Chapter 104 — Oaths in the Dark
"Take that thing away—now!"
The portrait shrieked, its painted face contorting in terror. An instinctive fear seized it; after all, no one had ever said portraits were made of fireproof materials.
"You're feeding that stupid bird again!" Phineas Nigellus Black roared furiously. "One day I'll formally complain that your recklessness will destroy the Headmaster's office—and show utter disrespect to the portraits of former headmasters!"
He ranted on, powerless. After all, he was only a portrait now. Apart from passing messages, there was nothing he could actually do.
That was the price of so-called "eternal life."
On the perch, Fawkes stirred. The phoenix's previously lazy eyes brightened at the sight of the flame. With a sharp cry, he spread his wings, swooped down, and swallowed the fire in a single gulp. A puff of grey smoke escaped his beak. He burped, fluttered back to the perch, tucked in his wings, and promptly fell asleep.
"I never had a pet like that when I was Headmaster," Phineas muttered sourly.
Then his tone shifted, playful yet sharp.
"Dumbledore… have you—"
"If you're asking about your descendant," Dumbledore interrupted calmly, "he recently broke into Hogwarts and caused quite a disturbance."
"I've said it countless times!" Phineas snapped, suddenly brimming with energy despite being a painting. "There has never been a coward in the Black family. Nor a traitor. His escape from Azkaban proves his innocence. A Black would never flee from his own mistakes!"
Though Sirius had publicly severed ties with his family, to this old man he was still merely a rebellious descendant.
"If—and I stress if—he is captured by me or any other professor," Dumbledore replied evenly, "then he will receive a fair trial before the Wizengamot."
Dumbledore did not state whether he believed Sirius innocent. His instincts told him there was something wrong, but doubts remained. Years ago, he had allowed Sirius to be sent to Azkaban without a trial. At the time, Sirius's manic laughter and twelve years of silence had been impossible to reconcile with innocence.
Why would an innocent man never seek justice?
"Dumbledore—" Phineas began, then abruptly stopped, lips curling into a knowing smile. "Ah. The junior I find most impressive has arrived. Shall we let him in?"
A knock sounded at the door.
"It's rare for an educator to refuse a student," Dumbledore said mildly, glancing at the portrait. Then, raising his voice, "The password is Jellybean. Do come in."
The door opened.
Malfoy stepped inside, deftly bypassing the gently smoking silver instruments and heading straight for the desk.
"My child," Dumbledore said kindly, as he would to any student, though his mind was anything but calm. "What brings you here?"
He now understood clearly: the boy before him was wary—deeply so. Compared to most students, Malfoy possessed an unsettling degree of intelligence and learning ability.
Dumbledore had never expected a first-year to master Occlumency.
That alone explained his earlier miscalculation.
A single misunderstanding could leave a crack that never fully healed.
Aside from last year's incident, Dumbledore had never actively searched a student's memories. When he first met Malfoy, he had only intended a shallow probe—enough to sense emotional intent. After all, the boy had taken the Philosopher's Stone. Dumbledore needed to know something.
He would never casually invade a student's mind. Trust, once given, had to be honored.
And yet—
He had been violently repelled.
Caught unprepared, he had been dragged into an illusion. No one—no one—could remain calm after witnessing their own death.
Not even Dumbledore.
Still, he trusted Snape's judgment. It had been an illusion—terrifyingly real, but not truth.
And recently, Dumbledore's trust in Malfoy had only grown.
On the Quidditch pitch, he had seen Pansy's Patronus.
That alone was proof of change—change for the better. Without outside influence, a girl shaped by her family's beliefs might never have managed the Patronus Charm in her lifetime.
And last year, during the Chamber of Secrets incident, Malfoy had already shown where he stood. The words he'd spoken before collapsing unconscious had troubled Dumbledore for a long time. In the end, Dumbledore had guessed at the boy's intentions—and chosen to violate his own principles.
Everyone hated lies.
But sometimes, lies were necessary.
Now, all he could do was let time smooth the fractures between them. He could not be overly warm—that would only breed suspicion. He could only treat Malfoy as he would any other student, and hope the distance would fade.
Unfortunately, that fragile calm shattered instantly.
"I can solve the Dementor problem," Malfoy said quietly.
The words struck like thunder.
"Hm?" Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up despite himself.
He steepled his fingers, falling into deep thought. After a long pause, he adjusted his half-moon spectacles.
"You do have a talent for surprises, Draco. Very well—tell me how. And tell me what you need from me."
Then he chuckled, eyes twinkling.
"Just don't say you want me to personally wipe out their nests. Tomorrow's headline would read less 'Dementors Disappear' and more 'Elderly Headmaster Finally Loses His Job.'"
"And besides," he added solemnly, "that would be terribly exhausting. Azkaban has rather a lot of them. Do spare an old man some sympathy."
Malfoy's eyes narrowed slightly.
"I said solving the problem of the Dementors," he replied patiently, "not erasing the Dementors themselves."
Dumbledore laughed, unoffended.
"If you're truly willing to help," Malfoy continued, "then for the foreseeable future, your role will be bodyguard, witness, and Auror. And—if you insist—my supervisor."
"That would be a great honor," Dumbledore said brightly, ignoring the faint irritation in Malfoy's tone.
---
Night fell like ink.
Neon lights smeared the darkness with garish color. Perfume mixed with grease and sweat, creating an atmosphere thick with desire and decay. Hotels blazed with lurid signs. This was paradise for the wealthy and the depraved alike.
And beneath the glamour—violence.
Gangs. Deals. Blood.
A nearby alley told a different story. Crumbling buildings. Empty factories. People surviving through theft, vice, and desperation.
Who noticed the darkness beneath the lights?
Tonight, a strange visitor walked these streets.
He was very young.
"Hey, little brother," a heavily made-up woman purred, sauntering over. Her clothes left little to the imagination.
Malfoy didn't even glance at her.
"Well, aren't you handsome," she said, stepping closer, eyes roaming greedily. Pale blond hair, grey eyes, fine features, expensive clothes—a perfect mark.
She smiled lewdly, adjusting her gaudy earrings.
"Oh, sweetheart," she cooed, "big sister can show you lots of fun."
Pedestrians stared—then laughed. To them, she appeared to be flirting passionately with a streetlamp.
A few minutes later, the woman blinked, awareness snapping back. Her face flushed red, then green.
A streetlamp.
Just a streetlamp.
Fury replaced embarrassment. She shouted obscenities at the gawking crowd, sending them scattering.
Malfoy never looked back.
A simple Confundus Charm. Nothing more.
He had an appointment to keep.
---
The lights thinned. Ruin replaced excess.
Malfoy climbed a decaying stairwell to the top floor of an abandoned building.
"You're here," Dumbledore said softly.
The old wizard stood before an iron door, silver hair and beard stark in the gloom.
"No one escaped?" Malfoy asked.
"Of course not," Dumbledore replied calmly.
Outward calm only. Inside, his heart churned. He hadn't felt such turbulence since learning Voldemort still lived.
Today, he had witnessed far too much.
Oaths—countless oaths—had passed before him in his lifetime. Magical contracts bound by spells, sealed by blood or soul.
Yet this one chilled him.
"I will provide your kind with food and habitat," Malfoy said evenly. "In return, will you restrain your kind from attacking Muggles and wizards—except those I designate as sustenance?"
"I… am… willing."
The voice echoed hollowly.
Before Malfoy floated a Dementor—larger than any other. Same cloak. Same withered hands. Same freezing aura.
But older.
Dumbledore stood beside them, silent.
And bore witness.