Harry Potter and the Psychic Serpent

After he and Hermione had returned to the castle from the train station, they went back up to the common room. He put Sandy back on; she’d been staying warm by the fire. Crookshanks lounged nearby with Bainbridge and her kittens (it suddenly occurred to Harry to wonder whether Crookshanks was the kittens’ father). Hermione had promised Jules Quinn she’d look after the mother cat and her litter during Christmas break. Harry wished he’d had Sandy with him at the party so he wouldn’t have walked in on all of those different people in the cottage. And so he would have been prepared for Snape. Snape giving him the password to his office; could anything be stranger? He hadn’t told Hermione about that yet.

From the moment they entered the common room, Harry felt strange. It was so quiet, so empty. It was just the two of them, plus a few hours before, they had been lurking about the upstairs at Katie’s great aunt’s cottage, looking for a private place, and now they had all of Gryffindor Tower to themselves, and Harry could not ever remember being more terrified.

He told Hermione he was going to the library; she said she’d get some books and parchment and join him. But he didn’t go to the library. He walked up to the third floor corridor where they’d gone in their first year to try to get to the Sorcerer’s Stone. He tried the door; it was unlocked. He entered and lit his wand to break the darkness. The empty room was as he remembered it, but--thankfully--without the three-headed dog called Fluffy standing on top of the trap door. Harry sat on the floor, leaning against the door, putting out his wandlight and just sitting in the dark.

“It is cold here,” Sandy hissed at him.

“I know. Sorry. I didn’t take you out in the snow, did I?”

“There is no light. Why are you here?”

“I’m hiding.”

“Why?”

Why indeed? What was he hiding from? Just Hermione. Hermione and an empty Gryffindor Tower.

And himself.

“Harry Potter?”

“What, Sandy?”

“You did not answer my question.”

“I don’t have a good answer, Sandy. I’m not feeling much like talking right now. No offense, I hope. I just want to sit quietly.”

“I do not take offense when someone wants to sit quietly. More people should try it.”

Harry smiled in the dark.

He had eventually come down for dinner, and when Hermione questioned him about his whereabouts, he said he’d become lost because he had run into the Bloody Baron, ghost of Slytherin house, and to avoid him he’d taken a number of turns into unfamiliar corridors and up and down strange staircases...

He heard a hissing voice under his robes saying, “Liar.” Oh, shut up, Harry thought.

Hermione had looked dubious about his explanation, but did not verbally question it. Dumbledore had moved the house tables to the walls and they sat at a centrally-located table with Hannah and Ernie and Roger, plus the staff and faculty who had not gone elsewhere for the holiday. After dinner, Harry had hurried up to his room, climbing into bed in his clothes, until Sandy complained of it (when he slept she didn’t have to be shrouded under sleeves, since he was shirtless at that time). He changed into his pajama pants and pulled the curtains around him, wishing they were made of iron.

Harry sat up in bed now, pushing aside his bedcurtain cautiously, unwilling to let Christmas day really start, procrastinating and enjoying it. He squinted in the brightness from the window; it must have snowed again, making the grounds of Hogwarts blindingly bright. He let the curtain fall once more, remaining in the shelter of his bed, surrounded by the deep red hangings, glowing with the light, soft and blurry, without his glasses. Safe in my womb, Harry thought. He didn’t want to be born. Can’t I just stay here? he pleaded to no one in particular. Can’t time just stand still? Suddenly, he was completely in sympathy with Ron. Status quo. Is that too much to ask?

And then there had been the day of Christmas Eve. He had slept late, then couldn’t find Hermione when he’d descended to the common room. He’d gone back to his room and retrieved the Marauder’s Map, eventually locating Hermione with McGonagall in her office. He did not go there, however. Instead, he stayed in his room and practiced Animagus transfiguration (putting Sandy downstairs by the fire again first). He had maintained the griffin form for about three minutes when he was with the griffin, and now he had actually worked his way up to about ten minutes. The pain was still pretty bad, but he was hoping that Moody’s anti-Cruciatus training might help with that too. Although, if his body were divorced from his brain how would he accomplish the transfiguration? Perhaps the pain-blockage and the Animagus transfiguration were mutually exclusive. Maybe the Animagus transfiguration relied on the wizard being even more aware of pain, not less. He considered this; it was plausible. But not comforting.

At lunch the day before, he had talked to Dumbledore and the two of them played chess the rest of the afternoon. Harry tried to ignore the information Sandy was giving him about the moves Dumbledore was going to make, but he finally gave up and succumbed to a bit of cheating with her help. Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling a little bit less after Harry’s sixth win.

“Doing very well today, aren’t you, Harry? And your snake certainly has a lot to say; she seems to be hissing quite a lot. Is she a chess savant?” Harry lifted his eyes to Dumbledore innocently. So, he doesn’t suspect she has the Sight, merely a talent for chess. Interesting; you’d think Dumbledore would know something like that....Then he thought about the time he’d beaten Ron at chess. He couldn’t remember whether Sandy was helping him, for some reason. Had he simply treated her predictions as something that came out of his own brain? Had he really beaten Ron? he suddenly had to wonder.

During much of the day, Hermione was meeting with McGonagall again, and after dinner, Harry again sprinted upstairs. Hermione was oddly congenial about his avoidance of her; when they were together, she didn’t seem in the slightest way put out. Harry didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved.

At last, he decided that it was Christmas, he was going to get up, he was going to look at his presents. No more procrastinating. No more being afraid to be alone with Hermione. It was just Hermione. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.

