The most influential figures in Magical Britain continued for some time to discuss the initial terms of their new cooperation, engaging in a bit of bargaining. On Lucius's side was the leverage of Fudge's debt and the possibility of pouring even more gold into the minister's bottomless pockets, while the minister held significant authority. Although the Supreme Court was not subordinate to the minister, neutrals often sided with the minister's position. Moreover, the Minister himself had one vote, and six of the eighteen judges on the Wizengamot's smaller council were chosen specifically by the Minister's Cabinet.
Fudge was prepared to assist in delaying the process, using bureaucracy and concern for the quality of the investigation as a cover. This was precisely the outcome Lucius needed in this situation.
"I'm pleased we share the same view on the importance of a thorough approach. Regarding the first hearing... I'm confident that if the materials truly require in-depth study, the session may prove to be merely preliminary. And the initial hearing could be postponed by a week, or perhaps more."
The poisonous smirk gradually faded from Lucius's face, or at least the venom was no longer directed at the minister.
"Quite likely," Fudge nodded dryly but with understanding, already mechanically scanning the top document in his pile. "If questions arise during preparation — and in a case this old, they inevitably will — the session can be lawfully postponed to gather additional information. Standard practice; no one will bat an eye."
Lucius rose, taking his cane. His businesslike tone shifted to something more social.
"Incidentally, Narcissa insisted I extend an invitation. We would be honored if you and your wife would grace Malfoy Manor with your presence for dinner next week."
Fudge looked up from his papers for a moment, a pleased and satisfied expression appearing on his face. Regardless of their positions, at that moment the office contained two unrecognized geniuses of acting.
"Hmm... it will be difficult to fit it into my schedule, but I will certainly accept the invitation. We will be truly delighted, Lucius," he replied, drawing out each word like a turtle, his voice dripping with 'genuine' warmth. "Tell Narcissa we look forward to it immensely. One must find some way to brighten these endless Ministry days."
"Excellent. Regarding the case, I'm confident your people will demonstrate all the necessary... thoroughness. On that note, I'll cease interfering with your obligations, Cornelius."
Fudge nodded, not taking his eyes off the parchment, as if their conversation were just another routine detail in the endless stream of Ministry business.
"Certainly. I imagine your loyal associates will also assist us in this matter. Always happy to clarify positions, Lucius. Until soon."
Stepping into the corridor, Lucius allowed himself a cold smile. More confident now, as the negotiation had gone well. Part of the task was accomplished; he had harbored doubts about whether Fudge remembered to whom he owed his position as Minister. Cornelius would stall, hiding behind his bureaucratic shield. But that wasn't enough.
As he walked toward the exit from the floor, toward one of the five lifts where his guards awaited, his mind was already working on the next steps. Passive defense through delay was excellent, but Dumbledore wouldn't stand idly by. Albus had many levers, both over Fudge and over the Ministry as a whole. Too many of his people held high positions.
Active influence on the proceedings was necessary. And if they could delay the matter until his son came of age, Lucius would need someone to officially represent the Black family's interests. More precisely, to hold a seat on the Wizengamot and manage Black assets under a regency until the son reached adulthood. He himself couldn't, as one Wizengamot lord could not hold two seats simultaneously. He needed a loyal, controllable ally with a suitable name and sufficient debt to the Malfoys.
"Crouch? No, too cowardly. Goyle's nephew? Better, but I need to consider. Perhaps I should ask Narcissa."
Only one thought continued to trouble Lord Malfoy, who had finally begun playing in the big leagues — something he should have done long ago, but had been prevented each time. The thought concerned his elder son — Arcturus. The boy was not merely heir to two houses, but unfortunately also a vessel in which the ancient Black rage fermented. This unbridled force of an incurable curse should not have passed through the maternal line, and certainly not in such a powerful form... but it had, and it interfered with Lucius's plans. He doubted his son could lead both houses. Perhaps he should focus on Draco instead.
But in that case, the opportunity to strengthen the Malfoy line by merging with the most ancient and darkest house of extinct wizards would be lost. The wealth and residual influence of the Blacks would elevate Malfoy power to unprecedented heights, but Draco could not become Lord Black. His elder son... if deprived of the right to become Lord Malfoy, might do something that would ruin all plans to absorb the defunct house.
Lucius knew he simply needed to conceal this for the time being. For now, he should focus on his younger son and begin seeking a worthy match for him as well. Who knew, perhaps Lucius would ultimately resolve the inheritance question.
***
The darkness didn't just surround me — it pressed against my eyelids, seeped into my lungs, heavy and paralyzing every muscle. I couldn't feel my body; it had dissolved, leaving only a helpless point of consciousness suspended in the silent void.
