prologue
WHO WILL DRY YOUR EYES
WHEN IT FALLS APART?
1998, the aftermath
HARRY POTTER
GRIEF HAD ALWAYS BEEN A CONSTANT. A shadow that lingered, always there, always with, like a barbed wire wrapped around the heart, prickling into the fragile organ, slithering into the darkest crevices, threatening to consume him. Threatening to leave him crumpled and discarded, to take his breath, every beat of his heart. He could feel it ricochet, the waves of anguish swinging it back and forth and back and forth, as if launching itself from his back ribs to his front then back, over and over and over again.
The Chosen One , a chance, a spark of hope, a hero.
He basks in the glory of it, or so they say—a title any wizard could only dream of. But it takes, and it takes and it takes until the day comes that he has nothing but himself to give. Until the day that dawn breaks through and he would no longer try, no longer fight for humanity that had done nothing but fail him, time and time again. As the world's burden—that he bore on his shoulders—relentlessly dragged him down into the pits of despair–a dark, barren sea of remorse and longing.
Harry Potter despised it .
A constant reminder of who he was supposed to be, of those that he had lost, of any sense of normalcy in his life that had been stripped away from him. Harry could almost laugh at the irony of it all. The Chosen One, the shining savior of the Wizarding World is slowly losing himself as his sanity crumbled along with the walls of his own school.
This damned school, with the damned people in it. And the stupid fucking scar on his stupid head that he can't fucking get rid of.
Now, it is over.
The war is done. So is he.
"Harry!" a voice yelled from across the great hall.
In the midst of the people crowded in the Great Hall, an overwhelming air of relief and despair surrounded him. It was nauseating. So nauseating . He should be celebrating for somehow being alive, that he managed to fulfill some stupid prophecy that he had been burdened with. But he couldn't. Not when the aftermath of the war had just begun to sink in.
It was over, yes. But what happens after ?
All his life had led up to this very moment, where the Chosen One defeats the Dark Lord. When he, a mere eighteen year-old, kills some psychotic villain who terrorized the wizarding world. When he, a mere eighteen year-old, had lived his entire life wondering whether or not he would even live to see the dawn.
There he stood, once again like a child who was lost in the busy streets of Diagon Alley, helplessly glancing around the people around him. He met some of their familiar gazes and was returned a warm smile. He wondered if he should go up to those who were mourning, if it was his job as the Chosen One to comfort them at times like this.
He wonders when Hermione would return.
He wonders if Ron would despise him for the death of his own siblings.
He wonders if it was worth it at all.
He wonders if in another universe, Harry James Potter was not the Chosen One. Maybe he grows up with his parents and learn all about magic ever since he was born. Then maybe eleven year-old Harry could have answered intimidating Professor Snape's question in his first potions class. Maybe he grows up with other magical children, then maybe he would not have been so scared when first boarding the train. Maybe he wouldn’t be so surprised with the mere idea of chocolate frogs. Maybe he would’ve had as many Dumbledore collective cards as Ron. Maybe he even gets sorted into a whole other house, surrounded by a whole other group of friends (the thought of it makes him shiver).
Maybe he grows up like every other normal student, without the burden of saving the world, with a family who loves him, with friends who were not pulled into all of this mess.
He wonders. He does that a lot.
His eyes caught a flash of blond hair.
"Malfoy." he spoke before he even realized it.
In a bloodied black suit, his hair almost fully drenched in scarlet red, Draco Malfoy halted, fixing his gaze upon Harry when his name was mentioned. Tall and formidable, he stood, exuding an aura of power and pride. He embodied the visage of a modern-day Achilles, a warrior fueled by unbridled rage, nauseating disgust, unyielding conviction, and paralyzing fear clashed within him, creating a volatile concoction that threatened to consume everything in its path. Yet, amidst the storm of emotions, there lay the essence of a defiant Prometheus, bearing the weight of his choices and embracing a resolute pride that refused to be extinguished.
"Potter." Malfoy nodded in response. The Slytherin gazed at him expectedly, basically urging him to get over with whatever the hell he wanted to say.
Where is she? "Where are the others?" Harry asked after a moment of silence between them. Anxiety bubbled at the pit of his stomach, suddenly the pressure was overwhelming, and his heart began thumping wildly as his breathing quickened. He knew the answer. He knew what Draco would say. But this stupid, naive, nagging part of him still wished he would answer otherwise.
