─┼─╫─┼─╫─┼─ MUSIC FROM A FARTHER ROOM ─┼─╫─┼─╫─┼─
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling. I do not own any rights to Harry Potter, but nor am I making any money off this. If anything I'm actually losing money.
Notes: Thanks so much for all the faves and follows, and most especially the reviews. They mean a lot to me, and each one is a little impetus to keep writing.
─┬─┴─┬─┴─ 2. SCIONS ─┴─┬─┴─┬─
Harry woke gasping for breath like a drowning man breaking the surface, with the nightmare running off him like foul water. It took him longer than he liked to recognize the ceiling and walls above him, and the unfamiliarity was jarring; some animal instinct in Harry had learnt to fear waking in strange places.
He had dreamt of Hogwarts. In his dream, the sorting hat had cried 'SLYTHERIN!' and, as if that were some secret signal, everyone had attacked him, swarming over him like the dementors in the cavern beneath the sea, and Harry had defended himself to the death—their deaths. He had slashed them to pieces with sprays of blood, incinerated them with walls of flame, and crushed them beneath chunks of stone ripped from the walls. The splash of hot blood on his face and the smell of burning flesh had been so real that the sensations lingered into his waking state.
Worst of all, in the dream, he had revelled in the maelstrom of death, and the triumph of his power, ascendant, had filled him with ecstatic glee. But in the harsh light of morning, that conceit had vanished like mist, leaving nothing but self-reproach. He felt sickened by the remembered images, and by whatever dark gutter in his mind had birthed them.
Slowly, he recalled himself to the present time. He was in the Wizenwarden's cottage on Azkaban, in the smaller bedroom, which would be his for the few weeks until school began. Having been promoted to Wizenwarden of Azkaban after the premature death of the previous warden, Oakes, James was now entitled to the largest of the cottages in the wizenguards' village. Nevertheless, they had been obliged to wait some weeks before moving in, as James was not so cruel a man as to evict a widow and her three children before they had arranged new lodgings. As such, the Potters had just passed their first night in their new abode.
Although the leader of Echidna's cult had perished, and the other members had been wiped of their memories and their sanity via some dark spell, Harry still had his doubts about the wizenguards. James had assured him that the remaining guards who had been hired before his time had been thoroughly screened and cleared of any wrongdoing, but Harry still wondered if there wasn't something about the job, the prison, or even the island that had a pernicious influence on the weak-minded.
Despite his persistent worries, however, things were looking up in the Potter household. It had been several months since James had taken the position as Wizenwarden, and it was as though he had come out of hibernation. Harry wasn't sure if it was because the horde of dementors had decreased in number, because the demoralising atmosphere of corruption and desperation amongst the guards had dissipated, or because summer was thawing the man's mood, but, whatever the case, he was glad. James was no longer locked in the stuporous malaise from which he had suffered, and he seemed to have regained some sort of inner strength.
Of course, James being awake and cognizant meant that he was more apt to notice what Harry was up to, but on this matter they had reached an uneasy truce. As long as Harry didn't openly flaunt his misbehaviour, James pretended not to notice any small slips that should have tipped him off. For example, a few days previously, a receipt from Flourish and Blotts had fallen out of one of Harry's books, and James had picked it up. The receipt bore a date on which Harry should have been on the island with no way of leaving.
In truth, Harry had been leaving the island regularly by flying in a purloined dementor's robe, just as his uncles, Rabastan and Rodolphus, had. After staring at the damning receipt for a tick, however, James had simply placed it back in the book and walked off with a wooden face. Harry did not know what to make of this behaviour, but he did not dare disturb the uneasy balance which afforded him his freedom.
The creaking of boards downstairs in the kitchen indicated that his father was up and about, and the aroma of frying bacon indicated that the man had woken on the right side of the bed. Harry decided that he, too, would endeavour to get up on the right side.
"Morning," Harry called—if not exactly cheerfully, then at least civilly.
"Morning," James replied with a tentative smile.
This was a somewhat ironic greeting, since it was summer, and the sun only grazed the horizon at night, never dipping below it, and hence no particular time could adequately be described as morning. It had often occurred to Harry that these months-long arctic days and nights seemed to exist in some continuum only tangentially linked to the rest of the world. It was as though the clock hands had gone all the way around, and then, rather than beginning again, had spiralled away on some other, fantastic spool of time.
"There you are, you little blighters," James muttered to the cutlery that he had opened several drawers to find. "It's lovely to have more room, but I can't seem to remember where anything is."
