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 Fourteen – Bitten.

If Fyren Grimme had been expecting an easy victory, he was disabused of that notion in the first five minutes. True, Harry only had a few weeks' worth of Magical Combat classes under his belt, but he was almost as apt a pupil in that as he was at Quidditch. And the old adage held true – in a race between fox and hare, who'll run faster? The hare … for the fox is only running for his dinner and the hare for his very life. In this case, it was a snake rather than a fox, but Harry supposed it would do.
They had taken temporary refuge on opposite sides of the crypt from each other. Harry, panting and pressing gingerly on a swelling knot on his cheekbone where a ricocheting rock had nailed him, was crouched behind a bier calculating his chances of getting to the door. Each time he calculated, he felt all the more despondent.
The glow of the Soulstone was augmented now by a sullen orange glare that had sprung up as a result of fireball and flame jet spells. The old wood did not burn in a lively fashion, smoldering much as Harry believed the ancient torches might have done, but here and there the trailing ends of shrouds leaked out, and these caught quite well.
The only portion of this room thus far undisturbed was the pentagram. Grimme's evident reluctance to break or cross the lines was as great as Harry's own, lending him more reason to believe that some fearsome spell was marked by those broad chalk strokes. It meant he couldn't try to rescue the Muggles, but it also meant that it would be harder for Grimme to make hostages of them.
Across the way, he could hear Grimme's muttered, pained curses. Harry's last attack, a lightning bolt, had seared through Grimme's robes and left a long charred streak on his reptilian lower half. Neither of them was unbloodied.
It felt like midnight down here. Harry knew that wasn't so. He could still taste the orange juice from breakfast. He should be sitting in History of Magic between Hermione and Ron right now, nearly dozing in the dusty patch of sunlight falling through the high windows as Professor Binns lectured endlessly.
Instead, he was down here in this black pit of the dead, and more than a little fed up with himself. Brave old Harry Potter, rushing off on his own to set things right … when was he going to learn? The world would not end, Hogwarts would not come crashing down, if once – just once – he would stand back, take a breath, think it through, and go to the proper authorities.
Too late for such ruminations. He heard the scrape of scales on stone and lunged out from behind the bier just as Grimme's wand loosed a volley of force bolts. These were aimed not at Harry himself but at the coffin, blasting it back. Harry's heel was clipped as the six-foot box slammed down where he'd been. It did not so much break as detonate, shards of wood spraying out like shrapnel. The resident of the coffin was reduced to a jumble of bones, covered in slats and splinters, and the whole entwined with heaps of chain.
Grimme was advancing. Harry threw himself flat and fired off a force bolt of his own. It skimmed past Grimme with a hair's breadth to spare, when it should have hit – the shielding spell! Harry cast one of his own, and Grimme's next shot parted his hair but did not touch him.
Uttering a glottal roar that would have done credit to an alligator, Grimme rushed Harry. His claws sliced the air.
Harry made it to his knees and flung an arm in front of his face. The defensive spell turned it briefly hard as steel, chipping one claw and making the rest glance harmlessly off. Jumping up the rest of the way, Harry drove his shoulder into Grimme's midsection.
Fetid breath coughed out. Grimme doubled over. As he did, though, this brought him within striking distance and his fangs plunged deep into the meat of Harry's upper arm. The pain was white-hot and horrendous. Grimme's lower jaw unhinged and came forward with gruesome eagerness. A second burst of pain screamed along Harry's arm as the row of sharp bottom teeth dug in. One wrench of his head, and Grimme could pull away a gory semicircle of Harry's flesh. To complete the fun, Harry could already feel poison pumping like molten lava into his bloodstream.
Harry made a fist, concentrating as well as he was able with his arm feeling as though it were melting off from the shoulder. An invisible glove of power formed around his hand. He swung, and the sensation was one of incredible boosting.
The invisible fist hit Grimme where his ear normally would have been, where there was only a small hole in the scaly side of his skull. Grimme was driven sideways. His teeth and fangs ripped out of Harry and drew a scream.
He could see shreds of his white uniform shirt caught in that pointed ivory maw. Blood was running freely to his wrist and from there dripping onto the floor.
Grimme, dazed but still moving, straightened up and held his head as if to steady it. Harry, left arm hanging limp at his side, could have pressed his attack or made his escape.
He chose escape, knowing that Grimme's poison was being pumped briskly through him with each rapid thud of his heart. He ran for the door, shouting something incoherent to the Muggles still bound in the pentagram. Something about how they needn't worry, he'd be right back. He was going numb. Numbness was a relief from the pain but horrifying in its own right. His arm already might have belonged to someone else for all the use he could get of it. And a tingling tide was washing out from the site of the wound. Across his chest and back. Up his neck.
Stumbling, his throat feeling like it was closing to a pinhole and a high-pitched humming in his ears, Harry got out of the smaller chamber. He was pelting toward the archway as fast as his legs would carry him when he saw movement ahead.
