The letter lay on the desk before him, its pale surface illuminated by the flickering firelight that danced across the stone walls of the room. The room was tense, the kind of tension that pressed in from all sides and made every small movement feel deliberate. Even the crackling of the fire seemed louder than it should have been.
Helios sat still for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the parchment as though it might change if he looked away. His expression remained calm, almost detached, but beneath that stillness, his thoughts moved with sharp clarity.
He had known this would come.
There was no chance Voldemort would ignore him after their duel in the graveyard. No chance he would forget.
His fingers tapped once against the table.
The decision had already been made.
Without hesitation, he reached for a fresh piece of parchment and drew it toward him. He dipped his quill into the ink, the dark liquid clinging to the tip before settling into a perfect point.
For a moment, he paused.
He knew exactly what he was about to do.
The quill moved steadily across the page, leaving behind a single, deliberate line.
I will join you when you grow yourself a nose.
He sat back slightly, studying the words as the ink dried. Just a sentence—simple, almost careless in its construction.
But the meaning—
The meaning would strike deeper than any curse.
A faint smile touched his lips, subtle and fleeting.
"Yes…" he murmured softly, almost to himself. "Let's see how you take this."
Carefully, he folded the parchment. He sealed it, then layered it with a series of light concealment charms—nothing extravagant, nothing that would draw attention. Just enough to mask it from others, to make it appear like any ordinary reply.
Helios placed it aside and leaned back again, his gaze drifting briefly toward the fire. The smile lingered for a moment longer before fading entirely, replaced by that familiar calm.
He watched the rhythms of the castle, the flow of students through corridors, the subtle patterns that most people never noticed. Helios had always paid attention to those things. It was what kept him ahead.
And when the moment came—
He took it.
The opportunity presented itself after Transfiguration.
The corridor outside the classroom was only half full, students drifting away in small clusters, their conversations low and distracted. There was no urgency in their movements, no sense of tension.
Helios walked through the corridor with measured steps, his expression composed, his presence unremarkable in a way that was entirely deliberate.
He spotted Draco Malfoy near one of the tall windows.
Draco stood alone, though he pretended otherwise, his attention fixed on his sleeve as he adjusted it with unnecessary care. The movement was subtle, but Helios recognized it instantly.
He was waiting.
Helios approached without slowing.
"Malfoy."
Draco turned quickly, and for just a fraction of a second, something flashed across his face—relief, quickly buried beneath his usual guarded expression.
"You got it," Draco said, his voice low.
Helios didn't respond immediately. Instead, he reached into his robes and withdrew the letter, holding it out without ceremony.
Draco hesitated.
It was brief, almost imperceptible, but it was there. His hand hovered for a moment before he finally took the parchment, his fingers closing around it as though unsure what he was holding.
"This is your answer?" Draco asked.
Helios gave a single nod.
Draco swallowed, his grip tightening slightly. He glanced around, then lowered his voice further.
"Are you… joining him?"
The question hung between them, heavy with something unspoken.
Fear.
Helios didn't answer right away. Instead, he studied Draco—really looked at him, not as a classmate, not as a rival, but as something else entirely.
Because this mattered more than the letter.
"Tell me something first," Helios said calmly.
Draco frowned. "What?"
Helios tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady.
"Are you going to join?"
The effect was immediate.
Draco froze.
It wasn't dramatic, wasn't obvious to anyone who wasn't paying attention, but Helios saw it clearly—the moment of hesitation, the flicker of conflict.
Draco looked away, his fingers tightening around the letter.
"I…" he began, then stopped.
Helios nodded slightly.
"I thought so."
Draco's jaw tightened. "You don't understand—"
"No," Helios interrupted quietly, his tone still calm. "You don't understand."
That made Draco look back at him, confusion and irritation mixing in his expression.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Helios stepped closer, lowering his voice so that no one else could hear.
"Before you decide anything…" he said, each word measured, deliberate, "…you should know who your Dark Lord really is."
Draco blinked. "What?"
Helios's expression didn't change.
"Did you really think his mother named him Voldemort?"
There was a pause.
Draco frowned. "That's his name."
Helios's lips curved faintly, not quite a smile.
"No," he said softly. "It isn't."
"His real name is Tom Riddle."
For a moment, it felt as though the corridor had gone silent.
Draco's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."
Helios didn't react.
"Why would I lie?"
Draco opened his mouth to respond, but no answer came. Because there wasn't one.
Helios continued, his voice steady.
"He's the son of a muggle… and a squib."
That hit.
Draco's face lost some of its color, his expression tightening as if he had been struck.
"That's not true."
"It is."
There was no hesitation in Helios's voice, no uncertainty.
"His mother was Merope Gaunt," he went on, watching Draco carefully. "From one of the Slytherin lines."
Draco's breath caught.
"She ran away," Helios continued. "With a muggle. Married him."
He leaned in slightly, his eyes locking onto Draco's.
"And that child… became your Dark Lord."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Draco shook his head. "No. That's— that's impossible."
