Chapter Text
Disclaimer for Marrow
All original characters, spells, and magical elements referenced in this story belong to J.K. Rowling and exist within the Harry Potter universe. While Marrow is rooted in the world she created, it follows a canon-divergent path. Character developments, backstories, and plotlines have been reimagined with creative liberties to explore darker and more complex possibilities. Original characters have also been introduced to enrich the narrative.
This work is entirely non-commercial and intended solely for entertainment. No copyright infringement is intended, and all rights to the original material remain with J.K. Rowling and her affiliates.
Additionally, this story draws inspiration from the broader fanfiction community. The creativity, passion, and innovation of fellow writers have deeply influenced elements of this work.
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Early November 1997 – Malfoy Manor
The dark was absolute.
The room was cold. Not from absence of heat—but because Voldemort was in it.
Ronald Weasley was kneeling on a marble floor so white it reflected the shadows. Torches burn blue in their sconces. A fire crackles in the hearth, unnatural, like it’s feeding on fear.
Behind him, Death Eaters whisper. Above him, a silence heavier than a scream.
In front of him—Voldemort.
A wand raised. A whisper.
"Legilimens."
“So. Let us see who you are when no one is looking.”
The first memory hits with the suddenness of a slap
A robe too long, dragging in the dirt.
Ron is six.
The hem of the robes drags on the ground. Too long. Frayed. They once belonged to Bill, then Charlie, then Percy.
Now they’re his.
He clutches them against his chest like armor, but they feel like shame.
“Don’t be ungrateful, Ronald,” Molly says gently, tucking a patch at the elbow. “We’re a family.”
But he sees Fred and George whispering already—“Wait ‘til he finds the hole in the back—”
“Yes… the youngest son. The spare.”
Ginny is five.
And, Ron isn’t the youngest anymore.
Fred and George were too busy inventing mischief. Percy is locked away with textbooks and Prefect duties. Bill and Charlie are gone.
So Ron is given Ginny.
He holds her while his mother stirs the stew. He sings to her while George ties his shoelaces together behind his back.
Fred and George cackle, paint his hair blue, then stick him to the ceiling with Sticking Charms. “You’re babysitting from above today, Ronniekins!”
He screams for help. Percy slams his door shut.
He screams again. Ginny cries. Molly scolds them.
But she doesn’t ask if he’s okay.
“And so the fear takes root… not of monsters, but of being unseen.”
Ron’s a child, crying because Fred turned his teddy bear into a spider. The bear walks on eight legs. No one sees his tears.
Molly says, “Oh, boys will be boys.”
Ron begins to hate spiders.
It’s the first day on the Hogwarts Express.
Ron stands awkwardly by the door of a half-full compartment, a slight flush on his ears. Fred and George have already breezed down the corridor, calling out goodbyes and laughing loudly, leaving Ron to find his own place.
Inside, a boy with a lightning-shaped scar sits alone, looking uncertain.
“Mind if I sit here?” Ron asks, gripping his battered trunk and holding his wand like it might fall apart.
The boy—Harry Potter—nods, and Ron sits.
They talk—awkwardly at first. Ron tries to impress him with a spell Fred gave him to turn his rat, Scabbers, yellow.
He waves his wand and mutters, “Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow…”
Nothing happens. Scabbers yawns.
Then the door slides open.
A girl with bushy brown hair and a bossy air steps in, followed by a round-faced boy.
“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she says briskly. Then her eyes fall on the wand in Ron’s hand. “Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see, then.”
Ron hesitates, mutters the spell again. Still no effect.
“Are you sure that’s a real spell? It doesn’t sound very good, does it?” she says. “I’ve tried a few simple ones just for practice and they’ve all worked for me.”
Then she turns to Harry.
“You’ve got dirt on your nose, did you know? Just there.”
With a flick of her wand, she vanishes it. Ron stares.
Real magic.
He glances down at his wand. At Scabbers. Still brown. Still useless.
He says nothing.
“She would always look at others with wonder. Never you.”
The door to their compartment slid open.
A pale-faced boy stood there, flanked by two other boys who looked like they'd been carved out of stone.
“Is it true?” the boy asked, eyes locked on Harry. “They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. You are Harry Potter, aren’t you?”
Harry gave a quiet “yes.” Ron said nothing.
