Chapter 1
Schwarzwald Forest, Triberg – Germany
In the Slytherin Common Room, a sepulchral silence reigned, interrupted only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. The flames danced, casting eerie shadows over the cold, damp dungeon walls. Most students had already retired to their dormitories, and the few stragglers remaining whispered in hushed voices. But Draco barely registered their murmurs.
Outside, the Black Lake slept under the night breeze, projecting a deceptive sense of calm. It had been a long day, but his body was not tired. Much less his mind.
Draco sat on his green leather sofa, the very same one he had claimed as his own from his first day at Hogwarts. His fingers clenched around the parchment he had received hours earlier. He had read it over and over again since the owl had dropped it into his lap, now crumpled from how tightly he had been holding it.
The message contained only a few words, written in his father’s impeccable and unmistakable handwriting.
“Go to Severus Snape’s office at midnight.”
No explanations. No context.
It was highly unusual. Draco rarely received letters from his father; it was his mother who wrote more frequently, though her letters mostly concerned trivial matters—the weather in Wiltshire, the latest gossip in magical society, or how his studies were progressing. But when his father took the trouble to send him a message, it could only mean one thing.
And that reason was never insignificant.
A shiver ran down Draco’s spine as he considered the possible reasons, none of which were good.
He decided not to dwell on it and instead focused his thoughts on the conversation he had shared with Pansy and Blaise moments earlier. They had been speculating about what had really happened during the third task of the Triwizard Tournament.
He recalled how the Quidditch pitch had transformed into an imposing maze, with hedges nearly six metres high, rising like insurmountable walls. To his frustration, they had not been able to see what was happening inside or what dangers the champions were facing. It had been like the second task all over again—a torturous, endless wait. In the end, that was all it came down to: waiting. And it had been infuriating—an absolute waste of time. Draco had felt annoyed, as well as bored.
Then, Fleur Delacour had been the first to emerge, totally lost in the world of dreams, her face pale and sweaty. Followed by a Viktor Krum, who had a cloudy look, as if he had forgotten where he was. But while waiting for the other two competitors, the minutes passed, turning into hours. And no trace of Potter or Diggory
Draco really didn’t care who won, just hoped the winner wasn’t Potter, the very idea of seeing Harry Potter raise the cup deeply displeased him. He had only waited for that circus to end at once so that he could snuggle up in his bed and forget everything.
But then, the charged atmosphere of tension and anticipation shifted into confusion. The murmurs among the professors intensified, students fidgeted restlessly in their seats. The Minister for Magic, standing stiffly in a posture meant to appear imposing, approached the Headmaster.
But Draco had not paid them any attention. His eyes had been fixed on Professor Snape, who stood at a notable distance from Dumbledore.
His face was the same impassive mask as always, but Draco noticed a faint twitch in his left arm. An almost imperceptible spasm. Something one would not have noticed unless they knew where to look.
That was not the only strange thing. Igor Karkaroff had vanished from the judges’ table. And then, in a movement that changed everything, Dumbledore, Snape, and the Minister had left the Quidditch pitch.
It was Professor McGonagall who took charge, ordering everyone back to their common rooms.
Draco was no fool. From the moment Potter’s name had come out of the Goblet, something was bound to happen in the tournament—either something terrible or catastrophic.
But what truly unsettled him was the tightness in his chest—a knot of unease. It was not just a feeling that something was off. It was something deeper, a sharp sensation that sent shivers up his spine. Something he could not name, but that made him feel vulnerable.
Draco had told himself, over and over, that whatever it was, it was surely Potter’s fault. After all, trouble always seemed to have the name of the Boy Who Lived.
By the time he reached the common room, he was still analysing what had just happened, trying to piece it all together. Pansy and Blaise continued speculating, but the conversation gradually faded, like a candle burning out in the dark. The uncertainty of not knowing affected all the Slytherins, though none would admit it aloud.
And that was when his father’s owl arrived.
He watched as it perched on the back of the armchair, a letter tied to its leg with an emerald-green ribbon. A letter that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He said nothing to his friends. He let them leave for bed while he remained, reading and rereading his father’s words.
The wait was unbearable. Every minute felt longer than the last, as if time refused to move forward. Finally, with an impatient gesture, Draco cast a Tempus, revealing that only five minutes were left until midnight.
