A/N: WHY HELLO THERE. How are you all. Here's a big Chapter, Enjoy. Comment review and send power stones.
"Sorry, I can't send you any more roses," he said.
"Never mind, I've got plenty." She lay on her bed, shrouded in the night, trying to stay lighthearted and mask her faint disappointment.
"Actually, that's a relief for my papa." Hermione paused, then glanced at the ring, a hint of amusement in her voice. "He'd bought out every vase in the area."
Draco smiled at that — with more than a hint of smugness.
He sighed and forced a sincere expression. "Tell him I'm sorry."
"Alright," Hermione agreed.
Yet the subtle fragrance drifting through her bedroom seemed to whisper otherwise: he probably felt no remorse at all. On the contrary, he seemed rather pleased with himself.
"I know!" Hermione said, a smirk playing on her lips as she addressed the quietly blooming roses. "Apologise, but remain wholly unrepentant — isn't that just typical Draco Malfoy?"
Merlin, she was going mad.
She'd already started talking to the roses.
She lifted her hand mirror, fingers tracing the delicate scrollwork on its back, and caught a rather foolish smile reflected in the glass.
But not long after, a touch of melancholy crept into her expression, settling between her brows.
She asked softly, "Was it bad? The argument?"
Draco's parents had banned him from using owls and house-elves. Something heated must have been said to warrant that.
Hermione suspected it had to do with their relationship, but she couldn't bring herself to ask directly — so she probed from the edges.
Draco was quiet for a moment.
He didn't know how to answer.
The last thing he wanted was to worry Hermione, especially now that mountains lay between them.
"Tolerable," he said briefly, settling on a word that was as far from the truth as he could manage without lying outright.
In reality, Draco was deeply unhappy.
At this very moment, he was pacing a quiet corner of the manor gardens, breathing in the heady scent of roses, searching for some peace of mind. But he couldn't escape the feeling that none of them — not a single bloom — smelled as good as Hermione's soft, thick hair.
Merlin. He hadn't been near her in days.
Since they'd started dating, they had seen each other, held hands, embraced, and kissed almost every single day. Being so suddenly torn apart left his heart — which she had so patiently mended — feeling as though a piece had shattered all over again, fallen onto a Muggle car and been carried away with a smile by the Grangers.
Throughout it all, Draco had remained composed, telling the girl watching him with hopeful eyes that two months was nothing, that it would pass in the blink of an eye, that there was no reason to worry.
In truth, he was the first to falter. Ever since returning to Malfoy Manor, he had tossed and turned each night without rest.
The cause of his insomnia was simple enough to name.
He had lost the one thing that sustained him.
Without her, the mundane weight of daily life made it difficult to breathe.
To all appearances, Draco was managing his endless disputes with his parents with cool composure. But deep down, he knew he lacked confidence. This was still too difficult.
In his previous life, he had always respected and trusted his parents — they had faced adversity together, side by side. In this life, he had to stand against them. For Hermione. For himself. For the Malfoy family's future.
Even if it was only a clash of words, the process ground at him constantly.
And beyond that, an invisible tolling bell sounded in the back of his mind without pause:
It was early July 1995. The Battle of Hogwarts — May 1998 — was drawing ever closer.
Draco could no longer deceive himself the way he had when he was first reborn, telling himself that time was long and the future was distant. Back then, he'd had seven years to plan. Now he had fewer than three.
He had made progress — he had managed to trip up the Dark Lord's resurrection; the Dark Lord had failed to return, at least for now. But Draco did not dare to let his guard down. The Dark Lord was not destroyed. He would try again.
Anything could still happen before that fixed point in time: May 1998.
He carried a terrible, soul-crushing secret with no one to confide in. He walked on thin ice — seemingly from winter into spring, seemingly as the world warmed around him — but the ice beneath his feet was melting. Each step terrified him more than the last.
One careless move could crack everything beyond repair, plunging him and everyone he loved into cold, dark water with no chance of climbing back out.
This battle was far from over. He still had to fight.
Against obsolete thinking. Against a world that refused to change. Against the fate that had already been written once before.
Yes — that stubborn, predetermined fate was what Draco feared most of all.
He had to acknowledge it: even as he fought to alter the course of things, some gears continued to turn exactly as they always had. The Ministry of Magic's barely concealed hostility toward Hogwarts, for instance.
In Draco's estimation, Dumbledore had been considerably more measured in this life than in the last.
Cornelius Fudge, inexplicably, had not registered this goodwill at all. Instead, he had grown ever more rigid and touchy.
Power was honey enough to bewitch the mind — and poison enough to destroy it.
