http://jay-zelenka.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
jay-zelenka.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
remix_redux2007-04-15 01:36 am
jay-zelenka.livejournal.com) wrote in remix_redux2007-04-15 01:36 am
The Next Great Adventure (Alla Prima Remix) [Harry Potter; Albus Dumbledore/Phineas Nigellus]
Title: The Next Great Adventure (Alla Prima Remix)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
st_aurafina
Summary: The greatest magic demands the greatest price.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Harry Potter
Original story: The Next Great Adventure, byvissy
The Next Great Adventure – Alla Prima Remix
1871
The idea had come to Albus during an assembly of the Wizengamot to determine the fate of the Mona Lisa; ostensibly removed from public viewing in the non-wizarding world for protection during the Franco-Prussian war. On that day, he stood beside La Giaconda in the courtroom as the elder wizards and witches argued tiny details backwards and forwards. He didn't listen - he was watching the glowing surface of oils, waiting for the slow smile to reach its enigmatic zenith. Da Vinci, muggle-born, untrained, but with hands that streamed magic in native form, had captured in some part the ability to paint a moving portrait. The lady moved with measured calm; hard to detect with the naked eye, but certain. The Wizengamot had convened to determine whether a painting created by a muggle artist could be regarded as magical, and if so, how such a well-known work could be removed with a minimum of damage to the Statute of Secrecy. The Mona Lisa did not speak in her own defence; indeed, she had never spoken. It was unknown whether she chose to remain silent or was not capable of speech. Albus thought that the former applied – she watched the proceedings with an amused expression, but deigned to take part. Stepping a little further back from the frame, he caught her gaze, and delighted in the tiny folds that crinkled at the corners of her eyes in recognition. She was a sublime, complex entity, and cared not for the dry words of old men and women. At the moment, with his pulse in his ears and a blossoming of heat in his groin, he cared as little as she.
Later, once judgement had been passed to return the lady to the Louvre pending a review of the situation early in the twentieth century, all attendees reconvened at a favoured inn for drinks and celebrations, regardless of the positions that each member had argued. Normally one to exult in the exuberance that was discharged by the notoriously staid collection of wizards at the conclusion of a long-winded debate, tonight Albus sat a little aside from his ministry cohorts, and nursed a firewhiskey while he thought.
What was it about the Mona Lisa that made her portrait come to life, when a thousand other paintings by muggle artists had not? And why was her image so vivid, her expression so palpably alive, when artists of the wizarding world had so far only managed to create portraits that were shallow facsimiles of their living subjects, unable to evolve and develop ideas, rarely changing patterns of speech, let alone ideologies?
The answer came to him, sweetly, as though he had always known it, while looking across the room at Phineas Nigellus, recently married and now deep in conversation with his cousin and head of Magical Law Enforcement. Phineas, feeling the weight of his gaze, looked up at Albus with narrow-eyed suspicion, which Albus allayed by rasing his glass in Phineas' direction. Phineas returned to his conversation, and Albus watched as the firelight cast shadows across the long planes of the man's face knowing that the power of the portrait was, at least in part, dependent on the personality that was to be captured.
1956
In the round office, newly cleared of Professor Dippet's belongings, Albus considered the portrait, and the portrait considered him in return, a well-executed copy of the familiar sneer ghosting about the lips.
"Do you remember me, Headmaster?" Albus' question was gentle, but Phineas' rebuke was not.
"It is of little matter to me, but I do recall your face." The voice blistered, sere as it had always been, but the lack of substance behind it pulled at Albus like an missing tooth. It had been thirty years since Phineas' death, and Albus would not allow this shadow-puppet, blurred at the edges, to assuage the loss.
"We were friends, you know, here at Hogwarts." Albus unwrapped the parcel that had arrived by owl earlier this morning, amidst a flurry of mail from the Ministry and the Board of Governors welcoming him as the new Headmaster. "Sometimes, I wonder if you wished, as I did, that we could have been a little more than friends."
