How–" He snapped his jaw shut, and shook his head. "No, knowing you, I
don't want to know."
The fracas of the previous night returned to Draco's mind, and he blurted
out, "What possessed you to enter the Triwizard Tournament? You're hardly
the type to go for fame and fortune."
"Oh, I didn't," said Potter, as casually as if they'd been discussing the
weather. "I suspect it's a plot by Voldemort."
Dread crawled down Draco's spine.
"The Dark Lord is dead." Even as he said it, he remembered the rumours
from first year: that Potter had faced down the Dark Lord a second time.
Draco had written them off as ridiculous at the time, but…
"No he isn't," said Potter, with absolute certainty. "He's anchored his soul
to this plane."
"But isn't that sort of thing…"
"The darkest of Dark Magic? Yes. As far as I can tell, he's used the same
method as Koschei the Deathless – except that Koschei only had one
anchor, and evidence suggests that Tom has more than one. Three is a nice,
magical number, so it's possible that he has three, except that Tom has
never believed that less is more, so I'm inclined to believe he's gone with
the even more magical number of seven."
Potter rattled all this off in a matter-of-fact voice, as though what he was
relaying wasn't utterly horrifying information.
Which was why it took Draco a moment to swallow, and ask–
"Tom?"
"Voldemort."
"You call the Dark Lord Tom?"
"It's his name."
There was a long pause. Draco had no idea how to respond.
"You know," said Potter, his gaze piercing, "the spell that Tom uses to Mark
his vassals… you have to mean it, on both ends of the exchange. No one
can be Marked while under the Imperius Curse. That's not how it works."
Draco opened his mouth, and shut it again, the automatic retort dying on his
tongue.
"I know," he finally said, and immediately wanted to kick himself, because
his voice came out sounding wretched.
But there was understanding as well as sympathy in Potter's eyes, and
Draco remembered that Merlin's own father had been a bone-fide Lord of
Hell, and if anyone understood what it was like to be related to a monster, it
was Merlin.
Still, Draco did not want to undergo a heart to heart talk with Potter of all
people, not even knowing that Potter was Merlin, so he stomped down on
his feelings and snapped out,
"So you think the Dark Lord might be returning."
Potter nodded placidly, although at least his smirk was gone, thank the
Heavens.
"He's tried before, and I stopped him, but he's not going to stop trying
unless I destroy all his anchors. There's a spell he could be using to try and
resurrect himself which calls for blood of the enemy and his biggest enemy
would most likely be either me or Dumbledore – and as far as Tom knows,
I'm less formidable than Dumbledore. So I'd be the logical pick as a blood
donor. The problem is, I have no idea how this ties into my name being
entered into the Goblet of Fire."
Potter's voice was serene. Draco wanted to kick him.
"So you can't circumvent the Dark Lord's plan because you don't know
what it is," he gritted out. "Can you destroy his anchors?"
"Probably," said Potter. "But I'd need to find them, first. Fortunately, there's
a spell for that. I was hoping you'd help." He looks at Draco expectantly.
There was nothing Draco wanted less than to help Potter. But he was still
Arthur Pendragon, and the muggleborns were his people and Britain was
his kingdom – changed beyond all imagining, yes, but Draco could still feel
the steady hum of the magic of the land surrounding him, confirming his
status as King. He'd felt that humming all his life – he just didn't know
what it was until his memories returned.
Now he knew what it meant, and the responsibilities that went with it.
Whether he liked them or not.
"Fine," said Draco. "When?"
"After breakfast?" Potter suggested. "It's a Sunday, so we don't have
classes." His expression suddenly changed, as though a thundercloud had
passed over it. "And considering that one of my best friends isn't speaking
to me at the moment, the only person likely to come looking for me is
Hermione."
It only took a second or two for Draco to work out what that speech meant,
because Weasley had always been jealous of the wealth and fame of others,
even if he'd managed to keep that emotion on a leash for the last few years
where Potter is concerned. Draco could only suppose that the fame and
fortune promised by the Triwizard Tournament and the thought of Potter
getting the spotlight again was too much for him.
"Weasel believes you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"
Normally that nickname would make Potter's teeth clench, but Potter only
said, his voice dry as dust, "Oh, yes."
"You realise that he's jealous."
