cxxii. consequences
"—arriet?"
"I don't think she's awake yet."
"She should be. Madam Pomfrey said she'd be up by now—."
"Wait, her eyes are moving—."
The voices surrounding Harriet quieted, and she groaned, words flopping about in her brain like slippery, beached fish. She felt bitterly cold and wanted nothing more than to sink back into the comforting warmth of darkness—but a hand tightened around her sore fingers, and she pried her unwilling eyes open.
She wasn't in her dorm. Why wasn't she in the dorm?
"Harriet?"
"Wha' happened?" Groggy, she searched for her eyeglasses—and recognized the end table by the bed with another heartfelt groan. Elara placed her glasses on her face. "The hospital wing? Why am I here?"
"Are you all right? Do you remember the game?"
It came back to Harriet in pieces, the memory of her hands burning from the frigid wind, the lashing rain—and the Dementors. She shivered anew and clutched the blankets closer as she sat up.
"Did I—fall? What—? Who won?"
Four people stood around her bed—Elara, Hermione, Luna, and Ginny, the latter of whom still wore her muddy Quidditch gear. Harriet needed only to take one look at her uncomfortable expression to understand.
"Oh," she breathed.
"I didn't see that you'd fallen," Ginny rushed to explain, blushing. "I caught the Snitch, but you were already on the ground. I tried to argue—but Hooch said it was a valid play, and…."
Disappointment bristled in Harriet's chest. She'd never lost a game, had never failed to catch the Snitch before—let alone taken a fall from her bloody broom! How had she survived?! "Well," she said, clearing her throat. "Good game, yeah? You saw the Snitch before I did!"
Ginny smiled, but she still looked dissatisfied, and Harriet hated that her first game had been such rubbish. "I don't really remember what happened after the Dementor—erm—pushed me off the broom." She hedged the truth, not wanting to tell them what she'd heard or that she'd passed out long before hitting the ground. "What was it doing there? Is anyone else hurt?"
"No, just you." Hermione fidgeted, her hand still around Harriet's. "They weren't supposed to be on the grounds. The Aurors who are meant to be handling them by the gates said they must have sensed Sirius Black was nearby, but that's ridiculous! Professor Dumbledore was furious! He used a Patronus Charm and drove all the Dementors from the field."
Harriet furrowed her brow. A Patronus Charm? She made to throw off the sheets and get to her feet when a sudden sharp pain in her leg made her gasp. Madam Pomfrey materialized at the sound, a ferocious scowl on her face.
"Not a foot off that bed, Miss Potter!" she ordered. "And Miss Granger! I thought I told you to notify me at once when Miss Potter woke?"
"Erm, I'm sorry, ma'am."
Madam Pomfrey shoved a thick, porcelain mug into Harriet's hands, and she almost dropped it, the weight unexpected. A gritty, tar-like substance filled it to the brim and smoked under her nose. "What's this?"
"Drink it all, Potter. And don't move about! You've broken your leg and haven't the energy for me to heal it yet."
Harriet gave the mug a few tentative sniffs before taking a sip. It was chocolate—but not the kind of chocolate one could get from a sweetshop or the Express' trolley; this chocolate was heavy, bitter, and not the slightest bit sweet. Harriet coughed at the chalky texture, and her eyes streamed against the heat. "Bleurgh!"
"All of it. You'll feel better, and then you'll need a Pepper-Up before you rest. You four—." The Matron turned her steely eyes to Elara, Hermione, Luna, and Ginny. "You've got five more minutes before I insist you return to your dormitories—and you, Miss Weasley. You'll be taking a Pepper-Up with you, after having been out in that abysmal weather. Utterly foolish for them to allow students to play about in that nonsense…."
Madam Pomfrey returned to her office, voicing her irritation the whole way, and Harriet set aside the mug as soon as she was out of sight. She pulled up the blankets to peek at her legs, the painful right one in a splint. Bruises littered her skin. "D'you reckon she broke it to make sure I don't escape this time?"
