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 Eleven – Promises.

Harry tried the Potion of True-Sight Monday, in Muggle Studies class. He had signed on for it partly because he was still dumbstruck by the fact that Uncle Vernon's father was a teacher at Hogwarts now, partly to keep Ron company, and partly because he thought it would be an easy way to get high marks.
While the wizard-bred purebloods like Draco Malfoy struggled to understand concepts such as airport security and the Euro, Harry dripped the blue-grey elixir into his eyes and waited for it to take effect.
He nearly yelled aloud.
The twilight-realm, as Ophidia Winterwind had called it, was all around him. The classroom contained extra desks interspersed among the regular ones, and at most of these desks sat students who looked transplanted from half a dozen different times. There was a boy sitting unseen in front of Ron who could have stepped straight from the pages of a Shakespearean play, and a girl practically overlapping Malfoy whose high collar and prim hairdo spoke of the Victorian era.
Right there. They were right there, amid them and among them, and nobody had the slightest idea. Had probably always been. Right there. Nobody knew.
It gave Harry the willies. They were sharing the same space. Who knew what they might have witnessed? Overheard? Seen? Unnerving to think that times when he'd thought himself unobserved, he might have been surrounded. As if panes of one-way glass were all around.
If they could see and hear Professor Dursley, Harry reckoned – as they seemed to, since they were attentive to his lecture – they must be able to see and hear the other students, although these shades of Battenby House acted as oblivious to them as vice versa.
"Is something on your mind, Mr. Potter?"
Harry twitched, thinking one of them had addressed him, then remembered where he was. "Nothing, Professor, sorry."
"This subject matter may be old hat to those of us raised among Muggles," Dursley said, "but since you're in this class, I suggest you pay attention."
"Yes, sir." He picked up the newspaper clipping on his desk, from an ordinary London daily. They'd each been given a clipping to read and do a report on. Harry's involved a pair of vacationers who'd gone missing in the countryside Saturday, and were believed to have been the victims of foul play.
Malfoy chuckled, which drew Dursley's eye to him. "Something you wish to add, Mr. Malfoy? I've noticed you're not following the lecture as closely as you might, either."
"Well, it doesn't really interest me," Malfoy said, slouching in his seat and adding, "Sir," in a tone that oozed insolence.
"One might inquire as to why you signed on for it, then."
"I thought we'd be learning useful things about Muggles. Their weaknesses and all. As if being Muggles wasn't weakness enough."
"You speak of them as though they're our enemy," Dursley said.
"Aren't they? And don't they say, know thy enemy? Easier to crush them that way."
"Anyone who is making the mistake of thinking Muggles are our enemies is grossly in error," Professor Dursley said, addressing them all while staring coldly at Malfoy. "For one thing, they outnumber us by millions to one. Those aren't good odds for starting a pissing contest, young man. For another, you may think they're weak and useless because they have no magic, but their technology can do things that even our best spells cannot. For a third, I'd hope it should be plainly evident to all that our worst enemies come from within."
"So there, Malfoy," said Ron hotly.
"I should have figured you'd chime in, Weasley. Your family's packed with Muggle-lovers. That must be why they put up with you sniffing around that Mudblood, Granger. But better be careful. Potter's apt to steal her away from you."
Both Harry and Ron were on their feet, fists clenched. Malfoy rose more slowly. Crabbe and Goyle followed suit, as if they were marionettes tied to the same set of strings. The rest of the class looked on with varying degrees of apprehension and interest.
"That's quite enough, gentlemen," declared Professor Dursley. "Take your seats. Now, Mr. Weasley."
"Sit down, Ron," Harry urged.
"As for you, Mr. Malfoy, I'd recommend you watch your tongue. I'll not have that sort of language used in my classroom."
"Oh, right," said Malfoy. "That shoe fits, doesn't it? I almost forgot. But then, it should hardly come as a shock to anyone that Dumbledore would hire a Mudblood as a professor, after the other riffraff he keeps around here."
Ron and Harry were both up again, but Professor Dursley was quicker. His wand flicked, and a twinkling thread spun out and sewed glowing stitches through Draco Malfoy's lips.
