It was the night before Christmas, and the party at Malfoy Manor was in full swing. Normally, such an event would have been a much smaller affair—an intimate gathering of close friends and family in the grand ballroom, with the house-elves working tirelessly in the background to prepare for the much larger, more lavish Christmas Day celebration that was always the talk of Wizarding Britain.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the very air of the manor seemed different—heavier, colder, tinged with something far darker than what it was used to. The grand chandeliers above flickered dimly, as if reluctant to shine, casting long shadows over the opulent room. The ballroom, usually a place of elegance and light, was now teeming with guests that, if Narcissa Malfoy had been given a choice, would have been banished from the very borders of Wizarding Britain.
The guests were not the refined, aristocratic members of society she was accustomed to. No, tonight's party was for creatures that her ancestors had once called 'unnatural.' They were the very embodiment of what most of Wizarding Britain feared and despised—and yet here they were, flaunting their existence as though they belonged.
Werewolves prowled the edges of the room, their tattered, ragged robes barely concealing their predatory nature. Their eyes, gleaming yellow and feral, scanned the room with cold calculation, as if it were their natural hunting ground. They exuded a sense of danger, the scent of sweat and fur lingering in the air, a sharp contrast to the pristine elegance of the manor's surroundings. Narcissa shuddered involuntarily as one of them glanced her way, his lip curling in a barely perceptible snarl. His gaze made her skin prickle, as if she could feel the weight of his hunger. These creatures were not to be trusted; they lived on the fringes of society, lurking in the shadows, and Narcissa wanted nothing more than to flee from their presence.
Nearby, vampires stood in their customary aristocratic Muggle attire—fine suits, silk shirts, and waistcoats—looking every bit the part of the old European nobility. Their pale skin seemed to glow faintly under the flickering candlelight, their eyes red and inscrutable, betraying little of what lurked beneath. As they conversed in hushed, silken tones, Narcissa could see the faint flash of their white fangs whenever they smiled, a smile that made her stomach twist in discomfort. The vampires were always the most unsettling guests, their delicate mannerisms belying the cold, calculating beasts they truly were. Narcissa couldn't help but feel a knot tighten in her stomach at the sight of them, the smooth cadence of their voices reminding her of predatory birds coaxing prey into their deadly grasp. They were always so charismatic, drawing in dozens of people around them, charming them with their smooth words and sharp smiles. But Narcissa knew what they were capable of.
You had to be charming to get people to willingly offer up their lifeblood, after all. For creatures like them, after the first couple of centuries, they did not actively hunt anymore: it became a game to them, to see how far they could make their prey go to give themselves up, how sweet their words could be if they pushed their charisma to the max.
A group of hags shuffled through the room in their hooded cloaks, their feet dragging slightly as they moved. Their eyes, dull and yellowed with age, scanned the young witches and wizards with an unsettling hunger, their gaze lingering on the fresh faces of the younger guests. The very air seemed to thicken with their presence, an oppressive weight that made it difficult to breathe. The faint scent of something sour and unpleasant clung to them like a miasma, and Narcissa could feel her pulse quicken as they passed.
Hags were weak to a wizard's magic, but they made potions so potent that they put people like Severus to shame. Were it not for the fact that they preferred living prey, with a disgusting love for the flesh of children, they might have been able to make something of themselves.
Even goblins were in attendance, their fair pale skin almost glowing in the dim light. Clad in ornate goblin-made armor, their finely crafted swords gleaming in the light, they stood off to one side, bristling with a barely concealed hostility. The goblins' eyes flickered with disdain every time another group of guests passed by them, their sharp features tightening into permanent sneers.
Their presence was a reminder of the ancient animosity between goblins and wizards—an enmity that had lasted for centuries. Narcissa could see that the goblins preferred to keep to themselves, and who could blame them? After all, most wizards regarded them with distrust, treating them as little more than servants or thieves. Yet here they were, tolerated by the Dark Lord, whose interests they aligned with—at least for now. Naturally, these goblins were not from Gringotts. They were a rebel group that had broken off from the main kingdom, seeking to use the Dark Lord's power to take over the Goblin Nation and run it the way they wanted.
