Chapter Seventeen: Pinball Wizard

Chapter Seventeen: Pinball Wizard

"Good evening, Mr Newman!" Professor Dumbledore stood and came around his desk.

Draco nodded. "Sir." He swallowed.

"You know, I thought we might speak elsewhere, somewhere a bit more comfortable than my office," Dumbledore said. "This isn't official Hogwarts business, after all...although if you have any questions about preparing for the Defence NEWT, do ask!"

"Thank you, sir. I haven't any at the moment." Draco followed Dumbledore out of the office, waiting for him as he waved a hand to lock and ward the door behind them.

"I thought we'd have a drink down in my laboratory, if that suits you," Dumbledore said as they walked down the wide corridor. "My 'playroom,' as Minerva calls it," he added with a wink.

Draco had heard, of course, that Dumbledore had been given the lower levels of the Headmistress's Tower to convert to his own use, but he didn't think that any student had ever visited the former headmaster's new private sanctum. It was likely that even staff didn't disturb him there unless invited. His curiosity about the old wizard's laboratory wound itself around his nervousness about his meeting with the man whom he had been ordered to murder.

The entrance to Dumbledore's playroom wasn't far from the Defence Against Dark Arts office, and was just around the corner from the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the spiral staircase leading to the Headmistress's Office. The door was old, its dark wood, scarred, probably culled from elsewhere in the castle, and at the pass of Dumbledore's hand the door seemed to shiver slightly, then the old wizard grasped the large, heavy metal ring that served as a door handle and, with a gentle tug, opened the door.

"If ever you need to see me and you cannot find me elsewhere, you may look for me here." Dumbledore indicated a small black handle beside the door. "Just pull the doorbell."

Draco nodded. He could not imagine a circumstance in which he would seek the former headmaster, but one never knew when such information might be useful.

Lanterns set along the wall lit as Dumbledore stepped onto the first stair. "I shall go first, as there is also a door at the bottom."

The door closed as Draco followed Dumbledore down the stairs, and he wondered how the old wizard could trust him to walk behind him like that. He touched his wand in his robe pocket, remembering another flight of stairs, a flight leading from darkness into darkness, with no Lumos from his wand, then how he had handed the Headmistress his wand when she had asked . . . and what he had learned, what he had been offered, and what he had chosen.

He swallowed as Dumbledore opened the door at the bottom of the long flight of stairs...two levels down, Draco thought it must be. Stepping into the large, high-ceilinged stone room, Draco saw that he was correct: windows on the other side of the room looked onto a courtyard and there was another door leading out to it. Toward the back of the room, behind Draco on his right, there was a Potions workbench with various instruments, mortars, retorts, and cauldrons set out, and more instruments hanging on the wall above it. To Draco's left, there was a wall lined with bookshelves, a decorated screen, partially folded, and a tall reading table with a heavy book open on it; across the way, there were more bookshelves, a hat tree with a heavy cloak hanging from it, but also some other peculiar items that Draco didn't recognise, including what appeared to be a table or glass case with blinking lights in it and in another glass case above it, a Dark detector, perhaps; in the centre of the room were a comfortable sofa and a couple well-upholstered chairs with a low table between them.

"Come, have a seat, Mr Newman," Dumbledore said when Draco just stood there, looking around himself.

Draco took a seat at the end of the sofa, consciously relaxing and sitting all the way back, and not perching on the edge of a cushion as though he wished to jump up and flee...though he did.

"I was glad when you asked to meet with me," Dumbledore said with a nod. He crossed over to a bar behind the seating area. "Would you care for a drink? Elderberry cordial? A sherry? Port? Butterbeer? Cherry fizz?" When Draco hesitated, Dumbledore added, "I also have firewhisky and Scotch."

Draco swallowed. "Whatever you're having, sir."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Sherry, then...somehow, I don't see you as an elderberry cordial wizard, though it is quite nice!"

Draco's attention kept being drawn to the strange glass case with the blinking lights.

"You like my pinball machine?" Dumbledore asked, handing him his sherry.

"Pinball machine?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Muggle contraption. A kind of game. Quite fun. They normally run on electricity, but a friend of mine gave me this one for Christmas, and it's all charmed. Still functions as it should, though. Even tilts at the most awkward moments! I'll show it to you in a bit, if you like." He waved his hand, and the coloured lights were extinguished. "It is a tad distracting at the moment, however."

Draco took a sip of his sherry and looked around the room again. "Nice room, Professor," he said, trying to think of something to say.

"I am enjoying it," Dumbledore replied. "I hear that you have an interview with Quin MacAirt soon. Interested in working for one of his companies?"

