"The one from a hundred years ago?"
"That legendary wizard—Harry Potter?"
Harry glanced at Draco. The boy was staring at him with an expression of pure, almost desperate expectation. The look said it all: *Go on, Potter—admit it! You're the wizard from a century ago! My parents don't believe me—shock them!*
A spark of mischievous amusement flickered through Harry.
"Of course not," he said with an easy smile. "I only told Draco that to tease him."
"Ah. I see." Lucius's face relaxed into understanding. "I thought as much. Crossing time is one thing—but shrinking from seventeen back to eleven? Utterly impossible."
One could hardly blame him. The claim was too extraordinary for any sensible man to accept at face value.
Draco's expression crumpled into shock, then into wounded accusation as he glared at Harry. Harry only grinned back at him, the picture of an adult indulging a child's fantasy. To Lucius and Narcissa the exchange merely confirmed that Harry had been joking with their son. They did not mind. After all, the boy had saved Draco's future.
"Actually," Harry continued, "I have a private matter to discuss while I am here."
"Please speak, Mr. Potter. Whatever the House of Malfoy can do, we shall do it wholeheartedly." Lucius leaned forward slightly, his tone earnest.
Harry drew two documents from his purse and handed them across.
"These are the deeds confirming the Hogwarts Board of Governors seats formerly held by Gringotts and by the Lestrange family. Gringotts has already transferred both to me."
Lucius's heart skipped. He examined the parchment carefully and found it genuine.
A boy of twelve… with connections like these?
He looked at Harry again, reassessing. Formidable power, wide-reaching influence, and Dumbledore's golden boy into the bargain…
Perhaps placing an early wager on this one would not be unwise after all.
True to his principle of never asking unnecessary questions, Lucius simply said, "Am I to understand that you wish me to help you take a seat on the Board?"
"No—my friend." Harry's tone remained light. "I am still a student. Sitting on the Board would be pointless for me. Far better that my friend hold the seat for the time being."
"Very well." Lucius nodded. "With these documents in hand, and with the influence of the Malfoy name, we can certainly secure the seat for you and your friend."
"There is one small difficulty," Harry added. "My friend's… identity may prove inconvenient."
Lucius almost smiled. How inconvenient could any identity be compared with that of a Death Eater?
"You need not worry, Mr. Potter. Who is this friend of yours?"
"A unicorn," Harry said, and watched every face in the room freeze. "One of the unicorns of the Forbidden Forest."
"A… unicorn?" Lucius repeated, as though hoping he had misheard.
"Yes. Will that be a problem?"
"No—no problem at all!" Lucius drew a deep breath and forced a smile. "Any friend of Mr. Potter's has my support…"
"Her name is Pobby. She can speak." Harry smiled. "Don't worry, Mr. Malfoy—I won't place you in an awkward position."
"Very well."
Lucius still looked doubtful. "Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Potter, but unicorns are said to approach only the purest of heart—and only women. How did she come to befriend you?"
Harry sighed. "I was serving detention in the Forbidden Forest when I found Voldemort attacking her, trying to drink her blood to prolong his life. I drove him off and saved her. We've been friends ever since."
The name hung in the air like a curse. Some spoke it out of ignorance; others out of sheer defiance. Harry clearly belonged to the latter group.
As a Hogwarts governor, Lucius kept his ear to the ground. He knew well enough what had happened at the end of term. If the boy claimed to have driven Voldemort away in the Forest, the claim was almost certainly true.
"That explains it," Lucius murmured. He glanced at Draco, who was watching Harry with open admiration, and shook his head in weary resignation.
When the gap between one's own child and another's was small, a father might still feel competitive. When the gap became this vast, competition was simply exhausting.
After dinner Lucius made no move to hurry Harry away, and Harry was in no hurry either. Lucius suggested that Draco show their guest around the grounds—proper hospitality demanded no less.
Draco rose at once and led Harry outside.
The moment they were alone, Draco's brow furrowed.
"Harry, why didn't you tell Father and Mother the truth?"
"What truth?" Harry asked, clearly amused.
The cheerful, almost parental expression on Harry's face only made Draco more frantic.
"That you're the Harry Potter from a hundred years ago!"
"Guess," Harry said lightly.
Draco's face twitched. "Saint Potter…" he muttered.
"Has anyone ever told you that you sound rather like your great-great-aunt?" Harry remarked. "She used to call me that as well—Saint Potter. I think it started in second year."
Draco's curiosity was instantly caught. "Will you tell me about her? About the two of you?"
He was still a child, after all, and stories of legendary wizards—especially those connected to his own ancestors—held a powerful fascination.
"There isn't much to tell. We first met on the Hogwarts Express, much as you and I did. But Cassandra's manners were far better than yours. She never attacked anyone's character or background. At worst she mocked me for being lazy or arrogant…"
Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again, uncertain how to reply.
"Do you know why I hexed you that day on the train?" Harry's smile turned faintly wicked.
"Why?"
"Because you reminded me of her. Same surname, same hair—and yet you were thoroughly unpleasant. I decided then and there that I ought to teach you a lesson on her behalf."
"Er… sorry?" Draco scratched his head.
