MALFOY MANNOR
Harry slashed lightning bolts into the sand with the tips of his fingers, exact replicas of the very scar he wore on his forehead. The exact branding which gave him all of his trouble. He tried not to be sullen and musing but it was hard not think about Trelawney's new prophecy as he sat alone on the beach. The woman's words made him sick, feel almost faint and the more he tried to subdue his feelings, the more they churned.
Everything seemed to fit despite Harry's, and the rest of the Order's hope about it. Perhaps it was true that Harry would turn to Voldemort like the villain said during the Battle of the Ministry last spring. That dropped ice water in Harry's veins; he shuddered.
Dumbledore had explained that when Voldemort tried failingly to kill Harry with Avada Kedavra, a little bit of the Dark Lord was transferred into him. That explained why Harry could speak Parseltongue, why Harry was so sensitive to powerful bouts of Voldemort's emotions. In Hogwarts, Harry excelled in the Dark Arts, although he found interest in learning them for a different reason. Could he also be susceptible to the same lust for power that drove Voldemort mad? The same hatred for muggles? Their lives were so parallel that it did not seem impossible, but rather likely.
But you can love, Harry, the boy reminded himself internally, his conscious taking on the pleasant baritone of Dumbledore. Harry snorted in response; he wouldn't have love if he kept getting the ones he loved killed.
That's not your fault, and you know that, Hermione snapped angrily, sounding every-bit as matronly as she did on a day-to-day basis. He imagined her wispy curls frizzed from raking her fingers unsuccessfully through as she argued this tirelessly. Then she would turn to the gangly boy at her side and implore him to add something with her eyes.
You tried your hardest mate, Ron would say. Even in Harry's personal rendition, Ron sounded as if he didn't wholly believe his own words.
"And now, Harry," Dumbledore said, creeping up on Harry almost as if he Apparated. "There are some other matters that need settling."
"Sir?" the boy asked, shaken from his reverie. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Dumbledore's voice. Trying to downplay of his moment of terror, he stood and brushed the sand off the arse of his jeans. "Remembered I was still out here did you?"
The older wizard frowned, deepening the lines etched in his skin. "I apologize, Harry (something I seem to be doing often today); I did not realize that it would be as difficult as it was to arrange a meeting with Narcissa Malfoy with her sister accompanying her. It seems that they have not become as close, something I'm not quite incredulous about, but am wary of."
Harry's eyes widened in shock. "A meeting…with the Malfoys? For what?" he demanded. "Do I have to go?"
"Yes, you do Harry, which I regret. You remember the charms that are in place, do you not? Successful curse-breakers are… are flighty creatures. The ones that have any true merit are enlisted in the ministry and I would rather them not have wind of Sirius and your relationship. Rogue curse-breakers are notably live among darkness. The Order is strong, but we are not practiced in curses and unlocking ancient, pureblood charms. You have not advanced in your studies to learn about certain wards and the such.
"But I digress. The only surviving members of the Black clan are Bellatrix LeStrange, Narcissa Malfoy, Andromeda Tonks (yes, Nymphadora's mother) and their husbands. Andromeda has been annexed from the will of the Blacks so I severely doubt that the magic would give her the property unless the latter two were dead. Thus, we must meet with them and figure the beneficiary of Sirius's will."
For a moment Harry sputtered, staring speechlessly at Dumbledore. How could he not understand how much of a terrible idea this was? Was Dumbledore so secure in the way the war was going that he could rationalize walking into a lions' den?
Finally words came to Harry's lips – they came out rushed, his voice cracking several octaves. "Why should we trust them? We could be walking into a trap – or they might just lie about everything! There's no reason for them to see us!"
"You have not met Narcissa, but I trust her wholly and completely. The woman has not deceived me." Dumbledore said lightly, his eyes glittering. Harry's anger was mounting, mostly arising from confusion, curiosity and frustration. However, Dumbledore continued. "I cannot explain what for, because I would be breaking my loyalties –" what about your loyalties to me? the Order? Harry seethed; "but I can tell you that Mrs. Malfoy is a respectable woman. Bellatrix… she's mad, but she's not silly enough to try to touch a hair on neither your head nor mine. She understands the boundaries of her powers, and the fact she is merely a pawn for Voldemort to control – that's wherein her danger lies."
The memory of Bellatrix coiled in the pit of Harry's stomach, added a tension to his spine.
