Chapter Three: Enter Isis: Snake-tactula!
The Dark Lord sat on his bed yet again, staring out the window, and thinking. Harish's eleventh birthday was tomorrow. Don't get him wrong, he didn't care for the boy—he didn't—and he was sure that he never would. But coming up with the child's birthday (August 15th) would entitle you to know it.
The boy still needed his school supplies and he had been planning for the past few weeks to take him tomorrow for a 'birthday present'. Of course technically he was just getting the boy his supplieson his birthday, not for his birthday. He absolutely did not care for the boy.
As he was thinking about these things, he heard a knock on the door. Harish's pale face appeared beside the slightly open door, "Father, tomorrow's my birthday," Voldemort rolled his eyes. How could he not know that? "And I was just thinking about school. Are my school things coming by mail?"
He didn't answer the boy at this, but turned and looked out the window.
"I thought that maybe— this year— maybe you might take me somewhere for my birthday." At seeing Voldemort still not respond, Harish started to feel a little annoyed, "Instead of just staring out of your window, like you do all the time," he added. Voldemort's eyes flashed and Harish, knowing the temper his father sometimes had, took a step back.
"I'm sorry—" he started, "I didn't—"
"No, you're right," Voldemort whispered quietly, standing up, "I haven't gone out of this house for some time… You may go back to your room now." He ended with a stern tone.
"But—
"Now!" he hissed and the boy jumped and ran out of the room.
VOLDIE-HATES-AFFECTION—AFFECTION-HATES-VOLDIE
Harish sighed and lay back on his bed. He couldn't help but feel miserable. He had a nice room, large house, expensive clothing, and nearly always got what he wanted. The only thing was that his father fully ignored him. They used to at least talk, during his lessons for instance. Now this past year Father has been mostly avoiding him and hiding out in his room. He wanted more attention.
He really did love his father. He remembered when he was five; he would go around saying that he wanted to be his father when he grew up. That was also when he had figured out he was a Parseltongue. Ever since then, all he and his father spoke at home was the snake language. Then, of course, there was Nagini, his father's giant snake. He had loved having conversations with the snake. She seemed really intelligent. She would also tell him stories about his father. She had even told him of his father's school days, including the whole incident with the Chamber of Secrets.
Harish giggled. He couldn't believe that his father didn't think that Harish knew what his job was. Harish had known that his father was Lord Voldemort for nearly as long as he could remember. It had startled the Dark Lord greatly when he discovered that his son was in fact fully aware of his 'job' as a terrorist-style revolutionary.
He didn't really mind, though. He loved his dad and thought he was awesome. Everyone should worship the ground the Dark Lord treads on, in his opinion. His father was the coolest person in the history of the wizarding world since Salazar Slytherin and Merlin.
Harish hated his father's opponent Dumbledore, on the other hand, with a fiery passion. He knew that Dumbledore was the reason the two had been forced to hide in Slytherin Manor since Harish was a toddler, and Harish was also aware of how much his father resented the confinement. Harish didn't blame him—he hated being locked up in one place too, and it was all Albus Dumbledore's fault.
Harish still wasn't sure whether Father was actually planning to take him to Diagon Alley or not. If only he knew Legilimency. Then he might be able to tell what his father was thinking. He wondered what had caused his father to close up his shell like that. He guessed that he would never know, and would have to wait to see if they were going to Diagon Alley tomorrow. He hated waiting almost as much as he hated being stuck in this empty manor.
HARISH-WANTS-ATTENTION—YUM-YUM-YUM
Voldemort entered Harish's room. "Come on, we are going to Diagon Alley," he said. Strangely enough, he felt satisfied when he saw the boy's sullen face perk up with excitement.
Harish was almost immediately at his side.
"Now before we leave," Voldemort said as Harish trotted happily up to him, "I need to tell you to not speak anything other than English while we're at Diagon Alley. No Parseltongue."
"Why?" Harish asked.
"Most people believe that Parseltongue is a dark talent. Britain especially insists that being a Parselmouth is a sign of a dark wizard. While I will admit that some of that prejudice was enhanced by my own formidable reputation, most of it was already present in the society before their war with me. In fact, Salazar Slytherin was greatly villianized by historians due to this very same talent. You will often find, my son, that wizard as a whole are idiotic sheep."
