The boy awoke early, long before the Manor stirred, when even the shadows seemed too tired to move. The candle he had lit the night before had burned itself to a stub, a crooked silhouette barely upright in its dish. Hardened wax bled over the edge of the table in slow, petrified drips, frozen mid-fall like tears never wiped away — as if the flame, in dying, had wept for him.
He didn't move at first. He lay still beneath his threadbare blanket, his body curled in a familiar way that tried to trap warmth, though it never quite worked. His breath was faintly visible in the frigid air, a pale mist rising and fading with each slow exhale. Above him, the cracked ceiling stared back, its jagged lines like old scars cutting across an otherwise blank canvas.
From beyond the walls came the faint groaning of pipes and the settling sighs of ancient wood and stone — the only sounds in a house that did not believe in comfort, only function. Every breath, every creak, every cold draft pressing against his skin reminded him of where he was. Of who he was not.
The warmth he'd felt the night before — that strange flicker of power when the flame had answered him — felt like something half-remembered, like the echo of a dream slipping away with the dawn. For a heartbeat, he had held something of his own. Now it was gone, replaced once more by stone and silence and the weight of what the day would demand.
Because today, he would sit at the table.
And be reminded of his place.
The dining room. The table. The eyes.
Even the thought of it pressed like cold iron against his chest.
He sat up slowly, each movement deliberate, careful, as if disturbing the stillness too quickly might bring the house's gaze down upon him. His limbs ached with stiffness from the chill; his knees cracked faintly as he unfolded himself from sleep. A breath escaped him, curling faintly in the air like smoke — proof that the frost lived even in his lungs.
He said nothing. There was no one to speak to, and even if there had been, words had no power in this moment. Not here.
He dressed in silence. His best shirt — which only meant the one without holes at the collar — had been ironed and folded precisely at the edge of the bed. His mother's work. Her wand had pressed every crease with care the night before, as if straight lines and smoothed fabric could serve as armor in a war of glances and silence. It would not protect him. But it was something.
He ran his hands over the fabric now, smoothing the front as though polishing steel. The buttons were mismatched. The cuffs frayed. Still, he fastened them one by one, slow and meticulous. A clean shirt. A straight back. A silent mouth. These were his weapons. Not enough to fight. But enough, perhaps, to endure.
His shoes were scuffed, but he wiped them on his sleeve before stepping into the corridor.
⸻
By the time he emerged into the hallway, the Manor had begun its ritual of awakening. It did not stir like a home. It rose like a beast.
House-elves scurried through the corridors with practiced speed, arms laden with linens, silver polish, and folded napkins edged in green. The scent of citrus oil and iron polish followed in their wake, chased by the faint aroma of roasted goose and fresh thyme. High above, the chandeliers had been reignited — not with warmth, but with light designed to impress, to dazzle, to remind. Every candle's flame flickered in place with precise discipline, casting golden reflections on the marble that made the floors look like rivers of stone.
The boy's footsteps were silent as he moved along the edge of the hallway, unnoticed by most. A shadow walking beside the walls, passed by elves who paused only long enough to glance, then continued their work. Their eyes rarely lingered. They had been trained not to look too long at things that confused the rules.
He inhaled deeply as he walked — the crisp, artificial cleanness of wax, the sharp bite of polished silver, the rich fat of roasted meat already wafting from the kitchens.
Everything was being prepared. Not for him.
Never for him.
For the guests.
Because today, the Manor would wear its mask.
And he would wear his silence.
But perfection, in this house, did not include him.
It never had.
He was a blemish — one too subtle to scrub out, too inconvenient to acknowledge, and too dangerous to forget.
The boy stood outside the grand dining room doors for what felt like an hour, though time in Malfoy Manor always stretched in strange ways. It might have been minutes. It felt like a century. He stood there motionless, palms sweating, his breath barely rising in the chill of the corridor, listening to the murmurs beyond the carved oak.
The doors were enormous, carved with winding dragons and tangled runes, each detail painstakingly etched by generations of craftsmen who had no idea that one day a child like him would stand before them, uninvited. Unwanted.
From behind the thick panels, he could hear voices — not raised, not cruel, but honed like blades.
Malfoy voices.
They moved with the elegance of fencing foils: quick, cutting, cold. Words wrapped in etiquette but sharpened at the edge. Toned like instruments too fine to be played by any hand without a crest.
Laughter erupted from the other side — brittle, shallow, the sound of silver clinking against glass, not against joy. It was the kind of laugh one used to signal agreement, not amusement. The kind of laugh that wore gloves. The kind of laugh that didn't include people like him.
