I stood before the tall mirror in my room at Malfoy Manor, studying my own reflection.
Thirteen years old. Almost fourteen. Someone else was looking back at me — not the boy who had first crossed the threshold of Hogwarts three years ago. My features had sharpened, I had grown much taller, and now my physique could confidently be called toned, I would even say… athletic. True, I wasn't looking at the changes in my body, but into my own eyes. My gaze had grown heavier, but it hadn't diminished their beauty. At the corners of my lips now lingered the shadow of that very smile that had so frightened those Gryffindors. I ran a finger along my cheekbone, noting how my expression had changed.
I smiled. Wide, a full thirty-two teeth, as my mother had once taught me: "The heir of the Malfoys must smile so that the smile is remembered." Now it was remembered. Only for a different reason.
The reason lay in the outcome of all my actions. What was the outcome of all this madness?
I had planned to be expelled, but I had expected a worse reaction from the administration — for them to suggest I leave themselves, and I would feign noble agreement. But I had overdone it with Dumbledore.
The old fox, being craftier, not only did not expel me, but even when I pushed everyone towards that idea, he proposed an "exchange program." Noble, wise, far-sighted — a stupid schoolboy in my place would say, but I knew that he had simply found an advantage in me, and that's why he didn't want to let me go for good. Moreover, he wanted to create a sense of gratitude for ultimately taking my side. But I didn't want to return to Hogwarts in a year at all.
That's why I led everyone to this decision, and that's why I orchestrated all of this. Everything that had happened at school in the last few days — all that chaos, fights, shouting, duels — was my doing. The conflict I had ignited, skillfully directed through the Council, forced Dumbledore to realize that my presence at Hogwarts was too dangerous for his precious Harry, who would be starting in the summer of 1991. And when the parents of the Gryffindors, egged on by McGonagall, pressured him from the other side, the Headmaster had no choice. He chose to stick to the main plan. In short, it worked out well.
I had managed to feel that fine line.
The line between Dumbledore continuing to see me as a future Sirius — a boy who could be guided and used — and him agreeing to let me go. If I had overdone it, he would have rejected me. If I hadn't done enough, I would have stayed at school, under his supervision, and when I received the inheritance, that would have been the end of it.
I stepped back from the mirror, looking at myself full-length.
In a week, I have exams. Early third-year exams. And once I pass, I'll have six months of free life. Six months I can dedicate solely to magic and nothing else.
In short, on the day most Hogwarts students leave for winter break, I will sit down at a desk in an empty classroom and prove that I am worthy of the fourth year.
And then — the title of Lord Black. Money, power, the library of Britain's most ancient family. And those six months I will have gained will become a real springboard to the big league. While others are learning Transfiguration, while they are cramming Potions tables, I will only be growing stronger. While they grow up, I will already be ruling!
Ah, I hope this doesn't remain just a dream and everything goes as planned. At least, I will do everything I can for this goal.
I turned away from the mirror and was about to head for the door.
I had only returned to the Manor a couple of hours ago. Officially, I was temporarily suspended from classes for a week. Unofficially, I was effectively expelled; whether I would be accepted into another school on exchange was now my father's headache, as the exchange program between the three European schools among the 11 Great Schools had ceased functioning properly by the mid-1970s, when Voldemort began his overt rampage against the Ministry. That is, the other two schools were fine, but they tried to avoid dealing with Hogwarts to escape this "infection."
From these thoughts, I suddenly wanted to talk to my new "pet." I had intended not to spend time on it until evening, as I needed to devote time to it, but fine. I'll talk now.
In the far corner of my room, on a special stand, stood a spacious cage. Of course, the house-elves would soon move Dart to our owlery, but I had temporarily placed him here. But the truly dangerous inhabitant of my room was the occupant of the neighboring cage.
A smaller cage, with thick bars and additional charms that I had placed as soon as I got home. Inside, pressed against the wall, sat a rat.
An ordinary-looking brown rat. Except this rat had been hiding from the entire magical world for over a decade.
I approached, and Pettigrew in rat form pressed himself against the bars, trying to make himself as small as possible. His black beady eyes watched me with panic.
"Well, Wormtail," I said quietly, crouching in front of the cage. "Here I am, back."
The rat twitched but didn't make a sound. In the two months Pettigrew had spent in this cage, he had apparently never once given himself away. He hadn't even transformed into a human, but that was more the merit of my parents, as the cage had strong bars. In short, he would die if he suddenly decided to leave his Animagus form. Not a rustle, not a hint of human speech.
It would have been funny if, relying solely on my future knowledge, I had kidnapped a rat that turned out not to be Pettigrew. Fortunately, I knew it was Pettigrew. And he showed much more intelligence than the magical pet rats he pretended to be in the Weasley family.
"You've been a good boy," I praised. "You haven't given yourself away once in all this time. That's good. It means I wasn't wrong about whether to kill you or not. You won't have to endure much longer in this form. Soon I will find a place where you can hide in your human form. Maybe you'll even do some work. What do you say? I know you agree, you can stay silent. Hah."
Yes, Pettigrew, of course, didn't answer, being in rat form.
