The Black Madness
Draco had always prided himself on his control. The way he held himself, the way he spoke—sharp, proper, untouchable. He was his father’s son, after all. A Malfoy.
But the Black blood in his veins had always whispered.
And when Voldemort declared Harry Potter dead—his voice triumphant, the body displayed for all to see—something inside Draco snapped.
It wasn’t grief. It wasn’t rage.
It was something deeper. Something older. Something that ran through the bones of the Black family, something that had driven Bellatrix to laughter on the battlefield, that had turned Sirius into a grinning whirlwind in a fight.
A slow, sharp smile curled at Draco’s lips.
The Death Eaters around him shifted uneasily. The Malfoy heir had always been cautious, hesitant—but now his grey eyes were alight with something terrifying.
Draco stepped forward, as if drawn by some invisible force. “He’s dead?” he asked, voice eerily calm.
Voldemort barely spared him a glance. “Yes.”
Draco exhaled, closing his eyes. Then he laughed.
It was not a Malfoy laugh. It was a Black laugh, wild and sharp, unfurling like a storm.
And then, before anyone could stop him, he moved.
A wand flick—lightning-quick—his mother’s lessons in dueling finally finding their purpose. A curse hurled, the first of many. A battlefield turned into his stage.
Draco Malfoy had spent his life in chains. But now, with fire in his veins and a war to finish, he was finally, finally free.