Chapter One
A History of Magic









I’ve been raised to know, simply, the very best. It’s the very least I deserve. Descended from the greats, gods among insects.




The world is cruel to those who are different.




I am perfection. I am all-powerful. How much more different could one person be? I’ve always believed every force-fed word my father’s shoved at me. And why shouldn’t I? I know I’m better than all this. I know I deserve more than some frivolous, face-saving education from moronic professors who don’t seem to recognize the war, no, the revolution steadily growing in the world outside their bastion haven.




They don’t even recognize the rebellion growing right beneath their feet. Soon enough, the incensed ire from the children hidden beneath the stone floors of the castle will bubble up, reaching the first floor, covering the castle, and drown them all before it spills out the large wooden doors and into the outside world. The Slytherins, who have ever been the bane of the lesser house’s existence, are fed up with waiting for their parents’ Lord to give these muggle-lovers what they deserve. We’re taking it into our own hands.






The room had always reeked of formaldehyde and incense. The reason for the former, Draco would never want to know. The air, despite its overwhelming sensation of thickness, still felt stale, as if opening a window would simply kill the old bat. The blabbering excuse for a witch stood half a level below him, his table, like all the others was raised above the main floor of the Divination tower. Glowering at the woman below him, he didn’t bother to block her view from the History of Magic homework he chose to focus on instead.




Now, that was a class. Who wouldn’t want to learn about where they came from? There were the fiercest battles between the most loathsome of foes. There was once a treaty signed to keep the magic-resistant giants from basically eating every wizard and being done with them. Even if it secretly was a magical binding contract to make every giant who signed completely impotent. That one was quite genius, if he did say so himself. From Goblin Rebellions, huge breaches of the International Statute of Secrecy, to the Salem Witch trials, Draco felt a thrill with each biography, historical fiction, and textbook he finished.




His father, quite impressed with Draco’s ability to swallow these books whole, took Draco to every historical site he could. Draco had been to Salem, Massachusetts. He’d strolled across the deck of the H.M.S. Pollux, the only ship in the royal fleet that had ever sailed under the command of a wizard, and christened so after the captain’s father, Draco’s maternal great-grandfather. Even if the captain, his great-Uncle Alphard, had been later blasted from the family tapestry for donating gold to something Draco didn’t care to remember, he still found it fascinating to stand on bow of the ship, close his eyes and feel the history around him.




He’d been embarrassed to do this ritual in front of his father, but had been oddly comforted, nay enthralled when he felt his father’s heavy, normally judgmental hand rest on his shoulder. Startled and mortified, an eleven-year-old Draco turned to face the oncoming wrath only to see his father, tall and domineering, lids lightly shut over grey eyes, soaking in the history, if only for Draco’s sake.




Draco and his father then made it a tradition to visit at least one historical site each summer since the one before his first year. Second year, they’d ventured through the vast Amazonian jungle, not exactly ‘roughing it’ due to their magical capability, in search of the largest known Venomous Tentacula. Not only did they find it, but Lucius had carefully helped Draco extract the precious juice from the giant mass of herbage.




Summer before third year, they’d floo’d south. Invisible to ignorant muggle eyes, and floating in the middle of the Euphrates River, was the oldest known wizarding settlement. Preservation, resurrection, and reenactment charms had the site amazingly accurate to the terms all his books had described it as. Walking about the floating settlement, careful not to miss a thing, was the fondest memory Draco had. Visiting these places, his father always seemed to loosen the reins, if only a bit. Draco could gape and gawk over the ancient tools and pottery as long as it wasn’t too loudly and ultimately in the name of education.




Just before fourth year, Lucius sprung their latest trip on him as a late birthday present. Not only were they going to the most legendary magical battle field of all time, but he was allowed to have a friend accompany him. It hadn’t taken long for him to select the only obvious choice: Blaise Zabini. Blaise, who had always been finitely jealous of Draco’s yearly vacations, was at the manor and ready to go in mere minutes.




Off they went, deep into the Orient. China being, of course, the epitome of pure-blood wizardry, his father was planning more business than pleasure and had left Draco and Blaise to scourge the renowned mountainside shortly after their arrival. Bitterly upset over the lack of attention from his father, Draco had refused to allow Blaise to come with them again, much to the chagrin of the young Italian.




Summer before fifth year, things started to change. Lucius hadn’t been as eager to help Draco plan out their next trip. In fact, he’d been downright hostile about it. But Draco, ever the spoiled child, had gotten his wish. His mother had always left the males to their own ‘adventures’, but was fervent about stepping in to help Draco plan to make up for Lucius’ enmity. They’d chosen a wizarding train that would take them directly into the heart of Poland and after much pleading and the eventual silent treatment, Lucius agreed to accompany Draco. The young man had watched his predecessor closely. Never had he seen him like this, nervous and agitated. But as soon as he set foot on the land of their final destination, Lucius relaxed to see his son so excited.




