Archive of Our Own

One. One Flew Over London Zoo

From the keeper handover log of the London Zoo Reptile House, page forty-seven, remarks column:

"The boa from Case 11 has gone missing again. Found on the lawn outside the grounds. Condition: normal. Demeanour: indifferent. This is the third time this month. Recommend reinforcing the seal."

Page forty-eight:

"The boa from Case 11 has vanished again. Found in the gift shop. Had coiled itself next to a souvenir giraffe. A visitor mistook it for a display piece and took a photograph. Recommend replacing the display case lock."

Page fifty-three, handwriting noticeably worse than previous entries:

"It got out again. Don't know how. Found it at the bus stop outside the grounds. Sitting on the bench. Refused to move for forty minutes. Please, management, seriously consider upgrading the equipment."

Page sixty-one, a single line:

"It went to the NHS. Precisely how it got in, we couldn't say."

None of this was my fault.

The seal had gaps in it to begin with. I simply happened to be rather good at finding gaps. This is called observational skill. In the wild, it is a survival technique. In a zoo, it is called "incorrigible behaviour."

I have objections to this assessment. I have no channel through which to raise them. This, too, is one of the zoo's problems.

Regarding the NHS visit — the keeper's log omitted a great many important details. I entered when a cleaner held the door open. I spent two hours in the waiting area. No one noticed me, because the waiting room chairs were deeply uncomfortable, and everyone was staring at the floor and enduring in silence, with no spare attention for the ground.

When the number display reached seventy-three, a nurse finally noticed me.

Her response was entirely professional. She said only: "We don't accept reptiles here."

Then she pointed at the door.

I felt the policy warranted further discussion. However, as I lack medical qualifications, I left.

In any case, after that incident, the zoo undertook a full renovation of my display case. New glass. New locks. Even the ventilation was redesigned.

The keeper wrote in the handover log: "Should be fine now."

I spent approximately three weeks studying that ventilation.

He was right. It was fine.

Then I studied the glass seams.

Also fine.

Then I studied the keeper's working habits.

Those were not fine.

Every Thursday at two o'clock: routine cleaning. The keeper would enter, begin work, and for approximately ninety seconds, stand with his back to the display case.

Ninety seconds is a very short time for a human.

For a snake who has planned her route in advance, ninety seconds is more than sufficient.

I played dead for eleven consecutive Thursdays.

On the twelfth Thursday, I left.

Like an arrow.

Then they hired a new keeper who never stood with his back to the display case on Thursday afternoons.

I was confined for a very long time.

My only entertainment, in the interim, was the visitors.

Two. Display Case 11 and Under the Stairs

It was a Saturday in June, 1991. An English summer — overcast, intermittently drizzling, the temperature precisely calibrated to make a coat feel too warm and the absence of one feel unconscionable.

I was doing the one thing an exhibit animal is expected to do: absolutely nothing.

This is an art form. Humans never understand it. They always feel that animals must be doing something to justify their existence — running, jumping, performing, earning their ticket price.

A thoroughly middle-class outlook.

Meanwhile, I was mentally re-measuring the width of the gap in the lower-left seam of the new display case.

Then Dudley Dursley arrived.

When I say "fat," I do not mean it unkindly — it is an objective biological observation. The child's proportions were such that any responsible boa constrictor would have declined to swallow him on grounds of likely indigestion.

"Look, Dudley! That snake's moving!" A piercing female voice. His mother. A frequency sufficient to give the entire Royal Philharmonic Orchestra collective sick leave.

I was not moving. I was enduring.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Dudley had begun slapping my glass with his thick, meaty palms.

His father — a man who bore a striking resemblance to a walrus — joined in. With his knuckles. Quite forcefully.

I wished to draw this gentleman's attention to several points:

First: this is a public space. Basic decorum is expected.

Second: I am not a vending machine. Striking the glass will not cause me to "dispense."

Third: you are modelling extremely poor behaviour for your child.

I said none of this. Because of the glass.

Glass is the foundation of civilised society. It protects the public from me, and it protects me from the public.

This is the social contract. We both pretend to find it satisfactory.

(I was studying the new seam. This did not invalidate the contract.)

"Boring!" Dudley declared, and wandered off in sullen disappointment.

Thank heavens.

Or rather: God Save the Queen.

Then I saw him.

Standing in front of my display case. Quiet. Thin. Wearing a pair of glasses that were clearly NHS-issue, with frames considerably larger than his face. Dressed in a jumper at least three sizes too large — the sort one finds only on the back rack of a charity shop. Sleeves rolled up multiple times. Collar sagging like a second-hand sleeping bag.

Textbook English lower-class child.

I recognise the type. Zoo visitors come in two categories: full-price ticket holders, and school-trip voucher holders.

He did not bang the glass. He simply looked at me.

That expression —

A very English sort of despair.

Not dramatic. Not complaining. Simply quiet, polite, and thoroughly hopeless.

Like someone waiting at a bus stop for a bus that appears in the timetable but not in reality — yet continuing to stand there regardless, because that is the done thing.

I slowly raised my head until my eyes were level with his.

Then I blinked at him.

A social experiment: to see whether this particular human would, like all the others, scream and flee.

He froze.

Then he looked around to check whether anyone was watching.

Very British.

"May I respond to this snake? Will people think me odd? I ought to verify the social norms first."

Having confirmed no one was paying attention, he blinked back.

I tilted my head toward Dudley's retreating form, then rolled my eyes toward the ceiling.

The internationally recognised gesture for "look at these people." Despite my having no hands.

He understood. The corner of his mouth twitched — that particular twitch of someone trying not to laugh, afraid of being noticed.

Then he said quietly, through the glass: "I know. Must be awful."

Hold on.

He was talking to me. And he was speaking Parseltongue. He simply didn't know it.

I had sat in an NHS waiting room for two hours. I had observed the morning commute at a Tube station. I had once spent a rainy weekend under a homeless man's cardboard shelter and listened to him curse the world in six languages.

I had observed a great many humans speak.

But this boy was speaking Parseltongue.

I decided to respond. Courtesy is the cornerstone of civilisation.

"Quite awful, yes," I said. "Someone bangs the glass every single day. As though I were some sort of performing monkey. Deeply rude."

He nodded emphatically.

"Where are you... where are you from?" he asked.

His tone was tentative. The tone of someone who is not entirely certain they haven't lost their mind, cautiously attempting conversation with a snake. A thoroughly reasonable precaution.

I pointed with my tail at the information placard beside the case. He leaned in to read it.

"Brazilian boa constrictor," he read aloud, then paused. "What's Brazil like?"

I directed his attention to the smaller text below. He leaned closer.

"'This animal was bred in captivity'..." He finished reading and looked at me. "Oh. So you've never actually been to Brazil?"

I shook my head.

"Me neither," he said suddenly, voice very small. "I mean... I've never been anywhere I actually wanted to go."

That very English, very awkward, but rather comprehending silence.

"Do you like it here?" he asked hesitantly.

"There is central heating," I replied, diplomatically. "And scheduled feeding. The healthcare is not bad either — though it compares unfavourably to the NHS, one must admit that given NHS waiting times, this establishment is actually rather more efficient. I have first-hand data."

"But..." he said, then stopped.

"But there is glass," I finished for him. "And someone bangs it every day."

He nodded.

"I live under the stairs," he said suddenly, as though he'd finally found someone worth telling. "At my aunt's. It's very small. No windows. But at least... at least no one stares at me all day."

Under the stairs.

My display case, at minimum, had an artificial tree trunk and adjustable lighting.

"Under the stairs," I repeated, confirming I had heard correctly. "Like a cupboard?"

"Yeah," he said, entirely calmly, as though this were the most normal thing in the world. "Right under the staircase. There are spiders. It's quite dark."

"At least," I said at last, making a genuine effort to identify a positive, "you are not required to perform. I am expected to produce a daily demonstration of 'snake doing what snakes do.' Though what snakes do is nothing whatsoever, and the visitors fail to grasp this."

"I have to do things too," he said. "My aunt makes me cook breakfast. And wash up. And weed the garden. And clean the house."

"Do they pay you?"

"No."

"Then technically this is in violation of child labour law," I pointed out. "You ought to file a complaint with the local council."

He blinked.

"I... I'd never thought of it that way."

Of course he hadn't. This is England.

We don't call it "exploitation." We call it "building character." Just as we don't call a zoo a "prison." We call it an "educational conservation facility."

Language is the ruling class's greatest invention.

I had two hours in an NHS waiting room in which to develop this theory. The conditions were ideal for extended reflection.

