Daring
"We are all in agreement," Jago said as they got ready. Dean tried to get in his last-minute objections but a glare from Jago silenced him. "And remember, hesitation is defeat."
"Hesitation is defeat." All three of them repeated after him.
The three of them moved in shadows, most of the Gryffindors had been out on a Friday night. Curiously, the Slytherins had started to venture less and less out of their house once the petrification spree had started. While others chalked this up to unhealthy Slytherin paranoia, Jago knew this was a fraud. Most likely the Slytherins themselves were hiding from the monster.
They waited outside the Slytherin house entrance for a while before a house elf plopped along.
"Pureblood!" It squeaked and the massive snake slithered away to reveal a doorway. Jago resisted the urge to roll his eyes in annoyance at the stereotypical password. Jago motioned and they followed the elf down the Slytherin tunnel.
Thankfully, there wasn't a ward scanning for invisibility charms. Their common room was jam-packed, with loud music blaring and stacks of house elves whimpering about, carrying refreshments for their masters.
"Look at these bastards. The entire castle is shaking in their boots, and they are having a blast." Seamus muttered.
"Most likely Snape allowed this so that they wouldn't feel the urge to go outside," Ron whispered.
Jago didn't reply, time was precious. His eyes scanned around the room looking for their target. With so many thirds, fourth, and sixth years mingling – Jago had no delusions about surviving a fair fight. Daphne alone would've been a problematic enemy for them all. They will strike from a position of strength that most suits them.
There. Jago thought. Draco and his party sat opposite where Daphne and Blaise were playing exploding snacks. He kept glumly staring at them and Jago smirked. At his signal, the boys took out pellets wrapped tightly in plastic and lobbed them across the room.
"Oi brats, keep it to yourself!" A seventh-year screamed through booze as a pellet hit him.
"We didn't do it!" The firstie shouted back. The older boy tossed back his chair and at that moment, the pallet exploded across the room, plunging the room into utter darkness.
"Preysight." The Nightlords muttered and the vision kicked in, revealing the heat signatures of everyone around them. Jago led the front as the panicked heat signatures of Daphne and Blaise clutched hands and ducked beneath a desk.
"Expelliarmus!" Dean and Ron shouted, disarming the couple.
"WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?!" Daphne shouted and Blaise angrily tugged at her.
"STOP GIVING AWAY OUR LOCATION!" Blaise hissed. Jago was slightly impressed by the boy's situational awareness, but he was way out of his depth with this one. Anyone else, it might have worked.
It was then, that Ron started tossing firecrackers and other prank potions "acquired" from the twins amidst the panicking crowd that an impromptu duel started thundering. The darkness was briefly illuminated by flashes of spell fire as the students howled in fear, agony, or in rare cases – ecstasy.
Meanwhile, Jago, Dean, and Seamus unloaded a volley of stinging hexes at the Blaise and Daphne. But Jago's bloodlust was not satiated – he wanted to reinforce the lesson in Daphne's fucking bone marrow.
"Furnunculus!" Jago shouted, now the "ivory" princess had boils erupting all over.
Enjoy your perfect skin, now.
With another volley of spells, they were hogtied with jelly for legs and hair shaved off.
"Jago! We gotta bail!" Dean screamed over the chaos. "The darkness won't last much longer."
Someone wildly swung at Jago and ripped his balaclava off. Jago punched the boy in his liver, and he fell. Just then a spell fire briefly illuminated, and Jago looked up to see Draco directly looking at him.
Might as well. Jago flashed the boy with a sharklike smile and fled.
The Fire Rises
Word of the Slytherin raid spread through Hogwarts like Fiendfyre, impossible to contain. Rumors twisted with every retelling—some whispered that Peeves had orchestrated the assault, others claimed it was a group of rogue muggle-borns taking vengeance for years of Pureblood racism.
But the magic that had left traces across the Common Room told a different story.
It had been laced with all the hallmarks of a classic Weasley Twins prank. Snape had wasted no time, storming into Gryffindor Tower with his stained robes billowing, demanding answers.
The twins, for once in their lives, took this seriously.
"Sorry, Professor," Fred said, shrugging. "Would've loved to attend, but—"
"—We were in Hogsmeade all night," George finished, presenting their rock-solid alibi, witnessed by half a dozen shopkeepers, students, and residents.
McGonagall intervened before Snape could explode into a spitting fury, twinkle-eyed and benevolent as always, declaring there would be no punishments without proof.
