"And I never liked this disunity! From the very first days, I tried to change it. I started small — offering to do homework together in the common room or the Great Hall. I helped those who were struggling, and if I saw someone being bullied… then I and my friends protected them from attacks by other Slytherins or Gryffindors. But… for a long time, some tried to turn everything into hostility, for some reason trying to compete with me — I don't know why. They apparently perceive the color of robes like a bull sees red. And I… I just want the house to be united. Strong not only individually, but together. Perhaps, from Professor McGonagall's point of view, I chose not the most… correct methods, but I can sincerely say that I don't regret it and don't think I'm doing anything wrong or breaking any school rules."
I fell silent, letting the words of "sincere" repentance — carefully weighed and rehearsed in my head on the way here — ring out in the silence of the office. Let's see if I could convince Dumbledore to leave me alone. In theory, everyone should have turned a blind eye to this and not considered it a violation, but McGonagall had decided to make an exception. Now everything depended on Dumbledore. That is, whether he saw a threat to his order in my actions. The good thing was that this couldn't affect the Sirius case and, consequently, the Black inheritance.
His face became impenetrable. Even the warm smile from before was gone. Only a calm, studying expression remained.
"Good intentions, Mr. Malfoy, often lead to unexpected consequences," he said finally, and his voice lacked the velvety warmth I had expected to hear again. "The desire for unity is commendable. But unity built on internal hierarchy and… selective patronage has a tendency to evolve into something else. Into a group that starts living by its own rules, to the detriment of the common ones. Do you understand what I mean?"
I understand, of course. You're afraid that I'll create something within Slytherin that will allow me to influence all the students in the school. And you certainly won't let some third-year spoil your absolute power. An icy clarity illuminated my mind. He wasn't going to forgive me for childish pranks. He had assessed the scale of the potential problem and was now deciding how to neutralize it.
I pretended to be slightly embarrassed, lowering my gaze.
"I… I hadn't thought of it that way, Professor. For me, it was just… an attempt to establish some order. To stop this constant squabbling."
"Order is the prerogative of the school, not the students, even the most enterprising ones. Especially when the initiative takes forms that cause fear and discontent among other students."
He didn't believe me. Not a bit. And he wasn't going to pretend he did. The whole conversation was taking a very different turn.
I needed to change tactics abruptly. Playing the repentant idealist was useless. He saw right through me. I needed to show not repentance, but… malleability. Willingness to submit to his will. I would pretend his words were a revelation to me.
"I… I think I'm starting to understand," I said more quietly, putting a note of realization and self-reproach into my voice. "I got so carried away with the idea that I didn't notice how… I crossed the line. You're right, Professor. I shouldn't have taken on such functions. It was… presumptuous of me."
I looked up at him, trying to make my gaze clear and open — the look of a student to whom a wise teacher had pointed out a mistake. Inside, I was seething with rage. Of course, it was unbearably humiliating to retreat, pretending to be an obedient puppy, but it was the only way out. The only way to leave the office without the label of a "problematic element" requiring constant monitoring and action.
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly. Something flickered in his eyes — perhaps satisfaction at a lesson well learned?
"Awareness is the first step towards correction," he said, and finally a faint glimmer of that same warmth appeared in his voice. But now it seemed fake, like cheap gilding. "I am glad you are capable of reflection. It is a sign of a mature mind."
"Thank you, Professor," I said quietly. After all, he was giving me a chance to get off scot-free. "You… you have no idea how glad I am to hear that. To be honest, I have never shared my father's attitude towards you as Headmaster. And now I see that I was right on this matter."
This was a risky card. Mentioning my father and his animosity, and even trying to ingratiate myself, but I was putting an intonation into it as if I were simply confessing something shameful.
This way, I was playing on contrast. After all, my father didn't hide it anyway, meaning Dumbledore was aware. So this way, I might be able to play on Dumbledore's desire to crack another hard nut of pure-blood fanaticism.
The Headmaster's eyes subtly changed. And although I wasn't sure, it seemed something flickered in them that I had hoped to see: a glimmer of a new idea. Hope that the son of Lucius Malfoy, heir to two powerful and dark houses, did not share his father's views. That there was a seed of doubt in him that could be cultivated. That he, Dumbledore, could create a second Sirius Black. A loyal leader of a new generation who would bring another part of the old families into the Headmaster's fold. Or, at least, to neutrality.
I wasn't sure at all whether he was playing along with me or not. It was very difficult when you were sitting across from an actor as skilled as you, or perhaps even better. In short, reading his thoughts through his expression and body language was beyond my abilities.
