POV: Isabelle Millefeuille
A woman in the prime of her life, whose manicured hands and posture revealed her aristocratic lineage better than any coat of arms, stood by the tall arched window in the right wing of the mansion. Her dark blonde hair, styled in an elegant but not severe updo, gleamed with warm gold in the dull light that barely pierced the clouds. Her features, retaining a past beauty, were marked by a slight weariness and that particular perceptiveness that comes with years of managing a large household and a business empire.
Behind her, a fire crackled in the fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the walls. But her gaze was fixed not on the cozy interior of her father's favorite room, but on two figures slowly walking through the garden. And the further they went, the less distinct their silhouettes became.
Her daughter Céline and the Malfoy heir — Arcturus. They walked, engrossed in conversation, barely looking around. The rare drops of the beginning rain seemed not to trouble them. How timely, flashed through Isabelle's mind. They've finally mustered the courage to talk.
She took a sip of aged white Burgundy, feeling its velvety and, more importantly, multifaceted taste. A calm and familiar voice sounded behind her.
"What are you pondering so deeply, my daughter?" said old Lord Alain, sitting in one of the two armchairs by the fireplace, upholstered in red velvet. His own glass, not quite full of wine, stood on the table between the armchairs, next to a silver vase full of cut fruit. He wasn't looking out the window, for his attention was absorbed by the play of the flames.
"About the future, Papa," Isabelle replied softly, not turning away. "I still can't decide if we need this engagement. What do you think of Lucius's eldest son? You spent a lot of time with him. And you know his father well. Tell me, Father."
Lord Alain slowly turned his head towards her. The firelight from the hearth now and then emphasized the deep wrinkles on his face, giving them the look of ancient, time-cracked parchment.
"I think the boy is not simple at all, Isabelle," his voice was low and somewhat tired. "That boy… he is not what he seems. I don't mean a trained intriguer, not a properly raised heir following the instructions of his cunning father. No. He is… more complex."
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
"He beats me at chess, Isabelle. All my life, I have been an enthusiast of the game of kings. And during our games, we don't just remain silent; we discuss things that boys his age usually don't even contemplate. I wanted to simply study the Malfoy heir, but I've never met a youngster who listens to my every word, hungrily swallowing every morsel of my experience." The old man paused for a second, taking a sip of wine. "We talked about many things, but what struck me most was how easily he reasoned about the price of power, managing the masses, business, politics, magic, life and death. It's as if he's not a child at all. He is already dangerous to his enemies, if he has any. Dangerous with his mind, his ambitions, his talent. And in the future…" Lord Alain sighed heavily. "In the future, he will become a 'player' no worse than his father. Surpass him… and me, and many others. Lucius has a steely grip, cold-bloodedness, and cynicism. That boy… has all that and more."
"I noticed that too, Father," Isabelle nodded, finally stepping away from the window and taking the second armchair.
"I just don't know… is that good?" the old man said thoughtfully. "If he makes enemies, they will either cease to exist, or they will be as formidable as he himself will be in the future. And he is endowed not only with intellect. He trains with Louis, doesn't he?"
"Yes," confirmed Isabelle, "and Louis tells astonishing things. According to him, Arcturus is an exceptionally talented duelist. So much so that he recently effortlessly defeated my son in a sparring match, who is two years his senior. And he already trains with Louis himself on equal terms."
She shook her head, looking at the wine in her glass as if seeking an answer within.
"Daughter, the question is not whether you want this engagement. Even if you had no doubts… The Malfoy heir is too eager to have his own will. Freedom, even in such a seemingly doomed-to-be-chosen-by-others matter."
"I understand, Father, it's the hot blood of youth. With time, he will cool to this issue, although I thought the heir of Lucius should certainly perceive it neutrally."
"Perhaps… He understands that it must be so, but he wants to quench his thirst for freedom, despite reason's arguments. I'm afraid even Lucius himself won't be able to do anything about it. And would he want to? In Britain, there are also many worthy candidates, so be careful with Lucius. Unfortunately, he sets the terms."
"I know, Father," Isabelle said, taking a sip of wine. "Speaking of the young Malfoy's multifaceted nature… alongside his cunning and skill, he demonstrates such progress in alchemy under Maître Renodie himself that the Maître even offered him to stay and continue studying with him. Despite all that, according to Louis, he finds time for exhausting solitary training — no one really knows what he does there. And, as if that weren't enough, he found an approach to almost everyone in this mansion. Not us to him, but him to us. From the children to you, Father."
Her voice held not so much pride for a possible future son-in-law, but rather a slight, and no less bitter for it, envy.
"Don't envy him, Isabelle," Lord Alain smiled bitterly. The sound was dry, like the creaking of old parchment.
"I… I can't help but admire his determination. And I can't help but think that my own son…" she didn't finish, but the meaning hung in the air.
