lomonaaeren (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lomonaaeren) wrote2010-07-02 06:29 pm
lomonaaeren) wrote2010-07-02 06:29 pm
Chapter Two of 'Chosen Chains'- Welcome Home (2/2)
This chapter has been split up for length reasons, and this is the second part. Don't start reading here.
He was the same.
Severus himself had taught Draco to be suspicious of magical portrait-painters. They promised far more than they could deliver, Severus said, gazing into one of the campfires they had built during the nights of their escape. This one was in an abandoned Muggle shack. Draco could still smell the odors of dust and dirt and something killed bloodily not far away if he concentrated.
“Magical portraits are a portion of the person they represent,” Severus told the air or the flames, and Draco’s listening ears, which he never chose to acknowledge. “Not the whole. Painters, of course, like to claim they are, especially if they can give them the original’s most recent memories. But they claim that to be seen as better at their jobs, and so hired again. It is not true.”
Severus had sounded certain. Draco, when conversing with the portraits of his grandparents, had no reason to believe that it wasn’t true.
But still, there he was, black eyes the same as ever, smile still twisted, one hand resting on the cauldron as he leaned forwards to study Draco.
“The latecomer and the idiot,” he said, and his eyes shifted to McGonagall. “And the cat.”
“How flattering to be given a neutral nickname,” McGonagall said dryly. She was comfortable with him, Draco thought, while he structured his thoughts carefully to avoid absorbing what Severus had called him. For the first time since Draco had seen her again, McGonagall moved with the brisk step and the stern face he remembered. “Mr. Malfoy is here to stay in your rooms and speak with you, Severus. And Mr. Potter is here to speak with Albus’s portrait, if he will agree.”
Severus narrowed his eyes and drew himself back like a snake about to strike. Draco found himself wondering if magical portrait-painters could also add traits that weren’t there. He didn’t remember that particular gesture.
“So it has come,” Severus murmured, and then, while McGonagall started to summon house-elves to dust and clean, he focused his attention on Draco again.
It was one thing to carry one’s old mentor in the mind, Draco thought, and another thing to face him again. He took a deep breath and moved carefully forwards, trying to brace himself for the criticism. “I’m sorry I never came before,” he murmured.
“I am only a picture of the man who protected you and kept you from having to splinter your soul with killing,” Severus replied at once. “Why would you think it was important to see me?”
Draco winced and sought for a suitable reply. Behind him, Potter said, “I see that you haven’t picked up any politeness from the other portraits. Probably none of them want to come near you. Have you tried washing your hair?”
Severus leaned forwards, ready for combat. “I can see that you have not managed to make yours obedient to a comb.”
Draco stepped between them and shook his head at Severus. “He’s an ally against the Ministry,” he said, his voice unexpectedly calm, at least to his own ears. Who knew what Potter or Severus might have been expecting? “Please don’t taunt him.” He turned his head and fixed Potter with a gentle gaze. “The same goes for you.”
“If you knew what he said to me when I was last here—” Potter began.
“Don’t,” Draco snapped.
Potter blinked and fell silent, looking back and forth from him to Severus. Then he shrugged. “If he can hold his tongue,” he muttered, “then I’ll listen.”
“Am I to be managed under the same precept, when he was the one who began the insults?’ Severus asked. Draco looked back and saw that his pose was familiar this time, as if he were readying himself to resist physical attack from an enemy. His wand in his hand and his guarded eyes above the automatic sneer betrayed that.
“I’m sure that Potter is very sorry he began his reacquaintance with you like that.” Draco turned and gave Potter a glare.
Potter glared back for a few instants, arms folded as if anticipating an attack himself, then snorted and flipped a hand. “Why not? I’m sorry.”
Draco looked at Severus. He had settled against the rim of his cauldron again, and regarded them both with the sort of lazy glance Draco had seen dissolve into action at a moment’s notice. “Very well,” he said. “I accept his half-hearted apology. And I intend to talk to you when there are no other living ears here to listen.”
McGonagall turned towards the portrait and frowned. “I never understood why you refused to trust me with the keys to finding those artifacts, Severus.” Her injured dignity filled her voice, but was at least quiet, Draco thought, unlike the scene that Granger would have made. “You must know that I care as much about Hogwarts as you do.”
“I care for Hogwarts not at all,” Severus said, with his lip jerking sideways. Draco recognized the signs of a lie, but didn’t think that McGonagall would. “I care for the fact that your precious Albus, in death as in life, has laid certain rules on me that I cannot break.”
McGonagall sighed and turned to Draco. “The house-elves will bring this back to livable conditions within a short time, Mr. Malfoy.”
“Thank you,” Draco said, and then waited until she got the point. Her nostrils flared, but she went to the door and opened it.
“We are not the enemy,” she said over her shoulder. “And there are good people in the Ministry who want only to reform the school so as to bring it into line with practical principles. I wish you would not despise all of them.”
No one in the room answered her, probably because her self-evidently sugared words deserved none, though Potter’s face burned as if he would like to. McGonagall stepped through the door and shut it, and Draco moved his hand in the quick motion that would trigger the wards Severus favored. They still engaged, which reassured Draco that no one had touched the deeper levels of these rooms.
“It is good that you have come at last,” Severus said. He was leaning forwards when Draco turned back to the portrait, and seemed prepared to ignore Potter’s existence. “If you had come earlier, then I could have told you that Dumbledore wanted to summon Potter, and we could have avoided these games.”
“If you think that I’d answer a summons from Malfoy without a question,” Potter retorted, “being a portrait has affected your brain.”
Draco once again found himself forced into the role of peacemaker as Severus began a spell Draco knew would prevent Potter from using the loo comfortably for a week. “It’s better this way,” he said loudly, and held Severus’s eye until he grudgingly lowered his wand. “It would have been difficult to force access to the school through Ministry guards and wards.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Severus, with the slow tone that he used towards all practical suggestions he hadn’t thought of himself. “Nevertheless, this game was meant to move much faster. Dumbledore never intended that Hogwarts should remain closed for six years.”
