Chapter Sixteen

Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts, Scotland, 20 October, 1991

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, silently watching the boy in front of him. The boy himself looked a bit pale and shaky, but defiance glinted in his eyes, his messy blond hair tumbling onto his sweaty forehead.

The headmaster had heard an account of the incident from several different people and had no doubts that this boy hadn't been aware of what he was doing. As had been argued by all the students present, it was obviously an accident.

But all the same, accidental magic was rarely so explosively powerful.

It was time to see what this boy was made of.

He'd heard all the reports, of course; friendly, polite, funny, popular, and at the top of all his classes. He was cocky, of course, and a tad arrogant, but always stood up to those who mistreated others. He and his brother's ever-growing group of friends were smart, funny, and powerful, with some very influential names thrown into the mix. Young Daphne's family owned the Daily Prophet and almost every Apothecary in the country, while Longbottom was the sole heir to a vast (hidden) fortune. Blaise Zabini was heir to several fortunes and various businesses, his late stepfathers' (he had seven, all of whom had died mysterious deaths) enterprises.

Weasley, though poor, was of a line of purebloods that ran back to at least the tenth century, and Miss Granger was an exceptionally brilliant for one who had entered their world only a few months ago.

And now, it looked as though Henry Potter was slowly being accepted into this eclectic group as well. It was a good thing too, as he didn't seem to have many friends.

He shook himself out of his thoughts to see that the boy was looking at him, his glare calculating through his glasses.

"Well, Mister Malfoy, what have you to say for yourself?" he asked, fairly certain of the boy's response.

"It was an accident, but I would've done it on purpose if I'd known how, and I'm not sorry," Adrian said, still shivering slightly from the magical outburst, the defiance never leaving his gaze.

Then again, Dumbledore thought wearily, he has surprised me at every question thus far. Why should he fit my expectations now?

"And what exactly did you do, Adrian?" he asked softly, genuinely curious.

The boy's face scrunched up in a strange mix of emotions, confusion, concentration, and something that looked very much like…

fear.

"I-I'm not sure, exactly. See, last month, Professor Lupin said something about intent during his lessons, and it kind of stuck with me. So I began… experimenting with it, the idea of it," he said, looking down at his hands. "I found out that a lot of magic is intent, and not an incantation. But you have to mean it, Professor, beyond all hesitation and doubts." He looked into the older wizard's eyes. "You really have to mean it."

"And what did you mean to do?" Dumbledore asked, keeping the shock out of his voice and off of his face.

"I- I only meant to scare them away, to make them leave Hen- Potter alone. But then, there was this- this voice. In my mind." He shivered violently. "And it burned on my chest. It hurt them."

Dumbledore gulped. "Could I see where it hurt, Adrian?"

"Sure," he said. With shaking fingers, the boy undid his shirt.

Dumbledore bit back a cry of shock, for on the boy's chest, from sternum to navel, was a huge sunburst scar of raised red and purple flesh, the swirls seeming never-ending and the rays stretching across his ribs and over his shoulders. He swallowed hard.

"How- how did this happen," he asked hoarsely.

Adrian shrugged, and buttoned his shirt. "It's just a birthmark, sir."

Dumbledore nodded absently, knowing full well that this was no birthmark.

He watched as the boy left his office, closing the door quietly behind him, and dropped his head into his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Who was Adrian Malfoy?