POV. Lucius Malfoy.
The Ministry of Magic in the days before Christmas resembled a disturbed beehive. Employees scurried through the corridors with worried faces, couriers carried stacks of parchment, the lifts were packed with eternally rushing officials. In short, everything as usual, only slightly worse. But Lucius Malfoy walked through this chaos as if he were its center. However, his two bodyguards, capable together of holding off two Auror stars, clearly helped him in this task.
Lucius was in no hurry now, but he was worried and seething with cold anger. People parted before him, not realizing why they did so — they simply felt that particular heaviness of presence that comes to those accustomed to the world revolving around them.
The penultimate week before his son's fourteenth birthday should have been tense. Albus Dumbledore should have tried to wrest the entire Black inheritance from Lucius's tenacious grasp, but for some reason, everything went smoothly, and although, as expected, the old Headmaster managed to delay the case, Lucius had expected more from Dumbledore. Had he underestimated his opponent? He doubted it.
He knew Dumbledore could stall. But why do it right now? After all, he must have had his own agreements, just like Lucius, who had promised much in exchange for votes today, only for everything to be postponed by one week.
"So why are you stalling, Albus?" Lucius asked himself in his head.
Lord Malfoy turned into an empty corridor, where his footsteps echoed loudly off the stone walls. Here, away from the bustle, he could think more calmly.
"Surely he found out."
The thought was unpleasant. Dumbledore always had ears where he shouldn't. The old spider, weaving webs from threads no one notices until they are in the center. If he had learned about the arrangements Lucius had built over the past months… then it was understandable why he decided to delay. Otherwise, everything would have ended today, and the petition to reopen Sirius's case would have been annulled.
Lucius smirked to himself.
"Half the neutrals in the Wizengamot have already agreed… That damned Dumbledore… When will he finally go to Mordred!"
Several more votes from those who were undecided should have followed — inertia, herd mentality, the desire to be on the winning side, and everything would have been perfect.
Lucius mentally listed names, sorting them into categories. Supporters, opponents, those who could be swayed, those who would vote against on principle. Now, after everything that had happened, Lucius hadn't even used the Acromantulas. So, this was possible.
Lucius mentally sent the Headmaster to Mordred again — where old schemers spend their final days in impotent malice — but alas, it brought him nothing but slight moral satisfaction.
"In his opinion, this is a blow?" Lucius said aloud, surprising his guards, who didn't quite catch the moment. "I'll show him what a real blow looks like."
He turned and strode on. In his briefcase lay documents — the results of an independent investigation, witness statements, expert opinions. Enough to crush anyone who dared to stand in his way. But the main weapon was not in the papers. The main weapon was in the minds of those people who had already made their decision. Who already knew how they would vote. Who were only waiting for a signal.
Despite all the agreements, despite the dozens of people ready to act at the right moment, Lucius decided it was time to verify everything. Not to trust others' words, even if sealed with oaths. Not to rely on inertia, even if it seemed inexorable. To personally ensure that each of those who had promised their vote was truly ready to give it.
The thought broke off. Lucius frowned — not because the thought was unpleasant, but because it was ill-timed. This was no place for distractions.
***
Apart from the fuss of postponing Sirius's case, the last few days had not been the best for Arcturus. First, his father, citing the incident at school and his inability to control himself, literally didn't take him to the Ministry Ball. Or rather, to the annual reception hosted by the Ministry. Draco, however, went with them — ten years old, after all, old enough to be brought out into society.
Then came the sixth ritual of the Vassat chain.
In the basement level of Black House, there were no windows. Not even those illusory openings sometimes added to prison walls to keep inmates from going insane prematurely. Here, there was only a stone box carved into the foundation of the house — one of many left from the times when the Blacks kept prisoners here.
Arcturus sat in the center of this stone cell, legs crossed, waiting.
Outside the walls, somewhere far above, London was preparing to celebrate Christmas. Malfoy Manor was probably blazing with lights; his mother, who had left only half an hour ago at Arcturus's own request, was surely instructing the house-elves on how to set the table. And he sat here, in the dark, because tonight was the night he needed to be precisely here.
The sixth ritual of the Vassat chain.
It was called the Ablution of Change — a transitional ritual, and therefore extremely dangerous. This ritual concluded the first stage and began the second. In essence, the ritual seemed as simple as walking through a small tunnel, only the difficulty lay in the fact that the "tunnel" was very long.
Arcturus ran his fingers over the stone floor, feeling for the lines drawn in advance. Bone powder mixed with ink stuck to his skin, leaving pale traces. Bundles of mistletoe lay around him in a circle and rested as a wreath on his head, touching his shoulders. The bitter smell filled the stone box, overpowering the stale dampness.