Fools, the lot of them. As if the Dark Lord gave a damn about their ambitions. They were here for their metalsmithing abilities, and that was it.
But it was the rabble—the unwashed, unsavory wizards and witches—that truly made Narcissa's skin crawl. Dressed in second-hand cloaks and ill-fitting robes, they made up the majority of the crowd, whispering to one another in low, conspiratorial tones. Their eyes darted around the room, suspicious, shifty.
They reminded Narcissa of the filth that gathered in the corners of Knockturn Alley—places where morality and decency were as worn down as their clothes. Most of them were purebloods, descendants of families whose once-great fortunes had dwindled over the generations. Others were half-bloods who had been exiled from illustrious families, likely due to some perceived stain on their bloodlines, due to being bastards born out of wedlock, or contracting some disease. Narcissa's lips twisted in disgust.
And then there were the odd Mudbloods, the ones who had no care for blood purity and yet loved to stir up chaos and cause pain. She could barely stand to look at them. Did they really think that the Dark Lord would reward them for their loyalty? That they would be granted Lordships or seats on the Wizengamot if they did his bidding? They were deluded, all of them. They would never receive the Dark Mark; they were nothing more than pawns—chaff to be discarded when they had outlived their usefulness. Narcissa could feel their eyes on her—heavy with envy, with a lustful desire that made her stomach churn. The feeling was almost physical, as if their lecherous gaze had reached out and touched her skin.
She had to force a smile, turn her attention to another unpleasant face, and extend her hand for the customary greeting, even as she fought to maintain her composure. She greeted one of the filthy wizards with a stiff nod, her hand barely touching his as he grasped it, his greasy fingers slick with sweat. The air felt suffocating, and she struggled to keep her voice even, her smile polite but hollow.
Her gaze flickered to Lucius, standing by the fireplace, speaking with a few other high-ranking Death Eaters. She knew the truth of it—this was Lucius' party, but it was the Dark Lord's event. He had made the invitation list. He had chosen these people, these... creatures. And Narcissa, as always, was forced to play the dutiful hostess, to mask her revulsion with smiles and pleasantries. To pretend that she was happy to see these people here, that she welcomed them into her home.
But the truth was, she didn't.
Not a single one of them.
And especially not the ones who made her skin crawl with their dark, unnatural powers. Every time she was forced to make eye contact with them, to endure a handshake or a cordial greeting, her stomach twisted with the desire to be anywhere but here.
The Dark Lord's influence hung thick in the air, like an oppressive fog. This was a grand spectacle to remind every sentient Dark Being in attendance that he could provide for them, that he could offer them a place in society, so long as they stood by him.
And Narcissa had no choice but to pretend, to act as if it were a joyful occasion, a night of celebration. But beneath the carefully painted smile, deep inside, the façade cracked just a bit, and the disgust she felt for each and every one of these creatures threatened to spill over. She could hardly stand to be in the same room as them, let alone pretend that she was welcoming them into her home.
She did not belong here. Not among these people. Not among these monsters. But it was a cold, hard truth that she had learned long ago—one that she had long since accepted but never truly embraced. The Dark Lord had claimed this place as his own, and with it, everything it represented: fear, control, power. Including Narcissa's role within it. Her purpose, her identity, her family's future—all of it was now irrevocably intertwined with his vision, and that vision was one she could never hope to escape, because it seemed that even death could not adequately hold this man.
As she walked around the room, making sure that every table in the ballroom had food and wine, she couldn't help but notice the stark contrast between what was once a haven of refinement and the grotesque display it had become.
Normally, Malfoy Manor would have spared no expense in feeding their guests, offering exotic meals such as roasted pheasant, bouillabaisse, and moussaka—delicacies that spoke to the upper echelons of society. But tonight, these things were not to be had. No, instead, the grotesque crowd was served simple, uninspired fare: roasted turkey, baked chicken, and fresh bread with brown gravy on the side, all washed down with a cheap, watery wine barely worth five Galleons a bottle.
