Even when she could not help with her words, trapped as she was in the form of a serpent whom no one could understand, the Lady of the Chamber remained present at the negotiations. Her very presence acted to cool tempers.
-Sayern nar-Hazozh (History of the Treaty), translated circa 1952
Not for the first time (and probably not for the last time either, now that he thought about it), Blaise Zabini wished that he'd paid more attention to Harry's Parseltongue lessons. Or that he'd swallowed his pride and asked for private training. But no, he'd been too embarrassed to ask for help where he needed it, and now look where it got him.
"Can you slow down?" he asked Sisith, not bothering to even attempt Parseltongue. Firstly, no one but Harry and Saysa could actually make all those noises. Secondly, Blaise would doubtless mangle the other tongue's language and/or grammar. Probably both. Last, he knew that Sisith was a lot better at understanding English than the average snake.
The serpent's expression became downright patronizing as he bobbed his slender black head up and down. Was it just Blaise's imagination, or was the infernal creature moving extra slowly just to make sure he got the message? Knowing Sisith, he probably was.
"Found it." Sisith enunciated each word clearly and slowly, his gaze fixed on the human's face.
Blaise's breathing quickened. "You found Mum's potions room?"
Sisith nodded again.
A smile took over the young wizard's face. "Thank Merlin."
"Thank me," Sisith corrected. Blaise wasn't an expert in serpentine inflections, but even he recognized the humor in the hisses.
"All right. Thank Sisith too. But 'thank Merlin' is catchier."
Sisith made that odd snaky laugh-sound of his, making Blaise wish yet again that he was better with Parseltongue. He and Sisith could have some great conversations—or they could have if he'd been able to keep up. Maybe he'd take extra lessons from Harry after all….
"Where is it?"
"Follow me."
Blaise obeyed. Sisith whipped down the corridor, around a corner. "A passageway," he explained, rubbing up against a wall. "With a-" Here he hissed something that Blaise couldn't understand but could guess at anyways.
"A password?"
"Yes."
"…Do I know the Parseltongue word for it?"
"I don't know. It is-" (unintelligible hissing).
Blaise groaned. "Do you have any synonyms?"
"What are those?"
"Words that mean the same thing. Or maybe you could describe what the password is?"
"It is the name of the potion."
"Oh." Blaise's shoulders slumped as the tension left them. "Amortentia."
In a display reminiscent of the entrance to Diagon Alley, the bricks in the wall folded in on themselves. They rolled away, forming a small arch just barely large enough for a full-grown woman to comfortably step through. Blaise was tall for his thirteen years, but he wasn't so large that he had to stoop.
The bricks closed themselves after he and Sisith entered. Lights flickered on in each corner, illuminating a small, almost rudimentary room with a bubbling cauldron, a wooden shelf with potion-filled vials, and a cupboard that was probably filled with ingredients. The smells of hot coco and wood fire filled Blaise's nostrils. Beneath them, he could just barely catch little whiffs of something herbal, something fruity, and something with the metal tang of blood. He grimaced, nose twitching; the last scent undermined all the others, souring them like flies in honey. It was a blatant (to him, at least) reminder that sweet-smelling Amortentia was based on deception and control, not honest love.
"Best get to work," the boy muttered.
His idea for modifying the potions came from Remus Lupin. In a long-ago conversation, the werewolf had once commented that he was glad he didn't have to take the Wolfsbane Potion anymore. The concoction was absolutely foul, and adding sugar rendered it completely useless, though oddly, the addition didn't change anything about its appearance or scent. Then he had grumbled that he shouldn't really be surprised, because such complicated potions were very unstable even after their completion. They could be mixed with water, but adding any other ingredients risked ruining the entire potion.
Amortentia was not quite as complex as Wolfsbane, but it was just as vulnerable to the destabilizing forces of sugar.
Blaise poured out about a tablespoon from each vial, letting it soak into the floor. Then he added sugar until the liquid line was roughly as high as it had been before. The potions looked no different, which meant that they would fool his mother. Then, when Endymion was due for his next dose, he'd be free. Free to really hear the rumors about his wife's former husbands. Free to heed Blaise's warnings. Free to get out.
And his mum would be free too. Blaise knew, intellectually at least, that Anath Zabini deserved Azkaban. She had killed and intended to kill again, drugging innocent men and stealing their fortunes to support her lifestyle. She was not a good person. But she was also Mum, who had been there since day one, who genuinely loved him even when she didn't know how to show it. Blaise understood that what he was doing wasn't just, wasn't as right as it could be, but Harry kept reaching out for his estranged relative too. Okay, Mark hadn't exactly murdered anyone in cold blood, but….