The morning after Draco was forbidden from using owls, Lucius sat at the breakfast table enjoying his Daily Prophet with uninterrupted contentment. He seemed to have found some great advantage, and proudly held up the newspaper for his son to see.
"Look! I told you only days ago that you needed to keep your distance from Harry Potter. Now the whole world seems to think he's lost his mind."
Draco stood, took the paper, and read through the front page carefully.
It was a report on Harry Potter. Someone had seemingly unearthed damaging information: "Harry Potter reportedly fainted and screamed during a Divination lesson."
An anonymous Hogwarts student — apparently one of Harry's Divination classmates — had been interviewed by a Daily Prophet reporter over the summer holiday.
What was most infuriating was the sidebar: a quote from a Healer in the Spell Damage ward at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, who earnestly urged Harry Potter to come in at his earliest convenience to have his curse scar examined.
This particular reporter was, Draco had to admit, rather more astute than Rita Skeeter.
Not a single outright lie had been printed. Harry's scar did cause him pain. And the Healer had expressed a genuine concern.
But when two unrelated truths were placed side by side, something else emerged entirely — a connection that needed no words to take root in a reader's mind.
Anyone inclined to leap to conclusions would find themselves thinking: Harry's scar had affected his mind. His claims about Death Eaters at the Tournament final were delusions born of illness, not to be taken seriously.
"Father, since when did you start putting stock in this sort of gossip?" Draco set down the paper, pressed his lips together, and dismissed it.
"Draco, you need to learn how to read between the lines," Lucius said earnestly. "I've heard that the editor of the Daily Prophet is on rather comfortable terms with Cornelius Fudge. This isn't merely a newspaper — it is the mouthpiece of the Minister of Magic."
He lifted his teacup, unhurried.
"Intelligent people look past the surface. An exaggerated report can still reveal the Ministry's true disposition..."
Over the course of several days of verbal sparring and ideological clashes between Lucius and his son on the matter of blood purity, Lucius had quietly come to one conclusion: he could no longer view Draco as a child.
Some of the boy's ideas were naive, dangerous, even contrary to the foundations of their family. And yet they held a disquieting sort of depth.
The son knew the Malfoy family's web of connections as if he had drawn the map himself, and his thinking — for someone his age — was unusually deliberate.
Draco had been right about one thing: he was a true Malfoy through and through.
He possessed the finest qualities of the family name.
There was no question that, with the right guidance, this son's future would be limitless.
Apart from the unfortunate matter of the Muggle girl — which Lucius still believed they would resolve in time — a child like Draco was the heir any patriarch would dream of. While his peers spent their summers eating, duelling for sport, and fretting over their upcoming O.W.L.s, Draco had already applied himself to understanding how the world truly operated. He had moved beyond recklessness and foolishness before most boys had even considered them.
This was unpolished jade — far finer than mere stone.
Unable to help himself, Lucius felt the urge to share more: more wisdom, more of the unspoken rules of wizarding society, more of what he had spent a lifetime learning.
Why not? He had the experience and the connections to spare. Why let his son stumble blindly when the path was already known?
"...In short, we must learn to watch the Ministry's direction, position ourselves accordingly, and exchange influence for advantage — for the benefit of this family." Having reached his conclusion, Lucius set down his cup.
"I have reservations about that." Draco took a measured sip of his Geisha coffee, expression neutral.
This drew a soft complaint from Narcissa.
"Little Dragon, you know how I feel about coffee. You're far too young for that sort of thing..."
"Sorry, Mother. Just this once." Draco gave her a quick smile and took a few more deliberate sips.
He needed it. This morning's conversation with Lucius demanded complete clarity, and 'low energy' was not a state he could afford.
A stimulant would have been more effective — but he'd taken a Dreamless Sleep Draught again last night, and its effects hadn't fully lifted. And he distinctly recalled Professor Snape cautioning that combining the two was unwise in the extreme.
Beyond that, Draco was reluctant to rely on potions for everything. Any seasoned Potions master would advise the same: no preparation should be taken continuously over a prolonged period. Tolerance builds. Side effects creep in. The body begins to resist.
Take Invigorating Draught, for instance — excessive use was known to cause overexcitement and inflated arrogance. And that was considered mild.
By comparison, a Muggle cup of black coffee was an entirely acceptable substitute.
Narcissa looked at her son with quiet surprise.
When had he ever needed an energy tonic? Little Dragon must simply be after something new.
"At least add some sugar and milk — black coffee is far too—" Before she could finish, her impossible son had drained the cup entirely, turned it upside down to show her the empty bottom, and given her a lazy, unapologetic smile.
Narcissa pressed her lips together.
She shook her head at him, the picture of exasperated resignation.