“This is Crabbe and Goyle,” the boy continued, with a smirk. “And my name’s Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”
He held out his hand to Harry.
Something about the way he said it—like it was supposed to mean something—made Ron stiffen.
When Harry didn’t take his hand, Malfoy’s smile tightened.
“You'll soon find out some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”
His eyes flicked to Ron—ragged robes, second-hand wand, stained fingertips.
Harry spoke before Ron could open his mouth.
“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.”
Malfoy’s face went cold. He turned without another word and stalked off.
Ron exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for minutes.
The Great Hall was like a dream—floating candles, enchanted ceiling, hundreds of eyes.
Ron’s legs shook as he stepped forward. The Sorting Hat was heavy, and before it even touched his head, it spoke in his ear.
“Another Weasley? So many of you… well, I suppose Gryffindor will do. Unless…”
Ron panics. Not Slytherin. Not with Malfoy.
“Gryffindor, then.”
Cheers erupt.
But Percy is already busy polishing his badge. Fred and George holler like it’s a joke.
Ron smiles anyway. He learns to.
He sat next to Harry and across from Hermione, who was already asking questions about the house points system. Everyone talked over one another.
Ron glanced down the Slytherin table. Malfoy sat there, smirking, surrounded by boys who laughed when he did.
He thought Hogwarts would be different.
He thought he’d be someone.
Instead, he was still the boy with someone else’s books, someone else’s name, sitting between a legend and a genius.
And somehow, he was already fading from the frame.
“They cheered for your name, not for you.”
First year :-
The Troll.
Hermione’s tears.
Ron knocks it out with sheer dumb luck. Hermione cries.
“That was brilliant,” Harry says.
Their first bond.
He was the hero that day. He knocked the troll out. But McGonagall gives Harry the points. Harry got the credit.
The house is loud.
Harry’s laughter echoes up the stairs. Ginny is tongue-tied, trailing behind him. Molly serves seconds before Ron even finishes the first bite.
“Eat, Harry, you’re too thin!”
Ron watches.
Even the ghoul in the attic quiets down for Harry bloody Potter.
Late one night, he hears Fred say it to George in the hallway:
“He’s not bad, our Ron. He’s just always gonna be the footnote.”
Second Year :-
Ginny taken to the Chamber.
Ron’s wand breaks. Sees spiders and panics.
He vomits slugs in front of Malfoy, Malfoy Sneers.
“You fail in front of enemies and family alike.”
Third Year:
Crookshanks eats Scabbers—supposedly. Ron and Hermione fight.
He misses her more than he admits.
Fourth Year.
The Triwizard Tournament.
Harry never put his name in. But somehow, he’s the one with the glory.
Ron watches Hermione sitting with Harry at every task. Her cheering. Her worry.
“She always runs to him first,” he thinks.
He sits alone during the Yule Ball, seething as Hermione dances with Viktor Krum.
“He gets it all. And I get you—telling me I’m wrong.”
“Resentment is a slow poison. And you've swallowed every drop.”
After the Tournament:
Cedric dies.
Harry’s name becomes heavier. The world looks to him.
Ron is just “the best friend.”
Fifth Year.
The Order. Grimmauld Place.
Sirius loves Harry like a son.
Fred and George invent things that actually work.
Molly praises them in front of everyone.
“You’ll go far, boys. You make us proud.”
They leave Hogwarts early. Open a shop.
Ron hears his parents boast about the twins to neighbours. Forgets to mention him.
Department of Mysteries.
Ginny shouts Reducto!—the wall explodes.
Even she is powerful.
Even she outshines him.
“So many sparks… and you? A flicker.”
Sixth Year.
Ron dates Lavender.
Hermione grows cold. Distant. Jealous, maybe. But he never knows for sure.
He hears her laughing with Harry. He hates the way it makes him feel.
In the Forest. Ron is Splinched.
The Locket. The Horcrux.
Whispers in his head.
“She doesn’t love you. She never did.” “She wants him. The Chosen One.” “You’re just a shadow. A stand-in. A charity case.”
Every time Hermione looks at Harry with concern, Ron feels the Horcrux pulse against his chest.
Every word she says feels like a dagger. Every silence, a curse.
The Forest. Cold. Wet. Hungry.Wand-light flickering.
