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Falling into Destiny	By : Demonic_Host Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female Views: 11026 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with the Harry Potter franchise, nor do I make any money from this piece of work.

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Falling into Destiny
Chapter Forty-five

After the conversion with Draco where you worried over the state of your father’s potential family, getting through the provided meal had been difficult. You felt like there was a lump in your throat and something constricting your chest. Everytime you looked up to see a mirrored image on Draco’s face the feeling only got worse.

The sound of something rustling and a voice singing a song you didn’t know and couldn’t understand made your heart thump quicker in your chest. You sat your spoon down and took a deep breath. You could only hope that whatever introduction that was about to be made went over well. The seconds felt like hours as you waited for a knock on the sturdy wooden door. Yet there was no knock, no one trying to come into the room.

“It’s coming from the study,” Draco said in a surprised tone.

You looked at home with wide eyes. You sat ramrod straight in your chair as you tried to decide the best course of action.

“Maybe they can tell us how to leave unlike your less than helpful father.”

He had regained a confident tone, but the look in his eyes let you know that it was a false confidence even if you couldn’t hear his thoughts spinning. You stood up stiffly and held out your hand to him. You’d been serious about not getting separated while you were there. Though there was a small urge to avoid him as per usual for his own safety, the idea of what your father’s family might be like made avoiding Draco take a back seat in keeping him safe. Which seemed to surprise and intrigue the younger Slytherin as he stared at your outstretched hand. Without saying a word as he stood up, Draco grabbed your hand firmly.

The hallway built into the hill which lead to the study that Draco had found yesterday was a little too narrow for you and Draco to fit shoulder to shoulder. You ended up leading Draco until you got to the room. The strangest sensation was the fact that no one was there…Then the realization struck you as you turned around to look at the portrait on the wall. The redhead in the painting was moving - something she hadn’t been doing before. Not only was she moving, the song you’d been hearing came from her portrait.

You could feel relief wash through Draco almost in sync with your own when you looked at him. With everything you had hypothesized, neither you nor Draco were in any rush to meet anyone regardless of what he had said. A talking portrait didn’t count as meeting someone. As far as you knew, a picture (even a moving picture) couldn’t hurt anyone.

“Who are you?” Draco demanded as he stared at the depiction of the redhead.

“Draco,” you let out sharply as you yanked his hand.

“What?” He asked, gesturing to the woman. “It’s just a painting. She’s not real anymore.”

He wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t true. But it still felt rude. It would have been like arguing with the portraits at Hogwarts - something that sane people just didn’t do. Only those feeble of mind did that.

“ðês âr êow?”

The picture’s voice was clear though the meaning of her words wasn’t. She looked between you and Draco with a sharp look in her blue eyes. She was judging you and Draco. On what basis you had no idea. You just knew that look well after spending years with the Malfoys.

Draco made a sound of derision. “Of course she can’t speak English.”

The picture frowned. You watched as she sat back into the chair that had apparently been painted behind her.

“Fremman êow cwiddian Englisc?”

That sounded familiar somehow. You were pretty sure she was talking about English. At the same time you had no idea what the portrait had said. She seemed to take a moment before reflecting.

“An labhraíonn tú gaeilge? A bheil thu a ’bruidhinn gaelic? Latine loqueris?”

“Latin?” You whispered more to yourself than anything.

While you didn’t speak the language you had been studying its words through the lens of spellcraft. Though apparently you knew Latin enough to recognize that she’d asked if you spoke Latin. Considering that it was a dead language no one spoke Latin anymore. Except the lady in the portrait apparently. You watched as she raised her wand, one that looked eerily like your own.

“Fioscànan,” the lady in the picture pronounced as she kept the tip of her wand towards the underside of her jaw.

She then lowered her wand and looked at you expectantly. You fingered your wand as you looked at the painted woman. She raised hers (seriously her wand looked so much like yours it was scary) and spoke out the word again. She held her wand in place before motioning to you through her two dimensional world.

“I think she wants you to do the spell,” Draco pointed out as he decided to lean back into the desk, half sitting on the edge.

“And if it’s a curse?”

“Why would a painting want you to curse yourself?” The blonde challenged.

“I don’t know,” you said with a frustrated tone. “Why does anything happen? It just does!”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Draco practically goaded you.

