Chapter 20: Hyperion
"Hmmmm. Dark sex," said Ron Weasley, passing behind Ginny's back and peeping over her shoulder. Ginny was sitting on a sofa with Granger's sex book on her lap open somewhere on its last pages. She gave her brother a bored, Zabini-ish look and continued reading.
The book had made quite a splash in the Gryffindor house. At first, it was just a small circle of remedial and seventh year girls who knew about it, and kept borrowing it from Granger in daily turns. But the rumour spread among the boys and younger students, and Granger brought it down to the common room for everyone to peruse. After it had been missing for three weeks and was finally found under the pillow of a second-year, Granger put an Instant Scalping Hex on it that freed anyone who tried to take it to the dormitories of all their hair. From that point on, the only ones who could read it were those who had the nerve to do so in public, surrounded by shameless Gryffindor gossipmongers.
Draco regretted that he had not borrowed it when he had had a chance to read it in private. Now it was out of the question. Weasley peeping over his shoulder? No, he could not have that.
It was quarter to eleven. Draco climbed silently out of the portrait hole and headed downstairs.
"Hey, Harry!" Ginny called, catching up. So much for his attempt to slip away unnoticed. "Aren't you joining us for the Transfiguration homework? Ron and Hermione—"
"Sorry, Gin, I'm in detention."
"Oh. Oh right. Because of that swan business."
Draco wanted to make a sarcastic comment but it came out as a voiceless groan. He had been diligently making payments to the Foundation for Wizarding Minorities and Underprivileged Groups. His last essay in Muggle Studies was 'Acceptable'! So much acceptance from Kazlauskas—he hadn't dared dream about it! Plus, the probation officer. The way she had stared at Potter last Hogsmeade Saturday and the questions she had the nerve to ask left Draco with the feeling of being undressed and searched stuck to his skin. He could really do without this detention.
"What were you doing with those swans anyway?"
"Oh. That was for, er, an advanced transfiguration project."
"Advanced transfiguration project." Ginny smirked and kept walking along. "Is Malfoy giving you lessons in being a prick?" If it were Granger saying this, this would have been a reproach. But from Ginny, it sounded like a compliment. "Next time you're planning something that's going to land you in detention, why don't you take me along? We could teach Malfoy some heroism together."
Draco stopped. Surely Ginny did not mean to follow him all the way to McGonagall's office.
"And, speaking of advanced projects," Ginny pulled him by the shoulder and spoke into his ear, "should we go and try to find the book?"
An alarm went off somewhere at the back of Draco's mind.
"What book?"
"Snape's book." Ginny's hand slid down.
Oh. There had been no talk about the mysterious copy of Advanced Potion-Making for weeks now. Draco had contemplated trying to coax Potter into getting it for him, but why would he? No, that would never work. Potter would be just like Granger, and Granger sounded like she would rather die than let the book pass on to Malfoy. But she had happily forgotten about it in the meantime, and Ginny— Oh no. Her hand travelled slowly southwards. What was it he had promised Potter? 'Hey, Ginny, you know, I'm not Harry, I'm Draco Malfoy.' He had to say it. He should say it now! But then the book would be off the agenda.
"Oh yeah! We should," he said, and gave in half an inch to Ginny's pull.
"If we find it, promise I can use it until the end of the year! I could do with some better marks in Potions."
"We could make a copy if you want," Draco held Ginny's waist. It was okay. It was just like dancing.
"Have fun with Malfoy. See you later," Ginny said in a deep breathy voice and planted a kiss on his cheek. She headed back to Gryffindor tower, turned again after a few steps, and gave him a big fat wink.
Draco exhaled slowly. He would tell her. Definitely. But maybe not just yet.
McGonagall was waiting for them with the chest, a list of memories Hogwarts had lent to the Ministry, and... two Pensieves. One was clearly borrowed from Benveniste, the other one Draco had never seen before. The brightly polished surface of the stone basin was crossed by cracks, and a runic inscription was carved along the edge. Bla bla bla wisdom something bla here bla bla time. Even if his 'Exceeds Expectations' on the Ancient Runes O.W.L. had been the result of complex negotiations, and even if he had dropped the subject after all, some of the runes still rang a bell.
"Phineas, you will keep an eye on these two gentlemen," McGonagall said to the portrait of a former headmaster dressed in rich velvet robes trimmed with fur. Draco came closer. The name 'Phineas Nigellus Black' stood written in curly script in the corner of the painting. Aha. Family.
"And you, Potter, Malfoy, will not go poking beyond what is strictly necessary."
McGonagall gave them a forbidding look and closed the door behind her.
Draco had been here three times before this school year. The first time had been with his father after the disaster with the hippogriff. The result was hardly satisfying. Hagrid was not even suspended.
The second time had been after the ferret incident. That would get Moody fired, he had thought at the time. A Defence teacher who hadn't even survived a year, that would have been something! He owled home, but when he came complaining about it to Dumbledore, it turned out that his father hadn't shown the slightest interest in the matter. Later he understood why, but at that moment it felt like betrayal.
