Arcana

Arcana

Prologue, the Fool's journey

The fool. His path is never free of obstacles, nor is it devoid of aid. He travels mindlessly, and what has been done and will be done is never of his own choosing. The snake evades him until it strikes. But what would happen if he were given the choice? Would the path be the same?

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He was sleeping, finally. It was so hard to come home to an unwelcome bed when all he wanted to do was go back to Hogwarts. He had finally comforted himself to sleep with daydreams of Quidditch, glory rising through thin air and taking its shape in the form of a Snitch. Now he was buried under blankets, only a fluff of black hair against the pillow and one white hand left visible.

A shape, grey among black shadows, moved hesitantly toward the bed. It stopped short, bent over Harry and then withdrew, seeming to lose confidence in whatever task it had come to perform. The silhouette, partially revealed by scattered moonlight, drew out a wand and inscribed shining letters in the air. The letters, spelling Profatus, hung there a moment and then flew apart, scattering like dust particles. They surrounded the figure in a fine mist, only betraying their presence by an occasional glimmer.

"Are you sure?" the figure whispered to no one.

"I am," a voice replied, gathered in the Profatus mist. "There is no other way for him. We need him to be strong. We don't know what he may have to face in the future. There are fates worse, much worse, than this."

"But he's so young, Sirius." The other voice made no reply. "Give him the choice, at least. He doesn't have to do this." Harry stirred on the bed and sighed, alarming the figure above him.

"Do it then, Remus. But hurry. He's going to wake in a minute."

Remus Lupin bent over Harry again, taking a drawstring bag from his pocket. He turned over Harry's hand so that it was palm up and dipped his finger into the bag. It came out covered in a fine silvery powder.

"Desumo vestor limes," he said, using the powder to draw a spiral on Harry's palm. He watched as it flared to glowing life and sank into the skin, leaving no visible trace.

"It's done," Lupin said. He watched Harry sleep for a moment, thinking of past and future, indecipherable to one who lived in the moment as Harry did. A deep rumbling snore from one of the other rooms disturbed his reverie and he disappeared as quietly as he'd come.

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Harry came to consciousness suddenly, finding himself walking down a rather chilly stone hallway lit dimly with flickering torches. It was lined on either side with paintings, their subjects either asleep or eying him suspiciously as he passed.

This is the Portrait Gallery at Hogwarts

, he thought, surprised. How did I get here? He decided to draw his wand just in case something unsavory presented itself and began searching his pockets thoroughly. His wand wasn't there. How odd, he thought. Where could it have got to?

Harry finally gave up searching and began studying the portraits on either side of him. They were changing from the usual depictions of austere former Hogwarts professors and growing progressively weirder as he passed. In one, a grim looking wizard, holding a rabbit with a tiny top hat in its' mouth, glared at him accusingly. Another picture showed a perfectly normal study of a Quidditch player in old-fashioned robes riding an ancient Cloud Nine broom, but oddly enough, someone had hung it upside down.

Harry looked down, searching through his pockets again for his wand, and almost broke his glasses for the four millionth time when he ran into an obstacle in his path. It was a vast stone arch and he redirected his feet, passing under it warily. The hallway had reached a dead end in a room, much smaller and with lower ceilings.

There was only one thing in the room, other than Harry, and that was a painting on the wall on the far side. I'm dreaming, he thought, recognizing the rather senseless parade of events for what they were. I'm dreaming, and that will probably be the Fat Lady's portrait, and I'll step through it into Gryffindor Common Room. I must want to be back at Hogwarts so badly, I've conjured up a dream where I'm there. My luck, I won't have the password.

He crossed the room to examine the portrait, eager to catch a glimpse of Hogwarts again, even if it was only in a dream. Instead of the Fat Lady, he found a more modern painting of a group of Hogwarts students. They were walking over the grounds together and laughing at the one in the lead, who had apparently just done or said something amusing. The leader had his head turned toward his friends, sharing their joy, not noticing the snake that was coiled and ready to strike at his heel. There was a small gold plate attached to the bottom of the frame, with an inscription, and he leaned forward in the dim light to read it.

The paths know themselves. Choose wisely, and follow.

What does that mean?

Harry thought to himself. He looked more closely at the painting, but it appeared to be just what it seemed. "What kind of choice am I supposed to make?" he said to himself.

"Whether to go forward or turn back, of course."

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. It was the boy in the painting, who now had his head turned toward Harry, while the rest of his body still held its original position.

"Who are you?" said Harry.

"I am the Keeper of the Way," said the boy. "What you are, I never was. What I am, you shall be."

