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Chapter 13: Phineas Nigellus

In an hour, Harry tried several experiments to extract his two memories from the mass of Dumbledore's, and eventually succeeded, though a few of them ended with a nasty recollections of things he had never experienced.

The first of them was easily the worst so far.

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Harry landed on the cobbled stone. He hastily climbed to his feet and instinctively cowered from the light, retreating into the shadows, disregarding the fact that it was a memory and thus nobody could see him anyway.

Before he could study his surroundings – although he had time enough to notice that he appeared in a rather narrow and rather dirty street enlightened by gas lamps – a man came strutting down the road. Harry was convinced that he had never seen this man before. He must have been an Auror, judging by his look – he wore a dark blue suit with as many pockets as any ordinary uniform might have had, and high heavy boots that surprisingly made no sound. He had a short, military hair-style and yet Harry felt that this man was not a soldier… at least not in the traditional sense.

Then the man walked into a bubble of dim light and Harry gasped – there was no mistake, the face was Dumbledore's. It was, of course, a much younger Dumbledore. The short hair had was the same auburn colour as the long in Riddle's memory.

He gulped subconsciously. Dumbledore strode past him and Harry decided that he didn't want to follow, but some invisible pull (most likely the limited extension of the memory) dragged him after the former and future Headmaster. The boy braced himself and to avoid being pushed around decided to walk by himself.

Dumbledore stopped abruptly a few seconds later, examining a label next to a seemingly random door. It apparently was the place he had been looking for, because he knocked on the wood – forcefully, but not loud enough to attract attention of the other inhabitants of the street.

"Wer seid ihr?(5)" sounded from the inside.

"Albus," replied Dumbledore quietly. The door slid open and then shut quickly behind the newcomer, as though the people inside were afraid of whatever might have been lurking in the night. Harry took a deep breath and crossed the wall.

He appeared in a relatively bright sitting room, just behind Dumbledore's back. There was one more man there, the one who had opened the door. He looked… like Dumbledore's twin.

"Hello, Gal. Long time no see," said Dumbledore with a sneer.

"I've told you two hundred and forty-five times not to call me that, Albus. So, what happened to courtesy? Or is it truth that without Fawkes you are about as unmannered as a low-class Aur-"

The man stopped in the middle of the sentence, facing the tip of Dumbledore's wand. He gulped and re-focused from the stick to the man brandishing it.

"It is. Faw-"

"The plucked chicken's not here to save your ass this time, Galahad." There was a disgusting portion of self-appreciation in Dumbledore's voice. The other man started backing away, the expression of uncertainty and displeasure changing into sheer fright.

"You wouldn't-"

"Oh, don't play soft now. You didn't act so timidly last time we met."

"What are you trying to-"

"I've got to dispatch one terribly evil wizard, you know… not you, you-"

"I am not evil!" growled the man and there was a familiar blaze in his eyes. It was more than obvious that he and Dumbledore were family.

"Of course you're not. All Light and virtuous… nomen omen(6), cousin… However, unfortunately you stand in my way."

"In your way?" whispered Galahad incredulously, "I left the country to not bother you. What do you want now?"

Harry shivered. This was the side of the Dumbledore he didn't know, the one he refused to see… But he should have expected something like this. A man who single-handedly disposed of an evil warlock of power equal to Voldemort's couldn't be a simple merry eccentric teacher.

"I want information."

Galahad smiled and straightened.

"No."

"What!" barked Dumbledore, appalled with the gall.

"I said 'no', cousin. You should have your hearing checke-"

Instead of the end of the sentence there was a scream and Galahad sank to his knees in pain. Harry paled and tried to lunge at Dumbledore, but the memory was as insubstantial as ever. There was nothing he could do, but it was way too hard to accept that, as he watched one of his father-figures torture his own cousin.

"Where is it?"

Galahad, still shaking with tremors, laughed defiantly.

"There's one thing you never understood, Albus. The Unspeakables don't speak."

Dumbledore scowled and then the sneer returned.

"Very well. Avada Kedavra."

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Harry spent the rest of his time sitting on his bed, trying to forget the memory, but somehow it didn't work. Skilled in Dark Arts, maybe, but he never even suspected Dumbledore would use the Unforgivables… so freely… on a member of his own family… who was fightingfor the light…

He stared at the opposite wall unmovingly for a long, long time. At quarter to twelve he rose, stuck the pensieve into the shelf of his desk (he had to discard some parchments to make space for it; those now lay on the desk in a messy heap) and, just in case, locked the door to the room behind himself, as he made his way down to the common room. He dropped in the bathroom to wash off the dried traces of tears on his cheeks. It seemed that the cold water, with significant support of his Occlumency, managed to drive the experience into the back of his mind. He felt almost prepared for the meeting.

