The spell to disable sympathetic magic was called the protection of blood, which sounded rather sinister to Harry, especially in context of vampires. But Professor Quirrell assured him that it actually had nothing to do with literal blood.
"It's difficult, and not a very useful curse, honestly, but it would help against a v-vampire," said Professor Quirrell.
"How does it work?" Harry asked.
"It's a bloodline curse," Professor Quirrell said, "You remember discussing those in class?"
Harry nodded. "It affects the target's whole family, and all their direct descendants. Does that count the people a vampire transforms?"
Professor Quirrell shook his head. "You misunderstand. The bloodline curse is cast on yourself." Perhaps in response to Harry's highly sceptical and half-horrified expression, he hurried to explain, "It's quite temporary. If the necessary conditions aren't met, it only lasts about ten minutes. Even if the spell works perfectly it will fade in days without prolonged contact with a close blood relative."
Harry wasn't sure he completely trusted that, but he nodded anyway.
"Right, so the curse is reactive. You cast it, and if your opponent—the vampire—attempts to attack with sympathetic magic, say, with his legilimency, the curse will target his magic and he won't be able to use it against you or your family any longer."
"What's legimancy?" Harry asked.
"Legilimency," Professor Quirrell corrected. "It's an ability of vampires to make a mental connection with their victim, to know and manipulate their thoughts."
"I see, sir. Can't wizards do something similar?" Harry had not forgotten that Albus Dumbledore could apparently read minds.
Professor Quirrell looked surprised, and did not respond for a moment, but eventually nodded and said, "That's right."
"But sir, I thought wizards couldn't do sympathetic magic," said Harry.
"Correct. Legilimency in wizards is based on entirely different principles," said Professor Quirrell.
Harry realised they had gone off on a tangent so he said quickly, "So how do you cast this protection of blood? And how do you know it worked?"
"I will demonstrate but I don't expect you to be able to cast it today," Professor Quirrell told him, which was new. Usually he only taught Harry curses that were fairly straightforward, and which he could grasp in a matter of hours.
To Harry's surprise, Professor Quirrell did not take out his wand, but only stood and moved in front of his desk. He raised his arms and closed his eyes. A soft golden light crackled across his body, covering it like a spiderweb, before dimming and fading.
"It's wandless?" Harry asked immediately, never having seen a spell that was meant to be cast without a wand.
"Yes, a very nontraditional curse," said Professor Quirrell. "One of many attempts by wizards to emulate sympathetic magic. Did you bring your book?"
Harry nodded, extracting Secrets of the Hieroglyphical Figures from his enlarged pocket with some difficulty. He had torn out the flyleaf with Nic's letter and left it in his room, figuring he could mend it later if he needed it, but that meant he had to carry the book around in its expanded form.
"This book contains a most thorough treatment of sympathetic magic, if I recall correctly. Have you finished it?"
"Er, I read some of it, sir," Harry said, "but I didn't really understand it." At all.
"It is rather dense," Professor Quirrell acknowledged. "It has been awhile since I've accessed a copy. A friend sent you this, you said? You have interesting friends, Harry Potter."
He had almost whispered it to himself, but Harry caught it nonetheless. His name. He tried not to tense up, but it was impossible. This was impossible. He felt suddenly almost giddy with worry, and his ever-present Professor Quirrell-induced headache reared up all of a sudden and nearly blinded him with pain.
"Are you quite all right, Mr Potter? Perhaps we should end early?"
Harry would have been disappointed by this suggestion any other day, but he could muster no protest at the moment, shaken as he was.
He said my name. But it's impossible. He said my name.
The same thoughts swirled about, chasing each other endlessly in his head.
"I'm not feeling so well," he agreed, after a long pause.
"It would be good for me to refresh my memory in any case, before I attempt to explain sympathetic magic to you. Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your book for now?" asked Professor Quirrell.
"Er, that's fine, sir," said Harry. It wasn't as if the book was doing him any good, lying under his bed in a cauldron. "Good evening, sir."
"Good evening, Mr Potter. I hope you recover swiftly. We'll continue next week," said Professor Quirrell.
Harry recovered his wits swiftly enough after he stumbled back to the Ravenclaw common room, and immediately wrote a panicked letter to Petri. Then he read over his chicken-scratch, felt foolish, and binned it before drafting another, more composed version, to be sent in the morning.
He didn't think it was truly a new development, anyway, that Professor Quirrell knew his name. Hadn't he suspected it to some greater or smaller degree all year? Nothing obviously untoward had happened yet. He needn't have practically run out of their lesson.
Still, it felt good to lie on his bed and enjoy a headache-free Monday evening. He could deal with the matter tomorrow.
But he did not see Professor Quirrell outside of class at all that week. Half their Defence lessons were cancelled, which was met with celebration, and the rest were substituted by the dour Professor Snape, which was met with groaning and moaning by everybody except the Slytherins.
