Re: CHIMAERA (a Harry Potter fanfic) [CHAPTER 3 OUT NOW]
iv: as a serpent i shifted
--x--
Harry's parents were Death Eaters.
He wasn't okay with that. He was the exact
opposite of okay with that: Mortified would be a better word—and disgusted, and sickened. After everything Voldemort had ever done, all those people he'd tortured and killed in the name of power—after all those times he'd proved himself to be a very vision of Franz Kafka—and his parents were disciples of the very man who had destroyed them in cold blood.
But these weren't his parents, he had to remind himself quickly, sadly, sort of like having read through the terms and conditions and realising you weren't getting all you'd bargained for; and yet, behind all the Post-it notes Harry was tacking onto his brain, he had the sickening notion that they were all he had and knew.
In essence, Harry was conflicted. The best thing to do would be to put things into perspective: He had his wish, as Sirius was alive; he was sacrificing so many other things: Ron, Hermione, his Gryffindor and DA friends; he was gaining things he had nothing but disrespect for: Voldemort, Death Eaters, and Malfoy for a best friend.
It opened a void inside himself that he knew only to be hot and fresh and reserved for Sirius. If there was any feeling worse than knowing his parents were gone, and that he would never see their smiles or tell them he loved them, it was having parents who stood for the very thing Harry hated: power. And that was easy for Harry to say, because he had power in reams: he had fame and money and popularity and friends. He came from an honourable family, belonged to the best house Hogwarts had to offer—and yet in the face of
real power, power which belonged to this alternate Slytherin self, power which meant he would probably never know anguish in his life, he felt more broken than he'd ever been before.
Perhaps it was five years of Voldemort that made him so hardened against Death Eater ideals and Slytherin values—perhaps he was
wrong for not trying to fit in with these people. Did it make him stupid, to stick out so much like a sore thumb? Yes, probably. Did it make it dangerous? Well, yes; Malfoy was already giving him the stink eye. In its wake Harry had to rationalise.
Screw the wish he'd gotten—that was a good way to put it. It hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours and already he could see little to be joyous about. Snape was more lenient to him, which was probably only because he didn't want to have to take points away from his own house, and his not-parents and not-Sirius were alive and well. Did that change how he felt? Not really; he was even more alone than he had been back when he had no mother or father, and when nobody believed him about Voldemort's resurrection. He'd rather have that, fight his battles with Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Luna than sit with this lot, in the den of the enemy, and pretend everything was all right.
The bitter irony of it all was that everything was all right, but Harry was restless with it. It was all right for Malfoy because Malfoy idolised Voldemort—or at least that was Harry's interpretation of it. Slytherin Harry probably would've idolised Voldemort as well, but despite being in Slytherin Harry's body, Gryffindor Harry was just not that same person. He didn't think he could ever be Slytherin Harry.
It called his morals into question, essentially.
It was like this: How was it so easy for these Death Eater juniors to be so at ease with what was going on behind the scenes of the wizarding world? How could they not be angered by the brutality and the violence and the absolute injustice of it all? How could they not want to lash out, purely from common human decency, and put an end to all that evil? Were they devoid of compassion and goodness? Or there something preventing them from turning around to their parents and saying,
"No, I don't want to be a Death Eater. I want to do good things and have a happy family and a great job. I want to help people instead of destroying them."
But his parents… They were Death Eaters much like Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Draco was their offspring, born out of love or whatever sappy label they wanted to put on it. Harry had always gotten the impression that Lucius was very regal, but not uncaring; otherwise he wouldn't have given a damn about his son, and from Malfoy's upbringing it was clear he did. He could've been wrong, of course, but despite whatever hard edge Lucius had on his son there were soft, affectionate undertones spread out through his gestures: the way he clothed his son, wrote to him religiously every week, bought him nothing but the best. They were Death Eaters who cared for their child, and were nurturing him to follow suit. Why on Earth they'd want that for Draco was beyond Harry, but he could see some semblance of love in his theory.
Were his own parents like that? Had they rejected the Order to be at Voldemort's side because they saw things differently? Were they evil—or misguided, hopeful that things would turn out differently, anti-heroes? Was all this Dark magic they'd purportedly taught Harry simply a means of defence against the world? After all, there were things and people out there which were much more powerful than themselves and Harry, and surely it was best to play an enemy at their own game… If Voldemort even was the enemy, of course. Probably not, he thought glumly, but he could only have faith in their reasoning for standing at the Dark Lord's side.
Maybe it was something to do with politics or society or even finances and the economy. Voldemort was a very powerful man, one of the most powerful in the world much like a drug dealer tapping the black market or something to that effect. He had fingers in all sorts of pies, probably in the Ministry (well, he'd had a year to get back into power at any rate) and the Muggle parliament by extension, even if the Prime Minister wasn't aware of it. Harry was sure the two governments had to work with one another, and it wasn't like Voldemort would put himself as the poster boy for the Ministry—he'd have someone else doing it, someone from his Death Eater party or someone he'd blackmailed or even placed under the Imperius curse. That puppet would be doing all of Voldemort's commanding, stylised cleverly to play the game subtly.
Harry knew Voldemort's power didn't just come from strength and magic, but from a wicked mind with sound logic. There was no way, this deep into the game, that Voldemort would make such a brash move as exposing himself to the wizarding and Muggle world just yet. He had to want to build up the people's trust, condition them slowly and over time through propaganda, advertising, perhaps even resources and, behind curtains, blackmail, torture and murder. Voldemort wasn't a pawn on the board: He was the queen piece, moving in all directions and presenting a very real threat of elimination with every move.
Taking all of that into consideration, Harry wished he knew exactly why his parents had chosen what they'd chosen so that he could somehow justify their choice: And yet, he couldn't. He was sure they loved him, and he was absolutely sure he loved
them simply for being the parents he'd never had, but death had taught him that life was precious. To hand it to an evil man on a silver platter… That wasn't something Harry could see eye-to-eye with.