Blaise could no more hand his mother over to the Aurors than he could chew off his own neck. It was irrational, unjust, and just plain stupid, but he couldn't. And he didn't know what he would do if, like so many others, his mother ended up paying for her crimes anyways.
So he would do everything in his power to ensure that he never found out.
"A toast!" cried Sirius, lifting his glass into the air. "To Moony!"
"Padfoot," the werewolf groaned, but the clinking of everyone's glasses cut him off from saying anything more.
"Don't forget Tonks," the Animagus added, nodding in her direction.
"To Tonks!" Harry and Dudley cried, taking another swig of butterbeer.
"And to romance!"
"Sirius!" wailed his red-faced friend, but it was too late. Padfoot, Harry, and Dudley clanked their glasses together, laughing like idiots.
Remus muttered something about how he should enact multiple humiliating punishments upon their persons. The other males just listened with indulgent grins. "-And you, Harry! You'll be sorriest, telling these sods everything like that!"
"What can I say?" the boy chortled. "You were in my room. And don't you still owe me for the mistletoe?"
"I do," the lycanthrope grudgingly admitted. "So, Harry, what should your reward be?"
"A puppy?"
"You have one." Remus jutted a thumb at Padfoot, who squawked indignantly but was unable to mount a truly effective defense. "I think… yes, that's a good reward…." He smirked. "I think I'll reward you by not hexing you into next week for telling these two about us."
"I'd rather have another puppy, thanks."
"Tough luck, kid."
"So Tonks is gonna be a werewolf," Dudley muttered. The Muggle leaned back in his chair, lifted a hand to his chin. He looked almost like an intellectual sitting down for an evening of philosophy. Almost. He was still Dudley Dursley, after all, and there WERE limits. "Maybe-" A frown formed, "No. Never mind. When're you gonna bite her, Moony?"
Remus's smile faded. He winced slightly. Yes, Tonks had convinced him that turning her was for the best, but that didn't mean he liked the idea of deliberately causing her harm. He'd never bitten a human being in his life, and it felt downright dirty to start now. Well, not now. Later. But he knew he would do it, now. "Not until Tyr gets back. We don't want her to suffer an uncontrolled transformation. She needs to be able to drink from the Chalice right away." He would not let his new girlfriend endure that. He would not.
And not just Dora- no one would, never again. Once Tyr was back, he could ask about handing the Chalice to the goblins, seeing if they could unravel its magic. Harry had already confirmed that the Department of Mysteries had no idea what the cup's purpose might be, not that they'd really studied much of the junk they'd inherited from a long-dead Ministerial department. But the goblins were just skilled enough to figure out the enchantments on the cup, perhaps even to replicate it. And then they'd be truly, truly free.
The smile returned brighter and stronger than ever before.
Less than a week later, Sirius held another butterbeer container in his hands, though in considerably more awkward circumstances. His knuckles were white, his entire bearing tense and taut. He felt… he didn't know how he felt, just that he didn't like it. Nervous, certainly, not quite afraid, he didn't- okay, he was afraid. More than afraid, he was terrified. Today was the day that would change his life for the next several years.
He would much rather have been back with Moony and the boys, laughing and teasing, comfortable in one another's company.
Madame Rosmerta smiled at him. "Don't worry," she advised. "He's a good boy, as I'm sure you know. He'll be a great man one day."
Sirius smiled. "Thanks. I just wish that there wasn't a crowd of reporters outside."
When he'd sent an owl off to Mark Potter requesting a meeting, he had expected to rendezvous with his godson in a private place. He hadn't expected the story to leak to the press, for the media to surround their meeting place.
And Mark wasn't even due for another…. Sirius checked his watch, a gift from Charlus and Dorea Potter on his seventeenth birthday, and yelped a curse. Mark was due in less than five minutes! "Rosmerta, can you get another couple butterbeers? And menus. We'll need menus." He wanted everything to be perfect for this meeting.
Just over a year ago, he'd met Harry twice for the first time. As Pollux, the young Parselmouth had broken him out of Azkaban, brought him to Founder's Isle for safety and recuperation. As Harry, he had broken up a fight between a very confused dog and an equally befuddled (though slightly more enraged) werewolf. Neither meeting had been under the best of circumstances, and he was determined to do things right with the other Potter boy.
