Chapter Text
Five Months Ago
Draco Malfoy sat perfectly still.
Chin high, posture unyieldingly straight, every inch the image of calm control that had been drilled into him since childhood. His wine glass remained untouched, his fingers poised just above the stem, not daring to make contact. Even a slight tremor could give him away.
Across the long table in the dining hall of Malfoy Manor, lit by swaying candlelight and the dull gleam of ancestral silver, the Dark Lord sat at the head. He hadn't moved in nearly fifteen minutes. The hands folded neatly under his chin, his expression carved from marble, the Dark Lord was watching the gathered dinner guests.
Draco’s pulse quickened at the thought of what he was about to do, hammering a frantic rhythm beneath his rips. But no one would be able to see past his stoic facade, having learned long ago how to keep still when the world tilted. It had been over a year since he’d felt like this. A year since the battle of Hogwarts, when one nightmare bled into the next. The night when the Dark Lord stood triumphant, Potter crumpled and unmoving, the Order scattered like ash in the wind.
The start of a new reign.
To the Dark Lord’s right, his aunt Bellatrix let out a shrill peal of laughter — a brittle, jagged sound that scraped across Draco’s nerves. She was midway through an exaggerated account of the Order’s “latest embarrassment”: a failed raid on a supply outpost earlier that day, and a rather absurd scene of the Weaslette breaking up mid-battle with a man who may or may not have been Harry Potter.
“—she screamed at him, my Lord, in front of everyone!” Bellatrix crowed, wild-eyed and ecstatic. “‘I don’t love you, Harry!’ Oh, it was pathetic. He looked so… small.”
Draco knew what was coming, but it startled him nonetheless, the Dark Lord's voice cracked through the room : “POTTER IS DEAD.”
A cold silence followed. Everyone at the table bowed their heads in agreement. Draco forced his jaw to stay slack, unmoving. But they all knew it was a lie.
Somehow the boy who had lived, died, and now lived again. No matter how many times the Dark Lord repeated the propaganda line over the last year since the Battle of Hogwarts, no matter how often the lie was written into newspapers or whispered into ears, the truth clung stubbornly to the edges of every conversation. And yet, Draco had heard the official version so often that some part of him had begun to doubt his own memory.
But they would know the truth soon enough. They would join the Order tonight. Tonight would be the first time in Draco’s life that he would make a choice for himself. A choice to be the hero for once, to be on the right side of history. To be free.
They were going to kill the Dark Lord. They were going to end this war.
The plan had been carefully, painfully shaped over weeks. They couldn’t be sure that he was mortal per se. But four Avada Kedavras, cast together, no one could survive it. Not even the Dark Lord. At least that was the hope.
Draco glanced across the table. Pansy sat directly opposite him, her face carefully schooled into serene boredom, her chin tilted just enough to look uninterested. Blaise sat beside her, his expression impassive. But Draco saw the tension in his jaw, the subtle way his thumb rubbed against the ring on his finger.
To Draco’s left, Theo sat motionless. He hadn’t blinked in over a minute, but his eyes were on the target. They were all ready.
Draco’s mother sat beside him, unaware. She leaned slightly toward her sister, trying to appear invested in Bellatrix’s manic tale. Her face gave nothing away, but Draco could sense the tension in her, the quiet revulsion she’d long since learned to disguise. She didn’t know the plan. She couldn’t. Not when the Dark Lord so often rifled through her mind without warning. She was a liability. So tonight he would break the only thing he still cared about — his mother's trust.
He would protect her, no matter what. He would grab her after the strike to run out outside, past the wards. Hold on as tightly as he could and Apparate them both to the safe house Blaise had arranged. She’d hate him for not warning her, but at least she’d be alive to be angry.
He felt the pressure building in the room as dinner continued. Bellatrix’s voice continued, a shriek bouncing off the marble walls, but her words no longer registered. All Draco could hear was the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears.
And then the elves appeared. Dessert hovered in on floating trays, plates of candied fruits and pastries and chocolate confections.
