"The sea speaks more honestly

to those willing to drown."

— Irtiqa Nabi

Bluebeard's fairy tale went like this: there was a forbidden door, a door Bluebeard forbade his new wife to open. There was a rusted key, cold in her hands and instructions that she could do anything she wanted while her new husband was away; throw the most lavish balls and spend his wealth on anything she desired. His only request was that she never open the door, never peek behind what lurked behind it. But no matter how much she tried to distract herself, the door beckoned to her. Unable to stifle her curiosity and need for truth, she found herself at the door, the cold key in her palm. She opened it.

The stories never talked about whether the new wife regretted it. They never talked about whether she immediately wished she hadn't followed her curiosity once she opened the door to find a chamber filled with rotting corpses of her husband's past wives. What was certain, however, was that she could not wipe the blood off the key nor from behind her eyes. She could not unsee the truth behind the man she had married.

Bluebeard's fairy tale was a lesson — or perhaps, a warning — of the pursuit of truth. It told us that one never truly knew a person, that there always existed a forbidden door that once opened could not be unseen. Maybe the new wife should not have opened the door and should have been content with the wealth and worldly distraction. After all, bliss, no matter how ignorant, was still bliss. Maybe she shouldn't have been curious, not pursued the truth. Would it have been called love if she had obeyed her husband's request? Was this trust? When love was completely unconditional, was it still love or, instead, was it a dangerous ignorance that would see yourself dead by your own lover's hands?

Hermione had always been convinced that the new wife was right in pursuing the truth no matter what it revealed. But now she sympathized with the plight of new wife, understood her terror and the courage she needed to bare the truth. She reckoned that the new wife must have known that even when Bluebeard showered her in gifts and luxury, there must have been something that convinced her that something was off, that there were ghosts lurking in those halls. Because the truth was always present, even dressed up in pretty words and pretty smiles.

And now the cold key was in her palm and settled in like a deadweight as they entered Kingsley's study at headquarters.

"Kingsley said we can use it as long as we need to." Hermione cast a locking charm on the door.

Steeling herself, she turned and gazed apprehensively at Draco. He stood next to the basin, blank-faced and stoic. That entire morning, he had also been reserved, his expression distant and almost cold. Pale light rippled across the surface of the basin, illuminating his eyes in an unnatural glow of silvery blue.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

Light rain pattered on the murky windows followed by the soft rumbling of an approaching storm.

Finally, he looked up. "I want you to know."

Hermione searched his face a second longer then nodded. Reaching into her beaded bag, she pulled out the three vials he requested then handed it to him. Draco thanked her silently then tipped his wand against his temple. Luminous strings of gas-like substance flowed from the tip of his wand. The glowing strands stretched taught before it was plucked and deposited in the first vial.

"I'm dividing what I want to show you into three parts," he murmured while he extracted the second and third sets of memories.

Upon finishing, he silently placed two of the vials on the shelf and poured the first into the pensieve. A shimmering glow emitted from the basin as he swirled the memory, faint translucent images reflecting on the surface like a deep well of liquid glass

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," he replied, not taking his eyes off the pensieve. The cold blankness in his features terrified her for a moment but it was gone when he slipped his hand into hers and gripped her hand tightly. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze before they both dipped their heads into the surface.

***

2 Months After the Battle of Hogwarts

"She's here."

Draco took one more moment staring out the window at the white peacocks grazing, stark against the dark shrubs and graying light. The air was frigid, laced with a fragile kind of quietness. Finally, he turned and dipped his head in recognition of his mother's words.

Narcissa stood before him, elegant and composed in her deep emerald robes. Despite her calm demeanor he saw a flicker of worry in her eyes as she searched his face, landing on the cut on his cheekbones. Despite having cleaned up directly after returning from completing one of the Dark Lord's tasks, his mother looked at him as if she could still see the blood and dirt on his hands.

