My chambers were beyond all praise. Firstly, the absence of neighbors. Secondly, every element of the interior spoke of wealth and taste — from the carved walls to the four-poster bed with its canopy sewn from expensive fabric. A private bathroom, a wardrobe filled with the highest quality clothing tailored for me — and all this was merely part of the comfort.
Furthermore, my room was a protected space: the door was enchanted with a whole complex of reinforcing and defensive charms. If I wished, I could lock the door so that no Alohomora would work, and a direct hit from a Bombarda would be unlikely to breach the protection. It would be easier to break through the wall, but the wall itself, like everywhere in the manor, was also protected by charms. Not as strongly, of course, but it should withstand an ordinary Bombarda.
Some rooms in the Manor had similar protective complexes covering the entire space, like the library or Father's study, but my room was special to me. It was my corner, my space, a territory where I felt cozy and calm, where I could do anything I wanted.
The only "flaw," I considered, was the possibility of house-elves apparating inside. As I understood it, the issue came down to convenience: it was possible to make it so that not even a house-elf could teleport inside, but that would result in enormous practical difficulties. Our ancestors apparently had to choose a compromise: security in exchange for comfort.
On the other hand, I could call a servant at any moment to carry out any task. But if it were up to me, I would have forgone this convenience. Maybe it's paranoia, but house-elves possess reason, which means, in theory, they too could be subjugated by mental magic. It's unlikely to be that simple, given that most ancient families preferred convenience, but the possibility remained.
Hah… I remembered that the further you go, the fewer of those noble families remain. Apparently, there's something wrong with this approach after all. Alright, let's leave the brooding for later. Now it's time to try and put into practice what I learned over a whole night.
I sat in the lotus position. Well, not that it was required for Occlumency, but perhaps it would help. The books claimed: calmness of the body leads to calmness of the mind. Breathe slowly. Cut off unnecessary thoughts. Imagine your consciousness is a lake, and your task is to smooth its surface.
Half an hour later, I understood one thing: no. The meditation pose infuriated me. My back was stiff, my legs ached, and my thoughts, instead of quieting down, only hammered louder inside my skull. It felt like the day had been wasted.
The book said: imagine each thought is a bird flying away from a branch. Let them go, free the space. But for me, it was the opposite: these Mordred-like "birds" landed by the dozens, shrieking and beating their wings. In a word, a mess… aargh, I remembered what was wrong.
Exactly! Spell practice! I hadn't trained once today, and it had already become a habit. You can't just forget a habit that was so hard to ingrain. But since I was in my room, only one option remained — to try and practice magical arts without destructive spells, because while the door was strong, I didn't want to hurl something destructive at the extremely expensive, non-government-issue furniture.
So, the only thing left was to exhaust myself with spells that were utterly harmless to the surrounding space. In general, even before school, my parents had made it clear to me that the frequent use of spells and magic in general makes a wizard stronger.
In any case, every wizard has their limit. This is the so-called magical potential. A wizard, even without training as intensively as I do, uses spells and magic throughout their life. Sometimes a wizard's potential can be so low that they reach their limit of magical strength and potential even without special training, simply over the course of seven years at Hogwarts, maybe a bit more.
Mostly, wizards with average potential reach their limit at some point, but only by the end of their lives. Say, they use a dozen spells every day for 60-70 years. There are also other cases, where a wizard has a greater innate magical gift but doesn't develop it, and despite using the same ten spells a day for 60-70 years, they simply never reach their peak/limit.
That is, an individual with weak magical potential can train until they're blue in the face and reach their boundary in ten years instead of half a century, and then remain at the same level of magical development for the rest of their life.
Although no one limits the pursuit of magical knowledge, their reserve will be the same in 50 years, and high-level magic literally won't work for them, nor will any magic demanding of one's potential, like power-hungry and demanding rituals, powerful charms, advanced Transfiguration, etc.
So, in simple terms, magical potential is the natural limit for the development of one's magical reserve and magical channels.
Magical channels are a conventional term for the energy pathways in the body; the stronger the magical channels, the greater their throughput capacity — how much magical energy the body can channel through itself at any given moment.
A wizard's potential is naturally limited, but then again, that's why people are sentient. Fortunately, I have a fairly high magical potential, I'd even say extremely high.