This was their moment. He felt Theo shift beside him, barely a breath. Pansy’s wand slid silently from her sleeve. Blaise gave the smallest nod.
Now.
Draco rose together with his friends. Chairs scraping against the marble floor. One spell and they would end this war tonight. They would be free. At the same moment, he raised his wand, ready to strike, the doors to the dining hall slammed open. The sound cracked through the room like thunder.
“My Lord!” Yaxley’s voice rang out as he strode forward, dragging a red haired witch behind him by the arm.
She stumbled as Yaxley pulled her roughly in front of him, but she didn’t resist. Her shoulders were squared, her chin high. Draco’s breath caught as he recognised her. It was Ginny Weasley.
He froze in place, wand still half-raised, pulse hammering behind his eyes. His gaze flicked to Pansy. Her eyes had gone wide. Blaise’s posture stiffened; Theo’s hand tensed on his wand.
“She was lurking at the gates,” Yaxley sneered. “Said she wanted to speak to you.”
The Dark Lord tilted his head slightly. “Did she now?”
Ginny yanked her arm from Yaxley’s grip. She stumbled forward, catching herself quickly. She turned to face the Dark Lord. Her voice, when it came, was clear. Cold. Controlled. “I am here to defect.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Every muscle in Draco’s body turned to stone.
She stepped forward. “I’ve seen the truth. The Order is wrong, you were right.” And then, slowly, she dropped to her knee before him. “Purebloods are meant to rule.”
Bellatrix let out a high-pitched squeal of delight. Narcissa inhaled sharply beside Draco. Pansy’s wand slipped and hit her plate with a loud, ringing clang. Blaise did not move. Theo exhaled and cursed under his breath.
And Draco sat down. His wand disappeared from sight, along with their dreams of being the heroes for once.
Because if Ginny Weasley, the fiercest fighter left in the Order, had defected, then the Order was truly finished.
There would be no uprising.
No rebellion to join.
No redemption to fight for.
The only thing left was survival. And in the Dark Lord’s new world, survival belonged not to the bold or the brave, but to the ruthless.
Present
Draco looked at the dried blood on his knuckles. He scratched at it absently with his thumb, zoning out the conversation around him. It flaked away in small, dark flecks, catching in the grooves of his skin. He wasn’t sure if it was his or someone else’s. He wasn't sure if he cared.
“Seven kills tonight,” Theo said lightly, shrugging off his rain-soaked coat as he crossed Draco’s study and headed straight for the liquor cabinet.
“Oh wow,” Pansy drawled, not looking up as she flipped open the Prophet. “I only managed four. What about you, Draco?”
Draco didn’t reply. He hadn’t even bothered keeping count. Why would he? It was just another mission. The objective was always the same: eliminate the Order. No reason, no cause, just kill whoever they said needed killing. The strategy behind the orders wasn’t his job. His father had made that clear. Soldiers execute, that’s it. Leave the thinking to the Dark Lord’s chosen advisors.
“Not a bad effort, darling,” Theo said, lifting a glass of firewhisky. “But then again, you’re not a born maniac. I needed the kills. Had to work off some tension after my father’s last round of Crucio for not being promoted to squad leader.” He rolled his shoulders.
Draco took a slow sip of tea. “You’re welcome to the title,” he murmured.
“Oh, no thank you.” Theo grinned mirthlessly. “I'd rather deal with one lunatic than three.”
“Talking about Crucios. I still can’t believe the Dark Lord let Weasley Crucio you for Flint’s mistake,” Blaise said from his perch on the windowsill, his voice edged with disbelief.
Draco didn’t look up. “He made the mistake under my supervision. So it’s my mistake.”
His tone was flat, detached, a perfect echo of the line his father had delivered just before Weasley raised her wand and cast the curse.
“She’s a fucking mole,” Blaise snapped again. It was the fifth time he’d said it this week. Possibly this day. “I don’t know how no one else sees it. It’s so obvious.”
