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 Nine – Lady of the Evening.

Whether she truly was a vampire or simply averse to daylight for some other reason, all of Ophidia Winterwind's Defense Against the Dark Arts classes were held at night. An extra period was set aside during the day for study hall, giving the students a chance to keep up on their homework.
One evening in October, shortly before the first Hogsmeade weekend, Professor Winterwind arrived to class late. She glided to the head of the room, swept her cascade of inky hair back from her alabaster face, and scanned them all with eyes like twin dollops of blood.
"There has been news, dire news," she said. "The Dark Lord is stirring again."
Dire it was, but hardly surprising. Harry had been braced for this moment since the end of his fourth year, when he had been victim of a gruesome ritual that had helped bring Voldemort back from a horrible half-life. He had summoned his faithful Death Eaters to him and essentially declared his intention to wage war on the rest of the wizarding world.
Dumbledore had been working ever since to rally the forces of good against him, though most of this work had been done as quietly and behind-the-scenes as possible. What hampered Dumbledore the most was that many wizards, including a large percentage of the Ministry of Magic, flat-out refused to believe any of it. Harry's testimony had been discounted as the ravings of a troubled child, and the death of Cedric Diggory was still regarded by some as a dreadful accident.
At Hogwarts, though, the truth was known and generally believed. It made things most touchy, especially when it came to the Slytherins. Harry had personally witnessed the appearance of the fathers of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle among Voldemort's Death Eaters.
But nothing was done about this … Lucius Malfoy had, upon being questioned by Dumbledore, freely admitted that yes, he had once been a Death Eater, and yes, he had answered the Dark Lord's call that fateful night, but he had done so out of fear for what might happen to his family if he refused. That, he said, did not make him a current supporter of the Dark Lord. And surely no reasonable person would blame the son for the past misdeeds of the father, would they? Draco hadn't done anything worthy of expulsion, had he?
Lucius Malfoy was so smooth a talker, so devious a debater, and a man of such influence in the community that nobody was prepared to refute this. He might not have been able to lie his way past a Truth Serum, but neither could he be forced to take one unless accused of some crime. So, while everyone knew that he was still high in Voldemort's hierarchy, not a thing could be done about it.
This led to Draco and his friend strutting about with even more arrogance than they'd shown in the past. It all infuriated Harry. The legal system among wizards was nearly as senseless and confusing as the one among Muggles.
When Ophidia Winterwind announced that the Dark Lord was stirring again, Draco smiled that smug little smile that made Harry so earnestly want to punch his teeth out.
Voldemort had disappeared after his resurrection, vanished from sight. What little Harry knew of his plans were vague – to gather his forces and strike alliances with other races such as the giants, and the dementors. Dumbledore had taken steps to contact the giants himself, offering the hand of peace. As for the dementors, Dumbledore had as little use for them as did Harry himself. They were fell, evil creatures that would gladly go with Voldemort, whose reign of suffering would allow them access to the sadistic cruelties they cherished.
No one knew what else Voldemort might be up to … at least, no one who was willing to come forth and say so. But now, looking at that smug little smile, Harry was more sure than ever that Lucius Malfoy knew, was involved, and doubtless shared the information with his precious son.
"Agents of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named have been sighted all across the country," Professor Winterwind said. "Signs of their sorcery has been found in several graveyards. It is suspected that, failing to ally with the giants, the Dark Lord has turned his attention to necromancy."
Hermione shuddered. She wasn't alone. Half the class did, by no means all of them girls, and the rest (with the exception of Malfoy and his bunch, of course), looked deeply troubled.
"In light of this," Ophidia went on, "I think we'll dispense with tonight's planned lesson --" they had been practicing spells of aura-reading, which would supposedly let them determine a person's mood and intentions by the shifting patterns of emotional energy around them, though of course they had also been shown ways to cloak their auras or even project false ones, the better to confuse one's foes, "—and concentrate on the best ways to identify and deal with the living dead. Can anyone name a specific type?"
Shudder though she might, Hermione's hand was first up as usual. "Zombies," she said.
"Very good, Miss Granger." Ophidia spoke coolly. "Zombies … reanimated corpses. They have no memory of their former lives but exist solely to obey the will of their Master. They are nearly unstoppable – even dismembered, their severed parts will keep creeping and clutching. Anyone else?"
"Ghosts?" ventured Neville.
She smiled warmly at him, the warmth that was almost always present when she was addressing one of the boys but absent around the girls. "Not quite, Mr. Longbottom. Ghosts are stranded souls who have passed on and returned, bound to the place of their death or by some unfulfilled onus."
Pansy raised her hand. "Skeletons," she said with a sneer at Hermione.
"Not so fast, Miss Parkinson." Ophidia sounded amused. "A skeleton is nothing more than a zombie from whom the last vestiges of flesh have rotted."
