A/N: "The Wheel" is for Procyon, Shakespeare obsessee and fellow Yeats lover. Many thanks for a most excellent beta!
Chapter 11: The Cell
Harry felt restless.
He had been in the portrait world for several days. He'd found the painting of beds next to the Hufflepuff dormitories on the first day after getting lost and then hesitantly asking the paintings for directions. Harry had gotten the feeling that most of the portraits didn't know that they were, in fact, portraits.
There were actually five beds in all in the painting. They had yellow sheets and black coverlets, and large, curiously striped pillows, which would have been distracting if Harry had been able to see. But besides those differences, the beds and their arrangement were exactly the same as in Gryffindor tower. The bed he was sitting on would have been his, and plopped on the bed further down would've been Neville. Diagonally across would have been Dean, who had that West Ham football team poster taped above his bed, and beside him would have been Seamus, with his sprawling mess, and then R—
His mind blanked in a brief explosion of agony. It was like plunging his hand in a boiling cauldron before snatching it out.
Don't think about it, he whispered to himself as the pain slowly faded. Don't think about it at all.
The snake had vanished in the middle of the first night. Harry had first noticed that the snake was missing when he had—very briefly—considered taking a glimpse at the students as they shuffled sleepily to breakfast. When, hours later, the snake didn't return, he had begun pacing back and forth, back and forth. Should he leave this painting? Should he venture out to look for the snake? (And face all those squabbling portraits and students and perhaps get lost and end up in certain places close to certain—people?) The snake could take care of itself. It surely knew the realm of paintings better than he did, and, besides, it was armed with deadly venom. But still...
The snake had returned a bit later, saying that the Hufflepuff territory was decidedly boring, and Harry had suddenly realized, after letting a wave of relief wash over him, that he wasn't hungry, and hadn't been hungry ever since entering the portrait world. Nor was he thirsty.
"It is something that is forgotten when you enter the realm of the paintings," the snake had explained before wandering off again. "You might find yourself with quite an appetite after you leave, though."
After you leave. Harry let the words echo through his mind. After you leave. Leaving meant Voldemort, and the endless whisperings, and the pressure of being the child of the prophecy, and facing how utterly useless and disgusting and pathetic he was; and facing his fa—
His mind stopped there.
When he allowed himself to form thoughts again, he realized he'd forgotten to do something before the snake left: ask about the Lady. Who was she, and how did she know so much about him? What power did she hold over all the portraits? Where did she come from? But as he turned his thoughts and memories over and over in his mind, he wondered if she really knew so much, or if only seemed to. Were her words simply careless remarks that hit an unsuspecting target, or were they truly subtle hints?
The snake probably wouldn't have told me anyway, Harry had thought resignedly. He'd probably just give some cryptic answer and slither away.
But when the snake came back some long hours later, Harry asked about the mysterious Lady anyway. There had been nothing better to do besides ponder the few things he could safely think about.
"She's been here the longest time," the snake answered, winding itself around Harry's fingers. Harry hesitated a moment before plunging his mind into the snake. The white mist parted, and Harry could see a white ceiling and an open window, overlooking a picturesque meadow. "Her power over the other portraits is her right. Indeed, she has more power over this school than the headmaster has."
"How is that possible?" Harry asked.
The snake, moving its head slowly, looped from his hands to around one of the bedposts. "She is the Lady," the snake answered negligently, as though that explained everything. "But remember: she can do nothing to change the world of living. Unless," said the snake, and Harry fancied that its tone had changed, "the living enters the portrait realm."
Harry processed all the snake had said. His field of vision dropped dizzyingly and Harry quickly withdrew his mind. "But who is she?" he asked one last time as the snake moved away.
"The Lady," it replied, and then was gone.
He had spent the rest of that day in boredom. There was only a limited amount of thought he could pour into pondering the same, safe things over and over again, before his mind started numbing with boredom, and darting towards darker things.
There was a distinct difference between boredom and tranquility. With tranquility, he could let himself forget everything, feel nothing, and float in an endless bliss. He had almost managed that several times, but then the tide of chattering students would roll back in. Every single one of them would blabber mindlessly, carelessly, in loud, untroubled tones; and every single one of them would mention him—Harry Potter, the Death-Eater-in-training; Harry Potter, the new Dark Lord; Harry Potter, the cowardly Gryffindor who ran away; Harry Potter, the hero who would return.