"But what if they call Voldemort, what if this is a set up? I can't believe this-"
"Voldemort is not in England at the moment," Dumbledore said patiently. "The Malfoys were disgraced. Regardless, Tom would not give his ear at what they say, no matter how much he cherishes Bellatrix's ah, I shall say zealousness."
"What about Malfoy?" Harry pressed, his voice losing vehemence and becoming whiney as he desperately tried to show the older wizard his fault. "I sent his father to prison; he'll be livid."
Dumbledore smiled clairvoyantly. "Young Malfoy, you'll see, has changed severely over this vacation period. I do doubt that he will not attempt to antagonize you once we return to Hogwarts, but I am sure that he will remain civil around his mother."
"I still don't think this is a good idea."
"I think you've lost trust."
Harry frowned. "You're right; I don't trust those people as far as I could throw them, which is very far, with or without a wand."
"In me," Dumbledore corrected somberly. "I'm not completely surprised, but I hope it's irreversible." He paused before continuing. "I believe you should come back in and eat, as well as wash up. We are leaving for Malfoy manor shortly afterwards, unless you have any other qualms."
"No," Harry responded darkly as he walked back into the house. With more power than he meant to, he slammed the screen door. "I don't."
Ω
Malfoy Manor was a large, gothic structure in the middle of Wiltshire forest – it resembled almost a castle with flawless white bricks and spires that reached towards the sky and large windows to allow sunlight. No matter how much Harry tried, he could not peer into the house – charms seemed to make the windows one-way. The lawn was plain besides the marble pathway to the massive doorway, and the façade was just as mundane. However, Harry suspected that the modesty of the outside would become even uncanny after seeing the inside.
Dumbledore didn't hesitate to knock on the door and the Malfoys did not put of a show of pretending they weren't waiting. A small house-elf opened massive door with a strain, his large eyes bright. He reminded Harry of Doby, though the nose was sharper, the ears droopier, and there was a perpetual happiness in his overlarge eyes instead of Doby's rebellious air. Harry supposed they learned a lesson since he liberated Doby from their cruelty
"Welcome Sirs!" the elf exclaimed ecstatically. "Mistress Malfoy and Mistress LeStrange and Master Malfoy are expecting you in the parlor. You should come with Pippy, yes! Can Pippy take Sir's overcoat?"
"There is no need, Pippy," Dumbledore said graciously. "I trust we will not be staying long."
The elf faltered, but regained his cheer; he obviously didn't question much. "Oh, yes, yes; follow Pippy yes!" He shot down a corridor that seemed to have been made out of pure, sparkling crystal, kicking his ankles together in joy.
"He's been spoiled," the wizard mused aloud to Harry with a wink.
Speaking about spoiled, Harry glanced around the door-less corridor, staring inquisitively at the diamond encrusted candles floating overhead, the ice-shine walls, the slick green marble floors. Obviously the Malfoys weren't worried too much about their gold, nor were they candid on their Hogwarts' house; the house was decorated in various shades of silver and white and viridian, focal points dressed in black. Harry only snorted; if Malfoy stepped into a house built off of red and gold, he wouldn't hesitate to call them sappy Gryffindors.
"This way, this way, Sirs!" the house-elf called, attempting to open up a large, emerald door with much effort. Harry immediately assisted him, grabbing a serpentine handle and pulling vainly.
"What type of trick is this?" Harry demanded, falling on his bottom. Already the Malfoys are showing evil intentions, he thought angrily.
"A test," Dumbledore responded, peering at the gem-adorned door. "It seems they're more curious about you than they've let on."
"Who?"
"The Death Eaters, of course," the older wizard responded easily. He spoke the words as if he was merely speaking about a group of schoolyard rebels rather than a nefarious organization. "All who know you, Harry, are wondering of your special powers – the ones that Voldemort has given to you by accident. Some think it makes you more like him; other's think it defines you as something more. It seems the Death Eaters haven't made a distinction."
Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. He not only wanted very much not to be here, but he definitely didn't want to go through some ridiculous Slytherin tricks. He imagined Malfoy on the opposite side of the wall, laughing as he extracted his brand of antagonizing revenge.
"I have to speak Parseltongue at the door," Harry stated flatly, staring into the jeweled eyes of the serpent knocker. "This is all they want to know right?"