Phineas watched with feigned disinterest as Albus laid the dagger and the silver bowl on the glossy surface of the desk. "I recall that you were most abysmal at potions. And randy as a goat. I am thankful that by the time I was installed in this office, you were firmly ensconced with that madman Flamel. And his wife." He gave a snort of disgust, then flared his nostrils in surprise as Albus lifted the portrait from the wall, and placed it on an easel. Phineas now regarded him warily from the centre of the room, where the rug had been rolled away to expose the pale flagstones.
"Things have not been well in the school, my old friend. These last few years have brought much discord." Albus spoke as he draped the other portraits, ignoring the muttered protestations from beneath the dust-cloths.
"With all due respect to our sleeping friend Armando, things have not been well since he was made headmaster." Phineas examined his fingernails. "He was all together too lenient on the students, as I suspect you will be."
"Then I am sure that you will agree that I will have great need of your advice, of your mind, and mentorship."
Phineas gave an ironically florid bow that had long passed out of fashion. "I exist but to serve the Headmaster."
"Good," said Albus, and neatly slit his palm from thumb to little finger.
1925
Nicolas had, of course, been intrigued with the idea. "To imbue a likeness with a living mind, able to reason as a man does? T'would be wondrous, to regain the wisdom of those minds lost to time. And yet, I fear that it would be a thing ill-used by those of little benevolence. We shall keep these thoughts between ourselves, dear one, for not all are willing to lay aside a newly forged weapon for the sake of the greater good."
On long afternoons, as tumbled stones cast shadows across the sunken dell of the Flamels' home, the three of them drank wine and cast olive pits and talked of ways to reclaim the spirit of a painting.
"The reckoning is the key to the enchantment," Nicolas shook the last of the crumbs onto the grass. "This is the point where those who will not pay of themselves shall stumble." He looked down at Albus speculatively. "But I wager you have always known this."
"Why this portrait, Albus?" Perenelle combed her fingers through the auburn hair, fanning it out into a glowing halo as he lay on the grass, closed eyes a poor barrier for the blazing sun. "Why must it be this man? I had not thought you so close."
"Phineas had high expectations of everyone, including himself." Albus rolled onto his side, and watched a phalanx of gleaming ants carry off the remains of their luncheon. The loss was still new – Phineas not three months in the grave. He chose his words carefully. "In life, he did not trust me. He believed me fallible. There are few enough in the world who see my flaws, and I do not want to lose any of you."
Nicolas laughed, a rolling sound glossy with wine and food and love. "Dear, dear friend, banish that grim thought – we shall ever be near, happy to show where you err."
Albus took the hand of his friend and mentor, and kissed it. "I would always have it be so."
1955
Later, much later, as Albus slumped against the wall, his robes splattered with blood and varnish, a smoky haze hung about his head and shoulders, creeping in through his mouth and nostrils with every shallow breath. He raised his wand and summoned a breeze to cleanse the acrid, animal smell, but the miasma resisted any magical efforts to clear it, and he was forced to throw open the ice-rimed window, wincing as chilled air crept over the window-sill. Fawkes, banished from the office for the duration of the spellcasting, sailed in on a bitter gust of wind, and watched him balefully from his perch.
There was silence from the framed square on the easel. Peering through the clouds which clung to every surface, Albus fancied he saw movement on the canvas.
The smoke was shifting, though, and Albus gulped great mouthfuls of clean air in relief. Pushing away from the window, he staggered towards the centre of the room, each breath still catching in the back of his throat where the taste of shellac made him gag.
As the haze thinned into trailing fingers, Albus saw that Phineas stood behind his chair in the square of canvas, lit by unseasonable light pouring down through a round window, hands gripping the carved wood with knuckles clenched bloodless. The pale eyes were red-rimmed, but clear and focused, and rage and anguish shone in them like beacons.
"What you have wrought, Albus Dumbledore, is an abominable violation." The voice trembled, but did not break. "I was at peace. You have taken that from me, and I shall hold you accountable for the rest of my days."
Albus pressed his hand against the canvas, it was smooth and warm, despite the glacial, unbending figure it contained. "I know the cost, Phineas. My need is equal to it, and above."
1997
There was a bright light, of course, and the sensation of beginning a long journey. These things were to be expected – Albus' research had been exhaustive in his quest to peer as far as possible into the next aspect of being, and these were common experiences reported by those who had crossed the threshold and returned. There were many things he could not prepare for: indescribable presences, euphoria, the brief possession of sublime wisdom that made him weep, and desolation at losing it again. Afterwards, he slept, surrounded by the resinous smell of linseed and turpentine.