It had been a week since the Dark Lord announced the decree for purebloods to produce heirs. Those unwed were encouraged to pair with other purebloods and comply with the order. It was an act to cleanse the magical world, the Dark Lord said, a way to bring pure blood and restore power to their people.

"Draco, look at me, please," his mother commanded softly.

"Yes, mother." He walked towards her, hands behind his back as he twitched the Malfoy ring on his finger. He was Lord of the Manor now, his connection to the estate and the power it held more potent in his veins. But even then, it felt tainted. He could feel the echoes of the Dark Lord's touch in the very foundations and walls. And perhaps that's why the manor had welcomed him, called to him so easily when he had taken over — it recognized the stain of darkness in his magic, in his very flesh.

"Your father won't be there for the ceremony," Draco caught a slight tremor in her voice. "He's resting — the Dark Lord was unhappy with his performance in Bulgaria."

Draco didn't reply, not needing to know how far their family had fallen out of favor with the Dark Lord. Ever since his father was broken out of Azkaban, he was a shell of the man he had once been. Consequently, Draco was intended to be the punishment for his family's failures. Like a lamb to the slaughter, they waited for him to fail in his duties to the Dark Lord. But he did not.

He did what he needed to, even if it meant taking on his father's role and becoming more ruthless, unyielding. In this new world, the only currency was power. His mother knew it too. She had known that nothing would keep them safe unless they took that power for themselves. She had known, even if it meant letting her son train under the wing of his aunt, the right hand of the Dark Lord himself, until the Dark Arts became second nature, until he could cast an unforgivable curse without any hesitation.

Show me, nephew, how much Black blood is truly in your veins.

"Her name is Astoria from the Greengrass family," Narcissa began as she smoothed her robes. Her alexandrite engagement ring glinted on her finger, turning from green to red in the light. "I believe Daphne was in your year."

Draco nodded.

"Astoria is the younger sister — a year below yours — but she's polite and has the markings of a well bred pureblood witch," Narcissa said clinically. "She's waiting for us in the sitting room. When you're ready."

The first thing Draco noticed when he entered the sitting room with his mother was that the witch before him looked young. He recognized some similarities between her and her sister, in the icy blue of their eyes, wheat colored hair, and sharpness of their cheekbones. Objectively, she was pretty. But there was a frailness to her as she might break any second.

Astoria held an air of grace around her, a testament to her upper class breeding and etiquette. She knew when to speak, when to laugh, how to stir her cup and lift it to her lips without a single noise. She was agreeable, the embodiment of the makings of a pureblood wife.

"And your sister, I heard she's been matched too," Narcissa said, as she took a sip of her tea.

"Indeed," Astoria responded. "She's had the pleasure of being matched with Graham Montague, who is a close family friend of ours. They were intended together while at Hogwarts so it was only natural, of course."

Draco let the conversation take its course, politely answering any questions directed at him. He observed them as if he was behind glass. Even though the Dark Lord had left their manor, he couldn't help but still feel the lingering sense of dread as he walked through the walls. He kept his occlumency walls in place even in his own home. It had become easier to keep his mind at a distance, to compartmentalize every thought and feeling until it was second nature to him.

"Oh, how lovely," Astoria's voice pulled him from his thoughts. On Narcissa's palm sat a yellow diamond ring, cushioned on a small black velvet box.

"Draco," Narcissa murmured. Promptly, Draco took the ring and slipped it onto Astoria's slim finger. The band of the ring shrunk to fit precisely on her finger.

Astoria blushed and thanked him but Draco was focused on the ring. He vaguely recognized it as a Malfoy heirloom from the vaults. True enough, his mother still wore the alexandrite engagement ring his father had given her. It was pureblood custom for the mother to pass on her engagement ring to the heir and take on a new ring. But this only happened if she approved of the witch and the union. He found it curious, given that he had let his mother arrange the match.

As his mother began to discuss ceremonial details with Astoria, Draco excused himself.

***

The marriage took place the next day — a quick ceremony in the Malfoy gardens. Astoria wasn't feeling well and much to Draco's relief, they did not consummate their marriage. She had retired quickly to her room situated in her own wing of the manor.