And from this darkness, the Voice emerged. Loud, brazen, dripping with pleasure at another's suffering. But this voice was a thousand times less terrible than what was to come. How... how did I know this!?
— Crucio!
Pain crashed down upon my body. It erupted in every nerve and every cell simultaneously, gifting me a personal, concentrated hell. But there was something strange about it. The pain felt unreal — and for that reason, even more all-consuming, as my mind refused to believe its source. It was as if I felt not true pain, but a copy.
The pain itself was unlike a cut or a blow. It was far worse. As if someone had taken my entire being— bones, flesh, blood — and methodically, with pleasure, begun turning it inside out. A dry rasp lodged in my throat. The scream never emerged — paralyzed vocal cords didn't stir.
Why was I paralyzed? It felt as though... this had happened before...
I couldn't move. Even the thought of movement shattered against the stone wall of another's will. And then came the second realization, chilling my soul. My magic, my magic, was inaccessible. Vile, primal fear solidified within me, preventing me from contemplating the situation's strangeness. My magic had been drained from me completely, leaving only a chilling, humiliating emptiness. This terror was worse than the pain itself. Worse than anything. Nothing could compare to the agony of losing oneself. Ah yes... I had forgotten about...
— Crucio, the Voice repeated, and a new spiral of pain, even more piercing than before, began twisting my spine into a tight spring. My body began writhing in a silent, convulsive dance, not obeying me, torn from within. But I had been paralyzed... how was I moving...
My gaze, clouded with pain and tears, fell sideways. My right hand hung limp, tied with a rope disappearing into the darkness. The wrist was unnaturally twisted, the fingers contorted. My left... My left hand was gone. Only a stump remained, wrapped in coarse, bloodstained bandages. This vision unleashed a wild, agonizing torment within me. As if, before this, my hand had been there... what!?
Everything was so strange. So surreal. Yet at the same time... everything felt as if it were real, and I began to dimly understand that I had been in a similar situation before. I... I...
My consciousness, flooded with hell, seized upon this thought like a lifeline. I focused my will, my entire 'self,' which they hadn't been able to break back then. Who were they!?
— Cru...
No. NO! Please!
And the Voice broke off.
***
I abruptly opened my eyes, suffocating on choking, clinging fear. My entire body was drenched in cold sweat. My back was completely wet, my thin nightshirt plastered to my skin. My hands trembled treacherously; I clenched my fists convulsively — both arms seemed intact. I was so frightened that I even raised my left palm before my face, opening and closing my fingers. Everything was there. This knowledge slowly seeped into my consciousness and calmed me slightly. I gasped for air as if for the last time, before suffocating.
"I'm not there! I got out... it's alright... Inhale and exhale, Arcturus. Calm down... just a dream! A nightmare, that's all.."
The Slytherin dormitory room was submerged in its familiar semi-darkness and coolness. Cassius and Avery snored softly in neighboring beds. Everything was as always. Except for me. But seeing this peaceful picture, so soothing, brought much more calm to my soul. And my magic was intact... good... that was wonderful!
Slow, calm breathing helped drive the panicked heartbeat back into its usual state. Just a nightmare... right... one that had been tormenting me all week... But this nightmare seemed too real while sleeping. There are Occlumency techniques for lucid dreaming, but no matter how I tried, I couldn't become lucid in this particular nightmare. With ordinary dreams, it was easy, and they always turned into fun fantasies where I was literally a god.
It was amusing that I remembered the execution of Edmund Renfro. I remembered the sound when his head exploded in my hands... all that blood and the chilling satisfaction of retribution. That memory was clear, sharp, almost pleasant in its cruel justice. I also remembered that he, during the kidnapping incident, had tortured me with the Cruciatus. But the process itself... the pain itself, that which he inflicted... I couldn't remember.
My mind still desperately resisted, unwilling to perceive those moments, though I knew about them. Even now, when fragments tried to surface in dreams, consciousness threw a thick, impenetrable film over them, protecting my child's psyche — or what remained of it.
But blocking them forever wouldn't work. These tortures, like a splinter, would fester, poisoning from within, until they erupted outward with madness. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps it was better to wait. But these nightmares... I couldn't take them anymore. Honestly, I couldn't.
I rose from bed, having calmed slightly. My heart began beating slower, returning to its normal rhythm, but my legs still buckled, and I barely caught myself on the bedpost. My hands trembled, and it infuriated me. I felt weakness within. Disgusting, humiliating weakness, reminding me so much of complete helplessness, then...
I needed to go to the Room of Requirement, right now. There, in complete silence and safety, I could allow myself to sink into my consciousness as deeply as possible. I had to drag these memories into the light, dissect them with Occlumency, and finally turn them from an uncontrollable nightmare into experience.