Except wanting her so badly he thought he was going to die.

NO. He pulled his brain back from that thought. Presents. Yes. Christmas presents. He put his glasses on and then opened the curtains at the foot of the bed, finding a pile of packages on his trunk.

“What are those packages?” Sandy hissed.

“Christmas presents.”

“Oh. I have been wondering what Christmas is. I have been meaning to ask. So. That is the presence of Christmas.”

“No. One of those is a Christmas present. More than one, you say Christmas presents, plural. They’re gifts.”

“Who has given you these gifts?”

“Well, my friends. And Ron’s mum. And I think I saw one from my cousin Dudley.”

“The large boy.”

“Right.”

“What do you do with them?”

“You open them.”

“And then?”

“Well--it depends on the present. Can I just get on with it, Sandy?”

“Of course.”

Harry opened his gift from Ron first. Ron had bought him a copy of Great Quidditch Captains of Hogwarts by Roderick Plumpton, III. It contained a number of photographs of people flying about on broomsticks wearing the colors for Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. The players zoomed around the photos, showing off some very difficult maneuvers. A Snitch-catching technique called the Plumpton Pass had been named after the author’s grandfather, who as a Seeker in 1921 had caught a Snitch up his sleeve, maintaining until his death that it was not an accident and that he had meant to do it.

Harry leafed through the book; in a table listing the names of those who were, in the author’s opinion, the greatest Quidditch captains of Hogwarts teams in the last century, Harry saw the entry “Charles Weasley, Gryffindor.” Then he saw that Ron had handwritten at the bottom, “Harry Potter, Gryffindor.” Harry smiled; it was actually quite touching. Ron could be strangely sentimental sometimes.

Next came a package that had arrived with Hedwig the day before; Harry had already sent her to Smeltings with Dudley’s present, a Sneakoscope (so he could determine whether his roommate was in fact stealing from him). Harry had wanted him to have his gift before returning to Privet Drive for the holiday, so his aunt and uncle wouldn’t get upset about Hedwig. And this way Dudley was able to send her back from Smeltings with Harry’s present. Harry tore the wrappings off the box quickly; Dudley had sent more tapes for Harry’s portable tape player. Oh well, he thought. He had been corresponding regularly with Dudley, but had neglected to mention that he couldn’t use the tape player at Hogwarts. Maybe down in the village it would work, he thought. It might be worth a try.

He set the tapes aside and pulled Sirius’ present onto his lap. Another book: “He Flew Like a Madman,” which was a biography of “Dangerous” Dai Llewellyn. Harry frowned; he was sure he would like the book, but why did everyone think that all he thought about was Quidditch?

Next came a large box from Mrs. Weasley. As usual, there were sweets and cakes, and a green hand-knit sweater. He munched on some treacle toffee while he reached for Hagrid’s present, which was in such a small package, it fit in the palm of Harry’s hand. He opened the very small box to find a model golden griffin, which yawned and stretched as he exposed it, then took to the air and began to fly about. Harry wondered briefly, as he enjoyed watching the griffin, whether Hagrid suspected anything concerning his Animagus training, but he put it down to Hagrid simply knowing how much he’d liked the griffin. Oddly enough, the only other student in the class who’d really done well with the golden griffin was Neville, who often did not want to get within thirty feet of the creatures they studied. (But Hagrid gave him good grades anyway. It occurred to Harry that Hagrid must have known who Neville’s parents were and what had happened to them from the moment he met him.)

Sandy flinched when the miniature golden griffin flew near her.

“Don’t worry Sandy, it’s just a toy.”

“I do not like it.”

He put the toy griffin away. There was another book-shaped package, which he saw was from Ginny. Taking the paper off, he found a copy of The House at Pooh Corner. Inside, she had written, “For Harry -- I know you won’t be converted from Charlie, etc., being your favorite, but sometimes if you’re needing to feel better, you might find this helpful. -- Love, Ginny.”

He ran his finger over the figure of Piglet on the cover of the book, thinking of her large brown eyes, her unruly red hair. Then he saw her in Draco Malfoy’s arms, kissing him passionately; she had such a look of abandonment.... It both excited him to think of her having that passion in her, and made him feel utter revulsion that the person benefiting from that passion was Draco Malfoy, whom he had been forced to entrust with her safety.

The book was quite a safe gift. The sort of thing a sister would give a brother, or a friend she thought of as a brother--or who thought of her as a sister, as he’d told Malfoy.

He noticed that there was no gift in the pile from Hermione. That’s odd, he thought. But then again--he still had the present he was planning to give her, so perhaps she was bringing his in, too.

Sandy hissed at him that Hermione was coming. He rose and went to the wardrobe to look for something to wear, but he didn’t like most of his options, so he was still standing with the wardrobe door open wearing just his pajama bottoms when Hermione came bursting into the room. She was still in her nightshirt and dressing gown, chirping, “It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas! Happy Christmas, Harry!”

He turned and laughed; he imagined her as a little girl, coming downstairs Christmas morning to a pile of packages from her loving parents, and then he stopped suddenly, trying not to think about the way Christmases had been for him before coming to Hogwarts. He looked at her again, at how pretty and excited she was, wondering fleetingly why he was so afraid to get up, be alone with her. It’s just Hermione, he told himself again. What’s to worry?

Returning her smile, he walked over to her and answered, “Happy Christmas, Hermione,” giving her a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. He felt her fingers flutter across his bare back. They separated and she glowed up at him, one hand still behind her back. Suddenly, she whipped out her hand, which held a small gift-wrapped box. Harry grinned at her, sitting down on his trunk to open it.

