Chapter Text
The compartment door slides open, and Draco Malfoy comes sauntering in, a smirk on his face as his flunkies Crabbe and Goyle put on their best glowers behind him. But instead of his usual slicked-back blonde hair, he's strutting around as a giant magical crow, as tall as a first-year, with black feathers and a sharply hooked beak very different from Sirius's gently curved one. Almost a year later and he's still prancing around in his Pureshape form, if only to prove he has it.
It still sends a little pang of jealousy through me.
"What do you want?" I say, not even waiting for him to open his fat beak.
"Manners, Potter," Malfoy says, buffing his prefect badge with the tip of his wing. "Unless you want detention – seeing as how I, unlike you, am a Prefect. Looks like even Dumbledore knows not to give the badge to a Noshape-in-waiting—"
"Shut up," I say, "or when I get my shape, you'll find out what a dragon can do to a little bird."
He sniggers, and it comes out faintly like cawing. "Everyone knows you won't be a dragon, Podmore."
"Don't call her that!" says Ron, his face turning red as he scrambles to his feet, gets his wand out as I try to hide my cringe. Potter is my Pureshape father's clan name. I can use it until I turn 17 – but if I don't get a dragon shape like his, I'll have to change it.
"Why not? We all know it's only a matter of time, Westley. You're both already fifteen. You're late. Even Crabbe and Goyle have their shapes now." They, like most wizards, are Halfshapes, turning into mundane animals, unable to use magic without turning back. And Goyle's a pig – he barely looks different from his human form! "You two are the last ones left out. Such a shame – but not a surprise. Everyone knew it was coming. Not even two years before you're both officially Noshapes. Aren't you petrified?"
"Get lost, Malfoy!" I yell.
"Oh, but it isn't Malfoy any more," he purrs. "It's Draco Black now. My Pureshape clan, like my mother before me."
"Get out!" says Hermione, her body changing, shifting into her own shape, the midnight-blue jaguar baring her teeth, just the faintest haze of magic on the air.
"Fine, Granger," Draco scoffs. Even he can't say her name with the dismissiveness and the anger he used to – because it isn't just a Muggle name any longer. Hermione is the first and only member of our trio to get a shape – and it's a new Pureshape form. Her jaguar form is a magical creature, larger than life, and never before seen in Britain. She's the first of her clan – and so the name Granger now means wizarding royalty, just like Black, Malfoy, or Potter.
He flounces out, slamming the door behind him.
~~
I stomp up the steps to my dormitory with Hermione by my side, flop onto my bed. I have stuff to unpack, but honestly, I just want to go to sleep. Lavender and Parvati are already here, Lavender hanging up her enormous mirror while Parvati empties a bag of carved wooden pieces onto her bed.
"Hi, Harriet," says Parvati. "How was your summer?"
"Ugh, the worst," I say, rolling back out of bed and opening my trunk hard enough that the lid clacks against the wall. "I'll just point out that the Daily Prophet spent all summer smearing me, and let you extrapolate to the rest of my so-called vacation."
"That's not true!" says Lavender, jerking away from her mirror. "The Prophet doesn't smear! They're just reporting the facts!"
"The Prophet published seven hundred and eighty seven lies about me this summer – I counted!" My voice sparkles with faux cheer. "That's eleven lies a day on average, with one day having as many as forty-three separate falsehoods!" I roll my eyes, staring flatly at her. "Really, just read the London Owl. Counting lies and wiping arses are the only things the Prophet's good for these days."
"You're just trying to make excuses after the Prophet exposed you!" Lavender shrieked. "And it's not gonna work!"
"Keep your fat mouth shut about Harry!" says Hermione, raising her wand.
"Lavender!" moans Parvati, looking up from the pieces she's assembling. "You promised you wouldn't fight with Harry and Hermione!"
"That was before Harry decided to mock the Prophet, which in case you forgot is where my mum works!" Her voice rises to a shriek at the end.
"Hey, she doesn't write the articles..." I say weakly.
"Shut up, you attention whore!" Lavender turns her nose up at me, then changes into a bunny rabbit, her robes falling to the floor before she hops through the gap in the curtains of her four-poster bed. She sleeps in her shape – almost everyone does, even Halfshapes like her.
"I'm sorry, she's just..." Parvati grimaces, trying to figure out what to say. "I mean, with her mom, y'know..." She brightens up, apparently deciding to just change the subject. "Isn't this pretty?" she asks instead, gesturing to the little wooden thing she'd built – a miniature tree, golden branches spreading out in a fan, sitting atop her bedspread.
"Uh, sure, but what is it?"
"It's a perch!" She smiles almost from ear-to-ear.
"Like for a bird?"
"Yup! I had my change over the summer – look!" She shrinks, her robes falling to the ground like Lavender's had as she turns into a bright pink-and-purple parakeet with a long, colorful tail.
"Wow." I smile at her a little weakly.
"Still a Patil, but at least I'm pretty. I changed a week before my fifteenth birthday – Merlin, was that a relief," she says in a newly musical voice, flying gracefully to her perch – and then she seems to realize something. "Uh... can you close my curtains?"
"Yeah, no problem," I say, waving my wand to close the curtains behind her.
"Thanks, Harry," she says. "Good night!"
"Good night," I echo, but I can't quite keep my weariness out of my voice as I sit down on my bed with a sigh.
"You okay?" Hermione asks, padding up to my bed in her jaguar form. She hops up on the bed to lie down beside me.
"I'm fine," I say, casting a privacy spell with a lazy flick of my wand. "I was expecting someone to believe the Prophet, and Lavender, well, we know her..." I smile at Hermione, and she smiles back up at me. Making fun of Lavender has been a group activity for us since the first week. "It's just... Malfoy was right. I really am the last one who hasn't changed."
"Don't worry about it, Harriet," Hermione says, resting a warm paw on my leg. "I was late too, remember? You're only at fifteen and a month – I didn't change until fifteen and four. I know it must feel awful, with everyone else already changed, but don't forget that you're the youngest of the year. Black was just being an arse like always. Plenty of people change a little late. You still have two years left."
"I know, I'm just... nervous."
"Hey, I was nervous too! More nervous, actually — I mean, a lot of Muggleborn are Noshapes, so your chances are a lot better than mine were."
"You were one of the first, though! And I'm one of the last. There's just something scary about that!"
She doesn't answer – instead, she just leans toward me and licks me right on the face, rough and prickly. I giggle and shove her off. "C'mon, Harry, stop fretting. Can't let it keep you awake – after all, you get your first change in your sleep, right?"
"I guess..." Hermione lets her head fall into my lap, and I scratch behind her ears.
"Go on, Harry," she says. "Go to bed."
"All right," I say with a smile. Hermione nuzzles me, before hopping off, back to her own extra-size bed for the night. She closes her curtains with the quick tug of wandless magic.
I sigh, changing into my pajamas, casting my bedtime spells and then tucking myself in.
Hermione is my best friend. But, sometimes, I'm not totally sure she remembers how gnawing the anxiety is.
Pureshapes like Hermione and Draco are at the top of the Wizarding world. They change shape into magical creatures, larger-than-life and beautiful, able to perform feats of wandless magic unattainable by nearly anyone else. In Britain, they get special rights and privileges – the Wizengamot's Hall of Clans gives Pureshapes control of one house of the legislature. And so many of the greatest witches and wizards are Pureshapes – Albus Dumbledore with his magical lion shape and Lady Voldemort with her dark-scaled basilisk are the stuff of legends.
I always thought I would probably be a Pureshape, because my father was one – James Potter, of the Potter clan, was an actual dragon. Big, flying, winged, fire-breathing, so cool. I've been fantasizing about my change ever since I found out I was a witch. My dad used to fly in and out of his dorm through the windows, they say, just as good at Quidditch off his broom as on it. I still hope to be a Potter... but I am starting to worry.
It wouldn't be so bad to be a Halfshape, I suppose. I'd still lose my family name – become Podmore, like Malfoy said – but at least I'd get some respect. Every night, I go to bed hoping for some change – any change. But for some people, it never comes. Most people who will change, do so before their 15th birthday. But it's only at age 17 when you officially become a Noshape. Someone who can't change.
In some circles, just a step above Squibs and Muggles.
I sigh. See, this is what Hermione told me not to do. Improving my magic and growing more powerful can affect my shape. But fretting won't change anything.
I close my eyes and fall quickly asleep.
~~
I wake up already screaming.
It hurts it hurts it hurts like nothing I've ever felt before – like my skin is liquefying, or maybe burning away. Every part of my body from the chest down feels squashed, mushed flat like a cartoon character by an anvil, and I almost think it's a nightmare except even nightmares never hurt this bad!
At first, all I can think is Voldemort did this, but there's no one here – I'm alone in my four-poster bed, thrashing and rolling around almost on automatic. As I start to hear the other girls wake up, I fall out onto the floor, landing with a thump that feels almost comforting in comparison to the agony I'm in.
"Harry?" asks Hermione, springing from her bed as a cat-shaped blur to rest her paw against my chest. "What are you feeling? What's wrong?"
I just gape at her, unable to talk, my mouth just flapping open and shut. Something in my head shifts – don't look at her! says a strange impulse – and I can't close my eyes but I roll myself over, rubbing my nose into the rough wood floor.
"D-do you think she's changing?" asks Lavender uneasily, and some very bitter part of me wants to make a snarky comment about oh, you didn't care that much before my body caught fire if only I could speak. Instead, I just claw at the ground, retching, but nothing comes up.
"I don't know," Hermione says, her voice strained with worry. "The first change always hurts, but... it's not supposed to hurt this much." Her words seem to harden, turning calculated and decisive. "Go get Professor McGonagall," she orders.
I retch again, and this time I vomit – except it's not vomit, it's a gooey yellow-green liquid, and it hisses when it touches the ground, foaming up, a pungent smell wrinkling my nostrils as a thin column of smoke rises.
"Is it eating through the floor?" says Parvati, her voice rising to a shriek.
"Scourgify!" casts Hermione, and some of it goes away – but not all of it, and it's still dripping from my mouth and burning a hole in the floor, and she keeps casting it over and over again but it doesn't seem to help much.
My whole lower body is burning now, and that smushed feeling just keeps getting worse and worse until something snaps – bones breaking, my pajama pants shredding – the spring of tension finally releases with a punch that knocks someone off their feet – Parvati shrieks – a strange tingling feeling passes over my whole body from head to toe, and then suddenly, blissfully, everything is normal. I feel good. Soothed, if maybe a little bit cold.
I know... I know something important happened, but I don't have the energy left to know or care what it is. But it's cold here. I'm so, so cold...
I wriggle my way to the fire, curling up in front of the comforting heat and light, and quickly fall back asleep.
~~
I wake again with a start, as though a jolt of electricity had passed through me. I squirm in place, turning my head around, only to see Professor McGonagall pointing a wand in my face.
She's still in her nightgown, and wearing strange mirror glasses that I've never seen her in before. The other girls are gone, and Professor McGonagall looks very, very worried – almost scared. "I'm sorry to wake you, Miss—" Professor McGonagall pauses, grimacing. "Harriet. But it seems as though you had a rather violent first change – are you feeling okay? Any lingering pain, anything seem wrong?"
"So it was a first change then?" I smile – sort of, my mouth doesn't quite feel normal, so I'm not sure what that actually looks like. I can't quite manage the jubilance I might expect, but there's a feeling of warm pride nevertheless. I wiggle around a little, raising my head from the floor. "I feel just fine now, nothing still hurts... though it's weird, I don't quite know how to move, I'm not really finding my limbs here..."
I look back – I'd say over my shoulder, except I don't seem to have shoulders. I don't seem to have... anything, actually, aside from just body, and lots of it, a long winding body curled up untidily in front of the fire.
"Um. Well. I guess I don't have any limbs. So I'm not a Potter, I'm some kind of snake, that's weird... though I guess the Parseltongue makes a lot more sense now. If I'm this big, I must be a Pureshape, but..." I turn back toward Professor McGonagall, my tongue flicking out quizzically. "What am I? Do you know?"
"You... appear to be a basilisk," Professor McGonagall says. "There is only one living basilisk clan, and they look very much like you, so..."
"You think I'm a Gaunt?" I rear back, my mouth falling open in disgust. There's a bitter taste in my mouth that I slowly realize is venom. "Like Voldemort?"
"Yes," she says solemnly. "If you like, I can cast the verification spells."
"Do it," I whisper.
She opens a small book – Pureshape Clans of the British Isles – flips to a bookmark, and then mutters a few words at me with a wave of her wand. A white glow surrounds me.
"That's it?" I ask, my voice weak. "That's all there is to it?"
"That's all there is to it," she says. "A positive result. Congratulations, Miss Gaunt."
"T-thank you, I guess," I mutter, lowering my head. Merlin, how did this happen? "Do you mind if I, uh..." I bob my head toward Lavender's giant mirror.
"Go ahead," Professor McGonagall says. I slither up to Lavender's giant mirror, and look myself over.
I am a basilisk – no other snake is so large, and the glow of magic in my eyes makes it unmistakable. My scales are almost mirror-polished, sparkling with reflected firelight. They're exactly the same shade of green as my eyes, except for a single scale just above my right eye – where my scar would be – that's a coppery red color. And I have a hood, my neck scales flaring out as a bright, brilliant headdress. My mouth falls open as I gaze at myself in the mirror. I truly am beautiful this way.
It's also clear that I'm powerful. I have to be at least thirty feet long – I'm looking at myself in Lavender's mirror, but my tail is still in front of the fire on the other side of the room. There's a certain expectant feeling in my eyes, hungry magic just waiting for a push, that would unleash my killing gaze. I flick my tongue out, and when it returns to my mouth, I can taste the air in remarkable detail. I extend my enormous fangs, see the yellow-green venom glittering at their tips. And, looking around the room, I realize that I'm seeing something beyond normal vision – passing my eyes over Professor McGonagall, the still-warm beds, and the fire in the hearth, I realize that it's heat. Yes, I'm certainly dangerous – I can be terrifying, if I want to be.
Slytherin's Basilisk was almost the same color as me, and only a little larger, but it had no hood and dull scales, wet and glistening, no match for my beauty. No, I've only ever seen one basilisk like me before: Lady Voldemort, the black-and-red scaled basilisk of my nightmares, and her deceptively beautiful copper-scaled alter ego Cecilia Gaunt, a powerful politician. And she's my new clanmate.
I don't want to be connected to her this way. It horrifies me. But when I look in the mirror, I don't see her. I see my own beauty, my own power. My scales sparkle like jewelry, my body moving smoothly and gracefully, in a way that accentuates how dangerous I am. So I can't even begin to care about who my clanmate is. I love my shape.
"Are you ready for me to record your shape?" Professor McGonagall asks. I look over my shoulder to see her taking out a heavy, leatherbound book. I saw it once before – when Hermione changed. The Hogwarts student register, where my shape – my clan – will be recorded.
"Yes," I whisper, lowering my head. This is all happening so fast, it's hard to believe I can really be ready for any of it. But I love what I am. Why wait? "I'm ready. Go ahead."
She opens the book, leafing through it to my page. But the moment she raises her quill, Albus Dumbledore appears in a flash of Phoenix fire. "Hold, Minerva," he says gravely. "I have reason to believe this might not be her true shape."
Professor McGonagall is so flummoxed, she nearly drops the book. "Albus, you know it's impossible to turn someone into a Pureshape, or change their clan! If Miss Gaunt wishes it recorded, there is no reason not to!"
"The injury that Voldemort inflicted upon Harriet is unprecedented," Dumbledore says sagely. "Their connection is without comparison. We already believe it made her a Parselmouth. Is it so surprising that it made her a Gaunt, too?"
"It didn't," says a voice from the stairwell. I turn, flinching, to see Professor Severus Prince, the horrible Slytherin potions master, looking almost normal despite it being four in the morning. He strides into the room with his cloak billowing behind him, eyes fixed on Professor Dumbledore. "It's hereditary. Her mother was a Gaunt." He turns to look at me, a glare in his eyes – and then he freezes, dead still, just staring at me. "You look just like her," he whispers, sounding oddly vulnerable.
"My mother?" I whisper, my head tilting almost to 45 degrees. "How?" I ask, my voice breathless. "Everyone said she was a Noshape!"
"She hid it," Professor Prince says, not quite making eye contact with me.
"Why didn't you tell me this?" Dumbledore says, a certain rumbling in the words.
"Lily asked me to keep her shape secret," Prince says, his usual coldness returning in force. "Clearly, she never trusted you with it. And I didn't think it mattered. With how much Pot—Harriet takes after her father, I thought she'd either be a Potter or nothing." His gaze returns to me, though never quite directly at me, skimming across my scales like he's worried he'll die if he looks at me straight on. "I certainly never expected this," he breathes.
Neither did I. No one had ever mentioned anything like it. And yet, somehow, it's easy to picture: my mother as a big green snake, carrying me around the house coiled in her tail, telling me stories in Parseltongue and letting me grab at her tongue. I'm not following in Voldemort's footsteps – I'm following in hers. And even though basilisks are cold-blooded, it makes me feel warm inside.
"Why did my mum hide it?" I ask.
"Three reasons: the Dark Lord, the Order of the Phoenix, and Hogwarts," he says. "Even then, there were rumors about the Dark Lord's connection to Cecilia Gaunt and the Gaunt clan. Openly joining the clan would earn her the Dark Lord's interest, when she wished to be neither recruited nor hunted."
What would that have been like? Going to school at the height of the first war, a Muggleborn Gryffindor with pro-Muggle beliefs, and then becoming a Gaunt? My hood folds, my body curling tightly behind me. That must have been awful.
"It's the other two that need explanation, Severus," Dumbledore says.
Professor Prince seems almost relieved to look back at the Headmaster, away from me. "She already hoped to join you, Albus, and your Order of the Phoenix. She feared that if she showed her clan openly, you'd think differently of her." He sneers. "As you already seem to."