"For now," I took a bag of food from the shelf and poured some into a bowl, "stay quiet. As you were."
I glanced at Dart. The owl was watching the rat cage with a particular interest, the kind with which predators eye their prey. That look certainly didn't add to Pettigrew's peace of mind.
"Pay no attention," I smirked, noticing the rat glancing sideways at the owl. "Dart knows you're not food. You're an asset now. And we don't eat our assets. Right, Dart?"
The owl blinked and turned away, pretending it didn't care at all. But I knew: it would be watching. Always.
Alas, I couldn't resist and, opening the cage, I still petted my Dart. But I had to go downstairs.
"Rest, Wormtail, as you have for so many years. Soon you'll have so much work that you'll wish you were resting here."
Descending the wide staircase, I thought about what had actually happened today. My father, as always, had acted wisely. He hadn't just defended my position — he had managed to maintain neutral relations with the Higgs family, the most influential among the victims. The uncle of that very Higgs, whom I had nearly beaten to death, was a member of the Wizengamot's Small Council. Not a Lord, of course, as the Small Council consists of six ministry officials appointed by the Minister, but they also had a vote in the Full Wizengamot. So, in theory, he was a Minister's appointee, but in another scenario, he could have caused problems at a critical moment.
Now he won't. Because my father was playing a clean and subtle game. He understood how this would affect our family's reputation and how the situation would influence the perception of other respectable people.
I smirked. Politics is the art of negotiating with those you hate.
Speaking of those I hate.
All three are still in Mungo's. Farmus, especially, with a broken spine, as I had further aggravated it with a dark curse. The healers, I am almost sure, are currently throwing up their hands — it's unlikely he will ever walk normally again. The family will, of course, try to get him back on his feet, but it won't save him from disability. Higgs, with his severed tendons, will be able to return to a normal life quickly, and the third — with a hole in his shoulder — well, at least the wound will remind him of itself with every change in the weather for the rest of his life.
Do I feel sorry for them?
I stopped on the stairs, thinking.
No. Not really. Not even a drop of regret.
They were going to teach me a lesson, meaning they were going to hurt me. Four against one… they wanted me to remember that day for the rest of my life. Well, they got what they wanted — I remember. And the fact that I orchestrated their attack myself, through an agreement with Vance, we will forget. Since the world doesn't know, the guilty party doesn't know either.
But that's not the main reason. They were an important part of my plan. As important as Avery, who, disguised as Crone, had a conversation with Vance about their coalition and their attempts to belittle me. That's why Vance refused to show his memories and resorted to my help. Just as important was Lucian Foley, our prefect, who kindly played the role of Vance himself on the day I was lured into the trap.
After all, according to the initial agreement with Vance, he was simply supposed to organize the attack to teach me a lesson, without being directly involved. He just told me the location, intending to sit it out in his common room. But I discovered a new toy — Polyjuice Potion.
It takes a painfully long time to brew, spoils quickly, tastes disgusting, but oh, how wonderfully it works! Especially if you buy a base from a professional and finish the potion yourself.
In short, I liked it. Tedious, fascinating, and effective!
I am satisfied with the outcome.
I continued down the stairs. All that remained was to pass the exams, and then — Beauxbatons or Durmstrang? Which is better?
Beauxbatons was more appealing because of Louis and Celine. Friends, connections with respectable people from all over Western Europe, and, of course, warm, pleasant France. Not to mention the beauty and grandeur of Beauxbatons itself. It would be calm and interesting there.
I stopped.
Louis. Why did I think of him again?
Lately, it happened more and more often. A connection I couldn't explain. A feeling like I had forgotten something. Something important, connected to him. Every time his name came to mind, the back of my head started to itch.
Layers of memory. Tied to something connected to Louis?
I rubbed the back of my head. I'll be damned if I can figure out where to look. Mentalism is a tricky business.
I shook my head, shaking off the obsessive thoughts.
Durmstrang, on the other hand, offered the same connections, but in a different part of Europe, plus a stronger practical magic program, discipline, and complete freedom from all past acquaintances. An emphasis on combat magic… you could gather useful people there for… for what?
What do I need people for? Yes… for many things. But why do I specifically remember Louis? I should re-read his letters… aloud.
***
I sat in a deep armchair opposite my father, and the only thing that truly surprised me about this setting was the tea. On the table between us stood two delicate porcelain cups, painted with silver patterns, and a teapot from which a light steam rose.
Tea after dinner. Lucius Malfoy, head of an ancient family, member of the Board of Governors, one of the most influential people in magical Britain — drinking tea with his son. Funny, considering how sparingly we usually communicate. But today, my father was interested in this conversation, because I was spoon-feeding him a way to curb Dumbledore himself… well, more like just to annoy him, but still!
I took a sip. Excellent Ceylon, with a light hint of bergamot. My mother always ensured the brew was impeccable; apparently, he did too.
My father set down his cup and looked down at me, clearly not trusting my story about the Acromantula attack.
"Arcturus, are you sure you saw Acromantulas? And are you sure their nest is near the school?"
I nodded, keeping a calm expression.
