The fire crackled in the fireplace, its flickering light casting shadows on Draco's pale face, creating a play of light and shadow that resembled a watercolor painting bathed in the night.
He recounted his "silent survival rules" in a calm, almost icy tone.
Each word was as clear and cold as spring water flowing from beneath the ice.
For the first time, a crack appeared on Lucius's previously icy face.
It was a fleeting moment of shock.
It was as if she had never imagined that her eleven-year-old son could utter such profound and insightful words.
But after the initial shock subsided, a deeper examination followed.
"Silent Observer... The Forgotten Thorn."
He repeated it slowly, with a hint of barely perceptible interest.
"An interesting perspective," Lucius said. "It shows you've at least grasped the first principle: survival and observation, rather than pointless confrontation. That's more useful than a hundred curses."
He sat back in his high-backed chair, interlaced his fingers, and tapped them lightly on the table, making a crisp sound, as if he were scoring his son's words.
"Being forgotten is an art," Lucius continued. "Too much deliberate understatement will itself become the focus; you need to be like a drop of water falling into Black Lake, silent and without ripples."
He paused, then his eyes sharpened again.
"This requires patience, restraint, and an understanding of human weaknesses."
Can you do it?
Draco did not answer.
He simply gazed at his father in silence.
Lucius nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Then, as you wish," he said, "You can try your 'ghost' strategy."
He stood up, walked to the desk, picked up a seal, and gently placed it on the paper.
"The family won't publicly support you," Lucius said, "But neither will they publicly deny your 'necessary' self-defense. Your wand is your trial; wielding it means breaking the 'silence,' so think carefully about the consequences."
Draco nodded.
"Writing a letter is fine," Lucius continued, "But use the most neutral language possible."
He glanced at Narcissa, who stood in the corner, her face pale.
Your mother will know how to interpret it.
He walked to the window, his back straight as a sword.
"You've chosen a longer, lonelier, but perhaps more profound path for yourself."
Don't let me down, Draco.
"And don't let yourself... become a real ghost."
Narcissa was already silently weeping.
She didn't cry out loud, nor did she tremble.
She just stood there quietly, tears streaming down her pale, beautiful face like broken pearls, dripping silently onto the dark carpet.
She stepped forward and gently straightened Draco's collar, which wasn't actually disheveled, with her cool hands.
The movements were as gentle as caressing fragile glass.
But it carries a sense of farewell ritual.
"Write regularly," she said softly, "With the plainest parchment and the most ordinary ink."
Her fingers trembled slightly.
"Remember, you are a ghost."
"But in my memory... you will always be my Little Dragon."
Her voice choked with emotion.
Now, go do what you need to do.
Draco looked at her, a warm feeling welling up inside him.
"Mother," he whispered, "I will always be your little dragon. That's an unchangeable fact."
Narcissa abruptly stopped in her tracks.
My spine stiffened instantly.
She didn't turn around immediately.
But his shoulders began to tremble uncontrollably and violently, like the last leaf teetering on the edge of a cold wind.
The cold hand that had just straightened his collar gripped his robe tightly.
A few seconds later, she turned around very slowly, as if she had used all her strength.
The emptiness of sorrow or feigned composure on his face was gone.
It was a surging love that almost overwhelmed Draco.
Tears streamed down her face silently.
She looked at Draco, her lips trembling, as if she wanted to say something, but no sound came out.
In those eyes that were always elegant and restrained, there was now only a shattered star, submerged in tears.
Narcissa completely abandoned the demeanor of Mrs. Malfoy.
She took a few quick steps forward and pulled Draco into a tight embrace, with a force that seemed to want to meld him into her very bones.
This embrace was filled with an almost animalistic, maternal instinct for protection.
She buried her face in her son's still-thin shoulder, sobbing softly in his ear:
"My little dragon... my little dragon... remember... you must remember..."
"You are not a tool, not a thorn, not a ghost..."
"You are my son... and always will be..."
Draco also embraced his adoptive mother.
A warm feeling welled up in my heart.
If it were just Lucius, the Laodeng, he wouldn't have to worry about anything; he'd eventually understand anyway.
But Narcissa is different.
In the little things of life, Draco could feel her meticulous care.
Although she was a traditional woman most of the time, she had to listen to Lucius.
But who made me travel to this world and into Draco's body?
The hug didn't last long.
Because Narcissa knew Lucius's rules well, and she also knew the family's current situation.
She quickly forced herself to let go.
He wiped the tears from his face haphazardly with his sleeve, his movements unusually rough.
Then, she cupped Draco's face in her hands, forcing him to look into her tear-blurred eyes.
She gave Draco one last, deep look.
That gaze seemed intent on etching his current appearance forever into the depths of his soul.
Then, she turned around.
He left the room with steady steps.
The door closed gently.
After his mother left, Draco looked at Laodeng and said, "I'm going back, Father."
Draco informed his father.
Lucius nodded.
"Um."
His voice remained cold.
Go do what you're supposed to do.
[Ding! You've convinced your parents; your Fortune Points has increased by 20!]