Breakfast at Malfoy Manor was typically a refined, if minor, affair. Platters of scrambled eggs, sausages, English muffins, blood sausages, fried kippers, and delicate porcelain cups of tea adorned the long dining table. Of course, if they had visitors, the meal would be far more extravagant—Belgian waffles dusted with powdered sugar, French toast drizzled with imported syrup, scrambled eggs on avocado toast sprinkled with caviar, and pastries from Paris' finest patisseries. But on an ordinary morning such as this, during the second week of Draco's winter vacation, there was only this meager spread.
Narcissa Malfoy, ever the vigilant mother, found herself watching her son more than she ate.
She noted, with a quiet satisfaction, that Draco's plate was full—brimming, even. He was eating with an appetite she hadn't seen in months. During the summer, when he had been broken and in pain from the Dark Lord's curse, his appetite had vanished along with his former arrogance. She had watched helplessly as he wasted away, eating little, shrinking into himself. But now, he was devouring his meal, piece by piece, without a second thought. It was a bit uncouth, the way he shoveled food onto his fork so quickly, but she would not scold him.
It made her happy to see him enjoying something again.
The morning felt… cozy. Peaceful, even.
The previous night's Ministry Yule Party had been, as always, a smashing success. She had delighted in the envious stares of the other witches, their eyes drawn to her one-of-a-kind diamond earrings, her luxurious robes, her timeless beauty. After the horror of the Dark Lord's gathering, the Ministry Ball had felt like heaven. It had reminded her of Hogwarts—where she had reigned supreme, the most beautiful, the most popular, where the worst thing she had to worry about was a nasty rumor or a hex that made her hair frizz for an afternoon.
Between last night's triumph and the warmth of a well-cooked meal, Narcissa felt content for the first time in months.
And, of course, Lucius had to ruin it.
"Draco," Lucius began, slicing through a buttered crumpet with his usual practiced elegance. "Our Lord sent me a letter this morning."
And just like that, the fragile peace shattered.
The air in the dining room shifted—what had been warm and indulgent turned cold and tense.
Draco, who had been about to take a bite of sausage, paused mid-motion, then set his fork down, eyes carefully neutral.
"I see," he said evenly.
Lucius continued, as if completely unaware of the way both his wife and son had stiffened. "You have impressed him." His voice carried an undeniable note of pride—a sharp contrast to the resentful disappointment that had laced his words mere months ago. "I don't have the full details of the project he has assigned you, but he has informed me that—should you succeed—your work will place members of the Inner Circle on par with Dumbledore himself."
Narcissa froze.
What?
Her breath caught in her throat. On par with Dumbledore? She had known, from their conversation at the train station, that Draco was working on something for the Dark Lord—but for it to be this? For her son's work to have such implications?
Something inside her twisted—a mix of fear and a terrible realization. If the Dark Lord saw Draco's project as that valuable, then failure was not an option.
"...I personally do not think my experiment will yield such power," Draco said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "But I am… flattered that the Dark Lord thinks so."
Lucius, clearly buoyed by the Dark Lord's apparent faith in their son, barely acknowledged the hesitance in Draco's voice. "He has ordered you to finish it by the end of the year. He claims you are already halfway there. As such," Lucius said grandly, reaching for his tea, as if he were merely discussing an increase in allowance, "I am granting you full access to the Malfoy Vault."
Narcissa's knife clattered onto her plate.
"Lucius!" she said sharply, appalled.
Lucius turned his head slightly, clearly displeased by her interruption.
They had agreed—long ago—that Draco would have only limited access to the vault. She had heard too many stories of families who had handed their heirs full access too soon, only to be left destitute. True, the Malfoy fortune was at least tenfold that of lesser families, but still… When the vaults were placed in Draco's full control, he would need to be careful, need to ration.
He would not waste their legacy. He would not allow their bloodline to fall into ruin, as the Gaunts had.
But Lucius… Lucius was blinded.
She could see it in his sharp, feverish eyes, in the hunger behind them.
"Narcissa, don't you see?" Lucius said, voice alight with fervor. "This is it! Draco is our key! If he succeeds—if he presents the Dark Lord with something this valuable—then we will be honored above all others! Above Bellatrix! Above Dolohov! Above all of them! When the Dark Lord conquers Britain, we will be given places of power so high, even the stars themselves could not dislodge us!"
Narcissa felt her stomach drop.
