With the sheer number of Dark creatures that had filled Malfoy Manor the night before, the blood of that beast spilled on the ballroom floor, and the overwhelming aura of Dark Magic that had lingered long after the Dark Lord's departure, one would assume it would be nearly impossible to rid the place of the foul stench in time for the Ministry workers and the various families of notable bloodlines that would be attending the Annual Malfoy Yule Party. Yet, there was a remarkable power in the quiet, unseen hands of the house-elves that was often underestimated.
Lucius Malfoy had never been entirely sure about the purchase of Nifty and Shifty. His prior encounter with Dobby had left him with a wary respect for house-elves and their surprising abilities. Dobby, in his madness, had been a reminder that elves were not merely the servile creatures most wizards took them to be. No, they were creatures of power, ancient and potent in their own right—capable of feats that could rival a wizard's skill. While Lucius did not fear them, he had learned to handle them with care. When he had acquired Nifty and Shifty, he'd been firm with them, but he hadn't made the same mistake as with Dobby. He hadn't punished them, instead guiding them to remain invisible, to be quiet and efficient. He made them understand that their work needed to be flawless, but that they should stay out of sight and remain undetected. It was a delicate balance, but one that, as Lucius had suspected, yielded results better than he expected.
This morning, as Lucius had emerged from his bed, he could already tell that the house was different. The usual oppressive weight of Dark Magic was absent, and instead, there was the scent of cinnamon in the air. It was warm, welcoming, and nothing like the atmosphere of yesterday.
His Lord's presence was nowhere to be felt—no trace of the Dark Lord's shadow lingered in the corners. The change was palpable. It was not just because the Dark Lord had gone to the Crabbe residence for the night, though that was certainly part of it. As amusing as it might have been to have the Dark Lord remain near, so close to the Ministry that had so fervently denied his return, there was a very real possibility that Dumbledore would make an appearance at the Yule Party. And that man, Lucius was certain, would expose the Dark Lord for all to see, even if it meant violence. No, it was better for the Dark Lord to remain absent for the evening.
However, that did not mean that he was free of the Dark Lord's attention. Right now, in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, there were a few creatures from the previous night, supposedly there to stay as representatives of their species. Hmph. He knew damn well what they were there for: to watch him.
To see if he would do anything to betray the Dark Lord.
A vampire, a werewolf, a goblin, and a Squib who worked as an assistant to a dubious apothecary in Knockturn Alley, were all currently in his house, eating his food, sleeping under his roof: it disgusted him.
Thankfully, the wards around the dungeon prevented any of their magic from leaking through. Those same wards also absorbed ambient Dark Magic and channeled it into the house itself, giving it a bit more personality, and a bit more power, as well as removing any actual magical evidence of Dark items within the manor.
But there was another reason for the sudden absence of the Dark Lord's aura, one far more unnerving, and one Lucius hadn't fully considered until now.
It was the house-elves.
They had done something so powerful that it was hard to comprehend.
They had Vanished the Dark Magic, for lack of a better term. The aura, the presence that had hung heavy in the air, was simply gone, replaced with a fresh, lighter atmosphere. How had they done it? How could such tiny creatures—creatures who had been trained to serve—hold such power?
A deep, unsettling thought settled in his mind as Lucius considered the true nature of house-elves.
Their history, though not officially written down, was well known in pureblood circles. They were once known as "brownies," and in ages past, they had demanded a fee for their services, offering their talents to both Muggles and wizards alike. But when the Statute of Secrecy had been passed, they had refused to comply, and in retaliation, the Ministry had cast a terrible curse on them.
If the brownies did not obey the will of the Ministry, they and all their descendants would be cursed to serve wizardkind for ten thousand years. The brownies had not believed the Ministry could carry out such a curse, so they bred in defiance, and thus, the house elves came into being. Of course, it was helped along by the fact that the brownies were too useful to the Wizarding World as a whole, and their slavish devotion made them the perfect servants.
