Standard Disclaimer: Harry Potter & co belong to J.K.Rawling. Original characters belong to me. Quotes within the text will be attributed to their authors to the best of the author's ability.
Summary: A little pain, A little loss, A ton of history … and you've got this story. The Original Characters were created in order to facilitate the story line … which is difficult to describe right now without giving things away. Let me just say that it is going to be HP/DM, RW/HG … and I don't know what else in this story … except RL/SB and maybe later, RL/SS. So there are the ships.
The Plot involves the past actions of some bad guys, the current actions of more bad guys, two lost souls coming together (not necessarily Harry and Draco :P) and a lot of magic.
……………
Chapter 1: Approaching Convergence
Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.
--Buddha
Early morning light filtered through dusty windowpanes, across a horde of antique volumes lettered all in gold and silver filigree. Beyond the books lay more volumes, some neatly arranged on shelves, others scattered throughout in piles on tables, chairs and the warm, toffee-colored wood floors. Strange gadgets crafted in bronze and other metals with hundreds of knobs, dials, gyres, wheels and clockworks topped some of the piles and shelves, gleaming with promise beneath the dulling effect of the dust that lay like a warm blanket over everything.
The cat on the huge, leather bound edition of "Oculum Manifestus Noctum", did not seem concerned with dust, gadgets or books; rather, she simply let the sunlight wash over her, rolling her amber colored self into a more sunlight accessible shape with a purr like a broken boat motor.
It did not take long for the sunlight to fill the entire room of what was obviously a shop of some kind. It wasn't large - though it was filled to over-flowing with books. Upstairs could be heard the sounds of someone moving about and, then, the splash and rumble of waters surging through ancient pipes.
The cat stretched and twitched its whiskers, its tail flicking lazily against the window pane ... which, like everything else, was covered in dust. The resulting circle of clarity showed a cobbled street, quiet in the morning air, with a few birds pecking at the cobble stones and two or three cloaked figures moving briskly between the buildings. The water turned off upstairs and there was a loud clatter followed by a muffled curse. The cat twitched open a single golden eye and glanced upward, but when nothing further was forthcoming, she sighed and went back to drowsing. Outside, a tall figure in a long blue cloak daubed with silver stars stood staring up at the shop front from beneath the brim of a tall, pointed hat.
"Bloody Hell!"
She lay on her back on the tiled floor for a long moment, glad she'd already given the bathroom one of its more thorough cleanings the day before, but wondering whether or not she'd gotten a bit too industrious with the cleanser. The tiles had been slicker than average ... of course, she admitted to herself, that could be because she'd forgotten to draw the shower curtain completely and the puddle that was now beneath her hip had caught her unawares.
Sighing, she pulled herself awkwardly to her feet, tendering her hip like an old woman with arthritis. "You'd think I'd learn ..." she muttered, rubbing her face with her free hand and staring at herself in the mirror. Vivid golden eyes, the color of sunlit amber, glanced back at her from a sleep smudged face beneath a long, wet mop of burnished black hair. "You're an idiot, 'Edre," she muttered, picking up a brush and working it through her tangles. "Always forgetting to live like a normal human being, never remembering that you have to 'Pay Attention' ..." She sighed and laid the brush down, turning to limp toward the bathroom door."They always did say the books would go to my head," she muttered, dropping her bathrobe onto her bed and picking up the clothes she'd laid out for the day.
Just as she was pulling on the white silk blouse, the door bell clanged in the hall below. "Damn!" she exhaled, pulling on her slacks and grabbing her robe as she raced out of her bedroom and down the stairs, buttoning up her shirt as she went. She came out of the stairwell behind the counter and threw on her robe, it's rich brown length flaring as she strode toward the door. Andromeda, the cat, glanced sardonically at her as she passed.
"Hello ... Give me a moment, I have to unlock it," she called out, eyeing the tall, pointed silhouette in the frosted glass of the door with anxiety. Anyone who was here this early could only be a supplier, a collector or an official of something she didn't want to think about at this time of the morning. The silhouette didn't answer, but it didn't move away, either, so she sighed and drew her wand from her sleeve, casting the unlocking spell with a complicated swish before pulling the door open.
"I'm so sor ... " her voice trailed off for a long moment as she paused to gape at her visitor. "Sorry ... um ... "
"May I come in?"
"You're wearing blue."
"I'm quite aware of that. Are you going to leave me standing here, to my shame, or are you going to let me in?"
"Look, Severus, I'm sorry ... " She stepped back and let him into the shop before slamming the door shut again and relocking it, this time with a stronger spell than before, in addition to the bolts and chain.
