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The Snake-who-lived
Book 3: Prisoner of Azkaban
Chapter 3: Sirius Black
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Faint breathing came to the captive's ears. It was not its own, nor was it its imagination. In the other cell, laying on the thin, dirty cot that served as a bed for the prisoners, its companion - a talkative and pretty sixteen years old young woman named Lily Evans, had came in a few... oh... days ago? Weeks? For all they knew, it could have been a few merely long-seeming hours. With no sunlight and no guard shifts, there was no way of telling. The captive had come to calculate time in 'meals', but even then, that was unreliable. Every now and then, the guards would 'accidentally' forget to bring their food.
"Hmmh... no…"
Apparently, Lily was dreaming. Based on the way she fought against the thin and rough brown blanket that seemed to have been made to keep as much humidity in and as much heat out as possible, she was having a nightmare. Then again, the sadness and despair that flooded out of her like emotional waves, was a much better indication.
The captive concentrated a bit on powers she had not used in a long, long time. Warm orange light covered both cells even if it was barely strong enough to allow one to read. The prisoner's eyes had become so adjusted to the darkness that any light seemed blinding. Ignoring the light, the captive reached out, soothing the sleeper until the poor girl's emotions changed… and a faint blush appeared on her cheeks.
"Oohmm... mmm… James..."
It lewdly smirked in satisfaction. A small, pointed fang glittered in the fading orange light.
Now THAT was more like it.
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"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!"
For any normal newly thirteen years old child, those two words were source of elation and happiness. They signified that another stage toward adulthood had been completed, another philosophical step toward being wise had been taken and, perhaps more importantly than anything else, the promise of presents that were to come.
However, if there was one thing to note about those two particular words, it was that they made a very bad wake-up call.
Actually, just about any loud words shouted in the ear of just about anyone at just about any moment makes a very bad wake up call.
The sleeper's eyes shot open in surprise as his ears rang. His head shot forward as he reflexively sat up, his body instinctively intent on making him as aware as possible as quickly as it could to face the unknown threat.
…well, that was the intention of the body, and the reason why such a reflex existed in his system.
To the natural reaction's credit, it did manage to bring Harry very awake, after his skull connected against his friend Blaise's forehead, worsening the headache that he been induced by having sound waves bash through his brain with hammers and other concussion objects.
The result was a loud exclamation of pain on both sides, a victimized boy grabbing his forever scarred forehead and a young teenage girl ending up sprawled on her beddings – no punny overdose intended, the wording is a mere coincidence.
And it was to this scene that July 31st 1993 began for Harry Potter.
Ten relatively eventless days had passed since that day at the beach, and not once did Harry feel bored. They had spent this time doing virtually every activity available in the camp, and went swimming two more times, at Blaise's insistence. The girl loved water, it seemed. Harry didn't care much for it himself; human beings were made to stay on dry ground, after all.
He had, for the first time of his life, noticed the arrival of his birthday. Not from any anticipation on his part, but from the fact that Mrs. Zabini had forgotten that tents don't block sounds at all, and had discussed it to Blaise, while Mr. Zabini 'kept him occupied', effortlessly eavesdropping with him with a smile of amusement on his face.
And today was it. Today was the not day they were not going to the restaurant to not celebrate his birthday, and Blaise and her mother had made sure to not keep very quiet se he would not know. Note the double-negative.
...they had been quite loud, actually. As hard as Harry had tried, he hadn't managed to stay unaware of their secret plans. As far as he remembered, though, none of them included being woken up by Blaise at the crack of the morning with a crack of his eardrums and of his head.
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Blaise had apparently been awake for a while; her clothes were clean and her bed was – relatively – made. Spending eleven days in close quarters with her had made him aware of a great load of things about her, including the fact that she tended to be vocal in her sleep, as well as physical, thus her sleeping bag usually ended up looking like Professor Snape's head on a bad hair day.
"Are you ready?" She asked, grinning gleefully, though her hand was still touching her reddish forehead.