He adjusted his shirt again. It didn't help.
The collar itched at his throat — a reminder that no matter how smooth the fabric, it still choked when worn in the wrong company.
He swallowed hard, the knot in his throat as real as the cold pressed into his bones. For a moment, he considered turning back. Just for a second.
But he knew better.
Turning away in this house was always seen. Always remembered.
He inhaled slowly.
Then, with a hand that didn't shake — not visibly — he reached for the handle and pushed.
The heavy door creaked open on ancient hinges, its weight a challenge to his slight frame. The scent hit him first: roasted meat, wine, the faintest trace of perfume, and beneath it all — wax, polish, and the cloying pressure of pride.
And then came the silence.
Silence.
Every voice stopped mid-sentence.
Twelve heads turned toward him.
Not all at once — but in a slow, practiced ripple, like the drawing of curtains before a performance.
Conversation died mid-sentence.
Forks hovered in the air.
Glasses paused just short of lips.
Eyes — grey, green, dark, and indifferent — lifted toward the boy like a collective weight.
The dining room was cavernous, its ceiling vaulted and lost in shadows that pulsed faintly with candlelight. The walls bore the full history of the Malfoy name — massive tapestries depicting serpents intertwined with roses, duels won centuries ago, and a family crest so large it seemed to stare down at him no matter where he stood. Enchanted sconces glowed with cold, blue-tinged fire, illuminating every corner but never granting warmth.
The long table stretched across the center of the room like a blade, sharp with silver. It gleamed with cruel elegance — every setting arranged with obsessive precision. Polished silver plates caught the flicker of candlelight; crystal goblets reflected faces like broken mirrors. Folded napkins, trimmed in Malfoy green and pressed to crisp perfection, sat like soldiers awaiting orders.
Steam curled gently from the dishes at the table's center — roasted goose glistening with butter and herbs, caramel-glazed carrots stacked like gold bars, potatoes whipped into perfect clouds. The scent was rich, layered, meant to seduce. But it turned in his stomach.
He didn't step forward yet.
He stood in the doorway.
Just a silhouette.
At the head of the table, Lucius Malfoy sat like a statue carved of frost. Composed. Cold. The high back of his chair framed him like a throne. His silver hair was flawless, not a strand out of place, and his long, ringed fingers were folded neatly on the table, as though even his hands were not permitted rest without permission.
To his left sat Narcissa — a vision of ice and midnight. Her robes were deep sapphire, the color of a winter sky moments before a storm. She sat as if sculpted, posture flawless, chin lifted slightly, her expression carved in alabaster. Not cruel. Not warm.
Simply distant — like a star.
And beside her, lounging with practiced ease, sat Draco.
His arm draped over the back of his chair.
His legs crossed just enough to display the expensive green trim of his robes.
His mouth curled into a smirk — one that didn't try to hide its amusement, but rather enjoyed being seen.
It was a look of ownership. Of superiority worn like silk.
He leaned toward his mother and said something under his breath.
She didn't smile. But she didn't stop him either.
The boy swallowed and took his first step forward.
The rest of the guests were already seated — a curated arrangement of Malfoy blood and Ministry affiliations. Distant cousins with thin mouths and colder eyes. Pure-blood uncles and aunts with rings heavy enough to bruise and opinions sharp enough to scar. A few high-ranking Ministry men, their robes marked with subtle sigils of authority and lineage, each one glancing down their noses with the instinct of men used to standing above others.
Their robes were velvet and silk, dyed in jewel tones that caught the candlelight like treasure hoarded in the dark: emeralds, sapphires, rubies. Brocade shimmered on cuffs and collars. Gold gleamed at wrists and necklines. Even their silence felt expensive.
Now, as one, their eyes turned to him — not with welcome, but with appraisal.
Judgment.
Curiosity.
And for some... veiled disgust.
He stepped inside the room.
He did not flinch.
His shoes made the faintest sound against the marble, but to him it felt like thunder. Still, he kept his spine straight, his shoulders level, just as Lucius had commanded the day before. He met no one's eyes — not out of shame, but strategy.
The place they had given him was not a seat at the table.
Not at the end.
Not even beside the servants who occasionally entered through a discreet side door.
No — a small stool, with no cushion, had been placed several feet away from the grand dining table, tucked near the wall. Far enough that he wouldn't be part of the conversation. Close enough to be a reminder. To watch, and to be watched.
It was not a mistake. It was a design.
He was meant to be seen.