Yet he was alive, by whatever nuance, and he still fit the prophecy perfectly, assuming the prophecy was still correct in this other world. They had to have done something to protect him; maybe this was it. Maybe they'd taken the flak for Voldemort's hatred, had agreed to join him so he'd spare Harry. They could've chosen to give Neville to Voldemort in his place.
It was difficult, perhaps to the point as being unsolvable, but as conflicted as he was about the whole issue, Harry was grateful in some part. He was loved, despite the other factors of the circumstances in which he lived being disagreeable with him.
It was a small revelation, one that had been sparked yesterday but hidden beneath the layers and layers of hurt, befuddlement and shock. Others would've reacted well to this situation whereas Harry had been smashed by the pain of Sirius's death—how convenient was it, then, that he couldn't even really feel that pain in the first place? Was his Gryffindor self and personality becoming meshed with the body of this Slytherin duplicate? Was his heart being hardened and replaced by this snake's core? It terrified him to think about, that he was turning into a different person and he couldn't stop it.
And maybe the most important and sensible question: Was there a cure? He was already in so deep, a son of Death Eater parents and off tomorrow to meet up with the Dark Lord Himself. He had to find a way out of it—he had to tell Dumbledore, but first he needed to know exactly what was going on. His foolishness and spite had made him act out, and even though he simply wanted to punch Malfoy's nose into his brain he knew it was no good. He was surrounded by the people that, in his version of events, hated him; already he was making too much process back down that same path with Malfoy and the other Slytherins—perhaps even the rest of the school—on his back. He was being watched like a hawk.
He had to play it cool, he realised. For a spare moment as Snape drew his eyes over the group he considered not doing it, but he realised that he had no time to lose. He had to start somewhere, and that place was a gesture which in turn was a grin forced onto his mouth. He then knocked Crabbe in the ribs with an elbow. Had it been the Gryffindor Harry doing that, Snape would've given him a week's worth of detentions: but as it stood, it was Slytherin Harry who was being as insolent and disobedient as ever, and a
cocky little shite to boot, just like his father.
"C'mon,
Vinny—don't tell me you're that stupid." The words came from Harry's mouth, strange to him but pleasingly not out of place for his Slytherin cohorts. He exhaled in relief as the corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched.
"Name's
Vincent," replied Crabbe thickly, "you know I hate being called Vinny. Pack it in."
"Whatever," said Harry with a yawn. He turned his eyes back to Snape. "How do we know we won't be followed, Professor? Hasn't, er… Hasn't Dumbledore figured any of this out? Pretty sure he'd know if students were disappearing, sir."
"Well," Snape drew himself up, fingers knitted into his lapels, "as it stands, Potter, you're pretty wrong about that. I've made all the arrangements. If you want to go snooping, I'll make sure to keep a log book of your insolence and let the Dark Lord put you under the Cruciatus curse for every minute you waste my time. I thought Goyle's chastisement would've taught you a few
home values."
Harry's jaw went taut, and simply he said: "Yes, sir, of course."
Snape looked satisfied with his answer. "It
pleases me to know you understand where your loyalties lie—" his eyes flickered down at the Gryffindor garb he was decked out in "—that's all for now. Lock up after yourselves, and don't leave any little surprises for the next unfortunate idiots to use these changing rooms. Whatever celebrations there are in the common room will be completely free of this meeting, do you understand me?" His eyes washed over the lot of them; Harry nodded along keenly. "I'll see you all tomorrow." He collected himself but paused once he was at the doorway. "Well-played, Urquhart, Zabini, Vaisey. Thirty points for Slytherin."
Snape's exit was accompanied by the sound of high-fives and jeers. Whilst Crabbe and Goyle went to collect their bags, Harry kept Malfoy back and shook his shoulder firmly. He put on his best serious face, which was a task, but he thought he had the effect when Malfoy cocked a semi-annoyed brow at him.
"Sorry, Draco," he said, "really don't know what came over me."
"Right," replied Malfoy stiffly, "well, I'm glad we've had this revelation. Want me to turn around so you can hit me with a Bludger?"
"Draco, look—I'm really sorry, I am. I don't know what happened. One minute we were sat there, and I was thinking about…" about who? "…about Alicia Spinnett, then all of a sudden I just felt
weird, mate—weird like someone was putting all these thoughts in my head, and I just couldn't control myself. I don't know, maybe one of the house elves poisoned my food or something, could've been that Winky. She hasn't been happy ever since I set her tea towel on fire."
"Tea towel? You set a house elf's tea towel on fire?"
Harry thought that he would've been more concerned with Harry being poisoned, but apparently not. It was evident that some things never changed.
"C'mon, mate, don't judge me. I was hungry, she was busy with sausage rolls, what else was I supposed to do? Starve? It was a really good sandwich in the end. Worth it a hundred times over."
"So, you're telling me you spent three hours out after hours, getting a sandwich?" When had this been, Harry wondered? He gave a noncommittal shrug like it was perfectly normal. Draco hesitated, and then went on. "Martin told me you'd gone for a shag with Cho Chang."
Oh, Lord—Harry had sex with
Cho? He felt horrible, like he'd violated her. A shiver ran through him, yet he shrugged again. "A shag, sandwich, who cares? You can get—" Harry cringed internally, and pressed on "—good pussy anywhere. A sandwich is a different thing altogether."
Malfoy looked to blow him off but he was pleasantly surprised when he burst out laughing, slapping Harry on the back. "Good one," he wheezed, "God, you're pulling them off today, aren't you? First Romilda, then Weasel and Mudblood—"
HERMIONE "—then Cho Chang—ah, Harry, you're a funny one. I thought you'd been scoffing those toffees again. I told you not to fall for all that discount stuff."