"I see," Professor Dumbledore says. He sounds sad, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "And Hogwarts?"
"Gryffindor House would hardly appreciate her turning into a giant green snake. She feared ostracism. Bullying." A rather bleak smirk passes over Prince's features. "I suggested she change house, but she wouldn't hear of it. Concealing her shape was her solution." He looks back to me. "Though staying in human form for so long certainly wore on her. Eventually she took to casting privacy and security wards around her bed so she could at least sleep in her shape."
"Who knew about this?" Dumbledore says, anger creeping back into his tone.
"I knew, and she said she'd told Alice. But that was in our fifth year – I don't know who she told after that."
"Why did she tell you?" I ask, tilting my head, my forked tongue flicking out quizzically. "Sir?"
"We... grew up in the same city," Professor Prince says, sounding a little strange again. "So we saw each other in the summers."
"Do you have any evidence of this?" Dumbledore asks. I'm starting not to like how betrayed he seems, as if my shape is a personal affront. "Photographs? Notes? Anything?"
"There's a picture," Professor Prince says, eyeing me for a second, "but I don't think she needs to see—"
"I would like to see it, Severus," Dumbledore says, in tones that brooked no argument. "And I can't imagine why you would object to showing a young girl a photograph of her mother."
Without a word, Professor Prince turns away, his cloak billowing out behind him, and strides down the stairs. The moment his footsteps fade from hearing, Professor Dumbledore turns to me.
"I think it might be wise for you to follow your mother's example in this matter," he says, "and conceal your shape." Professor McGonagall raises an eyebrow, turns to stare at Albus, but his eyes are fixed solidly on me.
"No," I say. "I'm not going to hide who I am."
"Why not?" he asks, looking distinctly disappointed. "Do you think your mother made the wrong choice?"
"I don't," I say, glaring at Professor Dumbledore with my hood flaring out around me, "but my mum's situation was different. Professor Prince said she wanted to hide it from Voldemort, from you, and from Hogwarts. But Voldemort's eye is already on me – this can't be worse than being the Girl-who-Lived. You already know, so that one's definitely off the list. And I'm sure a lot of people won't like this, but it won't be the first time I've been ostracized at Hogwarts, and I doubt it'll be the last. I can deal."
"And this... this is truly worth it to you?" he asks, sounding angry, frustrated. "To join her clan?"
"But it's not her clan," I say, my hood flared, my fangs out. "It's my clan. My mother's clan. And I have no intention of letting Voldemort or anyone else take it from me."
Feet stomp back up the stairs. "Well put, Miss Gaunt," says Professor Prince, seeming to relish in calling me a name other than Potter. My fangs retract, and I nod my head. Has he... ever praised me before? A photo is clutched in his outstretched hand as he steps into the dormitory once more. I glance around the room – McGonagall also seems approving, while Dumbledore looks unhappy but resigned. "Here, take a look," he says, before holding the picture out in front of me.
Standing on a grassy field, a basilisk with sparkling green scales is curled gently around a much younger Professor Prince in his enormous black bat shape, wings wrapped tightly around himself. She seems happy, her mouth open but her fangs hidden, her tongue occasionally flicking out to touch his nose or his huge long ears.
I can't help but stare for a little while.
"She does look just like me," I breathe. "I'm not even sure I can tell the difference." Then my mouth curls into a fang-baring smirk. "Aside from the fact that you'd never let me hug you like that."
Strangely, he doesn't bristle at the remark. "I'd just gotten my own shape — she's congratulating me." He gives me another of those looks, where he doesn't quite make eye contact. "You can have a copy of the photo, if you like."
"Yes, please," I say, nodding. "I haven't seen much about what my mum was like away from my dad. Lupin and Sirius are nice, but they're more his friends than hers."
"Lily's best friends were Alice Shacklebolt, Marlene McKinnon, and... and they're both dead, or Alice may as well be. So there's no one left to talk to." For some reason, this earns another glare from Dumbledore. "But she kept diaries, and a photo album. I'm not sure what happened to them after the war."
"Everything left from the Potter home is in storage at Gringotts," Professor Dumbledore says. "Harriet can check with the goblins next time she's in Diagon Alley. Now, Severus, I'd like to see that photograph."
He takes out his wand and casts a duplicating charm, setting the copy gently down on my bed. Then he turns and hands the original to Dumbledore. "Satisfied?"
Dumbledore waves his wand – detection charms, really? – and I can see his face falling before he hands it back to Severus. "Indeed," he says stiffly. Then he turns to me. "Harriet, are you certain you want to go ahead with this? Everyone knows your name. Harry Potter, the Girl-who-Lived. You are a symbol of hope for the whole Wizarding world! And this is the name your father gave you. Now... especially now... are you sure you want to change?"
"Professor, you know I didn't want this to happen. I wanted to be like my dad so, so much. But I changed anyway. All that's left to do now is deal with it. I know there are people who believe in me, but... why can't they believe in the real me?
My eyes scan across the room. Professor Dumbledore still seems sad, disappointed. Professor McGonagall seems pleased – I bet she thinks it's brave of me. And Professor Prince has a sparkle in his eye that I've never, ever seen there before.
"I'm not Harry Potter. I'm Harry Gaunt."
"Then go ahead and record it, Minerva," Dumbledore says.
Professor McGonagall reopens the register and quickly scrawls my new clan name, before closing the book with a thud. "Is that all, Headmaster?" she asks, her voice just faintly frosty, apparently annoyed that this took so long.
"Yes," Dumbledore says. "Good night, Miss Gaunt," he says, an unpleasant curl to the name. They walk off down the stairs, Professor McGonagall and Professor Prince looking much happier than the headmaster.
Not long after, my poor roommates shuffle up the stairs and back into the dorm. Hermione seems fascinated by me, pacing around my body before standing in front of me.
"So... you're a Gaunt?" Hermione asks quietly. "Are you okay? How do you feel?"
"Yeah," I say with a nod. "I'm Harry Gaunt. And I feel great about it." I look over my body again, my sparkling green body, big and powerful, and my mouth pulls open. "I... I love my shape."
Hermione pauses for a moment, just staring at me, her eyes dilating. Worrying about Voldemort, no doubt. But after a moment, she blinks slowly, steps a little closer, and then presses a paw to my scales. "Congratulations, Harry," she says.
"Thanks, Hermione." I lower my head to rest atop hers, and we stay like that for a few moments before she steps away.
"Congratulations," Parvati mumbles. "But why did it take so long? It only took two minutes for Hermione, and they didn't make us leave the room for that. And what was Prince even doing here?"
"Unless you wanted to possibly be petrified," Hermione says, "leaving the room was a good idea."
"No one got petrified," I say, slithering over to my bed, setting the photo down on my nightstand. Do I have enough room to curl up under the covers, or...? "Professor McGonagall had my shape confirmed in like thirty seconds. It took so long because Dumbledore wanted me to hide my shape for some reason. Told him no."
"Crazy old coot," grumbles Lavender, getting back into her bed.
"He doesn't like snakes, that's for sure," I say, getting into bed. It's not quite big enough – even coiling myself up, my tail still trails onto the floor, but that's OK. "Good night, everyone. Sorry about the fuss."
I pull the curtains closed, and – wait, how did I do that without arms? My mouth opens in a fang-y smile. Pureshape telekinesis. Wordless, wandless magic. I know a lot of Pureshapes can do it, but I didn't realize it would be so easy. I closed the curtains – and, actually, I put that photo away, too – without even thinking about it.
So what can I do when I do think about it?
I hiss a quiet warming charm, and my bed heats up, nice and comfortable. I lay my head down on the pillow, and fall almost instantly asleep.
Notes:
I'm really more of a spider girl, but noodles are nice too. :)
Thanks to GlassGirlCeci for beta reading! She gets a photo of Lily and Severus.
Chapter Text
Morning comes slowly. I feel as exhausted as if I'd fought another dragon, my muscles faintly sore. And I had the strangest dream...
"Hey, Harriet," says Hermione, pulling the curtains open. Green reflections trace across them, clashing horribly with the maroon. "It's almost time for breakfast. How... how are you?"
I raise my head, only to see my green snake scales sparkling in the sun through the windows. Oh. Wow. Okay. Not a dream, then.
Hermione's expression turns worried as I sluggishly pull myself out of my nice warm bed, coiling up on the ground in front of her. Is she afraid I'm having second thoughts?
"I feel like I could sleep for a month," I admit. "That took a lot out of me." I flick my tail, smiling at it. "But at least I'm still beautiful."
Hermione's expression softens into a smile as she watches me stretch out. "You are," she whispers. "You're so shiny, it's almost like you're a sculpture, like you're made of some kind of metal. But we really should head down for breakfast..."
I flick my tongue lazily at her. "I won't want to change back, if you keep talking like that," I tease, and Hermione blushes. But then I blink, staring at my scales. "Er... How do I change back?"
Hermione's smile sparkles with sudden humor. "Focus on feeling the differences between your shape and your human body," she says. "Like what you felt for your first change. I'm honestly not sure what it would be like for you, since you're so much bigger – feeling small, maybe? Or maybe feeling your arms and legs come back? I don't know. I hope you don't have to imagine that pain again, that looked really bad..." She looks more thoughtful. "I have a book about it somewhere if you can't get it right away. It's supposed to be different for everyone."
"Aside from the pain, I... think the big thing is that I felt like a jack-in-the-box? All crumpled up..." I close my eyes, trying to remember it: that anvil-flattened feeling, my body smushed together. As I imagine, something changes. I tumble to the ground, my long snake body yanked out from under me, and I thrust my arms forward to catch my fall – I have arms again! I open my eyes, looking out over my body, small, pink, and human once more.
"Oh! That worked!" I stand up and then hug her, spinning her around with a strength that still feels more than human. "Thank you, Hermione!"
"N-no problem," she stammers as I let go of her. She's blushing brighter than I've ever seen her before, even worse than that time I caught her snogging with Krum in an empty classroom. But why...
... oh, right, I've got no robes on. And Hermione always has been shy. I smile sheepishly at her as I open my trunk, get myself dressed. "Anyway! Time for breakfast?"
"Time for breakfast," Hermione enthusiastically agrees, not quite making eye contact.
~~
"Merlin, this feels awful!" I say, rubbing my legs through my robes as we walk down the many, many stairs between Gryffindor Tower and the Great Hall. "Not painful, but I don't want to feel scrunched together all day! Is it this bad for you? Because I am sorry for every single time I made you turn human for something."
"For me, it feels strange, but it's never been that bad. I certainly don't resent having to turn human..." Hermione seems more at ease now that I'm back in human form, looking just like always. I suppose it would be unsettling, your best friend turning into a giant basilisk. "They say the bigger and heavier your shape gets, the worse it feels to change back. I'm only a little bigger than human, but you're..."
"A lot bigger, yeah," I complete. "So I'm just stuck with this." I groan. "Once I figure out that spell to make my robes vanish and reappear when I change, I am gonna be in my shape every single second I don't have to be human."
"Might want to wait for it to filter through the rumor mill. I bet you'd get students pointing and staring."
"If it's not on the cover of the Prophet today, it will be tomorrow," I grumble.
"You've still got at least a day," Hermione says. "Lavender didn't have a chance to owl them the news yet."
We both giggle. Poor gossipy Lavender.
Then we turn the corner, and we're in the Great Hall. It's already bustling with activity – Hermione let me sleep in, with my change. But when we reach our usual spot at the Gryffindor table, Ron is bouncing on the edge of his seat, eyes wide. "Is it true, what Lavender said? Are you really–"
I roll my eyes and cast a privacy charm, flicking my wand at Ron and Hermione to include them in the conversation. I like my shape, but I am not ready to explain it to half the Gryffindor table, no matter how disappointed they look. Then I smile, sit down, and fill him in.
"So you really are a snake," he says, fidgeting in his seat. "But you're not as big as that one from the Chamber of Secrets, right?"
"Not... quite as big," Hermione says, grinning at me.
"Could be worse," I quip. "Could be a giant spider." I raise my hands toward him and wiggle my fingers, and Ron obligingly flinches away.
"Not funny!" he yells.
I giggle. "Sorry. But, um... more seriously, could you maybe warn Ginny for me?"
"Why would she care?" Ron says. "She doesn't mind snakes. And she already has her shape!"
I grimace, sharing a glance with Hermione. "After her bad experience with... my clanmate... I figure it might be good to warn her that there'll be another Gaunt around."
He winces. "Blimey, right... yeah, I'll tell her. Thanks for reminding me—"
But Ron cuts off as a big long-eared owl with an intense red-eyed stare lands on the table in front of me, holding a letter on fancy parchment out to me. I take it, and it tilts its head, as if looking down its beak at me. Then it turns around and flies ponderously away.
I break the red wax seal and open the letter.
Copper-red ink sketches out an emblem of a rearing snake. Below that is a name, Cecilia Gaunt, and below that, in smaller text, Gaunt Library.
Oh. Oh, Merlin. A letter from Voldemort herself. I get the faintest sense that I shouldn't be reading this, and yet I cannot look away.
Below that is the letter, written in black ink with graceful, flowing penmanship.
Dear Harriet,
I received the notification of your status from the Ministry this morning. I must admit, I did not expect this – nor did anyone, I would imagine. I dearly wish I could have seen your Headmaster's face when he found out.
Despite myself, I laugh. She isn't wrong, after all – Professor Dumbledore did make some ridiculous faces.
But despite our past, our places in society, and our politics, we are clanmates, and I fully intend to treat you as such.
Please come to the Gaunt Library – our clan seat, a place that's as much yours as mine – for clan orientation as soon as you can. It houses our Clanstone, a powerful enchantment made many centuries ago that will protect all our clan within the library's borders. I understand that you might be afraid of me, given the rumors, but I assure you: You have nothing to fear from me there or anywhere, as I would never be so foolish as to harm a clanmate. I understand you might be hesitant to come alone, so please do bring a trusted companion along with you, someone powerful and experienced, who can protect you and verify the truth of my words. I would suggest your headmaster, if he is willing.
You can come at whatever time is most convenient to you, but do send an owl ahead.
With warm welcome,
Cecilia Gaunt
The signature is loopy, almost a little silly, reminding me of any number of Hogwarts girls. But she isn't. She's Lady fucking Voldemort, and I have no idea how to handle it.
I stare at my friends – they've read it over my shoulder – and they look just as bewildered as I do. I catch Dumbledore's eye, only to see that he seems troubled. I almost get the sense that he's able to see the letter from all the way up at the high table. He takes out a big, flamboyant peacock-feather quill, scribbles a note, then folds it into a paper airplane and sends it winging its way over to my plate.
Come to my office after breakfast – we need to discuss how you'll deal with your clanmate, the note says. If that letter is from her, bring it with you. I might have some Fizzy Chips for you.
"What are you gonna do?" Ron whispers, his face all screwed up.
"I don't know," I say. "I just hope Professor Dumbledore can help."
~~
I frown up at the big gargoyle. It's time to meet Dumbledore, and there are dragons battling in my stomach. He's not still mad... is he? I'm in my human form, so hopefully he won't be feeling too reminded, at least...
I glance down at the note. He really isn't subtle when it comes to giving passwords. "Fizzy chips," I say. The gargoyle obligingly swivels out of the way, and I start to walk up the spiral stairs. His office door is already open when I get there, to reveal Dumbledore surrounded by tall stacks of paper, looking worried and tired. I guess he didn't get a lot of sleep after I woke him up.
"Hello, Harriet," he says gravely. "I'm glad you were still willing to come see me. I... I apologize for my rudeness after you discovered your form. I meant no harm, I was simply... shocked."
"No, I get that," I say, fidgeting a little. "Lots of reasons you might be shocked. I'm still kind of shocked, a little. And I really don't know what to do with this..."
I hold out the letter, and Professor Dumbledore takes it with shaky hands. He reads through it quickly, then again, humming at it.
"What do you think of the letter?" he asks.
"I think... she sounds a lot more reasonable than I would expect, and I'm not sure why – does she really think I'd forget who she is? But, I mean, she offered to let you come with me, and she wouldn't normally do that, right? And I definitely don't want to be alone with her – I mean, she said I'd be safe, but I don't know any of this stuff, I don't know if she's lying or anything..." I take a deep breath. "Er. Sorry."
"No, no, I asked for your input," Professor Dumbledore says happily. "I can hardly complain of receiving so much of it. I don't believe she lied outright in this letter, though perhaps only because she expected me to read it. What Cecilia says about the Clanstone is very likely true – they are an ancient form of magic clans use, meant to enforce unity in the clan's private spaces. It is a certainty that Clan Gaunt has one, though I'd need to inspect it myself to be sure it can guarantee your safety. And even she is likely cowed by the universal magical penalties for murdering someone of her own clan, though they would not entirely prevent her from allowing other people to kill you."
I nod. "Okay. That's... better than I expected, at least." I roll my eyes. "She has to know I'd never actually go meet her, though."
"Er..." Professor Dumbledore clears his throat. "There's something she didn't say directly, but very clearly implied." He hangs his head. "You are legally required to attend your clan orientation."
"What?" I rear back, staring at him, and for just a moment he fixes paralyzed in place before I realize what I'm doing and release him. "You mean I have to go hang out with fucking Voldemort?"
"Please understand, the law never envisioned a case like yours. In dangerous clans, orientation is required so that older clanmembers can teach younger ones how to control their their inherent abilities. And Clan Gaunt has been registered as dangerous for seven hundred years." He closes his eyes. "I myself wrote the law that requires it. I promise, I had no idea this could happen."
"So you think I can trust Voldemort to teach me anything?" I say indignantly. "What if she teaches me wrong, so I hurt someone and get arrested? Why does the law just assume my clanmate is trustworthy?"