Luna laughed loud enough to summon Madam Pomfrey again. After haranguing Harriet into finishing her chocolate sludge, she shooed her friends from the ward. Harriet thought that'd be it, that the Matron would force her to sleep and leave her to think on those horrid, nightmarish voices brought on by the Dementors—but Harriet had one last visitor.
She stiffened when Marcus Flint came shambling past the open curtains. Like Ginny, he hadn't changed out of his gear yet, trailing mud on the floor. How long had Harriet been unconscious?
"What're you doing here, Flint?" she asked. He couldn't be there to check on her. Not a chance.
Flint squared his stout shoulders and announced, "You're off the team," without preamble.
Harriet hadn't known what to expect, and his words shocked the air right out of her lungs. A horrid sinking sensation gripped her as Harriet jolted in the bed, pain prickling through her injured leg. "I—what?!" she gasped. "What do you mean?!"
"I mean, you're off the team, Potter," the towering boy told her. "Like I told Malfoy last year, if you can't sit a broom, you can't play!"
"But that's ridiculous!"
"It's my decision."
"I'm the only Seeker in Slytherin! Who're you going to have play in my place? Higgs?!"
Flint grunted. "It's not your concern, is it? The Whomping Willow trashed the broom—the broom that wasn't yours—and we don't need idiots on the team who can't fly and go about ruining the equipment."
"I—." She hadn't known about the broom, but Harriet should've considered what would have happened to it after she dropped. "I can replace it!" She could, theoretically, replace several brooms—though spending that much money was as alien to Harriet as television was to pure-bloods. "It's no problem!"
"That's not the issue."
"But—."
"I said no, Potter. You're off the team."
Flint left without hearing another word from Harriet, and she stared after him, trapped in place, something dangerously close to tears burning the back of her eyes. She could feel her nails bite into her palms even through the blanket clutched in her fists.
"Miss Potter?" Madam Pomfrey had reappeared, carrying a single, smoking vial of Pepper-Up. She studied the muddy footprints on the floor with clear disapproval. "Is everything well?"
"Everything's fine," Harriet lied—because nothing was fine, nothing at all, but Harriet refused to cry. She wouldn't cry, not because of Flint, and not because of her aching leg, bruised heart, or the terrible things the Dementors forced her to hear. It made her miserable, but Harriet wouldn't say a word. "It's all…fine."
x X x
As was usual in Hogwarts, rumors traveled faster than most magic spells, and by the time Harriet was released from the hospital wing a few days later, there wasn't a soul who hadn't heard about her being kicked from the Quidditch team.
The dismissal added another bitter layer to the mocking she endured from those who couldn't believe she'd fallen from her broom in the middle of a Quidditch game. The faux-fainting she'd suffered at the beginning of term returned with a vengeance, and Harriet couldn't go anywhere in the castle without someone having a laugh at her expense.
"It's just as well you weren't sorted into Gryffindor, Potter," Longbottom said one day as she passed him in the Great Hall. "We don't have much room for cowards here."
His friends, of course, found this incredibly funny, snickering into their plates, but Harriet had heard cleverer insults from her own House and didn't stop to acknowledge the prat. She snidely wondered how well Longbottom would hold up if he had to hear his mum die every time a Dementor came near.
She hadn't told anyone about that yet. She didn't know if she would.
More than anything, Harriet was upset at the prospect of missing Quidditch, but no matter how many times she braved the laughter and mockery of the upper-years to approach Flint, he refused to let her back on the team. She must've asked him a dozen times before he threatened to hex her mouth shut, and Harriet shuffled off in a dejected slump.
A first, she thought Malfoy had something to do with all this. After all, he wanted to be Seeker and had threatened her last year after he failed to show up for tryouts—but Malfoy seemed just as perplexed over Flint's actions as she did.
