Malfoy Manor stood as a towering testament to centuries of wealth, tradition, and an almost palpable sense of foreboding. Nestled in the Wiltshire countryside, the estate spanned sprawling acres, bordered by thick woods that concealed its secrets from prying eyes. The approach to the manor began with a gravel driveway, its path wide and immaculately maintained. It curved gently to meet a pair of wrought-iron gates adorned with intricate, serpentine designs. The gates themselves were enchanted, responding only to those bearing the Malfoy name or those permitted entry.
Flanking the driveway was a dense yew hedge, its dark, waxy leaves forming a high, unbroken wall of green. The hedge was more than decorative—it had been enchanted to repel unwanted visitors and shield the manor from the curious eyes of the public. Albino peacocks, with their shimmering white feathers and piercing eyes, roamed freely atop the hedge, their presence both elegant and unnerving. They moved with a regal grace, their cries occasionally piercing the silence like ghostly echoes.
The manor itself loomed ahead, its grand facade constructed of pale, smooth stone that seemed almost luminescent in the moonlight. The building was sprawling, with high, pointed roofs crowned with ornate ironwork. Tall, arched windows, framed by intricate stone carvings, lined the walls, their glass catching the light from within and refracting it in eerie patterns. Ivy crept up the sides of the manor in some places, a deliberate touch of nature against the structured grandeur.
At the center of the estate stood a circular fountain, its water shimmering with faint enchantments. The fountain was adorned with a marble sculpture of intertwined serpents, their jaws open in silent menace as streams of water flowed from their fangs. The garden surrounding the fountain was meticulously curated, with topiaries shaped like mythical beasts and a variety of rare, magical plants—some softly glowing in the twilight, others exuding faint, otherworldly hums.
The entrance to the Manor was marked by a massive set of oak double doors, inlaid with silver handles shaped like serpents. The land surrounding the manor stretched far and wide, encompassing both immaculate gardens and untamed woods. The gardens were filled with rare flora, including venomous tentacula and flutterby bushes, while the woods hid creatures best left undisturbed. Paths wound through the estate, some leading to quiet alcoves with stone benches, others disappearing into the dark expanse of trees.
Malfoy Manor exuded an aura of controlled power and wealth. Its beauty was cold and unyielding, much like the family it housed. It was not a home in the warm, inviting sense—it was a fortress, a monument to the Malfoy legacy. Every polished silver surface, every towering hedge, every carefully placed artifact whispered of heritage and dominance.
For Narcissa, it had once been a sanctuary from the suffocating madness of the House of Black. She had not loved Lucius when she first married him, but he had given her security, luxury, and most of all—freedom. The name Malfoy had been worth the trouble.
And yet, standing here now, she felt as though she had never left Grimmauld Place.
Something was wrong.
Draco took a deep breath as they Apparated onto the grounds, his silver eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
"Home," he said reverently. "Our home. The home of our Lord. Mother, I have missed this."
"…I have missed you too, Draco," she murmured.
But as she looked at her son, a chill slithered down her spine.
There was a fervor in his eyes. A devotion she had never seen before.
Draco had always admired his father—had mimicked his mannerisms, adopted his ideology—but he had never been Lucius' shadow. This was something else. This was… Bellatrix.
Narcissa had always known that madness ran in Black blood. They were all touched by it in some way, even herself. But Bellatrix had been the worst of them all—a living testament to why the Blacks were feared, a reminder to Wizarding Britain of their long history of insanity.
And now, Draco bore that same wild look in his eyes, the same mad loyalty she had seen her sister bear.
A horror she had never imagined clawed at her throat.
What had happened to him in that castle?
"Draco?" she asked cautiously. "Are you quite sure you are well?"
He turned to her, smiling too wide, his expression eerily serene. The morning light caught his face, making his silver eyes almost glow.
"Of course I am, Mother. I am here, at my home, about to speak to my Lord for the first time in months. I have not felt so happy in so long."
His voice was smooth, confident. His words reverent.
She returned his smile, but it was forced, brittle, and filled with growing unease.