"Understand," Dumbledore began, "the most famous Parselmouths are Voldemort and Salazar. It's a very uncommon, idolized skill, one that by chance you have. It's an anomaly, a question they haven't quite answered. I'm sure that Voldemort would prefer to keep your powers, or the fact that he accidentally made you his equal to himself. I also believe that they chose not to rely simply on the rumors, or the Younger Malfoy's account."
"Seems like a ton of bullocks if you ask me," he growled under his breath, pacing like a caged animal. Dumbledore remained passive as Harry tugged on his hair once more, eyes wild and desperate. He was unwilling to succumb to the Dark Arts invested in him, to rely on the most prevalent connection between him and Voldemort.
"Well how did they get in there? I know the ferret," he added extra emphasis if Malfoy was indeed listening on the other side of the door, "can't speak Parseltongue
"There is probably another entrance, or perhaps Pippy has a way to override the mechanisms, for he is a house elf and their power is unlimited, albeit restricted by the whim of their masters."
Another growl on Harry's part, which sounded more like a groan of resignation. Dumbledore merely flourished a hand at the knocker in question, his eyes flickering to the elf waiting silently by the door, its large eyes almost apologetic.
Swallowing his pride, Harry focused on the knocker. Speaking Parseltongue was less of an internal decision than it was an act. It flowed fluidly off Harry's lips in a serious of hissings, demanding the door to open with some colorful language that would have made Dumbledore blush if he knew what Harry picked up in the Gryffindor common rooms. The curled snake unfurled its tail, slithering until it was vertical from the floor. Starting from the top of the doorway to the tiled floor, a slice of light severed the snake's belly revealing that the door was in fact two. They wheezed open before the two wizards.
The circular room defied the Manor's Slytherin theme – instead, it was a beige similar to the color of wheat, but not quite. Dusky orange furnishings and spicy autumnal red reminded Harry of the equinox and gave him a strong desire for pumpkin juice. The real amazement of the room was that the northern wall well, was not there, except for a thin railing Draco Malfoy was leaning upon. The git looked skinnier, paler, and he grew his hair out so he looked like a bloody ponce or worse - his father. It screened his face in a sheet of silver, which was nice, Harry had to admit, if Malfoy was a girl.
Narcissa Malfoy, or the woman Harry assumed her to be, was sitting daintily on a chaise lounge, her legs sideways and toes pointing to the floor in a patrician fashion. Her hands were clasped in her lap, but her thumbs kept fooling with the satin of her dress. She looked a lot like Malfoy (or vice versa), Harry thought, taking in the woman's straight nose and platinum hair.
Finally, the other one was pacing by the fireplace, curls erratic and clothes askew as if she just woke up. Her mad eyes focused on Potter the minute he stepped across the threshold, a grin slashing across her lips. Harry felt red, and hot under the collar, eyes watering with such loathing he could barely stand. A number of spells graced through his head, all beginning and ending with Avada Kedavra, but he managed to keep his wand safely placed in his pocket. A difference perhaps between him and Voldemort. Harry glanced at Dumbledore and saw him nod approvingly. It did little to lessen the painful heat in the middle of Harry's chest.
"Mr. Potter," Narcissa lilted, "it's a pleasure to meet you."
"Same to you," Harry responded dryly, his eyes only for Bellatrix.
"And Professor Dumbledore, I'm afraid it has been too long," Narcissa continued, standing and curtsying in Dumbledore's direction, who surprisingly bowed.
"Ah, Mrs. Malfoy, I can surely speak volumes with my nostalgia, as well as with recollections of you, Mrs. LeStrange, but I have come for another reason." Dumbledore's eyes sparkled and Harry felt sick; the old croon was probably getting a thrill out of standing in the enemy's lair. "And partly because I'm sure I would tire you with stories of the past."
Narcissa smiled surprisingly, her pretty blue eyes gentle. She tilted her chin to a transfigured sofa. "Oh please, Professor, do take a seat. That courtesy is extended as well to you Mr. Potter. Can I interest either of you in refreshment? Tea perhaps?"
"I would take your offer, however we are only meant to stay for a limited time, just to sort out Sirius's will," Dumbledore said amicably, yet sternly. He was no fool. They probably would spike it with nasty poisons concocted by Snape himself.
"Oh very well," Narcissa responded. She turned to Pippy, who suddenly had a stack of quill-scratched papers. "Professor, I offer these for your oversight. They're the deeds and history of the place, if you are interested in reviewing them. I was not sure what you may be interested in, for you can imagine how astonished I was with your firecall."