Harry pondered this bit of nonsense for a moment and decided to go along with the dream in the hopes that it would become more interesting. "Well, if you're the Keeper, I suppose that means I'm still Seeker then?" he said cheerfully.

"You are the Seeker, Harry Potter," said the Keeper seriously. "But this is not a game. You must decide whether or not to go forward, to enter the door or go back upon the path whence you came."

"I can't really decide unless you tell me what's on the other side of the door, can I?" said Harry.

"I cannot do that," the Keeper replied. "You must go blindly and find your destiny as you make it. It is up to you to decide what is on the other side."

Of course,

Harry thought, he can't just TELL me what's in there, he has to spout some load of gibberish at me. He thought for a moment about what to say next.

"Can I ask you a question?" he said.

"I will answer within the scope of my knowledge," said the Keeper.

"What will happen if I go back?" Harry said.

"You will return to things as they were," said the Keeper. "But the decision will face you again someday, and you will be presented with the same options."

Harry considered the Keeper's words. Whatever lay ahead, it had to be better than returning to the Dursleys, and it was not in Harry's character to walk away from a challenge. He only hoped he wouldn't walk through the door and find himself playing Quidditch naked on the other side, or perhaps doing something else equally embarrassing. Dreams were like that.

"Alright then, I'll do it," he said abruptly. The Keeper smiled down at him.

"Very well," he said, holding out his hand, palm forward, toward Harry. It bulged the front of the canvas slightly as he pushed outward. There was a glowing spiral outlined on his palm. "Match the spiral," the Keeper told him.

"How-" Harry began, holding his hands up in a perplexed shrug. Before he could ask his question, he looked down at his palm and found the same glowing spiral etched there, to his immense surprise. He looked at it for a moment and then shrugged, chalking it up the dream. He held up his hand, also palm forward, and reached out tentatively toward the Keeper.

"Good luck, Harry Potter," said the Keeper, just as their palms met. The painting dissolved before his eyes and he felt himself being pulled forward, falling into the painting as though into a Pensieve. He woke up-

-in his own bed at the Dursleys. Harry blinked and looked around for a moment, the furniture in the room only vague shapes and the other objects impossible to make out at all without his glasses. Stupid dream, waking me up for nothing, he thought. At least I'm not playing Quidditch naked. He turned over irritably, trying to get comfortable again, and soon fell back into dreamless sleep.

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"He's done it," said Sirius Black to Remus Lupin. The two were seated on either side of a table in Remus's small kitchen, in a tiny cottage deep in the Martravian Forest.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Remus replied. "The Arcana rite. James didn't go through this until he was older. He was at least eighteen, I remember it."

"Yes, yes, and you were twenty or so, I know." Sirius looked at the mirror in which he had been watching Harry's "dream". His face, crisscrossed with lines of worry and wear, was a reflection of the love he felt for Harry, now peacefully asleep once again.

"I was Harry's age. Sixteen. We were still at school, remember?"

"You were, weren't you?" said Remus. "I had forgotten. Why did you go through it so young?"

"My father," said Sirius bitterly. "Those involved in the Dark Arts force their children through it young. They want to know where their loyalties lie early. He disowned me when I chose not to follow his ways."

Remus was silent. He was familiar with the history of Sirius's father, Regulas Black, a Dark Wizard involved in all sorts of shady dealings who had come to a bad end when Sirius was only eighteen. He had disappeared into a cave in Sri Lanka, supposedly attempting to invoke a demon, and had never reappeared. Good riddance, in Sirius's opinion.

"I would never had gotten through it without you and James, and Peter too, although I hate to admit it."

"I wish James were here," sighed Remus.

"So do I. So do we all. If James were here, he would be making this decision, not I." Sirius paused. "But I'm Harry's godfather, and so I must be responsible for his future. I would have liked to not place the burden on your shoulders as well, but every Muggle in Britain knows my face, not to mention all the witches and wizards who still hate me for what they think I did. I couldn't go to Harry and put him at that kind of risk."

"Don't be silly," said Remus absently, waving one hand at him. "I may not be his godfather but I feel as much responsibility to him as you do. I only wish there were something more we could do."

"He'll ask for help when he needs it, Moony. Until then, we can't interfere. Its the way of the Rite, you know that." Sirius rose, going into the parlor to replace the mirror in a locked cabinet in one corner. He closed the door, relocking it and turning to face Remus again.

"He has friends, great friends, like you did, like I did, to help him through it. And remember, we didn't force him through the door. He went of his own free will. That means he's ready, thankfully.

Remus thought about it for a moment. "I do not think Harry needs to choose his path in life, Light or Dark, and that is the point of the Arcana spell."