"Ghouls," said Draco.
"Excellent, Mr. Malfoy," the professor purred, and Pansy bristled with jealousy. "Ghouls are generally not brought into being by the application of any external magic, but rise on their own. They exist by feeding on the flesh of the dead. While they are not bound to any Master, they can be swayed by promises of carnage."
"Vampires," snapped Pansy, although she hadn't been called upon.
"Vampires?" echoed Ophidia with a low laugh. "The ignorant do refer to them as the living dead, while the learned know that vampires are among the lucky few who've attained immortality. Even if their bodies are destroyed, vampires never fully leave. Their spirits remain, and can, under the proper circumstances, come back in new bodies."
Ron raised his hand. "What about shades, or wraiths? I heard they're not really ghosts."
She favored him with a smile that nearly made Ron melt from his seat into a heart-shaped puddle of goo on the classroom floor. "Cleverly deduced, Mr. Weasley. Shades are neither alive nor dead, existing in a twilight world only slightly removed from our own. A world that is sometimes almost close enough to see, or touch. Like the discorporate spirit of a vampire, a shade can for a time inhabit the body of another, speaking through that other's lips, acting through that other's hands and body, but only for short whiles and not without great cost to both."
They spent the rest of the lesson discussing the more rare and exotic forms of the Undead – mummies, ghasts, and so on – as well as means of best confronting or disposing of them. Salt, Ophidia Winterwind told them, was sometimes good against zombies; its cleansing properties reacted strongly with their undead flesh. Silver's mystical properties often made it a valuable weapon against many magical creatures. So, too, were cold iron, ash, fire …
Harry spent much of the time until the bell with a terrible image in his mind – Voldemort, on a black steed, at the head of an army of relentless walking corpses. The more they slew, the more raw material there would be, ready to rise up and walk. Fallen foes would be changed to allies.
But it was what she'd said about the shades that nagged most at him. When everyone else collected their things and left, he told Ron and Hermione he'd be along directly, and lingered behind.
"Professor?"
"Yes, Harry?" She had taken the lid from the jar of blood-flavored lollipops on her desk and tilted it his way.
"Oh … no thanks," he said.
"Suit yourself." She unwrapped one and licked it so sensuously that he almost forgot what he'd wanted to ask.
"Um … ahem … I was wondering … about shades."
"Were you?" Her lips parted and she slid the deep red bulb between them.
"This … twilight world," Harry said, inwardly telling himself to concentrate, damn it, concentrate. "You said sometimes it seems very close to ours. Close enough to see."
"Or touch," she said, savoring the word 'touch' as if it, too, were a succulent treat.
"Or touch," Harry agreed.
His mouth was dry and his pulse was thumping in his ears, beating on the sides of his neck. Where the carotid artery was. He found himself remembering a paper they'd once been assigned on vampires, and how most of them had gotten a key fact wrong – vampires didn't go for the jugular; they craved the bright, oxygen-rich arterial blood. Could she see his pulse throbbing? Could she hear it? Was she tasting room-temperature blood-flavored candy and imagining a jet of liquid hot and pumping from the source?
Ophidia twirled the lollipop against her lips. Some of its dye – or was it made from real blood? – had come off on them and made them redder than ever. "That is what I said, yes."
Harry could barely remember or care what they'd been talking about. He was very conscious that they were alone now, that due to the lateness of the hour none of the other classrooms were occupied, that everyone else was on their way back, or already ensconced in, their House dormitories and common rooms.
"Shades!" he nearly shouted.
Her amused scarlet eyes twinkled like jewels. "Yes?"
"You said they were close enough to almost be seen and touched. Can they really be seen?"
"By some," she said. "Some are more sensitive, more aware. Some can perceive the shadow worlds that lay so close to our own. Are you thinking of that boy?"
Boy? Boys were the last thing on his mind … he was thinking of girls … no, women, this woman, this moonstone and obsidian goddess with eyes that seemed able to look right into his soul.
"Jeremy," he said, dragging the name out as if it was snagged on something. "Yes. When he was Sorted …"
"Once again, Harry, I'm impressed. You don't mind if I call you Harry, do you?"
"No, not at all."
"Harry." Whenever she said his name it was as if her voice curled, like warm smoke, down deep into his vitals. "You're a most remarkable young man. The rest of your classmates have forgotten all about that incident, haven't they? As strange as it was, they've forgotten."
"Yeah."
"You think that he became a shade. That he died under unusual circumstances and came back somehow."
"Yeah!" Harry nodded vigorously. "He did die, then? We thought so, Hermione and me, but then he woke up … he seemed all right, but not all right …"
"He woke as a shade, yes, you're right. As has happened to perhaps a hundred unfortunate students over the years. They couldn't remain among the living, nor could they fully join the dead."
