Entering the stuffy greenhouse that smelled of damp earth, Victor immediately spotted the famous trio.
— Harry, Ron! — Victor raised a hand in greeting. — I see you haven't been expelled yet?
Harry squeezed out a weak smile:
— No, we got off with a warning. But we still got punished: now I spend my evenings helping Professor Lockhart answer fan mail.
— And I... — Ron stared at the floor with a look as if he'd been sentenced to death. — I'm with Professor Snape. Cleaning cauldrons.
Victor nodded understandingly and, with a heavy sigh, patted the redhead on the shoulder:
— My condolences, Ron. If you aren't back in a week — we'll throw you a lavish wake, I promise.
— Hmph! They deserved it, — Hermione chimed in, not looking up from her textbook. — Next time they'll know better than to miss the train.
— Hermione, we explained! We couldn't get through the barrier, the passage just closed! — Ron snapped tiredly.
— You could have waited for your parents or sent an owl to the school! — she shot back. — Someone would have come for you. You didn't absolutely have to steal your father's car and fly across half of England.
Ron fell silent, flushing red, while Harry sheepishly added:
— We just... didn't think of that. Victor, how was your summer?
— Oh, wonderful, Harry! — Victor's face lit up. — Paris, Disneyland, Fashion Weeks... I even snuck into a private viewing of the autumn collections. I wanted to stay for the Victoria's Secret show, but Grandma Perenelle said I was too young for that. But no matter, they're planning a show in London next summer — this time, I'm definitely breaking into the front row.
Hermione finally looked up and gave Victor a look of pure disdain.
— Pervert.
— Ha-ha-ha! Maybe a little, — Victor was not at all offended. — And you, Harry? How was your break?
— I stayed home all summer, — Potter replied gloomily, adjusting his glasses.
— Oh, well... — Victor nodded. — Home is good too. I guess.
Harry forced a smile, but thought to himself that "good" and "the Dursleys" were words from different worlds.
— Good morning, second years! — Professor Sprout announced brightly, entering the greenhouse.
— GOOD MORNING, PROFESSOR SPROUT! — the class replied in a ragged chorus.
— Excellent. Today we will learn how to properly repot Mandrakes. Who can tell me about their properties?
Hermione's hand shot up faster than the Professor could finish the sentence.
— Yes, Miss Granger?
— Mandrake, or Mandragora, — Hermione rattled off, — is used to create a Restorative Draught to return those who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state. However, the plant is extremely dangerous: the cry of a mature Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it.
— Superb! Ten points to Gryffindor, — Professor Sprout scanned the greenhouse. — Since our Mandrakes are still mere seedlings, their cry won't kill you, but it can knock you out for a good couple of hours. Therefore, there are protective earmuffs in front of each of you. Put them on and ensure they fit snugly to your ears.
Waiting for everyone to put them on, the Professor continued with gestures, showing the process in action. She gripped a tuft of leaves, braced her feet, and yanked the plant out of its pot with a sharp jerk.
Instead of roots, a tiny, ugly, and incredibly wrinkled baby covered in dirt emerged from the soil. The moment it hit the air, it opened its mouth wide, and even through the thick fur of the earmuffs, the students heard a piercing, ear-splitting ultrasonic screech. The Mandrake writhed and kicked while the Professor struggled to shove it into a new, larger pot and covered it with fresh compost.
A dull thud followed. Neville Longbottom, whose eyes rolled back, slowly slumped to the floor.
— Ha! Looks like Longbottom forgot his earmuffs.
— No, ma'am, — Seamus called out, peering under the table. — I think he's just fainted.
— Is that so? — Professor Sprout didn't even turn around. — Well, leave him where he lies. The rest of you — begin!
Victor, not at all squeamish, grabbed his Mandrake and pulled it into the light in one motion. The root-baby screamed so loudly that Victor's face involuntarily twisted into a grimace. He turned to Daphne, who was looking at the squirming creature in his hands with sheer loathing, not even attempting to touch her own.
Victor brought the screaming plant a little closer to her face and gave a conspiratorial wink:
— Hey, what if we drop a couple of these into someone's dormitory?
— Ugh, — Daphne recoiled in disgust. — Get that away from me! Don't shove that filth in my face!
