A/N: Many thanks to Procyon Black for the Welsh!
Chapter 10: The Final Gift
"Where are we?" asked Harry.
The air was still wet, but the ground under his feet felt rougher. When Slytherin moves, he makes no sound, Harry thought. He can't walk anyhow, with his tendons severed. I wonder if he floats like a ghost. He also wondered, fleetingly, what the memory of the founder looked like, or if he had any form at all, or if he was simply a trick of light, a slip of the mind.
"This is a place of knowledge, bachgen." His voice was different, too, Harry noted. Its echoes seemed to be pulled into something in front of them. "Here is the last of the three gifts I have prepared for you, bachgen: y ffynnon o cymhendod."
Harry waited, realizing fully for the first time that Slytherin must have waited an entire millennium—one-thousand years—just for him to be born. Did he sleep through part of it? Harry wondered. Or was he awake and waiting, counting the seconds and minutes and days and centuries, until I was born? The thought echoed: I. Me. Harry swallowed, feeling suddenly small and out-of-place, and nothing more than—
"Come here, bachgen," Slytherin instructed. Harry tottered forward. From somewhere close in front of him, he heard the scrape of something heavy and wet, ancient and wooden being moved off of stones situated at waist height; and suddenly, he felt as though he were engulfed in a bubble of magic: magic so strong that he had to remind himself to breathe...
"Closer." Harry took a hesitant step forward. He held his arms before him, and his fingertips came in contact with the cold, wet stone. He ran his hands swiftly over the thing before him, and realized that it was circular, about as wide as his armspan, with a hollow in the middle. It reminded him of a... of a well—a well with magic pouring out of it.
"What is it?" Harry asked. Magic was throbbing in the air, in his body: he could taste it, hear it, smell it, feel it on his skin, feel it swimming under his eyelids and coating his hair like sea-spray.
"Y ffynnon o cymhendod: the well of knowledge. Go on, bachgen. Open yourself to the magic. Just don't fall in."
Harry put both his hands on the side of the well and leaned over slightly. The flowing magic felt like a living breeze, stroking his face and tugging at his mind, whispering for him to grant it entrance. Something within him answered, and the brightness before his eyes began to throb. The Water of Sight, Harry realized, and the walls of his mind relaxed. Magic rushed in, and the intangible, tremulous thing within him flooded out to greet it—
Then it was over.
Harry swayed where he stood, wondering what had just happened. All he'd been aware of was a deafening thunderclap within him, and then nothing. He leaned back, hands leaving the rim of the well. His legs, he realized, felt weak.
"What... what happened?" he asked when Slytherin remained silent.
"You've received your last gift," the founder said, his voice soft and oddly sorrowful. "The gift of knowledge."
"But I—" Harry faltered. "I don't remember learning anything."
"The knowledge I have given you is tucked far away, bachgen. Think of the memory of your parents' deaths. Had you tried to summon them by yourself, you would never have remembered them; but in the vicinity of a dementor, they come to the surface."
"Oh," said Harry. "I understand." Though I don't see how it would be useful. What's the good of learning something if I've practically forgotten it?
"I don't think you really do, bachgen," said Slytherin. "Spells, charms, incantations, steps to make a potion—those are nothing to the mind; you might as well write them on a wall, or with chalk on a board, and nothing will come of it."
He paused. When he spoke the next words, his voice had dropped until it sounded like the ominous rolling of thunder. "But there is the other kind of magic: spells and rituals, enchantments and powers that are more terrifying than you can ever imagine. And it is not the mere knowledge of the steps, the procedure, the results; to truly know is to feel a shadow of the hate, to grasp a shade of the agony and pain, to catch a glimpse of the spilled blood..."
The founder trailed off, and Harry felt the silence throbbing like the heartbeat of some vast, nameless monster. "That is the gift of knowledge, bachgen. It is in you now: there, but safely half-forgotten. Otherwise, your mind would be a ruin, a ravaged wasteland from all the power and glory and horror that is within you."
Harry swallowed. "Oh."
"So that's why it's in your subconscious," Slytherin said, tone changing abruptly. "It's also because you'd forget it all if it was in your consciousness. It would be like memorizing trivia you never really cared for. The enchantments work to keep the knowledge slumbering in your subconsciousness: there, just quiescent."
Harry nodded. "I understand, now."
"Mm," Slytherin murmured noncommittally. "This knowledge is a very precious gift, bachgen. Voldemort had fifty years of knowledge on you; now, the two of you are—almost equal."
Almost equal, Harry thought. It occurred to him for the very first time that, with Slytherin's gifts, he truly had—memory of the prophecy surged through his mind—'power that the Dark Lord knows not'. But the thought didn't please him particularly, nor give him any sense of hope. He still felt empty, empty and dead, like a rotten tree stump. The thought that he might challenge Voldemort was completely absurd, as though saying that he could swallow the sun in a heartbeat. How could he face Voldemort? He, who could not even defend himself against a Muggle? And even if he managed to face the Dark Lord, he would still remain a freak: unloved, unwanted, un—
"Bachgen?"
Harry jerked his head upwards. "Yes?"
There was a silence. "This was all I had originally intended, these three gifts," Slytheirn said slowly, "but I think I shall give you more one—ah. Two more, actually."
Harry frowned, and then heard, far away, a slight scraping noise. He stiffened.
"Do not be frightened," Slytherin said, amusement coloring his voice. "Someone else here has been waiting to see you."
