cxxiii. the head of slytherin house
When she exhausted all other options, Harriet decided it was time to talk to Professor Slytherin.
She didn't want to talk to Professor Slytherin. In fact, she put it off for an entire week after her stay in the hospital wing, thinking of any excuse she could, any idea at all to get back on the Quidditch team, before entertaining the notion of involving her Head of House.
Slytherin usually allowed his House to govern itself, letting the upper-year run roughshod over the younger students, so long as they kept to whatever arbitrary rules he assigned and listened to Snape. In the same breath, he demanded a kind of constant, befuddling obeisance—wanting his students to both defer to him and leave him alone. Harriet had heard stories of Slytherins getting detentions for months or being suspended because they came to him with the wrong issue. Slytherin defined the word capricious.
Harriet really didn't want to talk to him, but Slytherin was the one who had the final say over things like Quidditch team appointments. She could try going to Snape, but the Potions Master would most likely tell her to bugger off, and if he did listen to her, he'd still have to go to Slytherin for authority. Slytherin would be pissed at Harriet for not deferring to him in the first place—and, well, Harriet had tasted enough of his temper to last a lifetime. She'd most likely find herself banned rather than reappointed.
That brought her here, standing outside the closed door to her Head of House's classroom just before dinner was set to begin, clutching her bag like a makeshift shield. Hermione and Elara didn't know she'd come; they both thought it was a spectacularly stupid idea.
I could let the issue go, Harriet considered, eying the corridor leading back downstairs. Terry had a point when he said Flint won't be captain forever.
But Harriet was convinced the issue went deeper than Flint, and she adored flying. She was actually good at it, in the way that Elara was just good at Transfiguration and Hermione was good at Charms. It had been a bright spot in an otherwise stressful term, and Harriet didn't want to give it up. She just wanted to fly.
Bracing herself, she held her breath and knocked.
Nothing happened for a moment. Then, a brush of silent magic opened the door, and Harriet took the metaphoric plunge, hoping she wouldn't regret this. She'd expected the professor to be in his office, but no; instead, Slytherin sat at his desk in the classroom, seemingly engrossed in some kind of letter. His red eyes rose and tracked Harriet's slow, grudging progress into the room. None of the torches were lit, the shutters closed, the only light glowing from a single candle on the desk.
"Miss Potter," he said, setting aside his letter. "Did you need something from me?"
He'd only said a few words, and already Harriet wanted to turn around and run from the room. She'd had a persuasive speech thought out, and now it all melted into a jumble in her brain. "I, um—."
Slytherin raised a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting in what could have been a smile, but instead came across as a snide smirk. "Yes?"
Harriet swallowed and steeled her nerves, knowing she needed to say something, anything, before Professor Slytherin got angry. "Erm—Marcus Flint kicked me off the Quidditch team," she blurted.
"And this concerns me how?"
"He—he doesn't have a proper reason to do so, Professor. I know I—the broom was ruined, but I can replace it, and I wasn't negligible! I—I'm the best player on the team." Well, Harriet wasn't entirely convinced of that, but a spot of self-confidence and bravado would serve her better than weak-mouthed mumbling. It firmed her voice. "I shouldn't have been let go. There's no grounds for my dismissal, and the—our House is going to lose the Cup if I don't play."
It occurred to Harriet that, in the grander scheme of things, the Quidditch Cup really didn't matter, but she wagered losing at anything, no matter how trivial, would be unpalatable to Slytherin. Indeed, she could see the skin tighten around his eyes, his fingers drumming along the edge of his desk before he said, "Sit down, Potter," in his lightest, most affable voice. Harriet did not want to sit down and wondered if Professor Slytherin was about to make her regret being born, but she nonetheless sank into the closest student desk. Slytherin rose, smoothing one hand over his chest to straighten his robes, and distantly Harriet heard the door follow an unvoiced command and swing shut.
Her heart jumped into her throat. She clutched her bag closer.
