Author's Note: the characters of the Harry Potter novels are the property
of their creator, J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge
or permission. All other characters property of the author. 53,000 words.
January, 2002. Adult situations, mild sexual content and violence.
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Chapter Three – The Snake and the Bat.
Somehow, although
he hadn't done a thing and hadn't even been seen, it was all Harry's fault.
Uncle Vernon made that plain to him in the wake of the business with Gilderoy
Lockhart and Aunt Marge. It was all Harry's fault.
His protests
of innocence fell, as usual, on deaf ears. He hadn't even let on that he'd
listened, because that would have been taken as an admission of guilt.
Instead, counting the days until summer's end, Harry had resignedly accepted
the blame.
He was dying
to know what had happened to Lockhart afterward. And before, for that matter.
Where had the erstwhile celebrity been these past few years? Why hadn't
the Ministry done something before now?
These, like
many other questions simmering in Harry's mind, seemed destined to go unanswered.
The one that interested him the most, though, had to do with the notion
that Aunt Marge had apparently known about wizards all along, even if she
hadn't tipped to the fact that Harry was one until that disastrous dinner
party. He'd hoped to hear more that night, especially once she finished
the entire pie and went to work on Uncle Vernon's cognac. But he had been
confined to his room until the following morning, when a hungover and very
wretched-looking Aunt Marge left alone in another taxi.
The days dragged.
Harry passed some of the time by writing letters to his friends, especially
making a point of asking Hermione if she knew what was up with Lockhart.
He tried to phrase this in a way that didn't make it seem like he was taunting
her; at one point, she'd had a crush on him. But carefully as he phrased
it, her first few replies contained many acerbic comments about the way
the male students were now reacting to Professor Ophidia Winterwind.
Eventually,
though, Harry persuaded her he was in earnest. She wrote back and included
a few clippings from the Daily Prophet, the wizarding world's newspaper.
Apparently, Lockhart had signed himself out of St. Mungo's a few months
previously, against medical advice. Ministry operatives were supposedly
on the lookout for him, but as he was considered harmless, he was a low
priority.
That all changed
shortly after Lockhart left the Dursley house. He was detained by Muggle
authorities when he went running through the streets of London, waving
a stick and shouting that he was a famous wizard. Luckily, the Muggles
thought he was merely a madman, and he was finally returned to St. Mungo's,
under more careful observation this time.
As for the other
burning question, Harry didn't even know how to go about asking it. He
couldn't see himself approaching Uncle Vernon to inquire just what, when,
and how long Aunt Marge had known about wizards. He suspected that it had
something to do with Uncle Vernon's disproportionate dislike of all things
magical, which was a tantalizing idea. Overhearing a loud argument between
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia one night, which included her demanding of
him, "why didn't you ever tell me, Vernon, me of all people, you know I
would have understood!" only made Harry more intrigued.
He was, though,
apparently doomed to disappointment. No further disclosures were made by
the time summer wound to a close. Often, Harry spent the last week or so
visiting the Weasley family at their charmingly ramshackle house, the Burrow,
but given that he'd already had a holiday and that Mr. Weasley was so bogged
down with work, that custom was skipped over this year.
Harry planned
to meet his friends at Diagon Alley, the hidden street in London where
they bought their school supplies, and go from there to catch the train
that would take them all to Hogwarts. He had secretly unblocked the fireplace
and covered it with a spell of illusion, so that he could make use of Floo
powder with the Dursleys none the wiser.
Floo powder
was never going to be as convenient as flying by broom, but as far as Harry
was concerned, it beat using a Portkey. He'd had limited experience with
Portkeys, but the last time, when he'd been yanked by surprise into the
clutches of his mortal enemy, Lord Voldemort, had soured him on that method
of travel.
To make sure
he didn't disturb the Dursleys, he left late at night. He used his wand
to start a small, magical fire that required no wood. With his trunk packed,
Hedwig caged, and everything in order, he flung the packet of powder and
stepped in after it, saying, "Diagon Alley," as he did.
