And just like that, the year ended.
Trunks were hauled down marble staircases, owls hooted impatiently, and the Hogwarts Express steamed at Hogsmeade Station, ready to carry its passengers back to King's Cross.
Inside one of the compartments, Hermione sat opposite Victor, a folded piece of parchment in her hand.
"You must write to me over the summer," she said firmly. "Last time you disappeared for weeks and didn't send a single letter. You can't claim you don't have my address anymore."
She thrust the parchment at him.
"Here. 8 Heathgate, Heathgate, London. If you don't write, I shall be very cross when we come back."
Victor accepted the paper with mild amusement. "There's no need to threaten me, Granger. I'll write. And if circumstances allow, I may even pay you a visit. I do have business in London."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Business? What sort of business?"
Victor's smile was faint but deliberate. "Not children's business."
Hermione crossed her arms. "We're the same age."
"Yes," he said lightly, leaning back against the seat. "And yet somehow far busier."
Hermione gave an indignant huff.
Victor studied her for a moment, then added
mischievously, "You know, when you pout like that—with your bushy hair all over the place—you resemble a very clever squirrel."
Her mouth fell open. "A squirrel?"
"The most intelligent one in the forest," he amended.
"That is not an improvement!"
"Do I really look like a squirrel? And is my hair truly that bushy?" Hermione asked, twisting in her seat and trying to examine her reflection in the compartment window. T
he glass showed only a faint, wavy version of herself—brown curls exploding in every direction thanks to the train's motion.
"Yep," Victor said without hesitation.
Hermione gasped. "Victor!"
"What? You asked."
She crossed her arms, scowling at the reflection. "I take extra care of it, you know. I brush it properly, I use Sleekeazy's Hair Potion sometimes—only a little—and it still ends up like this." She gestured helplessly at the wild halo of curls. "It's hopeless."
Victor tilted his head. "If you want, I can fix it. At least for now."
Hermione froze. "Really?"
Before he could reconsider, she dug into her robes and triumphantly pulled out a small comb.
Victor blinked. "You carry a comb with you?"
"Of course I do. Otherwise it would look worse than this," she said defensively.
The train lurched slightly as it rounded a bend, and she stood up, marched over, and plopped down beside him—then promptly turned her back to him, holding the comb out.
Victor stared at it like it was a wand mid-duel.
"You do realise," he said slowly, "that I said that on impulse. I did not expect you to take it as a formal contract requiring immediate hair-combing services."
"That," Hermione said primly, "is the punishment for mocking my hair."
She wiggled the comb in insistence.
Victor sighed in theatrical resignation and took it.
"You are far more terrifying than the troll," he muttered.
"I heard that."
He gently gathered a section of her hair. It was thick—far thicker than he'd expected—and slightly warm from the sunlight streaming through the window.
He began carefully combing from the ends upward, just as he'd once seen a house-elf do while assisting an elderly witch in Diagon Alley.
Hermione stiffened at first.
"You're tugging."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are."
"It is resisting me."
"My hair is not a violent magical creature."
"It behaves like one."
She made an indignant sound—but she didn't move away.
Victor worked with unexpected patience. After untangling the worst of it, he picked up his wand.
"Hold still."
He wrapped a strand carefully around the polished wood and gave the faintest twist of magic.
The curls set neatly. He repeated the motion, shaping the front into softer waves instead of the usual storm of frizz.
Ten minutes later, he leaned back.
"There."
Hermione turned toward the window, using the glass as a mirror. The reflection was faint, blurred by the rushing countryside—but her hair no longer exploded in every direction. It fell in controlled curls around her face.
Her eyes widened.
"Oh."
Victor folded his arms. "Better than expected. I was prepared for it to resemble a coconut tree."
Hermione shot him a look—but she was smiling.
"It looks… nice," she admitted.
"It does," he agreed, as if assessing a finished spell. "Perhaps I've discovered a hidden talent."
Hermione glanced at him, a softer expression settling on her face. "Maybe I should have you do it every time."
"No," Victor replied instantly, perfectly serious. "I am not your husband."
Color rose to her cheeks—but she didn't look away. And Victor was not some dense protagonist; he could see what Hermione thought of him.
