A/N: Thanks, again, to Procyon for the lightning beta and the hilarious afterthought!
Chapter 12: The Stranger
"Are you thinking about him?"
Harry started and turned towards the hissing. "Snake! Where were you?" He reached out an arm and felt the snake wrap itself around his wrist. "You were gone for four days." He paused and probed into the snake's mind. "Or was it three?"
"Only three," the snake replied, its voice a bit distracted as color bled into Harry's vision. "I was exploring. I think I remember almost half of what I used to know."
"Is that the only way you can get your memory back?" Harry asked, equally distracted. The colors of darkness flooded into his brain, and it felt like an inexorable tide, bearing down on his other senses. The painting he was in was almost exactly as he had remembered it—the bed and table with the window and painting and the lone streak of blazing light falling across the room. "By exploring Hogwarts, I mean."
"No, but seeing things from past lives helps me remember," said the snake. "I think I lived most of my past lives in the castle. But anyway, were you thinking about him?"
Harry withdrew his mind. "What?"
"Weeere," the snake hissed slowly, "you thiiiinking of hiiiiim?"
"Who's this he you're talking about?" Harry countered, though he thought he already knew.
"The mysterious stranger who hates his father."
"No," Harry replied automatically. He paused. The snake waited. "Well, yes, actually. I was thinking of him, a little."
"Ahh," said the snake in a superior tone.
"What?" Harry asked suspiciously. "Do you know who he is?"
"I might," said the snake, slithering off Harry's wrist. The shades of color melted once again into a dazzling whiteness. "Did you search for him?"
Harry frowned. "I… wasn't searching for anything." Had he been searching? He cast his mind to the past few days. He had wandered. He had hid. He had listened and heard the words and voices of a hundred thousand people. Some of their words were about him, Harry Potter, and he'd learned that he was never the same person to two different people. Sometimes it felt as though they were talking about someone else; sometimes it felt as though he didn't exist, that he really was a painting, a ghost within the walls.
But night and silence fell, and he would wander the halls restlessly. Sleep came to him in discrete amounts, like milk squeezed out of a green branch. While the world slept, he felt alive: if not alive, then as free as a ghost upon the wind. His mind remained as blank as an empty glass, and it had become easy not to think about things that would hurt. It helped that he darted away whenever he heard the voices of those whom he had known, his friends in a past life. Hermione, Ginny, Ron, Neville…
He was glad he never once heard Snape's voice—no whisper or murmur or echo of that cool and angry voice. Glad, and relieved, but at the same time, just a little bit—
He quickly cut off that thought.
"Well, I wasn't searching either," said the snake. "But I did find something interesting."
"What did you find?"
Harry could hear the snake slithering away across the stones. "Follow me, arglwydd."
Harry stood hesitantly. "What did you find?" he asked again. "And what does arglwydd mean?" There was no reply. "Snake?" He sighed after a moment of indecision and crossed the room, feeling the sliding of magic over his skin as he left the portrait.
"So you've decided to follow me," the snake commented, sounding quite satisfied.
"What does arglwydd mean?" Harry demanded, following the snake as they crossed the portrait and entered another. The ground under his feet changed from grass to hard marble, and then to the nondescript velvet of the unseen portrait floors.
"What do you think it means?" The air changed too, becoming suddenly damp, as though they were walking through a virgin forest.
Harry frowned. "How would I—" And suddenly, he knew. It simply bubbled to the surface of his mind from some vat underneath his consciousness, and he hissed, half in amusement and half in annoyance, "I told you not to call me Master!"
"I haven't been calling you Master," the snake replied innocently.
"'Arglwydd' is 'Master' in Welsh!" Harry exclaimed, exasperated. "You're just—
"Actually," said the snake, "'arglwydd' means 'Lord,' not 'Master.'"
"It's all the same thing," Harry muttered.You're just splitting hairs. Don't call me Master, or Lord, or anything like that, or any form of that, at all. Please. Call me—just call me Harry." Harry. It was a strange name, Harry thought, for an Heir of Slytherin to have. But it was even stranger to think of himself as the Heir of Slytherin. He was simply… Harry.