But even that wasn't enough for me. I had no intention of accepting boundaries. I have high potential, but even that is insufficient. There will always be someone more talented. And I must be above them. Stronger than that "more talented one," not for the sake of empty power, but for the possibilities. I want to create, to destroy, and to live. To be someone who is truly free, who can dictate their own rules, who can change the very world to suit their desires. Who can step beyond the possible.
Otherwise… what is it all for? A library — priceless knowledge — is at my fingertips, as are vast finances and political power, which means I will find ways to circumvent limitations, even if they aren't in the restricted section of our library.
Why, of course! I am literally the direct heir of the wealthiest family in magical Britain, with a thousand-year history and a corresponding library of invaluable knowledge. And I am also the primary candidate for the role of Head of the House of Black. Sirius is sitting in Azkaban, after all. Although, I know he will escape. Which means I must hurry with the matter of claiming the inheritance.
With these thoughts, I closed my eyes again. I tried to do as the book advised: 'Imagine yourself inside your own mind, simultaneously attempting to gather and direct imaginary energy and will into your head.'
It was interesting that this energy wasn't entirely imaginary… but it was worth considering that many couldn't grasp that magic literally flows within the body — it's just intangible and invisible to the naked eye, even the eye of a wizard.
Gradually, I began to feel this calm. With every second, it was as if I was falling into an abyss, deeper and deeper. I submerged into darkness, listening to my breathing. At first, there was emptiness, then — noise. As if a crowd was arguing in my head, every voice demanding attention. Fragments of memories, moments of life, began to flicker before my eyes. From time to time, I felt emotions, but not current ones, "past" ones. Someone's voices, even a dialogue, somewhere in the distance.
Shreds of memories, foreign thoughts, pieces of my plans — everything was mixed up. Everything was constantly changing, memory fragments surfacing in my consciousness, like tattered pieces, and they seemed to smolder, growing increasingly faded and fragile.
And suddenly, amidst this chaos, something flared up. Not random. Clear. A memory. One of the few that hadn't faded after the rituals, hadn't torn apart in the whirlwind of thoughts. And I plunged into this memory, solid as a rock. It was as if I was sinking into water, and with every second, everything else became quieter and less noticeable…
The darkest and most ancient of the Noble Houses. A single name, one surname — and families with long histories on the continent still tremble to whisper it by candlelight.
Those who know the true history know the power that could twist fates and break the wills of enemies. In Britain, this has been forgotten. Time has scorched the memory, leaving only a dusty shadow of an extinct house. A house that was, that spawned half a dozen truly dark wizards later called Dark Lords.
Once, the great ancestors of the darkest house led the Wild Hunt. In the era of legends and myths, when great spirits and Fae roamed the earth, when the barrier between worlds was thin, when entities eager to enslave wizards constantly appeared in the world. Then, the Wild Hunt swept through like a scythe.
Once… but I remembered. I swore to myself and to Grandmother Walburga: the House of Black will not die out. Never. I will not allow it. Even now, being almost a different person, I was steadfast in my oath.
The house will not die out! I will not allow it! My memory was like a sieve, but this moment I would not forget. I was nine years old the last time I spoke with Grandmother Walburga. She was already dying. One of the family curses…
The curse had sunk its teeth into her like a wolf into its prey's throat, and slowly, over the years, drained her strength. All that remained of the iron Lady of the House of Black was a shadow. But even this shadow knew how to hold itself upright. The illness, vile and terrible, corroded her magic, gnawed at her consciousness, and exhausted her body.
In her final years, only a shadow remained, but it was hope that helped her give me her guidance — the last, but most important in her life.
I remember how I feared her as a child. Her cold gaze, her voice where every intonation sounded like a verdict. But in her final years, I only pitied her; she seemed broken — I saw for the first time not a stern statue, but a tired woman who held herself with majesty until her last breath. Thin, fragile, skin stretched over bones, breathing ragged, but… her posture still straight. A slight lift of the chin, not allowing one to forget who stood before you. Even dying, Walburga Black remained an aristocrat.
Dignified and graceful. I couldn't help but admire her. She was the one who had held her entire family in her hands, the one who had survived the death of her son and husband, and later the imprisonment in Azkaban of her other son, the last heir of the house.
She had lived and seen the great days of the Blacks, and their decline had also occurred during her time. But if it is a decline, then I will do everything so that the sun never sets on the House of Black.
