January 1st
My birthday. And, as it turned out, an excellent occasion to drown myself in a vat. Not metaphorically, but literally. At first, I thought Mother was joking, but no, Mother, holding the records of Wasat Black in her hands, calmly said:
"Tonight, we will perform the third ritual — the Silver Immersion."
As if she were talking about an evening bath with aromatic salts, not about submerging me in water and waiting for me to drown.
In exactly ten minutes, it would be January 1st and, consequently, my birthday. I was born literally at 00:13, so the timing for the third ritual in Wasat's chain couldn't have been better.
According to Wasat's notes (he turned out to be quite the snob, by the way, even by aristocratic standards), the third ritual in the chain was meant to strengthen the connection between the body and magic. That is, between the physical vessel and the magical one.
This was useful not only as a prophylactic against curses and jinxes. A stronger connection made a wizard more "magical," so to speak. Well, more precisely, the body became more magically infused; the ritual seemed to slightly blur the line between the physical and the magical. To draw an analogy, more perfect life forms shouldn't have such a boundary at all, but who knows.
From a practical standpoint, the ritual's effect could enhance control over magical flow and accelerate magical response. Specifically, up to five percent in control and a noticeable 10% enhancement in response.
Of course, this was under ideal conditions — if the previous two rituals in the chain were performed on time and correctly. And if the third ritual itself was performed at the perfect time, with the needed moon phase in the sky. And that was only part of the factors; if my birthday had been on Yule, it would have been even better, but the turn of the year, a wizard's birthday, and a full moon should quite compensate for the lack of Yule, since it was decided to perform it on my birthday based on calculations.
In general, the date and time of a wizard's birth strongly influenced magic as a whole and rituals in particular. All the aforementioned factors could affect the outcome for better or worse, depending on the ritual. In my case, it was all beneficial.
The ritual was conducted in the northern part of Malfoy Manor, where a so-called "ritual font" had been kept since the times of my great-great-grandfather. Mother insisted we perform the ritual at our home, not go to Black House in the dead of night.
And so I stood knee-deep in icy water, a circle of silver and chalk drawn around me, the air smelling of smoke, myrtle, and something acrid.
Kreacher was darting around the hall as if he were the one to perform the ritual. He adjusted candles, muttered something about "the grandeur of the ancients" and "the great line of Black."
I didn't even stop him. Arguing with elves is almost pointless when they're on their own wavelength.
"Young Master Arcturus must be calm," he reminded me, placing a stone bowl before the font.
"I am always calm."
I might have lied to the old house-elf.
At the bottom of the bowl, something glowed with a viscous, silvery shimmer. Everything Wasat prescribed was added there: a pinch of sea salt, a drop of phoenix blood, three tears of that wonderful creature (probably getting the tears was difficult — I was beginning to respect my late relative more and more), myrrh oil, a couple of drops of my own blood, and silver dust. There were also a couple of ingredients like Kelpie slime, but let's forget about that.
Mother checked the time — in exactly 3 minutes, it would be 00:13.
"Ready?" she asked, and she wasn't so calm now; say what you will, but my mother, Narcissa Black, loved her children. So I could imagine how worried she was.
"Of course," I replied, and for some reason, a calm settled over me, as if I weren't the one about to go through this unpleasant ordeal.
When the time came, I sat in the water. Kreacher handed me the bowl, and I drank its contents in one gulp; it had an utterly terrible taste and consistency.
Then, I simply lay back, submerging myself in the water, spreading my arms and legs in different directions; I lay calmly, buoyed by the salt water. Sea salt had been added to the water too, a great deal of it, which was why I now floated on the surface, my body occasionally dipping a little deeper, the salty water washing over my cheeks, creeping close to my nose, but I merely breathed evenly, closed my eyes, and awaited the ritual's start.
A cold passed through my esophagus, like cold mint being rubbed all along it, but the sensation only grew sharper.
At some point, it became so horrible, as if liquid ice were being poured inside. I even started to regret being able to feel at all.
"Do not move," Mother said. "The body must relax."
