fic: The Eighth Tale 1/2 (Harry/Draco)
Title: The Eighth Tale
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: meta, sex, and sad (don’t say I didn’t warn you)
Summary: Draco Malfoy tries to fix the past, but instead mucks it up some more. For Harry, it all becomes quite clear.
A/N: Hahaha so, snickfic and ships_harry, if you end up reading this (don’t feel obliged), I bet you can guess what SPN author I was reading when I started this (thus the abuse of parentheticals). I’m so easily influenced.
I wrote this for curiouslyfic’s not-fic-athon. At more than ten thousand words, you might be saying, “That’s a fic!” However, you might also be glad I saved you the 70,000 words of meta, sex, and sad that would have happened had I wrote the “actual” fic.
The Eighth Tale
There is a tale between every event that occurs, and a tale between written words. There is a tale whose ending isn’t set, but that tale can’t be told.
(It hasn’t happened yet.)
*
Harry thinks he’s Regulus Black, at first. They know he’s dead, but that’s what Harry thinks. They catch him skulking in the woods, and even though he has blond hair (and it’s thinning), he has grey eyes, and Harry only ever saw just that one photo. He’s in his thirties; maybe something could have changed, and he has the Black cheekbones, so much so that when Harry stuns him, and binds him with a spell, he almost says a name-a name that isn’t Regulus at all. The man just grins, and says, “You got me, Harry.”
He seems very pleased.
The others don’t think he’s Regulus. Regulus was a hero, in the end; heroes can’t be this annoying, Ron says. Hermione says, well, yes they can be, because for some reason Hermione always thinks more than one thing can be true at once, but she does have to admit that Regulus (if it is Regulus) isn’t really what she would have hoped for in a hero either.
Harry doesn’t know what he would have hoped for, but they’ve been on the run (mostly camping) for almost a year now, and he didn’t hope for this. Regulus (who might not be Regulus) is smirky-and that’s just one thing; he’s condescending, now that’s another. There’s also something despicably light-hearted about this man, and that’s the main thing. That’s the thing Harry really doesn’t like.
Then they’ve got to decide what to do with him, and Regulus (if it’s Regulus) really isn’t any help, not at all like a hero would be. He smiles at them as though they amuse him terribly, and Ron’s all for banishing and a good sound Obliviate, but Regulus (and if he isn’t Regulus, what else are they going to call him?) obviously knows something, so they don’t.
He won’t tell them who he is, but one of the things he so obviously knows is who they are (then again, who doesn’t, by now). He knows other things as well (how to enlarge the tent), things he shouldn’t know (all about the Horcruxes), and other things he definitely shouldn’t know (that Harry’s scar is hurting, even though he hasn’t told anyone that it is). When they decide to petrify him and bind him before finally going to sleep that night, Regulus knows which side Harry’s going to sleep on, and tells him not to put his glasses there, because he’ll roll over them in his sleep, before Harry even puts his glasses down.
When they wake up the next morning, they decide to take Regulus with them, bound at the hands so he can walk; they hope he might prove useful. Hermione is in front and Ron is scouting, and Harry has fallen behind with the prisoner, thinking, Prisoner? Am I taking prisoners now? and Regulus says, “You do what you have to, Harry. And stop worrying about Weasley; he’ll forgive you.”
Harry looks at him sharply and asks him, what the hell? and Regulus (probably not Regulus) laughs softly, as though Harry is adorably unsophisticated, and laugh is all he can do.
That’s the part that Harry likes the least, absolutely the least, because they’ve been running since last August, and Harry never thought that this was how it would be. For some reason, he’d had it in his head that Voldemort would be defeated (once and for all) by the end of the school year, and here they are in April, and they haven’t even destroyed the locket yet (at least it’s somewhere safe, not dragging them down, and Ron came back. At least Ron came back, because Regulus is right, of course-Harry still worries about Ron).
It seems ridiculous now, when Harry thinks about it, the idea that they’d be rid of Voldemort so quickly. It’s not like real life runs on a school calendar (except it always used to). It’s to be expected that killing the most powerful wizard in existence would take some doing, and yet Harry can’t stop himself from feeling that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.
(Of course it’s wrong; everything is wrong. Souls should not be cut up into pieces just like meat, and mad men should never rise to power. A seventeen year old-one person, any age-should not be entrusted with saving the world, and when you really think about it, magic shouldn’t even exist, but everything is wrong, more wrong than the entire premise of the thing, even. Something is wrong with the entire world; it wasn’t meant to be like this.)
But Harry can’t say that to Ron, who these days, doesn’t like to look up while he concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other; he can’t say that to Hermione, who’s clinging, now, to a bare thread of hope.
He can only say that to Regulus (who, okay, probably isn’t Regulus at all), whose mouth tightens on one side, who looks at him softly when he says it-just for a moment, warm, pitying grey eyes that seem to know him, before he tightens up again and smirks. Telling him that-this man who isn’t Regulus, isn’t a Black, isn’t an ally, isn’t a friend (Harry has to keep telling himself that; he isn’t their friend)-telling him that everything is wrong feels right, which feels more wrong than anything else.
