Chapter 650: Surrender
“Dumbledore—do you know about Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup?”
Lucius Malfoy had made up his mind with grim resolve before deciding to reveal this secret—one known to only a handful of souls—to Albus Dumbledore. His voice dropped to a hushed whisper, his expression tense, every flicker of his face subtly conveying: This conversation is of utmost importance. Only you and I can know it.
After speaking, he paused just slightly, lifting his eyes with a barely noticeable glance toward the Headmaster’s reaction.
Dumbledore was sipping tea. A faint twitch passed through his brow, then he set the cup down. The flicker in his eyes had already stilled, calm once more.
“Of course I know,” the Headmaster said, his tone as untroubled as ever.
Lucius Malfoy instinctively licked his lips, his fingers idly tracing the rim of the cup, suddenly uncertain of the weight of the intelligence he’d just offered.
To strengthen his case, he began recounting how he’d come by the knowledge—years ago, before Voldemort had been reduced to a ghostly wraith by the rebounding curse.
At that time, the Dark Lord’s power had been at its peak. While Dumbledore remained the only one he truly feared, the entire British Wizarding World trembled beneath his shadow. Even the most formidable Aurors—like Moody—were not immune to dread. Heroes like Madam Longbottom and Longbottom, or James and Lily Potter, could not step outside their homes without wondering if they’d make it back alive that night.
Under such circumstances, Lucius Malfoy had no choice but to display unwavering loyalty—just like every other Death Eater.
But even among Death Eaters, his loyalty stood out for its simplicity. While others showed their devotion through more dramatic means—Bellatrix’s bloodthirst, Snape’s cold silence, Dolohov’s ferocity, Karkaroff’s sycophantic flattery, or Little Barty Crouch’s chilling declaration that he’d gladly kill his own father for the Dark Lord—Lucius Malfoy’s loyalty was straightforward: he gave money.
Money was the foundation of everything. Even Voldemort’s magical dominance and terror could not erase the fact that, in the Muggle world and beyond, currency was still king. And with his elegant bearing, noble lineage, pure-blood status, and, above all, his wealth, Lucius Malfoy had become one of Voldemort’s most trusted Death Eaters—ranked alongside Bellatrix Lestrange.
This status earned him a rare privilege: the duty to guard something of immense importance.
At the time, Lucius had no idea what the seemingly ordinary Muggle notebook truly was. From Voldemort’s cryptic instructions, he assumed it was a powerful weapon crafted by the Dark Lord himself. After Voldemort’s disappearance, Lucius had secretly tested the notebook—only to discover it tried to manipulate him through whispers. He sealed it away immediately.
In his mind, such magical artifacts were almost always cursed. They either imprisoned devils or hid malevolent spirits. Even now, as he confessed to Dumbledore, Lucius still believed this.
He had brought the diary to Hogwarts, yet it had caused no ripple—no reaction, no disturbance. To him, this silence was deeply strange.
Now, under Dumbledore’s gaze, Lucius spoke hesitantly:
“I… I wanted to teach Arthur Weasley a lesson. So I slipped it into the hands of his young daughter. But somehow, she must have thrown it away… or Arthur disposed of it. In any case, it’s vanished.”
Leaning forward, his tone respectful, yet tinged with regret, his eyes remained fixed on Dumbledore’s face.
Dumbledore gave a soft, quiet “Hmm.” The tone betrayed neither surprise nor doubt—just calm, impenetrable stillness.
His gaze never wavered, neither evading nor probing. There was no sharpness, no edge—just a surface as serene as a lake veiled in morning mist.
Under such a stare, Lucius felt like a student reciting a lesson. He took a deep breath, desperate to say more.
“Later, I remembered… there was someone else who’d been entrusted with guarding something by the Dark Lord.”
Young Bellatrix Lestrange, still unrefined in her devotion, had been eager to flaunt her importance. After Voldemort had ordered secrecy, the only person she could boast to was her sister, Narcissa.
Though married to Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa had never officially joined the Death Eaters. She bore no Dark Mark, never performed acts of murder or torture, nor engaged in espionage. She was merely “Malfoy’s Wife,” using her family’s resources to support Lucius’s activities—indirectly aiding the Dark Lord.
To Bellatrix, Narcissa was a trusted, loyal sister—no rival, no threat, no risk of betrayal.
So she couldn’t resist letting slip a few remarks: how Lucius was merely a foolish purse, while she was the Dark Lord’s true right hand. How even “the thing” had been entrusted to her.
She held back from revealing too much—yet she never realized that after Narcissa gave birth to a child, her position had subtly shifted.
Lucius soon learned of their conversation. And then, another memory surfaced.
Rodolphus Lestrange, drunk one evening, had uncharacteristically removed his mask of loyalty, his face dark with bitterness.
“Lucius Malfoy,” he slurred, “you’re luckier than me… at least Narcissa still looks at you.”
He took another swig, a bitter smile on his lips. “What about my wife? She dreams of him—I’m nothing but a cloak to match her pure-blood lineage.”
“Bellatrix is simply more devoted,” Lucius said, feigning sympathy. “After all, your family is among the Dark Lord’s most trusted. That honor isn’t easily matched.”