Perfect. As if I could even breathe now, unable to even open my mouth. My body was locked in cold, but aside from the water at a temperature slightly below room temperature, the temperature in the ritual font remained the same.
Mother raised her wand and began reciting the ritual lines in a language similar to Latin.
I heard them through the ringing in my ears, then felt my muscles cramping as if someone were slowly pouring me into an invisible mold. Paralysis. My magic, as usual, tried to buck against the effect, similar to Petrificus Totalus, but was powerless.
"Excellent," she uttered with satisfaction, as if evaluating the evenness of a pie. "Now, submerge."
I tried to say that was physically impossible, since I couldn't even move, but Kreacher readily solved that problem. With unexpected strength, the old house-elf's magic began pressing on my body, immersing it deeper and deeper into the water. The world disappeared in a muffled splash.
Cold and a blurred, dark picture through the water.
And a feeling that the water wasn't just touching my skin but trying to penetrate through it and retrieve something from within. As if everything I had ever done in my life was dissolving in this substance. A slight panic surfaced for a moment, but with each passing second, the oxygen dwindled, and my lungs worked worse and worse... The water seemed alive. It forced its way into my nose, displacing the air, which bubbled upwards, away from the malicious water. I wished I could follow...
Consciousness narrowed to the single, growing fire in my lungs. Every atom of my body screamed, demanding air, but I remembered the command — do not move. The water pressed on my eyelids, filled my ears, its salty taste seeped through my clenched lips.
This wasn't just drowning; otherwise, I'd have died. The ritual's magic worked more cruelly, transforming physical agony into something else. It felt like thousands of needles of ice and fire simultaneously piercing my skin, penetrating through muscles, reaching the bones. It seemed my magical core, the very thing that allows spellcasting, would now be washed out and dissolve in this icy font filled with such greedy water.
I couldn't even inhale; this paralysis, unlike the Petrificus Totalus, didn't even allow breathing.
Thoughts thrashed in my head like a bird in a cage. Every survival instinct screamed to break free, forcing my body to writhe, but the paralyzing magic held it immobile. I was a prisoner in my own body, drowning by my own will.
A growing hum sounded in my ears, steel vise tightened around my temples. White flashes danced behind my closed eyelids. My lungs burned, trying to contract in vain, to exhale non-existent air and draw in the icy death.
And then, at the peak of the torment, when the boundary between life and death had thinned to its limit, something clicked. My brain started working differently, and my magic tore through the body-binding charm like an old rope.
The pain and panic didn't disappear but retreated to the background, becoming mere noise. Inside, in the deepest part where magic resided, a new reality emerged. Before, I had felt magic as a kind of external and internal force that could be directed. Now, I felt as if I was it.
The boundary between flesh and magic... was truly blurring. I felt how the salt water didn't just wash my skin but seeped into my magical channels, cleansing and expanding them. The cold was a clot of pure energy, fusing into every cell.
It was unbearable, and… ticklish. I was dying to be reborn — stronger, more perfect? Despite such powerful charms, my subconscious managed to break them. The last bubbles of air left my lips, and my body finally took that fatal, long-awaited breath. I knew I was making a mistake, but I couldn't not breathe. To inhale icy water, but my brain craved air so desperately it ignored the logical dead end.
Along with the freezing water, I inhaled magic. It rushed inside, freezing and burning, filling not my lungs but my very soul. It was a gulp of pure, merciless power. My body arched in the water in a silent scream; my fingers dug into my palms with such force that blood welled up, immediately dissolved in the ritual water.
My body weakened with each second, consciousness slipping into darkness. And I... let go. Stopped fighting. Allowed the magic to do with me what all this was intended for. The descent into the abyss was replaced by flight. The darkness behind my eyelids bloomed with radiant vortices. I was more than just a body. I was magic, and magic was me.
A moment of blackout, a strong jerk, and I didn't understand how I ended up on the stone floor. As if all the water had been forced out of me, every drop extracted from my lungs. I lay there, powerless, gulping air that burned my empty lungs. I don't remember being pulled out, I don't remember starting to breathe, but the air was priceless. My body trembled with shivers, but inside, a storm raged. A quiet, clear, and entirely new storm.
