Chapter Text
She learned to recognise the sound of the carriage before she knew how to tie her shoes. The horses’ hooves signalled either the arrival of guests or departure for some important event. She never knew which was worse.
Depending on the visit, the air in the manor grew heavy—laden with measured words and sidelong glances. The house turned into a chessboard, where every gesture, every sigh, was calculated with precision. The drawing rooms, usually filled with soft echoes and heavy curtains, became scenes of conversations laced, one way or another, with politics.
Her father, always upright like a white tower at the head of the room, seemed to move the pieces with unsettling ease. One raised eyebrow or a veiled remark was enough to make others shift their posture or rephrase an opinion. Beside him, her mother wove silences with the precision of a queen moving diagonally: she seldom spoke much, but never missed a word.
Draco’s place was to observe. At first from her mother’s lap, and later from a discreet corner, with a cup of tea she barely touched. She had been taught not to interrupt, never to speak unless addressed—and above all, to watch. She learned that a smile could be a weapon, and that alliances weren’t always sealed with handshakes, but with murmured promises between glasses.
What puzzled her most was that many of the guests didn’t seem to enjoy those gatherings—yet they returned again and again, as if being part of the game mattered more than winning it. Some came bearing gifts and charming speeches; others, with news that prompted doors to be shut and curtains drawn. And when that happened, the board shifted—and everyone had to reposition themselves.
So did she.
Even if she wasn’t playing yet, she was already a piece. One of those that remain untouched until the end, yet have been on the board from the start. They told her she was too young to understand—but never too young to learn. So she learned. She learned to read the silences between sentences, to recognise when a smile was merely a polished façade. She learned not to trust long embraces, nor questions that sounded too kind.
The lessons were never dictated—they were suggested. “Watch how he said it—not just what he said,” her mother would whisper into her ear as the guest of the day vanished in green flames. Other times, her father would ask her to repeat the previous night’s conversation—word for word, gesture for gesture—as though training her memory for far more than just duel dates or potion ingredients.
And deep down, she didn’t mind. She liked understanding what others overlooked. Each time she managed to anticipate a reply, or decipher an intent, a small flame lit within her chest. It wasn’t warmth. It was something colder, sharper. But it felt good.
Sometimes, she wondered if other children lived like this. If they too knew that certain words could be more dangerous than a miscast spell. If they too had to choose when to clink their cutlery during supper and when to remain utterly still, so as not to disrupt the rhythm of adult decisions.
In her home, power wasn’t taught with wands. It was distilled in every conversation. It soaked into the carpets. It was breathed in with the golden dust that filtered through the windowpanes. And she—half willingly, half not—had already begun to breathe it in.
Both arrivals and departures were causes of tension. Every event came with meticulous preparation: robes selected days in advance, hairstyles requiring the patience of a house-elf and the precision of a calming draught, and reminders spoken with the firmness of a protective charm.
—Do not interrupt.
—Do not touch anything.
—And for Morgana’s sake, don’t ask questions.
Her father recited them like an incantation—one that was meant to shield their surname from any potential misstep. At first, those outings involved only her parents, and Draco would watch them from the threshold of the great door, a shiver running through her as she heard the crack of the Floo or the crunch of wheels over gravel.
But now, she had to attend as well. It was no longer enough to learn from afar. The time had come to represent the family—to accompany her parents as yet another polished figure in the ensemble. A more elegant shadow. A voice without weight, but full of expectations.
And though there were moments she found oddly thrilling—the brush of fine fabrics, the slight tremor of the ground before a group apparition, the enchanted manors where time seemed to flow differently—most of the time it was an exhausting exercise. Not because of the protocol. But because of the watchfulness.
She had to control her gestures, her words, even where she looked. She had to smile without seeming too eager, nod without appearing naïve, seem interested without drawing attention. And then, upon returning home, she had to remember everything. Who had said what, how they had said it, what had been left unsaid.
Beyond the manor, the board was shinier. More treacherous.
And though she’d never say it aloud, there was something about those outings that left her cold. As if each time they left, a part of her remained behind—smaller, safer. A part that preferred the shadows of the corridors and the distant murmur of conversation to the glaring exposure of salons full of watchful eyes.
But she never complained. One simply did not.
She kept breathing in the golden dust—and learning.
That day, the carriage wasn’t meant for a gala or diplomatic meeting. Draco knew it the moment she saw her mother choose a black wool cloak with silver trim: discreet, but flawlessly tailored.
“Speak little,” her father said, adjusting the clasp of her cape. “Listen more. Your great-grandfather does not repeat himself.”
The journey was long. They left Wiltshire at dusk and crossed half of Britain beneath a leaden sky, along roads no map would recognise. At last, the carriage stopped before an iron gate, the crest of the House of Black engraved in dark silver: a pointed shield adorned with a vertical sword, a chevron at the centre, and two five-pointed stars. On either side, a pair of greyhounds held the shield aloft with vigilant poise. Beneath them, a ribbon bearing the family motto carved in old French: Toujours Pur.
