Diana blinked a few times, ears ringing as she attempted to gain her bearings. Her mind felt hazy and distorted, and she tried to remember why she was here at Malfoy Manor instead of…of…
Hogwarts? 7 Ironwood Lane? Wool's Orphanage? Camp Chrysalis?
She glanced around the sitting room. Same fireplace, same chandelier, same creepy-yet-fascinating dragon carvings etched into the walls. But something seemed off.
It was the windows, she realized. Where there had once been emerald curtains providing a picturesque view of the garden, now stood an empty expanse of wall. In its place was a painting of said garden: Lifelike and detailed, but a painting all the same.
That brief flicker of knowledge unleashed a sudden avalanche of emotion and horror.
Draco. I need to find Draco.
Memories, albeit hazy, plowed into her: Draco's vicious beating, the Obscurus, the Chamber, her hasty mixing of the Spiral of Morpheus in the Infirmary. How she managed to do that was a headache for another day, but she hadn't the slightest doubt that's where she was.
Diana scanned her surroundings with renewed alertness and fear. Besides the windows, the only other sign she was somewhere other than the Manor were the subtle, minute differences in size and angles of some of the corners and furniture, some of which were only perceptible after staring for longer than normal—assuming time had any meaning here. The more she stared, the mushier her mind felt, like drowning in tar. The sharp and sudden thought of Draco caused her to shake free of the spell and stumble back. Swallowing, she strode to the main hall.
This time, the differences between Malfoy Manor and the Not-Quite-Manor were more readily apparent. The few paintings and illustrations present in the real-life Manor were of scenic landscapes or still life, but in the Spiral, portraits of Malfoy patriarchs from years past lined the walls. They stroked, twirled, or tapped Jormungandr, sneering and jeering like the pompous windbags Diana assumed they were in life. Near the stop of the slightly-longer-than-normal stairs, a portrait of Abraxas was fixed onto the wall like a centerpiece to a shrine.
"You're looking for Draco, yes?" sniffed Abraxas, lips twisted in disgust. He looked just as haughty as his real-world counterpart, but with sharper, scalier, and uglier features—more dragon than man. "A waste of time if you ask me. That boy's a sniveling brat who'll never amount to anything."
Diana was less nervous than she would have been in life. "I think you're wrong."
"You're the only one in this blasted family who does," snorted Abraxas.
"That's not true. Narcissa loves him, and so does—"
"Ah, yes. The mother," he mocked. "She coddled and suffocated the boy for the past eleven years, and now he's softer and weaker than a flobberworm. If she trusted or respected his potential as head of the family, she wouldn't hover constantly like a frazzled starling during fledgling season."
Diana blinked, taken aback by the unexpected frankness. "It's better to give too much of a shit than the opposite."
"That language is foul," he scolded. "You ought to be ashamed of the dishonor you bring to—where are you going?! Don't you dare walk away from me!"
Diana flipped him the bird in response, having no patience for this psychodrama. She needed to find Draco, ASAP.
But despite her determination, she halted upon reading the entrance of the right-wing corridor. She spun around, eyes darting around frantically as dread pooled in her stomach.
"What was that?" she demanded. "I thought I heard whispering." A lot of whispering…
It couldn't be the other portraits, for all save Abraxas had emptied, creating an eeriness even more poignant than before. Her Not-Grandfather stoked the head of Jormungandr smugly. "Oh, you know Them even if you think you don't. Everyone does, from birth to death. They want your brother, and now they want you too. So you better hurry, child. Tick-tock, tick-tock."
Diana gave the middle finger once more for good measure before bolting down the corridor.
Despite Abraxas's words, no one knew what They were.
And if there was ever a time when people did, it wasn't in recorded history. At least, not in human recorded history. Or at least not in any of the obscure tomes Tom read in the past. There were different theories: manifestation of the subject's darker feelings, a product of humanity's collective unconsciousness made manifest, fairy-gods, or some unknown species or entity that existed on a different plane of existence from humanity. The only consensus was that if They got you, there'd be no returning home.
