cxx. the burning light
The rain didn't stop.
It continued to pour into the weekend and throughout the following week, the clouds wreathing Hogwarts in an ever-thickening band of lowing thunder, the mountains turning white under the black shroud of mist. They spent Care of Magical Creatures by the lake's swollen banks, learning about the magical wildlife flitting through the water, and Professor Sprout had to cancel Herbology after a stray bolt of lightning set one of the greenhouses on fire. Potions had become its own kind of torture in the bleak, chilled classroom.
Needless to say, Harriet was not looking forward to her first Quidditch match of the season.
The thunder woke her from unsettled dreams early on Saturday morning. She sat up in bed and listened to the lamps rattle in their silver brackets, Pansy snoring in the background. No one was awake yet, aside from her. Cold sweat dripped along the nape of her neck and she thought she saw Set sitting by her side until she turned to find no one there. Livi stirred down by her feet, so Harriet decided it best to get on with it and got up and went about finding him his breakfast.
Later, after the rest of the dorm had woken and Elara sat Harriet on her trunk so she could braid the short witch's hair, Harriet glared at the water outside their window and how it rippled under the force of the pounding rain.
"How am I supposed to play in that?" she grumbled, fiddling with the hem of her emerald Quidditch jersey. "I won't be able to see the handle of my broom, let alone the Snitch."
"Try knocking the other Seeker off the broom."
Harriet snorted. "There's a thought, but Ginny's Gryffindor's new Seeker. Flint will probably tell me the same thing, though."
"Well, if we're lucky, someone will drown Longbottom in a puddle. There's always that to look forward to."
The storm refused to relent even when the sun rose behind the gray, swirling curtain of clouds and Harriet marched toward the pitch with the rest of her team, the lot of them soaked through despite the Impervius Charms on their uniforms. Malfoy—who'd started the morning out boasting and swaggering about—didn't look quite so pleased as he tromped along the squishing grass, chilled to the bone. His blond hair was plastered to his brow and he appeared just pathetic enough to not earn an insult from Harriet.
She hadn't eaten a thing at breakfast. She'd swiveled her spoon through the bland, mushy porridge, and stared at the Great Hall's ceiling, willing the weather to calm itself, if only for an hour. Her stomach twisted itself into knots. Harriet simply didn't have the stature to play in conditions like this; she'd been a weedy, underfed child growing up and still retained that slight, peaky build in her teenage years. Shifty, the neighbors had called her, like she was a bony-fingered street urchin out to nick their garbage.
Harriet glowered at a dripping tree and it shied away.
Once inside the locker room, she plopped down on the nearest bench and tried to wring the water out of her hair, no matter how pointless it was to try.
"This is rubbish, Flint," Cassius Warrington growled as he slammed open his locker and started putting on his leather padding. Warrington, like Malfoy, was a new Chaser added to the team this year, replacing Adrian Pucey—but unlike Malfoy, Warrington looked a lot like Flint, namely trollish and stupidly muscled. He wouldn't have any issues staying still in the wind. "They can't expect us to play in this, can they?"
"They have before," Flint replied, unlocking the Slytherin storage cupboard. The Nimbus brooms inside still looked a bit damp from their practice the night before.
"I still think someone should take one for the team," Bletchley, the Keeper, said. He looked pointedly at Harriet as he spoke. "Just a broken leg. Pomfrey would fix it up in a second, but if you whinge enough, Hooch'll postpone the game."
Harriet scowled. "Don't look at me. Break your leg."
"C'mon, Potter. It's more believable if you throw a crying fit."
"Why? Because I'm a girl?"
"It'd only take a second…." Bletchley mimicked breaking something between his two meaty hands—and, really, the fourth-year wouldn't have any problem snapping her scrawny leg like a twig. Worse yet, the Beaters Bole and Derrick were both considering it, sharing speculative looks between themselves, and Harriet swore she'd hex the lot of them bloody if they made a grab for her.
Irritated, Flint said, "Knock it off," and started to dole out the brooms, nearly knocking Harriet in the head with hers. "Listen, Potter," he snapped, shoving a finger in her face. "These conditions are shite and none of us want to be out there freezing our bollocks off. Your only job is to catch the bloody Snitch as fast as possible, do you hear me?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, what?"
"Get your finger out of my face, Flint. I heard you." Harriet smacked his hand aside and Flint turned away, handing a broom to Malfoy. The prat sat next to Harriet on the bench, perching on the end of it as if nervous, both of his hands gripping the broom to his chest. More than a bit nervous herself, Harriet snapped her goggles into place and ignored him.
