The east wing of Malfoy Manor was a place of wrongness at night—not the loud, jarring kind that sent you running, but the subtle, creeping kind that made your steps falter, as if your body sensed a threat the mind couldn't name. Shadows clung to the walls and ceiling, thick and restless, shifting in shapes that never quite settled into stillness. Firelight from the grand halls didn't dare reach these corridors, leaving only the faint glow of torches to battle the dark, and even that seemed to shrink in defeat.
Cassian carried a stack of folded linens, the clean scent of soap rising faintly, a fragile shield against the Manor's damp, metallic chill—a smell like old coins or the air before lightning. He shouldn't have taken this path; the east wing was a place servants avoided unless ordered, their faces pale when they returned, their answers clipped if anyone asked why. Whispers among the house-elves spoke of a curse that stirred here, waking only for Malfoy blood. But it was the shortest route from the scullery to the small library, and Cassian wanted to be unseen, to slip through the Manor's gaze like a shadow. His hair—half silver, half black—caught the dim torchlight, one side gleaming like moonlight on frost, the other swallowing the glow like a starless night. It was a mark of his blood, a silent testament to the Malfoy lineage he carried and the rejection that defined him. He'd pieced it together over years—the glances, the whispers, Lucius's cold stares that saw a mistake rather than a son.
At the far end of the corridor, a tall figure lingered by a frost-streaked window, its panes etched with patterns that curled like veins under ice. Adrian Rowle—a name spoken rarely, even among the Manor's darker guests—stood as if carved into the stone itself. His travel-stained robes, a deep, charred brown, were damp at the edges from melted snow, clinging to his frame like a second skin. His pale amber eyes didn't wander; they fixed on the hallway ahead, waiting for someone to step into their path. His gloved hands rested on the head of an ornate cane, not for support but for control, each finger curled with a tension that belied his casual posture. The silence around him was not empty—it pressed outward, muting the creak of ancient floorboards and swallowing the distant murmur of voices from the west wing, as if Rowle commanded the air itself.
Cassian slowed, his grip tightening on the linens until his knuckles ached. He knew Rowle's kind—Death Eaters, or those close enough to wear the title without the mark, who came to the Manor for Lucius's hushed meetings about the Dark Lord's return. Rowle's gaze flicked to him, sharp as a blade, lingering on the silver strands in his hair—the Malfoy half, the half that made Lucius's lip curl. Cassian kept his eyes lowered, not out of fear, but because he'd learned what eye contact cost in this house. Lucius's stares had taught him that lesson early: he was a stain on the family name, a bastard who carried their blood but never their favor.
A soft, precise click of boots broke the stillness. Evelyn emerged from the shadows, her muted blue robes blending with the dim light, her steps measured but unhurried. Cassian's mother stopped beside Rowle, her face pale and unreadable, clutching a bundle wrapped in faded velvet—a book, perhaps, or something heavier, its edges worn from years of careful handling. Her presence was a quiet anchor, but her eyes carried the weight of someone who knew the Manor's secrets too well.
"You've seen him," she said, her voice low, not a question but a statement heavy with knowing.
Rowle's reply was measured, each word deliberate, like a man weighing a blade before striking. "He has her eyes. And her sharpness."
Evelyn's fingers tightened on the velvet bundle, creasing its folds until her knuckles paled. "He knows who he is, doesn't he?" Her voice was sharp, certain, as if she could feel the truth woven into the Manor's cold stones, as if the walls themselves had whispered it to her.
Rowle leaned back, his shadowed gaze drifting to the chandelier overhead, its crystals catching the torchlight in a ghostly gleam. "He's pieced it together. Smarter than Lucius gives him credit for."
Her jaw clenched, a flicker of frustration breaking her calm. "Then why hasn't he spoken? Why hasn't he asked me?"
Rowle's lips twitched, not quite a smirk, but close—a flicker of amusement at the edges of his mouth. "Because he's learned what silence buys in this house. Time. Safety. A chance to choose his moment."
A draft slipped through the cracked window frame, carrying a faint, metallic tang, like the air before a storm. Rowle's eyes narrowed, his head tilting slightly, as if catching a sound too faint for others. "The ward's stirring," he murmured.
Evelyn's gaze flicked down the hallway where Cassian lingered, half-hidden in shadow, his breath shallow as he listened. "The family's curse," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It senses his blood."
