[September 19, 1973, Wednesday, Malfoy Manor]
First-years are convinced that sneaking out of the castle unnoticed is impossible. They're sure that at any moment, Filch and his cat — or a patrolling teacher — will jump out, grab them by the scruff of the neck, and drag them off to detention, all while gleefully deducting house points.
By third year, students with parental permission look down on the younger years as they stroll around Hogsmeade — buying sweets at Honeydukes, sipping butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks, or nervously skirting the Shrieking Shack, which has been echoing with terrifying sounds every full moon for three years now.
Fifth-years usually know a secret passage or two. They go on dates to Madam Puddifoot's café and try to buy strong alcohol at the Hog's Head. By seventh year, and especially if you're a prefect, you know most of the castle's hidden ways and can buy whatever you want without a teacher ever noticing.
But Arthur knew more than all of them combined. He also knew that every so-called "secret" passage was monitored by the castle's charms and reported straight to the headmaster. But because Hogwarts was under Hal's control, he and Lucius could slip out truly unnoticed — though Malfoy himself had no idea, and Arthur wasn't about to enlighten him about Dumbledore's little surveillance habits.
Once they'd made it past the anti-Apparition barrier near the Forbidden Forest, they Apparated directly to Malfoy Manor.
"Not a bad palace," Arthur remarked, taking in the huge mansion in its 19th-century Romantic style, all faced with snow-white marble. He also noted the layers of magical protections — enough to make any would-be intruder regret their life choices.
"Despite the rumors, my ancestors never skimped when it came to the family's welfare," Lucius said, recalling Arthur's joke at the duel.
"Maybe you misunderstood me. I only meant that Malfoys will do anything for their family's benefit," Arthur replied. To his surprise, Lucius just nodded, serious.
"I'll drop the protections now. Otherwise, even the charms won't let me through," Lucius said, carefully working through a combination of spells that revealed what looked like an identical palace, just slightly to the side.
"Clever — hiding deception behind a sliver of truth. My teacher always said half-truths are harder to uncover than outright lies."
"Your teacher was a Black, wasn't he?"
"A family isn't a tapestry on the wall — it's its members. The families that forget that disappear into history," Arthur said.
"You're right," Lucius answered, thoughtful. How many times had he treated Narcissa as just "family benefit," forgetting she'd soon be part of his family — his wife, his partner. For a moment, he wondered if she'd ever take revenge on him, or bear another's child. But now wasn't the time for those thoughts. He had more pressing problems.
Lucius felt calmer as soon as he stepped under the protection of his ancestral home, where even the walls themselves seemed to shield him. In magical history, there were plenty of cases where a Master defeated a Magister simply because he was on his own ground.
They finished the walk in silence. They could have used a house-elf, but Lucius needed the pause to gather his thoughts. Arthur, meanwhile, admired the fountains, the still-green grass and topiary bushes — even in September. The famous white peacocks were nowhere to be seen; probably too cold for them, and what would they do in the dark anyway?
The carved larch doors swung open at their approach, revealing a grand hall with two staircases curving up to the second floor. In the center, a door decorated with gold — probably the ballroom. Gold and white marble everywhere. The Malfoys clearly loved these materials, or maybe just liked to show off, but Arthur had to admit, it was all done tastefully, without excess.
They climbed to the second floor and entered a large living room, but didn't stop. Instead, they turned right — toward the master bedroom.
"Father doesn't like to walk far. After Mother died, he had the bedroom moved here. His study's next door," Lucius explained.
Under a white-and-gold canopy lay a man who, for a wizard, wasn't old at all. Lucius was seventeen, so his father couldn't be more than forty or fifty — no age at all for a mage. Heirs came first, then everything else. Abraxas looked a lot like Lucius — the same long white hair, the same clean-shaven face. But now, he looked exhausted, his breathing heavy.
"Shall I begin?" Arthur asked. He could cast spells without the owner's permission, but why bother?
"Wait. First, remove my mark. I want to be sure," — the unspoken "that you're not lying" hung in the air.
"It'll hurt. You won't be able to do much after, even if I wanted to harm you," Arthur warned.
"I don't care. Do it," Lucius said, lips pressed tight.
Arthur sighed, pulled out a palette, a brush, and an inkwell of magical ink. He poured a little onto the palette and said, "I'll need a drop of your blood." In most rituals tied to the soul, blood is the identifier — it tells the magic what can be cut from the astral body and what can't.
Lucius was ready for pain, but there was none. Arthur wasn't out to torture anyone — not unless the ritual required it. "Reveal the mark."