Dumbledore winces. "Because one's clan almost always is," he says sheepishly. "And your shape does mean that it will be hard to keep Voldemort from having more of a presence in your life. Should you attend a meeting of the Hall of Clans, for example, you will have to sit beside her in the Gaunt clan box. There are a few other scenarios in which it might be required by law." He inclines his head. "This is one of the reasons I had suggested you conceal your clan, actually."
My gaze flickers down to the floor. "I... still don't regret not doing that," I say, "but this definitely makes it a harder sell. Can you protect me?"
"Yes," he says. "As Cecilia alludes, you must be allowed to bring a trusted companion for all legally required portions of your clan orientation. So I will go with you, and I will be able to protect you. But I would suggest leaving as soon as possible, to give Cecilia less time to plan for your arrival. If you're willing, I shall owl her that you'll be arriving after lunch – one in the afternoon."
My head spins. That's four hours from now. I'm meeting Voldemort in four hours. "Go ahead," I whisper bleakly.
Dumbledore nods. "Good luck, Harry," he says. "Return to my office when you're ready to depart."
~~
I'm stretched out in front of the fire in the common room, basking in the heat as I flick my tongue nervously at Hermione.
The Tower is empty – everyone else is at lunch in the Great Hall. But I can't eat, knowing that I'm about to face Lady Voldemort again. And Hermione is kind enough to keep me company, sitting in her favorite chair by the fire.
"So have you thought about what you're going to do with your votes in the Wizengamot?" she asks. She's been trying to distract me all morning, but this time might actually work. I'd almost forgotten, with all the other things on my mind, that Pureshapes control a whole branch of government – the Wizengamot's Hall of Clans. Citizen legislators, casting votes by owl since so few can attend sessions in person full-time. I've seen Hermione sitting in that very chair and doing her Wizengamot paperwork too many times to count.
"You think V— er, my clanmate will let me vote?" I ask.
"She can't stop you." Hermione grins, just a little mischievously. "A clan needs majority agreement to instate a voting structure – and your clan is just two people. So either you get your vote, or you can deadlock the clan. But I don't think she'd make you do it – that would look terrible."
"What should I ask for? How many votes would be fair?"
"The Gaunt clan, with you as a member, has four votes: one individual vote per member, plus two for the clan. The only fair way to split those up is, you get two and she gets two. If she offers you anything worse than that, deadlock."
I nod, hissing gently as I rest my head on the rug.
"And... I know you've never been too interested in politics, but I really do think you should do your own research and cast your own votes."
"But most people in the Hall of Clans delegate to other members, right?" I ask. "So why can't I just delegate to you?" I slither closer to her, my head curling around the padded arm of her chair. "You're my best friend, and you're already making your own votes."
"Most members do, but..." She swallows. "Harry, you're the Girl who Lived! Half of wizarding Britain looks up to you – you can be powerful and influential all on your own! But the only way you can do that is if you show you're making your own decisions."
I tilt my head, thinking about it. That does sound attractive. I always wanted to make my own mark on the wizarding world, for something other than getting blown up as an infant. I just never knew how.
"And, I mean, it's not that hard to make your own votes!" she adds, seeming heartened by my apparent interest. "You've seen me doing my Wizengamot work – it doesn't take any longer than our Runes homework. Every week, I sit down with the Register and a few newsletters – the London Owl's, and Dumbledore's Phoenix Party newsletter, and a few others about Muggle and Muggleborn rights. I compare them and consider what I prefer when they disagree, and then I write a few inches of parchment with my votes and owl it off to London. You don't have to do it alone, either – sit with me, and we'll talk about it."
"All right," I say, rubbing my head against her arm. "I... can't make any promises yet... but I'll think about it."
Hermione smiles back, patting me on the top of my head. "That's all I can ask," she says. Then her grin turns a bit more mischievous. "So, have you thought about how you're going to use your new privileges? I love getting to go to London all the time, and—"
She cuts off as an invisible bell tolls around my neck. My alarm charm. My head droops as Hermione suddenly looks concerned.
"I have to go," I mutter. It's time for me to meet my clanmate. To meet Lady Voldemort. And I am terrified.
Hermione rubs my head one last time. "Good luck," she whispers.
I slither out of the common room, toward the Grand Staircase – and right into a little first-year girl who screams and run away. "Sorry!" I call, as her little footsteps recede down a side hallway.
And yet, strangely, I feel a little better.
As I steel myself to meet Lady Voldemort, it's good to remember that I'm scary now, too.
Notes:
This chapter was beta read by GlassGirlCeci, who receives a beautiful but pompous long-eared owl.
As you can see, I'm going the politics route with this! Politics tends to get a bit of a bad rap in the fanfiction community as it's often an excuse for pompous posturing, insular nobility, and Dumbledore being very, very evil. I'm trying a different take on it here, so hopefully this will be a bit more interesting than the usual fare.
Chapter Text
Professor Dumbledore freezes for a moment when I slither into his office, staring at my green scales.
"Still not over it?" I ask weakly.
"Still getting used to it," he says, clearing his throat. "Are you ready to leave?"
"Pretty much," I say. "Have you been to the Gaunt Library before?"
"Yes, several times, though that was fifteen years ago," Professor Dumbledore says. "Never to the Library itself, but Cecilia has a political office in another building on the grounds. I've been there on Wizengamot business. That's where we'll be Flooing to."
"What's it like?" I ask.
"It is... very beautiful," he admits. "But I'd like to leave ahead of you, if you don't mind. If there is an ambush, I would like to be the one to spring it."
I nod. "Thank you," I say.
He tosses a pinch of Floo powder into his tall wizarding fireplace, steps in, and recites "Gaunt Library!" before spinning away through the flames.
For a moment, I'm just standing there, alone in Professor Dumbledore's office. It seems... smaller, somehow, without its larger-than-life occupant. I take a deep breath, and then follow him into the fireplace. "Gaunt Library," I say, and slither through the flames.
The Floo is much easier to manage in my shape. I emerge smoothly and gracefully from the fireplace, rather than tripping all over myself as I would in human form.
The fireplace is a large and rather sparse room, the whole far wall a huge window looking out over a beautiful day. The sun is bright, the sky blue and cloudless. Over the grassy hill is a big four-story building made of white stone, sitting at the edge of a small lake. Its elaborate architecture reminds me very much of Hogwarts. The Gaunt Library. It is beautiful, and it's strange to think that the place is Voldemort's – let alone that it's mine.
A hallway leads off to the left, a sign above the door reading Political Offices. And straight ahead is a large staircase, descending through the floor to a pair of glass double doors. Professor Dumbledore is standing there, waiting for me. I slither down the stairs, and we exit through the doors together, out onto a stone terrace overlooking the grounds.
At the edge of the terrace, looking out over the railing with her hood flared, is Cecilia Gaunt. Lady Voldemort. My worst enemy – and my clanmate.
She turns around to see me, and then stares, her eyes widening.
"Harriet," she says, her voice rapt with surprise and awe. "It is an honor to have you as my clanmate." She slithers over, still staring at me as she moves, looking at me from every angle. I hiss disbelievingly at her, and she pulls back. "I don't mean to crowd you, but you look beautiful like this. I've never had a clanmate before, or any family worth the name. I'm so happy to finally have you, even if you're the last person I would have expected."
"You had a clanmate before," I say, my voice low but strong. "You had my mother." Until you murdered her.
"What? She – Lily Evans was a Gaunt? I didn't..." Her eyes widen, her tail falling slack onto the ground, her hood pressing itself to her neck. "Oh, that's what happened!" she hisses, her voice verging on Parseltongue in her wonder. "She made the Dark Lady into a Clanslayer! After killing a clanmate and then trying to kill a daughter of the clan – no wonder the Dark Lady got blown up, Magic herself abhors a Clanslayer! She got off lightly!"
She looks honestly awestruck. I... don't know what to say, watching her stare wonderingly at me.
"So you acknowledge Lady Voldemort as a Gaunt?" Dumbledore cuts in. I hiss unhappily – it feels strangely intrusive, him cutting in like that.
My clanmate's head snaps toward Dumbledore, her hood flaring and her fangs extending. "She has always appeared to be a Gaunt, and so presumably the magical penalties of a Clanslayer would apply. But she has never spoken to me, nor been formally acknowledged— nor will she ever, especially after she murdered a daughter of the clan. I've told you all this a hundred times, so I can only assume you're asking to make me repeat all this in front of Harriet." Then she smirks and turns to me. "Sorry about that," she hisses in Parseltongue. "There are some things I just can't say in front of Albus Dumbledore. If we get the chance to speak in confidence, I'll explain everything then."
"Er... okay?" I don't want to spend time alone with Lady Voldemort, no matter how sane she seems.
"Lily Evans must have been a truly remarkable woman. You realize that she could have stopped the Dark Lady at any time, just by showing her clan? And yet she didn't. She wanted the Dark Lady to die, and she was willing to die herself to accomplish that. Vengeance, and... justice... above all." She lowers her head, looking into the distance. She genuinely seems shamed. "I wish I could have known her," she whispers in Parseltongue.
It's... strange, watching her seemingly mourn for someone she herself murdered – someone she had no idea was her own flesh and blood. A small, bitter part of me wants to ask if she would have even pretended to care, if Lily had truly been a Noshape. I can't quite bring myself to believe this, but still I hope she's sincere. It's an oddly solemn moment – somehow private, even with Dumbledore glowering in the background.
"Anyway, you need to present yourself to the Clanstone, and then I'll show you how to use your abilities." She slithers toward the stairs to the rest of the grounds, where two stone pillars mark a ward boundary, a faint reddish shimmer just visible between them. "My new clanmate and her guest are permitted to access the footpaths and the Library terraces for the next two hours," she hisses, and the shimmer fades to nothing.
We all walk together along the cobbled path toward the Library, my clanmate and I slithering side-by-side with Professor Dumbledore trailing behind.
"How was your first change?" she asks in Parseltongue. Is Lady Voldemort really trying to make small talk with me? It's honestly bewildering.
I search my mind for a reason not to answer her, but find none. "Awful," I admit. "Hurt like nothing I've ever felt before."
"I'm sorry," she hisses. "Mine was the same way. I think it happens because every part of a basilisk is highly toxic to humans, and we're not totally immune to that until we've finished our first change. So we're poisoning ourselves from the inside out until the change completes."
"That makes sense. I think my body must have been a bit mixed-up then, too – I remember venom dripping from my human mouth, which... I don't think I can do now?"
"No, I don't think I can do that either," she says, tilting her head. "Certainly wouldn't be easy."
Professor Dumbledore clears his throat. "Harriet?" he asks. "Could we speak for a moment?"
I let myself fall back, moving from standing beside Voldemort to standing beside Dumbledore. "Yes, what is it?"
He casts a simple privacy ward that looks like a heat shimmer in the air. "I'm not sure you should be talking to Cecilia in Parseltongue," he says.
"Really? Why not?"
"I can't understand the conversation. I wouldn't know if she says anything she oughtn't."
I flick my tongue annoyedly. "She's just making small talk, Professor. Nothing you need to worry about. If she says anything that bothers me, I'll tell you. Until then, it's fine."
"That doesn't mean you should be using Parseltongue, Harriet," he says, looking disappointed. "Think about the message it sends."
I hiss, flaring my hood. "I'm a giant green snake, Professor. Of course I speak Parseltongue. The only message that sends is that I'm comfortable in my scales – which I am, and I won't pretend otherwise. And who am I supposed to be sending this message to, exactly? There's no one else here but her and you."
"But, Harriet, you know Parseltongue's reputation – that it's seen as the language of Dark wizards. I—"
My fangs pop out. I thought Dumbledore had gotten over this. "No, Parseltongue is the language of serpents. Like myself. Is that all?"
"Y-yes," he says, faltering a bit at my anger.
The privacy spell fizzles as I slither through it, back to my old spot with Voldemort.
"What was that about?" she asks.
I know I probably shouldn't answer that... but, honestly, I'm so mad at Dumbledore that I don't really care. "He was having a cow about me speaking in Parseltongue," I hiss.
Much to my surprise, she laughs, a rumbling, hissing rasp that probably sounds a lot less endearing to Dumbledore. "Get used to it. He found every possible way to whine about my shape when I was your age."
I sigh. "Wonderful. I really thought he'd gotten over this."
We slither up a set of stairs, and onto the terrace outside the Library itself. Cecilia leads me over to a thick crystal window set into the white stone. It looks down into a small pit of intricately carved stone, though the walls are blackened and pockmarked as if by some kind of corrosive.
At the bottom sits a translucent green stone big enough for a human to sit on, faintly glowing.
"The Clanstone," Cecilia says reverently. "Open," she hisses, and the window pops up and then slides slowly away from the pit.
"It's beautiful," I whisper.
"Yes," Cecilia says, before looking back toward the entrance. "Albus, come here," she calls. "I'm sure it would set my clanmate at ease if you could validate that the Clanstone can protect her. But examine it only. If you tamper with it in any way, you will regret it."
"I see," Dumbledore says. He steps up to the opening, raises his wand, casts a few spells I don't recognize, and then frowns. "This is an uncorrupted Clanstone," he says, "and a very strict one."
"Tell her what that means," Cecilia says, her hood extending smugly.
"The Stone, and the wards it connects to, have as their highest priority protecting clanmates from each other and from outsiders. It will banish or assault anyone who attempts to injure you. It's able to protect even clan events that take place off the property. And if your clanmate attempts to injure you, or to assist anyone else who is, it can temporarily remove her from the ranks of the clan, and eject her as it would an outside attacker."
"So I'm safe here?" I ask.
"You will be," Dumbledore admits. "If the Clanstone accepts you."
"Okay, so how do I make it do that?" I ask. Dumbledore shakes his head – he doesn't know. I turn to my clanmate. "Vol— er..."
I freeze. I'd almost, almost managed to forget who I'm talking to. Not anymore. I can't believe I just said that.
I look back toward Lady Voldemort fearfully, but she doesn't seem to react badly. Instead, she folds her hood down, looking away. "Please do call me Cecilia," she says. "We are family, after all." She smiles, and she almost seems tender until she shoots Professor Dumbledore a sidelong look. "Besides, your companion's already invited himself to."
"I, ah..." What do you say when a Dark Lady tells you to call her by her first name? "I guess, but... What do I need to do for the Clanstone to accept me?"
"Lower your head over the opening, drop venom onto the stone, and recite I, Harriet, am a member of the Gaunt clan."
I look to Professor Dumbledore, and he nods. Okay. I slither to the edge of the pit, resting my neck on its rim as I open my mouth wide. It's a strange feeling, dropping venom – like I'm pushing on the insides of my mouth. "I, Harriet, am a member of the Gaunt clan," I recite in Parseltongue.
The stone doesn't respond in words, but it glows brightly – a strange, penetrating, magical light that seems somehow to be assessing me. I feel a tingle across my skin – and then the wards of this place settling into my head.
I now know, instinctively, where everyone is. I can feel Cecilia and myself, who the wards trust as clan members, and Dumbledore, marked as a visitor who Cecilia mistrusts, who the wards are constantly poised to attack or eject if he steps out of line. I can feel the house-elves, one in the political building and two in the library. I can feel Cecilia's snake Nagini resting in her office, and the faint shadows of animals, insects in the grass and fish in the lake and woodland creatures in the forest on the edge of the grounds.
I smile – fangs out, tongue slack. It's good to feel like I'm in control. It's good to feel like I'm home.
Cecilia slithers closer to me, our bodies almost touching, and for a moment I tense up – and then she sets her head atop mine in what some part of me knows is normally a gesture of familial love. "Congratulations, Harriet," she hisses, "and welcome to the clan."
"Thank you, Cecilia," I whisper back as we separate.
She smiles encouragingly at me as she seals up the Clanstone and then turns back toward Dumbledore and I. "I am now legally required to teach you about your inherent abilities," Cecilia says. "I'm sure dear Albus would much rather I give you a lecture and leave it at that, but unluckily for him I am the one who decides your training." She extends a single fang. "Let's go hunting, Harriet."
"You're allowed to insist on reasonable training," Professor Dumbledore says warningly. "I will object to hunting."
I blink. "Why would hunting be unreasonable?" I ask, tilting my head quizzically at Dumbledore. "Hermione goes hunting all the time. That's normal for predatory Pureshapes, isn't it?"
"Exactly," Cecilia says, sounding cross. "It's normal. And there's no better way to teach you how to use your abilities, than by using them. I daresay most clan orientations are hunting. I have no interest in empty threats, Albus."
"Hunting with a basilisk is highly dangerous, especially an untrained one. This puts you in extreme danger – much moreso than in an ordinary clan orientation."
"You know we can't hurt each other with our inherent abilities, even accidentally. We are, after all, both Gaunts." She turns toward him, her fangs showing. "Though you have no such immunity. And as you pointed out, being in the presence of an untrained, hunting basilisk is terribly dangerous. So if you insist on accompanying us, you must conjure yourself basilisk glasses, formally acknowledge the danger you are putting yourself in, and that you and you alone are responsible if you are injured or killed – not Harriet, not me, and not the clan."
"Why shouldn't you be responsible, if you attack me or trick Harriet into doing so?" he asks indignantly.
"Really, Albus? 'Companions attend dangerous portions of the training at their own risk.' It's your own law. Stop pretending you don't know it."
"And what possible justification could you have for requiring basilisk glasses?"
"'The clan may mandate reasonable safety precautions,' Albus." She taps her tail against the ground. "This playing the fool is not endearing."
"I hardly consider them a reasonable safety precaution," Professor Dumbledore says. "They do nothing to prevent Petrification."
"No. They can't. Nothing can. It is still better than the alternative." She coils up in what I instinctively realize is strike posture. She's angry. I had no idea Professor Dumbledore could wind her up like this. Why is he doing this? "But if you don't want to risk Petrification, you know where the Floo is. We both will be just fine on our own. Or I could simply eject you."