A whirling,
flickering, sooty blur became his world. Moments later, he was spat out
into the smoky warmth of the Leaky Cauldron, an inn and tavern on the border
between Diagon Alley and conventional, Muggle London. As it was late, only
a few patrons were about. Harry's arrival didn't go unnoticed, and as usual
he was recognized, but most people had finally gotten used to seeing the
legendary Harry Potter in person. He went up to the innkeeper and asked
for a room, and stowed his belongings.
Though it was
late and he was tired, the excitement of being back among wizards and witches
had revitalized Harry. He decided to go for a walk before trying to get
to sleep. The night was mild and pleasant, lit by a nearly-full moon that
sparkled in the leaded-glass windows of the many curious little shops.
The narrow, winding street was all but deserted. Hard to believe it would
be crowded with students the very next day.
Harry was just
about to turn back, thinking that a nice hot butterbeer would be the perfect
thing before bed, when a fast-moving shadow caught his eye. It sailed across
a patch of moonlight on the marble wall of Gringotts, the goblin bank.
Something about that image, the perfect black shape of a bat on silver-white,
for some reason sent a shiver through him.
He quickened
his steps, came to the corner. The shadow of the bat descended, wings beating,
and abruptly swelled. Harry stopped short. The shadow grew and changed
until a very feminine silhouette stood where it had been. He couldn't see
the source, the body that cast the shadow, but he had a pretty good guess
who it was.
"You said midnight,"
hissed an unfamiliar male voice.
"I'm here, aren't
I?" countered a woman.
As Harry suspected,
it was Ophidia Winterwind, her voice like silk and dark chocolate. Hermione
had told them that Ophidia was registered as an Animagus, with the power
to turn into a bat. However, Hermione speculated that instead, Professor
Winterwind was a vampire and her Animagus registration was a false cover.
She couldn't be swayed from this, even when Harry had relayed what Professor
Dumbledore had said. Not a vampire … in the accepted sense of the word.
What that meant, Harry had yet to figure out.
What he did
know was that she had at one time been interested in his father, but James
Potter had been too in love with his future wife Lily to care … and that
Ophidia's name had also been romantically linked with, of all people, Professor
Severus Snape's.
"Do you have
it?"
"Of course."
Harry edged
closer. His instincts were good when it came to knowing something dodgey
was afoot. Most people might have taken that as a clear sign to get away
before getting caught, but he believed in knowing what was up.
He peeked around
the corner. There, at the mouth of Knockturn Alley – and it did
look like a mouth, with crooked shingles like snaggle teeth framing a hungry
opening – stood Professor Winterwind. Her pale skin nearly glowed in the
moonlight, which lent a frosty blue sheen to her long black hair. Her robe,
which looked more like a gown made of snakeskin, shimmered. Harry couldn't
see her ruby-pool eyes, as she was turned away from him, facing a man who
stood in the deep shadows of Knockturn Alley.
The man was
only barely visible, as a shape in the darkness. Harry could only make
out his height and the imposing breadth of his shoulders. And his hand,
reaching out to accept something that Ophidia Winterwind was holding out.
His arm was sheathed in faint scales, and his stubby fingers ended in blunt,
curved claws. His hand shook with barely-restrained eagerness.
"Before I give
it to you," crooned Ophidia, lifting whatever she was holding a ways away
from him, "I want to hear your oath."
"Give it to
me, you promised." He lurched closer to her, and as he did, Harry saw something
terrible – beneath the hem of his robes, the man had no legs. He had, instead,
a muscular coil of tail like that of a giant serpent.
"I did, in exchange
for what you promise me."
"I do, I swear,
now let me have it. It's mine!"
"Your oath,
or I'll dash it to the stones." She stepped back, raised her arm as if
to do that very thing. Harry caught a quick glimpse of the object in her
hand. It was the size of a Snitch, triggering an immediate surge of interest
in him, but rather than shiny and gold with wings, it was mottled, like
an egg, and greenish.
A wild urge
seized Harry – to whip out his wand, cry, "Accio!" and summon the
egg-like thing to him. To see what it was. To find out what was going on.
Instead, he stood quietly and watched.