Narcissa then prattled on about Grimmauld Place, which Dumbledore seemed intrigued by (as if he hadn't previously inhabited the home). She seemed to ramble just to experience Dumbledore's company, which was odd in its own right. All the while Harry kept an eye on the "others," his wand hand flexed and ready in case they decided to attack. However, the two seemed completely disinterested in their company.
The ferret seemed content gazing out at the sunset, his pale hair collecting the color so it seemed almost gold. His back was straight, almost as if he was nervous. Nevertheless he pretended as if he was alone. The other one (for Harry refused to use her given name, regardless of whatever confusion it created) was pacing, pinching her nails into the skin of her arm. She was chanting something under her breath, which seemed like mere nonsense words.
In conclusion, Harry was sorely disappointed. He had fantasized having a reason to put his wand to the Heathen's throat on the way to Wiltshire.
"So in other words," Narcissa said, "it is a simple magic, one I had searched in my books for and found quite easily."
Dumbledore looked speculative, which put Harry on edge. "This is an extremely basic magic, but one that invokes such power. I don't understand how it works."
Narcissa blushed, and she looked pretty. Harry supposed that's why Lucius had fancied her – Narcissa was a lovely woman with a nice, soothing voice. For a Death Eater, anyway. "You see, when we, the 'heirs' join hands and in turn the mediator says the incantation, we are in turn testing… the tenor of our power. The spell is under the assumption that we are blood-related (forgive this, it is an ancient pure-blood ritual) and will test our magic systematically; Sirius's will is interlaced with our magic, thus, the spell will strip from our magic the power of inheritance. Please, do not be worried, Mr. Potter," Narcissa said, gazing at him. "There is no ability for us to influence, direct, or change anything about your being. We cannot cause harm to you – it is located deep in the magic of the spell, for our ancestors, when they were to find the correct heir, often wished ill of each other."
"We will know who the heir is by what?" Dumbledore continued.
"Oh; I believe we just know," Narcissa said with a nervous giggle Harry found suspicious. "Similar to the way we are all aware of the magic we each contain without having to whisper a single spell. It is another failsafe, in order to stop the progression of more untimely deaths.
"You shall be our mediator, Dumbledore, to ensure that no wickedness occurs, though I assure you that the spell is quite safe and I would never wish harm on Mr. Potter in my home."
Harry fought the urge to point out to Dumbledore the key words, in my home, and won. Instead he gazed furiously at the three Malfoys; he would have to join hands with them. He would not mind holding hands with Narcissa for one; she seemed alright, for a Death Eater. On the other hand, it was a struggle to choose between the ferret and Bellatrix. Rage filled him as he stared at her, his fingers itching towards his wand. The only thing that kept him from striking was the fact that an instant of belligerence on his part would most likely doom him and Dumbledore to death, and that he would plan something more slow and painful for her in the future.
Another way Voldemort and I are one and the same, Harry's more nefarious part seethed; we both would enjoy the suffering of those who hurt us.
He shook his head to clean it.
"Draco," Narcissa beckoned quietly. Malfoy stood rigidly and robotically, striding over to his mother with a strange obedience. Harry gazed hard at him and noticed something; although the blond was physically there, he seemed mentally not, like a zombie. That explained the quietness of him. Harry expected some sort of outburst the minute he walked through the door, or at least with the prospect of holding hands.
"Pippy," Malfoy called and the house elf appeared automatically. "I would like a pillow for the floor, suitable for our guest as well as your masters to sit upon."
"Yes master!" the house elf said energetically, clapping his hands. A large red and gold (Harry raised his eyebrow as Malfoy gaped) pillow was dropped on the floor. Narcissa wasted no time, standing up delicately and stepping towards the pillow. She sat down delicately, arranging her skirts.
"Draco," she hedged once more, and the blond sat across from his mother. She then looked at Harry expectantly, who hesitated.
"You'll be fine," Dumbledore assured him in an undertone, his wand brandished and steady. That calmed the Gryffindor enough that he awkwardly plopped down between Narcissa and Malfoy.
That left the other one.
"Bellatrix, sister, will you join us?" Narcissa inquired, voice carrying minor authority.
For a heartbeat, the Heathen pretended not to have listened, but the effect was immediate. She began to shade red, her eyes narrowing and lips thinning. She paused midstride glared at Harry, hate expressed mutually between them. Then, almost like a kettle, she began to fill up with steam until she burst in a shriek, "Why should I cooperate with these, these mudbloods?" She even stamped her feet.