The third time had been in the sixth year. Dumbledore had invited him for a cup of tea, just like that. They were sitting at that monster of a desk, sipping from their cups. That is, Dumbledore was sipping. Draco was only pretending to, in case Dumbledore had added Veritaserum. Dumbledore was babbling about Quidditch. And dancing. Dancing! He was trying to tell him something, but— what did it matter now, anyway?
Draco slowly raised his eyes from the spot where his cup of tea had stood two years ago, untouched, to the large painting above the desk. The name 'Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore' was carved at the bottom of the gilded frame. Draco raised his eyes a little higher and saw a colourful spot—an unfinished knitting project was resting at the front of the composition. No one was knitting. Draco let his gaze climb another few inches and saw the back of the chair where the late headmaster would normally be sitting. The chair was empty. Draco breathed out and looked up properly.
A rumble in a corner brought Draco back to the present. Potter had shoved a chair aside where a painting stood with its front turned to the wall. He turned it around. It was an unfinished portrait of a person with shoulder-length black hair wearing black wizard robes. Instead of a face, a patch of unpainted grey canvas gaped at them.
"Severus has never joined our rows," said Phineas Black with a heavy sigh. "One of the greatest headmasters this school has ever seen is not with us."
"A murderer, Phineas. A murderer!" replied a witch whose head was covered with a white veil in a picture on the opposite wall. "A murderer and his victim shall not hang in the same row."
"Albus is no victim!" replied a wizard dressed in Muggle clothes in a painting that hung next to Phineas Black. He spoke in a calm and rational tone. "Severus had faithfully fulfilled his duties and cared for the safety of those entrusted to him in the hardest of times."
"Snape had certainly hard choices to make, but—" The rest of the words sank into the hubbub of the heated argument which broke out between the portraits all around the room, until one firm voice rose above their unintelligible clamour.
"Dear colleagues!" The portrait speaking was that of an old wizard with thin grey muttonchops and a nose like a potato, his frame hanging next to Albus Dumbledore's empty picture. The arguing voices died out one by one. "I thought we had agreed to withhold our judgement on this issue until Albus's return. Besides, in case you haven't noticed, we have visitors."
As if on command, most of the portraits dozed off. Others went back to reading, writing, or brewing—whatever it was the painter had given them to pass their overabundant free time with after death. Draco looked more closely at the wizard who had just spoken. The inscription on the frame said Professor Everard M. Theobold.
"If you gentlemen prefer to spend the afternoon poking around, I shall suggest to Professor McGonagall to extend your detention to the next weekend, to make ample time for exploration," said Phineas Nigellus Black, who was among the few who didn't fall asleep.
"Right."
Harry and Draco moved to the chest, picked up McGonagall's list, and started emptying the vials into the Pensieves one by one. For each memory, the list indicated the name of its bearer, the name of the person or object the memory was about, and in most cases the date of the recollected event. As long as the memories were about recent events and people Harry and Draco had met personally, the identification was not too difficult. It took them Saturday afternoon and evening to sort out Umbridge, the Carrows, Greyback, Snape, Bellatrix, and the Dark— Ri— Vo— Draco let Potter label that one.
By Sunday morning, Draco had managed to fish quite a few Malfoys out of the jumble. They were not on the Hogwarts list. The memories had been taken in the Ministry dungeon, and were nothing but evidence of his occasional success and failure as an Occlumens. All there was about his mother was innocent, as far as Draco could tell. Kaye hadn't had anything on her except that other memory with the comic book. Maybe Potter was right and Knox would have debunked it. Draco didn't hurry to give the vials names and dates. In fact, he hadn't the slightest intention of giving them back to the Ministry.
The hardest parts of the puzzle were the older memories. They saw many unknown faces speaking about obscure subjects using clumsy old-fashioned words. If they were lucky, the characters addressed each other by names which could be found in the list, but they did not always oblige. When all other methods failed, Harry and Draco had to resort to comparing faces in the memories to faces in the portraits on the walls around them. Luckily, one or other former Headmaster or Headmistress showed up in almost every vial.
But Merlin! It took so long! As they progressed slowly through the remaining vials, Draco was growing certain that their search was pointless. He was taking his eighth short break, when Potter suddenly raised his face from his Pensieve:
"Hey, Malfoy, this is interesting. Come have a look!"
From the Headmistress's office they were transported to... the Headmaster's office. It was the same room, only less cluttered. The portraits were fewer and bigger. At the heavy claw-footed desk sat a wizard Draco had the impression of just having seen.
"Theobold," said Potter. "I've checked."
On the desk in front of him lay several scrolls of parchment, one yellower than the other, and a curious artefact—a crystal hemisphere embedded in a roughly wrought iron frame with a handle. The hemisphere was filled with silvery fog not unlike the substance of vialed memories, and dark stringy liquid.
In the middle of the room, facing Professor Theobold, stood a boy roughly their age, maybe a little younger. He wore an emerald ring on his finger, was blond, pale, and rather self-assured.
"So, Mr Malfoy," said Professor Theobold, "I'm really at a loss—"
"Which Malfoy would this be?" Draco asked.
"Flavia's brother."