"I don't know what Flint's on about," he admitted. "Yeah, you fell from the broom and almost broke your stupid neck—but it's not like it hasn't happened in the past. Father told me a Chaser in his year lost their arm when he clipped into one of the hoops too quickly. Flint's an idiot if he thinks putting Higgs back on the team would be anything more than disastrous."
The more Harriet thought on the matter, the more perplexed she became. Flint had only allowed her—a shrimpy second-year who weighed less than six stone soaking wet—on the team last year because her ability outstripped Terrence Higgs' by a wide margin. She hadn't been boasting when she said she was the best Seeker Slytherin had in their midsts. Flint was obsessed with Quidditch and fanatical about winning, to the point where he spent considerable time forcing his players to train and bend the games' rules. The Seeker was one of the most critical roles.
Harriet expected to get chewed out for losing, but to get kicked off the team?
It didn't make logical sense.
"Well, you'll probably make the team again in no time," Hermione said, Harriet sitting with her and Terry Boot at their favorite library table, the one farthest from Pince's desk. Elara was at choir practice, and though Harriet didn't begrudge her the time spent with her club, it did remind Harriet of her own new lack of extracurriculars. "I imagine Flint will see Higgs play and immediately change his mind."
"Or he'll bring Pucey back and put Malfoy on as Seeker." Hermione whacked Terry's arm after he spoke. "What? It's what I would do if I were Flint. Not admitting the truth would be silly."
Harriet sighed, sagging in her chair. The storm had finally passed, but the world outside the muilloned windows seemed grayer in its absence, as if the clouds had sucked out some of the color before they thinned. Harriet stared out at the grounds, resting her chin on her hands.
"It doesn't matter what he does, I guess," she muttered, still sounding more sullen than she wanted to.
"Isn't Flint a seventh-year? I thought he was a seventh-year last year—but, well." Terry cleared his throat, sparing them any disparaging remarks. Harriet wished he hadn't bothered, wanting to hear a bit of abuse get thrown at her former captain. "He'll be gone next year. Someone with some actual brains will be in charge. You'll make Seeker, easy as can be with your skills."
Harriet forced a smile onto her face. "Thanks, Terry." She found it difficult to be happy about much of anything lately. "That's enough of my moping, though. Nothing to be done about it now. Have you made progress on the Protean Charm, Hermione?"
Hermione's expression changed from concerned to thunderous, which Harriet guessed meant 'no.' "It's proving—difficult," she sniffed, shutting the book in her hands. A small puff of dust escaped. "Terry's helped me a bit in the research—." A slight blush colored her cheeks. "But there's something in the application I haven't quite figured out yet."
She set out two blank sheets of parchment, shoving aside her texts and bag. Over the first, she held her wand and incanted, "Proteus Imito Alterius," moving in her wand in what Harriet recognized as the rune nauthiz. Above the second, she reversed the motion and said, "Alterius Imito Proteus."
Hermione dropped her wand and picked up a quill. "Watch."
She made a single, firm stoke on the first parchment—and a second later, it appeared on the second.
"But wait, that's brilliant!" Harriet exclaimed. "Isn't that what it's supposed to do?"
"On the most simplistic level, yes, but for what we want? No. There's just so much missing. It doesn't properly copy, store, interpret, and relay information, and—here. Look, pick that up."
Harriet picked up the second sheet of parchment and, at Hermione's insistence, stood and walked a few meters away. Hermione created another line on her first parchment, and instead of appearing on Harriet's sheet, the second parchment burst into flames, and Harriet dropped it with a yelp. She stomped the flame out before Pince could come to investigate.
"Why did it do that?!" Harriet asked as she rejoined the table. Hermione groaned and covered her face.
"I don't know! Magic is notorious for losing stability over a distance, but not like this. I've obviously missed something along the way."
Terry chuckled. "I don't know what you ladies are up to, but the Protean Charm is really advanced magic. My older brother says it's on the N.E.W.T.s."
