CHAPTER 15

At dusk on July 15th, the sky grew dark and brooding.

Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire blazed with light. Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy, both dressed in their finest formal robes adorned with subtle, aristocratic patterns, stood regally at the gates, welcoming their guests with well-practiced grace.

The patriarchs of several prominent pure-blood families, including Greengrass, Parkinson, and Travers, clustered around Lucius, their expressions polished with courtesy as they whispered in low tones behind pleasant smiles.

A group of children passed by the gathering adults—nine in all. Leading them was a boy with neatly combed platinum-blond hair, a pointed chin, and piercing grey eyes.

He strutted across the well-manicured lawn with haughty confidence. A girl with a mushroom-shaped haircut trailed behind him eagerly. "Draco, are you going to show us your broomstick now? You promised us at Christmas! Come on, let's see that almost-Muggle plane—your broom! That's what it is, right? It flies like a Muggle airplane, doesn't it?"

"How many times do I have to tell you, Pansy?" Draco sighed in frustration. "I can't bring it out today—Father won't allow it. All because that Slytherin heir is visiting us! He said if I misbehaved, I'd disgrace the Malfoy name. It's ridiculous! He's barely older than us, but everyone's treating him like royalty!"

"Yeah! My dad said the same thing," Pansy replied with a huff. "He kept going on about how we need to make a good impression on the Slytherin heir. It's unfair... Why do we all have to wait for another kid?"

Pansy, conveniently forgetting she herself was a child, nodded in perfect agreement with Draco's outrage.

Draco let out a breath of relief and gave himself a subtle mental cheer—he'd successfully steered the conversation away from the fact that he didn't actually own a proper broomstick yet.

He watched as Pansy started chatting with Daphne Greengrass, feeling rather pleased with himself. Children really were easy to fool.

Then came a mischievous voice from behind. "Pansy, is Draco still writing you those stories in his letters about flying away from Muggles on a broomstick? He told me the same thing. Actually, he's been telling that story to everyone. I'm beginning to think he just crashed into a tree on a toy broom."

"Soldaya Selwyn!" Draco spun around, glaring furiously at the older boy who stood half a head taller. Soldaya was always a thorn in his side!

Draco flushed scarlet at being exposed. Soldaya simply chuckled, shrugged, and added in a mock-apologetic tone, "Alright, I confess—I exaggerated. Draco's telling the truth."

His tone was so obviously teasing that the nearby girls burst into laughter. Draco's scowl deepened, but before he could retort, his friend Theodore Nott quickly changed the subject. "Look over there—Weasley! The blood traitor!"

The remaining children—Crabbe and Goyle, bulky and slack-jawed, and the two Greengrass sisters with matching blonde curls—turned to stare. They saw a tall, thin wizard in worn, patched robes standing beside an elderly witch.

"That's Arthur Weasley," Draco said with disdain, puffing up his chest. "I've heard Father rant about him at least two hundred times. He's pure-blood filth—obsessed with Muggles. I have no idea why Father even invited him."

"This is a pure-blood gathering," Soldaya replied coolly. "As one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Weasleys had to be invited. Almost every ancient family is present—except those with exceptional reasons not to attend."

He glanced meaningfully at Augusta Longbottom and Mr. McMillan, who stood with Arthur Weasley. Then his eyes swept across the groups forming around Lucius Malfoy.

It was clear to Soldaya that the pure-blood elite were dividing into subtle factions. But there was one figure uniting their attention—a boy, not even a candidate for the Ministry, and yet at the center of every whispered conversation.

Moriarty. The heir of Slytherin.

Soldaya, though just two years older than Draco, carried the burden of the Selwyn family's decline. He'd learned quickly how to read between the lines of such gatherings. He understood what it meant for every influential pure-blood to wait for a single boy's arrival.

Like the adults, he kept glancing toward the manor gates. But unlike their mixture of curiosity and expectation, his stormy blue eyes gleamed with ambition and yearning.

Suddenly, a soft, high-pitched cry came from above. Five unicorns, majestic and gleaming, flew gracefully in the twilight sky, pulling a silver carriage as they descended toward the manor's gates.

Gasps and murmurs spread through the adults as they recognized the intricate green serpent emblazoned on the carriage's side. They all understood instantly who had arrived.

The children were captivated. Several of them ran toward the unicorns, arms outstretched in awe, trying to stroke the beasts' shimmering coats.

"Draco!" Lucius rapped his cane sharply on the lawn. Pansy's and the Greengrass sisters' fathers followed suit, halting their children.

Mr. McMillan, who stood beside Arthur, chuckled warmly. "No need to be so strict, Mr. Malfoy. Ernie! Go on, have a look at the unicorns with your friends. They're sacred creatures, after all.

I doubt Mr. Moriarty would mind—surely he understands the thrill of a child's adventure."

A chubby Ernie Macmillan and his companion Hannah Abbott raced toward the unicorns. Mrs. Abbott called after her daughter fondly, "Hannah, be gentle! Unicorns are sensitive. You must approach them with respect and kindness."

A sneering voice snapped from the direction of Lucius's group. "Did I hear that right? The Abbotts teaching their children to respect unicorns? Why should pure-bloods bow to magical beasts? Those lesser creatures exist to serve us—nothing more!"

The contemptuous remark was met with a calm but firm retort. "Neville! Come here, dear." Augusta Longbottom's dignified voice rang out, cold and commanding. "Go and greet the unicorns. They bring good fortune to those pure of heart. There are many in this world who will never earn the right to even approach them—especially those rotting in Azkaban."

Her words struck like a curse. Lucius and his allies fell silent, visibly uncomfortable. Several of them had family members imprisoned in Azkaban.

That wretched old woman! More than one pure-blood patriarch seethed inwardly.

Yet no one dared rebuke her. The Longbottoms, despite their tragic history, held significant clout. Augusta herself was a towering figure in wizarding society—noble, respected, and unflinching.

And she hadn't lied. Many Death Eaters, from the Lestranges to the Rowles, had fallen. The Longbottoms, scarred by Bellatrix Lestrange's cruelty, were almost seen as tragic war heroes.

Thus, no pure-blood—however proud—was eager to provoke her.

Neville Longbottom, unaware of the adult tensions, ran to his grandmother and wailed, "Uncle Algie took me to the lake again! He tried to make me show magic and nearly drowned me!"

Laughter erupted from the guests. Neville's late-blooming magic was a well-known topic among pure-blood families. Though he'd had a magical outburst at eight, some still whispered that unless Hogwarts officially accepted him, he might be a Squib.

And then, silence fell.

Moriarty stepped out of the silver carriage, flanked by Luke and Ingo. He wore a flowing silver robe, embroidered with a serpent coiled around the Slytherin crest, and a pendant glinting at his throat.

On him, the archaic outfit looked majestic rather than out of place—imbued with a timeless, mysterious aura. He radiated an air of cold nobility and unearthly detachment.

In that moment, every conversation ceased. Every rivalry, every suspicion, every boastful smile vanished.

Every eye—young and old—turned to him.

And all wore the same expression:

Welcome.