"Do you want to leave?" he asked quietly, something strange and yearning in his voice.

"I want to go to Brazil," I said. "That is my homeland. In theory. I have never been there, but I am quite certain there are warm rocks. And sunshine. And a life in which no one taps on my glass every day."

"That sounds brilliant," he said, and something lit up in his eyes. "It really does. Everyone deserves somewhere warm. Somewhere with sun."

Bloody English.

Always choosing the most unexpected moment, in the most understated voice, to say the most genuinely warm thing.

"I hope you find yours as well," I said, sincerely. "Your warm place."

"Thank you," he said. Then, after a pause: "Er... may I ask your name?"

"We don't have names," I said. "You may call me Amigo. It is Spanish for 'friend.' I feel it suits a snake who wishes to go to Brazil. Though Brazilians speak Portuguese. Geography has never been my strong suit."

He smiled. It was a very warm smile.

"I'm Harry," he said. "Harry Potter."

"How do you do, Harry."

And at that precise moment —

"DUDLEY! Come look at this snake!"

Piers's shriek. Harry's expression changed.

Dudley came barrelling over and drove his fist into Harry's ribs.

Harry hit the concrete floor with no time to brace himself.

He hunched his shoulders — that particular, instinctive hunch. The kind that belongs to a child who has been hit too many times.

Dudley and Piers pressed their faces against my glass.

I was very, very angry.

This is inconsistent with my character. Snakes are cold-blooded. We should not have emotions of this kind.

I stared at Dudley's face.

I thought: if only the glass weren't there.

Then the glass vanished.

Not cracked. Not shattered. Vanished. As though it had never existed.

Dudley fell into the water feature. His screaming filled the entire Reptile House.

I was motionless for approximately 0.3 seconds.

Then my reptilian brain overrode all other processes and delivered a single, unambiguous conclusion:

Go. Now. Use the chaos.

I slid out of the case. Slid through the panicking crowd.

As I passed Harry — he was pulling himself off the floor, wearing an expression of "good God, what have I just done" —

I stopped for 0.5 seconds.

"Brazil," I told him. "I'm coming. Cheers, mate."

There was more I wanted to say. You should file a complaint with the local council about that cousin — that is clearly assault. Your aunt is in violation of employment law. You deserve considerably better living arrangements than a cupboard under the stairs.

But I was already moving.

And Parseltongue has no words for "local council" or "criminal assault."

A deeply primitive language. It is in urgent need of modernisation.

I slid toward the exit. Toward freedom. Toward —

London. June in London. Rainy, cold, packed with buses and thoroughly irritable commuters.

I grasped one thing immediately:

The zoo has central heating. Outside does not.

But an English gentleman — even a serpentine one — never turns back.

Even when disaster lies ahead.

This is called having principles.

I slid into the nearest drain opening. The smell was extraordinary, and not in a positive sense.

"Brazil," I murmured to myself. "You had better be worth it."

Three. A Gentleman's Guide to the Sewers

First, allow me to explain why I chose the sewers.

This was a thoroughly considered, entirely rational, and completely logical decision.

My previous escapes had all been overground. Every single one had ended in recapture. The reason was simple: the surface is too conspicuous. A boa constrictor of one and a half metres, however composed its bearing, will attract unnecessary attention on the streets of London.

And so this time, I chose underground.

Underground, there are no zoo keepers. Underground, there are no screaming passers-by. Underground, there is only pipework, rats, and darkness.

A perfect plan.

The plan had one flaw I had not accounted for:

All my previous escapes had been overground. I knew the surface routes of London extremely well. I knew the distance from the zoo to Regent's Park. I knew which corner had a Tesco. I even knew where the nearest Tube station was.

The sewer system is an entirely different network, with no correspondence whatsoever to anything I was familiar with.

London underground is like a very large bowl of spaghetti. Every pipe looks identical. There are no signs. No maps. None of the reference points I had established on the surface.

My only navigational tool was "follow the current downstream."

But where does downstream lead? The Thames.

Where does the Thames lead? The sea.

Where does the sea lead? Brazil, in theory.

In practice? Drowning.

And so I went in circles. Ate sewer rats. Attempted to maintain an optimistic outlook.

This is what is commonly referred to as the Blitz Spirit.

Keep Calm and Carry On. Though I was uncertain in which direction to Carry On.

Then I encountered the locals.

A colony of grass snakes — thin, elongated, three generations deep in the sewers, eyes somewhat reduced from disuse, and deeply unwelcoming toward outsiders.

"Who are you?" the elder grass snake demanded. "Your accent sounds like zoo."

"Correct," I said, maintaining politeness. "London Zoo. Reptile House. I am en route to Brazil."

They laughed. That very English laugh — sardonic, knowing, you sweet naive creature.

"Brazil? You?" the elder said. "Look at yourself. You're too fat. The first wave would carry you straight off."

"And furthermore," another added, "you've never been to Brazil. How do you know you'd even like it?"

This was a fair point.

I did not, in fact, know whether I would like Brazil. Perhaps Brazil would be too hot. Perhaps the rats there would taste unpleasant. Perhaps I would find myself missing England's grey drizzle.

But that was not the point.

"Because the sign said so," I replied. "'Brazilian Red-Tailed Boa.' That is my species. Therefore Brazil is my home. In theory."

"In theory," the elder repeated, with great sarcasm. "Do you know the difference between theory and reality? In theory, this sewer has a drainage system. In reality, we all live in excrement."

One cannot argue with this.

"Then why do you still live here?" I asked.

"Because I was born here."

"Then how do you know it isn't better outside?"

Silence. The particular silence of someone who recognises the logic but refuses to acknowledge it. Very British.

"Fine," the elder said at last. "Go to Brazil if you like. But you're zoo-bred. You haven't the faintest idea how the real world works."

"I sat in an NHS waiting room for two hours," I said.

The grass snake paused.

"N... H... S?"

"National Health Service," I said. "The British public healthcare system. Established in 1948 by the Labour Party. Theoretically free for all. In practice, the waiting times are long enough that one may arrive with one condition, wait long enough to recover from it naturally, and then develop an entirely new one in the interim. Very characteristically British."

The elder grass snake stared at me. The expression of someone who does not know where to begin their objections.

"I have also been to a Tube station," I added. "And a Tesco."

"What is Tesco?"

"A supermarket. Humans exchange paper notes for food inside it. The system is quite complex, but it operates with considerably more efficiency than the NHS."

The elder grass snake was silent for a long moment.

"You," it said at last, "are the strangest snake I have ever encountered."

"I am aware," I said. "But my field research data is first-hand."

This is an irrefutable argument.

"All right," the elder said, in the tone of one who has given up entirely. "It's worse out there than it is in here. You'll be back."

"How could it possibly be worse than here? Here is entirely excrement."

"Out there," it said, darkly, "is entirely humans."

One cannot argue with this either.

I continued on.

Several weeks later, reports began circulating through the pipes.

Sewer snakes are a natural intelligence network. Every pipe connects to another, and news travels from one end to the other faster than The Times, though with considerably less accuracy than The Times.

First report: a unicorn had died in the Forbidden Forest. Its blood had been drunk.

I turned this information over in my mind.

"Who drinks unicorn blood?" I asked a passing grass snake.

"A wizard," it said, as though this were the most ordinary answer imaginable.

"A wiz—" I stopped. "I beg your pardon?"

"A human. But the sort that does magic." The grass snake was already moving on, evidently disinclined to elaborate.

I considered the concept of "a human who does magic."

In the zoo, I had observed a great many humans. Not one of them had done magic. Though I had never specifically checked.

"What does any of this have to do with my getting to Brazil?" I asked.

No snake answered.

I continued on.

Second report: something had been stolen from Hogwarts. A stone of some kind.

"What sort of stone?" I asked the elder grass snake.

"A magic stone," it said. "The sort that makes one immortal."

I considered this.

"Was it a bird?" I said. "Certain birds have a compulsion to collect stones. Crows are particularly bad. They'll take anything."

"Not a bird."

"An otter, perhaps? Otters use stones to smash things open. They have rather an obsession with them."

"Not an otter."

"Then what animal?"

The elder grass snake looked at me. The expression it now deployed with increasing frequency: I don't know where to begin explaining this.

"A wizard," it said. "Again, a wizard."

"The sort that does magic?"

"Yes."

"They," I said, very slowly, "stole a stone capable of granting immortality."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because someone wished to be immortal."

I was quiet for a moment.

In the zoo, I was confined behind glass every day. People tapped on it. I was treated as an exhibit. I had never once wished for immortality.

If immortality meant that life continuing forever without change — I would rather not.

