A silent tension had settled within the nursery.
Lerneas lay still in his crib, his silver eyes half-lidded as if in the throes of sleep, but his mind was anything but dormant. He was focused—testing, analyzing, attempting once again to perceive the nature of this world.
The first time he had done this, his senses were overwhelmed, assaulted by an influx of color and energy that refused to be categorized by his knowledge of Magecraft. He had likened it to a thicker, denser Mystery—untouched by the decline that plagued the Moonlit World. That alone had been a disconcerting realization. This world did not follow the same rules.
But that wasn't enough. He needed more data.
So, he tried again.
At first, there was nothing.
The air was calm. The manor breathed with its usual stillness, the kind only found in noble houses that thrived on discipline and unyielding order. The faint crackle of the fireplace remained steady, the flickering of candlelight unchanging. The elves moved about their tasks in predictable, rhythmic patterns.
Then, something shifted.
It was faint—imperceptible to anyone who wasn't actively listening for it. But to a man who had spent years refining his craft, pushing the limits of human perception, it was as clear as day.
The air twisted.
Not in the way wind stirred, nor how magical energy normally moved. It was something deeper, more fundamental—as if the very fabric of reality itself had flexed for the briefest of moments.
Then came the pressure.
A dull throb at the back of his skull.
Lerneas exhaled, slow and controlled. The pain was nowhere near as severe as before, but it was present—a warning. Something in this world actively rejected his attempt to understand it. Not through force, but through sheer incompatibility.
His fingers curled slightly.
So, it wasn't just the presence of Mystery itself—it was the very nature of how it functioned here.
Before he could dwell on this further, the external disturbance occurred.
A sharp crack echoed just beyond the nursery doors. The distinctive sound of house-elf Apparition, but too abrupt, as if done in panic. A few seconds later, hushed whispers followed—too low for human ears, but noticeable nonetheless.
Lerneas shifted his gaze toward the door.
The elves were never careless. They embodied efficiency, rarely making errors in their tasks. So why the mistake? Why the sudden unease?
Then came the real confirmation—an odd stillness settled in the room.
The manor, which always thrummed with subtle life, now felt... off-balance. As if something—someone—was present who should not be.
Lerneas did not believe in coincidences.
The timing was too precise. He had barely started probing the world's Mystery when something within the manor reacted.
Was it an external force? An unseen observer? Or was it something worse—a warning?
For the first time since awakening in this world, a familiar cold calculation settled into his mind.
This was no longer idle observation.
It was an active threat assessment.
---
The mistake had been immediate.
Chip realized it the moment he had Apparated.
The crack of his arrival had been too loud, too sharp—enough to disturb the delicate silence of the manor's halls. A foolish blunder. House-elves were trained to move without notice, to be unseen unless summoned, yet in his urgency, he had faltered.
His large, bat-like ears twitched, listening intently. No immediate reaction from the Masters—perhaps he had avoided their ire. But something was wrong. The air felt heavier.
His instincts screamed at him.
It wasn't just his mistake that had thrown the manor into momentary unease. Something else had stirred.
With slow, careful steps, Chip moved toward the nursery door, his wiry fingers trembling slightly as he reached for the handle. He hadn't been ordered to come here, but the sensation was strongest in this direction. And if there was one thing a servant of House Malfoy knew, it was that dangers—no matter how minor—were best addressed before they reached the Masters.
The door creaked open just enough for him to peer inside.
The young heir was awake.
Chip froze.
The babe was... watching him.
That in itself was not unusual—young Master Lerneas had always been quiet, always unnervingly still in his observations. But this was different. There was a weight to that silver-eyed gaze, a depth of awareness that made Chip's skin crawl.
No... Not awareness. Judgment.
Lerneas Malfoy was assessing him.
The house-elf swallowed, feeling an unfamiliar dread curl in his chest.
What was this child?
And why did it feel like he had been caught intruding upon something beyond his comprehension?
Then, as quickly as it had come, the sensation vanished. The manor's air returned to normal, the oppressive stillness dissipating like a passing breeze.
Chip let out a shaky breath. The disturbance was gone.
Whatever he had felt, whatever strange shift had occurred... it was over.
For now.
Clutching the bundle of cloth he had been sent to deliver, Chip hurried away, careful to make no more errors. He did not look back.
But in the quiet of the nursery, Lerneas remained awake, his mind no longer simply observing, but calculating.
Something had reacted.
