Beyond This Point Lie Monsters

At the edge of the mariner's
Map is written: 'Beyond
This point lie Monsters.'
(Rita Dove, Primer to the Nuclear Age)

Part 3 ~ Rites of Passage

Stone. Water. Cold.

Roiling power, so intense that its impact almost sets your mind on fire. The water seeps into your boots and chills your toes one by one. Magic rings through your body like a clapper that sends your every cell singing with energy.

Bloody hell. This is far worse than you thought it would be.

You had almost forgotten how much you hate this place.

Arms wrap around you from behind, giving you first an uncanny sense of déjà vu, and then an albeit flimsy shield against the onslaught of magic. You lean against him, as you did once before, and his hands come to rest over your heart. It beats far too fast.

There's a brittle peace, and a fleeting thrill, in the feel of that coiled strength, the scratch of that embroidered collar against your neck. And you can't for the life of you say whom you hate more - yourself for allowing him to affect you that way, or him for pulling your strings.

His mere presence has been enough to whittle down your self-control ever since you were forced - the hard way - to face your feelings in Malfoy Manor's Hall of Apparition. You risked your life to save him, and the reason for that lies wound up like a tightly-rolled ball of yarn in the centre of your chest, with all the cut ends tangled inside to prevent you from unravelling it.

"Will you hold up?"

Annoyance sweeps through you. "I'll have to, won't I? There isn't a reserve plan, is there? And you aren't about to go in my place."

"No."

He murmurs an incantation and the iron Muggle door reveals itself at the end of the chamber.

You take a deep breath and feel power tingling down your throat as if it was threaded through the very air. Your head starts to pound.

"It's time," Lucius whispers into your ear and you reluctantly shrug out of his hold. His hand closes around your wrist as you move to pull away. "Come back," he says.

You wrench your arm out of his grip.

"I'm surprised you haven't put me under a spell to make sure I won't give you away."

Of course he might have. It's not like you'd notice. He just smiles, and you wonder what it would take to force a sincere emotion onto that man's face.

"We trust you, Harry."

"Even when you're honest you're being manipulative!" you spit at him, aware that some of your rage is fuelled by the overdose of magic surging all around you. But another part of it is yours alone.

"Tom said you might want to take this."

Lucius hands you a familiar blade, and the handle stings your palm as if it had been dipped into mild acid. You shove it back at him as soon as you recognise it.

"I won't fight my way through Hogwarts," you snap.

"No, I didn't think you would."

With that faint smile lingering on his lips, he leans against Salazar Slytherin's statue and watches you leave.

***

You trudge up the metal staircase, and breathing becomes a little easier the further you move away from the Chamber. At last, you reach the door that leads into the dungeons. You slip through it and find yourself back, after months, in the place that has been the only home you've ever known. Tears sting in your eyes when you realise how much you've lost. Not just - not even in the first place - your magic, but friends, home, a sense of belonging. You force yourself not to think of it. You've already mourned your losses.

The torches that line the walls are burning dimly green; it's past midnight already. The gloomy atmosphere tickles awake another memory. If you had never followed Lucius Malfoy down here... but you did.

As soon as you've left behind the dungeons, the pull of the castle's magic homes in on you. It's different from the Chamber, even from Malfoy Manor - a shifting and swaying where the rooms, staircases and passageways move and rearrange themselves, enough to make you sick if you open yourself to it too much. At least the place is so familiar that you can find your way upstairs without thinking. The resonances of the Castle's anti-Muggle wards intrude on the corner of your consciousness, and your head starts to ring from resisting the urge to beeline towards the exit instead of making your way to the towers.

In the corridor outside the Transfiguration classrooms, you hear disaffected muttering, and duck behind a suit of armour just in time. Filch, the caretaker, stomps by, cursing Peeves and bending down from time to time to mop lewd chalk drawings off the ground. You hold your breath, but he's too focussed on the floor to notice you.

