Dragon's Eye

Charades

"We're our own dragons as well as our own heroes, and we have to rescue ourselves from ourselves." ~Tom Robbins

"Harry, pay attention," Hermione hissed as she nudged him in the ribs with her elbow.

He frowned at her, but dutifully raised his eyes from the table long enough to clap for a first-year boy with frizzy hair who was making his way to the Gryffindor table. But as soon as the boy sat down, clustered among a few second and third years who were clapping him enthusiastically on the back, Harry returned to ignoring the Sorting.

Harry had told Hermione and Ron about the dragon. They had said they believed him, but it was obvious to him that they didn't. The worried look they'd exchanged was evidence enough of their skepticism.

Harry knew they doubted his sanity--hell, he doubted it himself most days. But every time they turned that look on him, it was one more brick in the wall growing wide and impenetrable between his friends and himself. And when they heaped patronizing reassurances on him, it bothered him all the more, because he could feel the hollowness of their words: Of course, we believe you, Harry. Don't we, Ron? Sure, mate--we believe you.

Another first-year was announced as a Gryffindor and the table exploded in cheering. Harry looked up to where Professor McGonagall was holding the Sorting Hat. The noise was aggravating his already aching head. He rubbed his scar and earned a concerned look from Hermione. He dropped his hand and scowled down at the table.

After what seemed an eon or two, Dumbledore finally rose from his seat. The scraping of the chair on the wooden dais caught everyone's attention, and the chattering diminished as Dumbledore addressed the Hall.

"Welcome, everyone, back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Vir sapit qui pauca loquitur." And with a clap, mounds of delicious food appeared on every table. The students elbowed each other in their haste to pile their plates high with squash, potatoes, pies and roast. Harry waited for the bedlam to die down before filling his plate. He wasn't particularly hungry, anyway, and ended up picking at his food with his fork rather than actually eating it.

"Umm...Harry?" Ron said.

"Mmmm?" Harry responded, not bothering to look up from the table.

There was a longish pause as Ron finished chewing a mouthful of honeyed ham.

"You gonna eat that?" and he pointed with his knife to a leg of baked chicken Harry hadn't touched. Harry came out of his trance long enough to give his plate a half-hearted shove in Ron's direction.

"Oh, for pity's sake, Ron!" said Hermione. She turned a distressed look at Harry. "Something's bothering you, Harry, we can see it. We're your friends--tell us what's wrong."

Harry rubbed his face with his hands. He was so bloody tired.

"What would you have me say, Hermione? Sirius is dead. Voldemort is after me. My scar hurts all the time now. I can't help but be bothered! And no amount of research is going to fix it."

That seemed to be the wrong answer, Harry reflected, as Hermione turned in stony silence back to her halibut, attacking it with a vengeance.

Harry regretted upsetting her, but he didn't know how to apologize. He looked at Ron for help, but Ron was studiously looking anywhere except Harry. Harry sighed and returned to pushing bits of food around with his fork.

After a few minutes, he put the fork down and propped his chin on his hand. His thoughts kept returning to the dragon. Dragondragondragon. What was it doing at Hogwarts? Why did it talk to him? Or was that just his imagination? Or was it ruddy well ALL just his imagination, and there was no bloody dragon to begin with...et cetera, et cetera ad nauseam. His thoughts went round and round uselessly like bits of sand in a whirlwind.

The Hall and its inhabitants had all but disappeared to Harry, so he was a bit startled when Ron grabbed his arm and shook it to get his attention. Ron was looking at him oddly and pointing silently at Harry's plate. Harry looked down just in time to see his peas arranging themselves into letters: D-R-A.

Harry shook himself. His magic had been doing odd things lately. He hadn't had a burst of uncontrolled magic like this for years, but ever since Sirius...died, Harry's magic had come bubbling up through the cracks in his control whenever he was particularly distracted. Unfortunately, it didn't take much to distract him anymore. He chewed his bottom lip as he let the peas fall back into normal pea configurations. It took more concentration than it should have.

As the feeding frenzy began to ebb, Dumbledore stood once again.

"I have a few start-of-term notices. First of all, Mr.'s Fred and George Weasley have asked me to announce that they have opened an extension of their Joke Shop in Hogsmeade. For those students allowed to attend Hogsmeade on weekends, they're offering a special grand-opening event the first Saturday in October. This event includes food and fun, as well as a 'special presentation,' and reduced prices for Hogwarts students on all shop merchandise. I hope every student who is allowed Hogsmeade weekends will attend."

The buzzing of students' excited whispers filled the Hall. Harry saw Seamus giving a high-five to Dean out of the corner of his eye. He was happy for the twins. Their success seemed limitless.