Lucius took off his jacket and tore off the sleeve.
"You could have just rolled it up."
"I never liked this shirt," Malfoy replied.
"Fair enough," Arthur said, and with a thin brush, began drawing runes and geometric figures directly over the Dark Mark. When he finished, it looked as if the snake in the skull was bound by dozens of threads. "Place your wand in the center and channel mana. I suggest biting down on something."
"Mmmmmm!" Lucius clamped his arm, fell to the floor, and moaned. If he hadn't listened to Arthur, he'd have cracked his teeth from the pain. The mark burned, searing part of his soul. The pain was on par with the Cruciatus Curse — and it lasted a full three minutes, which felt like an eternity. You can go mad after just a minute of Cruciatus.
When it was over, Lucius lay gasping, barely able to speak. "Didn't know freedom came at such a price."
"But it's easy to lose," Arthur said, handing him soul restoration potions. "You'll pay for these separately — they're not cheap."
"I think you'd fit right in with our family," Lucius said, opening the vial with his teeth and downing the potion.
"No thanks, I have my own. So, shall I treat your father?"
Lucius checked himself — the mark was just a shadow now. One more push and it would be gone. Before, it had felt like cold tentacles clinging to his soul.
"Yes, now I believe you. Sorry for the distrust."
"No need to apologize for common sense."
Arthur started with diagnostics. He'd gotten good at this, and his set of charms and ritual circles could rival any hospital — maybe even surpass them, he thought, but as always, he wondered where to get even more.
Almost an hour went by just for the examination, including a mental scan.
"Well? How is he?" Lucius finally asked, unable to wait any longer.
"Magical exhaustion, astral body trauma from repeated Cruciatus Curses, mind damage, and traces of curses and astral parasites. I see those in almost all pureblood wizards, so don't worry about it."
"Can you cure him?" Lucius asked, hope fading. He knew St. Mungo's couldn't treat mental trauma.
"Of course. But you'll pay for all the costs. I'll need some expensive potions," Arthur said — though he already had them with him.
"Malfoys always pay their debts. Go ahead," Lucius said, waving his hand.
He watched, first with curiosity, then with admiration, as Arthur worked — explaining each step. First, Arthur transfused mana from Lucius to his father; relatives often have similar mana, especially those who favor wand-neutral magic, whatever that meant.
Then he took out a storage device with tiny neutral spirits, crushed them, and poured them into Abraxas along with a soul restoration potion. Only then did he begin the painstaking work of restoring the mind, casting clear mind charms and placing a crystal hoop on his head.
It took another two hours, and by then it was late at night. Lucius, exhausted from the mark removal, fell asleep. He didn't know Arthur had cast a sleep charm on him, along with a potion, and then taken Abraxas to Availon. Healing that kind of damage takes time — it doesn't happen overnight. But Arthur had no desire to spend a month at the Malfoys'. This way, he could do a full restoration at his own pace.
***
"Lucius, son." The blond was awakened by his father's voice — weak, but alive.
"Father!" For the first time in five years, Lucius hugged his father, not bothering to hide his tears.
"How… why did I survive?" Abraxas asked. He remembered the Lord's words — that he'd be made an example, a warning to other traitors.
"Dobby pulled you out, but he caught several curses himself. I think he's going mad from them now."
"Faithful servants should be rewarded. That's what I always taught you. And who healed me?" the head of the family asked.
"That was me, Arthur Marlow, Mr. Malfoy. If you wish, I can examine your house-elf too, but the bill will go up," said Marlow, disgustingly cheerful after a good night's sleep in Availon. Of course, he did his best to look tired.
"And how much do we owe now?" Lucius asked.
"One hundred fifty thousand galleons," Arthur said with an innocent smile. He knew the Malfoys weren't the type to remember a favor forever. If you did something for them, they'd forget it as soon as it was convenient.
But right now, while emotions were fresh, he could get the best deal. Besides, a settled debt meant they'd feel equal, not beholden — and wouldn't try to pay him back in some way that wasn't to his advantage.
"How much?" Abraxas choked.
"Father, no one else could cure you. Not the hospital, not our doctor. You weren't waking up, and you were getting worse. He took the risk and healed you in one night." Abraxas looked closer and noticed the master's ring on Marlow's hand. "For our family, it's not such a big sum. Your life and our freedom are worth more to me."
"Stop crying, especially in front of strangers," Abraxas said, trying to sound stern. But he felt a shock — the mark was almost gone.
"Young man," the elder Malfoy said, "despite the sum you've named, I'm very grateful."