Whatever his failings, however, Professor Snape conducted Defence lessons the same way he conducted his Potions lessons, namely practically. Harry was more than pleased at the opportunity to actually learn and use the disarming charm, which seemed dead useful. Given how few of his classmates actually managed any effect, Harry got the impression that the spell was above first year level, but he found it no more difficult than any of the charms they had practised in charms club. In fact, he was proud to note that Neville, who had partnered with him, was one of the only other people to get the spell properly by the end of the week.
Petri's reply letter arrived over the weekend with the unhelpful advice to carry on as usual, since he was not dead yet, and they would discuss the matter of the fidelius charm over the winter holiday. How reassuring. Harry crumpled it up and burned it.
Monday morning, when Professor Quirrell still failed to appear at the morning lesson, Harry began to worry a little, half for the professor but also half for himself. None of his classmates had any idea where their stuttering professor might be, so Harry finally mustered up the courage to ask Professor Snape.
"Er, excuse me, Professor Snape, sir," he said. Professor Snape, who had been organising a stack of essays on the lectern, did not look up for a long moment.
When all the parchment sheets had been straightened out, he turned with a cold, "Yes?"
"Would you happen to know when Professor Quirrell will be back?"
"No, I do not know," said Professor Snape, sounding very discontented.
"Where is he?" Harry tried.
"That is none of your concern," said Professor Snape. He was, comically enough, looking past Harry, and his eyes continually darted from side to side, as if trying but failing to focus on him. Every passing moment, he appeared to be getting increasingly frustrated.
"But sir, I was supposed to meet with him this evening," Harry pressed.
"He's ill," Professor Snape finally ground out. "What were you expecting? Some sort of conspiracy?"
Harry decided not to press his luck any further and hurried out of the unreasonably irate professor's sight.
Professor Quirrell was ill. It made sense, and was sort of the obvious conclusion, but what sort of illness could put a wizard out of commission for a week? Wizards, as far as Harry knew, did not suffer from muggle ailments like the flu. He hoped it wasn't dragon pox or something similarly horrible.
Naturally, Harry's next stop was the hospital wing. The healer, Madam Pomfrey, if he recalled correctly, descended up on him immediately as he entered, and he had to wave his hands frantically and explain that there was nothing wrong with him; he was only visiting.
"Well, all right," said Madam Pomfrey. "And who are you visiting?"
"Is Professor Quirrell here?" he asked. Madam Pomfrey looked doubtful about his motives, so Harry added, "I've been worried about him. He was, er, helping me with something last Monday and didn't look too well and now he's missed class for a week."
Madam Pomfrey's expression softened, and she shook her head. "He's not here now. There was an emergency last week and he had to be sent to St Mungo's."
"St Mungo's?"
"The hospital," Madam Pomfrey clarified.
"Oh," said Harry a little dumbly. That sounded very serious. "I'll, er, I'll write him a note then, I suppose."
"I'm sure he'll appreciate it," said Madam Pomfrey.
Harry scribbled a get-well note for the professor, wondering if he should send some sweets or something, but then deciding that it would be awkward if he were in no state to eat them, or if he simply disliked them. It was a good choice, because he received a return note much more quickly than he had expected, via a spontaneous appearance on his plate during lunch.
"Mr Potter, thank you for your well wishes. I was discharged from St Mungo's on Saturday, though I am still in the process of recovering. I had not planned more than a theoretical discussion for today, so am still amenable to meeting at our usual time and place, provided you are free. - QQ"
When Harry approached Professor Quirrell's office that evening, he saw that the door was already ajar. Cautiously, he pushed it open and peered inside. Nobody was there, but he spotted a bit of parchment on the ground by his foot.
"Wall behind the desk. Password is 'peppercorn.'"
He picked up the parchment and put it on the desk, saying, "Peppercorn," to the wall. A door frame shimmered into view, and a brass doorknob popped out of the wall with a sucking sound. Harry reached out carefully, confirmed it was real, and opened the door to find a short, carpeted corridor. The door swung shut behind him as he entered, leaving him in darkness. Glancing around uncertainly, he whispered, "Lumos," and made his way to the end of the hall, where a sliver of flickering light peeked out from under another door. He knocked.
The door opened up on its own. Harry extinguished his wand and ventured inside what was obviously Professor Quirrell's bedroom. Directly across from the entrance was a tall mirror that made the small room look twice as large. Harry's gaze was immediately drawn to the firelit reflection of Professor Quirrell's thin, pale face peeking out from underneath a moss green blanket. Without the customary weight of the large purple turban, his bald head seemed horribly diminished.
Harry turned awkwardly so he could take a proper look at the man. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin looked waxy and paper-thin. At the sight of Harry, Professor Quirrell tugged himself into a more upright position. Even that little exertion, however, seemed to have tired him out, for he slumped down against his pile of pillows with a pained sigh a moment later.
"Er, hello professor. Are you, are you all right? I mean, we can meet next week instead, or whenever you're better."
