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 Sixteen – Dissolution and Resolution.
Fyren Grimme
dove for the jar with a low, needing cry. A similar cry came from the lips
of Elsbeth Tyrrell, as she darted her head sideways at Harry, mouth opening
wide. Crooked, vicious fangs came at him. Douglas curled an arm around
Ophidia and yanked her into his grasp. Ophidia's head fell back, her hair
a midnight waterfall, her throat vulnerable.
And Harry? What
did Harry do while all this was going on? He was not idle. As the cold,
loathsome breath of Elsbeth doused his skin in a clammy residue, he ducked
and pushed away from the bier he'd been pressed against. He knocked the
jar away as he went for his wand. It skittered and rolled, glass making
brittle clinking sounds on the stone. Fyren wailed in fury, his claws closing
on empty air.
Wand in his
fist, Harry turned and was driven to his knees by a scrabbling figure.
Elsbeth was on his back. She had him by the hair and was pulling his head
until he could only see the chaotic arches and moldings and vaultings of
the ceiling above. Corners meeting at wrong angles. A ring of gargoyles
leering down. Then all was obscured as the hungry vampire-woman leaned
over him.
He bent and
twisted, losing a handful of hair clear to the scalp. She struck again.
He got his arm between them, shouting a spell almost as an afterthought.
The result was
most gratifying. His forearm went hard as iron, and Elsbeth's grotesque
assortment of teeth broke apart on it. A stinging hail of enamel pelted
Harry's face.
Ophidia Winterwind
screamed. It was high and shrill and sustained, a silver spike of a scream
that went through flesh and vibrated in bone. Vials that had fallen from
her pouch shattered in sympathetic response. The jar, which Fyren Grimme
had just scooped up, did likewise and his hand was filled with shards and
the preservative slime in which the mottled egg-sized object had been contained.
Something else
shattered, gritty bits of crystal raining down on Harry from above.
Harry spun toward
Ophidia and saw her limp in Douglas' embrace. The Black Count's mouth was
poised just above the artery as he paused to savor the moment and lick
his lips.
A bowl-shaped
fragment of the Soulstone fell past Harry's face on its way to the floor.
He caught it with the reflexes of a Seeker, though it was many times the
size of a Snitch. He balanced it on one hand, half a sphere with a rim
of diamond points.
An impulse seized
him and Harry did not question it. "Reparus!" he called, and tapped
the crystal bowl with his wand.
A storm of flying
glass flew all around him. He stood at the center of it, unscathed. The
sound was scratchy and brittle as the Soulstone reassembled itself into
a perfect ball. But it did not stop there. Harry was shaken like a leaf
in a gale as a wind was sucked into the Soulstone. It was as if he held
an airless vacuum in his hand, a black hole, one that would draw in everything
around it.
Magical force
buffeted the chamber. Grimme, his robes whipping in the tumult, barely
noticed as he raised the dripping egg with the mottled greenish shell to
his face. It was crusted and spined with glass, but that did not stop the
snake-man from stuffing it whole into his mouth.
"Noooooo!" shrieked
Elsbeth, and launched herself at Harry. She had continued to change, becoming
hideous and haglike, a sunken-cheeked Nosferatu from her rapacious
hunger.
Even as she
jumped, Douglas dropped Ophidia – Harry saw her fall like a sack of laundry
– and cried out a "Noooo!" of his own, this one aimed more at his wife.
Too late. She
passed near the Soulstone and a gaseous mist erupted from her body. From
her very skin. She voiced an agonized cry that seemed to come from an impossible
distance.
Light was filling
the Soulstone. A blue-white cloud coalesced at its heart and grew.
Elsbeth staggered
back, arms crossed in front of her face. Her metamorphosis went wild. Her
skin paled, darkened, smoothed, wizened. The Soulstone continued to drain
the stolen life force from her, and with a pop that drove Harry's
eardrums into his head, the ectoplasmic mass that he'd seen before suddenly
exploded from her mouth. The body of the Muggle woman, her former self
once more, collapsed in a dead faint.