"Don't compare Frédéric to him. Because that young man…" he turned back to the fire, and his next words were spoken with icy, merciless clarity, "…isn't a boy at all. At least, not in the sense we understand childhood. Childhood is a time for mistakes, carefree moments, foolishness from which one learns. He doesn't have that. His childhood was skipped, Isabelle. Replaced by training, lessons, intrigues, and the need to always, from birth, be… perfect. He isn't living his youth. I don't know if Lucius is that cruel, but if not, then Arcturus Malfoy gave up his carefreeness for ambition. And the price of that…" The old man took a sip of wine. "We may see the consequences of that much later."
Isabelle froze, peering at her father's profile. His words settled like a heavy, cold stone in the pit of her soul. She looked out the window again, but could no longer make out the figures of the children — either they had gone deeper into the garden, or were already back in the mansion.
And the rain was intensifying, shrouding the garden in a grey veil. And in that greyness, the future suddenly seemed less clear to her than it had before the conversation. And yet, she already knew everything her father had said. Her father's wisdom sometimes struck her all too powerfully.
"Oh yes… I wanted to warn you that during the meeting with the American partners, you need to secure all nearby Floo networks, so that…"
"I already did, Papa."
"To control… ah… maybe someone…" Lord Alain began to mutter slightly confusedly, and soon would be the former lord altogether.
"I've taken care of everything, Papa."
"Yes, of course… I forgot."
"What's wrong, Dad?" asked the woman, looking into her father's eyes. "Don't worry, I'll manage."
"I thought all this," the old man began a monologue, twirling his finger in the air, "would be handled by your brother, but… you know how that turned out. Bertrand is so… and you will become the head of the Millefeuille family in a week." His hoarse voice seemed to grow quieter with each word. "Don't think I regret or apologize… it's just that I always interfere in your affairs… it's just that I've played this game all my life, and now, when you have to replace me, I just can't stop analyzing. Thinking about all of this."
"It's alright, Father."
***
POV: Céline Millefeuille
Her mother's study was almost a sacred place for Céline. The smell of old parchment, wax, and the faintest notes of her perfume, mingling with the atmosphere of absolute power, evoked in her daughter only uncertainty. And yet, over the past month and a half, Arcturus seemed to have become a fixture here, appearing more often than she herself did. And now they were sitting here together, opposite her mother, whose calm and perceptive gaze made Céline instinctively straighten her back.
Isabelle Millefeuille didn't waste time on social niceties — no need to put on a show for children. She looked at them each in turn and decided to get straight to the point.
"So, Céline, Arcturus, let's not beat around the bush. Let's discuss this matter first, and then move on to other things. It's important for me to understand for myself and for the family: What do you feel for each other? Is there affection, something more between you, or will this alliance remain merely a matter of agreements? You both must understand that the final decision lies between me and Lord Malfoy, so I expect reasonable answers."
Céline's heart did an involuntary somersault. They had just discussed everything in the garden! She knew what to say. But under her mother's scrutinizing gaze, the words rehearsed in advance suddenly seemed so unconvincing and flat that she wanted to answer differently.
She took a deep breath, forcing her voice to sound even and judicious, and finally decided. It seemed like no big deal, but her mother's approval was an important factor for her, despite the denials in her head. Perhaps it all stemmed from a lack of affection, as her mother had paid too much attention to business and her elder brother. As a result, the girl hadn't received the proper amount of maternal love in childhood.
Perhaps, it was precisely thanks to this indifference that she found solace in science and was very happy about it. She certainly wouldn't have traded her love for Alchemy and Herbology for maternal love in childhood.
"Mother… I would say the following. Arcturus is an interesting conversationalist and a clever wizard. We have a good time together, and I feel genuine affection for him. And we are comfortable with each other — when we study, when we have fun, when we talk, and when we are silent."
"Comfortable?" her inner voice taunted her. "Is that all you can say about the person who brings a stupid smile to your face? About whose progress in alchemy makes your heart beat faster with pride, as if they were your own? No! This is just affection. Reasonable, measured affection. And that's it."
That's what the girl thought, hiding and denying her true feelings. Her gaze slid to Arcturus, and she caught herself wanting to hear something… different from him. Something more passionate than what they had discussed in the garden.
But Arcturus was completely different. He, as always, remained the epitome of self-possession. He met her mother's gaze without a trace of embarrassment.
"Madame Isabelle, your daughter Céline, as I have said more than once, is a wonderful young woman," his tone was almost business-like. At one point he turned to face her and their eyes met. Céline became flustered, but Arcturus continued: "She is intelligent, witty, and her dedication to science commands respect. She is beautiful, and it is pleasant to be in her company. I enjoy spending time with her, and I believe that is a solid foundation for any alliance. But to speak of anything more…" he spread his hands politely, "…would be premature at this stage. For me, at this point, this mutual affection and respect is quite sufficient."
Céline felt a wave of vexed irritation boiling in her chest. "Quite sufficient." It sounded so… so official! They had grown so close… Of course, they had already talked about this, practically devised a script for the conversation! But to hear it said aloud, and in such a calm, analytical tone… it irked her a little.