He'd lost all hope for tranquility.
And so it went for a few endless days. Hiding in the morning, hiding at night; enduring the student's tumultuous chatter, letting the empty silence fill him; content in his sanctuary, increasingly restless in his... his prison? exile? void? What name could he give his own existence?
He hadn't been able to sleep at all last night. The night before had been slightly easier, though he had tossed and turned and eventually crept to the windowsill, pretending that the painting scenery was that of the endless night. He'd fallen asleep there, imagining that the moonbeams could penetrate his eyelids and pierce his glazed eyes. But last night, his mind had been plagued with—unspeakable things, unthinkable thoughts. Memories he dared not remember. Emotions he dared not feel.
So it had been a very sleepless night. It was quite wretched, really, as he was feeling very grouchy today, and, judging from the most recent tide of voracious, empty-bellied students, it was barely noon.
But his bad mood didn't dampen the strange restlessness he felt.
I wish the snake were here, he thought as he got up suddenly and made his way to the boundary of the portrait. He hesitated. He could feel the buzz of the magical boundary hovering in front of his face. I can't see a thing. I can always go a bit later, when the snake comes back. It doesn't matter if I wait a bit—just a bit. His body tensed with indecision.
And then, like a puppet released from its strings, he stepped forward, and found himself falling through the tingling boundary between portraits.
The first thing he noticed was that the air was thick, rich, and sluggish. There seemed to be a slight taste of oil lingering in his mouth and filtering through his lungs.
I must be in an oil painting, he thought. It can't be anything else. The ground was hard and cold under his bare feet. I wonder what kind of place I'm in. It certainly isn't a landscape. A portrait? He took a step forward, extending his senses like a cat stretching. He felt as though some part of him had turned into a bird and flown out an open window. He had wandered out of his tiny haven, and things all around him were different and unknown.
He shivered.
Maybe there's nothing here, he thought, having sensed nothing. Quietly, he stepped across the boundary into another painting. He had the distinct sense of having descended, as though he'd taken a step down on a staircase. Still oil, he thought, taking in the sense of... well, smallness. The painting wasn't a very big one, he knew instinctively. A smaller portrait? But he—
There was a faint rumbling of sound, welling up from far away. The tramping of feet, the babble of voices—
The students are coming, Harry thought and licked his suddenly dry lips. He slipped out of the painting into another one. Another oil. Watercolors are so much more comfortable.
A loud whoop from an overly enthusiastic Hufflepuff sounded suddenly, so close that Harry jumped and felt ice flash at his fingertips. Calm down, he chided himself a moment later, and quickly stole from the painting. Don't be so twitchy. He passed into another painting, and had the distinct feeling that he'd covered a great distance—
"—understand it! Now I can really understand how he felt last year. Nobody is telling me anything."
Harry froze, as though caught in the green light of the Killing Curse. He felt panic rising like a dark cloud, shrieking at him to flee, to run away, but he couldn't. He was rooted to the spot. His heart was pounding like a sledgehammer. Ginny, he thought, throat suddenly dry.
"I can't tell you," replied a voice, tired and flat. Hermione, Harry thought, feeling his pulse quicken. Hermione, who had been a faithful friend; Hermione, whom he had slammed into the wall with a burst of scalding magic; Hermione, who now stood so close that he could hear her breathe.
"Why not?" Ginny demanded hotly. "You and Ron always know something I don't. Why don't you ever tell me? I only want to help. And I won't tell anyone else, you know I won't."
"Ginny, you don't understand—whether you want to help or not, I still can't tell you because I really don't think Harry wanted anyone to know either."
"But did he ever mention not telling me?"
Hermione sounded upset. "Ginny!" Harry moved quietly, slowly, to the edge of the portrait, hiding behind where he felt the frame to be. His heart was in his throat. Any moment, one of them might glance up and see him. He could almost hear their voices already, full with surprise and shock and accusation... "You know what I mean. It's one of the things that he doesn't want others to know, and in this case, it's not just him. And—and I agree with keeping it hidden."
"But why?" Ginny asked, her voice tinged with desperation. There was a pause. Harry leaned forward before hastily pulling himself back, suppressing a shiver as he did so. He felt as though he would topple out of the painting at any moment. Ginny continued, in a smaller voice, "Is it this secret thing that's made Ron become so—" She stopped. "Such a stupid, immature prat?"