When your heart has stopped thundering and the footsteps peter out in the distance, you move on. In the hall leading up to the Astronomy and Divination Towers, Mrs Norris is cleaning under her tail on top of a bust of Murdoch the Lewd. You search your pocket for a Knut and send it clattering down the staircase to the prefects' bathroom. Mrs Norris jerks, ears perked up, jumps down from Murdoch's bald head, and bounces down the stairway with flattened ears and bushed-up tail. You snicker to yourself and continue.

When you reach your destination, you pause and run a hand through your hair. The gargoyle's eyes are lifeless stone, and yet they seem to penetrate you. At that moment, the impossibility of it all strikes you with earth-shaking force. Sneaking your way into Hogwarts, breaking into the headmaster's office... it's not the risk that makes you tremble, it's the betrayal. And yet, in the end, you only plan to do what Dumbledore expects of you. End the war. Kill Voldemort.

Present the wizarding world to Lucius Malfoy and Tom Riddle on a silver platter, a sardonic voice adds in your head.

"Canary Creams."

Please, let it work! you pray.

Four months are more than enough time to warrant a change of password. But the statue jumps aside and leaves you free to step onto the moving staircase to Dumbledore's office. It is an eerie journey in the dark, and you can't help but feel watched. For a moment, your longing for the Invisibility Cloak is overwhelming. For all you know, it is still resting on the bottom of your trunk in the Gryffindor dormitories, unless your bed and belongings have already been removed. You're glad that you don't have the time to find out. Facing a denuded space where once was the home of Harry Potter would be too much to bear.

The door to Dumbledore's office isn't locked, but then the gargoyle would serve as a deterrent to most intruders. You've never seen the room this dark - torches unlit, windows covered by thick brocade curtains. Only some embers in the fireplace provide flickers of light. The back of Dumbledore's ornate chair looms behind the clustered desk. Paintings of long-gone headmasters and headmistresses snore in their frames, and you realise that all it would take is for one of them to wake up to give you away. You'd better hurry.

At the opposite end of the room, the still shape of Fawkes clings to its perch, head tucked under a wing. The few remaining feathers suggest that it's close to a Burning Day. You eyes ghost over the walls, and there it is, hanging right below the dark blot that is the Sorting Hat. In the dark, it looks far more forbidding than when it fell out of the hat in the Chamber. You remember who is waiting for you there and take a step towards the wall. Just then, a creak captures your attention.

Dumbledore's chair jumps around, gracefully stretching its legs, and reveals the figure of the headmaster in a moon-embroidered dressing gown and drooping pointed hat, top decorated with a snoozing moon-pin. You freeze. Is it possible to surprise the man at all? And how do you explain how you came to vanish for months without a word, only to be discovered breaking into his study?

The headmaster looks at you with an expression you really can't put a name to, much less decipher.

"Harry."

You nod mutely.

"When we first spoke, Harry, do you remember what I told you?"

Checking on your identity - well, you could be anybody with a drop of Polyjuice.

"That you saw socks in the Mirror of Erised?" You blurt out the most memorable bit of that conversation, and the shadow of a smile crinkles the troubled face.

"Oh Harry, we were so worried! What happened to you? Where were you?"

Well, that's the problematic question, isn't it?

You take a pained breath. For months you've wanted nothing more than to talk to somebody, anybody, and now that you have the chance you wish you had not been caught. Just how can you make him understand, when you don't understand yourself?

"I..." You pause in anguish. "Sir, please, I can only ask you to trust me. I'm not under a curse, and I haven't switched sides. I've found... another way of working against Voldemort."

Dumbledore looks up sharply.

"Would that 'other way' by any chance involve one Lucius Malfoy?" You flinch, cursing yourself for it. "Because all the circumstances point to him as the party responsible for your abduction."

You squirm under the shrewd look.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt has taken a search party of Aurors to his home twice after your disappearance, but without success."

Having seen the paranoid security spellwork around Malfoy Manor from the inside, this doesn't come as a surprise. It would have been child's play to hide you - and Tom - away for a few hours, and a memory charm would have made sure you'd never know.

Dumbledore registers your frown and pity pours over his face. "What has he done to you?"

