misbegotten

a neurotic verse joint

three

the secret behind the painting

"Mister Malfoy."

The words sounded as soon as Draco entered the Potions dungeon. Draco looked up to see Professor Snape looming over him. It was a bit of a secret that Draco didn't really like his Head of House very much; ever since his fourth year he'd had to absorb countless rants by Lucius that always characterized Snape as a villainous turncoat, and Draco couldn't quite knock that out of his head. He hated cowardice as much as anything else. "Yes, Professor?" He simpered passably.

"You will see me directly after class." Snape nodded slightly and began to teach.

The lesson itself was easy for Draco; he, like Ginny, had always been relatively skilled at Potions. He thought of it as a cold subject, always precise and always methodical. Time, space, and measurement were easily encapsulated in a Potions bottle, and that perfection, that flawlessness, could hardly be achieved in any other subject (except for Arithmancy, and he as an advocate of true wizardry did not have much of a sense of mathematics).

When all of the other students had cleared out of the dungeon, Draco followed Snape wordlessly into his office. He had only been inside it once before, to discuss his sixth-year term project. He was a bit nervous, but the overwhelming feeling inside him was one of curiosity. When Snape motioned for him to sit down, he did so, and waited for his professor to begin.

"I know you dislike me, Mister Malfoy," Snape said finally, and when Draco made a move to protest he held up his hand. "It doesn't matter. I know – I can see – though you may not realize it, I am aware of when the moods of my students change, and you are no longer the young boy who absorbed every one of my lectures as if they were the stuff from which life is sustained." Snape sighed, and Draco flinched with disbelief – it wasn't a sigh of contempt, but one of resignation. "So I can see things. I would be dead if I did not know how to observe. I know your father has likely told you over and over that I am traitorous, that I am not to be trusted. From your point of view, I suppose that is no more than the truth. Am I correct?"

Draco nodded. Ever since Voldemort had risen again, ever since Severus Snape had been exposed as a spy to the other Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy had constantly denounced the other man. Draco wasn't sure how to feel, but he was of the opinion that it was gutless of Snape to allow himself to remain protected within the walls of Hogwarts instead of nobly facing his enemies. "My father hates you."

"That is obvious to me. And if you feel the same as Lucius, I will not hold it against you. The reason I have called you here has no bearing on how we feel about one another, but it may be of some importance, anyhow. You have a skill in Potions methodology – a carefulness, if you will – that is extremely rare for a student. I wish for you to assist me in my research."

"What sort of research?" Draco asked suspiciously.

"In healing. Since I can no longer spy, since the Death Eaters know of me, all I can do is research. When the Dark Mark is taken, the recipient feels it for the entirety of his or her life. It is maddening when left alone, when a Death Eater does not answer to Voldemort, and it has killed men before. I'm sure you know this all too well."

Draco was astounded. Snape knew about the Dark Mark? He felt strange and somehow bared, as if his deepest heart's secrets had been put on display in the Great Hall. "You – you know?"

"As I said earlier," and Snape's voice suddenly seemed kind (at least what would pass as kind for Snape) and softer, "I am an astute observer of my students."

"You didn't – you haven't told Dumbledore?"

"No." Snape folded his hands neatly on his desk and looked squarely at Draco with his fathomless eyes. "But do not take that as a relief. You would be hard-pressed to keep anything from Albus Dumbledore."

Draco paled. "The research, then."

Snape smiled thinly. "My research proposes to find a cure for the Dark Mark of sorts. A way in which to make it disappear. You see, it is impossible to be rid of. Frederick Witherfield, who was a Death Eater in the last war, hacked off his own arm in an attempt to have it gone, but the pain was still there – it still existed in his phantom limb. He felt it as if it were still physically there. I strongly believe that the cure, if it exists, lies in Potions. And I have a second motive for asking you – I believe I should be honest – because keeping the school's only Death Eater close by is obviously beneficial."

An image flashed into Draco's mind: himself, armless like Frederick Witherfield, gone mad in a bed in St. Mungo's. And then there was a bit of hope, but he wasn't sure what to make of it or even if he wanted to feel it at all. He'd had no idea of the permanence of the Dark Mark; his father had never said much about it, but, then again, his father answered the burning every time with enthusiasm. He looked at Snape for a moment, took in the man's sallow, too-old-too-early features, his fathomless eyes, his hunched-over back, and had the strong sense that he was viewing his future self.

