Allies in the Dark
The year was defined by spectacle. It was the year of foreign tongues echoing in the corridors, of a burning goblet, of dragons, and of the Triwizard Tournament. For most students, the atmosphere at Hogwarts was electric, a constant hum of excitement that vibrated through the stone floors.
For Draco Malfoy, however, the Fourth Year felt less like a celebration and more like a tightening noose.
The common room of Slytherin House was submerged in its usual sub-aquatic gloom, illuminated by the green lamps that cast long, skeletal shadows against the tapestries. It was late—well past curfew—and the room was mostly empty, save for the dying embers in the grate and a solitary figure seated at a table in the far corner, almost swallowed by the darkness.
Draco sat on a plush leather sofa near the fire, staring into the flames. He looked exhausted. The pale, pointed architecture of his face seemed sharper than usual, his skin possessing a translucent, unhealthy pallor. The "Potter Stinks" badges he had distributed with such glee weeks ago now felt heavy in his pocket, a juvenile prank that failed to distract him from the whispers in the manor at home. The Dark Mark had appeared in the sky at the World Cup. His father was tense. Karkaroff was pacing the halls. Something was shifting, and Draco, for the first time, felt small.
He dragged his eyes away from the fire and looked toward the corner table.
YN Dumbledore sat there, surrounded by a fortress of books.
It was a cosmic joke, really. The great-niece of the greatest blood-traitor of them all, Albus Dumbledore, Sorted into Slytherin. For three years, Draco had watched her navigate the Snake Pit with a detached, cool elegance. She wasn’t bullied—she was too brilliant for that, and her magic had a bite to it that even Crabbe and Goyle instinctively feared—but she was isolated. She carried the name of the Headmaster like a shield, or perhaps a target.
They had rarely spoken. A nod here, a sneer there. But tonight, the silence between them felt different. It was the silence of two people who were the only ones awake in a world that didn't understand them.
Draco stood up, his limbs feeling stiff. He needed a distraction. He needed to pick a fight, or at least prove he existed. He walked over to her table.
"Studying for O.W.L.s two years early, Dumbledore?" he drawled. His voice lacked its usual venom; it was merely tired. "Trying to prove you’re not just a nepotism case?"
YN didn’t look up immediately. She finished writing a sentence on a roll of parchment with a eagle-feather quill, then carefully dotted the end. She blew on the ink before raising her eyes. They were a piercing blue, startlingly similar to the Headmaster’s, but without the twinkle. Hers were calculating, cold, and tired.
"Insomnia, Malfoy," she said, her voice smooth and low. "Though I suppose that’s a big word for you. Shall I use smaller ones?"
Draco scoffed, pulling out the chair opposite her and sitting down without invitation. "I’m awake because I choose to be. Unlike you, hiding in the corner."
"I’m not hiding. I’m working." She gestured to the open text. Advanced Theoretical Arithmancy. "Some of us don't rely on our father's influence to pass classes."
"Watch your mouth," Draco snapped, though there was no heat in it. He slumped in the chair, rubbing his temples. "My father expects excellence. I provide it."
"You provide the drama," YN corrected, finally closing the book. She looked at him, really looked at him, analyzing the dark circles under his eyes and the slight tremor in his hand. "You look terrible, Draco."
It was the use of his first name that caught him off guard. She never used it.
"I’ve been practicing," he muttered, defensive.
"Practicing what? Looking like a corpse?"
"Spells. Defensive magic." He glanced around to ensure they were truly alone. "With Moody prowling around and Potter getting all the glory... one has to be prepared."
YN leaned back, crossing her arms. "Prepared for what? It’s a tournament. You aren't in it."
"Not for the tournament," he hissed. "For... everything else."
He didn't need to elaborate. YN Dumbledore knew more than she let on. Being a Dumbledore in Slytherin meant she heard the whispers of the children of Death Eaters, and she saw the letters her great-uncle received. She knew the lines were being drawn in the sand, and she knew exactly where Draco stood—teetering on the edge of a precipice.
"Show me," she said suddenly.
Draco blinked. "What?"
"Show me what you’ve been practicing. You’re clearly over-exerting yourself, which means you’re doing it wrong. If you’re going to keep me awake with your brooding, you might as well be entertaining."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "I don't need a tutor. Especially not a Dumbledore."
"Fine." She reached for her book again. "Go back to staring at the fire and worrying about Potter."
Draco’s pride, easily bruised and easily baited, flared. He stood up abruptly. "Fine. But not here."