The following day, the Dark Lord gave Draco charge of successive raids for Order members. The sparse moments he was back in between tasks, he sat with his mother and wife for meals, but other than that he and Astoria kept their distance as she still seemed to be feeling ill. On days Astoria felt more recovered, under his mother's insistence, he sometimes took his wife on walks in the garden. They spoke on trivial customary topics until eventually there was nothing left to say, or he was summoned again.

On some nights, Draco returned home with his mind almost in shreds after the Dark Lord had searched through them. But more often, he came home with blood that was not his own. On those nights, he sometimes noticed Astoria watching his return from her window. He did not know what to make of watching, nor did he care.

"Draco?"

Draco looked up, his hand on the balustrade of the marble staircase. Astoria stood on the top of the staircase in her lace dressing gown, illuminated by the watery moonlight emanating from the windows. There was a paleness to her, stark against the looming shadows that accented her cheekbones making her look almost wraithlike. In the moment, her beauty was like that of a pressed flower.

"They sent a healer — to check if I'm pregnant."

Draco's jaw clenched. He took the last few steps, coming into the light. Astoria shivered from the dark magic emanating from him. The blood from his recent raid was still fresh on his dragon-leather gear.

"I'll handle it," he responded.

With hesitation, Astoria approached him. There was a tremor in her fingers as she lifted her hand and placed it on his arm. His eyes cut directly towards her. She recoiled. Draco noticed the tremble in her lip, nervousness in her eyes — no it was not nervousness. It was fear.

It was the first genuine emotion he had seen from her. Draco could not deny that there was a certain cruel satisfaction in being seen for what he truly was. There was something about the dark that revealed the truth hidden in the light.

"Not tonight." Draco walked past her, not missing her soft exhale followed by her light footsteps receding into the shadows.

***

"The Dark Lord, how — how is he?" Draco froze from where he was pouring a drink of firewhiskey in his study after his encounter with Astoria. Slowly, he put down the decanter then downed his drink before turning around.

"Father," Draco said curtly as he stared passively at the man before him. His face was rugged and hollow, eyes bloodshot. Lucius looked like a ghost, his once proud shoulders now hunched and timid. From somewhere behind his occlumency walls, a distant pang went through Draco upon seeing someone he once looked up to reduced to such. But his father had made his choices and forced them onto his wife and son. And all Draco could do was pay for the sins of his father.

"Your mother told me that the Dark Lord has been sending you on personal tasks," Lucius rasped. "That's good, very good, son. You must please him, whatever he asks — "

"You think I don't know that?" Draco hissed, his occlumency walls cracking. "Do you think I have a choice?" Lucius opened his mouth to reply but Draco cut him off. "You know what the Death Eaters are starting to call me? The Dark Lord's Hound because I'm nothing but his bitch that does his bidding."

"Power, Draco, we do what we must to claim our rightful place — "

Draco laughed humorlessly.

"Wake up, father! Does this look like power to you?" he spat, arms spread, showing his father the blood and dirt smeared on his suit.

"Draco, I — I'm sorry." Lucius gulped, his face crumpling as if genuinely lost.

Draco dropped his arms, a cool numbness calming him as he slipped back into his occlumency. There is a meadow where a manor with many doors stands. And in the manor, there is a door. A door that has been there before the manor, before the meadow.

"Well, thank you but I'm not sure what to do with that," Draco replied before leaving the room.

For the rest of the week, Draco volunteered for every mission and task the Dark Lord needed. He had played the game long enough to know how to survive and gain the Dark Lord's favor. And it paid off. With a cold ruthlessness, he captured Order members, raided wizarding villages, and hunted down escaped prisoners. He wielded himself like a weapon until every Death Eater learned to only speak his names in whispers.

And when they took over the ministry, Draco was by his side. The Dark Lord's power had spread rapidly, almost too easily. The seeds of corruption had already been sown and ingrained into the very system that advocated for justice and peace. Too easily did people in the wizarding world wear their prejudices proudly, unquestioningly registering muggleborns and putting them into their supposed place in the world. And he had been right there, making it happen.

