After saying this, the corner of his mouth unconsciously lifted slightly. He had completed his task; he had handled what Madara had instructed him to do. Dumbledore had been driven from the castle, and he, Lucius Malfoy, was the greatest contributor.
The Shadow Society's banner would soon rise above Hogwarts, and he was the one who had personally chopped down the old flagpole. That secret pride, which he did not dare fully reveal, crept from the corner of his mouth to his eyes, then from his eyes to the roots of his ears, like a snake that had just shed its skin—still wet all over, eager to bask in the sun.
Madara slowly, exceedingly slowly, turned around.
Those eyes—not the scarlet Sharingan, but black eyes as deep as a starless night, devoid of any glimmer—fell upon Lucius. That was not a look. It was a stare. The kind of stare you felt while sailing across a pitch-black sea, when you suddenly sensed that a pair of eyes on the ocean floor was watching the underside of your ship. You could not see those eyes, but your spine told you: they were watching.
Lucius's smile froze.
Not the kind of freeze where someone withdrew an embarrassed smile, but the kind that came from being frozen from within, with his muscles twitching against his will. The corners of his mouth remained slightly raised, but his eyes no longer followed. The roots of his ears went from proud to deathly pale. That translucent film of light still covered his skin, but the skin beneath it was losing warmth inch by inch.
"It seems you are quite satisfied with this outcome." Madara's voice sounded. Neither loud nor soft, it was as calm as if he were saying, "The weather is nice today." Yet to