[From Samhain to the Solstice]: Instruments of Shadow, gen, sequel to Fruit of the Golden Tree, 2/3
Part One.
Title: Instruments of Shadow (2/3)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairings: Gen, with references to past Fleamont/Euphemia and James/Lily
Content Notes: AU, angst, violence
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: This part 3400
Summary: AU. Sequel to “Fruit of the Golden Tree.” Fleamont remains committed to the protection of his grandson Harry Potter as Harry turns seven. And if that has to involve the Wizengamot and blood purists and the mysterious locked room on the seventh floor of Potter Place…so be it.
Author’s Notes: This is one of my “From Samhain to the Solstice” fics for this year. It’s a sequel to my fic “Fruit of the Golden Tree” from last year, so read that one first. This will have three parts.
Part Two
“Grand, is it okay if I hate some Muggles?”
Fleamont put down the letter he was writing-honestly, one would think Lucius Malfoy had never participated in intrigue before-and looked thoughtfully at Harry. He stood in the doorway of the library with his head bowed, his foot tracing over the floor in front of him. Fleamont thought he knew why. If Harry had brought that question to Sirius, Sirius would have been too enthusiastic about silencing Harry.
“If you hate them for good reasons,” Fleamont answered, putting his quill aside, too, when he saw this would probably be a longer conversation. “Why don’t you come in and have a seat, Harry?”
Harry did, after taking a deep breath that seemed to fill him with courage. He sat on the black couch in Fleamont’s study and swung his legs. At least he had grown more in the past year than most people might expect, Fleamont thought. Some of the potions added to his food by the house-elves had worked.
“I just-Sirius says it’s not right to hate Muggles,” Harry muttered, brow furrowed. “But he hates a lot of wizards. So why is it different?”
“It’s more about not wanting them to exist,” Fleamont said quietly. “Do you want Muggles to stop existing?”
“You mean-like all Muggles, all over the world?”
Fleamont nodded. Harry thought about it, this time letting his feet swing so his heels hit the couch with a regular thud. “No,” he said at last. “I just want some of them to go away and never bother me again.”
Fleamont smiled and reached out to ruffle his grandson’s hair. Harry closed his eyes in bliss the way he did so often, then jerked them open and looked at Fleamont in a kind of panic. Fleamont smoothly ignored that. “Then I think that’s fine, Harry. Sirius probably wants the same thing for the wizards he hates. He doesn’t want them to stop existing.” He paused. “Is this about the Dursleys?”
Harry stared at the floor. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I said I hated them this morning, and Sirius told me I shouldn’t hate them and Muggles don’t know what they’re doing half the time.”
Fleamont controlled the spasm of rage inside him. Sirius didn’t know any better, didn’t know why being able to say something like this was a big deal for Harry and he shouldn’t discourage it. He shrugged. “Remember that Sirius never saw you come out of that cupboard and never saw what they did to you personally. He thinks he has distance from the situation.”
Harry found his lap fascinating suddenly. “I-I told him a little.”
“That’s your right,” Fleamont said, with a firm nod when Harry glanced up at him. “But that’s not the same as actually seeing it happen right in front of you. I think we can assume that Sirius would say something different if he saw that happen.”
Harry brightened up a little. “So Sirius won’t hate me for saying I hate the Dursleys?”
“No. He may scold you and he may think sometimes that you remind him of other wizards he knows who say they hate Muggles, but he’ll come to accept it. And you have every right to go on saying it.”
Harry jumped off the couch and grabbed Fleamont in one of those flying hugs that was still startling no matter how many times it happened. Fleamont hugged him back, letting his arms close tight around Harry and his head droop a little so that his chin rested on Harry’s head. Then Harry squirmed and said, “I’m going to fly!”
“Is Sirius here to supervise you?” Fleamont was pretty sure he remembered Sirius saying this morning that he was going to follow up on one of the hints they had about Remus Lupin’s whereabouts.
Harry blinked. “The house-elves are going to be there, Grand.”
“What did I say about flying with any other supervision than a human’s, Harry?” In truth, Fleamont trusted their house-elves, but Harry had a tendency to pull daring maneuvers, and the elves sometimes got so upset about watching that they intervened even though Harry was doing something that would land him safely.
“You said not to,” Harry muttered, and then shook his head. “But Graaaand…”
“Whining does not get you what you want,” Fleamont said, and stood, and bent over to kiss Harry on the forehead, where the faded scar still lingered. “But I’ll come out with you, and watch you fly.”