A single thought settled in her mind like a lead weight.
This is not my son.
The dining room was full of black cloaks, silver masks, and the pungent scent of fear.
At the head of the long dining table, coiled around his chair like a living extension of himself, sat the Dark Lord, Nagini wrapped around his being as if she was another article of clothing. Voldemort did not need to stand to command the room. His presence alone was enough to make even the bravest of men tremble.
Narcissa dipped into a deep curtsy, resentment curling in her stomach at the act of submission. She was Narcissa Malfoy—a Black by birth, a woman of old magic and pure blood. She should not have to bow to any man, no matter how strong they were.
But what Draco did next shook her to her core.
With unwavering resolve, he knelt.
One knee pressed to the cold, black tile. His fist touched the floor in a gesture of absolute fealty. His head bowed, his posture poised between humility and strength.
Like a knight pledging himself to his liege.
A ripple of unease passed through the room. Even the Death Eaters, those who had spent years in Voldemort's service, were taken aback.
Narcissa's stomach turned.
Where had he learned to bow like this?
Draco had been raised with pride, with the knowledge that Malfoys did not bow. And yet here he was, kneeling before the Dark Lord as though he had spent his whole life dreaming of it.
Had he truly inherited Bellatrix's madness?
Had her sister's blood tainted him so deeply?
Or did that curse that the Dark Lord flung at him mar just more than his looks?
"My Lord," Draco said, his voice thick with reverence. "It is an honor to be in your presence once more."
A long silence followed.
Voldemort regarded him with something akin to amusement, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light.
"Well, would you look at that?" he mused, his voice like silk over steel. "The traitor bows deeper than some of my most faithful."
Narcissa's breath caught in her throat.
"M-my Lord," she started hastily, "you said you merely wished to speak with my son, not accuse him—"
She was silenced by a single look.
The weight of his gaze was suffocating, filled with venom so potent that she dared not continue.
"Well, young Draco?" Voldemort's voice was silk over steel, cold and cutting. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the polished wood of the dining table, his gaze piercing through the dim candlelight. "What do you have to say for yourself? I was so generous to you this summer. I gave you what others in my ranks would die for—personal time with me."
His red eyes gleamed, amused yet expectant, his words deliberate. He let the weight of his accusation settle.
"And yet, I hear whispers of… betrayal."
A murmur rippled through the assembled Death Eaters, growing into a low hiss of barely restrained fury.
"Consorting with Mudbloods."
"Betraying the ideals of the great Salazar Slytherin."
Voldemort's voice dropped lower, almost to a purr, yet somehow even more venomous.
"Befriending Harry Potter."
That was the spark that ignited the room.
"Blood traitor!" someone spat.
"Muggle lover!" another snarled.
"Filthy little brat!"
The rage built like an oncoming storm, venomous voices growing louder, their hatred filling the space like a heavy fog. Wands twitched toward holsters. The air crackled with suppressed curses.
And yet, Draco did not flinch.
Still kneeling, still poised, he remained unmoved by the tidal wave of vitriol crashing against him. His expression was calm, composed, his body utterly still.
When he finally spoke, his voice was clear, steady, ringing with purpose.
"My Lord, may I be allowed the privilege to speak freely in your presence… and stand to meet your eyes?"
Voldemort's pale fingers drifted along Nagini's coils, his movements slow, calculating. The great serpent lifted her head, golden eyes gleaming as she let out a soft, hissing whisper, as if advising him.
For a moment, Voldemort was silent, considering. Then, in a voice filled with dark amusement, he drawled, "Do so, young Draco."
Draco rose with measured grace, unfolding himself from the floor with a practiced elegance. He met Voldemort's gaze head-on, his silver eyes gleaming in the dim light—bright with something sharp, something fanatical.
He radiated conviction.
'This is not my son,' Narcissa thought, her heart twisting.
Draco inhaled, his voice ringing through the chamber with the confidence of a man who had already won his case.
"My Lord," he began, "I understand how my actions may seem treasonous. But I assure you—I had very good reason for all that I did."