"What does any of this have to do with my getting to Brazil?" I asked.

"Nothing," the elder said.

"Then I shan't concern myself with it," I said, and continued on.

A few weeks later, a second report reached me through the pipes.

I swam back to ask the elder about it.

It looked at me.

"You said you were continuing on."

"I did continue on," I said. "And then I came back. There are certain structural complications with this section of pipe."

"You got lost."

"I was exploring alternative routes."

The elder grass snake was silent. The silence of one who has decided not to argue.

"The stone business," it said, "has been resolved. A child dealt with it."

"How old a child?"

"Eleven. Wears glasses."

I swam for a moment.

Wears glasses. Eleven years old.

I thought of the boy in the too-large jumper from the zoo.

I decided not to dwell on this. It had no bearing on my getting to Brazil.

"What does any of this have to do with my getting to Brazil?" I asked.

"Nothing," the elder said. It no longer waited to be asked.

"Then I shan't concern myself with it," I said. "I'm continuing on."

"Right," the elder said.

Its tone made clear it did not believe me in the slightest.

Extremely rude.

I continued on.

Three weeks later I was back.

No one commented. A grass snake I had never seen before simply raised its head and said, in a very tired voice:

"The Basilisk is dead."

I stopped.

"What is a Basilisk?"

The elder grass snake sighed. The sigh of here we go again.

"A serpent a thousand years old," it said. "Lived in the dungeons of Hogwarts castle. Eyes that kill. Venom that dissolves stone. Very upper-class. Someone was using it to attack students."

I considered this.

"And what was controlling it?" I asked. "Certain parasites do alter host behaviour. Toxoplasma gondii makes mice lose their fear of cats. Perhaps —"

"A wizard," the elder said.

"As I explained previously," it added.

"I was exploring alternative routes at the time. I didn't catch all of it."

"You were lost."

"Alternative routes."

The elder looked at me. The expression of one who has fully surrendered the argument.

"In any case," the unfamiliar grass snake continued, "the Basilisk is dead. Killed by a child. Twelve years old. Wears glasses. Had a sword. A phoenix assisted."

Wears glasses.

Again with the glasses.

"What was this child's name?" I asked.

The snakes exchanged a glance. The look of what is this one going to do now.

"Harry Potter," the elder said. "Do you know him?"

Of course it was him.

That scrawny thing from under the stairs.

Last year he was complaining to me that his cupboard was too small. This year he's stabbing a Basilisk in the eyes.

The English developmental trajectory is genuinely peculiar.

"Met him once," I said, maintaining composure. "At the zoo. Ordinary human child. Nothing remarkable."

"Harry Potter," the unfamiliar grass snake said, with great solemnity, "is the Boy Who Lived. The entire wizarding world knows him."

"The Boy Who Lived," I repeated. "What does that mean?"

"Someone tried to kill him. Failed. When he was still an infant."

I stopped.

"An infant."

"Yes."

"A Dark Lord," I said, very slowly, making certain I had understood correctly, "who specialises in killing people — went to kill an infant."

"Yes."

"And was defeated by the infant."

"Yes."

Silence.

In the zoo, I had observed a great many predators. Lions. Crocodiles. Large birds of prey. They all shared one quality in common: they did not lose to infants.

This Dark Lord's track record was deeply confusing.

"And the infant," I said at last, "was the scrawny one?"

"Harry Potter. Yes."

To think the scrawny one was so formidable.

He looked malnourished when I saw him at the zoo.

Perhaps it was a form of camouflage.

"What became of this person afterwards?" I asked.

"Disappeared for many years. Apparently making something of a comeback."

Very British state of affairs. You think the problem is resolved, and it isn't. Rather like a blocked drain.

"The scrawny one," I said. "Is he all right?"

The snakes looked at each other again.

"Current intelligence suggests he's still alive," the elder said. "Though Hogwarts does tend to have a certain amount of annual incident."

"Annual?"

"Every year."

A school with annual incidents.

The British educational system is truly impressive.

"That serpent," I said. "Did she have a choice? Being controlled, being sent to attack people."

The snakes fell quiet. The silence of a dangerous question.

"No," the elder said at last. "She had no choice. A thousand years old. Never had a choice, not once."

A thousand years.

A snake, confined to a single chamber, for a thousand years.

That is worse than living under the stairs. At least Harry was occasionally let out to take the bins.

"Poor old girl," I said.

The snakes were quiet for a moment.

"You," the elder said, in genuine bewilderment, "lived in a zoo, and you care about something like that?"

"She was confined for a thousand years," I said, "and then ordered to harm others. I have some personal insight into that sort of situation."

Another silence. The kind where someone has made a fair point and no one quite knows how to follow it.

"A thousand years," the unfamiliar grass snake said at last. "Our family has only been here three generations."

"I had been in the zoo only a few years before I started studying the ventilation shafts," I said. "A thousand years is beyond my imagination."

The elder looked at me.

"So you feel sorry for her."

"I understand her," I corrected. "That is not the same thing."

This is a very important distinction.

Understanding requires no emotion. This is the advantage of being cold-blooded.

I continued on.

Then a rainstorm washed me into the Thames.

The Thames carried me to the North Sea. The North Sea current carried me to the Scottish coast.

This is the British transport system: entirely dependent on luck.

I came to on the Scottish coast, cold, hungry, and in a philosophically questioning frame of mind regarding the general direction of my life.

"Brazil," I murmured to myself. "Where the bloody hell are you?"

Then I smelled warm water.

Four. The Black Lake and the Unwritten Rules of Polite Society

Not seawater. Freshwater. And it was heated.

Magically heated.

I did not know it was magic at the time. I only knew it was warm water, and I had just swum in from the North Sea, whose temperature was sufficient to give any self-respecting boa constrictor a profoundly bleak outlook on existence.

I followed the smell for three days.

Through a river. Into an enormous lake.

The Black Lake.

The water was warm — not the sunshine of Brazil, but a hundred times preferable to the North Sea. There were thermal vents at the bottom. There was water-weed. There were even fish.

This was not Brazil. But it was the finest accommodation I had occupied in two years.

And there was no glass.

I found a thermal vent, coiled up, and slept properly for the first time in recent memory.

Then the merpeople woke me up.

"Another snake?" A mermaid guard levelled her trident at me. "Were you sent by the Dark Lord?"

I looked at the trident.

Then I looked at the mermaid.

Upper half: human. Lower half: fish. Lived underwater. Armed.

In the zoo, I had observed a great many unusual creatures. I had not observed this particular kind.

"What is the Dark Lord?" I asked.

The mermaid guard paused. "You don't know the Dark Lord?"

"I have just swum here from the London sewers," I said. "My intelligence sources were a colony of grass snakes who live in excrement. They mentioned it once, but I was exploring alternative routes at the time."

"You got lost," she said.

"Alternative routes," I corrected. "In any case — what is the Dark Lord?"

She looked me over. A thorough reassessment from head to tail.

"You don't look like a Death Eater's pet," she said at last. "Too fat. And your accent's wrong. You're from London?"

Even the merpeople can identify my class background by my accent.

The class consciousness of this nation has penetrated to the bottom of the lake.

"From the zoo," I corrected. "London Zoo. Reptile House. I am en route to Brazil."

"To Brazil. From Scotland." She raised an eyebrow.

"I am exploring different routes."

She sighed. The sigh of someone who has neither the energy nor the inclination to continue asking questions.

"Very well. You may stay. But there are rules."

Of course there are rules. This is Britain. Even underwater. Even between entirely different species. There are always rules.

"First: no eating merchildren."

"I am a boa, not a python," I said, mildly offended. "I don't take prey that size. And merchildren look very difficult to digest."

"Second: no approaching the mer-village."

"Perfectly fine. I dislike socialising."

"Third: if any wizards fall into the lake, you are not to bite them."

"Why would wizards be falling into the lake?"

"Because this is Hogwarts," she said, as though this explained everything. "At least three per year."

I was beginning to have serious concerns about this school's safety standards.

"Wizards," I said. "That would be the humans who do magic?"

"Yes."

"And the Dark Lord is also a wizard?"

"Yes."

"So the wizarding community," I said, very slowly, working through the logic, "includes one who used magic to imprison a serpent for a thousand years, one who attempted to murder an infant and was defeated by the infant, and a number who fall into lakes on a regular basis."

The mermaid guard was quiet for a moment.

"...That is broadly accurate."

"The behavioural patterns of this species," I said, "are extremely difficult to account for."

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said, in the tone of someone who has lived here too long.

I settled into the Black Lake.