Draco took a deep breath, attempting to quell the nerves churning in his stomach. He stood, back rigid, and left the common room.
The corridors were eerily silent, even more so than usual. It was not the first time he had wandered the castle after curfew, but tonight felt different.
The air was heavier—he could almost feel it against his skin, as though some invisible force urged him to turn back. The portraits were eerily still, and each step he took echoed against the stone, as if the castle itself were holding its breath.
Draco tried to refocus his mind. He thought of Professor Snape, of Dumbledore. Of the maze. Of Potter and Diggory.
But then, a series of memories surfaced in his mind: the Quidditch World Cup. The Dark Mark shining in the sky. The murmurs among the wizards, the speculation, the rumours about what had really happened that night. His father’s behaviour afterward.
For months, he had sensed that something was changing. But only now did he understand how everything was beginning to fit together, like pieces of a puzzle.
Without realising it, he had reached Snape’s office door. One more step, and he would be standing before him. Draco hesitated. A second, perhaps an eternity. He raised his hand to knock, but before he could, the door opened on its own. His heart pounded like a Snitch, a whirlwind of anxiety threatening to betray him. He tried to steady it, in vain. It felt like a coiled serpent in his stomach, paralysing him. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath and, with his chin held high, pushed the door open.Un paso más y estaría frente a él.
Draco dudó. Un segundo, tal vez una eternidad.
Levantó la mano para llamar, pero antes de que pudiera hacerlo, la puerta se abrió sola. Su corazón latía como una snitch, un torbellino de ansiedad amenazando con traicionarlo. Trató de calmarlo, en vano. Se sentía como una serpiente enroscada en su estómago, paralizándolo. Tragó saliva, respiró profundamente y, con la barbilla en alto, abrió la puerta.
And there they were.
A mix of emotions overwhelmed him—anxiety at what their presence meant, and relief at seeing them safe. He had not seen them since the start of the school year, and he had missed them. But this was not how he had expected to see them. Not like this. Not in Snape’s office.
His mother stood beside his father, as beautiful as he remembered. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her expression serene, but her eyes said it all.
The air grew colder with each passing second.
Draco did not dare look at his father. The silence in the room was deafening. His eyes sought Snape, hoping to find some answer, some clue as to what was happening. But his face was an Undecipherable mask.
He had always admired his father, but fear—an ever-present shadow—loomed whenever it came to him. Summoning his courage, he looked up.
The air seemed to catch in his lungs.
And then, he understood. There was no need for words. He only had to see the expression on his mother’s face, the stiffness in his father’s posture.
Draco did not know exactly what was about to happen, but he knew he could not avoid it. He took a deep breath and let his mask—the cold, distant expression he had perfected since childhood—fall into place. The mask that hid his emotions, his fears, his flaws.
He was a Malfoy.
His upbringing. His lineage. His duty. Everything he had been raised for, everything that made him who he was. He had been trained to be impeccable, to never waver.
But then, why did he feel the urge to run?
His mother stepped forward, taking his hands in hers. He had never noticed before, but her hands were small compared to his, though his were not that large. Her touch was warm, yet he felt the faintest tremor in her fingers, as if she were holding back tears.
—My dragon —she whispered. —Remember, you are not just a Malfoy. You have Black blood in you as well.
She seemed as though she wanted to say more, but she stepped back, returning to his father’s side.
In his father’s eyes, there were only expectations. He did not need to say much. No matter what, it seemed the decision had already been made.
—Listen carefully, Draco —his voice was calm, controlled, yet each word pressed heavily upon his shoulders, sinking him into a deep anxiety. —You will see the Dark Lord, so behave yourself.
—Yes, Father.
The words left my lips firmly, my gaze fixed on the grey eyes that were identical to mine. I would not fail. Draco would prove himself worthy of being the son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy—a worthy heir.
My father held my gaze for a moment longer, his eyes cold and calculating as they swept over me from head to toe. There was no warmth in them, not a single emotion I could decipher. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for—or perhaps what he wanted to see—because he turned towards the fireplace. The flames danced playfully, briefly illuminating his sombre face before he vanished into the darkness, followed by my mother, whose presence felt just as distant as his.