"Hyperion? How do you know?"
"You'll see," Potter said. "If it's the same Flavia, that is. Theobold was Headmaster in the early eighteen hundreds."
"That would be the same Flavia."
"—that you might have got the impression," Professor Theobold continued the monologue, whose beginning Draco had missed, "that your noble heritage, your wit and your undeniable magical prowess, put you above the norms of our society."
"It has never been in my thoughts to break those norms, Professor. All I did was in the hope of eventually improving our ways and practices."
"Your ambition is laudable—"
"What is that thing on the desk?" Draco asked, while Theobold continued preaching.
"You'll see."
"—to that presently. It is not the particular acts, but the overall pattern that worries me."
Theobold stood up and started pacing to the beat of his speech.
"The first thing I heard the day the school year started was that you broke into Ravenclaw tower and, to the great displeasure of the young ladies of Ravenclaw house—"
"I didn't know Malfoys did things like that," Potter said, chuckling.
"Probably did it for a dare."
"I am sorry, Professor," Hyperion Malfoy said, "but I did not break into—"
"I know, I know. Professor Fortescue has told me your story. You solved the knocker's riddle and were welcomed in, after which you managed to disenchant the slide protecting the ladies' dormitory."
"Only to show that the defences were imperfect and gave the ladies a false sense of security."
"Yes, yes, Professor Fortescue told me that, too. Though I wonder, how, with your extraordinary intellect which you thereby demonstrated, it did not occur to you that our sense of security rests much less on the defensive enchantments, but rather on our trust in the decency of the people around us, who simply do not transgress certain boundaries, even when they can."
Hyperion remained silent. Theobold gave him a stern look and resumed pacing.
"Secondly, I was informed of a duel between you and Mr William Herbert—"
"It was Herbert who called me out!"
"Yes, and it was you who made derogatory remarks about his Muggle ancestry, and it was he who spoke disrespectfully of old wizard traditions, and it was you—"
There followed a long list of petty altercations that all boiled down to the familiar pattern: Malfoys had issues with Muggle-borns. Muggle-borns? Draco was pretty sure the word 'mudblood' had already existed in the early nineteenth century.
"In the twenty years of my service as Headmaster I had to deal with a great many contentions of this sort, and there is one thing that is common to all of them. Can you guess what?"
"They have no end?"
"No! They have no beginning! Every time you think you have found the wrongdoing which started it all, there is always another misdeed of the opposing party which precipitated that. But you will be surprised to learn that enmities do end, if the parties, by an act of good will, decide to end it. And that is a sign of much greater power than successful revenge."
Theobold returned to his seat at the desk and leaned back in his throne-like chair.
"I was disappointed to learn that through the interference of your father, you managed to escape unpunished. I regret that I overlooked this affair at the time. However, rest assured that if anything like that happens again, you, both of you, will have to deal with the consequences. Is that clear, Mr Malfoy?"
"Yes, Sir," replied Hyperion and raised his chin.
Theobold sighed, shaking his head.
"And now, this!" He looked with bemusement at the peculiar artefact on the table in front of him. "Can you tell me, Mr Malfoy, how you came up with this ingenious contraption?"
"I used the basic idea of an Artescope, but replaced the enchanted metals with a sample of—"
"A sample of?"
"Blood. My own blood."
Artescope? Draco had heard that word somewhere. Artescope, Artescope... During the Ministry's raids in the Manor, wasn't it? Only the thing that the Aurors had used had three lenses instead of one, and the frame was thinner. And it had no blood.
"So instead of metal artefacts it senses," Hyperion added after Theobold's expectant silence, "my blood. Malfoy blood."
Professor Theobold caressed the handle of Hyperion's creation with his fingers, then weighed it in his hand and stood up. He walked to the window and looked through the crystal hemisphere at different parts of the castle.
"And why, if I may ask? What was your purpose?"
"I was worried about my sisters. This tool makes it possible for me to find them, if they are in trouble."
Theobold looked too pleased for a teacher giving a student a reprimand.
"Indeed. I can see Miss Flavia Malfoy studying in the library," said Theobold, though Draco could swear he was pointing the crystal hemisphere at the Gryffindor Tower. "This is unprecedented! Although I must admit, I am surprised you are so worried. Your sisters are very able witches and can stand for themselves. What could possibly happen?"
Hyperion gave a long sigh, as if he was enumerating a dozen different dangers in his mind. Theobold returned to his desk, sank back into his chair, and examined the artefact carefully from all sides.
"What can I say? I'm impressed! Whatever your motives were, the result is most astounding. Congratulations!" Theobold raised his eyes and looked at Hyperion over the edge of his glasses. "And now please answer me one question, Mr Malfoy. How, just how, does someone who has the mind to create such an instrument, end up blowing up fifty square yards of floor and three walls, one of which was load-bearing, of an eight-hundred-year-old castle?"
"I am sorry, Sir, I underestimated the power of that spell."
"Do you realise that you not only jeopardised the safety of your fellow students, but also the life of your relative?"
Hyperion did not answer.