They talk like he's not even there.
“We’re not moving fast enough,” Hermione says. “We need a plan,” Harry mutters.
But Ron is always the problem. Ron is always behind.
And finally, he snaps.
“You don’t know what it’s like for me—your parents are dead! You don’t miss them. You don’t know how it feels!”
He says it.
He means it.
He doesn’t care if it’s fair.
He Disapparates.
Leaves them.
“And there it is… the marrow. The break. The boy with no name left to carry.”
“Legilimens,” Voldemort hisses again.
The memories twist together—thousands of quiet moments that told Ron Weasley he wasn’t enough.
The laughter that wasn’t for him.
The praise that skipped him.
The girl who looked past him.
The boy who became everything.
And then, Voldemort whispers:
“You were never second, Ronald.
You were never seen.
But I see you.
And I will make the world kneel to your name.”
Ron opens his eyes. He collapses as the Legilimency ends, hands splayed on the marble floor, chest heaving. Every inch of him burns with old memory, fresh shame.
He doesn’t speak.
Voldemort leans down. His voice is silk dipped in venom.
“You are not a follower, Ronald Weasley.”
Ron trembles.
“You want to matter?”
A nod.
“Then obey me. Serve me. And you will become the name they fear.”
And in the quiet that follows—
Ron whispers, “No.”
Voldemort stands over him in perfect silence.
The Death Eaters wait for the inevitable Crucio.
But the spell doesn’t come.
Instead, Voldemort’s voice is soft. Too soft.
“You did not say yes.”
Ron flinches.
“You have a spine. Hm…” He circles Ron like a serpent, the hem of his robes whispering. “So few of my followers do.”
His voice drips amusement. Then:
“Draco.”
The word cracks through the hall like a whip.
Draco Malfoy steps forward from the ranks—stiff, pale, and silent. His hands are clenched behind his back, his eyes locked somewhere over Voldemort’s shoulder.
“Obey,” Voldemort says.
Draco drops to his knees.
Voldemort turns back to Ron.
“Tell me, boy. Would you like to see what it looks like when someone has no spine?”
Before Ron can answer—
“Crucio.”
Draco screams.
The sound is raw. Human. Undignified.
He convulses on the floor, body twisting, mouth open in a silent cry before the air returns to his lungs and he chokes it out.
Ron recoils at first. A jolt of horror in his gut.
And then—
“Legilimens.”
The spell strikes again. A different thread of memory unfurls:
—Draco Malfoy sneering on the train.
—Draco snickering at his wand.
—Draco mocking him in Potions.
—“Weasley, is that a wand or a twig?”
—“Not everyone can afford dignity.”
—“Weasley is our King.”
—“Weasley was born in a bin.”
The spell fades.
The screaming stops.
Draco lies gasping, twitching, broken at Voldemort’s feet.
And Voldemort turns, expression unreadable.
“Tell me, Ronald. Do you think he did not deserve that?”
Ron doesn’t speak.
His fists tremble.
Voldemort watches.
Waits.
A slow, reluctant nod.
“Good,” Voldemort breathes. “Very good.”
Ron straightens just slightly, as if his body is remembering it belongs to him. A flicker of… pride, maybe. Or power.
“You have clarity. That’s what I reward.”
“You will not be forgotten. I do not forget those who serve with strength.”
“Not like Dumbledore.”
“Not like Potter.”
Voldemort’s voice turns sharper, like the edge of a blade being drawn.
“You were always meant to be more than their footnote. And I will make the world remember you.”
Ron says nothing.
But his silence this time is not resistance.
It is acceptance.
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The Manor was silent save for the sound of crackling fire. Shadows stretched long across the chamber walls, licking the stone like restless tongues. Voldemort stood at the window, thin hands pressed against the icy sill, eyes fixed on nothing.
A glint. A flash.
The locket.
Not just any locket — his locket. It had been there, he was certain. Worn against the boy's chest like a badge of conquest. Potter had it. Potter had his soul.
And if he had one, how many more?
The diary. Gone.
The ring. Gone.
Now the locket…
A whisper stirred behind his eyes — a hollow ache deep in the place where his soul once was. He gripped the window ledge harder.
No. No. It is impossible. I was careful.