When everything was said and done, the writing on the wall was clear to all. Slytherin had bled first, and the sharks could smell it from a mile away. When someone had invaded their territory in broad daylight, curb stomped their junior princess in the presence of a hundred seniors – it was hard to seriously fear the claims of alleged "dark arts" Slytherins boasted about.
The next day, Warrington limped into the Great Hall with hex burns down his face after he was found bragging about stringing a first-year Ravenclaw upside down.
The chaos did not stop with Slytherin.
Hogwarts turned into a battlefield of whispered vengeance. Pureblood bullies had been the first to suffer, but soon, old grudges from all houses came bubbling to the surface.
Michael Corner from Ravenclaw had always fancied himself untouchable—snide comments, hexes under his breath, elbows subtly thrown in crowded hallways. That changed when he turned up in the library, dangling upside down, Incarcerous bindings wrapping him in the coils of his own bookbag straps. Someone had hexed his mouth shut, leaving only his wide, panicked eyes pleading for help. The word "N" had been written across his face in a series of hideous boils.
Cho Chang's extortion ring came to a quick stop once when her "acquired" money had turned into fake gold coins. The shopkeeper immediately called the Aurors on her. Her family had been able to bail her out but not before the scandal had already broken out.
Dumbledore did his "best" to reign in this outburst of violence, claiming that acts of vigilantism were against the school charter. However, after a decade of the usual, it was hard to take the "venerable" headmaster's word seriously.
The image had been shattered.
Baby Serpent
Once he had lost the people around him, Draco took the last desk at the library. Seeing that nobody was around him, he gingerly took it out. It was an ordinary leatherbound diary, kind of old, and something Draco would've tossed away in an instant.
But.
The longer he carried it, the more he felt a yearning pull towards it. He hadn't planned to steal it—at least, not at first. He had seen Ginny Weasley cradle it with frantic desperation, guarding it more fiercely than her own life. He had watched her scream at a nosy Hufflepuff who dared to ask about it. And most of all, he had watched her unravel, spiraling into some feverish madness that left her staring at nothing with deadened, hollow eyes.
He had been spying on Jago ever since that night. Draco had watched how Daphne and Blaise's relationship had unraveled after that night. He wanted to be the one, solely him, who brought Jago to justice. That way, Daphne would see why he was the better man among them. This led him to Ginny in turn. If he could uncover Ginny's secret, he would have leverage against Ron and by extension, Jago.
Jago, that insufferable mut, who had single-handedly turned their social order upside down.
If Ginny had a secret she valued this much, then perhaps he could use it against them.
At least, that was what he had told himself when he pulled the diary from her trembling hands, moments after she'd collapsed in the abandoned bathroom. Myrtle had howled at him to leave her alone, but he hadn't. He had pried it from her fingers, hidden it in his robes, and walked away.
Now, in the stillness of the library, he traced the cover again and slowly, hesitantly, opened it.
The pages were blank.
That made it worse.
It was one thing to take something from a Weasley, but another to sit here, pathetic and alone, clutching an empty book as though it might grant him something he couldn't even name.
Still, he dipped his quill in ink and scrawled a single line.
I don't know why I'm doing this.
The words looked pitifully small on the page.
My father would call me weak for even thinking about it, he continued the scratch of the quill filling the silence. He'd sneer and tell me I was acting like some sniveling mud blood, as if feelings were something to hide. I hate that his voice is in my head even now.
He exhaled sharply, gripping the edges of the book as if it had personally offended him.
His father was wrong.
Weakness was lowering your head and swallowing indignity in silence. Weakness was being too much of a coward to fight back when the world closed in. Writing in a stupid diary wasn't a weakness. It was—
Draco hesitated, staring down at the ink drying against the parchment.
What the hell?
There was a reply.
I am sorry to hear that. Your parents should be kinder to you.
First Meeting
Draco barely remembered climbing back up to the dormitory.
Yet try as he might, he couldn't ignore the overwhelming feeling of dread and curiosity.
He ignored it. Pushed it to the back of his trunk beneath layers of folded robes. Ignored the itch in the back of his mind that screamed at him to retrieve it.
He lasted two days.
The night air was cold when he finally surrendered. The dorm was quiet, his housemates breathing deeply in sleep.
Slowly, deliberately, he dipped his quill and wrote.
Who are you?
At first, there was nothing.
Then, the ink shimmered like it had been swallowed by the paper, and new letters formed.
I'm sorry to hear your father does not approve of your feelings.
Draco stiffened.
Parents are often blind to the depths of their children's struggles, don't you think?
Who are you? Draco wrote again, more firmly this time.
I am a memory, living inside this book.