As long as he wasn't contacting that Muggle girl, she could allow Little Dragon his choices at the table.
Still, as he bent his head to eat a rasher of bacon, she studied him with a quiet, searching gaze. A vague unease had been settling in her for some time now.
Little Dragon had always had a sweet tooth. As a boy, he'd taken his chocolate with milk, without fail. When had he grown so accustomed to black coffee that he could drink it as calmly and naturally as water?
He hadn't even flinched.
"Father, I know that as head of the Malfoy family, you seized the right moment and elevated our family's wealth and standing to new heights." After a beat, Draco launched his counterattack.
He did not acknowledge his mother's glance. She had looked at him that way since childhood — he had long since grown used to it.
He continued, his tone measured. "I have always admired your political instincts and your skill at navigating difficult waters."
Lucius lifted his chin slightly — much like the white peacock in the manor garden when it deigns to receive a compliment on its plumage.
His son had said he admired him. That was something, he thought privately, rather pleased.
When the boy — who had been obstinate and troublesome for days — suddenly offered the deference he ought to have shown from the beginning, even Lucius's considerable pride permitted a quiet satisfaction.
Sensing his father was in a receptive mood and might actually listen, Draco pressed forward.
"Father, I have a question for you. Why has the Ministry of Magic responded to Hogwarts' victory not with praise, but by throwing cold water on it? Don't you find that unusual?"
"There are rumours. From what I understand, Fudge's backers — the interest groups behind him and his advisers — have strong opinions about Hogwarts' management, and he's obliged to take their views into account. Fudge isn't the same Minister he was when he first took office. He's built his own power base, cultivated new allies, and in recent years he's grown considerably less dependent on Dumbledore for every decision—"
Lucius spoke without haste, adding a pinch of sugar to his tea. "In my view, that's exactly as it should be. What sort of image would it project if the Minister of Magic were forever trailing after the Hogwarts Headmaster?"
"Dear Father — Ministers of Magic come and go, but Hogwarts endures," Draco said evenly. "Everyone owes Hogwarts a greater measure of respect than this."
"Endures?" Lucius glanced at his son. "You'd do well to make a distinction. It's Hogwarts that endures — not Dumbledore. The man is ancient. How old is he?"
Draco said nothing.
Born in 1881. Dumbledore was one hundred and thirteen years old this year.
In his previous life, he had been going to—
"Look at the state Hogwarts is in under his watch," Lucius went on, contempt sharpening his voice. "I have serious doubts about his capacity to run the school."
Draco stayed quiet.
Hogwarts was, admittedly, not without its faults.
It seemed his father — as a longstanding member of the Board of Governors — had harboured a deep-seated resentment toward Dumbledore's decisions for quite some time.
"A Defence Against the Dark Arts position that can't keep an instructor for more than a year — werewolves and half-giants given teaching posts, putting young witches and wizards at unnecessary risk..." Lucius's voice sharpened. "And wasn't that so-called Auror they hired last year targeting you directly? Tell me, Draco — why didn't you write to us about any of this?"
"Yes, Little Dragon — Mrs Zabini told me what happened," Narcissa said, her brow furrowed with concern. "I don't even know how many favours I owe her now. Why didn't you simply tell us? Don't you trust that we would protect you? We would fight for you. We are always on your side."
Draco looked at his mother and saw the hurt plain on her face.
"Mother, I'm sorry for worrying you," he said softly. Something caught in his throat.
They would be on his side — he had always known that.
They were not the kind of parents who deferred to professors or accepted outside criticism without question. They never took accusations against their son at face value, but always asked him directly: what actually happened?
Lucius and Narcissa were precisely the kind of parents that Hogwarts staff found most formidable — because they always began from their son's perspective. They would never allow him to suffer an injustice without fighting back.
Draco had seen this firsthand many times, in his previous life.
"I have already filed a formal protest with the Board of Governors," Lucius said, his tone grave. "He will not be setting foot at Hogwarts again this year — I will see to that personally."
There were things Draco could not yet tell them, however.
The one who had targeted him was never the real Alastor Moody. The impostor who had filled that role — scarred beyond recognition, magical-eyed, and grim enough to pass for a Halloween display without any preparation — had actually been a capable teacher, for all his menace. The man beneath that disguise was none other than Bartemius Crouch Junior, his father's former... associate.
"Thank you, Father. I share your reservations about several of Hogwarts' management decisions." Though Lucius had missed the mark entirely, Draco offered his gratitude without hesitation.
"That said," he continued, "I believe a wizard of Dumbledore's standing is simply stretched too thin to give any one institution his full attention. Between serving as Headmaster, presiding over the International Confederation of Wizards, and sitting as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, it would be unreasonable to expect perfection."