“Acknowledged,” Draco said, and Summoned a chair across the floor so that he could sit down. Even if these weren’t the chairs that he would have chosen to furnish Severus’s rooms, they were comfortable. He noticed from the corner of his eye that Potter had no hesitation in drawing up a seat of his own. “What ‘game’ is this?”
Severus looked once at the door, nodded, and then sat down in his chair and clasped his hands on his knees. Draco’s heart quickened despite himself. He recognized that teaching posture from fires at night and private sessions in Severus’s office that had been called “detentions” to placate other professors.
“Albus was concerned about what would happen after his death,” Severus began. “You know now that he was dying for most of a year, and had time to plan.”
Draco swallowed and nodded. It had been beyond humiliating to be told that Dumbledore knew about Draco’s attempts to murder him all along and was more concerned with trying to save Draco, as if he was still a child, but it was also a revelation that he had come to terms with years ago.
“Among other things, he did not wish to see the school taken over by the Ministry, and since this was the year after they attempted to place the bitch Umbridge in the Headmaster’s position, he had no doubt they would try.” Severus’s nostrils flared delicately. “I agreed with him, and I helped him cast the wards that are now buried in the stones of the school itself, only to be undone by speaking the proper words. The wards will not only keep the Sorting Hat and other needful things hidden, but also prevent any repairs or reforms made to the school from taking hold unless done by wizards of good heart and true devotion to the end of the students’ education.”
Draco stared. He had heard of such magic, of course, but it was even more experimental than sentient potions. “How did you manage that?” he demanded.
Severus somehow managed to look down his nose at Draco, despite his nose being only a daub of paint. “Remember who we are speaking of, Draco. This was Albus Dumbledore, and he knew more about magic than the Dark Lord himself. Than any thirty wizards.”
Draco raised his eyebrows. He could have made an issue of the undertone of pride in Severus’s voice, and the fact that Severus still seemed to prize Dumbledore’s reputation far beyond what he had told Draco he did in life, but he saw no reason to. “All right,” Draco said. “Say this was possible. Why us? Why couldn’t you have told the words to someone else, like McGonagall, and let her negotiate with the Ministry for a fairer settlement?”
Severus grimaced and touched one hand to his forehead the way he sometimes had when a fleck of potion had landed there. “Because our former selves were too clever. Albus feared what might happen if my mental shields broke down and the Dark Lord realized I was a spy and managed to remove the knowledge of the wards from my head along with everything else. Those wards might make Hogwarts a sanctuary in times of war, superior to any other.”
“But that didn’t happen,” Potter interrupted. Draco could have wished he would express his next words more diplomatically, but he said what Draco was thinking. “Why didn’t the wards hold back the Death Eaters?”
Whoever the painter was, limited or not, he had done a fine job, Draco thought, in capturing Severus’s perfect pained expression in the face of a Harry Potter witticism. “Because my former self knew the words to unlock them, of course. And he felt he must to maintain his cover as a spy. Albus considered that all-important.”
Draco nodded. “And you and the portrait version of Dumbledore no longer know the words to unlock them, I take it.”
Severus shook his head. “Those words are guarded by a series of riddles. We retain the knowledge of the riddles, but not of their answers.” He paused, and then added, in a tone Draco had never heard him use before, alive or painted, “I…do not remember much about how I came to be here. In fact, I have very few memories of my former self’s last six months, and have had to rely on others for the details. My belief is that my former self cast a spell that ensured only he, and he alone, would know the full sequence of riddles and unlocking words after Albus died. And, of course, that means that the portrait version of Albus does not have them, either.”
Draco raised his eyebrows. It sounded unnecessarily convoluted; he was sure that he himself would have come up with a more elegant and graceful solution. Then again, he had not had the charge of hundreds of students on his shoulders during that war. His burdens had seemed too heavy to carry during that time, and he had not borne them well. “So we need to solve the riddles and find those words, which will enable us to undo the wards.”
Severus looked relieved for the summary. “Yes.”
“Why us, though?” Potter again asked the question burning on the tip of Draco’s tongue. Draco frowned and hoped he would stop that soon. “Like he said, you could have trusted anyone with the riddles, including McGonagall.”
“I trust only Draco,” Severus said harshly.
Draco felt as though someone had splashed a great draught of Firewhisky down his throat. Even as his mind rushed to point out that the words could not be completely true, because this Severus also still trusted Dumbledore, it was a balm.
“And Dumbledore only trusts me?” Potter was eyeing the portrait skeptically. “I find that hard to believe, with as far as his trust extended during his lifetime.”
Even to you. Draco could hear the words as easily as if Potter had spoken them. Severus’s face tightened again. “Rather say that he trusts only you to do something this time-consuming and potentially risky,” Severus said silkily. “You made something of a specialty of solving mysteries during your Hogwarts days, and surviving the challenges posed by those mysteries.”
“Ron and Hermione did, too,” said Potter, and here his thoughts split apart from Draco’s, because Draco had been about to ask the far more important question of what challenges those were, and whether they were life-threatening.
“They have given some of their allegiance to the Ministry,” Severus said. “Not, I believe, the whole, but enough that they wish to see Hogwarts open and functioning before anything else. With Granger’s reforming impulse, no doubt she believes she can best change the structure from the inside.”
Potter snorted. “Yeah, that sounds like her,” he muttered, and the bitterness in his voice sparked against Draco’s senses. He really would have to find out what that was about.
“I think we’ve established that we’re the only ones who can handle this, and that it would be for the best if we worked together,” Draco sad. “Unless Potter has doubts on that score.”
Potter blinked and looked up. Draco didn’t remember him having such a tendency to disappear into his own head before this, but then again, that wasn’t a trait that one spent much time looking for in schoolboy rivals. “What? Oh, no. No, I don’t.”