Kreacher was at the entrance, pressed into a corner, simply waiting. The old elf already acknowledged his new master, who, despite everything, was far more worthy than the one the elf's mistress so desperately wanted freed.
The entire ritual lasted several hours, and that was the main difficulty. Sitting for hours in darkness while simultaneously chanting the ritual formula was no easy task, but it was within Arcturus's capabilities.
Arcturus closed his eyes and began when the elf signaled through the door, locked from the outside.
Latin began to flow from his lips. The ritual's words, learned by heart, tested at every previous stage, formed a formula that tolerated no mistakes. The young ritualist, sensitive to magic, immediately felt the magic begin to respond, and the air in the stone cell grew denser and heavier.
Then the wind blew.
In an enclosed space with no cracks or vents, the wind blew. It swirled in a circle, following the drawn lines, stirring dust and the scent of mistletoe. Arcturus continued to speak, eyes closed, feeling the current touch his face, hair, clothes.
The candle in his hands lit up.
Light cut through the darkness, and Arcturus finally saw what he had drawn an hour earlier with his own mother — Narcissa Black. A complex, multi-layered circle, its lines disappearing into the shadows, intertwining and creating a pattern understandable only to the initiated. The bone powder began to glow pale blue in the candlelight. The mistletoe wreath on his head seemed alive, as if the branches were reaching for the flame.
True, the candle burned very unevenly. The flame would shoot up, illuminating much more of the stone cell, then shrink to a tiny point, barely visible in the darkness. Meanwhile, the wax dripping down the candle fell onto Arcturus's hands, but he did not move.
He continued to chant, never faltering, never raising his voice, never slowing. The words flowed from him steadily, like a tide in no hurry. The contours of the ritual circle pulsed in rhythm with his voice, fed by the magic flowing along the lines drawn with bone dust.
The wind swirled faster, kicking up dust and the scent of mistletoe, but Arcturus paid no attention. The candlelight would flare to a blinding white, then contract to a tiny point, barely visible in the darkness. Wax dripped down his fingers, solidifying into white growths, fusing to his skin, but he continued.
Hours passed. Arcturus lost count.
The words he repeated were no longer Latin. They had become something more ancient than human speech — a mantra that cannot be learned, only felt, channeled through oneself, become it. He spoke them again and again, and each time they sounded slightly different, acquiring new shades and new meanings.
The contours on the floor slowly faded. The bone powder lost its glow, the ink absorbed into the stone, the lines erased as if they had never been there. And the candle burned more and more steadily, without flashes, without dips, with a steady, calm flame that seemed like it could burn forever.
Along with this process, Arcturus changed inside as well. The boy's soul, a tangle of two souls not perfectly glued together, became smoother and even attempted to finally unite, but alas, even this ritual was insufficient.
And though Arcturus could not see the state of his soul, he studied his mind and saw a reflection of his soul's state, albeit in a rougher form, and now even that was trying to heal. Unlike the more monumental thing like the soul, his mind underwent partial healing, bending naturally in some places. Along the way, the ritual sanded away various harmful psychological traumas; if his mind had suffered from any curse, this sanding would certainly have removed it. As it was, it served as a form of prevention, the full value of which Arcturus would hardly have understood if he were not an Occlumens.
But nothing lasts forever.
After several hours — or days, or moments, time had lost meaning for Arcturus — the candle flickered one last time and went out. It simply extinguished, as if it had never been lit. And it went out so completely that it seemed to absorb every photon within these stone walls. As if the candle had never been lit at all.
With the candle, the wind vanished. And thoughts. And Arcturus himself.
He simply lost consciousness. The funny thing was that the ritual wasn't to blame — no, the ritual had completed correctly, perfectly. It was just fatigue — a different factor. Magical, physical fatigue that had been building for months and spilled out now that the tension had finally released. The ritual was only a little to blame. Just a tiny bit.
The darkness became total.
While Arcturus lay on the damp floor, undergoing the residual effects of the ritual, simultaneously smearing the meticulously drawn ritual circle with his body, somewhere far away at Hogwarts, many professors received gifts… among those who remained even on Yule night.
***
I opened my eyes. Endless whiteness stretched all around, as far as the eye could see. No floor, no walls, no ceiling — only light, evenly diffused and shadowless. And also… a door. Just a door.
It stood in the middle of this void, as if waiting for me. Made of dark oak, heavy, expensive-looking, with a silver handle that seemed alien here, as if torn from another world and thrown into this infinite emptiness.
I looked around, but the whiteness extended equally in all directions, offering no answers. Only me and the door. Stay here, or open this door suspended in the white void, and step beyond its threshold. Let's see what kind of dream this is and why, even realizing it's a dream, I can't alter it as I please.
I approached it. Placed my palm on the wood, feeling something alive pulsing beneath my fingers. Paused for a moment, gathering my thoughts. Then I pushed.