Draco stepped forward as well. But he paused for a second before taking the Floo powder, startled by Snape’s voice, which had remained silent until now.
—Draco.
I turned slightly.
—You are not your father—he said in a low but firm voice, his tone sending a chill down my spine—Do not make choices you may come to regret.
I could not tell whether his words were a warning, a reminder, or a plea. Perhaps all at once.
I pressed my lips together, a mix of confusion and defiance swelling inside me.
—I know what I’m doing, godfather. I am not a child—My voice was hard. Perhaps harder than I had intended.
Snape exhaled in frustration.
—Foolish boy…
But I did not let him finish. I threw the Floo powder into the fire and spoke my destination. The green flames engulfed me in a whirlwind of vertigo and smoke.
And I disappeared, swallowed by the Floo network.
When I arrived at the Manor, everything looked the same. Yet, at the same time, it did not feel like it.
As soon as he stepped onto the floor, he felt his posture shift instinctively. With a flick of his wand, he banished the ashes from his robes, straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin with pride. Draco followed his parents into the main hall—everything remained just as he remembered it: the towering walls, the immaculate furniture, the majestic crystal chandeliers. But the atmosphere was different. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if every shadow in the mansion concealed a secret. The portraits seemed tense, watching him as if judging his every move.
And in the centre, standing tall, was him.
The Dark Lord.
He did not look human. His tall, spectral figure exuded an oppressive presence, an invisible force that seemed to fill the entire room, crushing anyone who dared to challenge it. His skin, paler than chalk, contrasted with the burning red of his eyes, which gleamed with terrifying intensity. The flattened, slit-like nose reminded him of a serpent’s. His thin, pressed lips barely formed a rigid, cruel line. His bald head bore an unsettling resemblance to that of a newborn, but the most disturbing thing of all was his hands—long, skeletal, with fingers as sharp as a spider’s legs.
Draco didn’t need anyone to tell him. He knew the moment he saw him. Though his appearance was not what he had expected or imagined, his magic—his presence—confirmed it. This was the face of terror he had heard about since childhood, the same man who had left his mark on his father’s arm and would soon leave one on his own. He had grown up hearing his name spoken by the family’s associates and friends—always with reverence, always with fear.
And now, he was standing before him.
Being there did not feel like an honour—it felt like a sentence. Draco wanted to believe he was worthy, that he lived up to his father’s expectations, that he was clear about his ambitions, that his heart was cold enough. But the truth was different: he wanted to run, he wanted to cry, he wanted to hide in his mother’s arms as he had when he was a child.
His mother gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go—a fleeting moment of weakness. Her gaze was filled with worry and a love that seemed desperate to shield him from all harm.
My father stepped forward. And I followed.
Every step Draco took echoed against the marble floor, accompanied by the deafening thud of his heartbeat. He recalled the Occlumency lessons his mother and godfather had taught him. He fortified his barriers, raising impenetrable walls around his mind, clearing his thoughts, pushing aside any memory, any emotion that might betray him. It was as if he were emptying his soul, leaving behind nothing but a cold, unyielding shell.
And I stopped in front of him.
I lowered my head and bent my knee. Just as my father had done.
The words left Draco’s lips with terrifying ease.
—My Lord.
His vision blurred into a whirlwind of colours and shapeless forms, and he awoke with a strangled gasp, his body tense and trembling. The cold air lashed at his lungs, and a shiver ran down his spine as icy sweat dripped from his skin. His chest rose and fell rapidly as his mind struggled to cling to the last remnants of what he knew had not been just a dream—but something that had truly happened.
Draco felt the memory slipping through his fingers like sand, leaving behind a disquieting emptiness. Three days had passed since he had stood before him. Since that hissing, lethal voice had slithered over his skin like venom, offering him something more than a command—an opportunity.
—Draco—the Dark Lord’s voice had echoed through the chamber, cold and sharp as the edge of a blade—Your family has always demonstrated its loyalty to me. Now, your turn has come. Don’t you agree, Lucius?
His gaze settled on his father with an intensity that seemed to pierce his very skin. Draco felt as though he were missing something, though he did not know what.