Narcissa watched in disgust as the guests devoured the food in an almost animalistic manner, tearing at it with no regard for manners, as if they hadn't eaten in days. She couldn't help but feel a slight tremor in her hands as she refilled their goblets, the sight of their gluttony only adding to the foulness of the evening. The Dark Lord's intent had been clear: this party was meant to force these groups to intermingle, to have them regard each other as allies, as equals. But Narcissa knew that, as much as the Dark Lord tried to unite them, most of the guests kept to their own groups.
And then, there was Draco.
Her gaze softened as she spotted him across the room, dressed in fine black robes with a white eastern dragon embroidered on them. The dragon's movements were almost lifelike, its breath of white flames flickering at regular intervals, as though it were alive. It was a stunning design, befitting the heir of House Malfoy, but what Narcissa found more remarkable was how her son had positioned himself among the most unlikely of allies. Around Draco, a small crowd had gathered, composed of a rough group of shoddily dressed wizards, a particularly young-looking female vampire, a stout goblin, and a couple of werewolves, all of them listening to her son with rapt attention.
Pride swelled within her, and for a moment, the oppressive air of the room seemed to lift. She made her way through the crowd, weaving through the guests until she was close enough to hear the tail end of Draco's conversation.
"…the subjugation of the Muggles does not need to be a violent affair," Draco was saying, his voice lofty, the very sound of it filled with the arrogance she had come to expect from him. "A combination of placing their world leaders under the Imperius curse to make their integration into our society more palatable, helping them after disasters to put them in debt to us, and showing them that there are threats that only magic can defend them from—like Dementors, would be more than enough to sway them over to us."
A low growl interrupted him, and Narcissa's heart skipped a beat as one of the werewolves in the group spoke up. "Fuck that," he said, his voice low and harsh. "Why the fuck should we do that work for some fucking Muggles? Better to just burn down their fucking cities and make sure they know their place."
Narcissa recoiled at the crude language, but Draco didn't flinch. Instead, he continued speaking, his tone as smooth and calculated as ever. "There are roughly five billion people in the world right now," he continued, his voice barely rising above the din of the room. "Only five million of those people are wizards. The odds are 1,168 to 1—meaning, for every one wizard, there are about 1,168 Muggles. Not every wizard is as skilled as they should be, especially in Britain. An all-out war would cause significant losses on our side. And Muggles, for all their flaws, are willing to win a Pyrrhic victory if it means that they can defeat us."
The female vampire laughed, her voice like a soft, silken purr. "Monsieur Malfoy, I have not been in the presence of Muggles for quite some time," she said, a faint French accent coloring her words. "But you cannot possibly think the sword and the torch are significant dangers, do you?"
Draco's smile barely faltered as he replied, "Please, call me Draco. And you, like many people, have underestimated the Muggles." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though imparting a dangerous secret. "They have created a weapon, called a gun, that resembles a wand in speed and power, at the very least, and has no need for long incantations or fancy gestures. This weapon is not difficult to master, and there are known instances of children wielding them. But that is not the real danger, if I am being serious. Muggles have created something much more destructive: a device they call a nuclear bomb. Think of it as a metal tube containing a compressed form of Fiendfyre. This weapon is so powerful that even when the fire is doused, it leaves a Muggle-made curse called radiation in the air and soil, making the land and water poisonous for generations to come."
The vampire's eyes gleamed with amusement, but a flicker of unease crossed her face. "And you think this weapon is beyond the reach of magic?"
"The Magical Communities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki thought that it was merely a curious Muggle toy," Draco replied, his voice cold and unwavering. "And yet, they were utterly wiped out, leaving nothing but ash outlines. Whatever this nuclear energy is, it is resistant to Vanishing, Transfiguration, and even managed to break through wards. It has been fifty years since the bombs dropped, and Mahoutokoro's student population has only just reached two hundred and forty. Considering Hogwarts houses one thousand wizards, and Mahoutokoro is equipped to handle the same amount…"
One of the werewolves scowled, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You sure know a lot about these Muggles," he said, his tone tinged with mistrust. "How do you know all this?"
Draco straightened, his expression shifting into one of haughty indifference. "Let's just say I have a deep interest in ensuring our survival," he replied smoothly, meeting the werewolf's gaze without flinching. "I don't plan on being caught off guard. After all, knowing your enemy is the first step in eliminating them."