"I had realised that, yes."
Draco hesitated, because while he didn't like Weasley, at all…
"He's a fourteen year old boy. Do you remember what an idiot I was at
fourteen?"
Potter's lips twitched. Definitely a yes. But the glint in his eyes was still
hard and unforgiving.
"Ron may be only fourteen, but actions have consequences, and if he wants
to destroy our friendship because he's jealous of the fame and wealth I
acquired because my parents were murdered, then I'm not going to stop
him. Let him live to regret it."
Potter's eyes had turned to chips of green glass, hard and impenetrable, and
it was times like these that Draco could see how it was that Merlin could lay
claim to demonic parentage.
He knew better than to argue with Merlin when he was in that kind of
vengeful mood, so he only said, "If that's how you feel."
Potter blinked, the hard lines smoothing away, his eyes returning to their
usual new-leaf green.
"It is."
"How will you distract Granger?" Draco asked, because he knew that the
bushy-haired witch rarely left Potter's side.
Potter grinned.
"Leave that to me." He grabbed Draco's wrist, ignoring Draco's protest, and
looked at his watch. "We should probably go to breakfast. Don't want
anyone thinking something's up. I'm going to get enough attention as it is."
"You always get enough attention as it is," Draco told him.
Potter only threw his head back and laughed.
"Touché," he said, grinning, and clapped Draco on the shoulder. "Alright –
after breakfast, meet me in the girls' bathroom on the second floor."
"The what?"
"The girls's bathroom on the second floor," Potter repeated, his tone
irritatingly patient. "The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is there."
Draco immediately understood.
"And what, you want to use it as a secret lair?"
Potter nodded, looking cheerful.
"I'll change the passwords, ward the place to keep Tom out, and it'll be
perfect."
Draco glared at him.
"You know, you're as annoying as you ever were."
Potter didn't take offence, as Draco knew he wouldn't. Instead he smiled
Merlin's most enigmatic smile.
"But of course, my King. Can you imagine my being any different?"
Draco held onto his last shred of patience and told him, "Go to breakfast,
Potter."
Over breakfast, Draco watched Potter from his position at the Slytherin
table. The only person who seemed to want to sit next to Potter was
Granger; Weasley was sitting at the other end of the Gryffindor table,
looking sullen, and occasionally sending Potter bitter looks. Every now and
then someone would lean forward to ask Potter something, and then look
disappointed or skeptical when he answered.
It was a little worrying. Draco was still more-or-less himself, despite having
Arthur's memories, but Potter had been behaving like… well, like Merlin,
and Merlin alone. There was no trace of his usual Potterish behaviour. It
was like the Potter Draco had known before had been… replaced.
Draco felt a chill go down his spine at the thought.
After breakfast, Draco made his way to the girls' bathrooms on the second
floor. Potter was already there when he arrived, lounging against a wall in a
most un-Potter-like way.
Draco decided to ask the question that had been nagging at him before he
lost his nerve.
"Are you still Potter?"
Potter's head tilted, considering the question
"I'm the same soul," he answered at last. "But… no. In some ways I'm not.
I'm Merlin first and foremost."
Draco took a deep breath, because getting confirmation of his suspicions
was unsettling, no matter how much he'd expected that answer.
"Why?"
Potter shrugged.
"When my past self and my current self were merging, I had choices about
what parts of myself to keep. The parts of myself that weren't the same
between Merlin and Harry Potter were mostly the result of a childhood of
abuse, and when I saw what I could be, instead of Harry Potter, it was easy
enough to discard those parts of me." His lip curled.
"But… you were a heroic bastard, and believe me I say that grudgingly–"
"Because I didn't trust anyone else to rectify a problem," Potter interrupted,
his gaze intense. "Anyone else would have gone to adults for help, but my
whole life was evidence that adults were untrustworthy and would do
nothing. At the same time, I was used to being blamed for everything that
ever went wrong, and that influenced my mindset: I thought that if I didn't
take on a problem, then anything that happened was my fault. Not the fault
of the adults who had refused to take on responsibility and listen to me
when I tried to tell them about the problem, but mine."
Draco absorbed Potter's words. If that was how Potter had seen the world,
and he'd kept on rushing in to solve every problem he'd ever
encountered…
"That kind of attitude would have gotten you killed, sooner or later."