Even after everything—after their son had been branded with an impossible task, after the summer that had nearly destroyed him—Lucius still clung to this madness.
What would it take? What would it take for Lucius Malfoy to wake up?
And then—
"What if we just… left?" Draco said suddenly.
A dumbfounded silence descended upon the dining room.
Lucius blinked at his son, as if Draco had momentarily lost his mind.
"Go… where?" Lucius asked, confusion clear in his voice. "Do you mean for a vacation? Draco, there will be time for vacations after the Dark Lord has taken Britain. We will be rewarded beyond measure—you'll be able to take a vacation every month if you wish. But for now—"
"I'm not talking about a vacation," Draco interrupted. "I mean leaving. Britain. Forever."
The stunned silence grew heavier.
Lucius let out a short, baffled laugh. "What? That's ridiculous. Draco, where would we even go?"
"Anywhere," Draco said, his voice earnest. Frustrated. "America. Japan. Brazil. Ghana—it doesn't matter. Just out of his reach. We could sit this whole war out."
Lucius was already shaking his head before Draco had even finished speaking.
"Draco, Draco," he sighed, tone mockingly patient. "I understand. What has happened to us—to you—has been difficult. It has tested you. It has scared you. But you are strong! I saw that strength when you came home and challenged the others! I saw it when you stood against Greyback and won! And our Lord sees it too! That is why he is cultivating you!"
Draco's hands curled into fists under the table.
"When you succeed, everything will be back to normal," Lucius continued, voice filled with certainty. "You'll see."
And just like that, he turned back to his breakfast. As if his son hadn't just poured out his heart. As if Draco hadn't just offered them an escape. A chance.
Narcissa saw it—the raw heartbreak that flickered across her son's face.
But then—as quickly as it had come—Draco's expression smoothed into that perfect, practiced mask of indifference.
He lifted his teacup with steady hands.
"Of course, Father," he murmured.
And with absolute silence, he finished his breakfast.
Draco's room had changed little since he was eleven. Everything was a shade of green and silver, an homage to both his house and his heritage. The king-sized bed was draped in fine silver tapestries, and the enchanted wallpaper shimmered with the movement of slithering snakes, their emerald eyes winking lazily as they coiled around one another. His window framed a perfect view of the manor's vast snow-covered lawns, where Malfoy peacocks strutted through the frost like jeweled phantoms. The only sign that this was a scholar's chamber rather than just the bedroom of a young noble was the sturdy oak desk, covered in piles of parchment, each filled with his precise, spiky handwriting.
When she entered, Draco was perched on the edge of his bed, gazing out the window with a look of such absolute boredom that one might think he hadn't even noticed her arrival. But she was his mother—she caught all the little signs.
The way he straightened his posture, just slightly.
The way his fingers clenched the duvet for the briefest of moments before relaxing.
The way his eyes flickered toward her, before shifting back to the view outside.
Without a word, she sat beside him. The bed dipped beneath her weight, the magic woven into the mattress adjusting seamlessly. It was always the perfect temperature, warm in winter, cool in summer—one of the many luxuries that lined their gilded cage. Right now, it was toasty and comforting, a stark contrast to the chill seeping into the room from beyond the glass.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
They simply watched the peacocks wander through the snow, the garden below looking like something out of a fairytale.
Then, Draco broke the silence.
"I looked up to him, you know."
His voice was quiet, almost reflective, as though he were speaking to himself rather than her.
"I thought he was the perfect man—the picture of what a proper wizard should be. Rich, handsome, with a beautiful wife, a grand estate, magical servants… A man who could command a room with just a glance, who could bend the will of powerful people with a mere whisper."
A shadow passed over his face.
"I idolized him. He was everything. His words, his approval… they mattered to me more than anything else. If he told me to do something, I wouldn't have hesitated. If he had told me to throw myself into a fire, I would have stepped into the flames without question.
"I always told myself I would be just like him when I grew up. That I would become him."
Narcissa remained silent. She knew better than to interrupt.
"I talked about him so much in my first year that the older students told me to shut up about him. I threatened anyone who spoke ill of him. Didn't matter if a teacher was watching, I'd have my wand in their face the second they dared insult my father."
His voice wavered, just slightly.
"I… I really thought I mattered to him, too. That I was everything to him. That I was more important than some dead lunatic who lost to a baby."
Narcissa inhaled sharply.
Casual disrespect toward the Dark Lord—in their own home? When they had just hosted him? When there was no telling what kind of surveillance he had them on? It was reckless. Foolish. And almost out of character, considering how he had acted when the Dark Lord had been here.