"Dead," muttered Malfoy. His face was an emotionless mask of nonchalance yet despair swam in the depths of his eyes. "Most of them." he added, as though it would make the news any easier to take in.
Dead.
Most of them, dead.
"I'm sorry for your loss." When Harry finally spoke his tone was now direct and sincere as he studied the Slytherin to gauge his reaction. He knew it was the reason why he was acting differently.
"Don't be," Malfoy's eyes flew to his and he snapped at him, taut and aggressive at the guilt that laced the Gryffindor's tone. Malfoy said nothing else, not that he had to. The blond's face remained firm and controlled, but Harry could spy the smallest twisters of emotions that surfaced — as if to say — it's your fault, Potter. How shameless of you to think a little sorry is going to make up for all of this.
Harry pauses, a lump in his throat, threatening to spill and bring his intestines along with it. "Ron and 'Mione's all I got left." So what, Harry? Must Malfoy pity you? Must he feel relief that you had lost your people like he did?
Malfoy’s head tilted to the side, and Harry noticed his fingers clenching into a tight fist, all before he posed a question whose answer was evident. Perhaps driven by a sense of decorum, an attribute the Purebloods honed in their etiquette lessons— lessons Harry might have attended had his parents been alive —though, in truth, he hardly knew them well enough to presume as much. . . "Weaselette?" the voice resounded.
Harry's lips pressed together, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air as he uttered the name, "Fenrir Greyback."
In that moment, Draco's sharp Slytherin eyes shimmered with a knowing sorrow. No words were necessary – the shared pain etched on their faces spoke volumes. "My condolences," Draco whispered, his voice infused with genuine sympathy. "She was fiery, a bold and indomitable spirit that blazed brightly."
A soft chuckle escaped Harry, tinged with both amusement and a tinge of melancholy. "That's the kindest thing you've ever said about her," he acknowledged, the loss of his heart still fresh in him. But the weight of the moment soon shifted to a more tangible matter.
"On another note," Harry began, his hands delving into his ragged and soiled clothing until he found something of utmost significance. "Your wand."
A heavy sigh escaped Draco's lips, and Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt as he witnessed the usually composed Slytherin struggling to hold himself together. "You're the elder wand’s new master, Potter," Draco replied, attempting to distance himself from the weight of the wand's history.
Harry wouldn't let the matter rest so easily. "No, it's yours," he persisted, adamant that the wand find its rightful owner. Then, he reached into his pocket again, drawing out another precious item that seemed to expand from its confines. "This belonged to Asteria. Please take care of it in her stead."
For the first time, raw emotions flickered across Malfoy's face. "The Invisibility cloak?" he queried, his brows furrowing in a mix of confusion and gratitude as he accepted the precious heirloom without hesitation. It was an act of vulnerability that Harry knew Draco would have never shown before. Perhaps something had shifted within him. His heart? His mind? Or, perhaps he clung to Asteria's memory, grasping for remnants of her existence.
"You're entrusting me with two of the Deathly Hallows. Have you lost your mind?" Malfoy chuckled dryly.
"Thanks for the concern, but yes, I'm aware," Harry shrugged off, a small smile tugging at his lips. In that moment, he realized that the lines dividing them had blurred, and the burdens of their past enmity were nothing but a distant memory.
As they stepped into the aftermath of war, holding the legacies of the fallen close, Harry knew that time would eventually heal their wounds. Their spirits, forged in the crucible of adversity, would be their guiding light on the uncertain path ahead, where former foes might become allies, and the echoes of courage would reverberate through the ages.
But perhaps. . . there was hope.
Acceptance was not the only solution.
"Mione spoke with Professor McGonagall who is planning to speak with the Ministry." the Gryffindor began. "Something about how we might possibly change the outcome of all of this."
In a swift moment, Malfoy's gaze locked onto him, his eyes wide. It was as if the world around them stilled, and the weight of years past descended like an unforgiving tide. Potter's words hung in the air, suspended with a tremor that reverberated through Malfoy's very core. " What ?" he uttered, a breathless whisper that spoke volumes of disbelief, the walls he had meticulously constructed crumbling at the touch of unexpected acceptance. In that haunting instant, the complexities of their shared history melded into a dance of possibility, as elusive and captivating as the shifting shadows of a fleeting dream.
"It was Asteria's idea, just in case," he whispered, leading Malfoy to a secluded corner of the ruined hall, their footsteps echoing like the ghosts of forgotten dreams. Malfoy clung to every word Harry spoke, his curiosity and apprehension intertwining like a dance of shadows.