The Black Mansion wasn’t made to receive guests. It was made to endure.
Perched in the misty hills of the Highlands, the structure seemed a natural extension of the landscape: severe, silent, unmoving. There was mist even in summer, and a subtle cold that seeped through the ancient stone. No Muggle would have found it—not even had they walked across its roof.
Draco arrived with her father on a Tuesday morning. The journey had been quiet, like most of her travels with Lucius.
“I’m to meet the Deputy Headmistress at the castle,” he told her as they stepped down from the carriage. “They’ve requested the enrolment documents and the confirmation of your wand inheritance. You’ll stay with your great-grandfather until I return. Listen to him.”
She nodded without question. She knew Hogwarts was near—just beyond hills and an enchanted lake—and she also knew this visit was no coincidence. Arcturus Black III did not receive guests. Unless it was necessary.
A house-elf led them silently through the corridors until they reached the library. There, as though carved from stone and time, Arcturus awaited. He stood before an open window, unbothered by the cold wind that swept in around him.
“Lucius,” he said without turning. “I trust my answer reached you. The Minister is an imbecile—but not a blind one.”
Lucius allowed himself a brief smile.
“It did, Lord Black. And I assure you, it was more useful than all the Wizengamot’s correspondence this month.”
“Then keep the letter. And use it wisely.”
The old wizard turned to Draco. His eyes were pale, almost grey, but they bore no sign of fading.
“Leave us, Lucius. When you return, I’ll see to it your daughter knows more than you did at her age.”
Lucius nodded without offence, gave a shallow bow, and vanished with a soft crack of Apparition. Draco did not move.
The silence her father left behind didn’t feel awkward—it felt deliberately crafted, like a space waiting to be filled by someone else. The old wizard remained standing for a few moments, watching the spot where his grandson-in-law had disappeared, his lips pressed into a line barely visible.
Then he turned to his great-granddaughter.
“Are all the arrangements for your school integration in place?” he asked, plainly, without condescension.
“Yes, sir. My mother and I decided to handle all the formalities early. The letters were returned signed, the uniforms have been ordered directly from Madam Malkin with the necessary adjustments, and the wand was registered with the Department of Magical Artefact Control this week.”
“And the inheritance papers?”
“Also delivered,” she replied without hesitation. “Along with a legitimisation letter from Gringotts, confirming the transfer of magical rights to the wand. I was told it was more symbolic than required, but Mother said there’s no reason to leave loose ends.”
“Your mother is right. Hogwarts has changed since I was there. Formalities now carry not just weight, but records.” Arcturus moved slowly to another window, hands clasped behind his back. “According to your parents, your wand is black walnut, dragon heartstring core, twenty-seven centimetres. Correct?”
“Black walnut for magical intuition and firm judgement; dragon heartstring to channel powerful, temperamental magic. The length was Ollivander’s suggestion—balance between reach and precision. He said it would be demanding, but compatible.”
“Very fitting for you, Dragonaëlle,” he said, pausing slightly, as though savouring the old French root of her name. “You already know Hogwarts won’t be a stroll through the rose garden. You’ll be expected to stand out—not merely as a Malfoy, but as a Black. They won’t expect you to blend in. They’ll expect you to lead.”
Draco nodded solemnly, though a spark lit behind her eyes.
“I expect that too, sir. And frankly, I prefer it to the languid civility of Beauxbatons. My mother considered it. So did I, but—”
“But?”
“Hogwarts offers something no other European school does,” she said, lifting her chin slightly. “A setting with real conflict. Traditions that clash, Houses that compete for more than pointless trophies, and professors who don’t hand out praise for appearances. At Beauxbatons, one could go ten years without spotting a single crack in the marble. At Hogwarts, if you can’t read the cracks, the stone will swallow you.”
Arcturus turned his head slightly towards her, intrigued.
“You speak like someone planning to use the conflict to her advantage.”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t. Chaos reveals weakness. And weakness... can be useful.”
The old wizard narrowed his eyes, still facing away. Then he let out a dry laugh—humourless, but not unapproving.
“Well then, let’s hope the lack of decorum at Hogwarts doesn’t impede your progress. I’d hate to see you surrounded by children who can’t even pronounce Bonsoir without swallowing a syllable.”
“I trust Slytherin’s dungeons will be unpleasant enough to feel like home.”
This time, Arcturus turned to look at her properly. Before him stood an eleven-year-old girl—but she was no innocent. Nor was she a miniature courtesan, as he had feared she might be raised to be. She was something more unsettling. Sharper. A creature still unfinished, but already conscious of the board she would be playing on.
“And what exactly do you expect to find in Slytherin?”
“Allies. And if I don’t find them, I’ll make them.”
Arcturus narrowed his eyes slightly. He said nothing, but a flicker of amusement passed through his gaze before he turned towards a small enchanted chessboard floating gently in the air. The pieces moved of their own accord, locked in an eternal match.