"I didn't come to hear you apologize, Miss Endiredre."
"I realize that." She glared at him, "And you promised to call me Firien from now on. I don't recall ever being one of your students, and I certainly don't want you broadcasting my identity to all and sundry."
"Fine. Firien. Are you happy now? Can we get to the point of my visit or do I have to stand here waiting for you to get over yourself?" He had removed the hat, laying them on a table, and was now standing over her, glaring from beneath his mop of messy black hair.
"You are an ass," she stated before turning and sweeping toward the back of the shop. "We'll get to the point, but not here, in my shop. I haven't had my breakfast or my coffee yet, and I'm not going to forgive you if I miss it."
He followed her up the rickety stair case, through the narrow hall - he had to duck his head to miss the light, and into the kitchen, which was bigger than it should have been, given the size of the building. He sat down at the table and watched as she made the coffee and muffins.
"Coffee?" She asked, a few minutes later.
"Black."
"Figures," she poured and handed him a mug, then set the plate of muffins between them, along with a bowl of butter. "So, what brings you to my humble abode, Severus Snape? I hadn't thought to see you for at least another decade."
"Albus sent me," He took a long drink of his hot coffee and glared in the general direction of the kitchen sink. "We have no one to fill the DADA position this year, and things are coming to head with the Potter business."
She swallowed her muffin and took a long draught of coffee, "Why me?"
"You ought to know the answer to that already," He snarled, dark eyes furious. "Are you going to force me to explain every detail in full?"
"I ought to. I know how Albus Dumbledore works, Severus. I'm loathe to give up my freedom just to please an old man's whimsy. I need a solid reason why I ought to go to Hogwart's and put my life on the line. I know you want me there to guard Mr. Potter. I want to know why me, when there are others in the world who could do just as well." She set the mug down on the table and met his gaze with a level one of her own. "If you can't at least give me that courtesy, you can leave."
"He said you'd be difficult," the man glowered at her. She shrugged and folded her arms across her chest. He reached into his robes and withdrew an envelope. "Here is the contract, including his instructions. I'll wait while you read it."
Long, slim fingers carefully broke the seal on the letter and she pulled out a sheaf of folded papers. As she opened them, something small and square fell into her lap. Firien laid the papers down on the table and lifted the square into the light. A boy, about age 16, stared at her from the confines of the photograph, his dark hair blowing in the wind. His eyes were vivid green and there was a scar on his forehead shaped like a lightening bolt.
"He never fights fair, does he?" she asked, at last, laying the photo between them.
"Of course not," Severus Snape rose from the table, "We'll be waiting for you in August."
And then he had apparated away.
Firien stared at the place where he had been standing and swore, long and loudly.
During the summer between his fifth and sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy had come to the realization that, along with his stunning good looks, wealth, talent and superior standing, he was also possessed of a lively intelligence. This realization led him to the conclusion that his father, unfortunately, was not in possession of such an intelligence ... or, at least, he had developed said intelligence in entirely the wrong direction by following the likes of the resurrected Dark Lord.
This conclusion was arrived at during a particularly pathetic interlude involving his mother, Pansy Parkinson, a tea trolley and an interminable discussion of what one wore to a Death Eater Convention in Surrey during the summer.
As far as Draco was concerned, both women could dress as house elfs and wear doilies, just so long as they would allow him to escape ... soon. He had already discussed the summer situation with his tailor and they had arrived at the conclusion that, in the interest of comfort and style, Draco would not be attending said Death Eater Convention, but would be escaping to London in order to go clubbing with a more civilized crowd.
Draco felt he had ample reason to skip the Convention; for one, he no longer felt that following the orders of the Dark Lord was a viable path to the future. Not to mention, his father's recent incarceration was always very present upon his mind, and, while he admitted to a general concern over his father's welfare, Draco had come to the conclusion that his hero had fallen. The undefeatable father figure who had guided him from childhood to adolescence had proven himself fallible.
Draco found himself profoundly unsurprised.
It had to do, of course, with his meeting with Voldemort not long before the attack upon the ministry that had ended with his father's capture. He'd gone home for the holidays, expecting lavish ornamentation and decadent celebration only to discover that his father had given the manor over to the biggest git of the century. Ancient, powerful, disgusting and oozing things, Voldemort had reminded Draco of nothing so much as a mummy who had taken it into its head to walk around and take over the world. Of course, he'd been forced to defend said mummy on his return to Hogwarts after his Holidays, but that was neither no there now that his father was gone.
