"His wand is in his hand, under the pillow," Blackmore summarized curtly. "I go in, paralyze him so he doesn't wake up prematurely. Cassius, you handle the wand. Marcus..."
"Maintaining the light and intervening if necessary."
Blackmore nodded, and Avery merely noted that Dexter was in his element. After all, Arcturus didn't do anything without reason. If he put Dexter in charge, then it was necessary. In the end, the most trusted person for Malfoy remained Marcus himself.
Blackmore stepped forward, crossing the invisible boundary of the dome. His figure momentarily wavered, as if through shimmering air. A wave of his wand — and the body froze. Petrificus Totalus worked as usual.
Cassius rushed in after him. He deftly lifted the edge of the pillow, only to see the sleeping Yarwood gripping his wand tightly. Cassius had to put in some effort, literally prying it from the boy's stiffened fingers.
It was at that moment that Avery caught the victim's accelerated breathing. It became sharp, intermittent, like that of a person suddenly waking up in pitch darkness. Apparently, Alistair had woken up. He had woken up and found that he couldn't move and couldn't scream. He felt three faceless shadows looming over him. His wand, which he had been clutching, had already been torn from his hand. Probably, few could understand the sheer terror Alistair Yarwood was experiencing at that moment.
But all those present couldn't care less about the fragile psyche of a true, ideological enemy.
Blackmore took Alistair's wand from Cassius's hands, examined it in the light of the red Lumos with a connoisseur's air, and then began to cast spells with it. A couple of passes — and magical ropes tightened around the body on the bed, immobilizing it even more securely. Only then did Blackmore, with a short, light flick, make the pillow pop out from under Yarwood's head.
Demonstrating excellent mastery of the Levitation Charm, he lowered the pillow onto Yarwood's face and only then removed the Petrificus. Thus, Yarwood couldn't even see them, since he hadn't been able to open his eyes before, and now his view was blocked by the pillow.
But before a scream could escape Alistair's chest, Blackmore, with cold, calculated cruelty, with another wave, caught the pillow again with the Levitation Charm and, pointing his wand downwards, pressed it harder and harder onto Alistair's face. He held it there for a while, as the muffled, moaning Alistair greedily tried to breathe in air, writhing as much as the magical bonds would allow.
Then Blackmore lifted the pillow literally a couple of centimeters. Air rushed into the victim's lungs, and the next second, he began to scream and cry for help.
"Help! Fletcher! Tolmen... come here! Please..."
At that moment, if one could see under the pillow, one would see wildly darting grey eyes, full of terror, facial features distorted around an aquiline nose, and a mouth open in a silent scream. He could see the barrier, notice the faceless hoods, see his own wand in one of their hands, but nothing more.
But he wasn't allowed to cry for help for long. The next second, the pillow pressed down again, cutting off the air.
"No one will hear your voice outside the barrier," Cassius said, deliberately altering his voice, even speaking through his robe collar, making it lower and hoarser.
And a long cycle began. The pillow would lift for a few seconds, allowing a gasp of air mixed with desperate, incoherent pleas, threats, and bargaining. Then it would press down again, but for much longer. The body under the blanket thrashed in silent agony, legs and arms twitching in their bonds.
Avery watched, and strange thoughts came to his mind. He wondered, could he have done that? Could he have endured without screaming? Or would he have broken immediately? Because he was lazy. And lazy people don't tolerate pain and discomfort. This thought somehow reassured him, but why he was imagining these torments upon himself was unclear.
With each cycle, the boy's cries and pleas became quieter and more desperate, and then stopped altogether. Only a hoarse, greedy gasp for air remained when the pillow lifted, and quiet sobs when it pressed down.
Eventually, the convulsions under the blanket stopped. He had passed out from lack of air. His breathing became barely perceptible — so they knew he wasn't dead, which would have been bad...
Blackmore nodded, signaling it was over. The finishing touch was loosening the magical bonds and another Petrificus, just in case.
Marcus extinguished his red Lumos, and the room plunged back into semi-darkness. When they moved the pillow, Alistair lay unconscious, pale as a sheet, mouth half-open, drool running down his cheek. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, and his characteristic nose now looked like a sharp spike on his gaunt face. A pathetic sight that didn't seem to bother Avery in the slightest. He didn't care.
Finally, he took an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the boy's chest. Cassius, in turn, placed a vial of pinkish potion on the bedside table. They had done exactly as Arcturus had instructed.
Leaving the area under the dome, Blackmore removed it. And so the three boys, not from this room, left Yarwood, not glancing back at the three pale, silent witnesses on the neighboring beds, who pretended to be asleep. They had been loyal to the Council before, but after this night, they would be even more so.
The deed was done. As Avery and Warrington said goodnight to Blackmore and headed to their own room, a simple, clear thought spun in Avery's head: "Tomorrow, I'll probably get some sleep…" And also… he was somehow sure that he would never again look at an ordinary feather pillow the way he used to.