The scraping sound approached, and within moments, Harry recognized it as the slithering of a snake. There was a splash of water, and then:
"Massster..."
Harry turned, half afraid: it was the same snake that had helped him—ages ago, it seemed—at the Dursleys, the same snake that had led him to the Water of Sight, and the same snake that had attacked him with frightening ferocity.
"So, little one," Slytherin hissed. "What have you?"
"I have come for a very urgent reason, Lord Slytherin," the snake answered, sounding indignant, but also worried, and angry. "And I have come for the Young Master, so you can bugger off."
Harry's jaw dropped.
"I understand you may have been upset after my... request," Slytherin said, sounding quite amused, "but really, this is melodramatic to the extreme."
"A request, by definition, involves some kind of choice. You did not 'request' me do anything," the snake replied sullenly. "But I, on the other hand, do have a request." The hissing changed, and Harry felt it addressing him. "I hereby request to swear an oath of fealty to the Young Lord, to pledge my snake-life and snake-soul to him." Wait, what? Harry thought with the beginnings of panic. Pledge his life and soul to me "I am the Young Master's vassal, and he, my liege; and I will serve him and follow him through all his hardships and joys…" Harry opened his mouth to say something to stop this, but nothing came out, and the snake continued, the rolling hisses echoing in the chamber. "...from now unto eternity; or until my Lord cast me away."
The snake stopped.
"It is a gift, bachgen Slytherin said quietly. "And a gift not lightly given."
Harry swallowed. What am I supposed to say? he wondered; and, hoping that he would not somehow offend the snake, said: "I... accept." There was a short pause. He added quickly: "Gladly. I mean—I'm honored to accept. Very—um—honored." I better shut up now, he thought, feeling miserable. He couldn't help but feel that he'd made some kind of mistake.
"I am glad, too," said the snake, and Harry could hear the unexpected candor in the words. "I am sorry for having attacked like that, but the Master left me with little choice. I hope that my Lord will, in time, forgive me." The snake sounded morose.
"That's all right," Harry said, a bit awkwardly. He'd never dealt with remorseful snake before. "I have. Forgiven you, I mean." He opened his mouth to tell the snake to stop calling him by 'my Lord', or 'young Master', but Slytherin had already begun speaking.
"Then everything is set," he said, sounding quite satisfied. "All the elements for the Fidelis Animalis ritual have been met. You may proceed."
Harry turned blankly to the founder. "What?"
"What he means to say," the snake said archly, "is that he's been expecting—or even planning—this all along, and the next step in his brilliant plan involving his long-expected Heir is to perform the Fidelis Animalis ritual, so that the Young Master may see through my eyes."
"See?" Harry echoed, blankly.
"Yes, see," said Slytherin, gently. Then, as though launching into a lecture, he said: "Most snakes rely on their keen sense of smell to discern their environment. While snake vision is acute at short distances, it deteriorates rapidly at increasing distances." Harry closed his mouth, which had dropped open: it was creepy how similar Slytherin could sound like his fa—like Snape. "Furthermore, they have monocular vision, which is quite different from human stereoscopic vision" He paused. "Which is to say that the two images seen by the human eyes merge, giving a sense of depth, while for snakes, each image is separate. "
"But I am different," the snake interrupted archly. "You are lecturing about normal snake-vision, are you not?"
"Yes, and yes, you are different," Slytherin agreed solemnly. "Salazar Slytherin was more than a magician. He was a snake-breeder as well."
Snake-breeder? Harry thought blankly, and then: basilisk.
"Ah, I believe you met my basilisk, bachgen,Slytherin continued. "She was one of my earlier—um—trials. Left in here for the wrong purpose. But the others were more—successful. Have you heard of the ram-headed snake of Cernunnos? Or the Kundalini serpent?
"Er… no," replied Harry. "I haven't."
"Ah. Then the vipers of Medusa, or the snakes of Hermes's caduceus? Or the cobra of the Uraeus? Or the heavenly nagas, or the Midgard serpent, or the eternal ouroborus?
"I've never heard of any of those," Harry replied, feeling very stupid.
Slytherin paused. "Ah yes," he muttered. "You were sorted into Godric's house. It was Godric's hat, and Godric was an idiot. How could these little children know what they wanted when they were only eleven?"
What they wanted? Harry thought, confused.
"One of his so-called secrets," Slytherin clarified, snorting. "It really isn't the 'intrinsic qualities' within a witch or wizard that tells the Hat where they ought to go, but subconscious desires." He shook his head. "Helga I can understand, but I don't see how Rowena could have been taken in by such a silly trick."
"But I—but the Hat told me I would do well in Slytherin, but I—um—" He paused, wondering how he might state it diplomatically. "Opted for Gryffindor. Because of… certain stigmas."
"Well, it's not exactly—unexpected," said Slytherin in a carefully neutral voice, after a pause in which Harry wished he could disappear. "The line between my house and Godric's is very faint, and only fools believe they can categorize humans clearly." He took a deep breath. "In any case, had you been sorted into my house, you would have learned of the different magical snakes from various… hints."
"Pillowcases, you mean," the snake hissed.
"Yes, pillowcases," Slytherin agreed. Pillowcases? thought Harry, utterly baffled. "Parseltongue lets you not only speak and understand the ancient tongue, but also read and write it. Embroidered on the pillowcases was the knowledge I gathered of snakes and snake-breeding, though the knowledge was then incomplete."
"Oh," said Harry, trying to imagine Slytherin embroidering pillowcases.
