Chapter 17: Fathers and Sons
Father and son stared at each other for a long time. Neither one wanted to break the stalemate that held them at bay. For Caliban, it was a matter of principle. For Albus, it was simply a matter of shock and awe.
Principle won out this day.
"Agamemnon," Dumbledore whispered in a failing voice, his bottom lip trembling a bit not out of fear, but rather out of sorrow and anguish. Caliban's face broke its calm serenity, a scowl quickly escaping the actor's mask. Jumping down from the ledge on which he was sitting, he rounded towards Dumbledore, surprisingly without his wand anywhere in sight.
"You have no right to call me that," he viciously spat, "Agamemnon Dumbledore died over 60 years ago...you saw do that, didn't you father?" Dumbledore stood firm, though his eyes underscored the sadness in his heart. His words did ring true, striking at a nerve that was particularly raw given his recent, prophetic failures.
"Words cannot express my regret over what I did to your mother and sister," Dumbledore began, hanging his head slightly. Caliban cut him off.
"Spare me the sob story father, I've long since gotten over their deaths." He cocked his head to the side, "Might I ask why you're here?"
"That is none of your concern, son," Dumbledore more sternly replied. Quickly he pulled out his wand and pointed it at his son. "Stupefy!" Much to Dumbledore's surprise, the stunner simply sailed through Caliban as if he weren't even there. Caliban smiled, while Dumbledore stared at him blankly for a few moments before realization dawned on him. "I see," he whispered, frustrated at the fact that it was only his son's astral projection and not his actual form. Caliban chuckled at the display.
"As you can see, my mental acuity has....how can I put this....improved since we met last. I've found a way to project myself using legilimency. Normally an astral projection can only be sent to people who are asleep, but I can send my self-projection to anyone...anytime." Dumbledore filed away the information for later use. Even if everything else had changed, Caliban's propensity for boasting certainly hadn't. Undeterred, Dumbledore threw up his occulumency shields at full bore, trying to block out Caliban. Though his image flickered for a few moments, it did not fade away. Dumbledore's eyes went wide, as Caliban chuckled once more. "And as you can see, I have far surpassed your feeble attempts to shut me out of your mind. You should be thankful that the distance I put between us prevents me from reading you directly. Should I confront you in person, it would be another story entirely."
Dumbledore didn't let the slight against his abilities hurt his ego, at least outwardly, and once again held firm, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Why are you here," he forcefully demanded to know.
"Information, but I see you've already drained that well dry. Needless to say I'm certain you had the same idea I did, milk the boy's aunt and uncle for any information regarding his whereabouts. Apparently though, if there was any information, it is gone now."
"And why would you venture that guess?"
Caliban rounded Dumbledore and continued. "Because I know how you work...father: tying up loose ends, subtly moving people around like pawns on a chessboard." He paused, tilting his head to the side and smirking at his father, "And this one in particular. There's something about this one. I haven't seen you this incensed since you tried to make Voldemort into one of your pawns, and failed."
"My affairs are none of your concern," Dumbledore flatly stated. Glancing around, he finally noticed that there wasn't anyone around the area.
"Confundus charm..." Caliban said with a smile, "I think you'll also find your dear pet squib is rather...how do I put this....indisposed, currently." Dumbledore grew wide as he ran off towards Arabella Figg's house. It took him only a few minutes before he reached the home. He ran up the front porch and threw open the front door.
Inside was Mrs. Figg alright, stuck to the wall, her face a mask of pain and torture. Around her lie her cats in various states of dismemberment and beheading. Dumbledore was sickened by the sight. He turned rapidly, looking for his son. He could feel his magical signature everywhere around him.
"You don't think I'd be so daft as to still be here," came a voice from behind him. Dumbledore turned to see the still shimmering visage of Caliban de Montesquieu, standing as arrogantly as ever.
"How could you," Dumbledore coldly asked, to which Caliban scoffed.
"As if you aren't capable of such actions." His glare turned deathly. "Need I remind you of the state in which I found mother..." Dumbledore grimaced, the effect Caliban was apparently looking for. He turned as if to walk away, before stopping and glancing over his shoulder at Dumbledore. "Do not judge that which you have wrought, father." At that, Caliban simply vanished, leaving Dumbledore, chided and somewhat humiliated, alone with his thoughts.
/ - / - / - /
It wasn't long after Caliban had gone off on another of his hunts that Draco used the portkey the elder Death Eater had given to him. All things considered Draco was glad to be away from him. Though the feeling was decreasing everyday, it seemed that whenever he was around Caliban, there was some unsettling presence behind every callous look and every smug chuckle. It was as if there was more to this simple mission than what Caliban was letting on.
