"But don't worry, I won't kill you....but I can't say same about your son.."
Narcissa paled upon hearing this and almost begged," Please dont do anything to my child."
The Trader's widened as golden sparks danced from his fingertips, swirling through the air before coalescing into a single glowing scroll. The parchment floated, suspended mid-air, its edges crackling softly with restrained energy.
Narcissa flinched at first, but as the contract stabilized, curiosity—and desperation—overcame fear. She slowly reached out, fingers trembling, and took hold of the parchment. It felt warm, unnaturally smooth, and pulsing faintly—almost like a heartbeat.
Her eyes moved quickly, scanning the lines.
With every paragraph she read, her expression shifted.
First confusion, then disbelief and finally silence.
Her brows furrowed. "This isn't… slavery. It's more like a lifetime subordination contract—binding, yes, but without the suffocating restrictions of servitude. If I sign this, I'd become your subordinate for life. Similar to slavery in permanence… but not in control."
The Trader gave a single, calm nod.
Narcissa's eyes narrowed slightly. "So… I'm to use the Malfoy name, influence, and business network to support your shop—the Trader's Shop—that will operate across other worlds?"
The Trader didn't answer immediately. He merely looked at her, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement, as if the question itself was a formality.
Narcissa took that silence for confirmation.
She looked back down at the floating parchment, its golden-inked clauses subtly shifting, adapting as if aware of her scrutiny. No magical compulsion, no fine print illusions. Everything was laid out clearly—and that unsettled her more than any Unbreakable Vow ever could.
She had dealt with contracts before. Magical ones, blood-bound ones, even Unforgivable ones. But this… this was different. It didn't demand loyalty through fear or pain. It simply offered power, security, and position—in exchange for allegiance and utility. It was brutally efficient. Dangerous in its elegance.
"And in return…" she murmured, eyes scanning the benefits section, "...access to resources and protection under this Trader's network?"
The Trader inclined his head again. "Exactly."
Narcissa hesitated. She glanced at Lucius's body—still, cold, perfectly preserved and utterly beyond salvation.
Her husband had gambled everything on ideology, power, and appearances. And lost.
She looked back at the contract.
This… was survival. No, not just survival. It was opportunity, and the chance to save her child's life.
"I assume I get to negotiate the extent of my responsibilities?" she asked coolly.
"You'll find I'm more flexible than your late husband ever was," the Trader replied with a small smirk.
Her fingers hovered over the parchment. The edges shimmered faintly, waiting.
With a slow, practiced grace, Narcissa reached for the enchanted quill that had materialized beside it. She didn't shake. She didn't falter.
She signed.
The parchment pulsed once—then vanished in a flicker of golden light, absorbed into the Trader's system.
Narcissa lowered her hand and looked up. "So… what happens now?"
The Trader smiled faintly.
"Now?" he said, glancing once at Lucius's lifeless body.
With a casual wave of his hand, the corpse vanished—he didn't destroy the corpse, just teleported it to the other room.
Then he stepped over to a nearby armchair and sank into it with practiced ease, as if this were a routine business meeting. He motioned toward her with a lazy flick of his fingers.
"Come."
Narcissa closed her eyes briefly. Her breath trembled, though she fought to hide it.
Lucius, you absolute fool. You picked the wrong target and paid the price. And now... now I'm left cleaning up the ruin of your arrogance.
The weight of the night bore down on her. Her husband—dead, executed without theatrics. Her son—now a pawn in a game she didn't understand. And she? Standing at the edge of a decision she hadn't asked for.
But she had read the contract. It wasn't slavery. It was subordination—but intelligent, long-term, and oddly fair. No fine print to trick her, no degradation clauses. No forced loyalty spells. But no exit either.
It's a leash... but a golden one. He wants loyalty, not humiliation. Service, not worship.
Opening her eyes again, she stepped off the bed. Her long legs moved soundlessly across the marble floor. The black silk of her nightdress flowed around her like ink in water, clinging slightly to her form. Beneath it, Slytherin green lingerie shimmered subtly in the low light—expensive, tailored, elegant. A detail meant for Lucius, now irrelevant.
