Serpentigena

Chapter 3: Run

Though Charcoal Sarah hated to admit it to herself, she was definitely worried about Knockturn Alley. She wanted a cigarette, something she hadn't craved in years, and wouldn't have turned down a stiff drink, either. Most of all, she felt the weight of her years as the young ran by, their faces set in patterns Sarah didn't understand. She frowned as she set down their faces in charcoal, the stiffly guarded expressions that baffled her artist's eyes.

"Toad?" she called. He was skulking around the back of the potions shop at this hour, waiting for Josephine, but she knew he could hear her. "Toad?"

There was no reply. Sarah shrugged. "Well," she muttered to herself, "Josephine's a pretty girl. We'll let Toad to his business." Even as she whispered her reassurances, she felt the itch of wrongness in her brain. Something was not right. She ground the tip of the charcoal to a fine point to put the whiskers on a cat drawing she had abandoned several days before. She began filling in the individual hairs in its tail. "This one's nice," she mumbled, half to herself. "A pretty kitty, eh Toad?"

There was no reply. Sarah shook herself. "Toad?" Her voice echoed. And that was the thing. Her voice came back to her: "Too…?" Sarah looked up sharply.

Knockturn Alley was deserted. Every shop door was closed, every door latched and locked. The shutters were over the windows, the curtains drawn in the windows that did not have shutters. There was no one visible, no voices, not even the scuttle of the other creatures that lived in the sewers and basements of the various shops. Sarah put down her charcoal, suddenly aware of the hideous clatter it made in the silence.

Sarah made to move, and then the truth caught up to her—after ten years of sitting in the same chair, rarely moving to do anything else, she simply wasn't built for flight.

She began to sweat. In a last, desperate attempt at survival she flung her cape up over her head, hoping she would look only like a heap of rags. Her breath grew harsh as she pulled her legs up under her skirt. Within her smelly barricade, she waited.

Emily had been sitting on the end of the bed in room twenty-four at the Hotel Noire when she shivered. Her head came up from the comb she'd been using on her tangled blonde curls. Below her window there was a hush, then an outcry as everyone rushed to close up shop. With a grimace, she ran to her own windows and banged the shutters closed. The room darkened, and Emily swore as she stubbed a toe on the way to light her candles.

"No more customers today," she reflected. "I can go home." Then she frowned. Should I tell Josephine the truth? she wondered to herself for what seemed like the millionth time. "No," she answered herself aloud. "She doesn't need to know the truth about either of her parents." Or about me, she added silently.

Knockturn Alley was deathly quiet below, the loudest noise being the whistle of the wind through the twisted lane. Emily shivered again and crawled up onto the bed and drawing her skirts close around her feet. As she closed her eyes and leaned against the headboard, she heard the telltale sounds of footsteps below.

She bit down on her thumb to keep from whimpering in fear as the door to her room creaked open.

Josephine siphoned the Potion of Eternal Sleep into four separate containers, careful not to breathe in the fumes. With deft fingers she corked three of them, then dipped a paintbrush into the fourth. She focused on the steady motions of her hand as she painted first a red rose, then an apple, and finally a spindle. With an almost joyful air, she opened the tiny cage that had been sitting on the shelf behind her. With deft motion, she snatched up one of the mice within and pressed its tiny paw down on the spindle. Its struggles stopped, and it fell asleep. Josephine smirked and fished out a bottle of antidote.

She distantly heard the shop's back door open, but ignored it—it was probably Toad, come to demand that she 'leave her smelly brews and make some attempt at being social'. Bringing the bottle close to her face, she measured out a drop and aimed it at the mouse's tiny tongue. The antidote worked as quickly as the potion had, and she stuffed the mouse back into the box.

Looking up, she saw that the rose was missing. With exasperation she leaned over the table to see if it had fallen on the floor, but it wasn't there. Perhaps it rolled under the table, she reasoned, and ducked under the table, feeling gently for the petals, knowing that if she touched one of the thorns she would be subjected to one hundred years or more of sleep.

"Are you looking for this?"

Josephine started, smacking her head on the underside of the table. "Shit!" she swore as she backed out from under the table and looked up to face her unexpected guest.

He was tall, very tall, and thin as well. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place it. His skin was deathly white, his eyes red and reptilian, their slitted pupils fixed on her. Josephine gulped as she realized that her wand was on the shelf just behind her intruder. Seeing her gaze drop to the shelves, he pulled her wand out from behind his back. In his other hand he held the rose she had painted with the Potion of Eternal Sleep.

"You are the urchin they call Josephine," he said. His voice was high and imperious, commanding. With one of his long-fingered hands he stroked the stem of the rose. The girl held her breath, watching as his long fingernails traced oozing green trails around the thorns. "Josephine. That's not what I'd have called you."

