Draco's chance encounter with Hermione in the town of Èze was rely a brief respite in his long sumr.
After that day, Draco quickly reunited with his parents and returned to Malfoy Manor; Hermione continued her tour of France with her parents.
But this gentle breeze had inadvertently stirred ripples in his heart, and a faint sense of lancholy.
In mid-August, Draco Malfoy's teenage anxieties were compounded by several new problems.
As he was reading a book called *Encounters with the Faceless* on a bench in the courtyard, Joan landed before him with a lively air.
He flipped through the letters that had just arrived with a blank expression, even forgetting to offer the hardworking ssenger so owl treats. Joan hooted at him in displeasure, flapped her wings, and flew away over the rose hedge.
The letters read as follows:
*Draco,*
*The Black family townhouse has been completely transford. I don't know what happened, but Kreacher seems to have been reinvented—he's kept the house impeccably maintained. I suspect it might be related to what happened in the Headmaster's office.*
*Anyway, Sirius said I've gained weight. That's perfectly reasonable, because Kreacher's French onion soup and steak and kidney pie were so delicious—you definitely have to try them next ti you visit…*
*Sirius was always so busy—he didn't even have ti to watch the Quidditch World Cup, which was ridiculous! However, on my birthday, he did manage to take to visit 4 Privet Drive, saying it was to thank them for raising . You should have seen Uncle Vernon's face—I'd bet a Firebolt he was terrified of Sirius…*
*There's sothing... My scar started hurting recently. The last ti it hurt was in first year, when we t Quirrell in the Forbidden Forest... Ron wanted to ask his dad what happened, but I stopped him—I didn't want everyone to know. On the other hand, Hermione reacted a bit strongly when she found out... You don't think that's a sign of anything, do you?*
*P.S. Are you going to the Quidditch World Cup? Ron has invited Hermione and to the Burrow—his dad got so of the best tickets.*
*Harry*
*Draco,*
*Sorry, Draco, I've arrived at the Burrow, and Harry is here too. Have you heard about his scar? I'm looking through Common Magical Ailnts and Afflictions trying to work it out, but to no avail. This isn't an ordinary scar, is it?*
*I think he should write to Professor Dumbledore.*
*My parents have already left for Africa. They caught the wildebeest migration season and plan to stay a few more days (what a sha! I really wanted to see them too!). Fortunately, the Weasleys are very welcoming, and they'd love for to stay until term starts. Here, I've discovered the advantages of being in a wizarding family: you can cast spells freely and preview the spells you'll be learning next term—sothing unimaginable in Muggle families.*
*"Cast spells however you like, as long as Mrs. Weasley doesn't find out," that's what the Weasley twins told . The Weasley twins are such a pair of codians—they prank Ron or Ginny at least three tis a day, and occasionally Harry, but they never prank —which is a genuine relief.*
*Oh, thank you! The book you recomnded, Evaluating Magical Education in Europe, answered my question—Hogwarts isn't the only magic school. Those European magic schools seem quite interesting too—I'm really curious about where they choose their locations. Also, I found so genuinely "interesting" content in the book I bought over the sumr. However, I don't think I can explain it clearly in a letter—I'll tell you when we et!*
*Hermione*
*The Burrow?*
*Is it really that interesting? Is it as interesting as Malfoy Manor?*
*She'd wasted all those introductions I'd made!* Draco thought bitterly.
Despite his thoughts, Draco knew it was the ideal option for Hermione to attend the match through the Weasleys' connections.
Draco knew perfectly well how Lucius and Narcissa viewed Muggle-born witches. If he were to invite Hermione now, given his father Lucius's personality, he'd probably imdiately attempt to hex her or sothing.
It would likely be a long road before Hermione beca a guest of honor at Malfoy Manor.
However, deep down, an uncontrollable feeling of displeasure emanated from him.
This feeling bothered him.
Since his rebirth, Draco had unknowingly entered his fourth year.