"But you have the knowledge now, somewhere in your head," Slytherin said. "What snake do you think we have here, bachgen?"
"Ah…" said Harry, completely clueless. He heard a soft scrape of scales, and knew the snake was approaching. Something flittered over the palms of his hands—a snake's tongue; and then he felt the snake's cool belly over his wrist. The snake felt light as a shadow as it reared up and coiled over his two outstretched arms. The knowledge appeared in the front of his mind like a bubble rising from the sandy bottoms of a deep pool.
"One of the anguis," Harry whispered.
"Yes," Slytherin said gravely as Harry stroked the snake's head. The snake hissed softly in contentment. "Born from the black egg soaked in the tears of a phoenix, its bite can cure or kill. It is an independent spirit that can never be fettered, but its loyalties knows no bounds, especially to its Lord."
Me, Harry thought, feeling the snake slide over his forearms and then slither to the ground.
"Are you ready for the Fidelis Animalis?" asked Slytherin.
Harry let the snake slip from his fingers and onto the wet ground. The name of the spell brought up sounds and smells and flashes of images buried deep inside his mind: a tunnel of silvery light, and plunging into an open, trusting mind…
The snake would really be opening its mind and soul to me, Harry thought, feeling his stomach turn to lead. I would be having complete control, like Voldemort over Nagini. He felt sick. I don't want to be anybody's master, he thought. I don't want to be like Voldemort. I just want— He swallowed, and remembered that cold, brutal voice telling him: no.
It doesn't matter what you want, he thought with harsh certainty. It didn't matter that he just wanted a family, that he yearned for there to be someone who loved him and whom he could love; it didn't matter that he didn't want these gifts, his inheritance. It didn't matter at all. Because he would never have a family. When did a freak's desires ever matter in the patterns of the world? It was his fate.
But on the other hand, he thought, after a pause, I'll be able to see. His heart quickened at the unfamiliar notion.
"I am," said Harry quietly. He shivered. The hope for sight that had died so silently that he had almost forgotten how it had felt like was born anew with an almost feverish intensity. Colors, he thought. And shapes, and faces. I'll be able to see.
"Good," said Slytherin. The snake slipped up Harry's arm. "The required elements are already in place: an oath of fealty, mutual acceptance, and plenty of magic. Try extending your mind through your fingers and into the snake."
The brightness before him seemed to ripple. Harry took a deep breath and let it drain out slowly. There was an odd tingling at his fingertips, and suddenly, the whiteness darkened and dissolved, and he had the strange urge to squint—he felt as though he were looking through a mad tunneling kaleidoscope of colors…
Black. Things so dark it hurt his mind, searing as the white light had been. Shapes he could not decipher, something pale in front— His breath caught. He was seeing things. He was seeing things. It was strangely anticlimactic and, at the same time, as though a world he'd forgotten had opened—literally—before his eyes. I didn't know I'd already forgotten what it's like to see, he thought dazedly, and continued to stare, and…
…realized that he was staring at a face. He stared at it blankly for another long moment before he began registering that it was a lined and noble with a large, aquiline nose and sharp, black eyes: eyes like my fa—like Snape's, Harry thought suddenly. Slytherin. It was like looking at a picture. What he saw through the snake's eyes stayed stationary, but he could move his mind down—taking in every little detail—down to the hair, gray and streaked with black and white and falling past the shoulders. The arms and hands were hidden in large gray sleeves, and Harry noticed that the bottom of the figure's robe just barely brushed the ground.
He's floating, like some kind of ghost, Harry realized. On second glance, Harry realized that the figure before him was also not quite solid: there was translucence along the edges, especially around the robes. His mind's eye moved up again, and then he found himself looking again at the face, and at the smile that he had missed: a smile that was sad and gentle and proud all at once.
"Bachgen," Slytherin murmured softly, proudly, and Harry felt his heart clench. Bachgen. Son. He felt his concentration ebb. The milky white crept in, and he felt a moment of mindless panic, but it was like water rushing down a drain: the colors washed away, and all that he was left with was the memory of that sad, proud smile.
"It is time, now," said Slytherin softly. Harry felt the snake wind up his arm and over his left shoulder. "It is time for my heir to return."
Harry's insides instantly froze. Snape's voice once again echoed in his mind: no… And, along with the surge of anguish and fear and despair and shame came Ron—spittle flying from his mouth, voice cracking with hate and anger…
"There is much to do, bachgen. Voldemort is waiting. The world is waiting."
His insides were frozen. It's your fate, he thought severely, trying to calm himself. And you've got these gifts, haven't you? But no matter what he told himself, all he could feel was the agony and the shame, and the overwhelming urge to curl into a tiny ball as the voices assailed him: Ron's, snarling in hatred and fury; Snape's, cold and with deadening finality; and Vernon's—whispering to him how he was a worthless freak…
"Harry."
Harry looked up, startled. Slytherin had never addressed him by his given name. He waited. A moment later, he felt as though something soft, like a wandering breeze, of the brush of a falling leaf, had touched his face. He shivered.
"I give you one last gift," said Slytherin, and he sounded strangely far away. "It is the gift of time; and time you shall have to heal what wounds you may heal." There was a pause. "Farewell, bachgen. May fortune smile upon you."
Silence fell.
"Well, the sneaky old coot," hissed the snake.
"What?" Harry asked, and frowned. There was an odd note in the snake's voice. He also felt—different. The nuances in the air seemed to have frozen, and he felt that they were somehow in a much smaller room.