Duelled me, tortured me, stolen my magic, saved my life, almost dropped dead on me... No! Don't even think about going there!

You know that you have to hide your condition at all cost. If Dumbledore even suspects that you've lost your magic, your case will be lost. He would never let you return completely defenceless into Lucius Malfoy's clutches.

"Sir, I'm sorry, I can't tell you. It's not important. I'm fine."

Intense blue eyes look you over, and a frown furrows the bushy white eyebrows.

"No, Harry, you're not. Trust an old man who has seen far too much Dark Magic in his lifetime. You've been hurt, and even if I did not regard you as much as a son as a student, I'm still responsible for your well-being. I cannot allow you to return into so great a danger."

You feel your lips curling in an expression that is more sarcasm than anything else. And here you were berating Lucius Malfoy for being manipulative not half an hour ago... After seeing the master at work and feeling the devastating impact, you can't help but regard Dumbledore's machinations in a new light. Perhaps you have a note pinned to your back, "queue to manipulate the Boy Who Lived, please line up here". It makes Tom's upfront sadism almost reassuring.

All right, Harry, you admonish yourself. Ron taught you - and Lucius taught you again - that you can't win in the defensive. So go ahead and attack!

"Sir, if I remember correctly, you've been pointing me into the direction of danger ever since I first set foot into Hogwarts." You hold up your hand to forestall interruption. "I do not blame you. You never asked me to do anything that wasn't crucial to our cause. You're right, I'm not going to be safe. But even under your protection, I have never been."

Now it's his time to flinch, and you're torn between sadness and triumph at the sight. Your conscious mind doesn't want to hurt him, but your subconscious still remembers Sirius. You have forgiven Dumbledore for Sirius' death - you honestly have. But you have not forgiven him for naming his love for you as the reason for it. Perhaps that's what lies at the core of the viper-nest of impulses which draw you to Lucius - he will feed you to the wolves in a heartbeat, and never feel the slightest compulsion of risking his life for your sake.

"I miss Hogwarts and my friends-" you look up and hold his eyes with yours, "-and I miss you as well, Professor, but I've made my decision, and I won't go back on it. And I hope you will believe that I would never do anything to endanger Hogwart's safety or the goals of the Order. Far from it. I've found a way of fulfilling the prophecy."

"Have you, really?" Dumbledore takes off his spectacles and cleans them absent-mindedly. "Or is that what you have been made to believe?"

You steal a glimpse at your wrist, at the curse scar that adorns it, and shake your head.

"No." That at least has not been playacting. "This is not about me, it's about how to defeat Voldemort." Your lips curl into a bitter smile. "It's what I've been born for, isn't it?"

He sighs, and rubs the tip of his crooked nose in defeat.

"So... what is it that has brought you here into my office in the middle of the night, then?"