Helios didn't argue.
"You can ask," he said instead.
"Ask your father. Ask your relatives. This isn't a secret… just not one people like to talk about."
Draco's grip on the letter tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"But— then why would—"
He stopped.
Because the answer was already forming.
Helios finished it for him.
"Why would pure-bloods follow him?"
Draco looked up.
"Because they were fools," Helios said quietly.
There was no mockery in his tone.
"They thought they could use him. Control him. Rise higher through him. They believed he would be their weapon… their means to dominate, to punish, to rule. And a scapegoat if something go wrong."
Helios paused, letting the weight of it settle.
"But they were wrong."
Draco's breathing had grown uneven.
Helios stepped closer again, his voice dropping lower.
"He branded them like cattle."
The words carried something darker now—something heavier.
"Marked them. Tortured them."
Draco flinched. "What are you talking about?"
"The Dark Mark."
Helios's gaze flicked briefly to Draco's arm before returning to his face.
"What do you think it is?" he asked. "A symbol? A badge of honor?"
He shook his head slowly.
"It's a leash."
The word lingered.
"He uses it," Helios continued, his voice unwavering, "to summon them. To control them. To punish them."
A brief pause.
"To torture them."
Draco swallowed hard.
"He… wouldn't—"
"He would."
No hesitation.
"He does."
The certainty in Helios's voice left no room for doubt.
"Ask your father," he added quietly. "Ask him what it feels like. Ask him what happens when he is displeased with one of his followers."
Draco said nothing.
Because now—
There was doubt.
And doubt was far more dangerous than fear.
Helios stepped back, the conversation already over in his mind.
"Do what you want, Malfoy," he said calmly. "I don't care if you kneel."
He paused for just a fraction of a second.
"But if you do… remember who you're kneeling to."
Then he turned and walked away without another word, leaving Draco standing there in the corridor, unmoving, the letter clutched tightly in his hand.
It felt heavier now.
Much heavier.
What neither of them noticed—
Or perhaps Helios did, and simply chose not to care—
Was that they had not been alone.
Near the far end of the corridor, partially concealed behind a stone pillar, Adrian Savage stood in silence.
He had heard everything.
Every revelation.
His mind raced as he remained perfectly still, careful not to draw attention to himself. This was not something he had expected to overhear—but now that he had, he couldn't ignore it.
Because he had been considering it.
Joining.
It was expected of him. Encouraged.
A future already laid out.
But now—
Now there was doubt.
Tom Riddle.
A half-blood.
Adrian's jaw tightened slightly.
He needed truth.
He had something.
A name.
A starting point.
And in the world of pure-bloods, where secrets lingered in old bloodlines and whispered histories—
That was more than enough.
The letters left quietly.
No one watched the owls take flight, no one paused to consider what messages were being carried beyond the castle walls. To everyone else, it was just another day.
But what those letters carried would not remain quiet.
They rose into the pale sky, their wings cutting through the cold morning air, and with them went words that would not simply be read and forgotten. Words that would change things.
Draco Malfoy had sent the letter.
Helios's letter.
And the moment the owl disappeared into the distance, shrinking into nothing against the horizon, something inside Draco shifted in a way he could not fully understand. Like a crack forming beneath the surface of something that had always felt solid.
Uncertainty.
It settled in his chest, quiet and unwelcome.
For the first time in his life, Draco realized he was not certain.
Not about the Dark Lord.
Not about his father.
Not even about himself.
That night, sleep did not come easily.
Draco lay on his bed staring up at the dimly lit ceiling. The shadows cast by the lake water above shifted faintly, distorting the light in slow, wavering patterns. Normally, the sight was calming, familiar.
Tonight, it only made the silence heavier.
He turned onto his side, then onto his back again, restless in a way he had never been before. His thoughts refused to settle, circling the same words over and over again, replaying them with relentless clarity.
Tom Riddle.
A half-blood.
A master who tortures his own followers.
"No…" Draco muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut as if that alone could block the thoughts.
"That's not true."
It couldn't be.
It shouldn't be.
And yet—
The more he tried to reject it, the more the memories came.
The Manor.
The long dining table, polished to perfection. The quiet conversations held in measured tones. The presence of guests whose names were never spoken outside those walls. The way the air always seemed… tense, as though something lurked just beneath the surface of every interaction.
His mother.
Always composed. Always elegant.
But sometimes—just sometimes—there had been something in her posture. A stiffness. A caution that went beyond simple politeness. She chose her words carefully, more carefully than necessary, as though each one had to pass some unseen test before it was allowed to exist.
And his father—
Lucius Malfoy had always been a figure of confidence and control. Draco had admired that. Had believed in it.
There had been times—rare, fleeting—when that control had slipped. When his father's expression had tightened just slightly too much. When his voice had lost its smooth certainty for the briefest second.
Fear.
Draco's eyes opened slowly.
Not fear of the Ministry.
Not fear of Aurors.
But fear of someone else.
Someone who already belonged there.
And then—
The screams.