"What about Henry? Or Heinrich?"
"Heimerich?" He thought for a moment, trying to will up any knowledge from Slytherin's gift of knowledge, but none came. "That's not Welsh, is it? Or English…"
"It's German for 'home ruler,' from which Henry came, from which Harry came."
"You know German?" Harry asked, a bit surprised and rather impressed.
"I used to," the snake replied. "We're here, now."
Harry stopped. "Where?" He bent down with outstretched arms, and felt the snake wrap around his forearms. The whiteness bled away, and Harry saw a giant grandfather clock standing in the middle of a grassy meadow with little sheep ambling in the distance. Harry stared, wondering why there was a grandfather clock in the middle of a field populated only by sheep.
"What's this?" Harry asked.
"This," came an acerbic voice behind him, as footsteps approached, "is a guarded entrance that you have no business hanging about."
Harry whirled around. The field of vision teetered crazily, and he felt an instance of sickening vertigo. White instantly began bleeding into his mind, and the milky expanse seemed suddenly familiar and comforting. He shook his hands and the snake coiled off with a disgruntled hiss. But the snake had felt too much like a set of manacles around his wrists, denying him mobility as he felt pools of ice tingle in his palms as the silver needles itched to emerge.
"Awfully jittery, are you not?" the voice continued.
Harry frowned, feeling his pounding heart subside. It wasn't Snape—thank Merlin—but it was still familiar. "Phineas Nigellus?"
"Who did you expect?" Phineas snorted. "Paracelsus? And what are you doing here, teenager? I know you adolescents, always trying to stick your bits into matters you shouldn't concern yourselves with, always believing yourselves to be right and everyone else to be wrong…"
"Oh, shut up," the snake muttered, sounding supremely bored.
"Shut up indeed!" Phineas snapped. "If you weren't a snake, I'd—"
"You can speak Parseltongue?" Harry demanded, the remark torn from him in his surprise.
"No, you imbecile," the former headmaster replied impatiently. "I can understand it—it is a talent I learned in my youth, through much training, may my mother rot in peace."
"Then you should I know that I think you are a narrow-minded old fart who should never have been headmaster," the snake said, still sounding uninterested and aloof. "Let alone Head of Slytherin House," it added as an afterthought.
"Why you—"
"I'll have you know that my Master is no imbecile," the snake interrupted icily. "He is the Heir of Slytherin."
"He is an adolescent," Phineas thundered.
"Nevertheless, he is the Heir of Slytherin. You should be kissing his feet."
"I—don't," Harry sputtered, taken aback and feeling a blush rising up his neck and to his face. "I'm not—I mean, I am the Heir, but—"
"Well?" the snake demanded coldly. "What are you waiting for, Phineas? Pay your respects to the Heir of Slytherin!"
"Snake!" Harry hissed, aghast.
Phineas Nigellus made a sound that Harry decided had to have been the grinding of teeth. "I, Phineas Elagabalus Diadumenianus Nigellus," the former headmaster squeezed out, "do humbly pay my respects to the rightful Heir of Lord Salazar Slytherin."
"Very good," the snake hissed, sounding very smug. "See, it wasn't so hard, was it?"
"Silence, reptile!" Phineas snapped. "And if it may not be too impertinent of me, may I ask why the young Lord and his pet snake are loitering outside the private quarters of the Hogwarts potions master, Severus Alexander Snape?"
Harry staggered. "What?" he croaked. "Is this—really?"
"Yes, indeed it is," Phineas sneered. "Oh, did your little pet neglect to tell you?"
"I…" Harry swallowed and backed away from the grandfather clock, seized by a sudden dread. His entire being was screaming at him to run away, to flee.
"Wait!" the snake hissed, slithering and wrapping itself around Harry's ankles. Harry jumped at the contact, and once again felt ice pooling at his fingertips. "Don't leave, arglwydd."