"Err, is he always so…uncouth?" Draco asked, eying Flint and the bigger, meaner boys. Harriet shrugged a shoulder as she tugged on an arm-guard, wriggling her fingers to make sure they were free to move.
"He's been a bit of a bastard this term," she replied—then paused, frowning. She hadn't given it much consideration before, but Flint's behavior had been more…abrasive than last year. Quidditch with the Slytherins was always rough, and yet the team had been…discouraging of late. It didn't make sense. "I'm not sure why, honestly."
Flint called Malfoy closer and started going over their plan for the game. Harriet listened with half an ear as he explained how the Chasers would focus on defense, preventing Gryffindor from making any points while Harriet went after the Snitch and, hopefully, ended the game as quickly as possible. They disparaged Ginny's ability despite having never seen her play, and though it rankled, Harriet kept her trap shut and stayed silent.
No one could hear when the crowd arrived, not with the storm settling itself atop the school like a fat, loathsome hen. Madam Hooch had to come banging into the room and ordered them out onto the field because no one wanted to open the doors and wander into the pelting rain. They marched out two by two—and a burst of wind struck Harriet hard enough to push her into Bole, who shoved her forward again. The mud sucked at their feet and dragged on their cloaks. Harriet wondered if she could flop over and pretend to be dead to get out of it, or if that was the kind of overly dramatic stunt Snape would give her a verbal hiding for.
They met the Gryffindors in the middle of the stadium, the House of Lions not looking anymore pleased to be in the deluge than the Slytherins did. Harriet couldn't hear a thing, the flat turf transformed into a shallow mire, the crash of water on water as loud as the storm itself. Across from her, Ginny shuffled from one anxious foot to the other, glancing toward the section of red and gold in the stands. Harriet gave her a reassuring smile and a thumbs up, which Ginny returned. Flint wouldn't like it but Harriet didn't much care what Flint liked.
Madam Hooch tried telling them to get on their brooms, then resorted to miming the action, the teams moving to get into the air and—hopefully—finish the game. The sound of her whistle managed to pierce the din, and Harriet jumped upward only for the wind to strike, forcing her feet into the mud. Merlin! She marveled as she shook her head to rid her ears of the ringing. She threw herself skyward with all of her strength and managed to get airborne.
The rain drove itself into the bare skin of Harriet's face and hands like dozens of sharp, twisting needles. She winced, cursing as the wind came again and forced her off course, swerving close enough to the stands for her knee to smack the wood. The resulting bruise throbbed.
Never mind catching the Snitch, Harriet would be lucky to make it back to the ground in one piece.
The odd word from Lee Jordan drifted through the storm but not enough for Harriet to make sense of the game's progression. Smears of green or red streaked along nearer the field, much of the stands lost to the creeping white mist coming in off the lake. It seemed unusually cruel of the universe to make it both rainy and foggy at the same time, and yet the intemperate weather denied all hopes and prayers and persisted. Harriet flew repetitive laps, straining to see even the vaguest flash of gold in the thickening sleet, fighting her broom with every spiraling pass. She paused near the staff section just to see the scoreboard under Lee.
Zero to zero. Bloody hell.
An hour later, Harriet reconsidered the idea of throwing herself face-first into the mud and feigning injury, even if it meant getting an earful from Madam Pomfrey or Snape or Dumbledore himself. She'd let Bletchley break her bloody arm if it meant going back inside. The dungeons would be downright balmy, her four-poster bed practically heaven after flying in this wretched weather. When Madam Hooch blew her whistle again, Harriet could have wept with joy, thinking they'd called the game—but no, Wood had used one of his time-outs, prolonging their miserable suffering.
Harriet landed by her teammates and only then realized how hard her legs trembled, her entire body vibrating from the chill. Harriet had always found it difficult to get warm, and now she felt closer to frozen than merely cold. Hooch had to hit her hands with a Warming Charm so she could release her broom, and Harriet stuffed her trembling fingers into her armpits, bowing her head against the stinging rain.
"Potter!" Flint snarled, stomping over to the hunched witch, his uniform sodden and streaked with muck from a nasty fall. "What part of catch the Snitch didn't you bloody understand?!"
"I'm t-t-trying!"
"Bullshite!"
"Five points from Slytherin!" Hooch bellowed. "That kind of language is unacceptable!"