As Narcissa stood there, watching her son speak with such authority, a bitter smile crept across her lips.
This was the future. Her son had grown into a force to be reckoned with, his words sharp and commanding. In that moment, as she gazed at him, she realized that there was no turning back for him. Nor for her. As long as they remained tied to the Dark Lord's cause, they would forever be tethered to this world, this vision, this inevitable path.
She had always known this day would come, but now it felt more tangible than ever. A quiet sense of resignation filled her chest, but underneath, there was something else—a deep, gnawing regret that she did not shield Draco from this darkness. Yet, the sight of him now, standing before the very creatures he once feared, made her stomach churn. And yet, there was pride in her heart, too—pride that he had risen to the challenge, even if that meant he was slowly becoming someone she barely recognized.
Her son's voice carried across the room, clear and confident, drawing attention from every corner. She had not expected him to command such a crowd, but here he was, surrounded by werewolves, a goblin, and even a vampire, all hanging on his every word.
"With how destructive they are, is it really better to keep them here, rather than slaughter them to the last man?" asked the goblin, his voice gruff and full of suspicion. He stood apart from the rest, his arms crossed defensively.
Draco's expression remained cool as he responded, his tone measured, almost academic. "Muggles are extremely useful. They are incredibly innovative. And without the presence of magic in their lives, they've developed ways to defend themselves that we have to acknowledge. They're advancing at a rate that even we cannot ignore. If we combine their technology with our magic, it could be the inevitable evolution we are headed toward. Plus, Muggles, for all their faults, seem to crave submission. They enslave each other, apologize for it, and then repeat the cycle over and over. They have experimented with hundreds of ways to install leaders, looking for people to tell them what to do, whether they are right or wrong. A firm hand of leadership will guide them—bring them under our control. We can improve their lives vastly by showing them who holds the power."
Narcissa stood at the edge of the group, watching as Draco spoke with passion. Despite the undeniable darkness in his words, she could still hear the respect in his tone for the Muggles. He was not dismissing them as weaklings, but acknowledging their place in this new world order. His tone had weight, and as disturbing as it was, Narcissa couldn't help but be impressed by his calculating brilliance. This was how true power worked—by controlling not just the bodies, but the minds of others. It was good, she decided, that he had compassion for the Muggles. After all, there was a reason why most of the Wizarding World flocked to the banner of Albus Dumbledore, rather than the Dark Lord.
She started to step closer to her son, eager to hear him continue to speak, and to affirm his words, but just then, a rough, sweaty hand gripped her upper arm with startling force, pulling her back.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she felt the pain shoot through her skin. She turned her head sharply, only to meet the eyes of the last person she had ever wanted to see tonight.
"Well, well, well," came the familiar voice, thick with mockery. "If it isn't Narcissa Malfoy!" Fenrir Greyback's words dripped with the scent of blood and rotten meat, the stench of it overpowering even the rich perfume Lucuis had gotten her after a trip to Bulgaria. "As I live and breathe! It's been quite a while since I last saw you."
Narcissa's heart stilled, her pulse quickening in fear and anger. She forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. "Hello, Greyback," she said, her voice as cold as she could manage, though her stomach churned with disgust.
Fenrir Greyback towered over her, his matted grey hair wild and unkempt. His sharp, yellowish teeth were bared in a cruel smile, and his long, dirty nails seemed to glint in the flickering light. His Death Eater robes barely contained the bulk of his frame, stretched too thin in places, clinging to him like they were trying to escape. His wolfish appearance made it all too clear that he was a man who had long since crossed the boundary into something far more monstrous, yet still held onto the cloak of human skin.
"You're looking as lovely as ever, Narcissa," he purred, his voice deep and slithering. She could feel his breath on her neck, foul and rancid. "You know, I've always wondered why you never invited me to one of your fancy parties after our Lord, ah… fell." He leaned in closer, and the stench of him nearly made Narcissa gag. "It would have been nice to reminisce with some old friends."
Narcissa's expression faltered, but she quickly regained control. "We never quite felt that our kind of parties were your scene," she said stiffly, doing her best to keep her distance.
