fic: weirdways ch.1, pt.2 (hp)
Nov. 25th, 2006 03:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jukeboxhound_backupPosted 25 November 2007
Part 1 // Part 2
_______
They walked, and walked, until Harry thought they could have walked the distance between northern
Strange’s one-sided rambling on magicians and history eventually faded to quiet. Malfoy had been silent the whole time. This suited Harry just fine, because if he was forced to make conversation with the Slytherin then he couldn’t be held culpable for his actions.
It took some time before he saw a small rectangle of light growing in front of them as they walked, coming nearer more quickly than was physically possible, and suddenly they were stepping from the road through a doorway.
The doorway opened out into a vast library with every possible surface and nook crammed with books, books old and then very old bound in different tones of leather or sometimes not bound at all. The shelves, carved to look like spreading oak branches and leaves and animals, were lit by the yellow light of several oil lamps. Harry walked through the doorway and was startled to find himself standing on a sofa; he turned around and saw that their apparent doorway was actually a mirror hanging on the wall behind the furniture.
Strange didn’t seem to find it at all peculiar. He stepped down from the sofa and approached the paper-strewn desk, where a smallish older gentleman was looking at the two boys in horror.
“Mr Norrell, I have found these two young magicians—I am correct in assuming that Mr Malfoy is also a magician, yes?—wandering the King’s Roads. They have suffered a very harrowing experience and I would have them rest away their ills. I am sorry that I did not ask for your agreement before bringing them here, but I felt certain you would see as I did and understand my decision.”
There was something in Strange’s tone that told Harry he didn’t think the older man would’ve agreed at all and that Strange was just being polite in saying so. But the older man didn’t seem to notice, as his eyes went from Harry to Malfoy and back again as though desperately hoping that they were going to disappear, and his aged hands wrung together nervously.
“Oh! Oh, oh my, this is not acceptable, simply not…but the books, Mr Strange, the books…”
“I sincerely doubt either of our guests are thieves or book-murderers, Mr Norrell,” Strange assured him smoothly, and this time Harry could clearly hear the undertone of exasperation. “Boys, this is Mr Norrell. Mr Norrell, may I introduce to you Mr Draco Malfoy and Mr Harry Potter?”
As before with Strange, Harry’s own name didn’t cause a reaction, but Norrell peered closely at Malfoy.
“Mr Strange, I have told you upon many an occasion of my opinion concerning fraternization with the Other. I might have thought that you of all men would be most reluctant to have dealings—“
“I sincerely doubt that Mr Malfoy is fey in any way,” Strange said coldly, “rather that his name is a portent of possibility. I also recall your lengthy discourses upon the nature of coincidence, and so I would not dare to call it that, either.”
It was strange to be standing in front of two strangers and be talked about, Harry thought, even if they were talking about Malfoy in particular. He glanced at the Slytherin, and saw him looking ready to collapse; he was paler than ever, almost as grey as the sky outside, and looked like he might be feverish. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out why Malfoy’s name would cause such an issue, and didn’t they have more important things to be wondering about?
“Excuse me,” Harry broke in, refusing to be embarrassed when the two gentlemen turned to him with some surprise and, in the case of Norrell, affront, “but do you think that maybe we could be looking for a way back to my school?”
Strange opened his mouth to speak, but Norrell beat him to it with a frown. “Do not underestimate the power of a name, boy. For one to be called a dragon of evil faith—“
“That’s not true!” Malfoy burst out. “I mean, it is, but my first name was my mother’s idea, it’s a tradition, it doesn’t mean anything!”
“Gee, Draco, I don’t know,” Harry snapped, disgusted, “sounds pretty accurate to me.”
“Shut up, Potter, you don’t know anything!”
“At least I know what loyalty is, you selfish, murdering traitor—“
“I haven’t killed anybody, you imbecile! And how dare you—“
A deafening clap of thunder startled them into silence. Strange lowered his hands and gave them that piercing, measuring stare, as though he were looking through them to the other side of the library. After a moment, he said softly, “My apologies, but your disagreement was upsetting Mr Norrell’s rather delicate sensibilities.”
Indeed, the older man had gotten up from his desk and was flitting around the bookshelves like an anxious butterfly, trying and failing to pretend that he hadn’t heard them arguing.
“I have proven myself a terrible host just moments after you crossed the threshold,” Strange continued with a smile that Harry couldn’t convince himself was real, “and I fear that my dear Arabella would have chosen quite a few choice words with which to remind me of my duties. I beg your pardon.
“This is Hurtfew Abbey, Mr Norrell’s ancestral home, and though it normally resides in
Still feeling like planting a fist in Malfoy’s face, Harry simply nodded and followed the gentleman out of the library. The thought had occurred to him that trusting these two gentlemen might be a bad idea, but why would Voldemort waste his time with such an extravagant ruse when he was so close to toppling Hogwarts? Besides, it was hard to believe that a man as small, white-haired, and cranky as Norrell could do anything worse than giving him a paper-cut.