“I have considerable ones,” Severus said, shaking his head sadly, the way he had when he told Draco about a student who might make a decent Potions master if ninety percent of his brain was replaced. “But this is not my decision. It is Albus’s.” He looked sideways at Potter. “You should speak with him soon.”
“Can’t you give Malfoy the first riddle?” Potter asked impatiently. “Then we can start working on that, and I can see Dumbledore when we can get to him.”
“Get to him.” Severus narrowed his eyes. It was not a question, in one of the most threatening ways possible for something not to be a question.
“They implied that they could get into the Headmaster’s office, but I’d think that the key to the office was locked in this hidden room along with everything else they needed to run the school,” Potter said. “But his portrait is there.”
“That does not prevent me from traveling from frame to frame, my dear boy,” said a voice that plucked Draco’s nerves like harpstrings from behind them.
*
Harry had tried to brace himself ever since he realized that there would be a chance of confronting Dumbledore soon, but he couldn’t have done enough work to prepare himself for this.
That voice had begged Harry to stop feeding him poison, and it had spoken an offer of mercy to Malfoy on the Tower, and it had explained so many doubts and plans and mysteries to Harry. During his life and after.
Hermione had suggested that the vision of Dumbledore Harry had had when he “died” was made-up, the product of his brain’s desperate search for understanding in the tangle of events that was that year. Harry had rejected the suggestion with only a little less violence than he’d brought to her explanation of his sexuality. He chose to believe, and not to question.
But questions sprang to mind now as he watched the man who stood in an empty frame Harry hadn’t even noticed on the wall, so perfectly did it blend in with the color of the stone. Dumbledore leaned forwards and looked at him with yearning eyes.
Or maybe he only imagined they were yearning. Maybe that was what Dumbledore wanted him to see. Harry never had settled how he felt about the man.
Nor did he intend to try now, not with an audience. He locked his eyes on Dumbledore and said, “Good. Now that you’re here, you can explain the first riddle to us, and we can start working on it.”
“My dear boy,” Dumbledore repeated. His eyes were softer, now, but what did that mean? Harry thought. He had resolved to try and stop asking so many questions after the war, to simply enjoy what life and peace had been handed him, but he couldn’t, for so many reasons. The only thing he could do was keep the questions to himself. “You will not allow us even a moment to catch up?”
“I don’t think we two need it,” Harry said, and became aware that Malfoy was staring at him, as if he sensed something wrong. Harry sent him a fierce glare until he looked away—what did it matter if something was wrong with Harry? That had never been Malfoy’s concern before—and then focused back on the portrait. “If you and Malfoy need to say something to each other, though, I’ll leave.”
Dumbledore sighed and exchanged glances with Snape across both their heads. Harry bit his tongue. He was used to that kind of glance now, the kind that said he was a dumb kid and couldn’t control his own life. Ron and Hermione had been looking at each other like that before the end.
And life would be considerably easier if you stopped thinking about them so much.
“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “What you must do is find the place where both sun and shadow end.”
Harry waited for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder at Snape. “And that’s it?”
“That’s it.” Snape looked for the first time like he was enjoying this. Well, he probably doesn’t care how much someone else suffers, even someone he claims to “trust,” as long as he can make me upset and impatient, Harry thought. Becoming a portrait didn’t seem to have changed Snape’s personality at all.
“Is the place within the grounds of Hogwarts?” Malfoy asked. His voice was calm and brisk, business-like. Harry found himself relaxing without thinking about it. Malfoy was like that. He could make sense of stupid and barbarous situations and find a way to land on his feet within them. It was just the first time that quality had ever benefited Harry along with him.
“We do not know that,” said Snape. “Presumably our former selves did, but they did not leave the knowledge with us.”
“I would suggest, at least,” said Dumbledore, and his eyes twinkled so much that Harry had to look away, “that the place is unlikely to be far from the school. There would be no point in storing the secrets within such a wide range that the person who had to discover them—if such a person had to come along in the first place—could not get back to the school rapidly to defend it from Voldemort.”
Malfoy still flinched at the name, Harry noted. He didn’t bother to look and see if Snape did, because Snape wasn’t the person he’d be working with. “And how will we know if we find the right place?” he asked.
“Ah, that is simple,” Dumbledore said, looking pleased now. “You will find yourselves involved in a fight to the death. Win the fight, and then you will be in possession of the next clue.”
There was little to be said after that, really, Harry thought. Malfoy asked a few more questions, but they weren’t ones that Dumbledore and Snape knew the answers to—though Dumbledore was considerably more polite about saying so than Snape was. In the end, they agreed that Malfoy would be the one to meet the Ministry representative sent in Wimpledink’s place, while Harry went and found rooms in Hogsmeade.
Harry was going out the door when someone touched his arm. He jerked away and whirled around. He didn’t like people touching him there, unless they were doing something to ease his stress. Someone like Malfoy would only add to it.
Malfoy stared at him, one eyebrow already raised. The other rose to join it as Harry watched. “What’s the matter with your, Potter?” he murmured.
“Tense,” Harry said with a shrug, which was no more than the truth. “Jumpy.” He saw Malfoy’s expression and hastily added, “I’ll be able to share the duties of looking for the truth just fine, Malfoy, don’t worry. But this isn’t an easy place for me to be.”
Malfoy actually nodded as if he understood that, and then added, “I wanted to ask what your conflict with Weasley and Granger is. Will they help us, do you think, if approached the right way?”
“You ought to ask Snape that,” Harry said, controlling the first words that wanted to emerge from his mouth. “He’s talked to them more recently than I have.” He turned away again.
“And they told me of your row,” Snape murmured.
Harry couldn’t help the way all the muscles in his back clenched, but he didn’t think that Snape knew anything about the subject of that row. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have hesitated to taunt Harry with it. He kept walking.