"I understand that you must have been truly shaken when your creation sensed Malfoy blood that belonged to neither of your sisters—"
"Wait," Draco said. "What relative?"
"Listen!"
"—of an old noble house, Mr Malfoy. Wizards like you stand at the forefront of our community. Many look up at you. What will they learn when they see—"
"Oh my, how long do we have to listen to this sermon?!"
"Your ancestor blew up three walls!" Potter chuckled.
"Very amusing!"
"—your reckless action! Your punishment will be commensurate with the damage to the building."
Hyperion shifted from one foot to the other and swallowed.
"Sir! But—" He raised his chin and straightened his back again. "But I also have questions."
"I am sure you do." Theobold gave him a nod.
"How is it possible that my relative had been kept prisoner within these walls?"
Theobold smiled a barely perceptible smile, searched through the scrolls on the table and picked one that had yellowed so much it was downright brown.
"Your relative was not kept prisoner, Mr Malfoy." Theobold summoned a chair, offered Hyperion to take a seat in front of him across the desk and handed him the parchment. "This is an agreement dating back to 1104 between your ancestor Sir Herman Malfoy and the Headmaster of Hogwarts at the—"
"Sir Herman? Oh!" Draco whispered. They hadn't heard about him for a while now.
"Yes! Listen!"
"—summarise it. Gerard was Herman's only surviving son and terminally ill. He had Raven's Curse, which at the time was incurable. Sir Herman asked to put his son to Ageless Sleep. You should know that Hogwarts was not merely a school in those days. It was a centre where knowledge of magic was accumulated and recorded, where professors did not only teach, but also invented new charms and potions. Distinguished potioneers were working on a cure for Raven's Curse at the time. But it was not until the advent of potions that target specific animalcules that the cure became truly effective. Gerard Malfoy had to wait for seven centuries."
Hyperion stopped reading the document and gave Theobold a questioning look.
"Why seven? Why not six? The cure for Raven's Curse has been available for a hundred years. Why wasn't he awoken sooner?"
Theobold's face broke into a pleased smile.
"Nothing gets past your vigilant eye. Very very good!" He sighed, stood, walked up to the window and peered at the Gryffindor Tower again. "When I took over the post of Headmaster from my predecessor, Professor Sallow," Theobold gestured to the portrait of a portly witch with a monocle above his desk, "she informed me about our very distinguished patient, as well as her reasons for postponing the fulfilment of the last part of this agreement. She was worried about Mr Gerard Malfoy's well-being upon his awakening, not on the account of his ailment, but on the account of the reception he might get among his living relatives."
"Sir!"
"Professor Sallow's intention, which I thought was very wise, was to wait until the Malfoy house comes under the rule of a man who could be trusted with the delicate situation that Gerard's return to active life would bring about."
"What kind of delicate situation?"
Theobold looked at Hyperion, but his face sank in the shadow against the bright background of the window.
"I own, I'm not sure your father possesses the sufficient degree of integrity to deal with the entanglement gracefully."
"Sir!"
"Nor am I sure about you, Mr Malfoy, but since Gerard is awake and you are here in front of me asking all these questions, there is little I can do."
"What is the entanglement?"
"When Sir Herman brought Gerard to Hogwarts he did not expect to beget another heir. Lady Malfoy had died, and he himself was in declining years. When he signed this agreement, he could not foresee that he would remarry and be blessed with another son."
"That means—"
"Yes. You, your sisters, and your father all descend from Henry, Herman's third son. Gerard was second. By birthright, all Malfoy land and titles belong to Gerard."
Hyperion put down the scroll.
"Have you already written to your father about this?"
"No."
Theobold returned to his desk and sank back into his chair.
"I've spoken to Gerard. All he hopes for is quiet and peaceful life. He grew up as a second son himself, and neither hoped nor wished to become the head of the Malfoy house. He was raised as a warrior, but was more predisposed to academic pursuits, and... He was the first Malfoy to attend Hogwarts, did you know that?"
Hyperion shook his head.
"He even considered joining an order. He would have, if his older brother hadn't fallen in battle."
Theobold took the scroll and put it back on top of the pile.
"Gerard has no interest in contesting the legacy. In fact, he was delighted to learn that his family had thrived through the centuries without him. And he was quite taken by your person."
Hyperion's lips twitched, as if he tried not to smile.
"Now that you know all," continued Professor Theobold, "I have no say in this matter. It is up to you, Mr Malfoy, whether to involve your father, or to handle it yourself. But whatever you choose, it should not stop you from maintaining a friendly relationship with Gerard. You can learn a lot from him, and not only about your family history."
The vision disintegrated before their eyes and they were back at the Pensieve in McGonagall's office. Draco lowered himself slowly onto a chair.
"This was not about my mother, was it?"
"No." Potter probably thought it had something to do with the locket, but the connection escaped Draco.
"So Hyperion makes that Malfoy blood detector and goes about Hogwarts to spy on his sisters. Suddenly the detector freaks out, but it's not his sister and it's somewhere behind a solid wall."
"Right," said Potter.
"He goes around it, finds no entrance, removes the wall, overdoes it a little, finds his sleeping relative behind it, and kisses the prince awake."