Beyond the door was darkness.
Or rather… DARKNESS.
Not the kind that comes at night, when your eyes adjust and you begin to discern outlines. A different kind. Absolute darkness… primordial. The darkness that existed long before light and will exist after it.
A black, viscous wave surged from the doorway — black, viscous, and alive. It washed over me, filled my eyes, ears, mouth, penetrated every cell, every thought. I wanted to recoil but couldn't move — my body had ceased to obey, as if turned to stone. The darkness pulsed around me, spread through the snow-white void, filling it, saturating it, repainting it in its own color.
It was terrifying. But this fear was not from the threat of death. It was an archaic horror that all living creatures feel before the unknown. The darkness was not evil. It simply was. And that was enough to make me freeze, unable even to scream.
I woke up… in the same infinite whiteness.
My heart dropped somewhere as I recognized this place. The same void, the same shadowless light, the same door. I clenched my fists, feeling irritation rise within me.
Attempt number two.
I sat up and looked around. Nothing had changed. Whiteness stretched in all directions, the door stood exactly where it had been last time. I looked at my hands, tried to conjure even a spark of magic — nothing. No response, no power. Only emptiness inside and emptiness outside.
"No," I said aloud. "I'm not going."
I moved away from the door. Stepped back, to where the whiteness seemed denser. Sat down, legs crossed, and began to wait. If this is my mind, even if it's the ritual — then sooner or later it will end. I just need to wait it out.
Time dragged on. I didn't know how long had passed — minutes, hours. The whiteness didn't change, the door didn't disappear. I tried to meditate, to delve into myself, to search for the boundary where magic responds — nothing. Only white noise and oppressive emptiness.
And then the darkness erupted on its own.
Without warning, the door simply burst in a torrent of absolute darkness. I jumped up, tried to run, but where? Whiteness extended equally in all directions. I ran until my strength gave out, until my lungs burned, until my legs gave way. The darkness caught me, engulfed me, consumed me.
And I woke again.
In the same place. Same whiteness, same door.
"Damn," I exhaled, standing up. "Damn, damn, damn."
I tried to run again. As I thought, the darkness caught me.
Woke up.
I stopped counting attempts. Running didn't work. Waiting didn't work. I tried to shout, call for help — silence. I tried to ignore the door, build walls in my mind — no use. The darkness broke through anyway, each time faster, each time more inexorably.
I tried opening the door just a crack, letting the darkness out in small bursts, hoping that if I let it out gradually, it wouldn't overwhelm everything at once. That was a one-way street, and that end came quickly. The darkness didn't know how to be small. It was whole, indivisible, and absolute.
I lay on the white floor that wasn't there, staring at the white ceiling that wasn't there, and felt something inside me breaking. Or, on the contrary, falling into place.
Only one thing remained. The thing I had been running from all these attempts, all these eternities in the whiteness, even though I knew it was the most reasonable way out of this delirium.
I stood up and walked to the door.
And before the darkness could spill into this absolute void, I simply took a step forward.
Stepped into the darkness. Towards it.
The darkness struck, engulfed, filled my eyes, ears, mouth. I did not resist. I opened myself to it, let it in, let it become part of me. The darkness pulsed around, inside, through. It was not evil. It was not good. It simply was. And now I was, too.
And then I woke up.
In my bed at Malfoy Manor. Soft sheets, warm blanket, the muted light of a winter morning behind the curtains. Everything was as usual. As always… except I should have woken up in the damp, dark cell where I had performed the ritual.
I looked at my bedroom door and felt my heart clench with inexplicable, animal terror. That very door, which I had opened hundreds of times without thinking, now seemed alien and dangerous. Beyond it could be that darkness. Who said I wasn't still dreaming… again? Beyond it could be something I had unleashed.
I forced myself to get up. Approached the door again, reached out for the handle.
I stood on the threshold, looking into the empty corridor, feeling the tension gradually release, my heart calm, the tremor leave my fingers. Everything was alright. Or was it?
Eventually, I convinced myself everything was fine. My magic was intact, and my mother explained how she had brought me back home. In the end, another ritual was behind me, and although it had been extremely strange, I felt incredibly energetic and full of strength afterward. I gladly used that energy to sort through presents.
This year, there was nothing particularly special, but it was still pleasant and fun. I do love attention. But what I love more is magic. So after lengthy diagnostic tests and checks of my own abilities, I concluded that all my parameters remained the same.
Except for increased synchronization between my right and left hands, faster decision-making… as if I had become smarter. Everything was very strange, but in general, there was very little information about the ritual itself, so that aura remained. Or rather, it would remain until I got my due and could calmly obtain the full book on this ritual chain and finally learn everything more precisely.