“They could be powerful allies,” Malfoy said. “Besides which, I think I would be more easy around them if I knew the source of your disagreement.”
“I’d be easier with you if you knew how to keep your mouth shut,” Harry said, and slammed the door behind him for good measure. Then he tilted his head back and leaned against the stone. His magic churned against his veins; when he looked down, the backs of his hands were glowing with rage, the magic literally heating his blood.
“Here he is, Hermione.”
Harry turned around. He knew who he would see, because he knew whose voice that was. But it somehow made him no calmer. Of course, he didn’t know if anything could make him calmer when his blood was blazing.
Ron and Hermione stood behind him, still wrapped in those plain brown robes. They were even rougher and coarser than Harry had thought they looked at first glance. They made quite a contrast with Malfoy’s prissily fine clothing, or even the robes that Dumbledore and Snape were wearing.
Of course, actually caring about their appearance might alienate the Ministry, Harry thought, and we can’t have that. He straightened his back. “Has Wimpledink’s replacement come?” he asked in a flat voice.
“That isn’t what we came here to talk to you about,” Ron said, in a surprisingly mature and dignified voice. “We don’t care about them. We care about you.”
“Two years ago, we made mistakes,” Hermione said earnestly. “We all made mistakes. We just want to discuss them with you and reconcile, Harry. We missed you.” She gave him a yearning glance that was probably meant to melt him and make him run into their arms. Harry wondered why she thought it would work.
He straightened and folded his arms. “The only mistake I made was in listening to you for as long as I did.”
Hermione shut her eyes. Ron leaned forwards and hissed, “How can you say that? We missed you so much, and you’re acting as though you don’t care at all!”
“I care, but in a way that you don’t want me to,” Harry said. “With anger. You made it very clear that I wasn’t welcome to express my anger in any way.” He looked at Hermione. His blood still rammed against the sides of his veins, but he felt calmer for all that. He had known this confrontation was inevitable from the moment he received the Ministry’s invitation, and this was probably best, to have it out of the way early. “Have you changed your mind about that?”
“You have too much anger,” Hermione said, wiping her tears away. “You agreed with me when we talked about that, Harry, and that’s why you had to go get your—handlers in the first place.”
“Do you still think it’s pathological?” Harry asked.
Hermione sighed. “Harry.”
“Answer the question.” His voice soared on the last word, and a whip manifested in midair, swinging towards Hermione. She leaped back. The whip cracked to the ground next to her and then vanished at Harry’s gesture. He felt the magic heat his lungs now, boiling and snapping and dancing.
Fuck. It had been a long time since it was this bad. He should have made an appointment with Bradley before he left town after all, or perhaps one of the Muggles who wouldn’t care about why he needed what he needed and would just do what he asked, as long as he paid enough.
“Yes,” Hermione said, her tears vanished now, her courage making her bristle like a small dog facing a larger one. “Yes, I do. It wouldn’t be for someone else, but with your history of authority figures telling you what to do? It is. You have to stand on your own two feet and arrange your own life sometime, Harry.”
“I can at least respect you for admitting it,” Harry said, and turned away.
“Where are you going?” Ron called.
“To find lodgings in Hogsmeade. I did tell you that.” Harry was glad he could regulate his voice to be no more than a simple, dull tone.
Ron’s hand clasped his shoulder, and Ron said, “We’re trying to talk to you! You owe us more than this. How many years were we friends? We—”
He snatched his hand back suddenly, howling. Harry had wondered how long it would take. He’d felt the heat creeping up to his neck where Ron held him and made no effort to stop it, because some people didn’t deserve warnings.
He turned and showed his teeth. Ron and Hermione fully froze, staring with wide eyes. Ron even stopped wringing his blistered hand. Harry smiled. He knew that flames flickered between his teeth now and were creeping into his eyes, turning them as red as Voldemort’s.
“Let me go,” he said softly, “if you don’t want me to destroy half the school worse than the Battle of Hogwarts did.”
They stood there, huddled together, looking terrified in the face of his power. Harry was glad that his own yearning to embrace them was such a small part of him, much smaller than the rage that flung itself through him and the thrumming howl of his magic in the back of his skull. Yes, he would have liked to be reconciled to them, in the same way that he would have liked to fly without a broom. It wasn’t going to happen.
“We’re still trying to be there for you,” Hermione said. “I think you’re mentally ill, Harry, and I want to help.”
“My coping methods aren’t good enough for you,” Harry said. He was amazed that he could speak the words, but then decided that he might have spent enough of his magic to lessen some of the rage for a bit. “To you, those are another sign that I’m mentally ill. Do you deny that?”
“No,” Hermione said. “There has to be a way, and you have to face the issues of your personal history in order to get past them, not just bury them and pretend that they didn’t exist.”
Harry hissed at her. It came out like a flare of dragon’s breath. “And there you have it.”
He walked away down the corridor, fighting the urge to make his feet heavier than normal and fill the cracks he would cause in the stone with fire. Yes, it would get rid of some of his magic, but it would also damage Hogwarts, and he still cared about that.
If barely.
He walked out of the front doors, luckily without seeing anyone else, and then shut his eyes and turned towards the Forbidden Forest. When he couldn’t get to someone else for his stress relief, the next best thing was to run, as far and as hard as he could. He could tried flying, but with his magic taking the form of fire, he’d probably burn the broom to ashes.
Considering where he was going, something might block his way. But Harry didn’t mind that, at all. Let them try.
He hurtled into the Forest, and the branches swished shut behind him.
*
“It is a little late in your life for you to be doing something so undignified.”
Draco pulled his ear back from the door, where he had unabashedly listened to the conversation between Potter and his friends, and smiled at Severus. “I wanted to know what was going on. Now I do.”
“And what conclusions do you draw?” Severus leaned back in his chair and looked at Draco curiously. They were alone in the room, with Dumbledore having departed his frame when Potter exited.