And yet… she said nothing.
And Draco kept speaking.
"I don't want to run. Not really."
His fingers curled into the bedsheets, knuckles going white.
"I want to fight. I want to be praised. I want to be acknowledged as one of the strongest wizards to ever live. Once I realized what magic could really do, how far it could take me—that was all I ever wanted. To become the best.
Finally, he turned to face her.
"I can't do that in the shadow of a man who couldn't even defeat a boy my age."
The words hung in the air, heavy with finality.
"You raised me to never bow to anyone. You raised me to believe I was destined for greatness. But ever since that thing came back, it's like everything you ever told me was a lie."
A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and mirthless.
"He's turned my father into a mockery of the man I knew him to be."
His voice lowered, his next words carrying the weight of something far more personal.
"He hurt you. My mother."
His hand clenched tightly into a fist.
"He cursed me."
Silence.
For a fleeting moment, Narcissa saw the boy he used to be.
The child who had once clung to Lucius' every word, who had soaked up his father's approval like sunlight. The child who had never questioned their place in the world, who had never doubted that the name Malfoy meant power, meant security, meant something unshakable.
That boy was gone now.
And the young man left in his place was angry.
Hurt.
Determined.
She reached out, fingers cool and gentle, brushing aside a strand of pale blonde hair. Draco leaned into her touch for only the briefest moment before his expression hardened again.
"He made me feel weak," Draco murmured. "Weaker than I've ever felt before."
His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles going white.
"I've always believed that no matter who I fought, I'd be able to give them a proper fight. That even if I lost, I could at least say that I took a piece of them with me. That I made them bleed."
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"But he dismantled me with a single spell."
His voice was flat, but beneath the surface, she could hear it—the quiet, simmering rage.
"I got to cast first. I threw a spell I had practiced a hundred times, one that had never missed before. By every logical measure, I should have at least hit him. Instead, he put me on the ground like I was nothing."
His fingers dug into the duvet, twisting the fabric.
"I spent three months recovering from a single spell."
Draco's voice hardened, his silver eyes burning with cold fury.
"For that alone, I would have killed him."
A sharp breath.
"Everything else? Just makes it more deserved."
But then—the fire died out.
His shoulders slumped, his hands unclenched, and he let out a breath that sounded tired.
"But… I wanted to try," he admitted quietly. "I wanted to see if I could make Father remember who was more important."
A bitter chuckle.
"If he had said yes… if he had looked me in the eye and told me, 'Alright, Draco. We leave tonight. Pack your things.'"
He swallowed, his throat tight.
"I would have gone without a second thought. I wouldn't have even looked back."
A single tear slipped down his cheek. Narcissa wiped it away with the pad of her thumb, her touch featherlight.
"But now, I have no choice," Draco whispered. "I have to stay. I have to fight. I have to make sure The Dark Lord dies."
His gaze lifted to hers, his silver eyes piercing, filled with a desperation she had never seen before.
"Because there is no world where I lie down like a dog and let another person—especially not a beast like that—decide they can hurt me whenever they please."
His voice dropped lower.
"But I had to ask. You know that, right?"
She did. She did.
His next words, though, made her breath hitch.
"Would you come with me? Even if it was just us?"
She felt her heart crack.
Everything in her wanted to say yes.
She hated the Dark Lord.
She hated the Death Eaters.
She hated the filthy creatures he surrounded himself with, the way he used violence so casually, the way he spoke of her like she was less than nothing.
But…
Her lips parted. And what came out was not a yes.
"He would kill your father if we left."
Her voice sounded hollow, even to her own ears.
Draco didn't flinch. He had expected that answer.
But Narcissa…
Narcissa hated that it was true.
Despite everything… she still loved Lucius.
It wasn't some storybook love—it had never been. It was power, security, companionship. It was the man who had lifted her out of the cold, suffocating house of the Blacks, who had given her wealth beyond her wildest dreams, who had made her the queen of every room she walked into.
And most of all—he had given her Draco.
She might lie to herself and say she had only stayed with him for convenience, but there had been a time—long ago—when waking up beside Lucius had been her favorite part of the day.
Seeing him talk someone down with that cool, arrogant sneer made her heart flutter.
Watching him sign a check without hesitation, effortlessly spending fortunes on her whims, made her smile.
She had sworn a vow, the day she married him. For better or worse.
