They look like flowers, Draco decides. Soft rose petals made with the careful stroke of a paint brush, curling in at the edges and drifting away as the deep, red color mixes with the murky water, diluting it yet doing nothing to detract from its terrific beauty. It runs like a river, flowing away from him towards unimaginable places. Logically, Draco knows the river's path only extends to the walls and then pools there, and furthermore his river fans out long before it has time to meets its end, but he likes to believe that it retains its shape, filled with purpose and direction, up until it meets the wall, at which point it breaks apart like the top of the jet of water that spouts from the fountain in the foyer. When he was just a boy, Draco believed that it was a wishing fountain, and he would flip small coins into it as he repeated his desires with earnest silently in his mind. Thinking about this distracts his mind from the river for a few precious seconds, but it cannot last - unlike the petals blooming outwards from beneath him, which seem to be endless.
Like the curling of the petals, Draco's world is curling in at the edges now. He cannot focus on anything in his periphery anymore, and so he looks straight ahead at his companion, whom he has not thought of since his observations took a turn for the poetic. Goyle. Truly his only friend left in the world, though it is debatable at this point whether or not he really is still part of the world. Not that it particularly matters to Draco t this point whether or not his friend is alive; he desperately needs the company, and Goyle was never really too lively in life, either. Goyle does not have any rose petals of his own, and this is how Draco concludes that he is indeed dead. Draco struggles to remember how long ago his friend's last petal wilted, but he cannot. It is the price of art, he concludes, to have his memory impaired so. That and the pain, but he can no longer remember that, either. All that remains for Draco is his art, his precious rose petals that burst from their stem at his side. It is he that gives them life, his life. Though they are not bursting anymore, Draco amends; they appear in more of a trickle now. He returns to his river metaphor and observes the motion of his creek through an increasingly foggy view.
He should have died long ago. A person cannot create such beautiful and terrible art and still live himself. Draco prefers to think of it now not as losing blood but creating something. It has helped him thus far on his – unfairly lengthy, if he had any room to complain – trip towards death. After all, something surely must come of his suffering; it cannot all be in vain. He would puzzle further over the matter if he had the mental capacity. He doesn't, so he doesn't. All he does is feel. Feel the cold creeping in around his heart, the only place chill hasn't yet invaded. Feel the water he is sitting in seep through his clothes and his skin and his fat and his muscles and all the way into the marrow of his bones. Feel the absence of moving air, so distinct yet utterly indescribable. Feel the sorrow and the acceptance.
If Draco still had his wits about him, he would be completely horrified with himself. There is no beauty in death. Death is cold and ugly and despicable. Deplorable just as he is deplorable for failing to conquer it. There is beauty in triumph, something he has failed to achieve time and time again. Draco has not triumphed. He has lost the day, not seized it. Once again, he has failed to overcome the obstacle. This time, however, there is no Mother to reassure him, no Father to shield him. When faced with accepting the consequences of his own failure, it literally kills him. How typical, how pathetic, how very Draco of him. Even his wallowing, both figuratively and literally, is another mark against him, bringing him further away from the person he'd like to be and towards the person he actually is. Up until this point in Draco's life, he'd had certain ideals about how he should carry himself and live his life – traits befitting someone of the Malfoy family line. Suave and in command of every situation he enters. Earnest yet refined and restrained, with a professional air about his every move. Calculating and cool and cunning, brave and bold and certainly better than the rest. Lord knows Draco isn't that man, he knows that now. In his entire life, he had only ever met one man who had come close to attaining his ideals. Ironic, he had found it, that even his own Father did not possess all of the traits that Draco assigned to his family. Perhaps he was too pompous in life, too focused on what he wanted to be rather than what he was. Draco takes it as a sign that he really is dying that he has begun to think of himself in the past tense. He reminds himself not to die, that his art needs him. It is too late, however. It had always been dim in the dungeon, but now it is pitch black, and Draco's head is really too heavy for him to continue holding up on his own. He wishes to ponder the irony of this statement also, but it has already been established that it is too late to do so. He wishes to compare his struggle to remain conscious as a tug-of-war of sorts with Death, but he is simply too tired, and it is quite frankly too late to do that, either. Now should be the moment where he thinks something profound and meaningful and possibly even states a great truth about the world, but in his dying moment, all Draco can comprehend is how utterly exhausted and defeated he feels about the whole ordeal, and so he simply dies.