But still—he had felt it. A loss. A pain not of the flesh but of the eternal.
The boy is hunting them.
Voldemort’s breath hissed between his teeth. His hands trembled before he curled them into fists.
He must be stopped. But first... he must be followed.
A soft knock. A deferential pause.
“Enter,” Voldemort said, voice like silk drawn over glass.
Dolohov, Yaxley, Lucius, and Bellatrix stepped in, cloaked in deference, shadows flickering over their faces. Lucius bowed low, still gaunt from Azkaban. Bellatrix’s eyes were too wide. Always too wide.
Voldemort didn’t turn.
“Potter must be watched. Closely. He is no longer merely... lucky.”
He turned now, eyes aglow like dying coals.
“He has something. Knowledge. My knowledge.”
Lucius flinched.
Yaxley cleared his throat. “My Lord, if you wish, we could dispatch scouts. The Snatchers have had success near—”
“No,” Voldemort snapped. “The boy moves with magic not of his own. He is protected. He is elusive. He is... learning.”
He paused, then:
“We need eyes beside him. Eyes he will trust. Eyes he will not suspect.”
The room stilled.
Yaxley blinked. “You mean… Weasley?”
“Yes.”
He glided across the room now, predatory, electric.
“The blood traitor. He is cracked. Uncertain. Easily swayed. He has already left them once. The break is there. We will... widen it.”
Dolohov looked skeptical. “He would never—”
“He will,” Voldemort said. “With the right... persuasion. He needs only a place to run to. Comfort. Food. Power. Flattery.”
His lip curled.
“He will return to Potter a changed man. Our man.”
He turned to Lucius. “See to it that he is cared for praised at every turn, don’t make him a prisoner. He must not be harmed.”
Lucius nodded quickly. “Yes, my Lord.”
“And if anyone touches him—anyone—they will suffer what the Carrows did for botching the Chang girl.”
Lucius paled.
Then he turned, slowly, to Bellatrix.
“That means you.”
Bellatrix straightened, hand twitching near her wand. “My Lord, I would never—”
“You would.” His voice was quiet now. A whisper laced with poison. “You enjoy the scream more than the silence.”
She dropped her gaze. He let the silence linger.
“Control yourself. He is a tool. Not a toy.”
She nodded once, tightly.
Voldemort stepped away, back into shadow.
“Leave me.”
They bowed and exited, one by one.
When the door clicked shut, Voldemort turned again to the window. The fire cast his reflection in the glass — red eyes, white skin, serpentine features twisted by rage and fear.
How many pieces remain? How many before I cease to be?
He didn’t know.
And that terrified him.
He stared, but he did not see.
He felt.
That gnawing emptiness.
That unbearable absence inside him where something sacred had once been sealed.
He knows. The boy knows.
Two paths.
Two thorns in his side.
The Weasley boy — stupid, insecure, breakable. He must be turned. His return to Potter must look like loyalty, but smell of rot. He would crack their trust from within, a slow poison in their veins.
And the other—
The wand.
The only wand that could rival death itself.
Voldemort would rip the world apart to find it.
He would hunt every wandmaker, every ghost, every grave.
He would murder the past itself if it meant holding the Elder Wand in his hand.
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2 Weeks Later
Ron walks freely among the highest ranks of the Dark Lord’s army.
Bellatrix nods when he enters the room.
Augustus Rookwood pauses his reports when Ron speaks.
People calls him by name—not “boy,” not “Weasley.”
And in meetings, in councils, in demonstrations of loyalty, the Dark Lord says: “See? I reward those who deserve it. I punish those who fail.”
His hand gestures toward Draco—silent, obedient, and stripped of his name.
And toward Ron—whose robes are new, whose wand has been polished, whose steps are no longer timid.
Ron, who once was nothing, now stands just left of power.
And he starts to believe he was meant to.
The Deluminator flickered in Ron’s palm.
He wasn’t sure why he still carried it, really. It had belonged to Dumbledore—passed down like some symbol of trust.
Now, it tugged again. A faint, almost imperceptible shift in the air. A thread pulling.
He clicked it shut.
The light in the Manor stayed dark.
Voldemort’s council room was heavy with firelight and silence. A long stone table stretched between them. At one end, the Dark Lord sat like a coiled serpent, fingers drumming.
