It was nearing four in the morning when Lord Voldemort returned to Malfoy Manor.
Truth be told, he had rather enjoyed his time at the Crabbe residence. Modest, practical, and utterly unremarkable—exactly the sort of place that did not invite scrutiny. Unlike Malfoy Manor, which reeked of excess and insecurity, with its gaudy gold trimmings and ostentatious décor. It was a monument to wealth without wisdom, power without subtlety. Everything about it screamed for attention, as though the Malfoys believed that if they surrounded themselves with enough luxury, the world would forget how little of it they had earned.
Pathetic.
True power did not need to be draped in gold. It did not need to boast or flaunt. Power, real power, was a whisper in the dark, a force that existed independent of lineage or fortune. Magic had granted him intelligence, skill, and the ability to rise beyond the fate that his wretched Muggle father and ignorant witch of a mother had shackled him with.
He had needed nothing else.
The only reason he was here now was to collect the assorted creatures that had been stashed away in the Malfoys' dungeons. He had no interest in them personally—the fool of a werewolf, the preening vampire, the insolent goblin, and the pitiful Squib—but they were useful. Tools, all of them.
The werewolf represented nearly forty percent of Britain's unaffiliated werewolf clans, those who had not yet fallen under Greyback's sway.
The vampire, a so-called ambassador fromLes Enfants de l'Ombre, wielded the influence of one of the largest covens in France, one that could turn Wizarding Britain into a feeding ground if guided correctly.
The goblin—arrogant, insufferable, but not without potential—could serve as a key to prying Gringotts' vaults open or, at the very least, funneling weapons into his army's hands.
And then there was the Squib.
A slight curl of distaste touched his lips.
Disgusting little thing. And yet, surprisingly resourceful. She had contacts in both the wizarding and Muggle underworlds, a web of filth and refuse that, when properly exploited, could be useful. It was astonishing, really, how many Squibs lurked in the shadows of Britain, eking out miserable little existences on the scraps of two worlds that did not want them.
It was a symptom of Dumbledore's weakness, of hissentimentality. In Voldemort's youth, Squibs had been drowned after the Hogwarts letter failed to appear. That was how thingsshouldhave remained. But the old fool had woven his influence so deeply into this nation that even thedefectivewere allowed to exist.
Disgraceful.
Lucius and Narcissa had wisely retired for the night, no doubt hoping that if they were not present when he arrived, they could avoid his scrutiny. A feeble attempt. He could drag Lucius from his bed if he wished—shake him awake like the cowering worm he had become and remind him of his place. The thought amused him for half a second, but he dismissed it just as quickly. It was too much effort for too little reward. Lucius had become an utter bore, his spirit broken and his usefulness dwindling. Even when his wife had been publicly manhandled by Greyback, he had barely put up a fight, offering only a token protest before shrinking away.
No, Lucius had becomeirrelevant.
But his son…
Draco Malfoy.
That boy wasinteresting.
He had expected the boy to fear him.Hatehim, even. After all, he had spent an entire summertestingthe limits of his loyalty. The curse he had cast at Draco had been one of his own creation—one designed tosever, to flay the skin and release bolts of agony through the body, seeking the nearest nerve clusters to inflame and torment. It had not been a simple curse. No, that would have beenmerciful. This had been farworse, designed to make its victims feel as though they wereburning from the inside out. A strike to the head should have left Dracocrippledin agony, and should have shattered him for the rest of his life.
And yet… he had endured.
The boy hadsurvived.
Even now, Voldemort could recall the wretched state he had been left in—the slow, dragging weeks of recovery, the mind-shattering pain that must have lingered long after his wounds had closed. And yet, Draco had not broken. He had not fled, nor cowered, nor shown the terrified obedience of his father.
Instead, he hadstepped forward. Taken the initiative and gathered very valuable information for him.
Curious.
That display in the ballroom had confirmed what Voldemort had already begun to suspect: the boy wasnothis father. He was somethingelse. Somethingdifferent.
And different wasuseful.
…surely he had time to make a slight detour before he collected his pitiful menagerie, did he not?

The child was in the potions lab.
Like every damnable room in this manor, it was drowning in excess. Gold and silver cauldrons gleamed under the flickering candlelight, their surfaces polished to a blinding sheen. Exotic potion ingredients, harvested from all corners of the world, sat sealed in glass jars, arranged in neat, ostentatious rows. There were beautifully crafted stirring rods, mortar and pestles encrusted with gemstone inlays, and a collection of knives with handles of pure ivory—all utterlyuseless, save for their role in stroking the Malfoys' vanity.