Mother hovered over me, worried, but I had no time for her now. I raised a hand before my face. The skin on my fingertips was wrinkled, but overall, it was my usual hand, yet the sensation was different, as if someone had cleaned me out from the inside and filled me with glowing nebula. Looking at my hand, I felt my old magic flowing there, but now as if on a layer above before, one layer out of dozens, but higher. And so it was throughout my body.
Mother looked at me with anxiety mixed with pride for her son.
"It went well," I whispered, and my voice sounded hoarse but firm. "I feel the connection with my magic..."
I was alive, and I had changed. I also had time during these minutes to change my attitude towards my ancestor. I began to think Wasat was a madman. Later, that he was a genius, but one thing remained constant: Wasat was a master of his craft, but to devise such a cruel ritual to perform on children...
Kreacher handed me a towel from somewhere and announced with reverence:
"Master's magic now breathes with him."
I sat up, drying myself, and tried to comprehend what had changed.
The sensations were strange — as if an echo had appeared inside me. Every breath resonated with a slight tingling somewhere in my chest, as if someone else were breathing beside me.
"And if we did everything perfectly?" I asked when Mother was already blowing out the candles.
She turned, a happy smile on her lips.
"Then, my dear," she said, "you are now a little closer to what many others would like to be instead of you."
I snorted.
"And here I thought I'd just feel my magic better..."
Mother merely shook her head.
"One doesn't exclude the other."
***
The day after the ritual passed in a strange duality. My body responded easily; the morning mini-workout of planks and push-ups went wonderfully, and my mood was high…
I felt magic differently — it required less direction and obeyed better. I noticed the latter during breakfast when I reached for a fork, and as my hand drew near, the fork seemed to jump into my grasp. I hadn't used telekinesis that effortlessly before. Only about 10%, it seemed, but the effect was very palpable. Now I was afraid I might accidentally use wandless magic, but how exhilarating it all was! I was so proud of myself. It was marvelous.
Of course, if I hadn't trained so long and diligently in telekinesis, the slightly enhanced control and response wouldn't have manifested, but now I was reaping the rewards. I felt how, at the slightest desire, magic obeyed my consciousness, and it was beautiful. I eagerly awaited going to test myself in the Manor's training hall, but at breakfast, Father called me for a serious talk, straight to his study. The inner sanctum!
I think this was the first time I was here at Father's behest. In childhood, I simply sneaked into the study, thinking that if it was forbidden, then I needed to be there!
I entered and froze by the door, watching as he, without raising his eyes, placed neat signatures on a pile of parchments. I knew and understood — I was to wait silently until he deemed it necessary to pay me attention. Minutes dragged on, filled with the ticking of wall clocks and the rustle of parchment. During this time, thoughts of yesterday inexplicably crept in: the icy font where I hovered on the edge between life and death was not something easily forgotten. But I had crossed that boundary and was now more firmly connected to my magic, feeling its pulse in my veins more distinctly.
Finally, Lucius set aside his quill and slowly raised his gaze to me.
"Well, son?" His voice was even, indifferent. "How did your... ritual go? Your mother reported everything was successful."
"Yes, Father. The connection with my magic has strengthened, and I'd even say I feel it distinctly."
He nodded, his fingers beginning to drum on the desk.
"Lady Walburga, in her old age, has completely lost her mind," he stated coldly. "Decided to make you go through these old, harsh rituals. A modern wizard has better things to do besides self-flagellation."
Yes, Father never indulged in such practices, nor in combat magic for that matter, considering it the lot of those who can't think with their brains. However, he never neglected protecting his businesses and didn't hinder me when, for example, I asked for a dueling tutor last summer and even hired the best of the best.
"However," Father changed the subject, and that business-like edge appeared in his voice, heralding a serious conversation. "I didn't summon you to discuss the rituals of your eccentric relative. Yesterday you turned thirteen. I have long postponed this matter and this conversation at your mother's request. It's time to think about the future."
"My future?"
"Yours and our family's as a whole."