The room stank of sweat, smoke, and the iron tang of old blood.
“Tell me, Ronald,” Voldemort said, voice casual as a whip just before it cracked. “What is Harry Potter planning?”
Ron froze. Every face turned to him.
Bellatrix's grin widened. Mulciber leaned in. Draco said nothing.
Ron cleared his throat. “He… he’s hunting Horcruxes.”
The words hung there. Poisonous. Impossible.
Then—stillness broke.
The fury was not loud. It was worse.
Voldemort stood, wand in hand, voice soft.
“How many?”
“I—don’t know for sure. But I think... I think the diary is gone. The ring. And the locket.” Ron said in a clear voice belying his hesitation
For a moment, Voldemort was utterly silent.
Then he exhaled.
“Three.”
The word was spoken like a curse.
Bellatrix looked down, horrified. Yaxley swore under his breath.
“You will go back to them,” Voldemort said. “You will learn more.”
Ron took a step back. “I—I’m not good at that. I’m not like—like Snape. I mess things up—”
Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you want to be remembered, Ronald?”
Ron’s voice caught.
“I gave you power. I gave you name and place. You stand beside Bellatrix and Rookwood, and they bow when you speak. Recognition is earned, yes—but not through comfort.”
Ron swallowed. Then nodded.
Voldemort’s eyes gleamed like slit-pupiled embers.
“Then go. But not yet. Not until you can no longer betray me.”
His pale hand lifted, deliberate and final.
“You will not take the Mark. That would be foolish. Visible. Obvious.”
Ron nearly sagged in relief. He hadn’t realized how hard he’d been holding his breath.
But Voldemort’s gaze pinned him again.
“Your loyalty must be sealed.”
He turned, wordlessly. A command unspoken.
From the shadows, the door creaked open.
Two figures stepped in.
Draco Malfoy.
Theodore Nott.
Draco hesitated at the threshold. His childhood home — Malfoy Manor — now a temple to power that no longer belonged to his family. He had no seat at the grand table. Ronald Weasley did.
Draco stood behind the gathering, silent. The air around him felt sharp.
Theo lingered even farther back, as always — half-invisible, the one who preferred being forgotten. But he had been called. And now, they both waited, their skin pale, their silence heavy.
Then came the hush that always fell before a storm.
Voldemort spoke at last.
“Draco, Nott, these two will find a way,” he said, voice low, dangerously smooth.
Ron sat beside the slab of ancient stone, etched with symbols that crawled with cursed magic. He tried not to shift. The markings pulsed. They felt alive.
Voldemort turned, slow and regal.
“You will ensure he obeys every command I give.”
“And that he cannot betray me.”
Draco's jaw clenched. His voice was measured, careful.
“That level of binding requires… intricate restrictions. Dark scripts. Blood runes. Time.”
Voldemort's eyes narrowed.
“You have one week.”
His voice echoed through the stone vault like a bell tolling death.
“He cannot stay here long. His absence will be noted. And if you fail…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Theo took a small step forward, placing himself subtly in front of Draco. His voice was quiet. Diplomatic.
“My Lord, with great respect—an Unbreakable Vow would ensure obedience with far less risk—”
“Crucio.”
Theo’s scream tore through the chamber like a slash of lightning.
He crumpled to the ground, writhing. His fingers scraped the stone, reaching for nothing.
Ron flinched.
Draco didn’t move—but his fists were tight, white-knuckled at his sides.
The curse lifted.
Voldemort exhaled like nothing had happened.
“You do not suggest methods that endanger my life,” he said, voice smooth as silk soaked in venom.
He turned.
“Draco.”
“Do better.”
Draco met his eyes, the contact like swallowing glass.
“Yes, my Lord.”
It took three days.
Three days in which Theo worked feverishly by candlelight, his fingers trembling over scrolls. In which Draco stayed silent, refusing to cry out as they both endured “reminders” from their master.
On the fourth day, Draco brought forth two runes.
One for obedience — the ancient rune Þrælbindr, the Thrall Binder. Twisted in shape like a serpent devouring its own tail, the rune coils vertically with a jagged slit down its center — a mimicry of enslavement etched in blood and bone. Once carved into flesh and sealed with Voldemort’s magical resonance, it binds the bearer’s will to his, tethered not by choice, but by magic older than language. The rune does not still the mind — only the body. One may think of rebellion, but never act on it. It is obedience, enforced by soul-bond.