"Exactly."
"Great story! As much as I'm glad to see my deceased relatives remembered, what does this tell us about the locket?"
Potter ran his finger through McGonagall's list and checked off a line.
"Well, Gerard probably had it on him, and he probably gave it to Hyperion and explained how it works."
"What makes you think so?"
"Imagine you're Herman. Your only heir is dying of that... bird flu—"
"Raven's Curse."
"Yes, and you basically send him into the future. Your bloodline stops for decades, maybe centuries, that's what you think at that moment. So, it's twelve hundred, thirteen hundred, fourteen hundred—no Malfoys. Your Manor in Wiltshire stands empty, overgrows with cobwebs, like some haunted—"
"No way! The house-elves would see to—"
"Okay, it doesn't overgrow with cobwebs. But you have these precious heirlooms with all sorts of powers. Would you leave them in the house with the house-elves, or would you give them to your only heir to take them straight to that point in history where the Malfoy blood line will spring back to life?"
"So you're saying—"
"And then you have this locket, which is so dear to you. So dear that your spirit keeps raging about it for weeks, after being woken up at the pinnacle of the Renaissance by Lucius the first's seer employee, and it's the only thing he can think of. Like, if I were Herman Malfoy, I would give it to my son, not to some stinky house-elf."
"Stinky house-elf?"
"If I were Herman Malfoy. I'm not." Potter stopped, pulled the memory out of the Pensieve and pushed it back into the vial, which he had already labelled 'Theobold, Everard M. about Malfoy, Hyperion, 1811'. "And then again, why couldn't they find it, Lucius the first and his gang? Do you think if the locket had been in the Manor they wouldn't have found it? Do you think that seer wouldn't have seen it, if it hadn't been in an entirely absolutely totally unfathomable place? Like, here?"
"Okay, okay, Potter, point taken. So, Herman gives it to Gerard and explains it to him before he's put to sleep. Seven centuries later Gerard wakes up, and sees this handsome, brilliant, ruthless young Malfoy before him, and just gives him the locket and the know-how, just like that? Because he likes him?"
"Yes."
"That's not a very Malfoy thing to do."
"Why not?"
"If Ageless Sleep is what the name suggests then he must have still been reasonably young when he woke up. He could have his own children. He could pass it on to them."
"Maybe he didn't want to have children? At some point he was even going to become a monk. Who knows why? Or maybe he was into guys, like you. Imagine you had a brother, and that brother would go and marry all those Muggle princesses and pure-blood witches, and you could opt out of all that nonsense. Wouldn't it take away the pressure? A little?"
"Shut up! You have no idea what you're talking about!"
"Okay, fine. I don't know. But what we do know is that Flavia and Aurelia swapped. We sort of know that, right?"
"Yes."
"And we know they planned it. They couldn't have swapped accidentally, like we did. With one party in Azkaban, that's, kind of, difficult. So they must have known what they were doing. And they most probably knew it from Gerard."
"Okay, okay. Suppose you're right, they knew how to swap. Did they know how to swap back?"
Potter blinked.
"Suppose they did," Draco continued, "suppose they actually knew how to swap back. What we're looking for is some document—a text, a memory, some kind of record of what they knew about it, right?"
"Right."
"If it exists, that record is not in this box."
"Why not?"
"Because if it were in this box, then Kaye, and Robards, and Shacklebolt would have seen it, and they would have known about the locket, and they would have confiscated it long ago. What a shame they didn't!"
Draco threw a tired glance into the box. Its bottom started to show under the vials yet to be sorted, but it now felt like more than what they'd started with.
"I wonder what actually happened to Gerard?" Potter said.
"I wonder if he had children." The thought that distant cousins of his might be wandering the world and he didn't even know their names was both disconcerting and fascinating. Draco wished he could get hold of Hyperion's Malfoy blood detector and run it through the crowd in Diagon Alley, or in Old Compton Street, for that matter.
"Gerard stayed at Hogwarts as a caretaker," said a familiar low voice. Draco's heart skipped a beat. They looked around the rows of portraits, but most of them were fast asleep. Phineas Black shrugged and pointed to the right. They followed the direction of his index and met the eyes of Professor Everard M. Theobold.
"A caretaker?!" A Malfoy as... Filch?! Draco wished he hadn't heard it.
"The job was admittedly somewhat below his qualifications. But he felt he had fallen behind on modern magic, and thought Hogwarts would be the best place for him to catch up. In the end he was the best educated caretaker the school had ever had. He even improved the enchantments protecting the ladies' dormitories. You wouldn't undo them so easily nowadays."
Draco didn't know what to say.
"The students knew him as Mr FitzHerman. He relinquished the Malfoy name, for his own safety. And no, he did not have children."
Draco felt as if he had just lost a distant cousin.
"He got quite friendly with Brother Boisil. The Fat Friar, as some tend to call him." Theobold added with a displeased frown. "Even if they could not truly share a bottle of good wine, they did find many common topics. From the history of healing magic to Christian theology."
"Professor!" Potter said. "Did Gerard wear any jewellery, while he was asleep?"