The mass surged
toward Harry, taking on the aspect of a demonic face that was all mouth
and smoke-teeth and holes like eyes. He couldn't let go of the Soulstone,
could do nothing as it swept toward him in a banshee howl –
A streak whizzed
past Harry and into the mass. It did not pass through but carried the pinned
and writhing essence of Elsbeth Tyrrell across the room, where it hit the
wall and was seemingly stuck there. Stuck by virtue of the arrow, with
a shaft of ash and head of cold iron, impaling it through the center.
The Black Count
unleashed a terrible cry, harrowing his face with his hooklike fingernails.
The shapeless
mass for an instant resembled a woman. Then amorphousness returned, and
with it solidity. A sickly lump was nailed to the wall by the arrow. It
dried, flaked, and fell away into dust, leaving the arrow at the center
of a dark and sinister stain.
Harry held the
Soulstone aloft. "Now you, Douglas Tyrrell!" His voice did not sound quite
like his own, but he attributed it to the deafness and ringing in his ears,
and the rushing noise of the wind.
The glare he
got was pure, distilled hate. He couldn't help but flinch from it, and
in the moment of his flinch, Douglas raced straight for the wall. He altered
as he went, turning smoky and transparent. The old myths – wolf, bat, body
of mist. The Black Count streamed toward the fissured wall, meaning to
escape into it.
"Helios,"
came a weak whisper. Ophidia Winterwind, clinging to consciousness by a
thread, leveled her wand at the wall.
Sunlight, dazzling
and hot, banished the artificial night of the subterranean chamber. Harry's
eyes gushed water, squinting painfully. In that unrelenting noonday brightness
– and this was not the day as it might be outside right now, not the clear
but cool sun of October; this was a July in the desert – the crypts and
gargoyles were robbed of their spooky malice and could have been props
of a carnival haunted house.
Heat roared
through the room. Harry saw Ophidia's snow-white skin redden and blister.
But the fleeing misty form of Douglas Tyrrell twisted like a rag in midair.
A ghastly, unearthly screech sounded. Abruptly, the body of the Muggle
man reappeared. He was like a man in the throes of a seizure, a man in
the electric chair. More energy streamed into the Soulstone, and another
ectoplasmic mass was ejected from his mouth like a clot of grey vomit.
This clot shriveled
and began to smoke in the stark magical sunshine. In moments, there was
naught but a spill of dust, fine as powder, and another charred mark upon
the floor. The Muggle man crumpled.
The sunlight
winked out, casting Harry back into darkness illuminated only by the glow
emanating from the now-full sphere balanced on one outstretched hand. Then
the wind of the Soulstone ceased. The humming of power that had trembled
up Harry's arm faded to a low quiver.
He gasped a
breath, surprised that he was there to do so, and slowly surveyed the room
around him with eyes that were still dazzled and seeing streaks and spots.
Fyren Grimme
was on the floor, contorted and groaning like someone suffering horrible
cramps and pains. Blood leaked from his torn mouth. Ophidia Winterwind,
sunburned but unblemished by bite marks, sank in a swoon amid the litter
from her pouch. The Muggles were alive, if only barely, judging by the
sporadic rise and fall of their chests.
"Harry?"
He nearly dropped
the Soulstone.
Three figures
stood in the doorway. The one who had spoken, Hermione, was looking at
Harry like she'd never quite seen him before. A species of awe was in her
gaze. Ron, to her left, was blinking and amazed.
And standing
between them, lowering a crossbow and blowing a strand of lank black hair
out of his eyes, was Professor Severus Snape.
"Huh?" Harry
said. His befuddled mind couldn't seem to summon words.
"Well, Mr. Potter,"
Snape said. "Saved the world already, and it's not even Halloween."
Harry was still
speechless.
Hermione ran
to him but stopped a yard away. "Harry?"
He realized
how he must look. His robes were gone, only a few scraps of cloth remained
of his shirt, he was covered in blood and dust. He probably looked more
like Sirius Black in Sirius' most disheveled, fresh-from-Azkaban state
than he did his father in that moment. Further, he was holding a crystal
that pulsed and cycled with cold radiance. Ron and Hermione might be in
awe, but Snape seemed to regard him with what Harry almost took for a grudging
respect. Or maybe it was merely the shine of the Soulstone in Snape's dark
eyes.
"I'm all right,"
he said.
