Harry Potter: The Golden Viper

0387 Harry’s Predicament

Bang!

The sound of the slamming door still echoed in Harry's ears as he climbed back up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. Five minutes later, he found himself once again in the confines of his small, messy room. The fading daylight cast long shadows across the floor, creating an atmosphere of gloom that perfectly matched Harry's mood.

Facing the slightly tarnished mirror embedded in his battered wardrobe, Harry saw a dejected, frustrated face staring back at him. His normally vibrant green eyes, so like his mother's, were dull with disappointment and barely suppressed anger.

As he stood there, scrutinizing his reflection, Harry had to admit that he had been naive. He had thought things would be simple, that Sirius's warning would make life with the Dursleys a bit more comfortable. It was why he hadn't refused when Sirius had proposed this plan. Now, it seemed Sirius's warning wasn't ineffective—but surprisingly, it had been too effective, yielding results far beyond what either of them had anticipated.

In a sudden burst of frustration, Harry kicked the trunk at the foot of his bed. The solid thud of his bare foot against the worn wood was satisfying for a brief moment, but it did little to alleviate the ache in his heart. With a groan of despair, he flung himself onto his bed, burying his face in the slightly musty blankets.

As he lay there, face pressed into the fabric, Harry realized with a sinking feeling that he had overestimated himself. He had always hoped that when living with the Dursleys, it would be best if they could leave each other alone. Now that he had finally gotten his wish, he'd rather spend an entire summer without anyone to talk to.

Suddenly, Harry began to go crazy on the bed. He pounded the mattress like a madman, his fists connecting with the worn springs again and again, making strange noises.

As his energy began to wane, Harry's mind raced, searching for solutions to his predicament. The best solution, he thought, would be for Sirius to appear immediately out of thin air like the wizard he was, and whisk him away from this house. That would indeed solve the immediate problem. But what about the next three summers? According to Sirius, he had to return to the Dursleys for some time each summer until he graduated from Hogwarts.

For a brief, desperate moment, another idea flashed through Harry's mind. Should he swallow his pride, apologize to the Dursleys, and tell them Sirius had just played a cruel joke? That his godfather was actually innocent, and there was no need to fear vengeance from a supposedly deranged wizard?

He rubbed his face hard against the sheets, forcefully ejecting the second idea from his mind. Reconcile with the Dursleys? Just thinking about it made Harry feel humiliated, a hot flush of shame creeping up his neck.

'No, there had to be another way.'

After Hedwig returns from her latest search for Sirius, Harry decided he would write a letter to Ron, asking if Mr. Weasley could take him away from this house earlier than planned. Ron had always suggested this, his letters filled with enthusiastic plans for rescuing Harry from his Muggle prison. But Harry, feeling bound by his promise to Sirius and not wanting to be a burden, had always refused this tempting offer. Now, however, the idea of escaping to the warmth and chaos of the Burrow seemed like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

As day faded into night, the pink glow that had filled the room gradually dissipated, replaced by deepening shadows. Darkness crept up from the corners, silently occupying the room like an unwelcome guest.

Despite the tantalizing aroma of dinner still wafting up from downstairs, Harry found he had no appetite. The thought of sitting alone at the kitchen table, surrounded by the echoing silence of the empty house, was more than he could bear. Instead, he tossed and turned in bed for what felt like hours, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Gradually, his consciousness began to blur.

At one point, Harry thought he heard the sound of the Dursleys opening the front door, their muffled voices drifting up the stairs. But Harry, overcome with physical and emotional exhaustion, couldn't muster the energy to get up and investigate. He kept pondering hazily whether he should leave the Dursleys early, reasoning that given the current situation, they'd probably be glad to see him go.

As the crescent moon rose high in the inky sky, casting a silvery glow through the gaps in Harry's curtains, the frustration etched on his face began to smooth out. His inner conflict, which had been raging like a tempest, slowly subsided into a dull ache. Just as he was about to drift off into sleep, Harry suddenly heard muffled voices that were obviously not from the Dursleys. Moreover, there were some vague images appearing before his eyes, strange and shifting like smoke in the wind.

'Am I dreaming?'

Harry, retaining only a shred of consciousness, wondered groggily. A mysterious urgency welled up inside him, an inexplicable desire to see clearly what those flickering images meant. Surprisingly, when he focused on this thought, the images actually became clearer, though they still swayed and rippled like reflections in a disturbed pond.

Intrigued and wanting to pass the time before falling asleep fully, Harry focused on those images with all the concentration he could muster. Then, as if pulled by an invisible force, his consciousness sank deeper into the vision unfolding before him.

To be honest, Frank Bryce from Little Hangleton village and old John from the Shetland Islands did resemble each other quite a bit,

They were both veteran soldiers who had survived brutal wars, their bodies bearing the scars of battles long past. One guarded the once-grand Riddle House for life. The other spent his remaining years with a forgotten lighthouse.

And both their fates, unbeknownst to them, were about to change dramatically in July of 1994.

The weather had been decent lately in Little Hangleton, the summer air warm and fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers. But the dampness that lingered in the soil still aggravated Frank's bad leg, which had become increasingly sensitive and fragile with age. On this particular night, it protested vehemently, sending sharp bolts of pain up his thigh and into his lower back.

Frank had been battling this bad leg for half his life, a constant companion that reminded him daily of the sacrifices he had made for his country. He was well-versed in handling such situations over the years.