Not to mention Dumbledore's quiet work with the Order of the Phoenix, his search for Horcruxes, and his ongoing efforts to track the Dark Lord.
Draco had often viewed Dumbledore through a dark lens, and he did not consider the man without fault. And yet, through their various encounters over the years, he couldn't deny a certain awareness of the burden the old wizard carried. In his mind, Dumbledore was always working — always fighting for a future the wizarding world was not yet ready to imagine. Did the man have any private time at all?
What leisure could this seemingly all-powerful wizard permit himself, beyond the occasional sweet enjoyed in passing?
"If he lacks the energy to manage multiple responsibilities, he ought to step down and make room for someone who can," Lucius said coolly. "People age. Even he is not exempt. He should retire gracefully, as your grandfather did — not cling to positions he can no longer fulfil."
"On that point, I can only say that people are guided by their own ambitions," Draco replied, unmoved. "My sense is that he's not the kind of wizard who could ever simply walk away from the future of wizarding society. And for that matter, many witches and wizards would be lost without his guidance — whether they realise it or not."
Draco remembered clearly the prolonged, grinding despair that followed Dumbledore's death in his previous life.
It was a period he had no wish to live through again.
A time when the world came apart. When fear turned people against each other, and that division allowed the Dark Lord to pick them off one by one.
"My child, when Dumbledore speaks, many wizards dare not contradict him," Lucius said, leaning forward slightly. "A great many people resent that kind of one-man show. They want their own voices heard."
That isn't right, Draco thought.
His father could see Dumbledore's power as a liability — but he was entirely blind to its advantage.
If Dumbledore had not died. If he had been there to take the platform, to raise his hand and rally the uncertain and the afraid — how many wizards who had shut themselves away behind closed doors might have stepped back out into the light?
"When people are arguing in circles, isn't that precisely when we need someone capable of making a decision everyone can abide by?" Draco said. "Father, Dumbledore has been Headmaster for more than fifty years. Think of how many generations of students have passed through Hogwarts under his watch. His influence cannot be dismissed — and his opinions should not be ignored."
Lucius narrowed his pale grey eyes at his son.
"It's not difficult to see that you seem to hold Dumbledore in rather high regard—"
He paused, recalled suddenly the conversation he'd had with his wife the night before.
"Cici, why won't you let me simply put the fear of Merlin into that girl?" he'd asked, exasperated. "It would be straightforward. A bit of pressure in the right place, and this would all resolve itself."
"Lucius, it isn't so simple," Narcissa had said. "If we act rashly now, we only drive him further away. And if we harm the Muggle girl — given his current state — we risk turning him against us entirely. That is not an outcome we can afford."
"So we simply do nothing? We let him run riot?" Lucius had said, jaw tightening.
"Lucius, I've been watching Little Dragon closely these past few days while you've been arguing with him. The problem is larger than the Muggle girl. The deeper issue is that he has genuinely changed the way he thinks about Muggles and blood purity."
"What do you mean—"
Narcissa had sighed, long and slow. "He had to have accepted those ideas from the inside before he could ever fall for a Muggle girl — don't you think?"
"You're more worried about his beliefs than the girl herself?" Lucius had finally understood.
"Precisely. I'm worried that even if we drive this Muggle girl away, another will follow in her wake." A thoughtful stillness had crossed her face. "The root of the problem isn't the girl. We cannot change his behaviour until we address what has changed in his thinking."
"But look at him — he's immovable," Lucius had said, frustrated. "How do we correct a mind full of such dangerous ideas?"
"He is, after all, our son — whether he believes I understand him or not, I do know him." Narcissa had been quiet for a moment. "What I cannot ignore is this: his thinking about bloodlines is too thorough, too structured. He's not simply parroting feelings — he is constructing arguments against the very foundations of pureblood philosophy, and doing it with a clarity far beyond his years. What does that tell you?"
"That someone is guiding him," Lucius had said quietly, his eyes sharpening. "Someone with an agenda."
Narcissa had nodded.
"Before Hogwarts, his thinking was perfectly sound. Since Hogwarts, he has changed more with each passing year. Someone with an ulterior motive has been deliberately shaping the way he sees the world. The question is — who benefits most from this?"
"Dumbledore," Lucius had said, the name leaving his lips like something cold. "He wants to turn our children against us. Drive a wedge between Draco and this family, so he can claim him for his own cause."
"Yes. I have every reason to suspect that Dumbledore intends to make the Malfoy heir the next Sirius Black." Her voice had been calm, but her eyes were cold. "I will not become the next Walburga. And Little Dragon will not fall to that level."