Draco slowly walked along the short pathway towards a small wooden boathouse on the fog-drenched shoreline. He got the impression that it was perpetually twilight here, probably because of the constant presence of dementors nearby. Silently he clutched the medallion around his neck. He knew he was a ways off from the island, and that the dementors shouldn't be affecting him just yet. Still, the experience of simply being around one of those creatures was not one he wished to relive anytime soon.
He approached the boathouse and spotted an older man, dressed in what Draco would customarily refer to as tattered rags. The man spotted him as well, giving him a smile that revealed a few rotten teeth barely hanging onto his gums. Draco had to mentally hold himself back from vomiting a bit
"Afternoon guvnah," the man said in a tone far too chipper for the mood around him, "I s'pect you'd be 'eadin for Azkaban then right?" Draco simply nodded. "Right'o. Jus' need ta know what yer goin for...can't be too careful what with 'Ou-Know-Who runnin' around." Draco played nice and offered a placating smile.
"I'm here to see my father," he replied as matter of factly as he could, "Lucius Malfoy." The older man's smile faded a bit, but he nodded his head and motioned for Draco to follow him on the boat.
"Stay close to the center," he instructed, taking his place near the bow, "And watch the seas, it could get bumpy." Draco nodded and took his seat in the old wooden boat. No doubt the only thing holding the wooden planks together were magical bonds. After taking several moments to acclimate himself to the rocking of the boat, the old man waved his wand and the small craft cast off from the dock, headed out into the misty fog.
Draco was alone with his thought for the half-hour long trip. Though the old man tried a couple of times to strike up a conversation, Draco waved him off and kept to himself much of the way. In his mind he was running through everything that had happened to him since he had been marked by the Dark Lord. Just a few weeks ago he was the self-anointed prince of Slytherin house, who would eventually follow into his father's footsteps, perhaps even surpass them and become Minister of Magic one day. Then he would be able to carry out the noble birth of allowing purebloods like himself to attain total domination over mudbloods like Granger and worthless halfbreeds like Potter.
Now he sat on a boat to visit his father in Azkaban prison, looking for final confirmation that he was in fact that which he said he was on the most basic level. Though he couldn't consciously say it to himself in so many words, on a subconscious level he knew that he was looking for assurances that everything his life was based on wasn't a lie. He was looking for his identity. Caliban had said that Azkaban made a person brutally honest, so in his mind the idea of his father lying to him at this juncture was out of the question.
Did Caliban's story hold plausible weight? Perhaps...Draco had to admit that much. Did he believe him? Not by a longshot. He didn't trust Caliban as far as he could throw him...so it would come as no surprise to Draco if the man was a lying fool. He'd hex him five ways to Sunday if that was the case, provided he could bring himself to do so.
It was a nightmare he had that flashed into his mind at this thought, of the muggle he had failed to kill. The look in her eyes as she knew her life was done for. Those blue rimmed eyes that begged him for mercy. It was something that Draco had no experience with, though a few Slytherins who had crossed him over the years might have begged for mercy when he sicced Crabbe and Goyle on them. The stare was his constant companion recently, even visiting him in the waking hours. To say that it had shook him to the core just a bit was not an understatement.
"Ah, 'ere we are then." Draco was pulled out of his thoughts by the old man's voice. "Azkaban Prison, still as ominous as evah." The boy looked up, and his mouth opened slightly in awe. Emerging from the fog was a rocky expanse with little to no beach on it. There was no vegetation aside from some moss on the stones surrounding a very short path leading from an old wooden dock. Further in the distance Draco saw a massive stone wall, flanked on either side by parapets standing high in the twilight sky, each one. He felt a shudder go through his system, and glanced down to see his pendant glowing. Even though it was working, he could still feel the gnawing chill of the dementors, even from this distance. The old man appeared to be unaffected. Either he was used to the sensation...or he had long ago been driven insane to the point where the dementors didn't effect him as much. Draco wouldn't have been surprised by either. Regardless the old man spryly moved towards the pier, gripping it strongly with his hand and casting a rope around the edge of the wooden walkway. Once the boat was secure, Draco hastily jumped up onto the dock. "I'll be 'ere waitin for ya," the old man explained, his smile having fully returned. Draco didn't turn towards him, instead walking up the shoreline towards the large iron gates that housed the prison.
