POV. Draco Malfoy
The life of the second son in the Malfoy family had never been difficult, but the last six months had turned everything upside down.
It all started in the summer. Draco had awaited his brother's return from Hogwarts as a celebration — half a year without seeing each other properly, only the rare letters Arcturus wrote. But when his brother finally appeared at the Manor, it turned out he would only be home for a very short time, then leave again — for France, for some sort of betrothal or something of the sort. At the time, Draco didn't quite understand what was happening.
Instead, Draco seethed with indignation. Resentment burned inside him, and at first he blamed Arcturus himself for everything, then their parents. Later, of course, he reconsidered this moment and felt ashamed of those stupid thoughts.
But then what happened, happened. The kidnapping of his brother! The unheard-of audacity of some worthless creatures who had also erased his memory. Long weeks of recovery ultimately led to a miracle, but Draco was certain that his brother himself was responsible for that miracle. Draco still remembered the day his brother was brought to Mungo's — pale and wounded. At that moment, all resentment disappeared, replaced by anger at the perpetrators, but not the kind of anger that many Blacks experienced. Just ordinary hatred for those who dared to touch his family.
Draco very much wanted them to die.
"Everyone who dared to touch my brother!"
Yes, Draco loved Arcturus. Truly, deeply, with that childish devotion that only younger brothers have. He looked up to his elder, hanging on every word, absorbing every thought. Arcturus was his ideal — intelligent, strong, cold-blooded. A true heir to the noble Malfoy family. A man that all pure-bloods should emulate.
But there was another man whose attention Draco desired even more than his brother's. He was talking about Lucius Malfoy, his father.
Father had always remained a somewhat divine figure to Draco… or rather, unattainable. Forever busy with family affairs, Board of Governors meetings, Wizengamot sessions, meetings with important people, talking with his brother. Draco could sit in the corridor for hours, hoping his father would come out of his study and say something to him. His mother, of course, was there — Narcissa doted on her sons, surrounding them with care and affection. And when Arcturus wasn't there, Draco received a double dose of it, but due to a foolish childhood habit, he valued his father's attention far more. Probably because there was never enough of it.
And his mother, besides caring for him, also demanded a lot, hiring so many tutors that Draco studied even more than he would have to at Hogwarts in a year.
By autumn, Draco, overloaded with work due to his imminent enrollment at Hogwarts, had somewhat forgotten about his brother, although initially he had prepared for another year of loneliness at the Manor. But the unexpected happened.
Father began to spend more time with him. More than usual after Arcturus left for Hogwarts.
At first, these were short conversations at dinner on various topics. Then Lucius began inviting his son to his study, asking about his affairs, explaining some family matters, talking about business and its intricacies. Draco was over the moon.
Finally! Finally, he had been noticed, he thought, not even understanding that his father was already thinking of excluding his elder son from the equation.
He tried his best to keep a straight face during conversations with his father. To do this, he listened, memorized, and then imitated his father's mannerisms, that cold tone, that arrogant squint, and everything else. Every approving word from Lucius was a reward to him. So he tried to behave with dignity, unlike his own brother… as it turned out.
The stumbling block was a conversation with one of his father's high-ranking employees when his father was not around. The man tried to build a rapport with his boss's son, which resulted in a random phrase that was indeed accidental but, surprisingly, very much aligned with Lucius's thoughts at the time.
"I suppose your father will leave all this to you."
In response to Draco's questioning look and raised eyebrow, the employee finished the thought:
"The first son isn't necessarily the one who becomes the head of the family. It all depends on who is more suitable and worthy."
The fool didn't even realize how dangerous such thoughts were in such a society, but that day he was clearly in a good mood, as his thoughts had been listened to.
Draco understood everything then — he wasn't as stupid as he could have been. Not least thanks to his brother, who had instilled in him a love of reading.
And so this thought, combined with Draco heeding his father's words that, as it turns out, his brother was not the ideal aristocrat he seemed to be, made everything even worse. Although at first, he even wanted to defend his brother in his father's eyes, but…
"But Arcturus… he's the eldest. And he's so…"
He faltered. He was not ready to argue with his father, for fear that he might stop paying attention to him. Though he wouldn't admit to himself that he needed that attention.
"So what?" Lucius raised an eyebrow.
"He's intelligent, strong, and cold-blooded. Aren't those the qualities of a true Malfoy?"
Father snorted dismissively, or maybe chuckled. The reaction was strange.
"Do you think so, Draco?" he asked in an ice-cold tone. "Your brother is far more prone to emotions than you think. He suffers from the Black family's ancestral curse — uncontrollable fits of rage."
Draco was uncomfortable realizing that his brother had even one weakness. It turned out he did.
"But… he's always so calm and cold-blooded. I've never seen him get angry."
"He has learned to hide it," Lucius replied. "But his efforts aren't always enough."
If after this dialogue Draco still doubted and searched for arguments within himself, convincing himself that his father had misunderstood something, what happened next turned everything around once more.
