POV. Lucius Malfoy
The door closed, and Lucius was left in the silence of the empty study. He slowly walked to the window, looking out at the Manor's manicured gardens. Adolescent rebellion... The headache of every family head.
His lips twisted in a slight smirk. In his day, his father wouldn't have listened to any protests. He'd have shown immediately who was master of this house. But times had changed, and even the Malfoys had to adapt to new realities. Especially under pressure from a wife who could be a sweet spouse in public and a real she-devil at home.
He mentally returned to the Selwyn proposal but again tried to forget it. While they were among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, their influence wasn't what it used to be. And most importantly — Sophia Selwyn was significantly older than Arcturus. The mismatch was too noticeable.
Rosier... Now that was a worthy match. An ancient family, equal in status and nearly as powerful. And Amanda — Arcturus's contemporary. Well-mannered, intelligent, and, in Lucius's opinion, the perfect match.
However, there was another option. The Malfoy family was currently the most influential among the 28 sacred families. But they were only the most influential family on the British Isles. As for the continent... many generations of Malfoys had wanted to strengthen ties with the continent through the family Milfeuil. And gradually, the families had re-established the contact that had been lost over time due to quarrels and history.
Of course, the cadet branch, which had long since split from the main line, was important to the Malfoys for expanding influence on the continent. Now, centuries later, this was all forgotten; the Milfeuils had become key partners on the continent, through whom the family derived colossal income from the market there. That's why Lucius, knowing of a daughter from this family of suitable age and talents, was considering proposing such a marriage to the Milfeuils. Such a union could greatly strengthen the bond between the families. And over time, perhaps his son could even regain sway over the branch that had split off centuries ago.
Lucius sighed. He sincerely wished the best for his son, but these youthful impulses...
Lord Malfoy hoped this year would make his son understand that feelings were not paramount in their circles. Let him feel that his opinion was being heard. Perhaps it would be beneficial for the future. But if in a year he continued to be stubborn...
Lucius tightened his grip on the cane's handle. Then he would have to remind his son who made the decisions in this house. He would not allow his son to jeopardize the family's greatness over youthful illusions.
***
February 21, 1990
February turned out to be a surprisingly productive month. We sat in our "Council Chamber" — as I grandly called our room in the Slytherin dungeons — and I noted with satisfaction how everything had transformed. The subdued light reflected off the polished surface of the transfigured blackwood table. This is what I called good Transfiguration! On the fingers of all present gleamed our silver rings — the symbol of belonging to the Slytherin Council.
These rings didn't just adorn fingers; they were known to almost all our people. They were meant to become a mark of authority. Wearing such a ring meant you were dealing with someone of importance within the school, and even the most arrogant upperclassmen understood that. In two months, we had managed to convey this simple truth to every Slytherin we could reach.
Those same two months of work after the holidays had allowed us to bring many under our influence. Even several third-years were being slowly courted. Though initially wary, they now readily carried out small tasks, understanding that a connection with the Council opened certain prospects. Everything was running smoothly, like a well-oiled machine.
My gaze swept over the assembled faces as I summed things up.
"So, this week we've identified three more potential candidates among the first-years," my fingers unconsciously tapped the table, beating out a rhythm that seemed to imprint itself on the minds of those present. "Cassius, you'll oversee Graham. Make sure he handles recruitment correctly. No undue pressure, but no excessive leniency either. I know him..."
Warrington answered with an affirmative nod, his face remaining impassive, but understanding flickered in his eyes. I was already shifting my gaze to the next person.
My eyes stopped on Amanda. She sat opposite, but in her usually warm eyes was a slight detachment, as if an invisible wall of the most transparent yet incredibly strong crystal had grown between us.
Ever since Father voiced his decision and I bitterly realized that of all those involved in this matter, I alone hadn't known about the impending deal... that proverbial black cat had run between us. Not Professor McGonagall, of course, but we had argued seriously — very seriously — over it. We still communicated, worked together, but the former ease, those glances and half-smiles unnoticed by outsiders, were completely gone.
"Amanda," I addressed her, and my voice involuntarily took on dry, businesslike notes, "have you prepared everything for that tea gathering?"
"Yes, Arcturus," her reply sounded crisp and cold, as if she were reporting to a superior, not speaking to a person with whom she had recently shared plans and jokes. "I met with them in the library. Those two friends are practically with us now. They understand the advantages the Council's patronage offers."
"Excellent," I nodded. Before, we would have exchanged a quick, understanding look here, and after the meeting, she would have certainly approached to discuss details. Now — only a dry exchange of information. And despite the fact that I, with my principles, was mainly the cause of this rift, I wasn't a complete jerk. I felt a pang of guilt and subconsciously tried to appease Amanda, but in a way that wouldn't be too obvious.
An awkwardness hung in the air, felt by all but commented on by none. It wasn't even about the fact of a possible betrothal or that her parents had informed her. No... I was angry and hurt precisely because of her silence. Everyone in the Council was supposed to be utterly honest with each other, and she had hidden from me something that determined my entire future life — or at least a significant part of it.
"For next week, the plan is clear," I drew the line, rising from the table. "Thank you all. We meet again same time next Saturday. If anything comes up — report any issues immediately."
Chairs scraped, and the group began to disperse, whispering among themselves. I remained standing by the table, staring into nothingness. Amanda was one of the first to leave, not even glancing my way, her dress merely flashing in the doorway.