Slytherin studied her for a moment, his hands folded before himself, the picture of open and approachable. "You bring up a valid point, Miss Potter," he said, coming around the desk, each step measured and meaningful. Harriet remained wary as he stopped before her. "And I appreciate the…thought you put into your little impassioned speech. It shows initiative."
The smile he gave her could have frozen a Basilisk. Harriet shuddered at the imagery, not wanting to think about that—about Tom Riddle—when she was in front of the Defense instructor. She kept her gaze on his mouth, unable to look higher. With the candle at his back, it became impossible to see his face very well, yet his red eyes remained eerily stark.
"However, I don't believe it's in your best interest to continue with Quidditch, whether or not the dismissal was genuine."
Harriet's brow furrowed. "My best interest, sir?"
"Yes. I always have the best interest of my students in mind. Your…peculiar reaction to the Dementors aside, I don't believe it's the best use of your time."
Confused, Harriet waited for Professor Slytherin to continue, and he did so, resting one hand on the desk, leaning ever so slightly forward. Discomfort wriggled in her middle, the conversation not going at all the way Harriet had expected.
"Enjoying Quidditch is all well and good, I suppose, and yet I find certain members of my House are better suited to play it than others. It has nothing to do with skill, you understand. Simply…some wizards and witches benefit more from learning how to follow orders, from being…physical people rather than cerebral ones." Professor Slytherin canted his head to one side and Harriet could feel his eyes boring into the top of her skull. "To be plain—it's a game for idiots, and you're not an idiot, are you, Miss Potter? No, you've proved yourself quite…competent in my classes."
Harriet had a cold, creeping feeling and she started to realize that Flint might not have been the only one who wanted her off the Quidditch team. But that was ridiculous. Professor Slytherin had every reason to keep her on the team, didn't he? She wasn't particularly bright and yes, she did have some talent at Defense, but what did he mean by all this?
Did…did Slytherin have Flint kick me off the team? Is he the reason they've been such berks all term?
"Put thoughts of Quidditch from your mind, Harriet. You would do better to devote your free time to studying more advanced magic."
"Like the Patronus Charm?" She didn't know why she said that, though it'd been on her mind since Hermione mentioned its existence. Slytherin's gaze sharpened as he straightened. Harriet stared at his hand still on her desk, his nails perfectly shaped and clean. He had strangely soft, effeminate hands for someone so vicious and cruel with their magic. "I—Headmaster Dumbledore used it at the Quidditch game after I fell. Hermione told me it's very advanced magic."
"To some it may seem so," Slytherin replied, voice dipping in octave. "It's a soft magic. Weak. If you've half the intelligence I've credited you with, you'll turn your mind and free time to more worthy pursuits." In the distance, the tower bells tolled the hour and Slytherin glanced toward the covered windows. "Come, Potter, lest you try my patience over this trivial matter."
He walked her out—and, as the door opened, Harriet froze, Slytherin dropping his hand onto the back of her neck. The skin under her collar burned.
"Do feel free to arrange a meeting if you're interested in expanding your magical repertoire, Miss Potter." His fingers tightened, then released. "Don't spoil that potential of yours."
He shoved her forward, through the open door—and closed it behind her.
Harriet stood in the hall for several seconds without moving, attempting to get her bearings. She had the unbearable urge to scrub at the nape of her neck, rid herself of the phantom sensation of fingers digging in too close to her spine. Professor Slytherin had gotten her kicked off the Quidditch team. He—.
"Potter!"
Harriet nearly expired on the spot, Snape scaring the life from her when he came sweeping from a darkened alcove. "Bloody hell!"
"Ten points from Slytherin! What do you think you're doing?" he hissed, eyes darting from her to the door at her back. He looked furious.
"I—I just wanted to ask him about Quidditch—."
Snape grabbed her by the arm and dragged Harriet away from Slytherin's classroom, ignoring the confused, curious glances of those students who still milled about in corridors despite dinner being in session. Harriet almost dropped her bag in her effort to keep up with Snape's punishing gait. He pulled her along until they reached his cold office, at which point Snape dropped Harriet and her bag into one of the stiff-backed chairs and pulled out his wand.