He came to the conclusion while watching Pansy daintily sip her tea - as though a girl who looked like a pug could do anything daintily - that Voldemort was disgusting and Lucius Malfoy was insane for wanting to follow the creature. If his father had been wrong about this fundamental ideology of Draco's childhood, then what did that mean about the rest of the things he had been taught? He finished his tea with a pounding headache and managed to excuse himself without too much embarrassment. Pansy seemed disappointed, but he felt, under the circumstances, that her feelings were hardly an issue.
His confusion lasted until the night preceding the Death Eater Convention ... when he overheard his mother discussing plans with Peter Pettigrew to give Draco the Dark Mark so he could follow in his father's footsteps.
He didn't want to follow in his father's footsteps, he realized as he stood in the hall outside his mother's sitting room. His Slytherin sensibilities were revolting at the very idea. What reward could be had for following someone whose self-interest was the most likeable thing about him? Anyone with half a brain could see that following Voldemort was pointless. The man was a walking mud blood corpse who was more interested in murdering a boy named Harry Potter than he was in actually -being- a Dark Lord.
Draco was unimpressed.
He was unimpressed and he was sick with the idea that such a creature might want to use him, as well ... for what he did not want to know. So he went to his room, called a house elf and instructed it to pack his things straight away for the ... He found himself smiling. "Pack my things for the Convention, Oily, and bring me another bag. I have a few oddments I wish to take along for myself."
Sneaking out with a pocket of magically reduced luggage (His entire wardrobe, the contents of his private safe, half his personal library along with his private papers, his broom chest and a trunk full of his most prized possessions)was easier than he had imagined it would be. He told his mother he was going to stop by the London townhouse for the evening and that he would meet her at the Portkey site in the morning.
"Very well, darling," Narcissa had murmured, smiling at him, her pale eyes moving over his person with approval. "You make your father very proud, you know."
Somehow, it was harder to agree with her than it was to walk away, but he looked over his shoulder as he went, his eyes bright in the firelight. "Good night, mother."
That was how, at 10 p.m. that evening, he found himself standing at the front gate of Hogwarts, a hefty purse on one hip, a welter of luggage in his pocket and a wary expression to the tilt of his pale head. He hoped as he rapped his knuckles against the aging doors, that he would not overly regret his decision.
She was having a bad day, she decided around lunch time. First, Severus Snape had come to visit, bringing his paperwork, temperamental irritability and heart wrenching photographs. Then, she'd discovered that a poltergeist had moved into the basement and was irritating the water nymph who helped keep her city water country fresh. It had taken four hours, a closed shop, 50 galleons and a gnomish Exorcist to rid the basement of the Poltergeist, which she was unfairly inclined to blame on Snape. After that, having reopened the shop, she found herself at the mercy of three tearful Gilderoy Lockhart fans who were attempting to find first edition copies of all his books.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I don't carry Gilderoy Lockhart," she tried to explain. "My store specializes in antiquities, and Mr. Lockhart's work is all quite recent." - Not to mention fraudulent - she added silently. "Please, you'll want to check Flourish and Blotts. Perhaps they'll know who would carry that edition if they do not have it."
"But everyone in the Alley assured us that you carried the largest stock of out-of-print books!" the elderly witch who had initiated the exchange sniffled into an overly embroidered handkerchief that featured a fluttery display of miniature cherubs who all looked disturbingly like Gilderoy Lockhart. "Surely you can find some way to help us!"
Firien frowned at her inventory list and wondered which book dealer in Diagon Alley had it in for her. Just because she was the new kid on the block didn't mean they ALL had to send their most hated customers to her door step. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin and eyed the three women with a flinty glare, ala Severus Snape who, she decided at that moment, was good for something after all.
"Perhaps one of the local second hand book shops might have it, but I do not. None of my dealers would touch a book that was less than a hundred years old, and even those are considered practically new! Albus Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel's works on the Philosopher's Stone are the only books that I sell that have a later print date, and that is because Flamel was over five hundred years old when he died and was himself considered an antiquity." She inhaled deeply and tried not to clench the edge of the counter too tightly. "I'm sure that you will find the editions you require if you look at one of those other shops. Mine, as you can see, will not stock those volumes for another eighty years, at least."
"Well! I never ... " the witch with the handkerchief was slinging poor Gilderoy Lockhart's visage all over the shop as she waved her hands through the air. "Believe me, Miss ... Miss ... " she glared at Firien, but the shopkeeper had her arms folded across her chest and was glaring venomously at her by this point, " ... Miss-Whatever-Your-Name-Is, I am going to tell all my friends that you are a tremendously rude young person and that your shop is no better than it should be. Insufferable brat!"