"His last gift, or time, as he said, was to put you in a painting," said the snake with what sounded like a little snort. It was hard to snort in Parseltongue. "And that is where we are now, my Lord."
"What?" Harry exclaimed. "In a painting? How can—" He paused. "Can I—er—see?"
"Of course, my Lord," the snake murmured.
"Please," Harry said uncomfortably. "Don't call me Lord, or Master. Just call me Harry."
"May I call you arglwydd?"
"Um, sure," said Harry, wondering what the word meant. Before the knowledge could make itself known, the white faded again, and he found himself staring from a rather great height at the floor of the Chamber of Secrets. The adjustment to seeing came must more easily this time. So we are in a painting, and one pretty high up on one of the walls, he thought. He could make out little in the inky darkness besides the glistening of the wet ground and a black thing that seemed to be the well, but…
"Where is he?" Harry asked, moving his attention over the entirety of what he could see through the wide scope of the snake's eyes.
"Lord Slytherin?" murmured the snake. "Gone."
"Gone?" Harry echoed blankly. The frame of view shifted slightly. "I—I don't understand."
"He gave you all the gifts he had to give," the snake replied without emotion. "He finished his task. He is no more. After all, what you met was only a memory."
It took Harry a few moments for the information to sink in. "You mean—he's just—gone?"
"Gone, as all remembrances fade," the snake replied.
Gone. Harry swallowed. It was strange: he had only known Slytherin for a day at most—and it was only a memory, he reminded himself, not the real person; but already it felt much more. He remembered with searing clarity the sad, proud smile the founder had given him.
"So where are we now?" Harry asked.
"Within a painting, like I said," the snake replied.
A painting? thought Harry.
The frame of vision turned sideways. The view of the chamber, with its vast shades of darkness and glistening stone, gave way to what Harry presumed to be the frame. The snake turned its head more, and Harry found himself staring at a scene of the moments before dawn. There was a pinkish tinge along the dark horizon, and a lone tree curled up from the middle, its gnarled branches barely brushed with light.
"Lord Slytherin was an artist as well," the snake hissed. "Even when he lost use of his hands and feet, he painted."
"It's beautiful," Harry murmured.
"Yes, it is," the snake replied. The frame of vision dipped down suddenly as the snake slipped to the ground, and Harry froze as the world reeled. "This way," the snake hissed, turning its head with dizzying speed.
"You move your head very fast," Harry said in a pained voice. He let the colors dissolve until everything was blurred with white, and then let out a breath, feeling the vertigo pass, though he also felt a pang of loss. It was one thing to look down at the ground while diving on a broomstick, but dropping without control to the ground—with all its dizzying detail—was another.
"I will attempt to refrain from doing so in the future, arglwyd," hissed the snake. "Follow me." Harry was again almost painfully aware of how far away the snake was, of how the ground felt from the sound of scales of rock—side effects of the Water of Sight, Harry thought.
"Where are we heading?" Harry asked. "And why did he put us inside a painting?"
"It was his gift to you of time," the snake answered, sounding strangely far away.
"The gift of time? I—still don't quite understand," he replied, distracted by the buzzing of magic that fell like a shimmering waterfall between him and the snake. He took a large step forward, and then another, and—
He felt himself going through veil of magic. The air was different. The sounds were different. He realized suddenly that they were inside a different painting.
"It's quite simple, really," the snake replied, and his voice echoed slightly in the new painting. "Lord Slytherin simply hid you in a different world: this world, the world of paintings. Here you can stay without being observed by the world of living."
"But won't they recognize me?"
"You have—er—changed, arglwyd," the snake hissed, sounding faintly amused. "I can show you. I promise not to move my head overmuch."
"Thanks," Harry muttered as he reached out with his mind, wondering how, exactly, had he changed…
The shining blank whiteness before him dissolved and he found himself staring up at a chin and—protruding from that—a nose. The frame of view shifted, and Harry was aware of the snake lifting its head (slowly) until they were face to face.
"I… you're right," said Harry, watching his own mouth open and close and form the sounds of Parseltongue. "I have. Changed, I mean."
His nose was big, like that of his father and of Slytherin, but while theirs could be considered Roman or noble or aquiline, his nose was just big. And knobby. His face was drawn and pale and sallow, showing high cheekbones that shadowed hollow cheeks. His hair had spilled onto his face, falling down to his clavicle like a lank, greasy curtain. Experimentally, he opened his eyes, and saw two blank green orbs staring back at him.
There was no trace of Harry Potter in that face. Not even in the brilliantly green eyes, which were more like marbles than organs of sight.
"If you have looked your fill, I would like to introduce you to my brethren," remarked the snake.
Brethen? thought Harry. "Sure."
The frame of view turned, and Harry found himself staring at a scene stranger than any he'd ever seen. In front of him was a great tree, with a thick trunk and dark green foliage, and weighing down heavily from the arching branches like ripe fruits were eggs—snake eggs, of all shapes and sizes and colors and textures. One seemed to be bathed in a fluid; another was translucent, and Harry could see the coils of a tiny black serpent within; yet another seemed to shimmer in a light breeze that only it could feel.
"These," murmured the snake, "are my brethren. When we die, we of the immortal souls come here to be reborn."
"Reborn from eggs in a painting?" Harry asked, somewhat disbelievingly. He'd never thought something like this was possible. "But then—why doesn't someone just draw pictures of a lot of pregnant women, or something, and be immortal that way?"