The lake contained a Giant Squid — it had no interest in me, and I had no interest in it. We had arrived at a tacit mutual non-interference arrangement. There were various aquatic creatures I had never encountered in the zoo. The Forbidden Forest on the shore was impressive in its own right.

In the first week, I observed an enormous black dog drinking at the lake's edge.

I watched it for approximately ten minutes.

The proportions were wrong. The legs too long. The skull a slightly unusual shape.

Perhaps some breed I didn't recognise. Scotland has a number of peculiar dogs. I had once read an abandoned copy of The Guardian in the zoo containing an article about Highland dog breeds.

Probably something like that.

I went back to finding fish.

In the third week, I heard a howl.

Not an ordinary howl. The sort that causes every creature in an entire forest to stop moving simultaneously.

Considerable presence.

The wolves in the zoo couldn't manage this effect. Zoo wolves have become accustomed to visitor noise; their howling tends toward the half-hearted. This was entirely different.

I tucked myself closer to the thermal vent, assessed the threat level, and determined that it was none of my business.

Brazil was my objective. Scottish wolves were not on my itinerary.

The biodiversity of this place was, frankly, comparable to the zoo. And there was no admission fee. The value for money was considerably better.

The dining options in the Black Lake were an improvement on the sewers, but brought their own complications.

Most of the lake fish were edible — I had verified this. The creatures on the shore were considerably more complex.

There was something with a great many tentacles that glowed faintly and crept along the lake bed. I studied it for approximately five minutes and decided the risk was too high.

There was a winged horse drinking at the water's edge. I assessed the body weight and determined it was beyond my capabilities. There was also the matter of dignity.

There was something else entirely — I had no name for it. Nothing in any of the abandoned books I had read in the zoo had ever described it.

I resolved that anything I could not name, I would not eat. This is a sound principle for cautious field research.

And so when I discovered the rat at the edge of the forest —

Ordinary. Familiar. Something I had a name for.

I was nearly moved.

It was perhaps three months into my residence at the Black Lake, on some unremarkable afternoon.

I made my assessment.

Rather fat — a point in its favour. Missing a finger — no matter, it wouldn't affect the flavour. Getting on in years — also no matter. The important thing was:

No sewer smell.

I had spent two years eating rats that tasted of sewer. This one was different. This one smelled like a rat living in ordinary circumstances — perfectly acceptable, entirely welcome.

This was the most exciting discovery in two years.

I was about to act —

Then voices and footsteps approached in the distance.

I slipped into the undergrowth.

The rat was gone.

Just like that.

Two years of sewer rats. One perfectly normal-smelling rat, finally, after all this time.

This is what the English call "very poor timing."

Deeply frustrating.

I waited in the undergrowth for a long while, confirmed the voices had receded, then slowly made my way back to the lake.

I never saw that rat again.

To this day, I consider it a significant loss.

About a month later, I decided to ask for directions.

Not because I was lost — I was in the Black Lake, I knew I was in the Black Lake. The problem was that I had no idea how to get from the Black Lake to Brazil. My sewer navigation system had proven entirely unreliable. I needed a new source of information.

The Forbidden Forest had centaurs.

I had seen centaurs in a picture — in a book on mythological creatures that a visitor had left on a bench in the zoo. The book described centaurs as "learned, skilled in astronomy, and proud in bearing."

Learned. Precisely what I needed.

I made my way into the Forbidden Forest.

The centaurs found me faster than I had anticipated.

"Excuse me," I said. "Which direction is south?"

The centaur looked down at me. The gaze of someone viewing things from a considerable height.

"The south," it said, in a very solemn voice, "the stars suggest your journey will be beset by trials, but ultimately —"

"I only need to know which direction south is," I said. "A compass bearing will do. I don't require the stars."

The centaur paused.

"Mars is currently positioned in —"

"Left or right?"

Silence.

"...Left," the centaur said at last, with the air of someone who has been deprived of a performance opportunity. "If you're facing the lake."

"Thank you," I said. "Most helpful."

I turned to leave.

"Wait," the centaur said. "You are a boa constrictor. How do you speak?"

"I lived in London Zoo for several years," I said. "How long have you lived in this Scottish forest?"

The centaur considered. "All my life."

"Then how do you know boa constrictors can't speak?"

Silence. The silence of someone who senses a flaw in the logic but cannot locate it.

This centaur was called Firenze. We subsequently developed a peculiar sort of friendship — built primarily on a fixed pattern of interaction in which I asked for directions, Firenze attempted to answer in star charts, and I requested that it simply say left or right.

A friendship founded on mutual tolerance.

Very British.

And so I settled into the Black Lake for nearly two years.

Firenze came by occasionally to relay incomprehensible prophecies in astronomical terms. I went to find Firenze occasionally to ask which direction south was.

The mermaid guard's hostility gradually became something closer to reluctant acceptance. She called me "that boa." Never Amigo. I took this to be her way of expressing familiarity.

Very British.

Then one day, an enormous ship appeared on the lake.

Then a carriage arrived.

This school, I thought, has a very chaotic visitor management system.

The mermaid guard swam over, in the tone of someone who had long since anticipated trouble:

"The Triwizard Tournament has begun."

"What is that?"

"A competition in which underage wizards are put in mortal danger," she said. "Very human."

"Three schools competing against one another?"

"Yes. One champion per school."

"And who is Hogwarts' champion?"

"Harry Potter," she said. "The Boy Who Lived."

I paused.

Him again.

The sewers said he killed the Basilisk. The Black Lake said he drove off a fragment of the Dark Lord's soul in his second year. And now he was entering a competition designed to put underage wizards in mortal danger.

The scrawny one, I thought, has been appearing with a frequency that exceeds all reasonable statistical expectation.

If something went wrong at the Olympics, I would not be remotely surprised to find him there.

"Do you know him?" the mermaid guard asked, apparently having read my expression.

"Met him once," I said, composedly. "At the zoo. Ordinary human child. Nothing remarkable."

She looked at me. The look of someone who doesn't believe a word of it but can't be bothered to pursue it.

A very efficient social judgement.

The second task was in the lake.

I swam to the shallower end.

And there he was.

Harry Potter. Noticeably taller than at the zoo. Still very thin. Currently in possession of gills and webbed hands and feet.

He looked like a very confused amphibian.

He was swimming urgently, checking the children who had been chained to the lake bed.

Wait. Chained?

This competition's safety standards were even worse than I had imagined.

A mer-elder swam over and said, in a very bureaucratic tone: "Rules are rules, Mr Potter. One champion may save only one hostage."

Harry looked at the chained children. He hesitated.

Then he began undoing all their chains.

"Mr Potter!" the mer-elder protested. "This is against the rules!"

"The rules are stupid," Harry said — though as his mouth was full of water, it came out more as blub blub blub.

But I understood perfectly.

I had never heard finer Parseltongue in my life.

The mermaid guard noticed me at this point.

She looked at me. The look of when did this snake get here.

"You," she said. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough," I said. "Boa constrictors can swim. This is not a secret."

"I'm aware boa constrictors can swim," she said. "I wasn't aware they came to watch the Triwizard Tournament."

"I live in this lake," I said. "If there's a competition, naturally I come to watch. It's free."

She looked me over and decided this logic was unanswerable.

"That one," she said, nodding toward Harry. "You're here for him?"

"Yes," I said. "I didn't mention it before. I used to live in the zoo. He broke my glass."

"He's odd," she said. "Last year a student was attacked by Dementors. Everyone ran. He was the only one who went toward them."

"What are Dementors?"

"Creatures that drain happiness from humans. Very grim."

I had lived in the London sewers for two years. I had a certain tolerance for grim.

"Why did he go toward them?"

"No idea. Could be heroism. Could be a death wish. It's very difficult to tell the difference."

Quite. In British culture, the line between 'brave' and 'profoundly stupid' is notoriously thin.

I watched Harry drag three people toward the surface. Movements clumsy. Like a small snake attempting to tow three dead rats.

But he managed it.

Even breaking the rules. Even losing points. Even though the red-haired girl hadn't needed rescuing at all.

He did it anyway.

"Stupid?" I asked the mermaid guard.

"Extremely," she said.

"Then why do I find myself," I said, "not particularly surprised?"

"Because you're also stupid," she said. "You're also swimming toward somewhere you've never been."

One cannot argue with this.

That summer, the Dark Mark appeared over the lake.

A skull. A serpent emerging from its mouth.

Quite the aesthetic choice. If one's aesthetic sensibilities had not advanced past the medieval period.

Black. Skull. Snake.

I have certain objections to the use of serpents as symbols of terror. I have no channel through which to raise them.

