The dim light of your wand illuminated the cold stone walls of M. Manor’s cellar, the air thick with the faint hum of lingering dark magic. Draco stood a few paces away, his hands in his pockets, his expression a mixture of irritation and resignation.

“So,” he said, breaking the tense silence. “Is this where you accuse me of plotting some grand scheme to bring back the Dark Lord? Because I’d rather we skip to the part where you realize I’m not.”

You glared at him, your wand casting long shadows over his sharp features. “It’s not exactly a secret that your family dabbled in the darkest arts. And now, with these magical disturbances—”

“Dabbled?” he interrupted with a bitter laugh. “That’s an awfully polite way of putting it.”

You hesitated. There was something in his tone—a weariness that contradicted the arrogance you’d come to expect. He stepped closer, the faint scent of mint and rain following him.

“Look,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “I know what people think of me. Of my family. But I’ve spent every bloody day since the war trying to prove I’m not him. I’m not Lucius.”

You studied him, his icy blue eyes searching yours for some glimmer of understanding. There was sincerity there, buried beneath layers of guarded defiance.

“Then help me,” you said softly. “If you want people to believe you’ve changed, show me. Help me figure out what’s happening here.”

Draco held your gaze, the storm in his eyes calming slightly. After a long pause, he nodded.

“Alright,” he said, his voice steady but low. “But don’t expect me to play the hero.”

As you worked together, late nights unraveling curses and tracing the dark trails of forbidden magic, you began to see the man beneath the heir—the one who played hauntingly beautiful melodies on the piano when he thought no one was listening, who brewed potions with meticulous care, who shielded his vulnerability behind cutting wit.