Potter's smile was anything but amused.
"I know. That's why I discarded it."
"You're still planning to take down the Dark Lord, though," Draco pointed
out. "How is that your problem?"
Potter grimaced.
"Prophecy, for a start," he said, and Draco made a face as well, because
prophecies were tricky and dangerous things, impossible to escape.
Somehow, Merlin always knew when there was one at work.
"If I don't try to fulfil it my way, it'll fulfil itself however it wants," Potter
went on. "But I'm also the Court Wizard to the British Crown, as
recognised by the Magic of the Land itself, and that means that Tom
actually is my responsibility." The smirk returned. "And yours, of course,
considering that you're still recognised as the Monarch, magicallyspeaking."
"I'd worked that out already," Draco snapped, and then tried to calm
himself down. "So where is the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets?"
Potter straightened up and stopped leaning against the wall.
"Right here," he said, and let out a short string of hisses. A second later, one
of the sinks sank down, out of sight, leaving a large pipe that was big
enough for a person to slide down.
"No," said Draco. "Potter–"
But Potter was already climbing down into the pipe and a second later he
slid out of sight, the sound of echoing laughter trailing behind him.
Draco swore, loudly and creatively, before following.
Draco slid down, down, down, through the twists and turns of the pipe, and
finally shot of the end to land in a heap. He was covered in slime.
He glared at Potter, who was laughing, and whose robes were somehow
immaculately clean.
"Shut up–" Draco began to say, but Potter waved his wand without even
bothering with the incantation, and all the slime dropped off Draco in an
instant.
"Thanks," said Draco, reluctantly. But Potter had already turned, and was
walking down the length of the tunnel in front of them. Draco followed
him, jogging slightly to catch up.
They rounded a corner and Draco stopped short, his hand going for the
sword he didn't have.
"What is that?"
"A shed basilisk skin," said Potter, glancing back over his shoulder at
Draco, the amusement in his eyes visible even in the dim light. "From
Slytherin's monster. Don't worry, the actual basilisk is dead." Potter
sounded satisfied.
It was enough to make Draco suspicious.
"Potter, did you kill that thing yourself?"
"In second year, yeah."
"Second year," Draco repeated flatly. He reminded himself that Merlin was
part-demon, and had magical reserves that no one else could even hope to
match, but–
Second year? Really? Draco shook his head, and told himself that it was a
good thing Merlin had sworn himself to Arthur centuries earlier. Draco
would hate to get on the wizard's bad side. He'd come close enough several
times as it was.
The tunnel ended not far after that, in a set of vast doors, decorated with
interlocking serpents. Potter hissed again, and the doors slid open, revealing
a vast chamber with a gigantic statue at one end.
Draco's eyes, however, were riveted to the sight of the enormous dead
basilisk that took up half the chamber floor. He was rooted to the spot.
Potter, though, paused momentarily to admire his earlier handiwork, said,
"Huh. It's a tad smaller than I remember," and strolled forward into the
chamber.
Draco made his legs move, reminding himself that he was Arthur
Pendragon, and he'd faced down things almost as impressive as this before.
Almost , said the voice of Arthur in his head. Draco told it to shut up.
Potter, meanwhile, had conjured up some chairs and a table and was now
pulling things out of his pockets: a map of Britain, some brightly-coloured
thumb-tacks, a small black book with a jagged hole in the middle, and a
notebook and self-inking quill.
As Draco walked over, Potter spread the map of Britain out across the table,
before opening the notebook and resting the tip of the quill against the
paper. A muttered incantation from Potter, and the quill hovered in mid-air,
ready to write things down.
"Did you just create a Dictation Quill in one incantation?" Draco blurted,
and then wanted to smack himself. Because yes, it was a ridiculous feat of
magic, but Merlin had been breaking the rules of magic for as long as
Arthur had known him. It was just that Draco was a lot more familiar with
those rules than Arthur had ever been.
Potter sent him a sly, sideways smile, and said, "Not exactly. I'm tying it
into the spell I'm about to cast. Which reminds me – hold these." He passed
the box of colourful thumb-tacks to Draco.
The head of each colourful thumb-tack was made of some material that
Draco had never encountered. The point was still made of metal, however.
