England, Wiltshire—Malfoy Manor.
The grand entrance hall, resplendent beneath its enchanted ceiling, was dominated by a massive crystal chandelier suspended overhead. Warm, brilliant light spilled from the chandelier, illuminating every inch of the room and banishing even the faintest shadow.
Thick bearskin rugs softened the mirror-polished floors. Not far from the reception table, a silver incense burner sat atop a cabinet.
A house-elf with bat-like ears scurried forward, lifting the lid of the burner. He removed the last third of a spent incense stick, replaced it with a fresh one, and set it alight. The fragrant smoke curled upward as the elf moved to the fireplace, a piece of wood in his tiny hands.
But before he could add it to the flames, the fire abruptly flared green—whoosh!—the Floo Network roaring to life.
The house-elf's eyes widened. He quickly set the wood back in its place and, with a snap of his fingers, vanished into thin air.
…
Lucius and Draco Malfoy stepped out of the emerald flames.
"Father, what about my broomstick?" Draco persisted, a note of petulance in his voice. "You promised we'd get one today."
Lucius said nothing at first. He lifted his left arm and gave it a cautious shake. No burning, no pain. He let out a quiet sigh of relief.
His mood seemed to lighten. He ruffled Draco's hair with a rare tenderness. "I'll write to Quality Quidditch Supplies myself. When I make a promise, I keep it."
"But remember, Draco—when you make a promise to me, you must keep it as well. You're my son, the future heir of the Malfoy line. Never forget that."
Draco, seeing the seriousness in his father's eyes, nodded obediently. "Yes, Father! I promise!"
"Go on, get some rest." Lucius waved him off, leaning on his silver serpent-headed cane as he ascended the grand staircase toward his study.
A tall, elegant woman emerged from a nearby room at the sound of his footsteps. Spotting the sheen of sweat on Lucius's brow, she hurried to his side.
Her voice was cool and clear. "Lucius, has something happened? You look dreadful."
Lucius took Narcissa's hand, giving her a gentle shake of his head. "It's nothing, Narcissa. Just a minor issue."
"Did Caractacus Burke try to raise his prices again?" Narcissa's brows drew together, delicate as a painter's brushstroke.
"The Ministry of Magic seems to have lost its mind. They're conducting random searches for dark artifacts now. As if they're so pure themselves—have they forgotten all our generous donations?"
Lucius shook his head again. "No, that wasn't the problem. The transaction went smoothly enough. He'll come by tomorrow to collect the items."
"As for the Ministry… It's Arthur Weasley pushing for this new Muggle Protection Act. The Weasleys—most numerous of the old families, so there's little we can do."
"Numbers are all they have left," Narcissa sniffed, her lips curling in disdain. "So many, they have to keep splitting the family. Didn't that Arthur Weasley build himself a nest in some tiny village?"
"They're nothing compared to us," Lucius said, forcing a smile. "This will all blow over soon, I promise."
Sensing her husband was still holding something back, Narcissa, ever the perfect pure-blood matron, chose not to press further. She nodded with a sigh. "Very well. I'll have the elf bring you some tea. Try to rest."
"You're the best," Lucius murmured, gently embracing her, cheek to cheek.
After Narcissa returned to her room, Lucius drew a deep breath and entered his study.
The study was far more austere than the main hall—no grandeur, just the sober, heavy atmosphere suited for serious thought.
He locked the door behind him, set down his cane, and let his back slide down the door until he was sitting on the floor.
Drawing another shaky breath, he rolled up his left sleeve. At the sight of his bare arm, cold sweat broke out across his forehead once more.
There, on his skin, was a gray-black mark: a skull with its mouth agape, a thick serpent slithering from between its jaws—the Dark Mark.
He stared at the mark, heart pounding, until it slowly faded, the skin returning to its normal color.
The Dark Mark… Why is it showing up again? He shouldn't be able to return. Was he never truly defeated?
And that boy—who is he? He can't be the Dark Lord, can he? He seemed to be the child Dumbledore protected last year…
Would Dumbledore ever protect the Dark Lord? Why am I even dreaming about this? Impossible! Something else must have happened at Hogwarts!
Sunlight streamed through the window, scattering restless patches of light across the floor—dancing and flickering, just like Lucius's thoughts.
He raised his left arm again, eyes darting over the now-normal skin. Should he try again?
After a long hesitation, he extended his trembling right hand, fingertip inching toward the spot where the Dark Mark had appeared.
He tilted his head back, squeezed his eyes shut, and jabbed his finger hard against his forearm—right where the mark had been.
His fingertip pressed so firmly it seemed to reach bone.
Nothing happened.
Lucius opened his eyes, staring at the reddened patch of skin, lost in thought.
…
One of the Dark Mark's most dreadful functions had been its ability to summon Voldemort with a touch.
Back in the old days, whenever the Death Eaters faced a foe they couldn't handle, they would use the mark to call the Dark Lord himself to the scene.
But summoning him always came at a price. After the enemy was dealt with, Voldemort would punish the Death Eater who'd called him—personally, with the Cruciatus Curse.
His reasoning was always the same: "Such pitiful enemies, and you needed me to handle them? Crucio!"
To Voldemort, almost every wizard—Death Eaters included—was weak. Only Dumbledore was ever a worthy adversary.
Death Eaters were just tools, pawns for his war against Dumbledore's allies.
That was why, when Lucius learned that Voldemort had been defeated by Harry Potter and could never return, he'd wasted no time in turning himself in. He claimed to have acted under the Imperius Curse, and—after some discreet donations—escaped Azkaban.
The so-called loyal Death Eaters, meanwhile, were all rounded up and imprisoned.
Since the Dark Lord's fall, the Dark Mark had faded, and everything seemed to be over.
…
Now, with no sign of the mark and no burning pain, Lucius finally allowed himself to relax.
A gentle late-summer breeze drifted through the window. He gripped his cane, stood, and moved to sit at his desk.
The sunlight in the study settled, the flickering patches of light growing calm at last…
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