"We collect our memories and bring them over to the 1970s, because that’s the farthest we could go ," Harry divulged, his voice imbued with an unwavering resolve that flickered like a lone flame in the dark. Malfoy's furrowed brows betrayed his skepticism, yet Harry remained steadfast, undeterred by doubt. "Then we let them watch it all, the events that shaped our destinies, in the hopes that they would alter their actions, redirect the course that led to all of this... it's far more complex, of course, but that's the rundown Mione gave me."
"Like a muggle movie?"
A soft, knowing chuckle escaped Harry's lips as he murmured a low Accio . "Yes, Malfoy, much like a muggle movie."
The audacity of the plan hung in the air like an unsolvable riddle, yet Malfoy couldn't help but be drawn deeper into the vision. "But how on earth are we going to achieve such a feat?" he asked, grappling with the inconceivable.
"Asteria found a hidden chest in the room of requirement during our fifth year," Harry revealed, reverence and longing lacing his words. "It had journals that were filled to the brim, this particular one contained notes all about how to preserve memories and to project them like a muggle movie. A hologram of sorts, if you think about it. And then there was a chest containing all these bottles of small vinyl-like things. I believe she watched them."
"Did it actually work like one?"
"Apparently, yes. Ron and I were about to watch 'em as well when she started claiming that my grandparents were in the memories, yours too I think.” he continued, spotting Malfoy’s ears perk with the mention of his ancestors. "Hermione went on and on about how it was the last of our priorities so we put it aside, then eventually forgot."
"I know how to preserve memories painlessly." Malfoy declared, his hands fiddling with a ring. "The process is painful, especially when it's a whole lot."
"You've tried?"
The Slytherin's nonchalant shrug belied the weight of his revelation, as if delving into one's memories was an everyday affair. Harry, though familiar with the concept of a pensieve, had never found the impetus to build his own collection of memories. His curiosity piqued, he couldn't help but listen as Malfoy shed light on the pureblood tradition.
"It's natural for purebloods to preserve their memories; as they are the foundation of our lineage's history," Malfoy explained with a trace of ancestral pride. "On that note, if I were to search thoroughly, I might come across a few of my ancestors’."
Intrigue filled the air as Harry absorbed this newfound knowledge. There was something captivating about the idea of unveiling the untold stories and secrets of one's heritage. "There's a man written about in this journal she found," Harry continued, his voice a hushed whisper as if afraid to disturb the past. "He returns to England for a fortnight, every year, before vanishing once more."
Driven by curiosity and a desire to unearth the truth, Harry summoned the journal with a quiet " Accio ," the well-preserved leather-bound book landing firmly in his hand. Turning its pages with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, he once again came across a carefully annotated entry.
"With the right bargain, he preserves your memories into compilations (Archer calls them movi, a shorter term for moving film) also allowing you the freedom of re-arranging and removing memories. Quite fascinating really. I had attempted to offer him bags and bags of gold, however, it seems like what he truly is interested in is something that you can never give up. Something irreplaceably priceless."
"Why is he asking for so much?" Draco inquired, a hint of frustration in his voice.
"Not a clue. The writer reckons it's 'cause the man is a rumored seer. Maybe he's glimpsed somethin' in the future that makes it valuable," Harry replied, eyebrows furrowing in contemplation.
"Like right now. . ." Draco mused, curiosity piqued. "When does the man come to England?"
"On the year's final solstice, he returns to the abandoned corners of the busiest streets."
"Final solstice? Is this some bloody riddle—" Harry started to say, but Malfoy cut him off with a scoff.
"Solstices occur twice a year, you blithering idiot. It'll happen on the 21st of December," Malfoy clarified with an air of superiority. “The abandoned corners. . .must be Knockturn Alley .”
"Six months away?" Harry's voice held a mix of urgency and impatience.
Draco's eyes glinted like polished knives in the dim light. "It gives us more time. More memories to preserve, and more perspectives for them to watch. This war affects all sides; not one remains unscathed."
"And if this journal is all wrong?" Harry's worry seeped into the air.
"Then that's bloody unfortunate, no?" Malfoy retorted.
"On a scale of ten, how reliable is this source?" the Syltherin pressed further, but Harry remained silent. "Who wrote it?" Malfoy sighed.