The castle was just as empty, cold, unwelcoming, as it usually was and Harry noticed he had become used to it. Once the other students were back, it might be just as hard to get accustomed to the noise again.

And not only the noise – the prefects and the Heads prowling the corridors at night would make it a pain to walk around the castle after the curfew (although he had a distinctive feeling that Fawkes wouldn't give a damn, and at Hogwarts Fawkes's word was law – well, as long as somebody could translate it)… He didn't fancy staying there for the seventh year too much. Then again… maybe it was better than letting himself be killed in the next few months… He suspected that might have been the reason why Fawkes was so adamant about the matter.

The trophy room was easily accessible – there were no locks and the door complied under the faintest pressure, without a sound, hinges perfectly oiled after thousands of detentions they had witnessed. Harry's own detentions usually took place in different parts of the castle, so he didn't suffer any aversion to the location, although when he stopped for a while to simply take in his surroundings, the overwhelming history seemed to attempt to smother him.

"Lumos," he whispered unnecessarily. The tip of his wand glowed and his eyes adjusted, obscuring the unlit rest of the Hall from his sight. Harry wasn't sure he liked it better like this, but, in the end, it didn't matter.

"Finally. Welcome, Mr Potter," growled an annoyed man. Harry tried to follow the direction from which the sound came, despite his own annoyance. He was five minutes earlier, after all… He faced a life-sized poster hanging on the wall.

A young, dark-haired man smirked smugly and waved at him – like a king would wave at his vassals. His face showed the very same as the motion had: I am better than you, love me… So very Slytherin point of view. Although, judging by the banner above the wizard's head, announcing that he was the Champion of the European Duelling Tournament, this time the smugness might have been justified.

"Good evening," he said, careful to not reveal how he felt about the welcome. Within seconds Nigellus stood next to the dark-haired young man. The two portraits nodded to each other in an almost warm greeting and Harry couldn't miss the similarity. They must have been relatives.

"Just to get this straight," Nigellus started, "all the time in the world might be on my hands, but I don't intend to spend here a second more than is necessary. Getting bored to death is a better occupation than a conversation like this…"

Harry felt like snappig, telling the man to shut his big fat mouth and clear off if he had a problem. After all, this late-night meeting was his idea. Fortunately, the ex-Headmaster continued before he could say anything.

"Accidentally, there is something I feel you could help me with and, welladay, you, of all people, are the only one."

Harry raised an eyebrow in a silent question. When there was no answer, he decided to be the less obstinate one, for the sake of getting some sleep that night, and remembering how bothersome it was to lead a purposely hindered conversation.

"What is in it for me?" he inquired. It was a normal, albeit distinctly Slytherin thing to want to know when asked for help. Harry could speak with the man in his own language. He received an ever so slightly content expression.

"Very well. It seems that we might be able to handle after all. I have a deal to propose."

'So much I figured.'

"I listen," he said, feigning blatant disinterest. It was so much fun watching the expressions on Nigellus's face change at rapid face and Harry was inwardly laughing. So this was how Dumbledore used to do it…

"I want you to destroy something."

'Not too original.'

"What is in it for me?" he repeated indifferently, but making his point clear – unless he got something he would find worth the trouble, there would be no trouble for him at all.

"Access to the third greatest Dark Arts library in the world."

Harry just stopped himself from whistling. Now that one was worth a lot of trouble… But he couldn't afford to let Nigellus know.

"Why should I be interested?"

Unexpectedly, it was the young duellist who answered him.

"Mr Potter, I do respect you and reciprocity would only be appropriate. I am not stupid."

'Stupid? I wouldn't think so… stupid people aren't winning tournaments or directing a school… At least that explains the resemblance between the two. Why does it not surprise me…'

"Fine. I don't deny that your offer is interesting. Provided it is trustworthy-" they both wanted to reproach but Harry stopped them, holding his hand up. "What do you want me to destroy?"

Both Phineases Nigelluses grinned unnaturally, exposing four rows of perfect teeth.

"A painting," responded the older one. "A simple picture, but you must be thorough. There can't be a splinter of the frame left lest they can restore it…"

Harry's mind raced.

'A picture. Why would Nigellus want to destroy a picture? Wait… Of course. He does not like being McGonagall's messenger boy a bit more than he liked being Dumbledore's. He hates his duty as the ex-Headmaster. He wants freedom…

That sounds positively cheesy, but I guess I can empathise.'

