Fic: Lost Boys 11/14 - The Headmaster's Portrait
Prologue - Two Dads
Part 1 - Visions of the Afterlife
Part 2 - Little Boy Lost
Part 3 - Detention
Part 4 - An Intruder
Part 5 - Conversations with the Dead, Part 1
Part 6 - Conversations with the Dead, Part 2
Part 7 - Another Life
Part 8 - A Sudden Illness
Part 9 - Spectres of the Past
Part 10 - The Pensieve
Title: Lost Boys, 11/14 - The Headmaster’s Portrait
Rating: FRT (PG)
Distribution: Sure. Let me know where it’s going. Written for the snape_after_dh ficathon.
Feedback: Makes me write more. Or feel guilty for not writing more. Flames make me toasty.
Thanks to lady_clover, rainkatt emmessann and Wee Hob for fantastic beta work. Remaining mistakes are, of course, my own.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else. David Dursley, however, is mine. Please ask before you borrow him.
When they emerged from the pensieve, Harry watched the ghost drift away from the basin as if stunned. For a moment, he thought Snape might continue on out the door. He’d seen living men look that way, overcome with the horror of some crime they’d never intended to commit. Men who wanted nothing more than to hide from everything they’d done, everything they felt.
But then the ghost’s eyes came to rest on the boy, so desperately ill, and the sight stopped him. Snape stood for a moment at the bedside and seemed to regain his composure. “You said you knew someone who could assist us, Madam Weasley,” he said, in his perfectly even, controlled voice. “Who might that be?”
Harry knew the answer to that. Of course. Then he was in motion out the door, not waiting to see who would follow him. Hermione caught up to him about halfway down the corridor.
“Harry, you can't just go barging into the Headmaster's office at this hour....”
“This can't wait, Hermione,” Harry replied, not even breaking stride. “Besides, it's not the current Headmaster I need to see. It's one of his predecessors.”
“Dumbledore?” Ron asked, scrambling to catch up. “Oh, yeah. He used the mirror our First Year, to guard the Stone. But-- then, it can't be Dark Magic, can it? He would never have left something like that in the school.”
Harry's face was very grim. “He might have. If he thought it was safer here than anywhere else. It's behind a sealed door, after all.” They came to a halt at the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s office.
“Yes, but do you know the password, Harry?” Hermione asked reasonably.
“Er, no,” Harry admitted.
The ghost had been drifting easily with them, listening. He spoke then, almost as if to himself. “We don't need one.” Harry looked at him in surprise. Snape took no notice, seemingly focused on dim memories of a past life.
“Why would we not need one?” Ron demanded.
Snape strode forward smoothly, robes billowing as they had in life, moving his hand in a curiously erratic gesture. The gargoyle leaped aside and the ghost placed his foot on the first rising step of the stone escalator, as if he had done the same thing a thousand times before. Only then did he glance back at his companions, looking as shocked as they. Without a word, Harry and his friends joined their old professor on the stone stair.
The door to the Headmaster's office sprang open at their approach when the ghost made another careless motion with his hand. Candles and lamps flared to life all over the room-- on the desk, in the many wall sconces. Wandless magic. Harry recognized it now. “You used to do this, didn't you? When you were Headmaster?”
The ghost looked stunned. “I-- was Headmaster?”
“Yes, indeed,” a rich quiet voice said from the wall. “In Hogwart's darkest hour, when all believed you to be in league with the forces of evil, you kept the students safe and aided the Light. Well done, my Boy.”
Something flickered in the ghost’s eye-- did he recognize Dumbledore? Or was he just shocked by the portrait’s words? Harry wasn’t sure.
“Professor Dumbledore! It's so good to see you,” Hermione was saying, with slightly forced cheer.
“And you, my dear. But something in your expressions tells me this is not a social call. Though I am particularly delighted to see you again, Severus. How may I assist you?”
Harry stepped forward. He always felt awkward, conversing with this thing that both was, and was not, his old Headmaster. It could echo old words and sentiments, but the man was long dead, and sometimes that knowledge made the dim revenant all the more difficult to bear.
“We need to know about the Mirror of Erised, Professor. We think it's doing something to one of the students. My cousin's son, Davey.”
The portrait looked grave at that. “Oh my. The Mirror is very powerful and dangerous. That is why I had it sealed up in the dungeons. No one should have been able to get past the wards I placed on that door.”
Harry glanced over at Snape, who was looking at the portrait rather as if he were seeing a ghost. “Well, Sir, someone did.”
“Severus? You?”
The ghost looked confused. Harry said, “Professor Snape has apparently lost most of his memories, including his name. But, yes. He showed us some recent memories of himself looking into that mirror.”
