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Summary
The ritual had worked.
The realization settled over him like a cloak, heavy and absolute. The Malfoy family's most desperate gambit, a piece of blood magic so ancient and dangerous that it had been locked away for centuries, reserved only for moments of existential threat. The ingredients alone had taken his parents months to acquire—phoenix tears willingly given, the heart of a star captured in crystal, blood from each participant mixed with powdered bone of their ancestors, and a dozen other components so rare that most wizards believed them mythological.
The ritual promised knowledge. The memories of a hundred lives, carefully selected by the magic itself to provide what the caster needed most. But it came with risks that would have made lesser families balk: madness, death, or something worse—the complete dissolution of self, leaving only a hollow shell animated by the memories of the dead.
Draco had survived.