She had enjoyed the good.
And now, she would stay for the bad.
But Draco owed no such allegiance to this life.
And she wouldn't let him die here.
"You heard your father," she murmured. "You have full access to the Malfoy Vault. You have one year, and unlimited expenses. So here's what you'll do."
Draco stilled, listening intently.
"Take a globe. Close your eyes. Spin it. Mark a place with your wand. Do this ten times. Tell no one what they are. Don't go to the places you mentioned to your father this morning."
Her voice dropped into something low and firm, the voice of a woman planning for war.
"Buy modest properties in each of those countries. Make sure half of them are in populated cities and the other half in isolated wilderness. Dress the way they dress. Speak the way they speak. Do not stand out."
Long ago, when the Dark Lord had first fallen, she and Lucius had considered doing the same. They had been terrified that Lucius would spend the rest of his life in Azkaban. For weeks, she had studied maps, researched safehouses, looked for ways out.
But in the end, his gold and his connections had saved them.
She wished that plan was still an option.
But for Draco… it still was.
Draco's face was unreadable. And then—he shook his head.
"I won't leave you."
Narcissa's chest tightened.
"I can't leave you," he whispered.
His voice was hoarse, but firm.
"Do you really think I could live my life, knowing you were at his mercy?"
She let out a soft, bitter laugh.
"I know, my wonderful little dragon."
She cupped his face, brushing her thumb against his cheek.
"We raised you with all that talk of family, of loyalty, of duty… and now it's come back to bite us, hasn't it?"
Her beautiful, reckless, stubborn boy.
Her son.
She pulled him into a hug, the kind she used to give him when he was small, when he was five years old, when he had been scared of strange things lurking in the dark and had run to her for comfort.
She held him close.
"No matter what you do," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple.
"No matter where you go."
"I will always love you."
Her little dragon.
Her greatest treasure.
Maybe it was a waste of his time, but Draco said nothing as he spent the week by her side.
They took long trips through the countryside, visiting niche, out-of-the-way wizarding cafés and shops she had known in her youth. Some had flourished, becoming more extravagant than she remembered, their owners basking in the success of their carefully cultivated businesses. Others remained exactly the same—frozen in time, untouched by prosperity or hardship. Walking into those places felt like stepping into the past, back to when she was in her fifth year, when life had been simpler. And then there were those that had faded entirely, victims of dwindling customers and hard times. The sight of empty storefronts, their signs weathered and broken, made something in her chest ache.
Every night, they dined somewhere new.
Some places were top-of-the-line, gleaming with chandeliers and gold-rimmed plates, where every bite was a delicacy. Others were cozy little eateries with uneven wooden floors that creaked beneath her steps and wobbly chairs that scraped noisily against the floor when pulled back. She ate everything from Coq au Vin and Lobster Thermidor to greasy macaroni and cheese with bacon bits, eaten out of a simple ceramic bowl.
And then, for the first time in her life, at Draco's urging and pleas's, she stepped into Muggle London.
Lucius would never find out about this.
The first thing that struck her was the clothes.
Jeans were restrictive and uncomfortable compared to the flowing robes she was used to, and she didn't understand the appeal of the strange graphic t-shirt Draco had picked for her ("What is Led Zeppelin?" she had asked, bewildered). But the black fur coat with the high collar? That, she liked. The leather boots were well-made too, comfortable in a way she hadn't expected from Muggle craftsmanship.
But Muggle London itself was… odd.
Massive metal carriages bellowed smoke and honked loudly, overwhelming her with their sheer numbers. The silver underground trains were faster than the Hogwarts Express, but sitting among ordinary, unwashed pedestrians was unpleasant. The buses reminded her of the Knight Bus, though they lacked the terrifying speed and unpredictability.
But the food… the food fascinated her.
She supposed it made sense. Without house-elves, Muggles were forced to cook for themselves. And, lacking magic, they had invented their own shortcuts. She tried McDonald's, Domino's, Pizza Hut—all the places Draco insisted were "classics."
Hamburgers and cheeseburgers were messy but enjoyable. Pickles, however, were vile. Fries were decent, but Pepsi and Coca-Cola were sickeningly sweet, burning her throat with every sip. And then there was pizza—food you ate with your hands, of all things. The concept horrified her at first, but the warm, cheesy indulgence of pepperoni pizza won her over completely.
But the strangest experience of all?
The cinema.