When he awoke, it was daylight in his office, and Albus was briefly disoriented by the sight of Minerva seated at his desk, furiously scribbling on parchment with angry stabbing gestures. All around him, within his square of canvas, late afternoon sun glowed on the dark-panelled walls and well-polished floors of the Flamel residence. To the left of his comfortable arm-chair was a wide window, and through it, a long way away, Albus thought he could see two figures walking hand in hand. He looked across to Phineas' portrait; the dark canvas was empty and the window within shuttered. Albus squared his shoulders, and stepped beyond the edge of his small world into dizzying darkness.
The connection formed by the spell cast a half-century ago pulsed like a lifeline, and Albus spilled out of darkness into the painting hung in the nursery at 12 Grimmauld Place. Phineas stood at the surface of the canvas, looking out at the empty room. Neither of them spoke, though by the set of Phineas' head, he was aware of Albus' presence.
"So, here we are at last." It was most peculiar to be addressing his long-dead colleague in person. The rich colours of the canvas lent a vivid quality to every action, and Albus suddenly wanted very much to touch someone, to savour the feeling of painted skin touching skin.
There was no answer. Phineas ignored him, reaching out to touch the canvas where the sun was playing upon it.
"I thought I would find you here." Albus tried again, drawing closer to Phineas, step by cautious step.
Phineas snapped around, his unfashionably full robes swirling at his feet. "Where else would I be? I have few enough places to go, damn you. You saw to that fifty years ago."
"You would have done the same, had our positions been reversed." Albus said.
Phineas curled his lip. "Oh, but you underestimate me, Dumbledore, if you think I have half the twisted imagination required to concoct this hideous existence. Flamel and his wife must have been very proud of the little viper they coddled in their home." His face was wry.
Albus flushed. "You have heard, then?"
Phineas walked slowly towards him, his eyes alight, his face triumphant. "That they are missing? That the last drop of their precious elixir must surely have been consumed by now? Oh yes, I have heard." Backlit by the sun from the nursery window, his face was shadowed, but his voice, dry and mocking, was weapon enough. "I look forward to their company, on the headmaster's wall."
"I will not be performing the spell again, Phineas. I had but one recipient in mind when we formulated it."
Phineas' voice shook with barely-restrained anger now, his fists clenched by his sides. "Then why perform it at all? Why torment me for so many years?" With a sudden movement, he reached out, gathered Albus' robes in his hands, as though he were going to shake the answers from the taller man's mouth.
Albus closed his own hands over Phineas', and held them firm. "It was this," he said, running his thumbs across the knuckles of hands trembling with rage, fascinated by the interplay of cobalt shadow in the pale skin. "It was this perfect passion, this potency that declares your nature to all who care to know you. And I did care to know you, despite your accusation of prevarication in our youth." He released the man's hand, but instead, wrapped his arms around Phineas' body, holding him close. "To become fully realised after death, I needed an anchor, a strong link to pull me through. The price of the spell, that I must also be subject to the sentience that I forced upon you; this was my guarantee that I could continue my work. And eternity with you, Phineas, is by far a kinder punishment than I deserve."
Phineas' voice still mocked, though he did not withdraw from the embrace. "You chose me, of all the fine people you know."
"You were the finest. I knew this when we were both students: your brilliant mind, your desire for knowledge set you apart from all others. And I hoped, as I watched you make sacrifice after sacrifice for the sake of your duty to family, to Hogwarts, that one day you might forgive me." Albus spoke with his mouth against Phineas' head, his cheek resting on the sleek black hair, breathing in the fragrance of wax and pigment. "We are two souls entwined, my friend. The wills of iron that allow us to survive also enable us to make the decisions that gentler souls cannot. Forget the hurt that I have done you, or at least belay your anger until the work has been done."
Pressed against Albus' chest, Phineas' snort was a little muffled. "I can never forgive you for awakening me, Albus. I was at peace."