The ink bled into itself, the words tilting slightly at the edges as if written by an invisible hand considering its response carefully.
Who created you? Draco asked.
Another pause.
Too long this time.
The Founders did. It answered.
His mind whirred with every lesson he had been drilled in from childhood—the warnings his mother had whispered in low, urgent tones about cursed objects, artifacts with wills of their own. Yet without his active command, Draco's arms started creating more words on the page.
Draco Malfoy.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the ink spiraled across the page
That was impossible. That was his grandfather.
Ink flooded the page in hurried strokes.
Is Abraxas well? Could you arrange a meeting between us?
Draco scowled.
"I have no idea who you are!"
The diary stilled. Then, after what felt like forever, the ink glowed faintly.
Apologies. My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. And it is imperative I speak with Abraxas Malfoy.
Draco hesitated before muttering, "You're a bit late for that." He pressed his quill down roughly.
"Abraxas Malfoy died during the Great Wizarding War. Auror ambush."
For the first time, the diary did not immediately respond.
Draco could almost feel something in it shift, as though the book itself were adjusting to a sudden, unexpected truth. When the words finally appeared, they were different.
I see… That is most unfortunate.
Then, slower this time, careful—measuring him.
Draco. What if we make a deal?
Draco raised a brow.
"What kind of deal?"
I will help you. With your problems. With your enemies. With whatever troubles you. And in return… you will tell me about the world as it stands today.
The Rabbit Hole Deepens
Tell me more about Abraxas.
Draco ran his tongue over his teeth, considering.
"He was found guilty of being part of an illegal organization—the Death Eaters," Draco finally wrote, keeping his words short. "He was caught in an Auror ambush and killed in action. That's all."
The ink swirled for a moment, then reformed.
Death Eaters…
Draco scoffed. "Surely you've heard of them?!"
A pause. The next words were slower, and thoughtful.
And your father?
Draco went rigid.
Was Lucius Malfoy a Death Eater?
His response was automatic, drilled into him through years of careful tutoring.
"That's a slanderous accusation," he wrote sharply. "My father was exonerated. He provided evidence proving he had been under the Imperius Curse by the Dark Lord's followers."
Another moment of silence.
Then, as if tasting the words, the diary echoed.
The Dark Lord?
Draco hesitated, realizing just how much Tom Riddle—whoever or whatever he was—seemed detached from the modern world. Did he truly not know? Was he truly just a memory left behind in this book, desperate for lost history?
He decided to indulge its curiosity.
"The Dark Lord rose decades ago to build an empire in Britain. He almost succeeded," Draco wrote. "Then he fell, supposedly defeated by an infant—Harry Potter."
Potter?
"But the story changed later. Harry Potter was declared dead—burned in a house fire before he could ever challenge the Dark Lord again. The Ministry reworked the official account, saying that Neville Longbottom was the one to defeat the Dark Lord."
The diary remained eerily silent for several beats. Then, words unfurled across the page with careful precision.
Strange. Very strange.
Draco frowned. "What's strange?"
For something like this to happen… A shift in names. A shift in narrative. It suggests…
The words faltered.
Then, quickly, the script tightened.
And what do you feel?
The unexpected question stopped Draco cold.
"What do I feel?" he wrote back.
About this. About everything. Your family's place in it. Your father's exoneration. Your world as it stands now.
A war raged in Draco's thoughts. The natural, rehearsed answer would be what his father had always told him to believe. That the Ministry was weak, that the postwar order was crumbling under its own corruption, and that it was their duty as purebloods to set things right.
Quill pressed lightly to parchment, he admitted, "My father say…. Muggleborns… they are eroding our traditions, changing our world into something unrecognizable." His fingers trembled slightly as he scratched out the next words. "But the Dark Lord's path—his terrorism—was never the answer."
For once, the diary did not answer immediately. It seemed to be thinking.
Then, at last, the ink slithered into place.
How politically astute.
Even Deeper
Draco's friends had long abandoned him over his creeping obsession with the diary. Not that his earlier attitude of being holier than thou had won him any favors within the Slytherin house.
What of your mother? Tom asked.
"Narcissa Malfoy née Black," Draco wrote.
Ah, truly, you are the most privileged of them all. Scion of both the Malfoys and the Blacks—the two most noble families of the English wizarding world.
Tell me, then, the words continued. What were her views on the war?
Draco's grip on his quill tightened.
"I don't like talking about her," he wrote curtly.
The diary did not react immediately.
Then, after a moment, its response slithered into place, soft and coaxing.