When she had boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time, she had been nervous, uncertain, clutching her books like armor.
Her first year had not been what she expected.
It had been better.
And it was all thanks to Victor—the first person she had properly met when she stepped onto the Hogwarts Express that very first day.
***
"Home sweet home," Victor said quietly as the Malfoy manor gates swung open.
Draco was already ahead of him, racing up the steps and disappearing inside, clearly intending to enjoy every second of freedom summer offered.
Victor followed at a slower pace.
"Summer break," he murmured. "For most people."
He reached into his robes and pulled out a folded parchment.
A neat list stared back at him.
1. Find Slytherin's Locket — destroy it.
2. Find Marvolo Gaunt's Ring — destroy it.
3. If possible, locate Tom Riddle's diary in the house — destroy it.
4. Don't forget to write Hermione a letter.
5. Become stronger. Change Father's views on blood purity.
Victor exhaled slowly.
A normal twelve-year-old would be thinking about flying, sweets, and sleeping past noon.
He was planning a war.
"Sigh… why can't I enjoy summer like a normal first-year?" he muttered.
Then his expression sharpened slightly.
"And I still need to refine all my system rewards."
The manor doors opened ahead of him.
Summer had begun.
For others.
For Victor, it had only just become complicated.
Dinner that evening was formal, as always. Silver cutlery gleamed beneath floating candlelight, and the long table was set with precise elegance.
"Well done, Victor. Draco," Lucius said smoothly, folding his hands before him. "Winning the House Cup is no small achievement. I also hear you performed exceptionally well in your examinations. Top of Slytherin House, was it?"
Victor continued eating without haste. "Naturally."
A faint, satisfied smile touched Lucius's lips. Narcissa's expression softened with quiet pride.
"I did well too," Draco added quickly.
"Yes, I heard," Lucius replied, giving him an approving nod. "Well done, Draco."
There was a pause as dessert was served.
Then Narcissa spoke.
"Victor, I believe it would be appropriate for you to visit the Lovegood family this summer. Luna will be attending Hogwarts next year. You should spend some time together."
Lucius's expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
The arrangement had been Narcissa's doing. Lucius had initially opposed it—because he preferred alliances made for influence and power.
Narcissa, however, had insisted.
She had her reasons.
She had seen it clearly—Victor was too mature for his age. He rarely acted like a boy twelve.
She did not want him growing up without ever truly being young.
The arrangement was never meant to secure influence or strengthen alliances.
For Narcissa Malfoy, this choice was not made as a Malfoy—but as a mother.
Within their pure-blood circle, there were many eligible daughters. Well-mannered, carefully raised, politically convenient. Any one of them would have pleased society. Yet Narcissa found none suitable.
She understood her son better than anyone.
Victor was composed beyond his years—measured, observant, and quietly intense with his words. When girls tried to approach him at formal gatherings, they often faltered.
Conversations would thin. Smiles would stiffen. Once or twice, tears followed.
Pairing him with an ordinary pure-blood girl would only make her miserable.
So Narcissa chose differently.
She chose Luna Lovegood.
The Lovegoods were not a family Narcissa particularly admired. Their eccentricity bordered on improper, and their reputation was hardly polished. Under normal circumstances, she would have dismissed the idea immediately.
But Luna was unusual in a way that mattered.
She did not shrink under Victor's gaze. She did not try to impress him. She spoke to him as though his sharp silences were perfectly ordinary.
At the Christmas gathering, Narcissa observed carefully from across the room.
For the first time, Victor hesitated before replying. He seemed uncertain. Awkward, even.
Like a boy.
And for that, she was willing to overlook the Lovegood name.
"Alright, Mother," Victor said calmly.
Another item for the list.
Second year at Hogwarts would already demand too much of him. The Chamber, the diary, the consequences that followed. His mind would not get much rest.
And if Hermione ever learned about this engagement…
That would complicate things.
He pushed the thought aside.
Across the table, Draco looked up curiously.
"Mother, what about my arranged marriage?" he asked, as if it were simply another privilege to be granted.
Narcissa gave him an amused look.
"First grow up, Draco," she said lightly.
*****
A/N : 🔥 On Patreon, the story has already been updated up to Chapter 66🔥
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