Harry is so tired. His bones ache; his skin feels gritty; there is grime caked not only in every fold of his clothes but in his skin, the lines of his hands darker than before. He wants to scour his eyes, because maybe if he could make them just feel fresh again, make them less like sandpaper, just less crusty, just a little, then maybe-just maybe-he could see clearly again, and things wouldn’t be so bad.
But as it is, things are bad. Things are really bad, and Regulus (not Regulus) isn’t making things any better.
He asks when they stop for lunch (arms wrapped about his knees, watching them prepare their meagre victuals, an air of curiosity), “Did you even destroy the locket yet?”
Each of the three of them freezes in their own way, and usually it’s Ron who loses his temper first, but there’s something grating about Regulus’s voice, something so familiar, that it’s Harry who turns on him. “What do you know?” he asks, but really what he wants to say is, why didn’t you destroy it yourself? even though he knows it isn’t Regulus (it probably isn’t Regulus).
Regulus’s brow is furrowed. “Didn’t Snape . . .?” he begins, then trails off.
After lunch, Harry binds his hands again. They have to bring him, because he knows something. He knows something, even though apparently he doesn’t know that Snape’s already dead.
Ron has protested it of course and Hermione still looks uncertain, but Harry knows that this man knows something; he can feel it.
“Are you sure you’re not,” begins Hermione, and Harry says:
“I’m not,” because since they found out who Snape was and what he was doing-he hasn’t been.
“You’re obsessed,” is all Ron says, and Harry says:
“I’m not,” and shakes off the eerie feeling he had sixth year, when yes, he had been (obsessed), but also-
He’d been right.
Regulus just follows along, smirking slightly and not protesting at all, hands bound in front of him, kissing at the wrists and elegantly bowed, and looking at Harry whenever he thinks Harry is looking at anything but him. He knows something, Harry thinks; can’t they see he knows something; and doesn’t he-doesn’t Harry-doesn’t he somehow know him?
But Regulus still won’t say who he is, and so he smirks and smiles (things that seem so sinister and Slytherin, yet so unlike Snape), and the worst part is that he’s not taking any of this seriously, as though nothing is bad at all. He acts as though everything will turn out fine, as though he knows, when he can’t know, when right now, it’s getting difficult to believe it ever could-though Harry believed it, once, and wonders why he did. It all seems so ludicrous now, a boy slaying Voldemort (and yet there’s a part of him that still thinks it should have happened, doesn’t understand why it didn’t happen; it was supposed to happen-
Was Snape supposed to die?
And if he was-so soon?)
The other disturbing thing about the man who isn’t Regulus is that even though Harry is sure he definitely isn’t Regulus (probably isn’t Regulus), he’s still familiar; he looks just like-just like-just like someone Harry can’t really put his finger on, unless you count Sirius. Harry doesn’t count Sirius though (he hasn’t been, Hermione), because it still hurts sometimes, unexpectedly, when he isn’t waiting for it. It hurts sometimes even looking at Regulus-who-isn’t-Regulus, because of the way he smiles that smile (the Black smile), because of the way he is sharp and dark and seemingly rather wily, but doesn’t ever hurt them.
Once, he even saves Harry’s life.
They’re in the forest when they see the Snatchers, who have set anti-Apparition wards and an alarm as a trap. By the time they realize it, they’re too late, and the alarm has sounded. Hermione’s first to act, but since they’ve been walking single file they have to find separate cover, and Harry’s going around behind a bush when suddenly Regulus (who . . .?) is there, shoulder pressed against his, lips against Harry’s ear.
“Careful, Harry,” is all the Regulus (who is . . . ?) says, because he always calls him Harry, as though he knows him.
Harry looks and there’s the Devil’s Snare, and he narrowly avoids it before Regulus (who is just like . . . ?) is pressing on his shoulder once again.
“This way,” he (just like-but he can’t be . . . ?) says softly, and all Harry can feel is the press of his breath before suddenly he knows-
“Malfoy,” he says, and Malfoy’s lips against his ear say:
“Yes, Harry, please, get down.”
So Harry gets down, and the stunning spell, instead of hitting Harry, is countered.
A flurry of spells and shouts, disassembly of the wards, pops of Apparition by Hermione, Ron, then Harry, who reaches out his arm, and Side-Alongs his saviour.
They meet in their agreed-upon place (a marsh somewhere in Yorkshire), and assess their injuries (a couple scratches). It’s only after they’ve caught their breath and are all okay and set up camp that they turn to the man who isn’t Regulus at all, and demand an explanation.
He looks just like him (how could Harry not have recognized him?), but there’s one essential difference (something wrong), the reason Harry couldn’t possibly have known him.
Draco Malfoy is more than twice as old as he should be.
*
The first tale Draco Malfoy tells them is that after he defeated Voldemort, Potter grew quite plump, and married the Weasley chit (“naturally”). Together they had eight or nine children (“Jamie, Harriet, Flower, Ginger, Ronda, Shermione,” “I can’t remember,” “don’t bother me any more about their names,” and, “how should I know?”). All day Potter sat on his throne, being fed treacle tart and being read tales of his victories. In the forecourt of his palace there was a garden with seventeen statues of himself (“in various poses, at least one of them lewd; don’t ask me”).
