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Chapter 52
Draco Malfoy — transmigrator, accidental hero — died after being bitten by a basilisk. His body was gone, and this… this was his cenotaph.
He refused to accept that.
But there wasn't a single thing he could do about the monster looming over him. None of his advantages carried over to this situation. The basilisk's magical resistance was absurd — practically maxed out. His curses bounced off its scales like raindrops. With how smooth and unyielding those scales were, he had a sinking suspicion they might even reflect his spells back hard enough to kill him.
Harry, of course, had cheated outrageously when he killed the basilisk. He'd had Fawkes — a phoenix capable of swooping in, blinding the serpent, and distracting it. He'd had a divine artifact, the Sword of Gryffindor, that sliced through the basilisk like it was made of wet parchment. He'd even had a hat that — well, supposedly increased IQ. (That last part was probably a joke.)
And Draco? Draco had… himself. Alone. His wand was cracked nearly in half, trembling in his hand.
The unfairness was breathtaking.
The basilisk lunged again, and Draco felt the bite clamp harder around his wand, threatening to snap it entirely.
Is there any magic that regenerates limbs?
He was already wondering if sacrificing his hand would buy him a second chance. But even if he escaped the bite, what then? He'd have to shut his eyes once the basilisk wriggled free; he'd be down an arm; his odds would plummet even further.
Fine… leave it to fate, he thought bitterly.
He inhaled shakily.
Time to use the trump card he had the least confidence in.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Silver mist burst from his cracked wand. This time, there was no sputtering, no resistance — the magic surged out in a clean, shining wave. Draco choked on a laugh that quickly turned manic.
"Hahahaha—!"
A silver rooster materialized mid-air, glowing and proud. The moment it crowed, the basilisk froze as if struck by divine terror. Fangs releasing Draco's wand, the serpent collapsed to the stone floor in a limp, unwilling heap.
Draco exhaled a trembling, half-hysterical laugh — equal parts relief, disbelief, and self-mockery.
What had all those hours of practice been for? All that effort to force a rooster form? All that deliberate intention?
In the end, none of it had mattered.
He was too self-conscious, too deliberate. Patronus forms weren't something you manufactured; they were something you revealed.
People said a Patronus reflected something deep inside its caster.
He remembered what roosters symbolized in his previous world — courage, stubborn survival, defiance in the face of darkness.
And then there was prophecy… Draco smirked faintly. Roosters announced dawn — the beginning of a new day.
"Does having memories of the future count as prophecy?" he muttered.
His smirk fell.
"Ugh. The shame of a transmigrator."
He'd aimed high. Too high.
"Other transmigrators get dragons, phoenixes, qilin… magical beasts at the very least. Me? A rooster."
He eyed the gleaming silver creature. Despite himself, he liked it. It stood tall, chest puffed out, eyes sharp — proud and unyielding.
"…Alright then. I'll add pride to the list," he decided.
A wave of dizziness slammed into him. His knees buckled.
It was a miracle he'd stayed conscious this long — blood loss, stress, adrenaline. Now that the danger had passed, his body simply gave up. The Patronus flickered, dissolved into sparks of silver light, and vanished.
The Chamber of Secrets fell silent.
Several minutes later, an old man and a frantic young witch appeared on the chamber floor. Hermione's eyes were still wet, her face pale with terror.
"No!"
The moment she saw Draco collapse, Hermione's chest clenched as if pierced. Guilt flooded her, chasing away her usual composure. If she'd been thinking clearly, she would have realized that if Draco had truly lost, he would be inside the basilisk's stomach — not lying there on the cold stone.
But the emotional whiplash of fear, hope, terror, and relief proved too much.
Hermione fainted.
"Poor child," Dumbledore murmured, catching her gently. With only a glance around the chamber, he already understood the situation. The danger was gone. All that remained was the cleanup.
He set Hermione carefully aside, then walked toward the unconscious students. Lockhart lay slumped nearby, still under the lingering effects of memory magic. Draco, pale and motionless, lay next to him.
The headmaster's blue eyes shimmered thoughtfully behind his half-moon spectacles.
A boy this young had brought down a basilisk — alone.
Even with talent, even with technique, it shouldn't have been possible. Not without overwhelming magical force. And something else… the chamber itself bore traces of anti-transfiguration and anti-spell wards that would have hindered students but not him.
"Hey… old man…"
Dumbledore paused.
Draco cracked one eye open in a last flicker of consciousness, grinning faintly.
"Don't make me a hero," he rasped. He jerked his chin weakly toward Lockhart. "That teacher's pathetic enough. Let him have one last moment of glory."
And with that, Draco passed out completely.
Dumbledore's expression softened, an unreadable light flickering in his gaze.
"As you wish, my boy," he murmured.
He was the only one in the Chamber still awake.
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