"You are a very perceptive young man, Arcturus," Dumbledore said, and genuine warmth sounded in his voice. "And very brave to express such thoughts. The world is not black and white, as those who have little experience in life believe. It is full of shades of gray. And the most important thing is to be able to see them and make the right choice towards the lighter shades."
The profound words, spoken in a wise, elderly voice, sent a shiver down my spine…
Well, obviously, if he didn't have such charisma and skill, so many fanatically devoted people wouldn't follow him. But if he thought I would be another one of them, he was in for an unpleasant surprise in the future… for now, I would play along.
"I will try to remember that, Professor."
We sat in silence for a few more seconds. Whether the battle was won or merely postponed was decidedly unclear. And I might have just managed to play a powerful, but extremely dangerous man, who might now want to get another piece in his pocket. And he was now looking at me not as a suspect, but as a promising, slightly misguided project. A project that required attention and careful guidance. Or he had been playing along with me from start to finish. If so, things were bad.
I understood perfectly well what it meant to be a pawn of Albus Dumbledore, so I wouldn't fall for it, but if he was only pretending, the consequences could be anything. And if this way I could secure my chance at the Black inheritance, that would be even better.
Because what if, seeing the difficulty of securing Sirius's quick release, he decided to prepare a backup airfield in the form of me. Say, over this month, he could befriend me, capture my attention with simple compliments and advice, and then, after alienating me from my father and drawing me closer, he could gain a Lord Black loyal to his words and person. In short, many options were opening up for him, which meant I could at least breathe a sigh of relief from this problem for a while and think.
At least, that's what I was counting on by mentioning my disagreement with my father. This little "betrayal" in the form of a hint of independent thinking was a calculated move.
The Headmaster, I assumed, might see an opportunity in this. After all, in his eyes, I would be even better than a broken Sirius from Azkaban. An heir who could be persuaded, raised, and converted to his faith.
"You know, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore spoke, and his voice became even more intimate, almost nostalgic, "you remind me of a former student, Sirius Black. He was also the heir of an ancient, proud house full of prejudices and traditions. And in him, too, burned a fire that wanted to change things for the better. I am still trying to free him from Azkaban, where he was imprisoned due to a monstrous mistake."
I nodded, allowing my face to become serious, almost wise beyond my years.
"From what I've heard, there was utter chaos at the time. A civil war, and wartime, unfortunately, sometimes requires harsh, even unjust, measures. It's difficult to maintain all norms in such chaos."
"A very mature observation for your age," Dumbledore praised, and approval flickered in his eyes? Or was he pretending. "You are an extremely intelligent and perceptive young man."
"Thank you for the compliment."
The Headmaster rose from his chair and approached with a slow, smooth gait. He stopped beside me and placed his hand on my shoulder. Even in this gesture, I felt the weight of incredible magical power, which seemed to seep under my skin, right into my soul. I forced myself not to tense up or recoil, but I really wanted to! Calm, Arcturus, calm!
"I see the truth in your eyes, my boy," Dumbledore said quietly, but so that each word was imprinted on my consciousness. "And I believe that much of what Professor McGonagall heard is mere embellishment, fear, and envy. However… let me remind you that you should not cross the line. Try not to influence those who are younger too zealously. Sometimes, when we think we and our friends are absolutely right, we can… be wrong. And when we grow up and realize this mistake, it is sometimes too late to change anything. The consequences can weigh heavily on our conscience. There is a reason there is an unwritten rule at Hogwarts — not to involve the first years in older students' affairs."
I met his gaze with appropriate seriousness.
"I understand, Professor. It's better to figure things out properly myself first. And… thank you. Thank you for listening and believing me."
The gratitude sounded almost sincere. Almost. There was a lump of carefully chosen emotions in my throat. Ugh… how disgusting!
"I did nothing, my boy," Dumbledore gave my shoulder a slight squeeze and removed his hand. "I merely pointed out what should be obvious to such a bright mind. I will watch your progress with interest. I see in you… myself in my youth. And I am confident that a great future awaits you. You may go, and I will explain everything necessary to your professors myself."
"Thank you again, Professor Dumbledore," I stood, inclined my head slightly, and headed for the door.
As soon as I stepped into the corridor and the office door closed behind me, the smile instantly vanished from my face, replaced by a cold, calculating mask.
I took a few steps, listening to my own heartbeat, which was only now beginning to settle into a steady, calm rhythm. The game had been played brilliantly. True, Dumbledore would now be watching me with particular attention, but I think he had been glancing my way occasionally even before. Especially when he swiped my Map… I wonder, did he use some kind of charm, or did he use the Invisibility Cloak?
In any case, I didn't sense him through magic then, and I doubt I would now either.