"Yeah, well—it's like drugs and alcohol I bet, house elves and Wizarding Wheezes. Never together, reckon I just saved the entirety of Hufflepuff the pain. Fat shits, they'll eat anything."
"Didn't stop you from going with Susan Bones though, did it?"
Oh, God. Now
that was violation—to Harry. He shivered openly, which made Malfoy smile and round on him, tugging at Harry's Gryffindor tie.
"Keep it on, tell Weasley you've got second-hand robes for sale."
"Nah," said Harry, "I think I'll just burn it instead. Use it as fuel for the fire back at the party. Sorry about the Beating, by the way. I kept thinking I wanted to aim right for Smith, but my arms wouldn't work properly… You're probably right, Draco. I bet they gave me shitty knock-offs."
"Right, well, now that's all cleared up, let's go. Snape doesn't want us around for too long, and we'd better get in a good night before tomorrow. It'll be a long winter, Harry, trust me."
—x—
Whatever this purported long winter was, Harry didn't know; he didn't have a chance to ask Malfoy on the way back to the castle after the changing rooms were locked up. Gryffindor were still moping about inside, but Harry had to leave his friends behind, which he regretted—instead he had a rather sickening view of Pansy's behind as she wiggled her way up the hill in jeans which were very much too tight. He didn't know what Malfoy saw in her.
Currently they were celebrating their success, nearly everybody being hailed as a hero: Malfoy as usual since he was the Seeker (and, well, the most popular of the lot), Ishmael Urquhart as the Captain, and the three Chasers because they'd secured the win. They'd even applauded Harry's maiming of Hannah Abbott, which he thought was a bit morose, and then they'd gone outside the common room to meet up with a group of fifth year Hufflepuffs who'd secured some lifted Firewhiskey. Harry had given one of the girls a couple of galleons and, for added effect, "Tell that little dipshit Smith he'd better clarify I was aiming for him because he's such an annoying prat, not Hannah Abbott—and tell him if he doesn't, he'll find himself at the bottom of the lake; I don't want my Christmas ruined by a bunch of Hufflepuff gits and jinxes on my way around school" after which they'd scurried off pretty quickly.
Now, with the Gryffindor uniform shrunken and keeping Millicent Bulstrode's cat cosy, Harry and Malfoy were sprawled out on one of the sofas while music blasted over the shouts, screams and general noise of celebration. Malfoy had a bottle of the Firewhiskey in his hand and while Harry was getting a head massage from a fourth year—someone called Tracey—he watched Blaise become layered by girls on the couch opposite.
"How many d'you think you can handle tonight?" Malfoy shouted. Harry peeked at him through lidded eyes, sleepiness in his bones. That Quidditch match and all this food and alcohol were taking a lot out of him.
"Dunno," said Blaise deeply, "two weeks ago I made it to three. Think I can push it to four or five."
Malfoy whistled. "S'only 'cause you're a Veela, mate—"
"Don't care, Draco!" Blaise looked content with his surroundings. "Why would you turn down a little bit like this lot given the chance? Not that you'd know, of course! How many have you had this year? Six, seven?"
"Seven these past two weeks, more like!" Malfoy retorted. He looked to Harry for support; Harry laughed, digging him in the leg with his foot. "'Least I'm not dipping into the third years!"
"She was fourteen," said Blaise; a blonde girl at his side shimmied up to him and batted her eyes at him. Harry vaguely recalled her as Emmanuelle something or other. "
Is fourteen."
Well, that was another rumour proved: It really was true that Slytherins had the most active sex lives. Harry wasn't completely against it, having been interested in Cho, but he wasn't sure if he was completely okay with the rampant promiscuity. Or perhaps wizarding teens were much like Muggle teens: sex on the mind all the time, constant urges of desire. It wasn't that unusual—but still, Susan Bones…
Harry sat up, head a bit light, and looked around. Everybody seemed to be having a good time, streamers and food lying about, and an overly-green Christmas tree looking dejected in the corner. All the baubles had been bewitched to zoom after anybody who went near it so Malcolm Baddock, a third year with a bad bowl-cut, was now running around using his hands to shield his head as the decorations pinged off him mercilessly. Harry resisted the temptation to laugh and lie back down, and instead went to procure a bit of Butterbeer by the fire. Several girls flocked to him yet moved away when he completely ignored them, too busy getting an overview of what was going on to invest in any small talk:
Pansy had taken his place on the couch, looking relieved he'd shoved off; a girl in the corner was looking green, and two first-year boys were making some of the streamers float. They looked around as if they'd performed the world's most difficult piece of magic and expected great praise for it, then looked crestfallen when Hestia Carrow made the paper fizzle miserably into little white flecks. Carrow herself was situated at a square table playing a wizarding rendition of poker, and there was a small hub of people around her who were cheering her on; her opponent, Harry realised, was a beautiful brunette of Pakistani descent, and had her own clan of supporters. It was clear that Carrow had found a match.
Well, it was time to slip out for a bit. It wasn't too late, about half seven, and nobody would stop him on the stairs if he said he was going to check with McGonagall about some Transfigurations problems he was having. He could make it up to Gryffindor tower all right, especially with the invisibility cloak packed underneath his clothes like a second layer. He was very glad to still be in possession of it, because he really didn't want to come across Peeves or Mrs Norris for that matter. Filch would probably find some reason or other to chuck him in detention or to report him to Snape, and today Harry had discovered that Snape was still not his biggest fan.
Ah, well, he couldn't win them all.
He moved over to Draco before he left and (with an unnerving look from Pansy) spoke in his ear: "I'm going for a bit, Draco, paying a visit to Granger. Lucian Bole made me a bet couple of weeks ago."
Draco raised a brow. "Do you even know Gryffindor's password?"