"Wrote it?..." Harry snapped out of his thoughts, searching for the answer. "Ah, here.” With a swift motion, Harry sent the weathered journal sailing towards Malfoy, the author's name adorned in shimmering cursive.
“Victoria Elanor Romanov."
SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS,
WAR IS OVER
AND WHAT HAVE WE DONE?
december 1998
DRACO MALFOY
Grief comes in waves, dear reader , at first they were so strong he had felt so swept away. They come at such random moments, replacing a feeling of normalcy with those familiar heartaches. Drowning him in waves of despair and the strong currents of reality, a bloody wreckage of what once was but will never be.
Draco remembers when his mother died. It hurt. He mourned. He accepted it.
Draco watched his friends die. It hurt. He mourned. He accepted it.
Draco killed his own blood. It hurt. He mourned. He accepted it.
But Asteria, oh his dearest Asteria.
He held Asteria's body when her eyes closed for the final time and her breathing slowed with the beating of her heart—when her smile slowly faded and the grip on his arm loosened. Draco Malfoy is not one for beliefs. He had never believed in higher entities or Gods who were said to be all-too-powerful but in that moment, he wished to any God that may listen, that he'd die with her. The fear of oblivion, of what happens after was much more comforting than the absence of her.
Asteria Austerlitz completed Draco Malfoy.
And when she died, so did he.
'Draco, do you think a wedding in Paris would be nice?'
'I could get married in a dumpster, love, as long as I marry you.'
Draco dreamt of Asteria on most nights, they were not wild or far out of reach. No magic nor fantasy, just them. Existing beside one another, for despite being able to dream anything at all, it was only her on his mind. Out of everything in the world, and the one beyond this, he would rather spend his night dancing through dreams with her. Let her become his favorite poltergeist, because he'd rather suffer through the twisting pain in his chest every single time than not dream of her at all.
For just one night, in each other's arms, they let the crickets do all the talking, his forehead whispering bittersweet lies to hers, and the moon will hum its usual song that no one has ever named. The honeysuckle will rustle and reach, but it will be quiet. They would whisper their secrets to the stars, spill confessions to the dusk, and then he could deal with the tomorrow. When the sunlight once again casts its jagged halos across every spider web, the grasshoppers will rouse to the Midas-touched dawn. All alone, with the weight of the longing, he hears echoes of her whistles, a backwards lullaby to sing him awake.
There was this belief amongst many; if you repeat a word over and over and over again, it loses its meaning. Draco was never one for superstitions, nor was he the type to dwell on myths, but god, he had stayed up countless nights repeating her name in hopes that she would mean less to him with each bated breath.
It was of no use, she would always matter, and he will mourn forever.
You asked me one night, 'How much do you love me?'
But how could I answer that? How do I describe this feeling? Knowing that even in another life, another body and mind, I would always choose you. There would not be one universe where I would desire anything or anyone else. I am so utterly enamored and hopelessly in love with you, every single part of you, everything about you. How do I tell you that the thought of you makes my world spin in an orbit, makes my knees go weak and makes me lose all of my composure? That I would love you in every dimension with all of I am, with all of space and time?
I don't know, so eventually I reply, 'Just a little.'
You laugh. You don't believe me. Because if there was one word to describe how much I feel for you, it would certainly not be 'little'. You know it, I know it. Hell, even the people around us know it.
A bitter laugh escapes his throat, something clawed at his insides. Shards of the remnants of their past, slicing through him, feeling the burning hole she had carved out of him. Her name was still stuck in the back of his throat, like a half-swallowed pill. She would never abandon him; she would continue to torture, calm, and haunt him. He let his love, who had slipped six feet underground return, loom over him, let it linger, let it hurt, and let it drive him insane.
"What did you wish for?" he'd ask, his eyes peering into the depths of her soul, hungry for the secrets she held close. "I can't say," she'd whisper, her voice a delicate veil concealing the desires that stirred within.
"Just say it," he'd coax, a touch of urgency lacing his words, longing to unearth the truth hidden beneath her guarded facade. "If anyone else knows, it won't come true!" she'd protest playfully, a wisp of laughter dancing in her eyes, relishing the intimacy of their shared secret.
"It's not that serious," he'd dismiss her worries with a gentle smile, tenderly encouraging her to reveal the cherished wish that lay at the core of her heart.
"Fine! I wished for us to always be together... alive, of course, and alright," she'd confess, her vulnerability laid bare, a trembling admission offered to him with trembling hands.