Rosmerta brought the butterbeers, her face soft with sympathy. Then she glanced up, eyes going wide. "He's here."
Sirius blanched. His head jerked towards the window. Sure enough, there he was: Mark Potter, a boy with a blend of features from each of his parents, even a bit from his Grandpa Charlus. Sirius could see the resemblance to his brother, but that resemblance was overshadowed by their different default expressions. Harry was more thoughtful, more contemplative, his bearing full of simple confidence. Mark was proud, almost arrogant, puffed up. James had been a bit like that, especially while he was younger, but he hadn't been half that bad.
The Animagus watched with bated breath as his godson- his godson, his best friend James's son, Harry's little brother, Dudley's cousin- pushed open the door. It chimed softly, announcing to Rosmerta that a customer had arrived.
Sirius swallowed hard, took a long swig of his butterbeer. He wished it was something stronger, mead or Firewhiskey.
Mark approached, eyes fixed on Sirius's face. Outside the photographers snapped pictures. Sirius blinked, his eyes hurt by the sudden flashes of light.
The boy slid into his seat. He didn't have to look around for the correct place- Sirius was the only person in the restaurant other than Madam Rosmerta, and he must have seen pictures of the man in the papers.
"Mark." Sirius smiled, water in the corner of his eyes. He realized that he should stand, pushed himself to his feet. The Animagus scurried over, hand extended. "Mark. I'm Sirius. Sirius Black, obviously." He grinned, embarrassed. "Sorry. I'm a bit- I'm a bit overwhelmed. It's not every day that I meet my godson again."
Mark accepted the hand, gave it a couple shakes. He smiled back, though not as wholeheartedly as Sirius had. "Mark Potter."
"I know." Sirius gave a nervous little chuckle. Oh, he felt like an idiot now. Where was the smooth, suave, popular young man he'd been all those years ago? Hopefully not murdered in the cells of Azkaban. "So. Mark. Is there anything you wanted to talk about?" A groan. Nope, that smooth, suave, popular young man had definitely been changed by Azkaban. "Sweet Merlin, I sound like an idiot. But I promise you, I'm not an idiot. Really."
The boy's lips quirked up. "You sure?"
Sirius grinned back. "I'm sure."
The tension should have broken up then, but it didn't. Sirius thought of Harry's silence concerning Mark, his sorrow.
"I hear that you've met Moony- Remus Lupin, I mean." Half a second after he said that, he winced. What had possessed him to let that slip? He wasn't supposed to know that Remus had done that. They weren't supposed to have been in contact with each other. No, wait- they could have been in contact with each other, just not until after Pettigrew's capture.
He scowled. "Yeah, we've met. He watches Harry over the holidays."
Sirius gulped, decided not to pursue that line of conversation.
"Okay. So… what do you think of Hogwarts?"
That was the right thing to ask. Mark instantly brightened, began babbling about Transfiguration and Charms and Professor Dumbledore. Sirius listened, occasionally making a comment or relaying a story about his own school days. It was carefully neutral conversation, the kind of thing one would discuss with one's Christmas card acquaintances.
And then Dumbledore himself showed up, breezing through the reporters (who had been taking more photographs of the famed Boy-Who-Lived and the innocent Azkaban escapee) like Moses through the Red Sea. Sirius's face went white as he hastily went through what he knew about Occlumency. He'd learned quite a bit, but had no idea if that was strong enough to hold up against the Spider's probes. With that in mind, he looked hard at his butterbeer as though fascinated by the patterns it made.
"Professor!" Mark exclaimed.
"Professor," Sirius repeated, trying to keep the despair out of his voice. The Animagus wished he could escape, but that would be too suspicious.
"Do you mind if I join you?" the headmaster asked, eyes twinkling as brightly as ever. Not that Sirius saw- he was still intent on his butterbeer. He needed a refill soon. Or maybe he could ditch the refill and ask for a Firewhiskey. No, never mind. With Dumbledore here, he couldn't risk anything getting past his already meager mental defenses.
"I don't mind," Mark exclaimed.
"Actually," Sirius interjected, "I was looking forward to meeting my godson and having a conversation with him in private before having anyone else join in." He forced a smile that he hoped looked apologetic. "Hope you understand, Professor."
