33) Our Greatest Fears
Selected Listening: The Sound of Silence- Simon and Garfunkle
***Author's Note: I haven't decided whether or not this is the last chapter. There might be a short epilogue coming in a few days, and possibly more extra scenes from Draco's pov that I left out for the sake of time. For those of you who know my usual pattern, the opening of the fourth installment will not come for a few months at least. I have a few personal projects at hand that I must attend to. Nevertheless, I hope you've enjoyed reading this installment of The Headmaster's Daughter. Please be sure to follow and favorite me as an author so you receive updates when I do post. Thank you for sticking with me this long, and happy reading.***
It was absolutely certain that Albus Dumbledore was dead.
Anastasia stared down at him, his old face still smiling slightly, as if he had passed amidst a perfectly calm conversation between the two of them.
"There was nothing more that could be done," Minerva said, appearing at her right. "The healers tried all they could…"
"But what happened?" Anastasia wondered aloud.
Minerva walked away before answering. Though the Great Hall swarmed with her father's friends, faces she had never seen before in her life, no one seemed able to answer her question.
"You'll work in the kitchens now…" Charity Burbage appeared, handing her an apron. "It's only fitting you earn your keep."
"But what about my uncle?" she asked, "Aberforth was supposed to take me in." But she wasn't answered in that regard either as the woman vanished.
Laughter erupted. From everyone. Laughing at her for having no home and no guardian and everyone she ever met in her life plus a thousand other strangers.
Yet Anastasia was completely alone.
She held her head and screamed.
"STOP!"
Anastasia awoke in her bedchamber in the headmaster's suite. Rays of sun drifted through her window onto the stone floor. She was still in her school uniform, and completely disoriented, she hadn't any idea of the time or date. Her warm skin stuck to the covers, and she could feel the imprint of the duvet on her face.
The Little Princess novel, lay wedged open on the bed next to her, unfinished.
The last thing she remembered was taking a nap after the trial. She had been too exhausted to go back to the common room and explain everything to her friends.
She heard laughter again, but a different kind.
"Oh, Albus, you are a riot!" A woman guffawed from the dining nook, and older woman. Not Minerva.
Anastasia breathed in relief as she heard her father speak.
"Oh please, Bathilda, that was simply necessary…manners really."
Anastasia pulled herself into a seated position, looked at herself in the mirror and pulled out her braid so she could re-do it at the same time she pulled on her shoes and hopped into the hall to meet their company.
"Hi," she said, tying the ribbon back on the end of her hair, "sorry, I fell asleep. How long was I out?"
The image of her father sitting with the old witch assuaged her worries.
"Only twenty-four hours," Albus remarked, checking his pocket watch for effect.
"A whole day?" Anastasia gaped.
Bathilda laughed again. "Just like you! Isn't she, Albus? I remember after anything the least bit dramatic happening, you would sleep for a week. Gellert would try to make up with you after a fight, and he'd come back disappointed. Still asleep? I'd ask. Still asleep, he'd respond and go lock himself in his room for another eight hours or so…or until he got hungry."
"I'm sorry, who—" Anastasia began.
"My grand-nephew and your father were very good friends. Partners, you could say," and she smirked knowingly…and painfully.
"An old friend, but that's all water under the bridge," Albus tried to excuse with a wave of his hand, his face had turned quite pink.
"Uncle Abe said you had a partner—" Anastasia began. She also remembered the uncomfortable dinner conversation at the Malfoys. Albus winced embarrassedly. "Did he mean like a business partner or—"
"It doesn't really matter, dear," Bathilda said, realizing she brought up an uncomfortable topic in her nostalgia, "I'm here for your story. The one we didn't quite have earlier this year."
"Oh," she said, mind switching topics so quickly she forgot about what they had been discussing before, "I do remember now...what happened."
"Fantastic," she said, bringing out her quill and parchment from her travelling writing desk. "Shall we record it?"