"For what?" He faked ignorance. His head felt like it had been cracked like a coconut, his hair was a mess – as usual – his ears were still ringing and he was still in his pajamas. Did he look ready?
"We're goi—That's a surprise!" Blaise quickly corrected herself after remembering he wasn't supposed to know.
Chuckling, Harry removed the sleeping bag that covered him. Taking this as her cue, Blaise quickly left to let him get dressed.
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The sky outside was cloudier than it had been all week. It seemed the long streak of sunny days was approaching an end. The wind whipped at the leaves, covering the woods with a shuffling sound. However, the sun still welcomed him brightly through an opening in the clouds as soon as he stepped out of the tent and into the campground.
In the middle of the ground, Mr. Zabini was busily preparing some toasts over the burning orange embers with small yellow flames dancing among them. Mrs. Zabini was digging into the bag of dressings they had brought along. As for Blaise, she was entertaining herself by poking the embers with a stick and watching the sparks fly up, trying to make as many of them as possible.
After breakfast, which was interrupted by an entertaining fight between the two Zabini girls over who would get the last of the strawberry jam, Harry and Blaise spent some time exploring the campground, shooed away by the adults while they didn't go and buy his present, just as it was not planned. The girl was careful not to bring him anywhere near the campground, even if standing on the small arched wooden bridge and trying to spot frogs in the murky little stream underneath was abysmally boring.
Finally, noon came and, as not told by the plan, Blaise pulled him back to the camp. Mr. and Mrs. Zabini were waiting in the car when they arrived. He had to admit that, had he not heard it beforehand, he would have been surprised. As it was, he put on a surprised front – so they wouldn't be disappointed – and climbed on the back seat. Nemesis coiled himself between him and Blaise, refusing to stay cooped in the tent. Mrs. Zabini had assured Harry that the snake wouldn't be out of place, wherever they went.
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It took about thirty minutes to drive from the camping ground to Liverpool, and ten more to get to their destination. The restaurant they had decided to bring him to was… disappointing, to say the least. At least, at first sight, it was. Small, shady and looking dilapidated, it bore weak flickering purple neon tubes over its boarded up windows, announcing, for all to see, 'Hardy's Humble Hut'. The name was extremely tacky and, Harry guessed, did not invite anyone inside. In fact, its intention seemed to be quite the opposite; surrounding the little shack-like mostly concrete building were a rich-looking luxury hotel and a flashy five star restaurant. Yet, nobody seemed to look at it twice. Closer looks at passer-bys made him realize nobody looked at it, period.
From the inside, accessible through a banged up rusty metal door – that didn't squeak, thankfully – it was worse. The walls had probably once been white washed, but age or disdain had allowed the color to fade to an ugly yellow. The floor had probably once been made of black and white checkered squares, but it was hard to guess under the layer of grime and dust covering it. Of the six tables spread across the room, only one was still intact and only one was clean enough to consider eating on. Unfortunately, they were not the same one. On the far wall was a large and chipped mirror covered with stains. Sitting by a door leading to the back was a bar, which was apparently better cared for than the rest of the room.
Behind the bar, a gruff-looking, unshaven muscled man with an anchor tattoo on his huge and bare left arm, wearing a dirty camisole stained with unidentifiable substances glared at them.
"Whaddya want?" He snapped roughly.
"A vodka with four full lemons for take out." Elmira replied.
Harry and Blaise shared a disbelieving look. What the…
The barkeep sneered and, surprisingly, simply nodded. "That's strong stuff. Got your ID?"
She whipped her wand out of her sleeve and flicked a few sparks. The man gave a satisfied grunt.
"And them?" He asked, waving at the two teens.
"They're with me. So is he." Mrs. Zabini replied, taking her husband's hand.
The man nodded. "Go in the back. Password is 'Mermaid'. Welcome to The Sporty Snidget." The bored tone in his voice clearly said these words were more forced courtesy than anything else.
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The back room could hardly be described as such. As soon as he laid his eyes in it, it became obvious that the shady, gloomy and dirty atmosphere of the previous room was just a mask to hide the obviously magical bar behind.