"Look, boy," Snape growled. "I have no doubt in my mind that someday your father and his coterie will one day instruct you to kill me. I know that. You do not have to become my ally, you do not have to betray your father and your name, but it is possible that you can give yourself another option, something else besides a life of murdering and a possible sentence in Azkaban, or a life like mine, by assisting me in this research."

Snape's words weren't what made Draco decide in the end. It was the memory of Justin Finch-Fletchey's ashen face. It wouldn't be betraying his father. It would be giving him a chance to get out if he wanted to, and maybe even to clear himself if he ever got caught. "I'll do it," Draco said decisively.

"Here, Monday, six o'clock." He was promptly dismissed.

***

Ginny lay flat on her stomach in her dormitory bed, reading Moste Potente Potions surreptitiously. Two other Gryffindor sixth year girls, Caroline Lovegood and Sara Poncey, were playing a game of chess in the opposite corner, but neither of them really bothered to look at her. After all, she was just quiet, plain Ginny Weasley who never wanted to spend her Hogsmeade weekends trying on every bloody thing in Gladrags, instead choosing to joke about in Zonko's and Honeydukes. She really wished Fred and George hadn't graduated last year; they really were hilarious to have about and they were both so good at making her feel great.

She came to the bit about the Polyjuice Potion and chuckled to herself. Ron had told her the secret about Hermione accidentally transforming into a cat – in an effort to cheer her up after the Chamber, actually – and story never failed to bring a smile to her face. Poor Hermione, she supposed dealing with the error and admitting a mistake had been much worse for the brainy, perfectionist girl than dealing with being feline.

"What's so funny, Ginny?" Sara called from across the room.

"Er – nothing. Nothing at all." She flushed a bit red; she hadn't realized that she'd been laughing loud enough for the other girls to hear. Quickly, she pushed the book under her pillow, and immediately knew she'd made a mistake.

Sara's gimlet eyes widened with interest. "What are you reading?"

"Nothing!"

"Pretty funny for nothing," Caroline chimed in. "Come on, tell us now, you're not ashamed, are you?"

"I bet it's another diary," Sara whispered.

"An enchanted one, at that!" Caroline added.

"It's not!" Ginny shouted angrily. The matter of diaries was still a sore point with her, even years later, and the accusation stung. She often thought about it, asked herself horrible questions like how could I have been so stupid and what would have happened if someone had actually died. "I would never—"

"Then what's with the secrecy?"

They were both – so stupid, Ginny thought vehemently. As if a diary would look hundreds of years old and be thousands of pages long. Both girls got to their feet, leaving their game of chess abandoned, and started towards Ginny. Without really thinking about it, Ginny grabbed the book, pressed it against her chest, and leapt out of the room. She was in the Gryffindor common room before she thought about how both Sara and Caroline probably now regarded her as insane.

Ron was in the common room, as were a few third years she didn't really know. His Charms text was open on the table in front of him, but the Wizard cards he was shuffling in his hand gave away what he'd really been doing. Her brother was looking at her with alarm. "Ginny, are you all right?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, I'm fine – there was just – er – a spider in my bed." She knew that would work. Ron absolutely loathed spiders.

Ron's expression changed from surprise to disgust. "Eew – did you kill it?"

"Yeah," she giggled. She loved teasing him about his phobia. It was mean, she knew, but it was also irresistible. "Don't worry. There most definitely won't be a spider invasion in the Gryffindor dormitory, and certainly not involving big, scary, furry spiders with sharp little poisonous teeth that lay eggs in the skin of your cheek to hatch at a later date, possibly while you're asleep."

His reaction was what she expected. "Erk, Ginny, don't give me nightmares!" he protested, only half-jokingly, and threw a sofa cushion at her.

She ducked, caught it, and threw it back. "Too late." She started back to her bed, but Sara and Caroline were still there in the dormitory and probably puzzling out why Ginny Weasley was so nutters. She wanted to keep reading her book – all the fascinating concoctions were simply amazing; why, there was one you could brew to make the weather change however you wanted (which would be perfect for all those ruined trips to the beach) – and she needed to find somewhere to go. Not the library, there would be more prying eyes there, plus the possible annoyance of Malfoy and the other vermin.

