Hiding Under the Ninth Earth
Book 03 : Epithalamium

Part II : Oh What a Difference a Day Makes
Chapter Eleven : When a King Mates the Queen

24 October 2003

11:04 pm

It was the smell that roused him first. A familiar smell but distant--I have not experienced it for a while. A forked tongue flickered out from under the scant shelter of the warming pillow to taste the air. It feels oily, rancid, of things unhealthy and dead. Unremembered but known. It's a Bad Smell--a smell that usually came with other scents--I remember--wariness and pain, sweat and blood. Hot blood. Only none now, just the Bad Smell.

Horatio had no real memory, but he remembered; he knew things.

He knew the seasons, even if he lived inside, snug and warm. They tasted different, made him feel different. Winter made him sleepy and slow, the air dry, cold--oh so cold, even inside. Summer meant basking on stones baking in the late morning; it felt good, fresh food in the sunshine, crackling hot grasses sliding aside for him as his tongue tasted all the promise on the wind. Autumn made him seek warm burrows and deep places, the air crisp and fresh hinting of snow to come, the sneaky feel of layers of cool wet leaves along his scales as he slid between them, hunting an abundance of fat prey all preparing for winter. Spring made his blood burn with thoughts of mating, the air clean and moist, pregnant with the promise of fresh hot meat and a willing slick body to twine with.

He knew the Master and his smells best; oh! so many smells--they changed almost daily. Some green, some sour, some making his tongue tingle when he tasted the air. Mostly he tasted strong and relentless--like one of the snake-kind. Fresh from the Warm Water Place or fresh from Harry, he tasted the best--hot and salty and virile.

He knew the White One, with his smells of ripened sun fruit and sweet things like honey--he tasted old and sage. He knew the New One, Harry, the one who spoke his tongue and liked to talk to him, who smelled of kindness and rain falling on new grass, and, like the Master, tasted powerful.

He knew the Bad One, the one he smelled now--he'd not tasted him often, but he'd tasted so vile and cruel Horatio never really forgot him. He'd always hid from the Bad One, who never knew he was there. Sometimes the Master would come home with his scent reeking all over him, overlaid with the odors of old blood and spent mating. This one smells stronger of the Bad One than the Master. He's not the Bad One but he is with him--his scent is part of him.

Horatio poked his head out of the cover and looked around. There was someone in the room. A small someone. Horatio couldn't see him well, but could sense his movement, sense his size. He flicked his tongue again. The Bad Smell is coming from the Small One who also smells like all the other small ones who live here. He is too big to eat, too big to kill. His air tastes evil. He watched him. He drew his head quickly back under the pillow cover when the Small One came up to the fireplace. Still. Stay still. He must not see me.

The Small One, wearing a filthy, ancient flour bag, stood by the fireplace, a writhing black velvet bag hanging by a silken cord, looped around his frayed rope belt. He stretched onto his toes and, extending his arms as far as he could reach, plucked the piece of parchment off the mantel, unrolling it. He read it, his lips moving as his eyes slowly scanned the message. With a delighted cackle, he crumpled it into a tight ball, throwing it into the trash can near the table.

Poking his head out a little from his safe place by fire, Horatio saw the ball sail into the garbage pail. The Bad Smell has the square of yellow. The Master's square of yellow from the top of the Fire Place. It does not belong in the Place Where The Rats Sometimes Hide. Afraid of being seen, he withdrew back into his shelter when the Small One peered around the room again. Big ears twitching, he sniffed loudly, like the dogs in the farmer's yard when Horatio went to steal eggs. The Small One stopped, looked hard at the far corner, and moved away after new prey. Horatio 'heard' the mouse's movements through the bones of his head as the Small One pursued it.

Horatio breathed a soft hiss of relief. I must not be seen. I must not want the mouse. I must not be hungry. Still and quiet--I need to be quiet. I must not be found. The small Bad One must not know I am here.

Maldy heard a sound--soft and furtive. He looked suspiciously around the room, sniffing loudly, hunting for the faint noise caught by his sensitive ears. Could it be the human? Spying a mouse cautiously making its way to a hole in the wall, he grunted in relief even as he stalked it. Maldy was hungry; his Master fed him well, but Maldy deserved a treat and this was for something other than his belly. The mouse, struggling as he caught it, carried with it the small promise of his only release.