"It's probably something stupid like
Mudblood royalty. Anyway, the Fat Lady's not that intelligent; I could just follow someone in and she'd never know. See you later."
"All right—" he pulled on Harry's sleeve when he turned to leave "—and be back by ten. We've got a big day tomorrow."
"Right," was all Harry said before he left the common room and slung the invisibility cloak over himself. As he walked down the dank corridor he heard the portrait mutter to itself faintly.
"I saw that…"
—x—
Harry thanked his lucky stars when the door to the seventh floor corridor shut quietly behind him: he'd only come across Peeves, who had been easily avoided by pressing against the wall and keeping very still despite the cloak. Peeves's translucent hands were covered in Snargaluff juice, giving him the very odd effect of a dead person wearing green gloves.
Harry's slow pace made it so that it was eight o'clock by the time he arrived outside the Gryffindor corridor: things here were eerily quiet, but perhaps that was the ringing of the Slytherin party in his ears. Gryffindor wouldn't have any reason to celebrate given they'd lost both their matches and were definitely not first place for the Quidditch tournament: at best they could tie for second, third or fourth place and that was a miserable affair indeed—if they were indeed as team-proud as Harry remembered them being. It looked as if their recruits needed a little polishing; if Ginny was Captain, Harry was sure she'd get them all to buck up in no time since she had a no-nonsense attitude.
He was sat outside the common room for about twenty minutes, watching the Fat Lady pick her nose and eat grapes, before the portrait swung open and out came Ginny herself with a fierce expression. Harry almost lurched to say hello to her, but reeled himself back and darted in before the portrait could close; he brushed Ginny's shoulder, and she turned around, but scowled when she saw nothing and went on her way: the Quidditch match probably attributed to the bad mood. He stood there staring at her for the longest moment before the portrait closed once again, and he was thrown into shadow.
He made his way carefully down the small steps of his old common room, already feeling at home.
The palette of golds, browns and reds was familiar to him. The tapestries were much the same, still long and frayed before they had been preserved by magic and spells to ward off insects; if you listened extremely carefully you could still hear the faint, kittenish roar of a prancing lion with a majestic mane in burnt oranges and sandy shades. The chairs, brown to match the earthen scheme of the room, were dotted about as always like someone had been holding all the furniture in their hands before letting them fall. There was no real pattern to the Gryffindor common room, no sequence or rhythm around which the Slytherin common room seemed to be stylised: Everything here was natural and homely from the warmth of the fire eating thick logs in the hearth to the soft breeze slipping through a half-open window which framed the gemstone sky like a portrait. Despite its age and lack of real interior design, it was real to Harry, not carefully structured like that of the Slytherin common room.
Looking about, Harry almost cried with joy when he saw it was mostly empty bar Ron and Hermione huddled in the corner over a game of wizard's chest. Ron was winning, of course, but Hermione looked to be making a fair fight: they were laughing and smiling, which made Harry's heart ache because he wasn't part of that happiness.
He shuffled over to them quietly and sat down in an empty chair beside Ron. Neither of them noticed him—after taking another quick look around to make sure he was alone with them—until he pulled the cloak from his head, and looked directly at Hermione. She screamed, nearly knocked everything over, and scrambled to her feet. Ron, in tandem, did the same, and narrowly missed his well-aimed punch. Harry ducked just in time before backing off, keeping his distance; he knew that Hermione would be quick to cast some nasty hexes on him and he didn't want her alerting the rest of Gryffindor to his presence.
"What the—
Potter! What are you
doing in here? How did you get in?"
Harry pressed a finger to his lips. "Be quiet, Hermione! Christ
alive, I don't need anybody knowing I'm here! Please—just don't do anything irrational—" he turned to Ron quickly, knowing that he would be the most likely to explode "—and I'm sorry for this morning, all right, just hear me out." Ron's face was like steel; Hermione's, too. Harry looked between them both uneasily, and then continued weakly. "Listen, it's a lot to explain… I don't know where to begin but you're the only people I can trust—or at least I think I can, it's all too confusing…"
"You've given us nothing but grief for the past six years, Potter, and you've just broken into our common room. There isn't any bloody trust between us." That was Ron. "I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you."
"Yes, I know, and I'm sorry—but please, let me explain, it's more important than you realise. I'm not who you think I am."
"Right." Ron gave a clipped but bitter laugh. "You've taken Polyjuice Potion. Inventive."
"No! No, look, I'm me—I'm Harry, I'm just—I'm not. I can't explain if you won't let me—I just… Ron,
please. Please, Ron, I'm begging you—I
need you to believe me. I'll do anything to prove it—and you too, 'Mione."
Ron's face was hard for a long moment. He was regarding Harry suspiciously as Harry knew he would, but something was ticking behind Ron's eyes which made him hesitate. Slowly and carefully, he then said: "Tell me something only I'd know."
"Er, your middle name's Bilius—"
"—that's hardly something only I'd know."
"Yes, you're right—uh… Okay, you've got a ghoul at your house that moans and throws stuff around in the attic. You've, er, got Chudley Cannon posters on your walls, and your dad's got a shed full of Muggle stuff. He works at the Ministry in the Improper Use department, and he's got a flying Ford Anglia…"
"Potter, you're the master of creep. You could've learned that from Snape."
"Oh, yeah, I s'pose: okay, erm… How about… Your mum. Your mum's Boggart is you and your brothers' bodies; her worst fear is losing her kids… When you looked in the Mirror of Erised you saw yourself as Head Boy, Captain of the Quidditch team… All the good stuff."
By now Ron's face had paled; it was as if Harry had crossed an invisible barrier. Hermione went to his side, shooting the same glares at Harry as Malfoy earlier on in the changing room. Harry simply had to swallow and go on.