During the lunch break, he and Daphne walked slowly through the stone corridors toward the Great Hall.
— ...and so there I am, in total shock, looking at him and not having a clue what's going on. It was only later, when the dust settled, that I realized he was just on his own and had nothing to do with those robbers. But it was too late — I'd already lumped him in with the rest. Anyway, poor guy. Talk about bad timing, coming home with groceries right then!
Daphne rolled her eyes wearily.
— And why are you telling me this now?
— I don't know, — Victor shrugged carelessly. — Just remembered the time someone tried to mug me. It turned out funny: in the end, I knocked out the muggers and that random passerby for good measure. You know, in the heat of a fight, details like that tend to slip away.
Finally, they reached the Great Hall. Victor stopped in the doorway, staring at the Ravenclaw table.
— Look at her, Daphne. My girl is all grown up: eating lunch without me, making friends... My God, they grow up so fast! — He clutched his heart, faking a single manly tear.
At that moment, a crash erupted at the Gryffindor table — the Weasleys' old owl had landed face-first in Ron's plate. The hall froze in anticipation of a Howler, but Victor didn't care about ginger family drama. His attention was caught by a boy with a huge camera around his neck.
— Hey, kid, come here for a second, — Victor called out.
Colin Creevey froze, his face instantly turning an ashen shade. The camera in his hands trembled slightly.
— M-me? — he squeaked.
— Yes, you, with the camera. Come here. Don't worry, I don't bite. Usually.
Colin took a timid step forward. Ever since the day he personally witnessed the scene where Victor threatened to rip Astoria Greengrass's tongue out, the first-year had been scared to death of this Slytherin. Victor unceremoniously dropped a heavy hand on Colin's shoulder and steered him toward the Ravenclaw table. Colin felt like he was about to burst into tears at that moment.
Daphne, maintaining her cool, followed slowly. Victor let go of the boy and sat on the bench next to Adele.
— Adel-y, turn around for a second, — he asked softly.
She complied. Victor possessively draped an arm around her shoulders and gave the frozen Colin a meaningful look.
— Well? — he prompted.
— W-what? — Colin squeaked, completely lost for words.
Daphne sighed wearily:
— Take their picture, you idiot.
— Oh! Yes, of course! — Colin raised his camera, aimed, and clicked the shutter. The flash momentarily blinded the neighbors at the table.
— Excellent. When will it be ready? — Victor asked, letting go of Adele.
— I think I'll have it developed by tomorrow morning, — Colin muttered, backing away.
— Fine, — Victor turned to his sister. — We'll send the photo to the Flamels. Let the old folks see how we've settled in.
Adele nodded. Daphne, watching this idyll, said thoughtfully:
— Maybe I should take a photo with my sister too? For the memory.
— Oh, great idea! — Victor grew enthusiastic. — We'll have a mass photoshoot. We'll make a huge display, release albums... "Memories of the Best Years." Has a ring to it, doesn't it? Hey, kid, are you free on Sunday?
— Y-yes... I think so.
— Settled. Sunday after dinner, come to the Slytherin dungeons and shoot everyone I point at.
— Okay, I'll be there, — Colin nodded so hard he nearly dropped his camera. Receiving a dismissive nod, he bolted, breathing a massive sigh of relief once he was a safe distance away.
— Daphne, dear, — Victor turned to his friend, — tell our lot to be dressed to the nines on Sunday. If anyone wants private photos with friends or... lovers — tell them to come. We're throwing a festival of narcissism.
Daphne simply nodded and habitually made a note of the order in her planner.
— See? What a wonderful leader I am? — Victor smirked at Daphne.
— A photoshoot brings zero benefit to our faction, — Daphne replied dryly.
— But think of the memories!
She just sighed and shook her head.
— Let's go eat.
— Let's, — Victor rose easily, not forgetting to kiss Adele gently on the top of her head before heading to his table.
After lunch, Victor headed to the Headmaster's office. Ascending the spiral staircase, he entered without knocking and made himself at home in a deep armchair, immediately pulling a box of lemon drops toward him.
— Don't you have a class right now, Victor? — came Dumbledore's calm voice. He was descending from the second tier of his library.
— Defense Against the Dark Arts, — Victor unwrapped a sweet and popped it into his mouth. — I've decided to ignore that subject this year. I don't like the teacher.