Draco nodded. "I hope to go into business, and I thought that there might be opportunities with Golden Cup Enterprises."

"Indeed. Quin has many ventures...in fact," Dumbledore added, gesturing toward the now-dark pinball machine, "it was Quin who gave me the pinball machine. I believe he is considering opening a small wizarding arcade somewhere in Ireland, possibly in Dublin's Dorcha Court, and if that is successful, he may create a full recreational park if he can find an appropriate location for it."

"That sounds difficult, with all the Muggle protection laws."

"Which is why he's opening the arcade in Ireland. Their restrictions on Charmed objects are not as broad as those here, though he must take safeguards with how he charms any wizarding equipment that might somehow resemble a Muggle object, even if it is highly unlikely that it would ever fall into Muggle possession. Of course, finding an appropriate piece of land for an entire park might prove a challenge."

Draco nodded. "I don't think that the British Ministry would approve anything like that. Father . . . Father said that the last Quidditch World Cup was almost held in Ireland because Fudge's people put so many obstacles in its way, but that Ludo Bagman and the Games and Sports Department convinced Fudge in time that there'd be a lot of Galleons in it for us."

"Yes, I remember that debate. There was a movement afoot to move it to Leitrim, though Finland offered to host it. More fitting, I thought, for an Irish National team to play on Irish soil, but the organisers do like it to be held in a neutral country," Dumbledore replied. He paused. "Not that the events following the match were neutral."

Draco reddened, remembering his father's role in those events.

"But come," Dumbledore said, "we didn't meet to speak about such things! I was sorry to hear that you are separated from your parents for the foreseeable future."

Draco nodded. "Mother would want me to finish my education and begin my career."

"And your father?"

Draco twitched an eyebrow. "Presumably the same."

Dumbledore took a sip of sherry then set down his glass. "Severus tells me that you have become somewhat estranged from your father."

Draco's eyebrow twitched again, his shoulder echoing it in a slight shrug.

"My father was a very good man," Dumbledore said. "He was a good husband, a good father, a friend to many. I lost him when I was young...much younger than you are now, just a boy, in fact. I never knew what became of him; I didn't learn it for many, many years. When I did, I was filled with remorse that I had not sought him myself, when there was still time, and greater sadness that it was another who had discovered his fate, and not I. But I had felt unreasonable shame that he had apparently left us, that he had vanished, leaving only a mystery behind him."

"Are you saying I should find my parents wherever they've been hidden?" Draco asked.

"No. They are safer, as are you, the way things are at the moment. But when your parents return...for I cannot believe that this sadly delusional person will not be caught...you should maintain some tie with your father, and not simply for the sake of your mother, but for his sake and your own."

Draco snorted softly, a mere breath of a laugh, and shook his head. "You know why he and my mother were hidden by the Ministry, and you know what he did, who he was. He brought shame to us, to Mother and me. Your father . . . he sounds like he was a decent man, whatever it was that took him away from you...and it wasn't Azkaban or a Dark Wizard, I'm sure."

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, it wasn't. It was . . . an accident, one could say. But I saw your father lying out there on the Hogwarts grounds, a physical wreck on the edge of death, and I saw him defy Voldemort..."

"Because he'd been tortured! Because he had nothing left to lose! If luck had been different, he would have been standing beside him! We both know that. And now he'd be dead or back in prison, leaving Mother once more...and me...to fend for ourselves with that legacy."

"We are often saved by mere luck, Draco. I had a bad patch as a young man myself, and it was only through good fortune and the kindness of strangers that I pulled myself out of the mire I'd sunk into. Admittedly, my actions at that time were generally of a detriment only to myself . . . and perhaps to a few acquaintances whose own paths were already not the best for them. But there were other things, earlier, which I had done and which had so demoralised me . . . I tried to flee my past, Draco. That is never a good way to escape the consequences of what one has done or left undone. Fortunately, I was given a second chance, as I say, through the kindness of strangers."

"And you and the Headmistress," Draco said softly, "you gave me a second chance."

"We offered one to you, at least an opportunity for one. You're the one who took the opportunity and decided to change. And it appears that you are doing well on that path."

"But my father . . ." Draco's brow furrowed. "Professor Snape said once I should try to forgive him, more for myself than for my father's sake."

"Wise advice, I think."

"Why did you do it?" Draco asked suddenly, grey eyes looking up and meeting Dumbledore's blue ones for the first time. "Why? I tried to imagine it, before I knew you weren't really dead, but even now, I don't understand why."