"See, there's no way I could know that stuff, Ron. And you too, Hermione—your patronus, it's an otter; and… and your mum and dad are dentists—er, and you and Victor Krum were corresponding for a long while, and he couldn't say your name properly, and that really got on your nerves… In the third year, you were using a time-turner to do all your classes. McGonagall gave you one and told you to keep it a secret…"
Hermione's eyes bulged, and Ron looked all of mortified, mystified and a bit sick. He slumped into his chair with Hermione's help, then brought one of the animated pawns into his hand and started to play with it between his fingers. The piece made a fuss, at which point Ron squeezed it much like a stress toy, and then it screamed and was set back down, and Ron got back onto his feet and began to pace.
"All right, let me get this straight. You aren't really a Slytherin git, and your parents aren't Death Eaters."
"No. I mean, yes. I mean—where I come from, I'm a different person. I'm not in Slytherin and… and I don't have any parents. Muggles brought me up, but I came here when I got my letter and your mum showed me how to get onto the platform to the train, Ron. And then we had sweets in the compartment, and you were my first friend—" he turned on Hermione "—and you came in, asking about a toad, and Ron was trying to do magic on Scabbers, and you sort of huffed and puffed when it didn't work. Malfoy said he and I should be friends, but I told him to get lost. Then there was the Sorting ceremony: the Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin, but I begged it not to so it put me in Gryffindor instead."
Hermione looked disbelieving. "Anybody could make that up," she said irritably, "just because you know a few things about us doesn't mean it's proof you're telling the truth. And, also—nobody's ever inhabited another person's body in hundreds of years. That's Dark magic."
"But it's not
magic," stressed Harry, "I don't know what it is. We were at the Ministry, looking for a prophecy—and
Voldemort turned up, and Sirius died. I panicked. I found a load of time-turners and did something. I—I'm not sure what…"
"Lost your bloody marbles, that's what you did." That came from Ron. He, like Hermione, had turned hostile with tiny little slits for eyes. It didn't take a genius to work out that something in that last part of Harry's confession had sparked something with him. Harry knew Ron's temper, and Hermione's aptitude for impressive spells, so he stepped backwards. "Think it's funny, don't you? I can understand coming up here to gloat about the match but this is something different. Know all that stuff because of your stinking Death Eater parents, do you? Been listening in on secret meetings? Bribed someone? You're a Slytherin through and through, Potter. I'd put nothing past you, not even serial bloody murder. You're worse than Malfoy: at least he's open with it, unlike you."
"But—Ron! I'm not lying! I can prove it, I swear! Just get me to Snape, he can give me a potion, er, what's it called? Veritaserum! He can give me Veritaserum! C'mon, I can prove it—"
"Oh, get over yourself," snapped Hermione, "Snape gives you house points for everything you do. He'd even award you Student of the Year for going to the toilet if he could. Snape's far too much in love with Slytherin to ever do anything to tarnish
perfect Harry Potter. Now, you have five seconds to get out or—or I'll
oppugno you." Her voice quaked at the end; her impressive screen of strength was beginning to crack.
"No, Hermione, I'm serious! You have to trust me, really you do! I've not much time left, something bad is going to happen tomorrow and I don't think I have a way out of it—"
"Five."
"Come on, Hermione… Ron, tell her! I need help, my parents, if I don't go along they'll be
crucified—"
"Four."
"Shove off, Potter."
"Three."
"Come on," Harry said with a tight throat,
"please."
"Oh, yes, we'll just run along with you down to the Slytherin dungeons right into the hands of your Death Eater pals, Potter. That's not suspicious at all, is it?"
"Two."
Hermione's wand was pointed right at him, and behind her rocky face there was both pain and hatred brewing. Harry was afraid of what kind of magic would come forward, scared she'd use one of the Unforgivable Curses out of pure anger… The Cruciatus would be pushing it, and even he didn't think she had it in her to use it… But he couldn't know. He had to back away towards the portrait, mumbling and apologising and begging as he did so.
"Come on—just this once. I understand what I may have done to you might have been bad but I need you to believe me. Everything dep—"
"One."
"Please!"
"Impedimenta!"
The spell came out of Hermione's lips shakily as sudden emotion washed over her; Harry dodged to the side just as the spell collided with a red clay pot that went flying into the air and shattered against the ceiling. Ron, too, had his wand out but Harry would not raise his. These were his
friends. He couldn't turn on them because they didn't understand. He had to afford them time and kindness, and love and all that cushy stuff. He was useless against them now, but perhaps there was still a way in Dumbledore…
But would that have a knock-on effect against Harry's parents? Surely if he told Dumbledore, Dumbledore would pass it back down onto Snape that he knew what he was up to, and some way or other Voldemort would find out what was going on and he'd punish Harry's parents. Harry couldn't bear the thought of them tortured or in pain or in any sort of danger—but there was nobody else he could turn to, and Dumbledore had always been the greatest of safeties for him…
He turned, dodging another spell, and left the common room to the sound of Hermione's sobs. Something unhinged her, something he'd said. For that, Harry was more than sorry.
—x—
"Oh, bloody hell—Sherbet lemon."
Nothing.
"Fizzing Whizzbees."
Nothing.
"Open sesame!"
Nothing.
"Abracadabra!"
Nothing.
Harry growled and banged on the large, golden bird statue that festooned the ingress to Dumbledore's decadent quarters. There was a loud clang as he did so but he wasn't bothered about drawing attention to himself beneath the cloak; he was much too hurt by the rejection from Ron and Hermione, and it was clear now that it was pretty damn important that he speak to the head teacher. The noise ricocheted from the walls and produced a gong-like echo which was rather painful to the ears; a portrait across sniffled at him disapprovingly.
"You might try being a bit more polite," it said with an air of snobbishness, "nobody answers the door to a lunatic."