Arcturus had gotten into a fight at school with three Gryffindor upper-years. As Draco heard, the Gryffindors were feuding with Slytherin house, which he intended to join, like his brother, his parents, and most Malfoys before them. In the end, Arcturus had crippled them so badly that they were still lying in Mungo's.
"He was defending himself," Draco confidently convinced himself, but from his parents' conversations, he learned that his brother had done it all in a fit of rage, the very one he apparently didn't control so well.
Draco began to reevaluate everything he knew about his brother. The perfect image he had carried in his mind for so many years began to crack. Perhaps this image arose because they communicated little, and his brother only showed his best side when he was at home?
"So, he's not perfect? So, he can make mistakes?"
Draco thought, still not understanding how he could be a more worthy son of the Malfoy family while his brother was still there. So he had to cast aside his doubts, but perhaps not.
But just a couple of hints from his father, a few elaborate words, and overheard conversations between his parents led him to the conclusion that it was indeed so.
And then something else was added. His behavior, already altered by imitating his father, and his doubts led him to start thinking about where his brother was wrong and where his father was right.
Gradually, he recalled the oldest thoughts he had shared with his elder brother, the ones that caused the most aversion, thoughts that just a year ago had been normal for his childish perception.
It was about Arcturus openly saying that even Muggle-born wizards should not be condemned by pure-bloods, because every pure-blood family once started with Muggle-borns.
He was sure Arcturus was wrong on this point… but he decided not to mention it to his father, not wanting to harm his brother. It dawned on him that Arcturus had fallen out of favor with their father.
Through such a confluence of circumstances, by winter, the image of the ideal brother had finally crumbled. When he returned, Draco no longer looked at him with the same adoration. Nor did he seek his company every second as before. He now saw a living person — intelligent, strong, but fallible. Prone to emotions and mistakes. And occasionally saying strange things.
But the most amazing thing was something else. Despite everything his father said, despite the disappointment, many of his brother's words continued to live within him. They had ingrained themselves in his consciousness, becoming part of his personality. Draco caught himself thinking about Muggles differently than his father did, seeing them not just as filth, but as tools, as his brother had said.
The fact that a perfect person does not exist gradually led him to the next thought:
What if Father could also be wrong? Draco pushed this thought away. Father was the head of the family, the smartest, the strongest, the most righteous. He could not be wrong.
"He can't. Can he?"
***
"Why are you dragging me to the training room?" Draco trailed behind me through the corridor of Malfoy Manor, his whole demeanor expressing indignation. "I'm not even eleven yet. I can't do magic. You're wasting my time. This is pointless."
I turned around and looked at my brother. Draco had indeed changed a lot in the last six months, but I didn't care that he had grown taller, that he looked more like that canonical Malfoy from my future knowledge. What mattered was that his character had changed, drastically.
"Life isn't all about magic," I replied calmly. "Isn't that what Father says?"
Draco nodded, confident in the righteousness of our father's words. He just didn't realize what awaited him in the training room.
"Yes, but he means more that for us, for those who can afford not to dedicate their lives solely to magic for food and protection, we don't need to know how to fight. And you're dragging me to the training room for some reason."
I smirked.
"Not everyone wants to do this, of course," I said, continuing to walk forward. "But the strong are always right. Remember that, Draco. The strong are always right because they can insist on their righteousness. And the weak can theorize all they want — no one will listen to them, or they might get beaten, just to be safe."
"You can buy people to be on your side, and you become stronger that way. You lousy philosopher…" Draco muttered under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear.
"Being rude to your elder brother is not the best way to prove you're right," I noted without a hint of offense. "But since we're talking about strength and weakness, power and money… answer me a riddle."
Draco rolled his eyes.
"Your lectures again? Fine, go ahead, but make it quick. I have to go somewhere with Father today."
This time, I decided to approach the matter thoroughly, which is why I pulled out a riddle from That Other Self's favorite TV series.
"It's nothing serious," I waved it off. "Listen carefully."
We passed another turn, and I began:
"Imagine a room. In it sit three great men. The first is the Minister for Magic. The second is the Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot. The third is the richest Lord, the head of one of the most ancient families, who has more gold on him than the Ministry does."
Draco snorted contentedly, hearing about the rich man.
"Between them stands a mercenary. He is not pure-blood, meaning of low birth, and he's not particularly intelligent. But he has a wand. And each of these great men orders him to kill the other two."
I paused, savoring the moment.
"The Minister says: 'Kill them, for I am the rightful ruler of Magical Britain!' The Supreme Mugwump says: 'Kill them, for I command you in the name of the law!' The rich Lord says: 'Kill them, and all this gold will be yours.' Tell me, Draco, who stays alive and who dies?"
Draco stopped. I did too.
"Nonsense," he said after a pause. "A stupid situation. That could never happen in real life."
"It's a riddle," I explained patiently. "An abstract situation. Answer the question."