One for loyalty — the seal known as Veritasumbra, the Shadowed Truth. A concentric spiral of shifting runes surrounding a broken central line, it is a glyph that rejects light, understanding, and betrayal in equal measure. When awakened, it prevents the bearer from speaking, writing, or casting anything that might oppose the Dark Lord. More terrifying still, it lashes against intent. Even a passing thought of defiance triggers a surge of internal agony — a punishment older than the Unforgivables. Loyalty, not by oath, but by silence and suffering.
They were carved in high magic, layered into the very nature of the bearer’s blood. Nothing short of death would unbind them.
Ron lay flat on the stone slab.
He bared his thighs.
He didn’t speak.
Draco stood on the left, wand raised. Theo on the right, his voice hoarse from previous punishments.
“Begin,” Voldemort commanded.
The first rune burned as it sank beneath Ron’s skin. He gasped. It felt like fire and ice met in his veins, threading their way into his bones.
Theo's hand shook. Draco’s did not.
“Second rune,” Voldemort said.
The spell glowed bright, searing into flesh. Ron screamed once—high, raw—but didn’t beg. He stared at Voldemort’s eyes the entire time.
When it was done, sweat soaked the altar. Blood oozed from beneath the runes. But Ron’s jaw was set.
Voldemort looked satisfied.
“Good,” he whispered. “Now you are mine.”
He turned to Draco and Theo.
“Did you not say he wasn’t ready? Did you doubt his strength?”
Theo bowed his head, shaking.
Draco didn’t look away. His gaze locked with Ron’s for the briefest moment.
There was no victory in Ron’s eyes.
Only rising pride.
And the deep, sharp joy of finally being seen.
Ron stayed at Malfoy Manor for two more days.
The pain from the runes was no longer sharp, but ever-present — a dull, throbbing echo beneath his skin, like something living had curled inside his flesh. He barely slept. When he did, he dreamed in tongues not his own.
Draco and Theo did not speak to him.
Neither did anyone else.
Meals were delivered in silence. Eyes followed him like he was both prized possession and poisonous threat.
And then came the test.
The throne room was colder that morning. The air tasted like storm.
Everyone was there — the inner circle, Death Eaters pressed to the walls like roaches awaiting blood. Ron stood at the center, breath steady, arms loose.
Voldemort’s voice slithered into the silence.
“If the runes are true, he will not hesitate.”
He turned his head slightly.
“Ronald. Crucio.”
Two names. No hesitation.
“Draco Malfoy. Theodore Nott.”
Gasps fluttered. Lucius opened his mouth to speak—then wisely shut it.
Ron moved without a word. His fingers tightened around his wand. He wanted to hesitate—just a heartbeat—but the runes beneath his skin pulsed, burning that instinct into silence.
First Draco.
His wand lifted.
His lips parted.
“Crucio.”
Draco collapsed, muscles seizing, teeth clenched so tight they bled. He didn’t scream.
Ron’s face remained unreadable.
Then he turned.
“Crucio.”
Theo did scream. It was sharp, uncontrolled, guttural. He twisted on the floor like a puppet cut from its strings.
Ron’s expression barely changed.
Except for one thing—his eyes.
There was pleasure there. Dark. Intense. Unflinching.
Not joy, not cruelty, but something deeper. A savage satisfaction.
Not because he wanted to do it.
Because he could.
Because they had looked down on him.
Because this time, he was the one holding the wand, and they were the ones on the floor.
Voldemort smiled.
That night, Voldemort gave his final instruction in a voice lined with triumph:
“ Return to Potter. They will never suspect you now.”
Ron said nothing.
The next morning, just before dawn, he stepped through the grand iron doors of Malfoy Manor. The air outside was bitter, laced with frost. No one saw him off. No one dared.
He stood beneath the pale sky, runes burning faintly beneath his skin, and closed his eyes.
Crack.
He Disapparated.
And reappeared on the cliffs outside Shell Cottage.
Sea spray clung to the wind. The distant windows of the cottage glowed soft amber.
Inside was warmth. Family. Trust.
Everything he had left behind.
And everything he was about to betray.