Chapter Text
Ah, what delight it is to savor the nectar of victory—that elixir that courses through the veins like the finest elven wine, intoxicating the soul with a pleasure known only to true conquerors. I, Draco Malfoy, find myself at the heart of this new world, where chaos has given way to an exquisite order forged in blood and ambition. As the powerful being I now am, I cannot help but revel in the luxuries that surround me and that I can finally enjoy as they deserve: the expanded Malfoy Manor with its halls of black marble and enchanted crystals that reflect my flawless, pale image back at me, untouched by the ravages of time that afflict mortals. But what is pleasure without a touch of cruelty? Without that cynicism that reminds me life is a game in which the weak are mere pawns, destined to be sacrificed.
The Second Wizarding War was not truly a war; it was an inevitable purge, a settling of scores with the mediocrity that had infested our world. Voldemort, the Dark Lord—or as the trembling masses now call him, the Supreme Leader—swept away those cheap idealists as if they were dust caught in an icy wind. The Sacred Twenty-Eight families who failed to read the winds of change… well, let’s just say some bloodlines were extinguished with poetic swiftness. The Abbotts, the Travers, those pathetic dreamers—hunted like rabbits in an enchanted forest. Not a single heir remained to weep over their graves. Cruel? Perhaps, but nature does not reward the weak, does it? It’s basic philosophy: the strong devour the weak, and the world turns a little cleaner.
And then there were those who hesitated, who did not kneel quickly enough. Families like the Prewetts or those who hid behind cowardly neutrality. Azkaban welcomed them with open arms—or rather, with frozen shackles. Picture them there, rotting in cells where Dementors whisper promises of oblivion. It’s almost artistic, how suffering forges loyalty. I myself have visited that floating fortress a couple of times, just to taste the echo of their lamentations. Refreshing, like a bath in thermal springs after a tedious day.
Dumbledore, that old charlatan with his phony wise-man beard, was the final nail in the rebellion’s coffin. He was arrested days before wands truly crossed in earnest, when the Ministry already smelled our imminent victory. They kept him alive just long enough to serve as an example. His public execution in the Ministry Square was a spectacle worthy of grand opera: the masked executioner, the crowd forced to applaud, and the body of the “great” Albus falling like a puppet with its strings cut. “There is no room for rebellion,” my father proclaimed from the podium, his voice ringing like an Unforgivable Curse. And the people—that flock of sheep—nodded with feigned fervor.
Potter, the Boy Who Lived—or the Boy Who Fled, as I call him—vanished into the mist before Dumbledore ever set foot in the Ministry. There’s a bounty on his head that would make a Gringotts goblin blush. If I find him, I might turn him in for sport, or keep him as a personal trophy. Who knows? Life is capricious.
The Blacks and we Malfoys have woven a web that envelops everything. Regulus Black, that distant cousin with his obsession for purity, runs security with an iron fist. The Aurors are no longer those boy-scout wand-wavers; they are Death Eaters in uniform, loyal to the marrow. They watch, hunt, execute. The Ministry is our playground: laws that bend to our whim, decrees that ensure pure-blood supremacy reigns supreme. My mother, Narcissa, hosts galas where the victors dance atop the corpses of the losers, with champagne flowing like unicorn blood.
Ah, but not everything was salon politics and theatrical executions. The true delight lay in how we remade the institutions—those decrepit relics that once presumed to educate the next generation of wizards. Hogwarts, that fairy-tale castle turned bastion of weakness, fell into the hands of the Lestranges and the Notts like ripe fruit. No one escaped: students, professors, not even the house-elves scurrying in the kitchens. It was a flawless siege, a ring of wands and curses that sealed the doors as though time itself had frozen.
The Muggle-born, those filthy-blooded delusions who thought they belonged in our world, were the first to be dispatched. Straight to Azkaban, no detours or sham trials—and some simply killed. Picture them: terrified children dragged through damp corridors, their wands confiscated before they could stammer a “Lumos.” Poetic, in a way; an early lesson in the natural hierarchy. The remaining students, those of acceptable blood, were confined to their common rooms. Slytherin, of course, became a haven of privilege: lavish meals, whispered conversations about future alliances. I myself visited the castle a couple of times, just to savor the controlled chaos. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff… well, let’s just say their dormitories reeked of fear and resignation.
In the Great Hall, the spectacle was worthy of a Roman coliseum. Current and former professors—those supposed guardians of knowledge—bound like cattle, subjected to tortures that would make a Dementor blush. The screams echoed all the way to the Astronomy Tower, an infernal chorus accompanying the lessons of the new order. Flitwick squealing like a stomped-on goblin, McGonagall resisting with that Scottish stubbornness until the curses finally broke her. It was fascinating: how much pain does it take to strip a soul of its illusion of heroism? I sat in the makeshift stands, savoring a goblet of thick, dark-red liquid whose metallic scent was the only thing that could quench a thirst ordinary food never satisfied.
And then there was Sirius Black, that inveterate traitor, caught red-handed trying to smuggle a few professors out through a secret passage. Regulus, with his calculated coldness, dragged him to the Black family mansion—Grimmauld Place, that mausoleum of family secrets. They kept him there for a few days, perhaps to interrogate him, or maybe just to prolong the agony. In the end, he was executed publicly, right on top of Dumbledore’s dried bloodstain in the square. “Treason against blood,” they proclaimed, as though it were a cardinal sin in our new gospel. His body fell with a dull thud, and the crowd—that mass of hypocrites—cheered with forced enthusiasm. Me? I found it ironic: Sirius, the rebel, ending as a forgotten martyr. Family always collects its debts, doesn’t it? Regulus did it with an efficiency I almost admired, though privately I wondered if he felt even a flicker of remorse for his own brother. But power allows no sentimental weaknesses.
