Christmas was drawing near.
One crisp December morning, Hogwarts awoke beneath a heavy blanket of snow, the lake frozen solid and glittering in the pale light.
The Weasley twins had been punished for enchanting several snowballs to chase Professor Quirrell around and smack him on the back of his turban. When Malfoy heard about it, he was both amused and astonished—it was, in a way, like slapping Voldemort himself in the face.
No wonder one of them lost an ear and the other didn't survive the war, Malfoy mused darkly. Offending the Dark Lord directly is never wise.
Of course, it was only a passing thought. In truth, Malfoy knew that in Voldemort's eyes, anyone who refused to submit deserved death. Even those who seemed useful could be cast aside in an instant if they stood in his way.
Professor Snape had been proof of that. Voldemort hadn't killed him because Snape's secret identity had been revealed—he'd done it simply to claim ownership of the Elder Wand. Voldemort could murder a loyal subordinate just to secure more power.
Lost in these thoughts, Malfoy gazed out through the frosted window. Snow continued to fall in thick sheets. Dozens of owls cut across the gray sky, braving the storm to deliver letters and parcels. Many would have to rest under Hagrid's care before they could fly again. With Christmas approaching, even the owls were overworked—there were simply too many greetings to deliver.
Among the flurry of letters was one for Malfoy. His mother, Narcissa, wanted him home for the holidays.
Yet, oddly enough, he found the library far more appealing than returning to Malfoy Manor.
But I still have to go back, he reminded himself. There's somewhere I absolutely must visit.
His fingers brushed the edge of an ancient volume. Sitting in a dim corner, Malfoy turned a page with care, half afraid the yellowed parchment would crumble under his touch.
The Restricted Section doesn't only hold dark magic, he thought, but also dark history.
He closed the book gently. The gilt title had long since worn away, but faint traces of lettering still revealed the words The Unknown History of Dark Magic.
As he silently absorbed the information, a voice interrupted him.
"What are you looking for, child?" asked a sharp, stern woman's voice. Madam Pince, the librarian who guarded the Restricted Section like a dragon hoarding treasure.
"Nothing," came a boy's voice from the next aisle.
Through the narrow gap between shelves, Malfoy saw Harry Potter standing there, looking nervous under Madam Pince's scrutiny.
"Then you'd best leave. Out," she said curtly, waving him away.
Harry glanced around helplessly. His eyes briefly met Malfoy's through the crack between shelves.
It was clear which of them had permission to be there and which did not. Their treatment was night and day.
Harry sighed as he left the library, regretting that he hadn't been quicker on his feet. I should've said I was looking for someone, he thought. But even that would have been awkward—after all, he didn't have a good relationship with Malfoy. If he'd lied and been caught, it might have cost Gryffindor house points.
Leaving the library, Harry hoped Ron or Hermione had uncovered some new clue, though he wasn't optimistic.
It had all begun after the Quidditch match, when Hermione claimed she'd seen Snape cursing Harry's broom, and Harry himself noticed Snape's injured leg. Combining that with the fact that Hagrid was guarding a three-headed dog, the three had concluded that Snape was after something valuable—and had gotten bitten trying to steal it.
Hagrid's occasional slips of the tongue had given them one more name to chase: Nicolas Flamel.
But every trail had gone cold.
In the Gryffindor common room, Hermione sat slumped over the table, hair messy and eyes weary. Ron idly toyed with his battered wizard chess set. Clearly, they were still stuck.
"I got kicked out by Madam Pince," Harry muttered.
"I'm starting to think he might be a Muggle," Hermione groaned. "Otherwise, how could there be no record of him?"
She ticked off her failed searches on her fingers. "He's not in the list of Great Twentieth-Century Wizards, nor in the Directory of Famous Contemporary Wizards. And there's no mention of him in Modern Magical Discoveries or Recent Developments in Magical Research."
She sighed heavily. "He's driving me mad."
"I think Madam Pince definitely knows something," said Harry.
"But we can't ask," Ron countered immediately. "If we do, Snape will find out—and that's dangerous."
"While I'm away, keep looking," Hermione said, sitting up straighter. "If you find anything, send an owl."
"You could ask your parents," Ron suggested. "That's safe enough."
Hermione gave him a flat look. "Very safe. They're dentists."