"Corinda, we should really go now," one of the other ladies whispered hesitantly to her agitated friend. "I'm sure there's no need for us to stay here after all of that. She doesn't stock the books, after all ... "
"Miranda! We're leaving!" the handkerchief waver announced dramatically and then proceeded to waft out of the store, her attendants - for they were more like sycophants than friends - following her out the door.
Firien slumped down on her stool behind the main counter and covered her face with her hands. It was too much to be born. She had owned the shop for over fifteen years now, and it never changed. The other nearby shops were either in Knockturn Alley, and were out and out mean about the competition, or they were in Diagon, where, because she refused to advertise or socialize, she was considered more than a little strange. In fact, one of the smallish bookstores down the street on Diagon had threatened, in a very sweet manner, to accidentally 'nudge' her shop all the way into Knockturn the next time they remodeled.
Thankfully, no one had bothered to investigate why she had chosen to be so reclusive. It was bad enough that she had to work among the public at all, and that was the main reason why she wanted nothing more to do with Albus "Have a lemon drop" Dumbledore. Every time the old bat had tried to 'help' her, she ended up doing things she didn't want to do and dealing with people she hated. Then, when she brought the situation to his attention, he did a silly song and dance routine and played her heart strings until she broke down and capitulated.
She fairly hated the man. Despite the cute spectacles and the floofy beard.
It had been his idea to hide her square in the center of the wizarding world, a world that didn't want her when it thought it knew what she was and a world that would definitely turn against her if it found out the truth. At the time she had been new to the world, confused and alone, and the idea of having a place to call her own had been like a dream come true. And then she'd moved in and opened the shop. The truth had been rather harder to bear.
Perhaps she ought to simply close the store today and reopen tomorrow, she thought desperately. Tomorrow is always fresh, as they say ... and then the bell above the door dinged again, announcing another customer. She groaned and slumped down even further.
Hermione was in heaven. It took one look at her shimmering eyes and beaming smile to know that. Harry and Ron followed after her at a safe distance. Ron claimed that he didn't want to follow too close, or people would think he was as mad about books as she was.
"She's balmy," Ron said for the fortieth time as they watched her walk up the steps of the shop they were approaching. "I mean, look at her! She's in bloody heaven over what basically amounts to a dust heap."
"Mmm," Harry answered, his hands in his pockets, fist clenched around his wand. He wasn't paying too much attention to either Hermione or Ron at the moment. It had been a hard summer and he hadn't been out of doors for far too long. The open streets and mobs of people were making him jumpy and he had to stop himself from constantly looking over his shoulder.
At the Dursleys, earlier in the summer, he'd had to watch for Death Eaters while in public and his Uncle Vernon's fist while in private. The anger he'd been feeling when he had left Hogwarts had long faded into a kind of numb acceptance. He had spent the first two weeks fighting back, forcing his uncle to back down and leave him alone; his anger at Snape, himself and Dumbledore taking shape as it screamed itself out in the house on Privet Drive.
But it hadn't lasted. One day Vernon had got in a good punch, and Harry had gone clear across the hall, slamming into the wall and sliding down. It had hurt too much to move, and he slumped there while Vernon's harsh voice washed over him in a wave. "I deserve this," he had thought, not really hearing the words his Uncle was spitting at him with such fervor. "I did this. Sirius, the Ministry, everything ... I ... I deserve this."
After that it didn't matter what the Dursleys did or said. He sometimes provoked Vernon on purpose, pushing him till the man's rage overcame him and Harry ended up bruised and bleeding. It seemed appropriate, somehow, to be punished. At least he was paying for who he was, in some small way, to make up for the things he had done – the mistakes he had made. When Remus and Tonks found him, a month into the summer break, he was battered, bruised and silent. They'd wanted to remove him them, but Vernon but up a fight and Petunia kept shrilling on and on about how they were taking care of the freakish brat and the rest of his tribe could just bugger off.
Remus lost his temper.
That was all Harry really remembered. Tonks had been bundling his things into his trunk and Remus had been threatening the Dursleys in an uncommonly violent fashion. They'd finally left, taking Harry and leaving behind a sulking family of muggles. Now, Harry was here, walking along Diagon Alley as though there were no Death Eaters after him and he was just a normal boy out with his friends. He would have laughed at the irony of it if he'd had any laughter left in him; instead, he nodded at Ron and kept his eye on Hermione and the street … hoping against hope that his friends would survive a summer with him in it with them.
The door of the shop chimed with the sound of bells when Hermione opened it. Harry found himself wondering at the surprisingly cheery notes and wondering if there was a world left in which such things mattered.
(To Be Continued)