“Really?” Harry beamed up at him. “I wanted to ask you, it’s just, you’re so busy all the time.”
That must stop, Fleamont told himself as he held out his hand and said, “I’m never too busy to spend time with you, Harry.” He walked out of the study without a backwards glance. The letter to Lucius could wait. If the man was the master intriguer that people had told Fleamont-and he had bragged-that he was, then he ought to be able to handle this simple a counterstroke by himself, anyway.
*
Fleamont eyed the tawny owl that had landed on the table in front of him. It was an anonymous bird from the Hogwarts Owlery, but he didn’t find it as anonymous as all that. After all, there was only one person who would be writing to him from Hogwarts.
“I think we should blow up the letter and get it over with,” Sirius muttered. He looked haggard, and Fleamont couldn’t blame him for his bad mood. Once again, the rumor that was supposedly going to lead to Remus Lupin had turned out to be just a rumor.
“The owl hasn’t done anything wrong to be hit with the shrapnel,” Fleamont pointed out, and extended his hand. “Besides, nothing that aimed to harm Harry could get through the wards.” The owl hooted softly and hopped over to him, giving a slashing glance at Sirius that he ignored.
“I know Dumbledore has to be behind Moony’s disappearance somehow,” Sirius muttered, burying himself in a cup of tea. “I just know it.”
Fleamont nodded as he opened the letter. He sincerely doubted Dumbledore would kill Remus Lupin, but he wouldn’t be above manipulating the man to keep him away from Harry. And from what Fleamont knew and what Sirius had said, words could strike deeper into the soul of a man like Lupin than blows would.
The letter was an uncharacteristically simple note signed with only Dumbledore’s first and last name, and it said, equally simply, I think we should talk. The fate of the Boy-Who-Lived is too important to be left up to one person alone.
“Unless that one person is you, I believe you would say,” Fleamont muttered. He folded up the letter and tapped it against his knuckles, considering.
“What?”
“Nothing important.” Fleamont turned to Sirius and made his decision. He was curious what Albus would have to say to him in person, and he thought it would take some of the man’s attention off the counterstroke that appeared to have Malfoy in such a tizzy. “Sirius, this is important. I know that you want to find Remus, but you have to stay here with Harry today. If I’m not back by noon, tighten the wards and ignore any owl you receive.”
Sirius’s face turned pale. “Wait. That letter from Dumbledore was a request for a meeting? And you’re going to do it?”
Fleamont nodded. “Dumbledore can’t touch Harry directly, but he still has power with the media and as the beloved Headmaster of Hogwarts. Harry still has four years to go before he attends the school. Dumbledore could poison enough minds against Harry that he would have a miserable time there. I’m going to defang him now.”
“You know how much we both depend on you, Fleamont.” Sirius was whispering now. “Please don’t do this. You don’t have the same kind of protection against magic and poison and the like that Harry does.”
“Harry deserves to have happiness, not just safety.” Fleamont stood up. “I’m going to reply and tell him that we’ll meet at Madam Malkin’s. It’s in the middle of Diagon Alley. That will make him less likely to try something.”
“But he still could.”
“I know.” I almost hope he does. “But we’re not going to huddle in the Potter wards and give him free rein either, Sirius. That is not the way this is going to work.”
Sirius appeared to waver for a moment. Then his face firmed, and he nodded. “All right. Noon. If-if you don’t come back, how long should Harry and I stay in the wards?”
“You won’t need to do that.” Fleamont smiled, taking pity on Sirius’s evident upset, and gestured with his head. “Come on, let me show you. It’s something that someone besides me should know anyway, and Harry’s too young.”
Sirius followed him towards the staircase willingly enough, but they were only part of the way to the seventh floor when he cleared his throat uneasily. “Does this have anything to do with the instruments that you told the Wizengamot about the other day?”
Fleamont snorted a little. “No. Same floor, that’s all.”
Sirius nodded, but he didn’t seem much more pleased even though they turned in the opposite direction from the room of the instruments at the top of the stairs. Fleamont opened the door he wanted with nothing more than a key, and watched Sirius stare around the large, almost empty chamber at the top of the house with a gobsmacked expression.
Empty, that is, except for what most people would probably take as huge artwork on the walls, made entirely of smoke-white and silk-grey feathers. But Fleamont knew the Blacks had once had something similar, in at least one of their properties, and that meant Sirius would be familiar with it.
Sirius turned around, his jaw hanging open and trembling a little. “You-you would actually trust me to take the Potter house off the ground?”
