“We should go back, Headmaster.” Dumbledore said nothing more.
He simply watched as Styx’s brow furrowed while his face remained carefully blank.
The squeeze of Apparition faded.
Pine and hearth-smoke replaced the copper scent of blood.
They stood in the familiar corridor outside the Headmaster’s office.
Moonlight lay across the Forbidden Forest beyond the windows.
In the space of a few minutes Dumbledore had pulled him straight from the blood-soaked marble of Malfoy Manor back to Hogwarts.
Dumbledore stood three paces away with his back turned, one hand smoothing his wind-tangled beard.
Styx had no intention of speaking first.
He already knew the conversation was coming.
Dumbledore was not the sort of man who watched a professor break a Ministry commissioner’s legs and extract her teeth and then simply offered tea and a quiet chat.
Styx waited like a child who refused to apologise first.
He had said everything necessary at the manor.
Now it was Dumbledore’s turn.
“Fudge will write to me tomorrow,” Dumbledore said mildly.
“The language will be sharp.
He will raise questions about professor qualifications, Ministry oversight, and the possibility of stationing Aurors at the castle.
I will reply that the incident was authorised by me—an unannounced test of the psychological resilience of a prospective High Inquisitor.” “He won’t believe that.” “Of course he won’t.” Dumbledore turned.
The solemnity in his face was rare.
“But he needs a face-saving step.
Without one, Aurors will be at the gates by morning.
With one, it will take him at least a full term to decide he can move against you without going through me.
A term is long enough for a great many changes.” Styx kept his mouth shut.
“You’re wondering why I’m covering for you.” “I’m wondering when you’ll get to the actual point.” Dumbledore was quiet for a moment.
Firelight from the wall torches moved across his face, making him look less like the greatest wizard of the age and more like a tired old man.
“Lethean.
Do you believe Umbridge will come after you again?” “She can barely make a sound right now.” “Then will she go after someone else?
Hagrid?
Pomona?
Any of the younger staff who cannot protect themselves the way you can?” Styx’s head snapped up, eyes hard.
“She wouldn’t dare.” “Exactly.
She no longer dares.” Dumbledore studied the violence still visible in Styx’s expression.
“Fear is a useful tool.
Someone told me that when I was young.
He persuaded a great many clever people that if fear was buried deep enough, bad things could be strangled before they ever drew breath.” “…You know I’m not going to become Voldemort.” Dumbledore did not deny it.
“I know you are different.
But fear never stays only where you aim it.
It leaks.
Today she will not look for you, nor for anyone else.
She will scuttle through the corridors of the Ministry, choosing the seat nearest the door in every meeting, and she will have the same nightmares every night.
A person soaked in fear never becomes better.” “She was never a good person to begin with.” The words came out sharp and childish even to Styx’s own ears.
“You’re right,” Dumbledore said.
“I do not care about Umbridge.
I do not care how many letters the Ministry sends tomorrow.
I do not care how much face Lucius Malfoy lost at his own banquet, or how loudly Fudge will complain.
Even if he tries to make a scandal of it, he will discover his allies are fewer than he expects.” His gaze settled on Styx and did not move.
“What I care about has always been you.” For a moment the only sounds were the soft burn of the torches and Styx’s own pulse.
“What I care about is what happens when a teacher begins to believe fear is more reliable than rules.
What do his students become?
The version of you that Draco saw tonight—and the version he will see in Dark Arts Practical next week—are they still the same person?
If they are not, he may never be certain which one is real.” Styx opened his mouth to claim Draco had not been frightened.
The lie died before it left his tongue.
He had seen the boy pressed against a pillar, white-faced and shaking.
Pulling the violence back at the last second changed nothing.
Draco had already seen.
“You stopped when you noticed him,” Dumbledore said.
“That was the best decision you made tonight.” “So you know I won’t become a second Dark Lord.” Dumbledore still did not answer the statement directly.
He only said, quietly, “I hope that one day you will be able to tell me yourself that you can protect the people you care about without using fear.” Styx looked at the old man who, only minutes earlier, had been held motionless by the same shadows and had still spoken his name in a calm voice, asking him not to go further.
There was no anger in those blue eyes now, and no fear either.
“…I’m sorry,” Styx said, the words low.
“But next time I will probably do the same thing.” Dumbledore nodded once, said nothing more, and walked toward the office door.
Styx remained alone in the corridor long after the footsteps faded.
— Back in his rooms he closed the door and leaned against it for a long time before crossing to the new linen sofa and dropping into it.
He pressed his face into the cushion.
The fabric scraped his cheek while the anger under his ribs burned hotter.
“Idiot.
I should have taken her somewhere empty and done it quietly.
Why the hell did I do it in front of everyone?” His fingers traced the grain of the armrest.
In the corners the shadows stirred, restless with their master’s mood.
One edged forward and brushed the back of his hand like a nervous cat.
Styx waved it away irritably.
The shadows retreated and piled themselves into a silent heap.
He did not care about Umbridge’s screams.
He did not care what letters the Ministry or the Board would write.
He had more than enough power to make them stay quiet.
What he could not do was erase the memory from Draco’s mind.
That thin figure shrinking behind marble was branded into him.
He had stopped short of killing her.
It made no difference.
In Draco’s eyes he was already standing on the same side of the line as the men who had once worn the Dark Mark.
The more he turned it over the more the anger climbed.
He sat up, grabbed the glass of cold tea on the table, and drained it in one swallow.
The chill cut through some of the heat in his chest.
He forced himself to think.
The damage was done.
Public opinion would be the first problem.
By morning the Daily Prophet would almost certainly carry his name on the front page.
Students would stare.
Parents would worry.
The Ministry would ask, loudly, whether Hogwarts had hired a dark wizard.
Arguing that he was not one would be useless.
Better to do something a dark wizard would never choose to do.
He needed a public miracle—something bright and undeniable that would force every accusation to choke on itself.
The idea settled slowly, cold and clear.