Harry doesn’t believe a word of it, but Hermione and Ron seem interested, even though Hermione’s supposed to be the clever one. Maybe it’s the possibility of time travel (as though she herself hadn’t done it a thousand times third year), or maybe it’s because Hermione became a member of the Wizengamot, and Ron was a famous Quidditch coach. Maybe it’s because they were married (in a hut with a thousand and one daisies). They had a daughter by the name of Ismene, who was a child genius, and as it turned out, Viktor Krum was gay, so they could all be friends without envy or concern. They had holidays with Harry and were internationally famous, and Ron had seventeen trophies to prove it. (Malfoy doesn’t say if one was lewd, and Hermione had thirty-eight degrees.)
Harry asks him how he defeated Voldemort (if this is even true), but Malfoy just says, “I can’t tell you about your future, Harry,” even though he already has (except he hasn’t, not really, because this obviously isn’t Harry’s future).
Harry could press him; he could torture him-torture? Do I torture people now? Malfoy says (and it’s as though he’s read Harry’s thoughts), “No need to do anything drastic, Harry. You’ll learn the truth, in the end,” and so Harry leaves him be.
The problem is it’s just been so long since they had hope of a happy ending (or even of treacle tart).
*
In the second tale Draco Malfoy tells, Voldemort fell off a cliff. The ground had opened up and swallowed Hogwarts castle, erupting with the final secret Helga Hufflepuff (“it’s always the quiet ones”) had woven in the stones. Voldemort went with it, though in the end he was gripping the roots of the Whomping Willow clinging to the cliff face, and Harry Potter put out his hand. Voldemort sneered, refused to take it, and tumbled down into the abyss.
After that Harry went into hiding (“ashamed, perhaps, of not having killed the Dark Lord by his own hand”), living as a hermit. They say he painted extraordinary works of art (“I don’t know; they looked fairly ordinary to me”), only leaving his forest cabin (“more of a hut, really”) for those rare appearances, in which photographers snapped his picture, and his portraits came out looking miserable (“drenched Kneazle; that’s the best way of describing it,” and Malfoy looks at Harry with those grey eyes-those warm grey eyes, dancing, slightly, with mirth-and says, “I’m sorry, Harry; you’re just so pitiful when you’re popular”).
Harry finds this slightly more plausible, but Hermione doesn’t; she was Ron’s wife and stayed home taking care of Ron’s children (“Wilhelmina, Carolina, Perdita, Fredricka, Georgiana, Ronda and Gervaine,” and Hermione says, “but I thought Harry’s daughter’s name was Ronda,” and Malfoy says, “When you’re telling the story, you can name them anything you want”). Ron was a top Auror, which no one really expected (“especially me,” and Ron says, “Well, why not?” to which Hermione says, “Why don’t you take care of Ronda, or whoever.” “Learn your children’s names,” says Ron. “Learn your own name,” says Hermione, and they’re off again).
Harry asks him (again) how he could possibly have traveled this far into the past, and why he did, but Malfoy just says , “I can’t tell you about the future, Harry,” even though he already has (except he hasn’t, not really, because maybe he isn’t from the future at all; maybe nothing has ended yet; it’s still going on).
The problem is that they when they think of what the ending might be, they never want it.
*
When Malfoy tells a third tale of the future, Hermione says, “Just don’t listen to him; he’s obviously lying,” and Ron says, “Honestly Hermione, what do you have against our future? My mum, you know, was a housewife, and nothing’s wrong with her.” “Oh, isn’t there?” says Hermione, and even though they aren’t keeping the locket with them (any more), they argue like this all the time.
Harry slew the Dark Lord by beheading, and from that he developed a thirst for violence, or maybe he’d always had it. He became an Auror, hunting down Dark Wizards, and everyone agreed he was maybe a little too obsessed with it, just a little too vehement (“even his friends are scared of him”).
That wasn’t to say that Harry was unpopular; he had a string of girlfriends, and some even lasted more than a week. Once or twice he even dated twins; they said he liked some kinky shit (“don’t even ask,” says Malfoy, “but if you ask, I’d be happy to tell you”), and he liked debauching virgins, especially; they said he was an expert at it.
He drank a lot (“and they say he’s into potions”), but that never seemed to interfere with his work (“holds the record in the Aurors for bringing in the highest number of dark wizards with their faces bashed in”). He also partied like an animal, went clubbing all the time, kohl about the eyes, mesh over the chest, and heaven help us, Lord, leather pants (and for some reason, Malfoy bursts into delighted laughter, at this).
Potter’s friends thought he was an addict, and the news media loved him for it, but he was a hero wasn’t he; he saved them all, didn’t he, and after all he chopped off someone’s head, so no one ever bothered him (“because they’re all afraid; don’t you see?”)
“What about you?” Harry asks him.