A flicker of intrigue passed over Voldemort's serpent-like features. "Then explain yourself."
Draco lifted a hand, gesturing broadly to the assembled Death Eaters, his lips curling in scorn.
"Almost every single person standing behind you tonight, My Lord… is utterly useless."
A stunned silence fell over the room.
And then—
"Insolent little—!"
"How dare you question our loyalty?!"
"I'll rip your tongue out, you—!"
The Dark Lord raised a single hand.
And like well-trained dogs, they immediately fell silent.
His amusement remained, but now there was a dangerous curiosity in the way he regarded Draco, as though inspecting a particularly fascinating specimen.
"Continue," Voldemort murmured.
Draco smirked, rolling his shoulders back, letting his gaze sweep the room. He was savoring this. Thriving in it.
"My Lord, when you called your faithful to you, they should have been ready—your strongest warriors, waiting eagerly at your side. But what did you find?"
His sneer deepened.
"A rabble who fled at the first sign of trouble. Weaklings who abandoned you the moment things became difficult. And they dare call themselves your army?"
A muscle in Voldemort's jaw twitched.
"Your father did the same, young Draco, when I fell," he murmured, voice deceptively soft. "Do you condemn him as well?"
Draco did not hesitate.
"Of course I do."
A sharp intake of breath came from Narcissa.
Draco had idolized his father. He had followed Lucius in all things, mimicked his mannerisms, clung to his words like gospel.
And yet, without pause, without flinching, he cast him aside.
What happened to you, Draco?
But her son was still speaking, his voice as cold as the winter wind outside.
"What my father did was cowardly and shameful," he said, "but at the very least, he passed laws that ensured Mudbloods and Half-breeds knew their place. These lot? They have done nothing but fail you."
Voldemort tilted his head slightly, his interest sharpening. "Go on."
Draco's smirk widened.
"A dozen trained Dark wizards. Bloodlines so pure they can trace their ancestry back at least thirteen generations. Taught the greatest traditions, the greatest practices of magic. And yet—"
His voice dripped with contempt.
"A half-blind boy with glasses outruns all of you. Dodging curses left and right, while carrying literal dead weight—and he still manages to escape. And you call yourselves my Lord's army?"
A shudder passed through the Death Eaters, but none dared to speak.
Narcissa's hands curled into fists.
For the first time in her life, she was afraid of her son.
Draco exhaled, steady, composed. "As soon as I heard that, My Lord—when you had everything lined up perfectly, and they still managed to muck it up—I knew you would not succeed with them at your back. So, I decided to take things into my own hands."
His gaze flickered, daring, defiant.
"I befriended Potter so that I could gather information on him. To learn what was so special about the boy who had managed to evade you for so long. I wanted to see what Dumbledore had taught him—the boy whose name I had heard whispered even before I could walk."
Draco's lips curled.
"And I found him… wanting."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Voldemort's expression.
"Truly?" he asked.
Draco nodded. "There is nothing particularly special about Harry Potter. He has no unique powers beyond Parseltongue. His magic is decent, his dueling passable, but nothing that even two competent wizards shouldn't have been able to handle."
Silence.
Then—Voldemort's voice, smooth as glass yet laced with steel.
"Then what do you think of me, Draco? The one who has lost to him twice? Am I pathetic as well?"
The room went still.
A trap. A test.
Draco did not hesitate.
"My Lord, you were shackled by circumstances beyond your control," he said smoothly. "In my first year, you were trapped in a feeble vessel—Quirinus Quirrell, a man of pathetic magical ability, who relied on your power simply to function. You were weak then, but not by fault of your own."
Draco met Voldemort's eyes, unwavering.
"As for our fourth year—wands of twin cores will always oppose one another. They are a rare occurrence but one that is well documented. Another circumstance out of your control. The dozen wizards and witches behind you, however?"
His smirk returned.
"They had no such excuse. The shame belongs to them, and them alone."
A slow, dangerous smile crept onto Voldemort's face.
"And yet," Draco continued, his voice lowering into a silken whisper, "unlike them, I do not return empty-handed."
