head. "Exactly. And that is what I am waiting for. At present Voldemort is as weak as mist—such that he may slip through the fingers that grasp for him. We must wait until he has enough substance."
"In other words, when he reaches for the Stone? To drink the Elixir, he must have a body."
"You have come that far. Yes."
He closed his eyes, appreciative. I muttered, a bit awkwardly, that I'd heard as much from a centaur.
"But then—Hagrid remains dangerous. He's been handing Harry information that draws him toward the Dark Lord—"
I stopped mid-sentence. Now the time limit made sense. Voldemort would grow in strength; Dumbledore would wait. Until then, he could not dispense with Hagrid—the one whose words would move Harry closer to the truth. Until the Dark Lord had enough of a body, there was someone Dumbledore needed to know.
"You're using Hagrid's words to steer Harry toward the truth. Is that it?"
For the first time, the last trace of Dumbledore's smile vanished. He nodded, eyes now austere.
But why? What good is it to hurl a first-year into a chasm?
"That's far too dangerous… Harry could run into the Dark Lord himself."
If anything, that was the point. Dumbledore didn't waver.
"He is protected. At the very least, in his present, mist-thin state, Voldemort will not slip past me to harm Harry."
I wanted to tear that assurance apart—but his oaths carry weight, and his record is hard to argue against.
"So—because he's safe now—now is when he should face the Dark Lord?"
"One day Harry must fight his enemy. Having learned the wizarding world, he must also learn that it is the world where his enemy lives."
He was probably right. Harry is the protagonist who will cross that threshold. Perhaps more than anyone, I believe that. I listened to the whole tale and let out a long breath. Then I nodded.
Dumbledore's eyes lit.
"I expected you might not accept it."
And what would you have done then? The possibilities suggested by that sentence were alarming. Throw Hagrid out for real?
Even so, I answered with a small smile. "I don't know enough—so I can't decide. If Harry is safe—and if you, who guarantee his safety, say so—then for now, I'll go along."
All year, I'd drifted, not even sure where the story began. It was half resignation—but entrusting things to Dumbledore, regrettably, was the most reliable option available.
The conversation should have been over. Emotionally, I still had a mountain of objections—but for now, I would follow Dumbledore. That was my decision.
Yet Dumbledore kept looking at me. After a short silence, he spoke again.
"One last thing. Forgive an old man for growing greedy, after speaking with you."
Please don't say it like that. You're frightening me.
"What is it?"
I asked, braced inside.
"I would like you not to maneuver Hagrid away from me—that is my greed."
I said nothing, urging him on. He hesitated, then said:
"Hagrid is a half-giant."
Silence fell again. At last I found my voice.
"You mean—to win the giants to our side? For the next war?"
Dumbledore nodded deeply. A stark resolve burned in his eyes.
I didn't answer. It seemed that was enough.
Sensing he'd said all he meant to, I moved to take my leave—and then remembered the one thing I had to ask.
"Since when have I—no, why tell me so much? I'm not… someone you should trust this far."
His smile returned, warmer than when I'd entered.
"Because Professor McGonagall told me something."
Another angle I hadn't foreseen. I blinked; he nodded, looking faintly pleased.
"Professor McGonagall is among the most fair and trustworthy people I know. Early this year, she repeated to me a warning she'd given many times before—and had not said for quite a while."
There was only one thing that fit.
"About Professor Snape?"
Dumbledore smiled.
"I could give her only the same answer as before. But she did not stop. She began to deal with the matter in a different way. That was new."
Hearing that, I felt something return—something I'd kept tight… or given up on.
"So Professor McGonagall—remembered what I'd said."
"Despite the terribly inconvenient presence of me, she has done splendidly."
"As for Professor Snape—and for Hagrid—the true responsibility, the apologies owed to you students, are mine. I cannot deny I have been less than honest with you.
But even if you judge me unworthy of trust—remember that Professor McGonagall is nothing like me."
I bowed deeply to Dumbledore, opened the door, and stepped out of the office.
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