Pondering the elves' ancient history reminded him of the power that they could wield, and the respect they could have commanded if they had just bent the knee. They were bound to their masters, but they also had a deep connection to the magic that permeated the world, a magic that even the most powerful wizards often failed to fully understand. In some ways, the elves were more attuned to that magic than anyone else, more in tune with the land and the essence of things than the most accomplished witches and wizards. And if they had just listened, they could have ruled it all.
Some people didn't understand: that when it came to true power, you just had to bend the knee. No matter how proud you were, what your powers were, how strong you were. If an overpowering force came for you, you could only bend your head in subservience.
But why was he thinking about these things this morning? Why was he dwelling on such strange matters?
It was because when he had woken up that morning, his bed had felt… empty. Narcissa's side, the place where she should have been, was cold. A deep ache settled in his chest, and despite everything—despite the tensions, the fear, and the ever-present threat of the Dark Lord—he found himself mourning the distance between him and his wife.
Of course, she was upset with him. After what had happened the night before, he couldn't blame her. He was angry with himself, too. He had let that mangy beast, Greyback, almost assault Narcissa right in front of everyone. If only he had moved faster. If only he hadn't hesitated before Crabbe and Goyle had grabbed him, maybe he could have stopped it before it went too far.
But what had stopped him in the first place?
Fear. A fear that the Dark Lord had orchestrated the whole scene, that he wanted to humiliate him further, to make a mockery of him and his family. That what Greyback was doing was supposed to happen, and that he would risk punishment if he interfered.
Lucius's mind spiraled for a moment, and the feeling of helplessness gripped him. But then, something shifted.
His thoughts turned to Draco.
Draco.
Strong, wonderful Draco, who hadn't feared the Dark Lord's retribution. Draco, who'd shown time and time again that he had the courage Lucius did not.
A quiet smile graced his lips despite the turmoil he felt. That boy, his son, had changed. Grown. And the lesson Lucuius had drilled into his head, of family and strength and loyalty, had all come to fruition last night. Draco had become someone powerful—someone capable of protecting not just himself, but the ones he loved.
His son had not hesitated. He had been there for Narcissa when Lucius had failed. And when he had seen that she was in danger, Draco had acted—had protected her without a second thought. He had stood up to Greyback, to a beast that most wizards would have been terrified of. And the Dark Lord's presence hadn't stopped him.
Draco had become the man Lucius had always known he would be, even in the face of unimaginable pressure.
Lucius leaned back in his chair, his thoughts resting on his son. Perhaps, despite all the Darkness around them, there was hope.
Perhaps it was Draco who would lead the way out of this nightmare.
It was improper for a father to rely on his son, but Draco was his Heir, the only one to inherit his name and his fortune. He could get them back into the Dark Lord's good graces, and help their family rise back to their opulent status. The Dark Lord clearly favored Draco: he had not touched him for hurting Greyback, a tool that he favored over even some members of the Inner Circle.
Yes, Draco would be their salvation.
He would be the one to lead them back to the top.
One would think every Squib would be on Albus Dumbledore's side. After all, weren't they just another broken piece beneath his grand, gleaming umbrella of protection? Mudbloods, blood traitors, half-bloods—every outsider and outcast who didn't fit neatly into the pureblood ideal. And Dumbledore welcomed them all, didn't he? Even beasts, so long as they could talk and hold a wand.
He was generous like that.
She spat on the cold stone floor of the Malfoy dungeons, the sharp pat of it cutting through the dim silence. The vampire wrinkled her nose in disgust, and the goblin beside her sneered, his long fingers twitching as though he considered drawing his blade. The werewolf barely glanced her way before returning to the wall, his shoulders tense. The full moon was only a week away.
Let them stare. What did she care for the opinion of monsters?
Dumbledore's "charity" was a farce—one that any Squib with a shred of self-respect could see for what it was.
She had heard the stories about Argus Filch, the bitter old caretaker who haunted the halls of Hogwarts like a ghost that refused to die. The wizarding brats mocked him openly, hexing his ankles, vanishing his cleaning supplies, and laughing as he scurried after them like a dog too old to bite. The ghosts ignored him. The portraits—useless things—turned their painted backs when he passed. And all the while, Filch toiled. Scrubbing floors, wiping blood off the walls after some half-baked curse went wrong, and chasing after children who could do with a proper beating.