"Absolutely not. I will not allow it," Lucius had said, face set like stone.
"At this moment, the Muggle girl is secondary. We've cut off their communication — now we give him time to settle, to clear a head that has been clouded by infatuation. Tomorrow, we dig deeper." Narcissa had spoken with quiet resolve. "We need to get to the bottom of who has been feeding him these ideas. And whether Dumbledore is truly behind it all."
Returning to the present from the echo of that conversation, Lucius fixed his son with a wary look.
His wife met his gaze from across the table, her lovely brows furrowed — clearly turning over the same thoughts.
"Draco," Lucius said, "are you taking Dumbledore's side?"
"Father, I am not on anyone's side. I am a Malfoy — nothing more," Draco said, impatience edging into his voice. "You may not be fully aware of what actually occurred in the Triwizard Tournament final — which may well be the source of the rift between Fudge and Dumbledore."
Something shifted in Lucius's cool, pale eyes — a subtle tremor, like the first flicker of a warning light.
"What do you know? What exactly happened in the final?" he asked.
Good. Draco exhaled, quietly relieved. He had finally managed to redirect his father's imagination onto the right track.
These past days, he had grown weary of the pureblood debate — that was a battle that could not be won in a week, or even a month. He had stated his position. His parents had stated theirs. Neither had moved the other.
So he would have to come at it from another direction.
What had happened in the Triwizard Tournament final — that might actually give his parents pause. A genuine jolt.
If they understood that the Dark Lord had briefly returned, would they truly still have the luxury of worrying about his love life?
Out of caution, he had not shared this information the moment he arrived home. He had argued, tested them, watched for patterns across several days — trying to gauge where they truly stood on the matter of the Dark Lord.
From what he had observed, their faith in the Dark Lord was not unshakeable. They had even shown a clear flicker of surprise at learning that the Dark Lord was a half-blood.
Not the outright revulsion Draco would have most liked to see — but surprise was still far better than fanatical devotion.
"You haven't missed the latest Daily Prophet, I assume?" Draco said to his father. "Do you recall what it said about the Triwizard Tournament?"
"Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory took the Cup." Lucius studied his son with suspicion. "There's been some talk that they won through irregular means. Did they—"
"Quite the opposite. They were set up. In truth, a Death Eater was present inside the final maze," Draco said directly, watching the brief, involuntary shift in his father's expression.
The phrase 'Death Eater' had clearly landed with more weight than Lucius had anticipated.
'Hermione's Muggle psychology books are absolutely remarkable,' Draco thought.
Thanks to them, his ability to read people had sharpened considerably.
"Tell me more." Lucius seemed to brush a strand of platinum blond hair from his shoulder — but his hand grazed his ear in a gesture Draco recognised immediately.
His father was nervous.
"Walton McNeil — formerly an executioner on the Ministry's Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures — is currently imprisoned in Azkaban for his part in the Death Eater attack at the Quidditch World Cup," Draco said evenly.
"You're simply reciting from the Daily Prophet," Lucius said, impatient, his gaze drifting back to his paper. "McNeil — I told you years ago, the man's a drunken brute."
Draco shifted course.
"What fewer people know," he said calmly, watching his father's face, "is that before his arrest, McNeil entered the Tournament maze under Polyjuice Potion — using Ludo Bagman's likeness."
That caught Lucius's attention. He looked up sharply, eyes intent, and waited.
"McNeil attacked Krum and Delacour inside the maze — the other two champions. He had planned to go after Diggory as well, but ran out of time. His objective was to ensure Harry Potter reached the Triwizard Cup first. The Cup had been enchanted as a Portkey that transported both Harry and Cedric Diggory to a graveyard," Draco said, unhurried.
Both Lucius and Narcissa were caught entirely off guard by this new turn.
"That's extraordinary," Narcissa said. "What was McNeil hoping to accomplish by taking such a risk?"
"Dumbledore concluded he was acting in service of the Dark Lord," Draco said plainly.
"Nonsense. The Dark Lord has been gone for years." Lucius pressed his left forearm, almost involuntarily, his voice firm. "If something like this had truly taken place, it would have been front-page news in the Prophet by now."
Draco watched his father with quiet, steady eyes — noting the gesture, noting the stiffness in his posture — and did not rush to contradict him.
Instead, he drew a neatly folded copy of the Hogwarts Gazette from his pocket, smoothed it open, and slid it across the table to where Lucius and Narcissa could both see it.
"This details the events of the Tournament final — including McNeil's actions inside the maze. Alongside Fudge's official account, it's worth considering what the four champions themselves had to say."
Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a glance.
Narcissa made no move to take it, but gestured for Lucius to look first.