"And you'd trust some distant gas in the sky for that?" he'd jest, teasingly questioning the wisdom of placing faith in celestial whims.
"Well, not as much now, you made me say it," she'd giggle, her laughter a melody that played like a song in his ears, etching itself into the corners of his memory. "Then wish for something else, stop fretting," he'd soothe, enfolding her in his embrace, seeking to shield her from the uncertainties that swirled around them.
But now, she was gone, and he could no longer savor her laughter or bask in the warmth of her smile. The stars that once twinkled with magic were now distant pinpricks, their ethereal glow casting a haunting aura over the emptiness that enveloped him. Draco found himself navigating the vast expanse of loss, grappling with the void she left behind. The night sky seemed to mirror his heart, once ablaze with hope and passion, now obscured by shadows of grief. In the wake of her departure, he stood alone, a solitary figure under the silent, indifferent stars, forever marked by the presence of an ethereal love that had slipped through his fingers like stardust in the wind.
And so she does. This time, she wishes for him, and him alone. Draco knows of this of course, he had heard it, despite her feeble attempt at muttering it quietly. Perhaps, he thought nothing of it then but he thinks too much of it now. She wished for them to be alive, together, and alright. She wished for his tranquility, for him to smile more often, and for him to enjoy her tea. Draco blames himself. Perhaps she was right, the stars answer to those who wish alone, and whose wishes are known by only themselves.
I will always remember. A cry was torn from the depths of his soul, raw and unyielding. Memories of her voice, her laughter, they would forever reside within him, an ever-present echo that reverberated through the chambers of his heart. Like the ghosts that haunted the ancient manor, her presence would linger, a haunting specter that refused to fade into oblivion.
In the stillness of the night, amid the shadows of solitude, he would find himself haunted by her absence, a bittersweet reminder of the love they had shared. And as the days passed, he knew that even time's relentless march could not erase the indelible imprint she had left upon his soul. She would remain eternally entwined with his being, an ethereal presence that would accompany him on his journey through life, a silent companion in the corridors of his heart.
He had always hoped that one day, this version of himself, full of unbroken lines and cloudless color would appear inside his mind, whispering– This is it. This is you, no more stumbling around in the dark, grasping in hopes of catching an identity .
Yet, as he stood amidst the gloom of Knockturn Alley, too old for make-believe , an unfinished canvas, still searching for signs of who is meant to be in reflections of fractured mirrors and dirty street puddles. There was one thing certain, he was shattered, a pencil outline, half-erased.
The somber clouds loomed low in the sky, casting a pall over the dimly lit streets of Knockturn Alley. Draco Malfoy, his cloak pulled tightly around him, stepped cautiously into the heart of the clandestine district. The air was heavy with a damp chill, and the narrow cobblestone alleys seemed to twist and turn endlessly, leading him deeper into the shadows.
Dimly lit shops with flickering, sickly yellow lights lined the murky path, their windows adorned with macabre curiosities and eldritch artifacts. The eerie glow of enchanted lanterns cast eerie shadows, making the figures lurking in the corners seem even more grotesque and enigmatic.
As Draco ventured further into the depths of it, the ambiance grew increasingly foreboding. The streets seemed to close in around him, the buildings leaning hungrily towards each other, as if conspiring against intruders like him. The air was thick with the scent of must and decay, intertwining with the faint whiffs of exotic potions and forbidden magic.
The steady patter of rain began to fall, shrouding the surroundings in a fine mist that softened the edges of the sinister alleyway. The lamplight reflected off the wet cobblestones, giving them an eerie sheen, and the shadows danced and flickered, playing tricks on his mind. Hooded figures flitted through the darkness, their faces obscured by the depths of their cloaks, their motives as inscrutable as the alley itself. The silence was almost palpable, broken only by the occasional creaking of old signs and the distant sound of hushed whispers that seemed to fade into the abyss.
Draco's heart quickened with every step he took, feeling as if he was stepping into a world of secrets and danger. The walls seemed to close in on him, and the gloomy weather mirrored the uncertainty that churned within his soul. Yet, he pressed on, determination driving him forward.
With every turn, every labyrinthine passage he navigated, the sensation of being watched intensified. The eyes of hidden observers bore into him, unseen, but undoubtedly present. He couldn't shake the feeling that every shadow held a secret, every murmur a clue that would lead him closer to the illusive man in the journal.