"But I—I cannot stay," Harry pressed out. It was difficult to breathe. He had to leave. He had to get away. He couldn't stay—he couldn't!
"Why, my Lord," Phineas queried with mock deference, "do you find Snape's presence so odious?"
"Shut up, old fart," the snake hissed furiously. "Leave, before I bite you."
"I do not blame you, my Lord," Phineas continued, as though snake had said nothing. "Young Snape has been unusually snappish lately. Come to think of it, the Headmaster Dumbledore has been unusually tired." He sighed gustily. "Too much stress looking for that Potter brat of theirs, I imagine."
Harry froze. The words struck him like thunder. They're all looking for me, Harry thought, feeling guilt clench his heart. They all believe that I must save them. And all I do is run and hide, hide and run, and feel sorry for myself. He felt a surge of self-hatred, of shame and despair, of frustration and helplessness—a surge so strong that it choked him. I wish I weren't this weak, he thought furiously. He didn't feel the snake unwinding itself from around his ankles, but he did hear a high-pitched and rather frantic yelp.
"What was that?" Harry asked, arising from his daze.
"The old fart," the snake said, satisfied. "I've driven him away. Forget what he said."
"But he's right," Harry said, feeling hollow. "They are looking for me, and I—" I'm just running and hiding because I'm so weak—oh, why can't I face them? For the second time, he wondered wildly if he could just topple out of the world of paintings and plant his feet again in the stone corridors of Hogwarts' halls—and hear the vicious tide of whispers, murmurs, and then, cutting through them all, that cool, controlled voice, full of disgust and hate—
He knew that he would never be able to survive that. He knew it better than he knew his name. He would never be able to survive it a second time.
"Arglwydd," the snake whispered uncertainly. "Arglwydd—Harry. Master."
"Don't call me that," Harry said automatically. His voice broke.
"I was wrong to bring you here," the snake said, sounding regretful for the first time Harry could remember. "You were not ready, and—"
"No, no," Harry interrupted. "I—I should go. I should face him, I shouldn't be so—so—"
"You are not weak," the snake said resolutely. Harry felt it wrap itself around his ankle. "You are the Heir of Slytherin, and in your possession are the heirlooms of this noble line—the silent thief that may steal away souls, the Water of Sight, the knowledge from the Well."
"It doesn't matter—I am weak, and those gifts, they're just—gifts, that can be given to anyone, and haven't I been running, and hiding? Why me? I can't—I can't even—"
The snake's voice was firm yet soothing, like the sound of a thousand leaves touching. "You are the Heir. Do you remember? Lord Slytherin bade you ask him any questions except for that: why are you the Heir?"
The snake fell silent.
"And I don't suppose you can answer that either," Harry muttered.
"You've supposed correctly."
A little wind within the portrait stirred the grass of the meadow, and he felt the blades softly brush his legs. His heart calmed its frantic beating, and Harry felt the fit of panic and anguish recede, though it left him with a lingering sense of unhappiness. He took a deep breath. "About this… entrance to—Snape's—private quarters…"
"Ah," said the snake, sounding once again like its self-righteous self. It uncoiled itself from around Harry's leg. "That. The grandfather clock is the traditional doorkeeper. It is both inside and outside the world of paintings, but I don't think you've seen it outside—it's very well hidden, and only those who know it exists may see it."
"So it's like the gargoyle in front of the headmaster's office?" Harry asked.
"Yes, similar. But Severus Snape did not set a password. It is a passage of blood: only those of the Snape line can enter."
Harry was silent for a moment. His lips were suddenly dry. "Of the… of the Snape line?"
"Yes," the snake said. "Will you look at it?"
Harry nodded, unable to speak. He reached down and let the snake wrap itself around his wrist.
The white mist cleared and the grandfather clock appeared once more before him: tall, imposing, simply carved from a wood with a deep, red color. The pendulum that swung back and forth was silver, rimmed with gold, and the face itself was simply crafted.
"How do I do this?" Harry asked, his voice no more than a whisper.