It became easy turning it all off and living a kind of half-life where he didn't have to feel or care. All he knew was survival. That numbness was all he knew, and it became a part of him, until he no longer knew the lines between what the war made him to be and who he truly was; of which part was the mask and which part was the man.

***

"I'm sorry about your father," Blaise's calm voice sounded after he had taken a long sip from his glass. "An ambush, I heard."

"It was," Draco replied.

Draco, I — I'm sorry.

His mother had simply held his hand when they covered his father's casket in the family tomb. Draco could still see his father's peaceful repose, his white-blond hair combed and clean — he had looked younger, almost as he had remembered his father before the war.

It had only been him and his mother at the small ceremony. But even then, his mother held a sense of dignity, not letting herself break as she whispered her last goodbyes.

They've been asking for updates on the girl, Draco, his mother had said once they left the family crypt. Her voice was as hollow and cold as the tomb where his father lay. The Dark Lord will be expecting news soon.

I have it handled, mother.

"Do you have what I asked for?"

Blaise held his gaze for a moment, then sighed. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a vial with a lilac substance in it.

"This was the only vial Theo managed to smuggle out of his father's supplies," Blaise explained, his face flickering with evident disgust at the mention of Theo's father as he handed it over. "It's strong so one sip is enough for it to take full effect."

Blaise seemed to hesitate as Draco turned the vial in his hands.

"Mate, talk to me. You've been shutting us all out and now out of the blue you ask for a lust potion. If you need help..."

"I can handle it," his voice was cold, distant.

"The lust potion has certain... effects as you know," Blaise said warily.

"I am aware."

He didn't miss the way Blaise's features tensed worriedly. "The Dark Lord is putting the pressure on then?"

Draco nodded wordlessly. Shaking his head, Blaise downed his drink before snapping his fingers and using his magic to refill his glass.

"How's Pansy?"

Blaise's face hardened, pain flickering in his eyes.

"She's recovering," he whispered.

"I meant to visit, but lately the Dark Lord he — "

Blaise held a hand up to stop him.

"You don't need to explain yourself. I understand. We all do." Blaise sighed. "I've heard the stories about what you've been doing for him. I know the pressure you're under — Pans and I have known since sixth year," he smiled ruefully. "Just remember we're here, yeah?"

There was a tense silence before Draco's Dark Mark burned. "I'm being summoned."

Not waiting for a response, he disapparated.

***

"Astoria," Draco said cautiously, standing as she entered his study, wringing her fingers.

Draco's focus went to her furrowed brow and grim line of her lips. Her eyes darted anywhere except for him. "Draco," she replied, almost distracted.

He'd seen her in passing during the last couple of days after he had returned from Belgium on an assignment from the Dark Lord. Had he paid more attention, he would have noticed her sickly pallor and bags under her eyes. His mother had informed him that her condition was worsening. At the news, Draco had made sure the elves supplied her with what she needed and also enlisted a personal healer. Yet her bones protruded, looking more frail than ever. Even more, he couldn't help but notice something else in her expression this time.

"Is there something wrong?"

She cleared her throat daintily before stepping closer. She smelled faintly of burnt sugar, ash, and a sweet sickly scent. Ironlof root and sulfrite beetle wings, he noted. He recognized it as a strong potion for treating blood maladies.

"It has come to my attention," she began, "that we are to house some of the Dark Lord's prisoners in the dungeons?"

"Indeed," Draco replied carefully. There were certain prisoners the Dark Lord entrusted to him for questioning, the ones he suspected worked for the Order. They had arrived just that morning.

"One of these prisoners," she hesitated, "he was captured because he tried to infiltrate my home?"

"Raul Barlow," Draco replied, studying her expression. She swallowed before blinking back unshed tears. Ah. "Muggleborn, charged with trying to infiltrate the Greengrass estate. Suspected Order member."