Malfoy just says , “I can’t tell you about my future, Harry,” and the thing is, he hasn’t yet, not at all (because he hasn’t talked about himself; he’s only talked about Harry and his friends, and now that Harry’s noticed it, Malfoy looks, for the first time, a little bit less certain. And yet, he should be certain, shouldn’t he, because this is the past, as a matter of fact, this present, but it could also be the future; it could have happened a thousand-three, to be precise-times before; it might not ever happen, but the operative question is has this has happened yet?).
“I would have thought you would have found the Sword of Gryffindor by now,” Malfoy says quietly.
He’s looking steadily at Harry, who leans in; he almost hisses. They’re by the fire, and Hermione has flounced off into the forest, Ron chasing after her. “Where is it?” Harry says. “Where’s the sword?”
“I can’t,” Malfoy begins, and then searches Harry’s eyes. There’s something he sees in them that Harry doesn’t like, because sudden realization floods Malfoy’s eyes. He’s always so arrogant, as though he’s so much older, and knows so much more than them, but he’s not, and he doesn’t (does he?). He’s the same age; he’s exactly the same as they are (except he’s not; he never has been; he’s from the other side; Harry has to keep reminding himself).
Malfoy looks away. “You found it in a lake,” he says quietly, and less mirthful than Harry has ever heard him. “That’s what . . . that’s what you always said.”
Why the hell would the Sword of Gryffindor be in a lake? is what Harry says right now.
Shrugging, that fluid movement of his narrow shoulders, Malfoy doesn’t turn back to look at him. “I don’t know. S-someone put it there to help you-I mean, I suppose-and then they led you to it.”
“Someone put it there to be an idiot. Why wouldn’t he just give it to me?”
“It could be a she.” Malfoy doesn’t seem to think it really could be. His shoulders curl inward, his voice dull. “’The Lady of the Lake held forth the shining sword . . .’ That’s how the story goes.”
“This isn’t a story,” Harry snarls.
“Yes, it is,” says Malfoy. “I’m here to find out how it ends.” His eyes are full of pity, but for Harry or himself, Harry cannot say.
The problem is, this story might not end at all.
*
The next morning Malfoy is gone.
Of course he is; somehow Harry knew that he would be; he knows that somehow Malfoy knows him, knows his magic, knows exactly how to extricate himself from Harry’s binding spells. The worst part is that Malfoy always knew; he always could escape; he just never did till now.
Three days later, Harry sees a doe, and hears Malfoy say, it could be a she, because Harry’s thinking, Mum. It has to be his mum; his father’s Patronus is a stag, after all, the one who loved someone who had a stag as a Patronus would naturally have a Patronus that complemented it. Harry follows the doe to a lake, and at least Malfoy told the truth about one thing.
It’s nothing like a story; the water is cold and Harry almost drowns, but Ron’s set off after him and saves him, and maybe that’s a little bit like a story, but Harry doesn’t think too much about it. They have to get the sword (there is a sword, in the water) to the locket, which is with the Order at their new headquarters (a house by the beach, Shell Cottage, where Bill used to live. When he lived).
When they get there, Malfoy’s there already. The Order’s holding him captive, and they’ve administered Veritaserum, so they know who he is. After destroying the locket, Harry sees this as the perfect time to finally question Malfoy, and get some answers.
The fourth tale Malfoy tells Harry is that Harry defeated Voldemort with Expelliarmus, which sounds even less plausible than all the other tales, and yet of them all, Harry longs for it to be true. Besides, Malfoy is under Veritaserum (though the truth is nothing but another tale, and every tale changes in the telling).
Harry married Ginny Weasley (again), and had three children; their names were James, Albus, and Lily (a freckled girl, with red hair like her mother’s). Hermione married Ron and they had two children, Hugo and Rose, and Harry lived with Ginny in a magic town with a white picket fence.
Harry asks him (again) who Malfoy is in this new future, what he does, and Malfoy starts to say , “I can’t tell y-” but stops, because actually he can; he’s under Veritaserum, so he has to; he just hasn’t yet (except perhaps he’s told them everything, and the truth is just a lie).
Malfoy looks away. They’re in what should have been a nursery (it’s not, now). There’s a cot, a bucket (for reasons Harry doesn’t like to think about) and twice a dozen anti-Apparition wards and binding spells, the kind you find on prisons. Malfoy’s voice is dull when he says, “I married Astoria.”
Harry waits for an explanation, but there appears to be none forthcoming. “Who?” he asks at last.
Malfoy smiles a wry smile with absolutely no humour in it. “I know,” he says. “It seems poor form to marry someone like me off to a character who wasn’t even introduced in the central narrative.” At last he looks at Harry, that warm look with kindness in it, for no reason Harry can discern. “She was Daphne Greengrass’s sister, if that’s any consolation.”
Harry searches for something to say. “I thought it might have been Pansy,” he lights upon at last.
“I did, too.” Malfoy looks away again.
Harry wonders whether he wanted to marry Pansy (why didn’t he?), whether he was supposed to marry Pansy (or did he, in some other future?), and whether that’s why he doesn’t seem too happy with the situation. Harry wonders if finally seeing Malfoy (this Malfoy) like this-pasty skinned, hollow cheeked, not half so handsome, now he’s finally stopped smiling-perhaps this is why Harry finally believes him.
The problem is, Harry has to believe in a future, or else there might not be one.
