章節 29: Philosophy of love, philosophy of friendship
Arcturus was on his way to becoming a philosopher.
When the Aurors left, the shared hardship brought the victims closer together. The Greengrass sisters looked at Arcturus as a savior, and Narcissa's attitude toward him noticeably warmed. That day, they lingered as guests for a long time, talking about many things, mostly about the past. Narcissa had been told before to keep her distance from Snape, but she always believed he was being falsely accused. Only today did she finally agree with his detractors. In the mind of a born Black — and Blacks do not betray — it was incomprehensible that Snape had been betraying people who considered him a friend, people who had shown him nothing but kindness.
It was they, along with Lucius, who had taken the grim and impoverished half-blood under their wing from the first year—not because they expected any benefits, but because he was a Slytherin, one of their own. It was they who introduced him to the Dark Lord to help his career in pure-blood society—a venture that ended poorly for Voldemort, but who could have known? And of course, they never suspected that Snape was infatuated with a redheaded harpy, convinced of her own infallibility, who walked through Hogwarts as if the world owed her a great debt. After all, when you love someone, you do at least something to please them—like, for example, washing your hair regularly.
Only now, when Snape had openly joined the winning side, did Narcissa have to admit that he had been a traitor all along. She still had no clue about Lily—she knew that she had lived next door to Severus and that they had been childhood friends, but she thought their paths had diverged over time. In her opinion, the redheaded show-off might still appeal to the brainless James Potter, but she considered Snape smarter than that. Arcturus said nothing to her about Snape's memories that had so impressed him before the final battle with Voldemort, as the question of how he knew about them would inevitably arise.
But he himself knew of Snape's feelings for Lily Evans and couldn't help but think about them. When he had been Harry Potter, everything was clear—there was the hated, ugly Aunt Petunia, and there was the wonderful, beautiful, perfect mother, Lily. Now that he had come to terms with the fact that neither Lily nor Petunia were truly related to him, he could not help but notice the similarities between the two sisters. He knew Lily's mother only through the praises of others, praises that meant nothing to those who said them—Lily was dead anyway, so why not make the child happy? The living Lily, whom he had seen at the meeting, pleased him far less—with her cooing over the chubby little Harry and the unpleasant expression of smug superiority on her face, she too closely resembled the hated Petunia.
He had grown accustomed to thinking of Petunia as ugly, but now he realized that she wasn't. A slim blonde with a swan-like neck and green-gray eyes, shaped exactly like her sister's, she could even be called beautiful if not for her character. At school, Petunia had also been a top student and class prefect. After marrying and settling on Privet Drive, she had dedicated herself to her family and became an active participant in the neighborhood's best-kept garden competition. The neighbors respected Petunia and valued her opinion—her harsh side was reserved only for her nephew, while for others, she was a respectable lady. Who knows, perhaps the sisters hated each other not because they were too different, but because they were too alike—such things happen. Even in appearance, they were similar, with only the red-haired Lily being notably more striking than the blonde Petunia.
It turned out that Snape had betrayed his patrons, school friends, and their life's cause for this Petunia of the wizarding world. Was the great power of love, which Dumbledore loved to discuss over tea and lemon drops, really nothing more than a cheap bait to trap people like Snape and the little foolish Harry who had never been loved enough? It was no coincidence that Dumbledore had ensured his weapon-boy grew up unloved. After all, what else could that old man, who had never been known to have any romantic attachments, except for unverified rumors about his relationship with Grindelwald, know about love? What else, besides the fact that a loving person can be manipulated in any way and demanded of everything?
Love makes a person strong.
Love makes a person persistent, unyielding, and selfless.
Love makes a person blind, like a bull in the arena, charging at the red cloth waved in front of him by the deft hand of a matador.
Arcturus suddenly realized that he didn't want to love. He had already loved—or thought he had loved—Cho Chang, and then Ginny Weasley. And what came of it? He had thought of Ginny as he walked toward death, and now she, shameless and garishly dressed, evoked not the slightest regret about their past relationship, as she allowed Oliver Wood to grope her knees in front of everyone. He remembered her small, firm breasts, her flat stomach, which had provocatively rubbed against him during kisses, her plump skillful mouth, and her long, slippery tongue. There was nothing else to remember because Ginny's inner world was, to put it mildly, shallow. No deeper than her brother Ron's, for that matter—the same Quidditch, the same inter-house rivalries, and on top of it, gossip about the annoying sister-in-law Fleur.