“I could blow my head off. So death, death is pretty bad.”

The woman in the painting crossed her arm, wand still in her hand.

“Just try the spell on something else.”

“Are you volunteering?” You asked as you looked back at him with a challenging look.

“No,” he rebuked. “Point at the shelves or something. Besides didnt you say that you’re better at doing magic than me? Shouldn’t you know how to test a spell already?”

You glowered at him before snapping your attention back to the patiently waiting impatient witch. She looked rather displeased with the argument that Draco and you were having. Especially since she didn’t seem to be able to understand any of it. You pointed towards the carving of a large raven.

“Fioshanan,” was your first attempt.

The Witch in the picture didn’t seem pleased when nothing happened. Draco seemed to be amused by it if his mocking laughter was anything to go by. Glaring back at him, you wordlessly cast the silencing jinx on him. Draco stood up angrily.

You laughed quietly at his angry posture; his angry, silent posturing actually. “That’s so much better. I think silence suits you Draco.”

You kept smiling as you turned to look at the woman. The redhead was in her chair, looking as put out as Draco. She raised her wand underneath her jaw and repeated the word. This time you mimicked her wand placement and got the word correctly. A sort of light blue bubble formed around your head. It moved about your head in a similar way as the bubble head charm might have. Only in the same translucent, trick of light way that let you know Draco probably couldn’t see it.

“Well?” The portrait witch asked. “Can you understand me now?”

“I understand you,” you said in surprise.

“Finally. What language are you and the boy speaking?”

“English.”

Draco moved closer to you, moving in front of you to the side before standing there. He let you know how displeased he was without needing to say a single word. Angry thoughts passed through his head so loudly that you barely needed to make eye contact to hear them. You refixed your eyes on the painting as you tried to ignore him.

"That was unlike anything English I’ve heard of spoken.”

“You can speak English? Then why didn’t you?”

“I am speaking English. Neither you or he can understand me without the enchantment. So I ask again— what language are you using?”

You were puzzled by that. Draco’s angry tantrum as he swanned out of the study and back through the dark hallway broke your concentration. You lowered your wand as you hurried after him; the language spell dissipated as you did so. By the time you caught back up to Draco he had gotten to the main room.

“Draco,” you called out as you reached for his wrist.

Before you were able to touch him, Draco yanked his arm out of the way. He glared at you. You closed your own for a moment, clenching your jaw. Why did he have to storm away? Didn’t he remember the potential danger by separating? True the closest you had gotten to seeing a family member on your father’s side had been the house-elf and the painting so far. But you didn’t want to take the chance of something bad happening to Draco in this strange place without being there to try and help him.

“Stop throwing a fit. It was just one little silencing jinx,” you said in an exasperated tone. “I was planning to take it off soon."

Seeing as he hadn’t kept his magic as fluid as you had the chances of him being able to counter the jinx nonverbally was slim to none. He wouldn’t be taught nonverbal spells for three more years after all.

Despite the fact that you weren’t ready to argue with him, you knew if you didn’t remove the silencing spell he’d be a beast to be around later. You reached out and grabbed at the golden mouth-mask that only you could see. Your previous spell dissipated under your touch.

“There? Better?”

“How dare you—“

“Draco,” you cut him off. “Weren’t you the one that wanted me to talk with the lady in the picture? I needed to concentrate and I couldn’t with you laughing. If it makes you feel better I promise I won’t do it again okay?”

“Fine,” Draco snapped. “Go talk to the stupid painting. Just find us a way to get home."

“Fine,” you snapped back at him mood soured. “Let’s go.”

“I think I’ll stay right here,” Draco said as he sat down at the small table still laden with breakfast.

“We should stay together.”

“You should have thought about that before you jinxed me.”

“Fine,” you snapped again, turning around and started back to the private hallway. “You want to stay out here by yourself, be my guest. Have a good breakfast.”

“I intend to.”

You groaned in frustration and anger at him. He had soured an amusing situation. On top of that he was being foolish. And no matter what you said he needed to have the last word! It was infuriating!

Once you were back in front of the painted witch, you angrily spoke the spell to help communicate. The morning sun streamed in even more through the terrace you had yet to explore. But you paid little mind to that.

“Is the boy your brother?”