"Of course, he did."
"Did he give any to Hyperion Malfoy, when he woke up?"
"Possibly. I have no way to know," said Theobold, but sounded a bit too composed for someone giving a sincere answer.
"Did Gerard give him this?" Potter pulled the locket from under his shirt and showed it to Theobold.
Theobold squinted at the locket, and then peered at both of them with distrust.
"What is your interest in this matter, Mr Malfoy?"
A shiver ran down Draco's spine.
"It is an old heirloom of my family. I have the right to know," said Potter.
Professor Theobold sighed.
"Hyperion Malfoy wished it all forgotten. He even obliviated himself after—"
"After?"
"After he entrusted me with his secret." Theobold shifted in his chair. "I've kept it for two centuries and I see no reason to disclose it now."
Potter stood in front of Theobold's portrait and stared at it like he was burning a hole into the canvas.
"You say you've kept it for two centuries, sir?"
"Yes."
"And you're still keeping it?"
"Yes."
"Where, if I may ask, sir?"
"Mr Malfoy!"
"Okay, Professor, please don't take it personally." Potter came up to the portrait and ran his hand around the frame. He pulled carefully at its bottom edge and stuck his finger between the frame and the wall.
"Mr Malfoy!" exclaimed Professor Theobold.
Phineas Black gave a soft giggle.
"My deepest apologies, Professor, but in the memory of my brilliant, brave, and ruthless ancestor..." Potter's hand stopped. "I'm not even blowing up any walls." He pulled the bottom of the portrait another inch and produced a small dusty vial.
Everard Theobold's indignant huffs and Phineas Black's satisfied murmur faded away, and the next moment, they were following Hyperion along a candle-lit hallway which looked painfully familiar. They were in Malfoy Manor.
At the end of the hallway Hyperion turned right and entered the room that was now Draco's potions brewery. It was dark, and something was wrong. The window stood open. Before Hyperion had a chance to cast a lumos, a black figure dashed across the room and jumped out of the window.
"Accio broomstick!" whispered Hyperion, but nothing happened. "Damn it!"
He waved his wand and the candles flamed up all around the room. It looked almost like Draco's present day potions brewery, but it was not. Next to an array of burners and flasks, there stood an exquisite glass alembic. Small leather bellows lay next to it. Hyperion was clearly into Alchemy.
Draco wanted to linger in the workshop, touch all the implements and utensils, but Hyperion had no time for that. His escritoire was open and had clearly been searched.
"Foggy!" he yelled.
A young house-elf appeared with a plop—Foggy, without a single wrinkle on his forehead and with all four limbs in place.
"Young Ma—"
"Get me a broomstick. Now!"
Foggy disapparated. Hyperion peered through the window into the dusk. It was hopeless. The thief had blended into the dark landscape and could now be anywhere.
Hyperion lunged into the depths of his workshop, rummaged in a small chest and took out the familiar tool—the iron ring with a handle and a crystal hemisphere filled with silvery fog and blood. He flung himself back to the window and looked around through the crystal. The blood in the hemispheric container pulled together and formed an outline of a figure.
"Damn shrew!"
Hyperion stuck the device into his cloak. Foggy reappeared with a crack and a broomstick in his hand.
"A broomstick for Young Ma—"
Without saying a word Hyperion grabbed the broom and dived into the window. In an instant, Harry and Draco found themselves flying after him, on broomsticks that appeared out of nowhere. They followed Hyperion through a dark oak grove. He slowed down and pulled out his Malfoy blood detector again. The figure in the glass now appeared much more distinct and closer. Hyperion slowed down and continued smoothly, noiselessly, careful not to touch a single branch or leaf. He finally stopped in front of a majestic ancient tree. Somewhere in the middle of its round branchy crown the thief was hiding, still unaware of Hyperion's pursuit.
"—maybe I could stay around as a ghost, mhm?" said the voice of a girl. "And then I'll come and haunt your house, ooooh, and scare your children."
No one answered, and only a bird chirped.
"Or maybe... maybe a piece of my soul will stick to a wand? And Mr Ollivander will sell it to a little girl, and she will go to Hogwarts, and do Alohomora, and Wingardium Leviosa, and whoosh whoosh..." There was a rustling sound and a short yelp. The girl must have taken a bit too broad a swing with her 'whoosh whoosh' and almost slid from the branch that she was sitting on.
"Or maybe Mr Ollivander will make a whole lot of wands out of me, and I will be going all about the country!"
The bird chirped again, but something was odd about that chirp. Birds like that did not sing at dusk.
"There is no saying where I will end up, of course. Maybe, I'll just explode into thousand little pieces, and they'll fly all over the world, and your wand will catch one right when you hex my brother next time." She giggled softly, and the bird gave a long, vigorous and rather alarmed chirp.
"Don't worry, Will. We'll find it."
There was no way for Hyperion to come closer to his sister without cracking a few twigs and scaring her off. He glided down and landed quietly underneath the tree. The soles of two shoes hung down on one side of a thick branch and layers and layers of skirts fell around them. A broomstick lay stuck in the fork of a thinner offshoot.
