Harry Potter: The Progenitor Of Dark Arts

Lucius Malfoy was a proud man. A man of lineage, of status, of power. He was the head to an ancient family that had stood the test of time, weathering the rise and fall of empires. With their wealth, influence, and an unbroken line of pureblooded ancestry, the Malfoys commanded both fear and respect.

He had two sons, Dante and Draco—six and four years old, respectively. Both had inherited his pale blond hair and grey eyes, and he took pride in them. But it was Dante who captivated his attention, Dante who made his heart swell with something more than just fatherly pride. The boy was a prodigy unlike anything he had ever seen or heard of. At the mere age of two, he had spoken fluently, forming complex sentences with the ease of an educated adult. By three, he spent entire days in the vast Malfoy library, devouring books of all kinds.

Narcissa, his wife, was troubled by Dante's unnatural behavior. She spoke of her concerns, whispering in quiet moments that their son did not behave as a child should. He did not play, did not seek comfort, did not express emotions like other children. Lucius dismissed her worries. Their son was simply a genius, a once-in-a-millennium mind. And his capabilities only proved it further—by four, he had performed household spells wandlessly, mimicking them after seeing the casting of the spells only once.

Draco, by comparison, was a normal child. Talented, yes, but normal. Even if the boy proved gifted in the future, Lucius doubted he could ever reach the heights that Dante was destined for.

A thought had taken root in Lucius's mind, one he had never dared voice. Could his eldest son surpass even the Dark Lord? Even Dumbledore? Could Dante bring prestige and power to the Malfoy name, restoring all they had lost in the wake of Voldemort's downfall? He did not know, but he watched carefully, waiting, fantasizing about the future.

The servants kept him informed of the books Dante read, and Lucius could not help but notice an odd pattern. All of them had been written within the last three to five centuries. Was it possible the boy, with all his genius, struggled with older texts? If so, perhaps it was time to hire a tutor.

Today, however, Lucius had another matter to discuss. His son was now six—it was time he began attending social gatherings, mingling with other pureblooded heirs, preparing for his future role as the next head of the Malfoy house.

Lucius made his way to the library, pushing the grand doors open to find Dante reading, as always. The boy sat with perfect posture, his small hands resting against the thick tome in his lap, his grey eyes focused with an intensity that did not belong to a child.

Without looking up, Dante spoke. "Welcome, Father. What brings you here?"

Lucius paused mid-step. The boy had not lifted his gaze, had not turned toward him. How did he—?

"How did you know it was me?" Lucius asked, curiosity lacing his tone.

"I am familiar with the magic coming from your soul," Dante replied casually.

Lucius frowned. He had never heard of such a thing. Surely, it was just a child's fancy, an attempt to appear mysterious. Amused, he dismissed the odd remark and stepped further inside, closing the doors behind him.

"You are growing older, Dante," Lucius said. "It is time you begin socializing with other pureblood heirs. These relationships are important for your future, especially as the next head of our house."

Dante, still not looking up, replied in an even tone, "Draco will be the next head of the house. I have other matters to attend to in this life."

Lucius frowned slightly at that. "You are still young. Your studies may interest you now, but as you grow, you will understand the weight of responsibility. The importance of leading our family."

For the first time since Lucius entered, Dante lifted his gaze from the book. He observed his father in silence, his expression unreadable. A strange sensation crept up Lucius's spine—something about his son's gaze felt… unnatural.

Then, in a calm, low voice, Dante spoke. "Sit." He pointed to a chair beside him.

Lucius blinked. The gesture was improper, disrespectful even. A Malfoy heir did not order the head of the family to sit like a common servant. But Lucius was not angry, he was going to correct him and guide him to be a proper heir and a future head, that is his role as his father and the current head of the Malfoy. Opening his mouth to lecture on proper decorum—

"I insist," Dante said.

Lucius's body moved against his will.

Before he could comprehend what had happened, he found himself seated in the chair Dante had indicated. Stunned, he stiffened. It was as if he had been placed under the Imperius Curse—but it wasn't. This was something else. Something similar, yet entirely different.

Dante sighed. "I had originally planned to let you behave as you pleased. You are my father in this life, after all. I was going to teach Draco properly as he grew, but now, I believe we should talk to avoid unnecessary misunderstanding in the future."

Lucius tried to speak, but Dante raised his hand. "Silence. I am speaking"

Lucius's mouth closed instantly, unable to produce a single sound. Panic surged through him. What was this magic? What was his son?

Dante leaned back, an air of boredom around him. "Since I founded the Malfoy house a thousand years ago, you have been one of the worst heads of this family. If not for the fact that you are my father in this life, I would have removed you from your position. Following a clueless brat who called himself a Dark Lord? Truly, how disappointing."

Lucius's breath caught. [A thousand years ago?]

"The pureblood theory you cling to is foolish," Dante continued. "The first wizards were not born to noble bloodlines. They were accidents—mere humans who stumbled upon the magical lanes of the world. Magic was not inherited; it was claimed. In fact, under the right conditions, even a muggle can be turned into a wizard. It has been done before."

Lucius stared at his son with wide, disbelieving eyes. His mind reeled, struggling to process what he was hearing.

Dante waved a hand. "You may speak."

Lucius gasped softly, his voice returning. But he could not find the words. After what felt like an eternity, he finally forced out the only question that mattered. "Who are you?"

Dante hummed, tilting his head slightly. "I have gone by many names, but you should be familiar with one—Armand Malfoy."

Lucius froze.

"The family history books claim I aided William the Conqueror out of friendship. That is incorrect. I helped him because I owed a favor to one of his ancestors. That is all."

Lucius opened his mouth, then closed it again. His son—his child—was claiming to be the very founder of their house. It was absurd. Impossible. And yet…

Dante sighed, disappointment evident in his expression. "Tell me, Lucius. Why do you wear that ring?"

Lucius instinctively looked at the Malfoy heirloom on his hand. Before he could ask what Dante meant, the ring shimmered with light. That light moved—flowing toward Dante. His eyes glowed faintly before returning to normal.

"The ring carries a portion of my soul and strength. It was passed down so that, when the time came, the Malfoy line would remember its master." Dante exhaled softly. "And yet, you didn't even know that. How disappointing."

Dante turned back to his book. "You will train Draco to lead the house. Do not tell Mother—she does not need to know her firstborn is thousands of years old, the oldest wizard in this world."

A deep, primal fear settled in Lucius's chest. His instincts screamed at him to listen. To obey. Without another word, he stood and left the library.

He had been wrong.

His son was no mere prodigy.

He was an ancient monster.