CHAPTER FOUR
Fake smiles and happy thoughts.
She tried to focus on the feeling of her aunt's fingers pulling at her strands of hair. Taking her hair, piece by piece, and pulling it into a beautiful french braid. She focused on the way the nails occasionally scraped against her head which strangely felt relaxing. She focused on her aunt's breathing-in, out, in, out-and tried to match hers to her aunt's. She focused hard, desiring deeply to not ruin this moment and to burn it into her memory.
Harriet stood on the stool while facing the mirror in the wash room of their house. She only focused on her eyes, not daring to stray up to her aunt, not daring to break the focus her aunt had in this moment. So, she only stared at herself, at her gangly five year old body, her hair that was normally knotted was brushed just long enough to allow itself to be braided, and for the first time in her life she found herself in a dress. A little, pink dress. She continued to stare into her eyes.
The unease settled deeply in them.
"We're meeting the priest today," Aunt Petunia whispered. Harriet didn't jump at the sudden information, rather used to her aunt's odd behavior and bipolar attitude, her bouts of silence and then sudden outbursts; however, she did furrow her brow at the name.
Who were they visiting? Who could possibly be so important that Harriet would be in a dress-a dress, for goodness sake!-and to have her aunt and her sitting in the same room for so long. Her uncle was even odd today. He hadn't struck her once, even when she accidently burnt the eggs-they just recently had her start cooking, so she was still learning-and stopped Dudley from mocking her.
"Not today, Dudley," Uncle Vernon announced rather firmly. "Today, everyone is good for Him."
Harriet didn't know who 'Him' was, but if it kept Dudley from being a jerk, and her uncle from hitting her, then it must be a nice Him and she was ready to meet Him.
"Is the priest Him, Aunt Petunia?" Harriet asked, careful to keep her voice low like her aunt preferred. She felt the fingers falter in her hair and Harriet was scared she had mucked up, but felt the relief wash over her when the scraping against her scalp began again.
"Him?" Her tone was clipped, as usual. Her lips in a thin line, though not quite a scowl, and her long neck that was currently adorned with beautiful pearls had an adam's apple bobbing up and down to give away the nervousness.
"Uncle Vernon said today everyone is good for Him. Who is Him?" She thought it rather funny that her aunt was so nervous and she was so nervous and no one could look each other in the eyes even though everyone was supposed to be good for Him, and wondered if she would be able to look Him in the eye or if He would be nervous like Aunt Petunia. Harriet eventually lowered her own gaze from herself, noticing the nerves coming undone in herself. Don't look a nervous person in the eyes, she thought. She stared at her dress, instead.
"We're seeing the priest today," Petunia whispered again, almost sounding desperate. Harriet didn't know why she sounded like that. She didn't know why her aunt couldn't tell her who He was. She didn't know why her aunt became a broken record sometimes, repeating things more to herself than to anyone else.
It was simply how her aunt was.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," she whispered back robotically.
Her eyes did not leave her little, pink dress.
Memories flooded her as she stood in Platform 9 ¾ . Each step vibrated up her leg. She felt her hands clench on their own and willed them to stop, to not show any weakness in the flood of strangers.
She wondered what had changed. What had forced her to stay at the Malfoys for the rest of the summer instead of leaving to that bat's household, like what was promised to her in the beginning. Was he still her guardian? Were the Malfoys now her guardians?
She took a quick glance towards the family. They all had their masks on, she realized. All pretending like they didn't care. Maybe they didn't, she thought. Maybe sending a child off meant nothing to a parent. How could she know? She was no one's daughter, nor was she a mother. But, she would have assumed there would be something there, some heart warming moment like she had seen on the telly or read in the books. Would they hug now? Would Malfoy Sr. shake his son's hand and say he was proud of him? Would Mrs. Malfoy kiss her son's cheek and whisper "I love you" subtly into his ear?
She looked towards the other families. They were hugging. They were kissing. They were receiving I love you's into their ears. Some scenes were snobbier than others, but none as icy as the Malfoys'.
A group of redheads bounced around in the distance. Harriet only noticed because she was oddly brought back to what Malfoy had said before, about the red head blood-traitor that had a rat. She placed her left hand over her right pullover sleeve, feeling for her familiar that she had yet to name. The weight on her arm felt natural and almost seemed to calm her.
She was contemplating which redhead-for there were many of them-had the rat when she heard the sharp tone of Mr. Malfoy calling her name.
"Yes?" She mirrored his own sharp tone, but he didn't seem fazed in the least.