Much to Draco's surprise, there were no hit wizards or anyone patrolling the walkway between the parapets. He guessed that since some dementors were still there, it was enough to keep prisoners in line, at least to the Ministry's way of thinking. If the given situation was any different, he might have laughed at their incompetence.
Slowly the iron gates swung upon, giving an ominous rumbling sound as they did so. For added effect, Draco felt a sudden rush of wind coming from the courtyard of the prison. It caused a shiver to run up and down his spine several times. Collecting his nerves, he marched into the courtyard.
Draco really had no idea what to expect, not being acquainted with either muggle or wizarding prisons. Had he been more familiar with muggle prisons, he'd be surprised by the lack of chainwire fences, or even barbed wire ones. The courtyard, if one could call the slate gray rock quarry that, was wide open and surrounded by the high stone wall that he had seen on the outside, with two matching parapets off in the distance at the far end corners. Roughly in the center of the courtyard was a large, more modern looking building, with a series of brick long houses, three or four in total on either side, each with simple wooden doors. Draco followed the makeshift path through the gravel yard towards the central building.
Upon entering, he was greeted by a large room, with two tiers of prison cells extending off as far as the eye could see. He had to force down the bile that crept into his throat when he saw a few dementors patrolling the upper catwalk. Steeling his resolve, he headed forward toward a large reception desk, where an older woman sat. She looked up at Draco, seemingly disinterested in her job, and glanced him over. "State your business and present your wand for verification," she mechanically stated.
Draco glared back. "Draco Malfoy, here to visit my father Lucius." He handed his wand to the woman, who took it and glanced it over. She waved her own wand, producing a small piece of parchment as she did so.
"12 1/3 inches, cedar wood, harpy feather core," she plainly stated, handing the wand back to Draco before pointing off to the side. "Visiting room is over there for low security prisoners." Draco arched an eyebrow: his father was considered low security....after the stunt he tried to pull? He didn't say anything however, and slowly walked towards the small room over in the corner.
The room was as drab as the rest of the prison, simply four brick walls and a barred entrance on the door. There wasn't even an auror standing guard, just another door off to the side where prisoners entered and exited. Draco sat at a small table for several minutes, waiting for his father, when he heard the door next to him slowly click open. He gazed up, eager to see his father for the first time in some weeks, but his heart fell to the floor at the sight.
The man before him was not regal. He did not carry himself as he normally did. Instead of the full-faced, confident visage that Lucius Malfoy presented to the world, Draco was greeted by the sight of a sallow, lanky, drawn man who seemed resigned to death and despair. It almost caused Draco's mouth to gape open. Lucius gazed up at his son, staring at him with eyes that held not the fire of someone ready to show the world what for, but rather the ice-cold glare of one who had come to grips with their fate. Still upon seeing Draco, Lucius got a small glimmer of hope in the corners of those very same eyes. He slowly shuffled into the room, his hands bound by manacles, his normally resplendent robes replaced with the gray striped uniform of Azkaban prison. He sunk down into the chair across from Draco, and let out a deep sigh.
"Son," he croaked out, his voice hoarse for some reason. Draco hoped it wasn't from shouting in fear, but a part of him knew better, "I'm glad to see you."
"So am I," Draco said, trying to offer a bit of a smile. There was something wrong with this picture. This was not the man that Draco grew up idolizing. This was someone entirely different. "How are you," Draco asked, knowing full well the answer to that question.
"I am surviving," Lucius flatly said, though his face revealed that this was a bit more for Draco's comfort than it was for the sake of factual clarity. Still, it was an honest response, one that Draco was looking for. "And yourself?"
"I've been taken on as an apprentice," Draco said, a bit of pride seeping into his voice. Lucius glanced up at this, staring towards the door.
"Feel free to say anything," he whispered, "But don't speak too loudly. They might hear you." Draco stared at his father. There was obviously no one there. Tentatively, he reached out with his legilimency as best he could, sensing for any presence. Though he was still not yet completely skilled in the practice, he detected nobody. He shrugged it off, staring back at his father.
"I am working with Caliban," he quietly said, causing Lucius' eyes to go wide. "The Dark Lord instructed him to train me." Draco slowly looked at his father, staring straight at him. "That's partly why I'm here. I need you to clarify something for me."
"Of course son," Lucius said in a manner far more caring than Draco had ever heard from him before, "Anything."