Harry swallowed.
"Don't say that," Hermione replied automatically. "Ginny, please. Stop pestering me. You've been asking me for three days already, and I can't tell you." Her voice softened. "Please, Ginny?"
"I'm not giving up, Hermione," Ginny snapped. "You may choose not to tell me, but I'm going to ask you for it until I find out."
"Ginny, how would you feel if someone kept asking you about things you wouldn't want anyone to know, like Tom Riddle and the Chamber of Secrets?" Hermione's voice has risen slightly. "How would you like it if Harry told some random person about what had happened, without you knowing?"
"I—that's not the point," Ginny replied, sounding slightly troubled. "I'm just trying to help him... and you know me..."
"I thought I knew Ron," Hermione said with a bitterness that Harry had never heard in her voice before.
"I'm not Ron," Ginny said quickly, as though the mere thought was nauseous. "I pestered Ron about Harry, but he told me the stupidest things, like Harry joining Voldemort, or—"
Harry heard the three sets of footsteps approach, footsteps that he recognized with a sinking stomach as soon as the arrogant voice spoke.
"What, Potter joining the Dark Lord?" Malfoy drawled. "Who'd have thought?"
"Bugger off, Malfoy," Ginny grated. "Or I'll curse you into next week."
"Oooh, I'm so terrified," Malfoy snickered. Harry heard two nondescript grunts from whom he assumed to be Crabbe and Coyle. "Where's Potter to save you? Not here anymore, is he?"
"I'm warning you, Malfoy—"
"No, Ginny," Hermione snapped. "Just ignore him."
"D'you know why he's not here anymore, Weasley?" Malfoy continued, his tone leery. "It's because he chickened out and ran away. It's because your precious savior is a coward."
That's not true! Harry thought, feeling a bolt of shock at the accusation. But he clutched at the portrait frame to steady himself.
"Liar!" Ginny shouted. "I bet you know where he is—you and your Death-Eater father!"
"My Death-Eater father is on the winning side," Malfoy returned smoothly. "The Dark Lord took him out of Azkaban. He'll be doing your family a favor, too, once he helps your family shrink a bit..."
"GINNY, NO—"
"LET ME GO, GOD D—"
"My, my, my... Weasley, Granger..."
Harry stiffened and darted out of sight. His heart began to pound wildly.
"Professor Snape!" Hermione said, sounding slightly out of breath.
"They started it," said Malfoy, not missing a beat. "Granger was insulting me, and Weasley was just about to curse me 'into next week,' as she threatened."
"Hermione did no such thing!" Ginny shouted hotly. "You're such a liar, Malfoy, I—"
"That will be thirty points from Gryffindor and detention with me for a week," Snape said coldly.
Harry flinched. Ginny stopped short. A moment later she began sputtering, too outraged to speak.
"Malfoy, you have a letter from your father," Snape said coolly, in a tone that clearly meant dismissal. There was a pause, and Harry heard Malfoy mutter something. "And, Granger, Weasley, I would suggest removing yourselves from my presence. Gryffindor cannot afford to lose anymore points without"—Harry cringed at the sneering tone—"its little hero."
Don't, please don't, Harry pleaded silently. Don't say anymore, please don't...
"You aren't fit to lick the soles of Harry's shoes," Ginny declared.
"Ginny!" Hermione whispered fiercely.
"Really, Miss Weasley?" Snape queried in a dangerous, mock-innocent tone. "It's touching how you still defend your little crush, even when he's running from all his troubles like a coward—a coward just like his father." Harry felt his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms. He didn't want to hear this anymore—anything but this; but he couldn't leave. "I suppose Potter couldn't face that fact that it was he who killed his pathetic godfather. A pity they did not go together."
Harry jerked back as though pulled roughly by a string. A knot had formed in his throat and there was a stinging behind his eyes. He wishes that I were dead, Harry thought. He truly wishes that I were dead. He was aware of Hermione and Ginny defending him, but he didn't take in anything they said. Snape's words echoed in his mind. He could think of nothing else—nothing else mattered.