Yes, what indeed?

~~~ *** ~~~

In your mind, you mocked it as the War Council.

Lucius, sipping a glittering amber liquid in a buttersoft leather armchair by the fire. Tom, coiled around the armrest of the couch next to him, glass of ice water in hand. He taps it with his wand at irregular intervals, just to observe a sheen of frost reappear on the surface. You think that asking Biddy for a goblet of pumpkin juice made your point nicely.

Telling them about the prophecy - minus anything relating to Neville, of course - has taken more of an effort than you had expected. You fought so hard to keep the information out of Lucius' hands two years ago. Sirius died to protect it.

But knowledge alone is unproductive; it has to be put to use.

"That's it?" Tom's incredulity takes away a bit of the sting. Lucius only raises an eyebrow to express his dissatisfaction. You focus your glare at his drink to avoid shooting it at his face - he hasn't mentioned the ritual once since his recovery. Just what does it take?

"Don't worry, Riddle," you redirect your anger at a less unassailable target. "You're not the Dark Lord yet - you should be safe enough."

The wand slips away from the glass for an instant and your upper body grows cold as if a snowball had been Apparated into your chest cavity. You try to keep a blank face, but at last the pain makes you wince. Lucius gives Tom an impassive look and shakes his head. The corners of Tom's mouth curl up smugly and he turns his wand back to icing his water instead of your heart.

Lucius steeples his fingers. "I have to admit that I, too, had hoped for a more specific hint about how to bring about the demise of the Dark Lord. As it stands, him killing Harry will fulfil the prophecy just as well as the other way round."

Your lips twist in a mocking parody of Tom's smile.

"You've turned on Voldemort too quickly, then."

"Do not believe for a second, Harry, that I won't hand you over to the Dark Lord on a silver platter or bury you alive in the Manor's dungeons if you prove too much of a nuisance," Lucius snaps.

You refuse to look away from the cold eyes, challenging them wordlessly. You don't believe him - he has plans for you, or you would have died right there on the water-covered stone floor of the Chamber of Secrets. Tom's delighted smirk tickles your cheek - you don't have to see it to feel it. Well, you asked for it with that almost Dracoesque attitude.

"While the prophecy alerts us to the possibility that the Dark Lord can be destroyed, it does not shed any light on the how," Lucius returns to the topic at hand.

You take a sip of pumpkin juice and wave the goblet at Tom.

"You don't happen to have another weapon up your sleeve, Riddle? One to attack Dark wizards instead of little girls?"

A second hex wouldn't have surprised you, but for all the narrowing of the dark eyes, a strange glint flashes through them. He leans back comfortably.

"No. But you do." You stare back at him, confused.

"Remember what that Phoenix brought to you in the Chamber of Secrets? That sword is the antithesis of anything Slytherin, and with a bit of luck, Voldemort will believe that you're a descendant of Gryffindor and that the thing is tied into the prophecy somewhere... That was my theory after you first got underfoot. He'll probably think along the same lines."

You watch Lucius' hand running over the bare skin of Tom's ankle on the armrest of the couch in a distracted, expressive caress.

"But that's in Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts," you contend with a frown. "How would you get it?"

Two pairs of eyes come to rest on you pointedly. Your own eyes widen.

"Oh."

~~~ *** ~~~

"The Sword of Gryffindor."

"I see..." Piercing eyes trace the weapon on the wall before returning to you. "Do you trust Mr Malfoy, then?"

No.

"He has stood up to Voldemort to protect me." The thought still carries a sting. "And he's sent Madam Narcissa away months ago."

"To supervise the design of the Malefoi Wing at the Nassau Museum of Ancient Artefacts," Dumbledore nods, with a touch of irony. "Or so my informants tell me."

Your lips quirk, but you refuse to be swayed from your argument.

"And he didn't allow Draco to leave Hogwarts even during the Christmas holidays. I heard the Howler." A half-deaf house-elf in the basement would have heard that Howler.

And thank God for small mercies. While it would have been amusing to watch Tom having the slimy creep for breakfast, the idea of Tom tormenting you under Draco Malfoy's malicious eyes would have been enough to throw yourself at Lucius' feet to beg for the Killing Curse.

"I doubt he would have been so intent on removing his family from the line of fire and risking another confrontation with the Aurors after all the trouble he had getting out of Azkaban if he were not serious," you finish, complementing yourself on your reasoning.

No, you certainly don't trust Lucius - they plan to wield you as they expect you to wield Godric's sword, a weapon to be used and then discarded. Those were the terms of your agreement. And you're by no means sure if your erratic feelings aren't the result of a potion, or charm, or the consequence of being imprisoned for months in a magical fortress with only those two for company. Two enemies, whose presence was the only thing that kept you from clawing out your soul for distraction.

Dumbledore leans back in his chair, twirling a sherbet lemon wrapper between his fingers.

"I've known Lucius Malfoy for a long time, Harry. He can be... infinitely persuasive when brute force doesn't promise the desired results. I only hope, for your sake more than for anybody else's, that you are not making a terrible mistake."

Hearing your fears uttered with such casualness cuts as if he'd taken that sword and run you through with it, even though your face remains impassive. You've had excellent teachers, after all. He hits as hard as Tom, though, which is no mean feat.