Flint grit his teeth.
Too soon, the referee sent both teams back into the air and Harriet returned to her monotonous, pointless circling. A Bludger came sailing by her head and Harriet dodged, grunting at the resulting strain in her arms.
"Derrick!" she yelled. "What are you doing?!"
"Can't see what I'm aiming at in this!" came the exasperated reply. After that, Harriet decided it best to put as much space as she could between herself and the Beaters, rising higher and higher above the game.
The temperature plummeted and steam curled inside her goggles, ignoring the Charms laced into the glass. She could hear little aside from the wind's howling and the small, distant clamor of the watching spectators. Growing frustrated, Harriet leveled her broom and stopped flying, reaching up to yank the goggles off and let them fall—flung into the wind and probably out into the lake. Shaking, she pulled out her wand and cast another Impervius over her glasses and Warming Charms over her hands and chest. The trickling heat pooled in her ribs and Harriet shuddered, stowing her wand away.
Now, where is that Snitch?
Harriet scrutinized the crowd, letting her gaze sweep from the staff section through the corrugating mix of House colors, find no fleeting glint of gold among them. The mist had taken over one side of the field, and so Harriet searched the opposing end, knowing it futile to look for the Snitch without any kind of light to reflect upon its surface. The fog continued to roll in, blurring the edges of her vision, and frost gathered in Harriet's fringe, burning the tops of her exposed ears.
It was while scanning the audience that Harriet happened to glance at the top of the stands and spot…a dog. A large, black dog, big as a bear, staring right at her.
Abrupt cheering jerked Harriet's head around in time to see Ginny Weasley rocketing into the clouds, chasing a spec of gold.
Cursing, Harriet threw herself against her broom and darted after her, her eyes watering from the whip of the wind, knuckles raw and bloodied by the chips of ice ricocheting on her hands. Faster and faster she flew, eyes trained the flapping red cloak in front of her until it disappeared, swallowed by the mist, and Harriet had to stop because she couldn't see anything at all.
It was…quiet. Quiet in a way it hadn't been since the storm's beginning, the pall of static clinging to her frosted clothes. She could taste copper on her tongue, blood leaking from her cold, wind-chapped lips.
Somebody screamed.
"Ginny?!" Harriet shouted, soaring higher. She could hear her heartbeat, a loud and laborious thumping competing with her stilted breaths. Dread sunk its teeth into her and gnawed, intensifying, spilling over into anger and confusion and grief like a river bursting a dam. Harriet shook so hard she could barely hold the broom. Still, the screaming continued. "G-Ginny?!"
"Run, Lily!"
Harriet whipped around, foot slipping from the broom's rear brace. A man's voice echoed, indefinable motion stirring the colorless fog.
"Go, I'll hold him off!"
Harriet forgot about Ginny, about the Snitch, about the game and the people gathered below. Numbness ate at her heart.
"No, please, not Harriet—take me instead!"
A flapping sound neared—a sound like the beating of leathery bat wings or stiff cloaks billowing—. Something—things—approached, a writhing murmuration of heinous, black-garbed beings, circling tighter and tighter around her—.
Harriet had her hands over her ears.
"Stand aside, foolish girl, stand aside—."
She knew that voice, had heard it spoken from the back of a man's head, tempting her to throw away everything that was good and just in her life on an impossible dream—.
He isn't here, he isn't here, he isn't—.
Harriet couldn't breathe, could barely see, but she felt the scaled, desiccated hand touch her face and shrieked. A Dementor gripped her broom and leaned forward, sick, hungry rattling replacing the pulse in her ears—.
"Kill me instead! Not Harriet, not my Harriet!"
Green light. Green light burning and bursting between those black spots where the Dementors swarmed like virulent mold. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't the green of new things growing in the early spring, but the green of something left to rot and die. Harriet turned and pushed away from it, not wanting to see—.
"No, no, no…" somebody sobbed. A man, a different one.
Blind, Harriet could feel the air against her face, pulling through her hair like a mother's hand on her daughter's head. A touch Harriet had never known.
"I'm so sorry, Lily, please, please—."
The darkness came faster and faster, her body limp, cold, and unfeeling as it plummeted from the sky. Before the darkness swallowed her whole, Harriet thought that last voice had been…oddly familiar.
A/N: Chapter title is from an Oscar Wilde quote: "Never regret thy fall, / O Icarus of the fearless flight / For the greatest tragedy of them all / Is never to feel the burning light."