—I have decided to grant you the opportunity to stand at the vanguard of a new era—an army of young Death Eaters who will help me forge the world we deserve.
His words had resonated through the room, charged with power and meaning. It was as if he were offering him a seat among the gods—a privilege impossible to refuse. But in reality, it was an order disguised as an opportunity. The question of whether he was ready, whether he was willing to carry out his orders, was embedded in every syllable.
In that moment, Draco had not only felt the weight of honour but also the rise of his own ambition. It was as though, at last, his abilities had been recognised. The thought of being a leader filled him with pride and a burning desire to prove his worth.
And Draco had accepted.
—It would be an honour, My Lord—he had said, feeling the emotion pulse in his throat.
His own words still echoed in his head, but now, in the stifling darkness of his room, the fervour of that moment seemed to waver. Not because he doubted, but because he understood the magnitude of what it meant. The price of that loyalty was the loss of his soul—the renunciation of his identity.
There was no room for error; failure meant disgrace, a scandal, a blow to the Malfoy name. Therefore, he could not afford to hesitate, to act weak, or to disappoint them.
A shiver ran down his spine—there was no turning back. Draco knew that the only possible outcome was success, triumph.
Pushing the sheets aside with abrupt movements, he focused on the lingering warmth of his skin, on the plush softness and undeniable reality of the satin. Not on the impersonal cold of Malfoy Manor, nor on the suffocating weight of the Dark Lord’s gaze. He forced himself to feel the texture of the fabric, to take in the faint scent of burnt wood and smoke in the air, and the dim glow filtering through the navy velvet curtains.
He knew he was not in Malfoy Manor, and certainly not in Hogwarts. Draco was in Aeternum Manor.
Reality settled upon him like a physical weight, embedding itself into his bones. He had had enough time to recognise the room—the aged stone walls, the dark wooden details that imposed their presence, evoking a mixture of antiquity and refinement. But nothing here had the calculated elegance of his home, nor the understated opulence of Slytherin. The room was both inviting and formidable, yet a strange emptiness clung to it.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, feeling the knot of anxiety twisting in his stomach, as if a shadow loomed over him, threatening to swallow him whole. He closed his eyes for a moment, attempting to quiet the storm of emotions surging within him.
He could not allow this to affect him. Draco could not afford to feel fear—not now. He tried to convince himself that what he felt was anticipation, not the beginnings of panic.
Draco forced his mind to shut down, to think no further. He slid out of bed with the precision of a rehearsed movement, repeating to himself that he could not afford to show any weakness. Whatever he felt did not matter. The only thing that mattered was that he would face it with his head held high.
Then, a subtle sound broke the stillness in the air—a precise knock against the door, a silent signal. His body tensed instantly. Not out of fear. But in this place, every sound seemed amplified, every detail unbearably sharp.
The door creaked open, just barely perceptible, and a small figure stepped inside, moving with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to silence.
The half-elf, responsible for his stay, entered the room carrying a wooden tray. She was not like the house-elves of the Manor, whose magic made everything happen without Draco ever having to witness it. Here, everything was done manually. It was tangible—too human.
He knew that half-elves possessed weak magic, but not an absence of it. Still, her presence felt strange to him—not uncomfortable, but undeniably disconcerting.
Draco watched her in silence as she moved with calculated precision. Her chestnut hair was braided into a neat coronet; her opalescent blue eyes held a neutral expression; and her precise hands placed a steaming glass cup on the bedside table. The scent of chamomile and lemon balm filled the air. Then, without hesitation, she walked to the windows and drew back the heavy curtains.
He saw the dawn, just beginning to tint the sky a pale blue—a blue that reminded him of his mother’s eyes—filling the room with a soft orange glow and casting geometric shadows on the stone floor. He watched as the mist clung stubbornly to the forest, like a ghost refusing to fade; in the distance, he could hear birdsong while the treetops were gently touched by the first rays of sunlight. He blinked several times, allowing the sight to dispel the last remnants of anxiety.
The half-elf, however, remained silent, her gaze fixed on him. She was mute, and in some way, that reassured him.
With meticulous elegance, she stepped forward, retrieved a small leather notebook from her pocket, opened it to a specific page, and held it up for him to see.
“Would you like me to prepare your bath?”