So, he knew endurance alone wouldn't suffice; he had to do something about it.

Grumbling under his breath, Frank rubbed his eyes and slowly, painfully, got out of bed. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he made his way barefoot down the narrow staircase to the kitchen. His destination was clear: the kettle on the stove, which would soon be filled and heating water for his trusty hot water bottle.

As he stood by the sink, listening to the metallic plink of water filling the kettle, Frank's gaze instinctively drifted upward, out the small kitchen window. His eyes settled on the looming silhouette of the Riddle House, the mansion he had guarded vigilantly for half his life.

There, on the second floor, a faint light flickered, barely perceptible but unmistakable to Frank's keen eyes. The soft, wavering glow was out of place in the abandoned mansion. His mind, still sharp despite his advancing years, quickly concluded that it must be those restless village boys coming to cause trouble again.

Although it had been many years since he'd set foot inside the Riddle House, Frank still remembered every creaky floorboard, every dusty corner of the place. Without a second thought, he abandoned his quest for pain relief and set out to investigate. He entered through the back door into the cave-like dark kitchen, trying his best not to make a sound so he could catch them red-handed later.

If he didn't see them with his own eyes, Frank knew, those naughty boys would probably accuse him of being a bit crazy, just like the villagers did.

Because of the large floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the front door, there was some light in the corridor filled with the smell of decay, making it a bit easier for him to climb the dusty stone steps to the second floor.

On the landing, Frank paused for a moment, listening intently. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint creaking of the old house settling. Then, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He turned right; his gaze immediately drawn to the end of the long corridor. There, a door stood slightly ajar, with a wavering orange glow spilling out into the hallway.

Frank crept along the wall; each step carefully placed to avoid the squeaky floorboards he knew so well. His knotted hands tightly gripped his walking stick, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary. The thought of knocking those troublemakers on their heads brought a grim smile to his old face.

When he was just a few steps from the doorway, Frank could see a narrow slice of the room through the crack. The flickering light that had caught his attention from outside now revealed itself to be coming from a fire in the hearth. This surprised him greatly; even the most daring of village youths rarely went so far as to light fires in the abandoned house. Moreover, it was hardly the weather for it. A sense of unease began to creep over him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

Frank stopped in his tracks, every muscle tense as he strained his ears. Suddenly, a clear voice broke the silence, emanating from behind the partially open door. It was a rather flat tone, but Frank, with his rich life experience, could detect a hint of restrained disgust lurking beneath the surface.

"Drink it quickly, it won't last long—"

Before Frank could process this strange statement, another voice responded, "Ah, thank you—"

This second voice belonged to a man, that much was clear. Though he was expressing gratitude, his voice was oddly high-pitched, almost childlike in its timbre. Yet there was no warmth in the tone; instead, it was as cold and biting as a winter wind, sending an involuntary shiver down Frank's spine.

Frank had completely forgotten about his original suspicions of troublemaking youths. This was something else entirely, something that made his veteran soldier's instincts scream danger. He instinctively moved closer to the door, his curiosity overriding his caution.

A series of gulping sounds reached his ears, loud and greedy. The satisfying noise reminded Frank of his days in the army, when he and his comrades would guzzle beer after surviving a particularly harrowing battle. But there was something off about these sounds, something almost... inhuman.

"Marvelous," the high-pitched voice spoke again, a note of satisfaction clear in its tone. "It feels marvelous every time—"

The man seemed to be praising whatever he had just consumed, but for some inexplicable reason, Frank suddenly felt that the voice sounded more like the hissing of a vicious snake than human speech. The realization sent a chill down his spine, making him question whether he was truly awake or trapped in some bizarre nightmare.

"I never imagined," the voice continued, a hint of wonder creeping into its tones, "that the plants people mostly overlook contained such wonderful vitality, almost comparable to unicorn blood. Ah, it seems I indeed overlooked many things in the past, didn't I? That's why I paid such a terrible price."

'Unicorn blood?'

Frank's grizzled eyebrows twitched in confusion and disbelief. He was certain he must have misheard the word. Unicorns were creatures of fairy tales, not something to be discussed in hushed tones in an abandoned mansion. Desperate to make sense of what he was hearing, Frank pressed his ear closer to the crack, straining to catch every word.

For several agonizing seconds, there was no sound from the room. The owner of the clear voice that had spoken first seemed unwilling or unable to respond to the man's strange words. The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire and Frank's own shallow breathing.

Unable to resist any longer, Frank carefully positioned his eye at the crack in the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious occupants. To his frustration, he could only see shadows flickering on the far wall, apparently belonging to the person with the clearer voice. The man who had been speaking sat in a high-backed armchair facing the fireplace, completely obscured from Frank's view.

Just as Frank was considering whether to risk pushing the door open a bit further, the high-pitched voice spoke again. "Would you kindly feed the rest to Nagini?" it asked, a note of command underlying the polite words. "I imagine she's as famished as I am after our bumpy journey. Ah, of course, I'm not accusing you of inadequate care, but I'm sure you understand that I'm not what I used to be..."

The words trailed off, leaving Frank with more questions than answers. Who was Nagini? What exactly had they been drinking? And most importantly, who were these strange intruders, speaking of unicorns and mysterious creatures as if such things were commonplace?

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