They ended up in an abandoned classroom on the fourth floor, dusty and filled with unused desks stacked haphazardly against the walls. Moonlight streamed in through the tall, gothic windows, bathing the room in silver.
Draco took off his robe, tossing it onto a desk. Underneath, he wore his white shirt and black trousers, the tie loosened. He looked like a boy trying to be a soldier.
"I've been trying to master the Blasting Curse," Draco admitted, rolling up his sleeves. "Confringo. But not just the standard impact. I want to control the radius."
YN sat on top of a desk, her legs swinging slightly. She looked entirely out of place in the dusty room, her Slytherin tie pristine, her posture perfect. "Controlled volatility. Difficult. If you push too much magic into the core of the spell without binding the edges, it backfires."
"I know the theory," Draco snapped. He raised his hawthorn wand.
He took a breath, focusing on a stack of old textbooks at the far end of the room. He needed to prove he was strong. He needed to prove he wasn't just Lucius Malfoy’s son, but a wizard in his own right.
"Confringo!"
A jet of orange light erupted from his wand. It hit the books, but instead of a contained explosion, the air buckled. A shockwave rippled outward, violent and hot. The books didn't just explode; they disintegrated into ash, but the force of the spell rebounded off the stone wall, rushing back toward Draco.
He threw up a shield charm, but he was half a second too slow. The shockwave slammed into him, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward into a pile of desks.
"Draco!"
The world went black for a moment, spinning in a kaleidoscope of pain and ringing silence.
When awareness began to trickle back, it wasn't visual at first. It was the feeling of cold stone under his back and something soft under his head. The smell of dust and ozone was heavy in the air. His shoulder throbbed with a dull, aching rhythm.
He groaned, the sound scraping against his throat.
"Don't move," a voice commanded. It was sharp, authoritative, but laced with a sliver of concern.
Draco forced his eyes open. The room was blurry. He blinked, trying to clear the haze. Slowly, the face hovering above him came into focus. Long, dark hair framed a pale face. Blue eyes were scanning him intently.
YN was kneeling on the dusty floor beside him. She had conjured a cool, damp cloth and was pressing it to a cut on his forehead.
"Look who's awake," she said softly.
Draco tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea pushed him back down. "What... what happened?"
"You overpowered it," YN said, her voice dropping to a lecture tone, though her hands remained gentle. "Just as I said you would. You poured all your frustration into the spell. Magic requires intent, Draco, but it also requires discipline. You attacked those books like they were Harry Potter himself."
"They looked like him," Draco mumbled, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips before he winced. "Did I destroy them?"
YN glanced at the pile of ash across the room. "You vaporized them. And nearly concussed yourself in the process. I’ve healed the cut on your head, but you’re going to have a majestic bruise on your shoulder tomorrow."
Draco closed his eyes again, simply breathing. It was strange. He should have been humiliated. A Malfoy, knocked out by his own spell, being tended to by a Dumbledore. He should be pushing her away, sneering, making an excuse.
But he didn't. He felt oddly safe.
"Why did you help me?" he asked, his voice quiet in the vast, empty room.
YN paused, pulling the cloth away to inspect his forehead. "Because despite your best efforts to be intolerable, you are my Housemate. And because... I know what it looks like."
Draco opened his eyes. "What what looks like?"
"The pressure," she said simply. She shifted, sitting back on her heels but remaining on the floor next to him. "The weight of a last name that walks into the room before you do."
Draco let out a bitter laugh. "Your name opens doors. My name... my name is starting to close them."
"My name comes with expectations of saintliness," YN countered. "Do you know how disappointing it is to people when they realize I’m ambitious? When they realize I’m in Slytherin? I’m the 'Dark Dumbledore' to them. An anomaly. A failure."
"You're top of the class," Draco pointed out.
"That just makes them hate me more. If I were stupid, I’d be a pity. Because I’m smart, I’m a threat." She looked down at her hands. "Uncle Albus tries, in his way. He sends me lemon drops and vague letters about making good choices. But he looks at me and he sees... potential for darkness. Just because I wear green. But everyone fails to realize that all I care about is decent grades and watching mooncalves as dusk on the hillside from the astronomy tower. If that screams darkness, then I’m a black hole apparently."
Draco turned his head to look at her. For the first time, he saw her not as an extension of the Headmaster, but as a mirror.
"My father," Draco began, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, "He thinks I’m soft. He thinks I’m not... ready. For what’s coming."
"Are you?"
