cc. invoke thy aid

"This is degrading," Harriet huffed, the air bouncing back against her cheeks. With her nose all but pressed to the room's corner, it was inescapable. "I'm not a child, for Merlin's sake."

She distinctly heard McGonagall sip her tea at her desk. "Well, when you cease behaving as a child does by disregarding the instructions given to you, we'll reevaluate your punishment."

Harriet fairly stung with the reprimand and the humiliation, having had to stand still and quiet while a few students passed through McGonagall's office hours. Some had giggled at her predicament. She'd known from the beginning the older witch would be furious if she found out Harriet was attempting an Animagus transformation, but she'd tried anyway, supposing McGonagall wouldn't find out. In hindsight, maybe that hadn't been the best choice.

Harriet hadn't admitted to the failed transformation. No matter the pain of the experience, she hadn't lost her mind. But McGonagall needed only to take one look at her ruined arm in the hospital wing, and her nostrils flared, her color high. Her Scottish brogue thickened until it was almost an unintelligible storm of rolling r's and thick vowels. Harriet landed herself in detention for every Friday evening for the foreseeable future.

Her nose itched, and Harriet went to scratch it, only to jostle the weak arm still bound in a sling. A soft, pained noise left her when she bumped the wall. McGonagall stopped shuffling through her paperwork and sighed.

"Come over here and sit down, Miss Potter."

Relieved, Harriet turned and marched over to the plain, uncushioned chair in front of McGonagall's desk, happy to be off her feet finally. Pomfrey may have let her leave the infirmary—reluctantly—but it didn't mean she wasn't exhausted and incredibly sore. The new arm remained tender with the occasional prickles running through her fingertips.

McGonagall gave Harriet a hard look over her square spectacles, then conjured a plain goblet and filled it with water, shoving it across the desk. Harriet picked it up and sipped, eying her professor with uncertainty until she set the goblet back down and sat up straight.

It didn't take long for McGonagall to start. "Do you have any idea of the danger you placed yourself in? The stupidity of your actions? You could have been mutilated—permanently. You could have lost your mind. You could have died."

Heat infused Harriet's cheeks. "Yes, Professor."

"If you understood any of what I said, why did you persist? Especially after I warned you and Miss Granger of the potential consequences." A sudden thought crossed her expression. "Is Miss Granger—?!"

"No, no," Harriet rushed to assure her. "No, she's—not. I promise."

"Forgive me if your word is less believable after that stunt."

Harriet winced but couldn't argue with the sentiment. After Elara managed to become an Animagus, she and Hermione promised McGonagall they wouldn't attempt the same. "Sorry, ma'am…."

"Did it ever occur to you to ask for help? I warned you against attempting a transformation on your own, and you never thought to take advantage of having a Transfiguration instructor who is also an Animagus? I am a professor, Miss Potter; it is my job to teach."

To that, Harriet had nothing to say, because it hadn't occurred to her to ask McGonagall for help. She'd warned them off from attempting it independently, but she hadn't told them they couldn't try. And it wasn't as if the professor forbade them out of malice; she did it because of exactly what happened.

"You can ask adults for help, Harriet. You don't have to do everything on your own."

"…I know."

McGonagall didn't seem to believe that sentiment, but she allowed the subject to drop, concentrating instead on doctoring herself a new cup of tea from her silver service set. Harriet watched her from the corner of her eye, waiting for the mood to shift again and the berating to start anew.

"We'll be having your lessons in the secondary Transfiguration classroom on Friday evenings," the professor said, her voice still stern, but less angry and more practical now. The classroom she mentioned adjoined the main Transfiguration space, but it found more use for sixth and seventh years, who often had larger and more complicated spells to compile. "Not that you don't deserve punishment for your own good, mind. You can be as thick-headed as your father, Miss Potter, and that is not a compliment."

She heaved a weary, frustrated sigh and smoothed a single stray hair back behind her ear. "Has Professor Snape approached you about his lessons for you?"

Confused by the non sequitur, Harriet answered, too nervous to ask questions. "No, Professor."

The older woman muttered something suspiciously like "Idiot boy," before primly sipping her tea and clearing her throat. "Well, that's neither here nor there. Both Professor Snape and I have adjusted our schedules to fit in more time with you starting next term, but I was under the impression he wanted to begin sooner rather than later." A spark of flintiness entered her eyes, gone in a flash, replaced by her usual cold, professorial severity. "I expect you to listen to our instruction to the best of your ability, and to come to us if you have difficulty."

Harriet's shoulders slumped. "Yes, Professor."

McGonagall huffed. "Don't sit there as if I've pronounced your doom, Miss Potter. Finish your water, and for Merlin's sake, have a ginger newt. You look pale as a ghost, och."

Harriet took a ginger newt from the tin on the desk—taking another when McGonagall arched a brow. The professor waited for her to finish eating, the last of the crumbs swept off Harriet's skirt, before she turned the conversation to yet another area of discussion, asking Harriet to describe her failed transformation.