Her handwriting was neat, precise, without unnecessary embellishments.
The first time Draco had seen her, she had been gesturing with her hands. At first, he had felt a flicker of irritation—until he realised what it was: sign language.
His mother had insisted he learn several languages as a child, along with etiquette and social protocols.
“Knowledge is power, darling,” she would say with that refined composure that defined her. But when she had tried to teach him sign language, he had refused. At the time, he had considered it unnecessary.
And now, somehow, shame crept over him.
He gave a slight nod, and she inclined her head in acknowledgment before leaving the room with the same silent grace with which she had entered.
Draco inhaled deeply, the crisp morning air filling his lungs, and exhaled slowly. His hands had gripped the silk sheets without him realising, until he felt the sting of his nails pressing into the mattress.
It was strange. This room. This situation.
Everything felt strange.
At times, Draco was tempted to surrender to sleep and wake at a more civilised hour. But discipline was a fundamental value in his life. Malfoys did not sleep in; laziness and neglect were signs of weakness. His father had instilled that in him from an early age.
“Laziness is unacceptable for a Malfoy. We must always be one step ahead—even before the sun rises.”
A phrase that had been etched into his mind.
When the half-elf left, Draco rose from the bed with grace, feeling the chill of the stone floor beneath his bare feet. He walked smoothly towards the bathroom, focusing on each step he took. He barely noticed the distant echo of the door closing behind him.
As he crossed the threshold, a thick, warm cloud of steam enveloped him like an embrace, easing the tension in his shoulders. A delicate aroma—a symphony of citrus and herbs—filled his lungs, awakening his senses and clearing his mind.
The dawn light transformed the bathroom into a warm sanctuary, with the dark stone walls gleaming softly and the black and gold marble mosaics shifting beneath his feet, creating an almost surreal spectacle.
Wasting no more time, Draco unfastened the buttons of his silk pyjamas with slow, deliberate movements, feeling the fabric glide over his skin with a light touch—almost like a caress. He let the garment slip from his shoulders and pool onto the floor, followed by his trousers and undergarments.
The misted mirror barely revealed his reflection—blurred lines of pale skin and damp hair clinging to the nape of his neck. The coolness of the glass contrasted with the warmth of the morning light streaming through the window, casting a play of light and shadow across his bare torso, where golden hues sculpted his body with ethereal strokes. Meanwhile, the mirror, cold and distant, reflected him like a ghost.
A sharp pang of insecurity struck him, a feeling that unsettled him. It was unlike him to feel this way—so unsteady.
He turned away from the mirror and sought refuge beneath the shower. The water was at the perfect temperature, a soothing balm for his mind. Closing his eyes, he felt free, at peace, as if time had momentarily stopped.
Draco planned his bathing routines with meticulous precision. His morning ritual was a way to fortify his resolve, sharpen his wit, and prepare himself to embody the ice prince—the Malfoy heir the world expected him to be.
And this morning, he needed it more than ever.
With measured movements, Draco reached for the bottle of shampoo and poured just the right amount into his palm. The soft, rich lather coated his hair as he massaged it with rhythmic strokes. After rinsing out the shampoo, he took a moment to apply the conditioner, distributing it evenly from the mid-lengths to the ends. He let the product work for a few minutes while he reached for the sponge and bath gel.
With his hair soft and nourished, Draco lathered his body, feeling the sponge’s velvety texture in his hands and the warmth of the water on his skin. As the sponge met the bath gel, it released an intoxicating fragrance—a blend of mandarin and ylang-ylang, with hints of vanilla—that filled the bathroom, creating an exotic and tranquil atmosphere.
As Draco glided the sponge gently over his skin, the scent deepened. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the hot water, the fusion of aromas, and the soothing touch of the sponge, allowing them to carry him into a state of profound serenity.
As he sank into that tranquillity, the mental defences Draco always kept raised began to falter, leaving him defenceless against the memories of that night, lurking deep within his mind. The first thing he remembered was his father’s clenched jaw. Then his mother, standing on the other side, struggling to control her expression, growing paler with every passing second.
And then, the Dark Lord, his gaze fixed on Draco. He recalled the cruel smile curving his lips before his eyes shifted towards another figure in the room—someone whose presence Draco hadn’t noticed until that moment.