He was of the old line, the ones who fought their slavery to the humans. Stupid humans. Weak humans binding once clever elves to them forever in atonement for deeds no one remembered. Binding magic, ancient magic so strong no elf could break it. Not proud elves anymore, but gutless elves, elves so long in their servitude they knew not how to live on their own. Maldy knew, though. He and his family remembered. He wanted to shed the numbness, the hated shackles, to stand arrogantly as his ancestors once did, to feel the same life-blood pounding in his veins as they had when they'd showered deadly magic on those still too weak to oppose them, were they only free.

He was angry. He was always angry, always hungry. His Master, so much stronger and wiser than the other humans, understood his urges, encouraged his cravings, allowing Maldy to do for him as he pleased. As they both pleased.

For Maldy worshipped Death, a god who hungered for life as much he did. He cradled the mouse gently in his hands, feeling his own existence keenly through the pulse of its paws, the twitch of its whiskers, the shudder of fear through its body. He waited, avidly watching its eyes--it always showed in the eyes, that instant when Death accepted his offering. The mouse blinked. There--the sign. Sighing contentedly, Maldy delivered Death its prize. The panicked throes of the mouse in his mouth calmed him, the sudden stillness when he crushed it with his teeth made him feel, for that one moment, at peace. His mouth twisting in a simple smile of satisfaction, he swallowed it whole, feeling everything around him as intimately as the small sacrifice sliding down his throat. But only for that one, fleeting moment. Without it he was only one more embittered house-elf longing for the next release, the next time he could deliver Death.

Death was even now in the sack at his side. He took the bag into the bedchamber, left it lying on its side on the floor by the door, opened the neck, and stepped back quickly, his job done. He regretfully wished the Master would let him stay and see the sleeping man die, but his orders were explicit: place Esmerelda, leave as soon as you are done, and don't get caught. With a flash he was gone to the kitchens and, before his presence was even registered by the slumbering house-elves, he disappeared down a narrow elf-sized passage at the back of the pantry. Running silently, he reached The Circle, a special portal used only by the house-elves to go to Hogsmeade and which was never guarded. Silly humans, thinking all house-elves were good. Once in Hogsmeade, he Apparated home to his Master, who had not yet returned from his 'errand'. He was not concerned. He would wait and then find the others and let them know. He knew they would be pleased.

At half-past eleven o'clock, Remus and Severus Floo'd gracelessly into The Jolly Mandrake. Stumbling from the hearth, they stopped mere inches from slamming into a hag nursing a drink alone at a table near the fire. They were wearing illusion spells they'd cast on each other before leaving the castle from Dumbledore's fireplace, the only one directly connected to the outside. Severus righted himself and brushed the ash off him, careful to keep it towards the fire. 'Damn, the old hag smells rancid,' he thought, wrinkling his nose, not quite sure if it was her person or her soiled robes that gave off such a stench. She looked over at him, her scathing disinterest plain. While to Remus he looked like himself, to her he looked like a hunched over, down-on-his-luck wizard with long, greasy grey locks, tattered robes, and bronzed skin.

"Be off, knave. Thou art ruining my trade," she hissed at them when they didn't move away fast enough for her.

'No, I think you are doing that quite well all by yourself,' Severus thought even as he stepped back saying, "Sorry. No 'arm done. Lost ma balance there. Come, friend," he said to Remus. "Let's find us a drink." Bowing to her still angry face, they beat a hasty retreat. It was never wise to cross a hag if one could help it.

Making their way casually through the crowded pub to the bar, Severus studied all the faces there, searching for Peter, yet trying to keep a low profile. While he'd rarely come to this part of the Alley, there was always the odd chance someone might know him. After all, they were hoping for the same thing with the rat. If Pettigrew wore the same spell they did, and chances were good he was, they would see him, rather than his persona, for that was the nature of the spell. They didn't spot him yet, but the pub was dark and huge and filled to the brim with the dregs of the Wizarding World, almost all of them disguised in one form or another. No one wanted to be seen here and most were minding their own never-mind.

Slamming some sickles onto the bar, Severus and Remus took their pints, looking for an empty table in the less-than-desirable middle, the only area with a few remaining open spots. While it put them in the light, so to speak, they could see fairly well around the room.