“That Potter has unattractive anger and very attractive power,” Draco said.
Severus snorted. Draco saw no reason to pay attention to him. He was a portrait, and likely no longer understood the powers of attraction.
He was the same.
Severus himself had taught Draco to be suspicious of magical portrait-painters. They promised far more than they could deliver, Severus said, gazing into one of the campfires they had built during the nights of their escape. This one was in an abandoned Muggle shack. Draco could still smell the odors of dust and dirt and something killed bloodily not far away if he concentrated.
“Magical portraits are a portion of the person they represent,” Severus told the air or the flames, and Draco’s listening ears, which he never chose to acknowledge. “Not the whole. Painters, of course, like to claim they are, especially if they can give them the original’s most recent memories. But they claim that to be seen as better at their jobs, and so hired again. It is not true.”
Severus had sounded certain. Draco, when conversing with the portraits of his grandparents, had no reason to believe that it wasn’t true.
But still, there he was, black eyes the same as ever, smile still twisted, one hand resting on the cauldron as he leaned forwards to study Draco.
“The latecomer and the idiot,” he said, and his eyes shifted to McGonagall. “And the cat.”
“How flattering to be given a neutral nickname,” McGonagall said dryly. She was comfortable with him, Draco thought, while he structured his thoughts carefully to avoid absorbing what Severus had called him. For the first time since Draco had seen her again, McGonagall moved with the brisk step and the stern face he remembered. “Mr. Malfoy is here to stay in your rooms and speak with you, Severus. And Mr. Potter is here to speak with Albus’s portrait, if he will agree.”
Severus narrowed his eyes and drew himself back like a snake about to strike. Draco found himself wondering if magical portrait-painters could also add traits that weren’t there. He didn’t remember that particular gesture.
“So it has come,” Severus murmured, and then, while McGonagall started to summon house-elves to dust and clean, he focused his attention on Draco again.
It was one thing to carry one’s old mentor in the mind, Draco thought, and another thing to face him again. He took a deep breath and moved carefully forwards, trying to brace himself for the criticism. “I’m sorry I never came before,” he murmured.
“I am only a picture of the man who protected you and kept you from having to splinter your soul with killing,” Severus replied at once. “Why would you think it was important to see me?”
Draco winced and sought for a suitable reply. Behind him, Potter said, “I see that you haven’t picked up any politeness from the other portraits. Probably none of them want to come near you. Have you tried washing your hair?”
Severus leaned forwards, ready for combat. “I can see that you have not managed to make yours obedient to a comb.”
Draco stepped between them and shook his head at Severus. “He’s an ally against the Ministry,” he said, his voice unexpectedly calm, at least to his own ears. Who knew what Potter or Severus might have been expecting? “Please don’t taunt him.” He turned his head and fixed Potter with a gentle gaze. “The same goes for you.”
“If you knew what he said to me when I was last here—” Potter began.
“Don’t,” Draco snapped.
Potter blinked and fell silent, looking back and forth from him to Severus. Then he shrugged. “If he can hold his tongue,” he muttered, “then I’ll listen.”
“Am I to be managed under the same precept, when he was the one who began the insults?’ Severus asked. Draco looked back and saw that his pose was familiar this time, as if he were readying himself to resist physical attack from an enemy. His wand in his hand and his guarded eyes above the automatic sneer betrayed that.
“I’m sure that Potter is very sorry he began his reacquaintance with you like that.” Draco turned and gave Potter a glare.
Potter glared back for a few instants, arms folded as if anticipating an attack himself, then snorted and flipped a hand. “Why not? I’m sorry.”
Draco looked at Severus. He had settled against the rim of his cauldron again, and regarded them both with the sort of lazy glance Draco had seen dissolve into action at a moment’s notice. “Very well,” he said. “I accept his half-hearted apology. And I intend to talk to you when there are no other living ears here to listen.”
McGonagall turned towards the portrait and frowned. “I never understood why you refused to trust me with the keys to finding those artifacts, Severus.” Her injured dignity filled her voice, but was at least quiet, Draco thought, unlike the scene that Granger would have made. “You must know that I care as much about Hogwarts as you do.”
“I care for Hogwarts not at all,” Severus said, with his lip jerking sideways. Draco recognized the signs of a lie, but didn’t think that McGonagall would. “I care for the fact that your precious Albus, in death as in life, has laid certain rules on me that I cannot break.”
McGonagall sighed and turned to Draco. “The house-elves will bring this back to livable conditions within a short time, Mr. Malfoy.”
“Thank you,” Draco said, and then waited until she got the point. Her nostrils flared, but she went to the door and opened it.
“We are not the enemy,” she said over her shoulder. “And there are good people in the Ministry who want only to reform the school so as to bring it into line with practical principles. I wish you would not despise all of them.”
No one in the room answered her, probably because her self-evidently sugared words deserved none, though Potter’s face burned as if he would like to. McGonagall stepped through the door and shut it, and Draco moved his hand in the quick motion that would trigger the wards Severus favored. They still engaged, which reassured Draco that no one had touched the deeper levels of these rooms.
“It is good that you have come at last,” Severus said. He was leaning forwards when Draco turned back to the portrait, and seemed prepared to ignore Potter’s existence. “If you had come earlier, then I could have told you that Dumbledore wanted to summon Potter, and we could have avoided these games.”
“If you think that I’d answer a summons from Malfoy without a question,” Potter retorted, “being a portrait has affected your brain.”
Draco once again found himself forced into the role of peacemaker as Severus began a spell Draco knew would prevent Potter from using the loo comfortably for a week. “It’s better this way,” he said loudly, and held Severus’s eye until he grudgingly lowered his wand. “It would have been difficult to force access to the school through Ministry guards and wards.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Severus, with the slow tone that he used towards all practical suggestions he hadn’t thought of himself. “Nevertheless, this game was meant to move much faster. Dumbledore never intended that Hogwarts should remain closed for six years.”
