Chapter Text
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire
On the frost-bitten outskirts of Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor rose from its wintry grounds like a secret kept by the land itself. Its silhouette was blurred by ancient yews and drifting mist. The air was damp and heavy, filled with a chill that seemed to sink beneath the skin and take root in the bones, as if the manor itself rejected comfort.
Inside, the torchlight did not burn so much as suffer, fitful flames clawing at the dark, throwing shadows onto walls. Malfoy Manor was not merely a house, but a memory made of stone, a place that remembered everything: joys, griefs, vows, and most importantly, betrayals. Its walls did not simply shelter, they judged, watching each newcomer with the suspicion of a living thing. Solace was a privilege, offered only to those it deemed its own. For others, the very air pressed in. It was a constant reminder of how unwelcome their presence truly was.
Draco Malfoy stood near the center of the chamber like a statue carved from the night itself. Torchlight flickered across his sharp, pale features, tracing the familiar angles of his ancestors. A high brow, the sharp cut of his jaw, and eyes like icy silver, cold and luminous in the wavering light. His gaze caught the firelight and threw it back in shards, reflecting no warmth, only a silent menace.
At that very moment, he stood as everything the Malfoy name insisted upon, defined by duty, and shaped over years into something inevitable. The lines of responsibility etched into his posture, the cold, nearly empty look in his eyes, all seemed to echo the silent demands of the manor itself. It was as if the house had fashioned him from its own stone and tradition. Here, he was not merely fulfilling a role, he was the role.
Before him, Dean Thomas sat bound and bruised. Whatever Gryffindor courage he’d once carried had dissolved under Draco’s unflinching gaze. So much for courage.
Draco studied him, his expression unreadable. He noted each flicker of defiance, every twitch of Dean’s jaw, the way his gaze began to skitter away. His resolve was already giving way to fear.
The Order called it bravery to keep their minds unguarded, as though conviction alone could defend against magic. He called it negligence. Open minds summoned consequences.
Draco’s gaze fell upon the small packet of pills resting in his palm, a dark trophy salvaged from the battlefield, slipped from Dean’s trembling fingers in the desperate last moments of the fight. The infamous suicide pills, a last resort for those sent on hopeless missions, were meant as a mercy: a way to avoid the shame of capture or the danger of betrayal.
This was the Order’s latest tactic. Not a strategy, but a measure born of desperation. It was a silent confession that they no longer trusted their magic to protect what mattered most.
Draco caught the faint scent of Muggle medicine clinging to them, a clear sign of how low the resistance had sunk.
He rolled one pill between his fingers, watching it catch the flicker of torchlight. “Such careful precautions,” he murmured, his tone edged with contempt. “Is this the Order’s way of admitting they expect to fail?”
He let the words linger, pressing his lips into a thin line, disbelief flickering across his face. “Strange, isn’t it?” he continued, voice dropping almost to a sneer. “They placed more faith in a capsule than in the very essence that defines them.”
To Draco, this was more than desperation, it was a surrender. Turning to Muggle medicine felt insulting, as if they’d chosen to abandon their birthright in favor of something lesser.
He crushed the pill slowly beneath his thumb, the faintest crackle echoing in the thick silence. Dean’s glare sparked in response, but the tremor in his body told another story.
Draco wasted no time. He reached out, not with wandwork, but with a power far darker and more intimate. He slipped into the depths of Dean’s mind like ink bleeding through parchment. His presence did not ask permission, it carved its own path.
Dean’s breath hitched, a shudder rippling through him as if his body recognized the intrusion before his mind could resist.
Memories splintered beneath Draco’s touch like fragile glass: flashes of terror, flickers of doubt, half-buried hopes and shames. He moved with elegant precision, fracturing the mind beneath him as easily as ice shatters under pressure.
In the shadowed corner of the chamber, the Dark Lord watched in silence, crimson eyes gleaming with a rare blend of curiosity and approval. He savored the display of power before him, the kind usually kept behind closed doors, now fully unleashed in his presence. There was an elegance in the way Draco worked, and he observed not only as a master but as a collector, admiring a living masterpiece.
There was a time he had seen nothing in Draco but the shadow of Lucius. When the Astronomy Tower mission crumbled, so did his worth. Yet power often slumbers in silence, and as the years of blood and fire passed, Draco’s true nature began to awaken.