"Are you certain of that, Professor?" Harry Potter asked dubiously, wand in one hand and holding his hip in the other, the picture of sassy disbelief.
"Quite certain, Professor," Minerva McGonagall replied snappishly, hands resting on the edge of the desk she was leaning over to stare him down. "The weather is simply too foul for the scheduled Quidditch match to take place, and I refuse to allow you to heckle the students into playing regardless."
"Back in my day, Professor, I played on a pitch in the pouring rain while Dementors patrolled the grounds!" Harry announced with great irritation, "Not one person stepped up to stop that one, and if I may refresh your memory, no one was injured during that match."
"Potter." McGonagall placed a hand delicately to the bridge of her nose, eyes narrowed at him with annoyance. "If I may refresh yours, you fell from your broom and nearly died during that match," she articulated icily.
Harry bristled. "No one was seriously injured, then. Besides, the students could stand to build some character. The teams don't know the meaning of hard work anymore; quite frankly, I am shocked at the work ethics I have seen displayed by these kids," he explained with a hint of bitterness in his voice. It was true; he had quit professional playing after only a few short years in order to come back and join the teaching staff at Hogwarts, and he had been livid to find out that no one was coaching Quidditch anymore. There were no Weasleys or Woods or Bells – hell, even any Flints - on the pitch anymore. The program had really gone downhill in the aftermath of the war. "No one can fly worth a damn anymore, Professor. You and I both know it. How can we restore Hogwarts' Quidditch teams to their former glories if no one grows a backbone?"
McGonagall sighed deeply and heavily, levelling Harry with an unamused stare. "This is precisely why we cannot allow play today. None of the students knows how to play at an advanced enough level to even give them a fighting chance out there." She began to look sympathetic at this point. "Potter, I know you are disappointed, but you cannot simply throw them into danger and expect them to excel. They aren't you. They aren't Weasley or Granger, either."
Harry shook his head. "And they never will be if we baby them."
"Dismissed, Potter. Thank you for your suggestions, but I have made my decision," McGonagall stated simply, sounding worn down but not defeated.
"Understood, Professor," was Harry's reply as he turned on his heel and headed through the portrait of her office, muttering to himself all the while.
During his brief stint in professional Quidditch, he found himself missing the magic, for lack of a better description. He missed practicing his spells, dueling with his mates, and learning new techniques and combinations to use in battle - not that battle happened very often anymore. After the war ended, Harry had figured that he'd had enough of that life, figured he was tired of fighting. So when he was approached by the Ministry with an offer of becoming an Auror, he politely declined and instead joined Puddlemere United as their Seeker. Which was more fun than he'd ever had in his entire life. Harry quickly found out that he was suited to the life of a Quidditch star, which came as a surprise both to himself and to his friends. Unlike being the Savior of the World, he had confidence in his Seeker abilities and knew that, if he failed to do something right, the lives of thousands didn't hang in the balance. He could still do something important, be a part of a team, and know that it was all essentially for fun. That was a refreshing feeling, and so he welcomed his new form of fame with open arms. The witches and wizards of the magical community welcomed the angles they saw of Harry under his new spotlight, as well. His public image had greatly improved from his days as Undesirable Number One.
Still, that only lasted about as long as it took for Harry to get homesick. He missed living at Hogwarts, missed the paintings and the classrooms and the corridors – missed the way the air was tinged with magic. Harry even missed those blasted trick staircases he always seemed to get tripped up by. After coming from nothing to the most perfect place in the world and calling it home, it was hard to leave the place behind after graduation. And so he applied for a position on the staff at Hogwarts as the flying instructor. Naturally, when word got out that Mr. Harry Potter was applying for a teaching position, it was assumed that he would be fulfilling the role of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. The school board voted him in without even realizing that he hadn't applied for the post.