Something had noticed him.
And now, he had proof that this world's Mystery was not simply passive.
It was watching back.
---
Chip stood at the threshold of Lucius Malfoy's private study, his small, trembling hands clutching the hem of his pristine tunic. His ears twitched, catching the faint sound of a quill scratching against parchment within.
Lucius had not acknowledged his presence yet. The air inside the study was still, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight reflecting off the polished mahogany desk. Every inch of the room exuded refinement and control—an extension of the man who owned it.
The delay in acknowledgment was deliberate. Lucius knew Chip was there. He always did. Yet, silence was a more effective instrument than an immediate rebuke. Let the elf stew in his unease before being allowed to speak.
At last, Lucius set his quill aside and looked up. His icy gaze, pale and unreadable, settled on the elf with disinterest.
"Speak."
The command was soft yet absolute.
Chip bowed so deeply that his ears nearly touched the floor. "Master… this lowly servant has failed. There was an… incident with the young master. Chip did not see it! Chip did not prevent it! The young master—"
Lucius raised a single hand. Chip immediately silenced himself, though his breathing remained heavy, his frame rigid.
"An incident?" Lucius repeated. His fingers tapped lightly against the desk.
Chip swallowed hard. "Yes, Master… Young Master Lerneas, he—he did something unnatural. Not like wizard magic. Not like house-elf magic. Something… different."
Lucius said nothing, but a flicker of something crossed his expression.
Chip did not notice. He continued, desperation seeping into his voice. "Punish Chip! Please! Chip has failed to notice the young master's actions—"
"I do not recall granting you permission to grovel," Lucius said coldly.
Chip immediately straightened, though his trembling did not cease.
Lucius stood, his movements unhurried but deliberate. The firelight cast long shadows across his sharp features as he stepped around the desk. He did not stop until he loomed over the elf, his presence suffocating in its authority.
"Describe exactly what happened."
Chip hesitated, then obeyed.
Lucius listened, his expression unreadable as the elf recounted the unnatural stillness of the infant, the depth of his gaze, and the strange, almost calculated awareness in those silver eyes. Too aware.
Chip described how, just for a moment, the air around Lerneas had shifted, like a ripple in reality—an invisible pressure. It had vanished in an instant, but the sensation had left an impression on Chip.
Lucius remained silent for a long moment after the retelling.
Then, he turned away, walking slowly back toward his desk. He did not sit.
"So," he murmured. "A child barely four months old is already creating disturbances without a wand."
Chip flinched. "Master—"
Lucius waved him off. "You will not be punished."
Chip's eyes widened in disbelief.
Lucius picked up his quill, but instead of writing, he simply turned it between his fingers. "You will, however, keep a close watch on my son. Discreetly. I want to know if this happens again."
Chip bowed rapidly. "Yes, Master. Of course, Master."
Lucius did not dismiss him immediately.
He did not even look at him.
Instead, Lucius' gaze lingered on the candlelight flickering before him, his thoughts veering away from Chip and onto the true matter at hand.
Lerneas.
His heir. The future of the Malfoy name.
And possibly… something far more troublesome than he had anticipated.
---
Lucius Malfoy stood before the grand window of his study, gazing out into the mist-covered estate. The rolling fields of Wiltshire stretched before him, bathed in the dim glow of moonlight. The ancient magic embedded in the land whispered against his senses, a constant reminder of the weight upon his shoulders.
His thoughts, however, were far from the serene landscape.
They were with his son.
Lerneas.
Lucius had not spoken his child's name aloud, not even when addressing Narcissa in private. A name held power, and power invited scrutiny.
Tonight, however, that name burned at the forefront of his mind.
The elf's report had been… troubling.
Lucius prided himself on control, on measured reactions. Yet, this—this was a complication.
A four-month-old child should not be capable of anything beyond instinct. Awareness? Perhaps. Early intelligence? It was rare but not unheard of.
But this?
A ripple in the air. A presence that made a magical creature uneasy.
Something far from mere wizardry nor normalcy.
Lucius did not believe in blind paranoia. The Dark Lord had taught him the dangers of overestimating threats. But he had also learned, in equal measure, the folly of underestimating the unknown.
And what did he truly know about Lerneas?
His child had not cried at birth.
He had not wailed for attention like other infants.
He was silent, observing.
And now, only months after his arrival into the world, the house elves were whispering of something unnatural.