And yet, despite the extravagance, the boy worked with a singular purpose.
A small cauldron sat before him, bubbling with a complete Polyjuice Potion. Draco moved swiftly, methodically, adding the final ingredients one by one: leeches, powdered bicorn horn, knotgrass, a mandrake leaf, and a silver spoonful of dew. Each addition was precise, his hands moving with the steadiness of a practiced potioneer.
Then—he spat into the potion.
The action was so unexpected, so utterly revolting in its casual irreverence, that Voldemort's carefully structured thoughts fractured for the first time in years.
What the actual fuck is he doing?
That internal vulgarity—the first slip in decades—was barely enough to register his disbelief before Draco continued his work.
With the same calm, clinical efficiency, the boy added what looked like scales, blood, and shredded pieces of dragon flesh, followed by a single thunderbird feather, and—most damning of all—a vial of Re'em blood.
The reaction was instantaneous.
The cauldron shuddered violently as the mixture foamed and hissed, sending gouts of thick, red steam surging into the air. Athud-thud-thudvibrated through the stone floor as the cauldron rocked in place, straining under the sheer magical instability of the brew. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the chaos ceased.
A low, ominous silence settled in the air.
Inside the cauldron, the potion had turned black—deep, lightless, and wrong. It didn't shimmer like a finished Polyjuice Potion. Instead, it swallowed the light, as if staring into it meant staring into something that should not exist.
Voldemort watched with something that could only be described as trepidation.
Draco took up a ladle, dipping it into the abyssal liquid. His pale fingers did not shake as he poured the thick, obsidian fluid into a goblet.
And then, raising it slightly— as though making a toast to himself—Draco whispered:
"To my health."
The cup reached his lips—
"Expelliarmus."
The goblet exploded from Draco's grip, launching into the air before clattering to the marble floor. The contents spilled instantly, sizzling against the stone.
The reaction was immediate.
The marble shrieked.
A deep hissing noise filled the air as the potion began to eat through the very foundation of Malfoy Manor. The room filled with the acrid stench of scorched rock, dark tendrils of foul smoke curling upwards from the widening hole in the floor.
And Voldemort, for the first time in years, raised a non-existent eyebrow.
Draco dropped to his knees instantly, his head bowed low, his body completely still.
"My Lord," he said, voice smooth, practiced, subservient. "I did not hear you come in—"
"What," Voldemort hissed, voice dangerously soft, "were you doing?"
His scarlet eyes flicked toward the hole still smoldering in the floor. "There are far less painful ways to kill yourself, young Draco."
A beat.
"…An experiment, my Lord."
An experiment.
Voldemort tilted his head slightly, studying the boy—his pulse, his breathing, the way his fingers twitched slightly against the floor. A web of panic clung to Draco's skin, betrayed by the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, the elevated beat of his heart, the almost imperceptible tremor at the nape of his neck.
Lying, are we?
"An experiment to do what?" he pressed, voice quiet but sharp as a razor's edge.
He saw the moment Draco considered his words. The moment his fear curled inwards, controlled and masked beneath the weight of a carefully chosen response.
Finally, with a steadiness that Voldemort almost foundadmirable, Draco answered:
"An attempt to cross my DNA with that of several magical creatures."
A slow blink.
…What?
The absurdity of the words made Voldemort pause.
He had expected any number of responses. Perhaps a pathetic excuse, or a half-truth, or even a poorly crafted lie about experimenting with combat magic.
But this?
This was insanity.
"…Why?" he demanded.
Because there had to be a reason.
Because the silver-haired heir of Malfoy Manor should not be standing in a dungeon, brewing a potion meant to turn himself into an amalgamation of beasts.
Because he had to know—
What the hell was this boy trying to become?
Voldemort's red eyes burned into Draco, studying every minute detail—the slight tremor in his hands, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way sweat clung to the nape of his neck despite the chill of the dungeon air.
And then the boy spoke.
"I want power, my lord." His voice was smooth, and controlled. "The power to stand beside you. The power that will put me beyond the reach of that old fool, Dumbledore. The power that will allow me to live the way I wish."
Voldemort regarded him carefully. That… was not too dissimilar from his own desires, when he had been Draco's age. He had wanted to be free.
Free to kill, free to curse, free to carve his name into the bones of the world itself.
Butthis—this was different.
He had sought mastery over magic.
This boy?
He was attempting to rewrite his very being.
Voldemort's expression remained unreadable, but he motioned with one long, skeletal hand.
