Be Careful
64: Who You Listen To
By Anne B. Walsh
“Much to discuss?” Draco repeated. “What do we have to—”
Several pieces of memory chose this moment to surface. Mum sitting at the head of the table at Fidelus Manor, explaining how she had met Draco’s Headmaster in her dreams, with the help of “an Albus Dumbledore from a world far away from mine.” His quiet conversation with her over the signed adoption contract, when she had revealed that she had known his name for a year before their first meeting, though only in the context of a boy whose soul was “not yet so damaged” as to make him a murderer. The night he had discovered the same thing about himself, and the words, at the time incomprehensible, Dumbledore had spoken to him.
“It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now...”
The memories collided and formed a certainty within Draco’s mind.
“You did this!”
“Did what?” Dumbledore asked mildly.
Draco glared at the portrait. “Don’t play stupid!”
“I assure you, I am not playing...” Dumbledore stopped, frowning. “Dear me. I don’t think that’s quite what I meant to say.”
A laugh escaped Draco before he could help it, taking much of his indignation with it. “I don’t think it is either,” he said. “What was?”
“I meant to ask you to elaborate on what has been happening to you for the past few months.” Dumbledore seated himself in the chair within his frame and gestured for Draco to do the same in one of the chairs beside him. “Without knowing what you have been through, I cannot know what is my doing and what is not. I know you have changed—Severus comments on it frequently, most often with a fair degree of bafflement—but not how or why. So...” One long-fingered hand opened politely. “The more you are willing to tell me, the more I can likely explain.”
“The whole story takes a while,” Draco warned, looking over his shoulder at the door. “And I don’t think Snape would be too happy to find me here.”
“Your Headmaster,” said Dumbledore in a tone of mild reproof, “has gone out for the night and does not plan to return until tomorrow morning. I doubt we will be disturbed.”
Well, that’s put me in my place, hasn’t it now. Why should I tell you anything, you meddling old man? You’re not even alive anymore—this is just a shadow of you, stuck on the wall in canvas and paint. What do you know?
The mental voice, sullen and petulant, brought with it a flood of memories, memories of a spoiled brat with Draco’s name and face. Once, he would have said that out loud, and meant every word of it. He would have been truly angry that anyone had dared meddle in his life.
He had been, once.
I don’t need your protection! I’ve got all the assistance I need, thanks! The words surfaced as from the distant past, though he had said them—could it really be just over a year ago? It seemed like a lifetime.
Maybe it was. Maybe Abby’s right, and that stupid little ponce of a pureblood died on the Astronomy Tower. Or—no. I think I understand now.
“You wanted to help me,” he said, looking up at Dumbledore’s portrait. The old Headmaster might have been a Muggle painting for all he’d moved while Draco was thinking. “Even when I was standing there with my wand pointed at you, trying to get up the nerve to kill you, you were thinking about how you could help me.”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore, as matter-of-factly as though he’d been asked if asphodel and wormwood made the Draught of Living Death.
“So you did—I don’t know what you did. It has to have been wandless, and it didn’t take effect right away...” Draco rubbed at his left elbow, massaging an ache out of his arm. “Or did you set it so that it would only work when I wanted it, when I wanted it more than anything? That would fit you, with all your talk about choices. Did you?”
Dumbledore inclined his head, smiling.
“And whatever it was, you’d done it before. With Snape—Professor Snape,” Draco corrected himself before Dumbledore could. Calling up his memory of his mum’s story about Snape, he laid it over his own experience. “Maybe it was wanded then, so you had it under better control. Or you had enough time to make it work just the way you wanted it to. You’d know more than I would.”
“On the contrary.” Dumbledore’s smile broadened. “You know a great deal. Far more than I had expected. Would you like to continue, or shall I?”
“Go on if you’d like,” Draco said, leaning back in his chair. Then he remembered who he was talking to, and added a belated, “Sir.”
“As you wish, Draco, as you wish.” Dumbledore tapped his fingertips together. “As you have guessed, or more likely been told, I did indeed cast on Severus Snape a version of the magic I used on you. As you were speculating, though, that spell was under far better control than the one I performed on the Astronomy Tower. My body’s weakness meant that my magic was fluctuating wildly, and as you also noted, I was without my wand, so that I was forced to use more magic than I normally would, to ensure that the spell would take hold.”
“What was it meant to do, sir? I mean, if it had been done just right?”