Severus was on his second reconnoiter of the occupants and about to gratefully give it up as a lost cause when a rough voice near them cackled, "Wotcher lookin' at?"

Severus turned to find himself facing a round shouldered old man whose wrinkles were caked with grime the color of things that crawled. A scar bisected one side of his pasty face from his forehead curving down to his chin. To Severus, it was obvious he was a squib for his missing eye had no magic eye to replace it. As he was not really interested in finding out what was nesting in the open socket, he fixed a glare on the good eye and rasped, "Mind your business."

The ragged man, grinning to reveal crooked peg teeth, held up his hands. "Eh! No bother. Ya lookin' fer summat?"

Since he looked to be a regular, Remus decided he might be helpful. "We came fer a friend, but 'e's not 'ere. You seen 'im? Small bloke," he measured up to his eyes, "pink, 'is eyes water hand 'e hain't got much 'air--all tufted like it is--"

"Ya lookin' fer The Rat?" the man asked, interrupting Remus, his hands curling around his almost empty pint.

Severus spoke up. "Could be 'im. Ya see'd 'im?" He palmed a Galleon and laid it on the table next to the man. "Fer the next round."

The man's eyes gleamed with avarice as he called over the barmaid for another pint. "Aye, earlier. He weren't alone, neither. Him and sommun' Floo'd over t'tha Cuckoo's Nest a while back."

Remus was thoughtful. "Cuckoo's Nest? Ne'er 'eard of it."

Severus chuckled. "'Tis over in Bedlam, North Yorkshire way. Come friend, let's catch up with 'im."

"Thanks fer the 'elp," Remus called as they were walking away.

The man nodded, lifting the tankard in their honour. 'My pleasure, I assure you,' Lucius thought, placing the pint back on the table untouched. 'Vile stuff,' he thought, willing them to be gone. He needed to hurry soon out the back before the Polyjuice Potion wore off.

Near the pub's fireplace, Remus turned to Severus. "Did you smell a rat?" he quipped quietly.

"I did indeed--a big rat--and not necessarily the one we're trailing either," he replied just as softly. He sighed. "But there's no helping it. We either go home or see where this 'lead' takes us."

"You think it a trap?" Remus asked.

Severus pinned him with a long-suffering glance. "I've always thought it was a trap. But to what? And why?"

"We'll never know if we don't go and find out," Remus teased.

"Just don't make me regret your impatience, Wolf." He grabbed a handful of the Floo powder and, throwing it on the fire, said, "The Cuckoo's Nest." Remus was right behind him.

Stepping through the smoky fireplace of the Cuckoo's Nest was easier as the deep, ancient hearth was at least a foot taller than Severus. A quick step to the side was timely as within seconds, Remus tripped out to stand beside him. As they turned to walk over to the bar, they scanned the room as unobtrusively as possible. Remus grabbed Severus' arm and leant in to whisper, "There he is, back left table, in the corner."

Severus turned his back to the spot as if he were warming his hands at the fire. He cast a reflection spell and an image of Pettigrew, magnified as if he were a few feet away instead of dozens, formed in front of his eyes. Older now, his face hung in folds like a bulldog as if he'd recently lost a lot of weight. Not that his portly form gave any indication that he'd done so. He realised, as he studied him, that Remus' description of him to the scabby man in the Jolly Mandrake had been uncannily accurate, only Pettigrew's face was a pale grey rather than anything resembling pink. He was obviously terrified about something, his face dripping with sweat in the otherwise chilly room.

"Hey--neat spell," Remus chuckled, looking over his shoulder. "You'll have to teach it to me when we get back."

'If we get back,' Severus thought grimly. He started to tell Remus his thoughts when, before he could stop him, Remus left his side to rapidly approach the table in question. Swearing under his breath, he made his way over to them as quickly as he dared under the circumstances; this place might be rough, but he suspected the barkeep, a former Auror named Murphy (whose iron-handed reputation was well known) would not tolerate any active violence.