When Harry finally managed to march himself all the way back to his office – located in a tower not too far from the one housing the Gryffindors – the rain had begun to come down harder. Harry worried idly that Hagrid's new pumpkins would be flooded right out of their patch. Actually, he was thinking about what to do about teaching his flying lessons – he thought about this subject constantly. Only those students who were on teams could take lessons with him. New magical sports had been introduced to the school in recent years, and Quidditch became something like an elite club only for those who already had a good enough grasp of the game to be recognized by the captains. After all, the only way for a new student to learn to fly was to be put on the reserve team by a Quidditch captain in order to have them qualify for the lessons. Harry thought it was a damn shame; people coming from non-magical families would have a significantly harder time learning under the new rules. Even after the horror and bloodshed of the war, prejudice still had its way of cropping up, it seemed. Just the other day, Harry had a little girl approach him in the halls, meekly asking if she could have a private lesson. Harry guiltily declined her – his schedule was booked up with all of the regular lessons plus teaching Defense classes.
Finally shut in to his office for the evening, Harry sat down to his desk and looked over his lesson plans for the following day. He would start his morning off at four with his exercise regimen, the only time of the day he truly called his own, until he had to appear in the Great Hall for breakfast at eight sharp. Then, it was off to teaching basic blocking spells to first and second years, lunch with Hagrid, offensive spells with the fourth and fifth years, dispelling with the thirds and the seconds again, dinner in the Great Hall, and ending his day with lessons on the Dark Arts with the sixth and seventh years. McGonagall was a conservative headmistress, to be sure, but after the horrors that had occurred on school property and around the world during the war, it just wasn't practical to shield young witches and wizards from potentially life-saving knowledge – namely, an understanding of Dark Arts. Part of the reason why the Ministry hadn't been able to stand up to Voldemort's armies the way they needed to was because Voldemort's armies were using magic no one knew how to defend against, let alone use themselves. Therefore, it had been integrated into the curriculum, though Harry wasn't sure how successfully. His magical training, while far superior to most, was still not well-rounded enough for him to teach Dark magic. He could scratch the surface, sure, but Harry was nothing if not a thorough teacher. It was the only hesitation he held onto before accepting the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching position, the reason he had initially not applied.
A truly good teacher of Dark magic would ideally have grown up around it, for a lot of things considered Dark are, in fact, simply old magic practiced only by pureblood wizarding families preserving the old way. Harry by no means considered himself prejudiced against muggle-borns and mixed families, but he couldn't deny that the traditions kept by the old families ensured a more powerful, pure brand of magic. The only problem with that was the only witches and wizards who would know were currently either dead or feigning ignorance in fear of persecution.
Harry waved his wand, transfiguring a nearby paperweight into a teacup and then nonverbally casting a spell to make hot water pour from the tip of his wand into the cup. A neat trick he had picked up on one of his trips to the Burrow, and he desperately needed some tea after the day he'd just been through. Honestly, though, it had been stressful ever since he had started teaching. With the war over, witches and wizards all over who had dropped out of school were coming back, parents were sending children that had been prevented from being enrolled in the first place, and transfers coming in from Norway who had been previously taught at Durmstrang. The school had acquired such a stigma as being a school for Dark wizards that it had been closed and its students dispersed to other institutions, Hogwarts being a popular choice for the ex-Durmstrangers. What all this meant, in a nutshell, was that the school was bursting at the seams with students. They'd even had to expand the dormitories to accommodate all of the new students. More students, unfortunately, meant more conflicts, especially with anti-pureblood sentiments running so high.
A sudden knock at his door startled Harry, causing him to jerk his elbow and spill hot water all over his desk. He dried it with a hasty swish of his wand, making his papers fly everywhere. Another swish of holly and phoenix feather sorted them to rights again, and at the top of his arc he flicked his wrist, flinging the door open wide to reveal none other than Luna Lovegood, who drifted through his doorway with a breezy hello.
"Hello, Luna," Harry greeted her, flicking the door shut again, gently this time. "How are you?"
"Fine, thank you," Luna replied, setting herself down in one of the plushy chairs near his fireplace, "Lovely weather this evening, isn't it?"
"Um, no, not really," Harry replied carefully, "Have you looked outside, Luna? It's pouring."
"Yes, I know," was Luna's answer, as if this made perfect sense to her. Which it probably did, but Harry was completely lost, as he usually was when it came to Luna.
"So," Harry continued, sitting down next to Luna with his teacup, "How are things going with you?"
"Wonderful, as always," she stated dreamily, hand reaching up to play with a strand of curly blonde hair, "Hagrid and I are going on a little trip into the Forest later to look for potions ingredients. I'm to invite you along, if you care to join us." She said all of this in the same breath, rushing her sentence towards the end. Luna always spoke that way – lazily, but all at once.
