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.
****************************************

Chapter Seven – Charon and Dursley.

Professor McGonagall lifted the Sorting Hat from Jeremy Upwood's head. Hers was the only movement in the Great Hall until Dumbledore slowly rose from his chair. This acted as a signal to the room, and all at once everybody was talking.
Hermione didn't even wait for Harry and Ron to ask. Leaning forward, eyes bright, she said, "There's nothing about this in Hogwarts, A History! Though there was a mention of a wizard named Battenby, Cyril Battenby, who was a contemporary of Godric Gryffindor. Apparently, Battenby drew up the original plans for the school, but died before construction was begun."
Dumbledore shot a golden burst from his wand to get everyone's attention. Harry saw Jeremy standing beside the stool, his eyes wide and scared. Professor McGonagall was looking down at him with an odd mixture of pity and what seemed to be unease.
"Minerva," said Dumbledore, "would you kindly summon Professor Charon?"
McGonagall nodded curtly and left via the side door, carrying the stool and the Sorting Hat with her.
"Who's Professor Charon?" Ron asked, low.
"I've never heard of him," replied Hermione.
"If you'll all please be so good as to settle down," Dumbledore called above the babble, "I have a few words to say before we begin the start-of-term feast. But first, young Mr. Upwood, while we clear up this confusion, please have a seat. Anywhere will do."
Jeremy was frozen in place, until Harry jerked his head in a come-here gesture. Relieved, the small boy hurried to the Gryffindor table. People he passed turned to stare quizzically. Jeremy sat, and offered a shaky smile in gratitude at finding a few friendly faces.
Ron started to question him, but Harry kicked his ankle under the table. No sense badgering the kid; clearly, Jeremy didn't know what was going on either. Unless the Hat had said something to him … Harry started to ask a question of his own and was in turn kicked by Hermione.
Dumbledore launched into his traditional speech, informing new students and reminding old ones of the various rules of Hogwarts. When he mentioned that the West Bailey was off-limits, Harry noted raised eyebrows among some of the teachers, as if this was news to them, too. The West Bailey was one of the oldest parts of the castle, used for little now except storage, and right away Harry's interest was triggered. What could there be to be found in the West Bailey worth making it forbidden?
During the bit where Dumbledore told them that all third-years and above were allowed scheduled weekend visits to Hogsmeade, the door opened again and Professor McGonagall came in. She was walking quickly, nervously, and kept peeking back over her shoulder as if she thought the figure behind her might suddenly go for her neck.
Harry didn't blame her. A chill swept over him as dark form entered the Great Hall. Had he just been thinking about dementors on the train? Here was a man just as hooded and cowled, wearing robes of a black so dark they seemed to suck in the glow of the candles, so that no light actually fell upon him but was absorbed some inches from his body. He walked in a perpetual dim shadow, and a cold draft was in his wake. His height rivaled Hagrid's, but he was cadaverously thin, and when his hands slid from his sleeves, they were white and long-fingered and bloodless as bare bone.
The new arrival brought those hands to his hood and pushed it back, so that the fabric collapsed in a lifeless billow onto the narrow rack of his shoulders. The face thus revealed was so like a skull that stifled cries sounded here and there about the room before the students realized that his pure-white hair was cropped close to the scalp and his skin was drawn tight against the hard planes beneath. His eyes were the pink-red of an albino, set deep in hollowed sockets.
"You sent for me, Headmaster." He made it a statement, in a voice that was at once both ghostly and echoey.
"Yes, Professor Charon, I did. Thank you, Professor McGonagall."
She dipped her head slightly in acknowledgement and retreated to her place at the staff table. Dumbledore came around from behind it.
"We have a new student for you," Dumbledore said.
Beside Ron, Jeremy trembled.
"Is that so?" murmured Charon. "A new student for Battenby House? Where?"
"Mr. Upwood, if you would join us?"
Gulping, Jeremy got up. He sent a brief look of appeal to Harry – help me!, that look said – but they all knew there was nothing to do but obey Dumbledore.
