Draco Malfoy, the transmigrator, died after being bitten by the Basilisk. His body was reduced to nothing, leaving behind only a name and a memory. Thus, a cenotaph was erected in his honor.
Of course, Draco Malfoy never wanted his epitaph to be reduced to such a pitiful handful of words.
Yet the grim situation before him left him with almost no other possibility. His so-called areas of expertise—the spells and knowledge that once gave him confidence—were nearly useless here. The Basilisk's resistance to magic was practically absolute, its scales gleaming with an oily, mirror-like sheen that mocked the idea of harm. Spells would probably bounce off harmlessly, perhaps even rebound and finish him instead.
It was laughable, in a way.
He couldn't help thinking of how much assistance Harry Potter had enjoyed when facing this same monster in the original timeline. A phoenix—Fawkes—had been there, not only blinding the serpent by pecking out its eyes but also harassing it so that Harry could strike. Then there had been the Sword of Gryffindor, a magical weapon that could cut through iron like butter. Holding it, Harry's combat power had skyrocketed severalfold.
And, of course, there had been the Sorting Hat—well, that one didn't increase intelligence, but it was still symbolic enough to make the scene look heroic.
But now Draco was alone.
No phoenix, no magical sword, no convenient prop of destiny. His only weapon was his wand—and even that was on the verge of breaking.
The difference in treatment really was enormous, he thought bitterly.
The Basilisk's fangs tightened again. The wand shuddered, releasing a mournful creak, as if crying out in pain and warning him that its end was near.
"Damn it," Draco hissed between clenched teeth. His injured hand trembled, blood dripping from his palm. "Is there any spell for limb regeneration? Or maybe I should just cut it off now…"
The thought was not an exaggeration. He was already considering abandoning his injured arm entirely—sacrificing a pawn to save the king. But even if he gave up his hand, what then? The moment the Basilisk broke free, he would still have to close his eyes or risk instant death from its gaze. And with only one functional arm, his situation would only grow worse.
It was hopeless either way.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Well, if fate wants me dead, let's see how much it wants it."
He raised his wand. His voice, though trembling, carried a strange calm. "Expecto Patronum!"
The words burst out with all the emotion he could muster—desperation, defiance, and a flicker of something that might have been faith. Along with the chant came his most cherished memories, the ones he had carefully guarded deep in his heart.
The cracked wand sparked. Silvery mist gushed out, faint at first, but refusing to fade.
For once, nothing interfered.
Then, something remarkable happened.
"Hahahaha!" Draco's laughter echoed madly through the Chamber of Secrets. He didn't even know why he was laughing—perhaps from relief, perhaps from disbelief.
Before him, a Patronus had appeared: a proud, silver rooster, radiant and alive, floating in midair.
It opened its beak and released a single, resounding crow.
The effect was immediate and terrifying.
The Basilisk—creature of darkness, born of ancient magic—stiffened as if struck by lightning. That crowing, that bright and holy sound, was death to it. The serpent convulsed, releasing Draco from its fangs, and collapsed in a limp coil, its body twitching once before falling utterly still.
Draco fell backward, gasping for air, his chest heaving with each painful breath.
He laughed again—half hysterical, half incredulous. "A rooster," he muttered, voice trembling. "A bloody rooster…"
He thought back to all the grueling hours he had spent trying to master this spell. He had practiced until his mind ached, forcing his emotions into alignment, hoping for a majestic Patronus like a dragon or phoenix—something befitting a Malfoy and a transmigrator.
He had even deliberately tried to make the form resemble a rooster, just in case, reasoning that it might be useful against the Basilisk. Yet, despite his planning, he had always failed. Every attempt had ended in frustration.
And now, when he'd thrown caution to the wind and used the spell as a desperate gamble—it worked. Effortlessly.
All that time, all that overthinking—it had been useless.
He began to recall some of the theories he'd read about the Patronus Charm. The form it takes, they said, reflects the caster's innermost qualities—their true self, not the image they wish to project.
A rooster.
He chuckled weakly. "So that's what I am, huh?"
In his old world, people often ascribed certain virtues to roosters—bravery, vigilance, persistence. The rooster heralded the dawn, driving away darkness with its crow.
"The rooster crows at the first light of morning," Draco murmured. "It's a symbol of prophecy. Maybe… maybe my knowledge of the future counts for that."
