Chapter 167: The Rosier Family
"Yes—he actually used dark magic at Hogwarts!"
"And not just any dark magic—vicious dark magic!"
Flora Rosier finally seized her chance to speak, her voice trembling with emotion.
"And worst of all—he used it on a fellow student!"
"My poor Cyrian is still lying in St. Mungo's Hospital!"
Tears welled in her eyes.
"If Dumbledore still insists on protecting that boy—refuses to expel him—then I will take this to the Ministry of Magic!"
Of course—
she never once considered that Cyrian had started it.
And even if she had—
it wouldn't have mattered.
In her mind, he had done nothing wrong.
A Quidditch match is about winning.
If the opponent's broom malfunctions—
that's their problem.
As long as the referee hasn't called a stop—
the game continues.
Wednesday didn't act.
That led to defeat.
So Cyrian "teaching her a lesson"—
was only natural.
Her reasoning, however—
rested on a fatal assumption.
That Wednesday was just an ordinary witch.
Perhaps she had lived this way too long—
treating such logic as normal.
She had never stopped to consider—
what if Cyrian had provoked someone they couldn't afford to offend?
Flora, though technically a pure-blood, did not come from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
Her family was minor.
She knew nothing of the true weight behind the Addams Family.
As for Knight Rosier—
he wasn't much better informed.
During the rise of Lord Voldemort, his father had been killed resisting him.
His older siblings, in contrast, had eagerly submitted—becoming loyal followers.
Leaving a young Knight behind—
struggling alone to keep the Rosier family from collapsing entirely.
Too many things had been lost with his father's sudden death.
Too many truths he had never learned.
In his eyes—
the Addams family was nothing more than an old, long-standing wizarding house.
Not even part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
Not a real threat.
But Lucius Malfoy was different.
He knew.
He understood exactly how dangerous the Addams family could be.
And yet—
he said nothing.
Because this—
was a test.
He was using the Rosiers as a probe.
To measure—
just how much the Addams valued Russell.
The Malfoys had no intention of making enemies of multiple pure-blood families at once.
Even though someone from the Addams had appeared publicly during Russell's award ceremony—
Lucius still interpreted it as investment.
After all—
judging by Russell's growth—
he was worth investing in.
But—
since friendship with Russell was no longer possible—
there was only one option left.
Destroy him.
Before he grew into a greater threat.
At first, Lucius hadn't planned to act.
But Russell had stepped right into the spotlight himself.
Now—
inaction was no longer an option.
Even so—
though he privately regarded the Rosiers as expendable pawns—
on the surface, Lucius remained warm and courteous.
Not a trace of impatience showed.
Lucius gave his wife a subtle look.
Narcissa immediately understood.
"Don't worry, Flora," she said softly, taking Flora Rosier's hand.
"We won't let Cyrian suffer for nothing."
"I'll contact a few governors I'm close with right away," Lucius added calmly.
"You can go to Hogwarts first and pressure Dumbledore."
"If he agrees to your demands, all the better."
"And if he doesn't…"
A confident smile curved his lips.
"…then I'll convene a full Board of Governors meeting."
No matter the outcome—
he had already achieved his goal.
The Rosiers were now firmly tied to his side.
After the Rosier couple left—
Lucius went alone to his study.
He rolled up his sleeve.
A dark, indelible mark lay on his arm.
The Dark Mark.
Truth be told—
he had regretted becoming a Death Eater almost from the beginning.
At first, he had believed Lord Voldemort would be like Gellert Grindelwald—
a visionary leader.
But that had only been an illusion.
Back when he was still Tom Riddle, he could almost pass as one.
But as he delved deeper into dark magic—
altering himself again and again—
even creating Horcruxes—
his mind began to fracture.
He became unstable.
Cruel.
Unpredictable.
Lucius had joined him partly to protect the Malfoy family—
and partly because he believed it would bring him greater power, status, and wealth.
He had been wrong.
He gained nothing.
To Voldemort, his followers were expendable tools—
summoned at will, discarded just as easily.
As for wealth?
That was laughable.
The rebellion itself was funded by pure-blood families like his.
Even their lives weren't secure.
During the period when Voldemort was creating Horcruxes—
his mental state had been dangerously unstable.
Several Death Eaters had been killed over trivial matters.
Lucius still remembered—
that flash of sickly green light.
And after Voldemort's downfall—
to avoid being sent to Azkaban—
Lucius had spent a fortune clearing his name.
The Malfoy family had nearly been crippled by it.
Only recently had they begun to recover.
If anything—
when he learned Voldemort had been defeated by Harry Potter—
he had felt…
relief.
Perhaps more than anyone—
he did not want Voldemort to return.
Outside the manor—
Knight Rosier's expression changed the moment he stepped out.
The polite smile vanished.
Replaced by humiliation.
"Flora," he said quietly,
"be careful of the Malfoys."
A fallen tiger bullied by dogs…
If his father were still alive—
Lucius would never dare treat him like this.
Knight understood perfectly.
He was being used.
A pawn.
A spearhead.
But he had no choice.
His son had been gravely injured by dark magic.
The news was spreading rapidly.
If he didn't act—
the Rosier family would lose what little standing it had left.
So even knowing he was being used—
he stepped forward anyway.
"Let's go to Hogwarts," he said.
"Oh—and Cyrian. If he's able to get out of bed, bring him along."
At St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries—
Cyrian had mostly recovered.
A faint scar still marked his chest—
refusing to disappear completely.
"Father? Mother?"
Cyrian Rosier looked surprised.
"Are you here to take me home?"
"No," Knight said coldly.
"We're taking you to Hogwarts."
"To pressure Dumbledore."
"The culprit will be severely punished."
Cyrian's face lit up instantly.
"That's great!"
He practically leapt out of bed.