“Honor?” Rodolphus laughed, half-drunk. “What honor is that? Don’t pretend I don’t know what you’re all whispering behind my back… It’s just the Golden Cup, isn’t it? An old relic, long useless. She hides it in my family vault like it’s priceless—yet I’m not even allowed to touch it. The Dark Lord himself wouldn’t let me.”
He muttered on, and Lucius listened without a word, letting the man believe he understood, all the while concealing any hint of disloyalty.
After sobering up, Rodolphus forgot the conversation entirely. He returned to being the quiet, unremarkable man behind Bellatrix—faithful, obedient, ready to serve as her weapon.
Lucius, too, “forgot” the incident. But the word Golden Cup lingered in his mind.
In the British Wizarding World, the most famous Golden Cup was, of course, Helga Hufflepuff’s—legendary, passed down through her descendants, said to possess unique magic.
But no one truly believed in its power anymore. If it were truly powerful, why had the Hufflepuff line remained so unremarkable?
Other famous cups existed—Arthurian legends spoke of the Holy Grail, the Chalice of Youth, the Cauldron of Dagda, the Golden Cup used by King Solomon to seal demons.
But when Lucius considered Voldemort’s obsession with Hogwarts and his fixation on the Four Founders’ legends, one conclusion emerged: the Dark Lord had valued Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup above all.
It was the only one with a known location. The others were mere myths.
He wasn’t seeking the cup for power. He simply felt a quiet resentment—why had Bellatrix received the legendary artifact, while he was left with nothing but a dusty Muggle notebook?
The feeling was irrational, unspoken, but it nagged at him constantly—like a itch in his chest.
Now, as he told Dumbledore, that resentment had transformed into something else: proof of his sharp perception, his deep foresight, and his growing disillusionment with Voldemort.
The thought of betraying the Dark Lord stirred only a brief tremor of guilt—quickly suppressed.
To Lucius, it wasn’t betrayal. The two violent transformations of the Dark Mark proved the Dark Lord had failed in his resurrection—perhaps even died. And now, the power had passed to Little Barty Crouch.
Could he, Lucius Malfoy—head of an ancient Pure-Blood family, heir to noble titles, representative of the wizarding elite, a senior official in the Ministry—submit to a boy barely surviving by luck?
What was Little Barty Crouch but a weakling who’d turned him into a toad and humiliated his son?
And even if he bowed, would the boy truly accept him? The animosity the boy bore toward him was palpable.
If Lucius ever reappeared after a reversal charm, the boy might return at any moment—leading a loyal army of Death Eaters.
Then the Malfoy family would be truly finished.
So Lucius needed to leap onto a stronger ship—fast.
In his mind, surrendering to Dumbledore, betraying Voldemort’s secrets, was not treachery. It was necessity. It was reason. It was survival—of the Pure-Blood families, of wizarding tradition itself.
Yet, under the influence of some mysterious magic, he failed to consider one possibility: the repeated, violent shifts of the Dark Mark did not mean Voldemort was dead. Nor did they signal a change of master.
Their true master still struggled between life and death, clawing his way back, slowly regaining strength.
Dumbledore knew this. But he said nothing.
Instead, he quietly brought out his jar of Honey Drops, offering them with a look of pity.
“Mr. Malfoy,” he said slowly, “how much do you know about the Lestrange family’s treasure vault? Is there any way to investigate whether Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup might be hidden there?”
“I’m sorry,” Lucius sighed, sincere. “I’d love to help—if I could. But neither I nor Narcissa can enter the Lestrange vault. Unless…”
His voice faltered. His throat moved.
Dumbledore finished the thought: “Unless there’s another prison break at Azkaban… and the Lestrange family members personally withdraw their wealth from Gringotts?”
“Of course… there’s another way,” Lucius whispered, leaning in. “The three remaining Lestrange members are all imprisoned. If they were to… die… then, under inheritance law, Narcissa would inherit their entire estate—including the cup.”
Though Sirius Black still lived in the Black family manor, he was only a cousin to Bellatrix. Narcissa, as the younger sister, had a higher claim.
Even without her, the next heir would be Draco Malfoy.
Lucius imagined the vast treasure vault of the Lestrange family—enough to make even him, one of the wealthiest wizards in Britain, feel a surge of greed. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry.
Dumbledore watched him, as if seeing the gold rain clinking inside the man’s mind.
He sipped his tea. The warmth in the office seemed to fade.
“Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said, voice calm, “murder is not a solution. It is the beginning of greater problems.”
“Even for those who have committed such crimes?” Malfoy objected. “You know they deserved death long ago.”
The moment he spoke, he met Dumbledore’s gaze.
A chill ran through him.
No words were said—but he understood instantly.
If the Headmaster had been willing to go to any lengths, Lucius would have died decades ago. He wouldn’t have lived freely for years, nor sit here now, sipping tea with him.
Dumbledore’s fingers tapped lightly on the desk. After a pause, he said:
“Even the prisoners in Azkaban are protected by law. If we begin trampling justice, we lose the line that separates civilization from savagery, Lucius Malfoy.”
(End of Chapter)
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