"There is a design at the back of the clock, behind the pendulum," the snake explained. "Do you see it?"
Harry moved closer, and his mind made out the faint outline of… something. Harry could now hear the soft swishing sound the pendulum made as it flashed in a silvery arc, paused, and fell across once more like a gleaming blade.
"It's a snake, isn't it?" Harry asked. "A snake with feathers—wings, I think, and it's wrapped around a branch."
"Yes," said the snake. "It is the emblem of your line: the ash and the snake."
My line. He wanted to repeat it, to taste the fallacy in those two words, because he knew it wasn't true, he knew it, but before he could deny it, the snake went on.
"To enter, you must press your hand to it—carefully. Do not let the pendulum touch you."
"All right," Harry said, watching the pendulum swing back and forth. He could easily imagine it as a blade, ready to slice his hand off at the wrist. "What'll happen after I press it?"
"I don't know," the snake answered, sounding supremely unconcerned. "You'll get in, I suppose."
That's reassuring, Harry thought nervously. He moved a bit closer. The almost imperceptible movement of air from the swinging pendulum tickled his face.
"Snake," Harry asked hesitantly. "When you meant that only one of the Snape line could enter… did you really mean line, or blood?"
The snake swished its tail. "Is there a difference?"
"Yes," Harry replied with conviction. Blood could only go so far. Look at Voldemort and his father, Tom Riddle; look at—look at him, Harry Potter, and his mother's sister's family… He shuddered.
"Touch the emblem," the snake hissed. "You will enter, arglwydd."
How can you be so sure? Harry wanted to demand. But he couldn't stall anymore; it would be too cowardly, too much a show of his weakness. And if it does slice off my hand—or pull me in and cut my throat, he thought grimly, then it might as well.
He watched the pendulum intently. Its rhythm seemed to echo the pounding of his heart. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm himself, to blanket the ceaseless shrill of panic.
And then, as the pendulum lifted lazily, Harry thrust out his hand and pressed the emblem.
Nothing happened for a moment, and Harry waited for the pendulum to fall through his hand. But then he felt the faintest brush of air across his face and over his shoulders.
"We are within," the snake said, its voice soft, as though they were in an ancient and sacred place.
Harry moved back, and just as he withdrew his hand, the pendulum fell again. The snake turned its head, and Harry saw that the grandfather clock no longer stood in the middle of an empty meadow, but instead against an old stone wall. The stone wall was part of a crumbling castle, old and worn against a dim and overcast sky. Deeper into the painting was a gnarled tree, growing amidst tumbled rocks.
"This is the potion master's lair," hissed the snake, turning its head in a swift movement.
Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. The room was dark, the walls ancient; there was a desk at the opposite end of the room, covered with a disorganized mess of papers.
"He's not here," said Harry, examining the room through the snake's eyes. He felt relief rush through him, and he let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "It's empty."
"Quite," the snake agreed. "Your father's rather messy, isn't he?"
Harry swallowed hard as the snake slipped off his arm and the world careened back into a white murkiness. My father. The old pain returned, lashing through him and whispering memories in his ear: his father snarling no, the brutal voice and words…
There was a sound. Harry froze.
"All these paintings are rather morbid," the snake hissed loudly from somewhere far off. "They seem to have come with the room, though, so I doubt he chose them—"
"Snake," Harry whispered urgently, "we have to leave, now! He'll be back any moment."
"Who, your father? He's in the next room, making a potion, I would think, from the fumes coming out from under the door."
He couldn't help it. His breathing became faster more irregular, and he could hear the thunder of his heartbeat echoing harshly in his head. I can't stay, he thought wildly. I have to leave. I have to leave—or hide. He wondered where he might hide: in the grandfather clock, with the pendulum swinging in front of his face? Where?
"Are you always on this… thing?"
Harry looked up. "What?" he rasped, voice sharp from fear.
"The Daily Prophet. Fellow named Harry Potter has made the front page."