During this entire ordeal today, I had had time to think about many things, and it seemed my plans for the near future had changed completely. If even more attention was focused on me, I would be very restricted at Hogwarts, and I desperately needed room to maneuver, especially after the winter holidays, when I could be confident I had realized one of the most important points in my life plan.
Because of all these intrigues and squabbles, my magic training was suffering, and constantly searching for a place to train was already getting tiresome...
"Dumbledore's Project." Hah. I smirked inwardly, meeting Snape and McGonagall, who were standing relatively close to the entrance.
"Professor Snape. Professor McGonagall, Headmaster Dumbledore said I was free and that he would explain everything himself."
Of course, McGonagall frowned, clearly not understanding what was happening, but I didn't care. I just slipped past and continued on my way.
The taste of the lemon drop was still on my tongue — sickly sweet, like the role I had just been forced to play. But I played it, and probably couldn't have done better. And now I could confidently say: let's see who outplays whom.
Hmm. I think I understood why he offered me a lemon drop. It was the perfect move! A simple Muggle sweet diffused the tension, brought me down from the pedestal of "suspect" to the level of a "boy" with whom one could share a candy. Simply brilliant!
Now everything depended on how good I really was in my role. The outcome could be that he had seen through me completely, and then he would consider me either slippery, just like he considered my father, or he would think I was a second Tom, and then both I and my Council would be in trouble.
But the Headmaster knew better than anyone about my father's hatred for him. My slight, almost innocent "incomprehension" of this animosity should have sounded dissonant. And he, the old fox, should notice that crack and seize upon it.
This was the second option: if he believed precisely my last words. Because he had seen through my excuses and simply turned a blind eye, as should have been the case at Hogwarts! We were, damn it, in an elite British school with a mentality that was a century or two behind the rest of the world, so they shouldn't have even dug into my secret elite society games, especially considering my house and background, but apparently McGonagall's character had played a nasty trick on me.
I wonder how many people had cracked, for her to be so certain of my guilt? I suppose that would remain a secret to me, but no matter — now things would be different.
True, I had gotten a little furious at one point.
"I see in you… myself in my youth." What audacity! What monstrous self-confidence, but at the same time, if you think about it, such a useful illusion for me!
In reality, I had simply gotten away with a promise to be less sharp. And I had thanked him, but there was only a shadow of genuine appreciation in that. What was there to be grateful for, when other people's words were pitted against mine and my friends' words! We wouldn't have gotten into any real trouble anyway. At most, detention and a few lost points, and a scolding from Snape, but nothing more.
But what if Dumbledore had seriously taken me on? That would be sad, and even sadder that in a couple of years, the Council might become too influential, and then I'm afraid the Headmaster wouldn't turn a blind eye. It seemed I needed to become a more secret and covert assembly.
***
POV. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
The door closed behind the boy with a quiet but distinct click. Silence fell over the office, broken only by the soft hum of magical instruments. Dumbledore thought. His fingers slowly took a lemon drop from the already half-empty crystal bowl, which had been full not long ago.
"A very, very capable boy," he thought, and the thought was colored with both wariness and interest. At thirteen years old, he was already a skilled liar. But in every skilled liar, there is a grain of truth they try to hide even from themselves. The trouble was that he was very reminiscent of Tom as a child. Only Arcturus Malfoy was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
Arcturus Malfoy could turn out to be either a perceptive young man or an extremely dangerous wizard in the future, already showing unprecedented success in all aspects at school. However, the Headmaster was not inclined to tolerate anything that might interfere with his plans. Here was another reason to do nothing — his views on life, which had not yet hardened from being taught solely within the Malfoy family.
But his reflections were suddenly interrupted by the entrance of Minerva and Severus.
"Please, sit down," Dumbledore gestured to the chairs, returning to his own desk. "I have spoken with Mr. Malfoy. And I believe we can consider this incident closed."
"Closed?" McGonagall couldn't contain herself. "Albus, you heard my accusations! He needs at least six months of detention. Not to mention losing house points."
"Minerva, you only heard words," Dumbledore corrected her gently but firmly. "Words born of fear, envy, and, not least, the conflicts typical of this age. The boy has done nothing serious that would fall outside the bounds of school… pranks. And where would Slytherin be without childish deceptions and squabbles? In that, perhaps, lies the house's… specificity."
McGonagall pressed her lips together, her gaze sharp as a needle.
"We all know, Albus," she said, looking around the office as if seeking support from the portraits of past Headmasters, "where the path began for… You-Know-Who. With school intrigues, with secret clubs, and the desire to gather devoted followers around him. With manipulating those who are weaker!"