She wanted him, for just a second, to drop this mask of the perfect heir and show that she was more to him than just a "solid foundation." Only one thought frightened her: what if he is sincere in his feelings? But the girl tried not to think about it, and after all, her heart would not be touched by any boy as long as there was Alchemy… right?
"However," Arcturus continued, cutting the air with a word, "the final answer that will satisfy all parties, as I have already stated, I can only give after Yule. Those were my arrangements with my father, and I intend to honor them."
Isabelle nodded slowly, her face remaining impassive, reading every microscopic emotion.
"After Yule. Yes, I remember." She repeated. "I'm glad there is understanding between you. That simplifies a lot."
Céline sat with a perfectly impassive expression — if only this impassivity weren't hindered by a slightly crooked smile, but that could be understood. Her teenage heart was raging as if in a real storm at that moment.
The conversation, however, continued, even though her mother's main task was accomplished.
"Tomorrow, to our universal regret, you will be leaving us, Arcturus. In the morning, I will give you the Portkey, after we say our goodbyes," her mother said with a benevolent smile. But the conversation, of course, did not end there.
***
POV: Arcturus Malfoy
The study door clicked softly shut behind me. I slowly exhaled, feeling the tension gradually subside. I hoped that was the end of serious conversations for today.
I moved down the corridor towards the stairs leading upstairs. I was heading to my chambers. Céline, by the way, had remained in her mother's study. Madame Isabelle had gently but unambiguously ushered me out, hinting that I shouldn't forget to prepare for tomorrow's departure. And I was only too glad to leave the study of that formidable lady, where I had been all too often over the past month and a half. Of course, there wasn't much to pack, as I kept most of my belongings in the satchel, but not everything. Anyway, I really did need to gather a few more things. As for Céline, I think she's in for another round of serious conversation right now. Something like a debriefing, or perhaps an additional briefing.
The recent conversation in the garden, and then her words before her mother, replayed in my head. "Mutual affection and respect" — that's how we had expressed it to each other and how we had decided to answer her mother. But just now, when I was speaking my part, I saw her gaze cloud over for a moment, her lips tremble before settling back into a serious mask. Perhaps she had expected something else. Something more, and my pragmatic words had… disappointed her. Although, if you think about it, she didn't say anything new either.
I don't know if I imagined it, but I was almost certain that my favorable attitude towards her, my genuine interest in her pursuits, all the time spent together… my character and charm had clearly awakened some feelings in her. Maybe narcissism is speaking in me, but something inside unpleasantly tightened at that moment.
I felt genuine affection and the deepest respect for her. And I found her very attractive, and the now-raging hormones wouldn't let me forget that. She was a brilliant match in every sense and, overall, a wonderful companion, if I were to choose her. But I couldn't allow myself more — not now, not until my fourteenth birthday.
Was there in me that small, perhaps, flicker of infatuation that might have been in her? I wasn't sure. And even if I were sure and head over heels in love… to admit it, even to myself, would mean taking a step towards capitulation, towards losing control, and I couldn't allow that. How foolish I am, after all… I wonder, am I doing all this protest for myself, or to appease youthful maximalism?
I sighed inwardly. Things could go in many different ways. My plan could work, and then… then I might break her heart if I couldn't reap the rewards. Or the plan might fail, but I would choose Amanda. Or… But why look so far ahead? Right? All these thoughts are about the distant future. Too distant. I felt almost genuinely sorry that I had to play this role with her and couldn't share these first tender feelings of this life with her.
Finally, pondering today, the conversations, and feelings, I finally reached my room. And how I longed to just stumble inside, collapse on the bed, and lie there, tossing something in the air with telekinesis and catching it… very meditative.
But I froze at the turn. Near the door, leaning against the wall, stood none other than Louis, and next to him, Frédéric. Immediately, it struck me that Frédéric was holding something behind his back. And on Louis's face was the most guilty-looking smile imaginable.
"Came to check if I'd forgotten anything?" I asked, opening the door and letting the named guests in.
"Not at all," Frédéric parried, showing me a bottle of red wine in his hands. "We thought we'd drop by for a chat."
"Yeah, and I just thought… you're carrying a whole…" Louis began, but trailed off. Frédéric finished the sentence.
"Satchel with expanded space."
"Satchel. Maybe you need help packing?"
"Exactly!" Frédéric affirmed with a nod.
We all knew the talk wasn't about packing. I nodded, and the corners of my lips involuntarily crept upwards.
"Help, you say? Well then…" I took off my cloak and moved towards the bed. "With the help of that bottle, we might just have enough time. If we're lucky. Just need to find some decent glasses, or it won't be atmospheric."
The impending evening suddenly took a new, much more pleasant turn. Well, I'll have a chat with my French mates. And Louis apparently forgot that I'm thirteen and Frédéric is fifteen, and decided to get us drunk.