Draco took a deep breath. The nagging feeling had returned to the back of his mind. "Well, Caliban told me a story. About....origins. He said that...." he was suddenly embarrassed to reveal this, as if it were a stain on his soul he was showing to the world. "He said that I was a...halfblood." Draco glanced up at his father, trying to judge his reaction. At first, Lucius just sat there, unblinking, unmoving. He seemed to be going over in his head what was just said. As time pressed on, Draco began to panic. No, he told himself. Say Something. SAY ANYTHING! Lucius did not say anything, simply staring down at his hands now. Tears of desperation began to form at the corners of Draco's eyes. He had to be thinking of a way to deny it. It couldn't be true....it wasn't. Lucius stared up at Draco, and then quickly looked away.
Then, and only then, did Draco finally admit to himself, that it was true.
/ - / - / - /
4 months, 22 days into training
Harry Potter had never been so nervous in his life.
He briefly thought that might be an understatement. After all, the times coming home to the Dursleys after he'd done better than Dudley on a test...or other such occasions had to be nerve wracking, but for an entirely different reason obviously. He had been practically scared stiff while fighting the basilisk...and while being chased down by the dragon during the first task. But all those were more akin to fear than they were to just plain being nervous.
So, Harry quickly decided, he truly had never been so nervous in his life. Why was he so nervous? Because this was the night he wanted to be special for Hermione. Just a simple night where they could be together.
More than once Harry had allowed himself to worry about Hermione's depth of feelings. Perhaps it was just the shock of her parents death that had spurned her reaction. Perhaps it was the need to be protected that led to her returning his proclamations of love. There was only really one thing that Harry was certain of as far as his relationship with Hermione was concerned, and that was his own feelings. He knew now, more than he knew anything else that he loved practically everything about her. Any hesitation that may have existed was throughly erased with the past four months of interaction.
His parents were being as encouraging as they could be in their present state. His mother in particular was trying to alleviate his fears as simple paranoia. Her justification for this line of reasoning befuddled Harry; it was in the way Hermione looked at Harry. Harry turned over this idea in his mind several times, but for the life of him couldn't figure out what it meant. Whenever he asked his father about it, he merely concluded with Lily and said that Harry would understand in due time. Harry hoped beyond hope that that time was tonight.
He had spent about a week planning for it, trying to nail down every detail. It was a little more difficult, having to navigate around Hermione in the process and being unable to leave the grounds of the house, but with help from both his parent's portraits and Dobby and Winky, he thought he had managed to pull it off. He hoped he had, anyway.
Quickly Harry shook his head and focused his mind on the task at hand. Summoning up his courage he made his way into the library, where he knew he would find Hermione. She was currently sitting at a table on the lower level, perching her way through a book on some of the more obscure potions that seemingly had died out over the years. Approaching her from behind, Harry cleared his throat, causing Hermione to turn around and smile at him. Her smile nearly bowled him over effortlessly.
"Hi Harry," she greeted, continuing to smile at him. Harry finally collected himself and smiled back. He sat down next to Hermione, who motioned towards the book she was reading. "I found some potions that might prove useful in the future. Not just to us but to our friends. There's one here that might actually help Neville's parents...." she trailed off and tried to find her place in the book, but was distracted by the stare she was receiving from Harry. Slowly, she turned up to look at him, seeing the look of happiness and peace awash over his face. "What's wrong?" she asked, smiling back at him.
"Nothing right now," he said with a sigh, "Right now...despite everything else going on outside...at this very moment there's nothing wrong as far as I'm concerned." His countenance was broken by the simultaneous chuckle that they shared. "That was horribly corny of me wasn't it?" Hermione tried to assure him that it was sweet, but the grin on her face kept her from doing so.
"Actually," Harry said, acting as if he'd had a brilliant flash of insight, "I take that back there is something wrong." He stood up and offered an arm to Hermione. "You haven't had anything to eat yet." Hermione blushed at the accusation.
"Well...I..." Harry shushed her and took her hand.
"Care to join me for dinner 'Mione?" Hermione smiled back.
"It would be my pleasure."
Dinner went off without a hitch, as Dobby and Winky had outdone themselves once more. Though it had taken some getting used to, Hermione was quickly getting used to the idea of having house servants. As long they were paid, of course. For some reason, Harry had insisted on them using the formal dining room, and each of them had dressed up in some fancier robes that they had found in one of the bedrooms. She was currently putting the finishing touches on the soufflé that had been served that night, when she looked over at Harry, who was regarding her with something akin to disbelief. Whether or not it was because he considered himself impossible lucky to be in this situation or for some other reason, it made Hermione arch an eyebrow.
"It occurs to me," she finally said with a smirk adorning her face, "That we really have never had a formal date until now." Harry thought for a moment, before standing up, a grin firmly plastered on his own face.