Time seemed to lose its meaning in the gloom, and Draco found himself becoming entangled in the very essence of the alley's mystique. The air was charged with a mix of trepidation and fascination, a heady cocktail that pushed him onward.
As he delved deeper, the darkness enveloped him, like a shroud of intrigue that wrapped itself around his very being. The journey was far from over, and the search for the man in the journal had only just begun. But Draco was undeterred, for he knew that within the depths of this murky realm lay the answers he sought. And so, with courage borne of desperation, he forged ahead, his resolve unyielding in the face of the shadows that surrounded him.
The air felt heavy with secrets and ancient whispers as Draco strolled through the shadowed lanes. Without any conscious direction, he found himself inexplicably drawn to a small and inconspicuous shop, its windows adorned with curious artifacts and peculiar charms.
His heart pounded with uncertainty, unsure of why he was compelled to enter. As he pushed open the door, a faint jingle announced his arrival, and the air inside seemed to hold its breath.
The back door opened with a screeching sound, and a wizened figure emerged from the shadows, his green robes draped around him like a cloak of enigma. His scalp, bald and mottled, was adorned with only a faint dark fringe, and his eyes, deeply lidded and encased in wrinkled folds, held an eerie weight that seemed to pierce straight through Draco's soul.
The Slytherin regarded him with apprehension, the way his thin mustache covered his upper lip with a swirl, and when the man smirked at him, his sneer was as sleazy and insincere as a ravenous brute. His attire was snobbish, but he was no Malfoy. No, this wizard screamed of new money status, decked in the daintiest silk, so pretentious he looked foolish against the dreary backdrop of the store.
A voice, low and rumbling, pierced the silence. "I've been waiting."
"Waiting for me?" Draco questioned, his voice steady despite the unsettling atmosphere.
The man inclined his head slightly, the glimmer of a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Some paths are meant to cross," he replied cryptically.
Draco's instincts warred within him—half urging him to leave this eerie place, and the other half pushing him to stay and unravel the mystery before him.
"Who are you?" Draco asked, trying to discern the man's identity through the shadowy veil.
The stranger chuckled softly, a sound that sent shivers down Draco's spine. "I am but a humble merchant of knowledge, one who can guide you to the truths you seek," he replied, his voice carrying a note of intrigue.
"And what truths do you speak of?" Draco pressed, his curiosity overpowering his caution.
Siro , as the man had called himself, stepped closer, the flickering candlelight playing upon the features hidden beneath his hood. "Secrets that lie buried in the past, answers to questions that have haunted you for far too long," he said, his words laced with mystery. “And the solution to your misery.”
Draco hesitated, "How can you help me with this misery?" he pressed, his voice laced with apprehension and undoubtedly. . . hope .
Siro’s eyes, glittering like hidden gems in the shadows, met Draco's gaze. "All I ask is for your willingness," he replied, his words echoing through the shop.
Draco's heart quickened, his mind grappling with the decision before him. It was a crossroad of destiny, a chance to uncover the elusive truths he had longed to find. In that moment, he felt a surge of determination rising within, an unyielding thirst propelling him forward.
"Go on then," Draco declared.
"And what is it that you have to offer, Mister Malfoy?" the man intoned, his voice low and gravelly, as if speaking from some faraway realm. His gaze, heavy with age and wisdom, gave the impression that he was conversing with someone in a dream, even though he was undeniably awake.
"The deathly hallows," Draco stated, his voice unwavering. "All three of them."
A subtle chuckle escaped the man's lips, as if the offer amused him. "You drive a hard bargain, young man," he replied, regarding the boy with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Though I find such relics of no use."
Draco's brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued. "What is it that you want, then?"
"Your life," the man said, his words cutting through the air like a blade.
Draco's heart skipped a beat. "You want to kill me?"
"I want your family name," the man clarified, his tone tinged with a sense of desire that sent shivers down Draco's spine.
"My family name?" Draco's mind raced, trying to comprehend the strange request.
"Offer me the Malfoy name, and I shall assist you," the man proposed, his gaze unyielding
Draco weighed the consequences, the implications of relinquishing his family's name. It was a choice that held immense power and irrevocable consequences. Yet, he knew that the stakes were high, and this enigmatic figure held the key to uncovering the truth he sought.
"You are aware that if this works, then this bargain that you chose would be useless?" Draco questioned, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.
"So will be the deathly hallows," the man replied, his gaze unyielding. It was a gamble, a trade of immense proportions that could forever alter the course of his life.
