Chapter 9
SNAKES
Awhile later, after tending the dream potion, Harry peeked back into the Great Hall. The square dance was over. The candles had been snuffed so that only the three-quarter moon in the enchanted ceiling cast a soft glow. On the room's far side, schoolmates huddled together in a stand of oaks, their faces tilted upwards to the pearly apparitions floating above them. The Hogwarts ghosts were telling stories.
Catching sight of the Bloody Baron drifting behind the garrulous Fat Friar, Harry grinned. Maybe he'd tell the tale of his death that Nearly Headless Nick was too polite to request. Harry was about to sneak forward, when he noticed Professor Daine slouched against a nearby sycamore—her hands folded against her stomach and her head tucked down. Before he could decide whether she was too sunk in thought to notice him, Snape emerged from the shadows in front of her. Quickly, Harry retreated around the door post, but he trained his ears to listen.
With uncharacteristic lightness, Snape began, "I hope you're enjoying our Hogwarts Hallowe'en. Quite different from Lost Bayou, I gather. No fancy dress."
"Yes."
"That square dancing. Rather unusual. Somewhat similar to the Morris Dance, yet nothing we've ever seen here."
"Yes."
Snape blew out his breath. Then he plunged ahead in a voice no longer airy. "You're troubled. Troubled by what you saw on my arm."
"It's none of my business," she said quickly.
"This mark is no secret. The rest of the faculty know of it. Why shouldn't you? I was a Death Eater. But that's over. Finished."
"Of course, it is. How could you hold this job otherwise?"
Neither said anything for an interval longer than Harry felt comfortable hiding outside the door. When at last Snape responded, his voice had slipped into its typical acidity. "I was cleared—by the Ministry. Albus vouched for me. My right to be a professor here is unquestioned. Yet still you're troubled. You think—"
"Okay. I admit it. I'm troubled." Professor Daine's sharp whisper trembled with an indignation Harry hadn't thought the Good Witch of the South had in her. "I understand your Ministry was very lenient, and only diehards were punished. I'm happy for you. I'm sure you've been exemplary since. But seeing that snake on your arm does trouble me. I know what happens in the ceremony where a Death Eater receives it."
Snape released a bitter laugh. "Bravo! The most restricted wizards' coven of the century, and you're acquainted with the secrets of its most clandestine ritual. My compliments. Your wide range of knowledge well qualifies you to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. But tell me this: who do you think revealed those secrets for you to learn them?"
Harry heard whooshing robes and loud strides approaching him. Hastily, he wedged between the wall and a stone griffin—just in time to see Snape storm out the Great Hall. Harry needn't have bothered. The Potions master looked too vexed to notice anything.
At breakfast the next morning, Harry watched Ron's hand falter halfway to his porridge as his eyes drifted closed yet again. In a moment, he slipped sideways. Hermione bit her lip as Ron's scruffy red head settled on her shoulder.
Suppressing a grin, Harry concentrated on forking scrambled eggs into his mouth. Maybe Ron wasn't as sleepy as he looked.
Hermione managed to nibble her toast without disturbing him, but when she reached for her café au lait, he jerked awake.
"Stirring the potion at two and six too much for you, eh?" she asked archly. "Or couldn't you fall asleep in between?"
"It wasn't that," he mumbled. "Every time I climbed into the hammock, I conked right out. But Myrtle was so upset she wasn't asked to tell a story that every few minutes, she let out a shriek." Once more his head nodded.
At the far end of the Gryffindor table, Harry saw Housemistress McGonagall studying them. Gently he nudged Ron with his foot, hoping to wake him quietly. Instead, his friend jolted upright, dropping his fork with a clatter. That did it. McGonagall fastidiously patted her lips with her napkin, folded it by her plate, then pushed back from the table. As she strode purposefully up behind Ron, his eyelids fluttered drowsily.
"Weasley. You have Temporal Transfiguration in ten minutes—not an easy course to grasp on too little sleep. What happened? Didn't end your Hallowe'en celebration at eleven like the rest of Hogwarts?"
"Ron's really keen on winning the chess tournament," Hermione said brightly. "Blaise Zabini is playing for Slytherin. They say he's an ace."
Harry stuffed a slice of bacon into his mouth to keep from smiling. Hermione hadn't lied to their housemistress—not exactly. What she had done was create a calculated diversion.
McGonagall fell for it. She patted Ron's back. "Today your friends can take notes for you. Get yourself back to bed. But no more late nights. If you want some practice, I can play with you this evening. Seven o'clock sharp in the staff room. By all means, let's beat Slytherin."
At her words, all four of them glanced across the hall to their rivals' table. From the hollow look of Snape's eyes and the way his head sank between his shoulders, Harry wondered if he hadn't slept either. He'd pushed aside his plate unused. As his sole nourishment, he nursed a mug of steaming coffee.
"And you're prepared for the St. Mungo's Spirit of Giving Fete, aren't you?"