Inside the package was a small mahogany box with a wind-up key on the side. He turned the key clockwise several turns, but then it wouldn’t go any more and he had to stop. He lifted the box lid and immediately heard the whirring of mechanical parts going round and round, then a high-pitched plucking noise met his ears as the small metal drum with infinitesimal spikes began to come into contact with the tiny metal strips that were each tuned to a specific pitch. Harry listened for a few seconds, then lifted his face to Hermione in wonder.

“It’s See-o-gon,” he said softly.

She smiled gently. “I know. I heard you humming it while you were studying, and I tried very hard to remember it. I went to Dumbledore when you were off with McGonagall after dinner one night and asked him if he knew what it was. He wasn’t sure, he had to think about it. But Snape was next to him; they’d been talking. Dumbledore asked him to be excused for a moment so he could talk to me--he always has time for the students, you know? Snape looked really grumpy about it. And then, the strange thing is, when he heard the tune, he said, ‘Lily used to sing that.’ He said it rather softly; he seemed very -- I don’t know -- un-Snape-like. I like that; it’s a new word I’ve just coined. He said it was call See-o-gan. But then he spelled the Welsh, and it was Suogan, or something like that. Dumbledore said he remembered it now, it was an old lullaby...”

Harry nodded; his throat felt tight. “My aunt used to sing it for Dudley...” he said softly, listening to the music box.

He could remember being four or five, sitting in his cupboard under the stairs, and his Aunt Petunia would be upstairs putting Dudley to bed, saying, “All right, there’s my little Duddy-diddems! All tucked up cozy for the night...” her annoying voice sounding the way Aunt Marge’s did when she was talking to her dogs. And then, it would happen, the one similarity that Harry knew of between his mother and her sister: her singing voice. It drifted down the stairs and resonated in his small, dusty prison.

He had a very vague memory of his mother singing to him, more of an assumption, really, since his aunt had let slip once that when they were children, the two sisters had sung duets in the church choir, and that the lullaby had been sung by and taught to the sisters by their mother. His aunt would begin the Welsh lullaby, and suddenly, Harry could imagine it was his own mother, singing for him. He would close his eyes in the dark cupboard, lean back on his mean, scratchy blanket on his spider-infested mattress on the floor, and listen to the voice, the voice of a mother singing her precious son to sleep...Never mind that it wasn’t his mother, that he wasn’t the precious son. He could close his eyes and listen and imagine...

Somehow, that tune had stayed with him. He didn’t remember all of the words, because large parts of it were in Welsh, but the tune was as much a part of him as his scar; perhaps the tune was another kind of scar, marking him for life, an indelible part of him, an artifact from his early life, before his world blew up.

The music box wound down and the tune stopped half-way through the first phrase, leaving him hanging, waiting. But that’s all right, he thought. That’s for next time, something to look forward to. He closed the lid, looked up at Hermione, smiling, but she was strangely blurry, soft at the edges...

“Oh, Harry!” she exclaimed softly, her hand on his cheek. “Are you crying?”

He was, and it surprised him. He wiped his face with his hand hastily, not bothering to take his glasses off, just pushing them up onto his forehead momentarily, then repositioning them. He tried to smile at her again.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice catching, belying his assertion. She smiled as though she were also trying not to cry, and tousled his hair quickly with her hand.

“Good,” she said quietly. She took a deep breath, trying to change the mood. “Now! Where’s my present?”

Harry smiled, moved his gifts from his trunk and opened it, removed a box that was about half the size the box for the Pensieve had been. But then, he pulled it back, feeling horrified. “No! Wait, I--I’ll get you something else, this is--no, Hermione, you don’t want this, trust me...”

She furrowed her brow. “What? What are you on about, Harry? I’m sure whatever it is--I mean, I loved my birthday present.”

“That was--I don’t know. That was easier. We weren’t--you know. September was before--” He was babbling and stumbling over his words, unable to say what he meant. “I mean, you got me something so--so wonderful, and this is--don’t open it, please...”

But Hermione pulled out her wand and summoned the package from him, with a satisfied look on her face. “I am going to open my gift, Harry Potter, and you can’t stop me.” She smiled, putting the box down on Ron’s bed and opening it. She removed a large lump covered in tissue-paper, which seemed rather heavy. She frowned, pulling the paper off, until what looked like a gargoyle was revealed, about the size of a human head, but with the face of a lion. She put it down on the bed, taking a second tissue-wrapped lump out of the box, finding an identical lion gargoyle. She sat down on the bed, holding both lions on her lap, looking at them, perplexed.

Finally, Harry couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m sorry, Hermione! I’m terrible at this. You hate it, I know you do, oh bloody hell...”

She looked at him, not angry or looking upset at all, merely puzzled. “But, Harry--what are they?”

He stopped verbally beating himself up. “They’re bookends,” he said quietly. She suddenly looked like she’d had an epiphany.

“Oooooh! Bookends! Of course--”

“--because you’re Hermione Granger and you read a lot and have a lot of books and I’m just about the sorriest excuse for a boyfriend that the world has ever seen and of course you’re going to hurl those at my head now and of course I deserve it so I should have expected it--”

But as Harry’s diatribe continued, Hermione’s laughter finally made its way into his consciousness, and he stopped, amazed. She put down the bookends and walked over to him, putting her arms around his waist and giving him a firm hug. He awkwardly put his arms around her. She looked up at him.

“Is that what you are, Harry? My boyfriend?” she smiled.