"No," said a high, unfamiliar voice from somewhere around Professor Quirrell's midriff. The man's lips had not moved. "Please stay."
Professor Quirrell shuddered, glancing down momentarily, and Harry followed his gaze to see a small, scaly head pop out from beneath the blankets. "I cannot speak right now, so you will forgive me if I communicate through this snake."
"Er, okay," said Harry. "What happened to you?"
"Oh, you need not worry about me," said the snake. Harry looked to it automatically, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact with the professor when his voice was so out of place. "Just an accident. I was… overzealous with my magic and strained myself."
Professor Quirrell looked a sight worse than just "strained." He was more like a revived corpse.
"Last week we left off with a demonstration of the protection of blood, yes?" said Professor Quirrell's snake.
"That's right, sir," said Harry.
"In order to cast the curse you must forget all your usual intuition about magic. Do not focus on it. Instead, spread it across your body. Your intent must be purely to neutralise what threatens you, but not to destroy or hurt it, only to stop it. Of course, this is more easily said than done. Do you know how to manipulate magic without your wand?"
"Er, no sir," said Harry.
"Think back to when you did accidental magic. What did that feel like?"
Harry thought, obligingly. The most impressive piece of accidental magic he had done, he supposed, had been to apparate onto the school roof after being cornered by Dudley and his gang. He had been sort of desperate to get away, to get somewhere Dudley couldn't reach. That sounded right.
"I was pretty desperate," he said.
"Desperation can serve as a substitute for willpower," Professor Quirrell acknowledged, "but what you must master is exerting your full will with every action."
"How is that different from focus?" Harry asked.
"Focus is your attention. Will is your desire. You might well pay attention to something you do not truly want. It is important, when you cast magic in this way, that you know what you truly want and focus exactly on that and nothing else."
This reminded Harry of the one passage in Nic's book that had made some sense to him. "You mean like believing reality and desiring the truth, sir?"
"That is correct. For now, you should begin by thinking about what it is that you want. Presumably you wish to protect yourself from further harm by that vampire's hand. You will not be able to make progress until you have a firm grasp of your desires."
Harry nodded, sitting down cross-legged on the clover patterned rug in front of the hearth. He trailed his fingertips absently across the coarse green fibres.
The problem with this exercise, he thought, was that he did not really believe that Silviu was a threat to him any longer. Was that belief reality? What he wanted was to not have to deal with any more nonsense about being allergic to garlic and roses, and certainly never again to wake up in the middle of the night and find out he'd been made a snack of without his knowledge.
Silviu had promised Harry not to use his sympathetic magic on him again. How much was the vampire's word worth? Petri had seemed convinced that it was the real thing, and Harry could not help putting stock in Petri's opinion.
What he wanted… what he wanted was to not be stuck in situations he could not get out of. He needed to be able to escape from people who outclassed him in every respect. However, that seemed almost logically impossible.
He glanced up at Professor Quirrell and saw that the man appeared to be fast asleep. Feeling suddenly awkward, Harry got to his feet as silently as he could and approached slowly. There was no reaction from the professor. He shouldn't stay here, creepily watching his professor while he slept. It was clear the man was not actually well enough to be accepting visitors.
Harry wondered whether the snake would say or do anything now that the professor was no longer controlling it, but it only stared at him unblinkingly.
He made his way slowly to the common room, lost in thought. This curse was so markedly different from all the others that Professor Quirrell had shown him to date, and in fact from any other spell he had ever seen. Why change the style and pacing now? Harry had serious doubts that he would be able to learn it. The problem was that even if Professor Quirrell's extracurricular help was given with entirely benign intent, he was missing the point entirely.
Harry didn't want to fight Silviu.
By Wednesday, Professor Quirrell had recovered enough to teach, and Defence Against the Dark Arts was back to its usual abysmal quality. If anything, Professor Quirrell's stutter had got worse, and he also seemed to have an uncontrollable tremor in his hand that apparently prevented him from demonstrating any spells safely.
"Let's stop meeting for now," Professor Quirrell said to Harry after the lesson. "I don't think it would very p-productive. Just k-keep working on the p-protection of blood, if you need something t-to do."
Harry agreed easily, though he had no intention of spending more time on that strange curse when it seemed like he had already failed its basic requirement. He had better things to do. His list of known charms and curses to practise had grown alarmingly long, and it took him the better part of each evening just to keep up his weekly revision.
"The problem is that none of these spells are useful," Hannah complained as they practised the revealing and colour-change charms on each other in their usual classroom. "I mean, they're useful sometimes, but not every day. We have to go out of our way to do this."
"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Maybe that's why we don't see people walking around using all kinds of obscure spells. It'd take forever to learn all of them, and you'd just be forgetting spells left and right." In Harry's experience so far, adult wizards usually only used the same dozen or so spells, and he was beginning to sympathise with the practice.
"Maybe it's okay to forget them," said Hannah. "I mean, if you really needed a spell, you could always look it up and it should be easy enough to cast if you used to know it, right?"