And why? Because Dumbledore had tossed Filch a few Galleons and called it kindness? Because it was better to be the castle's pet Squib—scraping and bowing to a world that laughed behind his back—than to rot in the Muggle world?
Pathetic.
Bitterness coiled in her stomach, dark and sharp. She would rather die than bend her neck like that—rather starve in the gutter than spend her life fetching after wizards like some spineless house elf.
No Squib with pride would accept such a fate. Not when there were other ways—better ways—to carve out power in a world that spat on their existence. Ways Dumbledore would never offer, not to someone like her.
Let him play the benevolent savior all he liked. She knew the truth. His mercy was just another kind of leash—tight enough to remind you of your place, but loose enough to make you think you were free.
But the Dark Lord?
He didn't care about blood purity. Anyone with a brain could see that. How many purebloods had he killed in the last war—how many of his own followers had he broken for their failures? Too many to count. If blood meant anything to him, then why let Greyback—the filthy half-blood beast—run free and spread his curse? Why place Bellatrix Lestrange, mad as she was, at his right hand? Not because of the blood in her veins—no, it was her loyalty that made her precious.
That was what he valued. Not blood. Not lineage. Loyalty.
The Dark Lord didn't flinch at the idea of sharing his power with those the rest of the magical world found distasteful. Hags, Dementors, giants, vampires—creatures most wizards wouldn't share a room with—he had welcomed them all beneath his banner. If you were useful, you had a place. It was as simple as that.
And if she could prove herself—if she could show him what she was capable of—there would be no dungeon work, no scraps of pity dressed up as kindness. Perhaps she wouldn't sit at his right hand, but she would be given a place of importance. A place where no wizard, no matter how powerful, would dare look down on her again. She might be a Squib, but she had been from a good, pureblood family, and she had gotten a job in the Wizarding World without her family's help because she had fought and struggled to stay there, instead of hiding in the Muggle World like most Squibs did.
Dumbledore wanted to cage people like her in gilded pens, but the Dark Lord?
He offered something better. Something real.
A chance to be more.
However, her thoughts scattered when the heavy dungeon door groaned open on rusted hinges.
She expected Lucius Malfoy, cold and immaculate, with a sneer on his face as he informed them the Yule Ball had concluded. Or perhaps Wormtail—sniveling, trembling—delivering the summons to face the Dark Lord himself. Maybe even those two wretched house-elves would come scurrying in to collect them like stray dogs.
But the last thing she expected to see was Draco Malfoy.
The Dark Lord's current favorite—his newest experiment—stood in the doorway, smiling as if he hadn't just stepped into a room full of outcasts and killers. His pale blond hair gleamed in the torchlight, and despite the dungeon's chill, he was perfectly composed, his black dress robes still crisp from the ball.
"Monsieur Malfoy?" the vampire drawled, her accent thick and musical. Her crimson eyes narrowed with curiosity. "Is the party over?"
"No," Draco admitted, stepping inside with the easy grace of someone who belonged everywhere. "It's still in full swing. But I figured you lot would be hungry, so I brought you all something to eat."
The stunned silence stretched as he strolled into the dungeon without the slightest trace of fear. Four silver trays floated behind him, hovering in midair with effortless precision. With a flick of his wand, he sent them gliding toward each prisoner, the delicate clink of dishware breaking the hush.
Her tray landed softly in front of her, and the rich aroma hit her immediately—pasta slick with tomato sauce, glistening with melted cheese and tender chunks of beef. A thick slice of garlic bread sat beside it, golden and glistening, along with a tall glass of chilled wine and—Merlin—a small chocolate cake, its frosting gleaming under the flickering torchlight.
Her stomach twisted painfully at the smell. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until now. When was the last time she'd eaten something warm? Something made for her, not just scraps tossed her way like she was some beggar?
She managed, just barely, to keep the tremor from her hands as she grasped the fork.
Glancing sideways, she took stock of the others. The vampire's tray held a deep black bowl filled with a steaming, dark red liquid. Her delicate fingers trembled as she lifted the bowl to her lips, the tension in her shoulders melting as the first sip passed her fangs.
