The great hall of Malfoy Manor was always cold in the mornings — a still, unmoving cold that sank into the bones and lingered there, no matter how fiercely the fire in the hearth burned. The stone floor, veined with pale marble, seemed to hoard the night's chill and release it slowly, like a spiteful thing unwilling to yield to warmth.
The table dominated the space, stretching nearly the full length of the hall, a dark, gleaming expanse of polished wood so flawless it reflected the windows high above. The pale winter light that filtered through those tall, leaded panes struck the silverware, sending glints of cold brightness across the table's surface. Each fork and knife bore the Malfoy crest, engraved so deeply the lines caught shadows, turning the serpentine motif into something almost alive.
The air smelled faintly of beeswax polish and the sharper tang of ash from the fireplace, where logs crackled and shifted but gave little comfort. Above, the vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow, the flicker of flames making the edges of the carved moldings seem to shift in the half-light. The portraits that lined the walls were silent but watchful, their painted eyes tracking the length of the table like sentries on an endless vigil.
Cassian stood at the far end, a silver tray balanced in his hands, the weight of the teapot steady only because he refused to let his grip betray him. His fingers ached faintly from the heat seeping through the polished metal, but his expression never shifted. He moved silently, as Evelyn had taught him — glide, don't step, never let the sound of your feet distract from the voices at the table. The Malfoys noticed everything, and they remembered every misstep.
The great hall's cavernous space swallowed sound, but the low murmur of aristocratic conversation still carried, punctuated by the soft chime of a spoon against porcelain or the faint clink of a ring tapping crystal. Cassian kept his gaze lowered, seeing only flashes — the edge of a silk sleeve, the glint of a cufflink, the pale shape of Draco's smirk.
When the last dish was cleared, he retreated without a word, crossing the length of the hall in a measured rhythm that betrayed neither haste nor reluctance. The servants' corridor embraced him like another world, its narrow walls smelling faintly of damp wool and lye, the air cooler than the grand rooms above. He slipped inside the moment the heavy oak door shut behind him, the difference immediate — the muffled hush, the faint echo of his own breathing, the way the laughter and clinking cutlery from the hall dulled into something distant, like voices carried through deep water.
.
He set the empty silver tray on a side table, fingers lingering on its cool rim as if the metal might steady him. In the breakfast hall, every gesture had been deliberate, every movement a calculation — the steady hand pouring tea, the perfectly timed refilling of a cup, the neutral face that absorbed Narcissa's words without flinch or spark. Only here, in this narrow stretch of stone with its faint smell of lye and the quiet drip of unseen pipes, could he let his shoulders ease the smallest fraction. Only here could he breathe without the sensation of eyes marking every breath, every blink.
The corridor was dim, lit only by a single lamp hung at the far end. Its flame wavered in the draft, throwing the long, fingerlike shadows of the broom cupboard door across the flagstones. The air was cooler here, still holding the damp breath of the Manor's old stone. Cassian's footsteps were almost soundless, his pace unhurried but precise, the same economy of movement that kept him unnoticed in rooms where being noticed was dangerous.
He didn't hear Rowle until the man was already there.
The guard had a way of moving that didn't match his size — too quiet for the bulk of his frame, his presence more felt than heard. The faint scent of leather and steel came first, then the shadow of him, stretching into the lamplight. He leaned against the wall just beyond the glow, one shoulder pressed to the stone, the faint glint of his belt buckle winking like an eye when the flame shifted.
"You take insults well," Rowle said, voice pitched low, the words neither threat nor praise — more a quiet weighing of something.
Cassian glanced at him only briefly, the look flat, unreadable, before his attention dropped again to the silver tray in his hands. He adjusted his grip with deliberate care, as if the cool weight of the metal might anchor him, then turned toward the other end of the hall.
Rowle didn't step in his way, not yet. He remained where he was, arms loosely folded, the shadow of a half-smile barely touching his mouth. His gaze followed Cassian as he passed, heavy enough to feel at his back. The corridor seemed to grow longer with each step, the echo of his passage swallowed in the stretch of silence between them.
Lucius sat at the head, posture perfect, the fold of his robes sharp enough to seem deliberate, eyes fixed on the Daily Prophet as though the words bent to his will. Across from him, Draco stirred his tea lazily, wearing the faint smirk of someone who'd already found his day's entertainment. Beside him sat Narcissa.
Narcissa Malfoy's beauty was the kind that froze a room before she even spoke — pale skin like frost under moonlight, hair so flawlessly arranged it might have been carved, eyes the same pale steel as the manor's winter skies. Even the tilt of her chin carried an unspoken hierarchy. Her elegance was not warmth; it was precision, honed and deliberate, the kind that cut cleanly and left no visible wound.