She had expected a play. Instead, moving images—like enchanted portraits—played out across a massive white screen, but unlike portraits, they told a story. The film was James and the Giant Peach, an absurd, colorful tale full of "magic" so laughable that she had to stifle her giggles every time a spell appeared on screen.
Glowing worms? Giant flying peaches? Talking insects? That was what Muggles thought magic was?
To anyone else, it was a fantasy film. But to Narcissa Malfoy, a fully-grown witch, it was a comedy.
And yet… she had fun. More fun than she had expected. And when they finally left the theater, walking through a park beneath the growing twilight, Draco asked her a question.
"So? What did you think of it all?" he asked. "The life of a Muggle?"
She took a long moment before answering.
"I think they are very strange," she admitted. The sky was darkening, and soon they would have to return home before Lucius noticed their absence. "Some things they do seem backward. Some things they do are outright foolish. And some things… some things are quite impressive. They're not the filthy, backwards peasants I was told about. If you put them in robes and set them loose in Diagon Alley, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference."
Draco hummed thoughtfully. "I think that's what Muggle-borns think of us."
She looked at him in surprise.
"They think our traditions are silly. The way we do things is weird. There are things they think we do inefficiently. But at the end of the day, they still see us as people."
Narcissa did not come to some grand revelation that night. She did not suddenly believe that wizards and Muggles were equal. Wizards were still superior—that was undeniable.
But…
Muggles were not parasites.
They had thrived without magic. In some areas, they had even surpassed wizards.
And most of all—she noticed something she had never seen before.
Draco's face.
The longing in his eyes as he moved through Muggle London, the ease with which he ordered food and paid in Muggle money, the comfort he seemed to feel in these places.
She realized, for the first time, that there was a part of her son she did not know.
And she wondered if, perhaps, Lucius did not know it either.
Pansy stood impatiently near the Hogwarts Express, her arms crossed as she leaned against one of the banisters. Her luggage was already aboard, and Blaise had saved them a compartment. Now, all she had to do was wait for Draco.
She wasn't exactly sure what kind of magic Draco had used to convince the Dark Lord that he was truly on His side, but apparently, when Draco spoke of the "silver tongue of the Malfoys," he had been seriously underselling it. Pansy had seen the seething hatred and vitriol in his eyes whenever the Dark Lord was mentioned. She'd been shown Draco's inventions—tools meant to be sold to the Dark Lord's enemies, tools designed to make life harder for the Death Eaters.
A very small, vicious part of her had urged her to report him. Maybe she could tell someone like her father that Draco was lying, and he would take it to the Dark Lord.
Surely that would earn her a coveted spot in the Dark Lord's ranks, right?
But every time she thought it through logically, siding with Draco seemed far more beneficial. Draco actually cared whether she lived or died. Draco wouldn't force her to do things she wasn't comfortable with, and from what she had heard, if someone got handsy with her, Draco would deal with it immediately.
She liked that about him—he wouldn't hesitate to protect the people in his life. And she knew damn well that the Dark Lord had never done anything like that.
So, instead of indulging the vindictive side of her, Pansy had shifted it's focus.
Now that word had gotten out about Draco's successful undercover mission, unveiling a powerful weakness in the Potter brat—wasn't it absurd to be this scared of a teenager? His greatest weakness were a pretty girl flashing him a smile and an overpriced broom, the same weaknesses as any boy—Draco was rumored to be the Dark Lord's new favorite, much like Bellatrix had once been. And apparently, he had been assigned some top-secret, incredibly important project—one that would guarantee him a spot in the Inner Circle, assuming he completed it on time.
Say what you will about the Death Eaters, but gossip flowed through the ranks like water.
Of course, once her father had caught wind of this, he practically ordered her to get closer to Draco. The Parkinson family needed to ride on the coattails of his success. And her mother had privately told her that if she could somehow become engaged to Draco—by any means necessary—they would be assured a comfortable life when the Dark Lord emerged victorious.
Pansy didn't know which bothered her more—the fact that her parents expected her to sell herself to someone they had never even met, or the fact that everyone seemed so convinced the Dark Lord was going to win this time around.
Then again, coming back from the dead tends to boost one's credibility, even if it is offset by the fact that he kept losing to a fifteen-year-old.
"Pansy?"