“Acknowledged,” Draco said, and Summoned a chair across the floor so that he could sit down. Even if these weren’t the chairs that he would have chosen to furnish Severus’s rooms, they were comfortable. He noticed from the corner of his eye that Potter had no hesitation in drawing up a seat of his own. “What ‘game’ is this?”
Severus looked once at the door, nodded, and then sat down in his chair and clasped his hands on his knees. Draco’s heart quickened despite himself. He recognized that teaching posture from fires at night and private sessions in Severus’s office that had been called “detentions” to placate other professors.
“Albus was concerned about what would happen after his death,” Severus began. “You know now that he was dying for most of a year, and had time to plan.”
Draco swallowed and nodded. It had been beyond humiliating to be told that Dumbledore knew about Draco’s attempts to murder him all along and was more concerned with trying to save Draco, as if he was still a child, but it was also a revelation that he had come to terms with years ago.
“Among other things, he did not wish to see the school taken over by the Ministry, and since this was the year after they attempted to place the bitch Umbridge in the Headmaster’s position, he had no doubt they would try.” Severus’s nostrils flared delicately. “I agreed with him, and I helped him cast the wards that are now buried in the stones of the school itself, only to be undone by speaking the proper words. The wards will not only keep the Sorting Hat and other needful things hidden, but also prevent any repairs or reforms made to the school from taking hold unless done by wizards of good heart and true devotion to the end of the students’ education.”
Draco stared. He had heard of such magic, of course, but it was even more experimental than sentient potions. “How did you manage that?” he demanded.
Severus somehow managed to look down his nose at Draco, despite his nose being only a daub of paint. “Remember who we are speaking of, Draco. This was Albus Dumbledore, and he knew more about magic than the Dark Lord himself. Than any thirty wizards.”
Draco raised his eyebrows. He could have made an issue of the undertone of pride in Severus’s voice, and the fact that Severus still seemed to prize Dumbledore’s reputation far beyond what he had told Draco he did in life, but he saw no reason to. “All right,” Draco said. “Say this was possible. Why us? Why couldn’t you have told the words to someone else, like McGonagall, and let her negotiate with the Ministry for a fairer settlement?”
Severus grimaced and touched one hand to his forehead the way he sometimes had when a fleck of potion had landed there. “Because our former selves were too clever. Albus feared what might happen if my mental shields broke down and the Dark Lord realized I was a spy and managed to remove the knowledge of the wards from my head along with everything else. Those wards might make Hogwarts a sanctuary in times of war, superior to any other.”
“But that didn’t happen,” Potter interrupted. Draco could have wished he would express his next words more diplomatically, but he said what Draco was thinking. “Why didn’t the wards hold back the Death Eaters?”
Whoever the painter was, limited or not, he had done a fine job, Draco thought, in capturing Severus’s perfect pained expression in the face of a Harry Potter witticism. “Because my former self knew the words to unlock them, of course. And he felt he must to maintain his cover as a spy. Albus considered that all-important.”
Draco nodded. “And you and the portrait version of Dumbledore no longer know the words to unlock them, I take it.”
Severus shook his head. “Those words are guarded by a series of riddles. We retain the knowledge of the riddles, but not of their answers.” He paused, and then added, in a tone Draco had never heard him use before, alive or painted, “I…do not remember much about how I came to be here. In fact, I have very few memories of my former self’s last six months, and have had to rely on others for the details. My belief is that my former self cast a spell that ensured only he, and he alone, would know the full sequence of riddles and unlocking words after Albus died. And, of course, that means that the portrait version of Albus does not have them, either.”
Draco raised his eyebrows. It sounded unnecessarily convoluted; he was sure that he himself would have come up with a more elegant and graceful solution. Then again, he had not had the charge of hundreds of students on his shoulders during that war. His burdens had seemed too heavy to carry during that time, and he had not borne them well. “So we need to solve the riddles and find those words, which will enable us to undo the wards.”
Severus looked relieved for the summary. “Yes.”
“Why us, though?” Potter again asked the question burning on the tip of Draco’s tongue. Draco frowned and hoped he would stop that soon. “Like he said, you could have trusted anyone with the riddles, including McGonagall.”
“I trust only Draco,” Severus said harshly.
Draco felt as though someone had splashed a great draught of Firewhisky down his throat. Even as his mind rushed to point out that the words could not be completely true, because this Severus also still trusted Dumbledore, it was a balm.
“And Dumbledore only trusts me?” Potter was eyeing the portrait skeptically. “I find that hard to believe, with as far as his trust extended during his lifetime.”
Even to you. Draco could hear the words as easily as if Potter had spoken them. Severus’s face tightened again. “Rather say that he trusts only you to do something this time-consuming and potentially risky,” Severus said silkily. “You made something of a specialty of solving mysteries during your Hogwarts days, and surviving the challenges posed by those mysteries.”
“Ron and Hermione did, too,” said Potter, and here his thoughts split apart from Draco’s, because Draco had been about to ask the far more important question of what challenges those were, and whether they were life-threatening.
“They have given some of their allegiance to the Ministry,” Severus said. “Not, I believe, the whole, but enough that they wish to see Hogwarts open and functioning before anything else. With Granger’s reforming impulse, no doubt she believes she can best change the structure from the inside.”
Potter snorted. “Yeah, that sounds like her,” he muttered, and the bitterness in his voice sparked against Draco’s senses. He really would have to find out what that was about.
“I think we’ve established that we’re the only ones who can handle this, and that it would be for the best if we worked together,” Draco sad. “Unless Potter has doubts on that score.”
Potter blinked and looked up. Draco didn’t remember him having such a tendency to disappear into his own head before this, but then again, that wasn’t a trait that one spent much time looking for in schoolboy rivals. “What? Oh, no. No, I don’t.”