She was a tall, slender woman, her face concealed beneath a dark hood. The little skin visible was paler than the full moon. And then, their eyes met. A chill ran down Draco’s spine instantly. Her eyes, red as wine, gleamed with a hypnotic darkness, reflecting a silent threat, a warning that something terrible was about to unfold.
“I expected to see you sooner, Selene; unfortunately, I had to deal with a certain problem. We will discuss it later,” the Dark Lord’s voice had been soft, yet his gaze held amusement. “This is Draco, a promising young man. As we agreed, you are free to act as you wish—so long as you remember my objectives.”
“What you say sounds dangerous,” she had replied, a hint of amusement flickering across her face before vanishing, replaced by a serious expression. “Our business is far too lucrative to risk.”
As they spoke, Draco had felt Selene’s gaze on him, and for the first time that night, his convictions wavered. The silence in the room turned oppressive when Selene stood and walked towards him, her movements fluid and assured, as those of a hunter who evaluates his prey.The hair on his arms stood on end.
With each step she took, his fear intensified.
“It’s time for you to sleep, doll,” she had whispered, a malicious smile on her lips.
The mere memory of those words sent ice through Draco’s veins. He shut his eyes, trying to banish the echo of them from his mind, but they lingered.
He had wondered—why had they handed him over to Selene Von Eldritch? He had been terrified when he awoke in this place, not only because of the presence of the silent half-elf watching him but because he had been brought there without his knowledge.
It was thanks to the half-elf that he had learned the woman’s name. At first, it had sounded vaguely familiar, but he had been too indignant and frightened to think clearly. Only now did he remember where he had heard it before. It had been when he was nine years old, waiting for his father’s return. And when he arrived, he had not been alone. That was when Draco first heard the name Selene Von Eldritch—The Empress Aeternum. A woman whose alliance was highly coveted, possessing resources that no one else could offer.
Opening his eyes, Draco realised he had been absentmindedly scrubbing the same spot on his body for several minutes, his movements automatic while his mind drifted elsewhere.
Ironically, it was his own thoughts that prevented him from enjoying his morning ritual.
It frustrated him—his lack of information about her, her motivations, her methods. What did this woman want? And how did he fit into all of it?
He forced himself to focus on the warm, comforting water, on the way it washed away every trace of soap and tension. Slowly, Draco felt his mind settle, as though the water was cleansing his exhausted thoughts as well.
Now was not the time to dwell on it. He wouldn’t get any answers—not yet.
As he stepped out of the shower, he felt his skin, slightly reddened from the hot water. He took one of the Turkish cotton towels set out by the half-elf and wrapped it around himself with slow, deliberate movements. The towel, soft as a cloud, caressed his skin, absorbing every trace of moisture and leaving behind a refreshing sensation.
With the towel secured around his waist, Draco approached the gold-framed mirror above the double sink. With a flick of his wand, the steam vanished, revealing his reflection—sharp and clear. He looked better, more alive, a healthy flush colouring his cheeks.
Following his routine, Draco reached for the bottle of pure argan oil. A small smile graced his lips as he recalled the day his mother had gifted it to him. They had been in the gardens of the Malfoys’ French villa, a place filled with happy memories. His mother had looked at him with that calculated patience she used when preparing to say something he wouldn’t want to hear.
“Draco,” her tone was soft, casual, as if the conversation held no real significance. “Have you ever considered trying a different style for your hair?”
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, his posture tensing instantly.
“No.”
Narcissa sighed, though her expression remained unchanged.
“I don’t understand, darling. When you were a child, your hair used to fall so softly… you were adorable.”
Draco scowled.
“I am not adorable, Mother.”
“Don’t interrupt, Draco,” she replied, sweetly but firmly. “What I mean is, you don’t have to style your hair this way just because your father told you to.”
Draco didn’t look at her, feigning disinterest, though the stiffness in his posture betrayed his discomfort. His straight, fine hair was neatly slicked back, not a single strand out of place—just as Lucius had always insisted.
His mother rose with the same elegance in which she had been raised. She stepped towards him, and with the confidence only she possessed, lifted a hand to brush aside an invisible strand from his forehead.
“I have a gift for you.”
