Minerva McGonagall entered first, her sharp gaze sweeping over the walls, the beds, the table cluttered with textbooks. Snape followed, his fleeting glance seeming to absorb every detail. He silently circled the room, flicking back the edge of the blanket on the fourth, empty bed with a slightly dismissive movement of his hand. Then he glanced into the wardrobe standing against the wall, and having done the bare minimum, stood waiting for McGonagall.
"Explain, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall returned to the heart of the matter, crossing her arms, "why a room designated as D2, that is, intended for the second year, is in your possession? And why are such serious protective charms placed upon it?"
The fact was that the castle's charms changed the room numbers every year. So after the number seven, the room would return to one and increase each year.
I sighed, feigning slight embarrassment and annoyance.
"Professor, this is, frankly, a minor misunderstanding and the impetuosity characteristic of our age," I began, carefully choosing my words to mix truth with falsehood. "You see, last year, we grew tired of our original room, as it turned out to be… noisy, because of the neighbors. The constant noise bothered us."
I paused, letting her imagine the scene. McGonagall frowned slightly — as a pedant and a supporter of order, she might well understand such a desire.
"We approached the then-prefect, Mr. Answorth," I continued, carefully weaving into the story a name that was already hanging in the air. "We explained the situation, and he, being a understanding person, accommodated us. Since this room had not yet been assigned to specific students at the time — the current second-years were only supposed to move in — he suggested we switch to this one. We, of course, happily agreed. He warned that there would be an issue with the number, but promised to sort everything out. As for the protections…" I spread my hands, "we simply value our personal space and quiet very much. Especially when preparing for difficult exams or creating something. We placed the charms ourselves, with the help of some upper-year students."
Snape made a low, barely audible sound, something between a snort and an approving hum. The story was quite in the spirit of Slytherin, so to speak, with an element of personal gain and the use of existing connections.
McGonagall studied my face in silence for a few seconds, then shifted her gaze to Avery and Graham.
"And you, Mr. Graham, just came to visit a friend?"
"Yes, Professor, I was helping him with a difficult topic in Charms," Avery immediately spoke up for Graham.
"That's right, Professor."
The lie was convincing, or rather, irrefutable. However, McGonagall couldn't let go of the fact that the room was like a miniature fortress. There was anti-eavesdropping protection, two-factor authentication at the entrance, and door protection. In short, she found it strange. Even I now realized we had perhaps overdone it a bit, but why not? It was cool, after all, and in Slytherin, almost everyone protected their room to the best of their ability.
"Hmm," she finally said. "Not entirely proper, but it falls within the bounds of internal student agreements and mutual consent… it's certainly not encouraged, but it's not a direct violation either. However, such 'initiative' breeds these unpleasant rumors and confusion. From this day forward, you are to return to your original rooms, as per the placement plan. And remove all unofficial charms from the doors for the second-years."
I inclined my head slightly.
"I apologize. Absolutely clear, Professor. We apologize for the inconvenience caused. We'll rectify everything in the coming days."
"With that, I believe this incident can be considered closed," Snape sharply drew a line, clearly wanting to end this circus quickly and return to his potions. "Common room affairs. It wasn't worth spending so much time on and attracting so much attention."
With that, the inspection finally ended. The professors, accompanied by a pale Yarwood and a gloomy Rookwood, left our wing. The air began to fill with hushed voices and sighs of relief.
Marcus and I exchanged glances. Despite all the surprises, it had all worked out. And the meeting room remained for our gatherings.
That same evening, gathered there, we held a modest celebration. Cassius, on his last trip to Diagon Alley, had managed to get a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling cider — yes, sparkling, because it was from "Sweets Kingdom."
We ate, drank, and discussed the day's events, savoring the moments when our opponents had failed. Yarwood and his pathetic attempt to wriggle out of it got a particular roasting. We also made plans for revenge, the kind they deserved.
However, the very next day after lessons, troubling news reached me: Professor McGonagall, clearly unsatisfied with something, had conducted something akin to an interrogation of all the Slytherin second-years, individually and right after her class. She called them to her office one by one and asked clarifying questions about the room arrangements, about the "Council," about whether they felt pressured by upper-year students. It seemed I hadn't convinced her, or her intuition was too good and she trusted it.
Generally, all wizards have better-developed intuition, but most likely, this difference is due to magic, not a more developed system of subconscious analysis.