***
POV. Alistair Yarwood.
Morning had not yet fully entered the room, but Alistair Yarwood's first sensation, even before his consciousness had fully assembled itself from the fragments of sleep, was a wild, uncontrollable lurch of his entire body upward. He shot up from a lying position, as if yanked by an invisible chain attached to his spine. His heart was pounding, and he was damn scared. Something fell from his chest onto the stone floor from the sudden movement.
He sat up straight as a rod, his eyes darting wildly around the room. He gasped for breath, as if invisible vices were squeezing his chest. His ears rang, his head was very heavy and soon threatened to give him a headache. And all this was broken only by the loud thumping of his own heart, well… and the steady snoring of Simon Tolmen from the neighboring bed. His other two roommates were also asleep, completely calmly. Everything was as usual.
But not quite. He greedily tried to inhale more air, as if he was suffocating. Something was monstrously, fundamentally wrong. Panic rose from the very base of his spine, constricting his throat. He unconsciously rubbed his neck — there were no bruises, no wounds, but he vividly remembered that inability to breathe. Deep breaths in and out were more attempts to stop the tremor in his hands. His mind desperately tried to convince him that perhaps it had been a nightmare? But he felt it wasn't. You can't mistake that for a dream.
His hand, still trembling, reached under the pillow. His fingers found a familiar object. His wand was there, but they had taken his wand. He pulled it out, gripping it so tightly his knuckles whitened, as if trying to absorb some confidence from it. Only then did his gaze fall on what had fallen to the floor.
It was a plain envelope. Made of coarse parchment, without any identifying marks.
He hadn't left that there. So, still sitting on the bed, he aimed his trembling wand at the envelope and whispered a spell that revealed nothing. No poison, no explosive charms, no traces of complex magic. Just old parchment.
Caution and paranoia (which, as it turned out, were not unwarranted) took over. He pulled on his dragon-hide gloves and only then, as if defusing a bomb, picked up the envelope from the floor. His fingers in the stiff leather were clumsy.
Inside was a single, folded sheet of paper. Just a couple of lines, written in a clear, impersonal handwriting that couldn't be linked to anyone.
"Last night you became a Seer, Alistair.
A Seer sees his own future. If your tongue should wag the wrong way again...
Your tongue will become your enemy. And the prophecies will be fulfilled to the end.
You will not see the dawn after that."
He read it once. Then he tried to read it again when he couldn't calm down. But the paper in his hands burst into flames. In a second, the entire sheet was consumed. Alistair threw the burning paper away from himself. In the air, it turned into a handful of ash, which scattered without leaving a trace.
He sat, staring at the spot where, moments ago, the burning paper should have fallen. And it was then, shifting his gaze from the floor to the bedside table, that he noticed another extraneous object.
A small vial of a pinkish, familiar liquid. A gift, familiar to the point of pain, that he received every Yule from… from Arcturus Malfoy. The Cure for Boils potion.
Everything fell into place, except for the animal fear inside. He was angry at himself, at Malfoy, and at all the others, but more than anything, he was afraid. Afraid that nothing would stop them from coming to him a second time.
Air escaped his lungs in a hoarse sound, somewhere between a sob and an hysterical, silent giggle. He clutched his throat again, trying to stifle the giggling that was bursting out.
"Why… why did I tell them…" he whispered quietly into the void, staring at the potion.
He slowly, with difficulty, got out of bed, his legs buckling. He walked over to the bedside table and picked up the vial of pink potion. Holding it in his hands, almost crying, he understood that this was the final warning, and he'd better not try to butt heads with Malfoy again… and to keep his mouth shut.
His roommates continued to sleep. The world around him was exactly as it had been yesterday. But for Alistair Yarwood, it had cracked into "before" and "after." "After" had begun with a hoarse whisper in the silent room and a vial in his hand.
***
When the boys returned to the room, I was still awake, so their quick debriefing fully repaid my waiting. They had done everything right. Even though there was no step-by-step explanation, all my requirements were met. Blackmore had performed everything perfectly — I had conducted a small test of his autonomy and avenged Alistair for his loose tongue.
In a good mood, I fell asleep, not forgetting to praise the guys for their coordinated work. Both Marcus and Cassius were in high spirits, even if they were a bit nervous, but that was just due to lack of practice. Kill a couple of people, and it will pass… pfft-ha-ha! Not funny! Stop smirking, Arcturus.
And why did I find that last thought so amusing!? Yes… questions about the cockroaches in my head existed, but I set them aside for the sake of sleep.
In the morning, as always, I got up early and went to train. On this particular Friday, I decided not to push myself too hard, so I finished my training quickly. And I was curious to see if I could get past the stairs without the Headmaster, so I left the Room of Requirement half an hour early. And yes, I could.
I blissfully descended to the first floor alone and decided, just in case, to go in and sit at the table for sure, but I hadn't even reached the doors of the Great Hall when I was hailed by the painfully familiar, elderly voice of dear old Grandpa Dumbledore.