Harry took a moment to realize his housemistress was addressing him. "Yes, uh. I'll be parading a lion around while Angela and Natalie ask for donations, right?" If the old cat had teeth, that should inspire the spirit of giving in all the visitors Hogwarts hoped to attract that day, he thought.
"We'll see." McGonagall shot another glance at Snape. This time a smile twitched the corners of her lips. "Well, time to get going." With that, she pivoted and marched towards the door.
Harry was about to pick up his book pack to follow when he noticed Ariel Daine. Once more her hair was cropped blonde and her attire was conventional black. He watched her leave the faculty table, but he couldn't tell whether she was leaving the hall. She moved a few steps towards the double doors, then hesitated and looked back. Again she took a stride, only to turn clear around. More than anything, she looked like someone under a square dancing spell.
Harry blinked, not quite believing his eyes. She's working up the nerve to talk to Snape.
After more waffling, Professor Daine squared her shoulders and smoothed her robes. Then she walked rapidly to the Slytherin table as if determined not to lose her courage. Snape didn't lift his head, but Harry could see the glint of his black eyes as he peered sidelong at her approach.
Glancing around, Harry saw he was the last student at the Gryffindor table, nearly the last student in the entire Great Hall. In a moment, Snape would wonder why. He fumbled for his rucksack and took his time putting it on, all the while obliquely observing the exchange between the Good Witch and the ex-Dark Wizard. Daine appeared to be babbling out an apology. Snape's replies were clearly one-word grunts. As Daine made another appeal, Snape studied her warily. After a pause, he nodded.
Quickly, Harry turned on his heel and rushed out of the Great Hall, new questions plaguing his mind. Why had Daine apologized? Was it just her Alabaman good manners? Or was she trying to ingratiate herself? Was she, perhaps, also preparing to spy on Severus Snape?
An oral presentation, Harry repeated to himself, staring in surprise at ghostly Professor Binns. If Avery hadn't just incited Goyle to shoot a paper plane through the professor's misty forehead and broken Harry's concentration on Cho's luxuriant black hair, he would have missed Binns's unusual assignment altogether.
Not that the airplane had broken the professor's concentration. "You may present alone, or you may present with a partner. You may take any dynasty we will have covered by the end of this term. You may take any magical discipline developed during that dynasty. Presentations will be made the first week we return in the new year. Presentations will be fifteen minutes each. Presentation dates will be assigned at the next session. Presentations may employ visual aids. Visual aids are optional."
Once more, Professor Binns's droning voice was in danger of sending Harry into a doze. Last night, he'd caught a nap before taking the post-midnight shift in Moaning Myrtle's lavatory, but he hadn't caught much shuteye in the hammock. He'd made the mistake of asking Myrtle about her favorite courses, and the ghost had prattled non-stop until six about how much tougher and stricter Hogwarts had been when she was a student. Without the tutor her Muggle parents had arranged for her, she would have been lost. He yawned. Odd that a dream potion should cause so much sleeplessness. How could they manage two more weeks?
In a moment, shuffling noises awakened Harry to the fact that the lesson was over. With one last glance at Cho, he reached for his rucksack. Tuesday again—exactly one week since Hallowe'en. Professor Daine's square dance spell seemed like a fantasy. Since then, his relationship with Cho had slid back to wistful gazing.
"Hello, beautiful."
Glancing up, Harry saw Avery had directed his offhand remark at Cho. With growing disquiet, he watched the Slytherin sidle up to the Ravenclaw. As the handsome, broad-shouldered teen planted his hands on Cho's desk, Harry felt his blood curdle.
"Wilhelm. Hi. Got to go. My next lesson is clear across the castle. Bye."
At Avery's wink, Goyle edged nearer, as if to block Cho. Harry dropped his rucksack and sprang to his feet. Then he paused, swaying. What if he was misreading the situation? What if he was butting in?
Avery leaned closer. "How about doing the presentation with me? I always like to work with the best, and you're clearly the expert on this subject. Forget that old spook. I bet you could teach me more mysteries of the Orient than he's ever imagined."
"Thanks," Cho responded dryly.
"Over the holidays, I could buy some visual aids—amulets, potion pouches, good luck charms, anything you like. Gold's no object. Afterwards I'd make a present of them to you. What do you say?"
Cho didn't answer. Instead, she looked back over her shoulder at Goyle. To Harry it looked as though she were gauging her escape. Taking a deep breath, he charged.
"Cho! About that thing—"
Startled, she swiveled toward him, her long black hair whipping to the side. "That thing? Oh! That thing."
Like a Seeker playing Quidditch, Harry evaded Goyle and ducked under Avery's arm to snatch Cho's book bag off the floor. Taking advantage of the distraction, she slid off her chair in the opposite direction and began walking backwards, keeping her dark eyes trained on the boys.
"The thing of it is," Harry said, putting some space between himself and the Slytherins, "Cho already agreed to do the presentation with me."
Avery's eyes narrowed. "How could she? Old Binns assigned it today."
"He assigns it every year," Cho said reasonably from a position near the door. "My big sister told me."