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
"You are already 13, and it's the perfect age to arrange a betrothal. The marriage, of course, will come later, but a betrothal is necessary now. I have already received several proposals from sufficiently eminent families, and another dozen or so from less noble ones. Most from families whose impudence is surpassed only by their insignificance."
He paused, letting me absorb his words. So that's how it is... And here I thought that since I was acting like an adult, I deserved due consideration. All this time, Father had been making that crucial decision, which any free person should make for themselves.
"I have seriously considered only two proposals. From the Selwyns and from the Rosiers. Though the Selwyns never stood a chance, considering the second came from Lord Rosier himself. Regarding his granddaughter, Amanda."
"From Rosier?" A picture instantly formed in my mind.
Yesterday, I briefly thought about it but immediately dismissed the idea, because how could they decide such a thing without me... but I was lost in my own importance. I thought since I was so important at school, Father should respect my opinion, as should the rest of the world, and I considered myself a realist...
I knew the price... always knew. I even thought about it, but... at some point, the knowledge that this was my duty morphed into the belief that I owed no one — everyone owed only me. I forgot what society I lived in... I forgot what I owed my family. But even understanding all this, I couldn't accept it! My mind knew Father was within his rights, but hormones... emotions...
"I rejected the Selwyn proposal," he stated coldly. "Because Rosier is a different matter. There are always those who are better than others, and only four families are on a level unattainable by other noble families in Britain: Black, Malfoy, Greengrass, and Rosier."
Everything had a price... a wealthy family, good parents, the best education, the finest things, great prospects, and an illustrious surname... for all this, one had to pay, and I knew the price. And Father continued his narrative.
"Rosier is old blood, immense power, and impeccable reputation. And the girl, by all accounts, is not lacking in either intelligence or ability. And what is your opinion of this proposal, Arcturus?" he asked, and his tone held not so much concern for my feelings as a simple test.
Intellectually, I understood the rationality of this union. Amanda was from a family as influential as mine. She was intelligent and attractive. But my heart clenched in protest. Someone else, even my own father, had decided one of life's main dilemmas for me. If another person solves these dilemmas, then what's the point of living?
"Amanda is a pleasant girl," I began cautiously. "And I feel sympathy for her. But... I would like to choose my life partner myself, not learn of your decision standing here, finding out last."
Father slowly shook his head, and a flicker of disappointment crossed his face.
"The question was not asked for you to change my decision, Arcturus," he said coldly. "But to understand if you comprehend your responsibility to the family. It seems I was mistaken in assessing your maturity."
His words stung. I understood all the logical arguments but couldn't accept that my opinion hadn't even been sought.
"Father," I took a step forward, feeling yesterday's now-obedient magic seething under my skin. "I understand everything rationally. But you taught me yourself that true strength lies in the mind. So let me use it! Blind obedience is not what you taught me. If you want to see in me the heir to the House of Malfoy, capable of thought, then allow me to demonstrate that quality."
Lucius, however, looked at me with slight disappointment and in silence, his fingers tightening on the knob of his cane.
"I ask for a year. For Amanda and me to get to know each other better. A forced marriage... often leads to sad outcomes. And if we develop mutual interest ourselves, it will strengthen the future union."
I saw a shadow of contemplation flicker in his eyes.
"Postpone the betrothal, not to refuse it, but to make this union truly solid. I can find an approach with Amanda, convince her and myself that this is our shared choice. Wouldn't that be the perfect solution?"
The air in the study froze. Father studied my face with unusual intensity.
"A year, you say?" he finally uttered. "Exactly one year, Arcturus. This is not a postponement; don't think you can somehow oppose this, and better not try until you've completely disappointed me."
"Thank you, Father."
He dismissed me with a nod. But I needed this year for something else entirely. And Father... no, Lucius Malfoy would only understand his mistake in a year. I wouldn't mind a betrothal of convenience with Amanda. That's much better than with someone else, but not when I'm presented with a fait accompli. Not when I feel like a slave in someone else's hands. But since they tried to corner me, I'll respond in kind.
I was thinking emotionally now, not as I usually did, but these weren't just emotions. This was my principle, a line I would never cross. If a betrothal with Amanda or anyone else is to be concluded, it will only be by my decision.