For a moment, he smiled to himself. Then the humor drained from his face.
"The shame of transmigrators…" he muttered darkly.
He sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling of the Chamber. "When other protagonists get reincarnated, their Patronuses are dragons, phoenixes, or some other glorious beast. Even if it's something less grand, it's at least a griffin or a lion. But me? I get a rooster."
He stared at the silver bird still strutting proudly before him, feathers shimmering with light. Despite himself, he found it… oddly endearing. The rooster lifted its head high, chest puffed, every motion radiating pride.
"Alright," Draco said softly, a smile tugging at his lips. "Let's add pride to the list too."
The exhaustion hit him like a wave.
The world tilted; his vision blurred. His body, already weakened from blood loss and relentless magical strain, finally gave out. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the cold stone floor.
The silver rooster flickered, fading into mist before vanishing entirely.
Silence filled the Chamber of Secrets once more.
For a long time, there was nothing—no sound but the slow drip of water from the ceiling and the faint echo of distant pipes.
Then, at last, two figures appeared.
An old man with long silver hair and a calm, wise gaze, and a young girl whose eyes were swollen from crying.
"No!" Hermione's voice broke the stillness. The moment she saw Draco lying motionless on the ground, her heart clenched in terror. "No, no, no!"
Tears welled again, blurring her vision.
Guilt flooded her chest. She blamed herself for everything—for not being quick enough, for not being clever enough, for not stopping him from going alone. Normally, her keen observation would have told her that if Draco had truly failed, his body would not be lying here intact. The Basilisk would have devoured him whole.
But grief and shock smothered her reason.
The rollercoaster of fear, hope, and despair had finally broken her.
She swayed, her legs giving way.
"Poor child," Dumbledore murmured softly, catching her before she hit the floor. His tone was gentle, almost sorrowful. His blue eyes, shining under the half-moon spectacles, swept across the scene.
He saw the fallen serpent. He felt the lingering traces of powerful magic in the air. At a glance, he already knew the crisis had been resolved. The old wizard's role now was not to intervene, but to finish what had been started—to take these students back to safety.
Hermione, unconscious in his arms. Gilderoy Lockhart, dazed and mumbling nonsense, his mind clearly fractured. And Draco Malfoy—the boy who had somehow, impossibly, defeated the Basilisk.
Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment.
He was deeply curious. How could a boy barely into his teens have slain such a creature? No matter how talented, it should have been impossible. The Basilisk's scales resisted nearly all forms of magic. Even the most advanced spells would struggle to pierce them.
Moreover, he sensed that several layers of anti-transfiguration enchantments and anti-item spells had been placed in this chamber. To adult wizards, they were manageable; to students, they would have been suffocatingly restrictive.
Yet somehow, Malfoy had succeeded.
Dumbledore's gaze softened, a flicker of amusement playing in his eyes. There was mystery here—but also potential.
A faint groan escaped Draco's lips. His eyelids fluttered. Then, with the last vestiges of consciousness, he looked toward the approaching headmaster.
"Hey, old man," he said weakly, forcing a crooked grin. "Don't… don't make me out to be a hero." His voice was faint but laced with dry humor. "That teacher over there—he's pretty pitiful. Let him have the glory one last time."
He raised a trembling hand, pointing vaguely toward Lockhart.
Then he exhaled and slipped into unconsciousness.
For a moment, Dumbledore said nothing.
Then, behind the lenses of his spectacles, a faint light flickered in his deep blue eyes—something between admiration and melancholy.
"As you wish, child," he murmured, his voice soft enough to be swallowed by the still air.
The words lingered, unheard by anyone else.
He straightened slowly, surveying the ruined Chamber one last time. The battle was over. The monster was dead. And though few would ever know the truth, Dumbledore knew enough.
He would honor Draco's wish.
Lockhart would receive the tale. The fame. The applause.
And the boy who had truly faced the darkness would rest—quietly, anonymously—his secret victory hidden beneath layers of legend and rumor.
The old wizard flicked his wand, summoning faint light to guide their path. With a gentle gesture, he lifted the unconscious children, weightless under his magic.
The Chamber of Secrets fell silent once again, the ripples of the battle fading into memory.
Somewhere, deep in the echoing pipes, a whisper of silver mist stirred—a fleeting trace of a proud rooster, shining faintly before vanishing into
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