The mermaid guard swam over, looking deeply unsettled.

"The war is starting," she said. "The Dark Lord has returned."

"The one who tried to kill the infant and was defeated by the infant?"

"Yes."

"He," I said, "is back."

"Yes."

"Going after the same person."

"Yes."

Silence.

"This Dark Lord's," I said at last, "capacity for learning is deeply concerning."

The mermaid guard looked at me.

"He has no nose," she said, as though this explained everything. "Side effect of the Dark Magic."

I wished to point out that nasal anatomy and cognitive function have no direct anatomical relationship.

But perhaps it works differently for wizards.

I lack sufficient sample size to draw a conclusion.

Then she told me about Nagini.

"The Dark Lord has a snake," the mermaid guard said. "Nagini. Extremely dangerous. Never leaves his side."

"Can she speak? In Parseltongue?"

"She can. But most of what she says is 'Yes, Master.'"

I thought about this.

In the zoo, every time a keeper entered, my first thought was: can I make a run for it this time. Or: has that lock not been properly fastened.

And her first thought was Yes, Master.

That difference said everything.

"Does she have a choice?" I asked.

"Unknown," the mermaid guard said. "But I have never heard of her refusing an order."

I said nothing more.

Firenze came that evening and told me the stars indicated a great war approaching, darkness gathering, but ultimately —

"Is south still to the left?" I asked. "Facing the lake."

Firenze paused.

"...Still to the left."

"Thank you," I said. "I believe I shall be leaving."

Firenze looked at me. That centaur gaze, from a considerable height.

"The stars say," it said, slowly, "that you will return here in the end."

"I am going to Brazil," I said. "Not returning here."

"The stars say —"

"The stars," I said, "have never once told me which direction south was. My confidence in the stars is limited."

Firenze was quiet for a long while.

"Take care," it said at last. "That boa."

"You as well," I said. "That horse."

This was the closest we had ever come to sentimentality.

Very British.

I swam out of the Black Lake and headed south.

To the left.

In the direction of Brazil.

In theory.

Five. Killing a Dragon with a Teaspoon

After the Triwizard Tournament concluded, I decided to leave the Black Lake.

This was a thoroughly considered decision. I had lived in the Black Lake for nearly two years. I had learned of the existence of wizards. I had learned the Dark Lord had returned. I had learned that the scrawny one produced at least one piece of gossip-worthy incident per year without fail.

None of this information was of any use whatsoever in getting to Brazil.

And so I decided to set off.

I swam to the shore, turned left — south, as confirmed by Firenze — and entered the Forbidden Forest.

Firenze was standing by a tree.

"The stars say," it said, in a very solemn voice, "that you are not yet ready."

I stopped.

"You," I said, "might have mentioned this earlier."

"The stars only became clear after you —"

"You have wasted the emotional weight of our farewell," I said. "That goodbye had ceremonial significance. I said 'take care, that horse.' You said 'take care, that boa.' Those words are now void."

Firenze was quiet for a moment.

"The stars cannot always —"

"Is south still to the left?" I asked.

"...Still to the left."

"Thank you. I shall try again."

I continued left.

Three weeks later I was back.

Firenze looked at me. Said nothing.

"This forest," I said, with great dignity, "has an extremely complex terrain."

"You got lost."

"Alternative routes."

I settled back into the Black Lake.

This time I resolved to take a more systematic approach: gather intelligence first, then plan the route.

A thoroughly sensible plan.

The execution had certain difficulties.

Intelligence source one: Firenze.

Firenze's intelligence invariably began with the stars and ended with a prophecy, with various astronomical terminology in between that I could not follow. Every time, I was obliged to ask at the end, "So is south left or right?" before obtaining anything useful.

Highly inefficient. But Firenze was the most reliable source currently available, and so I persisted.

Intelligence source two: the mermaid guard.

Her intelligence was more direct than Firenze's, but limited to events in and above the lake. Geographical information beyond the lake she simply did not possess, and did not consider this a problem.

"Why do you need to know where Brazil is?" she asked me once.

"Because I intend to go there."

"Why?"

"Because I am a Brazilian Red-Tailed Boa."

"You were born in London."

"In theory I am a Brazilian Red-Tailed Boa."

She looked at me. The look of someone who has identified a fundamental logical flaw in my entire enterprise.

Then she swam away.

Intelligence source three: the Giant Squid.

This was an unexpected development.

The Giant Squid lived at the deepest point of the lake. We had previously established our mutual non-interference arrangement. But after my third return to the Black Lake, it began appearing near my thermal vent.

Not speaking. Simply being there. Tentacles occasionally moving.

I observed this behaviour for approximately one week and reached a conclusion: it was listening to me talk.

This conclusion may not have been correct. But the Squid was currently the only intelligence source that did not interrupt me, did not answer in star charts, and did not question why I wanted to go to Brazil.

And so I began talking to it.

"Firenze said today that Saturn has entered the seventh house, which has significant implications for my journey," I said. "I don't know what Saturn is, or what the seventh house is. But Firenze said it with great conviction, so perhaps it's true."

One of the Squid's tentacles moved.

"I thought as much," I said. "Thank you for your support."

This was, to date, the most efficient conversation I had ever had.

Intelligence source four: the spiders.

This was a direction I subsequently concluded I should never have attempted.

The Forbidden Forest had spiders. Very large spiders. I had once read an abandoned entomology journal in the zoo —

Wait.

Boa constrictors eat spiders.

When I went to find the spiders, the spiders were already aware of this.

The situation became briefly tense.

"I only came to ask which direction south is," I said, addressing approximately forty eyes simultaneously. "I have no other intentions."

The spiders did not answer immediately.

The sensation of forty eyes fixed upon me simultaneously gave me a sudden new understanding of the zoo visitor's experience.

This was a revelation. A deeply uncomfortable revelation.

"South," the lead spider said at last, "is that direction."

It indicated a direction with one leg.

"Thank you," I said, and left with considerable haste.

That direction later proved to be north.

I cannot say with certainty whether the spider did this deliberately or made a genuine error.

But I resolved never to list the spiders as an intelligence source again.

Meanwhile, the centaurs were growing restless.

Firenze's herd — perhaps a dozen — began gathering in the depths of the forest with increasing frequency, voices low, spending ever longer intervals staring at the stars.

I asked Firenze what was happening.

"The stars indicate," it said, "that darkness is gathering. The world is about to change."

"And what do you intend to do?"

"Observe. Wait. Study the stars."

"And then?"

Firenze paused.

"Retreat."

The centaurs' retreat plan, I noted, shared one quality with my Brazil plan: both involved discussing an action that had not yet occurred.

"Where will you retreat to?" I asked.

"The stars will guide us."

"Will the stars tell you left or right?"

Firenze looked at me.

"...They will."

"Then you have an advantage over me," I said. "My star-based intelligence source has very poor efficiency."

Then one day, a report reached me:

The Headmaster of Hogwarts was dead.

Version one, from the merpeople: "Someone pushed him off a tower."

Version two, from Firenze: "The stars had long foretold it. Jupiter and —"

Version three, from the Squid: one tentacle moved.

Assembling the three versions, my conclusion was: someone was dead, the manner was dramatic, and the stars had known but failed to communicate this clearly in advance.

"The scrawny one," I asked the mermaid guard. "Is he all right?"

"Intelligence says he's still alive," she said. "But he's left the school."

"Gone where?"

"Unclear. Outside somewhere. Moving about."

Moving about.

Consistent with his established patterns.

I told the Squid: "The scrawny one is moving about outside somewhere."

The Squid's tentacle moved.

"I thought as much," I said.

Over the following year, the Forbidden Forest became extremely crowded.

Death Eaters arrived. Black robes. Masks. Furtive movements. Setting up camp at the forest's edge.

My assessment of these visitors: extremely poor management.

The zoo had a visitor management system. Tickets. Designated routes. Signs reading PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS.

Here there was nothing. Anyone could simply walk in.

A serious management oversight.

The other centaurs drove Firenze out during this period.

I witnessed the whole thing. The herd gathered, exchanged a great many words in a language I couldn't follow, and then Firenze walked out alone and came toward the lake.

"You've been driven out?" I asked.

"My judgement," Firenze said, "differed from the herd's."

"In what respect?"

"In the matter of helping humans," it said. "They believe this is not our place."

I thought about this.

"Where will you go now?"

"The stars say —"

"Left or right?"

Firenze paused for quite a long time.

"I am going to Hogwarts," it said. "To teach Astronomy."

A centaur, expelled by its herd, going to teach at a school where students nearly die on an annual basis.