Diana stifled another cry of frustration as the door that would have led to her room revealed nothing but another dark corridor—the one she just entered from. Whereas the first floor followed generally the same layout of Malfoy Manor, the second was upside down, backwards, and inside out. It couldn't even be described as a maze, for mazes always had an exit, or at least follow an established pattern. If there was some sort of trick or key that could navigate this shifting space, she was coming up blank. She was never particularly good with puzzles and would often bum the answers off Olivia, but Tom was far more intelligent than she was. He might know the answer. Maybe.
Diana bit her lip and thought as hard as she could, hoping to tap into sporadic wealth of knowledge that recently blipped in and out of her mind without warning. Something happened during the Obscurus absorption that she didn't fully understand; it was almost as if he left sticky imprints on her mind that faded in and out, and while she had no doubt—assuming she'd survive this experience—that she'd dwell in existential horror at what this meant for her and sense of self, she couldn't deny it proved extraordinarily convenient when dealing with the plethora of life-or-death situations she encountered within the past twenty-four hours.
But if Tom knew anything that could help her current situation, it eluded Diana. The only thing that might have been a remnant of him was her current unnatural calmness, because if Diana White took a moment to really, really think about where she was and what was at stake, she imagined she'd be huddling into a ball sobbing.
Just as before, staying in one spot for too long proved detrimental. She caught a small, black, blurry shape in the corner of her eye and fled down the hall.
She didn't get a good look at Them and didn't want to. They were always black and warped, but the size and shape changed. Sometimes a butterfly, sometimes something tall, spindly and human-shaped, sometimes a cockroach, sometimes furniture, sometimes things she couldn't recognize at all. But whether it was due to Tom's residual memories or a deep, primal human instinct, she knew spending more than a glance would be a Big Mistake. It would be like getting lost in the corners in the sitting room—or worse.
So she continued entering and exiting doors that led nowhere and everywhere, a frustratingly circuitous action that made her feel like she was in a Scooby-Doo episode. The only sign that might have signaled a progression of time was that the walls seemed waxier. She abruptly stopped again, mind clicking and turning.
Moving forward was getting her anywhere. But if she moved backward…
Diana took a few steps in reverse, a door she just passed returning into view. As she placed her hand on the doorknob, a voice from behind whispered into her ear, "Di-ana! Help…me! Please…"
It almost sounded like Draco's voice. Almost. But the real Draco's voice didn't fluctuate in pitch as if trying to capture the appropriate tone, and she would have felt the real Draco's breath against her neck. Shuddering, she swung open the door, and slammed it behind her.
She ended up in a place that looked similar to Draco's room—sterile, just as it was in her reality–but with a slightly muted color palette. Though she was alone, she heard a distant sniffling sound.
"Draco?" she called out cautiously.
No response. Diana wandered over to the desk, but the noises didn't get louder or softer. She glanced at the bed and moved toward it, cautiously lifting the bed skirt. "Draco are you—EEEEK!"
Diana backed up frantically as a huge, silver python slithered out from underneath it. It circled the bed, emerald eyes surveying her in calculation before stopping and opening its wide jaws.
Diana jumped into the closet, barricading the doors with whatever junk she could find. She could see its fat body continuing to the circle through the shudders, and grasped her shaking knees tightly. She'd need to wait it out, there was no other choice.
But the python seemed content to wait her out as well, stopping its movements while remaining poised for her exit. The longer Diana continued to wait, the foggier her mind became. And when she had trouble remembering why she was in the closet to begin with, she knew she had to get on the move again.
But that was a lot easier said than done with the snake laying in wait. If it wasn't going to retreat, and she couldn't flee, then that left the last option: fight.
Though her eyes had adjusted to the closet's darkness, it was still difficult to make out details. But her heart softened when she noticed most of the debris were child's toys and paraphernalia. Nothing she could reliably use as a weapon. Just a few Quidditch magazines, some posters of the Weird Sisters and the World Cup, and…
Wait.
At least, that's what the poster said. But it was an odd choice to only have one player on the poster if it was meant to replicate the World Cup. Diana peered closer, and her eyes widened.