"I'm not asking for your opinion!" Had there been a few more S's in that sentence, Harry would have been hissing. As it stood, he would be grateful there weren't since he had no mood for Slytherin shenanigans tonight. The reminders that he was in this situation—for example, even having to go to the lengths to explain the circumstances—were enough as it was already.
"Well, I never." The tone was offended.
He rounded on the portrait, saw it hung up a little to the left. It was of a short fat man with dark skin in a moth-eaten wig surrounded by what looked to be a cart of eternally ripe apples. The portrait man drew back with a horrified expression, particularly when Harry prodded at the canvas with his finger; the cart toppled over, sending its produce rolling along the path. The portrait man was not very happy at all.
"Now, young man, that wasn't called for—"
"Look, I'm sorry, I'm just a bit tired at the moment and I'm having a really bad day, and I could do
more than anything with talking to Dumbledore right now. It's after hours so I'm probably going to get detention for this, but this is
urgent. I need the password—if you have it, just give it. I'll do anything. I'll tell the other portraits how fantastic you are."
"No, no, that's perfectly all right. I'm not one to give out secrets, especially well-guarded ones like the headmaster's password. Only important and verified personnel are allowed up to the office, and it's quite about time you went off to bed, don't you think? Sunday tomorrow, lots of homework for you I assume."
"I've done all my homework," lied Harry, "could you at least go up to one of the office portraits and tell him Harry Potter is here to see him? Tell him it's urgent."
"Harry Potter?" His deep eyes scoured Harry from head to toe, weighing him up for his worth. He seemed to have an astute eye from the way he hummed and put his pudgy hands on his hips, like Harry was a prize bull from which he could gain something. A little later, he said: "Well, all right, but what's in it for me?"
Harry sighed a quiet breath of relief. "Oh, anything you want. I'll—I don't know—polish your frame for you."
"Hmm," said the portrait man thoughtfully, "that'd be nice; I
am looking a tad tarnished as of late—and if you could do something else for me? Put in a word with the, er, the Fat Lady." His chubby cheeks flushed pink. "I've never had the courage to go to visit her domain, you see. Tell her I know her real name; tell her I think it's beautiful."
"Right, right, yes, I'll put in a word with the Fat Lady. Just, please, hurry."
"All right, no need to rush me. Hang about."
Harry watched with impatient eyes as the portrait man paced up and down, setting a few of the apples straight as if they were the bone structures of one of the Ancient Egyptian pyramids, and then patted his tattered lordly robes against his round belly. His piggy nose went to the air and with the regality of a swan he strutted out of his portrait and climbed upwards through vast panoramas and redwood forests; he even swam a length under some dark ocean illuminated by creatures of the deep, then pulled himself onto a dining table with a sopping brow. He heaved and he made a fuss, but he was ascending higher and higher until Harry could no longer see him, at which point it all became the waiting game once again.
Harry wondered what on Earth he could tell Dumbledore. The headmaster had knowledge far beyond anybody he knew: Could it be that he knew something of what had happened to Harry? Did he know how to fix it? And if he knew nothing of it, then would he be able to help Harry? Would he even
believe Harry? Did he even
like Harry?
His heart fluttered rapidly and he did seven and a half rounds of striding when the portrait man tumbled through canvases and landed quite unflatteringly in a field of cows. He scoffed and snorted, but pulled himself to his feet and once again put his nose to the air to announce he had done Harry's favour:
"It was very difficult finding a portrait into which I could enter, young lad—but fortunately the headmaster was having a conversation with his good friend, the Sorting Hat, and I was able to catch his attention. I relayed that one Harry Potter was urgent to see him, and would he please grant him entry. He then said,
'Harry Potter wishes to see me? I hope this isn't about another incident with the Flobberworms, Francois,' at which point I said,
'Headmaster, I do not know the nature of the boy's problems, but he is both insistent and obnoxiously loud.' He then said that he would see you, and now here I am, and I shall be so polite as to remind you that you owe me the favours we agreed upon."
"Yeah—Thanks, er, Francois. You've got no idea how much I appreciate this."
Harry clambered back onto the steps circling around the statue of the bird, and gave it a tap with his wand. The ground shook beneath him unsteadily, and then he began to rise, and the portrait of Francois was lost from sight. It was quickly replaced by the short, sweeping corridor leading to Dumbledore's office; ornate Gothic designs were carved from the walls, pillars creating narrow alcoves in which a manner of things rested on glass shelves. Harry's eyes swept over them, uninterested, and he made his way to the hefty oak door at the end. Its bronze knocker created a gloomy sound when it thudded down against the wood.
"Come in," came Dumbledore's soft reply.
Harry pushed the door and watched it swing open to reveal the magnificent office beyond. He'd seen it a hundred times before, and it was something akin to relaxing when he took in the room in its entirety and realised that nothing was different. The Pensieve was tucked away behind the folding doors of that stately cabinet to the right, and the desk was even more cluttered with bits and bobs; behind it was Dumbledore, who looked to have put down a quill. He must have been in the middle of paperwork.
The one change that discomforted Harry was the lack of the warm expression Dumbledore usually stored away just for him. There was no crease of the eyes or the lips, only a slight narrowing of the eyelids which made Harry feel like he was being scrutinised. Whatever Harry had done must have been something he'd normally never dream of, because as far back as Harry could remember, Dumbledore had always been nothing short of cordial with every one of his students.
The first thing that Harry thought was that Dumbledore didn't like him. The second thing wasn't so much a thought but a very cold pit of dread that pulled his heart into his stomach. He hoped very much that the headmaster would cotton onto what was happening, because it occurred to him that Dumbledore was the best chance he had at solving the mess he'd gotten himself in—and possibly the last.