“I have considerable ones,” Severus said, shaking his head sadly, the way he had when he told Draco about a student who might make a decent Potions master if ninety percent of his brain was replaced. “But this is not my decision. It is Albus’s.” He looked sideways at Potter. “You should speak with him soon.”
“Can’t you give Malfoy the first riddle?” Potter asked impatiently. “Then we can start working on that, and I can see Dumbledore when we can get to him.”
“Get to him.” Severus narrowed his eyes. It was not a question, in one of the most threatening ways possible for something not to be a question.
“They implied that they could get into the Headmaster’s office, but I’d think that the key to the office was locked in this hidden room along with everything else they needed to run the school,” Potter said. “But his portrait is there.”
“That does not prevent me from traveling from frame to frame, my dear boy,” said a voice that plucked Draco’s nerves like harpstrings from behind them.
*
Harry had tried to brace himself ever since he realized that there would be a chance of confronting Dumbledore soon, but he couldn’t have done enough work to prepare himself for this.
That voice had begged Harry to stop feeding him poison, and it had spoken an offer of mercy to Malfoy on the Tower, and it had explained so many doubts and plans and mysteries to Harry. During his life and after.
Hermione had suggested that the vision of Dumbledore Harry had had when he “died” was made-up, the product of his brain’s desperate search for understanding in the tangle of events that was that year. Harry had rejected the suggestion with only a little less violence than he’d brought to her explanation of his sexuality. He chose to believe, and not to question.
But questions sprang to mind now as he watched the man who stood in an empty frame Harry hadn’t even noticed on the wall, so perfectly did it blend in with the color of the stone. Dumbledore leaned forwards and looked at him with yearning eyes.
Or maybe he only imagined they were yearning. Maybe that was what Dumbledore wanted him to see. Harry never had settled how he felt about the man.
Nor did he intend to try now, not with an audience. He locked his eyes on Dumbledore and said, “Good. Now that you’re here, you can explain the first riddle to us, and we can start working on it.”
“My dear boy,” Dumbledore repeated. His eyes were softer, now, but what did that mean? Harry thought. He had resolved to try and stop asking so many questions after the war, to simply enjoy what life and peace had been handed him, but he couldn’t, for so many reasons. The only thing he could do was keep the questions to himself. “You will not allow us even a moment to catch up?”
“I don’t think we two need it,” Harry said, and became aware that Malfoy was staring at him, as if he sensed something wrong. Harry sent him a fierce glare until he looked away—what did it matter if something was wrong with Harry? That had never been Malfoy’s concern before—and then focused back on the portrait. “If you and Malfoy need to say something to each other, though, I’ll leave.”
Dumbledore sighed and exchanged glances with Snape across both their heads. Harry bit his tongue. He was used to that kind of glance now, the kind that said he was a dumb kid and couldn’t control his own life. Ron and Hermione had been looking at each other like that before the end.
And life would be considerably easier if you stopped thinking about them so much.
“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “What you must do is find the place where both sun and shadow end.”
Harry waited for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder at Snape. “And that’s it?”
“That’s it.” Snape looked for the first time like he was enjoying this. Well, he probably doesn’t care how much someone else suffers, even someone he claims to “trust,” as long as he can make me upset and impatient, Harry thought. Becoming a portrait didn’t seem to have changed Snape’s personality at all.
“Is the place within the grounds of Hogwarts?” Malfoy asked. His voice was calm and brisk, business-like. Harry found himself relaxing without thinking about it. Malfoy was like that. He could make sense of stupid and barbarous situations and find a way to land on his feet within them. It was just the first time that quality had ever benefited Harry along with him.
“We do not know that,” said Snape. “Presumably our former selves did, but they did not leave the knowledge with us.”
“I would suggest, at least,” said Dumbledore, and his eyes twinkled so much that Harry had to look away, “that the place is unlikely to be far from the school. There would be no point in storing the secrets within such a wide range that the person who had to discover them—if such a person had to come along in the first place—could not get back to the school rapidly to defend it from Voldemort.”
Malfoy still flinched at the name, Harry noted. He didn’t bother to look and see if Snape did, because Snape wasn’t the person he’d be working with. “And how will we know if we find the right place?” he asked.
“Ah, that is simple,” Dumbledore said, looking pleased now. “You will find yourselves involved in a fight to the death. Win the fight, and then you will be in possession of the next clue.”
There was little to be said after that, really, Harry thought. Malfoy asked a few more questions, but they weren’t ones that Dumbledore and Snape knew the answers to—though Dumbledore was considerably more polite about saying so than Snape was. In the end, they agreed that Malfoy would be the one to meet the Ministry representative sent in Wimpledink’s place, while Harry went and found rooms in Hogsmeade.
Harry was going out the door when someone touched his arm. He jerked away and whirled around. He didn’t like people touching him there, unless they were doing something to ease his stress. Someone like Malfoy would only add to it.
Malfoy stared at him, one eyebrow already raised. The other rose to join it as Harry watched. “What’s the matter with your, Potter?” he murmured.
“Tense,” Harry said with a shrug, which was no more than the truth. “Jumpy.” He saw Malfoy’s expression and hastily added, “I’ll be able to share the duties of looking for the truth just fine, Malfoy, don’t worry. But this isn’t an easy place for me to be.”
Malfoy actually nodded as if he understood that, and then added, “I wanted to ask what your conflict with Weasley and Granger is. Will they help us, do you think, if approached the right way?”
“You ought to ask Snape that,” Harry said, controlling the first words that wanted to emerge from his mouth. “He’s talked to them more recently than I have.” He turned away again.
“And they told me of your row,” Snape murmured.
Harry couldn’t help the way all the muscles in his back clenched, but he didn’t think that Snape knew anything about the subject of that row. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have hesitated to taunt Harry with it. He kept walking.
“They could be powerful allies,” Malfoy said. “Besides which, I think I would be more easy around them if I knew the source of your disagreement.”