*
Go to: part 2
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: meta, sex, and sad (don’t say I didn’t warn you)
Summary: Draco Malfoy tries to fix the past, but instead mucks it up some more. For Harry, it all becomes quite clear.
A/N: Hahaha so, snickfic and ships_harry, if you end up reading this (don’t feel obliged), I bet you can guess what SPN author I was reading when I started this (thus the abuse of parentheticals). I’m so easily influenced.
I wrote this for curiouslyfic’s not-fic-athon. At more than ten thousand words, you might be saying, “That’s a fic!” However, you might also be glad I saved you the 70,000 words of meta, sex, and sad that would have happened had I wrote the “actual” fic.
The Eighth Tale
There is a tale between every event that occurs, and a tale between written words. There is a tale whose ending isn’t set, but that tale can’t be told.
(It hasn’t happened yet.)
*
Harry thinks he’s Regulus Black, at first. They know he’s dead, but that’s what Harry thinks. They catch him skulking in the woods, and even though he has blond hair (and it’s thinning), he has grey eyes, and Harry only ever saw just that one photo. He’s in his thirties; maybe something could have changed, and he has the Black cheekbones, so much so that when Harry stuns him, and binds him with a spell, he almost says a name-a name that isn’t Regulus at all. The man just grins, and says, “You got me, Harry.”
He seems very pleased.
The others don’t think he’s Regulus. Regulus was a hero, in the end; heroes can’t be this annoying, Ron says. Hermione says, well, yes they can be, because for some reason Hermione always thinks more than one thing can be true at once, but she does have to admit that Regulus (if it is Regulus) isn’t really what she would have hoped for in a hero either.
Harry doesn’t know what he would have hoped for, but they’ve been on the run (mostly camping) for almost a year now, and he didn’t hope for this. Regulus (who might not be Regulus) is smirky-and that’s just one thing; he’s condescending, now that’s another. There’s also something despicably light-hearted about this man, and that’s the main thing. That’s the thing Harry really doesn’t like.
Then they’ve got to decide what to do with him, and Regulus (if it’s Regulus) really isn’t any help, not at all like a hero would be. He smiles at them as though they amuse him terribly, and Ron’s all for banishing and a good sound Obliviate, but Regulus (and if he isn’t Regulus, what else are they going to call him?) obviously knows something, so they don’t.
He won’t tell them who he is, but one of the things he so obviously knows is who they are (then again, who doesn’t, by now). He knows other things as well (how to enlarge the tent), things he shouldn’t know (all about the Horcruxes), and other things he definitely shouldn’t know (that Harry’s scar is hurting, even though he hasn’t told anyone that it is). When they decide to petrify him and bind him before finally going to sleep that night, Regulus knows which side Harry’s going to sleep on, and tells him not to put his glasses there, because he’ll roll over them in his sleep, before Harry even puts his glasses down.
When they wake up the next morning, they decide to take Regulus with them, bound at the hands so he can walk; they hope he might prove useful. Hermione is in front and Ron is scouting, and Harry has fallen behind with the prisoner, thinking, Prisoner? Am I taking prisoners now? and Regulus says, “You do what you have to, Harry. And stop worrying about Weasley; he’ll forgive you.”
Harry looks at him sharply and asks him, what the hell? and Regulus (probably not Regulus) laughs softly, as though Harry is adorably unsophisticated, and laugh is all he can do.
That’s the part that Harry likes the least, absolutely the least, because they’ve been running since last August, and Harry never thought that this was how it would be. For some reason, he’d had it in his head that Voldemort would be defeated (once and for all) by the end of the school year, and here they are in April, and they haven’t even destroyed the locket yet (at least it’s somewhere safe, not dragging them down, and Ron came back. At least Ron came back, because Regulus is right, of course-Harry still worries about Ron).
It seems ridiculous now, when Harry thinks about it, the idea that they’d be rid of Voldemort so quickly. It’s not like real life runs on a school calendar (except it always used to). It’s to be expected that killing the most powerful wizard in existence would take some doing, and yet Harry can’t stop himself from feeling that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.
(Of course it’s wrong; everything is wrong. Souls should not be cut up into pieces just like meat, and mad men should never rise to power. A seventeen year old-one person, any age-should not be entrusted with saving the world, and when you really think about it, magic shouldn’t even exist, but everything is wrong, more wrong than the entire premise of the thing, even. Something is wrong with the entire world; it wasn’t meant to be like this.)
But Harry can’t say that to Ron, who these days, doesn’t like to look up while he concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other; he can’t say that to Hermione, who’s clinging, now, to a bare thread of hope.
He can only say that to Regulus (who, okay, probably isn’t Regulus at all), whose mouth tightens on one side, who looks at him softly when he says it-just for a moment, warm, pitying grey eyes that seem to know him, before he tightens up again and smirks. Telling him that-this man who isn’t Regulus, isn’t a Black, isn’t an ally, isn’t a friend (Harry has to keep telling himself that; he isn’t their friend)-telling him that everything is wrong feels right, which feels more wrong than anything else.