"I said that's quite enough, Mr. Malfoy," said Dursley. "Don't bother to sit. You're going to the Headmaster right after class, and those stitches will come undone only when you're prepared to tell him exactly what you just said in here."
Draco's jaw worked, but he couldn't open his mouth and only muffled grunting noises came from him. Crabbe and Goyle exchanged an uncertain look, then plunked into their seats when Dursley's gaze fell upon them.
Malfoy was going a lovely shade of plum as he fought to wrench his sewn lips apart. He settled for shooting venomous glares at Dursley, Ron, and Harry before stalking to the door with his robes flaring around his legs in a flourish he'd copied from Snape. He slammed the door hard enough to shake dust loose from the ceiling beams.
"Now, then," Dursley said pleasantly enough. "Where were we?"
"That Malfoy," Ron said bitterly, once class had ended. He slammed his books down, perhaps imagining that he was slamming them into Malfoy's face. "Wish they could leave his mouth sewn shut."
Harry didn't really have an opportunity to apply more eyedrops, so he joined Ron and the river of people in the corridor. Every now and then, he'd catch a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, pale forms hurrying along with the other students on their way to the next class. But each time he looked right at them, they disappeared.
Harry found it hard to concentrate in Transfigurations, as he couldn't help wondering if they were surrounded by shades again. He kept wanting to look around, and fidgeted until Hermione kicked him in the shin.
"Furthermore," Professor McGonagall was saying, "you'll find that it … what are you looking at that's so fascinating?"
At this sharp whipcrack, Harry could have leapt out of his skin. But McGonagall wasn't talking to him. She was talking to Seamus and Dean, who both made an effort to project shining haloes over their heads while simultaneously crumpling and stuffing sheets of parchment into the pockets of their robes.
"Mr. Finnegan, Mr. Thomas. Perhaps, since whatever you have there is clearly more interesting than this lesson, you wouldn't mind sharing it with the entire class."
"No, thanks, ma'am," said Dean, who had gone fishbelly white. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "That's all right."
"It is hardly all right, Mr. Thomas. Bring it up here right now."
"I'd really rather not …"
"I thought I spoke clearly, Mr. Thomas. Five points from Gryffindor, and it'll be ten if you don't have that in my hand by the time I count three."
Like a man going to the gallows, Dean pulled the wad of parchment from his pocket and took it to Professor McGonagall. She tapped it with her wand and smoothed out the creases.
Then she went white. And fainted.
Amid the bedlam of shouting students, Harry got to her first. She had fallen halfway atop the sheet of parchment. He heard Hermione ordering someone to go get Madame Pomfrey, Ron importantly telling everyone to stand back, give her air.
The parchment was an advertising flier, the sort of thing that might be stuck in the window of a shop to promote an upcoming event. This one was for a wizard arts-and-crafts gallery in Hogsmeade, but what instantly captured the eye was the photocopied picture of a Cliffton Stratford portrait. It was the witch in the modified school uniform, the one holding the hickory switch. The one Ron thought looked like a younger McGonagall.
Underneath, the script read:

Thirty Years of Beauty – the Works of Cliffton Stratford
An exhibit spanning the artist's career, from classics such as 'The Headmistress' (seen above) to a sampling of his newest works. Prints, postcards, table-books, and original pieces will be available for sale as well as for bid in a silent auction.
Exhibit runs November 10th through January 1st, at Laidley and Huntington's Fine Arts Gallery.
Join Cliffton Stratford in person at a reception on the evening of November 9th from 7 to 10 PM. Refreshments will be served and autographs will be available.

It was nearly an hour later when Dumbledore asked – in a tone that brooked no debate – the five Gryffindor sixth-year boys to stay back a bit after the bell.
They were alone in the otherwise empty Transfigurations classroom. Dumbledore had dismissed the rest even before Professor McGonagall had regained consciousness, and her he'd dispatched to the care of Madame Pomfrey. The remaining boys were so used to seeing her in a position of complete control and authority that they hadn't known what to do when she started shaking and sobbing and had to be led out by the school nurse after Dumbledore gave her his personal oath that he would take care of this mess.
"Not a word," Dumbledore finished, looking at each of them in turn. "On your honor as Gryffindors."
They didn't look or feel very honorable just then. The five of them – Harry, Dean, Seamus, Ron, and Neville – stood with their eyes downcast and their feet shuffling.
