The pain wasn't a throb; it was an invasion.
It didn't feel like waking from a dream, but rather like being forcibly dragged through a tube far too narrow, scraping consciousness against walls of flesh that didn't belong to him. The air smelled of stale lavender and centuries-old dust, an aristocratic and suffocating scent that clung to the palate.
He opened his eyes. The ceiling was too high. Silver moldings, emerald green silk cascading from a canopy that cost more than the life of an average family.
He sat up, ignoring the nausea that threatened to empty a stomach he didn't remember filling. His hands... were small. Pale. Fine, aristocratic fingers that had never known labor, only the weight of a wand or a peacock feather quill.
He dragged himself out of the silk sheets, his bare feet meeting the coldness of polished wood. He walked toward the full-length mirror standing in the corner, an imposing piece of furniture with snakes carved into the frame.
What stared back at him was disappointing.
A boy. Eleven years old, perhaps. Platinum blond, almost white, hair plastered to his forehead by the cold sweat of transmigration fever. The features were sharp, but there was an inherent weakness in the mouth, a petulance etched into the corners of the lips that screamed "spoiled" and "cowardice."
Draco Malfoy.
The name landed in his mind with the weight of a sentence. The memories of the original boy tried to assault him: the fear of his father, the suffocating adoration of his mother, the pathetic desire to impress and meet someone named Harry Potter.
"Pathetic," he whispered.
His voice sounded strange, too high-pitched, but the intonation was his own. Cold. Definitive.
He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, visualizing those foreign memories as files on a cluttered desk. He didn't reject them; he absorbed them, cataloged them, and then, with surgical mental brutality, he burned them. The personality of the whining child died in that instant, drowned beneath the vastness of his own adult, predatory consciousness.
When he opened his eyes again, the grey of his irises seemed to have darkened, losing that watery shine to acquire the hardness of tempered steel. The slouching posture corrected itself instinctively. The chin lifted.
And then, the universe flickered.
There was no sound of bells or cheap video game fanfares. Simply put, reality fractured slightly in his peripheral vision, and floating letters, traced in platinum light calligraphy, etched themselves onto his retina.
[SUPREME LINEAGE SYSTEM INITIATED]
[Subject: Draco Lucius Malfoy][Status: Assimilation Complete.][Diagnosis: The vessel is weak. The magical core is unstable. The will is... promising.]
Draco didn't flinch. He reached out a hand, as if he could touch the letters. He knew what this was. A tool. A gift from an entity that despised chaos as much as he did.
The text changed, flowing like liquid mercury.
[MANDATORY QUEST: THE MASK OF ICE]Description: Predators smell fear, even those of your own blood. Lucius Malfoy expects a frightened child. Narcissa Malfoy expects a baby in need of protection. Give them neither. Objective: Survive breakfast without showing childish weakness. Immediate Reward: [Passive Skill: Sovereign Occlumency - Level 1]
"Accepted," Draco murmured.
He felt a shiver run down his spine, not from cold, but from power. Something settled at the base of his skull, a cool, smooth barrier. The background noise of his own emotions—the disorientation, the residual fear of the physical body—was silenced instantly. His mind became a frozen lake, perfectly still.
He looked at his reflection once more. The petulance was gone. What remained was a predator trapped in the skin of a lamb, smiling with an arrogance that did not belong to an eleven-year-old.
"Lucius is going to have an interesting day," he said to the mirror.
He turned toward the dressing room. It was time to put on the skin.
—[<×>]—
The adjacent bathroom was a cathedral dedicated to vanity. Black marble, gold faucets spitting water at the exact temperature desired by Malfoy blood, and a selection of oils worth more than the annual salary of a Ministry official.
Draco stopped in front of the sink. He turned on the tap, letting the freezing water hit his wrists. An old trick to wake up the nervous system.
"Master Draco!" a loud pop broke the silence.
A small creature, with large ears and bulging eyes, appeared out of nowhere, holding a perfectly ironed day robe. Dobby. The house-elf trembled slightly, that perpetual vibration of one expecting a blow.
"Dobby has brought the young master's clothes. Dobby can help to..."
Draco raised a hand. It wasn't a violent gesture, nor even a fast one. It was a cutting motion, dry and absolute.
"Leave it on the bench," Draco said. His voice lacked the shrill tone the elf expected. It was soft, almost dangerous. "And get out."
Dobby blinked, his large eyes filling with confusion.
"Master? Has Dobby offended...?"
"I do not require assistance to dress like an invalid," Draco interrupted, turning to look at him. His grey eyes pierced the creature. "From today on, my person is restricted territory. No one touches me. Not you, not anyone, unless I order it. Understood?"
The elf nodded frantically, ears flapping.
"Yes, Master Draco! Dobby understands!"
With a snap, the creature vanished, leaving behind only the echo of its fear.
