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What… what was that? The serpent's tongue flickered out, hissing, tasting the air. It felt… strange. Like… uh…
"Take good care of it, Nagini," whispered the red-eyed man. "I will return for you when the time is right."
"Return?" it asked. "You are leaving?"
"Dumbledore thinks he is clever," the other hissed, almost to itself. "He thinks I am weak. Helpless. Thinks he only needs to send two lackeys to catch me… Or is he afraid to face me himself? That mad old man…"
"It smells. Do you smell it?"
The other paused. A cold finger stroked the serpent's head. "Smell? Perhaps. I cannot. As I told you, this vessel is weak. Most of its senses are gone. Even its taste… it requires your venom to fight the curse of the unicorn blood… But it is almost over. The other vessel is ready."
"Ready?"
"Ah, yes… Ready… I can feel it…" The crimson eyes closed.
The great snake hesitated. It slid forward, coiling around the bundled form, resting its head upon its own coils. It would rest. It had a vague impression of doing this before. Guarding this bundle. Ever since they met in the forest… Wait. The serpent lifted its head. It had been chasing a smell. Because something foul had damaged its… its… its thing. The thing that held it. An empty log?
Anyway. The annoying thing had been a bundle too. Very like this one. The snake flicked its tongue. Hiss. Smelled. Almost the same. But this bundle had always been kind, hadn't it? It spoke the true tongue. Sometimes it threw men into the serpent nests, so all could feast… Men? Did it eat men?
It twitched its tail in agitation. The bundle spoke again. "Come here, Nagini."
The serpent raised its head, hovering over the bundle. The ugly, raw-skinned infant hissed, "The time has come." A thin finger stroked the scales near its mouth. A cruel smile touched the lipless slit. "Unlike the useless ones, you are loyal. As a reward… you may eat Quirinus. Feast."
Under the soft, strange command of the true tongue, the great serpent unwound itself. It slid toward the man sprawled on the ground. He was no longer warm. No longer fresh. It dimmed the appetite. A microwave would help… What was a microwave? The snake pondered as it crawled toward the corpse.
A microwave was a square box. It hummed. The microwave on the counter. Next to the sink. The stove beside the sink. The oven under the stove. A dish towel draped over the oven handle. Clean pots and pans stacked on the table, air-drying. The window half-open. Flies buzzing in, buzzing out.
The serpent coiled around the body. Its jaws opened. It tilted its head. It did not want to eat a man. But the speaker-of-the-true-tongue commanded it. Why? No rabbit, no deer, no wolf ever liked watching it eat their kin. But some snakes ate other snakes. Maybe the bundle was a man-shaped snake. If so, why didn't it eat the man itself? Quirrell's lifeless eyes stared at a boring patch of shrubs.
On sunny days, light would stream through that kitchen window. It would warm half the table. On the windowsill were saved, washed-out plastic yogurt cups. Some were yellowed, brittle. Others held soil, a few seeds tucked inside. Sometimes mint sprouted. Sometimes basil. Sometimes it was just some long-bladed weed, but it would stay green in the room for months.
The serpent set its fangs against Quirrell's neck. Cool skin. No pulse beneath. No rush of blood. Still as a frozen river. Dull. It was hungry. And it had no appetite. The best parts were gone. What remained was just cold sauce, garnish herbs, charred parchment, and a plate you shouldn't bite.
Suddenly, movement. Behind it. The serpent's head snapped up. It looked back at the clearing where the bundle had been.
The bundle floated. Just a little. The speaker-of-the-true-tongue looked down. "Enjoy your meal, good girl."
"You are flying," the snake observed.
Thud. The bundle fell. Rocked. Went still.
It crawled over. The creature inside had closed its eyes again. No breath. Another corpse. Two corpses now.
The serpent rested its head on the bundle. It tried to think. The strong, foul smell was fading. Good. But a trace lingered. Clinging. It brought its tail around, examining it. Not the tail. A bird cawed hoarsely from a high branch.
The smell… it reminded the snake of a day years ago. Rainy. Grey. It had just finished the last final exam of the term. It had met friends outside the lecture hall, made plans for a pub that night. Went back to the room. Set the alarm. Slept. Woke in darkness. The faint smell of kitchen waste from the courtyard drifted in on the damp breeze. Its head ached. A ringing in its ears. It rolled over, sank back into the mattress. After a while, it realized the alarm had been buzzing for some time.
Back then, it was called Henry Anthony. And it wasn't dead yet.
Like breaking the surface of water, Anthony woke.
He was inside a dead snake. On top of Voldemort. Next to Quirrell. A few dozen square feet. Three bodies. Quite a party.
And he realized something else. Beside him—not the snake, but Anthony, squeezed inside this reptilian skin—was something strange.