I tense up. Professor Dumbledore is being pretty ridiculous, and Cecilia has treated me shockingly well since I got here – but that doesn't mean I've forgotten who Cecilia is. I still don't want to be alone with her.
Professor Dumbledore feigns offense. "I could hardly leave Harriet—"
"No? Then make your declaration – which I am allowed to require under your law, and you know that – conjure your glasses, and stop being so petulant. We don't have all day, and I will eject you if you keep playing games." She looks over to me. "It's only for my clanmate's sake that I haven't yet."
"Very well." Dumbledore smiles slightly. He raises his wand, and the tip starts to glow. "I declare—"
"Hold on," Cecilia says. "I have no intention of letting you twist your words. Instead, repeat this: I declare to Magic that I acknowledge that hunting with Harriet is dangerous, that I accompany her at my own risk, that I will wear basilisk glasses during the activity, and that neither Harriet, Cecilia, nor the clan are responsible if I am injured."
He repeats Cecilia's words grimly, the tip of his wand glowing as he speaks. A small paper with his words transcribed forms at wandpoint – Cecilia snatches it away, and hands it off to a house-elf.
"Thank you," she says coldly. "This obnoxious visitor is permitted to access the forest and grounds for the next two hours," she hisses, and I can feel the Clanstone's magic respond, accepting the command and granting access. She turns toward the footpaths leading out to the forest, and starts to slither. "Let's go."
Cecilia leads us across the beautiful lawns of the Library and into the dark, dense magical forest, every bit the Forbidden Forest's equal. Some new part of me thrills at the wildness of it, at the feel of leaves crunching beneath my scales and the faint buzz of creature magic and the scared little sounds of small animals fleeing from my presence. This place is still clan property, it's still within the wards, but even the best-kept magical forests have lives and secrets of their own. And this forest, I can tell, is not well-kept. Why would it be? No matter what creatures might come to live in this place, they could never be the equal of a basilisk.
She tells me I'll be practicing my abilities on rabbits, mesmerized and lined up for the purpose – "don't want to fill you up too soon," she jokes. In my basilisk shape, they're a dainty little bite each.
We start with my eyes – specifically, with my killing gaze. To my surprise, it takes effort to kill, and the resulting dead rabbit isn't great eating – it's cold, limp, and oddly crunchy. Still, it's all too easy for a decision I can make in an instant that would end the lives of potentially dozens of wizards at once.
"I'd actually suggest not using that unless you're in real danger," Cecilia says, dipping her head.
"What?" I ask. Wouldn't have expected Voldemort to suggest not killing. "Why, because of the taste?"
She snorts. "Well, that too. Your killing gaze is your greatest, most effective natural weapon. Your others all take time, and this is instant. Your others can all be blocked, and this can only be blunted unless your foes blind themselves completely. So know what this feels like. Practice it. Be prepared. Don't be afraid to use it if you have to. But it's irreversible, and every Ministry bureaucrat and preening busybody in Britain – like Albus here – will be all too quick to condemn you for it, even as a last resort."
I sneak a glance at Professor Dumbledore. He's scowling, probably because we're talking in Parseltongue again. No, he would not be happy if I killed.
Next is my paralyzing gaze. My eyes are naturally poised right on the edge of releasing it, even in human form. It's so easy to use, in fact, that basilisks often use it inadvertently in moments of anger or shock – as, I haltingly admit in Parseltongue, I've already discovered. With Professor Dumbledore. Cecilia laughs at that one. But, as she demonstrates, it's finicky, and hard to use. If eye contact is broken – even temporarily, as by a passing branch or tree trunk? The paralysis ends, and the rabbit escapes. That means it's only useful when hunting a single target, and even then, it can be risky. In pitched combat? Forget about it.
The rabbit is delicious, though.
Finally, Cecilia suggests my Petrifying gaze as my principal natural weapon in both hunting and combat. It's easier to use than the killing gaze, but it's almost as effective, permanent for the duration of the fight but – importantly – reversible. Not that importing Mandrake Restorative Draught out of season is cheap.
"Don't worry about the cost," she says. "The clan has a budget if you need it."
"Why?"
"If you Petrify someone accidentally," she says, before switching to Parseltongue. "Or even if it's on purpose. Offering the Draught is a great way to persuade recalcitrant families to cooperate." She flares her hood proudly. "Keeps them from telling tales."
"I... see." It's a ruthless thought, and it sits poorly – and yet there is some basilisk part of me that thinks it's just common sense. I focus on my meal instead. The rabbit tastes just as good comatose, but it's not quite the same. "I miss the way the other rabbit wriggled and fought against me," I admit, running my tongue across my lips.
"Keep that kind of thought in Parseltongue with Dumbledore around," Cecilia hisses with one fang out. I almost protest – but then I see Dumbledore struggling to keep his expression neutral, and I lower my head.
"Good point," I admit.
I've gotten plenty of experience with my venom by this point – I have, after all, been biting the animals I ate – but Cecilia also shows me how to spit it, a torrent of venom that can stun from twenty-five meters away, that chars and blackens trees and undergrowth where it hits. Like with the killing gaze, Cecilia suggests only using it as a last resort in combat, not for hunting. Dumbledore sullenly offers that Voldemort loves the tactic.
Finally, Cecilia talks me through the steps of hunting for deer – scenting it, finding it, stalking it, surprising it, Petrifying it, and consuming it. It's complicated, and she discusses it in great detail, but it seems oddly natural – as if the skill were engraved permanently into my shape instincts, whether or not I knew a damn thing about it.
And then it's time to put it into practice, and I have never felt so alive before.
I raise my head into the air, flicking out my tongue to smell what's nearby. There's a doe not far away, and I turn toward it, still constantly smelling for it. As I get closer, it's easy to see – a bright warm mass in my heat vision. It's looking the other way, and so it bolts before I can Petrify it, but I don't care. All it can do is tire itself out – I'm faster than it is, and I can keep this up for far longer.
Cecilia follows me in complete silence, seeming almost as eager as I am, with Dumbledore struggling to keep up in his human form.
It's more psychological than I had expected, hunting prey. Watching it, predicting its fear, understanding where it will go and being there first. I drag the chase out longer than I perhaps need to, enjoying the thrill of it. But it's still all-too-soon that the doe is staring at me head-on, trembling in fear.
At that very moment, Dumbledore trips over himself, stumbling noisily into the leaves and then swearing loudly. I can't help but think it was deliberate – that he wanted it to get away. But the doe doesn't run. Dumbledore was too late. It's already Petrified.
I rustle through the woods and start to eat, biting into it whole and starting to swallow it down, just as I was taught.
The doe is delicious – all the more so because I hunted it myself. My head turns as I eat, searching out my companions' faces – but when I light upon Albus Dumbledore, his expression is of horror, sanctimony, and utmost disgust.
I can tell what he's thinking, just as I could the deer – I tried to stop her from doing this, but now it's too late. Cecilia got to her, and she's becoming a monster.
I scoff, and turn away – instead looking to Cecilia, who's slithered up to me on my other side. I'm not the only one in this forest who can think like a basilisk, after all.
"You set this up on purpose," I hiss, the Parseltongue words intelligible if muffled by the deer. "You wanted him to make an ass of himself."
Cecilia tilts her head. Apparently, she has enough respect for me as a basilisk that she doesn't try to protest. "I gave him the opportunity to show his true colors, yes. But only he could choose to take that opportunity."
My head bows in understanding. I can give the deer the opportunity to bolt the wrong way – but only it can make that fatal mistake. "Why did you give him the chance?" I ask.
"I think it's important for you to understand who he is and what he truly feels for you," she says, curling up beside me. "I know he once cared for you, and I certainly hoped that he still would – but I've known Albus Dumbledore for fifty years, and I am not surprised."
I pull the doe further into my mouth. "I am," I mutter sullenly.
"I know. I'm sorry."
It's the strangest feeling in the world, to hear Lady Voldemort say those words, and actually believe them.
Notes:
This chapter was beta read by GlassGirlCeci and Videocrazy, who receive delicious free-range rabbits.
Chapter Text
"Let's get the political stuff over with now," Cecilia says. "You're prepared to discuss a voting structure, I hope?"
"I am." It's bright and sunny out here, quite the adjustment from the dark and gloomy forest we'd been hunting in. We're all standing around a glass table under a beautiful oak tree that's swaying gently in the breeze. "I talked it over with Hermione before I left."
"Good," Cecilia says, looking up toward the political building. "Then I'll fetch my proposal."
A small piece of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill zoom out from one of the windows – a piece of Gaunt Family stationery, like the one she had used for her letter to me, except that this one just says Clan Gaunt, and the crest and heading are in black ink, not red. This is meant for the whole clan? Interesting. Professor Dumbledore and I bend down to read it.
The Clan of Gaunt united has chosen a voting structure:
Each clan member controls one individual vote. Cecilia and Harriet each control one clan vote. Delegation is forbidden.
At the bottom is Cecilia's signature in copper-red ink, with a blank line beside it for mine.
"It's only fair to split the votes evenly," Cecilia says, and I nod. That's just like Hermione told me. "And there is no unused vote clause, so you needn't worry about having to keep up with my votes."
"It is not fair to forbid delegation," Dumbledore says. "Harriet is a busy student. If she should wish to delegate, there is no reason to prohibit it."
"Really?" Cecilia asks. "And this isn't just you hoping for the PR boost of having the Girl who Lived delegate to you?"
Dumbledore coughs. "It is, of course, her decision—"
"I won't delegate to Dumbledore," I say. "If I were going to delegate to anyone, it would be my best friend Hermione."
Cecilia smiles. "That's good thinking, Harriet. It would be safest for you to delegate to a friend – an equal. Nevertheless, I won't agree to a voting structure without the no-delegation clause. I believe it's in your best interest for you to cast your own votes. You could be powerful in your own right, if the country saw you were making decisions for yourself."
"Hermione is a good choice, too," Dumbledore says fondly, before frowning at Cecilia. "You shouldn't try to strong-arm your clanmate this way. Harriet has a stronger spine than that." He draws his wand and points it at the parchment. "I'll get rid of this—"
"Stop!" I say, and Dumbledore pulls back his wand. "I talked to Hermione about this, and she said... basically the same thing Cecilia did. I wasn't going to delegate my vote." Dumbledore looks disappointed, but I just roll my eyes. There's only so many times he can pull that in a day before I stop taking him seriously.
"Very good advice," Cecilia says. "I've met the Lady Granger a few times at summer session – I disagree with her on almost everything, of course, but she does have a good head on her shoulders."
"Is there any other reason I shouldn't sign this?" I ask Dumbledore.
Dumbledore, looking resigned, casts a few detection charms on the parchment. "There is not," he says.
I pick up the quill – it's a bit weird to use it with no hands – and sign my name rather shakily to the bottom. Harriet Gaunt. Cecilia smiles and nods, calling an owl down from her office. It doesn't take her long to have it sealed and winging its way off to London.
"Congratulations, Lady Gaunt," Cecilia says with a smile. "You'll find that you can accomplish far more than you think – especially if you take everything Albus says with a grain of salt."
I tilt my head skeptically, and Cecilia smirks, fangs-out.
"For instance, are you aware that the Phoenix Party has a bill out that means that, if you want to eat at a restaurant in your shape, they could make you sit outside like an ill-behaved dog?"
"What?" I hiss, spinning toward Professor Dumbledore. "Is this true, Professor?"
"Cecilia is hardly portraying it fairly," he says, shaking his head. "You must understand that requiring struggling businesses to spend so much money accommodating us Pureshapes, who are so powerful and privileged already, is a senseless burden upon them. You lose nothing if you attend dinner in your human form, do you?"
"Current law does not require businesses to spend any money at all," Cecilia says, "even when—"
I interrupt her as my fangs pop out. "Professor, it hurts to turn human!" I say, my hood flaring. "Why shouldn't I be able to eat in my shape?"
He winces. "Harriet, you will grow used to changing back to human in time. I, for one—"
"No, you won't," says Cecilia, one fang poking out again. "It will get worse, as you get older and larger. Albus has yet to realize that few Pureshapes are like him in his strange affinity for the human."
"Remember that you are among the largest of the Pureshapes – that very few are even slightly inconvenienced by turning human."
"Which is no reason at all to force it on those of us who are," Cecilia says sharply, before hissing. "But enough squabbling. Harriet, I'd like to show you around the Library and the grounds, and teach you how to vanish and restore your robes through your transformation." She smiles. "There are some tricks for Gaunts, it'll be easier if I show you."
I nod. "Okay. Sounds good."
"However..." She squirms a little, looking nervous. "Albus is going to have to stay here." My hood flares as I glare at her, and she breaks eye contact. "Most of the library is private, and I don't trust him not to try something if we leave him unattended outside. Besides, he's been obnoxious all day."
"So this is not a legally-required portion of the orientation?" Albus asks pointedly.
"No, it is not," she says, before switching to a hiss. "But I do think we need to clear the air between us, and we can't do that with him here."
"I do want to talk, but..." I lower my head.
"Remember," Cecilia says, "Albus Dumbledore himself has verified our Clanstone. You have no need to fear for your safety – right, Albus?"
"Ah..." He looks away with a hum. "In theory, you should be safe, but I daren't trust that." He stares imploringly at me. "Harriet, we should really return to Hogwarts. You have no need to put yourself in danger for a simple house tour."
"So little faith in your analysis," she mocks, her voice near to a hiss. "Albus, if she's in danger from anyone here, it's you. I'm sure you know what the reaction would be, if Harriet were attacked on the grounds of the Library – and that it would be to your benefit, not mine."
"What?" I hiss in Parseltongue. "I know you don't like him, but... seriously?"
"Yes," Cecilia hisses. "I know you're fond of him, but he can absolutely be that underhanded when he thinks he has something to gain. That would be why I haven't let you out of my sight since you got here. You have no idea what that man has done to me."
"What about what you've done to me?" I ask challengingly.
Cecilia eyes Dumbledore nervously. "We can talk about that when he isn't eavesdropping," she says. "He doesn't understand Parseltongue, but he can show his memories to someone who does."
I stare between the two of them nervously. I do want to talk to Cecilia – I want badly for her to explain herself. Because in the time we've spent here, she's acted for all the world like a doting elder clanmate, even though I know she's Voldemort. Dumbledore wants me to return to the castle, and normally I'd listen to him, but he's spent the whole day quibbling over the pettiest things, taking every opportunity to start arguments with Cecilia, and staring at me with disgust in his eyes when he thinks I'm not looking.
The pulse of the wards reminds me of what I already knew – that I am absolutely safe here, even if she and I are alone. I have no reason not to go with her. No reason but fear.
And, well. There is a reason I'm in Gryffindor.
"I'll go," I tell her, before looking back to Professor Dumbledore. "You'll still be here, right? If something happens?"
If I thought he looked disappointed or sad or angry before, that had nothing on how he looks now. "Yes, Harriet," he intones gravely. "I will be."
"Fine," Cecilia says. "But stay on the terrace or in the lobby. Don't try to go anywhere else. Revoke this visitor's permissions," she says, and I can feel the wards lock him into the political building. Then she turns to me, and smiles. "Let's go," she says, slithering onto the trail toward the library.
"So," I ask as I follow, eyeing a shrubbery as if a Death Eater might leap out of it, "is it time to have that conversation now?"
Cecilia, too, turns her head away. "Can we leave that until the end?" she asks. "I know it will be a difficult conversation for both of us – I can't imagine we'll be in the mood for anything else, after that."
I look down at the brick of the path. "Good point."
~~
The Library truly is a wonderful place.
The building is beautiful – Cecilia says it was built just twenty years after Hogwarts, as Salazar Slytherin's personal residence. It shows. The design of the place is shockingly familiar, with all the cute little features I love about Hogwarts – the ornate railings, the sculptures, the stained-glass windows – everything. It already feels like home, even though I've never set foot inside before.
The first floor and the basement are meant for relaxation, play, and entertaining – I can invite guests here if I want, apparently, though Cecilia asks me to warn her before inviting any members of the Order. (She promises to do the same for Death Eaters.) The basement actually goes under the lake – there are huge round windows looking out into the water from below, and Cecilia shows me that if you hiss open to them, you can swim straight through the glass. Which we do, and then spend a little while just swimming around in the lake. I had no idea basilisks could swim at all, let alone that it would be so fun.
The rest of the Library is private. Family-only, enforced both by the wards and by the fact that it has an enormous old tree connecting the floors instead of a staircase. Basilisks also enjoy climbing, it seems.
The actual library part is huge – it takes up the whole second and third floors. I thought the Hogwarts library was big, but it has nothing on this, on all the knowledge the Slytherin and Gaunt families collected over a thousand years. It's an enormous maze of dark-wood bookshelves, with little reading nooks by the windows – strange little nest things to curl up in when reading in basilisk form, and squashy armchairs and little desks for reading in human form. It's crammed full of books on any subject I can think of, from normal things like Hogwarts-level Charms or Transfiguration to esoteric bits of ritualism, spell creation, Dark Arts, and the like. Some of the books, Cecilia warns, are fragile, and others can be dangerous. But, for the most part, I'm free to read and learn as I wish. Hermione would absolutely love this place – it's a real shame she isn't allowed to go up here, though Cecilia tells me I can let her read the books as long as she doesn't take them out of the building.
On the top floor are spaces for study and rest. There's a balcony tiled in warm black stones meant for sitting out and basking – it's shockingly pleasant. Much to my surprise, Cecilia has a specially-warded room stocked with Muggle artifacts – there's a record player, a telly, a film projector, a huge library of books, movies, and music, and a stack of today's Muggle newspapers. She explains it as knowing her enemy – but, nevertheless, swears me to secrecy on the subject.