The Sporty Snidget had been meant to be a restaurant/pub, a place where witches and wizards could eat and have a good time simultaneously, that much was obvious on first sight. It was a relatively large circular room with wooden walls and floors and wooden beams holding the roof giving it a rustic, comfortable feel. One of the walls was a window bay, from which Liverpool's lively streets were visible. What made no physical sense was that, unless Harry's internal compass was out of whacks, those windows should have given a fairly interesting view of the insides of the neighboring luxury hotel.
Posted up on the walls were moving posters of famed Quidditch player – Harry recognized two of them: the famous "Dangerous" Dai Llewellyn, from his portrait in Quidditch Through the Ages, and Kevin Broadmoor, one of the Falmouth Falcon's most famous beaters, because one could not play in the same team as Marcus Flint and not know every single player of the Falcons, past and present, and especially not their neck-breaking – among other things – beaters.
It was filled with square, round, trapeze, pentagonal or dodecagonal tables of various sizes, from the one and a half foot high knee-scrapper on the way to the toilet to that one near the entrance that Mrs. Zabini, whose height hovered around the limit between average and tall, had been easily able to walk under without bending down. Most of them were filled with people who were already eating, although some of them seemed to have come only for the animation.
And there was animation, indeed. In the center of the room was a large 'stage', on which a rather heated translucent miniature Quidditch match between seven dark-green clad ladies with golden talons on their chests and a mixed team wearing emerald-green uniforms with a pair of yellow Ks in front and in the back was being played while the tenants cheered and booed on with the action.
"Last year's season semi-finales." Mrs. Zabini noted, while her husband stared openly at the dangerous-looking game and the miniaturized people riding on brooms. "The Harpies against the Kestrels. A total massacre. 320 to 160."
"At least the Harpies caught the Snitch," Blaise scowled.
Mrs. Zabini nodded. "But their Keeper was green and the Kestrels specialize in having strong chasers and techniques. It didn't help much against the Catapults in the finale, though."
Harry gave a look at Mr. Zabini, who looked thoroughly lost. Harry himself had barely followed the conversation; sometimes, having spent his childhood in the depths of the Muggle world – or more precisely, his cupboard under the stairs – just sucked.
"Um, there's an empty table over there…" Mr. Zabini noted, pointing at a normal-sized, square table near the windows.
Mrs. Zabini shrugged. "Yeah, it's not like we don't already know which team's going to win."
"I don't wanna watch anyway." Blaise noted, watching in apparent agony as Harold Synee made a spectacular throw involving a barrel and tailspin – that Harry doubted he could replicate – and the Harpies Keeper failed to stop the Quaffle.
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Harry was reassured to note that the menus had nothing unusual about them. Well, on a wizard's standards, that is. Normally, menus didn't just pop out of tables as soon as someone sat on the chair in front of them, along with glasses of water – that tasted like raspberries. Pumpkin juice was also announced in the kids meal section – for years twelve and under; too bad, those chicken nuggets looked tasty – while various brands of Butterbeer and Firewhisky adorned the alcoholic drinks list. As for the desserts…
…well, it was probably safer not to mention them. They broke the line between odd and downright weird. There wasn't a picture for that 'chocolate frog spawn pond', and he wasn't sure if he wanted one or not.
"Quarter Chicken, leg." Mrs. Zabini announced, startling Harry. Suddenly, in front of her, her order appeared. Mr. Zabini nearly dropped his glass in surprise.
"Er, yeah, I was about to ask… that…" The man said, staring at the roasted leg, as if expecting it to start jumping around.
…he had seen Chocolate frogs before, after all. Perhaps the fear was justified.
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The cheery and loud atmosphere of the Sporty Snidget accompanied Harry through dinner, contagiously making the boy grin. Every once in a while, the volume would rise and fall with the action of the game. Harry found he had difficulties to pull his eyes away from the arena. Quidditch truly was the greatest game in the world.
