36 - In the Headmaster's Office

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Wes's voice shattered the silence like a blade slicing through the night. Each word was crisp, deliberate, and laced with the chill of a winter storm.

"Mr. Malfoy, we all know what you are."

His movements were slow, almost measured, as if savoring the moment. The wand in his grasp made the faintest motion, a mere flick, yet it was enough to shift the long sleeve of Lucius Malfoy's robe. The fabric slipped like a whisper against his skin, unveiling the truth beneath.

The Dark Mark.

Black, ominous, and etched into his flesh like a curse, it sat there in the dim light, no longer hidden in the shadows of expensive silk.

Lucius's reaction was immediate—his hand jerked up instinctively, desperate to conceal the brand, as if he could erase its existence through sheer will. But it was too late. His face twisted in a storm of emotions: rage at being exposed, fear of what it could mean, and a flicker of shame, a rare and uncharacteristic vulnerability. His cold, grey eyes burned into Wes with an intensity that could have incinerated a lesser man.

Wes didn't flinch. His voice remained steady, unshaken, laced with something even more dangerous than accusation—amusement.

"You're scared, Mr. Death Eater."

The words were soft yet unyielding, wrapping around Lucius like chains.

"What are you afraid of?"

Wes raised a single brow, his expression one of mock curiosity, though his sharp gaze never wavered.

"Your master is returning. Shouldn't that bring you comfort? Shouldn't you be rejoicing?"

A smirk tugged at his lips, as if he were playing a game only he knew the rules to.

"But no," he continued, his tone lilting with amusement. "It must be exhausting, isn't it? Following a man whose anger burns hotter than hellfire itself? Never knowing if today is the day he turns on you? Living with the constant fear that the next corpse to hit the floor could be yours?"

Each word was deliberate, a dagger aimed directly at the heart of Lucius Malfoy's deepest anxieties. And he knew—oh, he knew—he had struck true when Lucius's face drained of color, his jaw tightening, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

It was a rare thing to see Lucius Malfoy falter.

Wes's voice softened, but there was no kindness in it. Only quiet cruelty.

"It's easy to guess, really," he mused, lifting the diary between his fingers. His touch was almost reverent, a stark contrast to the venom in his voice. He traced the worn cover with absentminded precision.

"This... relic," he murmured, "was created when your master was just sixteen. And with his ambition, his thirst for power, do you truly believe this was his only experiment?"

His eyes met Lucius's then, sharp as a knife's edge, gleaming with an unwavering certainty.

"Tell me, Mr. Malfoy—do you know how to create a Horcrux?"

Lucius sucked in a breath, his body stiffening like a man trapped in a vice. His lips parted, but no words came.

Wes took that silence as confirmation.

"It's simple, really," he continued, his voice deceptively casual, as if explaining the mechanics of a mundane spell. "You kill. You rip your soul apart. And then you trap the fractured piece inside an object."

His smirk deepened, dark amusement gleaming in his eyes.

"Elegant in theory. Disastrous in practice."

Lucius remained silent, but the tremor in his fingers betrayed him. He was terrified.

"Many Dark Wizards have sought this path," Wes continued, tilting his head slightly. "Yet, very few dared to walk it. Do you know why?"

Still, Lucius said nothing. He only shook his head, slow, hesitant, as if already knowing he would regret what came next.

Dumbledore, who had been watching in silence, leaned forward ever so slightly, intrigued by the turn of conversation.

Wes's expression remained unreadable. "Have you heard of schizophrenia?"

Lucius blinked at the unexpected shift. Before he could respond, Wes pressed on.

"It's a condition where a person's mind fragments. Different personalities emerge—some young, some old, some violent. The identity fractures until the individual is barely recognizable."

He let the words sink in before delivering the final blow.

"And if the mind alone suffers such chaos from mere mental illness—" his voice dipped lower, heavier, charged with something almost ominous, "—imagine what happens when you start butchering your soul."

The room seemed colder. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air.

"Voldemort's rage. His paranoia. His madness." Wes's voice remained calm, but each syllable carried undeniable weight. "It wasn't just power that made him that way. It was the consequence of what he did to himself."

Lucius swallowed hard.

Because he knew it was true.

They had all seen it—Voldemort had transformed from a brilliant, cunning leader into a creature ruled by fury and suspicion. The Death Eaters had once followed him with loyalty. Now, they followed out of fear, whispering in the shadows, watching their own backs, waiting for the day he would turn on them.

Wes exhaled, a sound of almost mocking pity. "And yet, despite this madness, you entrusted one of his most precious creations to a schoolboy's hands."

Lucius paled further. He felt sick.

"What do you think he'll do to you when he finds out?" Wes's voice was almost a whisper now, yet it carried all the force of a hammer falling onto glass.

The unspoken answer rang loud and clear: Voldemort would destroy him.

Lucius opened his mouth, fumbling for an excuse, but the words that left his lips were weak. "I—I can explain—"

Even he didn't believe himself.

Wes only smiled. "You have three options, Mr. Malfoy."

He raised three fingers, ticking them off one by one.

"First, admit the diary was yours. The Ministry will be more than happy to grant you permanent residence in Azkaban. Who knows? Maybe your master will retrieve you when he rises. Assuming you survive the Dementors."

Lucius shuddered violently, shaking his head before Wes even finished.

"Second, deny everything. Hide behind the Malfoy name. We can't prove it's yours, after all. But the moment your master returns, we'll make sure the rumor spreads—Voldemort's most trusted lieutenant lost something irreplaceable. A Horcrux, no less."

Lucius squeezed his eyes shut, another violent shake of his head.

Wes let the silence stretch before he spoke the last option.

"Or... you abandon the darkness altogether."

Lucius bolted upright, his face contorted in fury. "You're asking me to commit suicide!"

Wes shrugged, utterly unbothered. "I'm asking you to live."

"He won't let me or my family go!" Lucius exclaimed, his voice filled with desperation.

He had witnessed firsthand how Voldemort dealt with traitors—ruthless, merciless, and without hesitation. The mere thought of suffering that fate sent a shiver down his spine. He refused to make the same mistake.

"He won't know… unless he finds out," Wes said calmly, his words laced with an unsettling certainty.

"You want me to be a spy?" Lucius recoiled as if Wes had just struck him. He shook his head violently, his breath coming in sharp gasps. "Impossible! Don't even think about it!" His voice cracked under the weight of his emotions.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Malfoy," Wes said, his voice steady, almost soothing, yet carrying an undeniable authority. "Only with a clear mind can you make the right choice." 

Lucius's chest rose and fell rapidly. His thoughts were a storm—fear, anger, and self-preservation clashing in violent waves.

Lucius's fists clenched. His entire world was unraveling before him, and Wes knew it.

Dumbledore, ever composed, reached for a cup of tea and extended it toward Lucius, as if offering a lifeline.

Lucius hesitated. To him, that cup might as well have been a death sentence.

But in the end, with trembling fingers, he took it—and drank.

Because he already knew.

There was no turning back.