Wha— Harry gaped, for a moment unable to respond, and then a thin, humorless laugh jerked from him. "Yes, I… you could say that I'm almost always on that thing. But snake, I think—we should leave—"
"Listen to this: 'Despite Headmaster Dumbledore's assertions, the Boy-Who-Lived may not be as firmly fixed on the righteous path as many of us believe.' Mm. You sound so naughty, arglwydd."
"I—"
There was a noise from the other room, of shuffling footsteps and the clanking of a stirring rod in the simmering depths of a potion.
Harry darted back to the grandfather clock. He clutched the sides and felt the air from the pendulum tickle his face. "How—how do I leave?" Should he stick his hand in again?
"Arglwydd!" the snake called.
I can't stay, thought Harry. He had to leave. He couldn't stay; not here, not now—
Another sound.
He felt the snake touch his ankle and he thrust out a hand, pushing against where the remembered the emblem of the Snape house to have been. His breath whistled harshly through his lungs as he felt the gentle whirling of air about his face.
"Arglwydd?"
Harry sat down in the grass slowly, like an old man.
"Arglwydd…"
"I was running again," Harry blurted out. He wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered like a leaf. "I—I was running. Away. Again." He took a deep breath and let it out, all the while shuddering weakly with self-loathing.
"There is no shame in this," the snake whispered.
"It's not even shame," muttered Harry. "It's…" It is shame, partly, Harry conceded. But the prophecy points to me to save them—me and me alone. And I tell myself that I will not run, that I will conquer my fear, that it is a ridiculous weakness. But whenever it comes, this fear, whenever I face it, I… I cannot—
He choked back a sob and then furiously wiped his eyes before remembering that he could shed no tears. Somehow the remembrance drained some of the anguish, leaving behind something very cold and very empty.
"Let's go back to the cell," Harry said. His voice was surprisingly calm, almost as though it didn't belong to him, but his entire body felt weak and shaky. "Will you come with me?"
"Yes, I will," said the snake. Harry noted that the snake sounded rather subdued. Because of me, thought Harry, and felt a pang of guilt. But it was nice that the snake was with him.
They made the journey in silence. Harry felt numb and exhausted. For the first time in a long while, he felt ready to lie down and shut his eyes and sleep…
But the moment they entered the cell, Harry felt the snake draw back, as though in surprise. Harry felt an echoing leap of fear and whispered quietly,
"What is it?" Noises: he could hear sounds, sounds that sounded like gentle scratching, gentle breathing…
The snake winded itself around his ankle, and Harry reached down so that it could coil around his wrists. "Look through my eyes," it said.
The mist cleared. Harry found himself looking at the portrait on the wall, the portrait that showed the world without, the world of the living. A streak of sunlight fell starkly across the plain table, but instead of the few ripped scraps of paper Harry had remembered seeing, there was a parchment, and a hand, writing…
Harry drew in a breath sharply. That mysterious boy, who had entered in a rage and spent it in a flurry of anguish, was here again. Harry moved a bit closer to the portrait, as silently as he could. The all-consuming rage Harry had remembered was utterly gone; instead, the stranger seemed pensive, quiet, and, Harry imagined, melancholy.
The snake lifted its head closer to the portrait. The light came in an isolated streak, bathing only the parchment and hands and quill in light but leaving everything else in darkness. Who is he? Harry wondered, straining to make out the person's features. The head was bent over; the hair was of a light hue, but…
"See what he's written," the snake urged.
Harry turned his attention to the parchment, reluctantly. It was something private, he felt; something he had no right to see. But—the words formed with a strangely familiar script, and he was curious—
Dear Father…
Harry's mind paused at the heading. And then he read on.