"How, exactly, was this supposed to achieve that?" His fingers plucked the sheaf of parchment from the table, his crimson gaze scanning Draco's notes.
Draco exhaled slowly, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "My thought was this: Re'em blood would strengthen my body, allowing it to survive the changes. I had hoped that I would gain the magic-resistant properties of dragon scales. The thunderbird feather—if incorporated correctly—would grant me control over storms."
His voice was steady, but his heartbeat was betraying him.
"I thought using Polyjuice Potion as a base would allow the transformation to take hold without rejection. By using my own DNA as the catalyst, the magical properties of the creatures I selected would integrate seamlessly, making me… a perfect hybrid."
DNA.
The word sent a distant, dusty memory rippling through Voldemort's mind—Wood's Orphanage, its grimy classrooms, the scent of damp chalk dust. A word from science lessons. Blood, really. What made you...you.
"I understand that this was an ambitious exercise, one that hasn't been attempted before-"
Voldemort let out a snort of derisive laughter.
Oh, Merlin above, this boy was bringing out all of his bad habits, wasn't he?
"Don't flatter yourself." He sneered, flicking through the pages of notes with a lazy sort of disdain. "Do you honestly believe you are the first to attempt such a thing? That you are some sort of pioneer?"
Draco flinched slightly, but he held his ground.
Voldemort let the silence stretch, let the tension coil and tighten, before finally continuing.
"Then again," he allowed, "you are the first fool to attempt something this… ambitious. Most wizards limit themselves to one magical creature. One infusion at a time. You? You are attempting to graft together several—without even knowing if your body will survive the first transformation."
He began to circle the boy, his long fingers tapping idly against the rolled parchment in his hand.
"There are only three known methods to successfully integrate magical beast blood with a wizard's own." His voice was slow, measured, and instructive as if he were lecturing a student at Hogwarts rather than addressing his newest Death Eater to be.
Voldemort did so enjoy teaching the youth.
"The first method hails from Japan. It is called Kodoku." He paused, letting the word hang in the air. "The process requires a wizard to submerge themselves in the blood—or venom—of their chosen creature for seven days. During that time, they mustbreathein the essence of the beast, allowing their body to absorb the magic directly through their skin and lungs. Downing Draught of the Living Death usually helps in this process, so long as you have someone to pull you out at the end."
Draco's brows furrowed slightly, but he remained silent.
"It is most commonly done with mundane animals, but there have been notable successes with magical creatures—Re'em blood and Wampus Cat blood being the most effective. The trick, however," Voldemort's lips curled into somethingjustshy of amusement, "is that all the creatures used must be of the same species, the same age range, and in perfect health, and there must be enough blood to submerge yourself fully, from head to toe."
He gave Draco a pointed look. "I highly doubt you could gather enough dragon's blood to attempt such a thing—let alone survive the process."
Draco swallowed but said nothing.
"The second method," Voldemort continued, "is known as the Sigurd Method." He saw the faint flicker of recognition in Draco's eyes. "You must eat the heart and drink at least two liters of blood from your chosen creature. The method was pioneered by the Germanic wizard Sigurd, who famously slew a dragon, devoured its heart, and gained its legendary strength."
He allowed himself a slight smirk. "However, the catch is that you must land the killing blow yourself."
Draco stiffened.
"Considering the ingredients you were using," Voldemort mused, "I sincerely doubt you'd be able to kill a dragon or a thunderbird. A Re'em, however? Wizards have slaughtered them for sport for centuries."
A flicker of something passed over Draco's face.
Voldemort recognized it instantly.
Frustration.
The boy wanted power—but he had not been willing to get his hands bloody for it.
"The third method," Voldemort continued smoothly, "is the most… pedestrian. Slow, gradual transfiguration." He waved a hand dismissively. "You dissect a magical creature, then painstakingly transfigure your own body to match its attributes, selecting which traits to keep."
He smiled coldly. "In theory, this would allow you to integrate different parts from multiple creatures—just as you intended." He tapped the parchment in his hand. "But, unlike your naive little potion, this method only grantsphysicalcharacteristics. You might gain the magic-resistant skin of a dragon—but you will neverbreathe firelike one."
He let that thought linger.
Voldemort's gaze bored into Draco, watching the gears turn behind his silver eyes.
The boy was brilliant, yes, but he was still young.
Still idealistic.
Still lacking the most fundamental lesson of power—that power is not given.
It is taken. It is fought for.
It is bled for.
He had missed this—teaching the youth.