“Well, unofficially, I suppose. We can’t be official yet, can we?”

“True, true. But if the way Viktor and Cho were at the Christmas party is any indication, maybe we won’t have to wait much longer.”

He looked down at her shining face. “That would be nice...” he said, leaning down to kiss her. Her hands pressed on his back, then started to caress his skin in circular patterns, sending signals to other parts of his body....He pulled back abruptly before she could detect the effect it was having on him. The two of them weren’t wearing much clothing, they were in a room with five beds, and there wasn’t another soul in Gryffindor Tower.

“Well, we’d better get dressed and go down to breakfast,” he tried to say in a normal voice, although to his own ears he sounded slightly strangled. “Fancy skating after that? Or sledding?”

Hermione walked to the window, evidently oblivious to how she’d been torturing him. “Sounds good. There’s a fresh snowfall. And--oh my.” Her voice had dwindled into almost-nothingness. “They’re -- they’re here, Harry,” she whispered.

Harry turned to find her staring out the window at the grounds with a look of abject terror on her face. Harry joined her at the window. What he saw made his blood run cold.

Walking across the grounds down near the lake and heading for the forest were seven enormous shapes. Each one had to be at least twenty feet tall, one or two might have been twenty-five feet. They were all dressed in cloaks that looked patched together from multiple animal skins, at least several hundred required for each cloak. But they weren’t skins from small animals like rabbits or foxes. The heads had been left on, and Harry could see deer, enormous bears, mountain lions, wolves...They walked into the forest and the trees swallowed them up, since the massive firs were about twice as tall as the giants. It took some time. Even after all of the giants were concealed in the forest, the tops of the trees continued to shiver, as though it were a field of wheat and normal-sized people were pushing the wheat stalks aside to walk through it. Huge footprints marked the path where they’d been walking through the snow on their way to the forest.

Harry swallowed, watching the last of the giants enter the forest and disappear from sight. “Remind me,” he said shakily to Hermione, “not to go into the forest ever again...”

She nodded, still staring at the spot where the last giant had disappeared, and he remembered how terrified she’d been when Hagrid’s mum had picked her up. He put his hand on her shoulder.

“Go dress for breakfast.”

She nodded, still dumb, and turned to leave in a daze. When she was gone, Harry looked out the window again. The trees in the forest were still moving.

Giants had come to Hogwarts.

Breakfast in the Great Hall was festive, even with the small number of people that had remained at the castle. The usual complement of twelve Christmas trees adorned the huge space, each decorated with different magical ornaments, everything from live fairies and enchanted bubbles to tiny silver and gold bells that played carols in complicated harmonies, like a miniature carillon. They ate and talked to the sound of the tinkling melodies, Dumbledore at the head of the table, wishing everyone a Happy Christmas as they arrived, passing around all manner of delicacies that did not normally grace the breakfast table at Hogwarts. Harry tried a delicious raspberry-filled croissant and Hermione helped herself to some gravlax and fresh sour cream with feathery fronds of dill, caviar and small rounds of toast with chopped hard-boiled eggs.

Roger Davies was actually being somewhat relaxed--he wasn’t even wearing his Head Boy badge. Hannah and Ernie kept looking at each other furtively and smiling and coloring. Harry didn’t have to wonder what was going on in Hufflepuff house last night...Then he realized that there were no students from Slytherin. Typical, he thought. No one in Slytherin would dream of waiting on house elves on Boxing Day. But then--hardly anyone else in the school had stayed to participate in the Boxing Day switch, either.

After breakfast, Harry and Hermione rose when Dumbledore did and tried to discreetly follow him from the hall. He stopped suddenly and they stumbled into him. Dumbledore turned, smiling at them as they picked themselves up, and said, “Shall we go to my office to talk?” They nodded, and then the three of them continued their upward path to his office. At the gargoyle that guarded the entrance, Dumbledore said, “Fizzing Whizzbees!” The wall opened, and Harry saw the now-familiar spiral stair that led to the round room where all of the headmasters of Hogwarts had held sway. Dumbledore sat behind his desk and gestured for Harry and Hermione to sit in the two chairs before it.

“Now, I think I know what this is about, but why don’t I let you tell me anyway?”

Harry took a deep breath. “It’s the giants sir--”

Dumbledore looked unperturbed. “Yes?” he said, still smiling.

“Yes, well--we saw them go into the forest this morning. Seven of them. And we’ve met Hagrid’s mum, too.” He looked sideways at Hermione; he wondered if her gravlax was going to come up again.

“And you’re concerned,” Dumbledore said. It was not a question.

“Well, yes. I mean--what are they going to eat? Will they stay in the forest? What about the magical creatures that live in there--the centaurs, the unicorns--will they be in danger?”

Dumbledore smiled and said kindly, “Now, now, Harry. Not to worry. I just met with Fridwulfa again yesterday--handsome, isn’t she? And she assures me that her friends are quite well-behaved. While they’ve been in eastern Europe, none of them have eaten a single human, and they’ve brought a good supply of food for themselves. The students here will be perfectly safe.”

“Well, then, what about security? I mean, we saw them go right into the forest. There are huge footprints in the snow out there! What if Hannah or Ernie or Roger saw? What if one of the professors decides to tell the board of governors?”

“The staff all know. Not everyone is happy, but they all know. And Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff houses do not have windows that look out toward the forest, as Gryffindor Tower does. And I had Hagrid smooth out the footprints this morning.” Dumbledore stopped smiling now; he looked very grave indeed. “We need the giants as our allies, Harry. Not our enemies. There is an expression, ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend.’ Do you know that one?”