"Yes, sir," mumbled Neville, who looked about to cry.
"Have you told anyone else about this?" Dumbledore tugged his half-moon spectacles partway down his long nose and peered at them over the tops of the rims. "Other classmates?"
"No, sir," said Dean. "The fliers, I got those by owl post this morning. Signed up on a mailing list in the art gallery."
"Yes," said Dumbledore dryly. "I understand you lot have developed a sudden interest in art lately."
Seamus opened his mouth, changed his mind, closed it again.
"That book will be removed from the library," Dumbledore said. "It was apparently donated, no doubt by Mr. Stratford himself. It should never have been permitted in the first place."
"That's censorship, that is," Ron said sullenly.
"I prefer to think of it as prudence, Mr. Weasley."
"It was really her, then?" asked Dean. The charred wisps of curled paper and a dusting of ash were all that was left of the fliers, which had been incinerated by a well-placed burst of fire from Dumbledore's wand. "I can't believe it."
"Shut up, Dean," Harry said. "We just agreed not to discuss it."
Dumbledore sighed. "However, as you're old enough, I suppose some form of explanation is in order. Thirty years ago, Professor McGonagall had just joined the Hogwarts staff. She had been a brilliant student, far ahead of her years intellectually but unfortunately, rather unfamiliar with social interactions. Cliffton Stratford was a sixth-year at the time, your age, but extremely worldly."
Disgruntled and a little insulted at that, Dean, Seamus and Ron muttered under their breath. Neville was staring at Dumbledore as if he couldn't believe his ears.
"They had," Dumbledore said, curtly, as if he didn't like having to talk about this, "an … unprofessional relationship. When it was found out, Mr. Stratford was expelled and Professor McGonagall very nearly lost her job. It was decided that she should be put on probation instead. Her performance of her duties since has been exemplary and I want to stress that neither I nor the Ministry hold this one past lapse against her. Nor should you. It would, however, harm her greatly if the full truth were known."
"Then what's up with this Stratford?" Harry asked. "Why's he going around putting her picture in his book, and in art galleries?"
"I'm afraid that he always resented his expulsion from Hogwarts and sees this as a mean, petty way to take his revenge. He's spent the intervening years building up his reputation as a photographer, starting with the various periodicals but finally having made enough of a name for himself to warrant this book, and this exhibition."
"We can't let him get away with it," said Harry. The memory of McGonagall, who had always been firm but fair with them, and the way she'd looked – shaken and on the verge of tears – as Madame Pomfrey led her from the room, burned in his brain. "Something's got to be done."
"I assure you, Harry, it will be," Dumbledore said. "Now, I've kept you over and made you late for lunch. Do I have your solemn promise that what we've discussed does not leave this room?"
They agreed, and the trust he was showing in them – he could, after all, have resorted to Memory Charms and erased the entire incident – left them feeling strangely proud and more determined than ever to make him never regret his decision.
They went to lunch. Halfway through, Harry thought suddenly that what if the room hadn't been empty? What if some of the shades, who apparently took their classes unseen alongside the rest of them, had still been lurking about? The news would be all over Battenby House in no time …
He shook his head. That was silly. Even if they had, even if it did, he was the only one who could see them unless someone else tried using a Potion of True-Sight. And even should someone else try that, the shades weren't much into gossip. They had other things on their minds. Like being dead, and existing in a shadow-world between this one and the next.
Hermione wasn't at lunch. Lavender said that she'd stayed in the hospital wing with Professor McGonagall. "Teacher's pet," she added with a sniff.
The news that McGonagall had fainted, though, that made the rounds right quick. Harry was glad that they had the class double with Ravenclaw; the Slytherins were having too much fun gossiping even without having personally witnessed it. At the staff table, the mood was subdued. Hagrid wasn't there either, though he did poke his head in at one point and give Dumbledore a quick series of signals and gestures, the meaning of which eluded Harry.
Harry decided to try the potion again, just to see Battenby House in full numbers. He applied the drops of the potion.