With a little persuasion of the monetary sort, Draco and Lucius had the giant bunker to themselves. Few people knew of the magical connections to World War II. Those who did tended to ignore and deny it. But, walking through what had been lavish halls given the time and conditions, Draco felt so connected to history his stomach clenched. The teen felt very unsure of himself in the bunker and its surrounding two-hundred buildings. He’d spent three years in the snake’s pit. Surely nothing could harm him here in the Wolf’s Lair.




That’s right, his father had taken him to Wolfsschanze, one of the main bunkers of Adolf Hitler during World War II.




Draco stepped up to a small memorial in outside of one of the many empty, stone rooms. A statue made to look like misshapen metal, almost resembling a disfigured book of sorts, sat on a large, rectangular bolder. On it read several sentences obviously written in German, and though Draco was just short of fluent in French, he could barely make out a quarter of the words. But it took no fool to understand what spot lay before him. He was standing on the spot made famous by Count Claus Schenk von Stauffenberg, who, on this spot, had attempted to end the life of the Adolf Hitler. Here, on this spot, four men had died. Here, on this spot, Adolf Hitler had been amiably conversing and planning with Gellert Grindelwald at the time of the assassination attempt. It was the wizard who stopped the blast from killing the remaining occupants in the room.




Whether the most-trusted in the Führer’s plans knew of Grindelwald’s true power, historians knew not. But their leader most certainly did. Together they were planning mass genocide. Honestly, it mattered very little who got in their way; they would have been destroyed. The two would have ruled the world.




But Hitler defied Stalin, and Stalin repaid him with betrayal and defection. Hitler ended his own life.




Grindelwald fought with Dumbledore. Dumbledore repaid him with betrayal and defection. Grindelwald found himself in prison.




Draco shuddered. It didn’t matter how wrong or right something was, it wasn’t hard to recognize genius. Evil or not, they did great things. Terrible, but great.




The young wizard, reluctant to move, felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. His father had come up behind him, and in their customary manner, closed his eyes. Draco’s head spun with confusion.




Lucius wasn’t a history buff. He knew his father had never been interested with it, more in touch with what was going on around him in the present. His father didn’t speak German. There was simply no way that Lucius knew what this place was. But, there he stood, taking deep and calming breaths.




Everything finally came together for him. The bitter hostility and unfounded anxiety his father had been exhibiting lately finally had begun to make sense. Something was happening, something huge, something big enough to make his father constantly on edge. It frightened Draco.




What was going on?




His mind became as uneasy as his stomach and Draco abruptly turned to face his father. Deciding it was risking punishment or never knowing, the young man stared defiantly into the shocked, stony eyes of Lucius Malfoy. Inhaling quickly, the teen found his voice.




“What’s going on, what’s happened?” averting his eyes to glare at the ground where the Nazi Leader and one of the greatest wizards of all time warmly shook hands some sixty years prior. His voice, unexplainably, had faded to a whisper.




“Whatever do you mean, Draco?” Lucius inquired charmingly with a curious look on his face and his mouth slightly, but handsomely, ajar. Draco recognized the exact look. He could copy it perfectly. It was the look given to Aurors. The Aurors that knew his father had done something of a less than reputable nature, but couldn’t prove it. Did his father honestly think Draco wouldn’t recognize it or did he not give his own son enough credit to recognize the bigger picture?




Draco narrowed his eyes dangerously, tilting his head down to glare up at Lucius through slightly lidded eyes.




Draco was certain he’d seen his father do things most people couldn’t possibly fathom Lucius Malfoy doing. He remembered Lucius teaching him to ride a broom, carefully allowing Draco to hover a few feet above the ground before slowly meeting earth once more. The magically filtered pond in the back yard of the manor, crystal clear water and all, had been one of Draco’s favorite spots with both his mother and father growing up. He’d seen his father steal gentle kisses from his mother’s lips. Never had he truly been shocked by something his father had done. But Draco had to keep his eyes from widening in response to Lucius’ mannerisms.




Lucius blinked twice in quick succession. Opening his mouth to speak, it looked as if a breath was forced into him and he drew his hand up to cover his mouth. Draco was sure it was some emotion totally foreign to the man, not embarrassment that had caused it. It was Lucius’ turn to avert his eyes. He stepped forward and traced the lettering of the memorial with a gloved hand. Looking up, and staring straight at the rock wall in front of him, his father finally spoke.




“He’s back, Draco…” his voice was eerily calm, but quiet. For his father’s ever-confident tone, he might as well of have fallen to the ground.




“Who?” Draco’s voice cracked, even though the childish question was genuine.

Lucius swerved violently to watch his son closely, hand disconnecting with the chiseled stone for the first time since Draco’s first question. Draco felt his father’s arm snake around his shoulders as he was led out of the bunker and back toward their waiting carriage.




The single red rose that sat next to the memorial slid slightly in the wind. Draco never recognized the spot as having once again borne true evil.









A/N: So, waht do you think so far? I'd love critique on the story.

Fabulous chapter image by the ever so talented Ladywolf of The Dark Arts.

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