As ti passed, his mindset beca increasingly influenced by the present mont, and he more and more frequently forgot his actual age.
The three years he'd spent at Hogwarts were profoundly influencing him.
Occasionally, Draco would feel he had nothing to do with the wretchedness of his past life. He was just like any other fourteen-year-old boy, worrying about his studies, making friends, and caring about the girl he fancied…
But whenever he woke in the middle of the night from nightmares of his past life, he relived those suffocating mories.
These mories were too heavy and domineering, constantly tearing at him and making it hard to breathe.
To him, the shadow of the Dark Lord was like the Sword of Damocles in Muggle mythology, which could fall from above his head and pierce him through at any mont.
He must be extrely vigilant and work trendously hard; he must race against ti, against fate, and even more so against the Dark Lord.
This was a terrifying experience. You were fighting against an unprecedented evil spirit that seed to have three heads and six arms and could never be eliminated. If you were even slightly careless, you'd fall into an abyss of no return. But if you didn't fight back, you'd be slaughtered and devoured alive.
How many more things needed to be kept in mind?
The Dark Lord's black gemstone ring remained missing; Quirrell, who'd fled at the end of last term, and the Dark Lord's soul attached to the back of his head, though weak, would one day rise from the ashes—not to ntion they were currently wandering outside, still nowhere to be found.
Who knew if the Dark Lord would ever make a coback?
At the beginning of his rebirth, Draco hadn't thought too far ahead.
He'd simply wanted to trip up and hinder the Dark Lord's resurrection.
But as things had progressed, he'd gradually realized one thing: that alone wasn't enough.
The Dark Lord's thods were far more complex, cunning, and inhuman than he'd imagined.
At first, he'd simply thought that capturing Quirrell and handing him over to Dumbledore would suffice, and working out the diadem would solve everything; but later, the diary appeared, followed by the Hufflepuff Cup and the locket—all Horcruxes, evidence of the Dark Lord's deep-seated evil; moreover, the Death Eaters lurking in the shadows never ceased their support for the Dark Lord, and Peter Pettigrew and the powerful figures behind him were cause for serious concern…
He reiterated to himself his wavering inner thoughts:
*You must use all your strength to defeat the Dark Lord!*
*Nip any chance he might be able to revive in the bud!*
*Only in this way can you protect the Malfoy family and protect her.*
He sighed, put the letter in his pocket, and left the rose-scented courtyard. He passed through the garden gate, followed the dark staircase to his potions room, and continued his small research project with a troubled mind.
He was attempting to recreate a potion for treating Dragon Pox. He rembered soone had made an improved version of this potion, and he'd been very interested in it because of his grandfather's condition, so he'd specifically retrieved the guide to the improved potion to study it.
In his past life, his grandfather Abraxas had died of Dragon Pox—before Draco started sixth year. Now, that ti was drawing ever closer, and he had to do sothing, try to see if he could save his grandfather's life.
But these mories were from long ago, and there were a few recipes for which he was uncertain about the dosages, and he was constantly trying different ones.
Only a wealthy young master like Draco, who wasn't afraid to squander money, could do this—add different doses of the sa ingredient to a whole row of cauldrons, observe the subtle differences, and find the one with the most similar color change.
And so on, repeating in a cycle.
He wouldn't give up until the potion turned the correct color.
Unfortunately, he was completely out of sorts today.
Today was another fruitless day. The color change of any of the potions in the cauldrons didn't match the description in the guide he rembered.
He stord from the worktop to the armchair by the fireplace, turned around, leaned back in the armchair, and said to the air with a stern face, "Dobby, clean them up."
"Yes, young master!" Dobby appeared almost instantly, shrieking. He was dressed in a green outfit covered in bright red roses, looking like a mobile, cheap rose garden.
Dobby seed sowhat distracted today, and didn't express his feelings to Draco excitedly or share his life as usual.
