37 - Wes's Plan

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Lucius' fingers trembled slightly as they rested on the delicate porcelain of the teacup. He tried to steady his grip, but his hands betrayed him, shaking despite his efforts. With a controlled breath, he set the cup down, the soft clink of china against the saucer echoing in the otherwise silent room.

His eyes drifted shut, yet behind his closed lids, turmoil raged. His heartbeat pounded unevenly, a frantic rhythm of doubt and fear. He had spent years perfecting an air of composure, of unwavering conviction, but tonight—tonight, he was teetering on the edge. The weight of his decision pressed against his ribs, suffocating. Was this the right choice? Had he just condemned himself and his family to ruin?

Across the room, Wes watched him with sharp, discerning eyes. His gaze was like that of a hawk, dissecting every flicker of hesitation, every suppressed emotion. He saw the storm brewing beneath Lucius' poised exterior and knew that, beneath the layers of pride and caution, the man was on the verge of breaking.

With slow, deliberate steps, Wes approached, his movements careful, as if nearing a skittish creature that might bolt at any moment. Then, gently, he placed a steadying hand on Lucius' shoulder.

"Mr. Malfoy," he murmured, his voice low, deliberate, comforting. "You made the right choice. Headmaster Dumbledore is a man of his word, unlike Voldemort—the madman."

His words were not just reassurances; they carried a weight of undeniable truth.

Lucius inhaled sharply, but his posture did not tense as Wes had expected. Instead, it softened—only slightly, but enough to be noticeable. Dumbledore, who stood near the fireplace, nodded solemnly.

"Lucius, I promise you," he said, his usual whimsical air absent, replaced by an unwavering seriousness. "Your family will be protected."

For a long moment, silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, the pallor in Lucius' face eased, the ghostly whiteness giving way to a faint flush of color. A flicker of something stirred within his chest—hope? It had been so long since he had felt anything close to it.

Once, he had been certain. Once, he had followed a man he believed to be invincible.

"He was extraordinary," Lucius whispered, as if speaking to a memory rather than to those in the room. His fingers curled into fists. "Back then, he was brilliant, powerful, everything a leader should be."

His mind wandered back to the days when Voldemort—Tom Riddle—had been a rising star. He had been enigmatic, a force of nature that commanded loyalty with the sheer gravity of his presence. To young, ambitious wizards like Lucius, he had seemed like the perfect answer to a world they wished to reshape.

"We believed in him," Lucius continued, his voice colored with something that could have been longing, or perhaps regret. "We dreamed of an empire where wizards ruled over Muggles, where our world would finally stand above theirs. We were fools."

His tone hardened. His hands trembled again, not with hesitation now, but with a different kind of emotion—something raw and bitter.

"The change was sudden," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "He became cruel. Suspicious. He turned on his own followers, saw enemies in shadows where there were none. Fear took root in all of us."

His lips pressed into a thin line, his breathing shallow. "And then—the Dark Lord, the invincible Dark Lord, was defeated by a baby."

Even now, years later, it felt unreal. The man who had seemed untouchable had been stripped of his power in an instant, by an infant who hadn't even known what he was. It was laughable. It was humiliating. It was terrifying.

Lucius exhaled, dragging a hand through his platinum hair.

"I didn't know," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "I didn't know the diary was a Horcrux. He never told me."

His hand drifted to his forearm, where beneath the sleeve of his robe, the Dark Mark lay etched into his skin. Once, it had been a source of pride. Now, it was a brand of servitude—a reminder of choices he could not undo.

"When the mark reappeared, I knew he was back. Weak, but back." Lucius' throat felt dry. "I thought—if I could prove my worth before he regained his strength…"

He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

"I slipped the diary into the Weasley girl's cauldron," he admitted finally, his voice hollow. "But things did not go as planned."

Dumbledore's expression darkened at the mention of "cleansing" impure wizards.

Lucius barely had time to react before the air in the room shifted—Dumbledore's magic surged, a silent, unseen force that crackled with restrained fury. The sheer presence of it sent a shiver down Lucius' spine. He took a step back, an involuntary reaction, as if he had just stood too close to an inferno.

"Headmaster!" Wes interjected, stepping between them, his voice urgent. "It hasn't happened yet. Mr. Malfoy realizes his mistake."

Lucius barely heard him. He was still reeling, not just from fear, but from awe. Dumbledore was over a hundred years old, yet his power remained formidable. It was terrifying. But—perhaps—it was also reassuring.

Lucius swallowed, composing himself. He did not know what Dumbledore would do next, but the old wizard did not press further. Instead, his gaze fell on the diary.

"We need to know," Dumbledore said, turning to Wes. "How was it meant to 'cleanse' Hogwarts?"

Lucius hesitated before admitting, "He never told me everything. He never truly trusted anyone."

"Then let's ask someone who knows." Wes flipped the diary open, his voice steady.

"Master…" Lucius whispered the moment Voldemort's soul fragment appeared. The habit was so deeply ingrained that he nearly bowed before stopping himself, suddenly remembering—he had already betrayed him.

Voldemort's image ignored him entirely, his attention fixated on Dumbledore and Wes.

Wes, unfazed by the dark presence, tilted his head slightly. "Why so impatient, Tom? We just have a few questions."

Voldemort's lips curled into a sneer. His gaze was sharp, calculating, filled with malice.

Wes did not wait. He drew his wand, murmuring an incantation.

The spell struck the diary. The specter of Tom Riddle flinched as his will crumbled under Wes' control.

Lucius' stomach twisted as he watched. Wes—who was he really? How could he cast magic so effortlessly, magic that even Dumbledore merely observed with the faintest of raised eyebrows?

Tom, bound by the spell, answered each question without resistance. The truth spilled from his lips—the plan, the Chamber of Secrets, the Basilisk that had lain dormant for centuries.

Dumbledore sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "So, the legend was true after all. Slytherin left a monster in Hogwarts."

"A basilisk," Wes mused. "Not easy to deal with."

Dumbledore nodded. "Its gaze kills all those who meet it. We must be careful."

"The 'Conjunctivitis Curse' should work," Wes suggested.

"Good idea. The basilisk's hide is highly resistant to magic—ordinary spells won't work on it," Dumbledore acknowledged with a thoughtful nod.

Wes, undeterred, smirked. "I believe we have the strength to handle it." His confidence was unwavering, as if facing a deadly creature was merely another challenge to overcome.

Dumbledore studied him for a moment. "Are you planning to take it on yourself?"

Wes nodded without hesitation. "The basilisk is full of valuable resources," he remarked. "Its venom, its fangs, even its shed skin—rare magical materials.".

Lucius barely listened. His mind reeled at the turn of events. He had thought they were dealing with a diary, with Voldemort's lingering influence—not a living monster.

"You should come," Wes said suddenly, looking at Lucius.

Lucius stiffened. "No."

"You don't have to fight. Just watch."

Lucius hesitated.

Perhaps—perhaps he needed to see it with his own eyes.

With one final breath, he nodded.