"It doesn't work that way, arglwyd," said the snake, sounding both supercilious and amused at the same time. "Humans lack immortal souls—or at least, souls that are immortal on this earth. They pass, and leave behind a body to rot and memory to fade. Our souls—snake-souls—are bound and cannot leave to wherever humans' go. Our bodies, simple flesh and bone, can easily be knitted with the right enchantments." He paused. "You have experienced such enchantments, arglwyd, a crude example as it was. From flesh, blood, and bone, darkness was reborn."
Voldemort, thought Harry with a shiver.
"But then again, not all snake-souls are bound as we are," the snake said thoughtfully. "Only our souls, that Slytherin awakened, are eternal."
Harry frowned, considering the implications of the statement. "You mean—Slytherin himself awoke your soul?" he asked, wondering if the snake in his hands was actually a thousand years old.
"Yes, but not my body, nor my mind," said the snake. It lowered its head lazily and Harry let the colors dissolve before vertigo could assail him. Whiteness once again hung before his eyes. "Come, then. The Chamber of Secrets may be Lord Slytherin's cozy little room, but I find it a bit dank."
"Where are we going?" Harry asked, following the slight scraping sound of scales as he went through another veil of magic.
"It is time you met the denizens of Hogwarts," the snake said. "Non-living denizens, at any rate. Here is the last painting before we leave the Chamber. Are you ready?"
No, thought Harry. "Yes," he replied.
"Then let us go," said the snake. Harry followed. This time, as he stepped through the crackling veil of magic, he felt a moment of great movement, as though he were hurtling through time and space—like a portkey, Harry thought just as the moment passed, and he realized that he was standing, barefoot, on wet, spongy grass.
Harry took in a deep breath. They were obviously somewhere outdoors. The air tasted different—fresh and crisp—and the grass was cool under his feet…
He felt the crackling of magic, and knew, from that, and from the sound of hooves and metal against metal, that someone was approaching.
"Halt!" came a loud voice and a jarring clank. There was the sound of a pony snorting. "What have we here?"
Harry turned, incredulous, as the memory arose. "Sir Cadagon?"
More clanking. "How do you know my name, shivering knave? Dare you stand up to me in a fight? A duel—ah!
There was a clanking so loud that Harry winced—the knight must have swung very hard and fallen off his pony.
"Are you all right?" Harry asked cautiously, stepping back. More metal against metal, this time over the sound of heavy panting.
"Of course," said Sir Cadagon. Harry could hear the knight grunting the pony making disapproving sounds as Sir Cadagon climbed back onto his steed. "Now." He cleared his throat. "Thou currish, beef-witted pigeon egg! O! puny, boil-brained canker-blossom! I challenge you to a duel—nay, a duel of honor, to the death!"
Harry suddenly felt the rush of air hurtling towards him—the knight charging—and out of instinct, he jumped. Wind rushed through his hair, and he suddenly realized that he should have landed by now…
…He did land, jarringly, and felt leaves brushing his face and twigs catching his hair. I'm in a tree, Harry realized, his mind whirling from the sudden lightness of the jump and from disbelief. How did I suddenly jump into a tree—? And then he remembered Slytherin's gift of the lightness of being. He reached out to grab a rough branch. He didn't know how far down the ground was, and he didn't want to find out by falling, even if he could glide down like a swallow.
"Come back down," Sir Cadagon roared, "thou churlish, toad-spotted"—a magnificent crash—"ARGH! A snake! A SNAKE!" There was an earsplitting clanking of metal—and then a terrified pony whinnied.
"Snake?" Harry hissed as loudly as he could. "Snake? Don't—don't hurt them." Can paintings even be hurt? he wondered, but decided that he did not want to find out. "Snake?"
He nearly fell out of the tree when he heard the voice, whispering next to his ear, "I only frightened them."
"That's—er—good," he said.
The clanking stopped and Harry could hear the knight pant for all he was worth. I don't think he knows that the snake is right above his head, Harry thought. "May I play go forth and frighten them some more?" the snake asked politely.
"Er… I'm not sure if that's such a good idea," said Harry.
"Are you laughing at me?" Sir Cadagon demanded a moment later. "Puny, beef-witted canker-blossom, come down and fight like a man!"
There was more clanking, and suddenly Harry was aware of another buzz of magic.
"Really," came a sneering voice that was very familiar. "Who are you shouting at now, Cadagon?"
For a wrenching moment, Harry was sure the voice—silky and cold, drawling like a lazy snake—somehow belonged to his f—to Snape; but after the moment of uncertain hope or of anxious dread passed, he realized, not without a tinge of disappointment and relief, that it was Phineas Nigellus.
"A dirty knave, most cowardly and pusillanimous!" Cadagon replied, panting. "And—Phineas? Is that you? Why are you here, good sir?"
The former headmaster gave a very put-upon sigh. "Dumbledore asked me to go around and ask the portraits if they've seen or heard anything about a certain brat of his. Adolescents. This one's called Harry Potter"—Harry's heart skipped a beat—"and unfortunately, he's of some importance."
"Potter? Harry? A scoundrel?" growled Cadagon. "I'll skin 'em! Hack them to pieces, after dueling with those churlish, boil-brained—"
"You're repeating yourself," Phineas said lazily. "And who're you shouting at?"
"That dishonorable pigeon egg hiding in that tree!"
Harry held his breath as the former headmaster approached.