Finally, she shows me to a long hallway illuminated by a stained-glass skylight. We pass by one door that has a copper-red nameplate reading Cecilia. The next door down, she opens – revealing a huge, beautiful bedroom, with wall-to-wall windows looking out over the lake. There's a nest to sleep in, a huge human bed, bookcases, a desk – it's the nicest bedroom I've ever seen.
"There are guest rooms here for all of us," Cecilia says. She conjures an emerald green nameplate reading Harriet, and sticks it to this room's door. "We're not supposed to use the clan library as a permanent home – only for family meetings, or emergencies, or travel, or in times of real need. But, well... there are only two of us. When a clan gets this small, those kinds of rules are easily bent."
It's strange, looking at this as someone who's never really had a home of my own beyond Hogwarts – knowing it could be mine and yet I can't have it. I don't need all of this – sharing a room with Ginny and Hermione at the Burrow has always been more than enough for me. But I don't know if I've ever felt more bitter about having to go back to the fucking Dursleys every year.
"I grew up in a Muggle orphanage during the second world war," Cecilia says, bitter yet reverent. "I'm told you were Muggle-raised, so I... I'm sure you can imagine that it was not a fun place to grow up. Hogwarts was my first escape from it, but this place – my old bedroom, next door – was the first place I ever called my own. My first real home."
I bow my head, flattening my hood. It's strange to think that we're the same in that.
"Anyway, I... don't know whether you'd actually want to stay here, especially not with me around. I'm sure your childhood wasn't like mine. But I did want to make clear the option was open."
I only barely manage to stop myself from scoffing at that. Cecilia doesn't need to know what my childhood was like, I remind myself.
"And it does seem like a good place to practice your shifting – it's a private space with a mirror, after all. Accio training robe."
The door to her bedroom pops open for just a second, and a black robe and pants zooms out and hovers in front of her.
"These can stretch big enough to fit you even in basilisk form," she says, putting the robe on herself to demonstrate. It turns mostly red. "But as you can see, they show when they've been stretched by this red color" — she takes the robe off — "that stays even once it's been shrunk again."
She hisses at it, and it turns back to black, then resizes just a little.
"Here," she says, passing the robes over to me. I wriggle them on, over my big basilisk head.
"What about the pants?" I ask.
"Oh, we'll talk about them later. They're even trickier, because..." She squirms a little, pulling her tail closer in. "Most of our bodies are equivalent to just a human chest. When we transform back, our legs only start growing right at the base of our tails."
She holds her tail up, pointing out where the legs would be – right, that is all the way at the end.
"So we need to retract our bodies almost all the way in, keep our legs scaled as they form, and then when they're almost the right size and almost the right place unvanish your pants." She sighs. "It's a pain. I mostly wear robes and dresses so I don't have to worry about it. Muggle shirts and pants are the worst – there's basically no room for error."
I tilt my head. "That's... fascinating."
"Thankfully there was a book about it somewhere around here," she says with a smile. "And the practice robe. I would have ruined so many robes figuring this out on my own. Anyway, how about you turn human and just feel how your body moves?"
We spend a long time practicing. Cecilia demonstrates a couple times – turning back to human form in slow motion, vanishing and unvanishing a long copper dress that's a very close match to her scale color. My first try with the practice robe, I unvanish it way too early and end up stretching it. Then the second time, I unvanish it too late and flash Cecilia. And, yes, that is every bit as mortifying as it sounds.
"After what you saw of me last summer, I don't think you have any need to be shy," Cecilia hisses, and the reminder of the graveyard and of our looming conversation brings the whole mood down.
I practice alone in the bedroom after that, watching myself change in the mirror a few times before I'm bold enough to try it in front of Cecilia again. By then, I'm decent enough at it – I barely ever screw up too badly, and when I do, she usually has some helpful advice for me.
When I've just about figured things out, Cecilia gives me a shoulder bag, apparently an old clan design – it's meant to stay attached through transformations, and I try it a few times just to make sure I know how to use it. The bag feels a little odd, sticking just above my hood in snake form, but I can't deny that it'll be useful and I definitely appreciate the gift, despite the weirdness of receiving it from Lady Voldemort.
We decide not to bother trying the pants today, beyond just making them reappear after I'm fully transformed – I can learn the finer details of timing later, when I'm better at handling the change with just normal robes.
Which means that there's nothing left to do but have that fateful conversation. No words are spoken – but we both know it's time.
It's oddly heartening that Cecilia looks just as scared of it as I am.
Notes:
This chapter was beta read by Videocrazy, who receives a practice robe. Stretchy!
Sorry about the delay – I know this is later than my preferred every-second-week posting cadence. There are two reasons it took so long. First, I actually wrote the rough draft of this chapter and Chapter 5 together, only splitting them after they were written. This resulted in a 6.6K behemoth of a chapter, which obviously took a little while to get right. Then, after that, one of my beta readers was busy and wasn't able to look at this. Sorry about that, though I think I should be back on track after this.
Expect my next posted chapters to be Shapes 5 (as I mentioned, it's already rough-drafted, though I think it needs some work) and a second chapter of my Dishonored / Thief cross. After that I'm less sure, but maybe Shedding Lionskin?
Chapter Text
We walk to a particularly beautiful room, where the top of the climbing tree spreads out beneath a stained-glass dome. The doors to the balcony are open, letting in a pleasant breeze and the sounds of birds chirping at the feeder outside. Cecilia and I lie down on large, circular leather couches ringing the tree, long enough for us basilisks to stretch to our full length.
"Before we start," Cecilia says, staring into the leaves of the climbing tree, "do you know what a clan secret is?"
"No," I say. "I assume I can't talk about them?"
"Not quite. You can talk about them – there's nothing stopping you. When all this is over, you could go back to the castle and tell Albus anything you want. I hope you don't, but you could." She lowers her head. "What you can't do is testify about it. Which is important, when we're talking about some of the stuff we're going to talk about."
I see. Any honest discussion about her past would involve her confessing to countless crimes, and so she wants to be sure I won't just go straight to the DMLE with it. I can't help but think this ought to be her problem, but I know she won't agree to talk without this, and it's... not so terrible a concession, that she'll only tell me these things if I don't send her to jail with them. Besides, I can still tell it all to the Owl if it's bad enough.
"I would like this discussion to be clan secret. Obviously, there are some things I can't say if it's not. Are you okay with that?"
"Yes. It's a clan secret."
"It's a clan secret," she affirms, and I can feel my link to the Clanstone pulsing in my head. Our agreement has been recorded. "Now..." She sighs. "I've been thinking for half an hour about how to start this, and I... I think it'd be better to ease into it."
She makes eye contact again. Her eyes are so large and red – there is definitely something unnerving about looking a basilisk in the eyes, even though I'm a basilisk too.
"Like I said before, I never had a family who were worth the name – or at least any family I knew about. My mother came from inbred feral Noshape near-Squibs, who lived in a shack with a dead snake nailed to the door, who hated me because my father is a Muggle. Said father, on the other hand, was rich and prosperous, but he abandoned me when I was still unborn because my mother had been dosing him with love potion for their entire marriage. I understand that – but I still can't forgive him, even now." She takes a deep breath. "I have... desperately wanted a real family, for as long as I can remember."
There's a sour taste in my mouth, like I'd swallowed my own venom. This is too familiar for comfort. Is she serious? Or is this just her intelligence reports talking? Surely she has people spying on me...
"And so when I treat you like a favorite niece, when I say that I want you here, that I want you to trust me, that I want us to be a family – every bit of that is absolutely genuine." Her voice is bitter, and so very sad that it's hard to believe it's not sincere. "And I hate that I may well have already thrown that chance away, because you're the Girl who Lived, and I am Lady Voldemort."
The frank admission passes through us like a thunderclap. I stare, fixed as rigidly in place as if she were paralyzing me.
"I am a Dark Lady. I have done things that are by any standard unforgivable. I have done those things to you, to your friends and family. To my own clanmates. The only thing I can say in my defense is that I didn't mean for things to happen as they did. In the beginning, my intentions weren't so awful, and... by the end, long before I did anything to you or your parents, I was not sane. And, Harriet – I am sorry."
She looks me right in the eyes as she says it, and I know she's an amazing liar, but it's still so hard to disbelieve in the drooping arch of her neck or in her timidly flattened hood. Even if it is just as hard to believe that Lady Voldemort is actually, honestly apologizing to me.
"I'm sorry I attacked you. I'm sorry I killed your parents. I am sorry for all the stupid run-ins we had over the years. Merlin, I'm sorry about the whole war. It was a stupid plan to begin with, and I... I never meant it to go as far as it did. I got so many witches and wizards killed, and for nothing. I wouldn't have let it happen, if only I'd been in my right mind."
I curl myself back, into what I only realize after I've done it is attack posture. There is some part of me that is relieved – and another part that is terrified that I'm believing any of this. "And you are in your right mind now?" I ask, the squeaking of my voice betraying my confusion. "You seem it – but I know you weren't three months ago. And if you were insane before, who's to say you won't be again?"
"Yes, I am now sane, and no, I shouldn't regress again. I... know why it happened, now. I performed some rather unwise rituals on myself that caused the degeneration. It was reversed because..."
She sighs, looking out toward the balcony, watching the birds.
"I was told that you had destroyed my old diary, a few years back?" I tilt my head – what could that have to do with it? – but nod. It's so strange now, looking back on it. I had admired the version of her in the diary back then, before I found out who she was. "It undid one of those rituals, and restored some of my sanity. That's why I was saner this summer than I was four years ago." Her eyes flicker to me for a moment, before flickering away again, to the tree overhead. "The other ritual, I undid myself, which is why I'm saner now than I was this summer."
She still isn't looking at me, but she is smiling.
"And as for why I don't expect to regress, I am obviously in no hurry to repeat that mistake." She finally locks eyes with me again, her expression turning toward more of a knowing smirk. "I've found I quite enjoy sanity."
"Okay," I say, leaning listlessly into the couch. How do I even process this? "That's... good. And you said you were sorry about the war. Does that mean you're not planning another one?"
"Yes, it does," she says, raising her head higher off the couch. She looks more confident than she had before. Less contrite. But does that mean it was all an act, or is she just relieved to have the worst of the conversation behind her? Or could it be both? "There will be no second war, at least not from me. My plans will remain firmly in the field of politics from now on. I... don't plan to disband the Death Eaters – better not to let them off the leash, I think, though I won't recruit more. But I will not start another war. Never again. And as far as the world outside is concerned, Lady Voldemort will stay dead and unmourned."
"Good," I say, my voice wobbling uncertainly on the word. I... have been so, so afraid of war. I've had nightmares about it most every night I didn't have visions. I've been mentally preparing myself for war ever since I got back from the graveyard. I watched Cedric die – and I thought I knew that he wouldn't be the last one. Hearing that there might really be no war – even knowing that Cecilia is a liar, that she has every reason to lie about this – it makes me feel hopeful, just a little bit.
"And whatever happens – I am genuinely worried that Dumbledore will start another war, striking at boggarts the way he has been – you don't have to be part of it any longer."
I draw a sharp breath.
"I won't hurt you again. I can't – you are my acknowledged clanmate. Magic is still angry enough with me after I attacked you and Lily, all those years ago. I remember what happened to Quirrell – if I so much as touch you with ill intent, I'm certain I'll die for good this time. That goes for the Death Eaters, too – I'll order them tonight to keep the hell away from you, and tell their children to do the same."
I'm almost numb. It's so strange to think that it could be over. And not just the yearly catastrophes – everything. If she really does get the Death Eaters to warn their children, I might even be done with Draco fucking Black picking fights every chance he gets.
"I don't think Dumbledore would try to hurt you to get at me, but if he does... know that I would gladly shelter you."
"I... er..." Not for the first time, I wonder how in Merlin's name I can respond to this. "Thank you?" I finally manage.
"You're welcome," she says, smiling almost as weakly. "Would you like to disown Voldemort?" she asks. "She certainly deserves it, for killing one daughter of the clan and attacking another. I won't make it official, for obvious reasons, but I can announce it."
I nod slowly. "Yeah," I say. "I think I'd like that. But why... if you really hate all this so much, why did you do it in the first place?"
She winces. "That... is a long, stupid story," she says. "I'm not sure how much you know about my background, but I was a politician before I was a Dark Lady. And I became a Dark Lady because of a problem I faced in my political career – Albus accursed Dumbledore, may Fiendfyre take him." She smiles dryly, her head tilting in the direction of the political building, where I can feel him nervously pacing the Floo lobby. "I'm sure you've noticed, but Albus Dumbledore hates my guts. That's... probably pretty well justified now, but he always has. From the very beginning. He was the Hogwarts professor who first introduced me to the wizarding world at age eleven – and he did it by setting my wardrobe, and with it all my worldly possessions, on fire." She laughs as I double-take. "No, really. You can ask him. Just be subtle about it, so he doesn't lie."
"Why on earth would he do that?" I can't say I'm happy with all Dumbledore's decisions – particularly not today – but that really doesn't sound like him. Why would he be so pointlessly cruel?
"I didn't get along with the Muggles in my orphanage. They hated that I was magical – that I talked to snakes or levitated toys or whatever other thing they found freakish about me that day. And I hated the way they treated me. The moment I was old enough to control my magic, I started using it on them. Just for protection at first, but... wouldn't you want revenge?"
I open my mouth to say I wouldn't, but then an image from a recurring fantasy flashes through my mind – Uncle Vernon, writhing at the point of my wand. I lower my head, and look away. Cecilia is polite enough not to smirk, but I know she must have caught it.
"Of course the great Albus Dumbledore would take the Muggles' side. Believed every word they told him." She scoffs. "And, worse, he never forgave me for it. I was a model student at Hogwarts, except for an... unfortunate incident in my fifth year."
I snort. You mean, that time you opened the Chamber of Secrets and killed someone? I almost stop her – push her, make her explain – but then my eyes flicker toward the fat afternoon sun, hanging low in the sky. I don't have all day – I've missed Charms for sure, and I might be late for Defense too. And, more pressingly, Dumbledore probably won't wait for us forever. I desperately want to know what her excuse is for that whole fiasco, but I want to hear the rest of her story more. No, I'll wait. For now. But she'll be explaining herself soon enough.
"I was the top of my year in every class except his, because he would find whatever petty excuses he could think of to take points from me, ignore my successes, or mark down my work."
"So the way Professor Prince treats me?" I ask.
She smirks, with one fang out. "Given how he talks about you? Yes, probably. But at least Prince won't follow you out of Hogwarts. Dumbledore did. He tried every possible insane, petty way to sideline me in the Wizengamot. And what's worse, he got away with it. He'd defeated Grindelwald barely a decade before. The whole wizarding world idolized him, and I... I couldn't do anything. I felt so helpless, and that put a ball of rage in my gut."
I remember that anger – usually, when Vernon managed to outwit me one time too many. I felt like I would do anything to get him back. Once or twice, I did.
"Dumbledore's strength was his reputation for killing a Dark Lord, as Britain's hero. So I figured – what happens if I give him a Dark Lady he can't defeat so easily?" She smiles wistfully, her fangs slipping out. "At first, it was just a passing fancy. But I'd always had a fascination with the Dark Arts, and I'd always been powerful and skilled. I looked at what Grindelwald had done, and how he was defeated, and I thought – I can do better." She rolls her eyes. "Let it never be said that I don't have an ego the size of a planet."
"So you wanted to start a war," I say.
"No. Not a war, exactly, not yet. More like civil unrest. If you check the history books, you'll see that's all we did at first. I don't think the first person died until four years later. We did vandalism, arson, riots, and targeted attacks that were never quite lethal. Something that scared people, something that got our name in the paper. The plan was, I would wrap the whole scheme up inside of two years – I'd have a few duels where I'd embarrass Dumbledore, and then a staged duel at the end where I'd 'defeat' myself and steal all his PR thunder."
I flare my hood, glaring at her. She recognizes that, and shrinks back.
"I know you don't like that. You shouldn't. It was... destructive. Underhanded. And almost comically naive. It was a mistake, even from the beginning. I don't expect you to approve – I don't really want you to. I just want to explain how it started. And... it wasn't all about Dumbledore. I had equal designs on a target you might even approve of."
I tilt my head. So far as I'm aware, the Death Eaters had always gone after Noshapes, and later Muggleborns. And she must know I wouldn't approve of attacking either of those.
"Unless you've been reading history books, you won't know much about the Dragoon Party. I consider that my proudest achievement."
I blink. No, I don't.
"They were the party of the old-family, hyper-conservative, Muggle-hating, Muggleborn-hating, pureblood arseholes. Doxie-dung crazy, the lot of them. Worse than I was, even in the worst of the war. The kind who think Noshapes ought to be taken as house-elves." My mouth curls, a fang popping out. I know the type – and I definitely can't stand them. "In those days – before I went nuts – I was a fairly normal center-right politician. My defining policy was for separatism, for bringing the Muggle and wizarding worlds further apart. The Dragoons were the only other real Muggle-skeptical party in those days, with everyone else kowtowing at Dumbledore's feet – and the problem is, I wasn't reactionary enough for them. And whenever I did get their support on a bill, they would inevitably shoot their mouths off about it in public in a way that made me look bad. Scared people off."
"They do sound pretty bad, but... you attacked them?" I ask. "I've never even heard of that."
"No. Worse." She grins, fangs-out. "I recruited them."
"What?"
"Let me explain. The Dragoons were also the people who had wished for Grindelwald to win, who never quite got over his defeat. I figured that if I made a showing of myself as a proper Dark Lady, they'd flock to me. And they did!"
She laughs, and it's not exactly nice... but she is, at least, talking about deserving victims this time.
"And when all of those twits were kneeling before me in ridiculous robes, they naturally weren't voting Dragoon. I wrapped up the whole conservative vote, got some of the dumbest Dragoons arrested, and retrained the rest to bow to me – which I hoped would stick even after I wrapped my Dark Lady scheme up." She stretches out on the couch, looking relaxed. Proud. "And, on a personal note, there were more than a few Dragoons in Slytherin, who hated me for being Muggle-raised. They tormented me when I was younger, and I relished the chance to get back at them. The sight of Abraxas Malfoy kissing my boots will always be one of my most cherished memories."