“I think so.”

“Well, we need to get as many of the enemies of Voldemort as possible all working on the same side. Hogwarts is a very safe place, Harry, but still--you were spirited away with a Portkey and almost killed. And Cedric was killed.”

At the mention of Cedric’s name, Harry lowered his head. He could not look at Dumbledore suddenly, even though he knew he was not being blamed.

“The giants are yet another defense we will have at the school now. I do not know whether we will need them. I do not know when Voldemort or the Death Eaters will strike next--things have been strangely quiet since the summer, since--” and he looked at Hermione, whose eyes were very wide now “--Hermione was taken in Bulgaria. There have only been two or three reports of Death Eater activity in that time.” Near the Weasleys, Harry thought. But he didn’t want to say it with Hermione in the room; she would be afraid for Ron, having gone home for Christmas, even though his oldest brothers were also there.

Dumbledore went on. “It is possible that something is going to happen soon...”

Tonight, thought Harry. But again, he could not say aloud that he knew about that; Dumbledore might regret having given Harry his dad’s Invisibility Cloak, if he didn’t already. He simply nodded at Dumbledore. And then he realized--he hadn’t even told Hermione about that, and about Malfoy and Ginny. (Although she’d said that she knew who Ginny was planning to meet that night--assuming she was right.)

“All in all, Harry, try not to be too alarmed about the giants. I plan to make sure they are quite happy and comfortable here, and also to assure that the other residents of the forest are able to carry on as usual. Was there anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now, who wants to go sledding?” His eyes were twinkling at them again and Harry and Hermione had to smile. McGonagall was a fine head-of-house, Harry thought, and as deputy headmistress, she would probably be running things one day; but for now, he was glad that Dumbledore was headmaster. He couldn’t picture McGonagall using the names of sweets for her office passwords, or sledding with the students in the winter.

They had an enjoyable day, romping outdoors. Hagrid joined them too. Harry and Hermione did not mention the giants. Every so often, Harry noticed the trees of the forest swaying in a way that clearly had nothing to do with the wind, and he caught his breath, half-wishing he’d brought his Firebolt, so he could pull Hermione onto it and zip up to the castle quickly, in the event that a hungry giant should emerge from the trees. After eating lunch, they went back outdoors again. As long as Harry did not see the trees moving, he was fine. There were other things that could make him nervous, however. He was extremely glad to see that Hagrid was not interested in trying to skate on the lake...

Then it was time for Christmas dinner. Harry always knew to expect a sumptuous feast, and this year was no different, even though their numbers were small. Roger had asked Dumbledore’s permission to invite Fleur and her sister Gabrielle up from the village. Once more, when she saw him, Fleur performed the two-kisses-on-each-cheek maneuver. Harry looked at Hermione. She was smiling, nonplused; good, thought Harry, she’s stopped getting jealous over Fleur. Or, he considered, maybe she was reassured by the “boyfriend” statement he’d made that morning.

In addition to the usual turkeys and hams and multiple side dishes and flaming Christmas pudding, there were, of course, Christmas crackers at every place, and more scattered about the table. Hermione and McGonagall opened a cracker together, and out leaped a number of small creatures that looked nominally like small bunnies, but they appeared to be somewhat insubstantial, as though they were made from the fluff that one finds under beds and dressers. There was also a hat with a feather duster on top. McGonagall placed it on her head, giving Hermione a rare smile, then turning to Dumbledore.

“I’m all set for tomorrow, Albus, aren’t I?”

Dumbledore, for once, looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. Hermione was cooing to the dust bunnies, who were leaping about the table now, unfortunately causing a small cloud of dust to rise into the air every time one of them landed. Some of the food was becoming quite grey.

Hagrid pulled a cracker with little Gabrielle Delacour; it emitted a hat with the head of a Hungarian Horntail on it. “Just like the one ye got past in the Tournament, Harry!” he exclaimed happily. Harry and Hermione smiled at him. The cracker also contained small model dragons which moved about, also just like the ones they’d selected for the Tournament. Fleur recoiled from these, perhaps remembering the first task, but her sister gasped with pleasure as they flew about between the goblets and pitchers of eggnog and alit on the plum pudding. There were several different species, including a Norwegian Ridgeback. “Just like Norbert...” Harry heard him say softly, sadly. Harry could tell Hagrid still missed Norbert a great deal. Unfortunately, this wasn’t exactly a good time for making an overseas trip to visit a dragon.

Then Dumbledore and Harry pulled a cracker together, and what leaped out was a hat with a golden griffin on it, the wingspread a good two feet. “Ah, that’s just the thing for me!” Dumbledore said, putting it on his head in place of his usual wizard’s hat. Some small toy snakes also burst out of the same cracker. Harry poked at them. They were like Muggle rubber snakes from joke shops, except that they moved and hissed and coiled themselves around his finger when he picked them up. But, of course, thought Harry, these don’t speak Parseltongue. He listened for a few minutes to the hissing of the toy snakes and it just sounded like hissing to him. Sandy was confused; she said as much under his robes. He hissed back softly to her that he would explain later.

Then, finally, Roger and Fleur shared a cracker that emitted small white doves and a bridal veil and black top hat, much to Roger’s consternation. He turned quite red, while Fleur busied herself about trying on the veil and getting others around her to tell her how striking she looked. She shoved the top hat on Roger’s head so hard, he had to struggle to pull it off, and when he did, there was a telltale red mark across his forehead.

