Arcane Incarnate

Harry had no idea why anyone would ever desire to be a hero; Draco had never asked to play the role of a villain. (Character Introspection; Post HBP)

AN: Dedicated to Shaz – lots of love and hugs for the day. This is post Half-Blood Prince, so do mind the spoilers. Betaed by Starstruck272.

-----

0 - The Fool – Harry Potter

The Fool represents the mystical cleverness bereft of reason within us.

It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, hovering, waiting for either his balance to assert itself and bring him back to safe ground, or for gravity to tip him over into oblivion.

There were voices beyond, Hermione's earnest voice and Ron's chuckles audible despite the closed door. Harry smiled briefly, comfortable in his solitude; he was at home here, amongst those whom had become close family despite the lack of blood-bonds.

Harry lived life impulsively, always aching to experience more as if to make up for his stunted childhood with the Dursleys. He had taken a leap of faith when he accepted Hagrid's word instead of dismissing everything as insanity. Looking back, he realized just how incredible a step that was. His eleven-year-old self had been quiet, insignificant and had no role of his own to play.

Now, he was coming of age, and somehow the future had come to roost on his shoulders.

Harry didn't know how he had been cast in the role of the hero. Most of the time, he leaped into situations without a second thought, always ready to fightand struggle with the fate he had been allotted with, only sheer good luck and pig-headed stubbornness allowing him to escape with his life.

Harry had been told that he attracted trouble the way honey attracted bees, except he realized that he asked for trouble with the way he allowed his heart to rule his mind.

Nowadays, Harry wondered if the grieving will ever stop. He stared into the mirror and studied the stranger glaring back at him from within its depths. His reflection had that same wild, untamable hair and those green, green eyes, but there was something dark and angry in that steady gaze, a shadow that had only grown stronger with each passing day and each passing death. Strong conviction showed in his firm stance, the liquid shift of Seeker-honed muscles, but the way his mirror image handled his wand was almost… dangerous.

Harry knew he was in control of his actions and emotions, but sometimes he stared at his reflection and wondered which one of them he was: the hero, the fool, or the wildcard.

He thought of Draco Malfoy quite often, his mind still unable to tear itself away from the near obsession he had had throughout the year, stalking the other and trying to determine his motives. As much as he had hated the other boy, Harry couldn't forget the hopeless, clawing frenzy in those grey depths, the way Malfoy's wand hand had quivered, just slightly.

He wondered what Malfoy would have done, what path would have opened up to him if Snape had not destroyed everything in a shocking flare of green.

Here, Harry's mind fluttered shut, self-preservation leaping in and blocking out the hurt, the gaping sorrow.

How many more will mourn the loss of their loved ones before the war was over? Plenty, Harry knew. In this, he was no different than anyone else; Death did not discriminate between individuals.

If there was one thing worse than lost innocence, it was the gnawing sensation of guilt. It lodged in Harry's chest, burning deep within him, seared through his veins. So many had died before him – Cedric, Sirius and Professor Dumbledore – and each time, it was his actions that had aided their demise. If he hadn't insisted on sharing the Triwizard Champion title, if he had been wise enough to trust in Sirius, if he had been strongenough to resist Professor Dumbledore's spell, if he had just stopped and listened and taken the words of advice offered to him to heart for once; the thoughts played over and over in Harry's head like a broken mantra.

Harry couldn't let go, because he couldn't quite forgive himself. And yet, the worst thing was realizing that given the chance, Harry wouldn't change the reckless flair that colored all his actions, and for that, he was thrice the fool.

If, if, if. So many crossroads before him. So many different lives he could have lived. In the story tales, the legends and lore of old, the hero always knew which road to choose, stumbling and fighting his way, but always emerging on the righteous path. The hero always survived, and if he didn't, at least brought peace to the land.

Harry had no idea why anyone would ever desire to be a hero. He hated the eyes that dogged his steps, some with starry-eyed awe, and others with dark resent heavy in their gaze. The weight of their regard multiplied tenfold with every subsequent adventure Harry managed to scrap through, and that was a burden he would have willingly given up.

This wasn't a story, a plot in which the protagonist was assured of victory. This was his reality, and Harry didn't know what he was. Was he a catalyst? The victorious hero of the day, or the dead fool who had tried to defy the Dark Lord?

Here, sitting in the shadows merely waiting for time to pass, Harry would have given anything for a bit of anonymity, to fade into the background in light of Hermione's brilliance and Ron's quirky humor, to sit quietly as Remus spun tales of his school days, the Marauder days, content to listen to someone else's adventure for once. He'd even take comfort in the adrenaline rush of the rivalry he had with Malfoy, to know that if life had turned out a little different, he would hate the other boy for his arrogance, not for the Dark Mark Harry knew would one day scar Malfoy's body, if it hadn't done so already.

He wished they were normal, or as normal as wizards could ever be. He was starting to empathize, just slightly, with Malfoy's position, and that was a dangerous position to take. Professor Dumbledore had always sympathized with the sketchiest of characters and in the end, had paid with his life.

To trust in the wrong person… and here, Harry had to suppress his rage, lest he shattered every shard of glass in his room.