His brilliance had emerged suddenly, violently, like lightning splitting a starless sky. The Dark Lord, ever vigilant, recognized it before too long: a talent not merely learned, but born. Draco’s power pressed against the very edges of magic, growing into something almost forbidden.
Under his command, Draco became more than an heir. He became a force of shadow, moving with a gravity that bent the air. Even the fiercest Death Eaters learned to fear what he had become. And the Dark Lord felt it then—a wonder he hadn’t tasted in years, and the quiet thrill of binding such power to his will.
And yet, the Dark Lord felt no true threat in Draco. His loyalty was ironclad, forged not by fear alone, but by possession. Every thread of the young man’s life—his home, his family, his future, his very existence—was held tightly in his grasp. That leash was unbreakable. Draco was his, and as the Dark Lord watched him work, he savored the rare power he had claimed for himself.
“You should have protected your thoughts more carefully,” Draco whispered, the sound almost gentle. “The Order’s precious secrets are only as strong as the weakest mind they hide behind.”
Dean’s memories spilled forward. Secret meetings cloaked in darkness, hushed strategies whispered in half-lit rooms, murmurs of resistance dressed as hope. Yet Draco did not merely observe, he crafted. Memory became clay in his hands, shaped and twisted into something entirely his own.
“And a mind left unshielded is a lantern in the dark, inviting the shadows to feast.” Draco’s expression settled into something cool as he pressed forward.
Dean flinched, eyes darting in silent desperation, searching for an exit he knew did not exist. His hope was lingering long after reason had died.
Draco moved with care, slipping the memories effortlessly back into Dean’s mind, yet none of them were honest this time. They bent beneath his command, returning not as truths but as modified fragments. Allies became enemies, victories rotted into ruin, and every thread of purpose Dean had clung to unraveled into dust.
Dean’s breath hitched in a strangled gasp, eyes wide as terror blossomed behind fluttering lids. His body trembled violently, trapped in a waking nightmare of memories twisted so expertly that he could no longer distinguish fabrication from fact.
It was the moment of quiet collapse, when the host stood most defenseless and the mind began to splinter. Draco knew the exact instant a mind would shatter. And when that breaking point came, it was rarely the obvious truths that rose, but the buried ones. Small, seemingly insignificant fragments surfacing unbidden, exposing secrets even their owner had long forgotten.
This deep in, Draco no longer chose what surfaced. His magic moved on instinct, pulling loose the threads that mattered most. At times, it was without even his own understanding. But it always found the right ones.
And there it was.
Like a serpent uncoiling from the depths, one word emerged from the wreckage, sharp and poisonous.
Horcruxes.
The word floated at the edge of consciousness. Dean himself carried no understanding of it. He had no meaning tied to the syllables. Only the faintest echo of having heard it whispered in a hurried voice, somewhere just out of sight.
Draco pressed deeper, letting his magic sharpen the details and pull forward what mattered. Again, the word surfaced, persistent.
Potter’s voice.
Then—flashes—a pair of golden-brown eyes, wide, alert, already on guard. Dean stood on the periphery, unnoticed as Potter leaned in, voice lowered in urgency. Then, the air tensed, the conversation died without explanation. It was the kind of hush people used to guard what they couldn’t afford to lose.
Even stripped of meaning, the word held gravity. Draco felt its weight settle in his mind, a warning, a key to something vast and dangerous. He did not yet understand it, but instinct told him this was no ordinary secret; Horcruxes could be either the source of the Dark Lord’s strength or the key to his downfall. Now, the silence that guarded it was his to break.
Was it a location hidden by enchantment, or some forbidden branch of magic? Was it a ritual whispered through family lines, or the name of a weapon so secret even the Dark Lord’s most loyal feared it?
He weighed every possibility, letting the implications ripple through his mind. If this secret was so fiercely protected, then its power must be enormous.
For all his precision, the truth was still out of reach. It was a puzzle with its most vital pieces missing.
He recognized the temptation to act on instinct, to dig recklessly for answers, but he held it in. Secrecy was his weapon, and patience would be his shield.
Draco stood still for a breath longer, then raised his wand. A calm flick. A flash of green. The fire died, and Dean’s body slumped forward. He was no more than the remains of a shattered mind.