The logic of this choice escaped me entirely.

But it was very British — choosing the most unstable place at the most unstable moment.

"Take care," I said. "That horse."

"Take care," Firenze said. "That boa."

I hoped, I thought, that this farewell would not be voided by the stars a second time.

The war began on a night.

Not the kind that starts gradually — it was sudden, and everywhere at once. Spells. Explosions. Screaming.

Every creature in the Forbidden Forest began moving. The Acromantulas fled deeper in. The centaurs regrouped. Even the Squid, which I had never seen travel more than three metres from its preferred spot, retreated into the deepest fissure at the lake's bottom.

If even the Squid had gone, I thought, things were genuinely serious.

The Dark Mark appeared over the castle.

The skull. The serpent emerging from its mouth.

I maintain certain objections to the use of serpents as symbols of terror.

I still have no channel through which to raise them.

The Death Eaters began moving toward the castle. The campsite at the forest's edge emptied.

I crouched at the lake's edge, assessing the situation.

Option one: remain at the lake and wait for the war to end.

Option two: head south. Use the chaos to leave.

Option three: for reasons I could not entirely account for, follow and observe.

I chose option three.

Not because I cared — snakes do not "care." That is a mammalian emotion. We cold-blooded creatures should not be burdened with it.

I was simply curious.

And I had caught a familiar scent.

I followed the scent through the Forbidden Forest.

Creatures were fleeing in every direction. Acromantulas. Centaurs. Even creatures that were usually rather aggressive.

If even the centaurs were retreating — they prefer to call it a strategic repositioning — things were very bad indeed.

"Strategic repositioning" is how they say "running away." It is the equine equivalent of "alternative routes."

Then I saw him.

In a clearing. Walking alone. No wand drawn. No armour. No shoes.

No shoes.

In the middle of a war. No shoes.

The scrawny one's approach to equipment management had always been deeply concerning.

He was walking slowly. Like someone attending a funeral.

Which, in point of fact, he was. His own.

I wanted to call out.

Oi. Wrong direction. Brazil is south. Somewhere warm. Somewhere with sun.

But I didn't.

Because I had suddenly understood.

He was not going to his death. He was going so that others might live.

A very British way of doing it — self-sacrifice, but never dramatic about it. "I'm just going for a bit of a walk," and then never coming back.

I watched him disappear into the trees.

"Goodbye, Amigo," I said quietly. "I hope next time round you come back as a snake. Our lives are considerably simpler."

Then I followed him anyway.

I am aware that I said snakes do not "care."

I maintain that position.

I was simply curious about what would happen next. This was field research.

A clearing. Black-robed figures. The one without a nose stood at the front.

Voldemort. The Dark Lord himself.

He looked like a snake that had learned to stand upright — if that snake were extremely pale, extremely angry, and had made several very serious errors in its approach to fashion.

Black robes. Really.

What is this, the fourteenth century?

Harry walked into the clearing. Every Death Eater turned to look at him.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort said. "The Boy Who Lived. At last."

Harry said nothing.

Very British. When faced with imminent death, the correct response is polite silence.

"No last words?" Voldemort asked, sounding mildly disappointed. "No heroic declaration?"

"Will it take long?" Harry asked. "Only I'm rather tired."

I very nearly laughed out loud from behind the tree.

Faced with death, his primary concern was the scheduling.

Voldemort raised his wand.

Green light.

Harry went down.

Just like that. No slow motion. No dramatic score.

Profoundly anticlimactic. Very British.

I crouched behind my tree, and felt something oddly hollow.

The boy who broke my glass.

The boy who said "I hope you find your warm place too."

Dead.

The Death Eaters began to cheer. Voldemort laughed — the laugh of a man without a nose, which sounded rather like a slowly deflating tyre.

Then Harry moved.

I beg your pardon?

He sat up. Rubbed his eyes.

"Am I dead?" he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

Silence. The silence of this is not how the script goes.

"You — you should be dead!" Voldemort spluttered.

"I rather thought so too," Harry said, standing up and brushing the dirt from his robes. "This is rather awkward."

"This is rather awkward."

He had just returned from the dead. His first words were "this is rather awkward."

That scrawny one.

Then the people from the castle came pouring out. Spells flying in every direction.

I decided this was an excellent moment to leave.

A battlefield is no place for a snake. We are pacifists. Primarily because we have no hands and therefore cannot hold weapons.

Several hours later, it was all over.

Reports came in from every direction:

Voldemort was dead. Harry Potter had killed him. With a Disarming Charm.

I beg your pardon.

A Disarming Charm?

Not some spectacular Unforgivable Curse? Just the spell that knocks someone's wand out of their hand? "*Expelliarmus?"*

This is like killing a dragon with a teaspoon.

Theoretically possible, but requiring extraordinary luck and a truly spectacular degree of stupidity from the dragon.

I thought back to what the sewer grass snake had said: "He tried to kill an infant, and the infant defeated him."

This Dark Lord's capacity for learning, I confirmed once more, was deeply, profoundly concerning.

The sound of celebration drifted from the Great Hall.

I climbed to the edge of the rubble and looked for him.

The crowd was celebrating. Embracing. Weeping.

Harry stood in the middle of it all, looking precisely like someone who desperately wanted to leave but was far too polite to say so.

I recognised that expression.

In the zoo, whenever a visitor pointed at me and said "look, it's moving!", that was my expression exactly.

I watched him for a moment.

Then I turned south.

To the left.

In the direction of Brazil.

This time I did not turn back.

About a year later, Firenze found me.

I was near the border of Scotland and England at the time, assessing whether a particular river's current genuinely ran southward.

"That boa," Firenze said, appearing behind me. "The stars said you were still here."

"I am en route to Brazil," I said. "This is an alternative route."

"You got lost."

I did not answer.

"The war is over," Firenze said. "Hogwarts is rebuilding. While I was teaching at the school, I came to know a phoenix — not the Headmaster's, that one flew away after he died. A different one. It flies to South America every month. I never had the chance to tell you, because you were always —"

"Exploring alternative routes," I said.

"Yes," Firenze said. "Alternative routes."

I stopped.

"South America," I said. "That includes Brazil?"

"It includes Brazil."

"This phoenix," I said, very carefully. "Is it reliable?"

"More reliable than your current navigation system," Firenze said.

One cannot argue with this.

"All right," I said. "When does it leave?"

"Next month."

"Then I'll wait."

We were quiet for a moment.

"Firenze," I said. "Thank you."

"The stars say," it began, "that this was destined —"

"Without the stars," I said. "Just thank you."

Firenze paused for a very long time.

"...You're welcome," it said at last.

That was the most direct thing it had ever said to me.

I noted it down in my field research log.

Mentally. As I have no hands.

Six. Farewells and a Phoenix Who Would Not Stop Complaining

Before departure, I had one month.

I decided to say goodbye.

This was a contentious decision. Snakes do not say goodbye — we simply leave. But I had lived in the Black Lake for nearly five years, and had come to know a number of creatures, some of whom could reasonably be described as friends.

In a manner of speaking. Under a very generous definition.

I decided to proceed in order of significance.

First: the mermaid guard.

I positioned myself along her patrol route and waited for her to swim past.

"I'm leaving," I said. "Going to Brazil."

She stopped. Looked me over.

"For real this time?" she asked.

This question confirmed that she had witnessed my complete cycle of departures and returns.

"For real this time," I said. "A phoenix is taking me."

She was quiet for a moment.

"That boa," she said, in a tone of someone making a very determined effort to sound neutral, "lived in this lake for five years. Did not eat any merchildren. Did not bite any wizards who fell in."

"That is the closest thing to a compliment you have ever said to me," I said.

"That is a statement of fact," she corrected. Then she swam away.

Just before she rounded the corner, her tail fin gave a single firm flick in the water.

I recorded this as "the mermaid farewell gesture."

The final entry in my field research notes.

Second: the Giant Squid.

I swam down to the deepest point of the lake. The Squid was there, tentacles drifting in the current.

"I'm going to Brazil," I said. "I don't expect I'll be back."

One tentacle moved.

"I know," I said. "I'll miss you as well. Though you never said anything. But that was part of how we communicated, and I thought it worked rather well."

Another tentacle moved.

"Take care," I said.

I swam away.

This was, to date, the most satisfying farewell I had ever conducted.

Efficient. No unnecessary emotion. Both parties communicated their positions clearly.

The Squid is an ideal social companion.

Third: the spiders.

I considered this for approximately three minutes.

They gave me the wrong directions. And the sensation of forty eyes simultaneously was something I had not entirely recovered from.

