15.

The King Ignoble

"Professor Dumbledore, please, may I speak to you?" Harry said seriously, his jaw slackened.

Ever since Hermione had revealed that information that Arthur had affiliated with his mother, he had been enraptured by the thought that his mother's death and Arthur's evil were linked together. The thought had taken shape in his mind, like a fantasy or imaginary friend in a child's, and had taken such solid form he was unable to shake it off. No matter how much logic he used as crowbars, the idea remained stubbornly in place, glued by his teenage mind going helter-skelter.

"Yes, come in, Harry."

Harry entered the office, looking once across its beautiful décor before sitting down heavily before Dumbledore.

"Sir, I have reason to believe that Arthur Kirkland should not be trusted." Without waiting for an affirmative statement to allow him to continue, Harry launched into his conjectures, describing Arthur and his damaged legs with a sense of disgust.

Dumbledore did not interrupt him. He slowly dragged his fingers through his long beard, nodding at times, and sighing once or twice.

"I see, Harry," he said at last once Harry came to a stop, his mouth dry. "But do you think I would have allowed him in my school without considering his past?"

"No, sir…"

"Do you not trust my judgment?" his voice was gentle despite his words.

"No, I trust your judgment, sir."

Harry dismissed himself. And, as he did, following the short exchange, even Dumbledore began to doubt his own judgment.

Very far away, several countries over, and a roaring sea between, white robes brushed against the floor. The man's lips barely moved. They were thin and pale, like rose petals first blooming. He kept his hands before him, his head held straight forwards. His steps echoed down the ancient halls, ringing like bells.

Before him the shadows moved, briefly merging to look like two great wings of a raven. The man stopped quite suddenly, his eyes widening at the image. It had been only an illusion but it stirred deeper memories, as though he had stuck a spoon into his tea and brought the leaves that settled at the bottom back to the top.

The image had reminded him of an undertaker bending down to snatch his prey away to the gates of death. It was, again, but an illusion and the man continued on as though nothing happened. He went through the halls, enjoying the sunlight leaking in from the windows, auburn with the fringes of autumn, and still retaining some warmth. He hummed complacently as he walked, the music too rung through the halls.

They stopped abruptly.

Not far away a young woman heard the sudden silence, chopped with a blade, and looked up from the book she read. She shut it and set it in the folds of her robes, tucking a curl of black hair beneath her hair. She wore a dress of beautiful silks and designs: prancing horses, flowers, girls dancing, and falling rain. She pulled the hood of the cloak she wore over her head, crawling closer to the source of the sound. She peered through the cracks in the doorways, hiding as though for her life—which was exactly the purpose.

Before her, seen through the cracks, the man had dropped to his knees. He writhed in pain, as though experiencing a heart attack or stroke. He seemed unable to move, squirming and moving, eventually dropping forwards, his night gown spilling around him in the halls of his very own home.

His mouth worked, trying to speak, but he could not.

The young woman prepared to spring out, if the case was truly that he was suffering a medical issue. But before she could move, a voice sliced through, an arrow whizzing past, and she returned to the shadows, holding her breath in fear.

"So," the voice said, a man's, "it seems that you haven't changed."

The man she could see, not the speaker, stopped moving at once and fell limp to the floor. A gasp caught in her throat. Had he died? She clutched at her dress, close to her breast, where her heart pounded wildly.

The man looked up slowly, proving he was indeed alive, his light brown eyes watery with pain. His hair, the color of copper, fell into his face, blocking his expression from her.

He gasped and sputtered, "Why did you hurt me?"

"I only hurt you to make sure you hadn't turned your back at the most opportune moment!"

Again the man fell, howling in pain. It seemed as though the pain was internal, no outside force had placed it upon him. He dug his fingers into the floor and panted like a dog. The young woman felt tears spring to her eyes and stubbornly told them to stay.

The pain lifted again and the speaker shuffled forwards, still out of her line of vision, and roughly grabbed the man's night gown, tugging him to his feet. The gown slid up his feet, revealing his smooth, almost feminine legs, and then he dropped back down, trembling.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice cracking.

The stranger placed something in his robes, ebon black, and seemed to sigh.

"Have you already forgotten?"

"As for that I already did it. So keep in mind that I don't want to! You spider! You caught me in your web by mistake and you won't even let me go! Just eat me and get it over with it!"

"If I did not intend to capture you," the stranger returned solemnly, "then I did not intend to eat you. But while you're in my gossamer web, I have to make the best of you."

The man trembled visibly, his bravery cracking.

"You realize I don't have any more time." The stranger continued, "I've said it a thousand times and I will say it once more. The Dark Lord shall rise. I want that honor. I want that glory. I don't want to suffer anymore."

The stranger's voice took a sudden turn, but returned at once to its metallic iciness.

"And you can play an important part. Imagine what will happen to you! Imagine if the Dark Lord rises and he knows that you betrayed his reviver! Then you'll regret it all."

"I'm doing the best I can… I'm not a wizard…"

"But you have powers too."

"All of us do."

"Then get back to work on that potion, Feliciano! I have a feeling some rat may get there first and I don't want that to happen." The stranger barked and turned away, leaving Feliciano standing there in his night gown, perspiring from fear.

The stranger shut the large oak doors behind him, entering the cool evening. He stood at the entrance for quite some time, watching the leaves flutter down and glimmer in the sunshine, like falling flecks of gold. He considered it for some time, scratching his sandy blond hair and lowering his green eyes.

"I'm not Arthur Kirkland much, am I?" he said to himself and, with another moving sigh that seemed to shift his entire being, he vanished from that spot with a soft and dry pop.

Inside of the building, Feliciano shivered and went through the halls, finally locating the young woman who had listened to their entire conversation.

She looked at Feliciano calmly, as though she hadn't heard a word. She may as well hadn't, for she understood none of it.

"Hello," he said, bending down before her. His hair, nice even curls, fell just short of his eyes. His eyes always moved her. They were like portions of the early morning sky cut from the heavens and placed on his clean white eyes, spotted with a drop of black one might make if he raised a pen or quill just the right distance from the paper and let the ink drip.

"Hello," she responded politely, giving him a smile, her reddish-brown lips parting. Her face was a long oval face, with a beauty mark on the upper left cheek, radiated inborn warmth.

Feliciano smiled back, his pearly teeth shining, and his eyes pained. But that smile drained away, as did hers, and was replaced by a look of extreme agony. His features contorted; the bridge of his nose crinkling. His eyebrows bent inwards and his lips turned into a scowl. He pulled the girl into a hug briefly and then, his entire body shifting with a sigh, he said two words that froze her stiff.

"I'm sorry."

I wasn't planning on releasing this chapter so soon, but I may not have time very soon for much of anything, so the sooner I get this done the better, I suppose.

Thank you very much for reading!