Dumbledore's official statements had never been entirely convincing—at least not to the Slytherins. Most of them scoffed at his explanations, preferring instead to believe that Draco Malfoy was the true Heir of Slytherin, simply unlucky enough to get caught. The fear that had once gripped the school after Ron Weasley's petrification had already subsided. Everyone knew of the long-standing feud between the Malfoy and Weasley families. To many, it seemed only natural that Draco had taken advantage of the chaos to strike back.
As for why something that should have resulted in expulsion was instead quietly suppressed, the answer seemed obvious: Malfoy had a powerful father. Perhaps Lucius Malfoy and Dumbledore had reached one of their mysterious compromises.
Compared to the punishment Harry and his friends had received last term—when their own housemates had turned against them—Draco's treatment looked almost luxurious. Far from being shunned, he was pitied, even celebrated. Within Slytherin, he was viewed as a tragic hero—one who had nearly restored Hogwarts to its proper, "pure-blooded" glory, only to be thwarted by that disgusting Mudblood and the meddling Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. His housemates regretted that such a noble cause had failed.
Thus, an odd situation had emerged: the boy who ought to have been a pariah was instead being admired.
"I believe the Heir of Slytherin won't disappoint us next time," a sixth-year said solemnly while visiting Draco in the infirmary.
"Compared to the House Cup, it's more important to carry out the founder's will," a seventh-year added, patting Draco on the shoulder as if consoling a fallen comrade.
Even Lucius Malfoy had found time to visit. His face was unreadable, but Draco had noticed, with some unease, several new strands of white hair at his father's temples.
Students his own age or slightly older treated him with a mix of awe and reverence. He received fruit baskets and sweets every day. Several pink envelopes—scented and sealed with heart-shaped wax—arrived as well, each one a love letter from some starry-eyed admirer.
"Teenagers do adore their conspiracy theories," Draco sighed one evening, eyeing the growing pile of gifts. Of course, there were truths being hidden, but the stories circulating among students were far more dramatic than reality. Perhaps it was because Dumbledore remained unpopular in Slytherin; they preferred to cast him as the villain.
Such opinions weren't limited to Slytherin, either. Across other houses, rumors spread in whispers, each version more outrageous than the last. Yet for most students outside his house, Draco's act remained a serious offense, one that no amount of charm or arrogance could excuse.
"I should start a club," Draco joked to Pansy one afternoon. "Something like… The Future Heirs of Slytherin."
He wasn't entirely kidding. His influence within his house had grown alarmingly fast. With a single call to arms, he felt he could easily gather a loyal following—a miniature army of enthusiastic little Death Eater hopefuls.
A few days later, the Mandrakes finally matured, and the Petrified victims were restored.
When Ron Weasley learned that Draco had been behind it all, he leapt out of bed before he could even stand properly. Still pale from his ordeal, he stumbled toward Draco's bedside, fury blazing in his eyes.
"He almost killed me!" Ron roared, pointing at Draco, who sat calmly nearby reading a book.
It took Madam Pomfrey—assisted by Harry and the twins—to restrain him. Ron struggled violently, his voice echoing off the infirmary walls.
"Ron, calm down," Harry urged, trying to soothe him. "He's already been punished. Slytherin's got no chance at the House Cup this year."
"Calm down, Ron," echoed Fred and George, each gripping one of his arms.
"I'm sorry," Draco said blandly, snapping his book shut. "But I was a victim too." His insincere apology only made Ron tremble harder with rage.
"The headmaster will definitely expel you next time!" Ron spat through clenched teeth.
Draco smirked faintly. "Then perhaps I'll transfer. I hear Durmstrang welcomes students with… ambition. Not everyone's family can afford such an opportunity, though, can they?" He glanced at Ron deliberately. "Did you ever find that flying car?"
Ron's face went scarlet. He lunged again, but his weak legs gave out and Harry caught him before he hit the floor.
The confrontation ended without resolution, leaving tension hanging thick in the air.
"Try to think of something cheerful," Harry said quietly as he helped Ron back to his bed. "Like watching Slytherin's hourglass drop a few hundred emeralds. Oh—and Hermione won the Special Award for Services to the School! Two hundred points for Gryffindor. We've practically secured the Cup."
"Wait—Hermione! How is she?" Ron's anger evaporated instantly as worry took over.
"She's fine," Harry said, smiling. "Recovered ages ago. She was discharged a few days before you woke up. Probably eating in the Great Hall right now."
"Then I'm going there too," Ron muttered, his stomach growling. "I'm starving."
"Come on then." Harry's grin widened. Seeing Ron alive and arguing again was more comforting than anything else. Together, they hobbled toward the door, Ron still unsteady on his feet, Harry supporting him.
Moments later, two taller figures appeared at the ward's entrance—Fred and George Weasley. Pansy Parkinson immediately stepped forward, crossing her arms and blocking their path.
"What do you want?" she demanded, chin raised.
"Just visiting," Fred said smoothly.
"Or maybe here to avenge your brother?" Draco asked without looking up from his book. His tone was bored, but his eyes flicked upward, sharp and watchful.
George spoke first, his expression unusually serious. "We just think something doesn't add up."
"Whether what the headmaster said is true or not," Fred added, glancing sideways at his twin, "we trust he has his reasons. We don't make a habit of taking advantage of anyone—least of all the Malfoys."
With that cryptic remark, he set a small, wrapped package on Draco's bedside table and turned to leave.
Pansy stared suspiciously at the package. "Don't open it," she warned, reaching for it. "It's probably one of their stupid pranks—maybe something to get revenge for Ron. I'll throw it out."
"Relax," Draco said calmly. He hadn't felt even a flicker of hostility from the twins. With deliberate slowness, he untied the string and opened the wrapping.
Inside lay a modest pile of Galleons and Sickles, gleaming softly under the ward's light.
Draco raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's… unexpected." He gave a short laugh. "What a fascinating pair. I suppose this must be the money they earned from selling Howlers. A tidy little fortune for them. Perhaps they guessed more than they let on."
Pansy blinked at the coins, utterly bewildered. "What's that supposed to mean? Don't tell me the brothers are fighting among themselves and paid you to—Merlin forbid—kill Ron? They're poor, but apparently not that poor!"
Draco stared at her for a moment, utterly defeated by her imagination. Finally, he gave up trying to correct her.
Pansy continued to chatter, following her train of thought. "By the way, you told them last time you wanted to help them start a business, didn't you? Those Howlers—they've been selling like crazy! But if you were being controlled by that diary all along, how could you still plan things that would hurt the basilisk's goal? It doesn't add up at all."
Her eyes narrowed. "If the rumors are wrong, and it really was your own will, then none of this makes any sense."
Draco leaned back in his bed, amusement flickering across his face as he studied her. "The Obliviate spell is quite handy," he murmured. "I almost understand Lockhart now."
Pansy looked even more confused, and Draco's smirk deepened. He didn't bother explaining. Let her wonder.
Outside, the muffled sounds of laughter drifted in from the corridor—the sound of students returning to normal life. For the first time in months, the castle felt alive again.
Draco closed his book, gazing out the tall infirmary window. The afternoon light filtered through the glass, warm and soft, casting long shadows across the room.
In the end, the Chamber of Secrets had been sealed once more. But deep inside, Draco couldn't shake the feeling that the story wasn't over. The mark it had left—on the school, on him—would not fade easily.
He had been called a villain, a hero, and a pawn, all within the same breath. Perhaps, he mused, he was all three.
And somewhere in the quiet between thoughts, a small, sly smile crossed his face. Whatever came next, he would be ready.
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