"He will never join Voldemort, of that you can be sure," said Sirius. "But what if he were to come to think that Voldemort could be destroyed by the Dark Arts? No, it is better he learn now that no good can come of that sort of magic, only corruption."

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Draco was just as surprised to wake up in the picture gallery at Hogwarts as Harry had been. The only difference was that he knew the dream immediately for what it was. He'd been here before.

Draco hurried past the portraits, ignoring them all. He'd seem them, including the one of the fairy sitting on the edge of the crescent moon. She winked at him as he passed and then stuck her tongue out at his back when she got no response. He finally reached the portrait of the Keeper and his friends and stood in front of it, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. The Keeper didn't turn his head, but only continued looking back at his companions with his customary joyful smile.

"Well?" Draco said. No response from the Keeper was had.

"I hope you don't think you're talking me into going through that door again. Once was enough."

The Keeper abruptly turned his head toward Draco. "You are not here for yourself. You have made your choice. This time you are here to help someone else make theirs."

"Why would I want to do that?" said Draco peevishly. "I think you noticed what choice I made. Those of us who prefer the Dark Arts aren't known for our helpful tendencies."

"You will want to be involved in this decision when you hear what I have to say," the Keeper replied.

"Confident, aren't we?" Draco sneered. "Say whatever it is you want to say and let me go. I was busy with something VERY important."

"You were sleeping," said the Keeper calmly.

"I know," said Draco, "and I was quite occupied with it. Now, what do you want?"

"I believe you know Harry Potter?" the Keeper said.

"You woke me up for POTTER?" Draco replied. "What does his decision have to do with me? I don't care what he....oh. Don't tell me you want me to help tempt him to Dark magic?"

"You might say that," said the Keeper evasively. "Will you do it?"

"You don't know what you're asking," Draco said. "Perfect principled Potter. Not to mention the fact that he hates me. How do you expect me to tempt him to anything, much less the Dark Arts? And tell me again, why would I WANT to do this?"

"How you are to perform the task is something you will not have to be concerned with. If you agree, it will be taken care of. You must only agree to participate. As for why, imagine if you were to succeed. Would you not enjoy that?"

Draco thought about Harry Potter. Harry who seemed to have nothing, no family, no power, no money, yet still had everything that Draco didn't have. He imagined it, imagined the satisfaction of looking at Harry with a Dark adapted eye and seeing, at last, an equal.

Draco didn't stop to think how he was going to do it. The Keeper had as good as promised him it could be done. The pleasure of his fantasy overshadowed any doubts he might have had.

"Alright, I'll do it," said Draco slowly.

"You agree, then, to be Harry Potter's temptation, and to be the instrument of his decision."

"I agree," Draco said.

"Return to your sleep," said the Keeper. "You will forget what you and I have discussed."

"How am I supposed to tempt him if I don't remember that I've agreed to do it?" Draco said exasperatedly. But the Keeper had returned to his original position and no further response could Draco get from him.

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Night was darker at Malfoy Manor, and no crickets sang a lullaby to the still night air. Footfalls did not disturb the silence; few wandered the halls at night. It was too easy to become lost and never find yourself again.

A fire burned in a distant room, illuminating the figure of one who had never been afraid of losing himself in darkness. Draco Malfoy was asleep on the sofa, one hand thrown over his eyes to shield them from the firelight. He had fallen asleep while reading, as he had done many nights before. The book, dropped from his hand, lay on the floor beside the sofa. The soft sounds of a piano played from somewhere in the room, its rising and falling notes not loud enough to disturb Draco's sleep.

Draco stirred, seeming to be on the verge of wakefulness, and then turned his back to the fire and returned to sleep. He was peaceful for a moment, then began to struggle as though trying to wake again.

A sudden movement could be seen at the entrance to the room. A cat, which had been sitting in front of the fire dreaming, bolted as Narcissa Malfoy made her way to the sofa where Draco lay. She bent over the back, regarded her sleeping son impassively for a moment and then bent to wake him, grasping his shoulder gently with long fingers. He started as soon as she touched him, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Mother," he said, in a voice still touched with sleep.

"Go to bed, Draco," she replied, turning to walk over to a piano by the window, robes billowing behind her. It was still playing its music, not needing the touch of a musician to stir the notes. She rapped the side sharply and the music immediately stopped.

Draco rose from the sofa, bending over to pick up the book he had dropped in the floor.

"Leave that. The house elves will get it," she said.

Draco shook his head as if realizing what he had been about to do and straightened back up. He followed his mother wordlessly from the room, climbing the long cold spiral staircase to his bed. He had already forgotten whatever it was he had been dreaming.