"Accio broomstick!" commanded Hyperion pointing his wand up the tree. The girl yelped again, and her broom zoomed into Hyperion's hand. The bird dashed after it and beat its wings angrily before Hyperion's face. It was a small bird, but it was very angry.
"Hyperion! Good heavens! You've scared the living daylights out of me!" The girl didn't try to flee, but she hardly could. Without the broomstick she was stuck in the oak-tree.
"You've stolen my broomstick," Hyperion said.
"Just borrowed it."
"And what else did you borrow?"
"Nothing. Only your broomstick."
"And you looked for it in my escritoire? A very unusual place to look for a broomstick, don't you think?"
"You're full of surprises, brother! One never knows how far your mistrust in your closest family will take you."
"My dear Flavia, it should be no secret to you that if you needed to borrow my broomstick, you could simply ask and spare yourself the trouble of overturning my study." Hyperion rose into the air as he spoke and levelled with his sister. "What you did only adds to my mistrust." He hovered on his broomstick in front of her. "What were you looking for?"
Flavia crossed her arms sulkily. The bird landed on her shoulder and turned its face to Hyperion. Now they were two against one.
"Good. Let me ask in a different way. What was all that talk about staying around as a ghost?"
"You were eavesdropping!"
"And you were stealing!"
Flavia remained silent.
"You make me very worried, sis," Hyperion's voice did not sound disapproving any longer. "To stay around as a ghost is only an option when a person is dead. Are you planning to die any time soon?"
"We will all die. Nothing wrong about thinking of that eventuality."
"And then you were planning to haunt whose house and to scare whose children? His?" He pointed at the bird. "Let's see. How long do sparrows live? Three years?"
"Humans transfigured into sparrows do longer."
"Yes, if they untransfigure regularly and spend enough time in their human form. That, I thought, was exactly the problem with Mr Herbert. Or did I miss something? Has he been shape-shifting back and forth!"
"Who's Mr Herbert?" asked Potter.
"That Muggle-born duellist from the other memory?" said Draco.
"No, I mean, is he— is he now that sparrow?"
The sparrow, or Mr Herbert for that matter, had shot into the air and was chirping fervently, drawing circles in front of Hyperion's nose. Hyperion tried to wave him away. When Herbert settled on Flavia's shoulder again, Hyperion continued:
"So coming back to Herbert's children... Does he already have a clutch of eggs somewhere or is it still a—"
"Hyperion! How dare you?"
"I'm just being realistic. Our dear Mr Herbert has about three years time to beget offspring, and the offspring have about another three years to live. If you wanted to scare them with your, ooooh, ghostly presence, then, under the most generous calculation, you must be planning to die within the next six years. You're nineteen, Flavia! What is this nonsense?"
"William will live," said Flavia with determination, "Not three years, but as many as heavens will grant a man of his age and vigour."
"Oh, I am very glad to hear that! Am I allowed to hope that you have found a method to turn him back into a man... of his age and vigour?"
"Maybe."
"Please, tell me! How do you mean to do without... she who must not be named? Only she herself can—"
"I don't mean to do without her."
"—turn him back."
"She will."
"She is in Azkaban, you're not going—"
"Yes I am! I'm going to get her out, and the only thing I need is—"
"My broomstick?"
"You know what!"
Hyperion fell silent. Herbert was dashing back and forth above their heads.
"I received a letter from Professor Theobold today," Flavia continued, "He managed to arrange for me to visit Aurie."
"No."
"Please, Hyperion, this is our only chance!"
"Chance to what?! To cause even more harm than has already been done? You're completely— Hey, Herbert!" Hyperion's voice fell abruptly, and he searched the darkness above him for the silhouette of the bird. "Is it your idea? You've already ruined one of my sisters, now want to ruin the other one, do you? Chirp once for 'yes', chirp twice for 'no'!" But Herbert replied with a loud harangue of chirps, twenty-five at least.
"How could this possibly be his idea? He can't even talk!"
"He will talk!" Hyperion pulled his wand and with one sharp movement of his free hand caught Mr Herbert in flight. A seeker... "I know a spell—"
"Hyperion!"
"—that will make a stone talk!" He pointed his wand at the tiny belly of the captive in his hand. "Once for 'yes', twice for 'no', is it your idea?"
Mr Herbert gave two short peeps.
"You don't trust your sister to have her own ideas?" said Flavia proudly.
"Well, Flavia, this one is the most insane of all your ideas. Do you realise what awaits you?" Hyperion shifted from his broomstick to another broad fork of the tree next to where Flavia was sitting. He must have loosened his grip on Herbert, who managed to escape, flew back to Flavia and perched on her shoulder. Hyperion leaned against a thick branch, and rested his broomstick across his lap.
"Bit by bit the Dementors will suck up your soul. First you'll forget how you beat me in chess last week. Then you'll forget all your good marks at Hogwarts. Then you'll forget all the fun you had with Aurelia, and you'll only remember how she used to taunt you for your pimples, and you'll hate her, and then you'll wonder why in Merlin's name you're sitting there instead of her, and you'll find no answer, because by that time you will have forgotten him," Hyperion gestured to the bird on Flavia's shoulder, "and all your noble intentions, and all your brilliant ideas. You'll have forgotten this conversation, and this tree—"
"Stop it!"