Greyback chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest like a growl. "Ah, Narcissa, you know me: I can adapt," he said, his tone turning predatory. "Plus, I heard you had parties for your boy every year. I would've come to those."
He paused, and then, his eyes gleaming with malice, he added, "You know how much I love the kiddies, Narcissa."
The words, and the twisted way in which he said them, made Narcissa's blood run cold. She could feel the bile rising in her throat as his presence grew closer, his sickening smile stretching wider. She could no longer keep up the façade of polite conversation. Her hand shot out, pushing against his chest, her voice low and cold as she demanded, "Let go of me, right now."
Greyback's grin only widened, his eyes dark with delight. "Oh, so soon, baby? I don't think so." His hand gripped her tighter, dragging her closer. "You know, you're a bit older than I like, but I'm sure we can have some fun."
Narcissa's hand instinctively went for her wand, but before she could reach it, Greyback moved faster than she could react. His grip tightened on her wrist with crushing force, and with a sickening crack, she felt her wand slip from her fingers, clattering to the floor. The sound echoed sharply throughout the room, drawing the eyes of every single person present.
Narcissa's eyes darted around the room, her pulse pounding in her ears. All of them were watching—every single one of them. Wizards, hags, vampires, goblins—each of them watching with cruel enjoyment as Fenrir held her helpless. Even Lucius, her husband, stood frozen in place, held back by his compatriots as he glared at Greyback, powerless to help.
The Dark Lord's lazy smile lingered in the background, his serpent-like pet Nagini curled around his shoulders. Draco stood only a few paces away, his face an unreadable mask, his eyes empty. He said nothing, doing nothing.
A deep, helpless despair washed over Narcissa. No one was going to come to her aid. Not even her own family. She had been abandoned in this moment, left to be preyed upon while they watched.
Tears welled in her eyes as Fenrir's breath, rancid and hot, brushed against her ear. His words sent a wave of disgust through her body. "You know, after I'm finished with you—"
Bang!
The sound was deafening, like a firecracker gone off inside the room. Narcissa's body tensed in shock as Fenrir was sent flying from her, soaring through the air before crashing heavily to the floor with a sickening thud. A cry of pain escaped his lips, and for a moment, there was silence, as everyone in the room stared in disbelief.
Fenrir scrambled to his feet, his face twisted in fury. "Who dares to—" he bellowed, his voice thick with rage.
Moving past the people he had been speaking to, Draco strode forward, his steps slow and deliberate, each one heavier than the last. Narcissa's heart caught in her chest as she saw her son, his face still devoid of emotion, his eyes vacant, yet trembling with barely contained rage. His magic swirled around him like a storm, crackling in the air. The marble floor cracked beneath his feet as he moved, and the very cutlery and tables shuddered violently, reverberating with the power emanating from him.
"I respect those who dole out the Dark Lord's justice," Draco's voice rang out, soft but sharp with venom, "and those who serve him faithfully. But one thing needs to be clear: no one, no matter who you are, how well you've served, or how strong you are, will touch my mother."
His gaze was unwavering, his body rigid with determination. In that moment, Narcissa saw a flash of the young man Draco had become—strong, resolute, and utterly fearless. She had always known he was capable of great things, but this—this was more than she had expected. This was the son she had raised, standing boldly against a beast like Fenrir Greyback.
Fenrir roared in fury, a guttural, animalistic sound that sent a shiver down Narcissa's spine. He leapt forward with inhuman speed, his hulking form closing the distance between them in a blink. He moved like a predator, and Narcissa's heart skipped a beat as she instinctively took a step back, but Draco remained planted, not even flinching. His cold, blank expression had now twisted into something darker—something terrifying.
Draco's wand slashed through the air with an elegant, practiced motion. The look in his eyes was anything but calm. It was pure hatred, a burning intensity that mirrored the fire coursing through his veins.
"Sectumsempra."
The curse ripped through the air, and before Narcissa could even process the words, Fenrir's massive body crumpled to the floor, crashing with a sickening thud. The werewolf shrieked in pain, clutching at his face where the curse had struck, blood gushing in thick, crimson streams. The sight was horrifying—Fenrir, once so fearsome, now writhing on the floor like a broken animal. The laughter and murmurs in the room died, replaced by the chilling sound of his agony.