She passed the Fat Lady and decided to find a new place. There were study rooms and such all over Hogwarts, and she would really have no problem finding a comfortable, unoccupied one. She turned left and hopped up a staircase. She peeked into one room to see a boy practicing Charms; in another, she saw Hermione Granger with her nose typically stuck in a huge book.

Ginny smiled and leaned against the wall, splaying her fingers across it, and suddenly it shifted behind her. She whirled around to see a her hand on a painting, but it was unlike the other paintings in Hogwarts. It seemed deep, even deeper than the ones in which people like Sir Cadogan roamed about. Her hand was specifically touching a small violet flower on the far left of the picture, right in the centre of the petals, and, when she pushed forward, she was surprised when the painting proved to be as insubstantial as air. Her hand was actually going right through it. Curious. It was a secret door, she guessed, one she'd somehow managed to open. It would be stupid to step right into it, so she yanked her hand out and just pressed her face inside.

The small, hidden room inside wasn't much to look at. Stone walls, a fireplace, a chair and a rug. A strung lantern for reading, she was pleased to note. There were hundreds of these sort of enchanted rooms in Hogwarts, some that were well-known and some that had remained unchanged for centuries, and she supposed this was as a good a place to study as any. It had probably belonged to another student once; someone who had taken the time to magic themselves some semblance of privacy. She stepped inside, still clutching the book against her, and, after taking a moment to light the fireplace, settled into the chair – it was shockingly comfortable – to read. This, she mused, was perfect. No distractions, no annoyances, no sounds of Sara and Caroline chattering away to each other. She fervently hoped no one else knew about this tiny room; it suddenly felt like her own hideaway and she didn't want to share it.

She opened the book to where she had been. After the Polyjuice Potion, there was an instruction sheet on how to make the Draught of Living Death, which made a person appear dead even if they weren't. Kind of like the potion in that old Muggle play she had loved so much as a younger teenager – Romeo and Juliet, that was it. She wondered what William Shakespeare would have thought it he'd known that his fictional creation wasn't fiction at all, the decided that he would probably have been quite tickled by it. There was a sort appendix to the instructions – a history of incidences in which the Draught of Living Death had been used, and she was pleased to note that it hadn't been often. It seemed a dreadful thing.

After about an hour, she fell asleep in the chair, and forgot about supper. At about nine o'clock, she woke up, rather bemused that had fallen asleep so quickly, and went back into the Gryffindor dormitory feeling cheered and contented.

***

Draco's arm was burning again.

It had started just after supper, just as he had been trudging back to the Slytherin rooms with a mind full of questions. He was bit irritated with himself – why had he agreed to work with Snape? He would have to keep it from Lucius. It didn't feel quite like being traitorous, and he always had the option of subtly ruining the research if he liked, and that was comforting. It was like being a spy himself.

The burning was awful, more because of the anticipation that the actual sensation of it. He knew that in the morning, there would be a letter for him, from Lucius, detailing where and when. Tomorrow would be Friday. He'd likely be going home for the weekend, back to Malfoy Manor.

He wondered, perversely, who it would be this time, which unworthy pieces of filth Voldemort had targeted, and if anyone else would be getting a black envelope during Monday's breakfast. It was a strange sort of fascination, and the fact that it repulsed him seemed to draw him even closer to it. This was disturbing, of course, so he shoved it away to think about later, or perhaps forget entirely if could manage that.

Draco passed his fellow Slytherins without acknowledging them, missing the doubly befuddled looks he got from Crabbe and Goyle – were there any other sort, from them? –  and went into his room to think. Unbidden, the memory of the Finch-Fletchleys returned to him. Somehow, he knew it would be there for the rest of his life, and all he really could was try to not remember it, which only meant that it would still be there, only covered arbitrarily by a thousand fleeting thoughts. He fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of his first year at Hogwarts, when he had had nothing to worry about except how much he'd hated Harry Potter and his friends, and how dearly he'd wanted to play on the Slytherin Quidditch team and beat Potter's socks off.