"Ah, Mister Potter—" Dumbledore's voice was wispy "—Francois said you were quite panicked. I apologise for not hearing your knocking; a headmaster can become quite engrossed in his duties." His blue eyes were luminous over his half-moon spectacles which made Harry quite feel like he was being x-rayed. "Is there something the matter?"
Harry sucked in a breath, wondering where to begin—
how to begin. He decided it would be best to start quite honestly since there was really no other way of explaining it.
"Well," he said, "I'm not sure how to explain. I tried explaining it to Ron and Hermione—" this earned a surprised look "—but it didn't go down too well. It's just…" Just what? He didn't have any idea what to do, who to turn to, who to trust? He didn't have any way of preventing this thing that was going to happen tomorrow? "Sir, something has happened to me. I know what it is but I don't know how to… fix it."
"Well, Harry, that is one of the more common qualities of being human, but do go on."
"Right, yes. Well, all right." Harry exhaled heavily. "This is going to sound really unbelievable and you're probably going to think I'm lying or talking absolute… rubbish… But, I'm not who I am. I mean, I'm Harry, but I'm not this Harry." Much to his surprise, Dumbledore was serenely calm. Harry waited for that moment when the old man would start laughing, but it didn't come. In its absence there was a spark of hope. "Well—it started, er, back at the Ministry. Not your Ministry, but my Ministry. There was me, Ron, Hermione… Ginny, Luna and Neville… And a couple of people from the Order: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Lupin, Tonks, Sirius…
"We were there looking for a prophecy. I found it, and we were being chased by Death Eaters. There was Lucius Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle's fathers, a few others: We ended up in this weird room with a lot of rocks and this veil. We were all fighting, and then Bellatrix Lestrange sent a killing curse at Sirius. I sort of lost it. I mean—she
killed him, Professor. She killed Sirius Black, and I went after her. I think I used the Cruciatus curse, but there was this voice inside me, telling me to kill her. And then
he appeared, Professor—Voldemort. Voldemort was there, and I hid from him, and then you came and the two of you fought.
"But Voldemort was using all these spells, and I had to get help so I went back to the room where everybody else was fighting, and I sort of lost my marbles a bit. Nearly everyone got hurt, but I told Lupin that you were battling Voldemort. And I was just so hurt, Professor, there was a Death Eater who was threatening to slit Hermione's throat and I just ran away. I was going to see her
die. After Sirius… I couldn't…
"So, I ran off and I found this room. Department of Mysteries. Had a lot of brains in lava lamps or something, and then I found these time-turners. I wasn't thinking about what I was doing, I just picked one up, and I…" Harry looked away, brows drawn. "I didn't stop, Professor. It fell out of my hands, and next thing I knew I was sitting in the Slytherin common room. Ended up punching Malfoy in the face."
Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment, and then he said almost kindly: "That must have been difficult to go through, Harry. Yet you understand I can't simply believe you right off the bat. This is a very rare piece of magic you're claiming, Mister Potter. The last known person to attempt this magic was Herpo the Foul, amongst other things. Everybody else has either died or… never come back."
"So you're saying it's possible, Professor? You believe me?"
"Well, let it be said that you are usually unnervingly calm, and according to Francois you were making quite a song and dance downstairs. Were I any other man, I might suggest that your career in the acting industry would go far—but as it turns out, I am not any other man, and I am not fooled so easily." He gave Harry one of those looks which made him feel completely naked, as if he couldn't hide anything even if he wanted to. It was the look of the omniscient—or the nosy—or the experienced, whichever one you'd prefer. "So, yes, this magic is completely possible. Mostly unexplored, but possible—and very, very dangerous…" Well, that made Harry feel better, knowing that at least Dumbledore had some sort of grasp on this strange concept. That spark of hope began to bloom, which Dumbledore could see because he rounded himself up and continued on very tenderly. "You understand time-turning laws?"
"Yes," replied Harry, "Hermione was using a time-turner all the way through the third year to attend all of her classes. When we used it to save Sirius, she told me that we couldn't allow ourselves to be seen—by anybody, not even the real us."
"Miss Granger was quite right." Harry was disappointed when Dumbledore neglected to make a comment about Harry's purported knowledge of the events of year three. If it was going unsaid, then Harry was all right with that—it could help the headmaster see eye to eye with him. "Interfering in history is never a prudent idea, nor is it fun. Wizards who have been foolish with time-turners have been known to relive the same moment of their lives over and over again—until they die. Naturally, those wizards are always mad when it comes for the time to drop off. The most threatening element of danger in this particular situation would be—Ah, well, let me use an example which should be familiar to you: If you truly are the opposite of the person I see before me, then it is a secret I can guard. If certain things were to happen to alert others of this change in persona—a Quidditch match, for example—then people, relationships and facts change. Things turn into things they are not destined to be; things come into contact with ideas which were always supposed to stay in the mind. Do you understand me, Harry?"
"I think so, Professor… Though
I've changed, everything else needs to stay the same."
"Precisely, Harry. For the time being, anyway. I think it would be the best, ah, game plan, as our American friends might say. You know next to nothing of your own situation, and there is research I must do on both the magic and the matter. That is to talk nothing of the conflict in the wizarding world. I assume you have a grasp of this conflict?"
"Yes—Well, my one, anyway. Things are a lot different but I get the gist of it, if I have the right end of the stick… which reminds me, Professor. There's something else as well, something about Professor Snape."
"And what about Professor Snape?"
"Well, after the Quidditch match he pulled me, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle over to one side and went through some plans with us about something that's happening tomorrow. It's Death Eater business, Professor. He didn't say what it was that was going on, but he told us nobody else could know. Me and Malfoy have to go to the Room of Requirement tomorrow and go to this cupboard, and we're to meet Crabbe and Goyle and the rest of the Death Eaters on the other side. Professor Snape said that there were preparations, and if they didn't get done then Voldemort wouldn't be happy." Harry bit his lip. "I think Snape is a Death Eater. And I think my parents are, too."