Meanwhile, we were trying to stop the information leak during these personal conversations with the esteemed professor, so we began holding personal conversations with the second year ourselves. However, such an interrogation of the second year only happened that one day. Thankfully, the smarter part of the second year had long been on our side, and we saw no point in recruiting the rest, because why? The whole point was the pyramid of power, where after me came the Councilors, and after the Councilors came our recruits, who then managed the rest of the year through subtle methods.
The next day, the first-year Slytherins and our year underwent similar interrogations. Incidentally, McGonagall didn't talk to me much. But she talked to everyone else, including the Council members.
It all boiled down to the fact that she literally ordered us to wait and summoned us to her office one by one. Then the conversation lasted from a couple of minutes to ten, and so on, in turn.
During those days, we tried not to make any moves, to avoid attracting unnecessary attention, because the focus on Slytherin and on me was enormous. But even so, Dexter, of course, had a very instructive conversation with some dubious individuals right outside the Transfiguration classroom… especially with Yarwood, who received quite a few hidden threats. Ah, when the dust settled, in the next semester… I was really going to have fun with that little rat! And I wasn't talking about Wormtail, who was currently living in our Manor as my pet rat.
Anyway, after these personal conversations, which McGonagall conducted with literally every Slytherin up to the fifth year by the end of the week, as well as separately with our prefects, the situation intensified. At first, some tried to tell her where to go and left, but that cost the house points and earned those individuals punishment. In short, according to rumors, she even questioned prefects from other houses.
The questions boiled down to whether the person knew anything about some Slytherin Council; if not, had they heard anything suspicious about Slytherins, specifically about the third years of that house. She gave no more details, but if the answer to both questions was affirmative, she would then ask specifically about me and demand information.
By Saturday, even at the Dueling Club, only the lazy or outcasts didn't know I was involved in something, and it was related to Slytherin. Tales even spread about some secret Slytherin society I belonged to. In the end, right in the middle of our club meeting, I was summoned to the carpet, or rather, to the Headmaster. The news was delivered to me by Edrian Vance, who, despite not having been a member of the Dueling Club for two years, had walked in in the middle of my sparring as if he owned the place.
However, when he demanded the sparring stop and that I promptly carry out the Deputy Headmistress's order, Professor Flitwick flatly refused, in the form of a rather firm "request" to leave the premises of the school club, of which he was no longer a member.
Apparently, it was a combination of him leaving the club in his day and his attempt to elevate himself based on his supposed importance. Moreover, Professor Flitwick and I were quite close due to our frequent discussions about wandless magic. I wouldn't have managed without his help. I'd lost count of how many times I'd approached him when something wasn't working or I'd had a brilliant but dangerous idea.
In the end, after the sparring, I still had to go, but at least Vance's smirk had diminished a bit as he stood by the door, realizing he had simply lowered himself in his own Head of House's eyes.
"Arcturus Malfoy," Vance's voice carried a distinct note of smugness as I stepped into the corridor, removing my protective gloves. "I was asked to escort you. Professor McGonagall is already waiting for you at the entrance to the Headmaster's tower."
He stood leaning against the doorframe, his posture deliberately relaxed. I nodded silently, brushing myself off and adjusting my robes. We moved along the long corridors towards the stairs.
"Interesting times we live in," Vance began quietly after a minute of silence. "The whole school is buzzing that something is brewing within Slytherin's walls… like a secret society, if you believe the rumors."
"Rumors are a questionable source of information, as you noticed just this week. But never mind, I've almost forgiven you for that… oversight of yours."
"Oh, that was more your classmate's oversight; I merely passed on his words, nothing more. By the way, I am very sorry that someone was apparently so careless as to give McGonagall a thread to pull, and now she's unraveling a whole tangle. But who would have thought that a simple, hidden interest club would cause such an uproar?"
I watched him out of the corner of my eye, keeping my face impassive.
"Yes, it's surprising how quickly harmless gatherings with friends can turn into a summons to the Headmaster. Apparently, someone deliberately brought rumors to public attention for a certain… purpose. You know, I've always thought it wasn't very smart to air one's dirty laundry in public. I'd even say it's the mark of the weak. And terribly ineffective, because sooner or later, there will be no one above to shield that… weak person from the blow again. And then it all comes back, just like using Accio."
Vance chuckled, dry and soundless.
"Oh, it comes back, of course. But sometimes it flies for so long that people forget. And they certainly don't expect it to come from where they least expect it. Take, for example, the story with Farmus and the now-missing Answorth. Or the recent… unpleasantness with the two Slytherin girls. So much trouble caused by well-timed gossip… And you can never tell where the truth lies and where it's someone's malicious invention."