She wasn't impressed when she stared at them. Malfoy was standing next to her, ready to leave, and as she glanced at the older Malfoys she realized that, indeed, these two could not be like the other parents who were hugging and kissing their kids. She could never picture these two like that. Mr. Malfoy stood tall, his whole demeanor demanding respect, his cane portraying money, and his silver-blonde hair displaying just who he was. A Malfoy, which, from what Harriet gathered so far, apparently meant something.
Mrs. Malfoy carried herself the same way, if not more ferociously to Harriet. She was quiet, her face calm and poised. Her shouldered squared back. Her back straight. Her hands clasped elegantly in front of her dress robes, she was the spitting image of a gorgeous politician.
"Do behave," was all he said. His face remained hard and unbroken through it. Do behave. She would never take such an order, but silenced her sharp tongue.
"Be careful," Mrs. Malfoy said. While it didn't sound any less threatening, Harriet couldn't help the sickening feeling. Be careful. This woman had said that. This woman with no smile and sharp features and son that she didn't even hug and whisper I love you's to in his ear said be careful. She had said it, with a little lift of the right corner of her mouth. Be careful with an almost-smile.
That scared Harriet.
"Of course," she responded. Void. Bitter. Fearfully. Robotically.
Everything she had practiced.
"A church?" Dudley asked Vernon. After they had all loaded into the auto, Vernon began to finally explain what was going on today. It was Sunday, he said. And on Sunday they go to church and talk to people in the church, especially the priest, and listen to what He was telling them. Harriet still didn't know who He was, but if she didn't get the information out of Petunia, she knew she certainly wasn't going to get it out of her uncle.
"Yes, Dudders, that's right. Church. And you better keep that mouth of yours cleaned and both of you behave," he narrowed his eyes at both of them. Wow, Harriet thought, whoever He is must be pretty special to get Dud yelled at too.
"Dad, I'm always good!" he pouted.
"We know, darling." Aunt Petunia smiled at her son. She always smiled for Dudley. Never to Harriet, sometimes to Vernon, but always to Dudley.
"And you," Uncle Vernon locked eyes with Harriet in the rearview mirror. "No freakishness, do you understand? Absolutely none."
"Yes, Uncle Vernon." He didn't look away, so neither did Harriet.
"This may be your only chance."
"At what, sir?" To not get hit? To wear a dress? To be a part of the family? It all seemed like a day out of a fairy tail, and Harriet was treading it carefully. Other kids went on trips like these with their family, not her. She didn't wear little, pink dresses. She didn't get her hair braided by her aunt. She didn't not get hit by her uncle. She didn't watch Dudley get warned about good behavior.
"To not be a freak forever," he said. "To not go to Hell."
Oddly enough, Harriet didn't like the idea of calling the people around her freaks. The idea of magic to her was freakish. Despite everyone telling her that she was a witch, she had never performed magic-still unsure whether or not to call her bullet wound magic, excluding finding her wand, and not quite sure if talking to snakes was really magical-and her uncle and aunt had, for the years she'd been with them, taught her that magic was bad.
This magic was different, though. It wasn't pulling rabbits out of hats. It wasn't card tricks. It was colorful and intricate. It was wordplay and incantations and power.
Her aunt and uncle must have known. They must have known how she was. Her capabilities. Was this from her parents? Was her aunt like her? She didn't understand why someone would kill themselves if they had these kind of abilities.
She watched the boy in front of her talk about a card, one with a face that moved on it. No, she couldn't fathom her aunt killing herself from this world. Taking her own life when there was so much left to be explored riddled Harriet. There could have had so many firsts; she could have been the one to tell her she was a witch. She could have gone to Diagon Alley. She would have stared her away from the snakes, creatures she knew her aunt never liked, and towards something more beautiful, like the owls. She could have been there to watch Harriet receive her own wand.
But, she wasn't.
She never would be.
"Potter," a girl's voice reached Harriet from her thoughts. She looked at the girl sitting in front of her. She was introduced to her, wasn't she? Pansy Parkinson, that's right. She was much taller than Harriet, nearly as tall as Malfoy. Her body was more filled and curvier than Harriet's. Her thighs looked rather large and well built, her hips curved perfectly to be a mother, and her breasts, even hidden behind robes, were larger than Harriet's also. Her brown hair was neatly brushed, and Harriet couldn't help but notice that her nose was rather piggish. Harriet remained silent, waiting for her to continue.
"Perhaps, as it is your first year here, you haven't an idea on which house you shall be sorted into?" Parkinson managed to speak with a strange finnes that Harriet didn't particularly like, and she wondered if this was her attempt at small talk. Harriet didn't care too much for small talk.
"Don't know," she said, keeping her response short.
"Do you know the differences?"
"Draco mentioned."