When you get hit in the face once in a fight, it becomes less scary to fight — you know what to expect from the next blow. Let's see if it works with the Cruciatus. Not that I planned on being hit by an Unforgivable often, but considering my godfather, aunt, and other relatives, it was useful knowledge.
I had, of course, tried before to extract this part of my memory, but it obligingly tried to slip back into oblivion. In short, because of these factors, I was still tormented by this nightmare. And now... immediately after such a dream, when details had struck my consciousness with renewed force, there was a chance.
Slipping silently out of the dormitory and savoring the absolute silence of the Slytherin common room, I noticed with slight shock the silhouette of enormous tentacles visible through the window, beyond the murky water of the Black Lake. The gigantic sea monster's tentacles could have covered the common room's entire wide window. I was mesmerized and moved closer. What I didn't expect was for the tentacles to jerk sharply and disappear, and about ten seconds later, while I was processing the size of their owner, that very owner swam very close to the glass, displaying its silhouette. The creature was about ten to fifteen meters long. Its yellow, glowing eyes — three of them — were the size of Quaffles. I could see them in detail, unlike its blurred body.
Alright... I'd just pretend I saw nothing... but of course I'd tell the guys later. Seeing large silhouettes wasn't uncommon through Slytherin's underwater window, but I had never seen one of the Black Lake's numerous inhabitants so close or in such detail. It was terrifying to imagine: if such creatures lived in the lake next to the school, what lurked in the seas or, say, the Pacific Ocean...
These were roughly the thoughts occupying me on the way to the Room of Requirement. Contemplating sea creatures, I nearly got caught by Mrs. Norris, but it was fine.
I had, of course, brought the Marauder's Map with me. With it, being out of the Slytherin common room after curfew was easy enough. With the artifact, it was simple to avoid everyone awake in the castle, slipping away from Filch and the duty professor.
Good thing I'd decided to privatize the map. To hell with canon... my very life was breaking my foreknowledge over its knee, anyway. And I lived in a real, cruel world, not a fairy tale or some fanfic.
And now, knowing the Headmaster was definitely not a kindly, senile great wizard, but at least a cunning politician, given he'd decided to free Sirius over a will, I was even more glad I'd stolen the map. Without it, who knew where he'd be? What if he were watching me? But this way, at least I knew that, for example, he was currently in his office... or rather, his bedroom, which could supposedly be accessed from the office. At least, that's what I gathered.
In short, it was comforting to know you weren't being watched by an old schemer ten times your age... alright, I exaggerated... nine times.
I just wondered who created the map. According to my father, the Potters were a fairly wealthy family, being hereditary artifact-makers. So either older relatives helped Harry's father, or he was a genius himself. Too bad the truth could never be known. Though personally, I'd bet on older relatives; the artifact was too complex even for a genius.
Finally reaching the Room of Requirement and settling in, I could stop being distracted by noises and calmly focus on my business. Delving into my mind went well, but before going deeper, I decided to poke around in today's events.
What a packed day it had been... Morning news about Sirius, then a fight with the Gryffindors amid anger issues... And I was trying so hard...
It felt as if the curse's influence was intensifying. Before, even without coping methods, I'd suffered from it at roughly the same level. And now I'd seemingly become a head taller as an Occlumens, constantly kept calming potions on me, analyzed every flash of anger — I was practically acting as my own psychologist, working through things, so to speak. I'd learned numerous serious mental magic techniques, yet I could still explode over something that shouldn't evoke such a response. In short, I needed the Black library; there would definitely be information on the Curse there, and if there was information, I could devise a solution. Because continuing like this was impossible. Thankfully, only a little time remained until the X moment. I was still waiting for a response from my father. I'd probably only receive a letter toward morning... And by the way, how long until morning?
"Tempus!" According to the spell, there were still a couple of hours until breakfast.
Almost sad. I'd settled so pleasantly into my favorite Room of Requirement... the one with my table, comfortable chair, and mini-library. Gradually, step by step, I finally delved deeper into consciousness, retrieving memories unpleasant for my brain. For some reason, this even amused me.
"Hah, I don't want to forget... even the worst seconds... even the pain of Crucio..." I don't know why and I don't know how, but these words forced their way from my tongue. And as soon as they escaped, something began surfacing in my mind... a brief migraine accompanied small fragments of memory.
I remembered... missing details of what I'd already known. Including this phrase... and remembered why I needed to remember even the pain of the Cruciatus. The answer was in my spirit: "I want to remember everything, otherwise I'll cease to be myself." So like me...
"Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!" My own laughter jerked me from the depths of my consciousness. I genuinely rejoiced... rejoiced that at the moment of that thought and now, I was in such different states, yet thought identically. This realization amused me so much that I laughed at first, and when the laughter subsided, a traitorous tear rolled down my cheek for some reason. Because it... was... so painful...