"So they go to Battenby House," Harry said. Then he frowned. "But Moaning Myrtle, the ghost in the bathroom, she died and stayed where she was."
"A different situation. Shades … well … they don't usually come back on their own. Someone has to help them."
"I don't understand."
"What happened on the train? The boy was found, apparently dead? What then? Did anyone try to revive him?"
"I did," said Harry. "I cast an awakening spell on him. I didn't think it would help, I knew he was dead, but …"
"But it was enough. You must have cast your spell as he was still on the threshold of death. It brought him back, but not all the way. You, Harry Potter, were the author of his transformation."
Harry gaped at her. He had lost all interest in the seductive promise of that lollipop being curled around and caressed by her tongue. The thought that he had done that to Jeremy … doomed him … damned him … it was horrible.
She replied, as if she'd read his mind, "Some might argue that you did him a favor, Harry. He is still, in a way, alive. He is among others of his kind. And he might, one day, be fortunate enough to return to a warm, living body."
"But only for a while, you said." He rubbed his scar, and wouldn't have been surprised if it hurt. Bringing a poor little boy partway back to life … that was an act as cruel as anything a Dark wizard could have done.
"There's still much about shades, and about Battenby House, that you don't know, dear Harry. They have the means to come back. All the way. Time passes on a different scale for them, but they grow and age as you do. They attend classes, as you do. And when they've completed their education, those who've done well are given the chance to live again. That is Cyril Battenby's legacy to his House. He was a shade himself, but he was an old man when he crossed that border. He thought it was unfair that children should be robbed of their future, and wove great spells to ensure that they would have the opportunity to reclaim the lives that they'd lost."
"How?" Harry asked in a hoarse whisper.
Ophidia Winterwind raised her eyes to the ceiling. By her distant expression, she was not seeing the cobwebs and roofbeams but something else, something altogether wonderful. "The Soulstone. Can you imagine, Harry, a crystal sphere filled with the mist and light that is the very essence of life? Life force, Harry, contained within a gem of unparalleled beauty. When the students of Battenby House have attained their potential, a measure of that life force is given to them, and they are alive again."
"Dumbledore said there was no way to bring back the dead, not fully," Harry said. "When Cedric died. Because if there had been --"
"He was not a shade. The Soulstone can do nothing for those who've fully passed into death. If only it could, we could have back those we've loved and lost. That would be a great thing indeed, wouldn't it?"
"Yes." He was thinking of his parents, their lives cut so brutally short by Voldemort's evil. Such violent deaths, such senseless deaths … he still didn't know why. Why had Voldemort wanted to kill him? He'd only been a baby, just a year old, how could he have possibly posed enough of a threat that Voldemort would seek out and destroy an entire family because of it?
"But for those who are in the twilight realm, the Soulstone represents hope, a second chance," she said. "This boy, this Jeremy … when he has grown and learned, he may win back his life."
"I wish I could talk to him," Harry said. "Tell him I'm sorry, explain what happened. And …" he felt his eyes widen. "And ask him who attacked him! Someone did, on the train. Someone murdered him. He was confused at first, but he must remember. Professor, lately I've been seeing things, or thinking I have. At the fringes of my vision. Could I be seeing this twilight realm you talked about?"
"I should think it's very likely. You were close to them during the Sorting. You spoke to Professor Charon."
"He said I was partly to thank!"
"There, you see? A vital connection was forged between you and young Jeremy. I shouldn't wonder that with just a bit of help, all would become clear to you."
"Hermione thought maybe a Potion of True-Sight …"
"She's quite the intelligent young lady. Why not try it, and see what you will see? Now, not to chat and run, but I have a late dinner date and must beg you to excuse me."
"What? Oh … sorry." A spark of envy flared in his heart. He almost asked who she was having dinner with, but couldn't do it for fear she'd say it was Snape. "Thanks."
"Anytime." She smiled her special melting smile at him and his stomach did a happy little flip-flop. "Let me know how it goes, and if I can be of any more help, you have but to ask."
She turned to leave, affording him a view that was almost as nice from the back as it was from the front. Everything swayed.
"Oh … Professor?"
Slowly, languidly, she turned to him again. "I think, Harry, that we needn't be student and teacher after hours. Why not call me Ophidia?"
"Ophidia." He sampled the name, and it was like dark chocolate on his tongue. "What about Professor Charon?"
"Oh, I hardly think you know him well enough to be on first-name terms," she laughed.
"I mean … is he a shade?"
"No, certainly not."
Harry grinned ruefully. "Sorry. That was a dumb question."
"Not at all." She began to glide down the corridor, and paused at the foot of the stairs to look back over her shoulder. "He's a ghoul."

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