“Severus’ experience is fairly typical,” said Dumbledore. “Though I doubt if that is the right word for such a new piece of magic. You see, I developed this spell myself, in an attempt to save the life and sanity of a young man worth the effort. He has proven me right over the intervening years, though I doubt some of his students would agree.”
Draco stifled a snort of laughter. “So it was meant to send someone pleasant dreams,” he said. “Give them a place, and a person, that would never go bad on them. Somewhere to go to ground when everything else goes pear-shaped.”
“Precisely.”
Keeping his face carefully straight, Draco squeezed the ferecarne arm in the pattern which released the bonding spell. The prosthetic came loose with a slight sucking noise, and he pulled it out of the sleeve of his robes and laid it across his knees.
“Some dreams are more real than others,” he said.
The look of utter astonishment on Dumbledore’s face almost made up for losing the arm in the first place, Draco thought.
Almost.
Harry’s and Ron’s reactions ought to make up the difference, though.
“You travel bodily, then?” Dumbledore said at last. “Between this world and another one?”
“Every night.” Draco reattached his arm, threading it carefully up the sleeve so as not to snag on the loose thread near the wrist. “And with a dream-trance spell I learned for emergencies. But that comes later in the story...”
It had been a very good thing that he’d been able to practice telling this story on Luna, Draco reflected later. Luna was an interested but unquestioning audience. Dumbledore, on the other hand, had a question at every turn, and though he visibly stopped himself from asking three-quarters of them, the quarter which got out added considerably to the story’s length.
And I thought he’d never stop laughing when I told him who teaches advanced Defense...
“So the lady I asked to heal Severus’ heart, all those years ago, is both real and reachable,” Dumbledore said at last. “And your chosen mother. Do you plan to make her decide between you?”
Draco shook his head. He had talked this one over with Luna at length, during the seven days they’d spent at Malfoy Manor to make up for the uninterrupted recovery week at Fidelus Manor, and was as satisfied with the answer as he thought he was likely to get. “She loves us different ways, sir,” he said. “And I’ve always liked him, no matter what I acted like last year. I think we could get along fine, just as long as no one expects me to call him ‘Dad.’”
Dumbledore chuckled. “I expect he would hex you quite severely if you tried. That seems satisfactory, then. Now, if you would, tell me more about your plan regarding this recording you were owling out when Dobby found you...”
That plan segued into another, and that one into a third, and before Draco knew it he was telling the portrait everything he and his friends had thought about doing or trying. Dumbledore listened carefully, pointed out unexpected problems with a few of the ideas, made suggestions of his own about others, and made one request Draco thought was a bit odd.
“Walk by the lake in the evenings?” he repeated. “It’s a bit cold for that, isn’t it?”
“It is, but I want you to be in the habit of it.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled for an instant, but the rest of his face remained serious. “And at this time, I cannot tell you why. I will, however, ask you to bring Miss Lovegood here at some point. It does not have to be soon,” he said as Draco bristled in automatic defense, “and it should certainly be secret, but I fear I must speak with her. She is likely the only person who can perform one small but vital task.”
“How small?” Draco said suspiciously.
“It will take only ten minutes,” Dumbledore reassured him. “And she will never leave your sight.”
Draco still had his doubts, but he let it pass. Luna could take care of herself.
They talked for a little while longer, but Draco was starting to have trouble suppressing his yawns, and Dobby appeared in response to Dumbledore’s call with a promptness that made Draco suspect his former house-elf had been waiting nearby.
“Dobby can take you to your dormitory directly,” Dumbledore said. “I would not want you to get into trouble for being in the hallway after curfew when the fault was mine.”
“Thank you, sir,” Draco said, standing up. “For... well, for everything.”
Because if you hadn’t done what you did, I wouldn’t even be able to say that.
“It is most truly my pleasure,” said Dumbledore. “Good night, Draco.”
“Good night, sir.”
xXxXx
In the cellar of the tiny house where Remus Lupin and his wife were currently living, Fred and George Weasley and Lee Jordan looked at one another. A sphere of glass lay in the center of the table around which they sat, the silver mist within it roiling slightly.
“Think it’s for real?” Fred said finally.
“Sounds real to me,” said George. “But I never knew her that well.”
“I suppose we could run it past her dad,” Lee said. “But they’re watching your house even harder since he disappeared. We might get caught.”
Fred nodded. “Why not just play it?” he suggested. “If it’s really her, Ginny’s bound to send us an owl about it.”
“And then we’ll know,” said George. “I like it.”