“Will you play a round with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced sideways at her, as if measuring her readiness. Then he snapped his fingers. A chair slid across the floor to his side.
“Sit. Let’s see if your mother taught you how to defend the rook without looking like you’re retreating.”
She obeyed without hesitation, a faint smile threatening to surface. There was something oddly comforting about the way Arcturus treated her—a blend of demand and trust. He didn’t expect her to be charming. He expected her to be capable.
And she wanted to rise to that.
They studied the board in silence for a few seconds. Draco took control of the black pieces without being told. He nodded slightly, as if approving an unspoken rule.
“You’ve studied the names of your classmates, I presume?”
“Yes. I’ve read the birth and inheritance records for the last eleven years. I know who their parents are, what businesses they run, and what public causes they’ve aligned with. Some of the children are close to inheriting minor seats. Others have surnames that sound more valuable than they are.”
“And the ones who have nothing?”
“They’re more dangerous. Because they can gamble everything. And sometimes they win.”
Arcturus released a breath that, in another man, might have been called a laugh.
“You didn’t learn that from your mother’s books.”
“No, sir. I learned it by listening at doors.”
“A useful habit. So long as you know when to stop.”
Draco moved her bishop with precision.
“Is there anything else I should know about Hogwarts? Something not written in books?”
“Yes.” Arcturus raised an eyebrow. “That no book will prepare you for what people do when they’re afraid—or when they believe they hold power.”
“Even the professors?”
“Especially the professors. They’re men and women—not marble statues. You’ll need to read them with just as much attention as your peers. And remember this, Dragonaëlle: magic isn’t the most important thing you’ll learn there.”
She tilted her head slightly, curious.
“Then what is?”
“How to remain.” Arcturus’s tone hardened just a touch. “To survive without breaking. To change form without losing your core. Like a serpent.”
Draco didn’t reply at once. She moved a rook, then spoke softly: “I already am, sir.”
For the first time in their conversation, Arcturus turned fully towards her—not sternly, but with genuine attention. The board continued to move between them.
“Good answer,” he said at last. “But don’t forget this: those who change too much often forget the face they began with. And in this family, there are faces that must never be forgotten.”
Draco lowered her gaze for only a moment. Then she lifted her chin again, with the same composure her mother wore at banquets.
“I won’t forget.”
“You’d best not. Now, play. I want to see whether that instinct of yours works for more than sharp conversation.”
When she was little, at the slightest sign of guests, Draco would look for ways to hide. Often, she didn’t even catch a glimpse of their faces. She would listen from the stairs or the library, voices muffled by stone walls, not fully understanding what was being said.
Over time, her parents made sure that changed.
It was no longer enough to watch from the shadows. It was no longer sufficient to learn to read other people’s silences: now she had to be part of the portrait. To attend, to represent, to remember. Her presence in the drawing rooms was no longer an accident — it became a calculated extension of the surname she carried.
But there was one exception to all that contained ceremonial, one space where she didn’t have to measure every gesture as if it were part of some ancestral choreography.
That space was her great-grandfather.
With him, the watchfulness didn’t disappear — it merely changed shape. It didn’t disguise itself as politeness or protocol, but revealed itself for what it truly was: a test.
Arcturus Black did not demand impeccable manners or carefully measured smiles. He demanded clarity. Thought. Capability. Unlike many adults, he didn’t speak to her as if she were too young to understand. He spoke as though every conversation were a long-term investment.
“Dragonaëlle,” Arcturus said once, as they played chess on the terrace, “why do you think wizards respect our family?”
She didn’t answer right away. She moved a bishop, eyes fixed on the board. She knew he was referring to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, not her father’s house.
“Because we represent stability, legacy, structure. Because we’ve held the same place for centuries,” she finally replied, like one reciting something memorized, her voice steady but not defiant.
Arcturus gave a small nod, pleased, but not satisfied. He leaned back in his chair and studied her carefully.
“That’s what I told you, isn’t it?”
She hesitated for a second, then nodded. He let out a soft sigh, as if weighing just how far he could draw her into the conversation.
“It’s not wrong,” he went on, narrowing his eyes. “But it’s also… incomplete. Respect, Dragonaëlle, doesn’t come from history alone. It comes from the power we project — even when we do nothing at all. People respect what they don’t fully understand, what they don’t dare to challenge. And we’ve perfected that art.”
Her pawn fell beneath the weight of the black knight.
“And if someone dares?” she asked, still not lifting her gaze.
“Then we show them why it was a mistake. With elegance, if possible. With force, if necessary.”
At times, during those conversations, Draco felt that her great-grandfather wasn’t really speaking to her — or at least not to the little girl of seven pushing chess pieces across a board. Perhaps he was speaking to someone else entirely. Or perhaps he was speaking to her, but to the woman he hoped she would become. She wasn’t sure if that felt fair. But she did know that in her family’s history, justice had always been more aesthetic than practical.