I almost, almost objected to that – and then the image of Draco Malfoy kissing my boots flashes through my mind. Yeah... I'd enjoy that, too.
"So, there you have it. Bigots on one side, Albus Dumbledore on the other. It was a terrible plan, but still, it seemed like a win-win..." She sighs. "And then I went crazy, and lost myself in the role."
"Why?" I ask.
"I mentioned the ritual, right?" Yes. Not that you actually explained it. But that, too, is probably something to leave for another time. "I'd performed it many years before, seemingly without ill effect at the time, but... it left me far more susceptible to the mental effects of the Dark Arts I started using as a Dark Lady. I lost my mind, and it showed. I got more ruthless, more willing to use the Dark Arts that sent me further into insanity. I started to forget that this was a charade at all, started to actually act like a fucking Dragoon. I performed that ritual a second time, which made it even worse."
I've read stories about Dark Lords who drove themselves mad. It's strange to think that Voldemort is one of them, but... it's eerily plausible. All too common, even.
"And there was one other thing that made my degeneration go even faster – when I realized that I could actually win the war. When it turned out that Albus Dumbledore and all his men couldn't stop me – Merlin, they could barely even slow me down! It was so tantalizing. Why worry about winning votes and changing minds when I could just take over?" She shakes her head, glaring so bitterly at the floor that I imagine it'd be paralyzed if it were alive. "And that was when I heard a prophecy about an infant who had the power to defeat me. A prophecy about you."
I blink, pulling myself upright on the couch. "What prophecy?" I ask. "What are you talking about?"
"Wait, Dumbledore didn't tell you about the prophecy?"
"No!" I say, my fangs coming out and I scowl. "He knew about this prophecy, and he didn't tell me?"
"Of course he does, the prophecy was made to him! Why on earth— I suppose he might have been worried about someone using Legilimency to steal your recollection of it, but surely he could have told you the parts that I already know!" She takes a deep breath, then smiles slyly. "And here I thought Dumbledore only started to hate you after you became a Gaunt."
"Just tell me the accursed prophecy!" I say, voice low and hissing.
"Of course, Harriet," she says, bowing her head. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lady approaches, born to those who have thrice defied her, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lady will."
"The Dark Lady will what?"
"I don't know. That's all my spy heard. He thought there were a few more lines after that, but he couldn't make out the words." She makes eye contact, smiling weakly. "Not the clearest prophecy, is it?"
"No," I say. "Why did you even listen to it?"
"I don't know. I should have ignored it – there were so many reasons I should have ignored it. I knew I didn't have all of it. I knew that it only spoke of an infant with the power to defeat me – not someone who actually would. And I knew that it came from the mouth of Sybill Trelawney, whose few drops of genuine seer blood can hardly outweigh her reputation as a drunk and a charlatan."
"But... she is a real seer," I blurt out, just moments before realizing that I probably shouldn't say that.
"Huh. Truly?" Cecilia asks, her head tilting.
Yes, but I'm not about to tell her about the prophecy about Pettigrew. "I... guess I don't know. Dumbledore thinks she is."
She scoffs. "He's hardly a model of good judgement. But even if it was real, I also knew that not all real prophecies prove true, and that most true prophecies are in some part self-fulfilling. Certainly, I should have tried to avoid doing whatever the hell the prophecy says the Dark Lady will." She shakes her head. "Instead, I walked right into it. Like a fool. I... must have been pretty far gone, back then."
"And... you attacked me because of that," I say, still disbelieving, feeling... almost lightheaded with confusion, that this is how my life went so badly wrong, and that I'm hearing all this from Lady Voldemort's own mouth.
"Yes. You were the easiest target to hit – we'd already subverted Pettigrew by then – and you were the one I thought would be most like me. Partly, that was just because you're a woman, like me, but..." She sighs, then smiles wryly. "I couldn't see myself in Frank Longbottom or Alice Shacklebolt. They were rich, Pureblood, long-line Pureshapes. The sort of people who can recite their ancestry for generations. Of course, James Potter was rich, Pureblood, and Pureshape, too, but he'd gone through some hard times – Death Eaters burned his house down, when he was just a little boy. And there was always something about Lily Evans..." She smiles bitterly. "Guess I know what it was, now."
"You were looking for someone... like you?"
"Yes." She shakes her head. "I thought anyone who could be a threat to me had to be like me – which, well, there's that ego again. But I did think you would be more like me, and, well..." She just stares at my basilisk body. "Clearly, I was right. If only I knew."
"At least in some ways," I admit hollowly. I could never be as pointlessly cruel as Lady Voldemort, but... I'm starting to think there is something I could aspire to in this new, sane version of her. I still think she's cold and calculating – I'm not sure she's even trying to convince me otherwise – but she is also undeniably intelligent and effective. She spent this whole day playing Dumbledore like a fiddle, and I definitely haven't forgotten how crazy it is that I walked away with Lady Voldemort, alone and willingly.
"So, er, do you think..." She pauses, shifting in her seat, tongue flicking out slowly and nervously. "A lot has happened – I mean, it's been thirty years of international news, of course a lot has happened. I know things aren't okay between us, and that they won't be, and I don't really expect them to be any time soon. But... do you think you might be willing, someday, to accept me as family?"
I freeze in place on the couch. She'd alluded to this before. But hearing it so directly, from her, hearing her ask if I want us to be a family... it's just so bizarre. I don't know how to respond, just sitting there as Cecilia's expression gets darker and grimmer.
She admitted to being Lady Voldemort. She admitted to everything. By all rights, I should just scream at her and storm off. But, well... she is trying. She's really trying – it's hard to imagine the Dark Lady embarrassing herself like this, telling me so many damaging things I might well turn around and tell to Dumbledore, if she didn't mean it. It's not enough. It can't be enough. And it certainly doesn't mean I won't make her squirm for it. But...
"It's a start," I admit. "I... appreciate that you apologized. Can't say I ever expected that from Lady Voldemort. I'm glad I finally got a straight explanation for what you did. And if you say there will be no second war... well, I'm definitely hopeful. But... no. I am not satisfied. Not yet."
Cecilia seems to shrink in on herself, as I slither off of the couch, gliding up toward her.
"This can't possibly be the whole story of a war that was more than a decade long, and there are a lot of other things I want to know about – that diary of yours, for instance, what its deal was. I have so many more questions – and we don't have time for them now, unless you want Dumbledore breaking in here because he thinks you've murdered me. But, most importantly – you need to prove to me that you mean this. Words are cheap, especially words you don't want me to repeat."
Cecilia looks worried as I get even closer. It's strange and warming to see it – to realize that, for once in my life, I have power over her. Besides. Isn't it a once-in-a-lifetime chance, to make demands of a Dark Lady?
"I want Pettigrew," I decide, smiling as my clanmate double-takes. "You know, the rat? I want him arrested, and my godfather exonerated."
"What? So – if I agree to this, you won't denounce me publicly? Or—"
"Cecilia, you misunderstand," I say. "This is not bargaining. This is not making a deal. This is restitution. This is you proving that all your pretty words meant something – or, that they did not."
She's lying flat on the couch now, looking unhappy, and I am standing over her with my hood flared. And I can't help but love the feeling. She's actually going along with this. She's actually going along with this. I know she won't attack me, but... she doesn't even seem angry!
"You had a lot to say about how you have no family aside from me. That's great – but, as it happens, I do have other family, and he's Britain's most wanted because of you. Get his freedom, and maybe we can bargain after that." I smirk, one fang out. "Besides, surely Pettigrew is of no actual use to you now that you're spending your time on politics – unless of course Nagini needs a snack."
She squirms in place, her tail tangling up with itself. "Loathsome as he is, Pettigrew did help bring me back to life. I... I would prefer not to betray him that way."
"Then perhaps he should have thought of that before he betrayed your clanmates."
"Fair enough," she says, bowing her head in apparent defeat. I... I can't believe this. I'm going farther than I ever would have before my change, to Lady Voldemort – and she's just taking it! "Certainly if anyone has the right to ask this, you do. It will take me a little while to make the arrangements. I can't have him expose me, nor do I want to mess this up and thereby fail to secure your godfather's exoneration. But I will try to have it done within a week or two."
"Thank you, Cecilia," I say, and she sits up. "I await the results. Though... You mentioned you'd like me to stay silent in public?"
"Yes," she says. "I know you've tried to expose me before, but... well, if you denounce me now that you're clanmates, it will probably make more of an impact. Especially if you claim that I confirmed it to you."
"I haven't tried to expose you, actually. I didn't say one thing about your return to the press. Haven't seen a reporter since before the Triwizard Tournament ended." I curl up against the edge of her couch, staring her right in the eyes. "That was all Dumbledore. Didn't stop the Prophet from going after me anyway. And speaking of which..." I smile again, my fangs popping out. "If you want me not to denounce you in the press, you'll have to return the favor. I do not appreciate the seven hundred and ninety-two lies they've published about me since the tournament, and you can't convince me you had nothing to do with that."
"That is fair," Cecilia says. "I would have put a stop to it anyway – I can't have a clanmate's name dragged through the mud the way yours has been. I'll be sure the apology is swift and appropriately groveling."
"See if you can get them to itemize it," I suggest with a grin. "I'd enjoy seeing a broadsheet page full of retractions."
"Will do," she says, smirking back at me. "However, since you mentioned returning the favor... If you do accuse me of being Voldemort, I will have to attack your credibility, as a simple matter of self-preservation. The sentence for Dark Lords is death or the stripping of my magic. I will not expose myself to that, not even for you. But... even if we fight, I won't have you portrayed as a liar again. I'll come up with something else – perhaps you're being tricked by Dumbledore."
I nod. "I'll give you a chance to prove yourself, at least," I say. "Before I say anything negative publicly."
"And, might I say..." Cecilia slithers off of the couch to stand side-by-side with me, our scales rubbing in a way that feels oddly like a handshake, like an acknowledgment of a bargain made. "That was very well played – as cunning as I can hope of a new clanmate. I see you're settling in well as a basilisk."
There can only be one answer to that. "Thank you, Cecilia," I say, smiling like only a basilisk can.
Notes:
Special thanks to my beta readers Videocrazy and GlassGirlCeci, who receive very large couches.
Whew, that chapter was tricky! Definitely a tightrope to walk, both in terms of what Lady Voldemort was willing to say and in how Harriet would react. And this was a way longer conversation than I usually let myself write – though there wasn't really any good way around that, since it's hard to imagine Harriet and Cecilia stopping before at least some things are answered. Please do give me feedback if you think anything rings false, or just tell me how you reacted to the chapter!
Chapter Text
I slither through the Floo back into the Headmaster's office, my head still spinning. Merlin... that whole trip was just too much. What parts of Cecilia's speech can I believe? Does it matter at all?
All such thoughts depart my head in an instant, when I suddenly move, bowling over Professor Dumbledore's squashy armchair. Dumbledore shot at me, I realize – the blue-black spell splashes into the mantel, knocking stuff over. It would have hit me if I were a human – but basilisks are faster. And, apparently, can dodge on instinct.
My head snaps toward him, and I glare – only belatedly deciding to just paralyze him, and not Petrify or kill. He can't... actually have meant to attack me, can he? "What in Merlin's name was that, Professor?"
He's absolutely paralyzed, and yet he still somehow seems disappointed. I have no idea how he does that.
"Explain yourself," I say. My fangs pop out, my hood flares, my back arches. I am, in this moment, every bit as intimidating as a basilisk can be. Then I loosen my paralysis enough that he should be able to speak.
"I... I wanted to check you for mind-altering spells," he stammers. "Compulsions, and the like."
"And you had to attack me, to do that?"
"What?"
"You couldn't have just asked, Professor? Because I would have let you check me – at least, before you made it look like a murder attempt."
"Oh..." He seems to sag a little in his bindings. "Surely you don't... already think so poorly of me?" he asks. "Surely she didn't convince you of so much?"
"It's not about Cecilia," I say. "It's about the way you've been behaving. How petty you seemed – and how it didn't look like you trusted me, at all. And it's about the look in your eyes when you saw me hunting." He sags even further, his eyebrows drooping. "Professor, aren't you a predator, too? Haven't you hunted? Why did me enjoying it surprise you so much?"
He sighs. "I haven't hunted in a very long time. I... had a bad experience with a friend who used to be my hunting partner, who had a shape much like mine. It left ill associations."
I blink. I definitely have more questions about this friend, but – probably not the right time to ask, when I'm paralyzing him. "All right, but... why did you want to check me for compulsions, anyway? The clanstone wouldn't allow that, right?"
"It shouldn't, but these things can never be sure around someone like Cecilia Gaunt."
"Fair," I say. "Nothing wrong with some extra vigilance. But why couldn't you warn me what you were casting?"
"If you had been under a compulsion, and I told you I would check for them, then you might have tried to attack me."
"Yeah, and if you cast without warning, then so would anyone with a working sense of self-preservation. You're lucky you're not dead."
"I... have realized that," he admits. "I'm sorry. I didn't think this through."
I toss my head, dissatisfied but not entirely unbelieving. It does make sense that he'd suspect I was being compelled – I did some surprising things today. And I suppose shooting at me without warning isn't more stupid than some of the other stuff he's pulled today. "There won't be any compulsions. Cecilia must have figured you'd check. But I don't mind you trying anyway, if you ask, and if you explain to me what you're casting before you cast it."
"Okay," he says gravely, sounding as if he's swallowed a handful of the worst Every-Flavor Beans. I release my paralysis, and he stumbles briefly before straightening himself out. "May I check you for compulsions?"
"Go right ahead," I say, trying not to sound too disdainful. I've never seen Albus Dumbledore embarrass himself the way he has today. This is almost worse than what they're saying about him in the Prophet. "But don't cast anything I don't expect."
He takes ten minutes to go through a long list of esoteric and just plain weird detection spells and eventually comes back with exactly the result I expected – no influence. He writes me a pass to my next class – Defense is almost halfway over now – and sends me on my way.
~~
I push open the door, and step into Professor Umbridge's classroom. The lesson looks exactly as stultifying as expected – everyone is in human form, their noses down in their books. Umbridge is sitting up front, scanning the crowd for any misbehavior. Her squashed face, pink cardigan, and tacky black bow combine to give her the look of something inhuman, something I might hunt and eat back in the forest.
And when she sees me, she perks up, her piggy eyes dilating. She stands, shaking her finger. "Miss Potter!" she says. "You're late!"
Cecilia warned me about Professor Umbridge. She's Fudge's minion, sent to harass and embarrass Professor Dumbledore – and me, too. But she's completely beholden to Cecilia's Separatist Party, not to mention petrified of Cecilia personally. Which means that she's going to stay far, far away from me once she realizes who I am. Clearly, she hasn't yet. I think I'll enjoy breaking the news. "I have a pass, professor," I say quietly and demurely, as I step up to her desk. I hand it to her, and she gives it a quick once-over. "I was excused to attend clan orientation."
"Clan... orientation?" Umbridge asks, sounding rather taken aback by the idea that I might be a Pureshape. But then she grins, a truly horrifying sight, and she turns back to me with the air of someone who thinks she's a wizarding Sherlock Holmes on the case. "What clan orientation? There are no other Potters to orient you!"
"Your class roster hasn't been updated?" I blink at her in faux shock, lowering my voice so the others don't hear. No sense encouraging the rumor mill. "I'm not a Potter, Professor Umbridge. I'm a Gaunt."
For a moment, nothing happens, the words only slowly penetrating Umbridge's brain. Then her eyes grow almost comically wide, her face turning pale, her mouth opening with no sound coming out. It takes an effort to restrain my amusement – she looks ridiculous, and she just stays that way, staring for second after second while she tries to work out what could have happened, and what it means. She almost seems to have finished processing it when I reach into my bag and pull out another note, crisp fine parchment adorned by the blood-red of Cecilia Gaunt's wax seal.
"My clanmate asked me to give this to you," I add, and she takes it from me with shaking fingers, just staring at the seal. She's absolutely speechless. I already know what it says, of course – basically, that she needs to back off. That I am a member of Cecilia's clan, and she needs to treat me like it. "Do you allow students to take their shapes in class?"
"N-no," she stammers. No surprises there – but it would have been fun, seeing how she'd react to a basilisk right in front of her.
"Understood, professor," I say, smiling just a bit too widely. "I'll start my reading."
~~
When I step into Gryffindor common room, Ron and Hermione trailing behind me, a wave of murmurs ripples through the crowd. Everyone is staring at me. And one particularly bold second year walks right up to me, and blurts out "Is it true? Are you a basilisk?"
I sigh. Looks like those rumors have finally caught up with me. "Yes," I say. "It's true. I am a basilisk, and a Gaunt." My eyes glide across the crowd, taking in the shock and disbelief. Let's just get this all over with now. "Would you like to see my shape?" I ask.
That sends a discontented murmur through the crowd, but the second-year seems immune. "Yeah!" he says, his eyes lighting up.
Obligingly, I dip my head and then change, my robes vanishing right on time. My long body sweeps out through the room, curling around to avoid people, eventually ending up in a nice comfortable coil by the fire.
A lot of peoples' jaws drop. Ron's does, too – this is the first time he's seen me like this. I see the flash of Colin Creevey's camera as I survey the room.
"Are they gonna make you go to Slytherin?" someone blurts.
"Of course not," I say. "I am aware that being a giant green snake is slightly off-message for our house, but I am still a Gryffindor. Nothing will change because of this." I smile, and more than a few people wince. "Hogwarts doesn't sort based on whose decor I match."
"What about Quidditch?" asks a high-pitched voice.
"What about it?" I say. "I'll still be a Gryffindor, and it's not like I'll be flying the broom in my shape, right?"