The weight of the decision settled heavily upon Draco's shoulders, but he knew that he had come too far to turn back now. With a determined glint in his eyes, Draco took a deep breath, the gravity of his choice sinking in. "Very well," he said, his voice carrying a sense of finality. "You shall have the Malfoy name.”
In the waning light of day, the Malfoy Manor stood like a majestic Mount Olympus, its imposing grandeur casting shadows across the realm of mortals. Pillars of strength rose like colossal columns of the Parthenon, guarding the ancient wisdom concealed within its walls. The architecture soared against the darkening sky, invoking the gods' curiosity to unravel the mysteries it held.
Beyond its threshold, an electric energy crackled, swirling like whispers of divine secrets. Flickering candles struggled to pierce the darkness, their warm glow reminiscent of sacred flames flickering in temples dedicated to deities.
In the heart of the manor was the remains of Draco Malfoy’s circle— Theodore Maximillian Nott, Blaise Matthias Zabini, Daphne Amaris Greengrass, and Regal Arcturus Black . Statues of mythical figures watched from the halls, their eyes seeming to pass judgment on the quest for truth.
Amidst them, a lingering sense of loss cast a shadow—a void left by fallen stars. Absent friends brushed their hearts, a reminder of sacrifices made and the price of seeking freedom. Within the dance of shadows, their mettle was tested—a tango of uncertainty and courage. Yet, amid the encroaching night, a glimmer of hope flickered from the dimly lit Christmas tree.
Within the manor's embrace, their spirits soared like constellations—stars shimmering with grief. Summoning his courage, Draco shared the truth about the ordeal he had endured—the discovery of the journal, his quest to find the mysterious man from its pages, and the unimaginable price he had paid.
"And the catch?" Theodore inquired, his voice laden with concern and trepidation.
'Asteria, how cruel of you.'
Draco's eyes glistened with humor as he replied, "I don't exist."
'The stars truly are cruel, Draco, but are they unfair?'
His friends exchanged bewildered glances, struggling to fathom the gravity of his words. "What do you mean, Draco? How can you not exist?" Regal questioned, voice laced with disbelief.
"Asteria's existence is safe, untouched," Draco explained, his voice choked with emotion. "But in exchange for the truth, for the solution I sought, I ceased to exist in this reality."
Blaise's expression darkened, realization dawning upon him, comprehending the enormity of Draco's sacrifice. "You sacrificed your very existence?" he asked, his disbelief echoing through the somber room.
Draco nodded, his heart heavy as he continued, "All memories of me have been wiped from the minds of those who knew me. Draco Malfoy—gone. I am nothing but a forgotten specter in their lives."
His friends fell silent, grappling with the magnitude of what Draco had endured. The once exuberant and joyous Christmas decorations now appeared hollow and lifeless, mirroring the emptiness that had consumed them all.
Draco’s gaze locked onto Regal, and a pang of empathy twisted through his weary heart. He remembered her once-bright eyes, so full of life, now dulled by sorrow and loss. Regal, his beloved friend—his sister in all but blood—had been his light in the darkest moments, yet now her own radiance seemed dimmed by grief.
He wondered how she managed to keep going, to wake up each morning without the laughter and warmth that had once surrounded her. The absence must weigh like a stone on her chest, an unyielding reminder. And the guilt—he could almost feel it gnawing at her: the healer who could save anyone from death’s door, yet powerless against her lover’s fate. Regal’s voice shook, her words a raw testament to her inner agony. “You gave up everything… for the man in the journal?”
Draco met her eyes, his own filled with quiet resignation and unwavering resolve. “No. For her,” he murmured. “Even if I am but a shadow of who I once was… knowing she is safe, somewhere out there—that is enough.”
A silence enveloped them, punctuated only by the faint crackling of the fireplace. Draco's friends keenly felt the weight of his sacrifice, the void left behind by his absence, and the profound truth that life's enigmas often demanded the highest price.
"Is there a way to change this? To bring you back, Draco?" Theodore asked, his voice tinged with desperation.
Draco hesitated for a moment, his heart torn between longing for a return to existence and the painful truth he had learned. "There is," he finally replied, his tone carrying a touch of solemnity. "And only the Dark Lord can grant me this."
"So," spoke Draco, breaking the silence that had fallen upon them. His gray eyes glanced around the table, lingering a little too long at the empty seats. "This is Christmas."