And yet… I'm still on display. Not by choice this time.
As she neared the Trader, she slowed instinctively. Her eyes flicked to his sword—still sheathed—and to the grimoire that floated behind him, silent and unreadable.
She stopped just in front of him.
With a quiet inhale, she lowered herself to one knee and met the Trader's eyes.
But that was all.
She didn't move further. Her pride as a pure-blood witch refused to let her act like some cheap nocturnal alley whore. She had knelt, yes—but out of acknowledgment of power, not submission of dignity.
The Trader just smiled, amused. "Although I'm a bastard," he said casually, "I'm not a bad guy."
His voice was calm, but layered with quiet authority.
"Just take care of the aftermath. Lucius Malfoy died due to… health complications. And the sooner you take control of the Malfoy business, the better—for both of us."
With a lazy wave of his hand, the body of Lucius Malfoy reappeared nearby—immaculate, untouched, laid out as if he'd simply passed away in his sleep. His reality altering powers ensured no sign of trauma or foul play would ever be discovered.
He didn't linger.
In the next instant, his figure shimmered, then vanished—teleporting away in defiance of the mansion's wards, as if they weren't even there.
Narcissa remained kneeling for a moment longer.
She exhaled slowly, rising to her feet, her mind already racing. The death will be ruled natural. Magical cardiac failure, perhaps? A known bloodline defect? I can spin it. I will spin it.
Her eyes drifted toward the lifeless form of her husband.
Lucius had always believed he could control fate with name and gold.
Tonight, fate had answered.
------
Within a quiet alley tucked between two dimly lit shops, the Trader appeared in a flash of golden shimmer. The night was still. The cobblestones beneath his boots were damp from an earlier rain, and the only sounds were the distant echo of London's midnight hum.
With a slow wave of his hand, the illusion covering him dissipated. The youthful disguise he wore faded, revealing his true form.
No alarms rang. No footsteps approached. No one knew that a pillar of the magical elite—Lucius Malfoy—had just been killed, his death orchestrated in silence, erased cleanly from the ledger of the world.
Nova exhaled quietly, then leaned back against the alley wall, his gaze distant.
For a fleeting moment, he recalled the image of Narcissa kneeling before him—not in submission, but in understanding. She hadn't begged. She hadn't screamed. She had simply accepted the reality of her situation and chosen to preserve what she could: her son, her name, her future.
And yet…
The image of her lingered longer than it should have.
He wasn't blind. Narcissa Malfoy was beautiful—commanding, proud, graceful in a way only a pureblood matriarch could be. And in that moment, wrapped in shadows and grief, she had still carried herself with quiet defiance. He'd seen the curve of her body beneath the thin fabric, the tension in her jaw, the flash of resentment in her eyes.
And for one moment—just one—he had felt it. That old, human part of him. Lust, power, dominance… the raw desire to claim what he had taken. He could've done it. She wouldn't have stopped him. Not out of submission, but out of cold practicality.
But Nova had pulled back.
No.
That was the line.
That was the difference.
He had killed Lucius for his crimes—for the innocent lives he destroyed, the families he shattered, the monsters he enabled. He had done it with clean hands and surgical precision, leaving no suffering, no spectacle. Justice, not vengeance.
But if he had acted on the darker urges that surfaced after… if he had crossed that threshold, he would've become no better than the very monsters he hunted.
He would've become one of them.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting that truth settle in his bones.
This world had a darkness to it, steeped in blood and secrets. But he wasn't here to blend in with it. He was here to reshape it. One step at a time. With calculated force when necessary—but never at the cost of his own soul or morals.
With a quiet hum of power, Nova stepped out of the alley and melted into the night—just another figure walking the streets of London.
No one looked twice. No one knew what he had done. And no one would ever trace it back to him.
But somewhere, deep in the folds of reality, the scales had shifted.
And the Trader had taken his first true step in reshaping this world.
x------x
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