Chapter Text
Chapter 1 : Prologue
Wiltshire, September 2005
The gates of Malfoy Manor do not groan anymore. They have forgotten how to move.
Once, they were silver-streaked iron, imposing and proud, swinging open only for the ‘right’ kind of blood. Now, they are crumbling with rust. They lean at an awkward angle, half-off their hinges, choked by thick, prickly vines that have claimed the entrance as their own.
Malfoy Manor is no longer a home. It’s a tomb.
The white marble tiles of the grand driveway are cracked. Dark green moss grows in the fissures like veins. The fountain in the center—designed to represent a wizard with muggles and elves at his feet – has toppled, some figures now headless, others shattered into pebbles.
The house itself is in shambles. The white stone has turned a sickly, bruised grey. The soul of the estate—the velvet curtains, the polished oak, the warmth of a fireplace, the soft hum of magic —has been eaten away by time and neglect. Only the bones remain, withering to dust under the weight of a silence that feels heavy enough to crush a man.
Three children crouch in the tall, yellowed grass of the overgrown gardens. Narcissa Malfoy’s prize-winning roses are long dead. In their place are “strangler vines” and wild weeds that rise waist-high. The meticulously pruned hedges have exploded into shapeless, dark masses. The air smells of damp earth and rot.
Three pairs of eyes stare in terrified awe at the skeletal ruins of the house looming in front of them.
“It’s haunted,” ten-year old Jean whispers, clutching her elbows. “My dad says a monster lives there. A man who sold his soul to a snake.”
“I bet you won’t touch the front door,” a young boy named James dares.
They crawl through the weeds, their small feet trampling the ruins of a legacy. They reach the edge of the manor. High above, a row of tall, arched windows overlooks the wreckage. Most of the glass is gone, replaced by jagged shards that catch the light like broken teeth.
Then, they see him.
In a second-story window, a figure sits. He is so still that the children think he is just another statue at first. Another piece of broken marble.
He is incredibly thin. His frame is a collection of sharp angles—shoulders like coat hangers, a jawline that looks like it could cut skin. His hair, once a polished, arrogant platinum, is now a dirty, dull silver. It hangs limp and unwashed around a face that is the color of parchment.
His eyes are the worst part. They are hollow. There is no spark of life left in them. No sneer. No malice. No pride. They are just two grey craters in a sunken face, staring out at the dead garden but seeing absolutely nothing.
“Look!” Billy shouts, his voice cracking with fear and adrenaline. “It’s him! The Death Eater!”
The children scramble back. Their fear turns into the cruel bravado of the young.
“Monster!” Jean screams.
“Go back to hell!” James yells.
Billy reaches down and grabs a jagged stone from the rubble of the fallen fountain. He hurls it with all his might.
Cr-ack.
The stone misses the man but hits the remaining pane of glass in the window frame. Shards of glass explode inward. One long, razor-sharp sliver flies back and grazes the man’s forehead.
A thin line of crimson blood blooms across his brow. It trickles down his temple, a bright, shocking red against his deathly pale skin. It drips onto his grimy black shirt.
The man does not flinch.
He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t bring a hand up to wipe the wound. He doesn’t even move his eyes. He remains seated in that high-backed, rotting chair, his hands resting limp on his knees. He looks like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
“He didn’t even move,” Jean breathes, her voice trembling. “Is he… is he already dead?”
The kids panic. The sight of the unmoving, bleeding man is more horrifying than any ghost story. They turn and bolt, sprinting through the weeds, leaping over the rusted gates, and disappearing into the safety of the woods. Their shouts fade into the distance.
Silence returns to the Manor. It is the eerie silence of a graveyard.
Draco Malfoy sits in the center of the rot.
He hardly feels the sting of the cut on his forehead. He doesn’t feel the cold wind whistling through the broken window. He doesn’t even feel the hunger that has been gnawing at his stomach for days.
Inside his mind, there is only a fog.
The blood on his forehead begins to dry, matting his hair. A fly lands on his cheek. He doesn’t brush it away.
He is the master of Malfoy Manor. He is the heir to an ancient line. He is a decorated soldier of a lost cause.
And he is nothing.
Outside, the sun begins to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the ruins of the garden. Draco remains at his window. He is waiting for the night. He is waiting for the end. He is waiting for a reason to feel a single spark of pain, just to know he is still alive.
But the silence offers him nothing. The house is a skeleton, and he is the breath that has already left it.
Draco Malfoy closes his eyes, and for a moment, he is just another shadow in a room full of them. He is a ghost who hasn’t had the decency to die yet.