Strange led them down a few turns of corridors to what must have been a guest wing. Holding open a beautifully carved oaken door, he smiled and said, “Mr Malfoy, I hope this room will satisfy your expectations.”
The Slytherin shuffled past them, hardly bothering to look around before he sank heavily onto the edge of the four-poster bed. There was a horrifying moment in which Harry feared he might have to share the room with Malfoy, but he silently sighed in relief when Strange gently shut the door and pointed him into another room a few doors away.
“Whoa,” Harry couldn’t help but murmur. The bedroom was large and very much a perfect example of early architecture, with a vaulted ceiling and filled with what, to his modern eye, looked like priceless handcrafted antiques. Either Norrell and Strange were filthy rich as well as eccentric, or there was more going on than he knew. Given his track record, Harry was leaning heavily on the latter.
“Is it to your liking?” Strange asked, looking pleased. “While I possess a certain amount of loyalty to my own estate, I must admit that Mr Norrell was quite fortunate to come into possession of the abbey. It is—or was—the pride of
Harry ran a hand over the bedspread, only half-surprised to find what felt like Egyptian cotton, and looked at the man over his shoulder. “What is this place? I know you said it was called Hurtfew Abbey, but…what is it?”
“An intelligent question, and one I cannot fully answer myself. I must ask, what year is it? Only a decade or so must have passed since Lord Wellington’s decisive victory for
Jonathan Strange’s company would take some getting used to. “Uh, it’s May, 1998,” he said slowly.
The gentleman blinked, looking torn between excitement and sickness. “Good Lord! I—that is, it has been well over a hundred and fifty years?”
Like Harry would actually know. “I guess?”
Strange’s mouth worked a bit as he tried to find something to say. “What…what of the movement for the Revival of English Magic? There must be schools of magicians, and magicians serving in all the posts of the government, and magic restored to its former respectable occupation.”
“The wizarding world’s got schools, yeah, and a Ministry of Magic—“
“A ministry! Of magic!” Strange looked like Christmas had come early. “And what of the English people? Surely magicians are invited to the most fashionable of dinners, and doing great things in the name of the Government!”
“Well, the muggles don’t know we exist, of course—“
“Muggles?”
“Non-magic people. The Ministry keeps muggles from finding out about wizards—“ The stricken expression on Strange’s handsome face made Harry stop mid-sentence, wondering what he’d said wrong.
“Do you mean to say that we practitioners of magic are kept segregated? But then, how are you to use magic for the good of
“Um,” said Harry intelligently. “I really don’t think I’m the best person to be asking about this kind of stuff.”
“Of course, of course,” Strange murmured, looking distracted. As if a switch had been flipped, his mood tuned melancholy. “I apologize, Mr Potter. Since I have had to part with—but that is of no interest to you. I will not keep you from your rest any longer, Mr Potter, and should you need my assistance, simply speak my name aloud.”
He bowed and exited the room, closing the door behind him, and left Harry wondering if the odd gentleman really was insane, or just bi-polar.
Unconsciously mimicking Malfoy, the Gryffindor sank down onto the luxurious bed. He tried not to think about what might be happening at Hogwarts, but he couldn’t help himself; images of Hermione and Ron lying broken on the stones flitted through his head, perhaps dead or something worse—Fred and George still laughing as green light snuffed out their lives—Neville tortured to join his parents in madness—Remus dead, the last of the Marauders and a father besides—and Ginny…Ginny. If she died, Harry wasn’t sure what he would do. They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all, but for being an unwanted orphan most of his life, Harry wasn’t sure he would agree; and there were already an uncomfortable number of similarities between himself and Voldemort for him to be optimistic about the answer.
Harry resisted the urge to kick one of the undoubtedly expensive antiques. If he managed to get back to Hogwarts and found that his morbid thoughts weren’t unfounded… Well. Heads would, quite literally, roll.
But for the moment, at least, he was helpless, not knowing where he was or how he got there, and in dubious company. Shoving off his battered shoes, Harry rolled onto his side to stare at the far wall, feeling like he was back in fifth year and caught in a trap of fury and self-loathing and general unhappiness with the state of things. This time, though, he didn’t have anyone to help him except himself.
xxx
Draco stared down at the finely handmade rug and absently listened to the white noise in his head.
Crabbe’s dead. Which shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, not when Crabbe had snarled about false friendships before casting the Fiend Fyre, but it did. And Draco was too tired to be angry about that, too tired to berate himself for forgetting that Crabbe and Goyle were only loyal to him because of their fathers and not for Draco himself.
What would Voldemort do to him when he found out how royally the blond had fucked up? What would he do to his parents, for that matter?