After dinner, they played some games and Dumbledore led them in singing carols. By the time Harry and Hermione went upstairs to Gryffindor Tower, it was rather late. Harry anticipated that there might be a problem extricating himself from her, but she yawned hugely, saying, “Oh! It’s going to be a big day tomorrow! We’ve got a hundred house elves to cook breakfast for, and there’s only--let’s see--seven teachers who stayed and five students. Twelve of us. But McGonagall and I have been planning things out, so I think we’ll have things pretty well under control. Of course we can’t pop in and out of rooms like the house elves, but--”

“Oh, so that’s what you and McGonagall have been doing. Planning for Boxing Day! But--wait, Hermione. If no one can Apparate on the grounds of Hogwarts, how come house elves can?”

“It’s people who can’t Apparate on the school grounds, Harry. And anyway, what the house elves do doesn’t get classified as Apparating by the Ministry of Magic. It’s just how they move around, like the way we walk or run. And they don’t have to learn to do it or be licensed or use wands or anything. They just start getting around that way from the time they’re born. Must drive new parents crazy, I’d think.” New elf parents. Elves having elven babies. That was something he’d never thought about before.

“Right, well, good night Hermione. Happy Christmas.” He kissed her on the forehead. But she caught him around the neck as he was trying to get away.

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” she said raising herself up and kissing his mouth gently, opening her mouth for a brief agonizing second, then pulling back and kissing his nose affectionately. She looked at him, seemed to sigh for a moment and went up the staircase to the girls’ dorms. Harry gazed up at her retreating back for a moment, mightily tempted to follow her up, but he stopped himself. Self-control. I have self-control.

But he had to keep repeating this to himself over and over until he had crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin.

Before he closed his eyes, he said to Sandy, “Tell me I have self-control, Sandy.”

“All right. You have self-control, Harry Potter.”

But he didn’t completely believe her. Then he heard her hissing again.

“What is self-control, Harry Potter?”

Harry sighed.

“Good night, Sandy.”

The sea crashed against the rocks violently, sending up spray a hundred feet above the water, often much more. The wind was high, as though a storm were brewing, but there were no clouds in the sky. The rocks were jagged and dangerous-looking, as though giant knives had been sunk down into the water with their blades pointing up. The cliff rose straight and steep, chalk white and lifeless on the sheer face; no life could be supported by that lime, that corrosive lime, especially in combination with the salt spray...

Dover, he thought. They’re at Dover.

Then, at the top--grass touched with frost, a thin carpet of it. Moss too, and lichen clinging to the sea-wet rocks here and there. There was a pervasive smell of salt. The moon hung over the landscape, not quite full, but still glowing like a beacon, casting everything into high relief. The stars seemed too bright and numerous to be real, stars that city dwellers never see, for the urban lights. It was a magical place, a beautiful place.

It is an evil place.

Hooded, cloaked figures stood in a loose circle, perhaps twenty-five feet in diameter, not ten feet from the sheer drop. They did not speak; some of them seemed to be shivering in the cold, in the freezing sea spray that could not be escaped this close to the edge of the cliff, the edge of the world. Near the center of the circle stood their leader, tall and thin and silent. Only he did not betray any reaction to the environment, standing as still and unwavering as if it were a midsummer’s night. Perhaps he no longer felt the cold, or had such cold blood running through his veins that the cruel, scouring wind was warm by comparison. A large snake curled around his feet, as if guarding him from harm--although who would dare to attempt such a thing, no one knew. Certainly no one present, not if they wanted to see another dawn...

He turned away from the sea; he was watching, waiting, expecting someone. They appeared as if out of thin air, some ten yards from the waiting circle. A shivering man with a curling-up beard and hair that had once been black but was now streaked with white was being escorted by two more figures in hooded cloaks. He could not walk properly, he was being dragged, his feet scarring the landscape, leaving a twin trail behind him through the moss and scrub and lichen. Another figure followed. He did not wear his hood on his head, and he seemed to be the only one besides their leader who was unaffected by the weather.

That will happen when you’ve lived for twelve years as a rat.

He pointed a silver hand, directing the prisoner’s escorts. With a flourish, he withdrew a wand from his robes, flicked it toward the center of the circle, and at his silent command, a piece of earth rose like an ancient altar stone, as if it had been there for time out of mind. The escorts lifted the man onto the stone, pushing him down into a prone position, then joining their comrades on the perimeter.

The hoodless man stood by the side of his Master. The Master nodded at him, a sign of approval that the servant clearly had been coveting. He fawned on his master, bowing, practically kissing the hem of his garment.

“Karkaroff, my Lord.”

The Master walked away from the sycophant as if he did not exist, going to the raised altar-like stone, surveying his quarry, gliding his eyes over him as if deciding what types of torture would be most exquisitely painful. The most excruciating pain. Yes, for such a coward...he’d find out what there really was to be frightened of...

He waved his hand in an almost careless gesture, and snake-like cords appeared that bound the prisoner’s legs and chest to the massive stone. He went to stand at the prisoner’s head, looking down at him so that they were each upside-down to the other.

“Karkaroff---” the Master said softly, almost hissing the “f” sound, like a snake.

The prisoner had his eyes squeezed shut, but that did not satisfy the Master. With a flick of one finger, the prisoner’s eyes were forced to stay open; in fact, he could no longer blink, and this inability, within seconds, began to make him shake violently.

“Karkaroff,” the Master said again, his voice high and low at once, hissing and growling. “Why did you not return to me when I summoned my servants upon my regaining my body? Why did you run away like a scared little rabbit?”