"I suppose," said Harry. "But what about defence spells? You wouldn't have time to look up something like that."
"Well, true. So we should practise those instead, you think?" Hannah asked.
"Expelliarmus is pretty easy, though, and that's the only useful thing we've learned in Defence so far," Harry said.
"I still haven't got it," Hannah protested, shaking her head. "Writing Snape's essay didn't help either."
Harry stood up and backed towards the door, beckoning for her to take position on the other side of the room.
"Let's see it," he said, gripping his wand tightly. Hannah lifted her wand and half-heartedly pointed it at him.
"Expelliarmus," she said, and a moment later Harry felt a weak push against his hand, which jerked slightly to the side. He frowned. She cast too precisely and carefully.
"You need to put more force into it," he told her. "Literally."
"How?" she muttered. "Show me."
"Expelliarmus!" Harry slashed his wand forward, eyes zeroing in on Hannah's wand hand. A small ball of reddish light streaked out of the end of his wand and collided with her arm, sending it snapping back, and her wand went careening into the window with a loud crack.
"Ouch!"
"Sorry, er, I think that was too much force," Harry muttered. "Are you okay?"
Hannah was rubbing at her wrist, but she nodded before moving to retrieve her wand. "Yeah, I'm fine. I think I understand. It's just weird, you know, to just attack someone like that. I'm not used to thinking of magic like that."
Harry frowned to himself. His regard for magic as only a tool rather than weapon had eroded with the very first stinging hex that Petri had cast on him, and disappeared entirely after the cruciatus. But that didn't change the fact that Hannah was probably right, and it wasn't normal to be so willing to attack other people. He knew quite a few hexes and curses already. Did that make him a dark wizard?
Despite her recognition of the problem, Hannah's best effort still only caused his arm to swing wide, and wasn't quite enough to dislodge his grip. On the other hand, it hardly produced any light, which made it difficult to dodge.
"You know, I bet you could deflect spells with this," Harry told her. "If your enemy can't see it coming, then his aim will go wide."
"Yeah, or I could just run," Hannah pointed out. "Merlin, if some dark wizard were actually casting spells at me I'd die on the spot."
Harry sighed, considering his measly arsenal of spells and how useless they would be against the likes of Petri. "Yeah, me too."
Hannah giggled, but Harry couldn't bring himself to laugh with her. He tried to distract himself from dark thoughts with work instead.
"I've still got the human-revealing spell, the cheering charm, the knitting charm to practise today," he complained. Not to mention his "other" exercises, which he had been trying to catch up on, given the imminent holiday reunion with Petri.
"Ugh don't remind me, I'm behind on my knitting," Hannah said. "You want to practise on your Christmas present?"
"Hannah!" said Harry, pulling back as if appalled, and she giggled again.
"I'm having you on. Yours is done, anyway."
"Can I see it then?" Harry asked.
"No!" Hannah cried. "No peeking."
"I thought you said no surprises?" said Harry.
"It's not a surprise. You know it's coming, you just have to wait to find out the details," Hannah maintained, smirking.
Before they knew it, the winter holiday was upon them. Professor Flitwick came around early December to collect names for who would be staying at Hogwarts. None of Harry's dorm-mates signed up. They were all eager to be getting back to their families.
While the others packed, Harry did some unpacking that he'd somehow managed to neglect all term, emptying his trunk of the equipment and uniforms that he wouldn't need while at home. Perhaps Petri's habit of living out of his trunk had rubbed off on him in a bad way. It just felt easier to have everything in arm's reach instead of having to cross the room to get to his wardrobe.
The train left from Hogsmeade Station at eleven in the morning, and apparently they would not be crossing the lake again, but taking the path around on some carriages. The first years were scheduled to go down at nine, earlier than the others.
"It's criminal to have to get up so early on a Saturday," Terry complained, rolling out of his bed and right onto the floor in a tangle of sheets.
"Aren't you excited to go home?" asked Anthony, who was already dressed and standing by the door, trunk in hand.
"Ehhhmm," Terry groaned unintelligibly.
"Have you seen my potions book?" Michael asked the room at large as he rummaged around underneath his bed. "I think I've lost it."
"Did you check all your drawers?" Anthony asked.
"Yes, yes!" Michael cried. "I checked, and my wardrobe, and my bag, and the bed. Oh no, did I leave it at the library?"
"Let's go," said Stephen. "Or we're going to be late."
"My book!" Michael wailed, clutching at his hair.
"I'm ready," said Terry, who was still wearing the rumpled robes he had slept in. He'd slipped on boots over his bare feet and stumbled over to join Anthony at the door.
Michael gave up and followed everyone else, wringing his hands and muttering to himself the entire way down to the Great Hall, where they picked up a quick breakfast before gathering at the castle doors.
The caretaker, Filch, was busy scowling nastily at some passing Slytherins when they arrived. He stood at the side of the door and handed each student a note as they went out.