"Warm blood?" she asked, her voice breathy with surprise. "Is it fresh?"
Draco shook his head, as calm and casual as if they were discussing the weather. "Nifty and Shifty stole it from a Muggle blood bank and warmed it up for you."
The vampire froze mid-sip, her eyes widening in disbelief. "A… blood bank?" Her voice dripped with wonder. "You mean… a building full of blood?"
He nodded, looking amused at her reaction. "It's a Muggle invention. They store blood for emergencies—when someone's injured and needs a transfusion, donated blood that is given to someone who needs it. Different people have different blood types, so the blood is categorized and kept in a sterile environment until it's needed."
The vampire licked her lips, a line of red trailing down her chin. "Amazing," she whispered, clutching the bowl tighter. "I… it has been years since I had warm blood. The covens and Honeydukes sell blood-infused candies and foods, but fresh hunting? Forbidden since the Statute went up. To know that the muggles just have buildings full of it, already drained and sealed…"
A visible shudder ran through her as she took a deeper gulp, a drop of red streaking her porcelain skin as it fell from the corner of her lip down to her chin. "And it's spiced with mead," she added breathlessly, fangs covered in blood as a giddy smile curled her lips.
She felt her skin crawl watching the vampire shed her carefully crafted mask of humanity. Before now, it had been easy to ignore the predator beneath the pretty face. But now, as the vampire drank openly, with glee in her red eyes, it was impossible to forget that the only thing that could probably stop this creature from killing everyone in this room was the one who had handed her the bowl of blood in the first place.
Yet Draco Malfoy remained unfazed. If anything, he looked pleased—fond, even—like he was watching a younger sibling enjoy a treat instead of a bloodthirsty monster peeling back its human disguise.
"I'm glad you like it," he said lightly. "I had to dig through some very dusty tomes to find out what vampire high society dines on."
Without missing a beat, he turned to the goblin. "I trust everything is to your liking, Bragbrok?"
The goblin—Bragbrok—snorted, lifting a slice of bloodied pork from his tray. It was a curious mix on his tray: raw and well-cooked assortment of meats, nestled beside sliced roasted carrots and turnips, all artfully arranged in neat sections.
Draco continued, his voice almost apologetic. "I did my best," he said. "Binns is useless for anything other than recounting the ways goblins have killed wizards. No one really teaches us what you eat. The best I could find was that your kind prefers roots and meat."
Bragbor's black eyes gleamed with sharp amusement. "You did your homework, boy," he said gruffly, tearing into the meat with jagged teeth. "I must admit, I am surprised; most wizards would not even bother to remember our names, let alone try and find what we like."
"I am not most wizards," Draco replied smoothly. "You are under my roof; despite my father's feelings towards you, you are guests of Malfoy Manor. I would prefer for you to leave with a good opinion of this house and its owners."
Then he turned to the werewolf. "Edward, I hope that's enough for you."
Edward the werewolf stared in bewilderment at the platter before him, his confusion mirrored by her as she caught sight of his meal.
"...this is a whole roast chicken and a pitcher of water," he said in disbelief. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
"Eat it."
Draco's voice was warm but firm.
"I am well aware that the full moon is in a week. I had a werewolf for a teacher in my third year, and I noticed that he didn't eat much as we got closer to the end of the month. However, I also know that your transformation is a tiring process that drains you, and most werewolves don't have stable sources of food. I would like you to eat as much as possible to make your next transformation a little easier."
Edward's eyes darkened. "That won't make it better."
"But every little bit helps," Draco countered without missing a beat.
The werewolf stared at him for a long moment before finally tearing a massive chunk from the chicken with his hands and bringing it to his mouth.
Ugh. Was she the only one in this place with manners besides Malfoy?
And speaking of Malfoy, his eyes were now on her, studying her with quiet curiosity.
The intensity of his gaze made her heart pound.
"Eleanor," he said, her name falling from his lips like a carefully measured weight, shocking her to her core. "I hope everything is to your liking?"
"How do you know my name?" she blurted out before she could stop herself.
At this, Draco chuckled softly.