“Draco? No,” you said instantly. “Why?”

“He has an interesting name. Is he a relation to Arthur?”

“Arthur…?” You asked as you held your wand to the underside of your jaw. “Arthur who?”

“Arthur of the house Pendragon, son of Uther and the Lady Igraine.”

Your eyes widened. “You mean King Arthur?”

“King? I suppose. His name had a similar origin as their family’s; his temperament as well.”

“No...not that I know of. At least not directly...or closely. He’s descended from Armand Malfoy from the Normand conquest of Britain.”

“Britannica was conquered?”

The fact that she seemed unaware of that fact made you stand and stare at her in awe. How old was this portrait?

“Yes. A long time ago,” you paused, trying to remember the lectures about it from Binn’s classes. “Over 900 years ago I think.”

“Nearly a thousand years you say? Have I been asleep so long?”

The last part had been to herself it seemed. You watched with interest as the painting of the witch came together terms with the information you had given her. Personally you were trying to come to terms with what was going on yourself. The art style of the painting seemed so realistic. Yet if she was to be believed it would have been painted over closer to a thousand years ago.

“Tell me. What became of Camelot?”

Oh wow. She wanted to know what had become of Camelot? Your arm fell in shock, once again taking the spell with it. Once you were able to compose yourself to shake out of the shock, you cast the spell once more and continued to talk to the portrait.

“Camelot disappeared almost 1,500 years ago.”

The picture witch quiet. After a deafening minute of silence she finally stated. “My son was successful then.”

“Your son?”

There was a feeling of dread in your stomachs as you asked that simple question. She spoke like her son had something to do with the fall of Camelot...but that would mean…

“Mordred. Your son was Mordred?” You asked in quiet shock. She nodded but seemed mildly surprised at your shock and awe. “You’re Morgan le Fay?”

“You seemed shocked by this. Were you not the one to seek me out to wake me?”

“...No,” you said as you did your best not to lower your wand hand. ”I wasn’t seeking you out. I was at a Wedding when I heard my father calling me. Then I ended up here…”

You were talking to a magical remnant of The Queen of Avalon. The dark witch counter to Merlin - the Prince of Enchanters. It boggled the mind in so many ways.

“Curious,” the portrait of one of the strongest dark witches of all time murmured. She looked at you with a critical eye. “You heard your father beacon you, you say? He must have had strong ties to Avalon in deed to summon you through the mist. Bring him here. I would speak to him.”

“I can’t,” you hesitated before continuing. “He’s not alive.”

You weren’t about to tell a painting of one of the most famous dark witches in history everything. While she couldn’t actually harm you as she was just a painting, she might have been able to travel to her other portraits and talk to others that way. Your secret wasn’t exactly something you wanted spread about.

“How could that be? How could the dead summon you to Avalon when we have been in slumber for nearly a millennia and a half?”

You actually couldn’t have answered that even if you wanted to. Nothing was making sense. Avalon has been lost to the world around the same time as Camelot had been. Yet your father had claimed that this was his home. He also claimed that this was where he was buried. Normally that would make sense - people tended to return back to a place of security and comfort to die if they had the chance. The problem was that your father also claimed to have gone to Hogwarts...to have been in Slytherin nonetheless.

Hogwarts was only about a thousand years old. The fall of Camelot and Avalon predated that by half a century…

Avalon…

Your father was buried in Avalon.

...you were in Avalon.

The realization hit you once more like a sack of bricks. The appraising look you were getting from the living portrait of Morgan Le Fay only made your emotions even more unbalanced. You were overwhelmed with the situation in a way that had you mentally scrambling for a way out. You needed to be somewhere safe...somewhere familiar...to think everything through.

“I need to go. I need to go home. How do I get home?” You asked in a state of shock.

“I imagine the same way you came here.”

Would everyone stop saying that?! It wasn’t helpful in the least.

“How?” You practically begged. “How did I get here?”

“With practice you’ll be able to summon the mists of Avalon at any large travel way to take you to and fro. For now, stand at the beach you must have came in through; Focus on something or someone you want to see again across the mists with all your heart. Use that desire to be reunited to guide your magic into making a pathway. But be careful of the water folk. They don’t take kindly to those who travel along the way.”

That, unfortunately, you’d learned the hard way.
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Falling into Destiny