"I don't know," Draco whispered. The admission felt like treason. "I want our family to be on top. I want to be powerful. But I don't want..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the dread that pooled in his stomach whenever he saw the Dark Mark.
"You don't want to be a soldier," YN finished for him.
"I'm a Malfoy. We lead."
"Leaders don't blow themselves up in empty classrooms at two in the morning," she said, but she offered him a small, genuine smile. "Here."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small vial of chocolate. Not a chocolate frog, but actual, high-quality chocolate. She broke off a piece and handed it to him.
"Eat. It helps with the shock."
Draco took it. The chocolate was rich and dark, melting on his tongue. It grounded him.
"You're not going to tell anyone about this?" Draco asked, his guard slowly inching back up.
"That the Prince of Slytherin knocked himself out? It would make a great story," she mused. Then she shook her head. "No. I won't tell. Mutually Assured Destruction."
"What do you have to hide?"
"I was out of bed after curfew helping a Malfoy. If my Aunt Abernathy found out, she’d send a Howler. And I would much like to avoid that at all costs. Thanks."
Draco let out a huff that was almost a laugh. He pushed himself up into a sitting position. The room spun less this time. He rubbed his shoulder, grimacing.
"You're decent at Healing Charms," he grudgingly admitted.
"I'm decent at everything, Draco. Try to keep up." She stood up, brushing the dust from her robes. She extended a hand toward him.
Draco looked at the hand. It was a pale, slender hand, offering him help. Taking it felt like crossing a line. It felt like an alliance that shouldn't exist.
He took it.
She pulled him to his feet. He swayed slightly, and she steadied him with a hand on his uninjured arm. They stood close for a moment, the moonlight illuminating the dust motes dancing between them.
"You should go to the Hospital Wing for a Calming Draught," she suggested.
"I'm fine," he straightened his shirt, regaining his composure. The mask of Draco Malfoy was sliding back into place, though it felt thinner than before. "I just need sleep."
"Then let's go. Filch is patrolling the third floor, but if we take the staircase behind the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, we can cut him off."
Draco looked at her with newfound respect. "You know the secret passages?"
"I'm a Dumbledore," she smirked, a quintessential Slytherin expression. "I know everything about this castle."
They walked back to the dungeons in silence, but it was a companionable silence. They moved as a unit, checking corners, listening for footsteps. When they finally reached the stone wall that hid the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Draco paused.
"YN," he said.
She turned, her hand on the wall. "Draco?"
"About what I said... regarding your family."
"I know," she cut him off. "And I know what my family says about yours."
"I don't think you're a failure," he said, the words stiff but sincere. "For a blood traitor's niece, you're... acceptable."
YN rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. "High praise, coming from the Ferret."
Draco bristled. "Do not call me that."
"Get some sleep, Malfoy. And stop practicing volatile magic alone. Next time, if you want to blow something up... ask me. I know a better spell for it."
She whispered the password—"Pureblood"—and the wall slid open.
They entered the common room. It was empty now, the fire reduced to white ash. They stood there for a moment, two heirs to two very different, very heavy legacies.
"Goodnight, Draco," she said, heading toward the girls' dormitories.
Draco watched her go. "Night, YN."
He walked to the boys' dormitory, his shoulder aching, his head throbbing, but his mind strangely clear. He lay in his four-poster bed, staring up at the green velvet canopy. The dread of the coming war was still there, lurking at the edges of his consciousness. The pressure from his father hadn't vanished.
But as he closed his eyes, he realized he didn't feel quite so alone in the dark. He had an ally. A Dumbledore, of all people.
It was a dangerous friendship. It was illogical. It was entirely contradictory to everything he had been raised to believe.
Draco smiled into his pillow. It was exactly what he needed.
The weeks that followed the incident in the classroom shifted into a strange, unspoken routine. To the outside world—to Potter, Weasley, and Granger—nothing had changed. Draco still sneered in the corridors, and YN still walked with her head down, books clutched to her chest, ignoring the whispers.
But in the common room, the dynamic had altered.
Draco would sit by the fire, and YN would occupy her usual table. Occasionally, their eyes would meet. A subtle nod. A shared look of disdain when Pansy Parkinson shrieked too loudly about the Yule Ball.
When the Yule Ball was announced, the panic in the common room was palpable. Boys were posturing, girls were giggling in huddles. Draco, naturally, had his pick, eventually settling on Pansy simply because it was expected.
Two days before the ball, Draco found YN in the library. She was hidden in the stacks, sandwiched between Hogwarts: A History and a pile of charms scrolls.
