A/N:Well, hello there. How are you all doing?
If you enjoy the fanfic, comments, reviews, and power stones would be greatly appreciated.
Thank you for reading!
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On Christmas Eve, Malfoy Manor was putting the finishing touches on its holiday decorations.
When Draco entered the drawing room, he found his mother, Narcissa, standing in the centre with her arms crossed, scrutinising the angle of the silver Christmas tree, the placement of the mistletoe wreath, and the dark green vines that twinkled with silver lights, while her house-elves—dressed in pillowcases printed with festive patterns—scurried about under her direction.
Those unfamiliar with Narcissa would likely perceive her as arrogant and aloof. She always wore a faintly weary expression, seemingly indifferent to everything around her.
In private, however—at least in Draco's eyes—Narcissa was a woman of deep ritual and a genuine love for life.
How could anyone call her bored with everything, when she devoted herself to celebrating every holiday—big or small—with such style and flair?
As for her husband Lucius, he continued to support his wife's pursuits without reservation, allowing Narcissa to fell the finest-growing silver fir trees on the estate every year and display them proudly in the drawing room.
"Are you sure you don't feel bad about it?" Draco had overheard his mother ask his father while they were cutting down trees this year. "Don't you always say you cherish every tree and blade of grass on the estate?"
"I love the enthusiasm you bring to decorating the Manor," Lucius said, watching the house-elves chop at the trunk in the snow. He had his back to his son, and so Draco couldn't see his father's expression; but he could tell that the voice was far gentler than usual. "Cissy, I always worry you find yourself too bored at home. I know the Ministry gatherings and business dealings don't particularly suit you. I'm glad you have something you enjoy."
His father appeared to be encouraging his mother to cultivate more interests—so that she wouldn't feel lost or neglected while he was occupied with his career. Draco watched his parents standing together in the snow, hands clasped, and quietly withdrew.
In his previous life, Draco had never paid any particular attention to the conversations and interactions between his parents. He had considered himself the centre of the world. He had focused only on the direct lines of communication—between himself and his mother, and between himself and his father.
His mother had always preferred to instil ideas in him subtly, her manner gentle and rarely given to anger; his father, by contrast, had never been stingy with direct counsel, offering occasional praise but more often using pointed criticism to correct his son's many supposed "bad habits."
Upon his rebirth, however—his observational skills sharpened to a fine edge during those two harrowing years—Draco had begun to notice a quiet, mutual tenderness between his parents that had entirely escaped him before.
At this very moment, for example, although Lucius was seated in his favourite armchair and appeared to be concerned with his son's school life—"Draco, come here"—his gaze remained fixed on Narcissa.
"I hear Severus has praised you a few times in Potions. You've done well," he said, with a sidelong glance at Narcissa that carried the quiet satisfaction of a man overseeing his own domain.
"Professor Snape has always been exceptionally lenient with me," Draco replied, standing respectfully beside his father's chair.
He knew that even the slightest display of pride would draw immediate criticism. It seemed that only extreme humility could ever earn him the faintest word of affirmation from Lucius.
"I know his temper. Unless he is genuinely impressed, even those closest to him won't receive a kind word," Lucius said calmly.
Draco nodded.
At that moment, Narcissa was backing away to get a clearer view of the Christmas tree; Lucius quietly raised his cane and moved aside the obstructing boxes behind her.
"Now then—what is your opinion of the famous Harry Potter? Is he worth befriending?" Lucius was in good spirits. He took a slow sip of wine and savoured it.
"At present, he seems worth befriending," Draco said carefully, choosing his words with deliberate care. "He is genuinely talented in certain areas—after all, he carries the aura of the Boy Who Lived. But he grew up in the Muggle world and knows nothing of the customs or conventions of the wizarding world. In that respect, we might be of use to him."
"Quite right. A wizard capable of defeating the Dark Lord—however temporarily down on his luck—is not to be underestimated. Besides, the Potter family is a pure-blood noble house. They were excluded from the Sacred Twenty-Eight in later years, but they were once influential in the Wizengamot and prominent in commerce, and their members have shown considerable talent in Potions," Lucius said thoughtfully, swirling his glass. "Observe him closely, Draco. If his magical talent proves even greater than the Dark Lord's, a true Malfoy knows to make friends with anyone who may prove useful."
Draco nodded silently.
"Very good." Lucius rose from his chair with an air of satisfaction, offered Draco a slight smile, and concluded his paternal enquiry. He crossed the room to Narcissa, who had just finished arranging the tree, and placed his hands on her shoulders as though she had just completed some tremendous and heroic undertaking.