"I try to learn the names of all our lord's followers, no matter how big or small. But we've also met before."
Her eyes nearly bugged out of her skull. "We have?!"
How? Surely she would have remembered meeting Lucius Malfoy's son, no matter the time or place.
"In my second year," Draco explained patiently, "my father came to your teacher's apothecary to try and sell some poisons. However, many of the poisons we had were too pricey for your master, so we had to go to Borgin and Burkes instead. But I remember you: you were cataloging the potions on the shelves. You looked very tired that day."
Oh. That was where they had met.
The day Gilderoy Lockhart came to Diagon Alley. She remembered it vividly. She had wanted to see the famed author and adventurer, but her... teacher (for lack of a better word) had told her she could only go once she finished labeling everything in the shop. She had woken up at four in the morning to start but didn't finish until well after the sun went down. It didn't help that her master would vanish the labels off a few bottles every hour and force her to redo her work, just to amuse himself.
He loved his little games. It made him laugh and gave him entertaining stories to tell at the bar.
Prick.
But she had not expected Draco Malfoy—who would have been twelve at the time—to remember her three years later. And to remember her name.
Her head ducked down into her bowl, face aflame. "The food is good. Thank you. I haven't had this before."
"It's baked ziti," Draco informed her. "I used to love it as a child, but Hogwarts doesn't really like to diversify the palate of the students."
Then, addressing everyone in the room, he said, "I expect the party to be done in a couple of hours. It's already midnight. The Dark Lord will be back soon."
She expected him to leave after that—to deliver his message and disappear like any other Death Eater eager to stay in the Dark Lord's good graces. But instead, Draco Malfoy lowered himself onto the cold stone floor. His pristine black dining robes brushed against the dirt, and he didn't seem to care.
For a long moment, silence stretched across the chamber, broken only by the distant drip of water and the faint clink of goblets. Finally, the goblin spoke, his voice rough and guttural.
"What do you want from us?" Bragbrok demanded, tearing a chunk of bloody meat with sharp teeth. His inhuman eyes fixed on the young wizard with a hard, unyielding curiosity. "Wizards never give anything for free."
Draco met his gaze without flinching. "I wish to know you," he said simply.
The vampire let out a low, beautiful laugh—cold and brittle as frost. "Why?" she asked, her voice smooth and dangerous. "Are we not all beasts to you Englishmen?"
"No," Draco answered without hesitation. "I've always believed the greatest barrier to progress is division. I've seen it in both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds. Blood, skin, species—these labels hold us back from realizing our potential." His grey eyes swept across the gathered figures. "I do believe wizards should be at the top of the food chain. Nothing will change my mind on that. But I also believe we can achieve far more through cooperation than through conquest."
Bragbrok's laugh, compared to that of the vampire's was sharp and bitter, full of jagged edges. "Cooperation?" he spat. "Do you really think goblins would lie down and let wizards trample us? After centuries of your kind's theft and your Ministry's refusal to let us wield wands? You're as mad as your master if you believe otherwise. The only reason I'm here is because the Dark Lord promised me control of the Goblin Nation. Ragnuk's line has led us to become little more than glorified bankers when we could have conquered the world." His teeth gleamed as he bared them in a feral grin. "Once my warriors are united, our next target is wizardkind."
Draco tilted his head, considering the goblin's words. "Even if we offered collaboration?" he asked, curiosity lacing his voice. "You're right—no wizard will ever hand goblins wands. But imagine what we could build together. Goblin craftsmanship combined with wizarding enchantments. Think of the weapons we could create, the power we could unlock. Don't you want to see the wonders we might produce as equals?"
Bragbrok snorted, though there was something thoughtful behind his scorn. "What would be the point? Wizards steal everything we create. Why should I believe you would be any different?"
Draco leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest. "Because in the world I want, wizard and goblin would be rivals—not enemies. Two nations pushing each other to their limits, driving innovation through competition. Imagine a future where each masterpiece you forge forces us to improve our magic, and in turn, our spells push your smiths to greater heights. Not as slaves. Not as subordinates. As equals engaged in an endless dance of creation."