“You’re Harry’s legal guardian if I’m dead,” Fleamont said softly. “My will states it, and all the magical protections are set in place to transfer over to you. Yes, if I don’t come back, I want you to promise me that you’ll wait for a day, just to give the elves enough time to go and purchase as much food as they can, and then you’ll make Potter Place fly.”
“Where?” Sirius’s voice was a hoarse whisper, his eyes darting around the room as if he were imagining what it would look like with the vast wings unfurled. For that matter, Fleamont only knew because he had viewed one of his grandfather’s Pensieve memories.
“Wherever you want,” Fleamont said. “There are special maps that will guide you to some Unplottable pieces of land we still own, if you want. Or you can go to one of the Black properties and retreat there. Personally, I’d suggest either an Unplottable piece of land or another country. Dumbledore is too likely to think of looking into the Black lands.”
“And I gave him all the secrets of them when I was with the Order, more’s the pity,” muttered Sirius. He shoved his hand through his hair and took a long, deep breath. “All right. So-why are you taking this risk? Wanting Harry to be happy at Hogwarts really isn’t enough of an answer.” He gave Fleamont the stern look of the man he could be someday, the man he was still growing into after being stalled by prison.
“Because Albus will keep pushing and pushing until he gets what he wants, otherwise,” Fleamont said. “I want him to know that he can’t do that now, and not go on enacting plans that might take months or years to ripen.” He sighed and looked away from Sirius. “I have everything prepared in case I don’t come back. But I intend to be back.”
Sirius was silent for long enough that Fleamont did wonder if he would agree. Then he sighed in turn and clapped Fleamont on the shoulder. “You’d better come back, is all. I’m not going to answer all Harry’s questions about where Grand went if you don’t.”
Fleamont let a fleeting smile pass over his face. “You won’t have to.”
*
“An interesting meeting place you chose, Mr. Potter.”
Fleamont smiled pleasantly. He didn’t see the need to use masks around Dumbledore. “I’m sure you know exactly why I chose it.”
Dumbledore paused for a moment, then nodded. “But as there’s no place to sit here, shall we go elsewhere?” He was already striding up Diagon Alley as he spoke, not looking over his shoulder, no doubt assuming that Fleamont would agree with him and follow along like the little obedient dog Dumbledore thought all wizards were.
Fleamont remained standing exactly where he was, hearing the murmuring around him as some people caught sight of them. He didn’t move. Dumbledore’s shoulders tensed, and he turned around to stare.
Fleamont arched his eyebrows. “You don’t even know what I was going to suggest, Headmaster Dumbledore.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Potter.” Dumbledore recovered fast, Fleamont would give him that, and his eyes were lit with what might even have been a genuine twinkle. “I thought the way you stood still indicated some hesitation about the geography of Diagon Alley.”
“No, merely bewilderment about your lack of manners,” said Fleamont, since they appeared to be having this fight in public. “Since I am the invited guest, it is up to me to choose the spot for our luncheon.”
Dumbledore assented with a small shrug of his shoulders and another merry twinkle. “Lead on, please, Mr. Potter.”
Fleamont took Dumbledore to the restaurant he’d already claimed reservations at, the Golden Apple, near the line that divided Diagon Alley from Knockturn Alley. He noted with interest that Dumbledore displayed open nervousness as they got near Knockturn. Why? It wasn’t as though any warlock or hag could actually challenge such a powerful wizard.
“Now,” Dumbledore said, when they had ordered some of the varied soups the place was famous for, “please tell me why you insist on keeping Harry away from the wizarding world. I know you took him from his relatives partially because you claimed he should grow up among his own kind. But how can he do that if no one ever sees him?”
“Am I not equally his relative, Headmaster?”
“Well, yes. Of course.” Already a frown was stretching across Dumbledore’s face. “You know what I meant.”
“No,” Fleamont said softly. “I don’t. Especially considering that the Muggles abused Harry, and under any number of laws in our world, that means any wizard can decline to call the people who did that ‘family.’”
“They did not deserve murder.”
Dumbledore cut off as their soups arrived. Fleamont waited with his spoon in his tomato bisque. He thought that Dumbledore’s anger about the Dursleys was hypocritical, but more than that, he thought that it wasn’t even about the murders. It was more that his judgment had been questioned, and he hadn’t been able to keep Harry “safe” and then spring him on the world after telling that world that Harry was dead like he had planned.
“Perhaps not. But neither did my grandson deserve their abuse.”