It silently tidied the cauldron; the only sounds in the room were the clatter of potions and the movent of tools. Suddenly, the little elf let out a scream—its finger had been burned by a cauldron that hadn't completely cooled.
Draco snapped out of his reverie—he'd just been thinking about those letters. He waved his wand, and a glass of water with ice appeared before the poor elf. "Dobby, put your hand in."
The little elf put its unlucky finger into the ice water and finally breathed a sigh of relief.
"What's wrong with you today?" Draco finally noticed Dobby's unusual behavior. "You're not usually this clumsy."
"Dobby... Dobby..." The little elf glanced at him furtively, looking as though it wanted to say sothing but hesitated.
Draco said impatiently, "I command you to tell exactly what happened."
"A few days ago, Dobby went on holiday. Dobby thought he'd visit his friend... Winky—she's the Crouch house-elf, and she's always been very friendly to Dobby. Winky's family only has one master to serve, Mr. Barty Crouch, who went to work at the Ministry of Magic. Yes, Dobby saw him leave personally, thinking he'd visit Winky after he left. But that day, Dobby overheard Winky talking to soone outside the window, calling him 'young Master.' Dobby went in to check, but there was nothing there, only Winky." Dobby spilled everything, explaining this troubling situation in detail.
"Barty Crouch? The Head of the Departnt of International Magical Cooperation?" Draco asked.
"Yes!" Dobby said anxiously. "Dobby asked Winky! But Winky insisted Dobby had misheard. She didn't say anything and hurriedly kicked Dobby out! Dobby… Dobby is very worried about her!"
Draco glanced at Dobby's anxious expression, a thoughtful look appearing in his eyes.
*Barty Crouch.*
He was a man in his fifties. He stood ramrod straight, moved stiffly, had short grey hair, and a toothbrush moustache. He looked like a soulless automaton, as if he'd been asured with a ruler.
Draco certainly knew him. Lucius often spoke of him with disdain at the dinner table, considering him "pretentious and aloof," clearly not the kind of person who could be bought with money.
"He and Ludo Bagman are in charge of organizing the Quidditch World Cup. That stubborn old fool caused the Malfoys a lot of trouble back in the day," Lucius said unhappily at the dinner table that evening.
Draco could roughly guess what kind of predicant this was—Barty Crouch had been Head of the Departnt of Magical Law Enforcent, advocating for a hardline approach to combat Voldemort's Death Eaters and showing no rcy to them in the subsequent purge. The Malfoys had bribed many people to exonerate themselves, and they certainly knew who the tough opponents were.
Narcissa pursed her lips in disgust, a glint of schadenfreude in her eyes. "His son isn't exactly upstanding, is he?"
"Yes, a top graduate of Hogwarts back then, with twelve O.W.L.s… a clever, brave, and loyal servant…" Lucius said, a hissing sound coming from between his teeth. "He really didn't hold back his praise for Barty Crouch Junior. Just thinking about how dumbfounded Barty Crouch looked in court makes feel so satisfied…"
Draco quickly glanced up at his father. Narcissa noticed her son's action, frowned, and seed to realize this topic wasn't suitable for discussion in front of the child.
"In short, Lucius, you can't make everyone like you." Narcissa quickly changed the subject, saying haughtily. "He's just a nobody—he has no say in our affairs. The title of Head of the Departnt of International Magical Cooperation is just for show; in reality, his career is over. Maintaining a good relationship with Cornelius Fudge is far more important than worrying about him..."
"Of course!" Lucius said to his wife, a hint of smugness in his grey eyes. "Fudge is very helpful—he got a ticket for the Top Box at the Quidditch final."
Draco silently took a sip of his French onion soup, listening as his parents continued their favorite dinner table activity—evaluating Ministry of Magic mbers and identifying those from whom they could profit.
In his mory, after the Triwizard Tournant—a grand event to be held this year after the start of term—Barty Crouch's bones would be found buried in the Forbidden Forest. Draco vaguely recalled the school hadn't announced the cause of his death, and the Ministry of Magic's explanation was very vague.