He turned away without a backward glance. There was no satisfaction in the act. It was simply what the war demanded, and what his side expected of him. Here, mercy had no place, only the clarity that survival depended on doing what was necessary for his own. Draco did not flinch from it.
The interrogation was over, but its echo lingered, leaving him colder than before. He had pulled something dangerous from the depths. A word without context, but not without consequence. It stayed with him, winding through his thoughts.
The Dark Lord watched from the shadows, his narrow gaze fixed and unblinking. A part of him had expected Draco to savor the act, to draw out the kill with cruelty, to stage suffering for spectacle. But there was no lingering, Draco was never one for waste.
He did not prolong agony, nor did he seek validation in another’s pain. There was no satisfaction in dragging out what had already been decided. One might have mistaken it for mercy; it was simply swift and final. For Draco, the mind was the only battlefield that mattered. Once it shattered, the war was over.
The silence cracked under the Dark Lord’s serpentine voice, his presence swelling like a storm gathering power, crimson eyes alight with a ruthless, hungry satisfaction.
“You have done well, Draco,” the Dark Lord said, his tone laced with a rare note of pleasure, as if he were admiring a masterpiece finally completed. “It is always a delight to witness your craft.”
Draco’s silver eyes flickered, devoid of pride. What stirred beneath was not triumph, but a subtle, carefully ignored emptiness, a hollowness that sunk deeper in the wake of every victory.
In the far corner, Lucius Malfoy stood silent and still, as though wishing the shadows might consume him altogether. Once, his presence had commanded respect, a man of influence, his word and wealth shaping the tides of wizarding society. Now he was little more than a ghost, faded in the gloom, eclipsed by the Dark Lord’s favor for his son.
The only thing that set him apart now was blood. The simple fact of having fathered Draco, of passing down those distinctive silver-blond locks like a cold inheritance.
As the Dark Lord’s praise rang through the chamber, Lucius’s demeanor shifted, a stark and almost painful contrast to Draco’s quiet reserve. With slow, deliberate grace, he lowered himself into a deep, deferential bow, his long blond hair sweeping forward as he bent nearly to the ground. He was a loyal servant eager for approval. He remained silent, but the gesture itself was an offering, a wordless plea to be seen.
The Dark Lord’s gaze flickered briefly toward Lucius, and a cool assessment passed over him like he was a mere insect. It was not a true acknowledgment, merely a fleeting curiosity about the stir in the room caused by Lucius’ submissive display. Then, his attention snapped back to Draco.
“And what of the boy?” the Dark Lord demanded, his voice slick with curiosity. “What secrets has he revealed?”
Draco met the Dark Lord’s eyes without flinching. How many times had he stared into those crimson depths? Enough that the sight, once sickening, now stirred nothing in him at all. A hollow familiarity born of repetition, as if even fear had grown numb. He understood the rules of this dance better than most, and understood too the dangers of revealing even a hint of uncertainty.
In the back of his mind, the word Horcruxes thrummed like a secret heartbeat. It was the first time in years Draco had found himself faced with something he couldn’t immediately solve, something the Dark Lord might not yet suspect the Order had touched. Instinct urged caution. Until he could unravel its meaning, the word was best left unspoken. It was too volatile to trust, too powerful to surrender.
After all, knowledge was power.
And Draco had been a Malfoy long before he was a Death Eater.
His lips curled into a faint sneer, his voice measured and cold. “Nothing of value, My Lord.”
The Dark Lord studied him for a long, heavy moment, a flicker of dissatisfaction passing through his crimson eyes, measuring. The silence stretched. For an instant, it seemed the Dark Lord might demand more, but just as suddenly, the flicker in his gaze faded, and he gave a single, sharp nod. A quiet, final gesture of judgment.
“Then let him be forgotten,” the Dark Lord said, his voice silk-thin and careless, as if tossing aside a scrap of parchment. “Memory spares no room for the weak.”
Draco inclined his head in a slight bow, a mechanical gesture of compliance.
Without a sound, the Dark Lord vanished, dissolving into a swirl of black smoke. Nagini followed, her sleek form gliding beside him. Around them, the Death Eaters melted into the shadows. Their faceless and silent presence swallowed by the darkness the Dark Lord left in his wake.
When all else had faded, the word remained.
Its meaning escaped him now. But it wouldn’t for long.
Draco never chased without catching.