Draco didn’t respond. Once, he’d agreed. But the moment he watched her kill a Muggle father in front of his children with a steady wand, and no hesitation, he knew better. She was loyal to the Dark Lord’s cause. Or maybe she was just better at pretending than all of them. It didn’t matter. Nothing really did anymore.
He leaned his head back, willing his back to unknot itself. He should wash the blood off. Or eat something. Or sleep.
But his body wouldn’t move. The Killing Curse didn’t just drain him, it hollowed him. Left him quieter inside. Emptier. Like some part of him kept dying with each cast. He couldn’t fathom how Theo was still pacing the room, firewhisky in hand, grinning like they hadn’t just massacred half a safehouse.
“Fuck, did you see this?” Pansy asked, her voice unusually quiet as she laid the morning’s Prophet flat on the table. A photograph dominated the front page of Minister of Magic Dolores Umbridge, addressing the Wizengamot. Her expression was sickeningly serene as she read from the scroll in her hands, the headline beneath crowing “WIZENGAMOT APPROVES BLOOD HEALTH ACT”. Theo let out a low whistle. “They actually went through with it.” He read the article aloud:
In a landmark decision aimed at preserving the vitality and longevity of our society, the Wizengamot and the Minister of Magic have unanimously approved the Blood Health Act.
This progressive regulation, developed under the visionary leadership of the Dark Lord, aims to strengthen wizarding bloodlines. It introduces new protocols to ensure the purity of magical heritage by addressing individuals born without magic in wizarding families.
Previously referred to as ‘squibs,’ these individuals have now been reclassified as Muggles.
Recent studies presented to the Wizengamot warn that unions between magical citizens and reclassified Muggles pose a critical threat to the stability of wizarding bloodlines. Data shows an alarming 82% increase in generational magic loss when such pairings are not actively prevented.
“Do you think Skeeter came up with that number herself?” Pansy muttered. Theo didn’t pause.
As such, for the betterment of both magical and non-magical communities, families are now entrusted with the duty of protecting our magic by identifying and eliminating any non-magical offspring within their bloodline.
Blaise scoffed. “This is madness. It gives anyone a blank cheque to murder their relatives—no proof required, just an accusation of being a Squib.”
Should such individuals be discovered outside their family’s control, any upstanding witch or wizard is not only permitted but encouraged to take immediate corrective action in accordance with the Blood Health Act.
For those unable to comply, trained Death Eaters may be requested to perform the necessary procedures.
Draco gave a short, joyless laugh. “Well. At least it guarantees us job security.”
This collective vigilance is key to safeguarding magical integrity for future generations.
Failure to follow the regulation, including harbouring or concealing reclassified Muggles, may result in a life sentence in Azkaban.
The Dark Lord and the Wizengamot are confident this decisive action will inspire unity and restore strength across magical Britain.
There was a long silence when Theo finished. Pansy let out a slow breath. “So that’s it then. First mudbloods. Now squibs.”
Theo sniffed. “Correction: magic thieves and reclassified Muggles, if we’re keeping up with the new lingo.”
Then he tossed the Prophet into the fireplace. Draco watched the flames eat the ink. He should’ve seen it coming, things changed the moment Weasley stood at the Dark Lord’s side. Suddenly there were decrees instead of outbursts, laws instead of raids. Every new policy more cruel than the last.
Her face in the papers made it all look steady. Respectable. Potter’s ex turned trophy, proof the Dark Lord didn’t need chaos to rule, he had regulations now.
Draco couldn’t decide what sickened him more: the policies themselves, or the pretense that anyone else had a say. Why the charade with the Wizengamot? Why bother pretending to still have democratic input by the people? That was what he couldn’t figure out.
Everyone knew the Prophet printed whatever the Dark Lord dictated. And everyone obeyed, because everyone was afraid.
Draco shook his head, as the last remains of the news went up in flames and stood to go take a shower, but a soft tap against the window caught his attention. It was an owl. With a flick of his wand, Draco opened the latch and retrieved the letter from its leg. He broke the wax seal, skimmed the contents, and folded it with steady fingers.
