Chapter Fifteen: Abraxas's Reasonable Suspicion
The Malfoy Manor glittered with silver and green as Christmas approached. In the grand drawing room, Narcissa stood with arms folded, her sharp eyes judging every angle of the silver‑tipped tree, every placement of mistletoe and wreath. House‑elves scurried under her command, adjusting garlands and cushions embroidered with festive patterns.
To outsiders, Narcissa Malfoy seemed cold, aloof, forever weary. Yet Draco knew better. His mother loved ritual. She poured herself into every holiday, every detail, determined that each celebration should carry elegance and meaning.
Lucius, as always, indulged her. Each year he allowed the finest silver fir in the estate to be felled and brought inside, smiling faintly as Narcissa arranged it. "I like seeing you so alive with your decorations," he told her once, his voice softer than usual. Draco, listening unseen, realized his father encouraged her hobbies to shield her from loneliness while he maneuvered in the Ministry's endless games.
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A Family Conversation
Lucius summoned Draco with a glance, though his eyes lingered on his wife. "Severus speaks well of your work in Potions. You've done well."
Draco bowed his head. "Professor Snape is always generous with me." He knew better than to show pride; Lucius only rewarded humility.
Then came the inevitable question: "And Harry Potter? Is he worth befriending?" Lucius swirled his wine, tone casual but calculating.
Draco answered carefully. "He has talent, and the fame of the Boy Who Lived. But he knows little of our world, raised among Muggles. We could guide him."
Lucius nodded, satisfied. "Never underestimate one who defeated the Dark Lord. His family was once influential, pure‑blooded, gifted in potions. Observe him closely. If his power rivals Voldemort's, a Malfoy must be ready to claim him as an ally."
Draco inclined his head, though inwardly he thought: his father saw only advantage, never character. Lucius's humanity flickered only in his devotion to Narcissa — and in rare, measured concern for his son.
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The Art of Gifts
That evening, Narcissa reviewed her thick ledger of Christmas gifts: silverware, jewels, rare potions ingredients. She explained to Draco the subtleties of giving — that gifts were not objects but symbols, chosen for meaning, scarcity, and impression.
"To the wealthy, you must give what they cannot buy. To the lonely, you must give care. To the powerful, you must give respect. Gifts are the currency of alliances."
Draco listened, realizing he had never noticed how much of the family's network was maintained by his mother's quiet diligence. In his past life, he had only taken, never given.
"And what should I give you, Mother?" he asked suddenly.
Narcissa smiled. "You, my little dragon, are gift enough."
Lucius, impatient, cut in with a scowl. "Go to bed. That will be the best present you can give us."
Draco left them to their private world, walking alone through candlelit corridors. Once, Christmas morning had been pure joy — gifts, sweets, laughter. Now, even as he unwrapped a golden cauldron from Lucius, a magical candy box from Narcissa, and a mischievous spellbook from Abraxas, the thrill faded quickly. He could no longer afford simple happiness.
Among the parcels lay surprises: Hermione's box of sugar‑free pastries, Harry's chocolate frog with a scribbled note of defeat. Draco had sent them gifts too — a scholarly tome for Hermione, another frog for Harry, dragon‑hide gloves for Snape. He followed his mother's lessons, tailoring each gift to its recipient. Yet his heart remained heavy.
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Abraxas's Suspicion
Later, Draco slipped into his grandfather's study. Abraxas Malfoy, silver‑haired and stern, sat in his winged chair with wine and sugared fruits. He was a living encyclopedia of dark magic.
"Grandfather," Draco asked softly, "is there magic that lets the soul survive death?"
Abraxas's eyes narrowed. "Such questions from a first‑year? That is not schoolwork."
Draco feigned innocence. "I read of it in the library. I don't understand."
The old man sighed. "There is such a thing. It is called a Horcrux. A fragment of soul sealed into an object. Murder splits the soul; the fragment is bound by spellwork. The body may die, but the soul remains tethered."
Even Abraxas, steeped in dark lore, frowned. "It is vile. A soul so broken loses judgment, humanity, even form. Malfoys do not make Horcruxes. It is degradation, not power."
Draco's mind flashed to Voldemort's ruined visage, neither man nor ghost.
"Do you think… the Dark Lord made them?" he pressed.
Abraxas hesitated, then nodded grimly. "It is a reasonable suspicion. His appearance changed, his murders were countless. For one so obsessed with immortality, Horcruxes would be… convenient."
He leaned back, voice heavy. "But remember, Draco: wealth and time are the only fair gifts life gives us. Death comes to all. Pursuing immortality leads only to ruin. Better to die a wizard than live as a monster."
Draco bowed his head, hiding the knowledge that Voldemort would rise again, soon. His grandfather's suspicion was correct — and the world would pay dearly for it.