Lucius picked up the newspaper and read it closely. The deep crease in his brow slowly eased.
"There's very little of substance here," he said dismissively. "Mostly the champions' personal speculation. Hidden Death Eaters in a labyrinth, tampered Portkeys, mysterious shadows, inexplicable graveyards — it reads like something out of a poorly written adventure serial. This is hearsay, not evidence."
"You can't dismiss one fact so easily," Draco said. "McNeil entered that maze and attacked two champions. Why would he take such an enormous personal risk?"
"Don't put too much stock in what foreign wizards say — their accounts are always suspect." Lucius gave a thin smile. "Krum and Delacour may simply be embellishing their experience in the labyrinth to spare themselves the embarrassment of losing."
"I find that difficult to accept. Beyond that, their accounts didn't stand alone — the testimonies of all four champions corroborated one another," Draco said, expression neutral.
Lucius pursed his lips, clearly irritated by his son's composed persistence.
He turned a page of the newspaper, seeking to redirect his frustration. "The Hogwarts Gazette — isn't that the student paper the Board recently approved? On Dumbledore's recommendation, if I recall correctly." He gave a short, dismissive laugh and passed the paper to Narcissa. "Sissy, have a look — though I question whether anything in this sort of gossip rag carries any real authority."
He fixed his son with a scornful look. "What possessed you to treat this as a credible source?"
Draco ignored the jab. "This newspaper circulated all across Hogwarts. Note the publication date — it went to press within days of the Tournament final. That is not a coincidence."
His voice was steady and clear — not the wavering protest of a boy desperate to be believed, but the measured certainty of someone who had thought it through. Like bamboo bending in the wind, but never breaking.
"I believe Dumbledore had his reasons for fast-tracking approval of that paper in the final days of term. He wanted it printed and in students' hands before they scattered for the summer," Draco said.
Lucius studied his son with something he couldn't quite name.
When had the boy stopped going red in the face under pressure? When had he stopped sitting in silence at the dinner table, absorbing rather than contributing? When had he learned to think not just about facts but about the reasons behind them — to set out his arguments with this kind of steadiness and meet dismissal without losing his footing?
There was a quiet storm in Lucius's chest as he met his son's calm grey eyes, and still he held his position.
"Dumbledore's endorsement of this paper does not establish that Potter and Diggory are telling the truth. In the history of the Triwizard Tournament, competitors have bent the rules before and looked the other way afterwards. That's hardly unprecedented."
"I would have thought," Draco said, "that as a Hogwarts man yourself, you'd extend a degree of trust to Hogwarts champions."
Lucius scoffed. "This has nothing to do with school loyalty. It's about human nature. Being a champion doesn't make someone a paragon of honesty. The pull of glory is as strong as any enchantment — why should Potter and Diggory be immune?"
Harry is not that kind of person. Neither is Diggory. Draco drew a slow breath, pressing down the surge of anger that rose in him.
He was furious at the dismissal — but he could not afford to let the conversation break down. Not yet.
Narcissa set down the paper. "Little Dragon, Harry Potter managed to enter the Tournament under rather suspicious circumstances to begin with — you said as much yourself. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he arranged something with his Hogwarts co-champion to secure the win."
"So," Draco said, his voice cooling, "this newspaper means nothing to you?"
"It's a sensational story," Lucius said flatly.
In the quiet of the breakfast room, Draco looked at his parents — comfortable, composed, unruffled — and allowed himself a faint, private smile that held no warmth at all.
At this point in his previous life, they would not have been so at ease. They had been shaken. Frightened, even. Cedric's death and the Dark Lord's return had sent tremors through the Malfoy household that nothing could disguise.
But in this life, no one had died. The Dark Lord's resurrection had collapsed before it could complete itself. The world was at peace.
And that was, in one sense, a great good. This calm had given the light side time to breathe, to prepare, to face whatever darkness came next from a steadier position.
But it was also a danger.
Because this calm had cost the Malfoy family their vigilance. They had settled back into the illusion of safety, and could not see their way out of it.
In this moment, his parents likely believed they were still masters of their own fate — that they remained the ones who set the rules and navigated the board. They were still basking in the glow of a prosperity they didn't yet know was built on ice.
Draco looked at them for a moment — really looked at them — wanting to hold in his memory the ease on their faces. The unclouded expressions of people who did not yet know what was coming.
Because from this moment forward, he was going to shatter it.
He would tear down the comfortable illusion they had wrapped themselves in. He would strip away the false picture of order and safety they had mistaken for reality. And he would show them something else — something harsher, truer, and more frightening.
And perhaps, if it went the way he needed it to — more hopeful.
Hermione had been right. They needed to change how they were seeing this.