Meanwhile, we were already ascending the stairs. I allowed myself a wider smile.
"If a person disappears after the death of their entire family, it's most logical to assume they are also dead. As for gossip… Answorth, in his time, also liked to air rumors in public. And who knows, maybe that habit was his downfall. Because there are people, Vance," I slowed my pace, "with phenomenal memories, even without Occlumency practice. They remember every little thing, every word, every seemingly random slight. They remember negative things best of all, for years, even decades ahead. And they can return the favor to those who wronged them with such interest that it certainly won't seem like too little. Especially if such a person has real power in their hands, and they will. Such a character is a terrible thing. I wouldn't want to become an enemy of such a wizard, but others, apparently, do."
I spoke, looking past him. But I weighed every syllable at least seven times before saying it.
Vance faltered for a second. His self-assurance wavered, replaced by wariness.
"A random irritant can be… well, random," he objected, but the previous smugness was gone from his voice. "A person may not even suspect that their actions or words have offended someone or will cause such a mess. And they certainly wouldn't want it to come back to haunt them years later. In such a case, they can hardly be considered guilty, especially if it's about a childish grudge at school."
"Guilty or not is decided not by them, but by the one they offended," I parried softly. "And the motives 'didn't suspect' and 'didn't want' are just empty words to such a person. Because the damage has been done, Vance. It's all very simple, isn't it?"
Soon we reached the place where Professor McGonagall was waiting for me. Her gaze immediately focused on us.
"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," to say she said my name oddly… would be an understatement.
"Good afternoon, Professor."
"Thank you, Mr. Vance, you may go."
Dismissing the Head Boy, she didn't even glance at him. For at that moment, she was looking at me with great disapproval, as if she didn't believe her own eyes.
Genuine surprise flickered across Vance's face. Apparently, he had expected to be part of this conversation, or rather, part of the accusation. I, of course, knew why I was here. The Head Boy nodded, cast a last, meaningless glance at me, turned, and walked away.
"Come," McGonagall said, still with that cold tone, stepping towards the entrance to the Headmaster's "secret" office.
The office, of course, stood out, but you couldn't get in without the password. Entering, we immediately proceeded further, to where the Headmaster's desk stood.
In general, the Headmaster's office turned out to be exactly the kind of place that could be described with the word "magical"! It was all down to the interior. Walls paneled with dark wood reaching up to the high vaulted ceiling, and sometimes just stone, created an interesting contrast, but that was common in Hogwarts. The greater interest in the interior was drawn to the bookshelves — thousands of leather bindings. Between the bookcases stood dozens of strange instruments and artifacts: silver devices with rotating spheres, quietly singing crystal balls in velvet cradles, complex astrolabes whose finest hands trembled for no apparent reason. In the corner, small, whimsical clocks with dozens of legs tinkled softly. And behind the long dark oak desk, placed in the center, sat the owner of this place and all these trinkets, which effectively distracted the attention of anyone with the slightest curiosity.
His figure, despite his age, always seemed unshakeable to me. But initially… even a couple of months ago, I hadn't felt the emanations of magical energy from him that every wizard possesses, although I understood it only intuitively then. But now, when my sensitivity to magic had increased after Samhain and I began to feel it better, I noticed that stronger wizards had a stronger emission, and then I understood that the Headmaster literally filled the space around him. And perhaps even consciously… Although that didn't detract from the fact that he had a monstrous reserve, if that much magic was emanating from him.
I only felt magical energy from a body at close range, so my mind simply hadn't tried to distinguish his energy when, for example, he took my Map. It would have seemed like just a background of magical energy in the castle, slightly higher in a specific place than elsewhere, but now I wouldn't confuse that moment.
Here, in the office, I wouldn't have been able to move a single object with my telekinesis, because here, one could say, it was his territory, and the Headmaster's magical energy filled everything here! Well… not that I absolutely couldn't, but it would take more energy to overcome someone else's magical energy to move something. Much more!
The Headmaster's half-moon spectacles, as always, had slipped slightly to the tip of his nose, and his piercing eyes seemed to see not only what was before them but also what lay ahead.
To my right, a couple of meters away, there was a small sofa between two bookcases, where Severus Snape sat. He was frozen, like a gargoyle or a storm cloud on the horizon. His Head of House's fathomless eyes held their usual icy mask, beneath which, however, tension could be guessed.
To my left, McGonagall still stood, rigidly straight and not thinking of moving away.
I wondered, would the Headmaster offer me a lemon drop?