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 Fifteen – The Black Court.
Harry stood in
the chilly crypt, thinking to himself that this was the sort of thing better
done at midnight. Not, as a peek at his watch confirmed, still an hour
shy of lunch.
He must have
been missed by now, and by teachers less oblivious than Professor Binns.
But there was a tendency where Harry was concerned for the instructors
at Hogwarts to turn something of a blind or benign eye to his doings. He
got away with more than every other student in the school combined, a fact
that sometimes caused him a good deal of distress and embarrassment. He'd
never asked to be famous, certainly hadn't set out to become a hero.
And sometimes,
it really did have its drawbacks. Such as now. Here he was, in a good deal
of trouble, and nobody knew where he was. Worse, in all likelihood nobody
was even worried enough about him to wonder. He couldn't rely on the sort
of last-minute rescue – or deus ex machina, even – that had gotten
him out of his previous perils.
"You can't do
this," he tried one last, desperate time. "They've done nothing to you."
"And I have
nothing against them," Ophidia Winterwind assured him. "They are serving
a greater purpose, that's all."
The topic of
their discussion, the Muggle pair still lying bound and gagged on the hard
stone floor, regarded them with blank and uncomprehending stares. The terror
that had filled the woman's eyes was drowned in a sea of bewilderment.
The man drifted in some state between shock and catatonia, as if the events
had finally ripped his mind free of sanity.
Above them,
the Soulstone glowed and shifted with cool fire. The candles at the points
of the pentagram had been lit, adding their own flickering red flames to
the tableau. Fyren Grimme, who had plaintively asked Ophidia for the permanent
cure to his affliction and been sweetly told that he'd have to wait until
the ritual was complete, was off to one side with his scaled face snarling.
"That belongs
to Battenby House," Harry said. "The life force is meant for them. You
told me so yourself."
"I did, and
it is … but there is not enough in the Soulstone to restore the shades.
There is, however, enough for my purpose. The Upwood boy had great vitality.
We could hardly have chosen a better to open this way for us."
"It's theirs!"
cried Harry. "If you use it for this, they'll never be able to come back!"
"Harry, Harry,"
she said, shaking her head. She reached to comb her fingers through his
unruly black hair, but he jerked his head away. She pouted briefly. "Life
force is a marvelous thing, Harry. It dwells within each of us, and it
continually regenerates. Parents give a portion of their own into their
unborn children, and regain what was lost. So, you see, what I take from
the Soulstone today will eventually … to use a Muggle term … recharge."
Ophidia had
taken his wand. When Harry made a halfhearted move, knowing that even if
he got it he'd never be able to fight them both despite having been healed
of the poison by her awful, wonderful bite, she chided him and put it into
the pouch at her belt. The pouch was far shallower than the wand was long,
but the eleven inches of holly with its core of phoenix feather did not
poke through the bottom. It vanished as if the pouch were deep as a well
and he knew it would be useless to try and summon it.
She was wielding
her own wand at the moment, which was supple ebony. It traced mystic sigils
in the air. They hung there in red strokes of flame. Ophidia walked around
the pentagram, and each mark she made in the air was a mimic of one inscribed
in chalk on the floor. When she had completed the circle, the hanging symbols
both brightened and diffused, and settled down to sink into the stone.
The chalk marks came alight, outlining the pentagram in fire.
"The jars,"
Ophidia said, gesturing to the sealed black urns that rested by the heads
of the captive Muggles. "Can you guess what they contain, Harry?"
He couldn't,
nor did he particularly want to. She told him anyway.
"Four hundred
years ago, the wizards of England were led by one man. Count Douglas Tyrrell,
alternately called Douglas the Terrible, and Black Douglas. Does that name
ring any bells?"
"The Black Court,"
Harry said. "But he didn't lead the wizards. They cast him out. Killed
him. He was a Dark wizard."
"The history
that they teach you in school is often rather biased," she said. "I could
tell you the whole story, but why don't we let him speak for himself?"
She raised her
wand above her head in both hands, and invoked the words of a lengthy and
complicated spell. Harry shouted, hoping to distract her concentration,
but to no avail.
The Soulstone
wavered and began to dim, its light lowered by an unseen rheostat.
A spectral glow
formed around the urn nearest the Muggle man's head. The waxen seal of
it cracked and fell apart in brittle slivers. The lid wobbled, shook, and
began to twirl. It was like watching a spun coin revolve down onto a table,
except in reverse. The lid tipped up and up until it was spinning on edge,
then flipped into the air like a tiddlywink and hit the floor, where it
broke.
Corpse-grey
mist exhaled from the open top of the urn. It spread out searching grey
pseudopods, making Harry think of the giant squid.
This sight brought
the Muggle man back from whatever far place in which he'd taken refuge.
He recoiled from the ectoplasmic mass floating above him, and his chest
heaved with panicked breath. Air whistled in and out of his nose.
The mass separated,
branched, and dove into the Muggle's wide-open eyes, gasping nostrils,
and ears. In a matter of seconds the entire insubstantial substance of
it had vanished into the man's head.