So this was how we worked. All for the grand design of creating a unified and strong Slytherin, but in reality... The sincerity and trust between me and Amanda had taken a backseat, yielding to cold calculation and unspoken grievances. I justified myself, of course, precisely by her silence, her betrayal of our unspoken alliance. But deep inside, a different, more bitter resentment churned. I felt humiliated. Everyone knew. The whole high society, probably, was already discussing behind closed doors how Lucius Malfoy and Lord Rosier had struck a profitable deal, while I, the main prize, hadn't even been privy to the plans concerning myself. It was a real slap in the face from Father.
The year I had begged from Father had begun. And I intended to use it to the fullest, even if it meant pushing personal feelings even further aside.
And I was about to tell what grand plan I had that was supposed to surprise everyone. But it seems it wasn't meant to be...
At that moment, Blackwell returned to the room, followed by some fourth-year Slytherin. It turned out he had come to ask for a favor. That is, he had a request he believed I could fulfill.
I granted such requests on one condition: in return, the person became my debtor and was obligated to perform one service for me in the future. Usually, people asked for protection from someone, help resolving a conflict, or assistance with some matter — the range of tasks was typically narrow, differing only in depth (complexity).
Thanks to handling such requests quickly and effectively, people gradually developed respect for me and the other Councilors. Even upperclassmen approached me more than once, especially after the Answorth incident, who was now completely quiet, and that worried me greatly — the calm before the storm always troubled me more than open confrontation.
The fourth-year was from a not-so-wealthy (now) family. Despite being pureblood, his family was in decline and on the verge of poverty. His problem was atypical — his family decided not to allocate funds for a new broom, as the Warbertons were now balancing on the edge, if not poverty, then that financial state where you can no longer afford everything you want.
The guy was a talented player and had been on our Quidditch team since his third year. That's why I recognized his face. The situation was banal but perfectly suited for another demonstration of generosity and kindness.
"Terms are the same as for everyone else," I said coldly, looking at him over my steepled fingers. "You become my debtor. One day, I will ask for a service, and you will not be able to refuse. One service in the future, without objection. You also must repay the money within a year."
He nodded with such eagerness it was almost pitiable, his naivety showing. He didn't yet understand that such a debt would weigh on him more heavily than a bad broom in a hurricane.
When I informed him I had secured the funds — and the sum was substantial, as even with his modest savings, such a broom cost a fortune — his debt to me became truly immense. The operation was conducted through my strong and loyal Darter: first, he delivered a properly certified document to Gringotts, then swiftly returned, delivering the necessary gold. With these funds, the guy managed to purchase the latest Nimbus model for himself, albeit slightly used.
This year, that model was almost the flagship, one of the best racing brooms on the market. The guy was genuinely happy, his eyes shone with genuine delight. 'I hope he'll be just as happy when it's time to fulfill my request,' a grim thought flashed through my mind. 'A request that, shattering into the tiniest shards, will penetrate the very soul of the debtor, making him feel obligated for the rest of his life.'
After such a tense day, I lay in my bed, unable to sleep.
I lay on the bed, flipping through the yellowed pages of "Theory of Dark Alchemical Rituals. Wasat Black." But today, even its alluring secrets couldn't hold my attention. My thoughts kept returning to the winter holidays, to that fateful conversation with Father that turned everything upside down.
After our so-called "agreement," I began treating Father with a pointed, icy politeness. Every interaction — whether a brief exchange at breakfast or purely business correspondence — was now imbued with a burdensome, unspoken reproach.
I forcefully turned a page, making the ancient binding creak pitifully. To ward off bitter thoughts, I tried to switch to another, no less complex puzzle — the election race at the Ministry.
Cornelius Fudge, the cunning old chameleon, managed to sit on two chairs at once. On one hand, he eagerly used the sponsorship of Father and other pureblood families, promising stability and preservation of aristocratic rights left and right. On the other — he cleverly secured Dumbledore's favor, nodding to liberal circles and hinting at "gradual reforms." This double game was both brilliant and disgusting. Thanks to this maneuver, his chances of becoming the new Minister for Magic had skyrocketed. Father, of course, grumbled in private that Fudge was unreliable, but continued pouring money into his campaign, considering him the lesser evil. Dumbledore, apparently, saw in him a convenient tool for restraining more radical forces from the Death Eater side.
I closed the book. Wasat's Theory of Rituals could wait. Right now, I needed to finalize the details of a new plan. A one-year plan. A year to turn from a pawn into a player. A year to create circumstances where my choice would become not just a whim, but the only correct strategy for the Malfoy family. Honestly, I had already begun sketching out an exit strategy, a way to make my opinion carry as much weight as Father's, but for now, that had to remain a strict secret.
Many questions tormented me that night, but lately, one riddle preoccupied me more than any other: our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Professor Agatha Sharp. For a standard one-year contract, her candidacy was far too... exceptional. I dug into the available information and found out something. Sharp was quite well-known in certain circles not as a scholar, but as a private detective specializing in finding wizards, particularly convicted criminals — essentially, a bounty hunter. She had over a dozen wizards on her record who were officially considered dead until she tracked them down and returned them for a reward. Sometimes she returned corpses, and sometimes she caught them alive.
And now such a woman suddenly agrees to a modest one-year teaching position? Doubtful. Very doubtful. I was almost certain she hadn't been hired solely for teaching. Two possibilities suggested themselves: either the school itself hired her as a private detective for an internal investigation, or she came here undercover, hired by someone from the outside. The latter was unlikely — Dumbledore wasn't naive enough not to thoroughly vet a foreign witch who was also a known private investigator.
Most likely, the Headmaster required a private investigation, but the nature of it — that was the big question. If he hired such a high-class specialist, the matter clearly smelled of serious problems or a huge scandal. Nothing but questions... And the longer I pondered, the more mysteries arose before me in the nocturnal silence.