"What if," Draco said quietly, his eyes on them both, "it wasn't a story at all? What if everything that happened in that graveyard was real?"
"Even if we grant that they were genuinely transported somewhere," Lucius said, still unhurried, "who's to say what that shadow actually was?"
"Ludo Bagman," Draco said. "He was caught by Dumbledore at the graveyard. He was another accomplice of the Dark Lord."
"That's becoming increasingly absurd," Lucius said sharply. "Bagman was no Death Eater. On what basis do you make that claim?"
"Wasn't Ludo Bagman killed in some sort of accident?" Narcissa said. "I heard he had gambling debts — died under strange circumstances, buried quietly..."
"It wasn't an accident," Draco said evenly. "He was killed by Dementors." He paused. "I think you both understand who has the authority to command Dementors, and who could give such an order. Had Bagman lived, he might have served as a witness. Convenient, that he didn't."
"You fool — did you see his body with your own eyes before you level accusations of murder at the Minister of Magic?" Lucius's voice was ice. "Without a shred of evidence?"
"I didn't see him die," Draco said. "But I saw his body. And I was present when Fudge and Dumbledore spoke. Fudge clearly didn't want this made public — not with a ministerial election on the horizon. So he ensured it wouldn't be."
Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a glance — and despite themselves, a flicker of reluctant acknowledgement passed between them.
Whatever they thought of the boy's ideological leanings, his political instincts were sharp. Unsettlingly so.
Draco pressed on. "Dumbledore has been restrained throughout all of this. At such a delicate moment, he hasn't publicised what he knows — I suspect he wanted to give Fudge time and space to come to his senses. But Fudge is clearly not inclined to take it. He won't tolerate even the smallest blemish."
"Fudge is soft," Lucius said, with the certainty of a man who had studied him for years. "There's a weakness in him. I don't believe he has the stomach to order a killing so casually."
Draco looked at his father — poised, self-assured, utterly convinced — and decided the time had come.
He was going to say something that would pull the ground out from under that composure, and he needed Lucius off-balance when he said it.
"The reason Fudge moved so decisively," Draco said, his voice slow and deliberate, "is because he had a compelling reason to act. When Bagman appeared at the graveyard, he was carrying something. A small creature. Frail-looking. Almost like a grotesque infant." He let the pause breathe. "According to Dumbledore, it was a body the Dark Lord had constructed — most likely through something akin to a Rudimentary Body Potion."
"What are you saying?" Lucius's colour drained from his face in an instant. The composed, aristocratic mask fell away, replaced by something raw and pale. "The Dark Lord was there that night — he's still alive?"
Draco noted, with quiet precision, that his father's composure had cracked. Good.
This was a rare opening.
He watched his father's face intently — searching for a specific thing.
He did not find elation. He did not find the burning fervour of a devoted follower welcoming his master's return.
What he found was panic.
Good. Panic meant Lucius was not beyond reaching.
"Yes," Draco said, keeping his voice steady. "The Dark Lord himself appeared in that graveyard. He managed a brief resurrection — and was immediately driven back by Dumbledore. Or so I understand."
"All these years, has he really been—" Narcissa's voice was barely above a breath.
The careful posture she always maintained seemed to buckle slightly, as though something had pressed down hard on her shoulders from above.
"He never truly died," Draco said. "His soul has been wandering — surviving by means I won't speculate on — for over a decade."
He kept his voice cold. Shut out the part of himself that felt the pull of sympathy at the sight of his mother's face.
He had to continue. He needed to press further, to force something other than shock from them.
"Dumbledore's conclusion was that the Dark Lord had placed Ludo Bagman under some form of enchantment and used him to engineer the chaos at the Tournament. He needed Harry Potter to reach that graveyard."
"Why Potter?" Lucius's voice had gone flat, stripped of its usual smooth authority.
"They're planning to do something with him," Draco said. "What exactly, I cannot say with certainty."
"How do you know any of this?" Lucius's voice cracked into a shout. "Did Dumbledore tell you? Then it's his version of events — nothing more! The man is a skilled manipulator and—"
"Lucius." Narcissa's voice was quiet, but it cut through cleanly.
The head of the Malfoy family made a visible effort to reassemble himself. He drew back. Straightened. Let the mask settle back into place, though it fitted less naturally than before.
"Little Dragon," Narcissa said carefully, "I think you need to be cautious about accepting things too readily. You've heard one man's account. Dumbledore is not above shaping a narrative to suit his own ends."
"I don't see what he gains from manufacturing a story like this," Draco said sharply. "And as for Harry — he simply isn't clever enough to scheme his way into something so elaborate. That's not a criticism. It's an observation. He doesn't have the cunning for it."
