The graveyard stretched before Draco Malfoy like a desolate stage, where only shadows dared to dance. The air pulsed with dark magic, oppressive and alive, emanating from the grotesque cauldron at the center of the ritual. Each incantation by Peter Pettigrew and Lucius Malfoy sent a ripple through the night, reverberating against the ancient stones.
Draco crouched behind a weathered headstone, his breathing shallow as he watched the scene unfold. The compulsion that had drawn him here defied logic, as though an unseen hand had guided his steps. The Dark Lord's return was not supposed to concern him—not yet, not now. Yet here he was, witnessing the culmination of something vast and terrifying.
The cauldron roared with an unnatural flame as Voldemort rose from its depths, his voice slicing through the air. The serpentine visage was gone; in its place stood a younger, sharper figure—the pale, handsome face of Tom Riddle restored. But the magic radiating from him was anything but human. It pressed against Draco's chest, suffocating and unrelenting.
And then it struck.
A searing pain tore through Draco, as though his very essence was being unraveled. His vision blurred, and he collapsed, clutching his head as images flooded his mind. The graveyard dissolved into a vast, swirling void, stars and shadows colliding in a kaleidoscope of chaos.
Draco found himself standing in the void, but he was not alone. Before him loomed the essence of the Traveler—a fragmented, writhing consciousness, burning with malevolent energy. It surged toward him, its power like a tidal wave threatening to consume him.
"No!" Draco screamed, raising his wand, but the spell he cast fizzled out against the overwhelming force. The Traveler's soul lashed out, its memories and emotions pouring into Draco's mind like molten fire. He saw fragments of battles between gods, of cities leveled in moments, of beings wielding unimaginable power. Wonder Woman's clash with Ares, mortals bending the elements to their will, and wizards defying death itself.
His mind buckled under the weight of it all, the memories cascading in a storm of incomprehensible images. Was this the Traveler's world? A place where such wonders and horrors were real?
The Traveler's essence roared, pushing deeper into Draco's consciousness, threatening to overwrite him entirely. He could feel himself slipping away, his identity dissolving under the onslaught.
But then, a new force intervened.
A presence—immense, ancient, and unfathomable—wrapped itself around Draco like a shield. The Traveler's soul faltered, recoiling as the void trembled with power. The World Will had awakened, its cryptic whispers resonating through Draco's very being.
Draco didn't hear words. Instead, he saw images:
The world, stagnating and dying under mediocrity.The future of his own Wizarding World—doomed to fade by 2050, swallowed by Muggle dominance.The visions of Voldemort's victory, Grindelwald's supremacy, or Dumbledore's utopia—all leading to ruin.
The World Will's message was clear: the world needed balance, and Draco was the unlikely vessel chosen to preserve it.
In the void, the Traveler's soul writhed one last time before shattering into fragments. The shards fused into Draco, leaving behind a storm of incomplete memories, chaotic and overwhelming.
Draco gasped as he returned to the graveyard, his body trembling and drenched in sweat. The ritual had ended. Voldemort—Tom Riddle—stood before his followers, commanding their allegiance. Lucius knelt in reverence, while Draco remained hidden, his mind reeling.
The World Will lingered in his thoughts, showing him glimpses of his fate should he fail or betray its purpose. He saw his soul torn from his body, fused with another vessel—someone stronger, more capable. The World Will didn't care for individuals; it cared for results.
Draco clenched his fists. He understood now. His life was no longer his own. He belonged to the World Will, a pawn in its grand design. His role was to ensure the survival and evolution of the magical world, to elevate it from its lowly state to something greater.
But to do that, he would need to grow—politically, strategically, and magically. For now, he would play the role expected of him: the loyal son of Lucius Malfoy, heir to pureblood ideals, and servant of Voldemort.
He slipped away from the graveyard, unnoticed, and returned to Hogwarts under the cover of night. In his dormitory, he stared at his reflection, his pale face shadowed by uncertainty.
The Traveler's memories swirled in his mind—chaotic and incomplete. He couldn't make sense of them yet, but he knew one thing: the world he had glimpsed, where gods and mortals clashed, was something he needed to bring to his own.
He didn't know if it was real, but it didn't matter. He would make it real.