Harry is so tired. His bones ache; his skin feels gritty; there is grime caked not only in every fold of his clothes but in his skin, the lines of his hands darker than before. He wants to scour his eyes, because maybe if he could make them just feel fresh again, make them less like sandpaper, just less crusty, just a little, then maybe-just maybe-he could see clearly again, and things wouldn’t be so bad.
But as it is, things are bad. Things are really bad, and Regulus (not Regulus) isn’t making things any better.
He asks when they stop for lunch (arms wrapped about his knees, watching them prepare their meagre victuals, an air of curiosity), “Did you even destroy the locket yet?”
Each of the three of them freezes in their own way, and usually it’s Ron who loses his temper first, but there’s something grating about Regulus’s voice, something so familiar, that it’s Harry who turns on him. “What do you know?” he asks, but really what he wants to say is, why didn’t you destroy it yourself? even though he knows it isn’t Regulus (it probably isn’t Regulus).
Regulus’s brow is furrowed. “Didn’t Snape . . .?” he begins, then trails off.
After lunch, Harry binds his hands again. They have to bring him, because he knows something. He knows something, even though apparently he doesn’t know that Snape’s already dead.
Ron has protested it of course and Hermione still looks uncertain, but Harry knows that this man knows something; he can feel it.
“Are you sure you’re not,” begins Hermione, and Harry says:
“I’m not,” because since they found out who Snape was and what he was doing-he hasn’t been.
“You’re obsessed,” is all Ron says, and Harry says:
“I’m not,” and shakes off the eerie feeling he had sixth year, when yes, he had been (obsessed), but also-
He’d been right.
Regulus just follows along, smirking slightly and not protesting at all, hands bound in front of him, kissing at the wrists and elegantly bowed, and looking at Harry whenever he thinks Harry is looking at anything but him. He knows something, Harry thinks; can’t they see he knows something; and doesn’t he-doesn’t Harry-doesn’t he somehow know him?
But Regulus still won’t say who he is, and so he smirks and smiles (things that seem so sinister and Slytherin, yet so unlike Snape), and the worst part is that he’s not taking any of this seriously, as though nothing is bad at all. He acts as though everything will turn out fine, as though he knows, when he can’t know, when right now, it’s getting difficult to believe it ever could-though Harry believed it, once, and wonders why he did. It all seems so ludicrous now, a boy slaying Voldemort (and yet there’s a part of him that still thinks it should have happened, doesn’t understand why it didn’t happen; it was supposed to happen-
Was Snape supposed to die?
And if he was-so soon?)
The other disturbing thing about the man who isn’t Regulus is that even though Harry is sure he definitely isn’t Regulus (probably isn’t Regulus), he’s still familiar; he looks just like-just like-just like someone Harry can’t really put his finger on, unless you count Sirius. Harry doesn’t count Sirius though (he hasn’t been, Hermione), because it still hurts sometimes, unexpectedly, when he isn’t waiting for it. It hurts sometimes even looking at Regulus-who-isn’t-Regulus, because of the way he smiles that smile (the Black smile), because of the way he is sharp and dark and seemingly rather wily, but doesn’t ever hurt them.
Once, he even saves Harry’s life.
They’re in the forest when they see the Snatchers, who have set anti-Apparition wards and an alarm as a trap. By the time they realize it, they’re too late, and the alarm has sounded. Hermione’s first to act, but since they’ve been walking single file they have to find separate cover, and Harry’s going around behind a bush when suddenly Regulus (who . . .?) is there, shoulder pressed against his, lips against Harry’s ear.
“Careful, Harry,” is all the Regulus (who is . . . ?) says, because he always calls him Harry, as though he knows him.
Harry looks and there’s the Devil’s Snare, and he narrowly avoids it before Regulus (who is just like . . . ?) is pressing on his shoulder once again.
“This way,” he (just like-but he can’t be . . . ?) says softly, and all Harry can feel is the press of his breath before suddenly he knows-
“Malfoy,” he says, and Malfoy’s lips against his ear say:
“Yes, Harry, please, get down.”
So Harry gets down, and the stunning spell, instead of hitting Harry, is countered.
A flurry of spells and shouts, disassembly of the wards, pops of Apparition by Hermione, Ron, then Harry, who reaches out his arm, and Side-Alongs his saviour.
They meet in their agreed-upon place (a marsh somewhere in Yorkshire), and assess their injuries (a couple scratches). It’s only after they’ve caught their breath and are all okay and set up camp that they turn to the man who isn’t Regulus at all, and demand an explanation.
He looks just like him (how could Harry not have recognized him?), but there’s one essential difference (something wrong), the reason Harry couldn’t possibly have known him.
Draco Malfoy is more than twice as old as he should be.
*
The first tale Draco Malfoy tells them is that after he defeated Voldemort, Potter grew quite plump, and married the Weasley chit (“naturally”). Together they had eight or nine children (“Jamie, Harriet, Flower, Ginger, Ronda, Shermione,” “I can’t remember,” “don’t bother me any more about their names,” and, “how should I know?”). All day Potter sat on his throne, being fed treacle tart and being read tales of his victories. In the forecourt of his palace there was a garden with seventeen statues of himself (“in various poses, at least one of them lewd; don’t ask me”).