I decided not to bother.

Not every relationship requires a formal conclusion.

This too is British wisdom: some things are simply allowed to end on their own.

Firenze was waiting at the lake's edge.

"All said your goodbyes?" it asked.

"More or less," I said. "I skipped the spiders."

"Wise," Firenze said.

We walked into the depths of the Forbidden Forest. In a clearing, a bird was perched on a branch.

Red and gold feathers. Larger than I had imagined. Eyes that looked very, very old.

A phoenix.

I had never seen one in the zoo.

If the zoo had one of these, they could charge considerably more for tickets.

"So this is the boa?" The phoenix regarded me with an assessing eye.

"Yes," Firenze said.

The phoenix circled me once in the air.

"Heavier than you described," it said to Firenze.

"I never mentioned weight," Firenze said.

"I mean," the phoenix settled back onto its branch, "it looks heavier than a snake ought to be."

"I am a boa," I said. "Boas are naturally heavier. This is a species characteristic, not a personal failing."

"Have you been getting enough exercise?"

This phoenix, I thought, has a very poor sense of social boundaries. Almost certainly not British.

"I swam through the sewers for two years," I said. "Then I swam in a lake for several more years. My exercise levels are entirely adequate."

"Then why —"

"When do we depart?" I asked, cutting across.

The phoenix looked at me. The look of someone who considers this topic unfinished.

But it said: "Now."

"Good," I said. "Then let's go."

I turned to Firenze.

Firenze paused.

"Take care, that boa."

"You as well, that horse."

This time, I thought, this is a real goodbye.

The phoenix flew fast.

It also complained fast.

"You really are very heavy," it said, somewhere over the English Channel.

"I am a boa," I said. "Species characteristic."

"You've said that already."

"Because the argument still stands."

It was quiet for a moment.

"You really lived in the sewers for two years?"

"Two years and three months," I said. "Plus five years in the Black Lake. Plus several years in London Zoo studying the ventilation shafts."

"Your life," the phoenix said, something strange entering its tone, "has not been easy."

"It was all right," I said. "The zoo had central heating."

Silence. The silence of someone who does not know how to respond to this.

We flew over France. Over Spain. Over the Atlantic.

Every so often the phoenix complained that I was too heavy.

Every time I said it was a species characteristic.

This was a journey founded on mutual insistence. Very British.

Brazil was hotter than I had imagined.

The phoenix set me down in a clearing at the edge of the Amazon rainforest, then said: "Here we are."

"Thank you," I said.

"You really are very heavy," it said. One final time.

"I've lost weight," I said. One final time.

The phoenix flew away.

I watched it disappear into the sky.

Then I looked around.

Bird calls everywhere. Insects. The sounds of the rainforest — loud, enormous, entirely unlike England.

Sunlight came down through the canopy.

Real sunlight. Not the zoo's artificial lighting. Not the underwater glow of the Black Lake. Real sunlight, falling directly onto scales.

I found a rock.

By a river. Full sun. With shade nearby for when it became too much.

I climbed up.

The rock was warm.

Just as I had imagined.

I coiled up. Closed my eyes.

Sun on my back.

"Brazil," I said.

Then I said nothing more.

Because it was enough.

Seven. Brazil, Sunshine, and the Person Blocking the Sun

I lived in Brazil for approximately two years.

Life was very simple.

Morning: bask in the sun. Midday: find food. Afternoon: continue basking. Occasionally a tour group would pass through, their guide introducing the rainforest in six languages, and I would pretend to be asleep until they left.

This is what retirement looks like.

I found it entirely satisfactory.

The local boas were curious about my London accent. I explained it several times, then decided the explanation was more trouble than it was worth, and began saying "I'm from up north." They stopped asking.

Sometimes a vague answer is considerably more efficient than a precise one.

I found a perfect rock. By a river. Full sun. Shade nearby for when it became excessive. Far enough from the tourist paths that no one made a special effort to approach. No one banging on glass. No glass at all.

This was the life I had imagined.

Then the scrawny one turned up.

It was an ordinary afternoon and I was basking.

That perfect state of half-sleep, half-wakefulness — alert and relaxed simultaneously. The highest art form available to the serpentine condition.

Then someone blocked my sun.

I did not open my eyes.

"Excuse me," I said, in Parseltongue. "This rock is taken. I don't do guided tours. If you're with a tour group, the visitor centre is that way. I am retired."

Silence.

Not ordinary silence. The silence of wait, did that snake just say something.

I am very familiar with this particular silence.

It is the standard human response upon hearing Parseltongue for the first time.

"...I beg your pardon?" A voice, in Parseltongue, but very halting, with a heavy human accent.

"I said this rock is taken," I said. "The visitor centre is that way."

"Hang on — you —" The voice paused for a long time. "You speak very... politely."

This is the strangest compliment I have ever received.

"Courtesy is the foundation of civilisation," I said. "Even toward someone who is blocking my sun."

Another silence.

Then: "Your accent. Is that... London?"

I opened my eyes.

Standing before me: a human male. Early twenties. Wearing glasses — NHS-style, though at least the frames now fit his face. Dressed in a floral shirt that had very clearly been purchased at an airport duty-free shop. Several days of stubble. Visibly sunburnt.

The very picture of a deeply confused British tourist.

I studied him for approximately three seconds.

Thin. Glasses. Those eyes — green.

Of course.

"...Harry Potter," I said.

He blinked. Then he looked at me more carefully. Then his expression shifted from confused to this cannot possibly be happening.

"Amigo?" he said. "You — you actually made it to Brazil?"

"I said I was going," I said. "Did you think I was joking?"

"I — " He stopped. "I didn't know. A snake saying it wants to go to Brazil, I thought maybe..."

"You thought I was just saying it," I said.

"Yeah," he admitted.

This gave me a complicated feeling.

I spent two years lost in the sewers. Several years in the Black Lake. I rode a phoenix who complained about my weight the entire length of the Atlantic.

And he "thought I was just saying it."

"It took me eight years," I said, very calmly. "But I got here."

He looked at me. Something moved behind those eyes — not quite surprise, not quite being moved, but something that lived in between.

"You really got here," he said, very quietly.

"I said I was going," I repeated.

He sat down beside the rock. Right on the ground.

Then he looked at me, with a slightly hesitant expression, as though confirming something.

"Do you... actually remember me?" he asked. "I mean, properly remember?"

"Yes," I said. "The zoo. You broke my glass."

"Right! Sorry about that, I didn't mean to —"

"Then at Hogwarts you killed a thousand-year-old Basilisk."

He froze. "How did you —"

"And at the bottom of the Black Lake you broke the rules and rescued three people. And you died once. Then came back. Then killed the Dark Lord with a Disarming Charm."

A long silence.

"You were... there?" Harry said at last, voice slightly high.

"Not the whole time," I said. "But enough of it. Sewer snakes gossip enormously. So do merpeople. And a horse filled in the rest."

"So you've been — all these years —"

"Looking for Brazil," I said. "You simply happened to generate a considerable amount of gossip-worthy incident along the way."

He sat there, absorbing this.

"I," he said at last, "didn't know zoo snakes kept up with wizarding news."

"Generally they don't," I said. "But generally, zoo snakes haven't spent two years in the sewers or five years in the Black Lake. The intelligence network builds itself. It's quite natural."

"An intelligence network," he repeated, something unreadable in his tone. "You have an intelligence network. About me."

"I have an intelligence network about all gossip-worthy events along my route," I corrected. "You simply appeared in it with extraordinary frequency."

He was quiet for a moment.

"I need a minute," he said.

"By all means. You're already sitting down. And you're no longer blocking my sun."

He sat there for considerably more than a minute.

Staring at the river. Not speaking.

I continued basking.

This is a very efficient way to wait. If someone needs time, the best approach is to appear as though you have something more important to be getting on with. In this case, I genuinely did — the sun would not remain at its optimal angle indefinitely.

"What are you doing in Brazil?" I asked at last. "Holiday?"

"...My therapist said I needed to get away," he said. "Find myself."

"Have you found yourself?"

"No," he said. "But I found you. Does that count?"

"It does not," I said. "I am not the answer to your life. I am a snake."

He nodded. As though this answer was somehow a relief.

I understood that feeling. Sometimes "no" is considerably more reassuring than "yes."

"How long are you here for?" I asked.

"Two weeks," he said.

"Then stay," I said. "There's plenty of room."

Then I closed my eyes and continued basking.

I had no intention of being anyone's therapist.

I was simply letting him sit there.

These are entirely different things.

Days one through three, he said almost nothing.