"Who are you going with?" Draco asked, leaning against the bookshelf, blocking her light.
YN didn't look up. "I'm not going."
"It's mandatory for fourth years and above."
"I'm going to make an appearance, drink some punch, and then leave. I don't have a date, and I don't want one."
"Blaise was looking at you," Draco noted.
"Blaise wants to know if I can introduce him to the Headmaster so he can ask for special permissions. I'm not a networking tool."
Draco hummed. "Wear green."
YN finally looked up. "Excuse me?"
"Wear green to the ball. Emerald. It suits you. And it reminds everyone which side of the castle you belong to."
YN studied him for a long moment. "Are you giving me fashion advice, Malfoy?"
"I'm giving you strategic advice. If you're going to stand alone, look like a queen while you do it."
She smiled, a small, genuine thing that didn't reach her eyes often. "I'll keep that in mind."
On the night of the ball, Draco stood at the bottom of the staircase, Pansy clinging to his arm in her frilly pink dress. He looked bored, scanning the crowd. Then, he saw her.
YN descended the stairs. She had taken his advice. She wore a sleek, emerald green dress that shimmered like dragon scales in the torchlight. It was elegant, understated, and undeniably Slytherin. Her hair was pulled back, revealing the sharp line of her jaw.
People stared. Whispers broke out. Is that the Dumbledore girl?
She walked through the crowd with her chin up, looking neither left nor right. As she passed Draco, she didn't stop, but she caught his eye.
"Nice dress," he muttered, low enough that only she could hear.
"Nice robes," she retorted, equally quiet. "Try not to step on Pansy's feet."
She swept past him, heading toward the drinks table. Draco watched her go, a smirk playing on his lips. Pansy tugged on his arm. "Draco, look! Krum is here!"
"I see him," Draco said, his attention snapping back to the present.
Later that night, when the music was loud and the weird sisters were screaming on stage, Draco stepped out onto the balcony for air. It was snowing lightly.
He found YN there, leaning against the stone railing, watching the white flakes fall into the dark grounds.
"Hiding again?" he asked, joining her at the railing.
"Observing," she corrected. "It's chaotic in there."
"It's a nightmare," Draco agreed. He brushed a snowflake off his velvet sleeve. "Potter looks ridiculous."
"He usually does," YN conceded.
They stood in silence for a while, the cold biting at their cheeks.
"My father wrote to me," Draco said quietly. "He's not happy about my grades in Transfiguration. Says I'm letting myself be distracted."
"McGonagall is a tough grader. Especially for us."
"He says... he says big things are coming. That I need to be ready to choose my loyalties."
YN turned to face him. The light from the Great Hall cast a golden glow on one side of her face, leaving the other in shadow. "And where do your loyalties lie, Draco?"
"With my family," he said automatically.
"And if your family is wrong?"
Draco gripped the cold stone railing. "They can't be wrong. They're my family."
YN sighed, a puff of white mist in the cold air. " Uncle Albus says that we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy."
"Easy for him to say," Draco spat. "He's the most powerful wizard alive."
"Power doesn't make the choice easier. It just makes the consequences heavier." She reached out, her hand hovering over his arm before she rested it gently on his velvet sleeve. A gesture of solidarity. "You're not just a Malfoy, Draco. You're you. Don't forget that."
Draco looked down at her hand, then up at her eyes. For a moment, the mask fell completely. He looked young, and scared, and desperate for someone to tell him it would be okay.
"I don't know how to be anyone else," he whispered.
"They will try to teach you to be someone completely other than you," she said firmly. "We have time. We're only fourth years."
"Time is running out," Draco murmured, thinking of the Dark Mark, of the whispers, of the fear in his mother's eyes.
"Then we'll make the most of it." YN pulled her hand back and shivered. "I'm freezing. I'm going back to the common room."
"I'll come with you," Draco said instantly. "Pansy can find her own way back."
"Scandalous," YN teased.
"Practical," Draco corrected.
They left the balcony together, leaving the noise of the ball behind them. As they walked down into the dungeons, the air grew colder, but the familiarity of the stone walls was comforting.
They were Draco Malfoy and YN Dumbledore. Two opposites, two contradictions, bound by the silver and green of their house and the crushing weight of their names.
In the darkness of the dungeon, as they parted ways for the night, Draco felt a strange sense of calm. The storm was coming—he knew it, and she knew it. The world outside was fracturing.
But in here, in the quiet dark, he was awake. And so was she.
And for now, that was enough.