That is understandable, Draco. Some things are difficult to speak of. But perhaps an exchange will ease your burden. What if I taught you something of great use? A spell, perhaps—one that allows you to hear others' conversations without detection. All I ask is that you tell me more.
Draco narrowed his eyes at the parchment, irritation rising.
"You're an ancient artifact," he scrawled. "Why do you even care about such things?"
This time, the diary hesitated. It was subtle, but noticeable.
Then, for the first time, the ink bled out in slow, methodical strokes.
I was not entirely honest with you, Draco.
Draco stilled.
I told you this diary was created by the Founders. That was… a half-truth. In reality, I was created by Salazar Slytherin himself.
Draco's breath caught.
I exist to aid the scions of noble families. To ensure the bloodlines of true wizardkind remain strong. Especially in times of— the ink paused, then reformed —mudblood infestation.
The diary's next words were smoother, almost conversational.
But tell me, Draco… you do wish to win honor and glory for Slytherin House, do you not? To prove yourself? To finally get back at Jago? To see the respect in their eyes… and Daphne's as well?
Draco swallowed.
He ran a hand through his hair, gaze flickering between the diary and the candlelight dancing across the stone walls. He didn't like how easily this book pulled at his buried thoughts. He wasn't—he wasn't some fool to be baited like that.
But still.
He set his quill back to the page.
"My mother is an extremist," he wrote, carefully. "During the first war, she personally funded and sheltered many politically persecuted people."
The diary's response came quickly this time.
Were they Death Eaters?
Draco went rigid.
"My mother was exonerated of financial corruption. Anything else is slander by mudblood journalists working for Dumbledore's Ministry."
For the first time since their conversation began, Draco felt something from the diary. Not just words forming on a page, but something else—something intangible yet unmistakable.
A snort.
And then, uncharacteristically blunt:
Kid, learn to think for yourself as well.
There was a pause.
Perhaps it's better if we showed our memories to each other? Between you and me, I have always found words to be very limited form communication.
"How do we do that?" Draco asked.
"You must never tie your magic to another, Draco. Blood is legacy, power—bind it carelessly, and you are no longer your own man."
"A blood pact is dangerous," he scrawled. "My father is vehemently against it."
Parents often are, the diary replied smoothly. They fear what they do not understand. The truth is, the risks are wildly exaggerated—especially for someone as strong as yourself, Draco. A simple pact of memories is harmless. Besides, memory transfer is the quickest way to teach you advanced magic – to defeat Jago of course.
Draco hesitated. He should listen to his father.
And yet…
He wanted to know more.
With a sharp inhale, he pressed the tip of a ceremonial blade to his palm. A thin line of crimson welled up, and before he could second-guess himself, he pressed his bloodied hand firmly against the open diary.
The ink flared.
The world lurched.
And suddenly—
Draco was standing in the marble halls of Malfoy Manor
The air smelled of waxed wood and candle smoke, the floors gleaming under familiar chandeliers. Confusion gripped him as he turned—and froze when he saw a man standing before him.
A handsome young wizard, dressed in impeccable Slytherin robes, watched him with amused eyes. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his lips curled into a small, knowing smile.
Tom Riddle.
Draco opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Riddle placed a single finger to his lips.
Shhh… watch.
Draco's breath stilled as movement caught his eye.
His eight-year-old self-darted across the manor halls, small and nimble, scurrying toward the ventilation ducts like a shadow. Draco's gut clenched as he watched himself climb into the vents—he didn't remember this night.
He wriggled forward, pressing his cheek against the cool metal slats.
Through the gaps, he looked at the salon below. His parents were fighting again.
"I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR STUPIDITY!" Lucius snarled. "You have abandoned cunning and rationality in favor of madness!"
Narcissa stood opposite him in full combat attire.
"Since when did cowardice and cunning become synonymous?" she spat. "Two decades ago, the worthless scum at the Ministry wouldn't have dared lay a finger on a Black. And now? My sister rots in Azkaban, and you've done nothing!"
"If Bellatrix had listened to me instead of launching that stupid attack on the Ministry, she wouldn't have been arrested in the first place." Lucius shot back.
"We are LOYAL to our Lord!" Narcissa roared. "We will fight for him, bleed for him! We did not deny him during his victories, and we will not do so in the face of hardship—"
"Loyal?" Lucius scoffed. "Loyal to a bloodthirsty fool? Tell me, Narcissa, where was your so-called 'Dark Lord' when everything collapsed? The man was too weak to even defeat an old fox-like Dumbledore!"
Draco tensed.
Narcissa's breath hitched, horror flashing across her face before it contorted into rage.