"Ah," Phineas said sneeringly. "An adolescent." He pronounced the word slowly and distastefully, drawing out each syllable with disgust. "Your nose looks a bit familiar, but I don't recall having seen you," the former headmaster mused. He doesn't recognize me, thought Harry. He does not know. The feeling of relief shattered when Phineas shouted, "Get down from that tree at once!"
Harry found himself obeying automatically: he couldn't help remembering Vernon roaring at him and Snape's harsh tones, cutting through him even in memory.
"No respect for their elders nowadays," Phineas muttered. "Sitting in a tree and with his eyes closed while I'm talking."
"True, very true," put in Cadagon.
"I haven't seen you around, boy," sneered Phineas. Harry was aware of the former headmaster slowly moving around him, like some kind of shadowy interrogator. He swallowed. "Speak! Are you a new portrait, or a strange thing that had remained hidden, and why do you not open your…"
"SNAKE!" Cadagon shouted. Harry winced at the loud clanking of metal. "'Tis a snake, the venomous emblem of the knavish House of Slytherin!"
Where's the snake? Harry wondered and tried to spread out his senses, to detect any faint hissing or slide of scales through grass—
"Knavish, Cadagon?" Phineas snapped. "Knavish?"
"Snake?" Harry hissed, bending slightly. "Are you there? Come back."
"Yes, anglwyd," the snake murmured dutifully, and Harry could hear each grass-blade rustling as the snake moved through the grass. He soon felt the smooth scales curl around his ankle. And then he realized that a sudden silence that had fallen like a dull axe-blade.
"Interesting," Phineas breathed. "A Parseltongue. And one with the features of a noble line."
"A knave," said Cadagon, sounding frightened. "Churlish, beef-witted—"
"Shush!" Phineas snapped. "What is your name, boy?"
Harry opened his mouth. "Harry," he said, hesitantly.
A pause. "What kind of common name is that?" the former headmaster spat. "You are lying. Adolescents, always lying and thinking their elders cannot catch them at it…"
The snake hissed threateningly. "Shh," Harry whispered as he turned the question over and over in his mind—what was his name? It wasn't—couldn't be—Harry Potter. Nor was it Harry Snape. Am I just Harry, then? he wondered, and abruptly felt loneliness surge up like a cold sea-wave and envelop him.
"Come along, then," Phineas said briskly, whirling around with a snap of his cloak, which reminded Harry sharply of Snape. "Hurry up!"
Harry hesitated, but the former headmaster's sharp tone, an echo of all the harsh voices teeming in his memory, seemed to trample his resistance. Cautiously, he pushed, and slipped off the tree. He was falling, and his mind was caught up in a moment of panic—he was going to hit the ground and break a bone; he couldn't tell which way was up or which way was down—
He landed as lightly as a feature. His heart was pounding. "Snake?" he hissed.
"I am here," replied the snake.
Harry moved to follow the crackle of magic that heralded Phineas's departure from that portrait. Harry could hear, behind him, the snake slithering through grass, and Cadagon muttering to himself; and then he felt a crackle of magic—
"Eh?" a boisterous voice demanded. In the background was the sound of madly chirping birds and the clinking of china. "What's this, Phineas?"
"A miscreant," the former headmaster sneered.
"Oh, he looks so thin," said a concerned voice that Harry recognized as Violet, the portrait that used to visit the Fat Lady. "And is it too bright? His eyes are closed. Where ever did you find him?"
Harry backed up a step: the sudden onrush of noise and voices made a claustrophobic din in his head.
"I didn't," Phineas replied dryly. "It was Cadagon."
"Oh, poor thing," tutted Violet, and Harry wasn't sure if it was he or Cadagon she thought was poor.
"Hello!" the boisterous voice shouted. "Would you like a spot of tea, lad?"
Harry shook his head. The voice was very loud. "No—no, sir."
"So polite. Where are you taking him, Phineas?" Violet asked.
"Where do you think I'm taking him," Phineas countered in a bored voice. "To see Dumbledore, of course."
Harry felt his blood freeze in his veins. To see Dumbledore— He couldn't! Not yet, not now, because if Dumbledore saw him like this, he'd surely summon Snape, and then— His palms started getting sweaty, and he backed up another step.
"Come on, boy," Phineas drawled.
Harry tensed like a mouse in front of a prowling cat.
"Boy!" Phineas snapped, and Harry winced.
"No," he croaked and shook his head, backing up a step. "I can't." He lowered his head. He was conscious of his fear and knew it was a shameful kind of fear, irrational and vague, and he hated it, as hated himself for having it, but it was there, just like everything else, and he found himself balking under it. Please, no, he pleaded. I don't want to go. I can't.
"You can't?" sneered Phineas after a silence. "You can and you will, boy, or I'll—"
"Phineas!" Violet gasped. "Look at him—don't frighten him—"
"Eh, not the way to handle 'em," the boisterous voice cut in, "but Dumbledore's a kind man if there ever was one."
Harry swallowed, feeling the shame of his fear welling up even as the terror mounted. He took another step back, and considered falling through the crackle of magic and into a different painting—
"A SNAKE!" shouted the boisterous-voiced man in a panicky tone. "A SNAKE! A SNAKE!"
"Oh Merlin," muttered Phineas.
Violet shrieked and shrieked again.
Harry suppressed the urge to hide. "Snake!" Harry hissed under the turmoil. "Snake?"
"Really," Phineas growled. "Boy, pick up your snake, and come here—now!"