And suddenly, there was no man on the stone, but a small brown hare, looking confused and disoriented, nose twitching, eyes still unable to blink. An instant later, the man was lying on the stone again, bound to it still, as though that had been his state all along. The figures in the circle laughed appreciatively, and their Master beamed around at them, satisfied with their reaction.

He needs an audience.

“You should have known that you could not hide from me, not when you still bear the mark that tells you who owns you...”

The prisoner was shaking all over, tears running down his temples into his hair, his eyes wild from several minutes of exposure to the cold night air and sea spray. He whispered something, faltered.

“What? Do you have something to say in your defense?”

The prisoner nodded and tried to speak again. “Your heir,” he choked. “I have been seeing to the education of your heir...”

The heir.

The Master smirked, as if this were of no consequence.

“He may or may not be my heir. I have yet to determine that. I have already started to find him useful, however, and I hope that soon he may join us here. But if you think that that will buy you back into my good graces...you must think I am the Minister of Magic.”

He smiled ever so slightly, and this time, the figures around the circle laughed in a more subdued manner. The Master paced around the stone in a leisurely fashion, as though he had all the time in the world--which he did.

“However, I should not be too angry, my wayward one, because this evening you will be very useful to me. In fact, extremely useful. You see, a new Death Eater is here who will take your place, and your fate will amply demonstrate to him what happens to those who do not obey their Master.” Another flick of his finger, and the prisoner’s eye muscles could perform normally again, blinking when necessary, lubricating his eyes. But it was a small comfort; he knew what was coming. Or thought he knew. The Master moved to the prisoner’s feet, facing away from him.

“Bring him to me,” he hissed softly.

A hooded figure standing opposite the Master reached out to the thinner figure standing next to him and touched his arm, making him flinch. Hesitant at first, this figure moved forward, in what would be confident strides, if he were not shaking so much. The Master made a gesture with his hand, a slight pushing downwards, and the slim figure went to his knees. Another casual gesture, and of its own accord, his hood flipped back, revealing yellow-white hair and milky skin, storm-grey eyes reflecting the moon.

“We have here at last--the Moonchild. See how even the color of his hair is like moonlight.” He seemed like he might touch that fair hair, but his long-fingered hand did not actually come in contact with it, merely moved above the bare head, which was shaking, shivering in the cold, his teeth clenched so he would not make noise.

“You!” the Master said to him. “You have been promised to me since your first birthday, because I would have killed you then, my future enemy. Tell me now why I should not kill you.”

The grey eyes rose to the Master, then looked down again. “I am not your enemy, my Lord.” The voice did not waver, was not loud, but even and clear on the cold air.

“Not my enemy? The signs said so. The Prophecy said so. But I spared you, allowed your parents to raise you to serve me. I waited to see what you would become.”

A figure at the perimeter of the circle pulled back his hood, revealing another head of silvery hair. “I have raised him to be your faithful servant, my Lord.”

The Master moved toward the speaker. “Have you raised him to be more faithful than you?” The man who had spoken hung his head, silent.

Suddenly, from his kneeling position, the youth spoke, louder this time, with a clarity that sliced through the cold air and the noise of the sea. “I am not your enemy, my Lord, because we have the same enemy.”

The Master gestured with his hand again, carelessly, and the massive snake moved so that it curled around the kneeling figure. It took its own tail in its mouth, completing the circle.

“Name this enemy,” the Master hissed to him.

“POTTER.”

The word hung on the still air, and even the waves seemed to have stopped crashing on the rocks. Then the hooded figures began to murmur to each other, as though a profanity had been uttered.

My enemy’s enemy is my friend.

With a gesture, the Master achieved their silence again, and once more, the only sound was of the sea. He walked around the kneeling figure inside the snake’s circle.

“If Potter is your enemy, then indeed, we are allies.” He walked to the stone again, placing his long, thin hand on the foot of the prisoner, who closed his eyes. Suddenly, he took out his wand and pointed it at the youth, as erect and dignified as he could be while on his knees, and cried, “CRUCIO!”

The fair young man threw his arms out, convulsing, his head thrown back as pain deeper than any pain imaginable coursed through him, like fire through all his veins, like hot knives piercing every inch of skin, like having that skin flayed, removed layer by layer by excruciating layer....

But he remained in the kneeling position throughout the pain, and did not cry out, although some guttural grunts escaped his clenched jaw and his eyes squeezed shut from the pain, tears slowly seeping out from under his lids, making pale streaks on his moonlit face.
The Master lowered his wand, and the pain stopped. The youth huddled inside the snake circle, his head on his knees, catching his breath, not looking up.

“Now,” the Master said silkily. “That hurt, didn’t it?”

He raised his face, still in his huddled position. He was no longer erect and proud; he was broken. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Ask me not to do it again,” the Master said, almost petulantly.

“Please, don’t do it again, my Lord,” he said immediately, gasping as he said it.

The Master smiled. “Obedience is so important. I cannot have anything but unquestioned obedience. You see here before you an exemplary Death Eater,” he told the other hooded figures. “All he is missing is--the Mark. Rise.” The young man struggled to his feet, shaking violently. His legs looked like they would give way any moment. “Give me your arm.” The requested arm was extended, and the Master pulled the sleeve back, showing the pure white skin there.

“Whose are you?”

“Yours, my Lord.”

The Master placed the tip of his wand in the crook of the young man’s elbow, crying with a terrible voice, “MORSMORDRE!”