"Mr. Malfoy! I see you also decided to come to the Great Hall early today?"
"Good morning, Professor Dumbledore. An interesting coincidence that you did too."
I can't… No, I really can't anymore! Surely he realizes how blatant this is, and he even knows that I understand he's doing it on purpose! Aaaaaah, it's so infuriating! Can't it stop already? I'm so tired… of all this crap! How I just want to say it all to his face and just get the hell out…
He, as usual, began to ramble on about everything and nothing, as on almost every day. At the very end of the conversation, he added a more significant phrase.
"Ah, how wonderful it is to have someone to talk to, isn't it?"
"I think you're right, Headmaster."
"If something is bothering you too, you know who you can turn to," the Headmaster said, winking at me.
We walked the rest of the way to my seat in silence, side by side, and this was beyond the pale… No, of course, I had expected such an effect, but had my deception really worked so well? Or was the Headmaster pretending to believe me? Aaaaah, how difficult.
Alright, let's assume everything is fine, and he, seeing on the Map that I'm leaving the Room of Requirement, arrives on time to strengthen my attitude towards him through conversation. Maybe things are going badly with Sirius, and that's why he's directly targeting me for recruitment? Otherwise, why would he spend so much time on me!? I've been at Hogwarts for three years, and I've spoken with the Headmaster less in all that time than I have this week.
The most interesting thing is that he just talks to me about everyday things, not trying to use tricks to instill anything. Apparently, he decided that with me, he needed to use a subtle approach to get closer.
If that's the case, maybe I should seriously consider getting the Headmaster's support? But how does that fit with the plan… How will Dumbledore perceive the duel, and then what might follow? And can I convince him again that I'm not the one to blame?
I thought all through breakfast, and then through all the lessons. Thoughts and ideas chased each other. I had many choices, but, to be honest, I was just tired. When I sat in the Headmaster's office that Saturday, an idea occurred to my bright mind. I thought, what if I escalated the conflict with that motley crew led by Vance to an extreme degree?
On that basis, I could request, as part of an exchange program, to be transferred for the remainder of the third year and all of the fourth to another… any school. Preferably to Beauxbatons. I think my father would donate some money to the school to arrange such an exchange. Because, firstly, tuition at Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and other international schools was paid, and secondly, after the civil war, other magical countries were extremely reluctant to re-establish contact with Britain, especially other schools. Of all the international school programs, only the exchange program with a few schools from the Great Eleven Wizarding Schools and the Potions Championship remained.
I think in the last ten or fifteen years, there have been no exchanges with Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Only with the South American Castelobruxo. And even that was only one way to us. So the system would need to be sweetened.
At the same time, if I want to "befriend" Dumbledore, I don't need to go anywhere; I'd better be a goody-goody and a paladin of light, but that's only if I really want to. If push comes to shove, he could support me… if my father reacts extremely negatively to my inheritance. Which I wouldn't want, because I don't need that. The Headmaster, in my fantasies, could help, but only on this matter.
I just don't think my father plans to mold me into a full-fledged Head of the House of Black at the moment. To secure the inheritance, it's enough to simply accept it, followed by the appointment of a regent until the end of school, that is, until I officially become legally capable.
But I don't give a damn what exactly my father wants or that he's fighting against Sirius's release. I'm not going to miss the chance to gain complete freedom and enormous power at fourteen! A single title will give me everything I need for future achievements.
And it's this specific factor that worries me. What are the chances that after I become Lord, the Headmaster will let me leave school? And the conflicts won't fly either. If someone touches the head of a noble house, the Lord, as head of the house, can either sue them or challenge them to a duel to the death or just wipe the floor with them, because any insult to the person equals an insult to the house. That wouldn't work with equals, but when you're the only one like that, they wouldn't even expel you from school. Well… in theory.
And if the Headmaster wants to recruit me, I won't be able to escape this endless circle of communication with him. But it's too early to count unhatched dragons.
If things work out with the House of Black, then ideally I would need time to sort out the affairs of the dormant house and immerse myself in the knowledge of the Black library. I'm hoping to get some extra vacation for this significant reason, but would that be enough? School is such a hindrance…
These thoughts made me start thinking about what I could do in the near future. The plan for the motley crew of upper-years changed, as did the new way out of the current situation.
Everything around had become very tangled and unpredictable, as if I were hanging by one hand, clutching a rope that had a 50/50 chance of breaking after my fourteenth birthday. But if it works out… if it works out, then nothing and no one will be able to stop me.
With this chaos in my head, I sat through all the lessons, and only towards the end of the last one, mechanically repeating wand movements, did I remember that I needed to discuss the duel with the judge. Fortunately, our last lesson was with Flitwick, who, by virtue of his achievements, was the school's main judge for such duels. Now that the class was noisily dispersing, the moment to act had come. I set everything aside, stood up, and headed to the lectern, where Professor Flitwick, standing on a stack of books, was animatedly discussing something with a couple of students.