— Hmm... — Dumbledore sat in the chair opposite him. — I must admit, finding a worthy candidate for that position becomes more difficult every year.
— Appoint Snape, — Victor shrugged. — He's spent half his life dreaming about it.
— Severus is the finest Potioneer in Britain. I believe his talent for brewing is far too valuable to waste on the theory of defense, — the Headmaster countered gently.
Victor nodded in agreement.
— Chess?
— Why not, — Dumbledore nodded.
The Headmaster gave a slight wave of his hand. A carved ebony chessboard materialized on the table. A white knight stamped its hoof impatiently and made the first move, marking the beginning of their game.
— And how did you spend your time in France, Victor? — Dumbledore watched closely as a black pawn made a confident move.
— Let's just say: quite productively, — Victor dodged. — I've contemplated a lot. And I've understood a lot.
Dumbledore sighed, and a hint of hidden bitterness was heard in the sound.
— Yes... It is a pity they couldn't help you after all. No matter; next summer you will stay here, with me.
— What makes you think they didn't help? Madame Perenelle did me an invaluable service, — Victor looked up at the Headmaster, an adventurous spark in his eyes.
— I don't think so, — Dumbledore shook his head. — When I asked the Flamels to take you in, I hoped their wisdom and age would help guide you onto the right path. Alas. When I heard the Flamels had returned to England, full of strength and youth once more, I realized perhaps I shouldn't have left you with them. Listen to me, Victor. Perenelle is not the best role model. You may not know this, but she is far from as kind as she seems.
— Oh, I know that perfectly well, — Victor broke into a broad grin. — And that's exactly what I like most about my Grandma.
Dumbledore froze. He frowned, searching the boy's face as if trying to read his thoughts.
— Victor... I think I made a mistake leaving you with her.
Victor couldn't help it; he laughed out loud. A memory from a week ago flashed in his mind. France, the ancient library of the Flamel estate.
"Listen, Victor. When Albus asked us to take you in, he asked us to guide you toward the 'Light.' But, as you've realized, I have no intention of playing his games. And when the time comes, I want you to do something for me."
Dumbledore was no fool. He understood everything the moment Victor called her "Grandma." Perenelle Flamel was a woman who took the concept of family fanatically. If she allowed him that title — it meant she had officially brought him into her inner circle. It was nothing less than a warning to him: "Do not touch my grandson."
The Headmaster slumped into his chair. In that moment, he wasn't the greatest wizard of the century, but just a very tired old man. He didn't understand why his plans always crumbled. He sincerely wanted to save lost souls, but time and again, he failed. First Tom Riddle... and now Victor.
Victor stopped laughing. He suddenly felt a twinge of pity for the old man.
— Why so glum all of a sudden, Headmaster? — he asked softly.
— I wanted to help you, — Dumbledore replied hollowly. — But in the end, it seems I only made things worse.
Victor shook his head.
— Why "worse"? I told you: I've re-evaluated my priorities. I agree, Grandma Perenelle isn't a saint. But then, I don't want to be a saint either. Better, yes. But not Light.
Dumbledore looked at him intently over his half-moon spectacles, as if trying to see the very essence of his soul.
— And what will you become in the end, Victor?
— I don't know, — Victor shrugged carelessly, studying the position on the board. — Time will tell. Right now, I feel like an iceberg: drifting aimlessly in the ocean, swaying on the waves and trying to catch my inner Zen.
Dumbledore raised a thick grey eyebrow.
— Did you take up Buddhism while in Paris?
— Exactly so, my old brother, — Victor chuckled.
The Headmaster simply smiled. Victor gestured elegantly toward the board:
— Your move, Headmaster.
Dumbledore glanced down, and a bishop slid smoothly across the squares. A cozy silence settled in the office, broken only by the ticking of numerous instruments.
— Professor, — Victor asked suddenly, without looking up, — are you afraid of Madame Perenelle?
Dumbledore paused for a moment. He didn't answer immediately, weighing the question.
— It's not that I'm afraid, Victor... — he said slowly. — But she is one of those rare people capable of creating problems for me on a global scale.
Victor's smile turned wide and genuine.
— Yeah, she's cool. No arguing with that.
Dumbledore nodded heavily.
— Undeniably.