And so, they did. Albus called upon one of the kitchen house elves to prepare a late-morning brunch feast of biscuits, jam, sausages, beans, eggs, waffles, juice, coffee, and tea. All the while, Anastasia was given the space to explain what had happened with the first obscurus and what had become of it.
"And what of the second obscurus?" Bathilda asked with wide, kind eyes. She held the tip of her quill on the parchment, controlling every word herself. The difference between Bathilda and Rita stunned Anastasia, and she now realized that she should have waited for the right reporter to begin with…as it would have saved her an ample amount of time and trouble.
"Oh, the second dissolved before it could fully form," she explained.
"And how did you manage that?" Bathilda asked. Anastasia shrugged, not wanting to explain the situation further.
"I found a way back home," she said simply.
"Alright," Bathilda said, waved her wand, and her parchment rolled itself up and tucked away in her briefcase along with the quill. "I think I have what I need."
"Fantastic," Albus said. "Feel free to give it a feature."
Bathilda nodded kindly.
"When you do have another day, Albus, I want to clarify some things for your biography."
"Biography?" Anastasia asked.
"Erm," Albus tilted his head to decide how to put it gently, "Bathilda wanted to write a biography of me and the general history of our family. I told her she could only release it after I pass from this life…no sooner…If she manages to outlive me that is."
He whispered the last part with a grin, trying to make it into a joke, but Anastasia was ripped back into the middle of her nightmare. She preferred to forget how old her father was and that she would one day roam the Earth without being tied to him. In the Little Princess, the girl's father died overseas from some horrible flu, and she was left as a servant in a boarding school. The thought of something similar happening to her was much too overwhelming. Anastasia swallowed and took sips from her orange juice, trying to push the thought back into the dark recesses of her mind once again.
Bathilda stretched out a hand and placed it over hers.
"I wouldn't worry too much dear. Your father is quite a strong one. Been through more than I had at his age. Wouldn't put it past him to live up to 200 years if he set his mind on it."
Albus made a face as if he'd just eaten a bad Bertie Bott's bean.
"Seems a tad much," Albus asked, "I do not intend to be in the same state as my friend Nicholas…papery and fragile," then he looked to Anastasia, "Although I wouldn't mind seeing 150."
Anastasia did some quick math in her head. One hundred and fifty for Albus would be at least fifty for her, and she supposed she could live with that. It would be long enough for her to grow up and have a family if she wanted. She supposed Albus would want to see that someday.
"Well, I ought to be going," Bathilda said with a gleam and rose from the bench, letting her portfolio levitate alongside her. After Albus saw her out, he returned to the table, sat down, and sighed.
"We've been through quite an ordeal, haven't we?"
"I should say so," Anastasia commented.
"And ordeals require a nice heaping of celebration, don't you think?"
Anastasia shrugged, "Being home—without threat of having to leave it—is enough."
Albus passed her a parchment envelope with a green and orange marbled wax seal.
"Still…A belated birthday gift," he replied.
Anastasia opened the envelope to find an embossed parchment card inside.
This ticket entitles its holder entry to the 1994 Quidditch World Cup in August…
"Are you serious?" she asked giddily.
"I'm quite serious," Albus said with a stern face, and then broke a smile and chuckled.
"But why is there only one?" she asked.
"As much as I'd like to go myself, August is simply too busy with school preparations. Plus, when we reconciled, I promised you a bit more freedom. Going on your own…accompanying the Weasley's of course…is the best way to start giving you that independence I promised."
"Thank you, Grandad!" she said and wrapped him in an elated hug.
The last week of school was made up mostly of celebration. Anastasia spent her hours in the common room, playing games with friends, at the quidditch pitch, practicing for next year's games, and in the library, hoping to run into Draco. She never did.
At one point, Anastasia had a long discussion with Hermione about the punching incident and forgave her for revealing her secret. The boys, for the most part, had been understanding, and hadn't brought the lifeline up again, which she was grateful for. The four journeyed down to Hagrid's hut to celebrate Buckbeak's escape with tea and cauldron cakes, which were both horrible, but they humored their half-giant friend anyway.