Draco dried his hands with an Egyptian cotton towel. The rejection wasn't just arrogance; it was necessity. His body was still adjusting to the new soul. Any unexpected physical contact could trigger a defensive magical discharge or, worse, reveal the anomaly in his aura to someone sensitive.
He dressed methodically. Black silk shirt, straight-cut trousers, an open robe of a green so dark it was almost black. No frills, no childish excesses. He fastened his cuffs with silver cufflinks shaped like coiled snakes.
Finally, his gaze fell upon the nightstand.
There rested the wand. 10 inches, Hawthorn, unicorn hair.
He picked it up.
A vibration ran up his arm, but it wasn't the warm welcome described in books. It felt... thin. Fragile. Like trying to play a complex symphony on a toy flute. The unicorn hair core, inherently inclined towards "clean" and stable magic, recoiled before the dark, heavy density of his new soul.
[ITEM ANALYSIS][Draco Malfoy's Wand (Original)][Compatibility: 42%][Note: The core rejects your ambition. Risk of fracture if High-Level magic is channeled.]
"Rubbish," he muttered, sheathing it into his robe's sleeve with a flick of his wrist.
It would serve to light candles and levitate feathers. For everything else... he would have to improvise until he could force Ollivander to give him something with teeth.
He looked at himself one last time in the mirror. The "Mask of Ice" was firm. The posture was regal. The gaze, unreadable.
"Time for breakfast," he said to the void. "Let it not be said that I don't respect traditions."
He turned on his heels and walked out of the room, his steps resonating in the hallway like the ticking of a time bomb.
—[<×>]—
The main dining hall of Malfoy Manor was designed to intimidate. Vaulted ceilings, a mahogany table long enough to land a racing broom on, and portraits of ancestors who judged every morsel from the walls.
Lucius Malfoy sat at the head, The Daily Prophet open before him like a shield. Narcissa was to his right, sipping tea with a delicacy that bordered on choreographic.
Draco entered.
He didn't shuffle his feet. He didn't seek his father's approving gaze. He walked to his usual chair to Lucius's left, pulled it out in silence, and sat down.
"Good morning, Draco," Narcissa said. Her voice was soft, but her blue eyes scanned his face, searching for signs of last night's fever.
"Mother," he nodded, taking the linen napkin and unfolding it over his lap.
Lucius didn't look up from the newspaper.
"That blood traitor Weasley has done it again," he spat, turning the page violently. "Another proposal for the 'Muggle Protection Act.' As if those beasts needed protection from us. The Ministry is filling up with filth-lovers."
Draco poured tea into his cup. No milk. No sugar.
"Mmm," Lucius hummed, looking for an ally. "And Dumbledore gives him wings. It's a disgrace, Draco. You'll have to be careful at school. That sort of people..."
"Does that sort of people worry you, Father?"
The question floated in the air, light but sharp.
Lucius lowered the paper slowly.
"Pardon?"
Draco sliced a piece of sausage with surgical precision. He didn't look at his father; his attention seemed entirely focused on the act of eating.
"Weasley. Dumbledore. You speak of them with such... passion."
"It is not passion, it is disgust," Lucius replied, furrowing his brow. Draco's tone felt foreign to him. Too... rebellious.
"It sounds like frustration," Draco corrected. He brought the fork to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed before continuing. "Complaining about a Ministry employee at the breakfast table is... inefficient. It is the behavior of someone who lacks the power to change the situation."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the portraits seemed to have stopped breathing. Narcissa set her cup on the saucer with an almost imperceptible clink.
Lucius's eyes narrowed. The snake-headed cane leaned against the table, close to his hand.
"Are you giving me lessons in politics, Draco? You? A child who hasn't even stepped foot in Hogwarts?"
"No, Father. I am giving you lessons in dignity." Draco finally looked up.
His grey eyes clashed with Lucius's.
The [Supreme Lineage System] hummed at the base of his skull.
[Skill Activated: Sovereign Occlumency (Level 1)][Effect: Fear suppression. Projection of Minor Authority.]
Draco's gaze did not waver. There was no childish insolence, only a cold, dispassionate assessment.
"If Arthur Weasley is a threat to House Malfoy, then he is destroyed. His reputation is ruined, his funding is cut, or he is removed. But sitting here, in our manor, whining about his laws... that makes us look weak. It makes us look like victims. And a Malfoy is never a victim."
Lucius opened his mouth to reprimand him, to shout, to impose his paternal authority. But the words died in his throat. Because what he saw in front of him was not his spoiled son. He saw a stranger. He saw, with a shiver he refused to acknowledge, an echo of the Dark Lord's coldness, but without the madness.
"Watch your tone, Draco," Lucius murmured, but the threat sounded hollow. He had lost control of the conversation.
"My tone is that of reality, Father." Draco wiped the corners of his lips and placed the napkin on the table. "The meal was excellent. I will be in the library. I must rectify certain deficiencies in my education before September."
