NOVEL NEXT Chapter 4: Narcissa & Snape
Narcissa Malfoy had always considered herself a devoted wife and mother. She took great pride in her family—her esteemed husband, Lucius, and their two sons, Dante and Draco. They were her joy, her legacy. Yet, despite the love she held for them, something about Dante unsettled her in ways she could never quite articulate.
From the moment he was born, Dante had been different. He was always composed, unnervingly so, as if childhood was merely a formality he had to endure rather than experience. He was respectful, intelligent beyond measure, and astonishingly self-sufficient. Unlike other children who relied on their parents for guidance, Dante carried himself with the confidence of someone who already knew the path ahead. At times, it felt as if she and Lucius were mere spectators in his life rather than his parents.
She had voiced her concerns to Lucius during their private moments, expressing how unnatural it was for a child to act with such calm and self-control. But her husband dismissed her worries with admiration, speaking at length about Dante's brilliance and limitless potential. Narcissa couldn't deny that their son was a prodigy, but that only fueled her unease. There was something uncanny about a child who never stumbled, never hesitated, never seemed unsure of himself.
Then, one day, everything changed.
Lucius, who had once been obsessed with grooming Dante into the perfect heir, abruptly announced that Draco would inherit the position as head of the Malfoy family while Dante would pursue his own studies and interests. Narcissa was baffled by the sudden shift, but no matter how many times she pressed Lucius for an explanation, he never gave her a satisfying answer.
Over the following weeks, she observed her husband's interactions with Dante more closely. Though Dante continued to act as he always had—calm, composed, and detached—Lucius had changed. He was deferential in ways that made no sense. He sought Dante's counsel on matters far beyond a child's comprehension and treated him with an almost reverent respect. It was as if their roles had reversed, and Dante was now the one guiding Lucius.
The strangeness did not end there. Dante had begun to train Draco and instructed him to push toys with magic using a fake wand. Narcissa had objected, stating that no child of Draco's age should be attempting to practice magic. But to her shock, Lucius firmly insisted that they follow Dante's advice. More disturbing still was Lucius's sudden dismissal of pure-blood ideology. When Draco had proudly repeated the term "pure-blood wizard," which he had learned from the Notts at a recent gathering, Lucius had admonished him sharply.
This was not the man she had married. Lucius had always believed in the sanctity of pure-blood lineage. It was one of the reasons they had followed the Dark Lord. Now, he claimed the ideology was foolish and unworthy of their son's education. When she demanded to know what had changed, Lucius simply looked at her with something that almost resembled worship and told her that he had been blind before—that the Dark Lord was nothing more than a powerful but misguided fool.
That was when she knew Lucius was hiding something.
But what could it be? What could possibly make her husband—proud, unyielding, ambitious Lucius Malfoy—turn his back on his own beliefs? What had Dante done to him?
Despite her questions, her doubts slowly faded as Draco grew. By the time he was five, he could produce a faint Lumos from the tip of his fake wand, something only Dante before him managed to pull. No child their age should have been capable of such feats. And yet, there Dante then Draco, their small hands held power with the promise of untold potential.
Narcissa did not know what Dante had planned, nor did she understand the true nature of the power he held. But she knew one thing for certain—her children have the potential to shape the future of the magical world. And she would stand by them, no matter what.
___________
Severus Snape was not a man who enjoyed social gatherings. The idle chatter, the pretentious airs, the endless pleasantries—it all grated on his nerves. Yet, here he was, standing in the grand hall of Malfoy Manor, surrounded by the cream of wizarding society. The occasion was Draco Malfoy's fifth birthday, and as the boy's godfather, Snape had been obliged to attend. Lucius had insisted, and while Snape would have preferred to spend his evening in the quiet solitude of his home, he could not refuse his oldest friend.
As he sipped a glass of elf-made wine, his dark eyes scanned the room. The usual folks were present: the Notts, the Parkinsons, the Crabbes, and the Goyles. Their children, all pureblood heirs, were gathered around Draco, who was proudly showing off a new toy broomstick. Snape's gaze lingered on the boy for a moment. Draco was a typical child—boisterous, spoiled, and eager for attention. But it was the other Malfoy child who intrigued Snape.
Dante Malfoy.
Lucius had spoken of his eldest son at length during their meetings, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and something Snape couldn't quite place. At first, Snape had dismissed it as the usual parental boasting. But then he had seen Dante for himself. A child of seven, performing magic that even second and third-year Hogwarts students struggled with. Wandless magic, no less. It was unnatural, even for a prodigy.
