Malfoy Manor.
Draco had barely stepped through the front doors, traveling cloak still on, when his father's voice sliced through the silence.
"Back already? You haven't finished today's assignments."
Draco's shoulders slumped. Ever since summer started, Lucius had been riding him hard—magic drills, no excuses, zero slack. He'd planned a real vacation. Trips. Freedom. Fun.
Instead, the second he got home, his father dragged him into a duel to "test his progress." Then it was nonstop: ancient texts, spell practice, less downtime than at school. Was this even supposed to be a holiday?
Today's trip to Diagon Alley had only happened because Draco begged and wheedled—said he needed to see Lucien's Instant Language launch. Otherwise Lucius probably would've kept him locked down.
Lucius's face stayed cold and aristocratic, but his eyes held quiet satisfaction.
The duel had shown real improvement. Draco's spells came faster, hit cleaner, and his reactions under pressure were sharper than they'd been at the end of last term. Lucius only gave him a cool "above average" out loud, but inside he was genuinely pleased.
It proved his son had actually learned something useful from Lucien.
Lucius knew exactly where he stood among the old Death Eaters. His seat at the table had always been shaky—bought with gold and flattery rather than real power. The inner circle—Bellatrix, young Barty Crouch, Antonin Dolohov—had always sneered at him as the rich lapdog who tagged along.
But Draco's progress changed things.
He might be weak. His son didn't have to be.
Lucius muttered under his breath, "Shame there aren't any suitable girls in our line right now. If we had a daughter…"
The Greengrass family was already way ahead on that front.
"Father? What was that?"
Draco had only taken a few steps toward the study before glancing back.
Lucius shook his head. "Nothing. Go study."
Pure-blood families had always married each other to tighten alliances. His own wife Narcissa had been a Black before she became a Malfoy—an old, wealthy line. Too bad the last heir was rotting in Azkaban and probably dying there. A once-great family fading into nothing.
That was the pure-blood curse: few children, fragile succession. Every head of house lay awake worrying the line would die out.
Lucius watched his son's back disappear around the staircase. His expression turned complicated.
He'd carried the same quiet dread for years—that Voldemort wasn't truly gone. That the Dark Lord was still out there somewhere, waiting.
If he returned…
Lucius closed his eyes. Lucien's warning echoed in his mind: Check that diary carefully.
So he had. Digging through family archives until the truth hit him like a curse.
Horcrux.
Lucius had nearly dropped the book.
He'd handed Voldemort's Horcrux straight to Dumbledore—delivered it to Hogwarts like a gift.
If the Dark Lord came back and found out…
If Lucius had stayed ignorant, maybe he could've bluffed his way through. But now he knew. And Voldemort loved using Legilimency to sniff out betrayal.
He'd kill Lucius without a second thought. Probably in the slowest, cruelest way possible.
Lucius needed an exit. Not just for himself—for Draco. For the Malfoy name.
Lucien had already shown talent and power on the same level as Dumbledore or Voldemort himself. Keeping Draco close to him was insurance.
At the very least, his son would survive. The family line would continue.
His mistakes didn't have to become his son's.