A moment later, Harry knew—perhaps from the swift footsteps, or movements in the air that only he could feel—that the former headmaster was advancing on him. He froze: for a moment paralyzed where he stood. And then, acting reflexively, he darted backwards, through the crackling veil of magic—
"You again, knave!" shouted Sir Cadagon.
—and kicked lightly off the ground, flying through yet through another curtain.
His heart was pounding. He stopped, wondering where he was: it was very quiet, and the wind moved in little swirls, and Harry was about to relax when he heard a deep, deep growl. His mind flew through memories, and he remembered a painting of the giant wolf Fenrir, which had gleaming white teeth and flaming red eyes—
He jumped again, flitting across the ground like a swallow's shadow. I wonder where the snake is? he thought briefly before he burst through yet another veil of magic.
He paused again. He could hear, very faintly, a babble of voices and a ponderous growling from the portrait he had just left. But there were other noises all around him: a rustling singing sound. He stilled to listen to it. He knew he had heard before, but he didn't know where. It was like the murmuring of the sea, but it was a sound from the air and the wind and…
There was a crackling of magic behind him, and a loud clanking of metal. "Drat! It got me in my leg!" cried Sir Cadagon. There was another crackling of magic, and Harry heard a babble of voice rising—
"Did the wolf or that horrible snake bite you?"
"Really, to be terrified of a snake, the revered emblem of the noble house of Slytherin—"
"A knavish house, rotten to its churlish core!"
"Why you—"
"Ah, shut up, both of you. Say, where's the lad?"
A flourish of clanking metal. "Over there! Puny, toad-spotted canker-blossom, you shall never escape me!"
Harry backed a step as the frightening sound of clanking metal approached. Where is the snake when I need him? Harry thought desperately as he turned around and darted away towards the strange rustling sound that came from the air—
"He's heading for the pines!" Sir Cadagon shouted jubilantly. "No painting can go in there! We've got him—"
He was cut off by Violet's ear-splitting shriek.
"A SNAKE!" the man with a boisterous voice bellowed. "A SNAKE! A SNAKE!"
Harry paused. The cacophony of sound rose like a storm at sea, and he wished he could see what was going on. But a few moments later, the rustling sound rose and washed over everything, and Harry realized suddenly what it was: the sound of wind through pine trees.
"Arglwyd," murmured the snake, suddenly close now. "I am here."
Harry felt the cool body of the snake wind comfortingly around his ankle. The crescendo of the singing pines passed, and there was a relative silence. Everything is so quiet, thought Harry, uneasily.
Harry heard a rustling of cloth. "My Lady," murmured Phineas Nigellus.
"Fair madam," said Sir Cadagon in a courteous voice and with a clanking of metal as he bowed; Harry heard Violet and the other painting murmur similar words respectfully and almost reverentially.
What? thought Harry, thoroughly confused. He turned around, slowly, and sudden was aware of a presence. He held his breath, not knowing what it was or what to do. He felt the snake moving very slowly, unwinding itself from Harry's ankle, and with it gone, Harry suddenly felt very small and very unsure.
He licked his lips. The sound of pines rose again. "Is… anyone here?"
"Yes," said a voice right in front of him. Harry started. It was a woman's voice: rich and strong and lilting, like the earth and the fields and the mountain, and— "You have the nose."
Harry blinked and lifted a hand to touch his nose. "I…"
"Do not bother him," the woman said abruptly, and Harry realized that she was addressing the paintings. "Do not hinder him in any way. Let him go as he pleases. Spread the word among the other portraits that they have a visitor who is under my wing. And—most important of all—do not speak of this at all to any in the world of living."
"But m'Lady," Phineas began silkily, "I am under explicit orders from Headmaster Dumbledore himself—"
"You know as well as I that Dumbledore's word means nothing next to mine," the woman snapped. Harry's eyebrows rose. What kind of person is she? he thought bemusedly. "Now go."
The paintings promptly left, Phineas with swift footsteps that made Harry think he was a bit miffed, and Cadagon with an inordinate amount of clanking that suggested he was bowing his way out of the painting.
The sound of the pine trees rose again.
"So you are here," said the woman, curtly. "I thought it would happen about now. He told me, too."
Harry hesitated. What's going on? "I don't understand."
"It doesn't matter," she said dismissively. "But this is your gift, your gift of time, and I intend for you to use it well."
Harry's jaw dropped. "How—how do you—"
"Never mind that," she said briskly. "But tell your snake to go somewhere else. A snake of the anguis is made to be roam and be free as the air."
Tell it to go away? he thought, feeling suddenly very hesitant. This is ridiculous, you don't want to be its master, a voice snapped in his mind, but—it wasn't that, he just didn't want to be so—alone. "Uh…"
"Then I shall let you and the lady converse without my presence, arglwyd?" queried the snake. It was already moving away.
"That's… fine," Harry said reluctantly and wished that the snake would stay. But it was leaving—gone already, and he felt powerless to call it back. He probably knows who this lady is, thought Harry. Who is she, who knows so much? He wondered briefly if he should be feeling more wary, but all he felt was a kind of lingering cautiousness.
"Now stand still," the lady commanded. "Let me look at you."
Harry obeyed, though he was still ready to dart away.
"Bachgen," the woman murmured after a moment, and Harry froze.
"That's…"
"Welsh for boy and for son," she said dryly, in a voice that made Harry feel as dumb and stupid as he had felt in those miserable potions classes. "Anyhow," she said, "I expect you have a few questions?"
"Yes," Harry said uncertainly. "Who are you?"