“I’m being summoned,” he said, tone clipped.
He waved off their half-hearted gestures to join him, grabbed his cloak and mask, and stepped toward the Floo, into whatever fresh nightmare awaited.
Draco’s boots echoed sharply through the stone corridors of Hogwarts.
The halls, though quiet, still pulsed faintly with memory. Ghosts of laughter and footsteps long gone seemed to linger in the walls, but Hogwarts was no longer a place for children or hope. It was a fortress. A command centre. The Dark Lord’s chosen seat of power.
Even after seizing full control of the Ministry, the Prophet, and nearly every magical institution in Britain, Voldemort had claimed Hogwarts as his throne.
Draco turned the corner and collided with a figure, who stumbled backward, hitting the floor hard from the impact, scattering the paintings he’d been levitating behind him. Draco readied his usual sneer and a cutting remark, until he saw the bright red hair and glazed, distant eyes of Percy Weasley. Percy’s lips parted in a faint, barely audible apology as he slowly eased himself upright, his gaze unfocused.
Squatting down, Draco studied Percy more closely, gripping his chin and waving his other hand in front of the wizard’s vacant eyes.
“Granted, I’m an only child, so perhaps I'm ill-placed to judge, but I always thought siblings were supposed to look out for one another. Can’t believe she put the Imperius on you herself,” he muttered, releasing Percy’s chin. “I’d bet you’d even bark like a dog if I told you to.” To his surprise and absolute horror, Percy actually let out a bark.
“Salazar, be quiet,” Draco hissed, glancing around sharply to make sure no one had seen. He took a steadying breath, straightened, then levitated the portraits back into Percy’s grasp as the imperiused wizard rose to his feet.
Percy had been captured during one of the earliest raids after Ginny had joined them. He was the only survivor of that raid. When brought before the Dark Lord, Ginny had been ordered to kill her own brother as proof of loyalty to the Death Eaters.
Ginny had hesitated — just for a second. And in that flicker of time, Draco could’ve sworn something cracked behind her mask. A shadow of something… softer. Fear, maybe. Or regret. But it vanished so quickly he almost doubted it had been there at all.
Then she laughed, drowning out her brother’s desperate pleas to stop, to come back. Instead of obeying the Dark Lord’s command, she cast the Imperius Curse on Percy. Looking his master dead in the eye, she said coolly, “I’ve got a more creative use for a blood traitor.”
The Dark Lord had chuckled in delight as Ginny ordered Percy to crawl forward on all fours. She even rested her boot on his back, drawing laughter from the room.
From that day on, Percy became the Dark Lord’s personal servant — silent, obedient, and completely under Ginny’s control. Now, he was a pitiful sight. Draco doubted the Dark Lord allowed him proper meals, considering that his cheeks were sunken, and beneath his worn robes, his frail frame seemed brittle. Worse still, the stale odour clinging to him was nauseating. No real baths either then.
Draco stepped back to escape the smell and turned his attention to the portraits still floating nearby. “Ah, finally some spring cleaning,” he muttered, eyeing the portraits of former headmasters drifting through the air.
In the early days, the Dark Lord had made a sport out of tormenting Dumbledore’s and Snape’s portraits—hurling old food at them or murdering Muggles right before their eyes, daring the portraits to intervene, to swear fealty and call for the dissolvement of the Order. They never did.
After some time, the portraits were simply ignored, and ultimately, ordered to be removed.
A chill ran down Draco’s spine when Snape’s portrait locked eyes with him. He forced his gaze away, and shifted his attention back to Percy’s vacant stare. “Where are you taking these?” he asked.
Percy’s voice was dull, “I was ordered to remove them, but not told where to bring them.”
Draco sighed. Looking at the frames, he made a quick decision. “Take them to the Room of Hidden Things. Hide them well.” He watched Percy nod and head off in the right direction before setting off toward the Dark Lord’s office.
As Draco climbed the spiral staircase to the old Headmaster’s office, he was already mentally assembling the key points of the latest skirmish. Brief, concise, efficient. He knew how to speak the Dark Lord’s language by now.