Voldemort arched a thin, serpentine brow. "Oh? And what, pray tell, could you have possibly learned from the talentless boy who has only escaped me through sheer, pitiful luck?"
Draco's next words fell like a hammer against marble.
"Harry Potter dreams of you, my Lord."
The air in the chamber stilled.
Every whisper among the Death Eaters died. Even the ever-present flicker of candlelight seemed to hesitate, as if the very room had frozen in anticipation. Voldemort's crimson eyes, half-lidded with amusement mere moments ago, sharpened like a blade unsheathed.
The Dark Lord's fingers, which had been idly stroking Nagini's coiled form, went still.
His voice, when he spoke, was soft. Deceptively soft.
"What did you say?"
Draco smirked.
"He dreams of you," her son repeated, his tone measured, his confidence unwavering. "He has visions where he sees things from your perspective, allowing him to know what you are doing and when it is happening. He can feel your emotions. That scar of his burns when you experience particularly strong ones. And, at times, they even alter his mood."
A flicker of something dark and dangerous crossed Voldemort's expression. A breath of rage. A quiet promise of death.
"Severus never told me this," Voldemort hissed, his voice sharp with accusation.
Draco inclined his head slightly, his smirk widening just a fraction. "Harry Potter has only confided in his closest friends, of which I have become." His tone turned almost mocking. "Dumbledore, however, undoubtedly knows. Which is why he has kept his distance from Potter this year."
Voldemort's slit-like nostrils flared. "That was the second mind I felt last night," he murmured in realization, his voice almost a whisper. "When I was… melded with Nagini. I had thought it might be some strange magic of the Weasley family. But no… How interesting that Potter can peer into my mind."
A beat of silence.
Then, his gaze sharpened, eyes glittering with malice.
"You said Dumbledore was keeping his distance. Why?"
Draco's expression was the picture of self-satisfaction. "It is a connection, My Lord. Before your resurrection, Potter could only sense your proximity. But now, after the ritual… he sees through your eyes when he dreams. I believe Dumbledore suspects that if Potter can intrude upon your mind, then it is possible… that the reverse is true."
Voldemort sat very still, considering.
What sick magic was this? That two minds could rifle through each other without the use of Legilimency? A connection that had been forced upon a child at the tender age of one?
A cruel smile stretched across his lips.
"That I could see through the boy," Voldemort mused, his voice soft with realization. "That I could find when he is vulnerable. That I could use this connection to my advantage."
There was no pop of Apparition. No whisper of movement.
And yet, in the blink of an eye, the Dark Lord was no longer seated.
He stood before Draco.
His long, skeletal fingers cradled the boy's face with a deceptive gentleness, forcing Draco to look up into those terrible, burning eyes.
Nagini stirred, her sinuous body uncoiling from around Voldemort's chair. Before Narcissa could so much as breathe, the serpent slithered forward, her great length winding around Draco's frame like a noose, binding him in place. Her diamond-shaped head hovered just over his shoulder, forked tongue flickering, tasting the air.
Narcissa's breath caught in her throat. Her hand twitched toward her wand.
She didn't know what she could possibly do—but if that creature harmed her son—!
The entire room watched in utter silence.
For a long moment, Voldemort simply… studied Draco. His unnaturally long fingers rested lightly against the boy's pale cheek, his grip gentle but unyielding. He stared deep into Draco's silver eyes, as though searching for something buried within.
And yet—Draco did not flinch.
He met the Dark Lord's gaze with something bordering on reverence. His expression was utterly devout, his silver eyes gleaming with a fevered, almost worshipful intensity.
Narcissa felt something inside her break.
It was Bellatrix all over again. That fanatical devotion. That madness. That glee at being in their master's presence.
Her child.
Her sweet, clever, stubborn boy had become this.
A sharp, high-pitched laugh erupted from Voldemort's throat, a sound like nails scraping against glass. It filled the chamber, echoing off the stone walls. Nagini slithered away, moving back to her master, and just as quickly as he had moved, Voldemort disapparated—silent as death—back into his seat.
He grinned, lips parting to reveal those unnatural, tombstone-white teeth.