The professors who survived that first purge were broken like tamed beasts. The Dark Lord himself visited the castle, his presence a cold that pierced the bones, and proceeded with that surgical efficiency I so admire. Some he dispatched outright: a casual Avada Kedavra, as if swatting an annoying fly. Others, those still useful, received a special gift: silver runes carved into their tongues and eyes, glowing like cursed jewels. Those marks bind them to the castle, preventing them from ever leaving its walls, and ensure their lessons align with the new order. No more nonsense about equality or defense against the inevitable; now they teach the raw truth of power, the superiority of pure blood, the beauty of the Dark Arts.
Severus Snape, that enigma wrapped in shadows, was promoted to Headmaster with a personal touch. Runes in his eyes—only the eyes—so his gaze remains fixed on Hogwarts, watching like a chained hawk. I’ve seen him gliding through the corridors, his cloak billowing like broken wings, ruling with that severity that has always been his armor. Under his command, the school has become a forge of loyalties, molding young minds into sharpened weapons.
And then there’s Bellatrix, my dear aunt, with her laugh that cuts like a knife. She has transformed Defense Against the Dark Arts into something sublime: it is now pure instruction in “Applied Dark Arts” under its new name. Imagine students practicing Unforgivable Curses under her manic tutelage, their wands dancing like serpents in ecstasy. “Crucio!” she cries, and the air fills with living lessons. It is hedonistic in its cruelty, a vicarious pleasure that even I appreciate from afar.
I myself have wandered those renovated corridors, savoring the change like a gourmet at an exotic feast. The portraits of past headmasters hang mute, their painted eyes following every movement with silent reproach. The house-elves serve opulent meals in the Great Hall, now free of visible torture stains—at least the visible ones—while students whisper oaths of loyalty under the threat of unseen wands. How long will this symphony of control last? But for now, I revel in it, a goblet of ambrosia in hand, contemplating how the world is being rewritten to our whim. Rebellion is a luxury for losers; we, the victors, dance upon their bones. And what an exquisite dance it is.
But ah, the true ecstasy lies in the details few appreciate—those invisible threads that weave the fabric of our dominion. Take Gringotts, for instance, that goblin stronghold with its vaults deep as abysses. Under the new regime, the Malfoys have extended our influence there as well. My father, with his serpent’s cunning, negotiated—or rather imposed—an agreement that places the goblins under constant surveillance. There are no longer any secrets in those chambers; every Galleon that enters or leaves is scrutinized by eyes loyal to the Supreme Leader. I myself have descended into the depths, riding those infernal carts, just to gloat over the gleam of confiscated fortunes. Those of the traitors, of course: the Weasleys—or what’s left of them—the Potters with their evaporated inheritances.
And speaking of shadows, I cannot fail to mention how we purged Diagon Alley, that once-bustling market turned into a controlled paradise. Shops owned by the impure—those sellers of Muggle trinkets or Order sympathizers—were sealed with enchantments that burn the skin at the touch. Ollivander, the old madman of wANDS, was among the first to fall; his shop is now a workshop for loyal craftsmen, forging wands imbued with obedience runes. I stroll through there from time to time, my black silk cloak billowing, purchasing exotic potions or cursed artifacts simply for the pleasure of owning them. The shopkeepers greet me with deep bows, their eyes filled with fear disguised as respect. Cruel? Perhaps, but fear is the lubricant of power; without it, the wheels of empire grind to a halt.
In the Ministry, the reforms have been a banquet for the cynical soul. Lucius, my father, does not merely occupy the Minister’s throne; he has restructured the departments like a surgeon excising dead tissue. The Department of Mysteries is now a laboratory of delicious horrors, where they experiment with veils of death and manipulated prophecies. Regulus, with his network of Death Eater Aurors, has established checkpoints on every floor, wands ready to detect dissent. I attend Wizengamot meetings—now purged of liberals—proposing laws that ensure pure-blood supremacy. One of my favorites: the Mandatory Heritage Decree, which forces mixed-blood families to disown their impure heirs. It is hedonistic in its elegance, watching tears turn to ink on signed parchments.
My personal life, of course, has ascended to heights of pure indulgence. Astoria Greengrass, that ethereal beauty with eyes like carved emeralds, had been promised to me in an arrangement to let her family survive. She was the perfect picture of the vampiric wife expected of me: cold, elegant, and as hollow inside as I am. But her blood… her blood had lost its flavor weeks ago. It had become tasteless water on my lips, yet another symptom of the all-consuming ennui.
Rumors of an underground resistance, led by shadows like Lupin or that Weasley witch, drift like smoke on the wind. Potter, with his astronomical bounty, has become a ghost haunting the nights of the loyal. Is he in the mountains of Albania, or hidden in Muggle London? I offer extra rewards for leads, not out of duty, but for the sport of the hunt. Regulus mentions false sightings in his reports, and Bellatrix laughs as she plans traps with exotic poisons. The Supreme Leader, from his fortress in the shadows, demands eternal vigilance.
Still, why worry? This victory is a tapestry embroidered with threads of cruelty and cunning. I, Draco Malfoy, am the heir to this empire, savoring every drop of ambrosia while the world prostrates itself. Life, after all, is a grand theater of the absurd, and we are the directors. Let the weak lament; I dance in the darkness, laughing at the cosmic irony.