Echoing through the Manor's corridors late at night.
Draco sat up abruptly, his breath catching as the memory hit him with a force he could no longer ignore. His heart was beating faster now, uneven, his mind racing as the pieces began to fit together in a way they never had before.
"No…"
He shook his head, but the denial lacked conviction.
The next morning came as it always did, with the arrival of owls sweeping into the Great Hall in a flurry of feathers and noise. Students barely looked up as the birds descended, dropping letters and packages before their intended recipients.
Normal.
Unremarkable.
But for Draco—
Nothing felt normal.
Two letters landed before him.
One bore the familiar, elegant script he recognized immediately. His mother.
The other was plain. Unmarked.
He didn't reach for the second one.
Couldn't.
Because his hands were already moving, almost instinctively, breaking the seal of the first. The parchment unfolded beneath his fingers, and his eyes scanned the words quickly at first, then more slowly, then again, as though repetition might somehow change what he was seeing.
It didn't.
Draco,
I do not know anything about the parentage of the name you mentioned.
Your father has never spoken of such matters, and I advise you not to pursue dangerous rumors.
There was a pause in the writing, subtle but noticeable.
However… what you said about punishment—
…is true.
You must be careful.
There are things in this world that are not what they seem.
Trust your instincts.
And remember—your safety comes before everything else.
—Mother
Draco stared at the letter, his grip tightening slightly as the meaning settled into him.
His throat felt dry as he folded the parchment slowly, his movements no longer as steady as they should have been. Because now the doubt wasn't just a passing thought.
It was real.
It had taken root.
Across the table, another arrival drew attention.
Seven letters.
All delivered at once.
They landed before Adrian Savage in a cluster, the sound of parchment hitting wood sharper than it should have been in the otherwise steady hum of the Great Hall.
Heads turned.
Because that was unusual.
Adrian didn't acknowledge the attention. He didn't speak, didn't react in any outward way. He simply gathered the letters with quiet efficiency, his expression unreadable, and rose from his seat.
Then he left.
From his place at the table, Helios noticed.
By noon, the change had begun.
Fragments of conversation exchanged in low voices.
Half-formed thoughts that grew sharper with each retelling.
And at the center of it all—
Tom Riddle.
"It's real."
"I saw the records—"
"He was a student here—"
"A Slytherin—"
"That's not possible—"
"No, it's documented—"
"He was here fifty years ago—"
"And they treated him badly—"
"Of course they did—he was a muggle-born in Slytherin—"
"Hospital wing records—multiple times—"
"Older students—pure-bloods—"
"They targeted him—"
"They made an example of him—"
The whispers grew louder.
More certain.
Adrian stood at the center of it.
His expression was pale, his posture tense, but there was no hesitation in his voice when he finally spoke.
"I verified it," he said.
"My uncle works in the Ministry," he continued, his gaze moving across the gathered students. "He found the records."
"Tom Riddle," Adrian said, each word deliberate, "son of Tom Riddle Senior… and Merope Gaunt."
The name Gaunt rippled through the room like a shockwave.
Slytherin's bloodline.
"But his father was a muggle," Adrian added.
Silence followed.
"And he was sorted into Slytherin."
That unsettled them more than anything else.
"He was brilliant," Adrian went on. "Top of his class. Gifted. Exceptional."
He paused.
"But they made his life hell."
His jaw tightened slightly as he spoke, as though even saying the words carried weight.
"Older students. Pure-bloods. They targeted him. Humiliated him. Attacked him. Sent him to the hospital wing again and again."
No one spoke.
Because they all knew.
They all understood what Slytherin could be.
What it had always been.
"He didn't rise to destroy muggle-borns," Adrian said slowly.
"He rose to punish."
He looked around the room.
"To punish us."
"The pure-bloods who tormented him. Who looked down on him. Who treated him like nothing."
A long silence followed.
Because that changed everything.
"Then why do pure-bloods follow him?" someone asked.
Adrian let out a quiet, humorless breath.
"Because they were arrogant," he replied.
"They thought they could control him. Climb higher through him."
He shook his head slightly.
"But they were wrong."
His gaze hardened.
"At some point, he stopped being their weapon… and started owning them."
Across the room, Helios sat quietly, outwardly detached, as though none of this concerned him.
But he was watching.
Because this—
This had been inevitable.
Truth, once revealed, did not stay buried.
It spread.
He leaned back slightly, his gaze half-lidded.
Dumbledore should have done this.
The thought came easily.
If the truth had been revealed earlier—if people had known—how many would have hesitated? How many would have refused? How many would have chosen a different path?
Instead, there had been silence.
Secrecy.
And in that silence, Voldemort had risen.
Author's Note:
Enjoying the story?
Consider joining my Pat*reon to get early access to more chapters and exclusive fanfictions! Even as a free member you will get one extra chapter and you'll receive early access to chapters before they're posted elsewhere and various other fanfictions.Your support helps me create more content for you to enjoy!
Join here: Patre*on(dot)com(slash)Beuwulf