The goblin said nothing for a long moment, nursing his goblet of wine. Finally, he muttered, "Hmph. You're an idealistic fool. You won't survive this war. It's quite a shame. You would have been an interesting wizard, at least."
"A goblin, praising a human," the vampire tittered softly, her lips curling into an amused smile. "How deliciously ironic. What would your kin think?"
Draco shifted his attention to her, unfazed. "Well, we don't much care what people think, do we, Miss…?"
"Renee," the vampire supplied, her crimson eyes glittering in the low light. "My name is Renee."
"Miss Renee," he echoed politely. "As I was saying, the opinions of the masses don't concern us. That's why we're all here, aren't we? In my family's rather smelly dungeon. The Dark Lord wants to unite us for this war, but I see beyond it. I see a future where we can coexist."
"Coexist?" Renee drawled, resting her chin on her pale hand. "And where do my kind fit into your grand vision?"
"As historians. As scientists," Draco replied without missing a beat. "Your people have dealt in blood for centuries. It would only be fitting if you were the ones to unlock the secrets it holds. How many of you have lived through the greatest wars and atrocities our world's have known? You could guide us, teach us where we have failed."
Renee arched a delicate brow. "And you would trust us to tell you the truth? To guide you safely?"
"Yes."
The conviction in Draco's voice hung heavy in the air. He did not break eye contact as he continued, "You are more than the blood-drinking monsters the world believes you to be. And if we pooled our knowledge—all species, with all their unique talents and magic—how long would it take before we found a way for you to walk in sunlight again? To free you from the need to drink blood while preserving your longevity and strength? And what if we could share that gift with everyone?"
His gaze shifted toward the silent figure of Eleanor, lingering just a little longer. "In the world I want, everyone would possess magic. Whether it comes from wands, enchanted objects, or the altered blood in your veins—no one would be left powerless."
Renee studied him for a moment longer, her smile faint but knowing. "The goblin is right," she murmured, her voice a silk thread weaving through the cold dungeon air. "You won't survive this war."
She lifted her bowl in a mock salute, the crimson contents gleaming darkly in the dim light. "And that, Monsieur Malfoy, will be a terrible shame."
Rather than grow angry or discouraged, the blonde boy only smiled, a glimmer of confidence flashing in his pale grey eyes. There was no fear, no hesitation—only a quiet, simmering determination.
"It's okay to underestimate me," he said softly. "Many people have. But I bet a year from now, you'll see me in a position of power—one that I can use to help others. And by then, maybe you'll realize that I've been telling the truth."
A low chuckle rumbled from the far side of the room.
"And where do us werewolves fit in with your glorious vision?"
Edward's voice was rough, but it held an edge of curiosity beneath the skepticism. He leaned back against the stone wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His plate, once piled high with roast chicken, was now bare, the bones stripped clean and glistening. While the others had been talking, he'd devoured his meal with a quiet, primal efficiency.
Now, with the hunger sated, his yellow eyes glinted in the shadows, fixed on Draco. "What resources do we have to offer wizards in this new world of yours? Guard dogs? Bodyguards? Soldiers? What purpose would we serve, beyond being your obedient beasts?"
Draco tilted his head slightly as if considering his words carefully before he spoke. And when he did, his voice was unflinching.
"You are sick," he said bluntly. "I have known this ever since I learned how a bite—how the infection in your blood—can spread your condition to others. Maybe it began as a curse, but whatever it is now, lycanthropy is a disease. And like any disease, it can be studied. Understood. Cured."
A growl rippled from Edward's throat, low and dangerous, but Draco didn't flinch. He pressed on, his tone calm and deliberate.
"The Wolfsbane potion is already a start—a way to control the transformation. But it's rare, expensive, and imperfect. In the world I want to build, that would change. We would start with the basics: make Wolfsbane affordable, and accessible to anyone who needs it. Then, we'd study why you transform. How to stop it. How to make it a choice, rather than a curse."
Edward's eyes narrowed. "And why would you care about making life easier for people like me?"