Harry doesn’t believe a word of it, but Hermione and Ron seem interested, even though Hermione’s supposed to be the clever one. Maybe it’s the possibility of time travel (as though she herself hadn’t done it a thousand times third year), or maybe it’s because Hermione became a member of the Wizengamot, and Ron was a famous Quidditch coach. Maybe it’s because they were married (in a hut with a thousand and one daisies). They had a daughter by the name of Ismene, who was a child genius, and as it turned out, Viktor Krum was gay, so they could all be friends without envy or concern. They had holidays with Harry and were internationally famous, and Ron had seventeen trophies to prove it. (Malfoy doesn’t say if one was lewd, and Hermione had thirty-eight degrees.)
Harry asks him how he defeated Voldemort (if this is even true), but Malfoy just says, “I can’t tell you about your future, Harry,” even though he already has (except he hasn’t, not really, because this obviously isn’t Harry’s future).
Harry could press him; he could torture him-torture? Do I torture people now? Malfoy says (and it’s as though he’s read Harry’s thoughts), “No need to do anything drastic, Harry. You’ll learn the truth, in the end,” and so Harry leaves him be.
The problem is it’s just been so long since they had hope of a happy ending (or even of treacle tart).
*
In the second tale Draco Malfoy tells, Voldemort fell off a cliff. The ground had opened up and swallowed Hogwarts castle, erupting with the final secret Helga Hufflepuff (“it’s always the quiet ones”) had woven in the stones. Voldemort went with it, though in the end he was gripping the roots of the Whomping Willow clinging to the cliff face, and Harry Potter put out his hand. Voldemort sneered, refused to take it, and tumbled down into the abyss.
After that Harry went into hiding (“ashamed, perhaps, of not having killed the Dark Lord by his own hand”), living as a hermit. They say he painted extraordinary works of art (“I don’t know; they looked fairly ordinary to me”), only leaving his forest cabin (“more of a hut, really”) for those rare appearances, in which photographers snapped his picture, and his portraits came out looking miserable (“drenched Kneazle; that’s the best way of describing it,” and Malfoy looks at Harry with those grey eyes-those warm grey eyes, dancing, slightly, with mirth-and says, “I’m sorry, Harry; you’re just so pitiful when you’re popular”).
Harry finds this slightly more plausible, but Hermione doesn’t; she was Ron’s wife and stayed home taking care of Ron’s children (“Wilhelmina, Carolina, Perdita, Fredricka, Georgiana, Ronda and Gervaine,” and Hermione says, “but I thought Harry’s daughter’s name was Ronda,” and Malfoy says, “When you’re telling the story, you can name them anything you want”). Ron was a top Auror, which no one really expected (“especially me,” and Ron says, “Well, why not?” to which Hermione says, “Why don’t you take care of Ronda, or whoever.” “Learn your children’s names,” says Ron. “Learn your own name,” says Hermione, and they’re off again).
Harry asks him (again) how he could possibly have traveled this far into the past, and why he did, but Malfoy just says , “I can’t tell you about the future, Harry,” even though he already has (except he hasn’t, not really, because maybe he isn’t from the future at all; maybe nothing has ended yet; it’s still going on).
The problem is that they when they think of what the ending might be, they never want it.
*
When Malfoy tells a third tale of the future, Hermione says, “Just don’t listen to him; he’s obviously lying,” and Ron says, “Honestly Hermione, what do you have against our future? My mum, you know, was a housewife, and nothing’s wrong with her.” “Oh, isn’t there?” says Hermione, and even though they aren’t keeping the locket with them (any more), they argue like this all the time.
Harry slew the Dark Lord by beheading, and from that he developed a thirst for violence, or maybe he’d always had it. He became an Auror, hunting down Dark Wizards, and everyone agreed he was maybe a little too obsessed with it, just a little too vehement (“even his friends are scared of him”).
That wasn’t to say that Harry was unpopular; he had a string of girlfriends, and some even lasted more than a week. Once or twice he even dated twins; they said he liked some kinky shit (“don’t even ask,” says Malfoy, “but if you ask, I’d be happy to tell you”), and he liked debauching virgins, especially; they said he was an expert at it.
He drank a lot (“and they say he’s into potions”), but that never seemed to interfere with his work (“holds the record in the Aurors for bringing in the highest number of dark wizards with their faces bashed in”). He also partied like an animal, went clubbing all the time, kohl about the eyes, mesh over the chest, and heaven help us, Lord, leather pants (and for some reason, Malfoy bursts into delighted laughter, at this).
Potter’s friends thought he was an addict, and the news media loved him for it, but he was a hero wasn’t he; he saved them all, didn’t he, and after all he chopped off someone’s head, so no one ever bothered him (“because they’re all afraid; don’t you see?”)
“What about you?” Harry asks him.
Malfoy just says , “I can’t tell you about my future, Harry,” and the thing is, he hasn’t yet, not at all (because he hasn’t talked about himself; he’s only talked about Harry and his friends, and now that Harry’s noticed it, Malfoy looks, for the first time, a little bit less certain. And yet, he should be certain, shouldn’t he, because this is the past, as a matter of fact, this present, but it could also be the future; it could have happened a thousand-three, to be precise-times before; it might not ever happen, but the operative question is has this has happened yet?).