I do not know how to say this, and this letter will never be sent. But I wish I could tell you how I feel, that I feel as though I do not know you anymore. You are now so different from the Father I knew, the Father I loved. What happened? What caused this? Why? Is it the Master you serve? Mother feels it too, but she is silent. She is always silent now, and in her silence, I've lost the only ally I might have. I am alone. Slytherins are always alone, but I've never felt so desolate as I feel now. Here, far away from you, your presence still haunts me. What am I but the son of my father? What am I but an extension of you? What do they see in me besides a spoiled little brat, who flaunts his father's name because—
Harry stared at the light-skinned hand, writing the next words. His heart was racing, his mind awhirl: I know him, he thought, and felt the impossible recognition click in place. The stranger lifted his head and leaned forward into the sunlight—the aristocratic nose, the lips, nearly unrecognizable without the sneer, the gray eyes gazing unseeingly, the pale flutter of the eyelashes and eyebrows—
"Malfoy?" Harry gasped, disbelieving.
Draco Malfoy started, and ink splattered over the tabletop. His hand quickly crumpled the parchment into a ball, and then he looked up with guarded eyes, lips curled angrily. "Who's there?" he demanded, voice shrill with—fear?
Harry felt his heart beating a hole through his chest. The gray eyes darted like birds before stopping at a spot above Harry's frame of vision, where Harry knew his face and sightless eyes to be.
"You," Malfoy hissed, his voice still edged with apprehension. "You, in the portrait. You weren't there before—you're spying on me, aren't you?"
Harry flinched slightly, even though that angry gray stare and the curled snarl of the thin lips seemed to be directed slightly above his head. He finally found his voice. "No… I—"
"You were." Harry noticed Malfoy's face gaining a slight tinge of pink, the eyes widened instead of narrowed. "You're one of Dumbledore's spies, aren't you? Aren't you? Look at me when I'm talking!"
"You're wrong," Harry said, feeling his voice contrast hoarsely to Malfoy's higher-pitched accusations. "I—I am blind."
Malfoy's face changed a bit, and Harry realized that it was a slight edge of doubt. "You lie," Malfoy retorted.
"I am not lying," Harry said, though it was not entirely the truth. "I am blind."
Malfoy frowned, seemingly torn. Then he raised his hands and held them above the frame of vision, up close to where Harry knew his face was, and clapped sharply.
"So you are blind," said Malfoy, and Harry could see the tension suddenly drain from other boy's face, the sneer disappear and the curl of hate unfurl. It was a startling transformation. In the space of a heartbeat, the Malfoy heir became almost unrecognizable.
There was a pause. Harry noticed Malfoy's grip on the parchment relax slightly, the knuckles no longer paper-white, the gray eyes less brittle. Then a frown appeared. "How did you know it was me?"
Harry opened his mouth, his mind groping for an answer. "I… guessed."
The eyes darkened suspiciously. "You guessed?"
Harry swallowed uncomfortably. Perhaps I should simply tell him the truth, he thought, when suddenly his frame of vision shifted—the snake moved its head. White dissolved the colors in the mind, and Harry found himself, for the first time, feeling that sense of drowning as Malfoy's face vanished into a blank mist of disembodied sounds.
Malfoy started, shifting away abruptly from the table. "You've got a snake around your hand!" he barked.
Is he scared of snakes? Harry wondered, a bit puzzled. "It won't hurt me," Harry explained. "And it can't hurt you."
"Little cowards, the lot of them," the snake hissed lazily. "It seems as though the Slytherin house has lost all its bravado."
Harry felt a spark of amusement at the comment, even as he felt—to his utter surprise—a pang of indignant resentment, as though the remark had offended him. But I'm not even a Slytherin! he thought. A voice replied: No, but you are the Heir of Slytherin.
"Not hurt you?" Malfoy's voice still wavered with apprehension. "I—" He stopped. "You're a portrait," he muttered sullenly. "Of course you can't be hurt by whatever is in the portraits already. Everyone knows that."
Harry felt the snake crawl up over the sleeves of his arm and find its way around his shoulders. "Yes, that's true," he said, as a silence fell over them. It was a rather uncomfortable silence. Harry could help but stagger at how surrealistic the situation was: he, Harry Potter, now the Heir of Slytherin, facing the heir of the Malfoy family from a portrait. And this is not simply Malfoy, Harry thought. It is a boy who hates his father, who wishes the world would not see him as a spoiled brat. A heartbeat. I know him now, Harry realized reluctantly. I've read the innermost his confusion, what he hides behind his sneer and his loneliness, and I… It was his responsibility now. He felt another weight settle on him.