Before he knew it, he was in another portrait. He had to leave. He had to escape. He needed a place to go to—to hide, to be safe from the pain—
He kicked off impulsively and darted through another portrait. Moving. He needed to keep moving in order to keep the emptiness at bay—oh, how it hurt. It was like clawing his way through an icy blizzard. He was blind, blind, and the air rushed past him in a thousand flavors, and he was—
—running from all his troubles like a coward. He stopped, drained of all energy. He's right. I am running. Oh God, he thought brokenly. He really wishes that I had died. The painful knot in his throat was unbearable. If only I could cry, he thought. If only I could shed tears... If only I were really dead. Then—
His fingers brushed the trunk of a tree. It was rough, and he dimly smelt pines. Am I in the Lady's portrait? he wondered suddenly. He paused and attempted to compose himself. He didn't want anyone to see him like this, a pathetic wreck.
He walked past the tree, hands in front of him. There were trees all around him; he could feel them, but they seemed to part around him, even though they didn't move at all. He took another step, and felt the veil of magic between portraits slide over him.
The change was startling. The ground was suddenly cold under his feet, and judging from the cracks, he was standing on flagstones. What painting have I gone into? Harry wondered. The texture of the air was different, too. It wasn't thick and filmy like that of an oil painting, nor was it fleeting like a watercolor.
He moved along the walls, which were made of stone, and came upon a bed. Keeping his left hand in front of him, he clambered onto it. The covers were plain but soft, and he felt air and warmth on his face. His left hand touched something cold and metallic and cylindrical: iron bars. He pulled himself closer. It's a window, he realized. A barred window.
This is like a cell, not in the dungeons but somewhere in a tower, Harry thought. A bed simple, cold stone floor, stone walls, and a barred window. Sunlight and air streaming through. He couldn't remember ever having seen such a painting before. Here was solitude, and here was refuge.
He swallowed hard at the thought of it. He was indeed within a prison: the prison of his own cowardice, his own uselessness, his own fear. Snape—who was his father (he flinched as he allowed this thought to form)—was right. He was too weak to leave this cell; he was too weak to look outside and see how hated he was, to face the fruit of his unnaturalness and failure, to hear again those cutting, cutting words—
A door opened and closed. Footsteps. Harry turned to face the sound and stiffened. It's outside the portrait, he realized, and felt the adrenaline subside. It's not from inside this painting...
A chair was pulled out roughly, and Harry heard the sound of wood sliding on stone. Someone slumped into the chair, breathing hard. The sound of parchment being hurriedly unfolded. Then silence, except for the furious scribbling of a quill...
Harry left the bed and moved silently towards the sound. The person's breathing, initially heavy, had evened out, gradually being covered by the sound of writing, or drawing, or—
Abruptly, the breathing quickened, and there was a small snap! A thin, strangled sob rang out. Harry froze at the sound of it. Then—parchment being torn furiously into fourths—crumpled—
"AAGH!"
He remained frozen where he stood, listening to the sound of clumps of paper lightly falling onto a desk. Well, it's certainly not a girl, he thought stupidly and wondered, in the ensuing silence, if he'd been seen. But he only heard another sound, something that might have been a sob breaking out of silence. And then, slowly and wearily, footsteps moved away, seemingly spent of all energy. There was the slight creak of the opening door, and, a small eternity later, the gentle thud of its closing.
A moment later Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Who was that? he wondered. He sat down on the bed, as though the other's fury had somehow drained him too. It's definitely not a girl, he thought. And the voice was—somewhat familiar. But not Ron, nor any of the Gryffindor boys... Strange, though. He was sure he had heard it before, somewhere.
His mind filed through layers of memory and resurfaced empty-handed and weary. So I'm not the only one in Hogwarts who has issues, Harry thought. Perhaps that other boy had some unspeakable tragedy, like the passing of a mother, or father—or worse, having all his tenuous hopes shattered and being hated though he had tried his best to be loved...
He shook his head quickly, dispelling the thought and the echoes of Snape's cold, cutting words before they could crowd into his mind. What are the chances of him having been someone like that? he scoffed. The world has enough Harry Potters. But he wished, all the same, that he knew who the stranger was.
He heard the snake's hissing before he heard its slithering. It was hissing quite loudly, and its words carried a kind of rhythm, as though it were singing. "Through winter-time we call on spring, And through the spring on summer call..."
Harry wandered towards the sound. He bumped into something, and realized that it was a desk or table, standing against the wall.
"And when abounding hedges ring, Declare that winter's best of all..."