"I know," Harry agreed, beginning to pick at the eggs and toast that James had already placed on his plate under a warming charm. "I kind of panicked when I woke up and didn't know where I was. Thought I might have been—" He broke off, abruptly.
James looked at him intently. "Been…?"
Harry exhaled sharply. "Nothing, never mind." He began spreading jam over a triangle of toast.
A shadow of concern passed over James' face as he turned back to the bacon, flipping the strips with a panache born of years of experience and a native grasp of household magic. With a quick thrust of the pan, the sizzling strips of flew up the side of the pan, arced through the air, and landed gracefully on their opposite sides. Harry's mouth twitched up a little at the corners in admiration.
"Are you still having nightmares?" James asked.
Harry's smile slid off his face at that. "Why do you ask?"
James sighed exasperatedly. "Just because I—" he started to say, then stopped himself. "You don't have to—" This, too, he seemed to think better of. At last, he settled on, "I thought I heard you thrashing around upstairs, but I was in the middle of cooking, so I couldn't check on you. I was worried."
Harry remembered suddenly the night when he had returned to Azkaban after being chased through Knockturn and temporarily killed. He had woken from a nightmare of being chased to the feel of James' large, rough hand caressing his hair and soothing him from his fears. His tension eased at the memory, and he decided, for once, to be honest.
"I did have a nightmare. Just a—a stupid school thing. Not about…you know…"
James' eyes darkened for a moment at the veiled reference to other events about which Harry might have nightmares, but the moment passed quickly. A tapping sounded from the window then, and Harry paid the owl for that day's Prophet. He unrolled the paper without much interest, but his eye was instantly caught by the lead article—or, rather, by the photograph accompanying it.
There was the blonde boy, in the same ratty outfit he had worn that day in the Alleys, looking somewhat the worse for wear. His expression was dazed and pale, and every now and then he flinched a little, as though someone had made a loud noise. Perhaps the photographer's flash had startled him.
But none of that was terribly interesting. What really interested him was the name given in the caption. Draco Malfoy.
MALFOY HEIR ASSAULTED BY DEMENTORS
Draco Malfoy, aged eleven years, son of the well-known philanthropists Mr. Lucius and Mrs. Narcissa Black Malfoy, was chased and accosted by two dementors this evening, resulting in injuries which caused him to be admitted to St Mungo's for observation.
According to witnesses, the incident began at Obscurus Books, in Diagon Alley, where Mr Malfoy unknowingly removed a book from the premises without paying. Shop owner Urien Blecher reported the incident immediately, and Aurors dispatched two dementors to make an arrest. According to a spokeswizard for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Aurors in question did not take the time to determine the age or identity of the supposed criminal before acting.
"They're overworked," said an anonymous source in the DMLE. "The budgets have been whittled down to crumbs, and there simply aren't enough Aurors to go around at the moment. That's why dementors are being used to make arrests. Frankly, it was a disaster waiting to happen."
Upon being apprehended by the dementors, Mr Malfoy's terror activated his child-safe emergency portkey, and he was transported automatically to his home. He was then taken promptly to St Mungo's by his parents. According to sources in the paediatric ward of Mungo's, the only injury was mental and emotional shock, including loss of memory, such as is commonly reported after unprotected contact with multiple dementors.
During his stay in hospital, Aurors took Mr Malfoy's statement. Mr Malfoy, having still not realized the cause of the entire ordeal, was surprised to discover that he was indeed carrying a book taken from Blecher's shop, and sources report that he handed the book over to authorities with a tearful apology for its rightful owner.
Apparently unmoved by the apology, Blecher continues to protest that Mr Malfoy should be arrested. "That kid is a bad egg," Blecher responded to this reporter's question. "He even attacked one of my other customers while he was escaping! Just returning the book doesn't make it right. I want to know why that little snake isn't being prosecuted. Why am I the one being sued, eh?"
"Draco is certainly not a thief," Lucius Malfoy responded to reporters via firecall. "Our family has credit in every store in Diagon, so why would he steal anything? It was a simple mistake, and he has suffered most unjustly for it. I will be pursuing a civil suit against those responsible for this travesty, including Mr Blecher and the DMLE, to the utmost extent of the law."
An emergency session of the Wizengamot was convened after several dozen angry protestors and their owls and howlers swarmed Ministry of Magic premises. Legislation restricting the use of dementors in arresting children was signed into law in the early hours of this morning. Further legislation restricting the use of dementors in arresting adults for non-violent crimes is still under debate as of publication time.
