Arches

When I was four years old, I found a stone in Grandfather Goyle's back garden. It was old, like the stones in the house's foundation. I thought it might have fallen out of the house, so I went to tell my father. He came to see what I had found, and he laughed when he saw it.

"Gregory," he said, "that's not from the house. Why, that's older than all the other stones of the house put together."

I looked at the stone. It wasn't much- grey, mottled and pitted, I think. "What is it, Papa?" I remember asking.

He scooped up the stone, hefting it a little in his hand. "It's a keystone," he said, "and it's from a long, long time ago. Come, now, show Papa where you found it."

When I was six I found the stone again. My father had it in his study, under glass, as if it were some precious bit of magic. I hadn't seen it before then, because it was on a shelf too far up for me to see. I was looking for Alexander, my beetle, and there it was. "Papa," I said, "is this the stone from Grandpapa's garden?"

He looked up- he was writing a letter- and made a little noise. I think I surprised him. "Why- yes, Gregory, it is. You've found it already? My, my. . ."

Maybe I should have asked him other things, but I didn't think of it. I was six, so I wanted to know- "What's it for, Papa?"

He lifted the glass dome covering the stone and set it aside. "Why, it's for keeping things up, Gregory," he said. "It's as old as the Romans. Do you know who the Romans were?"

I wanted to say yes, but my father would have known it if I'd lied, so instead I just said "no".

He touched the stone with the very tips of his fingers. "The Romans," he said softly, "were great men. Very great. They lived thousands and thousands of years ago-"

"Before Hogwarts?"

My father nodded. "Long before Hogwarts," he said. "They came here, and they took the land from the howling savages, and they made it a civilised place. They built roads, and walls, and buildings, and in their buildings they made arches. Come, I'll show you."

He took down a book that smelled of ancient things, and when he touched the edges of its pages it came open all on its own. "There," he said, pointing to the picture on the page. "An arch is when a curve of stones stands on nothing but its own ends, and on air."

"Like the doorway at Grandmama's? With the half-circle over it?"

"A little like that." He ran one finger along the curve. "The stones ought to fall, but the shape of the arch is strong. Very strong. All of the stones in the arch are the same size and the same shape, matched just so- that way, they cannot fall. Each stone has the strength of the stone next to it to lean against. If even one stone in the arch were a different kind of stone, or the right stone but flawed in some way, it would be a weak place. Sooner or later the arch would fall apart."

I frowned a little, looking at the picture and then at the stone my father now held in his hand. "But that one is different," I pointed out.

"Ah yes." My father smiled, stroking the stone lightly. "This is the keystone. Look, here, do you see? This stone in the middle? It's the only one that's different, because it's the most important stone of all. Every other stone presses against its neighbour- but this stone in the middle is the one that holds them all in place. All of them press against it. The arch couldn't stand, if it weren't for this stone."

I tried to picture it. I must have been frowning, because my father laughed. "Here," he said, "what've you got in your pockets?" When I turned out a handful of Bertie Bott's Beans, he nodded. "I'll show you," he said, Transfiguring them into building blocks. "Like this. . ."

It took my father several tries before I finally understood what he was trying to show me. I didn't know why he was so patient then, but I did later. That came when he explained what 'pureblood' meant for the first time. And that went along with the talks about when I'd go to Hogwarts. About the importance of keeping to our own kind, and about how Muggles and their children were a danger. Even if the children had magic, they were still dangerous; they weren't as strong inside as the rest of us, they didn't have the loyalties we did, they weren't able to understand. They were the wrong kind of rock, and while they might seem strong now, they'd break under pressure and fall from the arch sooner or later. And that would bring the whole thing down.

I've thought about that a lot since then. I expect my father thinks that One Whose Name We Do Not Speak is the keystone, and I shouldn't be surprised if he's right. I've seen how quickly proper wizards turn into fools when they've got to deal with Muggles. I don't like to think how much worse it must be to carry Muggle blood, instead of merely talking to them. That's got to addle you awfully, no matter how clever you might be. Just because Granger's got a sharp brain doesn't make her any less addled. I've heard what she's said about house-elves. Completely mad. If I heard her ideas coming out of a pureblooded wizard's mouth I'd say they'd escaped from St. Mungo's, really.

I wonder if Vincent ever thinks of things this way. I know Malfoy doesn't. I've played the simpleton around him since the first day on the train. He'll get himself into trouble some day with that mouth of his. I don't think he knows what it means, to keep quiet and wait. He's a prudent sort to know, and he's clever enough in his own way, but really, he wants it all and he wants it now. Let him call me stupid if he likes, or think I'm some fat blithering idiot with all the sense of a boulder. I don't care. He knows he can rely on me and Vincent, and he's promised to make that pay off handsomely when we're all done with school. Papa always said the promise of a Malfoy was nothing to be sneezed at. I'll stick by him for now, see him through as far as I can, but- well.

I know a flawed stone when I see one. And I'm not going to let Draco Malfoy's flaws bring down the whole arch. . . even if I have to remove him myself.