"What're you—?!"
"Hold still."
The blue light of a silent spell fell over her in a misty sheet, followed by a second and a third, Harriet blinking in bewilderment as the Potions Master muttered under his breath, a deep crease forming between his brows. When the light faded, Snape's rigid shoulders inched back down to their normal level, and he threw his wand onto the desk with a loud clatter. "What, in God's name, possessed you to approach him alone, girl?!"
"I didn't have a choice! And what was that funny magic? You don't actually think he cursed me or something, d'you?" When Snape didn't answer, his expression darkening, Harriet grew less certain of herself and a lot more worried. What had she been thinking? She knew there was something not entirely right about the bloke, some indefinable cord that connected him to Tom Riddle and Gaunt and Voldemort, but she'd been torn on what to do. Slytherin was supposed to be her Head of House. When Harriet spoke, she could barely hear her own words. "…I just want to play Quidditch."
"And if he'd granted your request?" Snape demanded. "Surely you're not naive enough to think Slytherin does anything without an ulterior motive! Use your head, Potter, for once. If Granger hadn't come to me with suspicions on where you'd gone off to—."
"I didn't know he was behind it," Harriet interrupted, wincing when Snape's mouth snapped shut. "I mean, it sounds petty and stupid and not like anything Slytherin would care about, seeing as how he doesn't seem to care about anyone outside of those students he tutors, but then he said…he said Quidditch is a waste of time, and I should concentrate on other things. He got me kicked off the team. If I'd known that, I wouldn't have dared ask him."
Snape didn't speak, didn't move aside from a slight tremor tightening his hands. Perhaps still shocked over what had occurred, Harriet couldn't help but focus on the nearest visible limb, Snape's hand pale, long-fingered, stained by potions and spells and ink. It wasn't anything like Slytherin's hand.
Seeing the girl shiver, Snape flicked his fingers at the hearth, lighting a fire in its belly, and went to sit in his own chair instead of looming over her. He released some of his anger, though it yet simmered just below the surface.
Shifting, Harriet asked, "Why would he kick me off the team? I don't really understand. Sir."
Snape scoffed. "Do you understand much of anything?" he retorted, drawing in a sharp breath, letting it out in a tired sigh. "You're not blind. You've mentioned Slytherin's tutoring group yourself. How else do you think he procures those students if not by cultivating them himself? By granting them favors, or offering guidance?"
"But that's silly. I'm just a third-year."
"And yet you won't always be just a third-year, Potter. Slytherin is a master in manipulating talent, and despite being an utter dunderhead, you undeniably possess a spark of ability. Fool. You absolute little fool." Inclined to get angry at his insulting tone, Harriet noted Snape's attention had drifted toward the fireplace, and she had the inkling he wasn't entirely addressing her. "What else did he tell you?"
"Some shite about arranging a 'meeting' if I wanted to know more magic and not to go 'spoiling my potential.'"
Snape pinched his dark eyes shut.
"Well, I'm not going to ask him for anything, obviously!"
"I should hope not," he said, scowling when he opened his eyes again. "What else?"
"Nothing, really. I wasn't in the classroom for more than a few minutes." Harriet turned her head, thinking, and considered again how Slytherin had recoiled when she asked about the spell Professor Dumbledore had used. "He did act strange when I asked him about the Patronus Charm. I don't know what it is, exactly, but he discouraged me from looking into it. Said it was weak magic."
"Of course he would, seeing as he can't cast it himself."
"What, really?" Harriet asked, surprised. Snape crossed his arms and settled farther into his chair, tone taking on that terse edge Harriet knew conveyed his clear incredulity in her intelligence.
"The Patronus Charm is what some refer to as Light magic. Slytherin is a Dark wizard. He is incapable of it."
"What d'you mean by that? I've not heard of Light magic."