"Don't think me greedy," Arthur replied, pulling out a list of potions and ingredients used, as well as a record of the injuries healed, and handed it over. After Abraxas read the list, he realized — he'd been a goner.
The potions alone should have been brewed by a Master. Not that he knew Arthur had bartered for most of them with a few kilos of apples. But sometimes, the less you know, the better you sleep. "And also, I'd like to talk with you about your Lord…"
***
The conversation with the Malfoys turned out to be surprisingly productive. They promised to quietly seek allies among the Knights of Walpurgis and neutral families, but for now, they'd keep Abraxas's recovery a secret.
In fact, they planned to leak to the papers that his condition had worsened after the Lestrange reception — which had actually been a cover for a meeting of Gaunt's followers. Those who needed to know, would understand.
Afterward, Lucius led me to the library, where I copied everything I could with the librarium, and what I couldn't, I read and memorized. We agreed to settle the money on the weekend, but I still took a magical receipt. Trust a Malfoy's word? Not likely.
After that, I decided to play it safe and focus on two things — armor and wing modernization.
Let's start with the armor. As a restorer and museum worker, I'd seen every kind of armor — from mail and brigandines to full plate, from ancient Egyptian breastplates to Roman lorica segmentata. And what I knew, Hal knew, so he could calculate the finished product.
I also remembered the bracers Hayato had given me. No, they weren't adamantium, but the indestructibility charms and the spirit inside made them just as strong. In magic, there are many paths to the same goal.
I decided to build from there — I needed maximum mobility, so I went with Roman-style armor: a cuirass of overlapping plates, greaves, and scale mail for the open areas. All lined with processed basilisk leather and acromantula silk.
Naturally, you could only put on this armor with a Portkey — special bracelets for arms and legs acted as beacons. I killed several doppelgangers testing it under anti-Apparition charms.
All the metal parts were transfigured into adamantium, and indestructibility charms were placed on every scale and plate. Then the armor was assembled and unified with charms, so that eventually the bracers' spirit would merge with the armor, making it even stronger.
But the wings — that was even more interesting. Let's start from the beginning. Despite the bans on various magical schools and the simplification of others thanks to wands, magic never stopped developing. Just like with Muggles — when something's forbidden, something else evolves.
Modern magic's main advantage is efficiency. For Sumerian mages, creating something like a flying broom that could accelerate to over 100 miles per hour on ambient mana would have been unthinkable. A thousand years of Quidditch competition and innovation — that's no small thing. Wizards spent more effort on brooms than on curing dragon pox.
Sebastian bought several of the most popular and expensive models for comparison — the English Nimbus 1001 and Cleansweep 6, the American Starswiper 12, the Russian Fastflight 8, and the French Swallow. They differed in speed, maneuverability, wood, potions, and metals, but the principle was the same.
The shaft collected mana from the air and the rider, and levitation and weight-reduction runes were applied to the twigs. The most effective runic chains gave the best results.
Why did this interest me? Because I wanted to enchant my feathers. Each feather would become a miniature broom. I'd once said I wouldn't make an artifact out of my own body, but the thing is, I didn't need wings in the classic sense — I needed something useful.
Thanks to metamorphism, I didn't have to pluck myself like a chicken — I just removed the wing, and the feathers fell out on their own. I took one of the flight feathers, enlarged it with Engorgio, and began applying optimized runic bindings. Brooms work on mental connection, and all the extra features are just for convenience. So, with a thought, the feather shot forward — at about two hundred miles per hour, along a curved path.
"Hal, recalculate for mass and balance," I told my assistant.
"Already done," he replied, sending me a new chain.
The new feather, which I grew to replace the old one, performed better, but still wasn't perfect. This wasn't a matrix with every detail about the body and its functions. Still, Hal's calculations cut down the number of experiments to something manageable.
In the end, I had several hundred enchanted feathers. Because they were part of me, and thanks to extra bindings, I could control them mentally. And with the upgraded mental adamantium hoop, now merged with my mind spirit, it was even easier.
Next came converting the feathers' organic matter into adamantium. I ran my mana through them, held them in elemental flame to improve fire and mana conduction, then tempered them in hellfire and activated sharpness and indestructibility runes. Each feather was now sharper than a razor, both at the shaft and along the barbs.
The worst part was reattaching them. Even with pain turned off in my wings, the feathers were integrated into my astral body — and it hurt like hell. But now, I could use my wings as magical foci instead of my hands. Lerach's last gift, you could say. I had to drink soul potions and absorb the last of the pumped salamander, too.
***
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