He stood up.
"Narcissa," he gave a slight nod to his mother. Not "mom," not "mother" in a pleading tone. Just her name, pronounced with the respect given to a queen, not a nanny.
He walked out of the dining hall without looking back.
Behind him, the System flickered on his retina:
[QUEST COMPLETED: THE MASK OF ICE][Evaluation: Brutal. Efficient. Aristocratic.][Reward: +500 XP. Charisma +1.][Impact on NPC: Lucius Malfoy (Intimidated/Confused). Narcissa Malfoy (Intrigued/Alert).]
Draco smiled as he crossed the foyer. The first brick of his empire had just been laid upon his father's bruised ego.
—[<×>]—
The Malfoy Library smelled of dead time. It was a dry scent, composed of brittle parchment, iron gall ink, and the metallic residue of spells that had impregnated the wood of the shelves for centuries.
Draco roamed the aisles with avid fingers. He wasn't looking for The Tales of Beedle the Bard. His eyes scanned the leather spines searching for keywords: Occlumency, Mind Arts, Blood Rituals.
The System floated beside him, marking books with colored tags only he could see.
[Grimoire Detected: "The Citadel of the Mind" by Salazar Slytherin (Copy)][Requirement: Intelligence 20. Occlumency Level 2.][Status: Learnable.]
Draco extracted the heavy volume. Dust danced in the beam of light entering through the high window.
"Draco."
The voice came from the entrance, accompanied by the whisper of silk on the Persian carpet. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. Narcissa's perfume—white lilacs and ice—was an unmistakable signature.
He turned slowly, the book cradled in one arm.
"Mother."
Narcissa Malfoy stood beneath the archway, hands clasped before her waist. Her face was a perfect mask of composure, but her blue eyes betrayed her. There was worry there. And fear.
"Your behavior at breakfast..." she began, taking a step inside. "Lucius is furious. He has locked himself in his study."
"Lucius will recover," Draco said, his tone devoid of guilt. "Pride is the only wound that takes time to heal, but it is rarely fatal."
Narcissa stopped a few feet from him. She studied him, tilting her head slightly.
"You've changed. Yesterday you were a boy worried about whether you'd have the fastest broom at school. Today you speak as if the world were in your hands and you look at your father as if he were..."
"Disappointing?" Draco finished.
Narcissa inhaled sharply.
"Draco. He is your father."
"He is a man who bows to others." Draco set the book on a nearby table and closed the distance between them. He didn't run to her. He walked with a predatory assurance. "A man who has allowed our surname to become synonymous with cowardice and cheap bribery."
He stopped right in front of her. At eleven years old, he still had to look up to meet her eyes, but the intensity of his presence made the height difference seem irrelevant.
"I had a dream last night, Mother," he lied, smoothly. A white lie to cover the transmigration. "I saw what would happen if I remained the boy Lucius wants me to be. I saw House Malfoy in ruins. I saw you... alone and unprotected."
He reached out a hand. It was a bold, adult gesture. His fingers, pale and fine, grazed the back of Narcissa's hand. She didn't pull away; she was frozen by the intensity of his gaze.
"I will not allow that to happen," Draco whispered. His voice dropped an octave, acquiring a magnetic resonance that the System subtly enhanced. "Lucius plays at politics. I am going to play at history. I am going to restore the glory of this family, and you will be the only one before whom I bow."
Narcissa blinked, her lips parted. The tension in the air shifted. It was no longer maternal; it was something denser, charged with a dark and possessive devotion. She saw in his eyes a promise of violence against the world and absolute safety for her.
"Draco..." she sighed, and for the first time, she sounded less like a mother scolding a son and more like a woman recognizing a protector.
She raised her free hand and caressed his cheek. Draco's skin was cold.
"Be careful," she whispered. "The world is not kind to those who fly too close to the sun."
"I am the sun, Mother," he replied, leaning his face into her palm, accepting the touch not as comfort, but as tribute. "And the others will simply learn not to burn."
The System flickered in his peripheral vision, red and urgent.
[TARGET UPDATED: NARCISSA MALFOY][Status: Internal Conflict.][Loyalty: Divided (Lucius 60% / Draco 40%).][Psychological Seduction Progress: Seed Planted.][Note: She craves power and safety. Give them to her.]
Draco pulled away slowly, breaking the contact but holding the visual connection until the last second.
"I have to study. Tomorrow we go to Diagon Alley. I need a wand that doesn't tremble."
Narcissa nodded, dazed, and withdrew from the library. Draco watched her go, observing the elegance of her walk, calculating how long it would take to shift that 60% loyalty from Lucius down to zero.
He picked up the Slytherin book again.
"Step one," he muttered to himself, opening the worn leather cover. "Learn to close the mind. Step two: Take the world."
A razor-edged smile crossed his face as the afternoon light died, plunging the library into shadows that seemed to embrace him like an old friend.