What shameless indulgence. Draco stood by the fireplace, his expression carefully blank.
Lucius was a quintessential Slytherin: arrogant, self-important, and cunning. His interpretation of the world was rooted almost entirely in self-interest, with little room for the nobler qualities of human nature. In the matter of befriending Potter, for instance, he saw only the advantages of the Potter name—never the boy himself.
The only glimmer of true humanity in his father, Draco thought wryly, was his devotion to Narcissa and whatever small measure of care he reserved for his son.
My father is no ordinary man, Draco reflected. He managed the vast Malfoy family business, navigating a web of competing interests to secure advantages for the family at every turn. On the surface, he cultivated cordial relations with Ministry officials who upheld the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, while privately maintaining discreet but profitable ties to the Muggle world.
He navigated between factions with remarkable dexterity—the Ministry, the Dark Lord's circle, the various alliances formed by pure-blood families—maintaining "friends" and "enemies" in equal measure across all of them. He spent lavishly to cultivate goodwill, and yet never hesitated to take far more frightening measures against those who encroached on Malfoy interests or dared disrespect the family name.
He could be irrational and dangerously extreme at times, but one could not deny that he was, more often than not, masterful at walking the line between friendliness and menace—and emerging from it unscathed.
In his past life, Lucius had entered Azkaban and made a ruin of things, sending the Malfoy family spiralling toward despair—yet they had survived. And as long as there was life, there was hope for a return to power. Lucius must have had his own code of survival.
In the latter years of his past life, Draco had sensed in his father a private regret, carefully concealed. But by then, the Malfoy family was already too deeply entangled in their situation.
Every wizard knew they had been the Dark Lord's men through and through—the Dark Lord had taken up residence in Malfoy Manor itself, turning it into the Death Eaters' lair and stronghold.
The Ministry of Magic had fallen under the Dark Lord's control; Dumbledore—the only one who might have challenged him—was dead; and Potter was on the run like a hunted animal. Even if the Malfoys had wished to defect to the light side, there was no one left to defect to.
At the same time, the Malfoys would never rise up in open rebellion against anyone. That was simply not their way.
In such a situation, how were they to clear their names and recover their standing? With death perpetually hanging over them, they had no choice but to appear as staunch and irredeemable loyalists—as though they remained in the Dark Lord's favour. Otherwise, the covetous Death Eaters and dark sycophants who had long eyed the Malfoy family's wealth and resources would swarm in like jackals and strip them of everything without hesitation.
I must never be so passive again in this life. From the very beginning, I must never allow the thought of joining forces with the Dark Lord to take root.
It would ultimately bring the Malfoy family to ruin. Draco could admit that at the moment of the Dark Lord's resurrection, joining his cause would seem the smoothest path forward. The problem was that Lucius had always been stubborn. The Dark Lord's pure-blood ideology aligned perfectly with his father's own convictions, and siding with him had once proven enormously profitable—Lucius had managed to double the family's wealth during the Dark Lord's first rise by playing his position carefully.
How, then, to make his father understand that siding with the Dark Lord this time would not bring prosperity, but destruction?
Lucius was far too proud a Malfoy to take counsel from anyone—least of all an eleven-year-old boy. Even Abraxas's counsel was not always heeded. Lucius presented a respectful face to his father while privately disregarding him; whatever Abraxas said, Lucius filtered it down to half-measure at best.
He might, however, listen to Narcissa.
If Father trusted Mother and was willing to listen to her, then perhaps the wisest move was to work through her. Draco watched Lucius and Narcissa talking quietly together and turned the thought over in his mind. If his mother could be persuaded to act, she might quietly steer the Malfoy family's enormous ship onto a safer heading.
But changing his mother's mind was no easy task. Narcissa and Lucius were kindred spirits on the matter of pure-blood ideals. The only card Draco held was his mother's love for him—and that love was probably not enough, on its own, to shake beliefs she held with such conviction.
Narcissa was no doting fool. Pampering her son—even spoiling him—was not the same as deferring to him in all things. It would be a grave mistake to underestimate Narcissa as merely an indulgent mother content with Christmas decorations. She was, without question, the shrewdest and most perceptive person in the Malfoy household.
During the festive season, she had just as much to manage as Lucius—the careful maintenance of the family's social connections through the exchange of gifts.
