Title: Lusus Naturae
Chapter: Chapter Five
Rating: M for Mucus
Warnings: Abuse, Death, and such.
A/N: I'm barely proof-reading this.
Harry was shoveling food into his mouth in a most undignified manner when Professor Snape came to join them in the Hospital Wing. Not that Harry had any way of knowing when he arrived. Madame Pomfrey had been very clear that the blindfold was to stay on at all times until other arrangements could be made. She didn't clarify what 'other arrangements' meant, but Harry didn't think he had the right to complain.
He had thought about asking after his aunt, wondering what had happened to her after he- after she fell. When Madame Pomfrey mentioned that Professor Snape was on his way, Harry had decided to wait. Of the adults left in his life, Harry understood that Professor Snape was the least likely to shield him from the truth. He thought it was because the man hated him.
"Pot- Harry," Professor Snape's voice called to him. "How are you feeling?"
"Hungry," Harry answered honestly.
He heard the shuffling sounds of robes dragging along the stone floor and a cool hand found his shoulder. Harry flinched in surprise.
"Do not overeat. You'll make yourself sick."
Harry swallowed a mouthful of bacon and sat back. He brought a hand to the mask over his eyes.
"When can I take this off?" he asked.
"As soon as I find another way to ensure the safety of those around you," Snape explained calmly. "It is a precaution we must take."
"Yeah," Harry sadly agreed. "Is my aunt alright?"
An awkward silence followed the question. One that indicated the two adults in the room might have been exchanging glances. The hesitation spoke for itself. Harry's breakfast quickly turned to stone in his stomach; Not out of guilt, but out of fear.
"Hel-" he tried, and failed.
The few bites of food he had stolen in the interim between his potions and the arrival of the Potions Master quickly pushed up from his stomach and out through his esophagus as a solid lump of sick. He heaved through the tears of discomfort forming behind the blindfold.
"Quite alright," Snape muttered in what was an attempt at reassurance. The wizard followed it with a 'Scourgify' to clear the mess. "Poppy."
"Here, Mr. Potter," Madame Pomfrey chimed, mechanically closing his fingers around a cool vial.
Harry tipped back his head and forced down the tasteless liquid. His stomach began to settle almost instantly.
"None of this is your fault," his Professor said after another moment passed. "Indeed, I would say the blame lies solely on us. We should have believed your words at the end of the school year. I will not make that mistake again."
It was a promise Harry could hardly comprehend. Neither the sentiment nor the source were believable in his mind. He nodded solemnly nonetheless. He meant to ask the question again. Part of him desperately needed to know what he had done. He wouldn't get the chance a second time, it seemed.
"Albus," Snape's voice hissed warningly, alerting Harry to the Headmaster's presence. "Now is not the time."
"Harry, my boy," the Headmaster greeted him, clearly ignoring his Professor's admonishment. "How are you feeling?"
Harry was less inclined to answer the Headmaster, though he had given Professor Snape the courtesy of a response to the same question just minutes ago. Instead of a verbal response, he shrugged.
"Albus," Poppy said slowly. "What is that thing?"
"I believe I have found someone who may shed some light on Harry's delicate circumstances," the Headmaster replied. "Harry, I would like to introduce you to Nicholas. Nicholas, this is Harry Potter."
Harry twisted his head trying to pinpoint an approaching set of footsteps besides the Headmaster's and found nothing. Professor Snape's hand did not leave from its perch on his shoulder.
"Hello," Harry said questioningly, holding the blindfold covering his vision close to his face, as if it might increase his hearing to do so.
"Well," chimed the voice of a clearly older gentleman. "What are you waiting for, Albus? Give me to him."
Someone lifted his hand and wrapped his fingers around a solid, cold piece of metal: a handle of some sort.
"A mirror," Professor Snape explained. "You're speaking to an echanted mirror."
"Huh?"
"Not to worry," said the unfamiliar voice, this time from much closer than last he spoke. "Everyone, out!"
From Harry's side, Professor Snape inhaled sharply at the command. Even the Headmaster seemed to take a step towards him in defiance. Madame Pomfrey huffed.
"You heard me. Remove the boy's wrappings and leave us."
After a moment, the Headmaster conceded, "Do as he says."
Harry heard Madame Pomfrey stomp towards the door, followed closely by the softer footfalls of the Headmaster. The hand on his shoulder never left.
"We will be right outside the door," Professor Snape said firmly. "If you need me, you need only shout."
He felt hands at the back of his head, undoing the strap that was clasped firmly around his temples.
"Close your eyes," Snape ordered.
Harry obeyed.