She was snapped from her thoughts by the sound of her name. Draco stood a few feet away from her, dressed in his school robes, with Narcissa beside him, looking resplendent in peach-colored robes adorned with a white peacock embroidered on the breast pocket. Draco gave his mother a hug, followed by a soft kiss on her cheek, before casting a feather-light charm on his luggage and lifting it effortlessly. After a small smile in her direction and a quick wave, there was a faint 'pop' as she Disparated.
As he got closer, Pansy couldn't help but blush at just how devastatingly handsome Draco was. She had thought she was used to it after all this time, but after two weeks away from him, it seemed her mind had forgotten. It was almost unfair, how every member of the Malfoy family was so good-looking. The holiday had clearly done Draco wonders—his hair, though not slicked back with gel, looked perfectly tousled, and the bags under his eyes had vanished, a big grin on his face as he walked towards her.
She barely had time to prepare for the hug he pulled her into. Right. Hugs were apparently on the menu with the new Draco. Not that she minded. The new Draco wore a very nice-smelling cologne, and his arms were strong and warm around her.
"'Lo," he whispered, his breath tickling her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "Had a good holiday?"
"An interesting one," she replied, pulling back from the hug, hoping her face wasn't too pink. "But I've heard yours was much more eventful. Come on, we've got a compartment waiting for us."
She practically dragged him to the compartment, winking mischievously at the other Slytherins they passed along the way. Now that everyone had heard Draco was a hot commodity, of course, everyone wanted to get back in his good graces. But Pansy had carefully selected a small group of people she felt that she could trust. These people weren't just chosen because they were loyal to the Dark Lord—they were chosen because they were most likely to stay loyal to Draco when the truth eventually came out.
Huh. I guess there are three sides to this war now, Pansy mused to herself. Dumbledore's side, the Dark Lord's side, and now Draco's.
When they entered the compartment, Draco raised an eyebrow at the people sitting inside.
Vincent Crabbe. Theo Nott. Astoria and Daphne Greengrass. Blaise Zabini.
Crabbe had been included because, well, Pansy didn't really want to leave him in Goyle's hands. He wasn't particularly useful for much beyond muscle, but she didn't want him to join the Death Eaters, either.
Theo had been chosen because he didn't really care about his Death Eater parents, and he was actually quite sharp. Maybe he could help Draco with his inventions, or at least work as a sounding board.
Initially, Pansy had only invited Astoria, but Daphne had insisted on coming along. Astoria had been chosen because, first, she was tolerable, and Pansy wanted another girl in the group, and second, Astoria and her sister had always been careful not to show any support for the Death Eaters. It made them outcasts—though not to the extent Draco had been—but it isolated them form the other Slytherins all the same.
Blaise was here because, despite actually believing in the pureblood ideals, he didn't want to fight. He liked to sit around, look good, and eat nice food. He hated dueling. However, he was excellent with potions and a pretty decent flyer. Maybe Draco could put that to good use.
As soon as Draco stepped into the compartment, Crabbe jumped to his feet, a giant grin on his face as he opened his arms in greeting.
"Draco!" he said, his voice bubbling with juvenile joy.
To Pansy's surprise, Draco welcomed the hug, patting Crabbe on the back with a chuckle.
"It's good to see you, mate. I hope you've been well."
"Been good," Crabbe replied with a toothy smile, but then his face grew more somber. "Sorry about… you know, being mean." He shifted uncomfortably, his voice lowering. "Greg said we couldn't talk to you anymore, and everyone was mad at you. But Pansy said we're friends again, so I wanted to say sorry."
Draco gave him a soft smile. "Don't worry about it. All is forgiven."
Then Draco turned his attention to the rest of the group. "You lot, though, I'm very surprised to see you here. Would've thought you'd avoid me after everything that happened."
"Ah, Draco, don't be like that," Theo said with an easy smile. "You know how it was: House rules. Couldn't do anything about it. And it didn't seem to bother you. You got along just fine without us."
"Plus, we're not exactly known for our loyalty," Blaise added, with a casual shrug. "I mean, even Pansy ditched you, and you didn't seem to mind her being all over you the minute you walked into the station."
Pansy shot Blaise a pointed middle finger, but secretly, she was pleased. If everyone thought she had been ignoring Draco, then they didn't know the real story. They just thought she was just a gold digger.
Which… she kinda was. But not really; she didn't want to marry any old bastard with a vault full of Galleons. She genuinely liked Draco, and she could definitely see a future with him. She just had a vested interest to make sure that future had a lot of gold in it...