"That is because it is not a real thing, Potter. It is a misnomer brought on by conceptions of duality—for if there is Dark magic, then there should be Light magic as well. If this magic were to actually exist, it would suggest the potential for perfect actualization, the 'ideal soul,' and that, too, is the nonsense blathering of charlatans, knobheads, and the bloody Headmaster. All witches and wizards are exposed to various levels of corruption throughout their lives—not unlike Muggles and their radiation—which means no one is perfectly pure. The Patronus Charm is a projection of one's inner soul, taking on the form a spirit guardian. That guardian assumes a shape in the Animalia kingdom best representing the caster's various traits. A person cannot cast the Patronus if their soul is, for lack of a better definition, filthy and degraded."
Harriet absorbed this information, her nose scrunched and eyes bright behind her glasses. She was fairly certain Professor Snape had just called Slytherin filthy and degraded in a roundabout way, which she thought was brilliant. "Could you teach it to me?"
Snape blinked as if he hadn't expected her to ask. "What?"
"The Patronus Charm. Could you teach it to me, so I can protect myself from Dementors? I tried looking it up, but I couldn't find anything in the library."
"That is because it is a N.E.W.T spell and not one often mastered until after a student leaves this school." Clearing his throat, Snape added. "No, I won't teach you."
Harriet slumped. "But why not?"
"Because there isn't a point in doing so, and I won't waste my time. I do have more to do than chase you and your ill-mannered friends about the castle, Potter. You're off the Quidditch team, can't venture past the gates, and won't be coming into contact with the Dementors again—."
"But you can't know that," Harriet pressed, suddenly desperate. "I—please, Professor. Please teach me. I…don't want to hear it anymore, the things the Dementors make me remember. I want to learn to drive them away."
Snape frowned, his black eyes intent on Harriet's. The fire in the grate cast part of his face into shadow until he turned to look at her properly. "What is it you hear, girl?"
Harriet hesitated. She hadn't told anyone the truth and didn't much fancy telling Snape now, the idea of putting the horrors in her head into words sickening. Harriet wanted to pretend they didn't exist, and yet…if she had to tell someone, it might as well be Snape. Then she could admit it, aloud, and it wasn't as if Snape would be keen to bring it up again.
"My mum," she mumbled.
"Don't mumble."
"My mum," Harriet repeated, louder, Snape flinching on the other side of his desk.
"What are you on about? How could—?"
"I can hear her screaming, and my dad. He tried to hold him back. And Vol—the Dark Lord. He—my mum begged him to spare me, but she wouldn't stand aside, and she screamed when he killed her."
Snape grew progressively paler as Harriet spoke until he better resembled a corpse than a living person, his hands gripping the arms of his chair in a white-knuckled grip. Sweat beaded on his brow.
"…Professor?"
He didn't stir, but Harriet heard a single word escape his slack mouth. "Out," he whispered.
"What?"
Firmer, Snape said, "Get out," and refused to look at Harriet. He hardly seemed to be breathing. "You need to leave. Go to dinner, go to the dorm, go—anywhere. Just go."
"But what about the Patronus Charm—?"
"Not now!" Snape snarled, bolting to his feet, the chair falling and banging against the floor. The noise startled Harriet out of her own seat, suddenly nervous. What did I do? she wondered. What did I say? "Go, Potter. Go and stay away from Slytherin!"
"I—."
"GET OUT."
Harriet scrambled from the room, snatching her bag from the floor as she went. The door slammed shut at her heels, and the sound echoed far into the dungeons' confines, chased by the lingering vestige of Snape's bellowed shout. Harriet, shaken, glowered at the door and the man hidden behind it.
"Is every adult in this school utterly barmy? Merlin's beard…."
A/N: I wanted to point out that Harriet's not always a reliable narrator, especially in regards to herself. Probably because she grew up hearing "You're rubbish" constantly.
Harriet: "Ha, yeah, I can hear my mum dying."
Snape: Snape. exe has stop working.