"The second announcement," continued Dumbledore, raising his voice above the chatter. "The second announcement, as requested by Mr. Filch, our considerate caretaker, is that if anyone is found possessing one of Fred and George Weasley's comedic creations on school grounds, it will be confiscated immediately."

The murmurs seemed to Harry to take on a tone of quieter disappointment.

"I would also like to introduce to you our two newest professors. Professor Beladonna de Mon will be taking over the Defense Against the Dark Arts position." Dumbledore acknowledged the woman seated two seats to his right with a gesture and a smile. She rose gracefully to her feet and inclined her head to the gathering. She was incredibly tall, almost as tall as Hagrid. But where Hagrid was thick with muscle, Professor de Mon was thin as a candlestick. She was incredibly beautiful with straight, thick black hair that fell below her waist and large eyes the strangest shade of blue Harry had ever seen--they were almost clear. Her beauty was eerie and disconcerting in a way that made it difficult for Harry to look at her for long. She folded her hands in front of her and sank slowly to her seat again, returning Dumbledore's smile with a small, secretive smile of her own.

"And Professor Pyralis Lacertus will be acting as Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House until Professor Snape's return." Dumbledore gestured to his left and a man in blood-red robes rose to give a small bow to the students. He was tall and thin, as well, though neither as tall nor as thin as Professor de Mon. His nose was long and aquiline, and his long hair, tied back at his nape, was black with a reddish tinge to it. His skin had a ruddy hue, and his eyes were overshadowed slightly by his brow. He looked almost as sinister as Snape, but he smiled at the audience in greeting before returning to his seat.

Whispers in the Hall grew louder once the applause for the new professors died down. The Gryffindor table was speculating about Professor Snape's absence.

The official story, which Hermione and Ron had learned at the prefects' meeting and passed on to Harry while on the train, was that one of Professor Snape's close relatives had died over the summer and that he would be occupied this term with personal obligations. Hermione and Ron were convinced that Snape was off somewhere spying for the Order. They had spent the rest of the train ride guessing at where he might be and what he might be finding out about Voldemort's plans.

"Also," Dumbledore continued, assuming a more somber tone. "I wish to caution you all that our world is not as safe a place as it once was. As you all know, old enemies have returned to try to reclaim power. You must all stay on Hogwarts grounds from this moment until you go home for Christmas. No one--and I mean no one--" Dumbledore turned a stern look on Harry, Ron, and Hermione "--is to go into the forest for any reason. Also, should any of you perceive anything amiss, notify a professor at once."

Dumbledore smiled again and his eyes took up their familiar twinkle. "I am supremely confident that we will all enjoy another happy year together. And we all have an early morning tomorrow, so...off you go."

Chairs clattered and scraped at the floor as everyone around Harry rose to leave. Harry was getting up to race after Hagrid when something small struck his temple and fell to the table. He rubbed his head, annoyed, and picked it up. It was a piece of parchment crumpled into a ball. He opened it and read in chicken-scratch writing "c'mon, moron."

Harry's eyes widened. He'd forgotten all about his encounter with Malfoy--and his promise. He stared mournfully at Hagrid's retreating back.

"Coming, Harry?" Ron asked.

"You go ahead. You have to take the first-years anyway. I'll catch up in a bit."

"All right," Ron said.

Harry made his way out the opposite door and up to the Headmaster's office. Malfoy was already there, arms crossed and lounging against the wall. He was so still, he almost looked like a statue in the torch light.

"Took you long enough," Malfoy said.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Harry said, frowning.

* * *

"How do we get in?" Draco asked, indicating the gargoyle with a gesture. "Do we tickle it and offer it sweets?"

Draco was seething. Potter had clearly forgotten about his promise. If Draco hadn't charmed that note to get his attention, Potter would have sauntered off, ruining the entire plan. Draco could feel his teeth grinding together in irritation. Hatred was one thing--fear was also perfectly acceptable. But indifference? Draco glared daggers at the back of Potter's tousled head. The sooner this whole bloody thing is over with...

"Jujubee," said Potter...and the gargoyle slid out of the way, revealing a hidden door. Draco turned a look of utter disgust on Potter. Why did every sodding thing bow to Potter's every whim? It was truly sickening. No wonder the bastard was so bloody arrogant.

Draco followed as Harry took a step onto the circular staircase. The stairs rose upwards, carrying them up into a tower. When they finally reached the Headmaster's office, Draco nearly forgot why he was there as he stared in amazement at all the magical gadgets, books, portraits and decorations. He saw the dirt-stained brim of the Sorting Hat and walked over to pull it off its stool.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?" Potter asked.