"Does this mean Cecilia Gaunt is your clanmate?" asks a big, tough-looking guy, sitting by the windows. I vaguely recognize him – he's a Muggleborn upperclassman, I think? Hermione knows him, I'm pretty sure.
"Yes, it does. I met her and spoke to her today. Clan orientation was legally required, unfortunately. Rest assured that being clanmates doesn't mean I'll start agreeing with her. Ever."
"Doesn't this just prove everything?" asks one particularly snide voice. "You're a snake. Doesn't that make it obvious the Daily Prophet was telling the truth?"
"The Daily Prophet has been selling a pack of lies all summer," I say, not bothering to keep the anger out of my voice. "They'll be admitting that soon enough."
I look out over the crowd, and I see they're more interested than ever – I should have known, after dropping a bombshell like that – but, honestly? I don't want to deal with this any longer.
"Look. I've had a long day. I'd like to go to sleep, OK?"
They don't quiet down, but nevertheless I slither up the stairs back to my dormitory, and leave them all behind.
I feel strangely gratified to see that the house-elves have set me up with a bigger bed. No need to have my tail trailing onto the floor tonight.
Hermione comes rushing up after me. Her face is bright red – she's all worked up. "Oh, Harry, that was horrible," she frets. "I can't believe Colin Creevey actually took a photo. Like he's paparazzi or something!"
"I didn't mind Colin, actually," I say with a fang-y grin. "A picture of me is going to get out eventually, and the Gryffindor common room is probably the best backdrop I could ask for. I hope he gets some money out of it. He's a good kid."
"Huh." Hermione looks oddly baffled, and she sits down on her bed, frowning. "That's... kinda calculating, actually. I'm not used to that from you."
I flap my hood noncommittally. "Well, I am a basilisk," I say. "My shape influence had to show up sometime."
"Yeah," she says, lowering her head, looking worried. Her own shape influence had been pretty noticeable – she got a lot bolder – but she's just a magical wildcat. I'm sure she's wondering just how different I'll be as a basilisk.
To be honest, I'm wondering that too. But unlike her, I'm not afraid or worried. I'm interested. Curious. I wonder what I'll be like in a year.
~~
Colin's photo runs on the cover of the Daily Prophet. I get it framed – that, and the following two-page spread, which is indeed an itemized list of retractions covering the whole summer. Thank you, Cecilia. Lavender glowers every time she sees it hanging by my bed.
Draco Black has been almost comically scared of me. Guess Cecilia meant what she said about getting the Death Eaters' kids to back off. That, or he really doesn't like snakes – particularly not ones who can't stand him, and could swallow him in one bite. Hey, basilisks are pretty scary – if you're not one yourself.
Cecilia sends me another letter, detailing her foray into genealogy. My mother Lily was Cecilia's second cousin, apparently – her maternal grandmother is the Squib sister of Cecilia's grandfather. This makes me Cecilia's second cousin once removed, and closest magical relative. (Her closest non-magical relative is, amusingly enough, Aunt Petunia. She asks me not to talk about that.)
Life goes on. The school gets used to seeing me as a giant green basilisk – perhaps slithering through the corridors, out of the myriad Parseltongue-activated hidden pipes and tunnels, relaxing by the common room fire, or just basking in the sun.
The first chance I get, I sign up for the orientation to hunt in the Hogwarts Forest. It's a three-hour-long course, offered on the weekends, and taught by Professor Prince.
I'm pleasantly surprised to see a desk set up for me already when I slither into the classroom – a larger-than-average desk, surrounded by enough empty space for me to coil up comfortably. He's been treating me better since my change, but this is... actively courteous of him. It's almost surprising.
I curl up behind it with a grateful nod, quickly taking out my notebook as he steps up to the podium. Like most of the students, he's in his shape for this course – it isn't allowed in Potions for safety reasons, but apparently we students aren't the only ones who wish it were.
"This is the orientation for spending time in the Hogwarts Forest," he intones, "either to hunt, as most predatory Halfshapes and Pureshapes require, or to simply experience your Shape in its most wild and natural form. These are both laudable leisure activities. I myself am known to hunt on the weekends. However, the Hogwarts Forest is shared among all the students and staff, and also inhabited by a wide variety of dangerous creatures. For us all to be able to use this space safely and harmoniously, there are certain safety requirements – which is the purpose of this course."
He raps, sharply, on the blackboard, as a whole long list of rules and requirements appears there.
"I expect all of these precautions to be followed to the letter, by all of you – even those of you who are certain you are in no risk yourselves." Some of the students jump or flinch in their seats – he glares at the class as strongly as ever, his air of menace only accentuated by his shape. It slides off me, though – intimidation always has, since I changed.
He starts to go through the precautions, first and most important of which are the safety harnesses. They're bright red collars – and arm and leg bands, for those who have arms and legs. They sparkle brightly when worn, impossible to miss – if, that is, you're a student, as they're hidden from magical creatures so as not to spoil the hunting. They heat up when you're near other students, to warn you if you might be considering attacking one of them, and they can both send and receive distress signals if someone is in danger.
I will admit, the details aren't exactly gripping, though they are certainly impressively enchanted. I start to drift off a little.
"The wildlife in the Forest is dangerous. You could all get yourselves in serious trouble with the Acromantula colony – Miss Gaunt perhaps excepted." I perk up at the sound of my name. "But that is not the biggest danger in the Forest."
I'm not the only student who's paying attention now. The biggest danger?
"No, that honor belongs to your fellow students and professors."
He smirks as the room falls silent.
"Is this a surprise? When immensely powerful magical creatures go into the Forest specifically to hunt... do you not expect that they might hurt you?" He indicates himself with a wave of his hand. "I am a prime example, as the Prince clan is one of several possessing a paralytic ability – in my case, venom-tipped claws – that could in theory stop you from changing back to your human selves before you have any idea what has happened to you. However, there is a student in this very room far more deadly than myself – and, indeed, than anyone else in wizarding Britain save for her own clanmate."
I raise my head, as the whole room suddenly stares at me.
"Harriet Gaunt is a basilisk, and as such one of the most dangerous and lethal creatures known to the wizarding world. She can paralyze, Petrify, or kill at a glance, and can spit venom over long distances. She is the largest creature, and one of the fastest, that you might encounter in the Forest." He raises an eyebrow at me, apparently amused at the way I've puffed up with pride. Hey, I can't help it if I love what I am.
"Oh, come on!" blurts out a fellow Gryffindor sitting a few rows behind me. In human form, which probably means his shape isn't exactly impressive. "They can't be that bad! Didn't Potter kill a basilisk in her second year?"
He fixes his famous glare upon the offending student. "Miss Gaunt would have already been completely immune to her counterpart's gaze and heavily resistant to its venom. And she nearly died despite that." He flashes a smirk. "You would not fare hardly so well."
The Gryffindor seems to wilt back into his seat.
"If you are a Halfshape, and you go out into the Hogwarts Forest without your warning devices properly in place, any of half a dozen highly dangerous Pureshapes can hunt you, stun you, kill you, and eat you without realizing that you are anything more than a common animal – without realizing that anything at all has gone wrong until you fail to return to the castle."
"That can't really happen!" blurts out one Hufflepuff girl.
"It can and it does," says Professor Prince. "We've had at least one injury or near miss every year I've worked here, always because one or both involved students didn't follow the rules. Deaths happen roughly every fifty years – and the most recent was just over fifty years ago. We are due. Don't let it be you who's next."
The whole room is completely silent. Most are staring at Professor Prince – but more than a few are staring at me, perhaps wondering if I would be the next to eat a fellow student.
"If you feel you are in danger, whether from another student or from the Forest's wild inhabitants, your first response to that danger should be to change back. Even those of us who are stronger in our Shapes should consider it, lest we be mistaken for a dangerous wild creature against which extreme force might be justified."
His gaze connects with mine, then visits the few other large Pureshapes in the room.
"I have targeted this lesson primarily to those with weaker Shapes, as it is they who will suffer the deadly consequences in cases of mistaken identity. However, I hope that none of us with more dangerous shapes have any interest in consuming a fellow student. And, as such, there are guidelines for us, as well."
He raps on the board, revealing another page of guidelines.
"Be careful. Know what species live in the Hogwarts Forest – there is a list in your rulebooks – and know to steer clear of ones that shouldn't be there. Avoid attacking without warning – instead, startle and chase your prey, so that it has time to turn back to human form if indeed it is human. Don't use natural attacks so powerful or indiscriminate that they might harm students inadvertently, or injure them permanently. And, of course, don't assume that just because something isn't wearing a harness, that it isn't one of your classmates." He grins, looking ghoulish with his shape's fanged mouth. "There will be consequences if an accident comes of your recklessness."
He seems to notice the dismayed looks on a few of our faces. Does this mean I don't get to Petrify?
"This is likely not the way many of you prefer to hunt," he says, conciliatory. "It is certainly not the way I prefer to hunt. But in a public hunting forest like Hogwarts's, it is required. More naturalistic hunting must be reserved for clan libraries or private hunting grounds."
I nod. Luckily for me, I have a clan library. Newer or poorer Pureshape clans, like Hermione's, are out of luck unless they have rich friends.
"Now, for those of you thinking that this sounds like an excellent way to prank a classmate, be aware that setting up an 'accident' in the Hogwarts Forest is attempted murder, for which you can be expelled and prosecuted." This time, his gaze seems to be visiting each of the Gryffindors in turn – except, surprisingly, for me. Wouldn't I have been the first person he'd suspect of that sort of thing, before? "And if you hope to trick one student into attacking another, know that you are the only one who will be held responsible – and that if you cause a death this way, it is you and only you who will face the murder charge."
~~
Hermione and I stroll out of the Forest, both of us full and satisfied after a good hunt.
It was definitely interesting, hunting prey with only my paralytic gaze, giving it chances to see me and run away. Very different from the unbridled freedom I felt at the clan library, but at the same time, still fun. Almost like a self-imposed challenge. The deer were delicious – I'll never pass up the chance for a good, warm, still-wriggling meal.
And hunting with Hermione alongside me was wonderful – I have to do that again.
"So, Hermione," I say, as we lie down on the vast lawns of Hogwarts – Hermione to rest, myself to bask, and us both probably to read some books. "I've... been thinking..." I meet her gaze nervously. "I'm not sure I want to join the Phoenix Party. I might just stay independent."
"Are you sure?" She seems concerned, and a little surprised. "You know I'm in the party. And... basically all your other friends, or at least all the Pureshape ones. I know I haven't had any reason to regret my choice." She stretches out, her paws batting against my scales. "Is this about the way Dumbledore was acting? I know he took your Shape pretty hard, but I don't think that's a reason for you not to join the Phoenixes. We've done a lot of good things."
"It's not just about that," I say, my tail curling up around her big furry belly. "I've just..." I sigh. "I looked up some bills, and... well, the Phoenix Party really doesn't like big, dangerous Pureshapes." I flap my hood in something of a shrug. "Obviously, I am one, so..."
"But you don't have to vote for all our bills just because you join the party," she says, and I can feel her stretch out within my coils. "Shape regulations aren't really a big issue for us, you know? No one will mind if you vote the other way on something like that. You still agree with us on the big things, right? Like protecting Muggles, Muggleborn, and Noshapes?"
"I... Yeah, I guess so."
I can feel a deer shifting uncomfortably in my stomach at the words. The truth is, I have been questioning the Phoenix Party's approach to Muggles lately. I've been reading a lot of their bills as I try to get ready for the Wizengamot, and I can't help but think... how much worse would the Dursleys be, if they had all the power Dumbledore wants to give them? But I can't bring that up now – I haven't even thought it all the way through myself, and I know Hermione has strong feelings about this. No, I'll wait until I'm sure.
"What if one of the bad ones is a party-roll bill?" I ask. "The Phoenix Party does that, right? So they'll kick me out if I don't vote for it?"
She frowns. "I suppose so, but they only do that for the really important stuff. Like, I've been in the party for a year, and I think there's only been one party-roll bill. They wouldn't do that for shape regulation. And if they do... well, the worst they can do is throw you out. Why is that any different from not joining at all?"
"Wouldn't it look bad? If I joined and then got kicked out." My tongue flicks out worriedly. "Cecilia said it would."
She snorts, tugging herself out of my coils to pace up toward my head. "And you trust her to tell you what's best for the Phoenix Party? Really?"
"I mean..." I lower my head onto the grass, curling it inward a little. "Her argument made sense, though. Don't you think it'd be front-page news if the Girl who Lived got thrown out? Don't you think it'd cause trouble?"
"I really don't think it'd happen, but you can always talk to Professor Dumbledore if there's a party-roll bill you disagree with." She sits down, her head across from mine. "If it's that big a deal, wouldn't he make an exception for you?"
"Yeah," I say, smiling weakly. "I suppose he would."
"See?" she says, resting against my side. "Don't worry so much about it."
Notes:
This chapter was beta read by Videocrazy and GlassGirlCeci, who receive copies of the Daily Prophet. This time was a bit of a transition, but next chapter is going to have Pettigrew's trial. :D
A fun challenge in the meantime: guess the next chapter's twist. :)
Chapter Text
When Cecilia makes good on her promise, it's breakfast on a Sunday morning. An uproar sweeps the Great Hall as the newspaper owls start to drop off the day's Prophets, Gazettes, and London Owls.
PETER PETTIGREW ALIVE – AND ARRESTED! blares the full-width headline atop the Prophet. Believed Dead For A Decade, Is Pettigrew the Girl-Who-Lived's Real Betrayer? continues the subheading. Could Sirius Black Be Innocent? Trial As Soon As Possible! The other newspapers say much the same, if not quite so overheatedly.
I can't hold in my excitement, can't keep the grin off my face. I give Hermione a great big hug right in the middle of the Great Hall. She and Ron are jubilant, too, but also concerned – what could Voldemort be planning, giving Pettigrew up? I'm not concerned, not at all. I know exactly what she's planning – to win me over. And I'm entirely OK with that.
After the news owls came the Wizengamot owls, dropping off their fancy wax-sealed red-ribboned scrolls before every Pureshape in the room, plus Umbridge: the trial had been expedited, at the request of such august personages as Lucius Malfoy and Cecilia Gaunt, and would take place this very day at one o'clock. All the members of the Wizengamot were asked to attend in person, if possible. Including me.
I hardly remember the morning, the frantic rush of preparation – Hermione spends it walking me through all the zillion rules for how a trial before the full Wizengamot works. (She had to learn it all for mine.) Normally the lecture might seem interminable, but today it barely seems to last at all. In just the blink of an eye, it's over, and I'm slithering through Professor McGonagall's Floo in full basilisk form – ever-so-eager to free my godfather and condemn Peter Pettigrew to the Dementors' Kiss.
I arrive in the Ministry Atrium, which looks quite unchanged from the last time I was there – though, admittedly, the big garish statue of Pureshape, Halfshape, and Noshape doesn't bother me nearly as much as it did last time. Hermione and I stick together, making our way through the packed room – the media wastes no time peppering me with questions and camera flashes – and to the VIP elevator at the far end. It, at least, is for members of the Wizengamot only. Hermione and I get the whole car to ourselves. It is an incredible relief when the doors shut behind us.
"This thing has an expansion charm?" I ask, eyeing it with my head tilted as it seems to dilate out to fit me. Not that it isn't still cramped – but it's a much larger kind of cramped than the other Ministry elevators were, when I rode them as the small, frail, human Harriet Potter.
"It does have to fit every shape," Hermione says with a smirk. "You should see how it looks when one of the Slughorns gets in it."
As it did at my trial, the elevator stops at the Wizengamot level at the very bottom, where the Hall of Clans chamber is also used as a meeting-place for the full Wizengamot and a courtroom for high-profile trials. Hermione leads me not into the chamber – that won't be open for another fifteen minutes – but instead into the Hall of Clans' lounge, to wait in style for the trial to begin.
The lounge is incredibly opulent, with polished wood floors, ornate woodwork and gilded, red-leather furniture. A fortune in paintings and tapestries covers the walls, and a crystal chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling. Hermione smiles indulgently as I look around in awe.
It's not too crowded in here yet – Hermione and I arrived comfortably early. Most of the people there, I don't recognize – but eventually my eye catches on two people standing in the corner. Narcissa Black, the elegant crow, and Lucius Malfoy, the absurd, flashy peacock, are standing together, sipping drinks. I tilt my head, look a little closer – yes, Draco is there too, seemingly hiding from me behind his mother. I slither closer.
"Do you think I don't see you, Lord Black?" I ask pointedly. It's all I can do not to roll my eyes at the title. Lord and Lady are the poncey courtesy titles for members of the Hall of Clans – though, thank Merlin, no one uses them for anything but Wizengamot business. We're not Muggles. We don't have to posture and strut about how noble we are. Those of us who are Pureshapes can damn well show it.
"L-Lady Gaunt," he stammers. "I'm... surprised you came to see me. You don't usually seek me out."
"True," I say, tilting my head. "But I'm a basilisk. When I see someone hiding from me, that just makes it harder to resist. And I'm not sure why you're so embarrassed – you're usually so bold. Is this about that conversation we had on the train?" I grin wickedly with one fang out. "I don't see why. You were right. I'm not a Potter."
His parents double-take – as if not believing that their son was quite so foolish as to needle me the very day I became a Gaunt. Draco himself stammers, trying to find a response – until he's given a merciful reprieve.
"Harriet!" calls a voice that is surprisingly familiar and surprisingly welcome.
"Cecilia!" I say, spinning around to catch the eye of my clanmate, standing there in all her copper-scaled glory. "It's good to see you." For a moment, I consider saying more in Parseltongue, maybe alluding to the service she'd done me in arranging for the trial – but now is not the time, I decide, not with so many people here.
At my side, Hermione has stiffened. "Lady Gaunt," she tells Cecilia coolly. "It's a pleasure."