Halfway there, Severus saw Lupin grab Peter by the arm. He couldn't hear what he was saying, but judging by the paling of Pettigrew's face and the dark spots suddenly staining his threadbare robes at his neck and groin, it obviously wasn't pleasant. He'd no more formed the thought that the soggy reaction was so typical of the sniveler, when Peter suddenly transformed into his Animagus form, and took off, leaving Remus' hand holding air where once it had held his coat. Peter nimbly dodged his way amongst the legs of the tables and customers to escape outside under the door. It was a tight fit and, for a moment, Snape thought he wouldn't make it. With a shout, all subterfuge thrown to the winds, Remus was right after him, not two steps behind, knocking over stools and shoving tables out of his way as he ran. Remus pushed Snape aside with a growl as he tried to block him. Pulling his wand, he blasted the door out of existence as he charged through into the night.

Stunned for a few precious seconds before he could respond, Severus was so furious his teeth ached. Calling on every deity he knew (and a few he made up on the spot) to cast the wolf into the deepest pits of hell for his impetuosity, he took advantage of the path Remus had cleared for him and pelted out into the cold behind him. It was imperative he catch the werewolf before the fool could do any more harm. He pulled his wand out of his sleeve, still chasing him. The rat, dark against the snow, was weaving in and around the walks and the street, Remus hot on his paws; he couldn't get a fix on either one of them. They were moving too much.

He almost stumbled when he caught a glimpse of Draco. "Remus! NO! Stop! Come back! It's a trap!" he roared with all the volume he could muster, but it was too late. The blind, eager werewolf had only rat-chasing on his mind. Picking up speed, Severus yelled, "Gods damn you!" as he continued to give chase, trying to catch him up. Closing, he aimed for Remus' shoulder only a few feet away, the spell almost cast, when a "Petrificus Totalus" caught him full in the back. He fell, stiff as a board.

'Fuck! And I accused the wolf of being single-minded? Stupid, stupid, stupid! Now we're well and truly caught. Damn it all to hell!' He continued to throw heated invectives at himself as he helplessly watched Draco warily approach him.

"Well, I'll be damned. It worked!" Draco exclaimed, surprise in his eyes.

If Severus could have shaken his head, he would have. But he could move his eyes. This could be useful; perhaps he could make Draco see. He concentrated, willing Draco to examine the wrongness of his actions.

Draco looked stunned and the questions in his mind flitted across his face. Then the hard mask replaced the flicker of humanity glimpsed and he toed Severus in the head. "Shut up!" he cried, kicking him again, harder. "Just shut the fuck up." It didn't seem to occur to him that Severus was not even capable of making a sound.

Severus was not impressed with the uncertainty in Draco's eyes and wondered, not for the first time, just whose side he was on and if he could be turned. When Draco's foot connected with his temple the third time, with a fading shower of white hot lights behind his eyes, it was his last thought in the growing darkness.

11:59 pm

Horatio waited to make sure the small Bad Smell was gone. As he poked his snout out of the cover of the warming pillow, he flicked his tongue rapidly, tasting the air. The Bad Smell lingers, but he has left. He cautiously slithered out of the cover into the cold room, the icy stone painful on his belly as he undulated over to the garbage can, intent on getting the piece of parchment Maldy had thrown in there, when he heard it.

[Ssso cold. Thisss One needsss to be warm. One can feelsss the heat. Where isss it? Thisss One mussst findsss it. It isss too cold.]

He immediately stopped, his long black tongue flicking in and out, partly to find the noise, partly in agitation. He could taste it. A Snake. There is a Snake in MY territory. I smells a female Snake. This is not the time of mating. She is not here for me. She does not belong here. I must finds the intruder.

[Ah--Thisss One sssensssesss sssome heat. The heat is higher. One mussst reach it. Oh, ssso far up. Thisss One mussst go to it. It isss too cold.]

Horatio honed in on the sibilant sound of small scales felt through the stone floor; they rasped loudly to him. Silently he undulated his way to the bedchamber, the only source of warmth left in the apartments other than his warming pillow. The cold was so painful. But an intruder was in his territory. He must protect what was his. It was all he had.