His hands went up and he felt the wall. But instead of cold stone, he felt canvas, roughened by colors and paint and brushstrokes. It's a portrait, he thought, awed. It's a painting within a painting.
"And after that there s nothing good; Because the spring-time has not come..."
But no, Harry thought. This is no painting. This is the window to the world of the living. Desk, bed, and barred tower-window: is this painting a mirror of the room it's in? He lowered his hands to the desk and pulled out the chair he knew was there. On the other side of the wall and painting, someone else had done the same thing.
"Nor know that what disturbs our blood, Is but its longing for the tomb."
"What are you saying?" Harry asked, sitting down. He could sense the snake as it coiled up his chair.
"A poem, nothing more," the snake answered. "I was wandering the Astronomy Tower when I remembered it. I find that I am remembering things I had forgotten after I died. The last time," the snake clarified, "right after I first met you."
"Who killed you?" Harry asked, a bit shaken. He hadn't known that the snake had died then.
"A witch. Very toad like. I'd like not to think of her, if you won't mind, arglwydd." It was on the edge of Harry's tongue to ask what 'arglwydd' meant, but the snake remarked, in a tone that bordered on smugness, "So you've found this room."
"Yes," said Harry, wary of the snake's superior tone. "It's a painting of the room it's in, isn't it?"
"Which is the painting, and which is the room?" the snake asked, coiling up Harry's arm. It was silent for a moment. "Someone certainly left a mess on the other side of the wall."
"A mess?"
"Parchment all over the desk. Someone was quite mad today."
Harry stood up so that he was face to face with the portrait. "Let me see, please."
"Of course, arglwydd."
Harry felt the cold, smooth scales moving over his arm as the snake positioned itself. The snake's a bit heavier than before, Harry thought. I wonder if it's eaten anything. Or maybe it's just growing. The snake stopped moving, poised expectantly, and Harry plunged his mind into it.
The first thing he noticed was that the wall and the portrait were dark, as though cast in shadow. The second thing he noticed was the painting itself: it was indeed a picture of the room he himself was in: stone walls, stone ceiling, the head of a bed, a desk, and a door somewhere out of the frame. The window, too, couldn't be seen, but there was a brilliant streak of light in the painting that fell straight across the floor.
Harry turned his head around to see if there was matching illumination coming from the barred window he had felt, but the snake continued to stare at the painting. Harry turned his attention back to it, and noticed the clumps of parchment that lay in darkness on the desk.
Harry leaned closer, and the frame of vision loomed until Harry could see each fold and wrinkle in the crumpled parchments. He could even make out one or two scribbled words... A few, not much, and even those... He realized he was squinting, and relaxed his eyes.
"Can you make out what it says?" Harry hissed.
The snake was silent for a moment and Harry tilted his head to get a better view, and forgot that he had to move his arm to do so. 'Why do you...' Harry read, and then the paper crumpled into shadow.
"'Hate,'" said the snake. "It says 'hate,' right there."
"'Hate?'" Harry echoed, tilting his arm. "Oh. It does." The word had been written very quickly, and Harry frowned, certain that he had seen the handwriting before. "After 'hate,' I think it says 'my...'"
"It ends there," said the snake. "After that word. There's an ink blot on the parchment."
"But what's the last word?"
"Father."
The colors dimmed for a moment to white, but Harry forced his mind back in. "Are you sure?"
"I could be wrong," the snake remarked. "I can only see something '-ther,' actually. It could be 'mother.' But that letter looks like an 'a' to me."
"Oh," Harry said. He felt a slight tug from the snake, and let his mind slip back to whiteness. He sat down, and the snake slithered off his wrist.
"This place is much better than that painting in Hufflepuff territory," the snake said conversationally. "I shall be back sometime soon. I think I shall go explore North Tower."
"Yes, you do that," Harry hissed. The snake left.
Harry got out of the chair and walked to the middle of the room, where he felt a sudden warmth, as though struck by sunlight. I am being struck by sunlight, he thought, remembering the brilliant streak of illumination in the painting—or in the world of living, rather. Or both. Whatever. He made his way to the window that opened right above his bed.
I don't hate my father, Harry thought, both hands wrapped around the cold bars of the window. He hates me. He rested his head against one of the bars. He hates me. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget the words Snape had said, and wondered, at the same time, who the stranger might have been...