"Draco!"
Her brother was zipping around the pitch, grinning breezily without a care in the world. She brought her fingers to his face and mouthed his name again.
Then, brightness filled the room. Her head snapped towards the open door (How? Snakes don't have arms!) but fear quickly morphed to confusion. She could no longer see the bedroom; in its place was the sunny, open Quidditch field from the poster. And best of all, no snake in sight.
Diana stumbled out, shielding her eyes from the jarring sunlit transition. The deafening cheers from the crowd grated against her ears as Draco did loops and spins with his broom that—based on what she silently observed at the Burrow—were far beyond his skill level. She rushed further into the field and waved her hands frantically to get his attention.
Remembering their final conversation, Diana wasn't sure how receptive he'd be to her presence. But her fears were for naught. He beamed as he flew down and hovered over her, shouting, "Diana, you came! Isn't this amazing?"
"Um…" How should she approach this? "What's amazing?"
"I just caught the snitch!" he said, waving it in the air. "Didn't you see it?"
Draco was clearly deep in this delusion, and Diana had to break him out. But would it be better to guide him to that conclusion himself, or be blunt? "I just came in, sorry. So, uh, where's the rest of your team?"
Draco looked around, a flicker of confusion in his eyes before smoothing over with confidence. "They left."
"And the crowd stayed because….?"
"Because I'm the star player!" he said impatiently, puffing out his chest. "Don't you hear them shouting my name?"
She did—sort of. But there was something else that got under Diana's skin, something she didn't notice at first, but once she did it was impossible to ignore.
In normal crowds, there was always an underlying noise, a multitude of conversations and chatter that makes the backbone of a stadium. But this crowd's noise was indistinct and inhuman, as if listening to a conversation underwater. Glancing backward, her blood chilled as she saw none of the 'spectators' had faces. They were more like human-shaped blobs with human-like colors than anything else, and the uncanniness was enough for her to abandon her original plan.
"Draco, this place isn't real, and I think you know that," she said. "You got knocked unconscious and now you're trapped in your own mind."
A flicker of fear was soon replaced by anger. "No I'm not! Do I look trapped to you?" He did another loop on his broom for emphasis.
"Since when do professional Quidditch teams recruit eleven-year olds?" she countered. "And since when do faceless blob-people show up to Quidditch matches?"
"They have faces!" he responded hastily, a flush creeping up his neck.
Diana checked again, recoiling when she saw the 'humans' now sporting waxy, plastic faces and smiles. "Now they look even creepier than before!"
Draco's facade began to break. "Why are you making such a big deal about this? I'm finally doing something amazing. Why can't you be happy about it like a normal person?"
Diana stifled a sigh. She couldn't afford to get combative with Draco again, not when so much was at stake. "I'm sorry. I just…want to talk. Can we do that?"
Her brother huffed and folded his arm, looking away. "There's nothing to talk about."
Fighting the urge to break something, Diana folded her arms in response and sat down on the turf. "That's fine," she said, much calmer than she felt. "I'll just sit and watch you fly around forever. That'll be fun."
"It is. If you weren't such a coward and gave flying a shot, you'd see that."
He continued to do what she assumed were supposed to be impressive maneuvers on his broom while she remained seated and steamed. Eventually, her irritation morphed to a dull malaise. She lay down on the grass, staring up at the cloudless blue. It sprawled infinite and endless, and she imagined herself floating like a dandelion seed in circles and circles like—
She blinked in foggy confusion. Who? Why was she here in the first place?
Oh well, it didn't matter. She stretched, enjoying the respite. The crowd wasn't cheering anymore, just whispering indistinctly. She briefly wondered why before turning over.
Then, her eyes shot open as sudden realization slammed into her. She sprang up and raced further into the turf, away from the crowd. "Draco, we have to go. Now."
He swooped down and scowled. "I'm staying right here, where I can do everything I want without anybody telling me—"
"Draco, you're not technically anywhere! You're trapped in your head and—"
"I'm not trapped!"
He zipped vertically into the sky until he was a small speck in the sky.
