The message arrived at dawn.
Urgent. Unrefined. Panicked.
Abraxas Malfoy—dying.
I didn't waste a second.
The letter hadn't even finished crumpling in my hand before I vanished from Peverell Castle, the world twisting violently as I Apparated directly into Malfoy Manor.
The moment I arrived, I felt it.
The sickness.
It clung to the air like a curse—thick, suffocating, unnatural. Dark green veins of magic pulsed faintly along the walls, barely visible to the untrained eye. But to me, with my enhanced senses and mastery over magic…
It was obvious.
Dragon Pox.
But not just any strain.
This one was aggressive. Advanced. Mutated.
Lethal.
I stepped forward without hesitation, my cloak trailing behind me as I entered the main chamber.
The Malfoy family stood gathered—silent, tense, afraid.
And in the center of it all…
Abraxas.
He lay on the bed, his once-pristine appearance ruined. His skin was pale, almost grey, marred by dark, blistering pustules that pulsed faintly with corrupted magic. His breathing was shallow. Uneven.
Dying.
His eyes barely opened as I approached.
"…Tom…" he rasped.
I didn't respond.
Not yet.
Because right now, emotion was a distraction.
And I could not afford distraction.
"Clear the room," I said coldly.
No one argued.
They moved instantly.
Within seconds, only my most trusted healers remained—those I had personally recruited, trained, and refined for moments exactly like this.
I turned to them.
"Status."
One of them, a sharp-eyed witch with steady hands, stepped forward.
"Severe magical infection," she said quickly. "The Dragon Pox has spread into his magical core. Standard potions are ineffective. We've stabilized him temporarily, but—"
"He won't last the day," I finished.
She hesitated.
"…No."
Good.
Honesty.
I stepped closer to Abraxas, placing a hand just above his chest—not touching, but feeling.
His magic was collapsing.
Rotting from the inside out.
A normal wizard would already be dead.
But Abraxas wasn't normal.
And neither was I.
I exhaled slowly.
"Prepare everything," I ordered. "We're not treating symptoms. We're rebuilding him."
The healers froze for a fraction of a second.
Then—
"Yes, my Lord."
Minutes later, the room transformed into something closer to an alchemical theatre than a sickroom.
Potions lined the tables.
Runes burned faintly into the floor.
Magical instruments hovered in the air, ready.
And at the center of it all…
I stood, holding the Philosopher's Stone.
It pulsed in my hand—alive, aware.
Waiting.
This was not how most would use it.
Not for simple gold.
Not even for immortality.
No.
This… was true alchemy.
I began.
First, the Elixir.
A single drop of the Stone's power was enough—but controlling it required absolute precision. Too much, and his body would reject it. Too little, and it wouldn't be enough to purge the disease.
I crushed rare ingredients into the mixture—phoenix ash, essence of dittany, stabilized dragon bile—each one carefully measured, perfectly balanced.
The liquid shimmered.
Gold… then red… then something deeper.
Alive.
"Now," I said.
The healers moved.
One stabilized his body.
Another reinforced his magical core.
A third prepared containment wards in case something went wrong.
Smart.
Very smart.
I tilted Abraxas's head slightly and poured the Elixir into his mouth.
For a moment…
Nothing happened.
Then—
He screamed.
His body arched violently, veins glowing as the Elixir spread through him. The Dragon Pox reacted instantly, flaring in resistance, blackened magic pushing back against the golden light of the Stone.
"Hold him," I commanded.
The healers locked him in place with magic.
I stepped forward, placing my hand directly over his chest this time.
And I pushed.
Magic surged from me—precise, controlled, overwhelming.
Not destructive.
Surgical.
I could see it clearly now.
The infection.
How it clung to his magical pathways. How it fed on his core.
Disgusting.
I reached into it—not physically, but magically—and began tearing it out.
Piece by piece.
Thread by thread.
Abraxas screamed again, louder this time, his body trembling as the disease was forcibly separated from him.
"Stabilize his heart," I snapped.
"It's failing!"
"Then don't let it."
I increased the flow of magic.
The Elixir surged in response, its power amplifying mine. Where I cut, it healed. Where I removed, it rebuilt.
This wasn't just curing him.
This was reconstruction.
Minutes felt like hours.
But slowly…
The blackened magic faded.
The pustules shrank.
His breathing steadied.
And then—
Silence.
I stepped back.
"Check him."
The healers rushed forward, scanning, analyzing.
A moment passed.
Then another.
And finally—
"He's… stable," one of them said, disbelief in her voice.
"Not just stable," another added quietly. "He's… healed."
A faint smirk tugged at my lips.
Of course he was.
A few moments later, Abraxas's eyes opened fully.
Clear.
Alive.
He looked at me—really looked this time—and I could see it in his expression.
Understanding.
Gratitude.
Loyalty.
"My Lord…" he said weakly.
I raised a hand, cutting him off.
"Rest," I said simply. "You'll need it."
He nodded slightly, already drifting back into unconsciousness—this time, natural sleep.
Not death.
I turned away, my gaze sweeping across the room.
"This," I said calmly, "is why we invest in healing."
The healers straightened immediately.
"On the battlefield," I continued, "power wins fights. But healing… wins wars."
No one disagreed.
Because they had just seen it firsthand.
As I walked toward the exit, one thought lingered in my mind.
The Philosopher's Stone pulsed faintly in my hand.
Life.
Death.
Control over both.
This was power beyond even most magic.
And now…
It belonged to me.