Chapter 21 Moore's Mordreau School of Magical Might The
night crept in on them like a stalking demogise under
moonlight, and before Draco knew it, he and Hermione had landed
by the newly built wooden bridge leading from the castle to the
hill overlooking Hagrid's Hut and the Forbidden Forest.
The air, which should have still held the fading warmth of
summer, was unnervingly cold. They walked across the freshly
laid Splinter Free Wood, the hollow echoes at their footsteps
unsettling against the stillness.
Draco glanced over at Hermione, noticing her eyes fixed skyward.
He followed her gaze and felt a cold shudder run down his spine.
At least a few 100 floating figures loomed above them,
Dementors gliding silently in the darkening sky.
What an inspiring welcome committee, he thought bitterly,
tearing his eyes away to survey the courtyard ahead.
The courtyard itself had changed.
Hanging from either side of the great oaken iron doors were two
massive banners, a sinister shade of Slytherin green.
Each bore a black M in the foreground, while in the
background a smoky snake slithered in and out of the eye
sockets of a skull, an enlarged, animated Dark Mark.
His own mark tingled in response, an unpleasant reminder
of the dark magic he was bound to.
Drako remembered his mother mentioning that the entrance
hall would be similarly adorned, though her updates had been
brief. Narcissa had spent more and more
time working directly with Voldemort, slipping back to the
Manor only for fresh clothes and a quick respite in her own
chambers. It unnerved Draco how little he
knew about exactly what she was doing for the Dark Lord.
But if Voldemort thought Narcissa could replace
Bellatrix, Draco knew the Dark Lord was in for a shock.
His mother was no slavish zealot.
She understood the necessity of this.
They both did. Distance and silence had been
their shield. When Voldemort had made Malfoy
Manor his headquarters the year before, it had kept them alive.
The Malfoy's true allegiance had always been to each other.
Until, of course, it wasn't. In those isolating months, while
they distanced themselves from one another to avoid suspicion,
their paths had diverged. Draco and Narcissa, who grasped
the full gravity and depravity of the world to come, especially
after the grotesque display in the ballroom, and neither wanted
any part in it. Not for the wizarding world, nor
for the family name. But Lucius Malfoy, cut from a
different cloth, had hardened in his ambition, designing a route
to power through the chaos. The death, the torture and
violence had only fuelled his appetite for ascension.
By the time the three of them could finally speak openly
again, his father was too far gone, blind to the fact that his
wife and son had long since abandoned the vision he still
clung to. It had been a bitter lesson for
Draco. Silence could be just as
dangerous as secrecy. Hermione hadn't understood that,
and it had hurt her. Draco had never been able to
explain why keeping her at arm's length had been the only way to
protect her. He had failed to explain to
Hermione why it was safer that way.
To protect her. To protect all three of them.
The fewer people who knew their true loyalties, the better.
He wasn't trying to survive the war for himself.
He had little hope of that. His role was now to ensure that
there was a world left for Hermione, for the future they
dreamed of together, for their children.
But the Serpentine ruler had appeared weakened, and so Draco
had relaxed his guard, feeling safer in the prospect that the
Dark Lord would be too concerned with conserving his strength
rather than prying into the minds of his most loyal.
He had been wrong, and it had almost cost him everything.
It had almost cost him her. As they entered the Great Hall,
passing between 2 long rows of vacant tables, Draco forced his
mind into sharp focus, occluding as fiercely as he ever had.
He led Hermione with careful, measured steps, his arm resting
over hers. Hermione, for her part, stared
straight ahead, refusing to show any reaction to the castle's
twisted new decor. She was incredible.
How had he not seen it before, back in school?
But back then she had been nothing more than a mudblood to
him. A pathetic swatty know it all
Mudblood. She didn't belong.
She was cheating. She was sullying wizard kind.
The level of ire that his father had held against the growth of
the wizarding community was truly remarkable.
It had draken Draco far too long to realise that the hatred and
disgust he had been parroting had never been his own.
It had always been his father's poison.
He almost wished Narsis had intervened earlier, but she had
been trapped too, a victim of her own circumstances, just
trying to keep their family alive.
Ahead, the bone white throne stood like a macabre beacon.
Nasisa was already seated at the transfigured teacher's table,
which had been split in two to make room for Voldemort's seat
at the centre. She wore a floor length black
velvet gown with the sleeves extending to her wrists,
fastened delicately at her middle fingers.
A traditional witch's hat sat atop her curls while her iconic
streak framed her cheek. Her eyes met Drako with the
barest flicker of acknowledgment, a smile that
lived only in her gaze. Drako pushed down the surge of
emotion that rose within him. There would be no room for that
to night. The Dark Lord had posed a
question to Hermione that Drako had missed.
The Malfoys have shown me great mercy.
Hermione replied with a well practised curtsy, pulling Drako
back into the moment. I am grateful to be part of your
new world. Voldemort watched her, twirling
his wand between his fingers with dark amusement.
Be seated. He said, his voice called.
I must speak with our dark Commander.
With a wave of his wand, he directed Hermione to her place
at his left and gestured Draco to approach.
Draco felt her fingers slip from his arm and the loss was
immediate, like the removal of an anchor in stormy seas.
He was adrift. Tonight is the night, Draco.
Voldemort purred, pride lacing his tone.
You will play a key role in the first step of a dance towards a
limitless future. Be ready when I call upon you.
A suffocating pressure closed in Ondraco, like dementors
circling, and he answered. I shall, my Lord.