"Not simply for you, though you were one of the primary people I was considering, and whom the Headmistress considered when she averted my original plan to..." Dumbledore gave a wry smile "...to meet my end in the way I believed was fated. Neither of us wanted you to become a murderer, Draco, and the Headmistress was particularly concerned about what would happen to you, murder or no murder, if you were forced to join Riddle after my death."

Draco touched his left arm unconsciously. "I would not have had any choice left. I might not have liked it, but if I didn't do as he demanded . . . Mother and I would both have been dead, and likely tortured beforehand."

"You were never branded."

"No. It was supposed to happen over the Easter hols. I'd thought he'd do it earlier, even before I returned to Hogwarts in September, but he didn't, didn't even say anything about it," Draco said with a puzzled frown.

"Severus."

Draco looked at him quizzically.

"Professor Snape persuaded Riddle to wait, to hold off. Convinced him it should be a reward, or some such thing . . . Not on my advice, you should know. I only learned of it much later." Dumbledore picked up his glass. "Severus hoped even then that somehow he'd be able to save you, but without having to . . . to carry out that final deed himself. He can be a rather obstinate young man," Dumbledore said, an affectionate smile crossing his face.

Draco frowned. "That still doesn't explain . . . I don't understand. I was a Malfoy. My father's son. Pureblood to the last. Wanting power however we could get it. Muggle-baiting and Muggle-hating. Born to it. And I was going to . . . you know what I was going to do."

"You can't even speak of it now, in plain words, Draco my boy," Dumbledore replied gently. "And I don't believe you would have killed me, murdered me, not when it came to it."

"I would have . . . I might have . . ." Draco sighed and looked down into his pale gold sherry. "I don't know. I didn't want to, but I thought I had to. Until he actually told me to do it, I probably would even have thought it was a good thing. Father always said you were the worst thing to happen to Hogwarts," he whispered. "I believed him. I believed everything Father said." Draco blinked rapidly.

"It is a hard thing to realise that someone you love, someone you admire, has been wrong. So very wrong, in your father's case. That he had a flawed view of the world and that this view brought you all such misery. But for you . . . as I say, he is your father. Perhaps you might even serve as an example to him. He is proud of you. If you reject him, if you scorn him . . . it will be painful for you both. If you accept that he is your father and that he loves you, despite all of his flaws and his misdeeds...for I will not pretend that your father was a good man, that he did not cause many innocent human beings pain...if you accept that he is your father, he may feel moved to improve himself so that you might be proud of him again. And even if that does not happen, you will be able to look at yourself in the mirror in the morning and know that you are doing the right thing."

"But everything he taught me..."

"I don't say that you should pretend that your father was right or that he did not create his own current sad situation. You can reject the things he did, reject murder, cruelty, and the Dark, turn it out from your own heart, and yet still offer your father some forgiveness for his having led you astray and for having unwillingly caused you and your mother such pain and sorrow."

Draco merely looked down.

"Was he cruel to you?" Dumbledore asked. "Violent?"

Draco shook his head slowly. "But he wasn't a good father. I thought he was, but now I see better. You are right, though: he did not intend for Mother and me to suffer. He thought he was doing it for us, I think."

"Give him a chance, Draco. And if he seems unrepentant, then you can avoid him if you must. You certainly do not want to reward any return to his previous ways. But you will know that you, at least, tried to do the right thing. Your mother would appreciate it, as well, I am sure."

"You still haven't said why you cared, why you...or the Headmistress...wanted to give me a choice. After you died like that, you could have just left me to the fate I was born to, a Malfoy's fate."

"I didn't want you to become a murderer, and I didn't believe you had it in you...which is a good thing, Draco, not a weakness...but more than that, we both wanted to see you out of it all. If we could have done the same for some of the other young witches and wizards who played roles in all of this, we would have. But it was not possible to snatch up everyone, not without allowing the wizarding world to fall into Darkness. You, however, we could pluck from your situation and hide you, save you, give you an opportunity to have some part of your youth unsullied by the demands of a Dark Wizard or the expectations of an intolerant, elitist pureblood society. The young man I see before me now justifies our hopes for you."

"You didn't think that I was just . . . born to be like my father?"

"No, although you might have become more like him if things had gone differently at the Ministry that night he was arrested," Dumbledore said. He flicked a finger and poured himself another glass of sherry.

"But Harry Potter, you believed he was born to defeat the Dark– Riddle. You believed he'd be on the right side."

"I certainly did hope so, and as his character emerged, I was sure of it. He has a good heart, and although his upbringing was not ideal, it did teach him some discernment about people. He is another boy I would dearly have loved to pluck from Hogwarts and send to Sweden or Australia or America, or send him away even earlier in his life, but . . . his role was different from yours."