No, it was just his own shadow, cast wildly on the walls by the light of the Soulstone. It wasn't the statues flanking the entrance coming to life to get him.
Behind him, Fyren Grimme roared again. Not an alligator this time but a dinosaur, some ferocious meat-eater fresh from the primordial swamps. The rasp-slither of his tail was louder as he gained.
Harry made it through the archway, unbothered by the statues that stood to either side. But now he could not see, the darkness stretching out in front of him. The numbness had reached his jaw.
His right arm was still functional. He raised it, and his wand, and the light that poured forth was enough to make him squint. He charged between the biers, eyes fixed on the slice of darkness that marked the door he'd propped open.
A coffin was resting on the floor right in front of him. He'd seen it before, polished ebony kept so scrupulously clean that he'd wondered if the house-elves made regular forays down here to tidy, too. It poked up from the low-lying mist like a dark island.
A force bolt hit Harry square in the back. He had let his shielding spell lapse somewhere along the line. The numbness dulled the pain but it was still like being walloped with a Bludger. Harry was pitched forward toward the coffin.
He tried to turn his helpless lunge into a leap, thinking that if he could just clear it, he'd have a straight shot for the door.
The lid opened as he leaped.
His shins cracked hard against the edge. His fall-turned-leap became a graceless somersault. The mist provided no cushion to the stone floor. Every bone felt jarred loose. Harry's teeth came together hard enough to crack a walnut.
The mist billowed over him, veiling his vision with white. His wand had flown free in the landing and was still giving off light somewhere to the right of him. A broken groan rattled from his lips.
Movement, a shape near. Grimme?
No.
Stepping out of the coffin as lithely as a dancer was Ophidia Winterwind. A simple shift of sheer black silk covered her from sternum to knees, belted by a scarlet cord. A velvet pouch hung from this cord. In the snowy pallor of her face, her eyes burned like embers.
Harry wanted to get up, but none of his limbs were obeying him. He dimly wondered if he'd snapped his spine and paralyzed himself when he hit the floor.
She stood over him, and at a wave of her hand the mist over his face parted and swirled away.
"Oh, poor Harry," she said. "You've been bitten."
To his surprise, his voice worked. "I know what you're up to. I know what you did."
"You might have some ideas, dear boy, but you're mistaken. Here. Let me help you." Ophidia held out one carmine-tipped hand.
"Stole the Soulstone," Harry said, or tried to. It was as good as a tongue-twister.
"For good reason. Take my hand, Harry."
"No."
"The poison will finish you in seconds, unless you accept my help."
"Don't care," he said. The numbness had reached his tongue now, making it feel thick and puffy, like it did after a trip to the dentist. His words came out slurred.
She stepped over him with one long leg and stood a-straddle, hands on her hips. "Stubborn creature, aren't you?"
Grimme scraped and slithered nearby, but she waved him off.
"Killed Jeremy," Harry said with an increasing slur. "Stole the --"
"All will be made clear to you." Ophidia knelt, and lowered her body onto Harry's. Her breasts pushed on his chest, her thighs bracketed his, and a slow, rich smile played about her ruby lips as she peeled away the tatters of his shirt.
Harry jerked, thinking crazily that this was what almost every warm-blooded male in Hogwarts had been dreaming of, and now that it was happening he had rarely been more terrified.
"Don't thrash so," she said, amused. "I'm trying to help you."
Her tongue slicked her lips, and then she opened her mouth. The twin crescents of her fangs glimmered.
"No," Harry said mushily.
"Someone must suck out the poison."
She lay full atop him, pressing her face to his upper arm. His blood smeared over her chin and cheeks. He could feel nothing, but he could hear the revolting sounds. Sucking and lapping. A blunt pressure that was probably truly needling pain as her fangs pierced him.
A vision came to Harry then, so clear that he would have mistaken it for a memory except he had no such memory in his head. An alcove between two buildings. Himself, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, lost in a fog of hypnosis as she writhed against him. Her breath cold on his neck, her lips warm. And then the pain, brief but sweet, so sweet, and the heat unspooling through his veins as he gave himself over to her, surrendered …
Then it had been over. Too soon. Leaving him aching and unfulfilled. Hurt. Confused. Wanting more. Wanting all. To give until he was drained, to be hers for all time. But he was denied. Left needing. And in that vulnerable state, her whispering, insidious voice curling into his mind like the very mist in which he now lay.
She rose from his prone body and wiped delicately at her lips. It was a useless gesture – her face was wet with his blood and drips of it fell onto the white expanse of skin, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone and then trickling into the valley of her cleavage. Her eyes were glowing now, radiant as jewels.
