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Chapter 3 — Cracks in the Quiet
"What a disappointment."
Draco snapped the book shut and let out a long sigh, the frustration plain on his face.
He had slipped the book out of Lucius's hidden laboratory earlier that day—quietly, carefully, like a mouse skittering through the shadows. Anything kept in Lucius Malfoy's private workspace was bound to be dangerous, rare, or forbidden. And from the runes etched along the spine, there was no question: it dealt with dark magic.
After seeing Pansy off, Draco wasted no time retreating to his room, heart beating with anticipation. If he wanted power—real power—he needed knowledge no Hogwarts first-year would ever touch.
But the deeper he read, the more his excitement faded.
Draco didn't believe in "evil magic" as some moral absolute. Magic was magic; it was the wizard who shaped its nature. If the cost of a spell was evil, that was a separate matter—but forbidding research entirely? That, in his view, was the real foolishness of the wizarding world. Coming from a previous life saturated with science and rationalism, he felt no psychological burden reading a banned text. His enhanced memory tore through the pages at startling speed.
Yet the book provided nothing he truly wanted.
In his past life, his knowledge was fragmented—myths, tropes, small pieces of theory. But now, he wanted the essence. Not how to cast magic, but what magic was.
What was magical power?
Did it increase naturally with age?
What exactly depleted during spellcasting—mental focus or something inherent?
Fake Moody had once said a student trying the Killing Curse would barely manage a nosebleed, simply because they lacked a "strong magical foundation." But what did that foundation mean? Knowledge? Raw power? Will?
Or all three?
Draco had hoped this book would illuminate something—anything—but it was merely a collection of minor hexes and sensationalised tales of ancient dark wizards.
Hardly enlightening.
He stretched, a yawn overtaking him. His young body demanded rest; exhaustion pressed down on him like a warm blanket. After washing up, he slid under the covers, grateful for the chance to sleep.
As he drifted off, his mind wandered—naturally—to Pansy Parkinson.
Her kiss.
Her prickly arrogance.
The shy panic in her eyes afterward.
Draco brushed his fingers across his forehead. "Something feels… off."
But then again, he wasn't exactly the one who'd been wronged. For an eight-year-old boy to be kissed by a girl? It wasn't unpleasant. If anything, it inflated his ego a little.
So he let the matter drop.
While Draco slept soundly, the Parkinson estate was far less peaceful.
"You little liar!"
Pansy sat atop her frilly bed, ferociously mauling a plush teddy bear. "You're obviously not a Squib, and you let me embarrass myself on purpose!"
Rip. There went the bear's ear.
"And you dragged me into that creepy room just to scare me! If you could do magic, why didn't you light a candle earlier? Horrid boy!"
If Pansy had complained, Draco certainly would've been scolded by his parents. But complaining would admit she'd been frightened. And as the proud daughter of the Parkinsons, that was unacceptable.
So she did what any determined young lady might: she plotted.
A staged damsel-in-distress scenario.
A perfectly timed rescue.
A carefully orchestrated second meeting.
Women were born actresses, it seemed—even at eight years old.
"Next time, I'll make him pay," Pansy muttered darkly, yanking harder at the bear. "He stole my first kiss. Do you think that's easy to get?!"
But then her cheeks heated as another thought slipped in.
"…He is rather handsome."
"No! No, I refuse to forgive him!"
Her pride won out, of course.
Just as she was working herself into another dramatic fantasy, her mother's voice called from outside the door.
"Pansy darling, it's late. Time for bed."
"Yes, Mother…"
She glared at her disfigured stuffed bear.
"Next time, Draco Malfoy, I'll make you suffer."
Morning came quickly.
Ring, ring, ring.
Draco's alarm clock shrilled loudly. With a disciplined groan, he sat up. Even as a child, he lived by strict routines—time was limited, and he wanted to step into Hogwarts already prepared.
Just as he swung his legs off the bed, the door creaked open.
Lucius entered with an expression bordering on icy.
"Your schedule for today is cancelled. Your mother insists you meet two new friends."
Ah. That kind of tone.
Draco suspected what had happened—and he was right. Narcissa had fought with Lucius the previous night, furious that their son spent all his time buried in books instead of enjoying childhood. When it came to family matters, Narcissa rarely lost.
So Lucius, irritated but resigned, had arranged playmates.
Which, of course, translated to: recruits.
"Come when you're ready," Lucius said coldly. "You may be spending quite a bit of time with them."
Draco sighed inwardly. Crabbe and Goyle, no doubt. Only the "original" Draco would've tolerated them as friends.
But for his mother's sake, he would endure.
When he entered the sitting room, Narcissa was waiting, radiant and pleased. Beside her stood two boys—one short and heavyset with a bowl cut, the other tall and long-armed.
They looked like gorillas dressed in children's robes.
Draco bowed politely.
"I'm Draco Malfoy. Welcome to the Manor."
Narcissa beamed, delighted to see her son "socialising." Lucius appeared far less thrilled, but he held his tongue.
Draco, for her sake, even mustered a few childhood games. To his surprise, he almost enjoyed himself—until he realised the boys were absurdly strong.
"All muscle, no brain," Draco panted. "Merlin…"
He'd need to add physical training to his routine. A wizard's duel wasn't fought with magic alone—even dodging one spell could decide life or death.
By lunchtime, they were all ravenous.
But as he stared at the mountain of potatoes, sausages, beans, and roasted tomatoes, Draco felt his appetite wither.
Eight years in Britain, and he still couldn't fully accept its cuisine.
"Baby, are you alright?" Narcissa asked, worried.
"I'm fine, Mother. Just excited about my new friends."
He immediately reached for a dessert to sell the lie.
Narcissa, pleased, added more pudding to his plate.
Draco internally wept.
After the meal, the visitors left, and Draco gratefully fled back to his study.
Days slipped by quietly after that—reading, training, practising spells, and suffering through British lunches. If nothing changed, he imagined this peaceful rhythm would last until his Hogwarts letter arrived on his eleventh birthday.
But peace never lasted long in the Malfoy family.
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