As Jeremy approached, Charon folded his long hands into the voluminous sleeves of his robe and studied him. "Yes, Headmaster. He is one of ours."
"It's all right, son," Dumbledore said, putting a kind hand on Jeremy's shoulder. "Professor Charon is Head of Battenby House. You'll be welcome there."
"Come with me," Charon said. "I'll lead you to the others."
No one spoke. No one stirred. The drop of a pin would have been deafening.
Professor Charon wrapped his long bony fingers around Jeremy's wrist and guided him. They did not head for the door, but toward the wall nearest to the Gryffindor table. Harry held his breath, half-expecting that they'd disappear through it just as everyone did at the magical barrier at Platform 9 and ¾, but instead, the wall itself fogged and faded.
It was as if the Great Hall was even bigger than it seemed. As if there was room in it for yet another table full of students. But no candles illuminated this add-on, and the only light came from some unseen source of misty blue-white that made Harry think of the cold flame that had issued from the Goblet of Fire.
Then he saw them. A double row of people, hard to get a clear look at through the foggy, semi-transparent wall. They were in robes, with crests in the usual spot, but the crests were not in a design he knew. They were applauding silently, their mouths open in cheers that went totally unheard.
Jeremy's lined, worried face smoothed out. A tentative spark of hope lit his eyes. He stopped dragging his feet and pulled ahead of Charon, slipping from his grip. He reached the wall and passed through unhindered.
The students nearest him crowded around, greeting him. As Jeremy took his place among them, the blue-white light brightened briefly.
Harry wasn't consciously aware that he was moving until he heard Ron and Hermione urgently whispering for him to stop. He did so, right in front of where the solid wall should have been.
Odd things about the students leapt out at him. Their hair, and what could be seen of their clothes beneath the uniform robes, varied widely through what looked like many centuries of fashion. They were all so pale, as if they hadn't seen the sun in ages.
The crests on their robes were in black and silver, and where Gryffindor had its proud lion and Slytherin its sly snake, those of this mysterious Battenby House had a black-winged bat. In fact, the effect of the crest took him right back to that night outside of Gringotts, the moon-painted wall and the black silhouette. Deja-vu washed over him.
Jeremy looked back, and despite what seemed to be the standard happiness at meeting all his new classmates, there was a strange and awful desolation in his eyes. Harry almost called out, but caught himself. None of the Battenby students acted as if they were aware of him, and he realized that he couldn't hear their voices at all, though by the way their mouths were moving, they had to be speaking.
"Harry Potter, isn't it?"
He first thought one of the Battenby students had spoken. But it was Professor Charon, who had come up beside him and was examining him with a detachment that made Harry even less comfortable.
"I understand you're partly to thank for this," Charon went on.
"Excuse me, Professor?"
"Fear no evil, Potter. Fear no evil."
With that, saying nothing more and giving no other hint of explanation, Professor Charon moved by Harry and through the spot where the wall should have been. It snapped back into solid existence as soon as the trailing hem of his robe had crossed. The other table was gone. The students were gone. And so was Jeremy.
No one else appeared to have noticed the verbal exchange, though many people were watching Harry as if they thought he was about to do something weird. Some of the Slytherins, Fyren Grimme among them, had even half-risen to see across the crowded Great Hall. Abashed, Harry hastily returned to his seat beside Hermione.
"Did all of you see that," he asked, "or am I losing my marbles?"
"Saw it," said Ron. "Spooky, wasn't it? Who are they, d'you reckon? I couldn't see that great, but they looked … well, our age and about. But we've been here six years now and I've never heard anybody Sorted into that House before. I don't get it."
"I apologize for the interruption," Dumbledore said. "And for the delay. If the rest of you are feeling as hungry as I am, you'll be glad for me to say what I have to say and get it over and done with, so that we might eat."
"Hear, hear!" a few voices called good-naturedly.
Already, the incident with Jeremy seemed like something that had happened long ago, or was of no consequence. Harry felt in himself a nudge to let it go, forget about it, not important, pay it no mind. He steeled his thoughts against it.