"Nothing," you arrogant arse-kisser.

"Put it back," Potter said. His gaze was fierce, though he didn't move to stop Draco.

Draco paused for a moment--torn between childishly egging the prat on to make him put it down, and conceding the battle to win the war. He was never very good with pride-swallowing, however. It always lodged in the back of his throat like a bitter pill and refused to go down. And it always ended up forcing itself out in taunts, jibes, insults, and fists, if necessary. No...to be a Malfoy was to be Pride Incarnate.

Draco's fingers trailed along the musty edge of the old, worn hat while he considered. A tingle of sensory memory swept through him and he was transported back to his eleven-year-old self, still raw from Potter's rebuff of friendship. He'd been so proud being sorted into Slytherin, but Potter had tainted the moment for him. The ancient material felt stiff and uneven, as if time had eroded it into hills and valleys as the wind and rain had gradually resurfaced the earth over the centuries. Draco traced the stitching along a patch of faded fabric, and looked up to meet Potter's frown.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Potter, I'm not hurting it." He forced himself to offer the hat to Potter. He'd never offered Potter anything but spite since Potter had rejected his hand all those years ago. It took a Herculean effort to offer him anything now, even with ulterior motives. To offer anything would make him vulnerable again, and damned if Draco would ever expose the tiniest inch of his throat to Potter after all that had happened. But here he was, damned or not, holding out something to Potter--the smallest bridge he could manage. It was just a bloody hat, after all. But it was more than that, and he knew it.

Potter's expression remained the same. He didn't move to take the hat. Draco allowed an inward sneer, though he kept his face as passive as he could. Potter was clueless, as usual. Imbecile.

"Welcome, gentlemen. May I be of some assistance?"

Draco nearly dropped the Sorting Hat on the floor in surprise. He turned lazily and plopped it back onto its stool. Then he turned to behold the Headmaster, still in feast-day robes and with that damnable twinkle that nearly undid all Draco's dislike. It was always so difficult to hate the old man. Draco secretly envied Potter's easy friendship with Dumbledore--he could never have that kind of relationship with his own father.

Potter answered first. "Malfoy has something to say to you, Headmaster." He gave Draco a little shove in the direction of the Headmaster.

Draco cleared his throat. He couldn't help a twinge of nervousness. "I wanted to tell you, sir, that I'm switching sides." He swallowed the rest of the speech he'd prepared as the look that Dumbledore leveled at him stripped him of all pretense. It took every scrap of will he could summon to keep from running straight out the way he'd come in. The game was up. There was no way Dumbledore believed him. Unfortunately, Draco had no choice now but to see this catastrophe to its inevitable conclusion.

"Why don't you both have a seat?" Dumbledore offered, waving over two slightly shabby-looking upholstered armchairs.

Draco could feel himself sweating and shivering a little, and he really, really, really hoped Potter didn't notice.

"Tell me more about your intentions, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore continued, as he took the seat behind his desk.

The Headmaster's eyes were a blue so piercing it hurt to look at, but his gaze held Draco's like an iron manacle. His father had made it clear to him that failure was unacceptable. Draco trembled a little more to wonder exactly what "unacceptable" would do to him. He took a deep breath, still unable to drop his gaze from Dumbledore's. The silence seemed to stretch out for an eternity.

"Sir," Draco said finally, stamping firmly on the small waver in his voice. "I would like to offer my services as a spy in my father's house. I am not high in the chain of command, but my father is...I mean, was--" He broke off to clear his throat again. "The Death Eaters are using the manor as a kind of headquarters. I haven't seen the Dark Lord...er, You-Know-Who, yet, but I have a lot of access to meetings and information."

Dumbledore finally allowed Draco's gaze to drop and began summoning cups and saucers. "Would either of you like any tea?"

Potter accepted, shooting a distrustful look at Draco, which Draco caught out of the corner of his eye. He had nearly forgotten Potter was even present. Draco resisted the urge to hide his face in his hands. He also declined the tea.

"Being a spy, as you call it, is a very dangerous game, Draco. And one I don't feel is suited for children," Dumbledore said, peering at Draco over the rims of his half-moon spectacles as he poured.

"How can you say that when Potter is constantly confronting the Dark...You-Know-Who? We're the same age."

Dumbledore said nothing, bowing his head. The expression that passed over the Headmaster's face, though, startled Draco. It looked almost like shame.