He wasn’t surprised to find his master waiting behind the wide, arched desk, flanked by his two advisors, the ones whose ruthlessness and cunning had enabled the rapid collapse of the resistance.
To the left sat Lucius Malfoy, looking every inch the polished patriarch, chin high, cane resting against his chair like a sceptre.
To the right sat Ginny Weasley, draped in blood-red robes, her copper hair bound into a high ponytail, her expression as cold and unreadable as always. With her knowledge of the Order’s inner workings, they’d dismantled half of the remaining resistance within weeks. Safe houses were raided. Supply lines severed. Members captured or killed in coordinated strikes.
Draco’s jaw clenched briefly. He bowed low. “My Lord,” he said.
“Remove your mask, Draco,” the Dark Lord drawled, fingers steepled.
Draco straightened and did as commanded, pushing the bone-white skull mask up and off his face. “I bring my report from the battlefield in Surrey—” he began, but Lucius cut across him.
“That won’t be necessary, son. We’ve already received the full account.”
Draco’s eyes slid sideways, narrowing slightly. His father rarely used the word son unless there was an audience.
“We’re pleased with the outcome,” Lucius continued, folding his hands.
“Very pleased,” the Dark Lord echoed softly.
Ginny’s lips curled into something that might’ve once been a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Draco ignored her.
“We summoned you,” Lucius said coolly, “for a new assignment. One that requires our best soldier.”
It wasn’t praise. Just an indisputable fact. Between Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Pansy, their kill count outpaced entire units. They were efficient, brutal, and reliable, exactly what the regime needed. Exactly what the regime had made of them.
Draco gave a small nod. Just enough to acknowledge he’d heard.
“As you know,” his father continued, “the leadership of the Order is... fragmented after Ms Weasley’s… transition.”
“I’m aware of the current situation,” he said flatly. The edge in his voice was unwise. He couldn’t afford that kind of sass, not here, not now. But something about facing his father always managed to dig up the brooding boy he’d spent years trying to outgrow.
“Ah,” the Dark Lord whispered. “But the situation is evolving.”
Lucius continued. “We’ve received intelligence suggesting the Order is preparing a strike in a few days in Manchester. At one of our training facilities for new recruits. We believe they plan on using a new weapon to kill off the next generation of Death Eaters.”
“The Order doesn’t kill.”
“Exactly,” Ginny said, her eyes glinting. “Which means this is something new. A tactical shift. They have become more organised, gaining more ground. This attack seems to fit into their new pattern. And our source believes Hermione will be there, leading the assault.”
Draco raised a brow, finally glancing at her. “Granger and your brother have been ghosts since the day you changed sides. You expect us to believe she’ll show up for a second-tier skirmish, knowing she’ll be outnumbered?”
“Yes,” Ginny said, voice icy, “the source insists she will be.”
He turned to his father. “Who is the source? Where is this intel coming from?”
“From me”, Ginny said.
Draco let the pause stretch, deliberately. Then he looked at her, slow and disdainful, raking his gaze over her the way Pansy had taught him. “Then the intel must be flawless. Did you get it directly from Granger herself?”
Her eyes blazed. “You little—I’m not a mole,” she snapped. “The Dark Lord himself combed through my memories. He saw my loyalty. Unless, of course, you’re questioning his judgment.”
Draco didn’t answer immediately, and Ginny pulled her wand on him.
“That’s enough,” the Dark Lord said quietly, but the temperature in the room seemed to plummet. “Draco.”
Draco dropped his gaze and bowed. “My Lord?”
“Do you question me?”
“No, my Lord. Never.”
“Good.” The pause was heavy. “Take your team to Manchester. You’ll intercept the attack. If the mudblood appears, you will eliminate her. Personally.”
Draco straightened. “Understood. Consider it done, my Lord.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. The words ignited him, and he strode from the room after a quick bow, sparing neither his father nor Weasley a glance. The door clicked shut behind him.
Finally, he thought, the hunt was on for his favourite mudblood.