The candle burned low, its frail flame trembling in the dim room, casting faint shadows that danced across the cracked plaster walls. The wax slumped against the holder, pooling like a scar that wouldn't fade, its edges soft and heavy in the quiet. The boy slept on a narrow cot tucked tightly in the corner, his body curled beneath a thin, frayed blanket that did little to keep out the chill. His hands, wrapped in linen bandages stained with salve, rested close to his chest, hidden like a thief's secret, the fabric stiff and rough against his sore skin. Each breath was soft, almost silent, as if he'd learned to stay small even in sleep, invisible to the Manor's watchful gaze. Evelyn sat at the small, scarred table, her chair angled toward the plain wooden door, its surface worn from years of hurried hands. Her body was stiff, hands folded tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the door as if waiting for it to creak open with some unseen threat. The air felt heavy with her watchfulness, thicker than the silence, but the door stayed shut, unyielding.
By morning, the candle had burned out, leaving a sharp smell of charred wick and melted wax that clung to the air like a ghost of warmth. The Manor woke slowly, without kindness, its vast frame stirring like a creature rousing from a restless, dreamless sleep. A door slammed high above in the grand halls, the sound sharp and jarring, its echo sliding through the house like a shiver down a spine. Deep in the maze of corridors, a clock chimed, its notes dull and muffled, as if the stone walls had swallowed most of the sound, reluctant to let it carry. The air in the servants' quarters was colder than the night before, thick with damp that seemed to leak from the stones, coating everything in a chilly, clammy sheen. The cold bit at the boy's skin as he stirred, each movement tugging at the tender flesh under the stiff bandages on his palms, a lingering reminder of the vial's burning heat from the night before.
The boy rose before anyone called, dressing in silence, his movements careful and slow. The linen on his hands had hardened overnight, and every motion stung faintly, pulling at his skin like a quiet warning. The servants' corridors felt colder than usual, the damp clinging to him as if the stones resented the faint warmth he carried from sleep. He pulled on a worn shirt and trousers, their fabric thin but familiar, and stepped into the narrow hallway, where the air felt heavy, pressing against him like an unspoken command.
Tasks came without words: a quick flick of the laundry mistress's fingers toward a pile of linens, her face set with the impatience of routine; a sharp nod from the steward, his eyes sliding past the boy to his ledger, dismissing him without a glance. The boy obeyed each one, moving like a shadow, each step blending into the next in a rhythm that needed no thought. It was easier to keep busy than to think, easier to let the day fill with empty tasks that dulled the mind. His bandaged hands gripped baskets or smoothed folded cloth carefully, each motion deliberate, as if routine could push away the unease from last night's strange moment, when Evelyn's voice had carried a weight he couldn't name.
But beneath that quiet routine, the memory of last night pulsed like a bruise, unseen but sharp. Evelyn's sharp stare, her eyes hiding something heavy and unspoken; the candle's steady flame, burning too bright for their cramped room; and the name she'd spoken aloud, low and careful, as if the walls might hold it like a secret they could spill. The thought followed him, heavier than the cold, stirring a question he couldn't shake—why did her words feel like they were about him? Why did they make his chest tighten, as if he was more than just a servant in this house? The Manor's silence seemed to press closer, as if it knew the question and refused to answer.
By midmorning, the Manor's halls settled into their slow rhythm, the sound of wealth moving at its own pace, like a clock ticking for those who owned time. The polished marble floors shone underfoot, reflecting blurry shapes of people passing under tall, arched windows, their light pale and weak from winter's grip. The air carried soft sounds—quiet footsteps of unseen servants, the faint clink of silver or crystal from the dining rooms above, murmurs too refined to belong to someone like him. The light fell in thin, silvery slants through heavy drapes, barely warming the stone, leaving the halls cold and sharp.
The boy stuck to the edges, taking paths others ignored—narrow corridors, dark corners, places where dust gathered and silence held sway. He carried a stack of folded linens, their warmth lingering from the laundry fire, their edges crisp and heavy in his arms. The smell of soap, sharp with lye, and singed cotton clung to his clothes, mixing with the cold scent of damp stone and the draft that snaked through the Manor's walls. Each step was careful, his bare feet brushing the icy floor, as if carrying linens could erase the memory of the vial's heat or the name echoing in his mind. His silver-streaked hair caught the faint light, a reminder of something he wasn't allowed to claim.
Every turn held risks: corners where old floorboards creaked, giving away footsteps to listening ears; tight archways with no escape, their stone frames closing in; and the glint of a silver tray or glass pane, ready to catch his reflection and betray him to a passing glance. He moved cautiously, his breath soft, eyes scanning for the Manor's traps, his heart quickening at the thought of being seen when he wasn't meant to be.