When the strap and mask were removed, Harry felt the phantom pressure of the binding in its absence. Blood seemed to rush to the constricted areas and he felt his hand shake slightly in air where he held the mirror aloft. In the following moment, Snape swept from the room with haste. Harry couldn't tell if it was due to the danger presented by him being unblinded, or with anger at the situation.
"Open your eyes, boy," the voice in his hand commanded.
That word set his teeth on edge and he gritted them together as he obeyed.
Harry blinked several times against the sudden change in light. The sun streamed through the windows overhead in white beams that illuminated the all too familiar Infirmary Ward. It took several moments for him to focus on the object held in front of him.
"There we are," said the voice.
He found that the voice was attached to a reflection in the mirror that was not his own. In fact, he wasn't certain it was a reflection at all. It looked more like a magical painting - like one of the many enchanted portraits that hung on every wall in the castle. This image was of an elderly man with ghostly pale skin and white hair. His eyes were sunken into deep hollows in his face. If Harry were to be honest, the man looked quite grim.
"Hello," Harry said, not quite knowing what else to say.
"Hello, little one," the man, Nicholas, replied. "Let's see here. Come closer."
Harry leaned towards the mirror.
"Yes, yes. May I?" Nicholas asked, gesturing with his hand.
When Harry nodded, that hand then pierced the veil of the mirror's surface and protruded out towards him. He nearly jumped out of his skin. The firm grip he had held on the looking glass faltered and his fingers fell away. Surprisingly, the mirror stayed suspended in the air.
"I'm just going to have a look at your eyes, Mr. Potter. If I may?"
Nicholas visibly arched away from the mirror to keep his rather prominent nose from following both his arms out through the barrier between them. After a moment of struggling to get both arms through the small silver oval, the old man sighed. He gripped the outer edges of the mirror with both hands and pulled them apart. The edge of the mirror stretched in kind.
"Albus tells me you slayed a Basilisk, is that correct?" Nicholas asked idly as his hands came to rest on either side of Harry's face.
"Yes, sir."
"Interesting. Peculiar even, at such a young age. Sylvia was one of Salazar's prized specimens, if the man's journals are to be believed."
Harry frowned. "I didn't want to," he argued.
"None of that now. Every thing dies," Nicholas interjected. "Yes, I see. Double lids. Would you blink, please?"
Harry blinked once, then twice, wondering if it were possible to glare a reflection to death if it wasn't his own - or even if it was.
"Hmm," Nicholas hummed.
The strange gangly hands traveled from Harry's cheeks to his ears, then down his neck, feeling along a crop of scales that had been uncovered by the shedding flakes of his normal skin in his time at the Dursleys.
"You're a parselmouth," Nicholas stated.
"Yes..."
"Nothing to be ashamed of! I've known several speakers of the serpent tongue. Great men and women alike."
"Really?" Harry asked. He thought Voldemort was the only one.
"Open your mouth," Nicholas continued. "Ah, secretions. Of course."
"Ish 'hat bad?" Harry said, or tried to say.
"Expected," Nicholas answered. "Not bad at all. Yes, I believe I've seen something like this before. Not much to do with the Basilisk at all, I'm afraid."
"You know what's wrong with me?" Harry asked once the intrusion of fingers inspecting his teeth retreated. "Do you know how to fix it?"
Nicholas stepped away from the mirror. Harry watched the man retreat into the background behind him, which appeared to be a dimly lit room absolutely packed full of books and all manner of magical paraphernalia. He craned his neck to get a better angle. After a moment, Nicholas returned to the frame with a leather book.
"Salazar Slytherin feared, above all else, the ruination of his bloodline," Nicholas intoned, seemingly reciting the words from the tome in his hands. "It is believed to be a curse, not on the blood but on the spirit of the last of it."
The man snapped the book closed and tossed it indelicately over his shoulder where it collided with a stack of similarly disorganized ledgers. Nicholas trained his shockingly blue eyes back on the boy before him.
"I have seen it once before. Last of the Slytherin bloodline. One who came so close to death he felt it like the kiss of a dementor across his lips."
"Vol-" Harry gasped.
Only Nicholas' shiver cut him off. "The Dark Lord, Harry Potter. Call him by his title."
"Th-The Dark Lord," Harry repeated.
"Yes. Do you know what they say of him? Of his appearance?"
Harry thought about Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was a handsome young man. Charismatic. That's all he knew of Vol- The Dark Lord. Well, that and the disembodied face that spoke to him from the back of Professor Quirrel's head in first year.
"He looked almost human, walking upright on two legs, but his face," Nicholas explained. "Well, he had the face of a snake."