Dumbledore showed no signs of explaining. He merely picked up his speech where he'd left off, informing them of the specific dates of the Hogsmeade weekends and reminding them that the House Cup was once more up for grabs, as it was the start of a whole new year and all points were level-peggy. At this, the Slytherins gave off a low growl, no doubt determined to win back the honor that had been theirs so many times before Gryffindor had risen up and wrested it from them.
"In conclusion," Dumbledore said, "I have a new staff member to introduce. Most amazingly, it is not our latest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher --"
Here, a wave of laughter went through the room, and a lot of heads turned toward Ophidia Winterwind. She dimpled demurely but contrasted it with a smoldering look, ruby eyes fringed by long lashes. It was the sort of look that made every male in the room feel sure she was looking right at him and only at him, a look rich with dark promise and affection. The girls and women muttered like faraway thunder. Harry saw Pansy Parkinson give Draco Malfoy a hard dig in the ribs.
Ophidia finally brought the force of her smoldering look to bear on Dumbledore, and astonishingly, he preened beneath it just like any of the schoolboys.
"Instead," he said, struggling to find the thread of his speech, "we are joined this year by a new Muggle Studies teacher. As some of you know, Professor Atherton took a leave of absence at the end of last year to get married; until she returns, the spot will be filled by this gentleman."
He waved to the man with the ruddy face and grey muttonchop sideburns. The man got up, bowed, and smiled. Dumbledore met Harry's eyes in a manner that suggested something of significance and also a touch of regret, as if he'd wanted to do this some other way.
"If you'll allow me to present Professor Edward Dursley."
Harry jumped up, banged his knee on the underside of the table, got his feet tangled in the hem of his robes, and went down with a jarring crash full on the floor in between the rows of seats. Face flaming, having now made a fool of himself twice in as many minutes, he scrambled back to a somewhat dignified posture. No one else except his friends knew why he'd reacted so, which meant that the rest of the room was once more acting like Harry had gone mad.
"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore," Edward Dursley said. He addressed the students. "I do hope you'll all take it easy on me while I get the hang of the place. I stand before you as living proof that an old dog can learn new tricks; I never had the privilege of attending this fine school, and am deeply in the Headmaster's debt for giving me this chance. I hope that my qualifications – half a lifetime spent living as a Muggle – will serve me, and you, well in the course of this … course." He chuckled weakly at his own joke.
"I'm sure you'll find a warm welcome here, Professor," said Dumbledore. "And now, with no further ado, let the feast begin."
At once, the tables were laid. Empty platters and bowls filled with food, re-filling once they were emptied. Harry was almost too stunned to eat.
"It's a coincidence, isn't it?" said Ron through a mouthful of half-chewed bread. "Dursley. Can't be the same Dursley, can it?"
"I think it is, has to be," Harry said. "When I first came in I thought there was something familiar about him. Looks a bit, just a bit, like Uncle Vernon. But it's crazy!"
"I saw the way Dumbledore looked at you," Hermione said. "He probably wanted to warn you before, but there wasn't really a good time."
Ron swallowed. "What I don't see is how it can be the same. You would have known, wouldn't you, Harry?"
"The way they are about magic? They'd have never told me."
"I think you're about to get the chance to ask," said Hermione. "He's coming this way."
Edward Dursley was walking toward their table. He had a watch chain looping to the pocket of his robes, and under them he wore what looked like a charcoal-colored business suit. A banker's suit. With a tie.
"Pardon me," he said. "Harry? Just wanted to say hello. I'm told we're related … by marriage, at least."
He held out a hand and Harry shook it. Edward Dursley had a businessman's handshake to match his suit – firm, dry, and efficient.
"I was just wondering about that," Harry said. "Are we?"
"If I've got the facts of it, your mother's sister is married to my son. Imagine! My son, guardian of the Harry Potter."
"You're Uncle Vernon's father?" goggled Harry.
Edward Dursley took the seat that Jeremy had briefly occupied. He dished up a plateful of food with a heavy hand on the serving spoons, and that in itself gave testimony to his lineage. "I'm sure he'd never acknowledge it. The old 'I have no father' bit, that's how it likely is with Vernie and Margie."