She discussed Quidditch Cup plans with the Weasley's and determined that Harry and Hermione would have to attend too if they could obtain the additional tickets.
"The next ticket we get is going to Penelope," Percy argued, and the twins teased him. The head boy and girl had become so inseparable, they could be caught canoodling at any time of day, much to the chagrin of Minerva and Flitwick. But Anastasia thought it was quite sweet to see the stuffy, up-tight Percy turn to mush in front of his girlfriend.
Despite the trials of the year, the nicest perk of being out of the family closet was that Anastasia could avoid boarding the train for five hours, pretending to be picked up by imaginary parents, and then riding the train five hours back to the castle. She woke up slowly the morning before the train set off and said goodbye to all her friends in the Great Hall. When the feast was over and she was done giving hugs to her friends, she glanced over at the Slytherin table to see if she could at least make eye contact with Draco before he left.
But he was nowhere to be found.
Bravely, she took a deep breath and walked over to where Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, and Blaise were sitting.
"Um," she cleared her throat and tried to sound pleasant. "Good morning."
"Hey," Blaise said. Crabbe and Goyle stared at her dumbly while Pansy sneered.
"And what do you want, Dumblebrat?" the snide girl asked.
"I'm here to catch Draco before he leaves. Do you know where he is?" she asked.
"Even if I did know where he was, why would I tell you?" Pansy threatened. Blaise glared at her and then looked up at Anastasia.
"What Pansy is trying to say is that none of us have seen him all morning. We think he may have left early through the floo."
"Oh." Anastasia said with a frown.
"Would you like a photo?" Crabbe said in about the kindest voice she ever heard and handed her a polaroid of the bunch in the wine cellar at Malfoy Manor. They were sitting against the cellar wall. Anastasia was laughing at something Blaise had said, bottle of firewhisky on her lap. Draco was staring at her with a drunken smile, and Pansy glared on angrily.
Anastasia looked up and saw Minerva striding toward her purposefully.
"Well, thank you," she said to Crabbe, pocketed the picture, and walked off. "Yes, Minerva?"
"Seems Mr. Lupin left something of importance in his suite, and we need to owl it back to him as soon as possible. Here's the key. Could you go look for it?"
"Oh, sure," she said, took the copper bit, and left the great hall for the defense against the dark arts classroom.
When she reached the door, she heard someone inside.
"No…no please, I'll do better."
She knew that voice.
"It's obvious you won't, Draco. You're a disappointment to this family."
Anastasia pushed open the door slightly more, and found Draco had stumbled back, fallen on the ground in front of his father, who had drawn his wand above the boy's head. Draco's wand lay across the room.
"Stop!" she shouted and threw open the door. She examined the scene again. One of Lupin's suitcases hung open behind Lucius Malfoy.
"Riddikulus!" she exclaimed and the mirage of Lucius Malfoy morphed into a mime, who climbed an imaginary ladder back into the suitcase. The lock clicked closed. She stowed her wand.
Draco rose to his knees and picked up his wand, but he stayed there, staring at the floorboards, ensuring he didn't look up at her.
"You must think I'm a real git, if I can't even stand up to a fake version of my father."
She stared at him with sympathy.
"It's fine, go ahead, laugh, tell everyone. I deserve it," he offered.
She took a seat on the floor a few meters from him, far enough to be out of his periphery. Yet she could see his profile and the despair in his eyes.
"Well, I think you're a git," she admitted, "but not for being afraid of your git father."
He twitched in her direction but stopped himself.
"You're still going to tell everyone about this right? Or are you going to use it as blackmail to get me to do whatever you want?" he asked defensively.
"Why would I do that?" she asked. He froze.
"Why wouldn't you? Why wouldn't you want that kind of power over someone? Anyone in Slytherin would take advantage and run. Why wouldn't—"
"Because I don't want to hurt you," she admitted. He squirmed uncomfortably.
"Anastasia…about your plan to run away together—"
Flustered, Anastasia opened her mouth, ready to apologize profusely for suggesting such an outrageous idea.
