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 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.
** |