Narcissa's breath caught in her throat as she watched Fenrir thrash around, roaring in pain. She could feel the tremors in the air, the weight of the room's attention bearing down on them all. But her attention was solely on Draco—her son.
He had done it. He had stood up to the monster that had terrorized her, and very easily beaten him.
The vampires, who had been scattered throughout the ballroom, suddenly closed the distance in a heartbeat, their pale eyes glowing red with hunger. They watched the scene unfold with bloodlust in their gazes, their nostrils flaring as they inhaled the scent of fresh blood. The power shift in the room was palpable.
And the threat of more violence hung heavy in the air. If something didn't change soon, there would be a feeding frenzy right here in the ballroom…
"You little shit! I'll gut you for this! I swear, I'll—" Fenrir's voice was thick with rage, but he faltered when a dark, sinister laugh interrupted him. It was the laugh of the Dark Lord—a sound that chilled Narcissa's very bones.
The Dark Lord, having observed the exchange, began strolling toward Fenrir, his expression unreadable. His footsteps echoed in the tense silence of the room. The air grew even colder, as if the Dark Lord himself carried a cloud of darkness with him wherever he went. He looked down at Fenrir with disdain, his voice dripping with condescension.
"Oh, Greyback," he said, his voice a slow drawl. "Already on your knees, like the dog you are?" The Dark Lord's gaze shifted to Draco, a dark amusement flickering in his eyes. "But perhaps you misjudged things. Young Draco here is absolutely ruthless when it comes to his mother. This summer, when I had to... discipline Narcissa for pestering me, he even cast a spell against me."
The Dark Lord's eyes flashed dangerously.
"It was a surprise, to say the least. But I suppose it makes sense."
He glanced briefly at Draco, who stood unmoving, his eyes burning with anger but showing no sign of fear. Narcissa felt a flicker of pride, quickly followed by a wave of dread. The Dark Lord's words were laced with venom, but Draco had not backed down. And he wasn't backing down now.
The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking back to Fenrir, who was still twitching on the floor, clutching his wounded face.
"After all, it wouldn't be the first time that the bond between a mother and her son has inconvenienced me."
Narcissa's breath caught in her throat as she watched him point his wand at Fenrir. She had expected him to heal the werewolf, to show some mercy for his most loyal follower, but what happened next made her blood run cold.
"Crucio."
The spell was unleashed with a sickening finality, and Fenrir's body arched violently, his screams filling the room with the sound of pure agony. His back arched off the floor as the curse surged through him, sending waves of pain that seemed to twist his very bones. The room was suddenly charged with the horrible sound of his suffering, and the onlookers—creatures, wizards, and beasts alike—watched in morbid fascination.
"Don't embarrass me like that ever again," the Dark Lord sneered, his voice cold and devoid of compassion.
Fenrir's screams echoed through the room as he writhed, but the Dark Lord showed no mercy. With a flick of his wand, he left the werewolf twitching on the floor, a broken and humiliated shell of the beast he had once been.
Narcissa's heart pounded in her chest as the room remained eerily silent. Her eyes met Draco's, and for a moment, she saw something that made her breath catch—something more than anger. There was protectiveness, but also concern. He turned to her, his eyes softening just for a moment before he rushed forward, reaching for her hand.
"Mother," Draco said, his voice trembling slightly as he took her arm and inspected her, concern etched across his face. "Are you alright? I'm sorry I did nothing at first—I thought he'd back off eventually. But after I realized he wouldn't stop..." His voice trailed off, his eyes searching hers for reassurance.
Narcissa felt her chest tighten, and for the briefest moment, the coldness of the room melted away. She squeezed his hand gently, her voice barely above a whisper. "Oh, Draco," she said softly, her eyes welling with unshed tears. "Do not apologize. That is the second time now you have stepped in to defend me."
She felt a rush of love for him—a deep, fierce love that transcended everything else. It was the love of a mother who would go to any lengths to protect her child, even as that child, in turn, had grown into a young man capable of standing up and defending her. In that moment, her heart swelled with pride. Despite the terror of the night, despite the dark forces that surrounded them all, she could feel a warmth in her chest, a fleeting reminder of the child he had once been and the man he had become.