Blaise's mother had attempted to surreptitiously whisper something to the rather well-endowed barmaid soon after they had started to eat, camouflaging it as a sudden need to visit the toilet. To her credit, the bar was beside the toilets. Harry, however, had followed her with his eyes and had taken about thirty seconds to guess what had been said; Probably something about today being his birthday. At least, he guessed, from the way the barmaid had given him a quick glance with a mischievous grin.
He was right. Almost as soon as he swallowed the last bite of his dinner, a large cake with swirling colors – literally – appeared in his suddenly clean plate. A pint-sized colorful clown rose out of its middle and burst out in a cheerful and very loud rendition of 'Happy birthday'. Fortunately, the song omitted his name, which was a good thing considering its volume had attracted the attention of everyone in the restaurant. With a little luck, nobody would recognize him.
He couldn't help but let out a relieved sigh when McGrivin threw the Quaffle through the Harpies' left hoop – Blaise groaned in apparent agony – and the patrons' attention was tugged away from the uninteresting, perfectly ordinary, national- hero-in-disguise birthday boy-who-lived, back to the very interesting replayed game from last year's finals.
"Don't worry," Mrs. Zabini said, her voice reaching Harry through the cheers of Kestrel supporters – which formed the vast majority of the room, seeing as there was only one Harpy partisan, and she was sitting beside him, trying to knock herself unconscious by bludgeoning herself on the table – "They won't guess who you are."
"Why not?"
"They expect the boy-who-lived to be some kind of super-hero; the perfect, golden boy who can do anything. After all, he supposedly killed Voldemort, didn't he? Now why would they think that the boy-who-lived would spend his oh-so-important birthday in this perfectly normal restaurant, with a bunch of unknown witches and a Muggle – no offense, hun – wearing a snake around his shoulders and a bandanna over his forehead?"
"Shhe'sss got a point." Nemesis noted.
"Because I don't want to be noticed." Harry replied, taking another sip from his mug of warm butterbeer. That stuff was good!
"They don't know that." She said. "They don't know you. They think you like the praise and being known and recognized everywhere you go. You can thank Dumbledore for convincing the ex-minister not to rename Halloween, 'Harry Potter's day'."
Harry choked on his drink at the thought.
The way back was, in one word, loud. An overheard comment on the way out of the restaurant had fired Mrs. Zabini and her daughter in a heated discussion on the faults of mandatory helmets for Quidditch players – "It's just not as much fun if it's safe!" Mrs. Zabini declared, while her husband gave her an odd look – that Harry absentmindedly followed while listening to the car's radio set. Both of them were against it, but it sounded like both of them wanted to find a better reason why than the other. Outside the clear windows, the city streets of Liverpool gave way to a coastal paved street with an excellent view over the nearby Irish sea. The skies had darkened considerably,
"…inister refused to step down from his position, on the claim that the current economic situation--"
"Bah, politics." Mrs. Zabini's voice snapped while her hand automatically went to the tuner. "Boring, boring, ugh, classica… really boring, talk show… blah, countrymusic,changingreallyquick…" She gave a loud sigh. "Can't get anything interesting on the Muggle stations."
"Not at this time." Mr. Zabini noted.
"Switch to wizard, then?" Blaise suggested.
"Was going to, was going to…" Her wand suddenly seemed to appear in her left hand. Blaise didn't even blink. "Here we go…"
A tap later, the radio set glowed faintly in a dark blue color and began sprouting a vivid publicity praising the merits of some place called Honeydukes.
"A mixed radio?"
"Specially charmed by yours truly." Mrs. Zabini said with a cheerful grin. "Beats bringing the wireless in, and the car's sound system is much better."
"Isn't that totally against Mr. Weasley's law on misuse of Muggle artifacts?" Harry noted.
Her grin froze. "Er… as long as he doesn't suspect it," The woman said with a wink, blushing embarrassedly. "And it helps to have friends in high places. He won't look twice at it."
However, when she turned back to look out her window, Harry, who was behind Mr. Zabini but could see her from the side mirror, noticed she was muttering something. He managed to read a faint 'right?' from her lips.
"…and now, Celestina Warbeck with: 'I flew all night'!"