"Pansy's special," Draco said, his tone firm. "I'd forgive her no matter what. You two," he added, pointing at Nott and Zabini, "are arseholes. Forgive me if I'm not too quick to be chummy with you again."
There was no anger in his voice, though. Draco said it dryly, as if it were a simple fact. And, of course, it was.
Then he turned to the Greengrass sisters.
"Daphne, Astoria," Draco said, giving them a casual nod. "Interesting to see you two here. We never really ran in the same circles."
Astoria waved shyly, while Daphne responded with a cold look on her face and an even frostier tone. "Our father seems to think that being friendly with the Malfoy family will be beneficial for us. A way to make connections after Hogwarts."
Pansy caught on quick. Oh, so their dad is making them do the same thing my father told me to do—get close to Draco.
Ew. What is with all these old men giving up their daughters to other kids?
The boy in question merely shrugged in return before shrugging, setting his luggage aside, and plopping down in an available seat. Of course, Pansy snuggled up to him, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arm around his. He let out a huff of amusement but said nothing else.
"So, is it true?" Blaise asked after a few minutes of silence. "Did you really do everything they said you did?"
Draco, still focused on watching the scenery pass by, asked, "It depends on what 'they' said."
"The word on the vine is… well, it's getting crazy," Theo said, leaning forward with a grin. "A lot of people are saying you called the Inner Circle useless to their faces. That you tricked Potter into giving you vital information. That you battled Greyback and won. And that… you've been given a mission. A big one. One that could change the war in our favor. Well, more than it is, anyway."
"I sincerely hope there are silencing wards on this door," Draco said lazily. "It would be such a shame if certain people found out what we were talking about. This is hardly polite conversation."
Pansy pouted up at him. "Of course I did. Do you think I'm stupid?"
Draco rolled his eyes at her before responding to Nott and Blaise. "The Inner Circle is useless. They faced down a fourteen-year-old with four years of magical expertise under his belt and let him get away. With a dead body slowing him down, I might add. If damn near thrity people were given a simple task and failed, would you not consider them useless?
"Tricking Potter is a lot easier than you might think. The boy will trust anything that gives him five seconds of positive attention. And as for Grayback—he touched my mother, so I cursed him. There was no great battle; I merely reminded the dog of his place. And my mission… well, some things need to remain secret. For operational security, of course. You lot should understand that by now."
"We… we could help," Theo began, but Draco cut him off with a sharp snort of derisive laughter.
"Help me?" Draco scoffed. "Trust me, Theo. The things I'm doing goes beyond stuff like Hogwarts. I'm moving up in the world, and I'm not waiting for anyone to catch up. You can either climb behind me, or you can watch from your perch."
Pansy noticed how Daphne stilled at Draco's words and subtly pulled Astoria closer to her. She understood why, though. If you didn't know about Draco's true allegiances, it would definitely sound like he was being trained to become a Death Eater.
"C'mon, mate, don't be like that," Blaise said, leaning back. "Everyone needs help. You of all people should know that, with your family's connections."
"I have people helping me. Professional, skilled people," Draco replied loftily. "I don't really need schoolboys to help me succeed."
Blaise opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the door to their compartment slammed open.
Standing in the doorway was Gregory Goyle, his face a mask of fury—and several nasty-looking bruises to match.
Pansy had heard Goyle was the one who had snitched on Draco. And the Dark Lord, seeing nothing but loyalty in Draco, had not punished Goyle. Instead, he'd punished Goyle's father, Goyle Senior, for listening to his son's gossip and embarrassing a prospective member of the Inner Circle.
And of course, Goyle had paid for it. He had paid for it heavily.
"Draco," Goyle spat, venom lacing every word. "Welcome back."
Draco merely smiled at him. "Hey, Greg. It's good to be back. Hey, did you know you've got a little something under your eye… and on your eye… and above your eye? Oh, and there's some on your chin—oh, and that's a nasty one on your cheek."
"You could've told us," Goyle gritted out, his fists tightening. "You could've warned us that you were doing something for the Dark Lord. If I had known—"
"You seem to be under the delusion that I owe you something," Draco interrupted smoothly. "You're very wrong. Everyone else isolated me, yes, that's true, but they kept their mouths shut. Why couldn't you? I didn't force you to try and get me into trouble. And you know me. I never do anything without thinking it through a thousand times beforehand. Did you really think I was hanging around with Potter and his band of misfits for the hell of it?
