Chapter Text
Prologue
A breathtaking appearance.
"Ha, seriously. If she weren't so pretty, I would've punched her in the face."
A great family of pure-blood lineage.
"The Hogwarts Board of Governors, the parents' association... good grief, there's even one in Slytherin! There are only four people in that Malfoy family, yet they're sticking their noses into absolutely everything!"
Both brains and brawn.
"Someone do something about Snape! Whether it's Potions or Quidditch, the favoritism is completely out of hand! How on earth are we supposed to practice?!"
Always destined to stand out, and always destined to shine the brightest—her name is Carina Malfoy.
One could easily call her the true protagonist of today's Hogwarts.
Even the Gryffindors, who normally bare their teeth at the mere sight of Slytherin, momentarily retract their fangs whenever she appears. When she offers an angelic smile, even the most notoriously difficult professors bend over backward to accommodate her.
She doesn't even need to lift a finger. Hogwarts is crawling with fools desperate to touch so much as the tip of a Malfoy’s sleeve. Her sycophants flock around her like decorative leaves adorn a flower, while ordinary pests hover about, hoping to catch even a passing whiff of her scent. Tiresome chores are handed off to the pests, and filthy matters are swept away by the leaves.
Let her save her smiles for the sun—her smile is far too precious to waste on the trivial things of this earth.
Yet, even for a girl who could be called the center of the world, there exists an adversary.
His name is Harry Potter. The Chosen One.
Malfoy had disliked Harry Potter from the very first moment they met.
Well, objectively speaking, she could admit he didn't look terrible without those glasses. If only he lost those hideous spectacles, he might actually be somewhat tolerable to look at. He too hailed from a great pure-blood family, with a fortune rumored to rival that of the Malfoys. Yet, despite all of that, he lacked any shred of decorum in speech and conduct—which, for some reason, clueless girls swooned over, praising it as "down-to-earth."
His grades were reasonably decent, and he was the youngest Quidditch Seeker in Hogwarts history.
Cutting away all the nonsense, on pure "qualifications" alone, he was the only rival who could match Malfoy—another prime candidate for protagonist of Hogwarts.
Malfoy, however, knew it was all an illusion.
'The Boy Who Lived.'
The Dark Lord vanished on the night he was born. It was purely thanks to that stroke of dumb luck that everyone looked at Harry Potter through rose-tinted glasses, revering him like an idol.
In truth, without that scar on his forehead, his face was thoroughly plain and unremarkable. Growing up under Muggles left him utterly devoid of refinement, practically reeking of vulgar poverty. That wasn't being "down-to-earth"—it was just sheer uncouthness.
The only reason his marks stayed up despite slacking off in class was that damned Mudblood girl he dragged around everywhere, and his Quidditch skills... well, pure hype. A sham as colossal as an overblown Bubble-Head Charm.
In her heart, Malfoy had always believed she was the superior one. That was why every time he became the center of attention and basked in everyone's limelight, an irritating itch flared inside her that she could barely stand.
The day Gryffindor snatched the House Cup, she had been so stressed she caught herself gnawing on her fingernails—though thankfully, Crabbe intervened before she could ruin her manicure.
Seriously... Hogwarts would be so much better off without that nuisance around.
My days would have been so much more idyllic and peaceful.
"Hey, Malfoy. Shut your mouth and listen to me."
That peaceful routine was smashed to pieces by a single diary.
"You and your father... are in very deep trouble right now."
Malfoy stared down at the diary with trembling eyes. The very diary her father had intended to entrust to Borgin and Burkes—the one steeped in Dark Magic.
Malfoy had been aware, at least in part, of her father’s design. She hadn't foreseen a monster like a Basilisk showing up, but since no one had actually died, she figured the situation was still salvageable.
Her father was an extraordinary wizard, after all. A commanding, powerful man with sway over the Ministry of Magic and the Hogwarts Board of Governors wrapped around his little finger.
And yet...
"This diary is Voldemort's Horcrux. To put it plainly, it's the vessel for his resurrection—an artifact containing a piece of his soul. And your father put this Horcrux at risk just to humiliate Mr. Weasley."
The danger laid bare before her shattered the ground beneath Malfoy's feet.
Her head spun. It felt as though the earth she stood upon was made of thin glass—cracking, splintering, ready to shatter into a bottomless dark abyss at any second.
Malfoy struggled to find her voice.
"P-Proof? Do you have proof?"
"Use your head, you idiot. To offer proof, I'd have to turn this diary over to the Ministry. The second I do that, the Ministry—and every Death Eater lurking inside it—will know it was a Horcrux."
Harry Potter ran a hand through his hair in irritation. The sharp gaze cutting from behind his glasses pierced right through her. Malfoy let out a sharp gasp, trembling violently.
"Honestly, it might be better for him to just confess that he opened the Chamber of Secrets. What's the worst the Ministry can do? Throw your father in Azkaban?"
"M-My father won't be locked away! He knows important people in the Ministry, and he said he has influence over the Wizengamot!"
"Right. Which is why that's actually the better option. Because if Voldemort returns and discovers that one of his souls was destroyed, he won't waste time looking for proof—he'll just throw a Killing Curse straight at your father's chest."
Voldemort.
The Dark Lord.
The former master of the House of Malfoy, who had vanished the night Harry Potter was born.
Like a true Malfoy, and like a true Slytherin, she held a lingering, unspoken awe for the Dark Lord. Every time Harry uttered that name so carelessly, a shudder ran down her spine; she wanted to jump up and snap at him to stop speaking it aloud.
Yet the sight of the fang-punctured diary left her mind blank, her hands and feet ice-cold and shaking.
Harry Potter looked down at Malfoy and spoke:
"That's why I'm warning you directly. Your father just threw away one of Voldemort's seven lives. Your family needs to keep a low profile. If that's impossible, then at the very least, you shouldn't help the Death Eaters—it won't do your family any favors. When Voldemort comes back, they'll become your biggest threat."
The Malfoy family possessed immense wealth and owned estates scattered all across the country. Estates where destitute Death Eaters with nowhere else to turn would occasionally take refuge...
And Harry spoke as if he saw straight through every bit of it.
"This is blackmail, Malfoy."
Harry Potter's tone carried a bite far too fierce for someone his age.
"If the truth about what this diary really is—and how it was destroyed—ever gets out, your family is finished. Both the Ministry and the Death Eaters will turn against you. They'll dig in with forks and knives, carving up your family's fortune and influence for a feast. If you want to keep this from seeing the light of day... become our hostage."
"H-Hostage...?"
"Yeah. Not like you actually know anything useful anyway. The only use I have for you is as a hostage—nothing more, nothing less."
Malfoy clutched her hands tightly to her chest, shivering uncontrollably.
Those who yearned for the Dark Lord's return.
Those who fought to stop him.
Honestly, Malfoy hadn't cared which world prevailed. Whether the Dark Lord returned or not, it was supposed to remain a world where she was the center of attention, the heroine of her own life.
Except now.
Now that the diary lay utterly ruined.
"F-Fine... I get it, alright?!"
For her own survival, and for the sake of her family, Malfoy had no choice but to grasp the lifeline tossed to her by an enemy.
"I'll do it! All I have to do is stick by you—by your side, right?!"
"I'm glad you're smarter than I thought, Malfoy. Granted, that's strictly 'than I thought.'"
Harry rose to his feet and extended a hand toward her. In Malfoy's eyes, that outstretched hand looked just like a serpent's venomous fang.
Yet, what choice did she have?
If she wanted to survive, she had to take it.