Then, he vanished completely.
Before the shock wore off, she heard his voice again, coming from the left.
"—can go wherever I—huh?"
His broom skidded to a halt as he scanned the field, bewildered. "I thought I was going up, how did—"
"You know why. Now come on. Please," she begged.
But he didn't seem to hear her. "I can't believe it. Even here…"
Before she could press more, Draco shot off like a bolt of lightning and zipped underneath the stands. Holding her breath, Diana turned around to follow. But the stadium was now dead silent and empty, devoid of the imitations of life that once filled the stands.
She tried to follow Draco's path underneath the stands, and knew immediately that something was wrong. The sudden shift from light to dark was jarring, and for a few moments, she couldn't see anything. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she shrieked.
She wasn't in the stands anymore. She was in her father's secret underground room where Draco stole the scrip bag all those months ago. Only this time, blood was splattered across the walls and floor. The dragon skull had emerald gems in its eye sockets, and the black clock's hands were frozen on 11:11. The Hyperborean revelers' faces on the tapestry pointed in her direction.
Like fuck she was going to stay in there a moment longer. Diana sprang towards the cellar doors, scared-but-not-surprised when the cellar door remained bolted shut. The one good thing about being trapped in a blood-stained secret chamber of horrors was that there should, theoretically, be something that could reasonably be used as a weapon. She vaguely recalled a serrated blade in a small emerald bag Draco stuffed into her suitcase, and headed to the table where the bags were being kept. But to her frustration, the only things in them were inky, intangible blackness.
That is, except for one small box with skulls engraved on its cover. The same box Lucius entrusted Draco to use for 'emergency purposes.' The same box that saved them from the troll.
After a moment's hesitation, Diana placed it in her robe pocket. Assuming it followed the same rules as the living world, she only had one shot to use it, and didn't think trying it against the door would be wise. But with the lack of other options, Diana found herself back at the door once more.
It was still, unfortunately, locked. But to her surprise, a forceful kick to the bottom was enough to crack it like rotten wood. After a few more kicks, Diana crawled down and pushed the decrepit wood inward so she could push through.
After exiting, it became clear why the door was so easy to break down. Despite the artificial shine and luster glamoring the walls of the Manor, spider-like cracks and traces of decayed, rotted interior peeked through the gaps in the polishing. That, combined with the sloping ceiling, gave off the impression the dark building was struggling to stand up, a few hard kicks away from collapsing under its weight.
Wonder if I'll be around when it does…
Just as before, the layout was winding and maze-like; corridors leading backwards, forwards, up and down and nowhere. The rot seemed to become more and more pronounced with every dead end, and a thundering dread took root in her stomach. It was hard to notice at first, but the walls were pulsating in and out, breathing. She had to get out of here.
But not without Draco.
The creaking floor beneath her gave way, and she screamed as she plummeted down like Alice down the rabbit hole before landing onto the ground with a thump. Despite being in some kind of dream-state, falling still hurt like a bitch.
She realized she was in the dining room and pushed herself up, only to immediately bring a hand to her mouth, muffling a shriek. Draco was laying unconscious in a large, golden birdcage in the center of the table. Plates, glasses, and silverware were neatly arranged, though the aesthetic was marred somewhat by the hearts throbbing and beating on the plates. A thick silvery mass stretched throughout like streamers, lining the table, cabinets and walls.
Then, it started to move.
This time, Diana didn't bother stifling her scream. She backed up frantically as the snake's emerald eyes gleamed in her direction. Previously, most of its body had been under the bed so she couldn't see it, but now the beast was wrapped around the room, criss-crossed in all its grotesque glory.
In the Muggle world she read about giant snakes in Cryptozoology books: a Belgian pilot spotting a 15.2 meter-long serpent when flying over the Congo, and Percy Fawett's encounter with an anaconda 19 meters in length. The former even had photographic evidence, though Olivia dismissed it as fake despite Diana's adamant protests of the opposite. But seeing it in person was another matter entirely. The Basilisk from the Chamber was larger and more objectively threatening than this snake, but not as long, not as winding. And not with those sparkling green, jeweled eyes—
Wait…
As it slithered closer, it confirmed Diana's suspicions: its eyes really were gems. Something tickled the back of her mind, and once she felt the wall against her back, it finally hit her.