"Yess!" Mrs. Zabini said, immediately rising the volume.
"We interrupt this broadcast to bring you this special message from the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge."
A string of loud, unladylike curses escaped from her lips, making both of her children pale and her husband nearly switch lane. A familiar-looking coo-coo bird squawked and flew away quickly. In the sea, onboard a large fishing ship, a sailor blushed, though he didn't quite know why.
"My fellow magi, I'm afraid I bring bad news." Fudge's voice began dramatically.
"What, you're never going to step down?" the woman snidely quipped.
"At thirteen hours seven minutes yesterday, there was an escape attempt at Azkaban. Unfortunately, it was successful and the escapee has yet to be found. The prisoner is exceptionally dangerous and is not to be trifled with. If you see him, do not try to face up against him."
"Who the hell is it?!" Mrs. Zabini growled. "Man, he's useless, I mean, you wouldn't have to say it if--"
"The escapee's name is Sirius Black, guilty of serving the dark lord and killing twelve Muggles and one wizard."
Harry saw Mrs. Zabini's face freeze in horror. Her right hand clenched against the door's armrest while her left held her wand in a white-knuckled grip.
"I repeat: Sirius Black is extremely dangerous. Do not try to go against him, not even in groups. Warn the ministry of magic if you see him and we will take the appropriate measures. A more in-depth report will be available in today's Daily Prophet. Thank you for your understanding. Rest assured that this is an isolated incident that will never happen again."
The voice gave way to a soft, beautiful melody opening, but Mrs. Zabini quickly reached and shut the volume.
"Elmira?" Mr. Zabini asked. His voice sounded worried, but Harry couldn't see his face.
"Dario, head to the camp. We're going home."
"Elmira? Why—"
"Don't ask questions, just do it!" Mrs. Zabini snapped. If Harry didn't know her better, he would have suspected that she was panicking. Since he did, he knew she was. This was the first time he had ever heard her raise her voice against someone of her family, even more so her husband.
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The ride back was silent, though faint mutterings could be heard from Mrs. Zabini, who had yet to let go of her wand and was looking in every direction. Harry frowned; this was highly unlike her. Did she know that prisoner? That... Sirius Black?
'course I know him, I'm the one who caught him...
Though the words had been said about Mr. Malfoy, they managed to give Harry a tentative explanation. Perhaps she had caught him, as well, and believed he was after revenge...
...but then, she probably wouldn't have reacted with the fear... no, abject terror she was now displaying. Malfoy was at large, after all, and with the political influence he had, he could probably get away with murdering her – not a warming thought in the least. Yet, she had fearlessly faced him with nothing else than anger the previous year, as if perfectly knowing she was the strongest of the two. The only other explanation he could find was that she knew Black personally. How, though...?
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By the time they reached the camp, the first drops of rain were starting to fall. Blaise had asked if they could just wait it out inside the tents and leave after, but Mrs. Zabini had categorically refused, going as far as snapping at her. It took them about thirty minutes, by which time the rain had picked up into a visible curtain. The woman had tried to get into the driving seat, but Mr. Zabini had put his foot down then.
"Listen, Elmira. I don't know why you suddenly want to go home, I don't know how you know that Sirius Black man and I won't push further until we're there. What I do know is that you're being rash again, and that you're scaring Blaise. So will you please calm down and let me drive?"
The woman had spared a look at Blaise, who was looking miserable, thoroughly drenched, her pants and hands dirty with mud from when she had wrenched out one of the pikes holding her and Harry's tent to the ground. Harry had to admit he didn't make a better picture; he had slipped on the grass and landed face-first in a forming puddle. Both his bandanna and the arm of his glasses now stuck out of his pant pockets while he tried to make do as much as he could with his poor vision.
Mrs. Zabini sighed and went to the front passenger seat. Mr. Zabini smiled.
"I promise I won't try to drive you to the nut house this time." He added teasingly.
"Shurrup." The woman growled halfheartedly, a smile appearing on her face. "Goof."
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"The authorities have singalled that Black is armed and very dangerous. A green number has been set in place to let anyone who has seen the fugitive signal it immediately."