Draco's gaze softened, and for the briefest of moments, she saw the little boy she had cradled in her arms, the child who had looked to her for comfort and safety. But that child had grown, had shed his innocence, and in his place stood a young man—strong, steadfast, and resolute.
She blinked back the tears threatening to fall, pushing the fear away for just a moment, savoring the relief of this fleeting connection between them. They were mother and son, nothing more and nothing less.
"Draco. Narcissa."
The voice cut through the fragile moment, and Narcissa felt the warmth drain from her heart, replaced by a sharp pang. Lucius had finally arrived. His presence filled the space, but it wasn't the same commanding figure she remembered. His face was pale, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. She saw something in his eyes she had never noticed before—a vulnerability, an openness that she had never seen in him, a man who had always been so proud, so certain of himself.
Her heart ached for him, despite the turmoil within her own chest. He had never looked at her like this, not before. Despite the anger and pain that she had felt, she understood the silent regret in his eyes. He, too, was a victim of the circumstances. She knew this—she had to.
"Narcissa," Lucius said again, his voice thick with emotion, "I am so sorry, the others… they would not allow me to move. You know that if I had been able to, I would have come immediately."
The words should have comforted her, but they didn't. They felt like an excuse, a hollow attempt at justification. She could see it—the hesitation in his words, the guilt that gnawed at him. Narcissa swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded slowly, her expression softening.
"It is alright, Lucius. I understand," she replied quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. But inside, her emotions were a whirlwind, a mix of anger and understanding, of resentment and the deep bond she still shared with him, despite everything that had transpired. The Dark Lord's return had cracked something inside Lucius—a part of him that had once been strong, unshakable, but now lay shattered under the weight of servitude.
For the first time in many years, Narcissa saw him not as the strong, unyielding man she had once admired and loved, but as something different. A shadow of the man she had married—a coward, scared and unwilling to stand against the one who now held them all in his thrall. She had seen Lucius face down figures like the Minister and Dumbledore without flinching, but now, he cowered at the Dark Lord's feet.
Still, he was her husband.
She reached out and gently touched his arm, the connection between them distant but tangible. Despite everything, he was still hers—still the man who had stood beside her all those years. Her heart ached for him, but more for herself.
What had they become?
Lucius turned toward Draco, his gaze softening with pride. The man before her was not the Lucius she had once known, but for a moment, the fatherly warmth returned.
"Draco," he said, his voice full of emotion, "I cannot tell you how proud I am of you. Of how strong you have grown. I cannot thank you enough for protecting your mother when they stopped me."
Draco's expression was unreadable, his face set in an almost perfect mask of control. He seemed to study Lucius for a moment, his eyes searching for something—an answer, perhaps, or an acknowledgment of something deeper. When he spoke, his voice was stiff, guarded.
"Thank you, Father," Draco said, his words formal, like a polite gesture. But there was something underneath it, a subtle shift in the air around them. It wasn't just gratitude, but something more complex—perhaps a realization that he had inherited his father's traits, but had also grown into something very different.
Lucius stepped back slightly, his pride clearly visible as he looked at his son, but there was a lingering sadness in his gaze, a weight of unspoken words between them. Draco had changed, and Lucius hadn't kept up. Narcissa knew that this moment—this awkward exchange—was a reflection of what had become of their family. They were still together, but in many ways, they were strangers to one another.
For a long moment, there was silence. Then, as the hum of the party swirled around them, Narcissa allowed herself to close her eyes, just for a moment, feeling the gravity of what was happening.
Their world had shifted. And though they all still stood together, their roles in it had irrevocably changed.
She just hoped that in the end, the darkness would not swallow them whole.
Nifty and Shifty did not like all these new people in Master and Mistress' house. Werewolves and vampies and hags—nasty, ugly creatures were filling the Manor, making everything feel darker, more oppressive. Though, they supposed the Manor was already a bit Dark—its stone walls heavy with magic—but nothing like this. The air was thicker, more suffocating with every breath they took. Their tiny bodies trembled as the weight of the Dark Magic pressed down on them, a constant reminder that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back.
