9.5 - A Fatal Flaw

"I asked you a question, Connor. It was not rhetorical. I expect an answer." Connor glared at Ambrose Walken but didn't speak. Walken leaned forward until his nose was only inches away from Connor's. "Are. You. Mad?"

"No!"

"Then explain to me why we have dragged you thousands of miles away for your own protection and you have immediately drawn attention to yourself by initiating a rivalry -and not with just anyone- with Malfoy of all people."

"He's a dick. And I didn't want to come."

Walken took a deep breath. "You'd rather return home?"

"That's not my home."

"Then what is, Connor? You have a chance, albeit a brief one, to have this be a home. And you are treading on thin ice. I went to school with a Malfoy. Let me tell you their game: 'Oh, I'm an evil but helpless git. I shall be a thorn in your arse until you rough me up!' Only they aren't helpless. Not at all. They know how to arrange, Conner...that is their family's greatest gift. They are arrangers. They will never, ever push you a direction they do not want you to go. Young Malfoy has that gift. I can smell it. He is only impatient...brash. Like you. But he has it."

Connor tapped the desk with his wand. "Can I go back to my room, now?"

Walken exploded. "No you cannot bloody well not go back to your room! Last time you were stupid someone found you. Who was it?" Connor rose to go. Walkin spun his wand through the air and Connor froze in mid-step. "Who was it?" he screamed. His voice echoed off the blocks.

"Kate. It was Kate. I hate you!"

"It was Kate. Then who followed her?" Walken waited for a few moments. "Who?" he whispered.

"Altasia," Connor wailed. "Why...? Why do you?"

Walken stood in front of Connor's rigid form. "Because you forgot it. Or you ignored it. You need to have discipline. Do you know what discipline is, Connor? It's remembering what you really want. What do you really want?"

"To die."

"That is...sadly understandable. Though I should think what you really want is for Altasia to die. Or perhaps for Kate back." Connor didn't speak. "Mark my words, Connor. If you toy with Malfoy, someone with pay."

Connor huffed. "What did you do to me?"

"I didn't do a thing to you. I did something to the space around you. Sadly, many of the spells I'd like to use on you won't stick." Walken smiled slightly.

After a while, Connor did as well. "Will you let me go now?"

"That depends. Are you going to run off?"

"No," Connor said after a long pause.

Walken raised his wand almost vertical and muttered something under his breath. After a bit, Connor slumped back down.

"What is the story with the Longbottom boy?"

"There is no story. We just get along."

"Are you certain it's wise to cultivate friendships?"

"What am I supposed to do? Not have any? That won't exactly make me blend in!"

"Plenty of students here keep to themselves," Walken observed.

"I won't let anyone get too close."

"That would be wise," Walken agreed. "Between Altasia and Malfoy, the Longbottom boy wouldn't have much of a chance, I'm afraid. He's not much of a wizard, they tell me."

"He's better than everyone thinks."

Walken simply nodded slowly.

Later that evening, Connor sat on his bed, holding the wand he was absolutely not supposed to have. How many times had he imagined running the sharpened tip through his own chest? He'd held it pointy-bits in, resting over his heart a few times. Once he even jabbed himself with it until a bright red pinprick of blood appeared.

In the end, Connor did have one thing going for him: He knew himself well. The same seditious character-flaw that caused him to get in altercations with anyone willing to goad him for a few short moments prevented him from giving in. He was not the type of cat who could cleanly dispatch himself. He was destined to give the universe the finger, insult its parentage, and invite it to "come and get him."

Unfortunately, when the universe did come and get him, it would probably be through every fault of his own, and he wouldn't be alone. Decent wizards would pay just as much as he would. His mouth and attitude had a way of collaborating to write checks of such magnitude that the debt could not be paid by any one man. He liked to think he had excellent restraint and self-control, but the truth was somewhat less charitable, and he knew it.

He'd done it before, and he'd do it again.