Harry could not move. The numbness had been leached from him, the scalding poison gone. Grimme's ghastly bite had faded to a pinkish ring of scars, healed not by phoenix tears but by Ophidia's saliva. But he could not move. He was leaden, frozen with horror. And morbidly fascinated with that one trickle of blood, running down, down …
"I could have killed him," Grimme snarled. His tail lashed the mist, roiling it.
"That's the last thing I want," Ophidia said sternly. "Harry Potter is our ally."
"Never." He tried to say it strongly but what came out was a faint murmur that even he could barely hear.
"The enemy of our enemy, and all that," she continued. "He's faced Voldemort twice now and earned a draw … think of what he could do once Voldemort is stripped of his powers. He will be such a force for good as this world hasn't seen since the days of Godric Gryffindor himself. No Dark wizard will be able to stand against him once the Dark magic is no longer theirs. This young man will be a paladin for the White, Fyren. He'll be legend. Moreso than he already is."
"But what about us, then?" complained Grimme. "We're still Dark wizards."
"There are many colors of darkness, many shades of black," Ophidia said, nearly sang. "In the struggle between good and evil, there must be some balance. One side is truer by its opposition to the other. Voldemort does not serve Dark magic for the sake of the Dark. He uses it for his own ends. He'd just as soon have gone with white magic if it would have won him the prize he so cherishes."
"You're … mad," gasped Harry.
She looked down on him with sympathy and something horribly akin to love. "No, Harry. I see more clearly than anyone. Even Dumbledore, bless his wise old head. He has served the White all his life, but he and those like him have lost sight of it. They've been muddled by well-meaning dolts such as those at the Ministry. They claim their purpose is to regulate magic fairly, but they've become so bogged down in petty rules and foolishness that they've lost any real power. That's why they can only hinder Dumbledore in his efforts against Voldemort. And too many wizards follow their example. They're afraid to act lest they get in trouble with the Ministry, oh alas, oh alack. It is wizards like you, Harry, and like me, who will set the world to rights. No quibbling over rules and bureaucracy. Action, Harry. That's the key."
His strength was returning to him. In fact, he felt as whole and healthy and full of vigor as if he'd just been released from a week's bed rest in the hospital wing. But at the same time, he felt unutterably foul. She had bitten him, insinuated her will into his mind, gotten him to do her bidding. Worst of all, he'd liked it. Liked having her lips on him, her teeth in him, her body tight and warm against his. It filled him with a black excitement.
He tried to fight it off as if it was the Imperius Curse. Suggestion was more powerful than command, seduction stronger than control. His soul felt dirty and violated.
"Don't look at me so, Harry," she wheedled. "I'm sorry for the … covertness? Underhandedness? Well, whatever … I'm sorry if my methods distress you. I'm sure that once you've given me the chance to explain, you'll agree. Whatever our pathways, our destination and goal are the same."
"I don't think so."
"No? Wouldn't you like to see the threat of Voldemort and his Death Eaters removed forever?"
Warily, knowing it was a trap, he nodded.
"And war, Harry, think of war. There's one brewing now and you know it. The Dark Lord is raising the dead, making himself an army with which to overrun whatever pitiful resistance Dumbledore can drum up. Now, don't bristle so … I have nothing but the highest regard for his abilities. It's the abilities of the rest of the wizarding world that makes me wring my hands in despair. They won't want to fight until it's too late."
He nodded again, because in his gut he knew it was true. Dumbledore's efforts to get the Ministry to listen had met with indifference or hostility, and most people seemed perfectly happy to ignore the very real danger. She was right. They wouldn't want to organize and fight until they believed it was happening, and they wouldn't believe that until Voldemort was laughing victoriously over their heaped and smoking bodies.
"There was nearly war fifteen years ago, Harry," Ophidia said, putting her hand on his shoulder. It was cool, and until she touched him he hadn't realized he had made it to his feet. But he was standing, leaning against a bier to be honest, but standing. "Do you know why there wasn't?"
"Because of me."
"Because of you." Her hand moved, tracing the scar, and it was like she was stroking a nerve ending that ran all through his body. "If not for you, Voldemort would have gathered his followers and unleashed devastation all around. Untold lives would have been lost. But he was stopped. His plans were shattered. Help me stop him again."
"I don't trust you."
"I hear that quite often, actually. That's all right. I'm not asking for your trust. Only your help."
"It's the same thing."
"If we don't act now, he will come. He'll come with an army of the Undead at his back, and he won't quit until the ground runs red with blood. People will die. Needlessly. Your friends, Harry. Families will be torn apart. Everything that we have, everything that wizards like Dumbledore have worked so hard to build and maintain, will be smashed asunder."
"I'm not denying that Voldemort has to be stopped," Harry said. "But your way is wrong."
"Haven't you ever heard of fighting fire with fire?" she chuckled. "No, pardon me, this is hardly a time for humor. Let me show you what I intend. You'll see. It's the best way, Harry. Maybe the only way."

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