"Have you a preference?"
Harriet bit her tongue. Why should she be talking to this girl again? She had no intentions of making friends. She had no intentions of making small talk, especially. She had dealt with the Malfoys, and the youngest Malfoy was enough to make Harriet want to commit mass homicide, but she wasn't sure she had it in her to act like a decent human being and attempt this blithering small talk with an annoying young girl who probably had everything handed to her the entirety of her life. She worried that the rest of the wizarding students were like this too.
The place looked ancient and broken. For being "holy" people, like the priest-who apparently was just a man-said, the building they were in didn't seem too terribly holy or even nice.
They had gone to a place called a church. It was Harriet's first time ever going, but everyone else that was in the room, sitting on the uncomfortable pews like she was, were unimpressed by the show. The priest man read from a book, told everyone to bow their heads, said a few words, and topped it off with an amen. Everyone performed the act like they had done it a billion times before.
Harriet was creeped out.
She wondered if this is what she would be doing every Sunday from now on. Putting on her little, pink dress-which nearly matched all the other little, pink dresses-and they'd drive to this old, ancient building and listen to this man read a book and say some words and bow their heads and say amen.
"Now," the priest said, "all shall come forward and eat the flesh of Christ and drink the blood of Christ. Come forward." What? Harriet froze. What were to doing? She wasn't eating or drinking anyone!
When Harriet didn't show any sign of budging, Uncle Vernon prodded at her. "Go, child!"
"I don't want to," Harriet whispered in defiance. The thought of eating someone was making her feel queasy.
"Do you want to go to Hell?" Her Uncle's words were hissed so quietly she had to strain her ears to hear. She didn't want to go to Hell. The priest man had talked about Hell and Satan and everlasting damnation, and she didn't want any of that. She didn't want to be put in fire forever.
But, she also didn't want to eat a person's flesh and drink blood.
Reluctantly, Harriet scooted off her pew, her feet delicately landing on the ground. She silently fell into the queue behind her cousin. Dudley was less reluctant, but reluctant nonetheless. Harriet hoped this was his first time eating a person, also.
As they made their way to the front of the line, Harriet began to feel sick. She watched the people in front of her take something from a tray and then drinking from a goblet in the priest's hand as they kneel.
Dudley had performed the act quickly. His shoulders seem to have visibly relaxed as he stepped forward and then proceeded like nothing was happening. Kneeling, he ate from the tray and tipped his head back and drank. Harriet was sure she was going to throw up just from looking at it.
After Dudley walked away, it was Harriet's turn. With great trepidation, she walked forward. She knelt in front of the man and kept her eyes trained on him. He was old and balding and had a wrinkled face. For a second Harriet was offended, feeling as if his face was pinched and bitter just for her, but squashed the feeling. He just looked like a grumpy, old man.
She looked in front of her at the tray. It was bread, she realized. In the five year old mind, she figured the flesh must have been baked into it. She grabbed a piece and felt the bile rise up in her throat. She fought it back as she swallowed down the little piece of bread. Next, she tipped her head back. The priest laid the goblet against her lips and tilted it forward.
As soon as the liquid passed through her lips, Harriet felt the bile rise back up again. She tried to swallow back the bile, consequently swallowing a large gulp of the liquid, and couldn't hold it back.
She threw up.
It had happened all at once. She had thrown up, clutching her stomach. The priest jumped back in surprise, yelling in disgust. The followers gasped in shock. Then there was a pregnant pause, followed by a random shout from the crowd, "She threw up the blood of Christ!"
She was roughly grabbed by her arm and yanked backwards. When she looked up she saw her uncle. Furious. Red faced. Snarling. "Let's go, you freak." They quickly escaped the building and packed into the auto.
Dudley turned to her, "Why'd you get sick, weirdo?" He didn't mean it viciously. Dudley didn't know what any of the process was. He didn't know what the flesh or blood of Christ was or even who Christ was, or that throwing up the blood onto a priest probably wasn't the best thing, and Harriet didn't know either so she simply shrugged.
"You FREAK!" Uncle Vernon shouted in the car. Both Dudley and her remained quiet, watching him carefully but not daring to look him in the eyes. "You had one chance! One chance! I always knew you were a freak and don't give a damn if you went to Hell, but, oh, your aunt-your aunt-she seemed to care-look where that got us, huh?-your aunt said to take you because maybe-maybe-you could be saved-not that I give a damn-but no, oh, no, you had to go and be a freak and reject Christ and God and-you freak! Way to go, you're going to Hell, girl, right with your dead parents!" Harriet's fists clenched and she fought back the tears.