The snake looked eerily like Jormungandr.
She was never particularly good at deciphering symbolisms and metaphors and all that nonsense in school, but that realization, combined with Draco's imprisoned visage, made what she needed to do abundantly clear. She yanked the box out of her robe pocket and, with stubborn determination, held it out facing the snake. Then, she flipped the clasp open.
Nothing happened.
Her heart thumped wildly, and silent prayers did nothing as the snake continued its slow-yet-purposeful approach. Cursing, Diana snapped the box shut and grabbed a knife from the kitchen table. She held it out as a warning as she slowly backed closer to the door. The snake was unperturbed.
Her initial plan was to stab the snake until it died, but the sheer size of the beast compared to the knife was enough to make her falter. She considered grabbing a second knife for dual-stabbing action, but that idea was quickly abandoned as the snake slunk closer towards the edge of the table—and toward Diana.
She fled into the halls, desperately trying and failing to find something else she could use as a weapon. But it proved difficult. The world around her was a warped echo of reality—the walls looked slanted and stretched, and that rumbling, whispering undercurrent of something warbled at a greater intensity. It pierced her mind like needles, and she longed desperately to clasp her skull with both hands but was afraid of letting go of the knife.
Diana stumbled towards the top of the steps, towards Abraxas's stupid smirking face. The edges of the painting were charred and the gray scales covered the entirety of her grandfather's face and neck, making her grandfather appear more monster than man.
"Giving up already?" Abraxas taunted. "Can't say I'm sur—"
Diana plunged the knife into the painting and yanked down to create a messy-yet-satisfying gash. The walls begin to shake like an earthquake before stopping, and an angry hiss echoed in the distance. A crazy hope began to spring into her mind.
What happened next was driven more by instinct than any conscious decision. She sprinted to the next painting and did the same, then the next one, then the next one. With every slashed painting, the rumbling and whispers grew louder, and the hissing more incensed. Everything became a blur as she sliced and stabbed with reckless abandon and clouded mind, as if in some Maenad-induced frenzy.
The more paintings she tore, the more indistinct they became, showing only shadows in the shape of men instead of the patriarchs of centuries past. But the final one was clear: Lucius looked identical to how he did in life: pompous, condescending, and oh-so-very punchable. Diana pounced before he had time to utter a single word. Ripping his face apart was quite cathartic.
And that action produced the loudest rumble yet, a piercing ringing blasted in her ears, thankfully abating after a few moments. It was now dead silent—the manic fervor and adrenaline had left her body, and it was almost difficult to believe the shredded remains were her doing instead of a pack of angry cats. Something else felt off, different, and took her a moment to identify why.
There was no more whispering.
Hoping that was a good sign, Diana hurried back to the dining room. She pondered whether the familiar layout was a sign the house was dead—as opposed to the nonsensical shifts from before—but supposed it didn't matter. She wasn't planning on staying here long, anyway.
She let the knife drop from her hands as she sighed in relief. The silver python was dead, its gems crushed as its head dangled limp over the table. The hearts on the plates had shriveled and stopped beating. And best of all, Draco was awake. He didn't appear scared or angry, just morose as he wrapped his pale arms around his legs.
"It's locked," he muttered as she approached the silver cage.
"Luckily, I'm a witch," she retorted, fumbling for her wand. "Alohomora!"
In retrospect, she realized the wand would have come in handy much earlier, but the possibility simply hadn't occurred to her. She wasn't sure if it was due to the way this place made her brain feel like Play-Doh, or simply because she was a dumbass. Either way, the spell worked. "C'mon, let's get out of here."
Draco remained motionless. "I'm not going."
Disappointing, but not surprising. Diana pushed herself up on the table and into the cage. She sat next to him, legs stretched outward beyond the door while his remained curled into a ball. "Why?"
"Because I don't want to go back!" he shouted, blinking back tears.
