After that conversation, the current head of the Malfoy family became even busier.
Half the holiday had already passed, and Draco had barely had a chance to speak with his father, let alone find an opportunity to learn more about the Dark Mark.
The lack of progress made Draco hesitate.
"Should I find a chance to bring it up?"
He slowly lowered his wand, muttering to himself—then shook his head and dismissed the tempting thought.
Draco knew that if his father found out he was investigating anything related to the Dark Lord, he wouldn't tell him the truth. Worse, he'd likely stop Draco from digging any deeper.
And if word reached his mother...
Just imagining her clutching him tightly out of fear made Draco's wand hand twitch.
But more than anything, Draco didn't want to be sheltered beneath his parents' wings. He wanted to protect this family on his own.
"After all... it's the Dark Lord we're talking about."
As he spoke, a spell flew from the tip of his wand—an invisible blade of shadow. It was the same Dark Magic that once decapitated a troll.
Crack!
A narrow fracture split the wall in front of him. No—on closer inspection, the surface was covered in a dense web of razor-thin cuts, as if it had been shredded by countless invisible blades. Just looking at it made one's skin crawl.
It was clear that Draco wasn't focused on learning as many spells as possible.
Instead, he was pushing a single spell to its absolute limit.
Just like how he had refined the Levitation Charm to the point where it could disarm an opponent. Ron couldn't even hold onto his wand that day and ended up embedded in the ceiling with a single cast.
Or like his Disillusionment Charm—strong enough to keep a dragon hidden for long periods, far beyond the capabilities of the standard version.
These were the results of perfecting a single spell to mastery.
If Snape were here, he wouldn't just notice the sheer destructive power marked on the wall. He'd also realize Draco had managed to cast Sectumsempra silently—nonverbal magic of a dangerous kind.
A genius?
No... to reach that level in such a short time, he was something else entirely. A monster.
And on top of that, his magical power had surged—far beyond most adult wizards.
It was a side effect of the magical exhaustion he'd experienced last time.
Honestly, if not for certain concerns holding him back, Draco might have even considered exhausting his magic again, just to push his power even further.
But he didn't take that path. He knew better.
Only fools chase after short-term gains without thinking of the cost.
Not only did Draco need more time to fully control the sudden surge in his magical power, but he also couldn't be sure whether another magical burnout would actually result in a further increase. At the very least, until it became absolutely necessary, he had no intention of risking such an unpredictable move...
The title "pure-blood aristocrat" carried more than just status and connections—it came with deep-rooted heritage and privilege.
In truth, had it not been for the devastating losses during the First Wizarding War, and Voldemort's brutal and bloodthirsty actions, the Wizengamot might never have relinquished the majority of its seats.
Even after all the upheaval, pure-blood nobles still enjoyed advantages that far surpassed those of ordinary wizarding or Muggle-born families. Just the training room Draco used was enough to make that gap clear.
After all, how many wizard families could allow someone like Draco to practice so recklessly without attracting the Ministry of Magic's attention?
Very few, if any.
"Dobby."
Crack!
With a sharp pop, a Malfoy family house-elf appeared. With a flick of its thin hand, the wall that had looked ready to collapse was instantly restored, all traces of the previous damage gone without a mark.
Judging by Draco's composed expression, this sort of magic had clearly been used many times before—it was hardly surprising to him.
And rightly so. Despite appearing to defy time itself, the spell was simply a basic Mending Charm. Limited to inanimate objects, it was far less impressive than it seemed.
Just as the house-elf finished, Draco glanced at it, slightly puzzled.
Because...
"Where's Dobby?"
"Master, the unworthy Dobby is not fit to serve you. He is a disgrace among house-elves."
Draco frowned at the house-elf trying—and failing—to mimic aristocratic manners. Aside from Dobby, he couldn't recognize which elf this even was. After all, only Dobby ever acted this... independently.
"What do you mean?"
"Dobby, the negligent one, is not here. If young master has any orders, then..."
"I understand."
Draco cut him off. He didn't know why Dobby was absent, but he didn't dwell on it either. He was just mildly surprised.
Moving on, Draco asked another question.
"Is everything arranged?"
"Yes, young master. The head of the Romanian dragon reserve will personally receive you tomorrow."
Draco's eyes lit up, and the exhaustion from training vanished in an instant.
It wasn't just his fascination with dragons—though that alone would've been enough. He was looking forward to confirming something important.
Draco wanted to know whether his ability to communicate with dragons was unique to Norberta, or if it extended to all dragons. For him, the answer to that question was vital.
Important enough that he, as the future head of the Malfoy family, would make the trip to the Romanian reserve himself...
Just as Draco turned to leave, satisfied, the unfamiliar house-elf quickly stepped forward and handed him a letter.
"Young master, a letter for you."
"Oh?"
Draco paused, then narrowed his eyes slightly as he accepted it.
When he saw the familiar elegant script, he stopped in his tracks and the corners of his mouth lifted just a little.
The letter was from the little princess of the Parkinson family—Pansy Parkinson.
...
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