The portrait frowned. “But it should not show a ghost anything at all.”
“How does the Mirror work, Sir?”
“It feeds on the desires of the living. By showing someone the thing his heart most desires, it keeps the victim, if you will, returning to it again and again, and ensures that new victims will always be easily ensnared. That is why, Harry, I took such pains to remove the Mirror, after I found you had discovered it, and why I locked it away after it was no longer needed to guard the Stone.”
“But Snape isn’t alive,” Ron objected.
“And the scenes weren’t like what I saw,” Harry added. “I always saw the same thing-- my Mum and Dad, and all my family. But Professor Snape saw things that really have happened-- lots of different things. And they all seem to center around Davey.”
“Yes, but they’re not just Davey’s memories, and they can’t be Professor Snape’s,” Hermione said. “They all happened long after he was dead. In fact, they all seem to also be your memories, Harry.”
“But-- how would I be connected to Snape’s ghost?” Harry asked, genuinely puzzled.
Snape spoke up then, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “I believe I can shed some light on this mystery. I have seen other visions in the mirror. People. You, Mister Potter, at various ages of childhood. You, Sir,” he nodded toward the portrait. “And a woman I have not yet seen among the living. A woman with red hair and green eyes. A woman I believe is related in some way to Mister Potter.”
“Mum,” Harry breathed.
The portrait turned to the ghost, eyes brimming with sadness. “Oh, Severus. I am so sorry. If I could have foreseen this, I would have disposed of that Mirror in another manner entirely.”
“What do you mean, Professor?” Hermione asked.
“I mean that this Mirror has somehow reached beyond Severus to Harry, and to his young friend David. Perhaps because both have a connection to him, and to each other.” The portrait looked hard at Snape. “That boy is your friend, isn’t he?” Snape nodded, eyes fixed on the stone floor, worn smooth with years of student fidgeting.
“And you, Harry. You were with Severus when he died.”
“Yes,” Harry breathed, the memory of those last awful words, of the light leaving those dark eyes as near as if the events had happened yesterday.
“Professor Snape’s memories were just pouring out him,” Hermione said. “I conjured a flask for Harry, so he could collect them, when Professor Snape begged him to take them.”
The portrait turned severe blue eyes on him then. “And what became of those memories, Harry?”
Part 12 - Choices
Part 1 - Visions of the Afterlife
Part 2 - Little Boy Lost
Part 3 - Detention
Part 4 - An Intruder
Part 5 - Conversations with the Dead, Part 1
Part 6 - Conversations with the Dead, Part 2
Part 7 - Another Life
Part 8 - A Sudden Illness
Part 9 - Spectres of the Past
Part 10 - The Pensieve
Title: Lost Boys, 11/14 - The Headmaster’s Portrait
Rating: FRT (PG)
Distribution: Sure. Let me know where it’s going. Written for the snape_after_dh ficathon.
Feedback: Makes me write more. Or feel guilty for not writing more. Flames make me toasty.
Thanks to lady_clover, rainkatt emmessann and Wee Hob for fantastic beta work. Remaining mistakes are, of course, my own.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I own nothing in the Potterverse, or anywhere else, for that matter. Strictly for entertainment, and no profit is being made. Please sue somebody else. David Dursley, however, is mine. Please ask before you borrow him.
When they emerged from the pensieve, Harry watched the ghost drift away from the basin as if stunned. For a moment, he thought Snape might continue on out the door. He’d seen living men look that way, overcome with the horror of some crime they’d never intended to commit. Men who wanted nothing more than to hide from everything they’d done, everything they felt.
But then the ghost’s eyes came to rest on the boy, so desperately ill, and the sight stopped him. Snape stood for a moment at the bedside and seemed to regain his composure. “You said you knew someone who could assist us, Madam Weasley,” he said, in his perfectly even, controlled voice. “Who might that be?”
Harry knew the answer to that. Of course. Then he was in motion out the door, not waiting to see who would follow him. Hermione caught up to him about halfway down the corridor.
“Harry, you can't just go barging into the Headmaster's office at this hour....”
“This can't wait, Hermione,” Harry replied, not even breaking stride. “Besides, it's not the current Headmaster I need to see. It's one of his predecessors.”
“Dumbledore?” Ron asked, scrambling to catch up. “Oh, yeah. He used the mirror our First Year, to guard the Stone. But-- then, it can't be Dark Magic, can it? He would never have left something like that in the school.”
Harry's face was very grim. “He might have. If he thought it was safer here than anywhere else. It's behind a sealed door, after all.” They came to a halt at the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s office.
“Yes, but do you know the password, Harry?” Hermione asked reasonably.
