The halls of Malfoy Manor felt colder than usual as Draco walked back to his chambers. The meeting had gone as planned—Travers was now fully aligned with Voldemort, cementing another win for the Dark Lord. Yet, as the doors closed behind him, Draco's mind churned with unease.
The Travers victory had come at a cost, one that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. While Voldemort and Lucius celebrated the triumph, Draco couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. Was it the shadow of the World Will's cryptic silence, or was it the weight of his growing role within Voldemort's inner circle?
He sat at his desk, his quill poised over blank parchment. His fingers hesitated for a moment before dipping the quill in ink. This was becoming a ritual—these letters to Andromeda, though he knew they would never be answered.
But perhaps that was the point.
To Andromeda Black Tonks,
This is, I believe, the second time I am writing to you. Once again, I find myself with thoughts I cannot voice to anyone else. Strange, isn't it? The very person my family abhors—the outcast, the traitor—is the one I feel most compelled to confide in. Perhaps it's because you are so far removed from this madness. Or perhaps it's because I know you cannot do anything to stop it.
The Travers family has pledged themselves to the Dark Lord. A success, by all accounts. But I find myself questioning the very nature of victory. They were not coerced or threatened—those tools are crude and fleeting. Instead, I offered them power, wealth, and the illusion of control. I made them believe that joining Voldemort was not a surrender, but a choice. And they took it. Was it brilliance on my part, or desperation on theirs?
I see the cracks in their loyalty already. They are opportunists, Aunt, not believers. They will stand with Voldemort only so long as it benefits them. But then again, isn't that true for all of us? Isn't loyalty just a transaction, a contract bound by mutual gain?
Father doesn't see it that way, of course. To him, loyalty is obedience, unquestioning and absolute. He believes in the old ways, the rigid structures of blood purity and dominance through fear. I don't. Fear is a leash, and leashes break. Interest, Aunt—interest is the chain that binds.
And yet, even as I write this, I wonder if I am wrong. The Dark Lord commands loyalty through fear, yes, but he also inspires something greater. Power. His presence is undeniable, his magic unparalleled. I have seen him command a room with nothing but a glance, bend even the strongest wills to his cause. He is more than a man—he is a force of nature. How do you resist something like that?
Perhaps you did, once. Perhaps that is why I write to you. You left behind everything—your family, your name, your world—for what? For love? For principle? Do you regret it? Or do you look at the world you abandoned and see it for what it is: fractured, corrupt, and dying?
I envy you in a way. You made a choice, and you stand by it. I am not afforded such luxury. My path is set, my role defined. I serve the Dark Lord because to do otherwise is to die. And yet... and yet I wonder. If I am to survive, if I am to thrive, how far must I go? How much of myself must I sacrifice? How much of this world must I let burn?
You are safe from these questions, Aunt, because you are removed from them. That is why I write to you. You cannot judge me, nor can you betray me. You are a Black by blood, but not by name or allegiance. You are an observer, a spectator. And I... I am a performer in this macabre theater. Perhaps that is why I feel I can bare myself to you. Because, in the end, you cannot stop me.
I am not sure if I will send this letter. But I suppose that doesn't matter. Writing it is enough. For now.
Draco Malfoy.
Reflections
Draco folded the letter, the parchment crinkling under his touch. His fingers lingered on the wax seal, his mind racing. The vulnerability in his words was genuine, though carefully curated. He knew the letter would reach Dumbledore's hands eventually—through Andromeda, through Tonks, through the channels he had predicted.
But that was the point. These letters were not just confessions—they were weapons. Carefully crafted tools to project an image of a conflicted, vulnerable young man. A loyal son questioning his role. A servant of Voldemort teetering on the edge of doubt.
And yet, as he stared at the letter, he couldn't shake the feeling that some part of it was real.
Andromeda sat in her kitchen, the letter spread before her. Her hands trembled slightly as she read it, her brow furrowed in thought.
"What is it, Mum?" Tonks asked, leaning against the counter.
"A letter from Draco," Andromeda said quietly.
Tonks frowned. "Another one? What does he want this time?"
Andromeda shook her head. "He doesn't want anything. He writes as though he's speaking to himself. It's... unsettling."
"Do you think he means it?"
"I don't know," Andromeda admitted. "But if he does, then he is more dangerous than I thought."
The Shadow of the Dark Lord
Voldemort sat in the darkened chamber, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his throne. He had watched Draco closely, seen the boy's successes and subtle defiance.
"Interesting," he murmured to himself.
The room seemed to darken further, the air growing colder. Voldemort's lips curled into a sinister smile. Draco was useful, yes, but he was also ambitious. Ambition was both a strength and a weakness.
The Dark Lord would watch him closely. Very closely.