Draco eyed her warily as she extended a small box of dark velvet.
“It will be good for your hair,” she continued, “and you’ll look just as impeccable as you do now, but without the need for so much rigidity.”
Draco stared at the box in silence. He hadn’t taken it immediately. He knew his mother never gave gifts without purpose, and when it came to his appearance, those purposes always carried deeper meaning.
“Try it, my dragon,” she had murmured, her voice laced with the rare warmth she reserved only for him—the same warmth she had once used to lull him to sleep as a child.
And so he had. Now, argan oil was an essential part of his routine—a moment of self-care that made him feel more himself, more authentic. He longed to return to that summer, to the tranquillity of the gardens, to the quiet conversations with his mother over tea.
With a few drops, he spread the oil evenly through his hair, from root to tip. The oil shaped his hair in a way that was tidy yet relaxed, giving it a natural shine and softness that wax could never achieve.
Then, he reached for his body cream. The velvety texture was a pleasure to the touch, and as it melted into his skin, it released a fragrance that transported him to an English garden in spring, where flowers swayed to the rhythm of an invisible melody. With slow, circular motions, he began to massage it into his body, savouring the way the cream fused with his skin.
The fragrance deepened as the cream spread across his body, enveloping him in a veil of sensuality. Suede, with its warm, earthy aroma, emerged as the final note, leaving behind a trail of sophistication and magnetism. He felt renewed, the tension in his body dissipating as if by magic. He knew the scent would linger on his skin throughout the day—an invisible armour that would fill him with confidence and assurance.
Letting the towel slip from his body, Draco put on a silk robe, the soft, lightweight fabric gliding over his skin as effortlessly as his thoughts drifted towards a quiet corner of his mind.
He picked up his face cream, feeling the coolness of the jar in his hands—a familiar gesture that connected him to his morning routine. The texture, smooth and silky, spread effortlessly over his skin, releasing a subtle, fresh fragrance reminiscent of morning dew. He felt the hydration sink deep, soothing dryness and tightness instantly, leaving his skin soft and supple to the touch.
As the final step of his ritual, he brushed his teeth and took a sip of a breath potion, enjoying the burst of menthol freshness that flooded his mouth, leaving behind a trace of magic and a hint of liquorice. A sense of well-being washed over him, filling him with energy and confidence to face the day.
Draco stepped out of the bathroom with his skin soft and luminous, feeling refreshed and at ease. The silk robe offered little protection against the chill seeping through the windows. Despite it being summer, the early mornings in the Schwarzwald Forest were always cold—the half-elf called it a welcome from nature before the sun began to warm the earth.
He let out a quiet sigh. His gaze turned to the fireplace, where the flames crackled warmly. It had been tended to in his absence, yet despite the room’s comforting warmth, the air still carried a lingering trace of the morning’s crispness—an echo of the night that refused to fade entirely.
His eyes swept over the room, settling on the meticulously made bed. The navy-blue quilt, with its signature matelassé pattern, lay elegantly over the mattress, neatly folded back to reveal smooth, cool silk sheets that accentuated the plush cobalt velvet duvet. Four pristine goose-down pillows stood against the headboard, arranged before a selection of cushions placed with calculated disorder. An irresistible urge to sink into the bed crept over him.
But before the thought could fully take hold, his gaze fell upon the luxurious fur throw draped across the foot of the bed. Its neutral tone enhanced its inviting warmth, silently beckoning him to wrap himself in its softness.
Draco exhaled slowly, his eyes trailing around the room with a contemplative air. His chosen robes for the day awaited him, yet the bed looked far too inviting, and his body felt too content to disturb this fleeting moment of peace.
Draco turned towards the bedside table, where a cup of tea rested, its steam rising in soft spirals, creating a cosy atmosphere. His fingers brushed against the plush, velvety texture of the blanket; making a decision, he wrapped it around his body, still warm from the shower.
With unhurried grace, he moved away from the bed, the fur throw billowing slightly behind him, like an extension of himself. The solid oak table, as it was every morning, was impeccably arranged. Newspapers, both magical and Muggle, were neatly aligned with precision, and beside them, a vase of lilac flowers and a transparent crystal candle, with its two flickering flames, added an air of elegance.