Harry hurried up the aisle, grabbing his rucksack on the fly. Reaching Cho, he handed over her bag like a Chaser passing a Quaffle. As if they'd practiced, they turned and headed for the door in unison. Harry could feel Avery's eyes burning holes in his back until he and Cho slipped out of the classroom and started down the granite-walled, high-windowed corridor.
They walked in silence until Harry judged they were out of Slytherin earshot. Then he mumbled, "I don't really expect you to do your presentation with me, but I could tell you didn't want to do it with him."
Tilting her head, Cho measured Harry with her wide, almond eyes. "Oh, I don't think Wilhelm wanted me to do the presentation with him. I think he wanted me to do it for him."
Harry laughed nervously. "A typical Slytherin."
Cho shrugged, shifting the veil of silky black hair that hung past her shoulders. Harry resisted the urge to touch it. He dragged his eyes away to the uneven flagstone floor, forcing himself to concentrate on what she was saying instead.
"My big sister warned me that Slytherin always seems to have a core of slimy creeps. But they're not all bad. I don't know about the boys, but some of the girls are all right. Like Morgana and Vivian. I was in Potions with them for two years. They used to tickle me. The way they flirted at Professor Snape! You should have seen how flustered they made him."
Meeting Cho's dark eyes, Harry felt a tingle of electricity. "Let's see if I understand you: Snape? Flirt? Flustered?"
Cho nodded at each of his words.
"Just checking."
They resumed walking, Cho swinging her book bag, Harry trying to control the sparks zipping around his stomach. Out the corner of his eye, he caught a smile quivering on her lips that brought one to his own.
"And Millicent's nice," she added.
Harry raised both eyebrows. "Millicent? Bulstrode?" The dumpy, wart-riddled girl whose craggy face defines the word hag?
Cho frowned. "Boys."
Harry swallowed. "What did I say?"
"The only way a boy knows how to judge a girl is by whether or not she's pretty."
"Not at all," he said hastily. "It's just that my friend Hermione had a fight with her once—an actual, physical, rolling around on the floor kind of fight."
The crooked passage curved upward. Cho's face grew thoughtful. "Yes, I remember. Three years ago, right? The one-and-only meeting of the Hogwarts Dueling Club."
"You were there?"
"Along with three-quarters of the student body. Maybe Hermione looked at Millicent funny. She used to be a bit touchy about her appearance. Then Vivian and Morgana taught her how to laugh it off."
Millicent Bulstrode nice. Harry would file that under Will wonders never cease. During their two years of Care of Magical Creatures classes, he'd generally avoided looking at her. But if Cho said Millicent was nice, he'd believe it. He glanced at her sidelong. She was as bright, open-minded, and kind as he'd always imagined. He didn't mind one bit that her skin was as delicate as porcelain and her lips looked as soft as a rose. As they neared the stairs he noticed that, without planning to, he and Cho had matched their strides.
Cho smiled. "Millicent admires you."
Climbing the steps in tandem, Harry twisted his head to stare at her.
"Seriously. She's really good with animals. Ask Hagrid."
Harry straightened his glasses. "I remember she was polite to the hippogriffs—unlike Draco. And she did have a way with blast-ended skrewts."
Cho nodded. "And she's especially partial to snakes. Her fondest wish is to learn to talk to them."
Harry felt a blush rising. "I don't know how I do it. When I'm speaking Parseltongue, it seems to me that the snake and I are speaking English. I had no idea I hissed until Ron told me."
Cho glanced up coyly from under her long, feathery lashes. "Do you like them?"
"Whom?"
Cho slanted an eyebrow. "Snakes."
"I've only talked to a real one once. The one at the Dueling Club was just a spell." Harry climbed a few more steps. "Come to think of it, that zoo snake was one of the friendliest fellows I've ever met."
"And some people think they're all slimy creeps."
Reaching the landing, Harry saw the hallway branch into three. He didn't ever remember being in this part of the castle before, and he had no idea where he was. Cho tipped her head toward the left. "I go this way. Esoteric Geometry. It's a requirement for being accepted into the Academy of Arcane Architecture."
Harry nodded. "Magical architecture. That's fascinating. Secret doors, hidden chambers, shifting passages—"
"—fitting large rooms into small spaces." Cho began walking backwards, keeping eye contact with Harry even as she left him. "How about doing our presentation on Wudang Shen Quan Quigong?"
Our presentation. For a moment, Harry just stared as a dumb, blissful smile spread across his face.
"Unless you'd prefer another topic," Cho added.
"No, no," he said quickly. "Wudang Shen. I have absolutely no idea what that is, but if you recommend it—"
Cho grinned, hugging her book bag to her chin. "You'll love it. Lots of flying." She fell back a few more steps, then spun on her heel. Her long shimmering hair lifted behind her like a victory pennant. In graceful, loping strides, she raced up the hall.
After Cho disappeared, Harry continued grinning. His body felt lighter than air. Glancing down, he started laughing. Just as he'd suspected, his scuffed brown shoes were floating one inch above the flagstone floor.
Author's Note: Cho is definitely an alternative here to what she is in the canonical fifth year. Thoughts?