"Who are you anyway?" Malfoy asked, after a pause.
"I'm—" Harry floundered, grasping for an answer.
"Say you're Heimerich," the snake hissed suddenly.
"What—no!"
"What?" Malfoy echoed, sounding confused.
Harry faltered. "I'm—call me Gwalchgwyn."
Malfoy was silent for a moment. "Gwalchgwyn," he repeated. "That sounds Welsh."
"It is," said Harry, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. White hawk, he thought, remembering the heritage Slytherin had told him. The name had come out suddenly, as if by its own volition. "And… your name?"
Malfoy sniffed. "You already knew. Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."
"I didn't know, not your first name, at least," Harry said. Somehow, the silence was frostier than it had been. "I don't know anything about you," Harry lied hesitantly.
"Well, you know I'm a Malfoy," Malfoy spat. "Isn't that enough?"
"No," Harry replied honestly. "And I only know your name. And that you're… well, have lots of money—"
"Filthy rich, you mean," Malfoy interrupted harshly.
Harry hesitated. Since when had calling someone 'rich' become as touchy a business as calling someone 'poor'? "Yes. But it's like—it's the same with—anyone. Who's more of a name than a person." Like Harry. "You can't know a person just by their name, or by their father." He stopped abruptly.
The silence was unbearably tense, reverberating with the words Harry now wished he hadn't said. They hung there, naked as the unclothed moon. He wanted to break the silence, to talk about something so that they could start pretending nothing had been said—but what could he talk about? Quidditch? he thought desperately.
"You look a lot like Severus."
Harry started violently, felt his heart hammer away in his chest. "W-what?"
A pause. "I said, you look a lot like Professor Snape."
Breathe. "Oh."
"You look like him a lot, you know," Malfoy said again. Harry swallowed hard, again, hearing the tightly coiled suspicion in the other boy's voice. He can't know, Harry thought, mind jumbled by panic.
"I might be related to him—distantly," said Harry, hesitantly. "I don't really know because I've… forgotten. One forgets things when one becomes a portrait." Everyone knows that.
"I see," Malfoy said coolly.
Harry shifted. "You called him… by his first name."
"Severus, you mean?" Malfoy queried. "Oh, that's because he lets me. He likes me, unlike any of the other stupid teachers here—" He stopped abruptly. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this," he ended tightly, sulkily.
"Oh," said Harry. He lets me. He likes me. The words whirled in his mind, relentless and inexorable, and suddenly, Harry felt an anguished jab of longing and the white-hot iron stab of jealousy. He lets me. He likes me—Draco Malfoy. Harry felt his throat tie itself into a knot, felt a painful aching at the back of his eyes. Why? Why not me? I—I tried so hard, I wished, I— He broke off, reminding himself with an empty, empty hollowness, that it didn't matter what he wished. It didn't matter at all. And it was no wonder, really, that his father hated him so much—was disgusted by him. He was such a—such a pathetic, freak, a weak little—he—
"Well," Malfoy said, "I should go now. I've got schoolwork to do."
Harry nodded distractedly.
"Strange, you don't seem like a portrait," Malfoy said, a bit hesitantly. "You're… different. Somehow."
"Oh," Harry said, trying to pay attention to what Malfoy was saying.
"Good bye, then," said Malfoy. "Ffarwel."
Harry felt a reluctant smile form momentarily on his face. "And you. Yn iach." He remained silent and listened to the sound of Malfoy's footsteps leaving the room.
"So you know who the mysterious stranger is," the snake hissed.
Harry nodded. "Yes," he answered wearily. Malfoy. Of all the people it could be… But it wasn't anyone's fault, and Malfoy—it was foolish to think Malfoy was just a spiteful, spoiled brat. He was more.
He's someone who's allowed to call his potions professor 'Severus,' thought Harry, and felt, again, that faint aching at the back of his eyes.
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