Albus pressed his lips to the gleaming cap of hair. "Then there is the first thing we may agree on, my dear friend, for I shall never forgive myself either. But I promise you this, that as long as our frames hold, as long as there are walls to hang us on, you will not be alone."
Author:
st_aurafinaSummary: The greatest magic demands the greatest price.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Harry Potter
Original story: The Next Great Adventure, by
vissyThe Next Great Adventure – Alla Prima Remix
1871
The idea had come to Albus during an assembly of the Wizengamot to determine the fate of the Mona Lisa; ostensibly removed from public viewing in the non-wizarding world for protection during the Franco-Prussian war. On that day, he stood beside La Giaconda in the courtroom as the elder wizards and witches argued tiny details backwards and forwards. He didn't listen - he was watching the glowing surface of oils, waiting for the slow smile to reach its enigmatic zenith. Da Vinci, muggle-born, untrained, but with hands that streamed magic in native form, had captured in some part the ability to paint a moving portrait. The lady moved with measured calm; hard to detect with the naked eye, but certain. The Wizengamot had convened to determine whether a painting created by a muggle artist could be regarded as magical, and if so, how such a well-known work could be removed with a minimum of damage to the Statute of Secrecy. The Mona Lisa did not speak in her own defence; indeed, she had never spoken. It was unknown whether she chose to remain silent or was not capable of speech. Albus thought that the former applied – she watched the proceedings with an amused expression, but deigned to take part. Stepping a little further back from the frame, he caught her gaze, and delighted in the tiny folds that crinkled at the corners of her eyes in recognition. She was a sublime, complex entity, and cared not for the dry words of old men and women. At the moment, with his pulse in his ears and a blossoming of heat in his groin, he cared as little as she.
Later, once judgement had been passed to return the lady to the Louvre pending a review of the situation early in the twentieth century, all attendees reconvened at a favoured inn for drinks and celebrations, regardless of the positions that each member had argued. Normally one to exult in the exuberance that was discharged by the notoriously staid collection of wizards at the conclusion of a long-winded debate, tonight Albus sat a little aside from his ministry cohorts, and nursed a firewhiskey while he thought.
What was it about the Mona Lisa that made her portrait come to life, when a thousand other paintings by muggle artists had not? And why was her image so vivid, her expression so palpably alive, when artists of the wizarding world had so far only managed to create portraits that were shallow facsimiles of their living subjects, unable to evolve and develop ideas, rarely changing patterns of speech, let alone ideologies?
The answer came to him, sweetly, as though he had always known it, while looking across the room at Phineas Nigellus, recently married and now deep in conversation with his cousin and head of Magical Law Enforcement. Phineas, feeling the weight of his gaze, looked up at Albus with narrow-eyed suspicion, which Albus allayed by rasing his glass in Phineas' direction. Phineas returned to his conversation, and Albus watched as the firelight cast shadows across the long planes of the man's face knowing that the power of the portrait was, at least in part, dependent on the personality that was to be captured.
1956
In the round office, newly cleared of Professor Dippet's belongings, Albus considered the portrait, and the portrait considered him in return, a well-executed copy of the familiar sneer ghosting about the lips.
"Do you remember me, Headmaster?" Albus' question was gentle, but Phineas' rebuke was not.
"It is of little matter to me, but I do recall your face." The voice blistered, sere as it had always been, but the lack of substance behind it pulled at Albus like an missing tooth. It had been thirty years since Phineas' death, and Albus would not allow this shadow-puppet, blurred at the edges, to assuage the loss.
"We were friends, you know, here at Hogwarts." Albus unwrapped the parcel that had arrived by owl earlier this morning, amidst a flurry of mail from the Ministry and the Board of Governors welcoming him as the new Headmaster. "Sometimes, I wonder if you wished, as I did, that we could have been a little more than friends."
Phineas watched with feigned disinterest as Albus laid the dagger and the silver bowl on the glossy surface of the desk. "I recall that you were most abysmal at potions. And randy as a goat. I am thankful that by the time I was installed in this office, you were firmly ensconced with that madman Flamel. And his wife." He gave a snort of disgust, then flared his nostrils in surprise as Albus lifted the portrait from the wall, and placed it on an easel. Phineas now regarded him warily from the centre of the room, where the rug had been rolled away to expose the pale flagstones.