The west stairwell was empty, its air thick with the chill of disuse. The mahogany banister felt smooth under his fingers, worn by years of quiet hands. A strand of spider silk hung on its curve, delicate, catching the dim light like a glass thread trembling in a breeze. He ducked under it without pausing, moving smoothly, as if the Manor had taught him to slip through its dangers unnoticed, a lesson learned in years of staying small.
The corridors here were quieter, their stillness deep, as if the walls themselves hushed the world beyond. The air carried the faint smell of last night's dinner—stale roasted meat and the sharp tang of wine left too long in crystal glasses, lingering like a faded memory. Through a half-open door, he saw a shadow at a heavy oak desk, a quill scratching softly on parchment, its rhythm faint like a heartbeat in the silence. The door closed with a soft click before he could see more, locking the moment away, leaving him to wonder who sat there and why.
In the great hall, another servant passed, eyes down, arms full of firewood smelling of damp bark. They didn't look at each other, their silence a shared shield, a rule of the Manor where words could be as dangerous as a misstep. The boy kept moving, his linens a quiet burden, his thoughts circling back to Evelyn's voice, the name, the weight of it all.
Somewhere deep in the house, a door opened with a soft thud, followed by the unmistakable rhythm of Lucius Malfoy's footsteps—slow, deliberate, each step of his polished boots a quiet claim of power. The sound was far off, but it made the boy's heart race, his breath catching as if the sound alone could find him. Without thinking, he quickened his steps, slipping into a service corridor, letting its shadows hide him from that distant, dangerous presence.
The air inside was colder, heavy with the smell of damp stone and a faint metallic tang that never faded, like a memory the Manor held tight. The walls pressed close, brushing his sleeves in the tight space, where every sound could carry too far—a creak, a shuffle, a breath too loud. His footsteps slowed, guided by instinct, his body moving as if it knew the risk of being heard before his mind could name it.
Behind him, the Manor stirred—a faint hum beneath the floorboards, as if the house held its breath, its unseen gaze pressing against him. The corridor narrowed, then opened into a side gallery—a long room with high ceilings, where dust hung thick in the air, softening each step. Portraits lined the walls, their painted eyes following too closely, their faded frames dull with age. The boy's heart beat faster, the linens heavy in his arms, as if the portraits could see the secret he carried—the name, the flame, the question of who he was.
He moved quickly but carefully, not wanting to catch their attention. Some portraits seemed to whisper, their voices a soft hum that might have been his imagination, except for how they stopped when he glanced at them, their faces sharp with judgment. He kept his eyes ahead, the linens a shield against their stares, his thoughts flickering to the name from last night, heavy in his chest like a stone he couldn't drop.
At the far end, a figure stood by a tall window, outlined by its dim glow. Not a Malfoy—their stance lacked Lucius or Draco's arrogance—but not a servant either. Their robes were too fine, cut with sharp precision that spoke of wealth. It was a woman, tall, her hair pulled back tightly, leaving her pale neck bare like a blade. Her hand rested on a table where a silver box sat open, its velvet lining swallowing the light, giving nothing back.
When she turned, her pale green eyes caught the dimness like broken glass, sharp and cold. She looked him over—the linens, his tense shoulders, the way he'd stopped just inside the gallery, caught between staying and fleeing. Her gaze made his skin prickle, stirring a flicker of fear he couldn't name, as if she saw something in him he didn't understand.
"You're one of Evelyn's," she said, not asking but stating, like she was naming something under a lens. Her voice was smooth, quiet, not as sharp as Lucius's but just as dangerous, her eyes lingering on his silver-streaked hair as if it told her a secret.
He stayed silent, eyes low, his face blank, as he'd learned in the Manor. His heart beat faster, her words feeling like a warning meant for him, too, though he didn't know why.
Her fingers tapped the table once, a soft sound that echoed too loudly in the quiet room. "Tell her I'll be seeing her. Soon."
She gave no name, no explanation. The words hung heavy, full of hidden meaning, making his chest tighten with questions he couldn't ask.
She closed the silver box with a soft click, the sound final, like a lock snapping shut. As she passed, her robes rustled, leaving a sharp scent of cold jasmine, almost metallic, that lingered in the dusty air long after her footsteps faded into the Manor's depths.
He didn't tell Evelyn right away—not in the laundry's steam, not on the narrow stairs, not in the tight passage by the kitchens where the air smelled of grease and ash. The woman's words stuck with him, heavy in his mouth, as if saying them too soon might break something fragile.
That evening, in the servants' quarters, Evelyn sat at the table, mending a shirt with careful stitches, the needle glinting in the warm glow of the single lamp. The light caught the silver in her hair, making it shine like frost against her darker roots. The boy set the linens on a shelf, but his movements were slow, too careful, like walking on thin ice. His bandaged hands ached, the linen pulling at his skin with each motion.