Lee brought his hands together. “Let’s do it.”
The three got to their feet and started gathering their equipment together, Fred slipping the glass ball with careful solemnity into his pocket.
“Clever of whoever sent it to us, using a return box,” George commented as they packed. “Wonder if we could backtrail it through that?”
“Nah,” said Fred. “If they’re that clever already, they’ll have used someone else’s box.”
“True. Pity.”
xXxXx
Upstairs, Tonks lay curled up in the big armchair in the living room. One of her hands was wrapped around a small sheaf of papers, while the other lay protectively over her belly.
She knew the voice the boys were talking about, in the somewhat abstract way one knew the voices of the friends of one’s friends. Part of her wondered if she should have shown them the papers, to give them more proof that the voice was really who it said it was. Most of her, though, was for keeping the papers firmly to herself.
At least until I’m sure if they’re for real.
She unrolled them one more time, just to see that title again, just to let herself feel that rush of disbelieving hope. Where they had come from, who had written them, she had no idea, no more than she knew if the spells and potions listed were genuine or quackery, but just their existence let her believe in a world where her greatest desire could be gratified.
A world where Remus will never be so afraid of himself that he’ll run away from me, ever again.
She ran a finger along the words in large print at the top of the first page, thrilling to their meaning.
On the Ethical and Permanent Controlling of the Lycanthropic Transformation
xXxXx
In the Gryffindor common room, an almost unheard-of condition prevailed.
Silence.
Potterwatch was broadcasting. And when Potterwatch broadcast, Gryffindors listened.
“And now for our newest segment,” said “River,” whose voice always made Ginny feel happy and sad at the same time, thinking of Quidditch games and then, inevitably, of Harry. “It was sent to us by a young lady who wishes to be called only ‘Radiance’—”
“I beg your pardon,” “Rapier” broke in, or perhaps it was “Rodent.” Ginny never could tell them apart just by voice. “That’s ‘the lovely Radiance’ to you.”
“I’m so sorry, it is indeed. Here, then, from the lovely Radiance, is our newest segment, ‘Tips for Evil Overlords’!”
A moment of static-like noise, which sufficed for Ginny and Neville to exchange a blank look, the same sort which was being traded all over the room. A click, and then—
“Hello, and welcome to ‘Tips for Evil Overlords,’” said a silvery voice Ginny knew very well indeed. “I am the lovely Radiance, and I’ll be your host today. The following are five things every Evil Overlord should know:
“Giving your followers distinctive tattoos or brands, especially in an obvious area of the body, allows them to be easily spotted.
“Making your followers wear full face masks means that they can’t betray each other, but also means they can be infiltrated.
“Treating any significant section of the populace like dirt means they will eventually rise up and overwhelm you. Try a little kindness.
“If you’re going to hide the object which is your one weakness in a secret cave, make sure to kill everyone who can find the cave yourself.
“And finally, never attempt to consume any energy field larger than your head.”
The Gryffindors stared at one another. Then a third year girl began to giggle. A boy her own age snickered, and another coughed a few times. Within a few seconds the whole House was laughing, the tensions they hadn’t been able to acknowledge bleeding off with the sound.
A soft “Ahem” from the wireless a moment or two later quieted the noise. “I would just like to take this opportunity to tell my friends that I truly am all right,” Luna’s voice went on. “And that they can send messages worth their weight in gold without being afraid. No one is watching who would hurt any of them.” A quiet laugh. “I would tell you who to trust, but I doubt you’d believe me. So I’ll just say good night to all of you, and good night, Harry, wherever you are.”
Lee’s parting words and the password for the next broadcast were nearly drowned out by the excited shouting of DA members. Ginny sank into a chair, shaking with relief she’d been afraid to feel.
“She probably is really safe,” said Neville, leaning over the chair’s arm to speak quietly. “If she can make fun of You-Know-Who like that, she can’t be with Death Eaters.”
“I know.” Ginny got her breathing under control. “I know. Thank you.”
And thank you, Luna, wherever you are. You’ve told me it’s still worth it to fight.
“So.” Taking one last deep breath and letting it out, Ginny looked up at Neville with a grin. “Are we breaking into Snape’s office sometime this month or what?”
Author Notes:
Good thing Voldie doesn’t listen to Potterwatch, isn’t it? Sorry for delay in chapter. Laundry and choir practice intervened. Hope it was worth the wait. Thanks, as always, to Peter’s Evil Overlord List for providing most of the references for Luna’s segment!