How was he supposed to be ready when he had no idea what was
coming? The carouses have been
excellent. Precarious, Voldemort mused
idly, his gaze narrowing. Ondraco, I wonder what your
impressions will be of our new scholastic master.
I believe he is an old acquaintance.
Hermione's eyes darted toward him, but Draco kept his
expression blank, bowing his head quickly.
I eagerly await, he replied, stepping back.
What did he say to you? Draco heard as he peered into
Hermione's mind, taking a seat beside her.
Whatever he's planned for me starts tonight.
Her sharp intake of breath was the only response he needed.
He shot her a warning glance before both of them
straightened, staring out at the hall.
The spot by the old wooden podium with its intricately
carved owl standing silent Sentinel lay empty.
The void it left behind, where Alba Stumbledore once commanded
attention felt deafening, as though the very air begged to be
filled with the echoes of the voice long silenced.
Over the next half an hour, as Draco's thoughts twisted and
churned behind a veil of clouds, the room slowly populated with
new figures. The faculty arrived in a slow
procession, some familiar faces among them.
The Carrows took their seats near him, and McNair, the former
executor turned Death Eater, settled in nearby.
The sight of him told Draco all he needed to know about the
punitive measures of the new school, with each new arrival
summoned for private words with the Dark Lord before taking
their place. And not in Draco's good
tightened. These were not Wizards and
witches from Britain, and the more unfamiliar faces that
appeared, the more Draco realized how unstable his own
position had become. The Carros must have smuggled
some of them past the borders under his nose.
That, or they knew roots. He did not.
Worse still, Draco wasn't sure if Voldemort knew and had kept
him in the dark. He half recognized one woman,
Duraga Munter, former Headmistress of Dernstrang and
descendant of Harfang Munter, a notorious advocate for martial
magic and duelling. Next, a towering man with dark
skin entered, his robes, vibrant, marking him as an
alumnus of a Wagadoo, the magical school carved into a
Ugandan mountain. His presence set Draco on edge.
If teachers from across the globe were appearing, what other
deals had the Caro struck, and how deeply had they undermined
him? A warm hand settled on his knee,
and Draco looked down, startled to find his leg had been
shaking. Hermione's fingers, small but
steady, sent a calming wave through his body.
Anchored, he placed his hand over hers, squeezing gently in
silent thanks. The soft rustle of murmurs and a
steady tread of footsteps filled the hall as students began to
file in. Drako's attention shifted as
they entered, many from familiar pure bloodlines, cousins of his
former classmates. But what disturbed him most
wasn't who he recognized. It was how small they all
seemed. They had never been that short,
had they? Hermione's quiet gasp beside him
shattered the illusion. Draco, I'm listening.
They're so young. Yes, Hermione had understood
faster than Draco. The youngest of the rabble
weren't merely growth stunted, they were children, even as
young as fall by his estimation. A little dark haired girl with a
straight fringe toddled clumsily by the side of her classmates,
looking around the hall with pure terror on her face, tears
falling down her rosy cheeks in thick globs.
Another boy, no more than six years old, held fast to his
older sibling's hand, the pair sporting a similar olive skin
tone with dark circles beneath their eyes. 1 by 1, the students
found their seats ushered by their Death Eater entourage,
including Avery and Mulsiba. The pupils eagerly took seats
closest to the exit where possible, leaving the front
tables empty until the remainder of the students piled in.
Thankfully, it appeared Graybach had not received an invitation
to the grand opening, a blessing considering his proclivity for
turning. The young Drago estimated the
students to be about 1/3 of the Hogwarts usual numbers.
And yet, with the new table arrangement and all eyes turned
toward the dais where Voldemort loomed, the room felt
oppressively full, His mother's subtle hand no doubt in
arranging things just so it had her signature flare making even
half filled spaces feel intimidating.
Not a single word was uttered once the children were seated.
Trigger stole a glance at Hermione, who sat statuesque,
her expression and portrait of iron willed determination.
Her resilience grounded him, as it always did these days.
At the head of the Hall, Voldemort's thin lips curled
into a slow, malevolent smirk, his greyish skin pulling tight
as he absently twirled his wand between long fingers.
The doors to the Great Hall remained ajar, and the room was
flanked by Death Eaters stationed every meter along the
walls, their eyes cold and watchful.
Thwonk. The heavy sound of wood hitting
stone broke the silence, followed by the scrape of a
dragging footstep. Another thwonk and drag echoing
through the hall like a death knell.
The students began to turn their heads, swiveling toward the
origin of the noise, faces painted with growing unease.
The figure's shadow arrived before he did, hulking, broad
and ominous. His limping gait followed, slow
and deliberate. He was not alone.
Behind him, a slender woman moved silently, her signature
hooded cloak obscuring her face, though her wand, held aloft,
glowed with soft, eerie light and unspeakable.
As the man trudged past the rows of students, Draco saw the
sickly pallor of his skin, grey tinged with blue, like something
half rotted. A thick, jagged scar ran from
his temple, down past his cheek and into a gaping, empty socket
where his eye had once been. The woman slithered around to
the head table, taking her place, her wand still alight as
it worked. Some unseen magic.
Draco's stomach dropped, realization dawning like a cold
splash of water. Salazar, fuck.
Beside him, Hermione's composure faltered, her shoulders
trembling. He could feel the silent horror
vibrating through her, even as she struggled to maintain her
calm exterior. The man's voice scraped through
the silence like a blade dragged over stone, wet and hoarse, as
though he were choking on his own blood.
Welcome to Moore's Mordre School of Magical might.
I am your headmaster, Professor Moody.