Crimson Eyes! Malfoy's Fear

Draco stood slightly behind and to the side of his father, his gray-blue eyes fixed on the tightly shut door.

An indescribable sense of humiliation churned in his chest.

That black-haired boy—he did not even have a wand!—

Yet he had dared speak to his father like that, mock Malfoy robes with such contempt, and... ignore him.

The rage of a pure-blood wizard spoiled since childhood, mixed with a teenager's impulsiveness, suddenly overwhelmed Draco's fear of those eyes.

He abruptly stepped past his father's rigid body, rushed to the door in a few strides, and yanked open the door that had only just closed.

The afternoon sunlight of Diagon Alley flooded in, dazzling enough to make people squint.

Uchiha Madara stood three steps outside the shop, turned sideways toward it. His gaze swept over the brick exterior and enchanted display windows of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, as though he were quietly instructing the Shadow Guards on something related to the building's structure.

Draco puffed out his chest, deliberately gathering Malfoy-style arrogance in his gray-blue eyes. He raised his voice, and the clear tone of a youth sounded particularly jarring on the quiet street:

"Hey! You! Stop!"

Hearing the commotion behind him, Madara slowly turned his head, his black eyes settling calmly on Draco's face.

There was no emotion in that gaze—neither irritation at being interrupted nor surprise at being challenged. It was simply a bottomless, secluded pool.

Draco's heart gave an inexplicable jolt under that gaze, but the words had already left his mouth, and the attention of the passersby prevented him from backing down. "My father is talking to you. Didn't you hear him? Do you know who is standing before you?"

He deliberately imitated the tone his father used when dealing with others, lifting his chin high. "I am Draco Malfoy! My father is Lucius Malfoy, head of the Malfoy Family!"

He finished in one breath, his chest rising and falling slightly as he waited for the reaction he expected—

Perhaps shock, perhaps realization, perhaps an immediate change into a respectful—or at least polite—expression.

He had seen such transformations countless times whenever people heard the surname "Malfoy."

Uchiha Madara looked at him, and an expression slowly appeared on his face. It was not a smile, at least not any kind of smile Draco understood.

The curve of his lips was slight, but his eyes were terrifyingly deep, as though something almost like pity flowed within them.

He tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes locking onto Draco.

"Oh?" Madara's voice was soft, carrying just the right hint of curiosity, as though his interest had truly been piqued. "The Malfoy Family... sounds impressive. Then, young Mr. Malfoy,"

He took a small step forward. Though they were roughly the same height, Draco instinctively wanted to retreat. "Why don't you tell me just how impressive your family really is?"

Draco froze for a moment. Tell him about his family?

Usually, this was something his father did at important social occasions, using carefully polished language to imply wealth, connections, and ancient heritage.

But under the other's meaningful gaze, an urge to prove himself made him ignore the unease rising in his heart.

"The Malfoy Family," Draco cleared his throat, trying his best to imitate his father's unhurried tone of natural superiority and make himself sound older and more substantial,

"is one of England's oldest and wealthiest pure-blood wizarding families!"

He straightened his back, and pride drilled into him with painstaking care reignited in his gray-blue eyes.

"We have lived at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire for generations. The manor's history is older than Hogwarts itself! We possess countless Galleon-generating enterprises—the vaults in the deepest reaches of Gringotts, the most profitable shops in Knockturn Alley, and..."

Like reciting treasured possessions, he pieced together fragments he had heard from his father's half-true boasts after drinking, his mother's occasional self-satisfaction, and the fawning praise of the smaller families attached to the Malfoys. The more he spoke, the smoother he became, and the higher he raised his chin:

"...At the Ministry of Magic, the Wizengamot, even Hogwarts' Board of Governors, the Malfoy Family has influence! We support the true flourishing of magical arts and preserve the purity and glory of ancient pure-blood lines. That is the foundation of the wizarding world..."

He was practically reciting a set of rhetoric drilled into him over and over, and a nearly blind certainty gleamed in his gray-blue eyes.

He finished, breathing slightly heavily, his chest rising and falling as he waited for the response he expected—

Shock, awe, realization, or at the very least, for that infuriating calm to disappear and be replaced by respect more fitting for the name "Malfoy," even if only on the surface.

He was used to such transformations. Whenever the name "Malfoy" was thrown out, it was like a boulder dropped into a pond.

Uchiha Madara listened quietly, and the expression on his face did not change in the slightest.

Only after Draco had finished did he slowly turn his head toward a Shadow Guard standing at his side like a shadow.

"Did you hear that?" Madara asked in a tone as flat as though he were confirming some trivial matter.

"The Malfoy Family. Is that one of those... Sacred Twenty-Eight families mentioned in the earlier files?"

The Shadow Guard bowed slightly, the movement precise as though measured with a ruler.

His voice came through his mask, clearly reaching the ears of everyone present. "Yes, my lord. The Malfoy Family ranks seventh on the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood family registry. According to cross-analysis of existing intelligence, the family rose to prominence over the past three hundred years, specializing in commercial speculation and political collusion. Its modern influence has fluctuated considerably with the political climate. The current head, Lucius Malfoy, once served as rotating chairman of the Sacred Twenty-Eight Association, but due to the family's suspected deep ties and financial dealings with Voldemort's forces during the Second Wizarding War, his position has been suspended to this day."

The Shadow Guard paused before continuing in the same mechanical tone. "The family's visible economic pillars currently consist of magical antique reselling, property leasing, and high-risk investments in certain gray-market sectors. Comprehensive assessment: a representative of traditional conservative forces in England, possessing a certain degree of wealth and residual political connections, but lacking observable top-tier individual combat power and core magical inheritance. Threat level: Low. Utility value: Moderate."

Every word was like a cold iron spike driven brutally into Draco's freshly inflated pride. "Commercial speculation," "political collusion," "suspected ties," "lacking core inheritance," "threat level: low"...

Those cold, objective words, stripped of all glamour and embellishment, tore away the Malfoy Family's carefully painted facade and exposed the substance beneath, which was far less glorious.

Madara nodded, as though he had received an answer he had expected all along.

He looked back at Draco, and the meaningful curve on his face deepened slightly.

He even spread his hands in an almost helpless, lazy gesture.

"It seems," a trace of mockery entered his voice, like a needle popping a balloon,

"the Malfoy Family... isn't all that impressive."

Draco's face flushed bright red, then turned deathly pale.

Humiliation! Naked humiliation!

This was a humiliation a hundred times deeper than being clumsily knocked down by Crabbe and Goyle, or being mocked by the poor Weasleys!

He opened his mouth, wanting to retort, wanting to draw his wand—even though he was not yet allowed to use it outside school—

But the Shadow Guards, those six pairs of crimson eyes, all focused on him at once.

An invisible pressure descended like a mountain. Draco felt his throat being strangled, his blood freezing, and every vicious curse rising to his lips was forcibly shoved back by that cold, viscous killing intent.

He froze where he stood, unable to move even a finger. All he could do was watch his own pale face reflected in Madara's black eyes.

Just then—

"Draco! Shut up!!"

A hoarse shout, nearly cracking apart, came from behind him.

Inside the shop, Lucius Malfoy had only just barely recovered enough from his shock to move. The moment he heard his son's reckless cry, his face turned as white as paper.

He fought with all his strength not to lose control on the spot, rushing to the doorway just in time to hear Madara's final, gentle yet deadly question. Lucius's heart pounded wildly in his chest, nearly shattering his ribs.

He knew all too well the cold blade hidden behind that question!

Before absolute power, any title like "ancient," "pure-blood," or "Sacred Twenty-Eight" was pale and laughable, like soap bubbles blown by children!