Like that, Victor was taken home by his parents—swiftly and without discussion. The decision was final, and everything that followed happened too quickly. He did not even get the chance to say goodbye to Hermione before Hogwarts was left behind.
Now, within the familiar walls of Malfoy Manor, Victor lay once more in his own bed.
Narcissa Malfoy and Lucius Malfoy stood on either side as the healer Lucius had summoned stepped forward.
Miriam Strout—of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries—was a name well known throughout the British wizarding world, a highly respected healer whose reputation spoke of long experience, impressive skill, and, most importantly, an uncanny talent for spotting curses.
"Let's have a look," she said.
With careful hands, Miriam loosened the cloth wrapped around Victor's eyes and removed it completely.
There were no marks. No burns. No trace of a curse on the skin itself.
She studied his face in silence, then lifted her wand and cast a slow, deliberate diagnostic spell. The magic lingered longer than usual before fading.
Lucius frowned. "Well?"
Miriam did not answer at once. Her expression had shifted—not to fear, but to concern.
"This isn't external," she said at last. "Whatever happened to his sight… it didn't come from an attack."
She paused, then spoke again, more carefully. "Victor, can you open your eyes for me?"
He nodded and did as she asked, opening his eyes for them to see.
For a split second, the room went utterly still.
Miriam Strout's breath caught. Narcissa's hand flew instinctively to her mouth. Even Lucius, usually so controlled, stiffened.
Victor's eyes were open, but there were no pupils at all. No black centres to be seen.
The whites of his eyes had spread unnaturally, smooth and uniform, filling his gaze completely, as though the pupils had been erased rather than damaged. They were not clouded, not injured—simply gone.
Miriam stepped closer, disbelief flickering across her composed features. "That's not possible," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
Lucius's voice was low. "Explain."
Miriam swallowed. "I've seen curse damage. Potion backlash. Dark artefacts. This is none of those." She straightened slowly. "His eyes aren't injured… but something has definitely changed."
She raised her wand, the tip glowing softly. "Victor," she said evenly, "can you see anything?"
She moved the light slowly from side to side.
Victor's gaze shifted without hesitation, following it.
"I can see… a dim light," he said. "Nothing else."
Miriam's shoulders eased—just a fraction.
"That's good," she said more firmly now. "Very good."
She turned to Lucius. "Mr. Malfoy, while I can't identify the exact cause, his eyes appear to be recovering on their own. I detect no dark magic, no curse residue. This seems to be… a special condition, not an inflicted one."
Narcissa's shoulders eased slightly, though concern still lingered in her eyes. "Have you ever encountered anything like this before?" she asked quietly.
Miriam shook her head. "Not personally. I've read scattered accounts—rare cases where magical traits awaken under strain. They're uncommon, poorly understood, and often mistaken for injuries at first."
She glanced back at Victor. "But the fact that his recovery has begun is a very good sign."
Lucius's expression remained guarded. "You're certain this wasn't an attack?"
"As certain as I can be," Miriam replied. "If it were, I would feel it in the magic. I don't."
Lucius's grip tightened slightly on his cane. "Then is there any potion, any treatment," he asked sharply, "that can hasten his recovery?"
Miriam hesitated before answering, choosing her words with care. "In cases like this, interfering too much can be dangerous," she said. "When the cause is unknown and the magic appears to be self-regulating, forcing recovery may do more harm than good."
Narcissa frowned. "So we simply wait?"
"For now," Miriam said. "Yes. Rest, stability, and time. His body—and his magic—are already correcting whatever imbalance occurred. Introducing potions without understanding the nature of this change could disrupt that process."
Lucius did not like the answer. That much was obvious.
But he said nothing—only nodded once, slowly.
"Very well," he said at last.
With that, Miriam Strout gave a small, respectful nod.
"I'll leave detailed instructions for rest and observation," she said. "If there's any change—any at all—send for me immediately."
Lucius inclined his head. "You will be compensated generously."
Miriam didn't respond to that. She merely gathered her things and turned to leave. Lucius followed her out of the room, his footsteps measured, his voice already low as he began asking further questions beyond Victor's hearing.
The door closed softly behind them.
Narcissa moved closer to the bed and sat down, smoothing the coverlet without really needing to.
"I am somewhat relieved the injury isn't permanent," she said at last, her voice carefully controlled.
"Mother, didn't I say I'm fine?" Victor replied. He wanted to add that all of this felt unnecessarily dramatic—but he knew better than to say it aloud.
She reached out and brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead, slow and careful.
"You always say that," Narcissa murmured. "Ever since you were little, you've been far too composed for your age. Even now… you're calm." She paused. "I don't know whether that should reassure me—or frighten me."
Victor turned his head slightly. "If you want," he said mildly, "I can cry and act like a proper child."
"There is no need," she said quietly. "You are as you are."
Her hand stayed where it was, resting lightly against his hair.
"For now," Narcissa continued, her tone settling, "you will rest. No studying. And you will not leave your room. If you need anything, ask the house-elves. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mother," Victor replied.
She stood up and left the room. After she was gone, the room was quiet.
Victor lay back against the pillows and let out a long breath.
"Eight days," he muttered. "Eight whole days stuck in this room. No phone. No internet." He tilted his head toward the ceiling. "How am I supposed to pass the time?"
At least at Hogwarts there had been distractions—Draco barging in, Hermione dropping by to talk, even Ron and Harry arguing about something pointless. Here, Malfoy Manor was too quiet. Too orderly.
He frowned slightly.
"…Dobby?" Victor said aloud. "Are you there?"
There was a faint pop.
A moment later, a small figure appeared beside the bed, ears drooping, eyes wide with concern.
"Master Victor called?" Dobby squeaked, hands twisting together. "Dobby came as fast as he could!"
Victor turned his head toward the sound. "Yeah. It's you."
Dobby gasped softly when he noticed the bandage—or rather, the state of Victor's eyes beneath it. "Master Victor is hurt," he said, horrified. "Dobby did not know—Dobby would have—"
"It's fine," Victor interrupted calmly. "I'm not dying. Just… bored."
That seemed to confuse Dobby more than the injury.
"Bored?" he repeated, uncertain.
"Eight days of bed rest," Victor said. "No studying. No leaving the room. If I don't do something, I might actually go insane."
Dobby straightened at once, eyes shining as if he'd been given a sacred quest. "Then Dobby will help! Dobby can talk! Or clean! Or bring stories! Or—"
"Good," Victor cut in. "Go to Diagon Alley and bring some storybooks. Proper ones. We're going to have long study sessions." He paused, then added, "And bring refreshments. Decent ones."
Dobby clasped his hands, vibrating with enthusiasm. "Yes, Master Victor! Storybooks and refreshments! Dobby will choose the best!"
"There's no rush," Victor said dryly. "I'm not going anywhere."
"With pleasure, sir!" Dobby chirped—and with a sharp pop, he vanished.
*****
A/N : 🔥 On Patreon, the story has already been updated up to Chapter 42 🔥
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