"Oh," Harish said.
"Okay now, we will be apparating there."
Harish nodded, preparing himself for the not so pleasant sensation that came with apparating. Then he gripped Voldemort's wrist and they disapparated.
They reappeared in the middle of the Alley and Harish stood in amazement. The place was so…full! It was loud and overwhelming as he watched the people bustle back and forth in the shops. Owls were screeching, cats were meowing, and toads were croaking.
He smelled wonderful smells of chocolates as they passed a candy store. There two witches haggling over some eels eyes. It was all so very different to what he was used to. He had a huge, silent manor all to himself and his father. Only occasionally did he go over to the Malfoy manor and play with Draco while their fathers talked, but that wasn't all that different. Even playing Quidditch with Draco up with all of the chattering birds had been more tame than this Alley.
Harish was herded into Gringotts so that they could use the boy's inherited fortune on their shopping trip. His father intended to teach him how to manage finances using the Potter money. When Harish had asked how he even had access to the Potter vaults an answer had not been forthcoming. His father had given him that tight-lipped glare he had whenever he did not wish to divulge information. Harish wasn't bothered. He would weasel the facts out of him eventually.
Voldemort walked up to the counter. He sneered down at one of the goblins and said, "We are here to open the Potter trust vault."
The goblin peered over the desk at them. "I'm afraid that the Potter vault is closed unless someone with Potter magic claims it," he said, sneering back at the man.
Voldemort scowled, "You can have him tested if you want."
Harish, who had been watching the interaction intently, noticed that neither his father nor the goblin were very happy. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Why did his father want the Potter vault specifically? He grinned internally. This promised to be a very diverting mystery.
"Very well," the goblin said as another one walked up. "Griphook will take you to a private room to have the boy tested."
The two of them followed Griphook to a private room. Once there, the goblin took out a piece of parchment labelled, 'Potter' and had Harish put his hand to it. The paper glowed gold before writing scrawled across the page. Harish leaned forward and read the writing. It was just a list of the Potter accounts that were available to him (there weren't many) and how much stuff they had in them. At the bottom of the page, it said 'Harish Anata Blake: Potter Heir' and nothing else.
The goblin regarded the parchment with an odd look on its face.
"What did that mean?" his father asked Griphook.
"The parchment will turn blue if they have a relation to the Potters by marriage, red if by blood, and gold if only by magic. The parchment only rarely turns gold. In fact, I have never actually seen this arrangement occur before—I only knew it was possible due to prior record. This means that somehow, Harish Anata Blake is heir to the Potter trust vault, but he is not related to any Potter by blood."
"Ah," Voldemort said sounding confused, but Harish knew that look. He could tell that the explanation had made perfect sense to the man. "We would like to draw some gold out of the vault if you please."
Soon, Harish was trotting out of the bank behind his father, his money bag jingling merrily with the sound of several new galleons, sickles, and quite a few knuts.
Next, they went to Madam Malkin's Harish bought green and black robes. Then, they headed over to Flourish and Blotts and Harish convinced his father to buy him a book on jinxes.
After Flourish and Blotts, they headed to Apothecary. Voldemort bought Harish the essentials such as a cauldron and potion supplies. Then they moved on to Ollivander's. Finally. This was what Harish had been waiting for since he had been old enough to consider the idea.
Somewhere in the distance a bell tinkled as they stepped inside. "Good afternoon," said a soft voice somewhere.
"Hello," Harish said.
"Ah, but who are you?"
"Harish Blake," he replied.
"Hmm, Which is your wand arm?" Ollivander asked as he pulled out a measuring tape to begin to measure Harish for a wand.
"My right."
Voldemort started to edge out of the shop. He knew that Ollivander would recognize his second wand. The one that he nearly had to blackmail him to make. No doubt Ollivander would want to see his wand if he noticed him. He quietly opened the door and squeezed out into the fresh air.
OLLIVANDER-LIKES-WANDS—THEY-HAVE-BRAINS
Harish watched the old man as he measured him.
"Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr Blake. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and dragon heartstrings. No two Ollivander wands are the same."
Harish looked down at the tape measure and realized it was measuring his nostrils on its own. Ollivander was flitting through the wands, no doubt trying to find him a suitable wand.
"That will do," Ollivander said, and the tape measure crumpled in a heap on the floor.
He gave Harish wand after wand only to have them grabbed right out of his hand before he could wave it. The pile of tried wands grew higher and, to Harish's astonishment, so did Ollivander's mood.
"Tricky customer, eh? No doubt, we'll find the right match for you somewhere— I wonder— yes, why not— holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."
As Harish took the wand, he suddenly felt a warmth in his fingers. He waved the wand over his head and green sparks flew out, dancing on the walls. "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed. Very good. Curious…" he muttered while wrapping up the wand and placing it back in its case.
"What's curious?" Harish asked earnestly.
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr Blake. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious that this wand should be destined to you when its brother—why, its brother belonged to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
"Why is that, sir?" Harish asked.
Ollivander pinned the boy with a steely gaze. "I have a very long memory, young man, for people as well as wands. I recognized your father sneaking out of my shop—and despite the changes he has made to his appearance I know exactly who he is."
At Harish's abruptly defensive stance, the elderly man smiled gently. "Do not worry, Mr Blake. I am, and have always been, completely neutral. No one dares to aggravate a wand-maker, particularly one of my calibre. Your father's secret is safe with me. I said that it was curious for this wand to choose you because it is most unusual for a child to have a brother wand to his own parent. I find that curious because such a choice shows great devotion to your father—and a great similarity."
Harish flushed a bit with pride. Somehow hearing that he was very similar to his father from this strange old man seemed quite significant. But Ollivander wasn't done yet.
"The wand chooses the wizard, remember…" he whispered. "I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Blake. After all, your father did great things—terrible, yes, but great. Your father is one of the most incredible wizards of his age…I should expect no less from his son."
Harish nodded, still a bit overwhelmed, and paid Ollivander seven galleons for his wand. As he turned to the front of the shop, he saw his father waiting for him outside with an eager expression on his face; very odd.
"Holly and phoenix feather," he announced proudly. His father reached out his hand and Harish handed it to him.
Voldemort felt something odd in his fingers and he knew that this wand was his wand's brother. He often wished he had his old yew wand back. The second wand he had convinced Ollivander to make him after his first was confiscated by the ministry as 'proof' of his demise worked quite well, but it just didn't have the familiarity his old wand did.
Harish waited for the Dark Lord to hand his wand back, and when he did, his father asked, "Would you like to go look at some snakes?" The blood adoption had given Harish some of Voldemort's gifts, including being a parselmouth.
Voldemort remembered when he had first figured out that the boy could Speak. Harish had been out in garden playing, when a little garden snake slithered in front of the boy. Harish had been unfazed and merely picked up the little snake and started talking to it. It had then become Harish's first pet snake.
"Sure," Harish replied, but then added uncertainly, "but aren't we only allowed an owl, cat, or toad?"
"Not if they don't know it's there," Father replied with a devious expression.
Harish smirked at that answer. They went into Magical Menagerie and walked over to some of the exotic and magical snakes. "What kind of snake is that?" Harish asked his father, pointing to a blue snake. It had wings that were feathered at the ends.
"That is a Quetzalcoatl," he replied.
"Oh," Harish turned back towards the Quetzalcoatl, "What's your name?" he asked it in Parseltongue.
"Isis" she replied.
"Cool! Do you want to come with me?"
"Yes. It gets boring in this store and it's not every day I meet a Speaker."
"I would like her, Father," he told him.
"We will take the Quetzalcoatl," Voldemort told the shopkeeper who opened the terrarium.
Harish reached his hand down to let Isis fly up his arm and onto his shoulder. "I wouldn't do that if I were you sir. He has a nasty temper."
"I have a way with animals," Harish replied, "Oh, and by the way, Isis is a she, not a he." The storekeeper gaped at him in astonishment as Isis slithered up his arm and curled about his shoulders. The two then walked out of the shop with their newest scaled addition and disapparated home.