"Students aren't permitted to use magic outside of Hogwarts?" Oliver read in dismay. "How are we supposed to practise then?"
"Practise?" Terry asked. "It's bad enough that we have to do homework, as is."
He had unfortunately said this rather loudly, in earshot of the girls.
"If we didn't have homework, you'd just forget all about school over the holiday, wouldn't you?" said Lisa. "They have it so half-wits like you don't fail."
"Hey, I don't need to study all the time just to pass," Terry protested. "The holiday is supposed to be a break from all that!"
Harry tuned out the bickering in favour of gawking at the carriages. They were hooked up to the strangest creatures he'd ever seen, pitch black, skeletal horses with leathery wings pressed close to their sides. If he didn't know better, he would've guessed that they were some kind of inferius version of a pegasus. But that would certainly be illegal.
"What are those?" he asked.
"What are what?" asked Stephen, following his gaze but apparently finding nothing out of the ordinary.
"What's pulling the carriages?" Harry clarified.
"Er, magic?" said Stephen.
"What?" said Harry, blinking.
"Aren't you the one who's good at charms? There's got to be some charm to make them go on their own, right?" Stephen asked.
"I meant those horse things," Harry said, pointing. "What are they called?"
Stephen looked as totally bewildered as Harry felt. "What are you talking about?"
"What are you guys talking about?" asked Michael, who looked to have finally come to terms with his lack of potions book.
"I don't know!" said Stephen.
"I'm talking about the things pulling the carriages," said Harry, who didn't understand how he could possibly make himself clearer. Could they not see the weird horses?
"What things?" asked Michael. "There's nothing there."
"Exactly!" Stephen cried.
Harry stared at them incredulously, wondering if they were playing some kind of practical joke on him. Or perhaps they really couldn't see. Maybe there was some spell on the horses that for some reason didn't work on Harry.
"Let's just get on," Harry muttered. As they approached, he cautiously moved near the horses and extended a hand. They peered at him with inky eyes, but did not make any threatening sounds or movements, so he patted one gently on the flank. It was soft and furry, and definitely real.
He turned to Stephen and Michael. "Put your hand here," he said.
They shot him bizarre looks, but when Harry reached out to take Stephen's wrist he let himself be guided. Harry put the boy's hand on the horse.
"There's something there!" Stephen said, jerking back his hand momentarily before reaching out again.
Feeling vindicated, Harry boarded the carriage. Obviously, since they couldn't even see it, Stephen and Michael wouldn't be any help in identifying it. He wished he had brought Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, but it was one of the books he had left in the dormitory since it did not relate to any of his homework.
Fortunately, Michael had brought all his books (with the exception of the potions text). The Fantastic Beasts book lacked pictures, however, so Harry was forced to spend the next hour so, while they idled in the train station, essentially reading through entry by entry. As it transpired, there were quite a few creatures whose physical description he was unfamiliar with, so it was slow going.
"They're thestrals!" he exclaimed when he finally found the correct entry. Stephen and Michael glanced obligingly at the book, but did not seem much interested, and Harry returned it to Michael, somewhat glad that they hadn't asked the awkward question of whom Harry had seen die.
Finally, the train arrived in concert with the older students, and everybody scrambled to board it in a disorderly fashion. Harry tried to find his friends, but only managed to run into Neville. They shared the compartment with some older Hufflepuffs, who ignored them and chattered to each other the whole time. Neville broke out his wizard's chess set and tried to teach Harry to play, but Harry was pretty rubbish at it and managed to lose three times by noon. Neville seemed pretty chuffed at that.
"I always play Ron and he's really, really good," he told Harry. "I've never won against him."
"Are you in the chess club?" Harry asked. Neville shook his head.
"I'm really no good," he said.
"What am I then?" Harry laughed. Neville smiled uncertainly.
When the sweets trolley came by, Harry decided against getting anything, congratulating himself for having the foresight to nick some toast from breakfast. He nibbled at it while Neville chewed on some licorice wands. After this lunch, Neville slumped in his seat and dozed off, and Harry decided to follow his example.
They woke to the blare of a horn signalling their arrival at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and stumbled quickly to their feet to get off the train.
The moment Harry disembarked he found himself nearly colliding with the black-clad form of Silviu, who looked fresh and youthful, like he'd just gorged himself on blood.
"What are you doing here?" Harry demanded, looking around wildly for some sign of Petri and finding nothing. He swore he had owled the man with the correct date, though admittedly he'd only sent it off a couple days ago.
"Harry! I'm here to take you home, of course," said Silviu quite reasonably.
Neville, who had exited the train just behind Harry, hovered uncertainly nearby.
"Is this your, er, uncle?" he asked.
"No!" said Harry too quickly. "He's, er, a family friend."
"Quite right," said Silviu with a thankfully close-lipped smile. "And you are?"
"N-neville Longbottom."
"Silviu Vlaicu. Pleased to meet you."
Then there was an awkward moment where Silviu extended his long-fingered, clawed hand and Neville paused for a long time before he worked up the courage to shake it.