"You won't try and stop me then, Professor?" you ask.

That's what it comes down to, at the end.

He sighs, looking far older than his years, considerable as they are.

"You may call me Albus, Harry. It seems you have ceased to be the student."

He stands up, the moon pin on his hat twisting to evade catching in the candelabra, and takes Gryffindor's sword from the wall. On his perch, Fawkes utters a cry of protest. The sound sends shivers from your spine down to your fingertips. As you turn your head to look at the mangy bird, a tear falls from its beady eye onto the bottom of the cage.

"And you've made it clear," Dumbledore continues, "that I don't have any right to hold you back. I wish I had - but I don't."

He holds out the pommel and you take the sword from his hands. The metal burns against your palm, not like fire, more like touching a hill full of giddy ants, or a pin cushion with all the needles stuck in the wrong way. But you can't let go of it, and you can't let your discomfort show either. You can't even express your gratitude for so great a trust.

"Would you like to speak to Mr Weasley and Miss Granger before you go?"

You shake your head in what amounts to panic. "No! I couldn't." One look at Ron and Hermione, and you know you could never go.

Dumbledore waits until the silence begins to stretch and he realises that your resolve will not waver.

"Just remember, Harry, that you will always be welcome at Hogwarts. I wish you luck. It seems that is all I can do."

You turn to leave, but stop at the door. You've learned a lot about Slytherin behaviour over the last months... perhaps it's time to put that to use.

"Albus?"

"Yes, Harry?"

You take a harsh breath.

"If this... thing... doesn't work out..." He looks as if he's about to object, but you hold up your hand. "If I fail, it's not Lucius Malfoy you should be worried about in the first place. There's someone else mixed up in this. An old acquaintance." You grimace. "Tom Riddle."

Dumbledore startles, and you nod. "Yes, exactly the one you're thinking about."

"Harry - do I have to remind you that at the age of sixteen, Tom Riddle had already murdered four people and mastered the Dark Arts to a degree that sparked the envy of full-fledged Dark Wizards?"

"Don't worry." And then you add what has to be the most glaring lie you've ever told. "I can handle it."

Unless he has you tied down and his hand in your pants, taunts a voice in your head that sounds a lot like Tom's. You flush at the memory and hope that the shadows of the door will obscure it.

"We can post a watch on Malfoy Manor," Dumbledore offers. "And Professor Snape is still on good terms with Mr Malfoy. He could establish contact with you..."

"No!" You shudder at the thought of Snape poking his overlarge nose into things you would not confide to your closest friends. This is your fight - you will not involve anyone else to die for you if things go wrong. "I will do this alone. But you might want to put some wards around the Chamber of Secrets."

The finality in your tone seems to impress Dumbledore. There is no further argument; he just nods.

"Be safe, Harry."

A rapidly diminishing part of you wants to fall at his feet and beg for forgiveness, to ask him to keep you and protect you. Another shakes off its last chains and raises its head. You leave without a reply.

***

He's still leaning against the statue when you stumble into the Chamber, as relaxed as if he were contemplating blossoms in his wife's rose garden. His presence draws you like pollen in a blossom would draw a dazed bumblebee. Making your way through Hogwarts with Gryffindor's sword was even more hellish than without, torn between the incessant pounding of the castle's magic and the burn of the sword. The blade's presence snuggles against your mind like an affectionate Knarl, all spines. Just how you are supposed to battle Voldemort when it's hard enough to merely carry it is beyond you.

"You were gone for a long time," he observes.

You shrug, and even the small movement sends a searing wave of pain through your head. You sneak a step closer to him and it eases up a little.

"I was intercepted."

"Dumbledore?"

Another shrug. "He knew. Drew the same conclusions as Voldemort, actually."

Your hand grips the sword hilt so violently the jewels leave indentions on your palm. He scrutinises you, a shred of humour lurking behind the unmoveable features.

"He would, of course. So, have you taken your revenge on the old man?"

"I have no desire for..." you snap, and stop. "Perhaps."