"I understand." Was it Sirius's imagination, or was there a subtle undertone of menace in the headmaster's tone? Dumbledore knew that Pollux had gotten Sirius out of prison. Dumbledore knew that Pollux was his enemy. The next step wasn't exactly a great leap of logic. "However, I'm afraid that the Ministry of Magic has asked me to explain how, exactly, you escaped from Azkaban."
It was a reasonable request, so Sirius couldn't exactly say no. "Well, what's the official story? It might be right." A reasonable request on his part.
"The dementors reported that a man entered with an enormous Patronus. A powerful wizard, they said, and aided by an amulet against their kind. First he went for the Dursley child—who, unlike you, was given a trial and was justly sentenced along with his parents—and quickly came for you. They say that the man somehow Portkeyed out, despite the anti-Portkey wards."
"Actually, that's exactly what happened." Sirius was surprised. He hadn't expected the official version to be so accurate.
"Except Professor Dumbledore left out the part about your rescuer being You-Know-Who's son," Mark snarled.
Behind the bar, Rosmerta dropped a bottle of butterbeer. Mumbling an apology, she grabbed a rag, began mopping it up. It would have been faster and easier to use her wand, but she didn't want to be distracted.
"He's not," Sirius said. Anger sparked in his chest. How dare these people accuse his rescuer of serving the dark side? Never mind that he'd done so himself, once. "I've asked him. He says that his name and appearance are a bad joke that went too far."
"So you have been in contact with him since the story came out," Dumbledore observed, eyes twinkling triumphantly.
Sirius silently cursed himself. His face twitched, momentarily revealing his anger and wariness, but he forced it back under control. So that was what Dumbledore wanted, eh? And of course he'd just walked into the Spider's trap. "He sends me an owl once a month or so with reports on the hunt for Pettigrew. He was angrier than a hive of bees that the real traitor escaped."
"You are the one who told him about Pettigrew?"
"Yeah."
"Then why did he free you?" the headmaster continued. His expression remained confused, politely curious. Mark would think nothing of it. Only Sirius knew how sharply Dumbledore was dissecting his every word, his expressions, even his body language.
"I have no idea," the Animagus lied. "I didn't want to look a gift Pegasus in the mouth, so I never asked. Have you considered owling him?"
Something flickered in Dumbledore's eyes, something unsettling. Sirius's hair stood on end. "I've tried, yes," the headmaster admitted, "but he's never responded. Next time you owl him, could you ask? And I'd appreciate it if you asked about Dudley's whereabouts as well."
Fortunately, Sirius knew exactly how to wiggle out of this one. "All right," he said, "but I can't guarantee that he'll answer. He's a bit closemouthed about some things."
Rosmerta finally finished mopping up the butterbeer. She ambled over to the table. "Anything to drink, Headmaster?"
"A butterbeer, please. It's too early for anything harder."
Sirius took advantage of the interruption to change the subject. "I hear you're a champion in the Tournament of Houses. How's that going?"
Mark was a veritable well of information on that, which was good. Sirius didn't want to give Dumbledore another chance to cut in, return the subject to Pollux Ophion Riddle. Even better, it gave the Animagus an excuse to keep his eyes on Mark, away from the Legilimens. By the time his godson had finished complaining about Gryffindor's horrible performance in the first task, it was time for Sirius to leave. Smiling, apologizing profusely, he made his way to the door.
And was hit in the back by the Imperius Curse.
Warm-happy-safe-good place. He liked it there, floating in the nothingness, supported by waves of light. It was so nice, so very nice. And the niceness would continue if he just spied on Pollux for a while for the wonderful Professor Dumbledore. It would keep on—
Sirius whimpered. The light wavered ever so slightly. No, no, he was being silly. Of course he could trust Professor Dumbledore and do as he said. Of course he should betray Pollux. Betray Pollux. Betray Harry? No, that wasn't his order. But Pollux was Harry. Pollux wasn't real. How could he betray someone who wasn't real? And he couldn't betray Harry, Lily and James's son, because he loved Harry and he hadn't been told to spy on him. Only Pollux.
Sirius's thoughts could have looped like that for a while if he hadn't glimpsed Mark's face one last time before Disapparating. Mark, Harry's brother; the Castor to Harry's Pollux.
He stumbled as he landed on Founder's Isle, fell face-first into the rock. He'd almost done it. He'd almost become a spy, a traitor, a Wormtail. He'd almost handed his friends over to their deaths.