After dinner that evening, she sat on the sofa, flipping through a thick stack of gift catalogues—filled with illustrations of jewellery, porcelain, ornaments, magical instruments, and potion ingredients—and making final adjustments with the house-elf standing attentively beside her: "Change Aunt Rosier's gift. Replace the lily-patterned silver cutlery with the Minerva silver rose set..."
The house-elf nodded and marked the catalogue with a quill.
"Mother, doesn't she already have rather a lot of rose-themed tableware?" Draco, who had been reading on the sofa beside her, looked up and asked casually.
"There is a great deal to learn about gift-giving, Little Dragon. It is not the gift itself that matters, but the meaning it carries," Narcissa said. "For an elderly woman like your aunt who has everything and has grown rather particular with age, the sentiment matters far more than the object. The lily pattern is prettier, but some may read it as an ill omen. I would rather be conservative and unremarkable than cause offence."
"That makes sense." Draco paused, then asked curiously, "What, then, would be the most pleasing gift for these well-off aunts and uncles?"
"I didn't expect you to take an interest in this sort of thing," Narcissa said, with a glance of genuine surprise.
She had only just realised that her son's attentions seemed to have shifted since he'd gone to Hogwarts. Three or four months, and already he was asking about things far beyond candy and Chocolate Frogs.
Well—since her son wished to know, there was nothing she couldn't tell him.
"Understanding what the recipient lacks is the foundation of a good gift," Narcissa said with a smile, looking at her son's attentive expression. "Generally, it is a matter of catering to their tastes. If you know someone well, give them something that genuinely interests them. You know these basics already, I expect? Did you follow them when you gave gifts this year?"
"I gave Crabbe and Goyle a great deal of candy. They seemed happy enough," Draco said.
"That's a start. But if you want your gift to leave a lasting impression, catering to their tastes alone is not sufficient. You need to give them something they cannot obtain on their own—something that quietly demonstrates your power, your wealth, or your standing. Do you understand?"
"Before I came home, Professor Snape gave me an early Christmas gift," Draco said. "Some of his personal Potions notes from his student days—filled with brilliant annotations and original ideas on potion-making. In a way, it speaks to his worth, doesn't it?"
"Precisely. Severus has always been keenly aware of his own value," Narcissa said in a relaxed tone. "I should send him something rare in return. African tree snake skin, perhaps?"
"I think he would like that very much," Draco said, with the faintest smile.
For most wizards, African tree snake skin was genuinely rare—no amount of Galleons could reliably procure it. For a family with the Malfoys' resources and connections in the apothecary trade, however, it was a trivial matter.
Narcissa beckoned to her house-elf, who quickly noted the addition to the gift list.
She continued with evident pleasure, "Do you see? In the exchange, goodwill deepens on both sides. There is a true art to gift-giving, and the most important principle is scarcity—give what the recipient lacks. For those of modest means, give generously; for the wealthy, give something with genuine sentiment. A person of great wealth lacks not for material things, but for sincerity. Those who live in luxury have no appetite for more extravagance—plain warmth becomes the greater luxury. And for those who are lonely and isolated, a gesture of care and consideration will move them far more than any cold material offering."
"So you don't truly care which tableware you send—only the meaning behind it, because that is what the recipient will notice?"
"No elderly person dislikes the thought of longevity," Narcissa said, with quiet pride. "The rose variety on that set symbolises exactly that."
"You spend a great deal of time and effort on all this every year," Draco said. "Doesn't it exhaust you?"
"It is a considerable undertaking. I could, of course, simply abandon it all and ignore everyone. No one would dare say a word against us—some would even continue sending gifts, and double the quantity. But in the long run, does the Malfoy family wish to become an island unto itself? Though we stand at the summit, none of us should forget that what holds the summit up is the great weight of those below. A single tree cannot make a forest. No matter how powerful the Malfoy family may be, we cannot be everywhere at once. We need allies—people who can speak for us in various quarters. We need supporters, even those of far lower station than ours, who can step forward when it truly matters. All of these relationships require cultivation," Narcissa said lightly. "There is a great deal to learn. Gifts sent to request a favour are entirely different from ordinary ones; their weight varies according to the recipient's standing; and returning gifts is more complicated still. You see, a gift is never merely a gift—it is an unspoken covenant, an understanding of mutual benefit."
Draco had never properly considered any of these principles in his previous life. He had never imagined he needed to cultivate connections—wasn't the Malfoy name itself sufficient? In truth, it had been his mother managing these relationships all along, and he had never once paid attention. He had never even noticed what gifts she received. It struck him now that he had always received from her, and had never once thought to give anything in return.