"It's good to meet you, Lady Granger," Cecilia says, her seeming genuine interest a big contrast to Hermione's iciness. "I hear you're my clanmate's best friend. You've given her some good advice."
Hermione blinks. "I am," she says uncertainly. Politeness seems to compel her to add "Thank you."
"The trial begins in fifteen minutes," calls a mild voice from behind, and I turn around to see Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway. Alone out of all the lords and ladies of the Hall of Clans, he's just as human as he was at breakfast this morning. It's simply not done – everyone attends the Hall in their shape. But then, Professor Dumbledore is nothing if not outré. He's no longer the Chief Warlock of the Hall of Wands, the democratically-elected half of the Wizengamot – his party lost badly in the elections this summer – but he remains the Speaker of the Hall of Clans. "You may enter the chamber now."
Cecilia nods. "Come with me, Harriet," she says. "I'll show you to our new bench." She grins. "They widened it for us."
The lounge has a door directly into the side of the chamber, revealing an enormous amphitheater of a room, the need to accommodate so many people of such widely varied shapes resulting in a unique and idiosyncratic design.
On the right are all the clan benches, starting with the largest Shapes on the bottom. I'm not sure which of those benches is ours, but I do recognize the Slughorns' bench, which is actually sunken into the ground a little bit to give them even more headroom. Above us, on higher balconies, are successively smaller benches, with the Weasleys' very long bench at the top alongside other species that are even smaller than ordinary humans. I catch sight of Arthur and Bill Weasley – though, alas, I can't wave to them without hands. And above even that sits the Hall of Wands in what would normally be the viewing gallery.
Ordinarily, the ornate rostrum would stand to my left. But today it's been removed, leaving just a raised semicircle of bare stone above the chamber's lush carpet, to which a single prisoner's chair has been bolted. The marble walls, sculptures, and columns behind it have been veiled with black cloth, so as not to dignify a heinous criminal with the symbols of Wizarding governance. The only thing left unveiled are the two large chalkboards that display the current vote count.
They hadn't done any of that for my trial – I sat in an ordinary chair in front of the rostrum, and that had been quite excessive enough. But this is the way the chamber looked for the Death Eater trials that I watched in Professor Dumbledore's Pensieve.
Director Bones, the head of the DMLE, is already here. She's sitting in a comfortable-looking chair of carved wood and purple fabric that faces the prisoner's chair, on the carpet between the rostrum and the members' benches. This is where she'll preside over the trial.
"Here," Cecilia says. As Hermione separates from us, heading up the stairs to her own bench, Cecilia leads me to a desk made of white marble. It has silver snakes slithering up its sides that turn to flick their tongues at us as we approach. The Gaunt crest is bolted to its front, and our dark glass voting orb sits in a stand at its center, flickers of color playing in its depths. She leads me behind it, onto the bench itself – a long flat expanse of shining black satin, studded with buttons, that extends deep behind the table, far enough for Cecilia and I to stretch out fully side-by-side. It's comfortable, and I find it easy to get settled into.
Cecilia stretches her head to tap a brass stud on the side of the table. A white shimmer appears in the air around our bench.
"A privacy enchantment," Cecilia hisses. "So we can speak in confidence. I'm sorry it took me so long to get the trial set up – though I've figured out how to make this mutually beneficial."
I tilt my head. "Oh, really?"
"Yes. You'll see."
Then a hush falls over the room. Cecilia and I look toward the doors at the front – just in time to see Peter Pettigrew hauled through them in chains by two burly Aurors.
He doesn't look well – his hair is dirty and matted, he's wearing filthy clothes, and his strangely-shaped face looks more rodentlike than ever. A magical cuff circles his right ankle, there to stop him from transforming into his rat Halfshape and escaping again. He's dragged to the prisoner's chair, and it locks him in as he flashes a creepy grin. There are a few reporters, I notice, crouched in front of the first row of desks – they take photograph after photograph of him sitting there, looking every bit the murderer he is. Cecilia turns off the privacy ward so we can get a better view of him.
"Peter Pettigrew," says Director Bones. "You have been called here to give evidence in your own trial, before the full Wizengamot. You stand accused of assisting in the murders of James Potter and Lily Evans – your supposed friends – and the attempted murder of Harriet Gaunt. You stand accused of murdering twelve Muggles in your escape from Sirius Black, and of murdering Mr. Cedric Diggory at the end of last year's Triwizard Tournament. You have also been called to give evidence in the partial judgement in absentia of Sirius Black."
It takes a moment for the crowd to soak in those words. For everyone else in the room, this would be big news. It's less so for me but there's still a surprise there – why are they charging him with Cedric's murder? Surely Cecilia doesn't want him to reveal her resurrection? I shoot her a questioning glance, but she just smiles in reply.
"Is there anything you would like to say in your own defense?" Director Bones asks.
In response, Pettigrew cackles, a high, deranged sound that seems to last forever. "Noooo," he drawls disdainfully, smirking at all of us. "Why should I? You know I'm a hero!"
"Very well. Your consent is not required." Her gaze shifts slightly, to the Auror at Pettigrew's side. "Veritaserum, one drop." As the Auror steps up to administer it, and Peter starts to struggle, she looks back to the watching members of the Wizengamot. "Enough to ensure his compliance and truthfulness, not enough to dampen his... expressiveness. You'll want to see it for yourselves."
Pettigrew's body has slackened. He lies motionless in the chair.
"Did you betray the Potter family to Voldemort?" she asks him.
His eyes bulge out, and he laughs at us again. "Of course I did! They never saw it coming – how could weak, stupid Peter be a Death Eater? But I showed them! And then I showed Sirius Black. No, don't tell Dumbledore I'm the real Secret Keeper. Don't tell anyone! I knew Sirius would come after me – so all I had to do was lure him out somewhere there was witnesses." He laughs again, and I can feel my body tensing. "Oh, Sirius, how could you!" he screeches, in a grating, faux-innocent falsetto. "Then I blew 'em all up, and ran off in my Shape. And I got an Order of Merlin for it!"
"That will be revoked," says Director Bones coolly, and I'm fuming.
I know I can't leap across the desk and bite him where he sits. But I want to. I really do.
And yet – at the same time, I feel triumphant. Today is my victory, not his. He can put on his pitiful act all he wants, try to big himself up atop the corpses of my family. It doesn't matter. He lost. He's exposed. He's on trial for his misdeeds. My godfather is exonerated. And dear uncle Peter is sure to get the Dementor's Kiss, today. Right in front of me.
It's a shame I won't get to kill him myself, but I think I'll still enjoy watching it.
A white blur ripples into existence around our bench, and it takes me a moment of surprise to remember that it's the privacy charm. "What?"
"You're dripping venom," Cecilia says, flicking her tongue toward my belly – where a trail of yellow-green liquid is sliding down my scales. She's right – my fangs are out, venom dripping from them. I sheepishly retract them. "I'll clean you up. Venevanesco." It vanishes, the spell tickling my scales for a moment.
"Oh. Sorry. I didn't mean to..." My gaze flicks back to Pettigrew for a moment. "I guess I was angry."
Cecilia smiles. "Nothing wrong with that. It's only natural, and he would certainly deserve a bite from you. But be careful – you're in public. Trust me, you don't want that photograph on the front cover of the Prophet." Her gaze turns away for a second, quickly running over the marble of our desk and the satin cushions beneath us. "Also, I'd rather you didn't melt a hole in our bench."
I chuckle weakly. "I'll try not to," I say, before she turns the charm back off.
"Tell us about your plans for the Triwizard Tournament," Director Bones asks.
"It was more Barty's plan than mine," Pettigrew whines, inflating his cheeks in a ratlike pout. "He never told me the details. He thought I'd mess it up. I rescued him, and he looked down on me anyway!"
"Okay, then tell us about Barty's plans for the Triwizard Tournament."
"We were going to resurrect the Dark Lady!" he crows. "Barty brewed a potion that he said was supposed to bring her back – I don't know how it was supposed to work, but it needed Harry Potter's blood as one of the final ingredients." He grins, his horrible snaggly teeth on full display. "That's what the tournament was for. A way to capture her in front of the whole Wizarding world, and then have her announce the Dark Lady's return."
The room is dead silent. I glance nervously at Cecilia, but she seems calm and attentive. I'm sure Pettigrew isn't saying anything the Dark Lady doesn't want her to – so why is she willing to reveal this?
"Barty got Potter into the Tournament." He giggles horridly. "He screwed up – he thought some of the challenges would be outside Hogwarts. They weren't, but we got her with the Portkey on the last challenge anyway. Got Cedric Diggory, too." His smirk really is horridly ratlike. "I enjoyed killing him."
"T-the Dark Lady has returned?" stammers someone in the seats above. It's out of turn, but no one cares – the whole room is thinking the same thing.
"No!" Pettigrew wails, and I blink. What? "No, she hasn't! I did the ritual just like Barty said. I had a big cauldron of potion set up in the graveyard, bubbling and hot and ready for the last ingredients. I put in Potter's blood and Lady Voldemort's wand, and... her body was supposed to rise from the cauldron. But it didn't!"
He breaks down sobbing – like, actually sobbing, I can see the tears running down his face. I look to Cecilia, and she grins at me.
"It didn't," he blubbers, hanging his head. "Nothing happened. Her wand just... just sat there! In the bottom of the cauldron, like the potion was water! I don't know what I did wrong. And Potter needed to get sent back to Hogwarts, ready to talk about the Dark Lady's glorious resurrection! To make her grand introduction!" He looks up again, a slight smile on his face. "I used the False Memory Charm on her to make her think our plan had worked, and then used the Portkey on her. Sent her back."
Right. Mutually beneficial, that's what Cecilia said. Mutually beneficial. So Pettigrew exonerates Sirius – but he exonerates her, too. It explains what I said to Fudge and Professor Dumbledore, without having the Dark Lady actually be back. It's not what I expected – but neither does it dampen the warmth in my heart. It's a fair trade, I think, for Sirius's freedom.
"That didn't even work!" he yells. "She was supposed to talk about her in public, convince people, but she didn't! Not after she got out of her sickbed, not even once! I think she must have known something was wrong."
"Is this true?" booms another voice from the galleries above. "Lady Gaunt, were you not trained to resist the False Memory Charm?"
"Surely Dumbledore would have handled that!" scoffs another. "She's the Girl-who-Lived!"
"I... I wasn't," I stammer. "Trained, I mean."
That starts a roar of further questions – not to mention some outrage on my behalf. I shrink backwards into the depths of the bench – just as my clanmate slithers forward. "Silence!" says Cecilia, her hood flared. "Peter Pettigrew is on trial here, not Harriet. She'll answer no further questions."
"Indeed," Director Bones agrees. "Continue, Pettigrew."
I look over to my clanmate – partly thankful, because of course I didn't want to be pelted with questions, but also skeptical. She let me answer the question that made Dumbledore look bad – then hushed me before I could say something bad for her. I'm almost impressed.
"I was going to wait for Barty to show up for us try again," he says. "But he never showed up! He was already dead!" His head droops. "I didn't know what to do without him. The potion hadn't worked. Lady Voldemort still wasn't restored. I tried looking through his notes, but they were... beyond me. I tried to fix the potion, but..." His eyes seem to water as he stares out at the crowd. "It blew up. Set fire to my hideout, and took the Dark Lady's wand with it."
There's a ripple of laughter in the room. It is a pretty funny image.
"I spent the summer searching for any sign of Voldemort. Surely she had to be out there somewhere! But autumn fell, and I found nothing! So I thought... maybe I could find another Death Eater. Someone else who could help guide me, the way Barty had." He shakes his head. "The problem was, everyone who wasn't Imperiused was sent to Azkaban. Finding Barty in his father's house was a real lucky break... but I didn't think anyone else had secret Death Eaters in their basements."
He looks bleakly out at the audience.
"I decided that I'd try going to Lucius Malfoy," he says. "I know he said at his trial he'd been Imperiused, but I'd spent a lot of time listening to Wizarding gossip as a rat. Rumor had it that was just a lie – that he was a Death Eater at heart. I didn't know for sure either way – I'd never worked with him – but I thought it was worth a try. I showed up at his house. He acted just like I expected – like the perfect Death Eater. And then he Stunned me and called the Aurors!"
Pettigrew's voice rose into a high whine on the last words, as if he considered this evidence of high treason rather than just being a good citizen. I laugh. A lot of us do. I extend my body out from my desk to see Lucius preening in his bench a few levels above.
"You caught me!" he yells. "Maybe you'll send me to Azkaban, or maybe you'll kill me. But this is not over! Lady Voldemort will rise again! She is immortal! Beyond death! I failed, but someone will succeed! They must! They must!"
The laughter doesn't stop – if anything, it gets louder. And I notice that Cecilia and her Death Eaters are eager participants. She wants people to believe that her return is laughable. And she's doing a damn good job of it.
Director Bones gestures, and an Auror administers a drop of Veritaserum antidote to a suddenly-horrified Pettigrew. Without the haze of the Veritaserum affecting his judgement, he knows he's said way too much. He knows we're gonna kill him. The lowers his head, sniffling at us.
"That will be all," says Director Bones. She turns her chair around, looking to the rest of us. "Are you ready to vote on the fate of Peter Pettigrew?" she asks. The voting orb on the desk before me begins to glow white as a piece of enchanted chalk starts scribbling on the large chalkboards behind the rostrum. Should the trial be put to a vote? reads its heading. AYE 0 – NAY 0.
Cecilia teaches me how to use the voting orb – I have to 'touch' it with my telekinesis, and say my vote aloud. The chalk marks it on the chalkboard. Aye, of course – the vote is completely unanimous.
"Peter Pettigrew is charged with the murders of fifteen people across three separate cases, and with the attempted murder of one person. On each charge, the Wizengamot is asked to vote guilty or not guilty."
I stiffen. My fangs are out, though I manage to restrain myself from dripping venom this time.
"On the charge of the murder of James Potter and Lily Evans Gaunt, how do you vote?" she asks.
I grip the voting orb perhaps a little harder than I need to. "Guilty!" I spit. So does Cecilia alongside me, and so too does the whole room. The vote is unanimous.
"On the charge of attempted murder in the case of Harriet Gaunt, how do you vote?"
Guilty!
"On the charge of the murder of twelve Muggles, how do you vote?"
Guilty!
"On the charge of the murder of Cedric Diggory, how do you vote?"
Guilty! The room roars with excitement, the last verdict practically screamed out by all present. "Guilty on all charges," confirms Director Bones, as camera flashes go off. Cecilia rubs her scales against mine, and I actually hug her, twining my long body with hers. That is going to end up on the front page of the Prophet, I realize sheepishly as a camera flashes at us – though, of course, Cecilia couldn't be more pleased.
You know what? I don't care. I couldn't be more pleased, either.
"The Ministry recommends two possible punishments in this case," Director Bones says. "That he be sentenced to Azkaban for eternity, or that he be given the Dementor's Kiss on the spot. How do you vote?"
There is no doubt in my mind about what I want. "The Dementor's Kiss," I hiss, clutching the voting orb. Mine is the first vote chalked onto the board, and Cecilia inclines her head, surprised, as I make it. But after a few moments' thought, she touches the orb and does the same.
Unlike before, this vote is not unanimous. Even for someone so vile, it seems the Wizengamot has little stomach for the Dementor's Kiss. Unfortunately, a lot of the Order faces I recognize follow Dumbledore in voting for Azkaban – he shoots me a disappointed look, and anger wells up in my gut. But, in the end, the Kiss wins.
"You'll regret this!" Pettigrew screams, though his fear is obvious. "The Dark Lady will come back, and she will remember what you've done!"
Two more Aurors, bright Patronuses at their sides, escort a Dementor into the chamber. Its black shroud billows about its rotting frame as it steps up to Pettigrew. It takes a moment to examine the shivering, horrified man. Then it lowers its hooded head down over his mouth.
There's a quick shimmer of vile, Darkest magic that sends a shiver through my body. A horrible sucking sound breaks the near-total silence – and then the Dementor steps back from Pettigrew's body, which slumps over in its restraints. Though the man's body still breathes, it's more than clear that he is dead.
Only a few members cheer at the sight. I have no shame about being one of them. My fanged grin doesn't go away for the rest of the meeting.
Pettigrew's Kiss is not the end of business. After his empty shell is hauled away, the Wizengamot has a short trial for Sirius in absentia, in which he is of course completely exonerated. There's some debate about whether to compensate him, and how much. Professor Dumbledore tries to grandstand about the way Fudge's government had ordered Sirius Kissed, but Cecilia shoots him down in style by pointing to his own record. He was both Speaker and Chief Warlock when the Kiss order went out, after all, hardly blameless – not to mention that he dominated the postwar government that sent Sirius to Azkaban without a trial.
When it's all over, Cecilia turns the privacy charm on and looks toward me. "So?" she asks nervously. "How was it?"
"It was excellent," I say, rubbing up against her scales. "Thank you. I wasn't expecting Pettigrew's story about last year, but you're right – it was mutually beneficial. That charade about whether I could resist the False Memory Charm annoyed me a little, but... well. Fair play." I smirk. "Don't expect me to do anything different, if I get the chance."
"You're welcome," she says, shifting in place as she breaks eye contact. "Can you... visit me, sometime? At the library? I'm pretty busy, but I'll always make time for you if you owl ahead."
"Of course," I say. "Until then, Cecilia."
Hermione is waiting for me outside the privacy charm. I slither back to the Floo alongside her, proud and triumphant.
Notes:
This chapter was beta read by Videocrazy and GlassGirlCeci, who both receive fancy invitations from the Wizengamot.
How did you like the testimony twist? I'm surprised no one guessed it beforehand.
Sorry about my slowitude lately! I've been working on another project, but that should be done with pretty soon, and then I'll be back to my other fic. Probably Nemesis will come next. :)
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