"He'd never have stayed away, anyway, knowing Potter," Draco said heavily. "Besides, he was on the right side. Born to the right side."

"But he still had choices to make," Dumbledore said. "And many of his choices were difficult ones. Do not think otherwise."

Draco's hand shook as he raised his glass to his lips and tasted the sherry. He closed his eyes and tears trickled down his cheeks. He swallowed, then set down his glass. "I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. I wish . . . I wish it all hadn't happened. I'm sorry I said I'd do it. I just . . ." More tears leaked out.

"You were a boy wanting to be a man," Dumbledore said softly. "You did what you believed you had to do. You love your mother. No one will ever fault you for that."

"And I was afraid," Draco whispered, his voice roughened by unshed tears. "I was so afraid."

"It's all right. I know."

Draco bent his head, covering his teary eyes with his hand. "I am sorry."

"We forgave you, Draco. And we're glad you returned for your seventh year and are doing so well. I'm quite proud of you, if you don't mind my saying that."

Draco shook his head, still not looking up.

"Here, now, finish up that glass of sherry, and then we'll both have something a bit lighter...a butterbeer, perhaps?...and I'll show you my pinball machine." Dumbledore waved his hand, and with a ringing and dinging, the lights came back up on the machine. "We'll see whether experience or youthful reflexes win, hmm?"

Almost three hours later, an after-hours pass from Dumbledore shoved into the pocket of his school robe, Draco made his way through the quiet corridors and stairways leading down to the dungeons. His face glowed and he wore a slight, unconscious smile as his feet tapped their quick way down one of the many staircases. Whatever his father thought of Muggles and Dumbledore, pinball was awesome. He'd forgotten where he was, he became so engrossed in playing pinball, and although at first, Dumbledore had won, racking up points through well-practised finesse and the more cautious timing of an older man, Draco soon caught up and surpassed him. Dumbledore didn't seem to mind, though, cheering enthusiastically whenever Draco made a particularly difficult shot or got a high bonus.

Claiming fatigue, for the last hour and a half, the older wizard had sipped butterbeer and watched Draco play, seeming to get as much enjoyment out of watching the young wizard's pleasure in the game as he'd had when he'd been at the flippers himself. Draco never would have believed that a stationary Muggle game could be so much fun...when he had once unconsciously used magic to try to move the steel ball into one of the bonus holes, the machine went silent and its lights dimmed; a "magical tilt," Dumbledore had called it.

The former headmaster had shown him a few techniques for trapping and releasing the steel ball with the flipper, or bouncing it from one flipper to the other to get the right angle for the ball to shoot up a special alley and rack up extra points, and how to nudge the machine just enough to coax a ball into a good spot to bounce off a bumper but without tilting the machine and having to start over. Draco wondered how long a really good player could play on a single silver Sickle if they kept getting free games.

"Mr Newman."

Draco, startled, turned his head. He'd been so caught up in thinking about pinball, he hadn't noticed anyone in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs.

"Professor Snape," Draco said, blinking and reaching into his pocket, "I have a pass here, somewhere." He fumbled in his other pocket.

"You had an appointment with Professor Dumbledore this evening."

"Yes, sir. I'm just coming from there." He reached into his right-hand pocket again, and this time, he found the bit of parchment that Dumbledore had given him before he left. He offered it to Snape.

Snape shook his head slightly and did not reach for it. "It was a very long meeting."

"Not really. Well, it was, I suppose. But he has this thing, this Muggle game, a pinball machine. He was showing me how it worked."

Snape just looked at him a moment. "Timing is everything. And do not use too much force, or you will tilt." He twitched a brief smile. "I was once rather well acquainted with a particular machine, myself. The Fireball."

"With the one he's got, if you try to use magic on it, it tilts, too," Draco said.

"You enjoyed it."

Draco gave a half smile, which almost instantly spread. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"I shall have to accept his invitation to play sometime, then," Snape said, his dark eyes glittering in the torchlight.

"You should," Draco said, nodding.

"And your conversation? It went well?"

"Yeah. Yes, it did. And you were right; I'm glad I talked to him. I feel . . . relieved, I suppose."

Snape nodded. "Good night, Mr Newman. Check on lights out for me, please. Take points if anyone under year five still has their lights on or is out of bed."

"Yes, sir. Good night."

Feeling quite cheerful, Draco headed down the corridor to the Slytherin common room, thinking that he would have to ask Mr MacAirt about his plans for a wizarding arcade and whether there might be some job for him there. Moving to Dublin for a fresh start might not be a bad thing at this point . . . if Ginny came with him.