Draco glanced at Potter to see if he had witnessed the Headmaster's reaction. But if Potter had seen Dumbledore's face, he showed no sign of it. Potter's expression had turned stony and still. Draco raised an eyebrow at him in silent question, but Potter simply dropped his gaze, giving no answer, silent or otherwise.

Dumbledore placed a scone on Potter's saucer, wedged up against the delicate porcelain cup. Both cup and saucer had stolid-looking red lions painted on them, which flowed like fire into different designs. The effect caused the cup-and-saucer set to appear golden and glowing. Draco glanced in curiosity back to the rest of the cups and saucers. Dumbledore's was similar to Potter's, though every now and then a burst of green, blue or yellow would weave itself into the design for a moment before giving way to the red. The empty cup still on the tray was primarily green with glints of silver flashing like lightning along the cup's edges. The patterns melted and undulated more than flowed, and Draco felt certain that if he touched it, he would feel the dry, smooth, jointed armor of snakeskin, rather than the milky solidity of porcelain.

Mesmerized by the tea set, Draco jumped when Dumbledore continued speaking.

"What are your reasons for joining us, Draco?" Dumbledore said, handing Potter his cup. "Why forsake your family and position to ally yourself with people you have always seemed to detest?"

It was a good question. It was a question Draco had been anticipating, and one he had prepared an answer for. Unfortunately, what came out of his mouth was not the carefully worded speech he had planned.

"They use me as a pawn--my father and the Dark Lord. I resent it and them." Draco bit his lip, appalled at what he'd just said. More was coming, too--he knew it as absolutely as he knew that he wouldn't be able to keep the words in. "Besides," he continued in a whisper, struggling to deny the compulsion drawing deeply buried thoughts into open air. "Voldemort scares me."

Draco gripped the arms of his chair and squeezed his eyes shut in mortification. Of all the idiotic... He'd meant to say that killing was wrong, and Mudbloods were people too, and all kinds of meaningless drivel that would have had these brainless Gryffindors eating out of his hand! If Draco had accepted the tea, he would have suspected Veritaserum. But he didn't have the tea. And besides, he didn't really feel that way, did he? He admired his father--wanted to be like him. Even if he chafed now and then under his father's commands and constant criticisms, he understood it was his path to power. He would not accept that some part of him might think differently. He loved his father.

Draco sat coiled in his chair, thoughts tossing in a fitful sea, as he waited Dumbledore's pronouncement. Damn that meddling old man and his tricks, thought Draco. Damn him to all the bitter rings of Hell.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said, after a lengthy pause. "You've given me quite a lot to think about."

Draco cracked his eyes open and regarded the Headmaster with caution. His hopes rallied a little at Dumbledore's expression. It did not appear that he would be expelled and sent home in disgrace, at any rate. Perhaps he might yet convince the old man?

"I can give you proof, sir," Draco said, swallowing audibly.

Dumbledore raised a questioning eyebrow.

"It's Snape, sir," Draco said. "He's been spying for Voldemort--"

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. That will be enough for now," Dumbledore interrupted. "As I said, you have given me a lot to think about. Would you be willing to continue our discussion at a later date?"

"Of course, sir," Draco said, relieved. He stood up to shake the old man's hand and turned a smirk on Potter.

"Well, Potter, looks as if we're on the same side. What do you think of that?"

Potter's expression was oddly unreadable--he was usually an open book.

"Good evening to you, Mr. Malfoy," said Dumbledore. "I look forward to our chat. Oh, Mr. Potter, would you stay a moment? I'd like to discuss something with you."

"Sure, Professor," Potter-bloody-teacher's-pet replied. "Malfoy," he said as Draco turned to leave the office. "See you in class tomorrow."

Upon reaching the corridor, he started the long walk down to his dormitory. His father would be very pleased with him. At that perfectly ordinary thought, though, Draco felt a small nagging moment of fear intrude into his triumph, like a tiny fly in a spoonful of honey. He frowned. Somehow, this was all Harry Potter's fault.

* * *

"So, what do you think of these recent developments, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

"I don't know, sir," he answered, sipping gingerly at his tea. It was still very hot. "Do you believe him?"

Dumbledore paused. "I believe he does not yet know what he truly wants."

"Sir?" he said, hoping for clarification of this enigmatic remark.

But, of course, as Dumbledore often did, he answered Harry's question with another question. "Why did you come with him, Harry?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but then he realized he really had no idea what to say. Why had he come with Malfoy? All his reasons on the train suddenly seemed shallow and baseless and not quite the true reason. But damned if Harry could put his finger on his motives. The closest he could come to the truth was, 'because he asked me to,' and Harry wasn't about to admit that out loud. He looked into Dumbledore's eyes and pressed his lips into a hard line that blocked lies and truth alike. Dumbledore sighed and let it pass.