"In errands
three," muttered the man grudgingly, "I'm bound to thee."
A flicker of
tiny colored sparks greeted this, spinning briefly between the two of them.
A spell.
"And you know
what those errands are?" she asked sweetly, tossing her head so that her
hair rippled and danced.
"Yes, yes, now
please! Give it to me!"
"You are bound
by your oath. Fail to fulfill, and what is done tonight shall be undone."
"I know. I understand."
"Very well."
She dropped the egg into his outstretched, clutching hand.
He grasped it
and uttered a low groan of triumph. His arm withdrew into the shadows and
Harry had the impression of him cradling it in both hands, hunched over.
A terrible, sick laughter rang from him. It turned without warning into
a howl of pain.
Ophidia Winterwind
watched avidly. Harry could see part of her face now, full scarlet lips
curved in a slight smile, a cheekbone sharp as a blade, the long fringe
of her lashes. The brief twinkle of teeth, quite pronounced teeth.
From the alley
came sudden, horrible sounds. Wet, fleshy, ripping sounds. The howling
of the unseen man turned into a series of hoarse, choking coughs.
Harry ran. He
didn't mean to, but his feet were moving before his brain could come up
with a better idea. And he didn't run away from the hideous noises
that might have been the sound of someone being violently dismembered and
disemboweled; he ran toward them.
She turned all
the way toward him. His running steps faltered as those blood-red eyes
fixed on his green ones. "Harry," she purred. "How good to see you."
He came to an
unsteady halt. "Good to see you, too, Professor Winterwind," his mouth
said, quite independently of his mind.
"Whatever are
you doing out so late?" She glided toward him in that way she had, that
way that made it seem her feet did not touch the ground. That way that
made her hips roll so alluringly. Her smile widened, and yes, he could
see her teeth. Especially the long, sickle-shaped, pointed canines.
Yet he wasn't
afraid. A delicious calm settled over him. He lowered his arm, wand hanging
at his side. The gristly popping and grinding noises from Knockturn Alley
seemed very far away and of no great importance.
"Just … walking,"
Harry said.
"Looking forward
to classes beginning?"
He nodded.
"Yes …" she
breathed. "I'm looking forward to having you this year, too."
It was like
being under the Imperius Curse. His mind was in a fog, and his body acted
like it was totally under the control of someone else. He found himself
extending a hand toward hers, without meaning to, and he twitched when
she clasped it. Her flesh was cool and white as alabaster.
Harry tried
to speak but all at once he couldn't formulate English anymore.
"Such a handsome
young man," Ophidia Winterwind said.
He closed his
eyes. As soon as he did, he imagined her leaning toward him, baring her
fangs, angling toward the side of his neck. Any moment, he'd feel the velvety
press of her lips and then the icy piercing pain … no. He concentrated,
and spoke without looking at her.
"What are you
doing to him? The man in the shadows?"
With that, his
feeling of entrancement vanished. He was able to open his eyes and look
squarely at her. And rather than the flash of guilt he expected, he saw
only an honest surprise and concern.
"Helping him,
Harry. He was under a curse, which I've now broken. Isn't that right?"
She directed this last question at the alley.
The man emerged.
The scales Harry had seen on his arm were gone, as were the claws. He walked
upright on two legs. Normal. Human.
"It worked,"
he said. The hissing quality was gone from his voice.
"You see, Harry?
No harm done."
"I … I'm sorry,
Professor." He felt abashed, ashamed. Had made a fool of himself.
She smiled,
this time with no sign of fangs. "It's late, Harry, and I'm sure you'll
have a busy day of it on the morrow. Go, and get some rest. I'm sure you're
very, very sleepy."
The next thing
Harry knew, he was at the door of the Leaky Cauldron without being entirely
sure how he'd gotten there. His walk had a dreamlike quality of unreality
about it, the odd angles of the buildings seeming to stretch and contract,
the sheen of the moon in the windowpanes giving them the aspect of eyes.
He was incredibly drowsy.
The downstairs
common room was empty now, and lit only by the banked bed of coals. Harry
shuffled to the stairs and climbed them, yawning as he went.
** |