“I’d be easier with you if you knew how to keep your mouth shut,” Harry said, and slammed the door behind him for good measure. Then he tilted his head back and leaned against the stone. His magic churned against his veins; when he looked down, the backs of his hands were glowing with rage, the magic literally heating his blood.
“Here he is, Hermione.”
Harry turned around. He knew who he would see, because he knew whose voice that was. But it somehow made him no calmer. Of course, he didn’t know if anything could make him calmer when his blood was blazing.
Ron and Hermione stood behind him, still wrapped in those plain brown robes. They were even rougher and coarser than Harry had thought they looked at first glance. They made quite a contrast with Malfoy’s prissily fine clothing, or even the robes that Dumbledore and Snape were wearing.
Of course, actually caring about their appearance might alienate the Ministry, Harry thought, and we can’t have that. He straightened his back. “Has Wimpledink’s replacement come?” he asked in a flat voice.
“That isn’t what we came here to talk to you about,” Ron said, in a surprisingly mature and dignified voice. “We don’t care about them. We care about you.”
“Two years ago, we made mistakes,” Hermione said earnestly. “We all made mistakes. We just want to discuss them with you and reconcile, Harry. We missed you.” She gave him a yearning glance that was probably meant to melt him and make him run into their arms. Harry wondered why she thought it would work.
He straightened and folded his arms. “The only mistake I made was in listening to you for as long as I did.”
Hermione shut her eyes. Ron leaned forwards and hissed, “How can you say that? We missed you so much, and you’re acting as though you don’t care at all!”
“I care, but in a way that you don’t want me to,” Harry said. “With anger. You made it very clear that I wasn’t welcome to express my anger in any way.” He looked at Hermione. His blood still rammed against the sides of his veins, but he felt calmer for all that. He had known this confrontation was inevitable from the moment he received the Ministry’s invitation, and this was probably best, to have it out of the way early. “Have you changed your mind about that?”
“You have too much anger,” Hermione said, wiping her tears away. “You agreed with me when we talked about that, Harry, and that’s why you had to go get your—handlers in the first place.”
“Do you still think it’s pathological?” Harry asked.
Hermione sighed. “Harry.”
“Answer the question.” His voice soared on the last word, and a whip manifested in midair, swinging towards Hermione. She leaped back. The whip cracked to the ground next to her and then vanished at Harry’s gesture. He felt the magic heat his lungs now, boiling and snapping and dancing.
Fuck. It had been a long time since it was this bad. He should have made an appointment with Bradley before he left town after all, or perhaps one of the Muggles who wouldn’t care about why he needed what he needed and would just do what he asked, as long as he paid enough.
“Yes,” Hermione said, her tears vanished now, her courage making her bristle like a small dog facing a larger one. “Yes, I do. It wouldn’t be for someone else, but with your history of authority figures telling you what to do? It is. You have to stand on your own two feet and arrange your own life sometime, Harry.”
“I can at least respect you for admitting it,” Harry said, and turned away.
“Where are you going?” Ron called.
“To find lodgings in Hogsmeade. I did tell you that.” Harry was glad he could regulate his voice to be no more than a simple, dull tone.
Ron’s hand clasped his shoulder, and Ron said, “We’re trying to talk to you! You owe us more than this. How many years were we friends? We—”
He snatched his hand back suddenly, howling. Harry had wondered how long it would take. He’d felt the heat creeping up to his neck where Ron held him and made no effort to stop it, because some people didn’t deserve warnings.
He turned and showed his teeth. Ron and Hermione fully froze, staring with wide eyes. Ron even stopped wringing his blistered hand. Harry smiled. He knew that flames flickered between his teeth now and were creeping into his eyes, turning them as red as Voldemort’s.
“Let me go,” he said softly, “if you don’t want me to destroy half the school worse than the Battle of Hogwarts did.”
They stood there, huddled together, looking terrified in the face of his power. Harry was glad that his own yearning to embrace them was such a small part of him, much smaller than the rage that flung itself through him and the thrumming howl of his magic in the back of his skull. Yes, he would have liked to be reconciled to them, in the same way that he would have liked to fly without a broom. It wasn’t going to happen.
“We’re still trying to be there for you,” Hermione said. “I think you’re mentally ill, Harry, and I want to help.”
“My coping methods aren’t good enough for you,” Harry said. He was amazed that he could speak the words, but then decided that he might have spent enough of his magic to lessen some of the rage for a bit. “To you, those are another sign that I’m mentally ill. Do you deny that?”
“No,” Hermione said. “There has to be a way, and you have to face the issues of your personal history in order to get past them, not just bury them and pretend that they didn’t exist.”
Harry hissed at her. It came out like a flare of dragon’s breath. “And there you have it.”
He walked away down the corridor, fighting the urge to make his feet heavier than normal and fill the cracks he would cause in the stone with fire. Yes, it would get rid of some of his magic, but it would also damage Hogwarts, and he still cared about that.
If barely.
He walked out of the front doors, luckily without seeing anyone else, and then shut his eyes and turned towards the Forbidden Forest. When he couldn’t get to someone else for his stress relief, the next best thing was to run, as far and as hard as he could. He could tried flying, but with his magic taking the form of fire, he’d probably burn the broom to ashes.
Considering where he was going, something might block his way. But Harry didn’t mind that, at all. Let them try.
He hurtled into the Forest, and the branches swished shut behind him.
*
“It is a little late in your life for you to be doing something so undignified.”
Draco pulled his ear back from the door, where he had unabashedly listened to the conversation between Potter and his friends, and smiled at Severus. “I wanted to know what was going on. Now I do.”
“And what conclusions do you draw?” Severus leaned back in his chair and looked at Draco curiously. They were alone in the room, with Dumbledore having departed his frame when Potter exited.
“That Potter has unattractive anger and very attractive power,” Draco said.
Severus snorted. Draco saw no reason to pay attention to him. He was a portrait, and likely no longer understood the powers of attraction.