"Absolutely, Father. Several specimens attacked me and my friends when we were on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. There were enough of them to understand the nest is nearby. And judging by the traces I managed to see, it has been there for a long time."
"Long — how long?" Lucius narrowed his eyes.
"Over half a century. Possibly even sixty or seventy years. The nest has grown so large that the spiders, in search of food, reach from the middle of the forest to its edges, to the boundary. These are not random individuals — this is a whole nest. And they are searching for food even where we have… had our lessons."
My father looked at me thoughtfully.
"And you went into the forest?" he suddenly asked with slight irritation. "Knowing it could be dangerous? That was reckless, Arcturus. Was it the curse again?"
"We didn't go deep, Father. Just to the edge; we didn't expect spiders to be there and to venture so far out. The fact that I am subject to the Black family's ancestral curse does not make me guilty of everything."
Lucius snorted arrogantly but seemed to soften. Then he suddenly said, as if casually:
"Nevertheless… this information could prove very useful. At the moment…"
I froze, not bringing the cup to my lips.
"Father, how exactly do you plan to use it?"
Lucius flinched. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought a sharp rebuke would follow. But he restrained himself.
"If I had deemed it necessary to inform you, son, I would have done so," he cut in. "But since you asked… answer me first: are you sure about the age of the nest? That is truly important."
"More than sure, Father."
I could see the options, combinations, and moves running through his head. So I decided to add:
"I considered this information important enough to share with you. As I understand it, Father, with this information, you can not just raise the issue of school safety. You could potentially suspend Dumbledore from his post as Headmaster. Temporarily."
Lucius raised an eyebrow but remained silent.
"And then," I continued carefully, "bring the question of his removal to a full session of the Wizengamot. As a consequence, automatic suspension from the post of Supreme Mugwump during the investigation. This would significantly weaken the side supporting Uncle Sirius's release."
I told my father the situation as it was. The Headmaster had already been temporarily suspended from the post of Supreme Mugwump this year while filing a motion to reopen Sirius's case. Formally, he has no connection to Black, but he acted as a "voice of justice." And if it turns out that a deadly threat to students has existed under his nose at the school for decades… in short, the suspension wouldn't be for such a short time, as the case would be high-profile.
I fell silent, giving my father a chance to react to my suggestions.
Lucius looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. Something flickered in his eyes — surprise? Or anger? — and disappeared, replaced by his usual mask.
"You're still too…" he began, but suddenly stopped.
The pause dragged on. I could see my father struggling with the desire to reprimand me for my presumptuousness and the need to admit that I was, damn it, right.
Finally, he hissed through his teeth:
"Yes. In general… you are not mistaken. That is exactly what I intended to do. Only not so primitively, and more tangibly for Dumbledore."
"Of course, Father."
He stood up abruptly, signaling the conversation was over.
"Now go. I need to think."
I stood up, keeping a neutral expression on my face.
"I don't understand your irritation, Father. I was only trying to help, showing initiative in an area where I am interested and, as it turns out, can be useful."
I turned and left, not waiting for an answer. The door closed quickly behind me.
***
POV. Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius was left alone. He stood in his office, right by the desk. Then slowly sank back into the armchair.
Arcturus, his son, at thirteen years old, had just laid out for him, Lucius Malfoy, a plan to remove Albus Dumbledore from two key positions. And he had done it so calmly, so confidently, as if it were a question of what to serve for breakfast.
Lucius knew his son was intelligent. He knew he was talented. And he always remembered that he carried the blood of the Blacks — with all that entailed — and of the Malfoys. But to think like that… to calculate moves like that, to see combinations that many others wouldn't see — that was telling.
Of course, simple words could not even compare to the complexity of executing all of this, but at that moment, he even regretted that he had already made a choice about which of his sons would be the next Lord Malfoy.
He smirked. Crookedly, poisonously, and without any amusement.
"And if it all plays out right…"
The Acromantula nest, about which everyone had remained silent, was a deadly danger right under the Headmaster's nose. Meaning the students were in danger. His son, by the way, had nearly been harmed! And if presented correctly, through the press, the Board of Governors, and the Wizengamot… Lucius understood the effect would be strong. However, what Lucius Malfoy did not know was how to use this, except to increase the chance of delaying the case for Sirius's release, which was already on the verge. Just one Wizengamot session, and a majority of votes would decide the fate not only of the Azkaban prisoner but also the fate of all the Black family's wealth.
Lucius rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Temporary suspension is the beginning. From there, one could achieve his permanent removal." Lucius's thoughts were on the right track. Dumbledore could lose Hogwarts for good. And also temporarily lose his seat in the Wizengamot. His levers of influence would disappear at the time of Sirius Black's retrial.
He looked at the door through which his son had just disappeared. Lucius could not decide what his son was growing up to be. A great puppet master or some kind of duelist?
Lucius wanted to believe the former, but the Black curse would hardly provide his elder son with good service.
"Should he be entrusted with the Malfoy family in the distant future?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered. But one thing Lucius knew for sure: he would remember this conversation with his son for a long time. And perhaps, for the first time in his life, he had to admit that his son's opinion was in no way inferior to his own.