"They're warning muggles about a runaway wizard?" Harry noted disbelievingly. His years in the wizarding world had clearly indicated there existed a large rift between the two worlds.
"That's how dangerous Black is." Mrs. Zabini said darkly. "No half measures, no playing around." Her lips twisted in a small smirk. "Madam Bones sure knows how to do her job." The smirk vanished into a dark scowl. "That's at least one of them."
"Mum? Do you… do you know that guy?" Blaise asked. Harry saw her bite her lower lip in an uncharacteristically meek manner, as if she was afraid her mother would bite her head off again.
Mrs. Zabini was silent for a few seconds, her face turned away from Harry as she looked out the window at the now pouring rain. The car's wipers became the only sound, except for the low rumbling the engine, the scraping sound of the four wheels running against the pavement and the constant thumping of rain against the windshield.
"During the war…" Mrs. Zabini began, "Lily and Potter… Harry's mother and father, fought alongside Dumbledore, against Voldemort's forces. It would have been a very simple war if it had just been a fight of black against white, but…" She sighed wistfully. "Loyalties changed or were faked, there were plenty of traitors and spies on both sides. You could never be sure of anyone you didn't know personally and well, and even then… Shades of grey, you know. With the proper motivation, just about anybody can stab you in the back.
"Black was a friend of your father's. A very close friend. In fact, they were so close that more than a few mistook them for twin brothers. Even from far away, they could tell what the other was thinking, even without speaking to each other. They made an excellent team."
"B-But…"
"Don't interrupt me, Harry." The woman admonished. Her hands were clenched in tight fists that tugged at the fabric her pants in a white-knuckled grip; recalling these memories was apparently difficult for her. "I… I knew him well. I was at Hogwarts at the same time as he was. Not in his year, but close enough…"
"Did you… date him?" Blaise asked.
"What? NO!" The woman quickly denied, her face bursting into an embarrassed crimson color. Mr. Zabini chose that moment to clear his throat and pointedly look out the window.
"I mean… I swear, Dario, I… I mean… ok, fine. I went out with him once," she stressed the word, lifting a single finger, "and it was the worst date of my life. Besides, there aren't many witches who were above the age of fourteen back when he left school that can say they haven't at least dated or fancied him."
"Did you?"
"Who I fancied before I met your father is none of your business, young lady." Mrs. Zabini growled, her cheeks growing red, while Mr. Zabini made a show of reading a passing street sign with much interest. Blaise decided to let it drop with an impish grin.
"So what happened?" Harry asked.
"Oh, he kept staring at Rosmerta's rac—"
"I think he means during the war, Elmira," Mr. Zabini interrupted. His wife's cheeks blossomed into cherries.
"Oh, yeah… where was I… Oh… right." The embarrassedly cheerful tone in her voice vanished as quickly as the happy atmosphere. "He… your parents, soon after they had you, Voldemort targeted them… actually, a little before, but no matter. What's important is that he wanted to kill them, so they hid—"
"It didn't help in the end." Harry noted sourly, fingering his scar.
"It probably would have, if they hadn't been betrayed. I don't know all the details, but it seems like only one person knew where they were hiding."
Harry's throat constricted. What was she saying…?
"W—Who was that person?" Blaise asked nervously, her eyes turning to look at her friend. His fists had clenched, and so had his jaw.
"Black told Voldemort where the Potters were hiding." Mrs. Zabini said. "Essentially, it's his fault they died when they did."
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Harry was silent for the rest of the way, broodingly staring out the window with an unreadable look in his eyes. Blaise had not even tried to talk to him; she had no idea what to say. And so, she did the same thing as he did, watching the rocky fields whiz by behind a thickening curtain of uniform grey rain while absentmindedly rubbing her thumb against the head of Nemesis, who was comfortably coiled on her warm lap.
Her mother had likewise been silent since she had dropped the bomb on her friend. Staring out of the window, looking at the morose curtain of falling water, her eyes had a haunted look Blaise had only seen once before, a few days before Harry's eleventh birthday. Now, however, it was much worse.