"You say 'stop it'! That's all right, I will stop. Now say that to a Dementor!"
One could hear Flavia's quiet sobs. Herbert's silhouette faded into the shadow of her locks, which shook with every short intake of air.
"I will die," she finally uttered.
"You will, but don't set your hopes too high. You won't stay around as a ghost, you won't haunt his house, because there'll be nothing left of you. Your soul won't explode into a thousand pieces. The leftovers of your sorry self will lie around on the barren rocks until the Dementors lick them up."
"Aurelia is very ill. I will die soon."
"That's the only hope. But believe me, it will feel like a very long time."
One could not hear Flavia's sobs any more, because Herbert rose into the air again and was flying around her and chirping, but one could guess by the quivers of the thin offshoot that she was leaning against that her body was shaking.
"Flavia, I understand you don't wish all that to Aurie, but don't forget, she was caught with a mudblood, she turned him—" Herbert charged furiously at Hyperion, but he caught him with one hand again, "into a bird—no offence, Herbert, you knew what you were getting into, courting a Malfoy, I warned you—and she murdered Selwyn," he spoke to Flavia again, "not you. There is no reason why you—"
"It was not like that." Her words mixed with Herbert's desperate chirping.
"No? Did you kill Selwyn?"
"No. She killed Selwyn all right, but—"
"But?"
"She's not a blood traitor. Not in the way Father thinks."
"What do you mean?"
"William was not her lover, but mine."
"What?!"
"That day, I was together with him in that boathouse, and Aurelia was standing watch."
"Is that true?" Hyperion's exasperated voice and the rustling of Herbert's feathers against the tip of his wand sounded in the darkness.
Herbert gave a single chirp.
"Hyperion, stop it! You're hurting him. I'll tell you everything, but you let him go."
Hyperion let go of Herbert, and he flew back to Flavia's shoulder.
"When Selwyn—Julius—broke into the house," she continued, "Aurie was with us just in time and transfigured William, but Selwyn guessed it and started attacking him. Everything from untransfiguration charms to dark curses. And then she performed that protective charm, so Selwyn could not untransfigure him. And then he turned his rage on her.
"When Selwin's brother appeared, Julius and Aurelia were duelling. And then everything happened so quickly. Julius fell dead, and his brother stunned us both. When I came round at home, Aurie had already been arrested, and Father was burning the hole in the tapestry. He just assumed that William was with her. I should have told him then that it was me, but I was a coward."
Everyone stayed silent. A soft breeze ran through the leaves of the oak tree.
"What good would it have done if you had?"
"What good?! Father would not have thought her a blood traitor! He would not have abandoned her! He would have found a way to trick her out of Azkaban."
"He would have disowned you."
"He would, but Aurie would be free, and she would have turned William back into a man. Now he's stuck like this because of my cowardice!"
"Aurie should have never transfigured him in the first place. They found out who he was anyway. Not too difficult in a boathouse on his father's estate."
"What is done is done. Now the only way is to get Aurelia out. Please, Hyperion!"
"If you swap, there is probably no way back!"
"I know."
"You're insane, Flavia!"
The last purple rays of the sunset had sunk behind the horizon, Hyperion's, Flavia's and William Herbert's outlines dissolved into complete darkness.
"When Aurie's back, she'll untransfigure William and they'll both live. And who knows, maybe they'll even be happy together?"
"What do you mean 'happy together'? I thought he was your lover now."
"Me, Aurelia... After we swap you'll hardly tell the difference. Aurie has always fancied him."
"Are you telling me, you're going to give your life for a man who doesn't care if it's you or her? Who only loves you for your looks? Hey Herbert!"
There was a short chirp in reply.
"Do you love my sister?"
Herbert replied with another chirp.
"Which one? Once for Flavia, twice for Aurelia."
Herbert chirped three times.
"What do you mean 'both'?!"
Herbert probably really wanted to explain it, but all he could offer was a flush of bird chatter. Flavia gave a warm tender chuckle.
"They will be all right."
For minutes there was nothing but silence and darkness. A mosquito buzzed past Draco's ear.
"Do you want her to throw away her life for you?" Hyperion said finally.
Herbert chirped twice.
"You see, Flavia? Herbert doesn't want you to do it. And this might—"
"Of course, he doesn't. He's a decent person!"
"—be the first and hopefully last time in my life that I must side with a mudblood."
"Hyperion, please!"
"No!" Hyperion said with finality.
There was another silence, but it sounded different. Flavia's breath was slow and deep.
"Very well, brother," her voice hit a low note. "Then I'll get it myself. Accio broomsticks!"
The broomstick that had been resting on Hyperion's lap all the time surged into one of Flavia's hands, the other broomstick that he had left lying on the ground flew into her other hand, and with a sinister laugh she dived into the darkness.
"Damn shrew!" Hyperion shouted out of the crown of the old oak.