In his past life, he had only known how to take. How spoiled he had truly been.
"Mother, what do you like?" Draco asked suddenly. "If I wanted to give you a gift, what should I choose?"
"I love you most of all, Little Dragon," Narcissa said with a smile. "The rules we've been discussing only apply to people outside the family. For parents, anything their child gives them is a treasure."
"Oh, you foolish child—what could you possibly give us? We want for nothing!" Lucius, who had been pacing quietly nearby, could hold back no longer and strode over with a stern expression. "Go to bed at a reasonable hour! That is the finest Christmas gift you could offer us!"
Draco bowed to his father and withdrew in silence.
The best gift was simply not to disturb their time together. He walked through the long, candlelit corridor, sighed quietly, and shook his head.
---
Unwrapping presents early on Christmas morning had once been Draco's favourite part of the holiday.
Lucius gave him a pure gold cauldron in recognition of his strong performance in Potions; Narcissa gave him a beautiful confection box that, when tapped with a wand, produced an unending stream of Honeydukes' finest sweets; and his grandfather Abraxas gifted him a copy of Professor Wendick's "Charms and Spellbreakers: Playing Tricks on Your Friends with the Finest Revenge Techniques," along with a knowing wink—that incorrigible old man.
There was also an assortment of minor magical gifts from more distant relatives, but those hardly merited mention.
While unwrapping his presents, Draco came across a few unexpected senders. A large box of sugar-free sweets from Hermione, and a Chocolate Frog from Potter—with a note scrawled on it: "This is what I lost to you in the bet. Please accept it."
He had sent Potter a Chocolate Frog in return—which, as it turned out, had been precisely what Potter had in mind as well.
For Hermione, he had selected "A Study of the Development of Alchemy in the Fourteenth Century"—which included a brief introduction to one Nicolas Flamel. May Merlin bless Hermione Granger's Christmas reading.
For Professor Snape, he had sent a brand-new, limited-edition pair of high-quality dragonhide gloves, offering exceptional protection when handling volatile potions ingredients.
Beyond those, most of his Slytherin classmates had received gifts from him—tailored, as Narcissa had taught, to each recipient's personal tastes.
For a moment, Draco allowed himself an impossible fantasy. He longed to be that carefree eleven-year-old again—unburdened by thought and calculation, simply delighted by the dazzling array of presents, eager to show them off to his friends when the holidays were over.
But he could never return to that uncomplicated happiness. His heart was too full of worry.
And so the excitement of unwrapping gifts dissipated quickly, like smoke on the wind. Draco's expression settled back into its usual blankness. He had no right to be happy. He had to prepare.
---
Christmas at Malfoy Manor was livelier than in previous years.
His maternal grandfather, Signas Black, had declined his father's invitation and insisted on spending the holiday with his distant cousin Actules; but his paternal grandfather Abraxas, who had originally planned to retreat to Switzerland for a rest cure, had changed his mind—he had decided he preferred some family time instead.
Abraxas was a living encyclopaedia of Dark Magic. Draco seized his opportunity and slipped into the old man's private study.
"Grandfather—do you know of any magic capable of making a soul immortal?"
"An immortal soul?" Abraxas turned around and regarded his grandson with a peculiar look.
He was an elderly man who commanded respect without needing to raise his voice, and he shared the Malfoy family's signature platinum-blond hair and pale grey eyes, though his face carried far more lines. He was settled in a comfortable winged armchair, feet resting on a velvet footstool, a small glass of wine in one hand and a box of candied fruit in the other.
"What I mean is—a soul that doesn't vanish when the body dies. One that retains its own consciousness and can possess people or objects..." Draco said, arranging his expression into one of innocent curiosity.
Abraxas studied him, absently turning his wine glass in his fingers, and asked: "Do Hogwarts first-years really study such advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts now?"
You know perfectly well this has nothing to do with my schoolwork—and yet you still require a plausible excuse to interrogate your grandson, Draco thought in exasperation.
"It isn't part of the curriculum—just something I came across while reading in the library. I don't quite understand it," Draco said plainly.
The older generation of the Malfoy family had never opposed an interest in advanced Dark Magic; on the contrary, they had encouraged it in the young. He didn't imagine Abraxas would take offence.
"Hmm… yes…" Abraxas said, with a somewhat distracted air. "I believe I know of something of that nature. A very dark kind of magic indeed. If I recall correctly, it would involve knowledge of Horcruxes."
"Horcrux?" Draco repeated, watching his grandfather intently.