"Oh, there's my gran," said Neville, pulling away and pointing into the crowd. Harry followed his gaze and his eyes landed on a tall, severely stiff woman wearing a wide-brimmed witch's hat with what appeared to be a taxidermy vulture on top.
Suddenly, Harry was a little glad that all he had was a vampire.
"Bye Neville," he said, waving at his friend. "Have a nice holiday."
"Bye Harry. You too! Happy Christmas."
"How are we getting home?" Harry asked, because Silviu was not leading them towards the floo queue.
"We're walking," said Silviu, and Harry was immediately suspicious.
"No, really," he pressed.
"Really," said Silviu. "Hold on tightly."
And with that, Silviu crouched down and scooped him up bodily, so that Harry barely managed to keep a grip on his trunk, and then they seemed to have sunk into a horrible river of hot, pitch dark tar. Harry made the mistake of attempting to breathe and found that it was like inhaling wet cotton. There was no room even to choke.
They emerged in the back room of the Coffin House and Harry thought he might vomit, except when he took a deep breath everything seemed to be back in order, like he hadn't been drowning in an unidentifiable substance just a moment prior.
"Walking," Harry repeated, once he'd managed to gather his scattered wits. Silviu set him down gently on the floor.
"That is what we called it in Transylvania," said Silviu blithely.
"Can't you apparate like a normal person?" Harry asked.
"No," said Silviu. "But I seem to recall that wizard apparition was also very unpleasant."
"I suppose," Harry had to concede. He still wasn't sure which was worse, getting squished by a narrow tube or suffocated by tar. "Where's my uncle? You're not kidnapping me again, are you?"
"Of course not. Your…" Silviu paused, "uncle, is away on a business trip in Norway."
"Again?" Harry asked. What was it with Christmas and solo trips to Norway? "When is he back?"
Silviu shrugged. "Is he actually your uncle?"
Harry felt that Silviu had been involved in enough shady business by now that it would be pointless to attempt to lie. He wrinkled his nose.
"No. My master, whatever. I just got used to calling him my uncle at school. Nobody else is already an apprentice. You didn't answer my question. When's he going to be back?"
"I don't know," said Silviu. "He didn't say. Irresponsible of him."
Harry thought it was plenty irresponsible of Petri to have left him with Silviu at all.
"It's fine. I've got my key," Harry said, and he knew where Petri kept the stock of nutritive potions. The thought was a little depressing. Nutritive potions, after all the decadent meals he'd had at Hogwarts. He'd probably be having nutritive potions for Christmas too, while they would be enjoying a feast of epic proportions up at the castle. Perhaps he should have signed up to stay there.
"Nonsense," said Silviu. "You can stay with me until he returns."
"I'll get chopped up and eaten by hags," Harry said. "You're the one who always complains it's not safe."
"It's safe," said Silviu. "You're in my company now." And he patted Harry fondly on the head. Harry made a face.
"Don't take this the wrong way," he began, "but I've been wondering since forever. What do you eat?"
"I eat all sorts of things," said Silviu a little facetiously. "But you mean, of course, where do I get my blood, yes?"
"Yes, that," said Harry. "Other than from unsuspecting children."
"I am very sorry for that, Harry. Really. I was so worried then… I wasn't in my right mind, though I know that's no excuse. But what's done is done. Anyway, I generally get blood from the human members and friends of the company, as is customary."
"You're not biting me again," said Harry, stepping back slightly.
"I won't," said Silviu. "Not unless you ask me to. I'm not like—well, I'm not like that."
Harry couldn't imagine why anybody would ask for a vampire to bite them. It seemed stupid.
"It's not bad," Silviu said, and he had an almost wistful look on his face. "Some people even enjoy it."
"Are you reading my mind?" Harry demanded.
"Sorry," said Silviu unabashedly. "I can't really help it when you're broadcasting your thoughts like that. You could try to learn some occlumency, but I hear it's extremely hard for wizards."
"Occlumency, so that's a defence against mind-reading—against legilimency?" Harry asked, and Silviu nodded. His mind flashed to Professor Quirrell and their lessons and he winced and tried not to think about it.
Trying not to think about something, of course, always backfired.
"Charming professor you have," Silviu said. "It's good that you've been learning to defend yourself, even if it's against me. Though I really think you should be learning to counter that master of yours. Nasty piece of work. I understand you're a good student, but that doesn't mean he'll bother to qualify you. There's nothing stopping him from keeping you in his service forever."
"I don't have to worry about that for years," Harry pointed out.
"Procrastination is the enemy of, well, everything," said Silviu. "I could teach you a few tricks."
"Maybe later," said Harry. It wasn't procrastination; it was time management. "I'd like to get a shower and something to eat. Where do you live, anyway?"
"Under my shop," said Silviu. "I'll show you."