The rest of the drive went quietly, except for a few muttering from her uncle, and she quietly undressed in her little cupboard under the stairs. As she slipped out of her dress, she heard a light rapping on her door. She didn't respond, knowing it meant that whoever was coming in, not asking for permission.
It was her aunt. Her aunt looked tired and heart broken, her eyes were only empty. In her right hand was a folded shirt. They were only silent, so Harriet went to break the silence.
"Will we go back?" she asked, taking the shirt from her aunt.
"No," she answered absentmindedly. "I don't think we will."
"I'm sorry."
"You know," she said, her eyes flickering with something Harriet wasn't accustomed to, "we went because sometimes you just have to pretend if you want things to get better."
"That doesn't make sense, Aunt Petunia."
"Sometimes," she searched for the words to clarify. "Sometimes, people want you to behave a certain way to get a certain thing."
"Isn't it bad to be fake?" She thought she was always told lying was bad, and the priest man said it was a sin.
"Depends on what you're trying to receive." Her aunt never spoke like this. It was calm yet distant, and it felt like Harriet was receiving some lesson, though she hadn't a clue about what.
"I'm sorry," she repeated.
"I tried to save you, Lily. I did. I tried." Her aunt didn't break as she said this, instead she remained distant, contemplative.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again.
"Gryffindor."
She could do this. She could pretend like she liked these people. She could behave. Knowing and being on their good sides could only get her further in her school career. She didn't know anything about her lessons or the people around her. She didn't know if Gryffindor was good or Slytherin was better or what the difference even was, but she could pretend.
"I'd like to be in Gryffindor." The girl scowled but quickly readjusted her face.
"Ah, and why so, may I ask?" She was all diplomat. Harriet thought deeply, not really sure why she had chosen Gryffindor but not wanting to make an enemy so early on.
"Because if I'm in Gryffindor, no one will be expecting me to be so sneaky and cunning."
Apparently that was the correct answer, Harriet realized. Parkinson cracked a smile. "I doubt you'll be put in Gryffindor, with thinking like that, but I guess you could try." Parkinson laughed along with the boy next to her, Blaise Zabini. Harriet didn't understand what was so funny, but attempted some form of a smile. It came out as a scowling snort.
The rest of the train ride had been uneventful. They had informed Harriet of a few minor details, but Slytherins were never ones to help out a stranger, and Harriet had already realized this. They had told her about the Sorting Hat, which Malfoy had already mentioned, and that she would have to ride on the boats with the first years. They told her about Headmistress Carrow and how she greatly favors the Slytherins over any and knows how to put the mudbloods in their place. They told her to not fraternize with the blood-traitors, such as the treacherous Weasleys.
While Harriet found the information interesting, she didn't much care for their opinions on the subjects. She didn't care whether a hat wanted to sing or not, she wasn't hoping to be favored by some headmistress, and she certainly didn't need anyone telling her who she should and shouldn't socialize with.
They had disrobed respectively and the train finally halted. Just like getting on the train, the aisle was full of students of different years, all rushing to get off and to the feast. Harriet was thankful when she finally stepped out.
She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. The light breeze caused her curls to tickle her face.
"All first years," a voice boomed in Harriet's ear, causing her to jump. She whipped around expecting to see a man there, only to see an older gentleman off in the distance. He had a grey beard and a bald head. His eyes were scrunched as if he were smiling. "All first years here!" Again, the sound was right against Harriet's ears and she was memorized at the idea of an old man who could project his voice so easily. Her uncle could do that also, but not so well, and definitely more frighteningly.
All the first years and Harriet collected around the old man and waited. He held up a lamp in his hand and led them to the boats that Harriet been told about already.
Stepping into the boat had been awkward. Harriet felt uncomfortable around the first years, even if this was technically her first year. They were all smaller and whispering about who she was. Thankfully, Harriet realized, no one knew her name or her background. It was truly a start-over and for this, Harriet was thankful.
The boat ride was short, dark, and creepy.
Harriet loved it.
The castle was rather large when looking at it. They walked in and were told to wait from the man-who eventually introduced himself as Ogg-and explained that they were to stay put and someone would come to retrieve them eventually.
Very few children made any moved. Most were well behaved, if not gossiping too much to Harriet's enjoyment. She was thankful that none of them were as arrogant as the Malfoy boy.
"Good evening," a woman's voice cut through the air. All turned to the voice and were faced with a rather elderly woman. "I am called Professor McGonagall," she continued. "And now, you will be sorted." She was short and sweet and to the point. Harriet wasn't sure what to think of her, but before she could turn away from the woman they had made eye contact.
She felt her insides clench.
