"Honey, are you kidding me?" Narcissa's voice rang sharply across the polished dining room, echoing off the marble walls.
"I don't think I am," Draco replied calmly, unfazed by her disbelief.
"I don't agree!" Narcissa shot back, slamming her palm against the mahogany table so hard the silverware rattled. "Homework during Christmas? And you even have to go somewhere far away? Tell me, was this arranged by that giant teacher of yours?" Her voice rose higher, brimming with outrage. "I swear, I'll have your father fire him! How could Hogwarts possibly hire a murderer as a teacher?"
"Oh, Mother," Draco sighed, clearly exasperated. "He's just the groundskeeper now. And it's not even a required task—it's an extra credit assignment for Potions. But shouldn't your son aim to be the best? Every task, no matter how trivial, should be completed perfectly, shouldn't it?" He paused, then added casually, "The Potions professor is Severus Snape. You should remember him."
"Snape," Narcissa repeated slowly, narrowing her eyes. "Yes, I recall that name. He worked with your father once, I believe. But still, I don't agree with this nonsense." She crossed her arms. "You mean to tell me you're actually willing to leave your mother alone during Christmas to go off chasing some silly school assignment?" Her tone softened slightly as she tried to summon tears, her lower lip trembling in theatrical distress.
Draco hesitated, unsure how to respond.
At that moment, a cool, weary voice drifted from the marble fireplace. "I'm back."
"Mother," Draco said quickly, a hint of relief in his tone, "it seems Father can keep you company now."
Narcissa scowled. "Always gone when he's needed, and home only when he shouldn't be," she muttered, clearly unimpressed.
Lucius Malfoy stepped out of the emerald flames, brushing the ash from his elegant traveling cloak. His pale face looked tired, but his gray eyes were alert. He crossed the room with effortless grace, poured himself a cup of honey tea, and took a sip before glancing at his wife and son.
"What's this about, then?" he asked mildly.
Draco quickly explained his "extra credit" assignment and Narcissa's refusal to let him go.
When Draco finished, Lucius leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "A Malfoy is never reckless," he said finally, "but neither are we cowards. If you believe this task is worth doing, then you have my support." His voice softened as a trace of nostalgia flickered in his eyes. "When I was your age, I too—"
"Enough," Narcissa cut him off sharply. "Don't you start reminiscing about those foolish escapades. I know all about them."
Lucius chuckled awkwardly, clearly deciding it was wiser not to argue. He lifted his teacup instead, murmuring, "In the words of Muggles—it's the holidays; why bother?"
After lunch, Draco packed his things and bid farewell to his parents. As he left the manor, the winter sunlight glinted off the polished marble columns, making the vast house seem colder than ever.
Before beginning his true journey, Draco stopped by a small Muggle farmer's market on the outskirts of town. Ignoring the curious stares of the vendors, he purchased several large beef bones. He wasn't sure yet what he'd use them for—just a vague instinct told him they might come in handy.
The villagers of Little Hangleton still referred to the old mansion on the hill as Riddle House, though the Riddle family had been gone for half a century.
The house stood high above the village, its once-grand windows now boarded up, its tiled roof broken and uneven. Ivy snaked wildly up the crumbling walls. Once upon a time, it had been the grandest home for miles—a mansion of polished stone and proud gardens. Now it was a place of silence, dampness, and decay.
And today, this forsaken house welcomed an unusual visitor: a pale-haired boy carrying a black satchel.
Draco walked up the wide, lonely road, the winter air sharp against his face. A few villagers noticed him passing by. In a small village like this, a stranger's appearance was enough to spark immediate curiosity.
Several of them approached, asking where he was headed. But when Draco mentioned the Riddle House, their expressions changed instantly—from polite interest to visible alarm. Everyone here knew the stories. The name Riddle carried with it whispers of horror. The murder case fifty years ago had never truly faded from memory.
Despite their warnings, Draco thanked them and continued on. The villagers, shaking their heads, watched him disappear up the hill, muttering about the strange young man who dared approach that cursed house.
Only one person remained unshaken by his destination—Frank Bryce, the caretaker.
Frank had tended the gardens of the Riddle House for decades. In fact, during the infamous murders, he had been the prime suspect. A veteran of war, Frank was quiet, solitary, and walked with a limp—signs the villagers interpreted as both physical and mental scars.