"Hmm." Abraxas turned his attention with sudden focus to the colour of the wine in his glass. "I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to explain it to you—it's important you understand the term. A Horcrux is an object that contains a fragment of a person's soul."
"I'm not sure I follow," Draco said.
"It refers to splitting the soul," Abraxas mused, "—concealing a portion of it within an external object. Even if the body is destroyed, the witch or wizard does not die, because that fragment of their soul remains intact somewhere in the world."
"Of course, to exist in such a form—" Even Abraxas, who had always held a reverence for Dark Magic, could not help but frown at this. "Few would genuinely want it. Most would sooner have a quick death."
Draco couldn't help but recall the inhuman, grotesque figure of the Dark Lord from his memories.
"But how does one split a soul?" Draco asked.
The old man's eyes widened. "Through murder, of course! What act could more thoroughly shatter the soul? Murder fractures it, and those dark wizards who create Horcruxes exploit that fracture—sealing the soul fragment into an object through the corresponding dark spells."
"Can a fragment of soul possess a living person?"
"Certainly not! Inhabiting an object is evil enough—possessing a living person? I have never even heard of such a thing!" Abraxas slowly turned his head and fixed Draco with a long, suspicious look in the flickering candlelight.
"The Malfoy family has always held that Dark Magic has its allure when approached correctly. But—" his voice sharpened, "—the Malfoy family will absolutely not tolerate the creation of Horcruxes. Shattering the soul brings irreversible, permanent damage—erratic temperament, impaired judgement, and a gradual loss of one's very humanity."
Abraxas snorted with disdain. "Utterly inelegant. Let alone noble. It is downright depraved. You are not planning anything dangerous, are you, Draco?"
He studied the boy's pale face—a face that bore a maturity and calm rarely found in someone so young.
"No, Grandfather. I would never." Draco held his grandfather's narrowed gaze and tried his utmost to appear resolute.
His expression passed muster. Abraxas relaxed, and returned his attention to selecting his preferred candied fruit.
"There are only two things in life that are absolutely equal for all of us," Abraxas said solemnly, as though he very much hoped Draco would commit this to memory. "The first is the twenty-four hours we are each allotted every day. The second is that we must each, in the end, face death."
"With the Malfoy family's current wealth and standing, there is no need to gamble our souls on something so reckless. We need only protect what we have, cultivate the right alliances, and continue the family line. The pursuit of immortality never ends well. I would far rather die as an ordinary wizard... Take the Dark Lord..." he muttered.
"You believe the Dark Lord has been creating Horcruxes?" Draco asked carefully, pressing for confirmation.
"Well… that is merely a reasonable conjecture. For a man of such towering ambition, an ordinary human lifespan was never going to suffice. I witnessed his appearance change drastically over the years—he gradually became unrecognisable. And for a man to whom killing is commonplace, creating a Horcrux or two would present no great difficulty," Abraxas said with a dismissive wave.
Draco said nothing, recalling how the Dark Lord in his past life had casually killed at Malfoy Manor whenever something displeased him. His grandfather's summary was remarkably apt.
"I noticed he was becoming too obsessed with immortality, and that things were beginning to go wrong—so I quietly made some preparations. Reached out to certain old friends at the Ministry. Otherwise, how could the Malfoy family have distanced itself so cleanly and escaped unscathed after the Dark Lord's fall? Why would the Ministry have been willing to listen to us?" Abraxas said, with undisguised satisfaction.
"Aren't you afraid he might return?"
"Ah. If he truly did something so horrific to his own soul, then I suspect he may not be fully dead—merely clinging to some shadow of existence somewhere. But he wouldn't retain much magic, and he would pose no real threat. Splitting one's soul comes at a terrible price. No one can bear such a shattering lightly—not even the Dark Lord. Besides, hasn't everything remained peaceful all these years?" Abraxas set down his empty glass, his expression faintly dismissive.
Draco said nothing. In truth, the Dark Lord was on the verge of resurrection—at a time when everyone had grown comfortably accustomed to peace and was wholly unsuspecting.
When that day came, all the comfortable ease of these years would vanish like smoke, and darkness would fall over the rich and beautiful grounds of Malfoy Manor...
"Draco, there's a good boy—stop dwelling on all this and go outside. All you need to concern yourself with is living well and continuing the glory of the Malfoy family. This is not a glorious chapter of history, and it is far removed from you. You needn't dwell on it so much..."
Abraxas waved him away, settled comfortably back into his armchair, and within moments had begun to snore.