Harry read the report of Draco's shock and terror with a certain amount of chagrin. Although automatically activated child-safe portkeys were rather expensive, and hence Harry had never owned one, he was aware of how they worked. They couldn't be activated voluntarily, but in case of injury, they would transport the bearer to a designated safe location. He hadn't realized, however, that mental trauma could also activate them. Draco's fear must have been quite extreme for the portkey's magic to have counted it as an injury.
Was it only the presence of the dementors that had so terrified Draco, or had the sight of them being brutally slaughtered by some unknown magic also played its part? Also, why hadn't the destruction of the dementors made it into the papers? Did Draco really not remember it? Had he perhaps portkeyed away much earlier than Harry realized? Or was the Ministry trying to hush it up?
"Anything worth reading?" James asked, peering over Harry's shoulder and startling him from his wandering thoughts.
"Not really," Harry lied.
James snorted, glancing over the article. "Malfoy's son! What a laugh."
Harry scowled at his father for the distinctly uncharitable remark. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that James' deep-seated enmity for the Malfoys extended even to children. Harry's father, taking no notice of the dark look, twirled his wand deftly, and the bacon flew from the pan onto their plates, where it joined the eggs and toast.
After they had both tucked into their food, James picked up the paper again and frowned at it. "Looks like Cissy's been up to her old tricks," he said with distaste.
It took Harry a moment to realize that James was referring to Narcissa. Harry hadn't known they had ever been on such intimate terms as to warrant nicknames, but they were cousins, after all. Not to mention that James had called her by a far worse term the last time they spoke of her.
"Tricks?" Harry inquired.
James smirked unpleasantly. "Shall I arm you with a bit of ammunition against that Malfoy kid?"
Some morally upright part of Harry wanted to tell James off for being so mean about a kid, but that part was quickly overwhelmed by the greedy majority of Harry that hungered to know anything and everything about the Malfoys—particularly the youngest one.
"Might as well," Harry drawled, feigning disinterest, with doubtful success.
"Well, when we were kids," James began, "we saw each other pretty often at family gatherings, since we're about the same age." He interspersed his story with hearty bites of breakfast, obviously enjoying himself. "That's how I know about it. You wouldn't believe it now, but back then she was as ugly as a one-eyed troll."
Harry glanced at him sceptically. He had seen Narcissa's picture in Nature's Nobility, and she was possessed of a remarkable beauty that her son had obviously inherited.
"Every now and then, one of the Blacks comes out like that. Probably all the inbreeding," James speculated. "Then one summer—I think it was the summer before she started Hogwarts—she went off on a tour of the continent with Aunt Cassiopeia. And when she came back, she—well, she looked like she does now. It wasn't natural."
That was interesting, but hardly objectionable. "So she got some work done. She wouldn't be the first one."
James huffed. "Nobody could change that much just by going under the wand. Believe me, I've seen a witch or two who have. No. Even her natural hair colour changed, and that's no potion's work. When have you ever seen a Black with blonde hair?"
"So?" Harry asked. "What is it you think she did?"
James looked smug. "I reckon she did some kind of dark ritual. She was always sitting at the old folks' knees, drinking up their nonsense. Sacrificed a swan at the full moon, buried it in a crossroads—something like that. Maybe she ate a Veela's heart. How should I know? I never took up with that rubbish." He wrinkled his nose disdainfully.
"And now look!" He tapped the picture of Draco Malfoy. "She's gone and done it to her son, too. No way any natural born child of hers would come out looking like that without some dark magic in it somewhere."
Harry frowned, chewing his bacon thoughtfully. "Hrm," he murmured noncommittally.
James scoffed. "I see you don't believe me, but you just try and find any pictures of her from before she went to Hogwarts. You can't. They all disappeared. If that's not proof, I don't know what is. So if that Malfoy kid ever gives you any trouble, you just ask him if he got his work done at the same place his mum did. That ought to shut him up."
"Make sure you get some winter things, because you might not get another chance to go shopping until the holidays," James enjoined, counting off galleons into a small bag. "And don't give the Weasleys any trouble. You're under their rules while you're with them."
A few weeks had passed since Harry's encounter with Draco Malfoy, and now James was bundling Harry off with the Weasleys to get his school things and stay with them for the night before going on the train to Hogwarts the next day.
"You said that already," Harry replied with a roll of his eyes. "Look, can't I just go on my own?"