His body belied
the words, as he commenced with a shivering that once again almost tipped
the sphere from his hand. He gave his wand to Hermione and cradled the
Soulstone in both hands, ever-so-carefully lowering it to a depression
in the floor. Then and only then did he let himself shudder in earnest
as the reaction set in.
"You must be
freezing," Hermione said. She hastily stripped off her own robe and threw
it around his bare shoulders.
"What happened?"
Ron finally asked. "What is all this?" He peered suspiciously up at Snape.
"And how'd you know, anyway?"
"I would suggest,
Mr. Weasley," said Albus Dumbledore as he appeared behind them, "that you
do try harder to use a more proper tone when addressing a professor."
The passageway
was filling with people, many of whom hesitated before filing into the
chamber. Madame Pomfrey checked first on Fyren, then joined Professor Dursley
in taking charge of the unconscious Muggles. Snape passed his crossbow
unconcernedly to Ron and went to Ophidia Winterwind. He stood over her
with his eyes briefly closed in what surely seemed to be genuine grief.
Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Charon came toward
Harry. The Head of Battenby House looked much the worse for wear. Hermione
tried to coax him into sitting down, but Harry'd had enough of talking
to Dumbledore from chairs or hospital beds.
"I'm all right,"
he told her again.
"When you didn't
come back …"
"Hermione, it's
okay."
"Why don't you
let me be the judge of that, Harry?" asked Dumbledore. He bent, picked
up the Soulstone, and held it out to Professor Charon. The Soulstone made
weird St. Elmo's Fire frolic along the rims of his half-moon glasses as
Charon took it. "In the meantime, Orcus, I believe this belongs in your
care. Harry, Professor Charon has related his story to me – we found him
sealed into one of the spare coffins."
"Which brought
back unsavory memories," muttered Professor Charon. "Grimme caught me by
surprise, struck me from behind. I only revived when I heard the sounds
of your battle."
"So, Harry,"
said Dumbledore. "I'd like to hear your side of it. Tell me everything,
if you don't mind."
Swallowing,
Harry began. He started with what he now remembered from Knockturn Alley,
spoke of Jeremy on the train and what he'd seen with the Potion of True-Sight,
mentioned what they'd discussed in Defense Against the Dark Arts, glossed
over just how he'd gotten the idea that someone from Slytherin House
was up to some extracurricular activities on behest of Professor Winterwind,
said nothing whatsoever about the late-night trip to the greenhouse and
what had happened after – Hermione, he noted, was looking down and blushing
and well aware of what he was not saying – and moved on to Jeremy's revelation
about the stolen Soulstone and what he'd found when he'd traced it here.
"I see," Dumbledore
said. "Severus? What's your part in this?"
"When I saw
these two," Snape said, indicating Ron and Hermione, "sneaking off toward
the dungeons instead of heading for lunch, I made it my business to follow
and question them. Once I heard their suppositions, my worst fears were
confirmed."
"Are you telling
me that you knew what Miss Winterwind was up to?"
Miss
Winterwind. Harry didn't think that Dumbledore's choice of words was an
accident. He was normally quite proper about referring to professors as
professors. Oddly, although she'd gotten him into this mess, tricked him,
lied to him, and damn near gotten him killed and/or turned into a vampire,
he caught himself feeling sorry for her.
"I did have
some idea, but I'd been under the impression it was something she was researching,
as a possibility. Not something she intended to attempt so soon." Snape
crouched and gathered Ophidia into his arms. "I'd known of her fascination
with the Black Court, and thought it was for obvious purposes. I also knew
she had always been opposed to the Dark Lord. When she found a way to combine
the two …"
"And Grimme?"
McGonagall asked. "I remember the day he Transfigured himself, and how
badly it all went wrong. What did she give him to undo the spell? What,
when none of our methods worked?"
"An echidna
egg," Snape said. "Steeped in a mixture of Polymorph Potion, and mercury
for reversal."
McGonagall sucked
in a gasp. "Echidna eggs and mercury are toxic!"
Snape nodded.
"Precisely why we never tried that remedy on Mr. Grimme ourselves. The
risk was too great. Apparently, he felt otherwise. Enough so that he even
agreed to a geas that bound him to perform three tasks for Ophidia."
"Killing Jeremy
Upwood," Harry said, "Kidnapping the Muggles, and then stealing the Soulstone.
But the effects wore off, and he was changed back."