In her final years, she called for me more and more often. Mother would take me to her chambers, which smelled of death and the foul odor of a mixture of potions. And each time, Walburga would whisper to me about blood. About who I am. About the fact that I am not only a Malfoy. I am a Black. And it doesn't matter that the whole world has already buried this house.
That is why I never forgot for a second that I am not only a Malfoy, but also a Black. Back then, that evening… in her last conversation with me… I heard words that were forever burned into my memory.
She lay on a high bed, surrounded by old books and candles. Her eyes — a void where a fire still smoldered. Her voice — the crackle of a flame, almost extinguished but still burning.
It seemed as if Death itself stood in the corner of the room, waiting to finally be called. I sat beside her, afraid to breathe. I pitied her, but along with pity came something else: pride, that she was my grandmother.
And so, that evening, one of her last, she called me closer, raised her hand with difficulty, and touched my face. I froze. And then her monologue sounded — her testament:
"Arcturus," she whispered, and her voice was like the crackle of a dying flame. Hoarse and weak. "Come closer."
I took a step forward. A faint but stubborn fire burned in her eyes. She raised a trembling hand and touched my face — with cold, bony fingers.
"Remember…" her voice grew quieter, but every word rang like a spell. "To be a Black is to carry royal blood within you. You are the blood of my blood. You are a true Black. Do not forget that. Never."
I listened, and my heart pounded so hard it hurt in my chest.
"You are the one who will relight the stars in the firmament. Your name is no accident. Arcturus… one of the brightest stars in the sky. The Guardian that shines where darkness gathers. You are the key! Tradition! Destiny!"
Her breathing faltered, but her eyes still burned into me like a blade.
"Promise me…" she coughed but didn't allow herself weakness. "Promise me, child… that you will elevate the house. Restore our power. Glory. Dignity. … Become the guiding star. You are young, but I see… I see a true Black in your eyes. Become the worthiest of us. You are my last hope. Arcturus-Corvus… cough… Armand… Black-Malfoy, the First of His Name…"
I didn't know what to say then. My voice was stuck in my throat. I just nodded, and tears streamed down my cheeks — hot, angry, not a child's tears. She smiled — for the first and last time in my memory. A weak, ghostly smile that was worth more than a thousand words.
A few days later, she was gone. But her voice remained. And her gaze remained — harsh, piercing, demanding.
Since then, no matter how many years pass, I always hear this whisper: "You are my last hope…" And only by her coffin, where she had finally found peace, could I quietly whisper — I promise.
And I swore — her hope would not die with her. Such a clear memory was one of those rare ones that hadn't faded after the ritual and hadn't torn apart in this chaos. This scene, like an anchor, held the first part of my personality. And it was all the more terrifying, on the edge of this fragment, to look at the storm, at the chaos that is my consciousness.
…I opened my eyes, and the immersion into my consciousness, into the memory-anchor, dissipated like smoke, leaving me with a strange feeling — as if I had just touched the anchor to which a part of me is tied… a part of my consciousness.
And immediately, reality washed over me — the very reality in which I live, and until this moment I hadn't even understood the scale of the problem. For more than six months, I had lived simply complaining about my memory, about frequent headaches, about confusion in my thoughts, about… a leaky memory… or had it already been… aargh! In short…
My consciousness is not whole. It is like a shattered mirror, where two reflections are desperately trying to merge into one. Two lives, two systems of values, two sets of memories.
But all this time they have been connecting, colliding with each other. Scratching against each other, trying to intertwine and merge, while simultaneously destroying the points of connection in desperate attempts to achieve the desired standard. For example, over there: in one corner of the mind — the smells of the old Manor, Father's severity, Mother's cold glances. In the other — a noisy city, cars, the internet, and memories that shouldn't exist here. Sometimes these images overlap: I see the Malfoy library, but instead of leather-bound volumes on the shelf, a laminated cover from another world suddenly flashes.
For six months, I have existed as if two realities are simultaneously fighting for my "I." Sometimes they touch and spark painfully, as if someone is forcibly connecting different wires. Sometimes one part of the memory absorbs the other, and I'm not sure — am I remembering or am I imagining?
I subconsciously tried to control this. I tried to find the boundary, to separate my own from the foreign. But no books on Occlumency prepared me for such a war in my head.