His back arched.
His throat swelled with what had to be a horrible, larynx-splitting scream.
He was touching the floor with just the back of his head and his heels,
his body a bow.
"No!" Harry
yelled. "You're killing him!" He ran toward Ophidia, but she brought him
to a halt with a single commanding look.
The man shuddered
and went limp, eyes rolled back, lids jittering spasmodically. Then they
popped open, dark and full of awareness. He yanked at the chains that held
him and the chains snapped as if they'd been made of paper. The man arose
and drew the gag away.
He showed no
signs of his former fear. His mouth was a cruel slash, one eyebrow sardonically
slanted.
"My Lord Count,"
Ophidia said, inclining her head to him. "Welcome."
Harry hadn't
thought he could go any colder. "Black Douglas?"
"If you'll but
spare me a moment, my lord," added Ophidia, "I'll restore your lady to
you."
"Please do."
It was a rollingly rich voice, a confident voice. And, Harry was certain,
absolutely not the natural voice of the body standing before them.
Ophidia repeated
her spell. The other urn began to undergo the same effect.
The Muggle woman,
having seen what befell her companion, thrashed in her chains and tried
to get away, but when she touched the glowing lines of the pentagram she
jerked away as if burned. Another grey mass rose from the urn and flowed
into her through her eyes, nose, and ears. She, too, screamed soundlessly
and went first rigid, then slack, and finally stood unencumbered beside
the man.
"My Elsbeth,"
Douglas Tyrrell said, extending his hand. "We live again."
"Is this the
best we could get?" said the woman huskily, looking down on the bare Muggle
body with a wrinkle of distaste.
Harry reeled.
Ophidia had told him that shades could temporarily inhabit living bodies,
but somehow nothing about this brought shades to mind. Jeremy and the other
students of Battenby House that he'd seen hadn't struck him at all similar
to these two.
What, then,
did that leave?
He knew as he
looked at Ophidia Winterwind. "Vampires."
"Very good,
Harry! If we were in class right now I'd award Gryffindor ten points for
the correct deducement."
"You raised
vampires!" He rubbed his neck in memory of that Knockturn Alley bite, the
one he'd mistaken – because she'd fogged his mind into it – for a shaving
nick.
"Fyren," Ophidia
said. "The pentagram."
He slid forth
in eager obedience and snuffed out the candles. The lines of power faded
back into chalk, which Fyren then scuffed with the muscular weight of his
coils. Douglas and Elsbeth Tyrrell stepped out of the broken spell, moving
tentatively in their new bodies. Above them, the Soulstone was dark and
empty, a glass ball containing nothing but shadows.
The situation
had gone from bad to markedly worse. Harry backed up, but there was nowhere
to run. Grimme was between him and the exit, and a single glance from Ophidia
would be enough to ensure her charm spell held him in check.
"The Black Court,"
said Ophidia in satisfaction. "Four hundred years ago, Harry, they ruled
the Dark wizards with a firm hand. No one could perform Dark magic without
the express permission of the Black Count and his Countess. He controlled
it all. He regulated it all. If someone displeased him, that someone ran
the risk of losing all power. Don't you see now what I intend? The beauty
of it?"
"Sure, I see
it," Harry said. "You've brought them back thinking they'll snatch control
of all Dark magic away from Voldemort and his Death-Eaters."
"Precisely!"
"And instead,
we get them!" He pointed at the two, who glared hotly at him. "Their
reign was one of absolute terror and control. You think, you honestly think,
that they'll be better than Voldemort?"
"Harry, my dear
Harry, this is hardly a case of better-the-devil-you-know! Count Douglas
was a wise and just ruler."
"And a vampire."
He had seen
the subtle changes taking place in the possessed Muggle bodies. Douglas
Tyrrell was two inches taller already, his chest and shoulders broadening.
His skin had paled, nowhere near Ophidia's alabaster hue but getting there.
His hair had deepened toward auburn. Elsbeth, though, had gone dusky, an
olive complexion with an ashen undertone. She was shorter, wider, a fleshy
Rubenesque nude with a mane of curly dark hair. In both of them, the eyes
had gained a reddish cast and the lips had pushed out as the teeth beneath
reconfigured themselves.
"A real
vampire," Harry amended. He was understanding it all now. "And that's what's
in it for you, isn't it, Ophidia? You've always wanted to be one. That's
what you're all about. The look, the Animagus power, the blood lollipops,
the fangs. How'd you do it? Biting me, enthralling people, how'd that work?"
"Very, very
good, Harry," she said softly. "That would have earned fifty points. The
fangs are Transfigured, hollow. The left contains a Healing Potion, the
right a mixture of Hypnosis and Pheromone elixirs. Don't tell Severus;
he thinks I'm no good with Potions. It was true when we were in school
together, but I've improved greatly since then."
The Count and
Countess had completed their changes. All they needed were the blood-red
robes and black capes with the high fan-shaped collars, and they'd be exactly
as Harry remembered from illustrations in textbooks and histories. They
were examining themselves and each other, not paying particular attention
to the others, but by the posture of Black Douglas' head, Harry knew he
was listening.
