"Oh, that's right," drawled Lucius. "A boy like you would only be interested in Quidditch and fabled heroes. Or at least you'd like to believe that's all that interests you, eh, Potter?"
Harry didn't know what he meant. "Maybe if you'd read a few more decent books in your life you wouldn't be dead now."
Lucius smiled, the paint across his lips momentarily cracking and then healing itself. "Oh, is that why I've been shunted to the library? Does that fool of a headmaster expect me to believe he'll take a rare tome and read aloud to me if I cooperate?"
"Maybe he's put you in here to bore you to death. Oh, but you're dead already, aren't you? Yeah, well you deserve to die more than once, don't you now?"
The painted Malfoy smirked. "Planning to murder me twice then, boy?"
Harry shuddered, that word resonating somewhere deep inside him. "I didn't murder you. It was completely an accident. I never meant to do it."
Malfoy made a show of disinterestedly fingering the snake on his wand. "Oh, really. Well then, the done thing to do would be apologize."
Harry couldn't help but sputter a bit. "Apologize? I like that! Apologize to paint and canvas! You're not even a real person, you know."
"Yes, I do know. And that was my point. Or rather it was yours." As Harry just stared, Malfoy rolled his eyes as if he found it onerous to have to explain something so simple. The mannerism was so like Draco that Harry felt a little nauseous.
"You said that you never meant to kill me. Lack of intention implies you must be sorry that you did. Etiquette dictates that you tell me so."
Harry barked with laughter. "Just because I didn't mean to do it doesn't mean I'm sorry!"
"Ah." Lucius nodded sagely. "Yes, I suspected as much. You're glad that you killed me."
Harry was, but couldn't quite bring himself to admit it out loud. "Well, I'm certainly glad that you won't be popping out my eyeballs. You think? And I'm glad I don't have to worry about you coming after my brother. Draco. You know him, I think?"
Lucius ignored the jibe. "So, your intention all along was for me to die."
Harry frowned. "My intention was to immobilize you and escape, and you know it."
"Oh, please. You were going to let me share all your little secrets with the Dark Lord? I think not."
"Obliviate," said Harry, one eyebrow raised in challenge.
The portrait smiled in a smarmy way. "It's so good I still have all my memories of dear Draco. Lovely things to contemplate. Did you know he begged, when he was down in that pit? Begged and pleaded, grovelled on his hands and knees. Kissed my boots, Potter. You think he'd have learned at some point that begging doesn't move me in the least. Well, not toward pity."
Harry didn't know if the portrait was lying about Draco, but he also didn't care. Draco had done all right, and that was all that counted. "You shut up!"
"Ah, but let's not forget you, Potter. Do tell . . . at what point did you break my Imperius Curse? Before you took off your shirt, perhaps? Did you like stripping for me, Harry? Do you wish I'd demanded more than a mere shirt? Do you--"
Harry had enough. He realized he had been a fool to speak to the wretched painting at all. Clearly the dead wizard was having a grand time goading him. Without a word, Harry turned and, head held high like he imagined Draco might do, walked toward the door.
"You do know that the Dark Lord has it all wrong, don't you?" Malfoy called out.
Harry stopped. He didn't trust anything that came out of the painting's filthy mouth, but he knew this might be important. He was an Order member now, wasn't he? He had a responsibility to listen and report anything he learned.
"Wrong how?"
Lucius sighed and seemed to lean back into the canvas, away from Harry. "Wrong about you, of course. He's this notion of you as a champion of the Light. He thinks you have some sort of selfless power from your mother's sacrifice that will trump his own if not snuffed out."
The painted lifted its chin haughtily. "But I've observed you more than he. I met your vulgar relatives--did you a good turn killing that disgusting fat creature, by the way. I know very well the company you currently cling to, and the sort of nurturing they're likely to provide."
"You don't know anything," said Harry, but his voice was shaking.
"Oh no? I know what I see in your eyes. Pain, hatred, defiance. You know what I don't see there, Harry? Regret. You wanted me dead all along and now you're just thrilled that you were able to do it -- and in the guise of defence, no less!"
"So what?" Harry ground his teeth together. "It doesn't matter how I feel because I didn't do it on purpose!"
"Oh pish. It's what's down at your core that matters--your deepest, darkest feelings. I know what's in yours." He made a show of picking some lint off his sleeve.
As if the artist would have painted lint on him, Harry thought.
"I don't know what Dumbledore thinks he's doing, playing with fire like you. But he really is an instrument of the Light--makes him blind. That's a metaphor the Dark Lord loves, by the way." Lucius' voice went silky. "But I'm not blind, Harry. Your so called wild magic? It's dark, all the way through. When you saw me in that classroom you didn't set forth beams of radiance to whisk me safely away from you, did you? That wasn't about protection! You tried to burn alive. You melted the wand right out of my hand."
"I can't control that," Harry whispered, feeling flayed. "It's just my magic trying to protect me."
"Your magic lashing out, more like. Mark my words, boy, you are the Dark Lord's equal. If you manage to kill him, you'll merely take his place. You are a Dark Wizard, Potter. How could you be anything else?" The image of Lucius gave a start of mock alarm. "Oh, dear me. Is that anger I see? Am I upsetting you?"
Yes, you are, and if you don't watch out-- Harry started too, suddenly feeling himself begin to burn with the very magic Lucius had spoken of. It was bubbling beneath the surface, heating his skin, demanding to be poured out.
He turned to go, fearing what he might unleash.
Lucius called out once more. "You know, I wonder if dear Severus will actually put you down himself when you turn? I rather think he will. He's certainly got it in him. Has he ever told you about--"
Harry never heard the rest. Running from the room, barely registering what he was doing, he found himself upstairs in Siruis' old room. He flung himself on the bed, and lay there hugging himself, shaking.
Oh God, what that painting had said made so much sense.
Maybe he's right, Harry thought. Maybe there's some core of evil inside me. The Dursleys-- maybe they saw something that no one else has wanted to believe. There was black energy in the cupboard under the stairs, and it was coming from me. Severus said so! And just look at the company I keep. The only people who have ever really wanted me--Sirius, Severus, Draco--they're not exactly pure as the driven snow, are they? It's like we're--what's the word--kindred.
Sitting up, Harry wiped at his eyes a bit.
I wasn't always like this was I? I mean, I was sorted into Gryffindor--I wielded Godric's sword. It takes a true Gryffindor to pull that out of the Sorting Hat.
So, there was hope then. There was good inside of him, too. He wasn't fated to turn into a new Dark Lord. He just had to keep himself from unleashing that horrible dark, wild magic again.
And just why had he burned Malfoy like that? Why had he burned the mask and robe back before Christmas?
Fear, that was it.