"You see, there's the difference between you and me: I'm always thinking, always learning, and always searching for glory. You just want good things to happen to you. You don't search for them. You don't yearn for them. I do, and I do everything in my power to get what I want. And as long as you keep waiting for handouts, you'll always be second best in the world."
Draco's voice dropped to a cold, final tone. "Now get out. Your face is making me sick."
Goyle's face turned a concerning shade of red, and for a moment, it seemed like he was going to take a swing at Draco regardless. But then Theo pulled out his wand. Blaise followed suit, his wand ready in his hand.
Crabbe simply got up, his face blank as he stared at his cousin.
"Go away, meanie," he said quietly.
Goyle, still seething, stepped back.
"Oh, and Greg?" Draco added, his voice dripping with disdain. "If you ever touch Crabbe again, I won't warn you. I'll just send a letter to your dad and have him sort you out. Got it?"
With a pained expression on his face, as if he was choking down glass, Goyle nodded, and slammed the door shut with enough force to shatter the glass in the window.
Theo rolled his eyes. With a muttered "Reparo," he fixed the glass and turned to the others, a forced but easy smile on his face.
"Well, I don't know about you lot, but I'm hungry. Who wants food off the trolley? Snacks are on me!"
Dinner that night was delicious, but what truly made it memorable were the looks cast in Draco's direction—anxious glances aimed at Draco, and resentful, jealous stares pointed at her. She understood why: Draco had practically ruled Slytherin since their first year, and now he enjoyed the favor of the Dark Lord—a figure revered by nearly all their parents. All Draco had to do was send a letter complaining that someone was disturbing him or making life difficult, and the offenders would be sharply reprimanded by multiple factions in the Death Eater circle.
Draco acted as if he were oblivious to the glances, but she could see the small, self-satisfied smirks playing on his lips every time he caught someone watching him.
Everything came to a head when they entered the Common Room. After dinner, the two had taken a leisurely walk around the fourth floor, engaging in light conversation before returning to the dungeons. (Apparently, Draco had been brainstorming ideas for three more magical inventions—items he was certain would earn a tidy profit even if sold cheaply. He envisioned products that didn't require a wand to operate, making them ideal for students during holidays or for those less skilled in magic.)
When they finally stepped into the Common Room, a smile tugged at her lips. Everyone—from first years to seventh years—was gathered there, and every single person stood as soon as she and Draco entered.
Terrence Higgs, the Seeker Draco had replaced in their second year, now a seventh year, began to speak.
"Malfoy, we just wanted to say—"
"Shh," Draco interrupted, raising a finger to his lips and slowly shaking his head. Terrence's face paled, and he took a step back as Draco moved forward.
"I don't want to hear any apologies," Draco declared sharply, his voice carrying through the silent room. "Because we all know that apologies mean nothing—especially coming from this House. I'm going to be gracious and let bygones be bygones regarding how you treated me these past few months. I was undercover, and I still am. And as you all know, the work I am doing has garnered the attention of someone very important. I could easily make a fuss about this…"
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, and Draco seemed to relish the reaction, his smirk growing even wider.
"But I won't. After all, we're family, and family takes care of its own. And Hogwarts matters shouldn't affect real-world affairs."
A silent, collective sigh of relief swept through the room.
"However," he continued, his tone turning firm, "no one should ever question me or my loyalty to Slytherin House from this moment forward. Is that clear?"
She couldn't help but stifle a laugh at the roomful of nodding heads—they all looked so absurd in their eagerness.
"Now, here's some news: Very soon, Umbridge is going to select a handful of students from this House to form a group called the Inquisitorial Squad. These students will have the power to dock points from others—even from prefects—and will be permitted to read the posts of their fellow students to make sure that they align with the Ministry's interests."
Her eyes watched as many heads widened, and she could practically taste the greed in the air. She knew so many of them craved power over the other houses, and now they had a golden opportunity.
"Naturally, I will be chosen for this group, and I will recommend certain members of our House to join me. But if I include you in my recommendation, there will be a caveat; you report to me first—not to Umbridge. You follow my lead; you do as I do. I won't divulge who I have in mind, but rest assured, they will be people I trust."
A flush of satisfaction warmed her cheeks; she was already certain of her own guaranteed spot.
It was such a shame, though—because when Draco inevitably betrayed the Dark Lord and helped Potter kill him, she wouldn't ever have this kind of power again. Unlike the offspring of Death Eaters, kids like Granger and Weasley wouldn't let her push them around.
Oh well. For now, she could enjoy it while it lasted…