"—it might have been the nicest thing anyone has offered me…I'm sorry it couldn't have worked out."
Anastasia's stomach tied into knots.
"You're welcome," she answered nervously. "But how do you even remember?"
"I wrote a letter explaining what happened and gave it to Blaise. He read it to me. Otherwise, I wouldn't have known what in bloody hell you were talking about the other day in the library."
Anastasia stared at him, not sure whether to be happy or sad that he knew what happened in those few short days. Did he know about her animagus? Did he even see it? She decided it was safer not to ask.
"In the end it was a stupid plan," she said, "I was sad and angry, and I didn't know what else to do."
"It's not stupid, Anastasia. It's not stupid to want to leave when your family is treating you poorly…in fact, it's quite brave."
Anastasia felt her face turn a deep rose, and when she looked toward Draco's profile, she saw his ears had tinged pink too. She had no words to respond.
"I suppose I better be getting along. The train is leaving soon," he said, stood up, and straightened his tie.
Anastasia felt a sense of emptiness. There were so many things she wanted to talk to him about, like the trial and the quidditch world cup. But there was only so much time, and it was difficult to have a conversation with the side of someone's head.
She rose to her feet, shoulder to shoulder with him, facing the opposite direction. She tried to summon the most important thing she could say.
"You should stand up to him, your father. Don't let him have that kind of power over you."
"You don't get it, do you?" he asked bitterly.
"Get what?"
"No, no you wouldn't. Because I'm sure whenever you're doing poorly your father gives you a twinkle-eyed smile and a wink with some nonsense words of wisdom and asks you to do better next time," he said, folding his arms.
"Not always," she said and swallowed, remembering.
"You're lucky, Dumblebrat. Not knowing most of your family. You don't have much you're expected to live up to," he spouted, staring out the cloudy window.
"Have you read my father's chocolate frog card?" she joked, but it came out deadpan.
"But you're a witch. It's different. You can marry a rich wizard and be done if you want. You don't have a whole family history hanging over your shoulders," he commented unthinkingly.
"If I married a rich wizard, I would have a whole family history hanging over my shoulders…" Anastasia snapped, "…and just because I'm a witch doesn't mean I'm going to marry a rich wizard and do nothing with my life," she said very quickly, her face turning red again.
"I didn't say you're going to, but you could…and no one would think ill of you for it."
"Minerva would kill me if I tried," she countered.
He paused in silence, accepting something.
"Doesn't matter. It's much harder to be the prodigal son of the family. Uphold the family name, do great things so you don't let down your lineage."
"That sounds very difficult," she said, biting her tongue. He wanted compassion, not comparisons.
"Yeah, well, anyway. Thanks for listening, Anastasia."
She softened.
"Anytime…I think you deserve friends who won't hold your fears against you."
Their banter ebbed, but Draco didn't leave. Anastasia felt his arm brush against hers, his fingertips trailed her wrist until he found her hand and squeezed it gently. She returned the gesture.
Her heart stuttered.
"I never repaid you…for that kiss on the train last year. It's been on my mind. You know how much I hate owing people, especially you," he murmured.
"But—" She turned to him at the exact moment he closed his eyes and leaned down to kiss her cheek. His lips brushed hers. She took in a breath and with it the taste of mint, licorice, and earl gray tea.
"Anastasia—" he breathed, fighting to keep his eyes shut, and leaned in to kiss her again.
Her guard slipped. All sensibility and logic fell away. Though she didn't know what she was doing, she found herself kissing back…wanting more.
Somewhere in the castle, the warning bell wrang. Fifteen minutes until departure.
A beat. A moment of horror. They ripped away from each other. She didn't dare look. Her heart pounded in her ears.
"I-I-um…" he stuttered helplessly.
"It was an accident," she excused while an imaginary slingshot took down butterflies swarming in her abdomen. "Let's call it even."
"Right, even," Draco said in an almost disappointed tone and cleared his throat. "…almost-see-you soon?" He vanished into the corridor.
Anastasia smiled, leaving one butterfly fluttering.
"Almost-see-you soon."