"I don't think I shall tell you that now," she said immediately. "You will understand later—hopefully. Ask something else."
"Oh." He paused. "I… can't really think of anything else to ask," Harry said. It was a half-lie. His mind was whirling with questions, but none that he could ask. Who am I? Why am I here? It was nothing someone else might answer for him.
"It is as you should," the woman said briskly. "Let me tell you now a bit about the world you are in, this world of portraits, this world of half-life. Portraits are—impressions, the salient parts of personality and appearance, but that is all. There is not much beneath the surface."
Harry nodded, thinking of Sir Cadagon's ceaseless challenges. It was difficult to imagine that a real person would be nothing but that.
"But I am not like that, and neither are you," continued the woman. Harry thought there was a kind of smile in her voice. "We are not really portraits, and I am not really alive either, as you are. But I cannot affect the world of the living, I of the half-life. That is my rule."
Harry frowned. "Your… rule?"
"Yes, my rule. My deal with magic. But that's my business, and none of yours. Roam about if you like, and if you are sleepy, there are paintings of beds near the Hufflepuff dormitories. Do you where those are?"
Harry shook his head.
"I'll explain, then," she said, and proceeded to instruct Harry how to reach the Hufflepuff dorms. He noted that she did not tell him using landmarks that would require sight: instead, she described how the air would feel, what noises he would hear, what smells would linger—almost as though she herself were blind. But he didn't dare ask.
"You can ask the other portraits if you forget. Just mention me, and you'll have no trouble."
"Thank you," said Harry, "but—how will I—" I don't even know who she is, much less how to mention her, he thought, floundering.
"I am the Lady. That is all you will know for now. Perhaps we will meet again later, and then again, we may not. I must leave." Her voice was beginning to fade. Wait, Harry wanted suddenly to call out: but wait for what? for him? "Go well, bachgen, and use wisely this gift of time."
Even as her words were finishing, Harry could hear—still far away—the sound of footsteps and of voices, the laughter and excited blabber of the students. And suddenly they were closer, much closer, so close that Harry felt an irrational panic seize him. Run! a voice shrieked inside him, but he didn't. He didn't run, he couldn't run—not so much that he was frozen by his fear but because an inexplicable compulsion, the same that had made him stand and suffer Ron's caustic shouts and Snape's damning words, made him stay where he was—
The wave was upon him. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears, and he—
"…of Harry Potter, and"—his heart skipped a beat: he'd been recognized, they'd seen him—"she looked the same as always."
He let out a small, hesitant breath. So they hadn't seen him. They were just talking about him. He was still afraid to breath.
"But d'you think he'd really been expelled? I mean—all of us saw what he did to Granger, but…"
"I still say the Prophet was right," a feminine voice said stubbornly. "Remember what they said back with the Triwizard Tournament, that Potter was crazy?"
The voices were moving away, drowning in the babble, and—after the briefest moments of hesitation—he moved quickly to hear the response—
"…don't know… but Skeeter's a rag… still, you might be…"
He felt the curtain of magic buzzed in front of his face and realized that he had reached the end of the painting. Is that what they think of me? he thought. Well then, it's—
He turned around, hearing his name again.
"…the Boy-Who-Lived! He can't've gone Dark!"
"Who knows," a voice answered ominously. "My sister told me that Potter was a Parseltongue, and if that's not a trait of a Dark Wizard, I don't know what is…"
"…see him? I could even feel it from where I was, at the other end of the hall…"
"…bout time, too… I mean, he's always strutting around… thinking he's too good…"
The voices began to fade. The footsteps were sparser now as the students filed into their next classes. Occasionally, Harry could hear someone running down the corridors before they could be late, and every now and then a loud bark of laughter. Then, gently, silence fell, until all he could hear was the calm rustling of the pine trees.
So that's what they think, he thought. He felt—he didn't really feel much besides a kind of hollow numbness. It was almost as if they were talking about a separate person, as he though he weren't Harry Potter.
But I am, he thought. I am Harry Potter, and Harry Potter is I. He swallowed, feeling a knot forming in his throat. But at the same time, I'm not. He couldn't help remembering sitting next to Ron and Hermione by the Gryffindor fire, lazily basking in their friendship… a different person altogether, living in a vastly different world. It was like breathing or drinking. It was only now, now that he had lost their friendship, that he felt the ache of its absence.
But who am I then? he thought, frustration welling up in him. He felt lost, lost and alone. What is my purpose? What am I doing here? Why am I here? He was Slytherin's heir, and he was the Boy-Who-Lived; he was the only one who could kill Voldemort—and he was beaten, broken, a freak, unwanted by his father, hated by the ones who had been his closest friends—
He cut off his thoughts. His hands were trembling. He wondered, suddenly, if he could leave the painting, if he could simply step out of the portrait and into the world of living. For a moment, he was seized by the terrible urge to try. He almost stepped forward, but at the last moment, as though he had been teetering on a cliff, he stepped back. No, he thought shakily, breathing deeply in and out. What were you thinking?
He decided resolutely to go find the painting near the Hufflepuff dormitories that had a bed and take a nap. He was sleepy. He wondered how he was going to eat but remembered the picture of the fruit bowl in front of the kitchens; perhaps he could gnaw on that?
And where is the snake? he thought. But he didn't feel too worried: the snake could take care of itself. Even if it did make him feel more lonely than ever—but he stopped that train of thought as well, and moved out of the painting with the rustling pine trees.