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Chapter Six: Wine

Harry reacted instantly. He lunged for his fallen sister. Oliver noticed the snake slithering off. With a cry he drew his wand and leapt at the snake.

Harry reached Hermione in seconds. She was convulsing, her eyes rolling around in her sockets. The skin around the bite was turning purplish and swelling. Harry thought furiously.

Venom, he thought, when did we learn venom? DADA, sixth year. Damn, Hermione would know. But Hermione was dying. Her textbook knowledge was useless. Harry took out his wand, still thinking.

Oliver caught up to the snake in moments. He wasn't a professional Quidditch player because of puny muscles. All the same, his courage drained a little at the sight of Hermione's assailant.

The snake was coiled, scales gleaming in the sun. Drops of color like teardrops trailed down the scales of it's back, flashes of red and burnt orange. It would have been beautiful if it hadn't tried to kill Hermione.

Tried to kill, Oliver tried to assure himself.

His moment of hesitation gave the snake to rise, until it's flashing eyes were level with his own deep brown orbs. A hiss escaped through long fangs. The sun shone, flickering on them. They looked like ivory daggers.

They were ivory daggers, with a poisoned point.

The snake watched Oliver calculatingly. He was tall, that was sure, but she was strong. She had killed more humans than he would ever know. It was a simple matter of waiting him out. The master wouldn't mind him dead. The master never minded more bodies.

Oliver had wrestled enough to recognize what the snake was doing. Dodging in and out, the fangs never came close enough to his body. His advantage was his wand – something he wasn't doing.

So he flashed off a few of the more deadly stuns. But nothing was happening. The spells slid off the scales like water. And just as harmless. The snake flashed tongue; the damn thing was laughing at him.

With an cry, Oliver lashed out a whip spell at the creature's neck. It tightened, as it was supposed to. In truth, Oliver used it in Quidditch practice for run-away quaffles. But it worked as a cord as well.

Voldemort's snake lashed out against the invisible rope. It tightened even more. The scales could deflect spells, but this was a different spell.

The rattling tail of the snake snapped around and brought Oliver's feet from under him. Then the strangling snake was towering over him, fangs wide open and forked tongue flickering. It was laughing again.

"Bite this, bitch."

Oliver turned to see Fred and George with their wands simultaneously pointed at the creature. She only had time to blink her second eyelid before the twins muttered a curse under their breath and the creature was knocked back, mouth full of wate.

She gurgled for a few minutes, the water refilling every time she swallowed, until the writhing body lay still. Oliver stood up, and gave the twins each a manly clasp in thanks. Then they turned to Hermione.

Ginny and Mrs. Weasley were clustered around her and Harry. Then Ginny turned and ran for the house. Summoning someone, most likely. Mr. Weasley.

But the figure accompanying the youngest Weasley back to the field was Albus Dumblerdore. His robes flapping around him as he ran with Ginny was strongly reminiscent of Snape. But that thought was chased away as he approached the lying figure.

The rigors had stopped, a dangerous sign.

There was some muttering among the group, and then Ginny came over to the three boys. Her face was paler than usual.

"Dumbledore's taking her to St. Mungo's. They have a poison center that'll help. He's Apparating her. We're all to go, too." Her last comment was directed at Oliver. The twins nodded, and disappeared with a pop.

"She'll tough it out," said Ginny, her voice shaking with the held tears that shone in her eyes. Oliver didn't know how to comfort her.

But she turned away and left with the rest of the family. With a sign, Oliver turned to the corpse of the snake. But before his eyes, it shimmered and disappeared.

Voldemort eagerly awaited news from his snake. She would have completed her mission by now. His hands curled over the invisible wood of that damn Potter child's wand.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And hours passed.

But there was no news.

An uncomfortable feeling was growing in his stomach. He didn't like it. Dark Lords didn't have uncomfortable feelings.

The last time he had felt this . . .

No. He had said that was behind him, when he rose to power, and it was. Tom Riddle was gone. Now he was Lord Voldemort, and any skeletons from Tom Riddle were securely padlocked away.

All the same, her face rose before his eyes. The goblet of wine swayed in his hands as her dark mulberry curls swam in the red vintage. Those burning gold eyes. Her laugh. Her touch. Their . . .

No.

He told himself she was gone. They were all gone, all of them. Her whole damn family. There was no need for them. Their use had passed.

But her words echoed in his head.

All this time. Was all of it? Any of it? Is Gemma not real? Am I just an illusion? Of course I am. Touch her, and you'll be cursed. Spilt blood and spilt guilt. Touch her and your flesh will crawl with the curses . . .

He had killed her before she had finished her curse. No need for remorse. Wouldn't do to have a curse hanging over his victory.

But that feeling was growing in his stomach, like mold. Leeching. He took a swig of the wine, and when he lowered the gold goblet, her face appeared again. The red mouth forming those last words.

Damn her.

He dropped the goblet onto the floor. The wine spread into the carpet. There was hardly any noise.

With a small grunt, Voldemort turned on his heel and left the room. The coolness of the hall soothed any heated thoughts he had been having. About her, and Gemma.

There was a small noise next to him.

His snake lay curled at his feet. Her dark eyes were black. Not with blood. With death. They had killed her.

He couldn't stand to lose her, but it was the way this worked. It was a war after all. Wars have bloodshed.

They thought they were winning.

The death of the snake was a sign, they would say.

But they were wrong. Dumbledore was lying. Voldemort's lips curled into a hideous smile. Someone had once loved that smile. Now his followers fled in wake of it.

"Wormtail!" he bellowed. "Clean this mess up!"

I have much to do.

Oliver and Harry were identically pacing the waiting room. Harry looked exactly like his father had awaiting the birth of his children.

James was pacing the length of the room, still worried from Lily's abrupt announcement in the middle of dinner that her water had broke.

Harry hit one wall, and Oliver hit the other. They turned, passed in the middle, and hit the opposite wall. The twins were watching excitedly. Fred snapped his fourth picture. Neither male noticed.

"What's wrong with them?" Ginny asked, walking in, a bag of Bertie's in her hand. She needed something to do, or her carefully cultivated nails would turn to war zones.

"Learning linear perspectives," muttered George, and caught a jelly bean thrown at him by his sister. She picked out a lime green bean striped with red and threw the rest of the back to Fred. He juggled the camera and the bag for a moment, and then dropped both.

"You're making me dizzy," she told Harry, and he stopped for a moment. Then Oliver passed him, and he started up again. Ginny threw up her hands and sat next to her mother, who was furiously knitting.

A scarf six feet long curled around her legs. Ginny's mind processed it as a snake, and she shrieked, standing up.

"What's wrong?" asked George quickly. Ginny just shook her head, and sat between her brothers.

"I thought it was a snake," she replied quietly, and put her head in her hands. Fred and George gave her a quick hug and she smiled into their shoulders.

"Thanks," she said softly.

"Oh, isn't this touching. It is beautiful, isn't it, Draco?" drawled a too-familiar voice from the doorway.

Lucius Malfoy and his son stood, perfectly posed, in the waiting room doorway. Harry and Oliver stopped pacing. Mrs. Weasley stopped knitting. Fred dropped his camera and jelly beans again.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" demanded George.

"Visiting," replied Draco, nonchalantly. No one was impressed. There would have most likely been a fight of some sort in a few moments, if the Healer who was watching Hermione hadn't walked in.

Everyone immediately forgot the Malfoys, and turned to her.

"Well, I have good news and some bad news."

DONE!

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