Lucius turned from the window, stepping back toward his desk. His fingers brushed against the silver serpent head of his cane, the cool metal grounding him in reality.
This was no longer a matter of mere curiosity.
It was a matter of legacy.
---
The Malfoy family had survived for centuries because they understood when to adapt and when to dominate. They aligned with power, yes, but they did not grovel before it—not truly.
His father, Abraxas, had ensured their name remained untarnished even through political shifts.
Even when Grindelwald came to power, his family never became the main suspect of subordination with the other Dark Lord.
In legal insights, at least.
Lucius knew that his time has the same kind of Evil Lordship, and perhaps because of his father's footsteps, he would do the same.
Yet… this child.
This heir he had fathered.
Could he be molded? Shaped into what was necessary? Or was he something beyond his control?
Lucius had never feared his own son before.
He did not like the sensation creeping at the edges of his mind now.
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.
No. Fear was useless.
If there was a risk, then he would manage it. If there was an advantage to be found, he would claim it.
For now, there were questions that needed answers.
Did Narcissa know?
Her bond with the child was stronger than his. She had spent far more time with Lerneas than he had. Had she noticed the same… oddities?
'She did... But I thought it wasn't this... Odd.'
Lucius' grip on his cane tightened slightly.
She would not keep something like that from him. Not intentionally.
Would she?
---
Then, there was the matter of his position.
Lucius was no fool. He knew the Dark Lord's ambitions. Knew the kind of followers who swore themselves to his cause.
Bellatrix, his sister-in-law, was blind in her devotion. She did not see beyond the Dark Lord's will. She would burn the world if commanded.
Lucius was not Bellatrix.
He understood power. But he also understood survival.
And something in his instincts told him that, for now, Lerneas should remain unnoticed.
The Dark Lord had no reason to look upon a child.
'But what if he would?'
Lucius would keep it that way, and it must stay that way, for the sake of his family's safety.
But, all he could offer to this problem was... Silence.
For now.
His gaze drifted back to his desk, where an untouched glass of firewhisky rested beside a stack of parchment.
Slowly, he reached for the glass, but he did not drink.
Instead, he simply stared at the amber liquid, deep in thought.
There was one undeniable truth that settled within him:
Lerneas was not normal, even at wizard's standards.
And in a world where power dictated survival, Lucius had to decide whether that was a blessing… or a curse.
For now, he would watch.
And wait.
---
Lerneas was aware.
Not in the way an infant should be—his mind was not clouded by instinctual need, nor was it bound by the haze of a newborn's ignorance.
His thoughts were sharp.
His senses, though still limited by this fragile form, were keen.
And now, he could feel it.
The shift.
Lucius Malfoy had begun to watch him.
For weeks, Lerneas had been allowed to exist in the quiet rhythm of the Manor, cradled in an environment where few paid him close mind beyond the obligatory duties of servants and the warmth of Narcissa's presence.
But now?
His father's gaze lingered.
It was subtle—never intrusive, never direct. But it was there.
Lucius Malfoy had seen something. He had begun to suspect.
Lerneas understood caution. He had learned its value in his previous life, and now he found himself applying it once more.
He adjusted.
When under scrutiny, he behaved as expected.
His expressions remained neutral, his actions minimal. He did not react to stimuli too sharply, nor did he make mistakes that might expose him further.
A perfect illusion of an infant.
But even with his restraint, there was no denying the change in his environment.
The whispers of house-elves carried to him in the quiet of the nursery, fragments of conversations that hinted at hushed discussions between Lucius and Narcissa.
A calculation formed in his mind.
Lucius will not act unless he is certain. He is gathering information, assessing me as a potential risk or asset.
That meant Lerneas had time.
But how much?
And to what end?
---
It was late when Lucius Malfoy finally addressed his wife.
The drawing room was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting shadows against the grand tapestries that adorned the walls.
Narcissa sat gracefully, a book resting upon her lap, though her fingers did not turn the pages.
She had been waiting.
Lucius observed her for a moment before he spoke, his voice even.
"Tell me, Narcissa—have you noticed anything… unusual about our son?"
She did not flinch, nor did she immediately respond.
Instead, her fingers traced the spine of the book, a slow, thoughtful motion.
"Unusual?" she echoed, her tone carefully neutral.
Lucius inclined his head slightly. "I have watched him. He is… quiet."
Narcissa exhaled softly, closing the book at last.