He walked over to the back corner of the room. There was a heavy iron trap door in the ground, with a ring handle, which Silviu lifted open without much apparent effort. He gestured for Harry to precede him, which he did rather cautiously, half expecting the vampire to shut it behind him and lock him in a hole or something. A steep metal staircase led down to unseen depths.
"Relax," said Silviu, joining him and putting a hand on his shoulder. It was cold and not particularly reassuring. He lowered the door down carefully and then they were left in near total darkness, only a thin square perimeter of light making it through from above. Normally, Harry would choose this moment to cast a wand-lighting charm, but they had been issued with a threatening warning about not doing any magic outside of Hogwarts, or they could be expelled. Harry was sure that Petri would have some way to get around that pesky law, but Petri wasn't here yet.
"You should be fine to cast magic here," said Silviu. "There's plenty of magic going on in Knockturn all the time. They won't know it's you."
"Are you sure?" he demanded.
"I'm sure, but I'm also sure you could see in the dark if you tried. Being in my company isn't without its benefits," Silviu said cryptically.
Not willing to get expelled over something stupid, Harry blinked rapidly and tried to see more of his surroundings. His eyes really were getting more used to the very dim illumination, and he thought he could make out the stairs beneath his feet and the top of a wardrobe at eye-level to his left, but it still wasn't much.
Then everything suddenly brightened rapidly until it was almost grey, and Harry remembered that his spectacles had a night vision setting. With more certainty in his step, he finished descending the stairs into Silviu's home.
Unlike the wooden structure above, the walls here were made of solid brick. The air was cold and a little damp, but not musty, and the whole place smelled vaguely of soot. As one might expect in an ordinary parlour, there were armchairs and a couch arranged around a low wooden table, and a small hearth off to the right that was probably for making floo calls.
A folding screen that did not quite make it to the ceiling blocked off the left side of the room. Here, Harry remembered that he could see through things with the aid of his glasses, and he spent a moment fiddling with the tiny screw on the side that controlled the settings.
His vision zoomed alarmingly, but he managed to find the wardrobe he had noticed earlier, as well as a deep hole in the stone floor that looked disturbingly like an unearthed grave, complete with empty coffin. It was probably where Silviu slept, if he ever slept, considering how often he was up and about during the day.
"How about I sleep at home, and spend the day, er, night, I don't know, whenever I'm awake, here?" he suggested. Why had he agreed to stay with Silviu again? He was perfectly capable of living by himself in his and Petri's coffin house, and wasn't about to stoop to actually sleeping in a regular, non-expanded coffin when he had a serviceable bed.
"That was the plan," said Silviu. "But surely you aren't planning to go to sleep already? It's only six."
He hadn't really thought about what he was going to do when he got home. Petri usually decided the day's activities for both of them, which he supposed was a little depressing. At Hogwarts, he had spent most of his free time either playing games with his mates or practising spells, but he had resolved not to do more than his homework over the holiday. It was called a holiday for a reason!
"If you don't have any plans," Silviu said, "may I suggest we set up your master's Christmas present?"
"What?" said Harry, wondering if he had misheard.
"Come, I'll show you," said Silviu. "You can leave your things here."
Harry set down his trunk and followed the vampire, who was thankfully electing to walk like a human being to wherever their destination was.
Leticia the hag was staffing the front of the shop, where all the coffins for dead people were. A stately funeral march was playing from the radio behind the counter. There were no customers around, and her beady eyes zeroed in on them as soon as they emerged fro the back.
"Is this our newest family member?" she asked, giggling for no apparent reason.
"Business partner," Silviu corrected lightly.
"I knew you'd get him," said Leticia. "You always get what you want, you sly old dog. What's your name again, young man?"
"Harry," said Harry cautiously. Somehow, the sound of his name sent Leticia into peals of laughter.
"Harry!" she repeated in a sing-song way. "How lovely to meet you, Harry. Or meet you again. Or, I'unno. I'm Leticia." She tapped the grubby metal name tag on her chest. "Don't be a stranger!"
"She's always like that," said Silviu as they exited his shop, before Harry could ask.
"Right. Lovely. So where are we going?" he asked instead.
"Right here," said Silviu, and indeed, they had stopped just next door, at another storefront. A very crooked wooden sign hanging from its chain read, "Moribund's."
"Bugger. He's gone and locked the door again," Silviu said, trying the handle. Harry would have assumed the shop was closed, but there was clearly a light on inside. He jumped as Silviu banged on the door with a tremendous amount of force, so that the entire building seemed to shake.
There was no response for a long while.
Silviu drew his wand and murmured, "Nox." The light inside flickered, before returning to full force. He then gave another rattling knock.
This time, they heard footsteps approaching, and the clinking of a chain as the deadbolt was drawn back. The door opened up and revealed a surprisingly normal-looking, bespectacled man in smart brown work robes. He waved at them, and glanced curiously to Harry.
"This is Mr Moribund," Silviu told Harry. "He's our company's solicitor."
"Nice to meet you, sir," said Harry. "I'm Harry."