Sirius retched. The butterbeer he'd consumed spilled across the rock, nearly hitting his shoes as it spewed from his mouth.
He had…. Good Merlin. He threw up again, again, his body trembling with leftover nerves and horror, cold sweat breaking out across his hairline. He'd almost handed Harry Potter, James's firstborn, to his death. Mark's brother—his godson's brother. His friend. Not to mention the guy who was apparently destined in prophecy to save the world.
Finally Sirius found that he couldn't vomit anymore. He still felt dirty, violated. It was like the spell had seeped into the folds of his brain, like it had stained him. Something inside him shuddered. He wondered if he'd ever feel clean again.
And then he thought of Saysa, who had been hurt like this not once but several times. First by Tom Riddle's domination, then Dumbledore's Imperius Curse, which made her attack Mark. Each of her episodes had been longer, and in most cases, she'd been forced to do the distasteful thing her foul 'master' commanded. Hermione had taken care of some of that, but he knew that the basilisk was still haunted by her memories. Now that he'd experienced a much, much lesser form of mind control (even now, with the ugly spell's tentacles clinging to his brain, he knew that Saysa had had it much worse. And he shuddered to think of what worse would feel like), he felt like he should go talk with her, go help and be helped.
Besides, someone had to know about Dumbledore's assassination attempt.
Obviously (because it really did go without saying), Saysa was horrified by what had happened. Not so obviously, she reacted to her horror by reverting to her basilisk form. Apparently the shock and fear triggered a latent survival instinct in the reverse Animagus. Fortunately, Sirius had some pretty good survival instincts of his own. He closed his eyes and flung himself backwards when Saysa's arms fused to her sides.
"Saysa?" he called, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. "Are you okay?"
A hiss that sounded like a sigh was his only response. Scales rustled, stone creaked as a great weight shifted. "My apologies, Sirius," the glum serpent-woman said.
"I don't blame you." Padfoot shuddered. He looked sideways at the poor basilisk. Her hair drooped in front of her face, hiding her expression, but if she felt anything like he had…. "I'm tempted to make the change myself and curl up in a corner somewhere. Are you okay? No… stupid question. Will you be okay?" A groan. "Another stupid question. What I'm trying to say is: how can I help?"
Saysa pulled herself together with a visible effort, brushing the dark hair from her golden eyes. In a clipped, businesslike tone, she stated, "We will obviously need to tell the five about this, Tyr as well; perhaps the goblins. Sirius, would you be willing to donate a Pensieve memory of the… attack?"
"Of course." He too was glad of the almost-change of topic. It still addressed the issue, but it was productive. He was doing something other than focusing on the horror of something invading his mind, of tentacles and slime like the dementors of Azkaban. "But do you think that my memory is enough to show what really happened? Most of the… the Imperius Curse… it took place mostly inside my head. He didn't deliver orders to me aloud or anything, and he was too smart to cast the curse out loud when he… when he hit me." The Animagus took a deep breath, swallowed. When he resumed his speech, he hesitated no more. "Though I suppose that with the rest of the evidence you have gathered, we'll have more than enough to convince everyone that Dumbledore is really the Spider."
That was one of Harry's worst fears. Dumbledore had made a name for himself as a champion of the underdog, lover of Muggles and magical creatures. He'd hired a half-giant, headed the Order of the Phoenix. How could anyone like that be less than perfect? So it was a very legitimate concern that the leaders of the nations, not to mention their subjects, would doubt that their champion and friend could possibly be their most dangerous enemy.
And so they planned, and plotted, and gathered evidence. They didn't have to meet with the other races until spring, a meeting that was still a few months away. But when they did meet with them, they had to convince everyone of the Spider's identity right away. Otherwise…. Well, Rowena Ravenclaw put it best in her Book of Hope and Despair:
Break the Spider's web of lies,
when royals meet on Founder's Isle.
Reveal his face, give the Bee's name,
and pray that all believe.
You cannot know the truth entire,
for that riddle is still unsolved,
but if the clans believe you not,
weep, o weep ye with despair.
I know, I know, Blaise's plan isn't the best. It's based on canon principles (sugar really does mess up Wolfsbane), but Blaise has forgotten to take into account that Endymion might need a bit more help than simple freedom. Or maybe he knows Endymion better than we do and realizes that nope, he just needs to be free before he can do anything.
Next update: 3 weeks from today, April 19.
Happy Easter!
-Antares