Oh, if only Dumbledore had given in that night at Hogwarts. Perhaps all of these atrocities could have been avoided.
…Well. No. Not really.
Inevitably, his true self would have slipped out.
But it was always fun to blame Dumbledore.
Still, as he parsed through Draco's notes, his sharp mind dissected the boy's thought process, the way he had taken inspiration from the Animagus potion, the Polyjuice potion, and sought to force them together into something new. He could see the careful logic in Draco's theories—half-baked, but not wholly misguided. His mind worked in overdrive, piecing together the puzzle the young Malfoy had unknowingly laid out before him, until—
Oh.
Oh.
A slow, knowing smirk stretched across Voldemort's lips. "You must be one of thosesavants," he murmured, placing the notes back onto the gilded worktable.
Draco blinked, hesitating. "I… don't know that word, my lord." His voice was careful, reverent—though beneath it, Voldemort could hear the raw, hungry curiosity.
"Savants are imbeciles in nearly every aspect of life, but geniuses at one particular thing," Voldemort drawled, watching Draco from the corner of his eye. "You must be one of them, because if you had actuallythought this through, you would have realized that you already possess all the ingredients needed to make your potion successful."
Draco's head snapped up slightly in surprise, but as soon as his gaze met Voldemort's crimson orbs, his entire body flinched. His spine stiffened, his breath hitched, and he bowed his head low again.
"I apologize, my lord," he said quickly.
Voldemort chuckled—a dry, humorless thing. "Fear will keep you alive, Draco," he mused. "But only intelligence will allow you tothrive."
Draco swallowed thickly but said nothing.
Voldemort took a step closer, his long, skeletal fingers trailing idly across the polished surface of the table. "Let us examine what you were too blinded by ambition to see."
He tapped one finger on Draco's parchment. "You fixated on the Animagus potion, but you failed to realizewhy. You focused on thepotion, but neglected the ritual. Do you understand what an Animagus transformationtrulyis?It is not simply an advanced form of Transfiguration. It is a rebirth—the awakening of something dormant within the soul. That is why the ritual is necessary."
Voldemort's gaze flickered toward the cauldron, still bubbling with the failed monstrosity the boy had tried to drink. "You are attempting to create a crude shortcut. A quick and dirty solution to force evolution onto yourself.Thatis where you erred."
Draco's fingers twitched against the folds of his robes. His mind was working—Voldemort could see it in the way his breath subtly changed, in the faintest shift of his posture.
"But…" Voldemort continued, his voice darkly amused, "you are not entirely hopeless. You recognized some of the key elements. Allow me to enlighten you."
He lifted a pale, bony hand and began counting on his fingers.
"Leeches—to siphon essence, to steal the strength of one and place it into another.
Powdered Bicorn Horn—to symbolize duality, the seamless fusion of two opposing forces.
Knotgrass—to act as the binding agent, merging what was never meant to be one."
Draco's sharp intake of breath was soft, but not missed. Voldemort could feel the boy realizing just how close he had been, just how much he had overlooked in his haste.
"These should have been the core ingredients of your new potion," Voldemort stated, his voice silk-smooth. "But more importantly—you must create a ritual to accompany it."
Draco's mouth parted slightly, but no words came out.
"You must craft a ritual that embodiesrebirth, Draco. That is what you are missing. You have all the building blocks—you simply need to rearrange them into the picture you want to create."
Voldemort let a long silence stretch between them, reveling in the boy's obvious awe and frustration.
And then, in a voice filled with dark amusement, he sneered, "I knowlazinessis a curse that all Malfoys suffer from, but do try and embrace your Black heritage for once, and ignore it."
Draco's fists tightened at his sides.
Voldemort's smirk deepened.
"If you manage to do this correctly," he continued, his tone almost gentle, "you will create something beyond even my knowledge. A potion that will far surpass the three methods I have listed. Atrueevolution, rather than a crude mutation."
Then, Voldemort turned fully toward Draco, his expression unreadable, his next words laced with something akin to approval.
"Draco Malfoy, I charge you with this—you have one year to finish your potion and ritual."
He let the weight of his command sink in, before adding, almost casually—
"If you succeed, you will be the first Death Eater to receive my Dark Mark without ever having to spill a single drop of blood in my name."
Draco sucked in a sharp breath.
And for the first time since Voldemort had arrived in the laboratory, he raised his head fully.
He could see the greed and ambition shining in those eyes: perhaps not just for the Dark Mark, but also at being acknowledged by one of the greatest wizards in Britain's history.
He truly had missed his calling as a teacher.