Mr Moribund held up an index finger to bid them wait, then reached into an inner pocket and produced a small slate and a piece of chalk. He scribbled on it rapidly before flipping it around to show them.
"Nice to meet you, Harry. I'm Sam Moribund, Death Consultant," it read.
Harry blinked sceptically at the last part, and Mr Moribund laughed. It was an uncanny, almost chilling laugh, and loud enough to echo down the empty alley. He exchanged an amused glance with Silviu before beckoning for them both to enter.
Inside was a dingy, cramped office in utter disarray. Half-open filing cabinets took up the majority of the space that wasn't occupied by the ancient, scuffed wooden desk, and the rest was filled by a pair of heavy, floral-patterned wing-back chairs that had seen better days. Stuffing was leaking out of the seams, and there was a dark stain on one of the seats. Everything was illuminated in a harsh orange light that originated from a grimy, floating glass orb that jittered as if the enchantment were about to give out any minute.
Mr Moribund was rifling through the drawers of the desk. He produced a piece of parchment and a somewhat bent eagle-feather quill and pushed aside a stack of books to make writing space. To his credit, his calligraphy was impeccable, and Harry would've sworn the document he was working on had been done by an expensive dicta-quill, had he not seen the man writing it by hand with his own eyes.
"Your master has been wanting to open up his own shop," Silviu said to Harry. "I told him in no uncertain terms that only my company is going to be getting any paperwork through to let that happen, and he pointed out that you are in my company. He assured me you wouldn't be opposed, but I wanted to hear it from you in person, so here we are. You aren't opposed, are you?"
"No," said Harry. "It'd be nice if he had his shop again." It would give Petri something legal to do at any rate, instead of whatever shady business he was up to these days.
"Good. Mr Moribund will draw up and file the contract, we'll get the community vote, and it'll be taken care of in a matter of days," said Silviu, clapping his hands.
After just a few minutes Mr Moribund turned and gave them a thumbs up. He reached into a small stone pot at the corner of his desk and resurfaced with a handful of coarse sand, which he strewed across his finished parchment.
Harry had been a little worried that he would be asked to sign something, but it turned out that there was really no reason for his presence. The contract was instead for Silviu, who barely glanced at it before signing with Mr Moribund's quill.
"I'm agreeing to be liable for the new spatial expansion that will be needed for the shop, since this is my land," Silviu explained. "It needs to be filed with regulators at the Ministry, and then the Knockturn Alley community will vote on whether they agree to have the new building. Of course my company holds the majority of Knockturn space so that will be no problem."
"Who isn't in your company?" Harry asked.
"There aren't many. Only Charles and Elaine at the White Wyvern, the section across the street with Borgin and McHavelock and those junk shops, and Mr Mulpepper at the apothecary."
It was just like Silviu said—the space expansion was approved in a matter of days, and contractors with a pair of construction trolls arrived early morning on Monday to lay the foundation and begin exterior construction. With the aid of magic the new building practically sprouted out of the ground over the course of the day, and was finished up by evening. It had been erected at 13-C Knockturn Alley, aggressively adjacent to Borgin and Burkes, which Harry was sure had been intentional.
Afterwards they returned to Moribund's, where Mr Moribund silently dropped a large stack of paperwork into Harry's arms.
"The shop will officially be under your name," Silviu explained.
"I have no idea how to fill this out," Harry said, staring down at the arcane jargon that covered the Ministry forms. He had a wand registration signature? What in the world was a disillusionment liability clause waiver?
Most importantly, what were they going to name the shop?
Searching for things he thought he knew the answers to, he put down his name, address, and birthday, and scribbled, "enchanted glassware, crystal, and china," in the box for product description.
"Is it really legal for me to have a shop?" Harry asked, just to make sure.
"Perfectly legal," said Silviu, "as I own the property and have assumed liability. Don't worry too much about the details."
Harry supposed that meant it would be on Silviu's head if something went wrong, while he got to do all the fun, aesthetic parts.
Back in Germany, Petri's shop had been named "Wunderkunst." It did not translate particularly well into English, in Harry's opinion.
"The Enchanter's Art?" Silviu suggested, but Harry shook his head.
"It doesn't fit in with the rest of the Alley," he protested. Petri's false English name, Peters (and his real name as well, for that matter), sounded entirely too plebeian and mudblood to acceptably feature in the shop name, so emulating Mr Mulpepper's Apothecary or Shyverwretch's Venoms and Poisons was out. On the other hand, a simple, informative name like Glass Enchantments or something seemed too boring to be memorable.
"I'll think of something," Harry said, and looked up expectantly at Silviu for him to show him how to complete the rest of the paperwork, which took nearly all day.
A/N: This update brought to you by people's continued interest in this story inspiring me to get off my arse and write something. Thank you for your support. Alternatively, the rate of updates is a Poisson process with mean four months and we just got lucky.
In case anybody was desperately wondering, "Wunderkunst" literally means "art-that-is-marvellous," only less stupid-sounding.