Chapter Text
When Draco Malfoy turned eighteen, he finally understood the nature of the Malfoy family curse and why his father always wore a mask in front of everyone except him and his mother.
It was beauty.
A seemingly silly thing that manifested when a Malfoy reached the age of 18.
He had been born with a gorgeous face, but this—this was in a different league entirely. It was not a face any mortal should possess.
Draco was used to parties, celebrating his birthdays lavishly like the spoiled child he was. His last birthday party was the biggest yet. The attendance might have been small—he didn't invite just anyone—but the celebration was over the top.
He understood now why his mother hadn't stopped him from making the extravagant list, and why his father hadn't said a word when he spent their wealth like an idiot.
It wasn't as if he had never heard of the curse. His father, his grandfather, his aunts, his uncles—basically every adult Malfoy wore a mask in public, only removing it when they were alone with family.
As a child, Draco thought the mask was a social statement; that no one had the right to see a Malfoy's bare face but their own. He thought the reason Malfoy spouses were the exception was because they had been chosen—which wasn't entirely wrong, they were chosen.
But Draco had known, deep down, there was another reason. The way some of his relatives behaved around their spouses was not the same as his father and mother. Their unions might have been arranged, but they didn't always carry the same love as when his father had proposed to his mother in their teens.
Soon enough, Draco stopped wondering about it. It sounded too personal and too silly for him to dwell on his relatives' marriages.
Now that he thought about it, he should have asked more questions. He should have pushed harder and investigated.
He used to be such a careless child…
His mother called this his only weakness. Apparently, even though Draco was smart, he could be so blind to the people around him.
Draco had scoffed at the accusation.
Anyway, back to the main problem: Draco had turned eighteen, and his father had given him his own mask—black with thin golden strips. His eyes were barely visible from the outside.
Exactly 24 hours before his birthday, his mother dragged Draco to a massive room on the highest floor of the manor. It used to be a ballroom, but now it was Draco's new room, which felt unnecessary and excessive. He didn't need this. It wasn't as if he would be locked here until his death.
Right?
Of course not.
His mother explained that the room was one of his birthday presents, as he had spent much of his childhood playing there. Draco relaxed upon hearing that and let himself enjoy the very first moment of his lone birthday party.
Midnight came, and Draco was waiting for his birthday cake. But when the door opened, instead of a house-elf or his mother, it was just his father. Celebrating his 18th with only one parent offended Draco. Why would his own mother avoid him? Her own son, her beloved only child?
His father said it was due to the upcoming "blooming" of the curse.
Pfft, what nonsense, Draco thought. He had his own mask; he could just use it. But whatever.
That night, he spent time talking to his father about their family and the curse, although the information was severely lacking. What did he mean, no one knew who cursed the Malfoys? Weren't they supposed to be one of the strongest wizarding families? It was weird, but Draco was too tired to think more.
Just before he slept, his father insisted he look at his own face. Annoyed but unable to say no, he faced his reflection. What he saw was…
His own face.
Nothing else.
Nothing more.
Well… except for the weird glow emitting from his skin.
But it was a normal thing for an adult Malfoy, so yeah. He then went off to dreamland.
The morning came, and Draco, with his empty belly, ran outside for breakfast. On his way, he passed several house-elves cleaning. Usually, they would greet him, but today they just stood there, eyes blown wide.
Draco clicked his tongue and screamed at them for their lack of manners, but instead of receiving hundreds of apologies, the house-elves walked toward him with slacked-jaw and widened-eyes. Their steps were slow, but they were definitely approaching him.
They were all silent, and Draco felt weird. Their eyes looked alarmed—it was as if a dead fish had a pair of starry eyes.
Draco wanted to push them away with magic, but he felt stupid. Why would he? So he turned around and continued his path at a much faster pace.
At the end of the hall, he heard a familiar sound. It was his mom!
With enthusiasm, Draco ran to his mother's embrace. "Oh, dear. Good morning, my—" Her words died when their eyes met.
"Mother?" Draco asked. "What's wrong—"
"Draco!" his father yelled behind her. "Your mask!"
"Ah, right. I forgot." He huffed, annoyed. He was hungry, and it was early in the morning; was it really necessary for his father to yell at him like that?
Draco sighed and was about to make a whiny retort when he heard his mother sob. She was bowing down slightly, her hands hovering before his face.
"Mother?" he asked. Her eyes were filled with tears, but Draco couldn't see sadness in them. There was something else—
"Run to your room!" his father yelled, even louder, and Draco ran.
His mother screamed behind, "Come back!!"
Draco almost halted at her command. He had never heard that kind of voice come from his calm, soft mother. On the way, he collided with a house-elf. He cursed at them, ordered them to stay away. But when he met their eyes, Draco was speechless. There were five of them gathering around him; one had its hands on his leg, another was about to lay its own.
In a panic, Draco kicked them away and ran.
He slammed his door shut and immediately rushed to find the mask. Thankfully, it was on his bedside desk.
He put it on and fell to the floor.
He was trembling, panting, and sweating. He didn't know what he had seen, what had just happened, or why it happened. Was it the curse? That was obvious. But why? How? Even his own mother?
In the middle of his chaotic thoughts, his owl landed softly on his arm. The beautiful brown bird cooed at him softly and nuzzled into his chest.
"Apollo, hi. What are you doing here?" he sniffed, patted the bird.