Cassian approached to refill her cup. She glanced up at him, and for a brief moment her gaze rested on the silver-black of his hair, the mark he couldn't hide.
"My, Evelyn does keep you well-scrubbed," Narcissa said lightly, her tone smooth as cream, but the pause after the words lingered — an opening for the sting to follow. She set down her spoon, tilting her head slightly. "A pity some things can't be polished away."
Draco's smirk sharpened, eyes darting to Cassian as if expecting a reaction. Lucius did not look up from his paper, but Cassian caught the faintest twitch of his jaw — not disapproval of her words, only the satisfaction of seeing them land.
Cassian poured without spilling a drop. "Yes, ma'am," he said quietly, the reply so even it offered her nothing to work with.
Narcissa's lips curved faintly, but it wasn't a smile. She lifted her cup, dismissing him without another glance.
He stepped back, tray still in hand, the fine silver heavy in his fingers. He'd learned long ago that silence was not surrender — it was armor. But as he moved toward the sideboard, the cold from the stone floor seemed to climb his legs, settling in his chest, the way it always did when the Malfoy name was spoken as a blade.
From the far corner of the room, a figure watched — tall, still, amber eyes catching the light like molten glass. Adrian Rowle had been silent the whole exchange, but Cassian felt the weight of his attention as if it were a hand pressed firmly to his shoulder, steady and unyielding.
And Rowle did not look away.
The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the servants' wing, the kind of heavy heat that clung to skin and made the air taste faintly of steam. Waves rolled off the great iron stove, carrying the smell of stewing meat threaded with the faint, bittersweet edge of burnt sugar. Pans clinked softly in the background, and somewhere, a kettle hissed. Evelyn stood at the counter, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the pale skin of her forearms powdered in flour. She brushed her hands together in a slow, deliberate motion, dust spiraling into the lamplight before settling on the worn wood. The moment Cassian stepped through the doorway, her head lifted — eyes sharp, searching — as though she had already guessed what kind of morning he'd had.
He moved with his usual quiet, setting the silver tray beside the sink without a word. But there was something in the way he did it — each motion precise to the point of tension, as though the placement of the tray, the careful lowering of silver to wood, was less habit and more armour.
"You're late back from the hall," she said lightly, the lilt in her voice practiced, but her eyes never left him.
"Had to take the long way," Cassian replied, his tone flat, steady. He reached for a cloth, began wiping the tray in small, methodical circles, watching the faint, cloudy smears left by Narcissa's untouched tea disappear under his hand.
Evelyn didn't answer at once. She studied him the way one studies the sky before deciding whether to trust it — weighing the stillness, the shadows in it. There was a stiffness in his shoulders she knew well; not fear, but that taut, guarded awareness that came when you realised someone's gaze had followed you longer than it should have.
Then she caught it — the faint scent clinging to him. Not the familiar polish of the great hall, nor the smoke from the kitchen's hearth, but something colder, metallic, touched by stone and shadow — the air of the outer guard halls.
"Who did you see?" she asked.
"No one," Cassian said, too quickly.
Her fingers tightened around the rolling pin resting on the counter, the wood creaking softly in her grasp. She said nothing more, but her gaze stayed on him as he crossed the room and disappeared through the door. Her expression had sharpened in that silence, fine and cutting, like the edge of a blade honed for a purpose she had not yet named.
The corridors after midday were quieter, emptied of most movement save for the occasional whisper of a robe sweeping past or the quick, sidelong glance of another servant slipping out of sight. The tall windows let in a thin, wintry light that fell in long, pale stripes across the marble, each broken by the steady rhythm of Cassian's footsteps.
He kept his head lowered, the weight of the ledgers balanced carefully in his arms — thick-bound volumes from the steward's office, their leather spines cold against his forearms. It was a task meant to occupy him, not to protect him, and he knew the difference.
Halfway to the library, it came — that subtle shift in the air, the invisible hook in the back of the neck when you are no longer alone.
The shadow reached him first, sliding across the marble from an alcove ahead. A moment later, Rowle stepped into view. Broad-shouldered, thick through the chest, his dark coat absorbed what little light the windows gave, casting him in muted, heavy outlines. The corridor itself seemed to narrow around him.
He stood as though idle, but there was nothing loose in the stance — no wasted movement, no unclaimed space. His presence alone dictated the pace of the hall.
Rowle didn't step into Cassian's path. He didn't need to. Passing would mean closing that small gap between them, close enough to catch the faint mingling of leather and smoke that clung to him, close enough to know it wasn't an accident they had crossed paths at all.