Blind, passionate love—it was all because of it... The same power that made this shallow, ill-mannered girl of easy virtue desirable and attractive. The power that had disfigured Dudley's body and soul, the power that had fueled Snape's bitterness and pushed him to betrayal. The great force that Dumbledore had so admired...
Now Arcturus would have preferred affection—no, not calculation, but affection—over such love. Love is blind, but affection sees clearly. He suddenly realized that he had nothing against a marriage based on affection, as Walburga had once told him about.
Maybe Daphne felt the same? There was no fiery passion between them, but they were undoubtedly fond of each other. Why shouldn't they be together?
Arcturus had already come to understand that people call very different things "love," and he was halfway to calling his feelings for Daphne by that name, despite the obvious absence of fatal passions. He liked imagining Daphne as the mistress of the House of Black, and the thought of her in his life, his home, and his bed caused no discomfort at all. He found himself smiling at the thought of her conversing with Kreacher and giving orders to Winky, and the image of Daphne in a robe, warm and squinting sleepily with her hair down for the night, seemed irresistibly charming to him.
In truth, the only thing holding Arcturus back from taking decisive action was his past. He needed to tell Daphne the truth about himself—not because his honesty demanded it, but because revealing such a fact only after marriage could unpredictably affect their relationship. But telling her such a thing in advance meant taking a big risk if Daphne did not agree.
Arcturus was being cautious. And who wouldn't be cautious in his place?
Moreover, he no longer doubted that his former friends and allies would not leave him in peace—and Daphne was unlikely to be pleased with that. If they had been quiet at first, it was because they had other concerns, but now it turned out that Hermione wanted something from him, and she always saw things through to the end, regardless of the cost or the means. If anyone knew this trait of hers well, it was former Harry.
First, he had to deal with the past—and only then build the future.
Arcturus never for a second suspected that Hermione had rushed to him in the street for his own sake. Looking back on his school years, he realized that his former best friend had never done anything just for him. Take, for example, the summer after fifth year, when he believed Sirius was dead and desperately needed support—his so-called friends didn't even bother to hide the fact that they knew much more than he did. If Hermione had truly cared, she could have contacted him, found the right words, and explained what she could, but all summer, she and Ron limited themselves to formal letters, as if they were not friends but overseers. For his own good, she had said back then—Ron didn't count, it was Ron—but even silence can be done in different ways. Both of them tearfully begged for forgiveness in the best tradition of a certain old man, and Arcturus, having no other choice, forgave them.
When there is no choice, you must fight your enemy. Like he had done with Voldemort.
When there is no choice, you must forgive your friends. Like he had done with Hermione and Ron.
Very soon, Hermione made her presence known again. She had not given up on her intentions, but was forced to play by his rules. A letter from his solicitor arrived on Gringotts' stationery, stating that a certain Miss Granger wished to meet with Mr. Travers-Black in one of the bank's conference rooms for business negotiations. After learning that "business negotiations" was standard bank correspondence language, Arcturus coordinated with Goldgrabber on the time of the meeting and client protection conditions. The subject of the negotiations, as defined by Miss Granger, was "open," which could mean anything from a "life talk" with a conscience appeal to ultimatums—or, given Hermione's stubbornness and persistence, an inevitable shift from the former to the latter.
Of course, Arcturus was familiar with the saying "clothes make the man, but it's the mind that sees him off," and until recently, he interpreted it in favor of those who had only one pair of trousers for all occasions. However, Walburga had clearly explained to him that intelligence also manifests in how and where one dresses. Even Muggles had the concept of a dress code, let alone the conservative elite of the pureblood magical society. That's why Arcturus dressed meticulously for his meeting with Hermione—though he knew his former friend didn't care about clothing, it was another reason to practice.
He entered the conference room with his attorney, Mr. Goldgrabber, a goblin. Hermione was already waiting there, looking as disheveled as ever, in a baggy brown sweater with half-worn elbows. The negotiations took place at a rectangular table, with the negotiators sitting at the ends and their accompanying parties along the sides. Following Goldgrabber's instructions, Arcturus sat in the firm armchair at the free end of the table, while the goblin took a seat next to him, laying out business papers on the table. Hermione watched them from the other end, her eyes wide with surprise.
"I'm listening to you..." Arcturus picked up a document from the table, trying to appear as natural as possible, glanced at the glossy paper stamped by Gringotts, and placed it back. "...Miss Hermione Jean Granger."
Hermione was initially taken aback—this wasn't at all how she had imagined the meeting. But then she remembered her conversation with Dumbledore, who was worried about the boy needing friendly support and guidance, and she gathered her courage.