"So what now?"
Harry asked. He felt more naked than ever without his wand, not that it
would have done him much good even if he could have gotten it back from
its resting place down the front of Ophidia's gown. "Seize power?"
"I think first
a bit of catching-up might be in order," Ophidia said. "They were killed
in the traditional method four hundred years ago. A stake through the heart,
decapitated, and then burned. Only the swift actions of one of their most
loyal followers – a Winterwind, if I do say so myself – prevented their
ashes from being scattered into running water. That would have been the
end of them. Their ashes were preserved instead, sealed into those jars
and hidden here. I'll need to bring them up to date on all that's happened
since. By then, it should be night."
Here, Elsbeth
scowled. "You raised us by day, you foolish wretch?"
"You need not
fear sunlight here," Ophidia said, sounding nettled. "We are deep below
the castle."
"Be that as
it may," said Douglas with a placating gesture to his wife, "there is still
the matter of our Hunger. We cannot hunt by day, and we cannot last until
night without sustenance."
Ophidia's expression
was one of sheerest rapture. "Which is why, my lord, I offer myself. I
have always craved the un-life of the vampire. I have drunk of blood --"
here Harry rubbed at his neck, and his arm, and felt his stomach slide
greasily around. "—and I have brought you back for twofold reasons. Firstly,
that you'll take your rightful place and put an end to a plague of verminous
Dark wizards. And secondly, that you'll accept me into your Court."
"You ask much
for one small service," said Black Douglas, but by the way he was looking
at Ophidia, it was clear he wouldn't have minded at all taking a nice deep
bite of her ivory-smooth throat.
Elsbeth didn't
miss it either, and her scowl turned thunderous. "It does seem that there
is much more we need to know before we agree to anything, husband.
And there's still the matter of my appetite to consider."
At this, she
sent speculative glances over Harry and Fyren Grimme, and returned to Harry.
Grimme was fidgeting, obviously wanting to remind Ophidia of her promise
and get the cure that would restore him to his human form, but realizing
this was hardly the time for such interruptions. Harry himself would have
been downright glad of an interruption … anything to get that avaricious,
frightening gaze to shift elsewhere.
"You wish one
of the boys?" inquired Douglas of his wife.
"The reptile
looks far too … cold-blooded," Elsbeth said. "You know I don't care for
gazpacho, darling husband mine. I'll have the brunette. He's got an aura
about him that promises a most enticing feast."
Ophidia started.
"My lord, my lady, no … he's not a part of the bargain. He is to be among
your opposite number. Can you not see that the power of the White Court
is all around him?"
"Which is but
another reason to deal with him now," Elsbeth said, taking a step toward
Harry. "Before he attains it. Paladins are best when they're unripe."
"I brought you
back!" cried Ophidia. "Is this the thanks I get?"
"What did you
expect?" Harry shot at her. "You raise the leaders of the Black Court,
and think they'll play fair? They're as Dark, as evil, as Voldemort or
any of the others!"
Douglas chuckled
with a warmly mocking tone. He had somehow gotten next to Ophidia without
seeming to move, and he placed the tips of his fingers under her chin to
lift her face toward his. He tilted her head, which exposed the long line
of her neck to him. "Don't fret, pretty one. Half your bargain is made."
His lips – which
were not vermilion but a rusty black – peeled away from his fangs. The
fangs themselves were nothing like Ophidia's. These were snaggled hooks,
streaked with yellow, and the top pair were met by a bottom pair that rose
from the lower jaw.
Elsbeth Tyrrell
was right in front of Harry. She was a short woman, the top of her head
coming level with his nose, but this meant that she was looking straight
ahead at the pulse throbbing under his jaw. Harry had run out of room for
backing up.
"Ah … no, wait,"
Ophidia said, interposing her hand between herself and Douglas' nightmare
grin. "There's perhaps some things left to explain …" She was doing her
best to back away from the vampire, circling around toward Harry.
"We must be
fed," Douglas said to her. "You raised us. Are you not responsible for
us?"
Second thoughts
showed in the taut, anxious frown that knit her ebon brows. But her questing
eyes locked into Douglas' burning ones, and the tension began to seep slowly
from her. Harry saw her fall into that piercing stare the way one might
fall into sleep, unprotesting.
Except, with
a quaver to her voice, she said, "Fyren … stop them."
"Give me what's
mine and I will," he hissed.
She fished into
her pouch, her arm sinking nearly to the elbow in a bag that looked no
more than four inches deep. "I … yes …"
"No," Douglas
said calmly.
He pulled her
hand back out. Something snagged on the interior of the pouch and turned
it inside-out as her hand emerged. An amazing amount of items spilled/bounced/clattered
to the floor. Quills, vials, blood-flavored lollipops, Harry's wand, scraps
of parchment, lipstick, jewelry, an old-fashioned pocket watch, a hairbrush,
a jar containing something mottled and swamp-looking.
Then everything
happened at once.
** |