"Careful with those," Rowle said, his voice low — the kind of low that could settle in your ribs and stay there. It carried no trace of concern, only the steady weight of something meant to land. His eyes dropped to the ledgers, lingering a fraction too long, as though the bindings themselves were more fragile than paper. "Some things in this house… break easily."
Cassian didn't stop. Didn't slow. The books pressed harder into his forearms as he adjusted his grip, the edges biting faintly into skin. His gaze stayed locked on the spill of pale light at the end of the corridor.
But Rowle's voice trailed after him, a thread pulled just tight enough to snag.
"You've got the look of someone who listens when they shouldn't. That can be dangerous… or useful."
The words sank into the marble silence between them, heavy without being raised. Cassian's stride never faltered, but the knuckles bracing the weight of the ledgers had gone white. He turned the corner, the air feeling somehow thicker until Rowle's presence dropped away behind him — though the sensation of being seen remained like a faint heat at his back.
By the time he reached the library doors, the hush beyond felt different from the rest of the house. It was not absence of sound but the kind of quiet that seemed to keep something within it, holding the echo of Rowle's voice in the space between heartbeats.
Evening came in its usual muted procession — muffled footsteps along the servant passages, the distant echo of laughter from the grand rooms above. Cassian sat at the long, scarred table in the servants' quarters, the light from the single wall sconce pooling across the list of hearths yet to be tended. He stared at the words until they blurred and bled into each other, the ink swimming on the page while his mind replayed the measured cadence of Rowle's tone.
He could still feel Rowle's gaze from earlier — not as a memory, but as a pressure, faint and constant, like the trace heat of a brand hidden under skin. It wasn't only the words that had stayed with him, though those alone could have been enough. It was the manner in which they were spoken: deliberate, weighted, each syllable dropped with the precision of someone who understood the effect they wished to leave. A hook set quietly in still water.
A shadow crossed the doorway. Evelyn stepped in without hurry, a small basket of neatly folded linen balanced on her hip. She didn't speak at first. The faint smell of starch and soap clung to her, grounding the room in something ordinary — but her eyes found him, and they lingered long enough to feel like touch.
"What happened?" she asked at last, her tone even.
Cassian's head came up too quickly. "Nothing."
Her gaze narrowed — not with sharpness, but with the kind of slow, measured suspicion of someone who had spent years reading what others tried to keep hidden. She crossed the space between them and set the basket down on the table. Her fingers rested lightly against the wood, but her eyes stayed on his face.
"Something's changed," she said, her voice quiet but certain. "Like you've been… measured."
He forced his attention back to the page in front of him, though the lines swam into meaningless shapes. "I said it's nothing," he repeated, firmer this time, letting the words cut short any opening she might take.
Evelyn didn't argue. She only lifted the basket again and turned toward the door, her movement smooth but not unmarked. The subtle stiffening in her shoulders told him she didn't believe him — and that she knew exactly how much "nothing" could mean in this house.
When she left, the quiet of the room seemed too deep, as though it belonged to someone else entirely — a silence that had weight, that pressed at the edges of thought. It followed him for hours, clinging like the faint scent of starch from the linen basket she had carried.
Later that night, Cassian slipped into the dim back corridor leading to the scullery. The air was cool and damp, heavy with the mineral smell of stone that had soaked up centuries of winter. Somewhere above, a beam gave a slow, complaining pop as the Manor settled into its long, nocturnal stillness. The wind brushed against the high windows, its whisper stretched thin by the distance, almost human in its cadence.
His footsteps made no sound on the worn flagstones. Shadows pooled in the corners, the single wall-lamp burning low, its light casting a weak, amber glow along the wall. He reached for the scullery door handle — fingers just brushing the cold iron — and then froze.
The air ahead felt different, disturbed, as if the corridor itself had been holding its breath.
A flicker of movement caught at the corner of his eye. Down the hall, just past the reach of the nearest torch, someone stood in shadow. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Motionless.
Rowle.
The light didn't touch his face, but the silhouette was unmistakable — the stillness too deliberate to belong to a servant, the balance in his stance the kind carried by someone who knew how to wait. Hands rested loosely behind his back, shoulders eased as if the cold of the corridor couldn't touch him. He wasn't in a hurry. He didn't need to be.
Cassian turned back toward the door, willing his hand to move at the same steady pace it always did. The iron handle was cold enough to bite at his skin. He pushed it down, hinges giving a soft, reluctant groan that sounded too loud in the hushed air.
When he risked a glance over his shoulder, the spot where Rowle had stood was empty — swallowed by shadow as if he'd never been there.
But the air was different now. Denser. Heavy in a way that didn't come from stone or winter. It was the kind of weight that waited, patient, certain it would be felt again.