Chapter 16: The Wake

Malfoy Manor was heavy with the scent of old wood and incense, the kind meant to cloak the lingering stench of death that clung to its halls. The house had seen more darkness than light in its years, and today was no different. Pureblood families gathered, their black mourning robes stark against the polished floors, their voices hushed as they murmured false condolences.

Lucius Malfoy's death had drawn them all in—families like the Notts, the Greengrasses, the Carrows, and the Lestranges. Old blood, steeped in ancient traditions, each harboring its own loyalties and agenda. They had come to honor a man who had once held power over them all, a man whose name commanded both fear and respect. But more than that, they had come to see who would replace him.

Draco.

He stood near the grand hearth, his face pale but composed. The weight of his father's death hadn't yet left him, and neither had the pressure of the Malfoy legacy. This "wake," as they called it, was more than just a gathering of mourners. It was a test. Every eye was on him, waiting to see if Draco Malfoy was worthy of the name he had inherited.

Narcissa stood beside him, her face an unreadable mask of calm. She had perfected the art of showing no weakness, and today, Draco knew he had to do the same. This wasn't just a gathering of family and friends—it was a battlefield, and every word, every glance, was a weapon.

"Draco," came the cold, silky voice of Rodolphus Lestrange as he approached, his snake-like grin stretched across his face. "Your father would be proud of how you've handled things. You've kept the family name intact—so far."

Draco clenched his jaw, giving Rodolphus a nod but refusing to engage in whatever twisted game the man was playing. Rodolphus had always been one of the most dangerous Death Eaters—ruthless, cunning, and sadistic. Draco's stomach churned as the older man's eyes glinted with something sinister.

"I hope you're prepared for what comes next," Rodolphus continued, his voice dripping with implication. "The cause still needs strong allies, Draco. We wouldn't want to see the Malfoy family fall out of favor."

Before Draco could respond, a voice interrupted, offering condolences in a tone so practiced that Draco barely had to engage. The conversations swirled around him, each one testing his loyalty, his resolve, his place in the new order that was forming in the shadows.

Hermione sat in the farthest corner of her room, listening to the murmur of voices that echoed up from the main hall. She had been instructed to stay in her room, out of sight, hidden from the gaze of those who would see her as nothing more than property—an object.

Lucius had bought her, after all. That was the horrible truth that clung to her like a second skin. Even though he was dead, she could still feel the weight of that transaction.

Krick had been coming in and out, checking on her every now and then, bringing her food and potions to keep her strength up. She appreciated the care, but there was a suffocating sense of isolation in her room. The sounds from the wake below only deepened the feeling. They were mourning a man who had broken her—who had tried to destroy her. And yet she was still here.

A sharp knock at her door jolted her from her thoughts.

The door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside. It was Antonin Dolohov—a man whose reputation made even Lucius's cruelty seem mild. Dolohov had been one of Voldemort's most trusted followers, known for his viciousness during the war. His presence sent a chill down Hermione's spine.

"Granger," he sneered, his eyes narrowing as he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. "I heard a little rumor downstairs. Something about Lucius purchasing a Mudblood for his own personal… entertainment."

Hermione froze, her blood turning to ice. She wanted to move, to speak, but the terror that gripped her made it impossible. Dolohov's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent as he approached her.

"So it's true, then?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Lucius had a little toy, and now that he's gone… perhaps it's my turn."

Hermione's breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest as Dolohov's hand reached out, brushing her hair back from her face. His touch was cold, and the bile rose in her throat.

"You look even more pathetic than I imagined," he hissed, his hand moving to grip her arm roughly. "I wonder if you'll break as easily as you did for him."

Hermione's mind raced, panic flooding her senses as Dolohov's hand tightened. His face was inches from hers now, his breath hot and sour as he whispered in her ear. "Let's see if you scream, Mudblood."

Downstairs, Draco felt a strange and sudden chill run down his spine. He had been in the middle of listening to another forced condolence when the sensation hit him—an inexplicable, gnawing feeling that something was wrong. He tried to brush it off, but the feeling grew stronger, tugging at him like a warning.

His gaze shifted toward the staircase, and for a brief moment, he felt something—something he couldn't explain. It was as if he knew, deep inside, that Hermione was in danger.

Without another word, Draco turned and strode toward the stairs, his pulse quickening with every step. The room had begun to blur around him, the voices of the guests fading into the background as his instincts took over. He didn't know why he felt this way, didn't understand what was pulling him toward her room, but he couldn't ignore it.

He reached Hermione's door just in time to hear her stifled cry.

Draco threw the door open with a force that rattled the frame, his heart thundering in his chest. Inside, he saw Dolohov, his hands on Hermione, his sneer twisted in sadistic pleasure.

For a moment, Draco saw red.

"Get. Away. From. Her." His voice was low, deadly, his eyes dark with fury as he stepped into the room, his wand drawn.

Dolohov didn't release Hermione immediately, his grin widening as he turned to face Draco. "Ah, Draco," he said smoothly, his hand still gripping Hermione's arm. "I didn't realize you were so protective of your father's—"

Before Dolohov could finish, Draco lunged. He didn't need his wand. His fists were enough.

The first blow landed hard across Dolohov's jaw, sending the older man stumbling backward. Hermione gasped, curling into herself as Draco slammed Dolohov against the wall, his face twisted in rage. Blow after blow rained down on the Death Eater, years of suppressed anger and guilt pouring out of Draco in a furious storm.

Dolohov tried to fight back, but Draco's strength—fueled by a combination of rage and something he couldn't quite name—overpowered him. By the time Draco stopped, Dolohov was slumped against the wall, blood trickling from his lip and nose.

Draco's breath came in ragged gasps, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. He stepped back, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with fury. He turned toward Hermione, his heart aching as he saw the fear in her eyes. But more than that, he saw something else—relief.

"You're safe," Draco whispered, his voice hoarse.

By the time Draco descended the stairs, Dolohov trailing behind him with a sneer and a bloodied face, the entire room of pureblood families had fallen silent. Every eye was on Draco as he stepped back into the hall, his chin held high, his eyes blazing with a defiance he hadn't shown before.

Rodolphus Lestrange stepped forward, his expression a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. "Draco," he began, his voice low, "I heard some commotion upstairs. Is everything… in order?"

Draco turned to face him, his heart still pounding, but his voice was steady. "Yes. Everything is in order."

Rodolphus's eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer. "We've all been wondering, Draco," he said quietly, his voice filled with menace. "Where exactly do you stand? With the family, with the cause?"

Draco didn't flinch. His gaze swept over the room, the eyes of every pureblood family watching him closely, waiting for his response. He knew what they were asking. They wanted to know if he was still loyal to Voldemort's ideals, if he would carry on Lucius's legacy.

But Draco had made his decision.

"I stand with the Malfoy name," Draco said coldly, his voice echoing through the hall. "And I will protect what is mine."

His gaze shifted, hardening as he met the eyes of each person in the room. "The Malfoys will continue to rise. But we will do it on our own terms. The Dark Lord is gone. His cause is dead. I am the head of this family now."

There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd, but Draco's expression never wavered. His words were a warning, a declaration of independence. He was no longer his father's son. He would lead the Malfoys in a new direction.

"Now," Draco said, his voice sharp and commanding, "this wake is over."

Without another word, Draco turned his back on them, walking away with a cold, unshakable confidence. The pureblood families stood in stunned silence as they watched him leave, their questions about his loyalty still unanswered—but they were too afraid to press him further.

Draco had made his position clear.

The Malfoy name would endure—but it would be his Malfoy name, not the shadow of his father's legacy.