If Dumbledore was perplexed, alienated or even simply troubled by Harry's information then he wasn't showing it. Calmness seemed to be the old man's default. He steepled his fingers in thought, touching his brow, and then he raised those shocking eyes back at Harry and spoke loftily.
"Harry, there are certain things which you cannot know. You may already be enlightened with some of these things, but others will most definitely be out of your reach. As much as it pains me, I must keep you in the dark for everybody's sake. If you trust me enough to tell me of what has occurred, then I must ask you to put even more faith in me and ask you to be unquestioning of my judgement."
Harry was stunned. His mouth gaped. "But, Professor—Can't you… These people! There are
spies!"
"You must, Harry. Everybody's safety depends on it. If you act out, then there will be terrible repercussions for everybody, no matter how far away in the world. Nobody must know."
"I can't just stay as I am, Professor—as I was, I mean."
"And what do you propose, Harry? To hand the Death Eaters over to the Ministry? To refuse the Dark Lord in his wishes? He already has control over nearly everything we own, Harry; it is reality. Everybody knows this, no matter how desperate the Daily Prophet may be to tidy matters away. You very well may cause a war when we aren't ready for it, Harry. As good-willed as your intentions may be, there are people's lives at risks. Families and towns could be swamped by Dark magic, cities destroyed in the backlash. Politics changes, people take sides, armies arise. It isn't the time to wage war just yet. We must be ready, and we must bide our time. Until that time comes, you just have to sit still and keep low. I will do my best to work with you in your situation, but the school needs me more than you do. I'm sorry if this comes off as brash or cruel, but this is how things are. There were days when I could save people as much as I liked, but I am an old man. We must be careful."
Harry was rendered speechless. He didn't suppose there was any argument against him that would make him see sense. But it did put things in perspective. He'd been foolish for the past day not to gather information on his surroundings. He should've been pally with Malfoy and the rest of Slytherin house, hogged old copies of the Daily Prophet to put himself up to scratch on the situation. Instead he'd been childish, worrying about a Quidditch house cup instead of the wellbeing of the world around him. He had understood that it was a world still heavily affected by Voldemort, after all. There was no excusing that kind of ignorance and selfishness; the best he could do was make it up from now on.
"All right," he said finally, "all right. I'll do it. I've got no other choice."
Dumbledore was smiling now. "Oh, we always have a choice, Harry. Choice defines us, after all."
"And do I have a choice to not go to this thing with Malfoy tomorrow?"
"Yes," came the reply, "but you are a better man than that. Tomorrow's event must go ahead as planned, and you are to remain unquestioning. To live and suffer humbly is much more valiant than dying honourably. Death is, after all, but a blip and I believe you have a particular fire for life which our Harry Potter would usually disguise with sharp wit and rather belittling humour."
"I suppose that means you want me to be a Slytherin idiot, then."
"Not all Slytherins are bad, Harry. There is a rather unflattering stereotype that depicts Slytherin house as cunning and without morals. In fact, Slytherin house represents the pensive and the thoughtful, much like Ravenclaw. Both produce excellent politicians. Merlin was a Slytherin, you know."
Harry's eyebrows went into his hairline. That was something he didn't know.
"It is a fact most Gryffindors like to keep hushed up, but I like to think of it as a mark towards Slytherin's excellent name. As a fellow Gryffindor, I am sure Mister Weasley will think of me as a traitor." Dumbledore chuckled. "I suppose I ought to hire Hagrid as protection."
Oh! Ron!
"Professor, that reminds me—I went to Ron and Hermione before I came to see you, like I said. I thought maybe they could help me. A bit stupid really… But, I don't think they believe me. It's just that you said nobody else could know about this."
"Ah, thank you for telling me. A Gryffindor would have kept that covered up. No matter. I can arrange for Mister Weasley and Miss Granger to have tonight Obliviated, so long as you don't mention it to them again. Have you talked with anybody else?"
"Well… Malfoy told Snape I'd been Imperiused. Snape didn't seem to think so. I don't know if he believes any of it, though. He could've just been lying."
"
Professor Snape, Harry. And, yes, that is a matter you shouldn't concern yourself with. As I said, you must trust me, and I am sure that Professor Snape has always been gracious towards you in some manner."
"Not exactly," muttered Harry darkly, "he used to take house points off me whenever he could. I sneezed once, and he gave me detention for interrupting him during a lesson."
"Which house did you belong to?"
"Gryffindor."
Dumbledore's mouth widened into a fond grin. "Ah. That is probably the root cause of it. That and I think he may still have had a feud with your father."
"Yeah, he did."
"Well, it's no matter now. Keep your head down, and act normally. I can turn a blind eye or two towards behaviour which would normally merit detention, as long as there is no danger for anybody. In your ruse I might ask you to be moderate. I shouldn't like to aggravate Argus's arthritis any more than I already do."
"Right."
"Good, good." He drew himself up, his great old chest expanding. "Now, is that everything?"
Harry turned his eyes to a little grandmother clock stood on the desk: it was one of those pink affairs, encased in a bell jar, with plastic pillars. Dumbledore must have salvaged it from a charity shop and used magic on it to make it run without batteries because even Mrs Figg wouldn't have that on her mantelpiece. It read half eight, which was after hours; he'd have to sneak back down to the dungeons under the cloak and he most certainly couldn't be bothered waiting around for twenty minutes for some drunken sod to come out.
"Do you know the password to the Slytherin common room?"
"In fact, I do. This week's password is
Manticore mammary."
Harry almost gagged.
--x--
Author's notes: Big things and further plot development in chapter five, yeah? Yeah.
You can read the fanfiction from the start on its
FF.Net page or you can hop straight to chapter four
right here. Otherwise, you can look at what other fictions I have to offer on
my profile.