"Actually I've thought about that," he said solemnly, kneeling down in front of her as he rounded the table, causing her to gasp in wonder. "Hermione, there's a lot of things I wish I could have done differently over the years. A lot of them I can't make up for, but there is one that I'd like to rectify this evening if you'll let me. Will you accompany to the ball tonight milady?"
"Ball...what ball?" Hermione immediately got an inquisitive look on her face, but her heart was racing as to what he might be implying. To answer her question, Harry stood up and took her by the hand. He led her out of the dining room, and towards the large bronze doors that made Hermione gasp in anticipation.
"This ball..." Harry said simply, waving his wand as he gestured for the doors to open. Hermione didn't have time to notice that her clothes had been transfigured into something more elegant, as she gazed into the ornate ballroom. The walls were interlaced with gold trim and molded columns built into the wall all around at about three foot intervals. The high ceiling was enchanted apparently, as it appeared to be a moonlit sky with thousands of stars shining down on the marble floor. Candelabras were lit all around, and flowers had been decorated at various points along the wall. Hermione took in the sights, taking a few steps before she realized that her clothes had changed. She glanced down to see that she was now clad in an exact replica of her dress robes from the Yule Ball. Quickly she turned to Harry, who had one of his trademark sheepish grins on his face.
"I couldn't think of anything else," he said, scratching the back of his head. His clothes as well had been transfigured, this time into a near duplicate of his own dress robes from a year and a half ago. The only difference was the Potter family crest which rested on the right breast pocket of the outer part of the robes. "So," he asked again, "Would you care to accompany me to the ball tonight."
Hermione laughed, holding back a few tears of happiness at the surprise. "Of course," she replied, curtsying in time. Harry offered his arm and the two of them took to the center of the dance floor. Harry blushed a bit as he pulled out his wand, and pointed towards the corner of the room, where a small phonograph had been set up.
"It's not exactly the Weird Sisters," he said with a small smile, "But it's the best I could manage." With a wave of his wand, a rather elegant waltz began to play. Much to Hermione's surprise, Harry grasped her waist, moving to dance with her.
"Harry," she said more in surprise than in outrage, "I thought you hated to dance." Harry chuckled a bit.
"Maybe because I've never danced with you?" he offered, giving her that grin that made her melt inside. Smooth Move Potter, Hermione thought to herself, and she took his hand in response. Though the dancing was far from professionally graceful, it was a marked improvement over his Yule Ball performance from what Hermione could ascertain.
Suddenly she knew what the topic of discussion between Harry and his mother must have been over the last week.
For several hours it seemed like, through several songs, they danced in each others arms, never once breaking from each other's company. Finally, the record stopped, and Harry and Hermione looked straight into one another's eyes. "Enjoy yourself," Harry asked softly.
"Yes," she replied, sinking her head into his chest. "Thank you for this Harry. You have no idea how much I wanted the real thing to be like this." Harry's eyes suddenly went wide, with a brilliant resolution clicking in his mind. She wanted to go with him to the real Yule Ball?
Suddenly everything his mother had said made perfect sense. Merlin he had been delusional to not see it sooner than he had.
"Harry," Hermione softly said, drawing him out of his thoughts. He glanced down and saw a tinge of worry in her eyes. He smiled at her, offering her his heart. Here, in her arms, was the one place he never wanted to leave. And if nothing else, she felt at least as strongly as he did.
Hermione Granger loved him. Such a simple statement, and yet such an earth shattering one as well.
"Hermione....I love you more than anything," he said quietly, causing her to smile in return. They were getting used to this permanent smiling thing they had going on between them. Subtlely, Harry began to lean forward, Hermione following suit. Their kisses were tentative at first, not furiously paced or even drawn out. Though they had kissed, and even cuddled before, it was as if they were exploring each other's bodies for the first time.
Off to the side, as the young witch and wizard grew more impassioned, Dobby the House Elf watched with a smile on his face. With a wave of his hand, the phonograph player transfigured into a rather comfortable bed, and scooted towards the young couple. He figured it might get good use tonight, underneath the starry sky.
A/N: I figured I'd end a chapter on a high note this time, rather than the cliffhanger that I did have planned for the ending. Draco's reaction to the truth will be posted in the next chapter, as well as a new assignment for him and Caliban. As well we'll get a bit of training summarized as we get towards the end of the time warp.
I'm also waffling on who exactly may or may not die in the upcoming battle.
Sorry if that fluff scene was horribly written. I'm no good with this emotional mumbo jumbo.