"Because I see potential," Draco answered without hesitation. "Imagine if we could harness the magic in your blood. If we could control the transformation, refine it. What if anyone—wizard or not—could take on the form of an animal at will? Not the chaos of a werewolf's shift, but the precision of an Animagus. That power could be revolutionary. It could save lives, and it could push us to advance. And I think the answer lies within you and your kind."
Silence stretched between them for a heartbeat.
Edward's lips curled into a humorless smile. "You speak as though your kind has ever done anything for us without a leash attached. Why should I believe you care about our suffering?"
Draco's voice softened, but the steel beneath it remained. "Because I know what it means to be trapped by expectations. To be seen as nothing more than your bloodline, your name, or your curse. You think I speak these words to flatter you? I don't. I'm here because I want to change things. Not just for wizards. For everyone."
The werewolf watched him closely, his golden gaze searching Draco's face for any sign of deception. For a moment, there was nothing but the faint dripping of water in the distance, the cold, oppressive weight of the dungeon pressing down on them.
Finally, Edward let out a low, thoughtful hum. "I don't think I've ever met someone like you before, Mr. Malfoy." His smile twisted into something halfway between amusement and caution. "The others are right—you are interesting. But idealism gets people killed. And you? You're just a boy, no matter how clever you think you are."
Draco's smile didn't falter. "Maybe. But boys grow up, Mr. Edward. And when I do, you'll see that my words weren't just empty promises." His gaze swept across the room, steady and unwavering. "I don't want to rule you. I want to build a world where none of us have to hide in the dark. A world where we aren't divided by blood, by species, by fear. And if that makes me idealistic, so be it."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Edward laughed softly, shaking his head as he leaned back against the wall once more. "Madness," he muttered. "But perhaps—just perhaps—the kind of madness this world needs."
"...You don't talk like a follower of the Dark Lord," Eleanor said in a small voice. "You talk about giving magic to everyone, in some shape or form. That's not what he wants."
Draco gave her a considering look. "No, it isn't," he finally said after a long moment. "I follow the Dark Lord because the British Wizarding World needs a shock to its system. We've been too stagnant for too long. We used to lead the world by example; we were the first to transition from staffs to wands. We created the Statute of Secrecy first. We were the first civilization to enact laws penalizing those who harmed Muggles. Britain used to be a world leader, but now we're being left behind, like a relic covered in dust."
"...And if you didn't have to?" Renee asked. "If you found a way to get the influence you want without having to tie yourself to him?"
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Are you offering?"
Renee drew herself up proudly. "My coven, Les Enfants de l'Ombre, or Children of the Shadow in English, is one of the largest vampire covens in France. If you ever ran into trouble here in Britain and needed to escape, I would be happy to vouch for you and turn you."
A sharp smile preceded her next sentence. "I think you would make a lovely vampire."
Draco just laughed at this. "Thank you for the offer, but I like the sun a bit too much. But, if you don't mind me asking, why would your coven tie itself to the Dark Lord if you're the largest in France?"
"One of the largest," Renee corrected. "We have three other major competitors. Your Dark Lord promised to help us eradicate them and allow us to establish a branch here in Britain if we supported him."
Draco considered all of them as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "So, Eleanor is a representative for Squibs who want a better life, you want to give your coven more power in France and a foothold in Britain, Bragbrok wants to overthrow the Goblin Nation and run it how he wants, and I'm guessing Edward is here to represent werewolves who aren't allied with Greyback or Dumbledore."
"There are no werewolves that support Dumbledore," Edward interjected. "That man only extended the chance to one of us to attend Hogwarts, and Remus Lupin squandered it utterly. He has done nothing for us. I represent the werewolves who just want to be treated as human beings. That's all."
"And if another faction offered these chances to you? Would you take it?"
Bragbrok let out a snort of derision. "Sure, if this new faction was strong enough to stand up to Albus Dumbledore and your Dark Lord before this war was in full swing. But we know the chances of such a thing happening are zero."
"...Yes... I suppose they are," Draco said, finally letting the conversation fade away. A few minutes later, he got up, thanked them for the conversation, and told them that when they all finished eating, the house-elves would come for the plates.
But Eleanor didn't think she'd ever forget the look of furious determination that appeared on his face just before he left.