When his eyes adjusted, he involuntarily rocked back in his seat. The wall was gone, just as it had been on the first night of school. He could see the long table, the shades gathered around it, and Professor Charon sitting a ways apart from them at a small round table of his own. His plate was laden with a joint of some sort of meat that looked a bit like pork but more like …
No. All the food at Hogwarts was created by magic, the work of the battalion of house-elves in the kitchens, but he couldn't see them summoning up a nice joint of corpse. Professor Winterwind had probably been joking when she said he was a ghoul. Dumbledore was greatly tolerant – former Death Eaters, half-giants, werewolves – but even he would have to draw the line at real man-eating ghouls.
But it sure did look like …
The addition to the Great Hall was lit by that same eerie blue-white light that reminded him of the Goblet of Fire. Looking around, he spied the source and his breath caught in his throat.
There it was. The Soulstone.
It was the size of a Quaffle, perfectly round and smooth. The sphere was indeed filled with mist and light, as Ophidia had described. He fancied he could see shapes within it. Faces.
The Soulstone hung suspended in mid-air above a pedestal of silvery prongs that flared outward from a central base. It rotated slowly, like a planet.
Someone was waving at him. He tore his gaze from the Soulstone and saw Jeremy Upwood. Aware of him, in a way that none of the others seemed to be. Harry waved back.
"I'll help you," he promised silently. "Somehow, I'll help."
Magical Combat was just after lunch. Madame Hooch outfitted them all in padded, enchanted cloth armor that would discolor if struck by an offensive spell, and divided them randomly into teams for a version of Capture the Flag. It was exhausting, and the Gryffindors dragged themselves to Potions on legs that felt full of ground bits of glass.
Somehow, they got through it. Malfoy, who could normally be counted upon to make some cutting remarks, was in a darkly ominous and silent mood, still embarrassed by what he'd suffered at the hands of Professor Dursley. If he'd been assigned detention or lost points as a result of his meeting with Dumbledore, no Slytherin was letting on.
Snape was impatient – not that he ever was patient, at least when it came to Gryffindors – and kept checking the hourglass as if the class couldn't go by fast enough for him. When it was nearing the time for the bell to ring, he ordered them to clean up, be quick, quit dawdling, what were they majoring in, sloth? He all but shoved them out the door, barking, "I'll take care of it, just go!" when Neville spilled a full jar of twinkleberry leaves on his way out.
"What's got up his nose?" Ron wondered as they went into the hall. "Hot date?"
"Good guess," Harry said as he spied Ophidia Winterwind descending the staircase.
She moved through the crowd in the opposite direction like an eddy of black water, and nearly caused several accidents as the boys tried to turn and watch her go by.
"Some have all the luck," Ron said. "Look at her. What does she see in him? I don't get it, Harry, I really don't. It's all girls either nuts over a bunch of useless pretty-boys in leather pants, or they go for the likes of Snape. What's he got that I don't?"
"Come on, Ron, she's twice your age."
"I want to see what they're up to."
"We can't go spying on Snape again." Harry reflexively looked over his shoulder, sure that the door which had closed in their wake would be open, and Snape would be right there with his yellowed teeth bared in a sneer. The door was still closed and he exhaled in relief.
"Just for a minute." Ron pulled him behind an executioner statue that provided a deep well of shadow as a hiding place. "I'm never going to get a date if I can't figure out how they do it, how they charm girls."
"Snape? Charm? You're feverish."
"Can't deny she fancies him."
"I don't think so," Harry mused. "More like she's playing him."
"Oh, and I suppose you think she fancies you."
"I'm not that much a fool. But you've seen how she is." He was in a whisper now, the hallway emptying and Ophidia gliding nearer. "She flirts with everyone, even Flitwick, even Dumbledore. She's got half the Slytherins wrapped around her finger. And then there was that man I saw her with in Knockturn Alley."
"The snake-man," Ron said skeptically. "Are you sure you didn't dream that?"
"I'm sure. Now, shh, or we'll be caught."
They fell silent as Ophidia, in her clinging black snakeskin gown, tapped on the door. It opened at once and Snape was there with twinkleberry leaves stuck to the hem of his robes like a sprinkling of fairy-dust. He did not look as pleased to see her as he should have if they were indeed meeting for a hot date.
"Hello, Severus," she crooned. "I got your note, and came as soon as I woke up. You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, Ophidia. I wanted to know what's the meaning of this." He pushed a piece of parchment at her. "What are you doing signing overnight slips for my students? I am still Head of Slytherin House, last I checked. Or have you snatched that out from under me, too?"
