They stepped into the orchard behind the house. The grass brushed their ankles, and the trees stood in crooked lines as if they had grown wherever they pleased.
Luna walked slowly, tilting her head as though listening to something distant.
"We should check near the apple trees first," she said thoughtfully. "Wrackspurts like places where thoughts get tangled."
Victor clasped his hands behind his back. "And what exactly is a Wrackspurt?"
She glanced at him, surprised he didn't know.
"They're invisible," she explained gently. "They float around your head and make your brain go misty. That's why people get confused sometimes. Especially when they're thinking too hard."
Victor gave her a level look. "I see."
"You probably have several," she added calmly.
"That would explain a great many things."
Luna smiled faintly and began walking in slow circles around one of the trees, peering into the air as though something delicate hovered there.
Victor watched her for a moment.
"Do they respond to spells?" he asked.
"Oh no," Luna said lightly. "They don't like magic. They prefer worry."
She stopped and looked at him again, her gaze unusually direct.
"You worry a lot."
Victor blinked once.
"I plan," he corrected.
"Mm," she said, as if that confirmed her point.
A soft breeze moved through the orchard. Luna lifted her hands and gently waved them through the air as though brushing away cobwebs.
"There," she murmured. "That's better."
Victor glanced around at the entirely ordinary surroundings.
"I'll trust your expertise," he said evenly.
Luna smiled, satisfied.
For someone so strange, she moved through the world with remarkable certainty.
Maybe that honesty is what got her bullied in Ravenclaw, Victor thought. When she arrives at Hogwarts, I'll make sure that doesn't happen.
She said whatever she believed without hesitation.
He did the opposite.
Victor planned everything internally. Spoke selectively. Revealed only what he chose to reveal.
Is that why Mother arranged this?
The Lovegoods weren't politically powerful. There was no advantage there.
Unless…
He remembered that gathering. It hadn't been the adults pushing. It had been the girls—pure-blood daughters speaking sweetly, circling him with practiced smiles and subtle boasts about lineage. The conversation had drifted, inevitably, toward blood status.
He had shut it down.
Coldly.
He already heard that pure-blood rhetoric at home from his father and the circles around him. He had no intention of listening to the same speeches from girls his own age.
One of them had looked genuinely offended. Another had nearly cried when he dismissed the whole thing as tiresome.
He hadn't cared.
But perhaps Narcissa had noticed.
Perhaps she had decided that instead of ambition and pride, her son needed someone uncomplicated.
"Well," Victor said lightly, glancing at the small flip-locket watch he carried. "We'll continue the Wrackspurt hunt later."
The time read 10:30 a.m.
Five hours should be enough.
He stepped aside under the pretense of adjusting his coat. With a sharp crack, the world squeezed inward
—and he vanished.
The familiar wrench of Apparition followed. Unpleasant. Compressed. He exhaled sharply as his feet hit solid ground.
He reappeared near King's Cross Station.
Still unpleasant, he thought. I'll need more practice.
He adjusted his collar and turned toward his destination.
Grimmauld Place.
The ancestral home of the Black family.
And somewhere within it—
Slytherin's locket.
From King's Cross, Victor took a Muggle taxi.
He had brought Muggle money for precisely this reason.
Twenty minutes later, the car dropped him in a quiet London square lined with identical terrace houses. Clean steps. Black railings. Polished doors.
Ordinary.
Victor stood on the pavement, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the row.
Number Eleven.
Number Thirteen.
"No. Number Twelve."
"Right," he murmured, studying the row of houses.
"Good thing this place isn't under the Fidelius Charm at this point in time," he muttered quietly. In 1992, 12 Grimmauld Place was not yet hidden as Order headquarters.
It would only have the usual old Black family protections—Muggle-Repelling Charms and standard concealments.
He counted the doors.
Ten.
Eleven.
The space between Eleven and Thirteen seemed slightly narrow at first glance. Then, as he focused, the gap shifted. Brick and shadow pressed outward, and the missing house forced itself into visibility.
Number Twelve stood there, tall and grim.
He walked up the steps and tried the handle.
Locked.
He drew his wand and glanced around the square. No one was watching.
This was a Black family house, layered with old wizarding protections. The Ministry didn't concern itself with minor magic cast inside pure-blood homes. In places like this, spells were used around children every day. The Trace was meant to catch magic in the Muggle world, not routine enchantments within wizarding households.
"Alohomora."
The door unlocked with a quiet click.
Victor pushed it open and stepped inside.
The entrance hall was shadowed but orderly. The heavy curtains were drawn back neatly, the long carpet free of dust, the dark wood panels polished instead of grimy. It didn't look abandoned. It didn't look neglected.
It certainly didn't look as filthy as he had expected.
So Kreacher had been working.
Victor closed the door behind him, the sound echoing faintly in the tall hallway.
"Kreacher," he called, his voice sharp enough to carry through the house.
His voice echoed up the staircase.
A sharp crack split the silence.
A house-elf appeared beside the wall, thin arms folded tight against his chest, pale eyes narrowed with suspicion. His ears twitched.
It was Kreacher.
Kreacher stared at him as if assessing a threat.
"Who is you?" he croaked. "Breaking into Mistress's house— is you a thief?"
"If I were a thief," Victor said evenly, "you wouldn't have heard me."
Kreacher's eyes flicked over him, suspicious and sharp.
Victor held his gaze.
"I'm Narcissa Black—now Malfoy's—eldest son. Victor Malfoy. That would make me…" He paused slightly. "You can work out the relation yourself."
The house-elf stiffened.
The name Black struck harder than Malfoy. Kreacher's thin chest rose and fell as he peered closer, shuffling forward a step. His large eyes searched Victor's face—not for deception, but for lineage.
"The Mistress's brother blood," Kreacher muttered under his breath. "Black blood."
His shoulders lowered a fraction. The hostility did not vanish, but it shifted into something older—something bound by habit and house loyalty.
*****
A/N : 🔥 On Patreon, the story has already been updated up to Chapter 68🔥
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