Harry hesitated. "I have another idea. Why don't we ask Malfoy? He's got permission to use the Restricted Section."
Ron nearly dropped a pawn. "Are you mad, Harry? He's a Slytherin—and Snape's their head of house! You really think he'd tell us anything?"
Hermione looked conflicted.
"I don't know," she said quietly.
Her tone made both boys look up, suspicious. She hadn't told them that lately, she and Malfoy had actually been on surprisingly good terms.
"I think he's not as bad as we thought," Harry admitted. "Maybe we were wrong about him on the train."
"If you want to go, go," Ron snapped, "but I'm not apologizing to him." He slammed a chess piece onto the board, ending the discussion.
Hermione and Harry exchanged glances, silently agreeing to drop it—for now.
"So you came to ask me?" Malfoy's eyes flicked up from his book when Hermione approached him in the library.
"You know who he is, don't you?" she asked, her voice hopeful.
Malfoy leaned back slightly. "Is this person so important to you all?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Extremely," Hermione said firmly.
"But I don't feel any obligation to tell you," he said coolly. "If you were asking me as a friend, I might help. But your two friends clearly wouldn't accept my kindness. Don't you think that's unfair to me?"
"It's not like that—Harry was the one who suggested asking you," Hermione said quickly.
"So? Where is he?"
"Ron disagreed," she admitted softly. "Harry didn't want to argue."
"Then I see no reason to help," Malfoy said, his tone turning colder. "Even if I did, they wouldn't believe it came from me."
"No, it's not like that," Hermione insisted.
Malfoy studied her for a moment, then sighed. "Fine. Nicolas Flamel—the only known creator of the Philosopher's Stone. The greatest alchemist in history. A close friend of Dumbledore. Is that enough?"
He closed the book with a soft thump. "And now, Miss Granger, this is the Restricted Section. I suggest you leave."
Hermione stood frozen for a moment, the sting of his words hitting harder than expected.
Why did it turn out like this? she wondered. His cold eyes made something twist painfully in her chest. The answer she'd wanted for weeks should have thrilled her—but all she felt was a hollow sadness.
Numbly, she walked out of the library. The icy wind that brushed her cheeks didn't chill her as much as the cold in her heart. She began to question the fragile web of friendships among the three of them, but her thoughts tangled hopelessly.
Malfoy exhaled slowly as he watched her go.
This friendship shouldn't have existed at all, he thought. I only reached out on the train to see if I could change history—but I failed.
He had tried to keep his distance afterward. Yet when Hermione had gathered the courage to apologize, something in him had softened. They'd met again by chance in the library one afternoon, and when he'd seen her looking lonely and sad, he'd comforted her. Once, he'd even taken her secretly to Hogsmeade.
But house rivalries and loyalty to friends had always stood between them. When those tensions flared, someone was bound to get hurt.
It had to happen sooner or later, he told himself. Better to end it now than let it fester.
Whether the fragile connection between them would collapse or be reborn—he didn't know.
I'll be the bad guy this time, he thought grimly.
Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room, her expression blank. The warmth of the crackling fire wrapped around her, thawing some of the numbness in her chest.
Ron and Harry were still playing wizard chess, laughing and bickering as usual.
"I know who Nicolas Flamel is," Hermione said quietly.
Ron was just about to capture Harry's knight when her words sank in. Both boys froze.
"What did you say?" Harry gasped.
"You know who he is?" Ron shouted. "Hermione, you're brilliant!"
She stayed calm, her tone measured. "He's the only known creator of the Philosopher's Stone—the greatest alchemist of our time—and Dumbledore's friend."
"The Philosopher's Stone!" Ron exclaimed. "That explains everything! Of course Snape would want it—everyone would!"
Harry frowned. "What exactly is it?"
"My brothers told me stories about it," Ron said quickly. "They said if you had the stone, you could make unlimited gold—and you'd never need to work again! And it can produce the Elixir of Life, which makes you immortal."
"That explains it all," Harry said, realization dawning. "Flamel and Dumbledore are friends. Dumbledore must have agreed to keep the stone safe here at Hogwarts. That's what the three-headed dog is guarding! Snape tried to steal it, got bitten, and failed."
"Hermione, you're amazing," Ron said again, grinning.
Hermione forced a smile. "Maybe," she said softly.
Inside, however, she felt no triumph—only a quiet ache she couldn't quite name.
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