"Bellatrix," Narcissa hissed under her breath. The lady of the house rose and grabbed her sister by the shoulder and gave it a firm shake like she would scold a petulant toddler. Harry refused the urge to snicker, instead looking at the amusement on Dumbledore's face; it was a misplaced sense of amusement, one Harry suspected went deeper than the Heathen (the name was beginning to grow on Harry) being scolded by her superior, younger sister. They exchanged brief, quiet words before the brunette assented.
The Heathen met Harry's eyes firmly, a sick smile on her face. "Know that I'm not doing this to be any assistance to you Potter – I killed Sirius. It would only agree with me more if I got his petty possessions too."
Harry snarled to himself, but managed to stay calm. Dumbledore briefed him on this before they left. The Heathen was only waiting for Harry to react so she had a reason to attack; otherwise, unprovoked, she was not allowed to do anything. Voldemort, supposedly, was saving Harry for himself.
A tense moment came when they had to hold hands. Narcissa offered her dainty palms first, and Harry (although all instinct told him otherwise) grasped it. The other one stared at it as if she forgot what she had to do. Mad eyes seeking Harry's, she grasped Narcissa's hand and grabbed at Malfoy's. In turn, Malfoy offered his hand and Harry grabbed it, making sure his grip was terribly tight. The blond winced, and shouldered him discretely, but hard.
"Relax," Narcissa murmured so softly the others did not hear it.
Dumbledore began the incantation, the words fluid, entangling Latin. He imagined them as climbing ivy, completely intertwined with power. For some reason they took some of the tension away. His eyes fell shut. Dumbledore's voice became more and more distant. A muted fear caught at him; did they kill him? No – Dumbledore would know, and the sage wizard seemed to continue the incantation. A strange realization came to him; he was meditating further and further into himself, by force… no, by choice. Or both.
He never felt more aware of himself as he did at this moment; he could feel his heart beating, his lungs stuttering, his magic pulsating. Previously, magic never felt particularly palpable; the effect of a spell, yes. Or that fleeting moment right before a Patronus erupted from his wand. But now, it felt like a flowing river through each vein, conquering the blood there and filling him with some sort of ethereal, powerful light.
It started as a pinch in his side, annoying but bearable. Harry had a high tolerance for pain. Soon the pinch became a searing stab. And then, oh Merlin, and then, it was as if the flesh was being burned away from his body. He resisted the urge to scream – the pain, God, the pain! He felt himself thrash, his breath come in whinging gasps. His heart was beating too quickly. His magic, that stream, that palpable force, was leaving him at a surprising rate. He was being bled dry.
"Stop!" he hollered from deep in his belly, but the words were not conceived. His screams remained in his belly, bubbling acidly. Somewhere over the din, Dumbledore continued to chant. Somewhere over the algesia, he could feel Narcissa squeeze his hand in what felt like reassurance.
Subsequently, the pain stopped and flame reared around him, enveloping him. Hell, he decided. The muggles had it right all along.
But what was strange was that the heat, which he knew should have burned him alive (or adead, whichever), it felt pleasant. It was a different type of kindled flame. At the back of his head, he understood; this was his magic, released from his body in a tangible force.
With much forcing he opened his eyes a slit. It was an odd maneuver, as if trying to swim through marmalade, but he made it. He could barely see through a glittering green veil of flame that covered the circle. Besides him, Narcissa looked as if in rapture, a beaded sheet over her skin, like pearls. Narcissa's counterpart was similar, except her magic seemed more like interlocking grains of sand. Forcing his head to turn, he saw Malfoy, who looked Petrified. Dark blue fire licked across his face, his hands, and mingled with Harry's creating a beetle-black.
His eyes, out of their own volition, snapped shut and Harry was pushed back into the center of his being. It felt like several lifetimes, or just a second. It was a state of stickiness, of being lost within quicksand.
Soon, it began to alleviate, the pressure. His magic flowed back inside him with minor pain, like a blood transfusion. However, towards the end, a blinding spasm struck him and he felt faint. He knew he had inherited the Sirius's estate, but there was something else as well – something more he inherited, but he couldn't name it.
This time, when the blackness enveloped him, it was of a more stealing kind that pushed him closer to death than before. And then he was unconscious.