Dragon’s blood

After the war, my family name lay in ruins. Death Eater’s family—that’s what they called us now, usually with a sneer. Like it was a curse, not a legacy. My father rotted in Azkaban, and by some miracle—or maybe just Potter’s mercy—I’d managed to dodge the same fate. Lucky me.

It took over three years of painstaking effort to claw our way back into something resembling social relevance. My mother, Narcissa, and I didn't have the luxury of rest. Failure wasn’t an option—not for her, and not for the name we carried. The Malfoy name was supposed to command respect, not disgust.I stepped out onto the balcony, let the cold air slap some life into my face. The silence was too clean. Made the guilt echo louder.

Then I heard it—heels on marble.

Sharp. Unhurried.

No knock. Of course not.

Tension flared up on instinct—my hand went to my wand before I could stop it. Old habits, old ghosts. Trauma doesn’t vanish just because the war’s over.

I turned just as the door creaked open.

Heart pounding. Wand raised.