They moved without speaking, their steps deliberate, Rowle half a pace behind Evelyn, his boots now silent on the marble. The east wing, long abandoned for daily use, held a heavier chill, its air thick with the scent of old magic—parchment, dust, and something sharper, like the residue of a spell gone sour. Paintings lined the walls, their colors bled into muted greys and browns, the eyes of Malfoy ancestors watching with sharp disdain, as if judging the living for their failures. Rowle's gaze lingered on one—a severe woman with silver hair, her features sharp like Narcissa's but colder. His gloved finger brushed the frame's edge, leaving a smear of black residue, like ink that never dried, a trace of the blood ward that bound the Manor's secrets.
"It's still active," he muttered, his voice low, as if speaking to the painting itself.
Evelyn nodded, her eyes on the frame. "Lucius keeps it hidden, even from Narcissa. He thinks it's his to control."
They reached the far end of the east wing's corridor, where the air grew denser, as if the Manor itself held its breath, reluctant to exhale. The walls here seemed older, their stone etched with faint, spiraling runes that caught the torchlight in fleeting glimmers, like whispers of forgotten spells. A heavy door loomed before them, its dark oak warped by centuries, its iron hinges rusted into patterns that resembled clotted blood. The door stood slightly ajar, a thin, jagged gap spilling a blackness that did not merely obscure—it consumed, drinking the moonlight that dared to creep through the frost-etched windows, leaving no reflection, no shimmer, only an abyss that seemed to pulse with a silent hunger.
From within that darkness came a faint, unsettling scrape, like coarse fabric dragged slowly across uneven stone, the sound deliberate yet devoid of rhythm, as if something stirred without purpose—or with a purpose too alien to fathom. The noise lingered, then faded into a silence that was not empty but alive, a waiting presence that pressed against the senses, heavy as a held breath, sharp as the moment before a scream. It was the kind of silence that made the skin prickle, that whispered of eyes unseen, watching from the dark.
Adrian Rowle stood at the threshold, his tall frame rigid, his ornate cane gripped tightly in his gloved hands, its silver serpent's head glinting faintly under the dim torchlight. The cane was not a crutch but an extension of his will, its weight grounding him as he faced the void beyond the door. His pale amber eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the blackness with a predator's precision, as if he could compel the dark to yield its secrets, to speak in a language only he understood. His robes, travel-stained and heavy with the damp of melted snow, clung to his shoulders, their deep, charred brown blending with the shadows, making him seem less a man and more a part of the Manor's own darkness. His breath was slow, deliberate, each exhale curling faintly in the chill air, and his head tilted slightly, as if catching a scent or a sound too faint for others—a hunter attuned to the subtlest shift in the night.
Evelyn stood a step behind, her muted blue robes catching the faint glow of the corridor's torches, the faded velvet bundle clutched tightly to her chest. Her fingers, calloused from years of toil, dug into the fabric, creasing its worn surface as if anchoring herself against the pull of that unnatural dark. Her pale eyes flicked between Rowle and the door, her posture taut, not with fear but with the wariness of one who knew the Manor's secrets too well, who had felt its malice in the marrow of her bones. The silence stretched, binding them to the threshold, to the door that seemed less an entrance and more a maw, waiting to swallow whatever dared to cross it.
Evelyn's voice was a whisper, sharp with urgency. "The curse wants him, doesn't it?"
Rowle's smile was grim, barely a curve of his lips. "It's bound to the blood. It knows he's theirs, even if Lucius won't name him."
Cassian, still at the corridor's edge, felt the air grow heavy, pressing against his skin like a warning. He'd heard the house-elves' whispers—tales of a Malfoy curse, a blood ward woven centuries ago to protect the family's purity, to seek out those who carried their lineage but not their name. His lineage. The linens shifted in his arms; one slipped, fluttering into the dark gap of the door. It landed without a sound, swallowed by the blackness. His heart quickened, not just from fear, but from the certainty that the Manor knew him—knew the silver in his blood, the black in his shadow. They can't erase me, he thought, the words sharp in his mind, a defiance he hadn't yet spoken aloud.
A voice from within—Rowle's, clear and quiet, cutting through the dark: "…He's here."
Cassian moved, not running, but stepping swiftly past the door, his steps careful but quick, the cold of the east wing chasing him all the way to the main hall. He didn't look back, but he felt the weight of eyes—Rowle's, the curse's, or something older—lingering on his back.
The west wing's corridors were the quietest in the Manor, but tonight the quiet felt designed, like a breath held too long. Cassian shouldn't have been here; the library errand had led him too close to this forbidden stretch, where even the house-elves hesitated to tread. Evelyn never spoke of the west wing, her answers sharp and deflecting when he asked why, her eyes clouded with something heavier than fear. Draco's taunts echoed in his mind—'Stay where you belong, half-breed'—but the west wing's silence was louder, more dangerous.
