Morning in Malfoy Manor was a quiet, deliberate thing — not the soft, drowsy stirring of a household waking, but the slow, ancient unfurling of something cold-blooded and coiled, like the stretching of a serpent after a long night in the dark. The house did not yawn or breathe. It moved with purpose, but without warmth, like an automaton powered by centuries of blood, secrecy, and cruelty. Every corridor held its breath. Every window filtered light not to illuminate, but to remind the walls of what they were missing.
Sunlight slipped through tall, arched windows in reluctant shafts, striking only where the curtains permitted. Each beam seemed to fight to stay, as though light itself feared overstaying its welcome. The rest of the house lay in dim half-light, where shadows lived comfortably and silence reigned. This wasn't the kind of gloom that hinted at sleep or softness. It was the kind of perpetual dusk that wrapped around your thoughts and made time meaningless.
The boy had learned long ago that the Manor did not welcome warmth. It wasn't simply a matter of temperature — it was in the way the air itself recoiled from comfort. The fireplaces were always lit in the grand halls, flames dancing elegantly behind iron grates, but the heat never touched the skin. They were illusions of warmth, kept burning for appearances, as much a performance as the tapestries and gold-leaf sconces. He had once held his hands out to one, desperate for heat, and felt nothing. Not even a whisper of it.
The pale marble floors were colder still, polished until they reflected ghost-light from the chandeliers above. No rug softened them, no slippers were provided for servants, and the cold soaked through worn soles and thin socks, crawling up his legs like water. Even the furniture seemed carved to deny softness — high-backed chairs with sharp edges, tables with corners meant to bruise.
Warmth here was not forbidden. It was dismissed. Unnecessary. A weakness reserved for those who could afford to be human.
And he was not one of them.
He knelt now in the library, his knees aching from hours on the cold stone. The shelves loomed above him, their ladders reaching toward a ceiling so high it vanished into shadow. The smell of old leather, parchment, and the faintest trace of mildew hung thick in the air. Dust coated his shirt and dark trousers, clinging to his lashes whenever he blinked.
His hair — half silver, half black — caught the dim light in two distinct shades as he leaned toward the lower shelf, fingers brushing the spine of a heavy volume.
"Careful with that one," his mother's voice said behind him, warm and soft in a house that allowed neither warmth nor softness. She crouched beside him, slipping the book from his hands as if it were fragile glass. "The pages are older than me. Older than you'll ever be."
He looked up at her with a faint, questioning smile. It was the kind of smile that still carried innocence, though less than it had a year before. "Why keep it if no one reads it?"
She paused, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear with slender fingers calloused from years of work. Her eyes flicked toward the tall double doors at the end of the room, the same way she always did when she felt the walls listening.
"Because they're Malfoys," she said quietly, her voice tinged with something that wasn't quite contempt, but wasn't far from it. "And Malfoys keep what they think is important — whether it truly is or not. Even if it's dangerous. Even if it's broken. Even if it's you."
She did not look at him when she said it, but the words lingered between them like fog.
The boy didn't fully understand, but he knew the tone. That low, guarded way she spoke whenever the subject edged too close to them — the true residents of the Manor. The family whose name echoed in every corridor. The bloodline carved into the walls, sealed in the wards. The family who owned the house, and who owned him, in every way that counted. The family whose blood ran through his veins, yet never once acknowledged him as theirs.
He had seen it in the glances. The way the house-elves hesitated before speaking to him. The way other servants stiffened when he entered a room. The way Narcissa Malfoy looked at him, not as a boy, but as a stain. He had never been told the truth directly, but he had pieced it together, shard by painful shard.
Before he could ask more, the sharp, staccato rhythm of polished boots striking marble rang through the corridor like a countdown. His mother stiffened instantly. Her fingers, so gentle a moment before, moved with silent urgency as she closed the book and returned it to the shelf with reverent precision.
Lucius Malfoy entered the library with the kind of grace that did not bend, only occupied. He moved like a man who believed the Manor was an extension of himself, and every object within it was merely a reflection of his taste. His silver hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, his black robes embroidered with silver thread in subtle patterns that caught the light like spider silk. He walked as if no step had ever been uncertain.
His eyes swept the room once, registering its contents not with curiosity, but possession. Then, inevitably, they landed on the boy.
Draco followed a pace behind, his arms crossed, chest slightly puffed. He wore his new Hogwarts robes even though the term hadn't begun yet — Slytherin-green trim shining at the collar, the crest spotless. His face bore the smug, effortless confidence of a child raised in the certainty that the world would move aside for him. The certainty that he belonged.