Harry's greatest strength was his heart, so full of lively emotion. He lived on instinct – more apt to act on his feelings than what his mind and logic told him except now he feared what those emotions might lead him to do. His feelings for Ginny made her a fine target for any of Voldemort's supporters.

Harry was reaching the point where he was afraid of feeling, except that he couldn't stop; strong emotions of loyalty, love and fierce devotion were etched deeply into hissoul.

Sometimes Harry wondered if he will be able to live with all the sorrow and loss after the War reached its bloody conclusion. There was a side of him that thrived on hurt and anger, and he refused to let it rule him. In the end, it didn't really matter. He was going to continue following his instincts, that sixth sense or conscience that guided him all his life. If Harry had to defy reason and logic to protect what was his, however, he'd willingly give up his sanity for it.

XII - The Hanged Man – Draco Malfoy

The Hanged Man is every hero committed enough to the adventure to die for it.

It was like having a noose around his neck, more intimate and palpable and deadly than a wand pointed at his heart. Sometimes, the choking sensation grew too much, to the point where he couldn't lie down, couldn't lie still for fear of drowning under tension.

That famed Malfoy pride and sophistication was being worn painfully thin, slipping away as each second passed, like silver pearls spilling down from a broken necklace.

Draco glared mutely at the former-professor, his mentor – the very man that had condemned him to this cat-and-mouse existence. They were trapped in a state of limbo now, boxed from half a dozen sides. By now, news of his betrayal and Dumbledore's death would have spread like wildfire to the entire wizarding world. The Death Eaters who had accompanied him on the Astronomy Tower that night had taken to eyeing him with dark suspicion in their eyes, and only Snape's influence had kept them at bay.

They didn't dare defy him, he who had killed Dumbledore, he who now had the Dark Lord's greatest favor, and being under his protection meant that Draco was untouchable.

Sometimes, Draco wondered when the bars of the cage around him had started to resemble the minute gestures and pointed looks of command that Snape flashed his way.

His fingers, once long cooed over and acclaimed by the Slytherin girls – so bone fine, so slender, perfectly shaped and beautiful when splayed around the Golden Snitch – were now slightly grunt, the knuckles paler than even the legendary Malfoy marble skin from stress. They held his wand with a too-familiar tight grip; Draco was used to living with it in hand now – not even sleep could banish it from that position.

They said that the wand makes the wizard; it was a witch or wizard's medium, a way of channeling that innate magic within into their physical manifestations of spells.

Now, Draco's wand was his life; it was all that stood between him and the rest of the world, because he wasn't sure he trusted Snape anymore. The dark resin wood, once comforting beneath his fingers, only stood as a cold reminder of his situation.

Here he was, surrounded by merciless killers, slowly journeying back to the one who was Death to them all. The Dark Lord would rip his mind apart when – not if – he learned of Draco's hesitation. And Draco knew that somewhere out there, a certain lightning bolt-scarred man was after both his and Snape's blood.

He laughed – a low, hollow sound – and stared back arrogantly when all eyes in the little hideout flickered to him.

He had never asked to play the role of a villain. Everyone wanted to be the hero, the shining silver knight who would take the world and twist it into his own. He would help change the world, because it was tainted, diluted by the poisoning influence of the Muggle world – yes, he will be part of the wave, the deadly medicine that will purify the wizarding world.

Except somewhere along the line, things had changed. Time and again, he had been snubbed – by the professors, by the very world around him itself – because most only had eyes for their shining golden boy, the Boy Who Lived. Almost everyone in the Slytherin house looked up to him, but that wasn't enough; having conquered his own house, Draco had not been content to find that everyone else had little regard for him.

He had been thwarted by an infuriating specimen of a Gryffindor, one that had slighted him on their very first meeting. Since Harry Potter was so adamant about being rivals and enemies, Draco was determined to be his very antithesis.

He was the silver prince to Potter's golden reputation, the cold-headed arrogant thinker to Potter's brash, instinctive-driven actions. When his father had laid down the path to the Dark Lord, Draco had leaped for the chance, eager to further stake any position that countered the Potter boy's naïve beliefs. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and Draco had his revenged well-planned out. He would methodically destroy everything that Potter stood for – with the Dark Lord's strength, he would play the villainous role to prove that all heroes eventually fall.

Draco's greatest strength was his mind, and he fought ruthlessly on the battle field until things began spinning out of hand. Suddenly, the game had encompassed more than just himself – his father's hearty influence disappeared the moment he was locked in Azkaban, and suddenly his mother's life was on the line. Instead of being the collected and self-assured hero-knight-villain, he had found himself near breaking point, crying angry, frustrated tears with the fury of a summer storm to a transparent ghost.

Right now, he was just a pawn, a sacrificial lamb on the chessboard. Draco Malfoy had no idea how he had come to this position, but he knew without a doubt that one way or another, he was going to be horribly killed.

--end--

AN: And one day, when I'm not drowning in work, I'll pair up the rest of the Arcana Major tarot cards with their respective characters, and write them out.

As always, reviews and con/crit are much beloved.