"It's for a project," Harriet bluffed, using her wand to scatter the ashes of the burnt parchment. "Just a little something that struck our interest, y'know?"
"I don't know," Terry said, smirking. "You Slytherins are walking trouble. If there's no extra credit to be had, then I don't want to know."
Snorting, Harriet returned her attention to her Transfiguration homework and tried to concentrate.
Hermione made another passing attempt at the Protean Charm, experimenting with her use of nauthiz, trying to adapt another rune to augment distance, and Harriet ended up scattering more ashes, nursing a burnt thumb. She had just plopped into her chair again when Anthony Goldstein came running up, an edition of the evening Prophet clutched in his hands.
"Hey, Terry, have you seen—?" He paused, sniffing. "What's burning?"
Harriet quipped, "My reputation in Slytherin," and plastered a fake smile on her face. "All right, Goldstein?"
"All right, Potter. Have you lot seen this? Take a gander before Pince comes back here and bans us all for you burning her books…."
He laid the Prophet on the table's edge, and Harriet craned her neck to read—.
"WEREWOLF FENRIR GREYBACK ESCAPES AZKABAN."
Below the blinking title rested a black and white image of Greyback taken during his incarceration. He was nothing short of devilish in appearance, large and imposing with a mouth of blade-like teeth. He bore those teeth at the camera, and it caused his wild eyes to gleam like new coins.
"So that's what a werewolf looks like?"
"No," Hermione refuted, scowling at the picture. "That's what a monster—who just so happens to be a werewolf!—looks like. Don't be closed-minded, Harriet."
Goldstein glanced at her and shook his head. "Look, Granger, I know you're Muggle-born and might not know everything about the Wizarding world, but werewolves are bad news. Very bad news. Greyback is the worst of the bunch! He eats bloody children!"
"The Muggle world is far more expansive and doesn't need the excuse of curses or magic to create its own monsters. Greyback is a beastly man with or without his lycanthropy. Don't patronize me, Anthony; I may be Muggle-born, but I am as capable of reading as the next witch. I know what he's done." She picked up the paper and thrust it toward Goldstein's chest, though Terry intercepted it, setting it atop his Charms text.
"Do you believe Black helped him?" he speculated, reading the article proper. "He is the only wizard to have escaped before….Merlin, listen to this. 'Greyback's escape is not without causalities; three Aurors are reported dead, a fourth is missing, and a fifth has been bitten.'" Terry lifted his head toward the window, squinting. "It was the full moon last night, wasn't it? Poor bastard."
"Whether or not Black helped the werewolf isn't relevant," Anthony argued. "That's two Death Eaters who've gotten out and are walking free among civilized people! How long will it be before more escape? My parents are going to be terrified! What if they decide to take me out of school?"
Hermione crossed her arms. "I highly doubt Fenrir Greyback's going to come to Hogwarts."
"He bloody well might. The maniac's hungry for children, and if Dumbledore can't keep out the Dementors or Black, what chance does he have at keeping us safe from a werewolf?"
Hermione and Goldstein kept arguing and Terry tried mediate. Harriet read the article herself—and every word filled her with a new kind of anxious dread, a horrid premonition of terrible, terrible things to come. She didn't know how Greyback escaped or what it really meant, but Harriet knew nothing good would come of it.
A/N: Instead of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, this part should just be "Harriet Potter and the Worst. Year. Ever."
Stray note: Anthony refers to Greyback as a Death Eater. He was not a Death Eater. I think it would be a common misconception in Wizarding society to simply label Dark wizards or suspected Dark wizards as Death Eaters, when that's not in fact true. It's my theory (or maybe head-canon) that the marked DEs were more of a "select" group and the term came to encompass all of Voldemort's supporters, like Greyback.
Hermione: "Greyback wouldn't come here, pfft."
Harriet: "I have a really bad feeling about this."