"I don't really want to go back either," she confessed. "But it's better than staying here. My creepy shit threshold has gotten a lot higher since I came to the wizarding world, but this is just too much."
"At least my parents aren't here," he muttered, wiping his eyes.
"Yeah, but—"
"All my life I wanted to be like him!" he said, voice cracking. "I thought he was perfect but now—now I don't know who I want to be. I don't know who I can be. Everything's just…wrong…since you came." Before she could retort with a sarcastic 'Thanks,' he added softly: "But I'm glad you did."
"Just be Draco Malfoy," she said, lacing his fingers into hers. "I actually like him, even if he can be a pain in the arse sometimes."
That earned a brief flicker of a smile. Small progress, but progress nonetheless. "But that's just it: I'll still be a Malfoy. That's all people will ever see. That's all those boys saw. That name—that name's cursed. I'll always be my father's son."
"...Maybe," she admitted. "But it's the same with me. I wish I had someone else as a father. But I don't, and it sucks. You're not in this alone, Draco. And I think the fact you're concerned about turning into our father means that you won't."
Draco sighed and buried his head into his knees. "Everyone thinks he's evil," he said, voice muffled. "But he's not–I mean, he might—he did—do evil things. He did. But I've known him my whole life and I can't…I know he's not completely evil. Bad, maybe. But he's not this…monster everyone makes him out to be. Or maybe he is and I'm just a fool, I don't know…'
Diana considered how to respond. "I'm not sure anyone's 100% evil. He probably isn't either." Maybe 98%… "What you're going through now is what I went through years ago. When I was really little, I heard stories about how wonderful and charming he was, and then Mum got some of her memories back and things, um, yeah. Things started to change."
"But you never actually knew him," he retorted glumly.
"True, but I think it's okay to feel sad for the father we lost. Or thought we lost, anyway." She was quiet for a moment, then added, "And in your case, it doesn't mean those good memories and parts of him don't exist. I've got a lot of good memories of my mum and they're really important to me, but I can't forget all the bad ones and the horrible way she made me feel a lot of the time. And some of the things she'd do and say to me. It got pretty bad."
Bad to the point where Sarah was deemed an unfit parent, which was by no means an easy feat. And despite Diana's justified rage at her mother's mistreatment, she couldn't shake the bitterness—fairly or unfairly—of the past six years living as the daughter of Amberton's resident loon.
"It wasn't her fault though. The Obliviators modified your memories, while our father's just a git."
"Yeah, but there's no way to tell how much of that affected her personality. Lucius was raised to believe Muggles weren't people. Everyone has something that influences them, but part of being an adult means being responsible for their own actions. Lucius didn't have to rape and kill and mind control people, but he chose to do it. Mum didn't have to lock me away or hit me when things started to go pear-shaped. She could have set alarms or left notes for herself or did check-ins with family or something, but she didn't. At least, not enough."
Draco scoffed. "They're not anywhere near the same level."
"I'm not saying they are, I'm just saying it's the same general idea." Diana sighed and wrapped one hand around the bars of the cage. "Look, Draco, I understand why you don't want to leave. I hated getting up every morning after my mum died, and hated how everyone looked at me once I came to the wizarding world. But I still got up every day. Why?"
Draco pondered the question carefully. "You thought you'd be harmed if you didn't?"
"...No." That didn't factor into her decision-making at all, though it probably should have. "I did it because I was angry. Just full of spite, I guess. And that made me want to do something with my life and change all the laws and everything else that ruined my life and a lot of other people." She tightened her hand around the golden bars. "I'm not really angry anymore. I mean, I still am sometimes, but not in the same way. It feels different now, but that need to make a difference is still there. I still want to—I need to—make things better. You need to find your own reason. What do you want to do?"'
They sat in silence for a while, Draco tracing circles on the cage floor before mumbling, "I…I want to be someone my future children could be proud of. Assuming they'll even exist."
"C'mon," she chuckled, knocking his knee with her own. "You're rich. You'll definitely be able to find someone, even if she's a desperate loonie."