"He is an observant child," she admitted, mimicking his past words without any biting edge, just sarcasm. "But is that not a blessing? We should be grateful for his temperament. Isn't that the words you said?"
Lucius' gaze remained steady.
"And yet, there is something about him that unsettles even the servants," he said. "House-elves do not speak of such things lightly."
Narcissa frowned, her expression shifting slightly—an emotion too complex to be mere concern.
"You suspect something," she stated.
Lucius did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped toward the fireplace, the light casting sharp lines against his features.
"There is no harm in caution," he finally said. "Our son is our legacy. If there is something to be understood about him, I will ensure that it is done properly."
A pause.
Then, softer—more deliberate:
"You would not keep something from me, would you, Narcissa?"
The room grew still.
For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered in Narcissa's eyes. But just as quickly, it was gone.
"I would never keep a secret that threatens our family, Lucius," she said.
It was not quite a lie.
But neither was it the truth.
Lucius studied her for a long moment before finally nodding.
"Good."
The conversation ended, but the tension remained.
---
The decision was made that same night.
A banquet.
The pretense was simple—an elegant event to formally acknowledge the birth of Lerneas Malfoy to the Wizarding elite. It was a necessary move, one that would further cement the Malfoy family's continued loyalty among the Dark Lord's supporters.
But Lucius was not a man who acted on one purpose alone.
This gathering was also a test.
A test of perception, of influence, of control.
He would observe the reactions of his peers. Would they look upon Lerneas as merely another heir? Or would they, too, sense that something was… different?
Would they see what he saw?
More importantly…
Would the Dark Lord take notice?
Lucius did not yet know the answer.
But soon, he would.
And whether this was a blessing or a curse, it would be decided not by mere speculation, but by the judgment of power itself.
The game had begun.
And Lerneas was at its center.
---
The world around him was shifting, though in ways that were difficult to grasp.
Lerneas had grown accustomed to the predictable rhythm of the household—his mother's gentle presence, the silent yet watchful house elves, and his father's rare but deliberate visits. Yet in recent days, an unspoken tension had settled over Malfoy Manor.
It was in the way his mother's hold on him lingered just a second longer than usual, her fingers absently brushing through his baby-fine hair as if seeking reassurance. Her blue eyes, always careful and composed, held a trace of something foreign. Worry? Uncertainty? Whatever it was, it was fleeting, but Lerneas noticed.
It was in the increased activity of the house elves—darting in and out of rooms, murmuring among themselves when they thought no one was looking. They worked with an efficiency bordering on nervousness, as though anticipating something grand or dreadful.
Most notably, it was in his father's behavior. Lucius Malfoy had always been a man of control, his every action deliberate. But where before he rarely visited the nursery, his presence had become a quiet but steady intrusion. He never said much—only watching, his cool gray eyes assessing, measuring. Not a father looking at his son, but a lord appraising his heir.
The weight of expectation was unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. Still, the shift was clear.
Something was coming.
---
The invitations to Lucius Malfoy's gathering spread swiftly among the circles of Voldemort's followers. To the unknowing, it was merely an extravagant celebration of his firstborn son. But to those attuned to the subtleties of power, it was a political maneuver—one that did not go unnoticed.
In a dimly lit parlor of Lestrange Manor, Bellatrix Black lounged in an armchair, twirling her wand between slender fingers. The corner of her lips curled as she read the formal invitation.
"A banquet for a newborn," she murmured, amusement lacing her tone. "How very… Lucius."
Across from her, Rodolphus Lestrange glanced up from his own parchment, a frown tugging at his lips. "He's solidifying his standing before the Dark Lord fully returns."
Bellatrix's smirk deepened. "Oh, I doubt our Lord cares for a mewling babe. But Lucius is clever, I'll grant him that." She leaned forward, her dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. "I think I'll go."
Rodolphus raised a brow. "You, at a social affair? You hate these things."
She tilted her head, smile widening. "Curiosity, dear husband. And perhaps I'd like to see what kind of little heir the Malfoys have brought into this world."
Elsewhere, in a shadowed corner of Knockturn Alley, whispers of the gathering reached the ears of others. Some saw it as an opportunity—a chance to gain Lucius' favor. Others were wary. Even in Voldemort's ranks, power plays existed, and no one wanted to be caught on the wrong side of history.
Among them, an old pureblood family—neutral, yet observant—took interest. Would this banquet reveal Lucius as a loyal follower or a careful opportunist?
One way or another, the night of the gathering would reveal much.