Snape had watched Dante from afar during the gathering. The boy was polite but distant, engaging in conversation only when necessary before retreating to the edges of the room. He carried himself with an air of quiet confidence, as if the festivities were beneath him. It was unsettling, to say the least.
When the noise and chatter became too much, Snape slipped away, his black robes billowing behind him as he made his way to the Malfoy library. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could find a moment of peace amidst the chaos. But as he pushed open the heavy wooden doors, he found that he was not alone.
Dante was seated in a high-backed chair, a stack of books on the table beside him. The boy looked up as Snape entered, his grey eyes sharp and calculating. "Good evening, Godfather," Dante said, his voice calm and measured.
Snape inclined his head slightly. "Dante. What are you doing here?"
"The same as you, I imagine," Dante replied, gesturing to the books. "Avoiding the tediousness of social gatherings. I find them… unproductive."
Snape's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Indeed."
His eyes flicked to the titles of the books Dante was reading. One in particular caught his attention: Advanced Antidote Making: A Comprehensive Guide. Snape raised an eyebrow. "That is not light reading for a child your age."
"I find it… enlightening." Dante replied
Snape's expression remained impassive, but inwardly, he was skeptical. A seven-year-old, no matter how gifted, could not possibly grasp the complexities of advanced potion-making. He was likely skimming the pages, absorbing words without true understanding.
Dante seemed to sense his doubt. "Godfather," he began, his tone thoughtful, "Father tells me you are among the best potion masters in the world."
Snape's pride prickled at the compliment, but he kept his voice neutral. "I have some… expertise in the field."
"Then perhaps you can answer a question for me," Dante said, his gaze steady.
Snape hesitated. He had no interest in indulging a child's curiosity, especially when it came to advanced topics. "I only entertain questions of a certain… caliber," he said dismissively. "For basics, you would do well to wait until you are older."
Dante's lips curved into a faint smile. "This is not a basic question."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"The antidote to Veritaserum," Dante began, his voice calm and precise, "requires griffin feather and goat kidney. However, the combination can be harmful to certain individuals—pregnant women, for example, or those with weak magical cores, like squibs. Why not replace the goat kidney with sunstone? It has similar magical properties but without the adverse effects."
Snape blinked, caught off guard. The question was not only advanced but insightful. He turned the idea over in his mind, analyzing it from every angle. In theory, it made sense. Sunstone was known for its purifying properties and could potentially serve as a substitute. But it was not a combination he had ever considered.
"In theory," Snape said slowly, "it could work. But it would require… testing."
Dante nodded, as if he had expected this answer. "So no one has bothered to improve the antidote since its creation four centuries ago."
Snape frowned. "Potions-making is an exact science. Alterations must be approached with caution."
Dante's expression was unreadable. "Caution is not the same as stagnation."
Before Snape could respond, Dante waved his hand, and three books floated from the shelves, landing gently on the table in front of him. Snape's eyes widened as he read the titles. One was an ancient tome, its cover worn and faded, written by none other than Armand Malfoy. The other two were more recent but still centuries old.
"All you need is there," Dante said simply, returning to his reading as if the conversation had never happened.
Snape stared at the books, then at Dante. The boy's knowledge was far beyond his years—far beyond even most adults. Snape's mind raced as he picked up the books, his fingers tracing the spines. These were not texts a child should be able to comprehend, let alone reference with such ease.
"I will… borrow these," Snape said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
Dante didn't look up. "As you wish."
As Snape turned to leave, he nearly collided with Lucius, who had just entered the library. The man's sharp features were etched with curiosity. "Severus? What are you doing here?"
Snape held up the books. "I am borrowing these."
Lucius glanced at the titles, then at Dante, who was still engrossed in his reading. "What happened?"
Snape exhaled sharply. "Your son… posed a question that even I could not fully answer. And he gave me these to… educate myself."
Lucius's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly masked his surprise. "I see."
Snape's gaze was intense. "Lucius, that boy… he has the potential to become one of the greatest potion masters in history."
Lucius nodded, his expression unreadable. "I know."
As Snape swept out of the library, his mind was alight with possibilities, eager to test Dante's suggestion.
Seeing Snape leave in hurry, Lucius couldn't help but think to himself [As expected of the old ancestor, who lived through countless eras, he is formidable in all aspect of magic]