"So," guessed
Hermione, "to get another dose, he had to agree to help her with this ritual?"
Snape nodded
again. Curled against his chest, her lashes sooty on her cheeks, Ophidia
Winterwind looked small and innocent as a child. He held her effortlessly,
and stroked her hair in an absent manner as he heaved a sigh. "There you
have it, Professor Dumbledore. All the facts of her little conspiracy."
"What … what
will happen to her?" Harry asked. "She did, at the end, change her mind.
She cast the sunlight spell that destroyed Black Douglas."
Dumbledore raised
a hand to quell him. "I am going to have to consider this matter very carefully,
Mr. Potter. Both she and Fyren Grimme have committed serious crimes. We
may be able to undo some of them – how are the Muggles, Madame Pomfrey?"
"A little banged
up," the nurse said, "but otherwise unharmed."
"Memory Charm
should soon set them right," added Professor Dursley. "I'd be happy to
oversee getting them back where they belong."
"Very good,"
said Dumbledore. "Minerva, what about the vampires?"
"Finished,"
Professor McGonagall declared.
"And you, Professor
Charon, have the Soulstone once more in your custody." Dumbledore looked
evenly at Harry. "So most of their deeds are undone … but a boy is still
dead, Harry. And there were abuses made on your person, as well."
Hermione held
Harry's hand tightly. He smiled at her, grateful for her caring.
"I'm fine, really.
It's Jeremy I feel worst about."
Professor Charon
spoke up. With his face underlit by the glow of the Soulstone, he looked
more cadaverous and strange than ever. "That too can be remedied in time.
With this. He will progress rapidly through Battenby House, I think,
and should have his chance to rejoin the world of the living. It is not
as if he is truly dead, so it is not as if he is truly murdered."
"What are you
all saying?" blurted Ron. "That you're going to let it go? Let them get
away with it? Come on! After all they've done? So it can be fixed, that's
grand, but that doesn't make it like it never was. You can't slap them
on the wrist or sit them in the corner and tell them not to do it again."
"Mr. Weasley
is very right," said Dumbledore. "Consequences are certainly in order.
For Mr. Grimme, it's safe to say we're all aware of how persuasive Miss
Winterwind can be. Further, acting as he was out of desperation to end
an intolerable state of being, I feel that he should not be held wholly
to blame for his actions. Nonetheless, that which explains a behavior does
not necessarily excuse it, and he shall be given detention for the rest
of the term, and lose all Hogsmeade privileges."
"And the echidna
eggs?" McGonagall asked. "You can't expect to continue treating him with
those."
"Would you have
that be a fitting punishment?" Dumbledore asked. "Consign him to that monstrous
state forever? Not even I am so strict, Minerva."
"You'll poison
him otherwise!"
"We merely need
to explore the ramifications of this cure that Miss Winterwind devised.
I'm sure that with the expertise of those such as Madame Pomfrey and Professor
Snape here, we can come up with something that will do the job without
harming the boy. It is, however, likely to be a long, tedious process.
Not without its unpleasant moments and potentially painful side effects.
And that, I think, should be punishment enough."
"What of Ophidia?"
Snape asked.
Dumbledore ran
his hand along his silvery beard thoughtfully. "It seems, Severus, that
we'll be needing someone to take over teaching Defense Against the Dark
Arts for the rest of the year."
Snape's face
tightened and his eyes flashed. "Oh, really."
"On such short
notice, that duty might need to fall to one of the other professors. I
hardly have time to advertise for the job. What do you say?"
A long moment
stretched out. Dumbledore was offering the opportunity Snape had coveted
for years, and here was Snape not leaping all over it. His expression
was torn, tormented.
"It seems to
me," Snape said at long last, and not without difficulty, "that in the
past, Professor Dumbledore, you've been willing to give new teachers a
second chance and not hold their impulsive indiscretions against them."
McGonagall drew
herself up as if about to protest, glanced at the students, and said nothing.
Snape, not even
looking her way, went on. "We have all done things in the course of our
lives and the course of our careers that we regret. We've all had occasions
when we've been tempted, or misled, or failed to see the error of our ways.
You have been most accepting of our stumbles and weaknesses. As no … no
lasting harm has been done, won't you extend that same second chance to
Professor Winterwind?"
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