At that ti, wizards were almost entirely focused on the devastating news of Harry's "the Dark Lord has returned," rather than the mysterious death of a rigid, serious, and unpopular Head of the Departnt of International Magical Cooperation.
Draco had once thought the sa way.
Now, could Crouch's death be related to this family secret?
*The unseen man…* Draco suddenly rembered the snowball Harry had thrown at him last year in Hogsade while wearing the Invisibility Cloak.
Perhaps soone was wearing an Invisibility Cloak. Perhaps there really was another person in that house, and it wasn't Dobby's imagination or hallucination.
But why would Winky call him "young Master"? Did it refer to Crouch's son, or sothing else?
Hadn't his son died in Azkaban long ago? Could Crouch have an illegitimate child?
Also, how had Crouch died in the Forbidden Forest in his previous life?
Did he have any irreconcilable enemies at Hogwarts?
Before his worries could be cleared, doubts began rising again, shrouding the boy's heart and refusing to dissipate.
---
Extra Chapter 8: The Malfoys' Hobbies (Narcissa's Perspective)
It was a sunny sumr morning when Narcissa, dressed in a white lace walking dress, strolled leisurely from the lush manor woodland.
Unlike her aloof, pale, and seemingly fragile deanor in the outside world, her morning walks gave her face a healthy pink glow.
Any of Narcissa's personal house-elves would tell you that if Narcissa didn't wear red lipstick and makeup, she looked quite approachable. She wouldn't resemble the aloof, noble mistress of the Malfoy family, but rather a cluster of delicate, graceful daffodils blooming by the pond at Malfoy Manor.
This description wasn't ant to be malicious. In fact, in private, Narcissa's attitude toward her house-elves could be described as kind, which was much more endearing than Lucius, her husband.
As mistress of the Malfoy family, she managed so many people inside and outside the house—house-elves, Muggle managers, Muggle tenants responsible for managing the estate and fields, and so on. Her delicate, seemingly dependent nature often made the people working under her take advantage and beco unruly.
If you didn't project a certain presence, it was very difficult to command respect.
After enjoying a leisurely morning stroll, on her way back to the mansion, Narcissa passed by the greenhouse on the garden's side and decided on a whim to see what her husband was doing.
Lucius was directing his house-elves as they busied themselves with his Dittany plants. He'd already attempted the Animagus transformation three tis, each ti failing halfway through due to one problem or another.
Once was because he'd swallowed a Mandrake leaf; another ti was because of a cloudy full moon; and yet another ti was because he had to collect dew—which had to be collected after seven whole days without sunlight or human contact—and that was no easy task.
"Cissy, you're here," Lucius turned around, looked at his wife, and finally a smile appeared on his face, which had been stern all morning. "You look beautiful even without makeup."
Narcissa was in a good mood. Although Lucius's sharp tongue was rciless toward outsiders, fortunately, he always knew how to use words to please his wife.
She walked lightly to her husband's side and watched with him for a while as the house-elves bustled about, and the row of Dittany plants being carried into the dark room.
"I must say, Cissy, your idea is brilliant. I hadn't thought of it before," Lucius praised her. "I should have asked you sooner."
Narcissa smiled guiltily. She'd only learned about this thod by writing to Sirius Black.
To her surprise, Sirius had honestly told her the secret, instead of his usual arrogant, unrestrained mockery—an attitude that had been particularly common during her adolescence—mocking her as a beautiful, vain, narcissistic, brainless ornant of the Black family.
"The Black family's spineless ornant! You're nowhere near as good as your sister Androda!" he'd always said. "You'd better watch your step! Before you know it, you'll be on the sa level as your mad older sister."
Who would appreciate such an assessnt? Therefore, Narcissa had never had a favorable impression of Sirius. It seed Azkaban had matured him considerably.