"Well…" Draco furrowed his brow, clearly trying. "If you think about it… the mercenary isn't stupid, he understands the gold is more important. The Minister might not be Minister tomorrow. The gold will remain. So the rich Lord stays alive."
"Why?"
"Because you can buy anything with Galleons," Draco shrugged calmly. "Especially a mercenary like that. He's Muggle-born or half-blood; even pocket change is a lot of money to them. They'd sell anyone for a small amount."
I smirked and shook my head.
"Father's words again, I see…" I exhaled, disappointed. "Learn to think critically, to question the words of any man, even your father."
Draco… Draco… he had chosen the most simplistic answer. He revealed himself as someone with a shallow understanding of the world. I hoped it was just his age and our father's teachings. I hoped he was still capable of thinking differently.
"What if there are Aurors behind the door of that room?" I asked. "Ministry guards who answer to the Minister?"
Draco thought for a second.
"Well… then the Minister stays alive, I suppose."
"And if the rich Lord's mercenaries are behind the door? Or the Auror corps that answers to the Supreme Mugwump? The mercenary doesn't know what's there."
"This is nonsense!" Draco threw up his hands. "The riddle has no solution! You're deliberately confusing me!"
"The riddle is clever, because the mercenary doesn't know what's there," I replied calmly. "But you, Draco, seem to have forgotten how to think."
"I've forgotten how to think?!" he flared up. "You're the one who acts like a great strategist, yet you couldn't even study properly at school yourself! Father doesn't say for nothing that your antics are now causing problems with our reputation! You really don't meet the criteria for the future head of the family!"
I let his outburst pass, though it stung inside. Did Father really want to disinherit me… had he written me off!? Fine, I'd find out for sure later; I had to continue.
"The answer is that the future is not predetermined," I said quietly. "The mercenary doesn't know who is waiting behind the door. It could be the Minister's Aurors. It could be the Supreme Mugwump's people. It could be the rich man's mercenaries. And he can't even check. The point is that the choice has to be made now, not based on what might happen later. I made my choice, and I don't regret it."
"Why don't you regret it!? Father says your choices are badly affecting the family's reputation," Draco snapped. "Now, even Muggle-borns stoop to such dirty squabbles. Certainly not the heir of the Malfoy family!"
"Ah, if only you would learn to think for yourself."
We were already standing in the center of the training room. Draco hadn't even noticed how we had entered, and only now realized we had arrived long ago. I surveyed the spacious room with protective barriers on the walls, dummies in the corner, and an elongated carpet on the floor. A good place for a demonstration.
I smiled.
"If any of those three in the room had wielded a wand, they wouldn't have relied on the mercenary," I said. "You see, Draco, power is a gimmick. A trick. It doesn't exist as a separate entity. It only exists where people are willing to see it. Without people's belief in power, there is no power itself. So we must always maintain this illusion. But when someone stands up — some mercenary, a Muggle with a knife or some other weapon — and there is no one around to protect you, you must be able to protect yourself. Even against an ordinary Muggle."
"In the riddle, none of them had a wand," Draco interrupted, but his voice no longer held the same confidence.
"Exactly. And what would you do if you were one of those three?" I paused. "But you keep insisting that I am careless. That Father said something about me not meeting the criteria for the future head of the family. I'm curious, what else did he say?"
Draco flinched but remained silent.
I stepped closer.
"I don't need a wand to protect myself from anyone. From a wizard, from a Muggle, from anyone at all. We are wizards! That's what distinguishes us from Muggles! That's what distinguishes a wealthy wizard from a wealthy Muggle. If you give that up, if you rely only on gold or your position, you simply become a Muggle who happens to have power over wizards. And that is pathetic and unreliable."
"And what can you do!?" Draco shouted, boiling over. "What can you do without a wand against…"
He didn't finish.
I just waved my hand.
A wave of air swept Draco off his feet, throwing him across the room. He flew about three meters before crashing onto his back, the wind knocked out of him. Draco coughed, tried to get up, leaning on his elbows — and at that same moment, an invisible force pushed him back to the floor, preventing him from rising.
"So, do something," I said, approaching. My voice held no trace of anger, but Draco was clearly stunned and furious at the situation. "Maybe the rich man's gold will help? I can take it away. Maybe the Minister's power? No one obeys a dead Minister."
I stopped a couple of meters from my prostrate brother.
"This is true power, Draco. Not the kind given by titles or money, but the kind that lives inside you. The kind that cannot be taken away and that will only help you safely multiply your influence. And if you want to be worthy of the name Malfoy, you will have to understand that. And learn. However, Father has clearly decided you're better off without it, but he also lacks an understanding of the importance of personal strength in the society of wizards."
After three more attempts to get up, I finally stopped pushing him back to the floor at the opportune moment, simply releasing the pressure. Draco turned onto his back, breathing heavily, and looked at me with an expression that mixed fear, resentment, and something like anger.
"And now," I said, extending my hand to him, "let's begin the training. We have little time, and you have a lot to learn. I hope you understood the point of the riddle, and if not, then you will understand it in the future."