Apollo's big eyes blinked at him before pointing its leg. "A message for me?" The bird nodded and let Draco untie a small piece of paper.
It read: "Happy Birthday or whatever. I won't let you take the first spot. -HJP"
Draco went silent at first processing the words, then his anger rose and slammed the stupid, superfluous, imbecilic piece of rubbish to the floor.
"Potter, you prat!" he screamed to no one.
His gaze fell to the bird. "Apollo! How many times have I told you to stop hanging out with him or his stupid owl!"
Apollo cooed at him and tilted its head as if its intelligent bird brain didn't understand anything. Draco clicked his tongue.
The bird took this as its cue to leave. It flew to the giant window.
"Go have breakfast in your own bird-castle! I built that for you!"
He watched his beloved bird soaring into the sky and realizing that Apollo wouldn't come back to its own castle anytime soon.
"I'm going to expose that Scarhead as an owl thief…" he mumbled and walked out of his room.
In the dining room, his mother greeted him warmly. "Good morning, my dear," she said with her usual warm smile.
Draco froze. He blinked at her and then at his father. Lucius cleared his throat. "Sit down, Draco."
Draco didn't move, his body hesitated.
"Draco? What's wrong?" Narcissa asked, starting to get up, and Draco took a step back. "Dear?" She tilted her head, clearly confused and worried.
Draco didn't know what to say, so he turned to his father. Lucius sighed. "You clearly didn't listen to me last night, did you, son?"
"Uhh…" Draco shifted his eyes to the side, avoiding his father's judgemental eyes.
"Just sit down and eat. Everything will be okay as long as you use the mask," he said as a final decision.
The breakfast proceeded as normal. Although it was clear his mother was worried, Draco couldn't tell her anything, aside from shaking his head and smiling. What could he say, really? Mother, what was that before? Why did you look at me like that? Why did you scream?
Clearly, all those questions would lead to more complicated things—judging from his father's glare. Draco watched his mother while chewing on his own food; she was normal, as if nothing had happened.
As if she hadn't done any of that. As if she didn't remember…
Draco's fork fell from his hand, surprising himself. He apologized to his parents, avoided their gaze, bowed his head, and continued to eat and think. He remembered pieces from his childhood: the ball masks, the stories people told him, and his own father's words.
Did he remember everything? Of course not. He had been too young, too careless. And last night… he had been too grumpy to listen to pay attention to a lecture on his birthday. How could it be his fault?! He had never had such a lame birthday!
He sighed, feeling awful for himself, again. He was already 18, and yet somehow he still acted like a child.
He then tried to recall his father's explanation about the curse. The Malfoy curse: The Face. A Nameless Face. An Empty Face. One-Thousand Faces. The list went on.
No one could ever agree to settle on one name. Which was stupidly funny if you thought about it. What did he mean, an old family curse that had existed for years and still didn't have one chosen name? Weird.
But that didn't matter, because according to his father, Malfoy's face that had turned eighteen was not the face they had before. But then what had Draco seen in the mirror? Was it the glow? That didn't make any sense. But again, most curses didn’t make sense.
He glanced at his father. The man was eating calmly with half of his mask off while Draco struggled a little to open the lower part of his mask carefully to eat.
Lucius's face, to Draco, was the same as in the pictures from his youth. He did have his glow, but that was it.
So what has changed? That was the question he remembered asking his father last night. Lucius had shaken his head. "I cannot answer that. It depends on the other person."
"Who?"
"The one who sees you without your mask."
The answer wasn't helpful, and it only irritated Draco further. Despite his father's accusation that he hadn't listened properly, Draco had listened and understood in his own way. He listened and understood how little his father knew about their curse.
After he finished his breakfast, Draco locked himself in his new room. He felt guilty for not staying to enjoy the garden with his mother, but his brain was too loud for him to act as if he had nothing stuck on his face while talking to someone else.
What a pathetic curse. Was this a punishment for Malfoy's arrogance? Because that was the only logical explanation he could think of.
He groaned in frustration and decided to think about something else. His eyes then found the piece of trash—Potter's letter—still lying on the floor.
Draco levitated the paper into his palm, rereading Potter's ugly writing. He rolled his eyes as he put the paper on the nearest desk.
Right, he had no time to think about this curse. He had tests to pass.
Draco had decided to sign up for the Auror program, and for some reason, Potter saw this as a blatant offence, accusing Draco of being lazy and unoriginal because he had "copied" him. Typical Gryffindor idiocy.
New recruits were required to pass a four-part assessment. Draco had passed two tests brilliantly. While he only managed second place in the first, he outright beat Potter in the second. Ha! Eat that Potter!
Of course, that idiot had been furious. Funny.
In just two days, they would have the third test, which posed no real challenge to a genius wizard like Draco. If only he didn't have this thing on his face.
The mask itself was cool; he had to admit that. But he had never worn anything like it. Now he was supposed to use it twenty-four seven? Forever? What a cruel joke.
Draco launched himself onto the bed, rolling over simply to test the limits. To his surprise, the mask didn't dig into his skin or shift out of place. Instead, it adjusted seamlessly to accommodate his every movement.
"Well, well... Father wasn't lying. This is a fitting accessory for a Malfoy," he mused. Perhaps wearing a mask wouldn't be the unbearable hardship he had imagined.
It wasn't as if just anyone deserved to bask in his magnificence, anyway.