*(Sirius: No, I haven't improved much in terms of character. I'm just guilty for tricking you—and your son is furious with about it.)*
After watching for a while, she sincerely hoped Lucius's Animagus would successfully transform soon, and then strolled to the entrance of the mansion's cellar to see what was happening.
Her son had recently developed a new hobby—learning so kind of Muggle fighting technique. According to her understanding, this peculiar thing called Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu wasn't as convenient as a wand at all, and she didn't even understand where her son's whimsical idea ca from.
"Mother, if I get disard by soone, or if I face a creature that isn't afraid of magic at all, I need to be able to protect myself," her son had said gently. "No one can guarantee they'll always be invincible."
*What kind of bizarre logic is this?*
However, not long after, she and Lucius had heard sothing from the school governors: Remus Lupin, the third-year Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, might be a werewolf!
Moreover, her son seed to have encountered so danger, or at least narrowly escaped it. Otherwise, why would he have been at the hospital wing with a badly injured Harry Potter on a full moon night?
"No, I was just passing by and lent a hand. I wasn't hurt," Draco always said firmly.
However, this resolute attitude wasn't very convincing; she felt her son was being evasive. His unusual focus on martial arts made Narcissa believe he'd indeed encountered danger and was actively considering possible solutions.
"All right. Tell which instructor you want." Narcissa had finally given in to her son.
Although learning Muggle things was sowhat shaful, since her son wanted to learn, she didn't mind as long as other pure-blood families didn't find out.
At this mont, she peered into the cellar. The once desolate, gloomy cellar had been completely transford, with newly installed Muggle lights illuminating the space. A large, custom-made, dark green fighting mat covered the floor, and so of the walls were also padded, making the cellar resemble a Muggle fighting arena.
*If Arthur Weasley were to co and inspect again, he probably wouldn't have any more doubts or need to interfere,* Narcissa thought with satisfaction.
Right now, the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu instructor, Gracie, was telling her son, "We emphasize ground attacks, using leverage to achieve maximum results with minimum force. Like a snake, once you're on your opponent, there's no escape. The techniques are extrely complex. In real combat, without rules, the opponent is very likely to fall. Once they're down, it's our turn..."
Her little dragon, dressed in a white gi, stood tall and straight before the instructor, listening with great interest; Narcissa, however, found it boring after a while.
*What could be better than a wand? If you can't win, just flee. Why insist on fighting head-on?* She wrinkled her nose and returned to her newly opened perfury, focusing on her special little hobby.
The perfu factory Lucius had bought for her should be put to good use, shouldn't it?
*The art of perfury is quite fascinating,* Narcissa thought.
By blending the scents of rose and cedarwood, and adding a touch of vetiver and musk, it was possible to create a beautiful atmosphere that evoked imagery of cedar trees in the mountains, roses in the woods, and morning mist and frost.
She thought of her fourteen-year-old son.
Next school year, Hogwarts required students to prepare dress robes, as there might be a ball.
*How can one attend without cologne?*
"Draco, co here—tell , what kind of cologne do you want?" Narcissa asked eagerly as Draco finished his training, drenched in sweat, and ca over to greet his mother.
"Do you have... waterlon scent?" Draco hesitated for a long ti before finally stamring out the question. *Hermione seed to like that fragrance. At least it wouldn't annoy her.*
"Waterlon scent?" Narcissa chuckled. "Dear Draco, I must say your taste is sowhat unorthodox. Although it slls pleasant, no young lady would fall for a boy who slls fruity! That's... too childish."
"Really?" Draco frowned.
Narcissa looked at her son's unusually foolish expression and couldn't help but laugh, saying, "Since you've entered adolescence, I recomnd you try a cedarwood-scented cologne. The girls will definitely love it."
Draco casually wiped the thin layer of sweat from his face with the towel from his shoulder, and with his other hand accepted the cologne bottle with so skepticism.
*Does this... really work?*
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