James looked annoyed. "I know Diagon seems safe, but if you knew how many perverts and potions addicts I've booked there…"
"I can take care of myself," Harry told his father. James glanced up, and Harry met the man's chocolate brown eyes with his own pale sea-green ones.
James straightened, glancing at his son's gloved hands, and suddenly his eyes become those of a stranger.
"Yes," he agreed, "I suppose you can. But how would that look, if someone saw the Boy Who Lived"—he uttered the epithet with disdain—"wandering around on his own with no guardian?"
Harry shrugged lackadaisically, since he'd been doing just that all summer. "They only recognize me when I'm with you. You're the one whose picture's been in the papers all the time."
The press were too wary of James' hot-tempered litigation to print any close-ups of Harry. Even the picture of James carrying Harry into St Mungo's after the incident with the cultists had obscured Harry's face subtly, emphasizing James as the heroic figure instead. So Harry wasn't often recognized in public, unless someone caught sight of his scar.
James snorted. "And you're the one who yelled at me for not getting you a coat. Do you want me to behave like a proper father or not?"
"That was ages ago!" Harry protested, flushing slightly at the memory.
Many years since, James had been tongue-lashed by the matron of Harry's day school for not providing Harry a winter coat. Of course Harry didn't need any such thing, in fact he relished the cold, but he had once tried to inspire some guilt in his father by throwing the incident in the man's face.
"I didn't need one anyway," Harry muttered petulantly.
James flashed a quicksilver grin and ruffled up his own hair, giving him that windblown, bed-head look that seemed to make sleazy women, and not a few men, salivate. "Turn-about is fair play."
Harry pouted, but on the inside, he was smiling, too. Although there was an ocean of troubles beneath the thin ice of their détente, the peace between them was solid enough to stand on. The fact that they could discuss that incident without screaming at each other was evidence of that.
"And now," James announced with a rather grand intonation. "It's time to carry on a little family tradition."
Harry made a puzzled face. James beamed impishly, and went into his bedroom. He returned carrying a dark, lacquered wooden box about the size of a loaf of bread.
"This, Harry my boy, is the secret of my success as the master prankster of all time at Hogwarts." His face darkened for a moment, remembering, perhaps, that two of his best friends, Peter and Sirius, had gone on to become Death Eaters. Then it brightened again, and he said with a roguish leer, "It's also how I got my reputation as such a stud."
"Dear gods," Harry spat, recoiling. "Whatever it is, I don't want it."
"Oh, really?"
James pressed several unmarked spots on the box, and the lid opened with a click. He drew out a long, shimmering piece of fabric that glittered like moonlight on water and was all but transparent. Harry gasped softly, realizing what it was. James threw the invisibility cloak over himself and disappeared. Then his head reappeared in mid-air, plastered with a shit-eating grin.
"Still not want it?"
Harry cleared his throat, which had gone dry. "No, ah—I think I'll take it after all."
"I thought you'd say that, somehow."
James handed over the cloak with aplomb, and Harry ran his hands reverently over the cloth. It was smooth and cool, more like water than fabric.
"What's it made of? Demiguise hair?"
"Hell if I know. Whatever it's made of, it's a masterpiece. It's been handed down in our family for generations, and it's never needed repairing. It can even repel minor jinxes and hexes, and it can't be summoned off you. It'll size itself to fit you, and I've never tripped over it even once."
Harry's brows shot up, impressed and intrigued. All those hours he'd spent perfecting invisibility, giving himself nosebleeds and headaches, and this cloak had been in the house, all the time.
"Homenum Revelio will see through it, though, and, uh, trust me"—James coughed embarrassedly—"Dumbledore knows about it."
"So you don't know where it came from?"
"See this seal?" James turned the box so that Harry could see an odd, geometric mark engraved on the lid. "That's the mark of the Peverell family. It was made by Ignotus Peverell. We're—well, I'm—descended from them, through the Potters."
Harry's face fell slightly. "It should stay in your family, then."
"You are my family, Harry," James replied seriously.
Harry bit his lip, fingers fidgeting with the cloth. Then he tossed the cloak aside and gave his father an impulsive hug.
For an instant, the muscles in James' broad back tensed in surprise, and then he melted, wrapping Harry in the circle of his warm, strong arms. The small growth of stubble on his cheek rasped against Harry's forehead as the boy drank in the good, clean, and masculine scent of this quixotic man who stubbornly refused to stop being his father.