The snake's true soul was gone. Its consciousness had faded. Only Anthony remained, a stubborn squatter piloting the corpse. And that little scrap of strangeness sat beside him. Still. Like a burglar who'd climbed through a window only to find a robber had already kicked down the door. In his rare experiences of hijacking other bodies, Anthony had never encountered this. In the standoff, he could almost hear the alarm bells.
Anthony examined the thing.
First, it was a soul fragment. Soul fragments shouldn't be in a body he was using. Second, it felt just as out-of-place as he did. So it wasn't the snake's original soul. Third, it gave off no emotional flavor. No scent of a thinking creature. So not a human soul either.
Anthony leaned over. Swallowed it. The little soul-fragment slid smoothly into death.
The alarm bells kept ringing.
Anthony lifted his head. The bells… they were in his own mind. The Wraith Mouse was calling. Frantic. Anthony rose, body coiling. He glanced at Quirrell. At the Voldemort-bundle. Turned. Slid back into the trees. Logic said this snake-body was his best option right now.
…
The large black dog moved through the forest, nose to the ground. Sniffing roots, leaves. Limping forward in small bursts.
Suddenly, a transparent chicken landed on its back. Claws dug into fur. It began pecking viciously at the dog's spine. The dog growled, a low rumble from deep in its chest. It shook itself, trying to dislodge the bird. Then, with a clatter-clack, a four-legged creature skidded to a halt in front of it. Half skeleton, half fur. A cat's tail. Flames danced in its empty eye sockets.
The dog lowered its stance. Bared its teeth. The transparent chicken was now pecking at its head.
The dog's head dropped. Then it began to grow. Sirius Black stood in the forest. Filthy. Furious. His right arm still hung at a sickening angle.
"I don't care what you want—"
A voice called from his chest. "Sirius! Sirius!"
Sirius scrubbed a hand over his face with a frustrated sigh. He looked at the blood and grime on his left hand. At his broken arm. His filthy clothes.
"Not now," Sirius muttered. Then back to the Skeletal Cat and Wraith Chicken. "I don't care! But don't get in my way! If you have a way, send a message to Dumbledore! Tell him Henry is dead! He was wrong again! Voldemort killed another one!"
"Sirius!"
Harry's voice only made Sirius pause for a second. "I can't stop now… He's close. Don't look at me like that!" he snarled at the Wraith Chicken. Hatred made his voice raw. "You're wasting my time! Yes, my right arm is useless! I can't hold a wand, can't cast properly! But I don't need a wand to be an Animagus—" He couldn't believe he was explaining this to a chicken. "Move!"
At that moment, the fire in the Skeletal Cat's eyes flickered. Dimmed. In the next instant, ginger fur sprouted over the exposed bones. Ears. Whiskers. It became a perfectly normal, if scruffy, cat. Its eyes closed. It began to purr softly, slipping into unconsciousness.
The Wraith Chicken immediately flew down. It spread its wings, settling over the cat like it was brooding an egg. The transparent Wraith Mouse scurried out, pressing close to the cat, chittering anxiously.
Sirius seized the moment. He shifted back into the black dog. Nose to the ground. He ran deeper into the forest. The wind brought scents… Quirrell and Voldemort grew clearer. The break in his foreleg burned with white-hot pain. Revenge made him cold. And mad. When he got close, he'd find an opening. Lure Quirrell away from his master… Voldemort had used the Cruciatus to wake Quirrell, had Quirrell carry him. Proved Voldemort couldn't move on his own. Quirrell had to take the wand from Voldemort's hand. Meant only one wand between them. In Voldemort's grasp… If he could get Quirrell alone, his Animagus size could overpower the man. As for Voldemort, without Quirrell, he'd only have the snakes—
A massive serpent slid past him through the underbrush. It carried the scents of Voldemort, Quirrell, and a faint hint of blood. And something else. Familiar.
Sirius kept running. Planning. He was close now. He slowed. Tread lightly. Used the shadows of the trees. Circled around to where Quirrell's scent was strongest. He peered out.
The pale young man lay before him. Looked dead. The bundle that had held Voldemort had rolled a short distance away. It lay on its side. A thin, vile arm spilled out onto the leaves. A wand lay beside it, looking like nothing more than a polished stick.
What happened? Did Quirrell turn on him?
No. There was something else here… A scent he'd smelled not long ago…
The black dog crept forward. Ears pinned back. It approached the bundle from behind. No movement.
It snatched the wand from the ground. Nothing happened. Crack. He bit it in two.
Sirius inhaled sharply. He remembered now. What was familiar about that snake. Anthony's scent. The snake that had escaped from Anthony's clothes. The blood in the air… Anthony's blood.
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