His gaze darkened upon noticing the Muggle newspapers among the others. He frowned, feeling they disrupted the harmony of the table. Draco couldn’t understand why the half-elf insisted on bringing them when he had never requested them and had no interest in them whatsoever.
Not wanting to disturb his good mood, Draco sank into one of the armchairs and, with a subtle flick of his wand, cast the Levitation Charm on his tea.
The cup rose smoothly, floating through the air before settling delicately in his hands. As his fingers wrapped around the glass, he felt the warmth seep through, spreading through his body. His eyes rested on the surface of the tea, where a fresh slice of lemon drifted among chamomile flowers, like tiny yellow moons floating in a golden sky. The deep green lemon balm leaves intertwined with the blossoms, adding a herbal touch to the infusion.
He brought the cup to his lips, savouring every detail. The first sip was a sweet, comforting caress of honey, blended with the floral softness of chamomile and the citrus freshness of lemon, banishing the last trace of cold within him. A sigh of satisfaction escaped his lips, and a soft smile appeared on his face.
His moment of tranquillity was abruptly interrupted when he read the headline of The Wizard’s Messenger, the German newspaper:
“Hogwarts Under Scrutiny: Speculations on the Tragedy at the Triwizard Tournament”
Draco had been anxiously awaiting news about the tournament for three days, but, to his surprise, The Daily Prophet had maintained an unusual silence on the matter. With an impatient gesture, he pushed aside the other newspapers and searched for the British publication. Upon finding it, he turned straight to the tournament section, only to be met with a sensationalist article—not that it surprised him. It was a stark contrast to the serious and objective approach of the German press.
Scandal at the Triwizard Tournament!: Harry Potter: Hero or Murderer?
By Rita Skeeter
Dear readers, what I am about to reveal in these pages is undoubtedly one of the greatest scandals of our time. What should have been the glorious final of the Triwizard Tournament has instead become a chilling mystery that has the entire wizarding community on edge. As the students of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang held their breath, awaiting the announcement of the champion, something unimaginable happened—neither Harry Potter nor Cedric Diggory returned.
For three days, the Ministry of Magic remained silent about the incident, insisting there was no cause for alarm. But as the hours passed, rumours spread, and last night, the truth finally came to light: Cedric Diggory was found dead.
Yes, dear readers. Dead. A talented, handsome young man with a brilliant future ahead of him, now reduced to a cold, lifeless corpse.
But the most unsettling aspect of this tragedy is not just the death of Hufflepuff’s champion, but the horrifying absence of Harry Potter. Where is the Boy Who Lived? Could Potter be involved in the death of his fellow competitor?
Anonymous sources claim that Potter and Diggory had a heated argument before entering the maze. Apparently, both were in love with the same girl—Cho Chang. Could this have been the motive for a crime of passion?
On the other hand, some defend Potter’s innocence, suggesting that his disappearance could be part of a darker scheme. But there are those who have begun to wonder whether Hogwarts’ so-called “hero” is, in truth, the executioner of his own companion.
If Potter is innocent, why is he hiding? Did he flee to escape justice? Or are we facing a dark truth that no one dares to admit—that the Boy Who Lived has now become the Boy Who Killed?
Stay alert, dear readers. This story still holds many secrets, and this reporter will not rest until the truth comes to light.
Draco let out a bitter laugh—a silent mockery at the irony of fate. It was absurd how much the wizarding world would devour this story, branding Potter as either a Saviour or a Monster. They did not care about the truth, so long as they were not the victims. They would repeat the same farce over and over again.
There was a time when hatred had consumed him, when resentment had driven him to challenge and torment Potter at every opportunity. But now, all that remained in Draco was indifference—or perhaps something closer to pity. Potter was just another pawn in this game, a victim of both the Light and the Dark, a reflection of Draco’s own predicament.
A chill ran down his spine, like a dagger slicing through his vertebrae—a silent premonition that froze the blood in his veins. He could not call it a hunch; it was something more visceral, a certainty that settled deep within him.
Draco had always lived in a cage. A gilded cage, adorned with luxury and privilege—but a cage nonetheless.
The difference was that Draco had chosen his cage.
And he could not help but wonder.
Whether Potter had his own cage too, and if he had chosen it.