"Tell him thank you, but I'm expecting the Minister to Floo me later, so I ought to stay put and wait for him," Harry offered with a small shrug of his shoulders. He sipped at his tea a moment before continuing. "As if I don't have enough to deal with here, I received a note today from the Ministry that they would be setting up a secure line to my fireplace for later in the evening. It all sounds very important and invasive."
"Once a savior, always a savior," Luna offered, putting a hand on her friends shoulder.
"Don't get me wrong here, Luna, I am happy to help with the relief effort in any way I'm able," Harry tried, but it sounded like such a lie to his own ears that he couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "I'm sorry, Luna. I don't quite know how I feel about it, honestly."
"You don't owe anyone anything, Harry," Luna advised, suddenly serious, "Just because you can doesn't mean you must."
Harry didn't quite know what to say to that, so he sipped at his tea again, meeting his friend's gaze questioningly in the hopes that she would clarify. When no explanation was forthcoming, Harry began to shift uncomfortably. "No offense, Luna, but what?"
"I have to be going now, Harry," Luna replied as if that was a perfectly natural answer to his question. As she drifted back out his door, she called behind her, "Do take care!"
Harry sat dumbfounded. "Sure thing," he managed finally, a few seconds too late.
Just as he was draining the cold dregs from the bottom of his teacup, the fireplace burst to life in a vibrant emerald hue. Harry jumped at the sudden action, sending his cup sailing towards the mantle with a jerk of his arm. He quickly slowed it with magic and ran to catch it, catching the handle with the tips of his fingers. Setting it down gently next to him as he kneeled on the hearth, Harry peered into the flames. "Kingsley?"
The image of Kingsley Shacklebolt's head materialized, magical flames licking at his skin. "Evening, Potter."
Harry at once could tell that the Minister was bearing bad news. News Harry wouldn't like. He leaned in a bit closer. "What's happened, Kingsley?"
"The raid in Bordeaux, as you are most likely aware, began on schedule last night."
Harry nodded that, yes, he had heard through Ron about the Auror raid on the French town. Suspicious activities of anti-pureblood radicals had drawn Ministry attention over the past fortnight – a group that referred to themselves as The Sympathetics – and their public demonstrations had turned violent quickly, prompting the Aurors into mobilizing on them. Their main base of operations was the first place to have been searched, with forces spreading out to the entire city afterwards to search for illegal or otherwise suspicious activity. The Ministry had a zero tolerance policy towards prejudice of any kind nowadays, but some members of the wizarding community could not seem to grasp that oppressing purebloods was petty revenge, not equality.
"The actions of the rebels turned out to be more severe than we had imagined. A search of the estate turned up bodies, Potter," Kingsley reported gravely, "They had been torturing purebloods in their cellars."
"Gods," Harry swore, stomach turning at the thought. Didn't these extremists see they were becoming no better than the purebloods they hated so vehemently? "That's awful."
"There was one survivor, but it is still uncertain whether or not that will remain the case. He is currently being treated at St. Mungo's. If he pulls through, we will need somewhere safe to house him." The Minister looked pointedly around Harry's office.
Harry quirked one eyebrow. "I suppose this is where I fit in?"
Kingsley nodded once. "He was schooled at Hogwarts and has no surviving family. It is the only remaining place for him where we can ensure him safety as well as keep him under a watchful eye. I'm sure I don't need to explain to you how precious a resource this man will be in providing us with information on the rebels, not to mention his testimony will be extremely valuable in convicting the perpetrators once they are caught."
Harry sighed, looking earnestly into Kingsley's eyes. "Have you spoken to McGonagall about him?"
"I have," Kingsley confirmed with a slight inclination of his head, "She suggested that, when he is feeling well enough again, it might be good for him to assist you with your teaching duties."
"Who exactly are we speaking of, Kingsley?" Harry asked in a tone he hoped sounded level. He was getting a bit exasperated that he hadn't been given a name yet.
Kingsley merely looked uncomfortable at his question. "Now, Potter…," he began.
"It won't affect my decision, Minister," Harry assured him quickly, "The poor bastard deserves asylum, and we could use anything he knows to help prevent this from happening again."
"Right you are, Potter," Kingsley agreed, looking relieved. "I'm sure your help will be much appreciated by Mr. Draco Malfoy."
Oh.