"Severus," she chided. "I thought you were over being cross about my getting the DADA job."
"That's not the point," he said.
"I'd hate for you to be jealous of me." She swayed closer, and in an artful move that Harry couldn't help but admire, took his wrist and whirled along his arm, curling it around her as she went. She finished up standing with her back pressed against him and his arm snug about her waist, her head tipped back against his shoulder so she could gaze up at him with those ruby eyes. "I'd much rather we put this silly rivalry behind us and were … friends."
"Ophidia …"
"There's no reason why not. You know how I feel."
"I do?"
"Tell me." She wriggled her bottom against him. "How do I feel?"
Snape's jaw quivered and he ground his teeth. "I don't want to play your games."
"No games, Severus. Not with you. I promise."
"No games? Then explain to me what you're up to with my House."
"It's just an extra-credit assignment," she said. "I had no idea you'd be upset."
"The Head of House is responsible for all the students of that House. You should have come to me. If something happens on this errand you've dreamed up, I'm the one who will have to answer to Dumbledore."
"I can handle Dumbledore. Besides, it's all for a good cause."
"Perhaps you'd tell me just what you've got in mind."
"And spoil the surprise?"
His lips quirked. "Spoil it, do. Your surprises aren't always pleasant."
She twisted – he had not, despite his protests, removed his arm from around her waist – so that she was looking up at him, their faces only inches apart. "Won't you ever trust me, Severus?"
"Trust isn't in our nature."
"You might have, once. When you wanted me to become a Death Eater, and wear the Dark Mark with you."
"That was a long time ago, and you know I've rejected the Dark Lord's cause."
"But don't you see? I've always been opposed to him. I know a way to stop him. I'm so close, Severus! I almost have everything I need. With a little more help, I can do it, I know I can."
"Do what? Ophidia, you can't think to go up against the Dark Lord. You were never powerful enough."
"I'm well aware of that. But hasn't my real gift always been in getting others to do the hard work for me?" She batted her eyes at him and smiled a coy little smile.
"That's undeniable. And it's just what I think you're trying to do now."
Ophidia inhaled a deep sigh, which inflated a considerable part of her anatomy against Snape's thin chest. Ron stifled an envious sigh.
"There is a drawback to my style, I'll admit," she said. "I flirt, and I seduce, for my own purposes. When I'm in earnest, no one believes me."
"Are you trying to say you have genuine feelings for me? I know you too well, Ophidia."
"I don't think you know me well enough." She grasped his hands and drew them to her bottom, and pressed her hips against him. "We could get to know each other so much better …"
"You think distracting me like this," said Snape in a constricted voice, "will make me forget that you went over my head?"
"Maybe I just think it's long overdue, and something we've both wanted for a long time."
He seemed to be having trouble breathing, and Harry found that he could empathize. So, too, could Ron – he was gasping like a landed trout.
"You're using me," Snape said.
"Then return the favor," she said, and kissed him.
It proved the end of Snape's resistance. He groaned against the fullness of her mouth like a dying man and clutched her to him. Ophidia hooked her leg around his hip, the skirt of her gown falling away along its long side slit, revealing pale thigh above the tops of her smoke-colored stockings. Her garters, Harry cataloged with something akin to delirium, were silver clasps in the shape of snake-heads.
"If they do it right here," Ron choked, "I'm going to go mad. Seeing her … that's one thing … but Snape? It'll strike us blind."
Harry agreed, but what could they do? If they were caught now, it would be detention for sure, possibly expulsion, and not beyond the reach of probability that Snape might just murder them on the spot.
But they were spared both the sight and the consequence of trying to sneak away. Snape, coming up for air with his normally sallow face flushed to an almost human hue, managed to utter the words, "Not here … quick … in the classroom," before plunging into another kiss.
They backed into the room and Snape freed one arm long enough to slap at the door and set it moving on its hinges. It creaked nearly to, though through the gap that remained they could see Ophidia's gown fall to the dungeon floor in a black snakeskin puddle.
"Now," Harry said.
Ron needed no prompting. They crept out as fast as they dared and rushed for the stairs.

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