"Things have not been well in the school, my old friend. These last few years have brought much discord." Albus spoke as he draped the other portraits, ignoring the muttered protestations from beneath the dust-cloths.
"With all due respect to our sleeping friend Armando, things have not been well since he was made headmaster." Phineas examined his fingernails. "He was all together too lenient on the students, as I suspect you will be."
"Then I am sure that you will agree that I will have great need of your advice, of your mind, and mentorship."
Phineas gave an ironically florid bow that had long passed out of fashion. "I exist but to serve the Headmaster."
"Good," said Albus, and neatly slit his palm from thumb to little finger.
1925
Nicolas had, of course, been intrigued with the idea. "To imbue a likeness with a living mind, able to reason as a man does? T'would be wondrous, to regain the wisdom of those minds lost to time. And yet, I fear that it would be a thing ill-used by those of little benevolence. We shall keep these thoughts between ourselves, dear one, for not all are willing to lay aside a newly forged weapon for the sake of the greater good."
On long afternoons, as tumbled stones cast shadows across the sunken dell of the Flamels' home, the three of them drank wine and cast olive pits and talked of ways to reclaim the spirit of a painting.
"The reckoning is the key to the enchantment," Nicolas shook the last of the crumbs onto the grass. "This is the point where those who will not pay of themselves shall stumble." He looked down at Albus speculatively. "But I wager you have always known this."
"Why this portrait, Albus?" Perenelle combed her fingers through the auburn hair, fanning it out into a glowing halo as he lay on the grass, closed eyes a poor barrier for the blazing sun. "Why must it be this man? I had not thought you so close."
"Phineas had high expectations of everyone, including himself." Albus rolled onto his side, and watched a phalanx of gleaming ants carry off the remains of their luncheon. The loss was still new – Phineas not three months in the grave. He chose his words carefully. "In life, he did not trust me. He believed me fallible. There are few enough in the world who see my flaws, and I do not want to lose any of you."
Nicolas laughed, a rolling sound glossy with wine and food and love. "Dear, dear friend, banish that grim thought – we shall ever be near, happy to show where you err."
Albus took the hand of his friend and mentor, and kissed it. "I would always have it be so."
1955
Later, much later, as Albus slumped against the wall, his robes splattered with blood and varnish, a smoky haze hung about his head and shoulders, creeping in through his mouth and nostrils with every shallow breath. He raised his wand and summoned a breeze to cleanse the acrid, animal smell, but the miasma resisted any magical efforts to clear it, and he was forced to throw open the ice-rimed window, wincing as chilled air crept over the window-sill. Fawkes, banished from the office for the duration of the spellcasting, sailed in on a bitter gust of wind, and watched him balefully from his perch.
There was silence from the framed square on the easel. Peering through the clouds which clung to every surface, Albus fancied he saw movement on the canvas.
The smoke was shifting, though, and Albus gulped great mouthfuls of clean air in relief. Pushing away from the window, he staggered towards the centre of the room, each breath still catching in the back of his throat where the taste of shellac made him gag.
As the haze thinned into trailing fingers, Albus saw that Phineas stood behind his chair in the square of canvas, lit by unseasonable light pouring down through a round window, hands gripping the carved wood with knuckles clenched bloodless. The pale eyes were red-rimmed, but clear and focused, and rage and anguish shone in them like beacons.
"What you have wrought, Albus Dumbledore, is an abominable violation." The voice trembled, but did not break. "I was at peace. You have taken that from me, and I shall hold you accountable for the rest of my days."
Albus pressed his hand against the canvas, it was smooth and warm, despite the glacial, unbending figure it contained. "I know the cost, Phineas. My need is equal to it, and above."
1997
There was a bright light, of course, and the sensation of beginning a long journey. These things were to be expected – Albus' research had been exhaustive in his quest to peer as far as possible into the next aspect of being, and these were common experiences reported by those who had crossed the threshold and returned. There were many things he could not prepare for: indescribable presences, euphoria, the brief possession of sublime wisdom that made him weep, and desolation at losing it again. Afterwards, he slept, surrounded by the resinous smell of linseed and turpentine.