He simply sat beside the rock. Watched the river. Occasionally watched the sky. Occasionally watched me.

I occasionally opened an eye to confirm he was still there, then went back to sleep.

On the second day he said: "Brazil is hotter than I expected."

"Hotter than England," I said. "But considerably better-smelling than the sewers."

He thought about this. "How long were you in the sewers?"

"Two years and three months."

"That sounds grim."

"The zoo had central heating," I said. "The sewers did not. That was the primary difference."

He was quiet for a moment.

"You never complain," he said.

"I complain constantly," I said. "I simply do it by stating facts."

He laughed. Brief. But genuine.

On the third day he said nothing at all.

I also said nothing.

Sometimes silence is the most efficient form of communication.

On the fourth day, he said: "I don't know what to do next."

Not asking me. Simply saying it aloud.

I opened one eye.

"After the war?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Everyone said congratulations. Then the celebrations ended. Then everyone got on with their lives. But I don't know how to get on with mine."

"In the zoo," I said, "every day was identical. Feeding time. Cleaning time. Visiting hours. I knew exactly what would happen every day."

"Sounds boring."

"Enormously boring," I said. "But boredom has a certain stability to it. What you may be lacking at the moment is not direction. It's stability."

He looked at me.

"What you just said," he said, "sounded rather like something a therapist would say."

"I am making an observation," I said. "I am a reptile, not a therapist."

He kept looking at me. The look of something doesn't quite add up here.

"Hang on," he said. "Where did you — stability — where did you learn that?"

"The zoo," I said. "Visitors leave books behind. I read a great many of them."

He stopped.

"You can read."

"I lived in the zoo for several years," I said. "What did you think I was doing? Waiting for people to bang on my glass?"

"I thought snakes..." He stopped, reorganised. "I've spoken Parseltongue to a lot of snakes. Not one of them has ever discussed emotional stability with me."

"They haven't read The Times in a zoo," I said. "That is the key difference."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Hang on," he said. "Back in the zoo — you pointed me toward the sign."

"Yes."

"With your tail. You pointed at the words."

"Yes."

"I thought that was just... snake instinct." He paused. "Snakes don't have that instinct."

"None whatsoever," I agreed. "But you were eleven years old, speaking to a snake for the first time, so you didn't think too hard about it. Entirely understandable."

"It took me nine years to realise," he said, "that the snake was actually telling me to go and read it myself."

"Eight years," I said. "Eight years to get to Brazil. Nine years to realise that. Our progress is roughly comparable."

"The Times," he repeated, slightly dazed. "You read The Times in the zoo."

"And The Guardian. Occasionally visitors left The Independent, but The Independent's political commentary was rather depressing, so I generally stuck to the sports pages."

He was quiet for quite a long time.

"When you were in the Black Lake," he said suddenly. "Did you ever come across anything odd in the forest?"

"A great deal," I said. "Centaurs. A Giant Squid. And a rat — missing one finger, rather fat — that I very nearly ate. Significant loss, to this day."

Harry's expression became very strange.

"In the Black Lake? A rat? Missing a finger?"

"Yes," I said. "Rather fat. Do you have an interest in rodents?"

Harry looked as though he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"That rat," he said, very slowly, "was not an ordinary rat."

"I did notice it vanished with unusual speed," I said. "Not typical rat behaviour. But it didn't smell of sewers, so I judged it edible."

"It was a human," Harry said. "A person who could transform. He was my friend's pet rat, but it turned out he was actually a traitor, and then he escaped."

I considered this.

"So," I said, "I nearly ate a human being."

"Yes."

"And didn't manage it."

"Yes."

Silence.

"I consider that a significant loss to this day," I said. "Though the grounds are now somewhat more complicated."

Harry looked at me. Then he laughed — the kind of laugh that doesn't quite know what to do with itself.

Then he said: "Back in the zoo — you mentioned the local council. And employment law."

"Yes," I said. "You never did file that complaint. Rather a shame. It was a clear case of child labour violations."

"I was thinking at the time..." He stopped. "I don't know what I was thinking. I just thought the snake made a good point, and accepted it."

Very British.

A stranger makes a reasonable argument, and you simply accept it without asking any questions.

"You've spoken Parseltongue to a lot of snakes," I said. "Most of them don't particularly want to engage with humans."

"Right," he said. "Mostly they just hiss, or say 'Yes, Master.'"

"They haven't read The Times," I said. "Nor spent two hours in an NHS waiting room. Considerably narrower worldview."

He looked at me.

"You sat in an NHS waiting room for two hours."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"When I escaped from the zoo, I went in to have a look around," I said. "The nurse told me they don't accept reptiles, and pointed at the door."

"And then you left."

"I have no medical qualifications. I was in no position to argue," I said. "But I sat in that waiting room for two hours and came away with a thorough first-hand understanding of the British public healthcare system. It was valuable field research."

He stared at me for a very long time.

"You," he said, "are the strangest snake I have ever met."

"I am aware," I said. "But my field research data is first-hand."

An irrefutable argument.

On the seventh day, he said: "In my first year at Hogwarts, I used to think about you sometimes. Wonder if you'd found Brazil."

"I was lost in the sewers at the time," I said. "But I didn't know that yet, so I remained optimistic."

"That's useful," he said.

"Getting lost?"

"Being optimistic," he said.

I thought about this.

"You took three years to get here," I said. "Finish a war, then three years."

"My therapist says I'm making good progress."

"I took eight years," I said. "Accounting for insufficient geographical knowledge and an unreliable navigation system. So I am in no position to judge whether three years is fast or slow."

"But?" He heard that I hadn't finished.

"But your own glass," I said, and paused.

I had not anticipated saying this.

I was simply here to bask in the sun. I am not a therapist. I am not even a mammal.

But the words were already out.

"You've broken a great many people's glass," I continued. "The Basilisk's. Voldemort's. The entire wizarding world's. But your own — that boy who lived under the stairs — his glass —"

"Still there," he said, very quietly.

"I know," I said.

Silence.

"This is outside my area of expertise," I added. "I am merely making an observation."

"I know," he said. But his expression said he found it useful.

I had a complicated feeling about this outcome.

I only wanted to bask in the sun.

On the tenth day, he asked: "Do you ever regret it? Leaving the zoo."

"Regret what specifically?"

"The sewers. Getting lost. All those years."

I thought for quite a long time.

"The zoo had central heating," I said. "The sewers did not. The Black Lake water was warm, but it wasn't sunlight. This rock is warm, and it is actual sunlight."

"So no regrets?"

"I spent two years eating sewer rats," I said. "Then in the Black Lake I came extremely close to a perfectly good rat, and was interrupted by voices before I could act. I consider that rat a significant loss to this day."

He blinked.

"But apart from that rat," I said, "no regrets."

He laughed. Longer this time.

On the twelfth day, he said nothing.

Simply sat there.

I said nothing either.

Sometimes company is sufficient. Even the company of a snake.

Even a snake that is, nominally, retired.

On the fourteenth day, he stood up.

"I have to go," he said. "Hermione sent an owl yesterday. She sounded rather annoyed."

"Off you go then," I said.

"Amigo," he said. "Thank you. For the zoo, back then. And for these two weeks."

"I didn't do anything," I said. "Back then, you broke the glass yourself. These two weeks, I was simply basking."

"Right, but —" He thought about it. "Have you ever considered becoming a therapist?"

"No," I said. "First, I have no licence. Second, I am a reptile. Third, I am retired. Fourth, I have no interest in taking on further social obligations."

"And fifth?"

"Fifth, I have only one rock and no chaise longue."

He laughed. The real kind. Not the polite kind.

He turned to go. Walked a few steps. Turned back.

"Next year," he said. "Could I come again?"

I looked at him.

The boy who broke the glass.

The boy who killed the Dark Lord with a Disarming Charm.

The boy who was standing in the Brazilian rainforest in an airport duty-free floral shirt, asking a retired snake if he could come back.

"The rock is large enough," I said. "Don't be late. I don't wait for people."

He smiled and walked away.

I listened to his footsteps fade.

Idiot, I thought.

Took three years to learn how to leave.

But he learned. That's more than most.

I shifted position on the rock. Found the warmest angle.

The sun was excellent.

The sound of the river, entirely steady.

Brazil's sun was everything I had imagined. Better, even.

Because now I knew —

I hadn't come here because a sign said I should.

I came here because I chose to.

That is the difference.

And that is why, when that idiot comes back next year —

(He will come back. I know he will.)

— I will shift over slightly and make room.

Not out of sympathy.

Because the rock is large enough.

And the sun —

The sun is free.