“I would have thought you would have found the Sword of Gryffindor by now,” Malfoy says quietly.
He’s looking steadily at Harry, who leans in; he almost hisses. They’re by the fire, and Hermione has flounced off into the forest, Ron chasing after her. “Where is it?” Harry says. “Where’s the sword?”
“I can’t,” Malfoy begins, and then searches Harry’s eyes. There’s something he sees in them that Harry doesn’t like, because sudden realization floods Malfoy’s eyes. He’s always so arrogant, as though he’s so much older, and knows so much more than them, but he’s not, and he doesn’t (does he?). He’s the same age; he’s exactly the same as they are (except he’s not; he never has been; he’s from the other side; Harry has to keep reminding himself).
Malfoy looks away. “You found it in a lake,” he says quietly, and less mirthful than Harry has ever heard him. “That’s what . . . that’s what you always said.”
Why the hell would the Sword of Gryffindor be in a lake? is what Harry says right now.
Shrugging, that fluid movement of his narrow shoulders, Malfoy doesn’t turn back to look at him. “I don’t know. S-someone put it there to help you-I mean, I suppose-and then they led you to it.”
“Someone put it there to be an idiot. Why wouldn’t he just give it to me?”
“It could be a she.” Malfoy doesn’t seem to think it really could be. His shoulders curl inward, his voice dull. “’The Lady of the Lake held forth the shining sword . . .’ That’s how the story goes.”
“This isn’t a story,” Harry snarls.
“Yes, it is,” says Malfoy. “I’m here to find out how it ends.” His eyes are full of pity, but for Harry or himself, Harry cannot say.
The problem is, this story might not end at all.
*
The next morning Malfoy is gone.
Of course he is; somehow Harry knew that he would be; he knows that somehow Malfoy knows him, knows his magic, knows exactly how to extricate himself from Harry’s binding spells. The worst part is that Malfoy always knew; he always could escape; he just never did till now.
Three days later, Harry sees a doe, and hears Malfoy say, it could be a she, because Harry’s thinking, Mum. It has to be his mum; his father’s Patronus is a stag, after all, the one who loved someone who had a stag as a Patronus would naturally have a Patronus that complemented it. Harry follows the doe to a lake, and at least Malfoy told the truth about one thing.
It’s nothing like a story; the water is cold and Harry almost drowns, but Ron’s set off after him and saves him, and maybe that’s a little bit like a story, but Harry doesn’t think too much about it. They have to get the sword (there is a sword, in the water) to the locket, which is with the Order at their new headquarters (a house by the beach, Shell Cottage, where Bill used to live. When he lived).
When they get there, Malfoy’s there already. The Order’s holding him captive, and they’ve administered Veritaserum, so they know who he is. After destroying the locket, Harry sees this as the perfect time to finally question Malfoy, and get some answers.
The fourth tale Malfoy tells Harry is that Harry defeated Voldemort with Expelliarmus, which sounds even less plausible than all the other tales, and yet of them all, Harry longs for it to be true. Besides, Malfoy is under Veritaserum (though the truth is nothing but another tale, and every tale changes in the telling).
Harry married Ginny Weasley (again), and had three children; their names were James, Albus, and Lily (a freckled girl, with red hair like her mother’s). Hermione married Ron and they had two children, Hugo and Rose, and Harry lived with Ginny in a magic town with a white picket fence.
Harry asks him (again) who Malfoy is in this new future, what he does, and Malfoy starts to say , “I can’t tell y-” but stops, because actually he can; he’s under Veritaserum, so he has to; he just hasn’t yet (except perhaps he’s told them everything, and the truth is just a lie).
Malfoy looks away. They’re in what should have been a nursery (it’s not, now). There’s a cot, a bucket (for reasons Harry doesn’t like to think about) and twice a dozen anti-Apparition wards and binding spells, the kind you find on prisons. Malfoy’s voice is dull when he says, “I married Astoria.”
Harry waits for an explanation, but there appears to be none forthcoming. “Who?” he asks at last.
Malfoy smiles a wry smile with absolutely no humour in it. “I know,” he says. “It seems poor form to marry someone like me off to a character who wasn’t even introduced in the central narrative.” At last he looks at Harry, that warm look with kindness in it, for no reason Harry can discern. “She was Daphne Greengrass’s sister, if that’s any consolation.”
Harry searches for something to say. “I thought it might have been Pansy,” he lights upon at last.
“I did, too.” Malfoy looks away again.
Harry wonders whether he wanted to marry Pansy (why didn’t he?), whether he was supposed to marry Pansy (or did he, in some other future?), and whether that’s why he doesn’t seem too happy with the situation. Harry wonders if finally seeing Malfoy (this Malfoy) like this-pasty skinned, hollow cheeked, not half so handsome, now he’s finally stopped smiling-perhaps this is why Harry finally believes him.
The problem is, Harry has to believe in a future, or else there might not be one.
*
Go to: part 2