"But..." she glanced so pointedly at the goblin that pointing with her finger would have been only slightly less polite. "We need to talk in private. It's very important."
"I have no secrets from my attorney," Arcturus said in a neutral tone.
"But..." she looked at him meaningfully, "we need to talk about your past... Harry."
"Miss Granger, I can swear that I've never been Harry. My name is Arcturus Procyon Travers-Black. You may call me Arcturus if we're on friendly terms, but Mister Travers will suffice."
If necessary, Arcturus could indeed take an unbreakable vow that he had never been Harry Potter. The wording in vows is crucial; being someone and playing a role are not the same thing.
"But you were Harry Potter at school!" Hermione exclaimed, never one to hold back what she believed was right. "That's what the headmaster... Professor Dumbledore told us."
"Miss Granger, you invited me here for business, didn't you? Let's get to it," Arcturus reminded himself of the existence of Pensieves and avoided any clear admissions.
"Professor Dumbledore is very worried about you," Hermione said quickly, as if responding in class. "He fears you may struggle with the changes in your life and not understand that it was necessary for the greater good. That's why we, your friends, want to support you, help you adjust to your new situation, and explain that we're still with you no matter what. We remain your friends, and you can rely on us as before."
"My friends..." Arcturus said, as if tasting the words. "And who are they, Miss Granger? I don't remember such people."
"What do you mean, who?! It's me—me and Ron!" Hermione was stunned.
"Miss Granger," Arcturus looked at her skeptically, "if you insist... Let's assume that I am this Harry of yours. Mind you, I'm not confirming it, but let's imagine I'm in the shoes of the guy you claim to be friends with."
"We're not pretending—we *are* friends!" she snapped.
"Not pretending, huh? So, in the first year, it wasn't Ron who imposed himself on your Harry in the train? And it wasn't you, Miss Granger, who helped Neville look for his toad all the way to the compartment where you found the Boy-Who-Lived? You didn't leave that compartment until the end of the ride, even though your things were in another carriage. Wanted to get closer to the celebrity you'd read so much about?"
"But..." Hermione blushed deeply. "I was genuinely interested in both Ron and you."
"In Harry," Arcturus corrected her. "From the first days of school, you started chasing Ron around with lectures, and Harry got caught in the crossfire. I understand, that was your way of impressing Ron, but what does that have to do with friendship with Harry?"
"But we became friends in the end..." she mumbled.
"Allow me to be blunt, Miss Granger. You're a Muggle-born, and Voldemort's regime threatened Muggle-borns most of all. The Boy-Who-Lived was fighting Voldemort, and he was your ticket to a brighter future. You did everything to ensure he succeeded and secured that future for you. I understand that—a noble goal, not the worst one—but why cover it up with the word 'friendship'? The same goes for your Ron—he always wanted to stand out, and being close to the Chosen One gave him a share of the spotlight. Where's the friendship in that? Or do you not remember how consistently he betrayed your Harry precisely when his friendship and support were most needed? You've gotten what you wanted, but you still cling to Harry. There's more to gain, isn't there?"
"But, Harry, we would never..." Hermione protested, then faltered, unsure how to continue.
"Never what?" Arcturus asked. "Never remember your Harry on your own initiative? You yourself said at the beginning that Dumbledore sent you to me."
Hermione uncomfortably realized that she had never thought of Harry in all this time. She'd been too busy, with so many things going on—conferences, finding her parents, Ron, and the upcoming wedding—when was there time to think about the former Harry? She wouldn't have remembered him at all if Dumbledore hadn't reminded her. But she was responsible and caring. She immediately agreed that this boy needed help.
"It's not for personal gain, Harry," she said sincerely. "Dumbledore reminded me to be empathetic, but I would have remembered on my own. In time..."
"So, you don't know what else you can get from me. That's typical of Dumbledore—he never spills anything that doesn't suit his interests. Miss Granger, I don't need your support. I'm perfectly fine without it. If you have nothing more to say, let's end this here. And stop calling me Harry. To you, I'm Mister Travers."
Hermione had more to say, but the unexpected turn of the conversation had thrown her off. And this young gentleman, coldly reserved and impeccably dressed, was nothing like the simple, straightforward Harry she used to know. All her arguments had fled her mind, and her eagerness to catch up and help at any cost had faded.
"I have nothing more to say," she confirmed with bitterness. "I'll tell Professor Dumbledore that you're doing well, Mister Travers."
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