"What are these made of?"
"Plastic," said Potter. "Muggles invented it sometime this century, but I'm
fuzzy on exactly when. I snuck out early this morning to buy some from a
convenience store."
Draco committed Potter's explanation to memory.
"What do you want me to do with them, then?"
"When I cast the spell on Tom's diary," Potter lifted the little black book, "a
light will shine on each of the places on the map where one of his soulanchors is located. I want you to place a thumb-tack at the centre of each
location. At the same time, the quill should begin writing down the nature
of each soul-anchor and its location in the notebook, just in case."
That sounded simple enough.
"Will the spell affect the soul-anchors?" Draco asked.
"They might glow a bit, but otherwise, not at all." Potter readied his wand,
and took a deep breath. "Get ready."
Draco transferred his gaze to the map in front of him as Potter began
reciting the incantation for the spell in a language that was long-dead, and
probably forgotten by anyone else. Draco could feel the ambient magic in
the room responding, gathering around Potter and the little black book in a
way that made his hair stand on end.
The incantation was long, taking over a minute to speak. But Potter barked
out the last syllable, crisp and clear, and the magic acted. The little black
book began spinning frantically in the palm of Potter's hand, and tiny
pinpricks of bright green light began appearing across the map. Draco put a
thumb-tack at the centre of each one, and glanced at Potter.
"That's all of–"
Draco stopped. A moment later he said, very carefully: "Potter, why is your
forehead glowing green?"
"Bugger," said Potter. He leaned down to look at the notebook, where the
quill was busily writing out soul-anchors and their addresses. "That
confirms a theory."
"What theory?"
"That my scar is a soul-anchor. Or horcrux, to use the technical term. A
fragment of Tom's soul, to anchor the rest of it."
For a moment Draco was rendered unable to speak. Then he found his
voice.
"You have a piece of the Dark Lord's soul embedded in your forehead?"
"Finite," said Potter with a wave of his wand, and the green light died away.
The little black book stopped spinning in his hand. "And yes. Apparently. It
explains quite a bit, actually."
Draco fought the urge to throttle the cryptic wizard.
"How does it explain anything, Potter?" he said, in what he hoped was a
calm and reasonable voice.
Potter began ticking off a list on his fingers.
"One, my ability to speak Parseltongue. Two, the visions I've been getting
of Tom. Three, why Dumbledore was so damn cagey about telling me why
Tom murdered my parents… he probably thinks I need to die in order to kill
Voldemort, which opens up an entire avenue of speculation about the
quality of my childhood that I'd rather not think about right now."
Potter's tone was light, but his expression was anything but.
"So yes," Potter finished, "it explains quite a bit."
Draco put a hand over his face and breathed for a second.
"Tell me you can get rid of it. The horcrux."
When Draco lowered his hand, Potter was smirking.
"Sure. Why, feeling concerned, Malfoy?"
"Of course I'm bloody concerned! I might be a prat sometimes but I'm not
a monster, Potter!"
Potter's smile edged into apologetic.
"I know," he said, quietly, and Draco took deep breaths until he felt less like
screaming.
The thought of a fragment of the Dark Lord's soul being stuck in Potter's
forehead made Draco feel sick. Such magic was twisted and unnatural, and
Draco's gorge rose.
"Sit down, Malfoy; you look like you're about to pass out," said Potter, not
unkindly. Draco did as he suggested.
After a moment Draco said – still a little shaky, still a little green around the
edges – "How are you so calm?"
"I already suspected," said Potter. "Believe me, I wasn't so calm last night,
when I worked it out – especially not when I realised that our kindly old
headmaster was probably plotting my death for the sake of the people. I was
sick twice. I think my dorm mates believed I'd been sneaking the
firewhiskey the twins had gotten hold of for the impromptu party last
night."
Draco stared, not sure what part of Potter's little speech was more
disturbing. Probably the bit about Dumbledore. Draco's Father had always
gone on about how Dumbledore was too soft, too concerned with
muggleborns. Discovering that he might have been planning the death of a
fourteen year old boy for the greater good of all was disturbing, to say the
least.
"Right," said Draco eventually. "So how do we destroy these things?"
Potter's answering smile was sharp and wicked.
"I thought you'd never ask."