“I was disappointed to hear you speaking to pure-blood supremacists,” said Dumbledore, changing the subject in a way he probably thought was adroit. In truth, Fleamont thought the man had lost the knack of dealing with anyone who didn’t go cringing in awe of him. He sipped his soup and let his eyes twinkle again. “But perhaps that is a way of introducing Harry to the Potter part of his heritage?”
Fleamont shrugged. “My father was accused again and again of being a Muggle-lover, Headmaster. Say rather that I plan to continue the fine tradition of not being what anyone else thinks I should be.”
Dumbledore sighed. “You know that people like Malfoy would kill the boy on Voldemort’s command.”
“And you know that the Muggles could have killed Harry, but yet you continue to defend them.”
“You should have followed the proper course of justice. They deserved a trial, not an execution!”
“As though,” Fleamont said, leaning forwards over his soup and letting his voice drop to the same intensity Dumbledore’s had assumed, “you have anything to say to the matter, when you never fought for Sirius Black to have a trial.”
Dumbledore sat back with a heavy sound and stared in silence at Fleamont for a moment more. Then he went back to eating his soup, a rather watery gazpacho. Fleamont finished his bisque and regretted that the meeting was too tense for him to even pretend to drink some of the Golden Apple’s famous cider.
“That was a mistake, one I admit and I regret,” Dumbledore said at last. “But you do not seem to regret your murder of the Muggles.”
“You have yet to find any proof that links me to them.” And Fleamont knew that was true. After all, it had been Severus Snape who had actually murdered Petunia Dursley and left traps in the walls of the house that had done for Vernon Dudley. Their son had been left untouched by mutual agreement, although Fleamont didn’t care enough to find out what had happened to the boy. Presumably he was living with some other relative.
“Do you not have a conscience?”
“Really, Headmaster? This conversation is going in circles.” Fleamont pulled some Galleons from his pocket to deposit on the table. Soon, if he had estimated Dumbledore correctly, would come the moment when he should leave the hint that would lure Dumbledore into rash action. “You are old enough, unlike some of the others, to remember the old stories of Potter rage. Attend to them, and leave me and my grandson alone.”
“So you are saying that you were justified in committing murder because it was your grandson who was harmed?”
“I was saying that I don’t care if I was justified or not, because Harry was harmed.”
Fleamont stood, and for a moment stared down at Dumbledore, who was staring back at him.
“You cannot have instruments in your house that you could strum in response to a Pensieved heartbeat,” Dumbledore said abruptly. “That magic does not exist, and neither do the artifacts.”
Fleamont refrained from smiling and only arched his eyebrows a little. “So you are accusing me of lying in front of the Wizengamot?”
“That chamber has seen many lies, but few so public. That defense you mentioned was a lie.”
“Then it was a lie,” said Fleamont comfortably. “What do I care, if it makes a few of the Death Eaters and others who might wish to hurt Harry reconsider any attempts they might have in mind to invade Potter Place?” The hook is set. Swallow the bait, Dumbledore. I went to such effort to prepare it for you.
“It will backfire. You will encourage others to test your defenses so they can prove you wrong, or even gain control of this powerful magic that doesn’t exist.”
“Then they can deal with the defenses that do exist.”
“You were in a coma for so many years, Mr. Potter, that I would not be surprised if the Potter wards had weakened.”
Fleamont glanced aside, once, and saw the way that Dumbledore’s mouth firmed. He swallowed and said, “Be that as it may, you know that I have protected Harry against anyone who could possibly interfere with him.”
“The boy himself. The house? You are playing with forces you do not understand, Fleamont.”
“I haven’t given you leave to address me by my first name, Albus.”
“Forgive me.” Dumbledore softened his voice, absurdly. “I thought we shared a common concern in defense of the boy.”
Why do you call him that so much more often than his name, Headmaster? Could it be that you’re attempting to distance yourself from him and the pain you think it necessary to put him through by referring to him as a generic child?
But saying that right now would prove he was sharper than Dumbledore thought at the moment, and pierce holes in his own manipulation. Fleamont let himself obviously swallow again, and then say, “Well, I’ve done what I can. You can’t possibly come up with any other defense that could surpass what I’ve done for Harry.”
“I assure you that I could protect the child well, and what is more, raise him with a sense of right and wrong..”
Fleamont turned and left without another word, since the Galleons were on the table. It wasn’t until he was well away from the Golden Apple, almost to the Apparition point, that he permitted himself a harsh smile.
Bait, swallowed.
Part Three.
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