"The Head's office is well guarded. Especially against offensive magic." Although Dumbledore certainly managed to stun some Auror's in there… Maybe it wasn't that hard… even if Dumbledore, despite all his limitations surely was one damn powerful wizard… Then again, Harry was picked for the same league.

"You think I don't know that? I live there and I had put up the majority of those wards myself."

That again did explain a lot. Yet Harry still didn't feel at ease with breaking in McGonagall's office and destroying one of her communication means, not to speak maybe the only direct connection to the Grimmauld Place.

"I was under the impression that your portrait was… important to the Order."

Nigeluses laughed mirthlessly.

"Important? It had been essential. Now it's about as important as my fool of a grandson."

Harry's eyes blazed with fury, but he managed to constrain it before he morphed in front of the man.

"And what had changed?" Harry asked through clenched teeth.

"Dumbledore's portrait was activated. And he had the great idea of positioning himself in the centre of the Order even in his death…" the younger Nigellus answered half-bitterly, half-spitefully, while the older one wordlessly seethed. Harry once again guessed the answer.

"So that's who they replaced Sirius's mother with." Of course. Dumbledore had once been a Quidditch player – he would keep a portrait of those times...

There was a confirmation in the form of a nod from the young man, and Harry found that he maybe, just maybe liked the boy-Phineas a bit. He was a lot better than Malfoy. Had a spine.

"What can I use?" he asked, startling both two-dimensional wizards with his easy acceptance.

"Anything raw. Wordless. But… I suppose you aren't skilled enough in Dark Arts, are you?"

Harry had very little idea what Nigellus was talking about, just some hints that he remembered from the books on Dark Arts he had read, but that wasn't nearly enough. He shook his head. The ex-Headmaster sighed.

"I thought so. The polished rotten freak wouldn't let you near them… Was araid of what you could do if properly trained… Had you been studying under me you could have been accomplished by now. Pity. You would have to do it the harder way."

"Can't I get around it?" he asked, referring to the way Dumbledore got rid of the Aurors.

"Hardly. Dear Albus had a feeling that the wards needed some improvement – you can use non-permanent offensive Light Magic in there, in the case you are the current Headmaster. You obviously aren't."

"And even if I were, non-permanent isn't good anough for you," Harry supplied readily. The two portraits nodded. Now this was getting better, maybe he could after all learn to talk to Slytherins. They seemed as an interesting bunch with a lot of healthy opinions.

"You have to use potions."

Harry snickered. He just couldn't suppress it.

"You don't have the Head's office warded against potions?"

"I had; but Dumbledore always lacked the flair for the art and that caused him to have a tendency to underestimate them… There are quite a few things you could use."

Harry quirked an eyebrow.

"And you trust me to brew a violent and volatile concoction correctly."

Nigellus laughed.

"Of course. From what I've heard from Dylis, both your parents had it in them." Harry somehow doubted James ever looked at Potions without making a sour face. Alhough… to be sure, he would have to ask Remus. It was quite like the snakes to try and flatter him, even through his dead parents, he just hadn't expected that kind of behaviour from Nigellus. "You could be quite the brewer one day…"

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Harry went to sleep soon thereafter, but there was one thing that would never leave his mind. He really wanted to start on his end of the deal right away, and at the same time he felt like cornering Nigellus and making him tell everything he knew about Hogwarts, the Order, and Harry's parents. However, he did not do either of them. Firstly his common sense reminded him that he had to sleep to be ready for the warm-up, and then his brain told him it was quite probable anything any Slytherin said was a lie. This Slytherin especially.

Yet, even in his sleep the thoughts of the task he had taken up on wouldn't leave him…

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Harry sat in a cozy kitchen. It was a small room, just big enough to accommodate the oven, the table, the bank he was sitting on, the chair and a the cupboard. It was obviously either in a very old house, or he was dreaming of past… however, what was perfectly unexpected and inexplicable was the fact that this kitchen, despite its medieval furniture, was bathed in sunlight. It was coming in through a pair of huge windows behind Harry's back. They were clean glass, framed with wood and adorned with spider-web delicate curtains.

The golden colour of the rays showed that it was early, probably just a few minutes since the dawn. He, though, didn't feel sleepy at all. One look out through those windows told him it was summer, recently after a storm, and the owner of the house liked red geraniums. When he turned back to the desk, there was a steaming mug of tea placed between his hands.