A door stood ajar ahead, spilling a pale, bluish light across the carpet, its hue too cool, like moonlight filtered through frost. Cassian slowed, his breath catching. Inside, three tall mirrors stood in the center of the room, each framed in tarnished silver, their surfaces fogged with shifting patterns that didn't reflect the room around them. One showed a misty forest, branches twisting without wind; another, a black lake rippling under an unseen moon; the third, a dark hallway that felt like the Manor's own, its walls too familiar, its shadows too deep. Cassian leaned closer to the third, his reflection absent. Footsteps echoed from within the glass—faint, deliberate, like someone pacing just beyond sight.
A rustle behind him. He turned sharply, the linens nearly slipping again. A woman stood in the doorway, her pale grey robes stark against her bone-white braid, her hair falling heavy over one shoulder. Her eyes, neither blue nor grey but something in between, studied him with a quiet, assessing interest—not a Malfoy's cold disdain, but the gaze of someone who guarded their secrets. A ward-weaver, perhaps, bound to the Manor's protections, her presence as much a part of its magic as the wards themselves.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice soft, almost curious, not a reprimand but a warning wrapped in intrigue. She stepped past him, her hand brushing the frame of the third mirror; the surface rippled like disturbed water, the hallway within shifting slightly. "Not yet," she murmured, to the mirror or to herself, it wasn't clear.
"Go back to your mother," she added, without looking at him again.
Cassian left quickly, her gaze heavy on his back, lingering long after the door's faint creak as it swung shut behind him.
In the servants' quarters, the laundry was a small sanctuary, its air thick with the scent of soap and heated water, steam curling like a living thing around Evelyn as she wrung damp linen from a copper tub. The room was tucked behind a crooked wooden door, its walls close and unadorned, a stark contrast to the Manor's grand halls. Here, the cold was softer, the silence kinder, though tonight it carried a weight Cassian couldn't name.
He entered, and Evelyn's eyes flicked up, reading his face in a heartbeat, as she always did. Her hands paused mid-wring, water dripping onto the stone floor. "Where were you?" Her voice was low, not suspicious, but braced for an answer she already dreaded.
"The west wing," Cassian admitted, the words heavy in his throat, like stones he couldn't swallow.
Her breath stilled, her hand closing around his wrist—not painfully, but firm enough to anchor him in place. Her eyes, pale and sharp, searched his face, seeing the truth before he spoke it. "Who did you see?"
He described the woman with the bone-white braid, the mirrors with their strange, shifting images, the hallway in the glass that felt too much like the Manor itself. Evelyn's grip tightened, then slid to his hand, her fingers tracing the bones of his palm as if measuring their strength.
"When you see her again," she said, each word deliberate, carved from years of surviving this house, "turn around. Don't speak. Don't listen. She weaves the wards that bind this house—and its curses. Her magic is older than the Malfoys, and it answers to no one."
"Why?" Cassian asked, his voice soft but steady, the question carrying the weight of all he'd pieced together—the whispers, the stares, the silver in his hair. I'm theirs, but not theirs. Why does the house know me?
Evelyn's gaze shifted to the narrow window, where a thread of moonlight crept through, pale as her own skin. "Because her words wake things that should stay asleep," she said, her voice dipping lower, as if the walls might hear. "Things tied to your blood. Things Lucius can't control, no matter what he thinks."
She turned back to the tub, plunging her hands into the steaming water, the movement sharp and final. The conversation was over, but the air held her words like a spell unfinished.
That night, Cassian lay in his narrow cot, the coarse blanket pulled high, though the cold still crept through its thin weave. His bandaged hands ached, the burns from a spilled cauldron in the scullery pulsing beneath Evelyn's salve, each throb a reminder of the weight he carried—linens, secrets, blood. The mirrors lingered in his mind—the hallway in the glass, the footsteps that echoed without a source. He thought of the curse, of the blood in his veins that the Manor both claimed and rejected, of Lucius's cold gaze and Draco's smug taunts, of the silver and black that marked him as half theirs, half other. One day, I'll make them see me. Not their mistake. Me.
His fingers flexed, testing the air. The candle by his bed flared to life, no wand, no words—just a thought, clenched like a fist behind his ribs. The flame danced high for a moment, as if surprised to be summoned, then settled into a steady flicker, casting long shadows across the stone walls. They moved like footsteps, deliberate and slow.
Cassian wasn't just a shadow. Not just a mistake.
One day, he'd make them see—Lucius, Draco, the Manor itself. He'd make them reckon with the blood they denied.
The flame held steady, and in its light, his eyes gleamed—one side silver, one side black.