He stopped in the doorway to the bedchamber. It was warmer in here, the fire burning bright. Harry is asleep. He is very warm. Where is the intruder? He flicked his tongue several times. I can taste her. She is near. A small smell. A small Snake. I must find her. He set out across the room, raised himself as high as he could reach and still barely got enough purchase to slither up the covers onto the bed. He sped over to Harry and bumped him in the face with his pointy nose. [Wakesss up, Harry. There isss an intruder. We mussst findsss her. Ssshe isss not sssupposssed to be here. Wakesss up!] When Harry didn't rouse, he thumped him, again in the face, with his thick coils and pointed tail. Harry stirred, but did not awaken. [Harry, wakesss up. There isss an intruder. Helpsss me findsss her. Ssshe isss in our territory, we mussst--AAAAAGGHHHH!]

He swung his upper body around and saw a little purple snake, banded in lurid green, latched onto him, her long, sharp fangs sunk into the meaty part of his mid-body. She was already pumping her poison into him. He immediately threw his head at her and knocked the ferocious little snake free of him, ripping his flesh in the process. Blazing pain seared up to his head, making him angry. The slender snake, less than a quarter of his length, stood poised to strike again, her mouth open, dripping fangs exposed.

Her posture showing amused contempt, she hissed, [You sssneaksss like a hatchling.] Momentarily confused by his lack of response to this deadly insult, she dipped her head once and asked, [Who are you, Egglesss One?] When he continued to stare at her, motionless, she raised up haughtily, her upper body weaving. [You are nothing, not even worthy of a name. Get away from Thisss One'sss heat!]

[I am Horatio, and thisss isss my hunting ground. Who are you, Mannerlesss One? You are the tressspassser. Leave now.] While coiling to strike, he subtly maneuvered himself more fully between her and Harry, then inched his head closer to her.

She glanced at the sleeping human still within easy reach, then back to her opponent. [Ssstopsss or the human diesss. No clossser.] Horatio froze; he knew her threat was not idle. Her poison was potent; Harry would die if she bit him, slowly and painfully. He pulled his head back cautiously and tensed his coils as she hissed, [Thisss One isss named Esssmerelda. Thisss One isss ssstronger than you. Move assside ssso Thisss One can sssavour the human'sss heat for herssself.]

[No. He isss mine, not yoursss. Go away before the Massster findsss you.]

[The Massster? The Massster is here? Where?] She flicked her dainty red tongue several times, testing the air. [Hisss sssmell isss not here. You ssspeaksss with sssly forksss.]

Horatio hissed in disdain, [My Massster, not yoursss, Ssstupid Ssslitherer.]

She undulated on the duvet, her dead eyes never leaving him as she complained again, [Ssso cold. Mussst getsss warm.]

Seeing he was not moving out of her way, she coiled to strike him again. He watched her carefully. Small snakes were very tricky. She feinted; he expected it and did not move. He waited, knowing she would have to bite him again for him to kill her. And she did. Striking out like lightning, she fastened her fangs into his fleshy side. She had aimed higher, wanting to get his tender throat so she could milk her poison into him, but he'd been fast as well, moving out of her way enough that she struck too low and too shallow to do any real damage. Her mouth wasn't wide enough to put much more poison in his system, but was sunk too deep into his skin for her to extricate her fangs any time soon. He took his time and, in the courteous manner of all snakes, said as his head moved purposefully towards her, [I am sssorry, but you are in my ssspaccce. Thisss isss my nessst. My Massster. You mussst prepare, little one.]

She writhed in defiance as his head descended and he neatly broke her spine, and her life, with one crush of his strong jaws. In death her fangs loosened and he worked her head away with only a little tear. It hurt. She slid down his throat oh so slowly and easily, the muscles of his body working to slide her, inch by inch, into his gullet. She tasted bitter, but all poisonous snakes did. A meal was a meal, and this one was even more satisfying as it was won in battle.

The little tail had just disappeared and cleared his throat when he started feeling strange--woozy and sleepy. I'm so cold. Warmth. I need warmth. Something is wrong. I'm cold on the inside, too. He slid across the covers seeking Harry's warmth. The bites, as he moved, bled little and were on the top of his body, so he left no trail as he painfully dragged himself up nearer to Harry. Each second he moved a little slower, a little weaker, as the poison of the exotic, magical little Esmerelda worked its way fully into his sluggish system.

He hurt. He was so cold. He inched his way under the covers. Warmth. Oh it's so warm. So wonderfully warm. I'm so sleepy. He had barely coiled under the piles of blankets near to Harry when his strength failed him and he lay still.

TBC