"Good morning," said a man standing in the doorway (there was no door, but Harry couldn't think of a better word to describe the entrance) and nodded to the sitting boy. He didn't seem sleepy either.

"Good morning," Harry replied cautiously, but a second later his worries dissipated. This man wouldn't harm him. This man was… maybe his friend? Although he didn't remember anyone from his past who might have ever looked like this. The man was not too tall – maybe slightly taller than Harry – and had a long wavy dark-blonde hair bound in a loose bun to keep them out of way. He wore a linen tunic, leather pants and boots on a small heel that might have added the inch Harry was lacking on him. He had a warm smile and wise dark-brown eyes.

"Toast?" he asked and went to prepare breakfast. Harry bethought it.

"Yes please… can I help you?"

The man, turned back to Harry and raking through the cupboard, nodded.

"Drop in the hen-house and collect the eggs. The basket is in the stoop."

Harry's jaw lowered slightly, but he obeyed. The hall was narrow and dark, as would be proper for a medieval building. Its far end was filled with a stash of tools – scythe, sickle, rake, drag, wheelbarrow, ladder, chisel, hack, basket… Out of the kitchen he felt like he was in a different century. He glimpsed a large empty messed-up bed with a wooden headboard.

He pushed a long raincoat hanging from a hook out of his way and climbed out into the summer morning. The air was delicious and warmth spread in Harry's limbs as he looked around. The site was distinctly reminiscent of Burrow, although he could tell that he was somewhere else – other houses were in sight and the settlement wasn't Ottery St. Catchpole.

The hen-house stood somewhat to his right. He found it easily – followed the cock-a-doodle-do. The roof was higher than he had expected, although he had to bend really low to get inside. It was yet warmer there, but at the same time quiet, as long as the cock kept its beak shut. It reminded Harry of Fawkes… He had to shoo some of the hens out of their claimed spots – he had no idea where he had learned that – but eventually collected ten eggs and proudly returned to the kitchen, smelling a bit worse but feeling a bit better.

"Thank you, lad," said the blonde man with a content smile, took the basket from Harry's hands and gestured him to the table. "Your toast. Do you like honey?"

Harry nodded and resumed his previous position in front of the windows. His host joined him within a minute, putting a keramic jar of golden liquid between them.

"Eat up."

Harry obeyed and as soon as he felt the taste in his mouth he beamed at the man. Brown eyes were sparkling with amusement.

"Wonderful, isn't it? It's what gave me the idea with Felicis."

'Felicis? Felix Felicis? He… he's the inventor?' Harry's eyes widened as he stared at the face of one of the most brilliant Potions Masters of all time.

"Who are you, sir?"

The man laughed with mirth and tousled Harry's hair in an almost Sirius-like way. It brought a ghost of pain and an overwhelming sensation of happiness and… friendship? Love?

"Just an Auror. And your friend… Don't worry child. I think its time you went back. Both of us have potions to brew. Try… try Lucretia's Vengeance, I think. That one should work."

"How… did I get here?" Harry asked, noticing that his surroundings were becoming blurred.

"I would guess a residue of too many mixed memories of people who knew me? Or somebody did that on purpose. Do you have a very old friend?"

Harry gaped. An old friend? Dumbledore had been ancient. And while he was alive, he was also sort of a friend…

"Dumbledore?" he tried. The blonde squinted.

"Galahad? That's the youngest of them lot I believe…"

Harry sadly shook his head, force-fighting the stolen memory back into the proverbial cupboard. The Auror smiled.

"Don't worry. This is not real, but it is true. Do you think you can comprehend the difference?"

He nodded. It was like… like a lot of things in his life. Like the admiration he had held for Dumbledore. Like his and Ginny's relationship. Like Snape's betrayal.

"Good, fledgling. Fly."

The scene vanished away and Harry woke up, staring at the canopy of his four-poster and blinking. Fawkes. Of course – he should have suspected it when the phoenix proposed something as far-fetched as re-assessing his attitude towards Snape using the pensieve.

And, with a strange shift somewhere deep within him, he was grateful for the meeting. He was pretty sure he knew who the blonde Auror had been. The same person he had longed to acquaint. His proverbial guardian angel. Vivax.

He liked the man even more than he had imagined he would. It was… as if he found a long lost family. Someone to welcome, accept and appreciate him… maybe a bit like Fawkes, but… human. A father figure – though not real, at least a true one. One of the empty spaces in his heart he was so achingly aware of seemed to fill up a bit.

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(5)"Who are you?"

(6)The name is omen.