"Harry, I wish to speak with you about Occlumency lessons."

The bottom dropped out of Harry's stomach.

"I won't do it," Harry said, setting his tea cup down on his saucer with more force than necessary. A dribble of hot tea sloshed onto his hand, but he didn't care.

Dumbledore sighed. "I realize that it was perhaps ill-advised to have Professor Snape teach you last year, Harry, but it is vitally important you learn. The events of last year make it doubly so."

"Will you teach me yourself?" Harry challenged.

Dumbledore shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Harry interrupted him. "Then I won't do it. I won't. I will not let Snape--"

"Professor Snape, Harry. And I wasn't suggesting that he would be teaching you Occlumency."

Harry shut his mouth with a snap. He gave Dumbledore a mistrustful look but allowed him to continue.

"Professor de Mon, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, is also an accomplished Legilimens. She has agreed to tutor you in Occlumency, if you are willing."

"You mean, you aren't going to force me?" Harry asked, still wary.

"This is your decision, Harry. I hope you will give it another try."

Dumbledore reached into the folds of his voluminous robe and produced a canister with small, colorful citrus fruit painted on the lid. "Lemon sherbet?" he offered.

Harry looked at the tin, then looked at the Headmaster with his hand outstretched. Harry knew that Dumbledore was right. But Occlumency had been horrific, and he could hardly bear the idea of beginning again.

Harry sighed and took a lemon sherbet. "All right," he said. "I'll take the Occlumency lessons. When do I start?"

Dumbledore gave him a small smile. "You'll start tomorrow just after dinner. Is that acceptable?"

Harry choked on his lemon sherbet. It was one thing to agree to the torture, but quite another to be starting so soon. He nodded in acquiescence, though, coughing and teary-eyed from near-asphyxiation. After all, what was the point in waiting? It would just give him more time to build up dread.

"Excellent," said Dumbledore. "Well, you'd better get back to your common room, Harry. Your friends will be worried about you. I'm sure Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley are waiting up."

Harry set the tea cup down on the Headmaster's desk and rose to go. But before he left the room, he turned to look back at Dumbledore.

"There's one more thing, sir," he said.

Dumbledore raised his eyes from his tea things to give Harry a questioning look. "Oh?"

"Today on the train, I thought I saw a dragon by the lake," Harry said. "I could've been dreaming. I probably was, actually, because I thought I heard it say my name--in my mind, I mean. Which is silly, right? Dragons don't talk, much less use telepathy...do they?" Harry fiddled with his tie, suddenly wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

Dumbledore stood frozen for a moment, stooped over the cups and saucers and looking at Harry.

"Dreams are rarely silly, Harry," he said finally, straightening to banish the tea tray, cups, saucers, and scones. "Especially dreams about dragons. And I would not be surprised if there were many things our kind did not know about the nature of the world around us and the creatures that live within it. Do not be too hasty to discount your senses, Harry, including your intuition. They will get you further than assumptions ever could."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, though Dumbledore's answer made little sense to him. Had the Headmaster even answered Harry's question? Harry followed the spiral staircase down to the now-empty corridor. As he walked up to Gryffindor tower, he debated what to tell Hermione and Ron.

* * *

Dumbledore closed his eyes and sighed deeply as soon as he heard the familiar scrape of stone on stone, signifying that the gargoyle guardian stationed at the entrance to his tower had moved back into place. He sat down heavily in the chair he had recently vacated.

As the years passed, he seemed to stretch thinner and thinner. His worry for his students grew exponentially at each turning of the seasons. How much longer could he keep Hogwarts safe from Riddle? How much longer could he keep the children out of this conflict? Already one of them was willing to sell his soul with betrayal. And another stood alone, poised on the brink of a fight he could not yet win.

Dumbledore rubbed his face, then stood up, and walked the few steps to his fireplace. He took a handful of floo powder from the drawer built into the mantel and sprinkled it into the flames.

"Minerva?" he called, as he leaned into the hearth.

"Albus?" Minerva McGonagall's voice eased his spirit a little. He depended on her insight and wisdom so much these days. She would be a good Headmistress.

"Minerva, there is a matter of some urgency which I must speak with you about," he said, doing his best to keep his worries out of his voice. As usual, Minerva heard the worry anyway, despite his efforts. She was the only one who could read him so well.

"What is it, Albus?" she asked, quietly.

"It's about Severus." Dumbledore paused to take in a deep breath, hoping to ease his apprehension. It made little difference, however--Severus was one of his children, as well. "I'm afraid he may be in very grave danger."