The young man screamed in agony as he had not when he was being tortured, sinking to his knees again and holding his left arm in his right hand, as the figure of the skull and snake burned themselves into his flesh.

There is nothing like the smell of burning human flesh.

Slowly, he raised his head again to look at the Master, his breath coming in irregular pants and heaves, the skin of his forearm smoking faintly. He would carry the scar for the rest of his life.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

The Master threw back his head in what passed for a laugh. He turned to the hoodless man with the silver hand. “You could learn a thing or two from this one, Wormtail.” He turned to the young man again and commanded him, “Rise.” He stood, no longer shaking, but as composed as the Dark Lord. The snake let get of its own tail, slithering to its Master, sorting itself into a coil next to the altar stone.

“Now, as my newest servant, you will help me with the matter of our friend here,” he said, gesturing at the prisoner.

The grey eyes flashed, meeting the terrified eyes of the prisoner. The youth looked momentarily apprehensive, then a shield went up, a barrier, and he was unreadable again.

“Am I to do the killing curse, my Lord?”

“No, no. When the time comes, that will be my very great pleasure. And a quick death is not the type of reward he deserves. No, you will have the privilege of being first to curse him with a pain that will make him wish he were dead. You have just experienced it yourself. Was that your first time?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Having just been through it, you should have enough pain and anger in you to pull it off, even though you are so young. Just remember all of the agony you felt, how every bone in your body--”

“My Lord?” There was a slight gasp from the other figures; he had interrupted the Master. The Master looked at him through slits of eyes.

“Yes?” he hissed.

“I know of something else.”

The Master scrutinized him with interest. “Something else? The Cruciatus Curse is called unforgivable because it is the worst pain that can possibly be inflicted on someone. Can less pain possibly be appropriate for this traitor?”

“It is--from another country. I believe it would be unforgivable as well if the authorities in this country knew about it, but as yet, there are no laws regarding it.”

The Dark Lord smiled. “You have piqued my interest. Very well. I am feeling generous. You may proceed.”

“He needs to be untied.” Now Wormtail whipped his head around.

“My Lord--” he began, but with a flick of his hand, the Master had removed the bonds that held the prisoner to the stone. Cautiously, the prisoner sat up on the stone. He didn’t look inclined to move further than that, however, as he apprehensively looked at the young man who was planning to cause him pain.

The fair head turned toward his father momentarily, who nodded at him. He turned back to the prisoner, pulling his wand from his cloak and pointing it at him with a straight arm that did not shake.

“HARA KIRI!” he cried, and it was terrible to hear the hate in the young voice, newly changed, too high still to belong to a man, too low to be a boy. The curse struck the prisoner, and he was forced to position himself as if kneeling. He did not seem to be in pain as yet; he seemed to be going through a pantomime of picking up an object, tracing its invisible length through the air...

Is that a dagger I see before me?

...then taking the invisible object and moving as if plunging it into his lower left abdomen, grunting with pain, then pulling it across his midsection. The prisoner looked down, and that was when the screaming began. The screams were high and long, and the prisoner paused barely a second between them, clutching his stomach desperately and continuing to scream so loudly that it was not possible to hear the crashing waves anymore over the deafening crescendo of his pain. Finally, the prisoner blacked out from the pain, and the Master turned to the youth and slowly began to strike his hands together, smiling grimly. The other figures also clapped solemnly, as the fair head turned, looking around at them, seeing their approval and respect. When the applause had ceased, the Master said to him, “Tell, me, what did he feel?”

The young man glanced briefly at his father again and turned back to his new Master. “He imagined that he was plunging a large ceremonial dagger into his midsection and slicing himself open. Then he imagined that he saw his own entrails spilling out onto his lap--and he felt all of the pain as if it were actually happening.”

The Master nodded in appreciation. “The illusion of self-mutilation, of suicide. Well-chosen.” He turned to the other figures. “Witness the new generation! For fourteen years, no new Death Eaters have joined me, but now we will add to our numbers and increase our power!” He pointed his wand into the air and cried, “MORSMORDRE!” once more, and this time, an explosion sounded, waking the unconscious prisoner, who looked down, astounded that he did not appear to be bleeding to death from what his own hand had done, then looking up, to see the huge green skull and the snake, hovering in the sky over his head. He began shaking once more.

Suddenly, pounding footsteps were heard. Another hooded figure was running toward the circle, panting, “My Lord, my Lord,” repeatedly. When he was inside the perimeter, he threw back his hood to reveal that he was--

The youth’s father.

The fair young man turned and looked at the man he’d been regarding as his father, then back at the newcomer. The two men were identical.

The Master looked back and forth between the two men with narrowed eyes.

“My Lord,” the new arrival panted, pointing at the father already standing in the circle. “That man is an impostor! A spy!”

“No, my Lord!” the man said who had been in the circle. “He is the impostor!”

The two men glared at each other, wands out, when suddenly, the Master raised his wand and pointed it toward the man who had been there the entire time. “We shall see!” he cried, and all of the other Death Eaters converged upon him with their wands drawn, forgetting about the youth and the prisoner. The newcomer grabbed the prisoner and the youth and pulled them away from the stone, back in the direction he’d come. But Wormtail saw them go, and his voice was carried on the wind.

“Master!”

The Dark Lord turned; in less than a second, his wand was aimed at the fleeing trio.

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Harry screamed continuously, holding his scar, his head threatening to explode from the pain.

A flash of green light was the only visible thing in the world. It was a screaming green flash. The screaming went on and on and on and on and on...It was the sound of the world turning in on itself and disappearing.