Josephine licked her lips. Her mouth felt as dry as sandpaper. "What would you have called me, then?" she asked. Her voice quavered.

The man had no hair on the top of his head, but his eyebrows remained, black and angular. One of these black lengths arched sarcastically. "I don't think I would have called you anything. I would have killed you before you first drew breath." He flipped her wand up and caught it, sticking it into his belt. "But you slipped away, out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind, eh?" He laughed, a strange choking noise.

"I don't understand you," Josephine replied. "Why should my drawing breath have anything to do with you?" To prove her point, she exhaled noisily.

"I am Lord Voldemort. You are more than anyone sees. You are another heir of Slytherin—albeit a girl." He sneered on the last word, curling his thin lips.

"Slytherin. Why should this make any difference? My mother is a prostitute. Her name is Martin, not Slytherin." Josephine felt her courage growing. Who was this man—he could be called old, even—what was he doing? Was he trying to make some kind of point?

"Emily Martin," he hissed. "No, my dear girl, Emily Martin was not your mother. The whore is dead, and rightfully so. I am your kin." Voldemort smiled at her recoil of disgust. "Do my looks repel you, my daughter?"

Josephine covered her eyes, one of her hands going to her black curls. "You are an old man. You couldn't possibly be my father."

"I was not always old, as I was not always of this appearance. I could still father more children."

"That disgusting!" she exclaimed. "You're a liar."

"Am I?" Voldemort countered, taking a step nearer. "Or is it you? Look at you—dark hair, those narrow features—Salazar Slytherin himself would be stunned."

"Who is this Slytherin?" she retorted. "Another old man who uses prostitutes? Or is he yet older, and must have the prostitutes come to him?"

He was across the room in an instant. One of his hands grasped her shoulder in a death grip, his long white arm pressing her again the wall, her feet dangling six inches above the floor. He shifted, cutting off her air supply and slowly crushing her Adam's apple. "You will hold your vile tongue, girl, or I'll have it out in an instant." He watched her lips gape like a dying fish, and then released her.

Josephine fell to the floor, gasping for breath. With a supreme effort she rolled onto her back, coughing, as her throat seemed to crackle its protests.

"It's not too late for you, girl. You could come with me, take your place beside me as my heir—and a producer of more Slytherin sons. The line of Slytherin continues with you, Josephine." He stared at her with his strange reptilian eyes. "You can chose."

"Why should I come with you?" she gasped, drawing herself to her knees. "You offer me something I know nothing about. Your heir!" she spat. "Are you truly so desperate, to seek out your bastard daughter. Why not your many sons?"

"There are none. Only you." He watched her, gauging her reaction.

Josephine kept her face blank. I need to get out of here; this man is insane, she thought. And if I am truly his only heir, she snorted mentally, he won't risk any hurt to me. "So you say now. If you are truly my father, I want proof," she challenged. "Solid proof."

There was a silence as long as an age. It was a strangely noiseless silence, and Josephine realized that the typical street noises of Knockturn Alley were missing. "Why is it so quiet?"

"Because no one wishes to irritate Lord Voldemort," he replied, his face as bland as could be. "Or interfere with his business." Josephine got the feeling that this comment wasn't really directed at her. She tore her gaze from Voldemort long enough to see a tuft of white hair poking out from around the doorframe.

"Toad?" she breathed. The man didn't stir. "Toad?" she asked again. She walked over to him slowly, keeping her eyes on Voldemort, her heart thumping painfully in her chest. The pale man made no move to stop her, but instead almost smiled, his thin lips stretching into a malicious crescent.

Josephine reached out a hand and pushed Toad's slumping body lightly. It gave easily, his unbalanced lower body twisted at an unnatural angle. His back was clearly broken, his single leg limp. His green eyes were open, their suspicious gleam forever wiped away. She blinked twice, to give herself time to recollect herself. Though she wanted to scream and cry and strangle Voldemort, she knew that now she had to be strong and silent. She drew herself up taller and looked back inside the Potions shop at the red eyes, and said lightly, "So you finished this job."

Voldemort had to duck as he exited the shop. He looked down at the sad crumpled body with no expression, strong and silent, and replied, "I did."

In that moment, something changed.

Josephine knew, for a certain fact, that this man was her father, and because he was her father, she would never be able to live normally. She saw that because some people wished to destroy Voldemort they would also wish to destroy her, and she couldn't trust anyone. Josephine realized that the only way to become herself instead of the daughter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was to run, run away, and never come back to Knockturn Alley.

So Josephine Riddle ran.

But she didn't get as far as she thought she would.