The new man—he smelled like death and blood, always hanging around, always there but nowhere at the same time. His body was one thing, but his magic—it was everywhere. It crawled through the Manor like a snake, slipping into every room, every corner, every person that came near him. His presence seeped into Master's arm and into the arms of others, like it was his power, his influence spreading everywhere. Nifty and Shifty didn't like it. They could feel the magic, and it hurt, it made them sluggish, made it harder to focus on their work.
They knew who he was, though. Everyone did. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—the Dark Lord. The Bad Man. The one who had made everything awful for so long before Harry Potter had defeated him. Before the Dark Lord had vanished. And now, he was back. And things were bad again. Nifty and Shifty could feel it. The change was in the air, in the very way people moved and talked. They could see it in the way everyone stood a little straighter, more afraid.
But, as much as the Dark Lord's return weighed heavily on their hearts, Nifty and Shifty weren't without hope. Master Draco had something to say about that. If he had anything to do with it, the Dark Lord's reign would not last long.
When they had first come to work at Malfoy Manor, Nifty and Shifty had been nervous. The elf Dobby had said horrible things about them, about how they treated him, about how they made him work harder, punished him for mistakes, but he had been wrong. Dobby had been a crazy elf, wanting to be free, wanting to be paid, like some sort of Muggle! The Malfoys might not have been the kindest, but they were fair. They rewarded loyalty, and they always made sure their work was noticed.
But everything had changed when the Bad Man hurt Master Draco.
Mistress Cissy had begged them, the lowly house elves, to keep Master Draco safe. She had run for Mister Snapey—Severus Snape—to help, and then Master Lucius had begged them to watch over Draco while they were gone, to ensure that no one could enter his room, not even the Dark Lord and his nasty snake.
Master Draco had woken up from the pain, so frightened and confused. He had not known where he was, who he was, or what had happened. It had taken him days to regain his memory. But when he did, he changed. He was not like the cruel, demanding boy he had been before. He was kind—kind in ways that made Nifty and Shifty feel something warm inside. Master Draco treated them with respect, said thank you, said please, and never once acted like he was above them. It was something Nifty and Shifty had never expected, but it had changed them, and it had made them more loyal to Master Draco than to anyone else in the Manor, even Mistress Cissy and Master Lucius.
So, when Christmas morning came and Master Draco called for them, they happily popped into his room, eager to see what he needed. They weren't disappointed. Draco was pacing back and forth, his usual self-assured manner gone, replaced with something Nifty and Shifty didn't quite recognize. His eyes were bright with purpose, glowing in a way that they hadn't seen before, even when he'd come back from Hoggywarts.
"Nifty, Shifty," Draco greeted them, his voice tight with urgency. "It's so good to see you two."
They bowed low, their hearts swelling with pride as they smiled back at him. They were the ones Master Draco trusted with his orders. It was a feeling they would never take for granted.
"We's is happy to see you too, Master Draco!" they said in unison, their voices full of joy.
Nifty and Shifty were not your typical house elves. They were twins, born at the same time and bonded by magic. They had always been connected, and when one was called, the other was summoned too. Their magic worked better when they were together, as if the bond between them made their abilities stronger. They were a curiosity to the other elves, and though many were jealous of their bond, Nifty and Shifty had learned to embrace it. It made them special.
"I hope you two had a good break," Master Draco said, the tension in his voice making them straighten up. "Because I'm putting you two back to work."
Their faces lit up at the thought of serving their Master again, excited at the new task he would give them.
"I need you two to go to Knockturn Alley," Master Draco continued, walking towards a table covered in books and parchment. "I need a few things. Polyjuice Potion, the weak kind that lasts only thirty minutes. I need the ingredients for both Polyjuice Potion and the Animagus Potion. I also need the scales, blood, and heartstrings of an Antipodean Opaleye, a thunderbird feather, and Re'em blood."
"Yes, Master Draco!" Nifty and Shifty chorused, their voices high with eagerness.
Master Draco's new magic! He was creating something new! Something powerful!
Nifty and Shifty exchanged a glance, their hearts racing with excitement. They were part of this. Whatever Master Draco was planning, they would be right there with him.
Nothing could stop him now.