When he awoke, it was daylight in his office, and Albus was briefly disoriented by the sight of Minerva seated at his desk, furiously scribbling on parchment with angry stabbing gestures. All around him, within his square of canvas, late afternoon sun glowed on the dark-panelled walls and well-polished floors of the Flamel residence. To the left of his comfortable arm-chair was a wide window, and through it, a long way away, Albus thought he could see two figures walking hand in hand. He looked across to Phineas' portrait; the dark canvas was empty and the window within shuttered. Albus squared his shoulders, and stepped beyond the edge of his small world into dizzying darkness.
The connection formed by the spell cast a half-century ago pulsed like a lifeline, and Albus spilled out of darkness into the painting hung in the nursery at 12 Grimmauld Place. Phineas stood at the surface of the canvas, looking out at the empty room. Neither of them spoke, though by the set of Phineas' head, he was aware of Albus' presence.
"So, here we are at last." It was most peculiar to be addressing his long-dead colleague in person. The rich colours of the canvas lent a vivid quality to every action, and Albus suddenly wanted very much to touch someone, to savour the feeling of painted skin touching skin.
There was no answer. Phineas ignored him, reaching out to touch the canvas where the sun was playing upon it.
"I thought I would find you here." Albus tried again, drawing closer to Phineas, step by cautious step.
Phineas snapped around, his unfashionably full robes swirling at his feet. "Where else would I be? I have few enough places to go, damn you. You saw to that fifty years ago."
"You would have done the same, had our positions been reversed." Albus said.
Phineas curled his lip. "Oh, but you underestimate me, Dumbledore, if you think I have half the twisted imagination required to concoct this hideous existence. Flamel and his wife must have been very proud of the little viper they coddled in their home." His face was wry.
Albus flushed. "You have heard, then?"
Phineas walked slowly towards him, his eyes alight, his face triumphant. "That they are missing? That the last drop of their precious elixir must surely have been consumed by now? Oh yes, I have heard." Backlit by the sun from the nursery window, his face was shadowed, but his voice, dry and mocking, was weapon enough. "I look forward to their company, on the headmaster's wall."
"I will not be performing the spell again, Phineas. I had but one recipient in mind when we formulated it."
Phineas' voice shook with barely-restrained anger now, his fists clenched by his sides. "Then why perform it at all? Why torment me for so many years?" With a sudden movement, he reached out, gathered Albus' robes in his hands, as though he were going to shake the answers from the taller man's mouth.
Albus closed his own hands over Phineas', and held them firm. "It was this," he said, running his thumbs across the knuckles of hands trembling with rage, fascinated by the interplay of cobalt shadow in the pale skin. "It was this perfect passion, this potency that declares your nature to all who care to know you. And I did care to know you, despite your accusation of prevarication in our youth." He released the man's hand, but instead, wrapped his arms around Phineas' body, holding him close. "To become fully realised after death, I needed an anchor, a strong link to pull me through. The price of the spell, that I must also be subject to the sentience that I forced upon you; this was my guarantee that I could continue my work. And eternity with you, Phineas, is by far a kinder punishment than I deserve."
Phineas' voice still mocked, though he did not withdraw from the embrace. "You chose me, of all the fine people you know."
"You were the finest. I knew this when we were both students: your brilliant mind, your desire for knowledge set you apart from all others. And I hoped, as I watched you make sacrifice after sacrifice for the sake of your duty to family, to Hogwarts, that one day you might forgive me." Albus spoke with his mouth against Phineas' head, his cheek resting on the sleek black hair, breathing in the fragrance of wax and pigment. "We are two souls entwined, my friend. The wills of iron that allow us to survive also enable us to make the decisions that gentler souls cannot. Forget the hurt that I have done you, or at least belay your anger until the work has been done."
Pressed against Albus' chest, Phineas' snort was a little muffled. "I can never forgive you for awakening me, Albus. I was at peace."
Albus pressed his lips to the gleaming cap of hair. "Then there is the first thing we may agree on, my dear friend, for I shall never forgive myself either. But I promise you this, that as long as our frames hold, as long as there are walls to hang us on, you will not be alone."
no subject
no subject