"Yes, you should be." Harry gave a soft snort. "Your so-called pure-blood pride is a pale shadow of what it once was. Your great-great-aunt's pride meant accepting the responsibilities that came with pure blood—looking after Muggle-borns like me."
"But you're so powerful. Why would she need to…?"
"That was a long time ago." Harry's voice softened. "Do you still have anything of hers in the house? I find I miss her rather badly…"
"I don't know." Draco shook his head. "No wonder Legilimency showed you at once that 'Merope' wasn't Cassandra. You two must have been close."
"Close?" Harry considered. "She spent most of her time looking down on me, actually."
"I don't believe that," Draco said suddenly. "I think she liked you a great deal. Otherwise…"
"Otherwise what?"
"I couldn't say. Just a feeling."
Harry stopped walking and looked at the boy with sudden seriousness.
"I'm telling you all this because you are her descendant. I hope you will grow up to be proud the way she was—proud and principled—rather than merely proud. I hope you are not beyond saving, and that I have not wasted my breath this evening."
"I will, Harry," Draco answered solemnly. "You're a legendary wizard. I'll listen to you."
"Good. Then tell me—do you know of Cassandra's father? Septimus Malfoy?"
"He was my great-great-grandfather," Draco said. "You knew him as well?"
"This is not my first visit to Malfoy Manor. The last time I came, the head of the family was Septimus Malfoy himself." Harry's tone was quiet. "Old families like yours usually keep portraits of their ancestors. Do you have his? I should like to speak with him."
Draco's eyes lit up at once.
If they could speak to the old master, Harry's identity would be proved beyond doubt!
"I know where he is—third floor. I'll take you."
He turned and strode off without waiting. Harry followed with a private smile. Impatient boy…
They reached a quiet room on the third floor. Harry pushed the door open and lit the lamps with a flick of his wand.
"I must remind you," a familiar voice said, rich and measured, "that someone is trying to sleep in here."
"Mr. Malfoy," Harry greeted him.
There was a long pause.
"That voice… it sounds familiar."
Harry stepped forward until he stood before the portrait of Septimus Malfoy, seated in an elegant chair.
Septimus fell silent. Then his eyes sharpened.
"Potter!"
Harry made a small, involuntary sound of amusement through his nose. Of course. The Malfoy pronunciation of "Potter" had not changed in a hundred years.
One could hardly blame Septimus for not recognising the voice at once; the last time Harry had visited the manor had been during the summer after fourth year. Yet the moment the portrait laid eyes on the boy, recognition was instantaneous.
"Potter! How dare you show your face in Malfoy Manor again?!" Septimus's platinum-blond hair seemed to stir in a non-existent breeze as he fought to control his temper.
Draco kept his head down, the very picture of someone thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy," Harry said, genuinely surprised. "I didn't expect you to remember me—let alone recognise me at a glance."
"Recognise you?" Septimus gave a humourless laugh that sounded almost painful. "Potter, I would know you even if you were reduced to ash, you absolute menace! What potion did you feed my Cass that made her so obsessed she tried to travel through time to find you?!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy." For once Harry offered no sharp retort. The man before him was not merely an ancestor's portrait; he was a father who had lost his daughter.
"Sorry?!" Septimus's laugh turned bitter. "Is a single apology supposed to be enough? I lost my daughter—my dearest child! For all I know she is already dead, chasing that impossible goal of hers!"
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was nothing he could say. He simply lowered his head and accepted the reprimand in silence. He deserved it.
After a time Septimus's anger seemed to ease a fraction.
"At least," he said coldly, "you have not proved yourself a complete ingrate. You still remembered to pay a visit to the manor."
His eyes held the unmistakable look of a man who had watched a wild boar root around his prize cabbage patch.
"Actually, Mr. Septimus," Harry said carefully, "I only recently learned that I belong to the Potter family. I am not, as you once believed, from the Muggle world."
The change in the portrait was immediate. Septimus's entire bearing shifted.
"You mean to say you are a Potter?" He rose abruptly and began pacing the painted floor, muttering under his breath.
It was not Harry's surname that pleased him so much as the fact that the boy was not a Muggle-born after all—pure-blood, or at least pure enough. A small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless.
"A fortunate discovery, Potter," Septimus sniffed. "But it does not erase your irresponsibility. After you and Ranrok destroyed each other, Cass seemed to lose her mind. First she begged me to introduce her to the Seer Cassandra Trelawney so she could study Divination and learn of your fate…"
He pointed toward the back of the frame.
"Behind the portrait there is a letter she received. At the time she was… well. Read it yourself. If you have any heart left, I trust you will help me find out what became of her."
Harry blinked, then Transfigured a stool, climbed onto it, and reached behind the frame. His fingers closed on an envelope.
He drew it out, sat down, and unfolded the crumpled parchment inside. The ink had been blurred by tears, but the words were still legible:
Miss Malfoy,
I regret to inform you that I must release you from your apprenticeship.
I am sorry. It appears I misjudged your potential for Divination. Even the most gifted Seer may occasionally err; I hope you will understand.
You need no longer concern yourself with your own dullness. You may now pursue a more suitable path—carpet-weaving, for example.
Unfortunately I am not acquainted with any carpet-weavers, nor do I have the time to write you a letter of recommendation.
Please return to Wiltshire as soon as you receive this letter.
—Cassandra Trelawney
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