Evelyn looked up, her eyes sharp and searching. "What is it?" she asked, her voice quiet but firm, leaving no room for lies.
He told her everything—the gallery, the watchful portraits, the woman's green eyes, the silver box, her strange words—each detail clear, knowing mistakes weren't safe in this house. His voice stayed steady, but inside, he wondered why the woman's gaze had felt so heavy, as if she knew more about him than he did.
Her needle stopped mid-air. Her face didn't change, but a deep stillness settled over her, heavier than fear, as if the air had thickened with her thoughts. She set the needle down, fingers lingering on the cloth like it held her steady against something rising inside her.
"When?" she asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the quiet.
"This morning," he said, keeping his voice even despite the tremor in his chest.
She nodded once, quick and decisive. "You told no one else?"
He shook his head, his silence as clear as words.
The lamp flickered in a draft from the corridor. Evelyn stood, crossing to a scarred cupboard against the far wall. Her hand reached inside, closing around something heavy—not clothes or dishes, but something solid, its shape hidden in the dimness. When she turned, her face was calm, too calm, like the quiet before a storm breaks.
The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in as if straining to hear. Evelyn left without a word, no cloak or gloves, just the small object hidden in her hand, carrying it into the Manor's shadows like a secret she couldn't share.
At night, the Manor's silences weren't empty, each one heavy with unseen eyes and unheard whispers. Every stair Evelyn took breathed cold drafts, curling around her like fingers testing her resolve. Each hallway felt watched, something lurking just beyond the light's edge. She moved with ease, knowing when to slip past dark corners, when to pause for a distant creak, when to let the darkness hide her better than shadows could. Her steps were sure, guided by years of learning the house's moods, its tricks, its dangers.
In the east wing, where the corridors widened and the air grew sharp, she found the woman by the same tall window, its panes open to the night. Moonlight turned her hair pale as frost, shimmering faintly. The silver box was in her hands, open, its contents hidden but alive with a subtle energy that seemed to hum in the air. The space between them smelled of warm metal and the sharp promise of rain, heavy with something unspoken.
"You've kept him close," the woman said without turning, her voice slow and soft, pulling at the air like a thread.
Evelyn stepped into the moonlight, her jaw sharp in the glow, her stance unyielding. "You've kept that box open too long," she said, her words a warning, low and steady like a drawn blade.
The woman's lips curved, not amused but testing, like checking a knife's edge without touching it. "You know what it means," she said, her tone almost casual, but laced with a quiet challenge.
"I know enough," Evelyn replied, her hand tightening around the object from the cupboard—a heavy, blackened metal disc, etched with faint, ancient lines that seemed to shift in the dim light.
The woman turned, her green eyes glinting like glass in the moonlight. "It's not him I want," she said, her voice steady but heavy, as if the words sank into the stones beneath their feet.
"No," Evelyn said, her gaze unflinching. "But you'll use him to get it."
A faint breeze slipped through the window, brushing the silver box. The air pulsed once, too subtle to see, but enough that both women shifted, bracing for something unseen, their movements mirrored in the quiet.
"Close it," Evelyn said, her voice firm, a command wrapped in calm.
The woman didn't move, her fingers resting lightly on the box's edge, as if feeling its warmth, its will.
Her gaze flicked to the disc in Evelyn's hand, a spark of recognition passing through her eyes, quick and gone like a shadow. "You shouldn't have that here," she whispered, her voice low, as if the walls might hear and judge.
Evelyn stayed silent. She reached out, her fingers closing over the silver box as the woman released it, its etched serpent catching the faint light of a nearby sconce, glowing softly.
"You think you can keep it," the woman said, stepping closer, her jasmine scent sharp but not hiding the cold, metallic air of the Manor's hidden paths. "The house sees more than you think."
"Let it see," Evelyn said, her voice steady, meeting the challenge head-on.
They stood close, the air sharp with an iron tang, like a blade held too near. Their shadows merged in the flickering candlelight, one shape, locked in tension. The silver box warmed in Evelyn's hand, its serpent's eye glinting, as if something inside stirred, awake and waiting, its presence a weight she could feel in her bones.
The woman's smile was thin, knowing. "Careful," she whispered, brushing past, her sleeve grazing Evelyn's with a faint rustle. "Some things wake hungry."
Her footsteps faded into the Manor's depths, each step swallowed by the house's endless maze, leaving only the soft hum of the box in Evelyn's hand. She didn't look at it—she didn't need to. Its warmth, its weight, anchored her against the uncertainty of what was to come.
Behind the walls, the Manor stirred, a faint shadow flickering where no light reached, as if it knew what was waking and waited to see what it would do.