He smiles. "And - how does it make you feel?"

You return the smile, all teeth, and an uplifted eyebrow acknowledges your wild expression.

"Reckless," you answer honestly. Tonight, you've made the most incisive decision of your life since entering the wizarding world, and you'll be damned if you let your two 'allies' play you like they did before. And if you are to walk into a battle that is likely to kill you on their behalf, you will at least once do what you want instead of what you should. Damn Dumbledore and his warnings - does he really believe you don't know how dangerous this is? How dangerous he is?

You let the sword slip from your fingers, hear it clattering onto the ground, and purposefully invade his personal space. You lean forward until your bodies touch. You have to raise yourself on tiptoes to kiss him, but then it feels like the most natural thing in the world, and your inner voice asks, breathlessly, why you did not do that weeks ago.

If he's surprised, it doesn't last long. His mouth surrenders to your assault, and suddenly the burning-ant feeling is back, only this time it spreads into places it hadn't reached before, and transforms into something you're more than willing to suffer.

It is a hard kiss, more teeth than tongue, and it expresses all the fury and frustration and longing of four months; the shame of betrayal, the fear of loss, and - oh yes, especially that - a celebration of life. It says that he will not have the sword - that has been paid for by you, and dearly - but that you will give him the wielder. It rings with the knowledge that this will not stop him for a split second from killing you when the time comes, and with the realisation of how precious little you care.

When you let go, gasping for breath, he looks at you in surprise.

"Where has shy, innocent Harry gone?"

You snarl and push closer yet, locking your hands firmly behind his neck to pull his head back down to yours again.

"He died a dishonourable death today, together with honest and docile Harry. I'm afraid the only one you've got left is me."

A dry chuckle against your lips.

"Then I think I made as good a deal as you did."

"Oh, I'd say!" you retort, throwing his arrogance right back into his face.

"Is that so?"

His hand slides into his robes and comes out with your knife. The sight freezes something inside you, like Tom's spell not so long ago. It's not that you're utterly surprised - it just comes quicker than you have anticipated. So he only ever wanted the sword...

You feel your lips go icy, but are intensely proud that you don't flinch. He won't see you hurt!

He fishes for your hand and taps the hilt against your palm. It smarts, like a series of bee stings. A bluish glow appears around your fingers for a few seconds before it is absorbed by the hilt. It leaves behind nothing but a surge of warmth.

"You cursed me?"

It was a bloody test! A test you seem to have passed, otherwise he would have let the curse kill you. God, Tom is going to be so disappointed. He's probably the one who designed the little surprise in the first place.

Lucius shrugs gracefully.

"You made it back just inside the time limit. If you had chosen to return to Dumbledore, you'd have been worse than useless to me, and a security risk to boot." He lifts your chin with a thumb to look into your eyes, and strokes the curve of your bottom lip with his index finger. "Does that make you angry, Harry?"

You think about it for a moment, ignoring the touch. You're almost surprised to find that you're not. This one is too shrewd to get himself killed through carelessness or stupidity, and neither will he allow your carelessness and stupidity to endanger him. How could you be angry about that?

"No," you answer, calm under his scrutiny.

"I was right in putting my trust in Gryffindor loyalty, it seems."

You draw back and tilt your head.

"I wouldn't be so sure," you remark before adding casually, "I told Dumbledore about Riddle."

He gives you a very sharp look. "He put you under a truth spell?"

You return his stare with a raised eyebrow and a lazy smirk. "No. I wanted him to know. Just in case."

It's worth the risk of an Unforgivable to watch astonishment dawn on his face, tinged first with disbelief, then with anger, and finally with something that might amount to respect. Though of course you never know, with a Malfoy.

A snort and he pulls you close again, lips tracing the tender skin behind your ear and trailing down until a vicious bite above your collarbone makes you twitch, and groan, and push your body up against his in desperation. He tangles harsh hands in your hair, grinning down at you with blood-tinged lips.

"There might be hope for you yet."

~~~ tbc. ~~~