The look was guarded, but there was something there. Harriet hadn't known what, but she could see it being the elderly woman's eyes. Something that led to more-a desire to know more. Almost a desire to be afraid.
Harriet narrowed her eyes but turned away nonetheless.
Snape never was a man to need excuses. He praised himself on the fact that, when he didn't want to do something, he simply said no. He was a smart and powerful man. He didn't need excuses. But, when it came to the girl, he had found himself making up as many excuses and possible.
He didn't want to see her.
He didn't even want to take care of her.
The girl was bringing back terrible memories-memories of her. Memories of the beautiful woman that he wished had loved him. Memories of the woman he loved still, even after her death.
Memories of Lilian Evans.
For the first time in many years, Snape was having doubts. Snape never had doubts. As a man who had worked for both the Light and Dark side, as a man who was a spy and had put his life on the line on numerous occasions, as a man who had killed, Snape never had doubts.
And yet here he was.
Doubting.
Could he truly spend his time watching over Lily's spawn? He didn't have a choice, he realized. His Lord had commanded it. While his Lord didn't have too much of an interesting in the girl-thankfully, Snape thought-he couldn't deny that his Lord was at least watching her. She was strange. To go so long without performing accidental magic would have had her labeled as a squib. And yet, one foggy the alarms went off, and there he found himself, face-to-face with the bitter teenager.
Of course he had questions. Why had she been by herself? Where were her guardians? Relatives? Orphanage? Why was she, someone who was just a teenager, living by herself? Why did she behave so poorly. She didn't behave the way her father behaved. It wasn't arrogant or entitled. She behaved in a way someone had to behave to simply cope. Snape wasn't blind. He could see the facts in front of him. Harriet Potter was drama. She was a bundle of anger and abuse and just horrible-ness that Snape couldn't yet describe. But, how much of this was her fault? How much of it was the Wizarding World's fault?
It was Albus Dumbledore that had sent her away so many years ago, before Lord Voldemort conquered. Back when no one could tell which side of the war would win. Dumbledore had sent away the Potter, along with other wizarding families. They were the Light families that had stayed by Dumbledore's side no matter what.
They had simply vanished. And not just from Lord Voldemort, but from Dumbledore, also. They had simply vanished, until their bodies were discovered in Muggle London. Nothing more was ever said of the Potters, and no one pursued the youngest child-a child no one had even known was born.
Watching Harriet huddled around the first years was painful for Snape. It reminded him so much of Lily. He wondered what would happen with her. While both her parents were Gryffindors, he didn't think she would land herself in Gryffindor. She was too angry, to put it simply, to be in that particular group. Slytherin didn't make a very good match, either. She wasn't the most cunning person around, often letting her anger and bitterness shine through. Ravenclaw-well, perhaps she was smart, but did she put knowledge before everything else? Snape didn't believe so. Hufflepuff was absolutely out-she was far from loyal.
The names were read off by McGonagall. After the disappearance of Dumbledore, the professor was given a chance to be second-in-charge at Hogwarts. Not before going through terrible legilimency, of course. But, after a thorough investigation, Lord Voldemort had decided to leave her in the position. He had indulged with Snape that Light families needed to know that they weren't going to get needlessly murdered, that if they followed him he would spare them. He was out to fix the Wizarding World, not murder everyone in it.
"Harriet Potter," McGonagall announced. Harriet neither bowed her head from embarrassment nor raised her head in pride. She simply walked to the stool in complete apathy, uncaring of everyone's opinion. Snape praised her in this silently. She would need to keep a clear, constant head if she wished to make it through Hogwarts at this time in war.
He watched her like a hawk. She would be his responsibility for the next three years, and he was not planning on disappointing his Lord anytime soon.
The room went silent. He watched her fidget in her chair.
Too small, he thought.
One finger began to pick at the fingernail of the other hand.
So tiny.
Her furrows pinched together as time went on.
Eyes too sunken.
She pursed her lips in annoyance.
Cheeks to shallow.
The rising of her shoulders, a signal of her constant breathing, stopped suddenly. She didnt move. The emotion across her face didn't change. Her brows remained pinched. Her lips were still pursed. She was deep in thought, worry and annoyance spread across her face, despire her attempt to hide it.
Then, suddenly, the Sorting Hat yelled.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Snape felt his insides clench.
A/N: First, sorry about skipping a week. A very busy week, what with watching the kids and starting my blog. Second, sorry about how fast-paced this is. I'm really trying to get out of this beginning-transition time. I want her to start meeting people and learning about the wizarding world, but I had to get her sorted first. If you feel like my writing could improve in a certain way, please, I'm open to suggestions. Thank you for reading, and I would love it if you could take a moment to let me know your opinions.