Doesn’t matter. Obviously, trying to help anyone but himself got everyone screwed over—look at where his attempts to keep Lucius and Narcissa from being killed had gotten him, and Snape, and Dumbledore. And hey, maybe being relieved that they were lost on the far side of Hell or wherever and thus far from anyone’s reach was pretty fucking cowardly, but he wasn’t a Gryffindor for a reason.
From Draco’s point of view, he was dead—or would wish he was—regardless of who won the war. A snake would hide in the closest available hole, and while it was hardly dignified a metaphor, it was still accurate, and the Malfoys had lost any right to dignity the moment Lucius was sent to Azkaban. At this stage in the game, killing Potter probably wouldn’t make a single fucking difference except to Draco’s selfish vindictiveness.
The thoughts milled about in circles in Draco’s mind until they blended into a steady pool of aimless guilt, relief, rage, self-disgust, vengefulness, and good helping of a million other emotions he didn’t care to think about. So he curled into a tiny ball at the head of the bed and fell into an exhausted, dreamless escape.
xxx
Norrell and Strange were both very dangerous men, and not because they had been the only two practical magicians of their time. Norrell was petty, and small-minded, and entirely ignorant of the way the world worked outside of his beloved books; he was easily manipulated, easily controlled by thieves and murderers dressed in smart clothes and smarter lies, capable of powerful magic and stronger personal vendettas.
If the Raven King’s prophecy had called Norrell Fearfulness, then the younger man was Arrogance. Strange had the whimsical and mercurial soul of a poet, who lived in a fantasy world of inspirations and half-madness. He was impetuous and genius; he’d conspired with the elements against Napoleon’s armies and raised the Hell-speaking dead, reinvented the magics of the golden-age Aureate magicians, challenged the sidhe and walked the King’s Roads behind mirrors. Blind belief in his own talent and immortality had cost him everything, including the woman he’d loved and who was his strongest tether to reality.
Perhaps it’d been a stupid hope that one day Strange would see Arabella again—after all, the fairy tales were all correct in claiming that time passed differently on Earth than in the Other realms, and travel between kingdoms wasn’t very difficult for a magician. But apparently more than a hundred and fifty years had passed, and only the sidhe were exempt from the laws of time. It was possible that the enchantment of the thistledown-haired fairy who’d stolen Arabella from him in the first place gave her longer life, but all the sources that Strange had read didn’t make it likely.
Strange paused at the entrance to Abbey’s main library, one hand on the jamb as he idly watched Norrell peruse one of the ubiquitous books. Outside the windows, one could only see darkness and the slightly darker silhouettes of skeletal trees.
“You have made a very foolish mistake, Mr Strange,” said Norrell bluntly, blinking at him peevishly over the top of the tome and unnoticing of the other’s disturbance. “One never knows the sort of trouble that unknown persons might bring without proper introductions—thieves and brigands, book-murderers—“
Even though it’d been a good three hundred years since the last person was executed for the crime of book-murdering (defined as willful destruction of a book of magic), the sheer improbability never seemed to occur to the older man. Far too used to these kinds of paranoid rants, Strange gave him his characteristic sardonic smile and murmured, “I daresay you would be far more familiar with that sort of danger than I.”
Stung, Norrell retreated behind his book with ill grace, but Strange continued before it could turn into an argument.
“Did it not occur to your well-educated mind, Mr Norrell, that the arrival of two magicians, so young at that, would herald the advent of change? And while I have never known someone so resistant to change as your admirable self, it seems that we would be far better served in the position of observation rather than ignorance—the latter of which, I believe, you have long considered to be the highest flaw of mankind.”
As he spoke, Strange glided over to one of the windows and sat on the wide sill with half-lidded dark eyes. His earlier melancholy had taken him to one of those moods of distance and somewhat cynical amusement. Norrell despised these particular moods, because it reminded him how far his former pupil had unwisely delved into the darker practices and just how little he really understood Strange.
“I know that,” Norrell muttered irritably, and gave Strange a serious look. “I am far more concerned with your continued recklessness. Even now, you refuse to acknowledge the dangers—“
“Au contraire, Mr Norrell.” Strange tilted his head in a moment of silent thought. Then he smiled that sardonic twist again. “But someone must be the counterbalance to your habit of mistrust for every thing and person. And you must admit that this is far more interesting a chance for education than books that have not changed for many a century.”
Norrell stroked the book he held, as though to apologize for his companion’s flat dismissal, but both men knew that Norrell was just as interested in this unexpected turn of events.
“And really,” Strange said wryly, “what else do we have to lose?”
________
*huggles a Jonathan Strange plushie*
This is NOT, by the way, a creature!fic of any kind. The men's fixation on Malfoy's name has to do with the old-school ideas of magic, destiny, and the power of names--not some weird, implausible, and entirely too complicated history involving veelas or the like.