"I thank you, Narcissa," Voldemort purred, "for the greatest gift you have given me since my return."
The room was silent.
The Death Eaters stared, their expressions unreadable behind silver masks.
"Your family," the Dark Lord continued, his voice silken, mocking, "has once again given me an undeniably loyal servant." His lips stretched wider, something predatory in his delight. "Truly, the House of Black continues to bless me with each and every generation."
Narcissa had never wanted to kill a man more than she did at that moment.
If she had even an ounce of Gryffindor bravery, she had no doubt that she would be able to cast the Killing Curse with ease.
Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape stood in silence, watching through the enchanted window as the Hogwarts Express pulled away from Hogsmeade Station, releasing a thick gust of steam as it departed.
The window itself was a feat of advanced magic—tied to the very wards of Hogwarts, allowing the Headmaster to survey the grounds and castle at will. However, Hogsmeade Station lay just beyond the wards, leaving the image slightly blurred, the edges of reality hazy and unfocused.
Severus had always found the window's capabilities unnerving, a bit too much like prying into unseen corners. But even he couldn't deny its usefulness.
The silence stretched until he finally broke it.
"We shouldn't have listened to him," Severus muttered. His voice was sharp, clipped, filled with something between resentment and unease. "I should have forced him to stay here."
Dumbledore didn't turn away from the window. He stroked his beard, his expression unreadable. "You cannot protect him from life, Severus," he said sagely. "Love cannot be shackled. You must let him spread his wings and fly."
Severus scoffed. "Even when he's flying straight into a viper's nest?"
"Even so."
The Potions Master exhaled sharply through his nose, crossing his arms.
Dumbledore continued, almost conversationally, "He is more prepared than most. This was a rather fascinating exercise for me. I don't often delve into memory alteration, but I believe the Felix Felicis assisted greatly in ensuring a smooth transition."
Severus' dark eyes snapped to him. "I thought you were crafting false memories."
"I was," Dumbledore replied lightly, "but I found it easier to use real ones as a foundation. I simply… adjusted them. I took his genuine experiences and reshaped his emotions—turned joy into disdain, love into apathy, loyalty into calculation. It was like taking an existing painting and altering its strokes, making subtle but meaningful corrections. On the outside, everything would seem the same. But when Voldemort peers into Draco's mind to confirm his loyalty, he will feel the disgust and disdain that the false memories will generate."
Severus scowled. "Can you not speak about my godson's mind as if it were a mere canvas?"
Dumbledore smiled faintly, "My apologies. I do get carried away when experimenting with new magic."
They fell into silence once more, eyes still fixed on the train, even though it had long since vanished beyond the horizon.
Severus broke the quiet. "If you were so confident in the memory alterations, why the Confundus Charm?"
Dumbledore's expression didn't change. "Because I am not as skilled in the Mind Arts as I would like to be," he admitted. "The Confundus Charm acts as a failsafe. Even with the altered memories, Draco might not act according to them. He still has his own will. The Confundus ensures he leans into his assigned role without question. A double bluff, as the Muggles tend to say."
Severus' jaw clenched. "And why, of all things, did you make him act like Bellatrix?"
The mere thought of that insufferable, fanatical woman made his skin crawl. Bellatrix Lestrange wasn't just loyal to the Dark Lord—she was rabid, a feral wolf wearing human skin.
"Because Bellatrix has always been one of Tom's most devoted followers," Dumbledore answered simply. "Her unwavering loyalty, her eagerness to please, her fanaticism—it is what makes Voldemort instinctively trust her, no matter how reckless she may be. If Draco carries even a shadow of those traits, it may grant him a measure of safety."
Severus remained silent, but his frown deepened. He could see the logic, but the idea still unsettled him.
Another long pause settled between them before Severus asked, voice quieter this time, "Why did you implant that information about Potter?" His tone was laced with suspicion. "I thought you wanted the Dark Lord unaware of the connection."
Dumbledore sighed as if he was recalling something distasteful. "Oh, I did. But this past summer, I was deeply concerned."