Just not heard.
Not fed.
Not welcomed.
"You're late," Draco said lazily, cutting into a thick slice of roast goose with the casual cruelty of someone who had never once gone without. His voice floated across the room like smoke — effortless and smug. "Must've taken a while to find something clean."
A few of the guests gave short, indulgent chuckles.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was Draco.
The boy didn't answer. He didn't even glance at Draco.
He walked to the stool, sat upright, folded his hands in his lap.
His silence was not submission. It was steel.
A blade held behind the teeth.
Lucius didn't acknowledge him again. Not even a flicker of the eye.
Narcissa glanced his way once — a brief, glacial tilt of her gaze — and then returned to her glass of deep-red wine. She swirled it delicately, watching the crimson thread spiral like blood down the side.
He didn't expect warmth from her. He didn't even hope for it anymore. But something about that glance — not even disdain, just absence — burned hotter than Draco's words.
A house-elf approached him, silent as breath, and placed a small plate in front of his stool.
On it:
A slice of dry, crumbed bread.
A paper-thin cut of meat that curled at the edges like parchment left too close to fire.
No vegetables. No sauce. No salt. No warmth.
It was not an oversight.
It was not neglect.
It was a message.
This is what you deserve.
This is all you are allowed.
The boy stared at the plate.
And did not touch it.
The table returned to its conversation — which had never been meant for his ears.
Talk resumed with smooth elegance, as though he had never entered the room at all. The voices flowed like wine: rich, full of tannins and hidden bitterness. They spoke of political maneuverings, of Ministry reshuffles, of laws being whispered about in corners and cigars. Someone mentioned the renovations at Hogwarts — how the North Tower needed new enchantments after the last storm, and how the Herbology wing was being expanded, "for the sake of appearances."
The older men grumbled about bloodlines being watered down. The women discussed who had disgraced their house most recently. Names were mentioned. Disgrace passed between sips of wine like a garnish.
Each voice bled seamlessly into the next, polished and rehearsed like a family that had long since learned how to stage itself before it knew how to feel.
But beneath it all — as always — something festered.
A darkness old and patient, like a sickness that had learned how to wear silk robes and smile with its teeth. No one mentioned the war. No one mentioned what was rising again beneath the surface of the world. But it was there.
He listened.
He always listened.
He was not meant to be part of these conversations.
But he was always part of the room.
And sometimes, that was enough.
After dessert had been cleared — thick cream folded into tarts of preserved plum and cherry, which he was not offered — the chairs scraped softly across the marble as the guests began to rise. Napkins were dabbled. Robes adjusted. Conversations continued in quieter pairs, moving toward the drawing room for tea and more secrets.
One of the older women lingered.
She paused beside his stool — a cousin from Lucius's side, her hair powdered and pinned like a relic from an older era. Her features were hawkish, her mouth thin and knowing, her eyes sharp in a way that made them hard to look at for long.
She stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and calculation — as one might regard an heirloom tarnished beyond saving.
"You've got his eyes," she said coolly. Her lips curled into something not quite a smile.
"But not his name. How... appropriate."
She didn't wait for a reply. She chuckled — a dry, papery sound — and glided away, trailing the scent of dried rose and old coins.
Draco came last.
He passed by slower than the others, trailing behind like a prince enjoying his private jest. His smirk had ripened into something triumphant.
"You looked like a servant trying to sneak into a feast," he sneered, voice low, meant only for the boy's ears. "Next time, try not to wear something the rats turned down."
He moved to step past—
But stopped when the boy lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
And held.
No fury. No flinch. No retreat.
Just a quiet, calm defiance.
A promise.
A warning not yet spoken aloud.
Draco's smile twitched.
Something in his eyes faltered — barely, but it was there.
He looked away first.
He walked on.
It was a small thing.
But it mattered.
That night, back in the small room below the Manor's skin, his mother didn't ask what had happened. She didn't need to.
The silence clinging to him told her everything.
Instead, she sat beside him on the narrow bed, and ran her fingers through his hair. Slowly. Thoughtfully. As though trying to smooth away the edges the world had carved into him today. Her lullaby was barely more than a whisper — an old tune from her childhood, its notes worn soft by sorrow and years.
He sat still, eyes open, staring at the flickering candlelight on the cracked wall.
In the dance of those flames, he did not see the stool.
He did not see the bread.
He did not see the eyes.
He saw a long table.
He saw men in silk.
He saw silver plates and crystal goblets.
And he saw them rising — slowly, one by one — to speak his name.
And say it with fear.