When the Riddle family was found dead, everyone assumed Frank had finally gone mad and killed them. The police took him in for questioning, certain they had their culprit. But Frank had denied everything.
He insisted that on the day the Riddles died, he had seen only one person near the house—a teenage boy with dark hair and a pale, cold face. No one in the village had ever seen this stranger before, and the police concluded Frank had made him up.
The autopsy, however, baffled everyone. The doctors could find no trace of poison, no wounds, no signs of struggle. The report stated—rather helplessly—that the Riddles were perfectly healthy in every way, except for the simple, inexplicable fact that they were dead.
All three bodies bore identical expressions of terror, their eyes frozen wide in fear.
"Scared to death," one officer muttered. "But who ever heard of three people being scared to death at the same time?"
Frank had been released soon after, though the villagers never forgave him. To everyone's surprise, he returned to his small cottage in the mansion's garden, resuming his work as if nothing had changed.
The new owner of the property—a wealthy but reclusive figure—never visited, never repaired the crumbling house, and seemed to maintain it only to avoid bureaucratic trouble. Yet he continued to pay Frank's modest wages on time, year after year.
That afternoon, as the pale sun dipped behind the hill, the silence of the Riddle grounds was broken by a sudden knock, knock, knock at the rusted iron gate.
Frank, who had been dozing in his deck chair, opened his eyes and frowned. He pushed himself up slowly, leaning on his cane. His limp made each step a small battle against time and gravity.
"Who on earth could that be?" he muttered to himself, hobbling toward the sound. "It's not those blasted village boys again—they'd never bother knocking."
The village children were his constant tormentors. They would ride their bicycles across his neatly trimmed lawn, hurl stones at the mansion's windows, and dare each other to sneak into the house after dark. To them, Frank was the local ghost—an old murderer guarding a haunted house.
Frank grumbled under his breath, his cane tapping against the cracked stone path. The wind moaned softly through the ivy as he reached the gate.
With a groan of rust and old hinges, he pulled it open.
Standing before him was a boy—pale as moonlight, with fine blond hair and eyes as cold as winter. He was dressed neatly, far too well for a place like this, and carried himself with the poised confidence of someone who had never been told no.
For a fleeting moment, Frank felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Something in the boy's demeanor—the stillness, the confidence—reminded him of another boy, many decades ago. A boy with dark hair and the same unnerving air about him.
"Oh," Frank said finally, his voice hoarse with age. "What brings you here, child?"
Draco's expression softened slightly, almost polite. "Go to sleep," he murmured. "Sorry."
Then he raised his wand. "Stupefy!"
A jet of red light burst from the tip, striking Frank squarely in the chest.
His eyes rolled back. The cane slipped from his hand, clattering against the cobblestones. His body crumpled silently onto the overgrown lawn.
The old man lay still.
Draco lowered his wand, staring at the unconscious figure for a long moment. He hadn't meant any harm—only to avoid unnecessary noise or trouble. He adjusted his gloves, brushed the dust from his sleeve, and stepped through the gate.
The air around the Riddle House felt heavier now, thick with memories and things unseen. The ivy swayed as if whispering secrets. Draco climbed the path toward the decaying mansion, the cold wind tugging at his cloak.
The door, warped and swollen from years of neglect, creaked loudly as he pushed it open.
Inside, the once-grand entrance hall was a skeleton of its former glory. The chandelier hung crookedly, its crystals clouded with dust. Portraits on the walls stared down at him through cracked glass, their subjects long forgotten.
Draco's footsteps echoed faintly as he walked deeper into the house. He wasn't afraid. Fear, he reminded himself, was for people who lacked purpose.
He reached into his bag and touched the wrapped beef bones he'd bought earlier. A faint smile crossed his lips. "Just in case," he murmured.
The air inside was cold and damp, the scent of decay mixed with something older—something magical. He could almost feel it pulsing faintly beneath the floors, whispering through the walls.
Somewhere in this house, he thought, was the past that began everything.
And with that thought, Draco Malfoy, heir of one of the most powerful pure-blood families in Britain, stepped deeper into the darkness of Riddle House.
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