Malfoy Manor – Library
Draco sat alone in the quiet library, adjusting his position for what felt like the fifth time in an hour, eyes scanning the worn pages of an old tome.
It had already been five days since he arrived, and Draco had quickly come to realise something. If there was one thing more impressive than the Malfoy family's wealth and connections, it was their knowledge.
Some of the books stored here weren't even available at Hogwarts. Sure, Hogwarts had one of the largest libraries in the wizarding world, but that didn't mean it contained everything.
Pure-blood families like the Malfoys had their own legacies. Libraries passed down through generations, filled with ancient spells, forgotten potion recipes, and knowledge that had quietly vanished from the public eye.
It was a source of pride. Something every old wizarding family held dear. This legacy wasn't just history; it was duty. A responsibility to preserve and strengthen the family's influence, to carry on what their ancestors built, and if possible, elevate it.
That sense of duty was part of why so many pure-blood families had chosen to support Voldemort in the last war. To them, Dumbledore represented a slow erosion of their traditions and power. Voldemort, or Tom Riddle, promised restoration, pride, and strength.
At least, that was what he seemed to promise.
Who could have predicted that a half-blood, just like Dumbledore, would lead them straight into ruin?
The irony was not lost on anyone.
Entire families had perished. And a family, in the old sense, wasn't just a household of four. It was a clan, with branches, factions, heirs, and candidates spread across generations.
The damage from the war went deeper than graves and headlines. Their structure, their bloodlines, their very history—some of it was lost forever.
Take the Blacks, for instance.
Once one of the most respected and feared pure-blood families in Britain, now reduced to a name on old parchments and fading memories. If Sirius somehow managed to prove his innocence, all it would grant him was a quiet, comfortable life. Not power. Not influence.
There was nothing left to wield.
Yes, the Blacks had wealth. Old, generational wealth. But even that had been bled dry over time. With no one from the family present to manage affairs, many contracts were broken—either willingly or quietly ignored. Assets were seized. Vaults emptied under the guise of reparations, settlements, or bureaucratic convenience.
Gold meant little without presence.
Businesses once tied to the Black name had shifted allegiance or dissolved entirely. Political standing was gone. No voice in the decisions that mattered.
The fall of the Blacks wasn't just a tragedy. It was a warning. A brutal reminder of what could happen when a legacy was left unprotected.
Draco sighed and pushed the book aside. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the cold surface of the table.
"What am I supposed to do..." he muttered under his breath.
He had spent the past few days going through records, accounts, and archived correspondences. Quietly tallying the damage the Malfoys had taken from the war. Some things could be repaired. Others were simply gone.
And he understood something very clearly now. If they lost this war, there would be no coming back. No recovery. The Malfoy name would be finished.
He didn't care much for the family. Not really. But the name… that was different. The name was power. History. A shield and a sword.
If he wanted the freedom to live the life he envisioned, he needed the Malfoys to survive.
Even if he eventually separated himself from them and made his own way, it wouldn't matter. The world would still see him as a Malfoy.
Sure, there was always the option to leave. To disappear into the arms of the Dragon Queen and live quietly in exile, far from the politics and decay of wizarding Britain.
But every time that thought surfaced, it brought a sharper question with it.
Why should I run?
This world, broken and bleeding as it was, still had value. Still held pieces worth fighting for. And more importantly, it was his.
No. He wasn't going anywhere.
Draco had made up his mind. He would rebuild the Malfoy legacy from the ashes. It wouldn't be fast. It wouldn't be clean. But he had a plan.
Multiple, actually.
And part of that plan involved knowing exactly what to do about the two old monsters looming over everything: Voldemort and Dumbledore.
He had no love for either.
The half-snake bastard would die, of course. That was non-negotiable. Voldemort's very existence was a threat to his future, to everything Draco was trying to build. But that didn't mean he was siding with Dumbledore either.
In fact, in some ways, he understood the so-called "Purist" perspective.
It wasn't about blood. It was about power. Who had it. Who didn't. Who shouldn't.
Why would anyone in their right mind want their opponents stronger? The idea of teaching every spell and sharing every potion recipe with people who might one day use them against you—that wasn't noble. It was stupid.
Many of the so-called "muggle-born" wizards loved to paint families like the Malfoys as villains. Greedy hoarders of knowledge, locking away ancient spellcraft and potion lore in their private vaults. As if legacy itself was a crime.
But Draco saw through the noise.
They wanted everything handed to them.
But here's the truth no one liked to admit. Magic isn't meant to be equal.
It never was.
Power doesn't come from playing fair. It comes from keeping your edge. From protecting the secrets that give you weight in this world.
Why should he, or any family in power, freely hand over generations of carefully guarded knowledge? To make everyone the same? To pretend that no one is special?
Ridiculous.
Magic is meant to be earned, not mass-produced. Legacy isn't just pride. It's leverage. It's survival. And those who don't understand that have no business chasing power in the first place.
And Draco had no intention of giving away the very thing that made him dangerous.
Knowledge.
The old families might be rotting, bloated on arrogance and stuck in the past. But buried beneath all that decay were weapons no one else even knew existed. And he intended to use them.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the sharp pop of a house-elf appearing beside him. It bowed low, trembling slightly as it spoke in a squeaky voice.
"Y-Young Master Draco, sir… Master Lucius is back."
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