He rolled his eyes and shoved his shoulders against hers playfully, the smile once again returning. "I think you mean we're rich."
"Yeah." She smiled back. "But there's another reason it's easier to get up now. And it's going to sound really cheesy, but…it's you. You annoy the crap out of me sometimes, but I…I love you, and can't imagine a life without you. I'm really glad you're my brother."
Draco flushed and diverted his eyes down, "..I feel the same way," he murmured. Then, he stuck up his nose and added haughtily, "What can I say? You've grown on me like Dragon Pox."
"I'm really sorry I didn't tell you about the diary," she babbled. "That was—"
Draco held up his hand, cutting her off mid-sentence. "You don't have to apologize. The way I reacted was…unseemly, as Mother would say. You had sound, logical reasons, and I just…"
"You wanted the truth," she said softly. "There's no harm in that."
Especially after being lied to so many times…
"But I should have trusted you."
Diana laughed weakly. "Guess trust issues run in the family."
Draco cracked another smile in return, and shifted his position. She got the impression he wanted to hug but was hesitant, but luckily, she had no such qualms. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and squeezed and, after a few seconds, he did the same.
"How are we supposed to get back?" he asked, slicking back his hair with his palms, a faint redness lingering on his cheeks.
"I think I know."
She pulled out the small box, flipped it so it faced towards them, and opened the lid.
The world got loud then soft then loud again, and Diana's insides felt like they were being scraped into soup and mixed in a blender with lights and lights and lights flashing everywhere and then—
Then the world formed into being, the ceiling of the infirmary manifesting into blurry shape. She blinked slowly, taking a few minutes to process the exclamations and wailing from the bed beside her. She groggily craned her head (ouch…) to see Lucius and Narcissa hovering over Draco's bed, Lucius blinking back tears while Narcissa wept uncontrollably, tears streaming down her make-up smudged cheeks, pressing kisses to her very-much-awake son's forehead.
It worked. It really fucking worked.
A rare grin spread across her lips, mixed with a tiny stab of envy. She'd never have any adult fawn over her like that, not anymore.
She shifted to her side to give them some privacy, only to stiffen in surprise. Dumbledore was sitting tall in a chair next to her, hands folded over his lap as he gave a knowing smile.
Diana tried to smile in return, but she was sure it came out more like a guarded grimace. Spots of memory lapped at the edges of her mind, and she couldn't help but raise her hackles. Tom did not like this man; that was one thing he was fully honest about.
And she could, admittedly, understand why. Some of the hazy recollections—like the burning wardrobe and the rage and fear it evoked—seemed so antithetical to the wise old man she knew. The Dumbledore of today wouldn't let a clearly troubled child's first exposure to intentional magic be an act meant to exude power and intimidation. The Dumbledore of the past had an edge of cockiness and arrogance that dimmed into confident self-assurance in age. Diana wasn't sure if it was genuine or simply a product of Tom's warped perception and paranoia, but it provided an additional layer to an already-complex individual that left her more confused than ever.
If Dumbledore noticed her reticence, he chose not to say anything. "It appears you have quite the story to share."
"Yeah." She paused. "Do, uh, you? With Tom, I mean."
She had no idea what happened after he absorbed her Obscurus, and was a bit afraid to ask. Dumbledore's subsequent sigh and answer did nothing to assuage her worries. "Unfortunately, I do. However, it is hardly the appropriate time to dampen the happy occasion with such matters."
"Great. Now I'm not going to be able to think about anything except that."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Why don't we discuss your impressive feat of brewing a potion believed to be lost to time? Professor Snape will have a lot to say about that, I'm sure."
He probably would, but not in the way Dumbledore was implying.
Diana shrugged feebly. "I don't really remember how it happened."
"Really?" he pressed gently. "You haven't the slightest inkling?"