He turned away from the window, hands clasped behind his back.
"With Harry's blood now flowing through Voldemort's veins—his mother's protection now woven into the Dark Lord himself—there was a terrifying possibility that Voldemort might realize he could simply walk into Privet Drive and slaughter the boy where he slept."
Severus stiffened. That thought had never even occurred to him.
Dumbledore continued, his voice grave. "Harry doesn't know this, but for the first two weeks of summer, I stood watch over him in secret. If Voldemort had set foot in Little Whinging, I would have fought him myself."
That admission sent an uneasy ripple through Severus. The idea of Dumbledore himself taking direct action was frightening—not because of what the Dark Lord might do, but because Dumbledore was at his most dangerous when backed into a corner.
Severus exhaled sharply. "You don't seem nearly as worried now."
"That is because," Dumbledore said lightly, "I have found a way to weaponize this connection against Voldemort."
That caught Severus' full attention. "Go on."
Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled dangerously. "Originally, I thought Occlumency was the best defense. But Occlumency takes years to master, and Harry's mind is already compromised by the link. It would never be fully secure as long as it is connected to Tom's. However, when I learned about the intensity of the emotions Harry feels—the pain, the emotional echoes—it gave me an idea."
He smiled, a rare, cold smile. "I realized we could make Voldemort truly regret ever forging this bond."
Severus felt something dark settle in his stomach. It was rare to see this side of the Headmaster—the part of him that was utterly ruthless, the part that chose broke enemies, rather than simply defeating them. The scientist that hid behind a grandfatherly facade, wanting to see how far he could push you before you broke.
It was moments like these that made Severus wonder if Dumbledore and Voldemort were merely two reflections of the same coin.
"And this method of yours?" Snape asked cautiously.
Dumbledore's smile widened. "I think I'll keep that between myself and young Harry."
Snape's scowl deepened, but he remained silent.
"Oh, don't look so cross, Severus." Dumbledore chuckled. "I trust your Occlumency is impeccable, but some secrets are best kept secret."
His eyes gleamed. "However, I will only reveal this to Harry once Draco returns to the castle… or should young Mr. Malofy find himself in danger."
That, at least, was something.
If this so-called punishment of Dumbledore's could keep Draco safe, then Severus could endure not knowing.
Severus exhaled. "How long will the false memories and Confundus Charm last?"
Dumbledore smirked. "Interestingly enough, despite my inexperience with this type of magic, I would estimate… one week."
Severus nearly chuckled. A week. How poetic.
"Severus, may I ask you something?"
He glanced at the older man. "Go ahead."
Dumbledore's expression turned thoughtful. "Do you think Lucius or Narcissa would Obliviate their son?"
Severus blinked. "What? For what possible reason would either of them Obliviate Draco?"
Dumbledore stroked his beard. "That is the curious thing, Severus. Because there is evidence of a powerful, albeit clumsy, Obliviation Charm on him. It was cast several months ago, and whatever it was used for, it has scoured a decent amount of his earlier memories as well. I would say that only his memories starting from the age of eleven were untouched."
A strange feeling crept through Severus, making his skin prickle.
His voice was uncharacteristically hushed. "Would… would you say that this charm was placed on him during the summer?"
Dumbledore met his gaze and gave a small, knowing smile.
"I only caught a glimpse of it while finalizing the false memories… but yes. I would estimate it was cast around that time."
A chill ran down Severus' spine.
Draco…
What the hell did the Dark Lord do to you?
"Severus," Albus continued. "I feel that you already know, but you cannot allow him to drink any more Lucky Potion after this. I performed a diagnostic charm after he drank the Potion, before we started altering his memories: his body is breaking down. There is a small hole in his heart. His organs are slowly liquefying. He has drunk more Felix Felicis than anyone I have ever met or heard of. The Potion itself is fighting off it's own effects. This must be the last time he ingests that potion, or your godson will die."
"...I know. I'll stop him."
"Good. It would be a shame to lose a rising star such as young Mr. Malfoy so early. I feel that he is going to shake up up our world quite a bit, if he is given the chance."