"Say that again," she whispered.
Lucius smirked.
"Go on, Narcissa," he taunted. "Cut my tongue out—or perhaps you'd like to strangle me in my own home?" He leaned closer. "Wouldn't be the first time you've entertained such thoughts."
Narcissa's hands shook with rage, her wand tip sparking.
But then—
From the shadows behind her, a wand flicked.
"Expelliarmus."
Her wand flew from her grasp.
Draco barely bit down a gasp as Severus Snape stepped forward.
Narcissa spun to retaliate, but Lucius was faster. He seized her arms and restrained her.
"Do it," he ordered.
Draco watched, horrified, as Snape produced a small vial, pried Narcissa's mouth open, and poured the contents down her throat.
She choked, convulsed. Her blue eyes widened with rage, then terror, and then—
Lucius sighed as her body went slack against him.
"You could just divorce her," Snape muttered,
Lucius exhaled through his nose, as if exhausted by the notion. "And lose my legitimacy?" He scoffed. "Narcissa Black—whatever else she is—cements my status. No matter how many idiots in the Ministry wish to purge the last of the old bloodlines, they can never erase the Blacks."
Snape rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, your infernal appearances. How tedious. Though I do suppose she will be... manageable after tonight." He idly flipped his wand between his fingers. "A daily regiment should keep her docile."
Lucius reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy sack of galleons. Without ceremony, he tossed it onto the nearby desk.
"Usual fee," Lucius said.
Snape weighed it in his palm before sighing theatrically. "Your marriage is terribly profitable, Lucius. If exhaustible. Really, my sympathies."
"Stop it." Draco yelled. "I wanna leave this."
Tom smiled at him as Lucius's memory figure prowled behind them. "So now you understand, Draco."
"I don't want to understand. I don't want to see anymore." Draco cried.
"Very well. Then I shall make this simple for you."
Draco's breath hitched.
"Take the diary to your mother." Tom said.
His hands balled into fists. "Why?"
"She needs to know the truth, no?" Tom said.
"She'll kill him," he muttered under his breath. "She'll destroy everything."
"Yes," Tom smiled. "She will."
"I—" He closed his eyes tightly. "I don't want to be involved."
Silence.
Then—
"Oh, Draco."
A hand wrapped around his throat.
"You poor, stupid little thing."
His body lurched.
Not by his own will.
His fingers twitched, his head tilted—not because he wanted to, but because something else willed it.
He tried to fight, but his muscles were locked, his nerves useless. His limbs jerked to unnatural attention, his back straightened, his hand lifted, staring down at his trembling fingers—except they weren't trembling anymore.
They flexed.
Smooth. Easy. Controlled.
Controlled by Tom.
His mouth opened—but the laugh that escaped was not his own.
It was low, velvety, mocking.
"How soft you are," Tom murmured through his lips, rolling Draco's shoulders as if testing the weight of his body. "How… flabby. Have you never worked for anything in your life?"
Draco's mind screamed.
His hand—his own traitorous hand—lifted to his chest, fingers flexing as Tom chuckled, inside him.
"I suppose that's to be expected from a boy so desperate to be his father's son."
Welcome Back
Narcissa's eyes lifted, blinking as she saw the tall, slender figure in the doorway. Draco. But no—this couldn't be him. What was he doing here?
She set her glass down.
"Draco?" she asked.
The term didn't end for months. What was he doing here, in the middle of her solitude?
He raised his wand, and before she could protest or even blink, something akin to a gust of wind slammed into her chest.
A white-hot pulse of power exploded in her mind, her own thoughts reeling like a wave smashing against rocks. Memories—her true memories—flooded in, sharp and brutal. The shock of it made her throat close, and she gasped as memories of the Dark Lord's icy touch washed over her, of bloodline purity, of power and servitude...
He would pay. Lucius—Lucius had done this.
With sudden, unholy clarity, she stood. There was no hesitation, no question about her next actions. It had to be done.
"I'll rip his throat out with my teeth," she hissed.
Then, without warning, the Dark Mark flared on her left forearm. She could feel it, feel the familiar weight of the presence pushing through her mind.
The boy's eyes—Draco's eyes—shifted in the dim light. But they weren't Draco's anymore.
Narcissa's body locked in place, realization flooding her once more.
Her knees buckled, her vision hazy as she dropped before him. She kissed the robes.
"My lord," she whispered. "You can use Draco's body as you wish. I will offer a thousand sons, if it helps your cause, if it brings your kingdom to its feet. Anything, everything for you."
Fin
Author Notes: Read and Review!