“Er, no,” Harry admitted.
The ghost had been drifting easily with them, listening. He spoke then, almost as if to himself. “We don't need one.” Harry looked at him in surprise. Snape took no notice, seemingly focused on dim memories of a past life.
“Why would we not need one?” Ron demanded.
Snape strode forward smoothly, robes billowing as they had in life, moving his hand in a curiously erratic gesture. The gargoyle leaped aside and the ghost placed his foot on the first rising step of the stone escalator, as if he had done the same thing a thousand times before. Only then did he glance back at his companions, looking as shocked as they. Without a word, Harry and his friends joined their old professor on the stone stair.
The door to the Headmaster's office sprang open at their approach when the ghost made another careless motion with his hand. Candles and lamps flared to life all over the room-- on the desk, in the many wall sconces. Wandless magic. Harry recognized it now. “You used to do this, didn't you? When you were Headmaster?”
The ghost looked stunned. “I-- was Headmaster?”
“Yes, indeed,” a rich quiet voice said from the wall. “In Hogwart's darkest hour, when all believed you to be in league with the forces of evil, you kept the students safe and aided the Light. Well done, my Boy.”
Something flickered in the ghost’s eye-- did he recognize Dumbledore? Or was he just shocked by the portrait’s words? Harry wasn’t sure.
“Professor Dumbledore! It's so good to see you,” Hermione was saying, with slightly forced cheer.
“And you, my dear. But something in your expressions tells me this is not a social call. Though I am particularly delighted to see you again, Severus. How may I assist you?”
Harry stepped forward. He always felt awkward, conversing with this thing that both was, and was not, his old Headmaster. It could echo old words and sentiments, but the man was long dead, and sometimes that knowledge made the dim revenant all the more difficult to bear.
“We need to know about the Mirror of Erised, Professor. We think it's doing something to one of the students. My cousin's son, Davey.”
The portrait looked grave at that. “Oh my. The Mirror is very powerful and dangerous. That is why I had it sealed up in the dungeons. No one should have been able to get past the wards I placed on that door.”
Harry glanced over at Snape, who was looking at the portrait rather as if he were seeing a ghost. “Well, Sir, someone did.”
“Severus? You?”
The ghost looked confused. Harry said, “Professor Snape has apparently lost most of his memories, including his name. But, yes. He showed us some recent memories of himself looking into that mirror.”
The portrait frowned. “But it should not show a ghost anything at all.”
“How does the Mirror work, Sir?”
“It feeds on the desires of the living. By showing someone the thing his heart most desires, it keeps the victim, if you will, returning to it again and again, and ensures that new victims will always be easily ensnared. That is why, Harry, I took such pains to remove the Mirror, after I found you had discovered it, and why I locked it away after it was no longer needed to guard the Stone.”
“But Snape isn’t alive,” Ron objected.
“And the scenes weren’t like what I saw,” Harry added. “I always saw the same thing-- my Mum and Dad, and all my family. But Professor Snape saw things that really have happened-- lots of different things. And they all seem to center around Davey.”
“Yes, but they’re not just Davey’s memories, and they can’t be Professor Snape’s,” Hermione said. “They all happened long after he was dead. In fact, they all seem to also be your memories, Harry.”
“But-- how would I be connected to Snape’s ghost?” Harry asked, genuinely puzzled.
Snape spoke up then, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “I believe I can shed some light on this mystery. I have seen other visions in the mirror. People. You, Mister Potter, at various ages of childhood. You, Sir,” he nodded toward the portrait. “And a woman I have not yet seen among the living. A woman with red hair and green eyes. A woman I believe is related in some way to Mister Potter.”
“Mum,” Harry breathed.
The portrait turned to the ghost, eyes brimming with sadness. “Oh, Severus. I am so sorry. If I could have foreseen this, I would have disposed of that Mirror in another manner entirely.”
“What do you mean, Professor?” Hermione asked.
“I mean that this Mirror has somehow reached beyond Severus to Harry, and to his young friend David. Perhaps because both have a connection to him, and to each other.” The portrait looked hard at Snape. “That boy is your friend, isn’t he?” Snape nodded, eyes fixed on the stone floor, worn smooth with years of student fidgeting.
“And you, Harry. You were with Severus when he died.”
“Yes,” Harry breathed, the memory of those last awful words, of the light leaving those dark eyes as near as if the events had happened yesterday.
“Professor Snape’s memories were just pouring out him,” Hermione said. “I conjured a flask for Harry, so he could collect them, when Professor Snape begged him to take them.”
The portrait turned severe blue eyes on him then. “And what became of those memories, Harry?”
Part 12 - Choices