The boy held still. He kept his chin slightly lowered, his eyes respectful but not afraid. Not anymore.
The boy lowered his gaze. It was safer. Eye contact with Lucius Malfoy was not forbidden, but it was always unwise. There was power in that pale gaze, but it was the kind that dissected rather than recognized.
Lucius's voice cut the air with the sharp elegance of a blade: smooth, practiced, and cold. "When you're done here, the east corridor needs polishing. The guests arrive tomorrow."
"Yes, sir," his mother replied at once, dipping her head in a way that wasn't quite submissive, but close.
Lucius's eyes lingered on her a moment too long. It was not a look of affection. It was the kind of gaze one reserved for property—valuable, tarnished, and perhaps no longer useful. Then his attention shifted back to the boy.
"Stand," he said.
The boy rose at once. Dust fell from his knees, clung to the hem of his trousers. His fingers instinctively straightened the edge of his shirt. He stood with his spine straight, but not defiant. Never defiant.
Lucius studied him in cold silence, his gaze flicking from the black half of his hair to the silver, like a man inspecting a botched experiment. The longer he stared, the clearer his disdain became — not spoken, not shown in expression, but in the stillness of his posture. It was the silence of judgment.
"Hold your shoulders up. A Malfoy does not slouch."
The boy straightened, jaw tightening for half a heartbeat. The words meant more than posture.
Lucius turned slightly. "You'll come to the dining room this evening," he said. "You may eat with the others. Draco will explain what is expected of you."
Draco stepped forward just enough to add insult to instruction. His smirk widened into something bordering on theatrical. He looked the boy up and down, his expression curdling with exaggerated disgust.
"Don't be late," he said, with mock concern. "And... try to wash first. The smell of dust doesn't pair well with roast goose."
The boy remained silent. He had learned silence was not submission. It was survival.
Lucius and Draco turned without another word. Their footsteps echoed out of the library, fading slowly into the depths of the Manor's spine. The sound reminded the boy of the bells that tolled in the village church below the hill — heavy, final, distant.
When they were gone, the silence left behind was almost a second presence.
His mother exhaled slowly, as if she had been holding her breath since the first footstep. She reached up to gently brush dust from his hair. Her hand lingered for a moment on the black strands, then the silver, and fell to her side.
"Don't listen to them," she whispered. "You're better than they'll ever admit. Better than he could ever be."
She hesitated, her eyes clouded with something heavy and unsaid. "One day..." she added. "One day, you'll be free of all this."
He wanted to believe her. Wanted to take her words and build a future out of them.
But in this house, even hope felt like something borrowed. And he knew how easily borrowed things could be taken back.
The servants' quarters were tucked far from the grand halls, hidden behind a plain, narrow stairwell that twisted into the bowels of the Manor like an afterthought. The steps were worn from generations of footsteps that had never been welcomed into the light above. Here, there were no gilded sconces or floating candles. The air was heavier, but warmer, thick with the scent of soap, damp stone, and cooked onions.
The boy liked it here more than anywhere else in the Manor. The walls were close, the ceilings low, and nothing pretended to be more than it was. Down here, the echoes of polished shoes and clipped tones didn't reach. Voices could laugh. Elves whispered stories. A candle could flicker without judgment. It was not freedom, but it was something close to peace.
Their room was small, tucked at the far end of a short hallway behind a crooked wooden door. A narrow cot for him, pushed against the wall. A slightly larger bed for his mother beside it. One chest, worn and scuffed, held both their clothes. A cracked mirror hung above the basin. No window. But it was theirs.
She sat now at the edge of her bed, bent over a faded grey shirt of his, mending a frayed seam with slow, practiced movements. The tip of her wand glowed softly at its end, illuminating the thread as it wove itself through the fabric, stitch by glowing stitch. Her hair was pulled back, and in the quiet light, the lines on her face looked like they belonged to someone who had lived three lifetimes in one.
"Sit," she said gently, patting the bed beside her without looking up.
He obeyed, climbing up beside her, careful not to jostle the thread.
For a while, there was only the sound of her needle and the faint crackle of the oil lamp on the dresser. Somewhere beyond the walls, the pipes groaned, and distant footsteps passed, muffled and unimportant.
Then his voice broke the silence. Soft. Hesitant.
"Mum... do you think I'll be in Slytherin?"
Her hands stilled. The needle paused midair.
She didn't answer right away.
"I think the Sorting Hat will see what's in your heart," she said at last, her voice thoughtful, not evasive.
