Boundless

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 (𝟒𝟏)

Olivia

The gardens of Malfoy Manor had been lifeless when I arrived last winter—wilted under frost, choked by neglect. But now, the roses had returned. Their deep crimson petals curled open in the warmth of the early evening, climbing up the marble trellises I had restored with careful hands.

It was the only part of this place that felt like mine.

I stood among them, waiting.

The sky stretched in soft hues of orange and lavender, a fleeting moment of peace before the inevitable weight of the night pressed back in. A breeze carried the scent of fresh earth, but I barely noticed. My heart was steady, my breathing controlled, but inside, a quiet storm raged.

I hadn't seen my father since Azkaban.

Since the trial. Since the fall.

And yet, as he stepped into the garden, he looked... smaller.

Not in height, not in presence—but in weight. In power.

For the first time in my life, my father looked fragile.

The sharp edges of his once-imposing figure had softened, his usually impeccable robes slightly looser against his frame. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, dark and hollow, as if even the sun couldn't reach him.

But when he saw me, his expression remained the same.

Steady. Measuring. Unchanged.

"Olivia," he greeted, his voice carrying that same quiet authority that had ruled my childhood.

"Father," I returned, polite, poised.

He stepped forward slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, gaze sweeping over the restored gardens. A flicker of something unreadable passed across his face. "I see you have been busy."

"It was a waste to let them die."

He hummed in approval, reaching out to touch the edge of a rose. His fingers, usually strong and commanding, hesitated for just a fraction of a second before pulling away.

I watched him closely.

He was different.

A lifetime of war and a cold cell in Azkaban had stripped away something I wasn't sure he could ever regain.

And yet, he was still my father.

Which meant this was not just a reunion.

This was a transaction.

His hand dipped into the pocket of his robes, retrieving a small black velvet box. "Here," he said simply, handing it to me.

I took it without hesitation, snapping the lid open.

Inside, nestled against dark silk, lay an intricate silver necklace. A single emerald stone hung from its centre, deep green and unyielding. A Malfoy jewel.

Payment for his absence.

He had always paid for forgiveness in fine jewellery, rare books, lavish gowns—anything that could be wrapped in a box and left on my bedside table with a neatly penned apology.

It was never spoken.

Never explained.

And I had never refused.

I lifted it, the metal cool between my fingers. "It's beautiful."

He nodded, watching me carefully.

His gaze flickered—just slightly—to my left hand.