Harry Potter and the Fifth House
Christine Morgan
christine@sabledrake.com / http://www.christine-morgan.org


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.

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page copyright 2002 by Christine Morgan / christine@sabledrake.com