He looked down at his hands. "And if I want to be in Slytherin?"
She turned to look at him, and for a long moment, her eyes searched his face as though trying to see the man he would become.
"Then remember this, my boy," she said, her voice quiet and firm. "A snake's tongue can speak truth... or poison. And sometimes, they are the same thing."
He didn't answer. But he held her words tightly, like a smooth stone in his palm.
He thought about them long after she put the needle away, as he lay curled under his thin blanket. He watched the flicker of wandlight fade, and listened to the soft sound of her breath beside him.
Above them, the Manor slept. But its dreams were never kind.
That night, when the Manor was still and the marble halls had fallen into their hollow silence, he crept from his bed. The corridor outside their quarters was colder at night, the walls breathing faint chill from the stone. His mother had gone to bed without supper, as she often did when Lucius had spoken to her with that tight, dismissive tone. Her face had looked hollow in the lamplight.
The kitchens were far from the servants' rooms, tucked beneath the main dining hall, and his bare feet made no sound as he slipped down the dark stairwell. The scent of roasted meat and boiled potatoes lingered, ghostlike, in the air. It was quiet here too, but a different kind of quiet — not the silence of judgment, but the hush of things that lived simply.
The house-elves looked up as he entered. Some shrank back. Others exchanged glances. Most of them still weren't sure if he was meant to be served or punished. He existed outside their structure, a half-shadow that disrupted the neat lines of their roles.
One older elf — bent with age, ears drooping, eyes clouded but not blind — shuffled forward and pressed a small piece of bread into his hands.
"Master would be angry," the elf muttered, his voice dry as parchment. "But Master is angry about many things. Little master should eat before Master finds him."
The boy nodded, murmured a quiet thank-you, and stepped back into the shadows near the pantry door. He sat on the cold floor, his back against a stack of crates, and ate slowly, savoring each bite like a secret.
Above, through the ancient stone of the ceiling, voices began to drift down. Not Draco's shrill arrogance, but something deeper. Lucius's voice — low, precise, a tone that never rose and never needed to.
Another voice replied. Harsher. Unfamiliar. Coated with impatience.
"...shipment arrives before the Dark Lord's return," the stranger was saying.
Lucius responded without hesitation. "See that it does. And keep the matter discreet. Even Narcissa need not know."
The boy froze. He didn't understand all the words, but he understood tone. This was not a business transaction. It was something darker. Something dangerous. The mention of the Dark Lord made his skin tighten.
He held still, not daring to breathe, as the voices receded.
When silence returned, he rose slowly, crumbs in his palm, and crept back into the servants' corridor. The bread, now forgotten, remained gripped in his hand like a talisman.
That night, lying in bed beneath his threadbare blanket, he stared up at the ceiling. The dark pressed close, but his mind remained wide open.
He thought of the dining room where he would sit tomorrow — not at the long table, not among silver and crystal, but at the side, with the staff. With the invisible.
He thought of Draco's smirk, the weight of Lucius's gaze, and the way both seemed to look at him like a mistake carved into flesh.
And then he felt it. A flicker.
Not rage, not yet. But something sharper than sadness. A small ember rising in the pit of his chest — heat without flame. A need to be seen. To be reckoned with.
Without thinking, he reached for it.
And the candle at the edge of the room — unlit, untouched — sparked to life. Its wick hissed, then flared, casting long, uncertain shadows across the stone.
He blinked.
No wand. No words.
Just will.
The flame held steady, and for a long moment, he simply watched it, the light flickering in his eyes.
One side of his hair glowed silver.
The other, black as pitch.
Half one thing. Half another.
And one day, he promised himself, he would be whole.
On his own terms.
The candle on the table beside his bed flared to life with a sudden, soundless rush of flame. No match. No wand. No words. Just a single thought, clenched like a fist behind his ribs. Just will, raw and quiet and burning.
The flame danced high for a moment, as if surprised to find itself summoned, then settled into a steady, elegant flicker. Its light stretched outward, casting long shadows across the stone walls, painting the contours of the room in gold and ash.
He stared at it, breath caught in his throat, eyes wide not with fear but something deeper. Recognition.
One side of his hair gleamed in the new light — silver, bright and pure, like his father. The other side soaked in the flame's glow without reflection, black as midnight, like the shadows he'd grown in.
Half one thing. Half another.
Not quite this. Not quite that.
But the fire didn't care. The fire obeyed him.
And one day, when the world looked again, they would not see a mistake or a shadow.
They would see him.
Whole. In his own right.