It was understandable, though. While Voldemort had been the knife that had killed Harry's parents, Sirius Black had essentially been the guiding hand behind it. If he hadn't betrayed them, betrayed a friend so close they were like brothers, Harry would have probably had many more memories of them… or perhaps he wouldn't even be an orphan.
And now Black was out of prison, doing god knew what. Blaise, being the well-educated half-blood that she was, had heard about Azkaban in the past. The terrible prison from which nobody could escape alive, guarded by terrible guardians that nobody ever spoke of without fear. Even the sanest person in the world was said to have no chance of staying that way after a year in that place, and Black had spent… she didn't know how long exactly, but since she didn't remember ever hearing about it before now, it must have been at least over ten years.
Outside, the rocky fields, farms and small woodlands that covered the horizon gave way to the outskirts of London. Ignoring the large, obvious signs that pointed toward downtown, Mr. Zabini controlled the car toward the south, until they had reached the small suburban town of Surrey.
By the time they had reached Privet drive – "Oh, looks like someone decided to become an artist," Blaise noted upon looking at the door of #4 that bore an unflattering scribble of a pink pig bearing the name of 'Dudley' in orange marker - the rain had worsened to the point that, if they had been on the highway, they would have been forced to slow down or stop completely and wait it out. Upon getting out, packing their things out of the car had not even crossed their minds, being replaced by a single, oppressing thought of getting somewhere dry and warm.
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"Finally home." Blaise sighed contentedly while twisting her drenched hair to get the water out. Unnoticed by both, Mrs. Zabini did the exact same motions. Harry absentmindedly nodded before vigorously shaking his head to dry his black locks. Hanging between his outstretched forearms, Nemesis let out a small hiss of protest when he found himself splashed by cold water.
Quickly, Mrs. Zabini removed her shoes, hung her coat on the hanger and ducked in the dining/living room, picking a jar of what Harry recognized as floo powder. For an instant, he considered following her and eavesdropping, but a look from Mr. Zabini made him change his mind.
"Oh, right," the man suddenly said, "I almost forgot, your present."
"Present?" Harry blinked. He was still not used to the word being associated to something of his.
"Elmira bought it, actually. Knowing her, it's…" His hand ducked into the right pocket of his wife's coat, coming out with a small square box between his fingers, "right here. Open it up."
Harry nodded and picked it from his hand before flipping the top part up. Inside the box was a small, familiar-looking golden ball. He barely had time to guess what it was that a pair of insect-like wings slid out of it and began to flap, taking the snitch upwards. Almost reflexively – actually, it was reflexively – Harry snatched it in mid-air. He absentmindedly felt his face move into 'grinning like an idiot' mode.
"Happy Birthday, Harry." Mr. Zabini said, giving him an affectionate pat on the head.
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Author's notes:
That's plenty long enough. Cutting it here.
I based the Sporty Snidget on the 'cage aux sports', a sportive restaurant chain in Québec. They're actually quite similar to what I described (especially on Hockey nights), if you remove the usual magical-induced oddities. Feel free to borrow the concept if you want, just give credits -
"Quidditch Through the Ages doesn't have a portrait of Dai Llewellyn!" Two details. First, I don't have Quidditch through the ages, so I can't really tell you if it does or not (if it does, never mind!). Second… well, we ARE hopeless Muggles, so of course, the books wouldn't be the originals, would they? Can't have moving pictures around in Muggle hands, no, no… -
I ALMOST went through research and found an event that happened on July 31st 1993 to put on radio, but I changed my mind. There's detail, then there's obsession. ¬¬ Gimme a leash. Please.
And perhaps for the first time since the start of this fic, I break Canon for no reason by manipulating the weather a bit. You forgive me, right? It was for the drama.
Apologies for the wait: outside interests (Not dropping it, don't you dare worry!) work, school and a bad case of self-doubt (That's called being too perfectionist… I can never write with the skill I want to, so I end up stuck on the same line for a week ) all contributed to it. That, and the oppressing urge I've had to write a whodunit… I blame Detective Conan.