He thought of Harry for a moment — and felt the familiar, reluctant exasperation he always experienced when forced to defend someone who would have cheerfully hexed him in the corridor.
Then he reminded himself: Harry had already come further than anyone could have reasonably expected. Perhaps demanding his saviour be both a saint and a strategist was asking for too much.
"Little Dragon, you mustn't be so quick to take things at face value," Narcissa said, her expression soft but earnest. "Dumbledore has been sounding alarms about the Dark Lord for years. More than a decade of warnings, and nothing has come of them. The world has been peaceful. Surely that tells you something."
"Perhaps this is all simply theatre," Lucius said, recovering some of his customary hauteur. "Dumbledore staging events to keep himself relevant. To remind people that without him, they are helpless. That is the behaviour of a man who fears being made redundant — not one who possesses any real intelligence."
"Or perhaps," Narcissa said, studying her son carefully, "this is how you're trying to redirect the conversation. A grand dramatic secret to make us forget all about a certain Muggle girl?"
"I wouldn't fabricate something of this scale for that," Draco said, and there was something genuinely pained in his voice. "I understand you won't open your arms to her immediately. I haven't asked you to. But I have no reason to lie about this."
He took a breath and spoke more deliberately, watching them both.
"The Dark Mark above the Quidditch World Cup last summer. Death Eaters moving openly through the crowd. A Death Eater planted inside the Triwizard Tournament. And the Dark Lord's brief appearance in that graveyard. None of these things stand alone — they point in the same direction, whether we choose to look or not." His voice was measured and firm. "The Malfoy family must be thinking carefully about what this means, and what part we might be asked to play in it."
Lucius's face twitched. A muscle near his jaw. His left hand shifted on the table.
"What does any of that have to do with us? The Malfoy family has been law-abiding for years. We have an excellent relationship with the Ministry of Magic—"
"Yes, Little Dragon," Narcissa said softly. "We haven't been involved in any of that for a long time. No one can hold the past over us. Your father has built strong ties with the Ministry, and our business ventures are thriving. We are well protected."
"Besides," Lucius said, regaining his footing, "everything Dumbledore has said and done for years amounts to one long campaign of fearmongering — designed to manipulate the Board of Governors, to keep Fudge compliant, and to justify his own unassailable position. He's never produced any concrete evidence of a confrontation with the Dark Lord. Draco, you should be very careful about who you allow to use you."
"I've said what I came to say. Cornelius Fudge used whatever means were available to ensure that Ludo Bagman — the one man who could speak to what happened — could never do so again," Draco said, the patience thinning at the edges of his voice.
There was other evidence still. But it was too soon.
Until he had a clearer picture of his parents' true position, he needed to leave himself room to manoeuvre. Honesty had its limits when trust had not been fully established.
"That may all be part of Dumbledore's narrative," Narcissa said. "What matters, Dragon, is this: Fudge is close to us — much closer than Dumbledore ever has been. As long as the Minister of Magic is an ally of this family, no one can use old accusations to threaten the Malfoys."
"Your mother is exactly right. And I will warn you clearly: until you can produce actual evidence, making such accusations against Fudge — however quietly — would be a serious mistake." Lucius's nostrils flared. "Particularly at a time when our family's business interests depend on his continued goodwill."
"Yes — he's been invaluable in matters of import licensing," Narcissa added, her voice gentle but deliberate. "The Congolese warthogs, the African Venomous Horned Boar — there are new regulations pending on several of your father's acquisitions. This is not the moment to make an enemy of the Ministry."
"Even if I say nothing," Draco said, quiet and immovable, "the facts don't change. Fudge is covering this up. At some point, people will find out — and when they do, his position becomes untenable. Whatever regulations he approved, whatever arrangements he made with this family or any other, will become very difficult to rely on."
He held his father's gaze and said simply, "Not every Minister of Magic will speak for the Malfoys. There will always be someone who wants to make an example of the past and fill the empty cells in Azkaban. Before that day comes, we should be—"
"Enough." Lucius rose sharply from his chair, his snake-headed cane striking the floor. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the dining room with a speed that was entirely unbefitting his usual measured dignity.
Narcissa let out a long sigh.
"Little Dragon — look what you've done. He has a business dinner hosted by Fudge this evening, and you've sent him off in this state."
She set her napkin on the table, rose smoothly, and followed her husband out of the room.
Draco sat alone in the quiet of the breakfast room, staring at the space they'd left behind, thoroughly exasperated.
And so his father — who had kept faithful stride with Cornelius Fudge for years — had now entered what Draco could only describe, with weary resignation, as the Denial Phase.