Diana was starting to suspect he already knew the answer, but was either too fatigued from the experience or simply didn't give a fuck now that Draco was back. "Tom tried to absorb my soul or something, and that caused some of our memories and feelings to jumble. I think…I think he might have absorbed my Obscurus instead of my soul. I don't know what happened after that. Everything's a blur." Then, she added belatedly. "Sorry. I know I screwed up…"
It was a massive understatement. Though she held no shortage of regret in the days prior to her surrendering herself to the diary's power, it was just beginning to dawn on her how uniquely horrifying the situation was now that Tom Riddle gained the unlimited power of the Obscurus.
"You did nothing of the sort," he assured her. "In fact, I believe you should view your actions as a victory instead of a defeat. After all, it was you and you alone that had the power to cleave the Obscurus from your spirit."
"...Do you know for sure that's what happened?" she asked after a moment's hesitation.
Dumbledore leaned further back in his chair. "Yes. I've researched the matter quite thoroughly, and such detachment is impossible without the Obscurial's willpower."
Not for the first time, she wanted to ask more about why Dumbledore was so personally invested in her personal issues. But despite facing down a Basilisk, the courage eluded her. "Thanks for helping me get rid of it, and trying to make me feel better. But it still sucks that Tom has my powers."
Dumbledore nodded in agreement. "It certainly isn't ideal, but few things in life are."
'"Are Harry and Professor Quirrell okay?" she asked suddenly, disjointed memories of the Chamber popping into her mind.
Dumbledore's expression grew distant, putting her immediately on guard. "They both survived. I imagine you'll be able to speak with Harry soon." Then, he smiled again. "Aren't you wondering how you were able to access your brother's mind when so many others have failed?"
Diana blinked at the abrupt change in topic. "...Because I made the potion?"
"Not quite." He readjusted his position and looked at her expectantly. "In order for any type of magical recovery that involves pressing into or adjusting aspects of the subject's mind, the subject themself must be willing, on some subconscious level, to accept your help and presence. Until your attempt, no one could penetrate Draco's defenses. And it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. We explored….multiple avenues. Multiple individuals. But you were the only one he allowed in."
The initial euphoria having worn off, Dumbledore's last line caught Lucius and Narcissa's attention. Their heads pivoted in Diana's direction, and Narcissa swooped down like a mother bird, wrapping a wayward chick in an embrace. "You saved him," she wept into Diana's shoulder. "My boy, my baby boy…" She stood straighter and wiped her eye with a satin gloved finger, and sniffled. "Diana, you may not have come from my womb, but I will always consider you a true daughter of mine."
Wow.
There were a lot of complex emotions to unpack—defensiveness, bewilderment, spite, and guilt-laden happiness. But Diana didn't have the energy to parse through them and said nothing more than a quick, mumbled "Thank you."
Lucius hovered near the edge of the bed, formerly-icy blue eyes thawed as they flickered between both his children. "Y-Yes," he stammered. "This family owes you a great debt. Especially since we were unab–" He swallowed, then began to regain his composure. "Name anything, anything your heart desires, and it's yours."
'Anything' was false advertising; Diana knew there was a large 'within reason' asterisk next to it. Still, between Draco's rescue and the failed Cruciatus, she was accumulating a hefty pile of favors to save for a rainy day.
Dumbledore would probably like her to say something corny and noble like 'Draco's survival is reward enough,' but she was first and foremost a Slytherin. "I don't know yet, but I'm sure I'll think of something. Probably after I figure out what I want for my Christmas gift."
Lucius looked a bit deflated, but nodded.
After Madam Pomfrey bustled over and pulled Dumbledore, Narcissa, and Lucius to the side to discuss matters she apparently didn't want the children overhearing, Diana finally was able to get a good look at Draco for the first time. He looked just as weary as she felt, but managed a soft smile. "Hi."
She wanted to reach her hand out so they could squeeze, but the cots were too far apart. "Hi."
Memories of their conversation—and the Spiral as a whole–were hazy and dreamlike, but one thing she knew for sure was that they understood each other in a deep, primal way, and it was a bond that could never be broken. A comfortable, companionable silence descended, where a lot was said despite neither moving their mouth. It was finally broken by Draco. "What happened with the diary while I was out?"
Diana winced. "Let's just say you have 'I told you so' privileges for the rest of our lives."