ANSWERS TO THE MAD PANIC RUSHES OF THE REVIEWERS:
ChaosBringer: I respect anyone who likes WFROSE -. Oooh, bad reviewer… bribing me to make it a H/G… tsk, tsk… appealing bribe, though. High-quality stuff. -
AnnieT: Glad you liked it… but you think Snape is a git? Well, ok, he is, but… Oh hell, gonna get killed for that one…
Dragonbrat: I've finally gotten to this point too, I'm so proud of myself :P . And for the update… I know, I know!! !!
Cleo-n-Jules: writes the neon sign out of existence, yup: There's no Harry like Slyth Harry -
Red Death: =/ The first book is horrible, I know. I'll re-write it later (probably after I finish 3). And I'll correct the first fancontinuity errors in book 2 (whacks self for stupidity). You could have written a review in the latest chapter, though… unless you never made it there…
Demon's soul of Baer: Glad you liked it!
NathanPostmark: You're not the first one to find me that way… thanks V!
Linda Kristen Smith: Heh, I guess you're a softer critic than I am then :P. And Blaise/Harry? Not sure. Hyper!Blaise is so much fun to write
Dea Ruinae: It's reviews like this one that make my mouth grin, my heart soar and my head inflate. Thanks!
======Hjlavery======: Aaahh… Sorry? Here, placed extra emphasis on your name to compensate! ;;; And here, Hands over Dobby and Kreacher, along with alpinist boots kick away!
NemesisFury: Heh… I'm going as fast as I can ;;;
Tonnocal: Nope, next try:? :P And Zabini 1 and 2, as you say have a… special relationship. I'll cover that later, when it's time to do Mr. Zabini's story -. Right now, it's mostly Elmira's.
MdmeMerlot: I get that a lot… well, not THAT much, but… a bit.
Volo: blink…kay!
Simply Myself: looks at the pool, where Harry is currently wearing a stylish pair of stone boots while Blaise cheers him on …well, she's trying.
Szelij: Being evil is a suddenly frequent affliction for Fanfic writers… :P
Watcher Tale Neith: That… is a secret. And yes, eventually. And probably going to give extreme clues beforehand and say it indirectly, keep watching with eyes wide open… -
LSFawkes: … oh god… imagination is an evil thing… Ginny and Harry VS Random La Blue Girl monster… x ugh… whacks head
Dragonbrat: It's not bad… the très was too much, though -. And Il est magnifique would have been better, but then you English peeps have trouble thinking of a novel in masculine terms :P. Snape… actually, Snape is one of the things I'm most uneasy about, right up there with Ron… :S
Lunawolf: I only swam in salt was once, and it was that one time. Memorably painful…
Ranchan17: Is it long enough? -
The Vampire Story Hunter: …?
Blackheart Syaoran: wonder no more!
Dragonsprincess: … is still glaring at you for having went to Japan Lol, though, 2 Mondays in a row :P. I can picture Blaise scolding her mother, oddly enough… What a weird family, honestly…
Bookworm04: The scar… is a secret.
Hitmandhand: I liked writing it :P
Risty: . Shh! Don't point at my plot holes! Lol
RaistlinofMetallica: Actually, the scar is more like just a bit below the navel… and your guess is wrong. I have morning birds at my place too, they decided to make a nest just under my parents' window, funny .
Flummox: Tsk, tsk… laziness is BAD. See what it made me do? No updates for a month! GAH! Heh, I can picture it now: "OH! It's so cute! Mum, can I keep it?" Blaise asked. …geh, I'm almost tempted to put up an Omake: Ryoga's reaction to the Wizarding world, from the eyes of a pet :P
Jean-Hime: Erk, well… Umm… I'll try to be faster?
GoddessMoonLady: Tsk, tsk… Blaise/Harry Shipper, you…
Stevethecool: Erm… Something like 6 or 7. I still have a few things to set up before getting there.
Athenakitty: dodges cream pie while twitching
…omg, is that all of 'em? Whoa…
I feel blessed