Ron snorted pumpkin juice out his nose at that. Hermione smothered her giggles in her napkin.
"Vernie and Margie," Harry repeated, awestruck.
"Came as quite a surprise to me when I heard about you," Edward said. "But then, I imagine it must have come an awful shock to Vernon when he found out his nephew was one of us. He hates all things magical, you see."
"I know," said Harry. "But I never understood why it bothered him so much. I mean, my mother was Aunt Petunia's sister, so it wasn't like I was his blood kin."
"No, that was my fault. I'm afraid that my being a wizard must have hardened his heart all the more against you. Terribly sorry about that."
"How did it all happen?" Hermione asked.
He helped himself to a heaping mound of mashed potatoes and drowned them in a small ocean of gravy. "We Dursleys have been rock-solid Muggles for centuries, but a few here and there down the line have had run-ins with magic. Never good ones. Had a great-great-great-grandfather somewhere back there who was a witchhunter. Others of the family had the bad luck to encounter the Black Court. So, when I turned up a wizard, and got my letter inviting me to Hogwarts, my parents refused to let me come."
"Mine were shocked," Hermione said, "but they were happy for me once they got used to the idea."
His face darkened. "Mine were not pleased, oh, no, not pleased at all. Thrashed me for it. As if my father thought he could strap the magic out of me. In a way, he did … I forced it all out of my mind. Made myself forget. Did what he wanted. The family used to own a steel mill, Harry, did you know that?"
Harry nodded. Uncle Vernon didn't talk much about his past, but on occasion he did reminisce fondly of days long before he'd been born, when the Dursley name was well-known and respected, and the Dursley fortune was no hill of beans. He never said just how or why the family had gone from owning a mill to, as Uncle Vernon did now, selling drill-bits for someone else, but it was obvious he yearned for those bygone years.
"So I went to Muggle school, to university, and to work. Vice-president of the business, under my brother. Got married, settled down. But all the while, it was in the back of my mind. Building up. Like water behind a dam. We moved house, and I found that letter stuffed way down in a chest that my mother had forbid me to open – I wouldn't have dreamed of doing so if she hadn't been five years dead by then. The letter from Hogwarts. It brought everything back. I looked at my life. Had a job that made money but was dull as dirt. A wife, two children. A perfectly respectable, ordinary, boring life."
"And you gave it all up," Harry said. On a hunch, he added, "You told them. Told them you were a wizard."
"I couldn't deny it any more. I wanted the things I'd missed. The chance to do magic, real magic … to get out of that rut. To do something wild and fantastic. A mid-life crisis, I suppose they'd say, but instead of buying a sports car or having an affair, I took up magic."
"That must've gone over like month-old milk," said Ron.
Edward Dursley nodded. "Did it ever. My wife threw me out that very day. If I hadn't gone, she might well have brained me with throwing every dish in the house. My brother fired me. I lost everything. But I still had my magic to sustain me. Was able to get taken on as an apprentice, no easy task for a man in his forties with a Muggle upbringing, I can tell you."
"That's really impressive," Hermione said. "You're a self-made man, a self-made wizard."
"Thank you, young lady. I only wish I'd handled it better. Things were much harder on Mildred and the children. My brother saw to them for a while, but the steel mill closed, and then a heart attack carried him off before he was fifty. So they were on their own. I wrote them a couple of times but the letters came back unopened."
Harry had a better grasp now of Uncle Vernon's hatred and distrust of all things magical. He'd said something once about having grown up poor and never wanting Dudley to lack for comfort, never wanting to leave Aunt Petunia scrabbling to make ends meet. He was a great believer in insurance, in sound investments, in nest eggs and saving for a rainy day. And, of course, he abhorred wizards because he felt his father had abandoned them.
Of all the people in the world Harry never would have expected to feel sorry for, Uncle Vernon was high on the list. Not as high as, say, Dudley or Draco Malfoy, but on there all the same. Now he did, and it was a highly uncomfortable sensation indeed.

**



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