"It's hard to put into words, ma'am," she said, thinking about those moments before everything went to pot. "It was a bit like…trying to pull on a big cloak that had fallen off my arms. But it didn't fit real well, and it…it didn't feel like it'd been made of anything I was meant to be touching. Like I was grabbing smoke or—really cold water that stung a bit when I tried moving it."

McGonagall studied Harriet with keen eyes before nodding her head. "Go on."

"Elara said I had to pull it up over my head, and I didn't know what she meant until I tried it myself. I think I managed it somewhat, though I…." Harriet paused, searching for words, her finger giving her cheek an idle scratch. "I thought somebody said my name, but looking back, that's silly, innit? Hermione and Elara didn't say anything because they wouldn't have distracted me." She heaved a sigh. "That's what happened. I got distracted, and the feel of the—the magic twisted away, as if I'd pulled too hard or gripped too tightly. Then I got hurt."

McGonagall nodded along with Harriet's statement to convey her understanding, then leaned back in her chair, her face lined with thought. "Well. By your description, it seems your efforts weren't in vain and you do have the ability, and the potion wasn't botched. Proper training—." And here she fixed Harriet with another stern glare that had the girl fighting a shiver. "—would have prepared you for how difficult it can be to coax your secondary nature into its proper form. It's not something to be undertaken in a dormitory with others spectating."

Harriet refrained from saying that was almost exactly how Elara had managed it last year. She half expected that remark would see her back in the corner, staring at the mortar.

"We can work on this in the summer term, when we both have more time." McGonagall rose to her feet, and Harriet scrambled to do the same. The heavy guilt weighing upon her lightened at the words.

"You'll really help?"

"As I said."

"Thank you, Professor!"

"Until then, do use your head, Miss Potter. I don't want to see you in the infirmary for anything more than a cold."

"Yes, Professor."

McGonagall waved her off toward the door, and Harriet went, exhaling with relief. She had only managed a few steps when McGonagall said—.

"And Harriet?"

Which forced the girl to stop, turning her head. McGonagall stood with her aged hands folded together before herself, holding tightly as if anxious or worried, though none of that emotion bled into her tone.

"Yes, Professor?"

"…Good luck this evening."

Dread suddenly crept into Harriet's chest, cold as winter's sharpest gale, heavy as snow piling up inch by inevitable inch. The second trial was scheduled for that night.

She swallowed the lump in her throat with some difficulty and smiled, her lips trembling.

"I'll do my best."

"I know you will."

xXx

The lightning storm that had heralded Harriet's dubious exploits with Animagus transformation lingered over the highlands, and though the lightning itself had petered off, the rain persisted. It persisted with a vengeance.

Huddled in what shelter the eaves of the castle provided, thirteen Slytherin students stood waiting in the downpour for their Head of House to make an appearance. Harriet couldn't stop her shivering despite her cloak and the heft of the flame-filled jar braced in her good hand. On either side of her, Hermione and Elara shivered just the same.

"It would be wonderful if he could be on time just once in his miserable existence," Elara sneered through clenched teeth, her gloved hands stuffed into her armpits. "Just once."

"If he thinks I'm going into the bloody forest in this weather, he's barmy," Harriet added. "Merlin's knickers, I can barely feel my toes."

"How about your arm?" Hermione asked. She'd been fussing over Harriet from the moment she'd left the infirmary, almost as if she had actually cursed her. Harriet couldn't tell if she was putting on a show for others, but she genuinely thought Hermione just worried about her.

"Bloody numb, thanks for the reminder."

Hermione tutted under her breath and flourished her wand, giving the Bluebell Flames a firm prodding. They crackled higher inside the smoke-stained glass, and Harriet clutched the vessel closer.

The others had similar jars in their possession, having followed Hermione's lead when they arrived outside. Harriet looked over their group, the Carrow sisters at the end with Pucey, joined by Hawkworth and Craft. Lestrange stood much too close, and he caught Harriet's gaze as she turned her head.

"Why even bother showing up, Potter?" he said above the crashing rain, the weak torchlight from the castle's entrance making the handsome curves of his face stark and ghoulish. Harriet thought that a good word for Lestrange: ghoulish. "What with your gimp arm?"

"The same reason you're here despite being a moron."

His taunting smile became savage, and Vuharith put a restraining hand on his shoulder, leaning in to mutter something in his ear. Water dripped from his dark hair like the rain did from a gargoyle's teeth. "You'd best watch yourself, little girl."

"Did you like that, little girl?" Riddle crowed as Harriet trembled on the floor, wracked by the after-effects of the Cruciatus. "Oh, I think you did."

"Harriet?"

She flinched, jerking herself from the sudden, inexplicable memory. Their words might have been similar, but Lestrange didn't hold a sliver of Tom Riddle's menace. Still, the stark whisper slid against her spine like ice, and Harriet very nearly stepped away.

She wanted to get inside. She wanted this to be over already.

"Harriet." Hermione was more insistent this time, and Harriet looked toward the other witch. Hermione pointed at the path—at the Thestral-drawn carriages and their orange lamps wending their way closer.

The first clattered to a halt in front of them. The door popped open.

"Are—are we supposed to get in?" Derrick asked with a small, uncertain chuckle.

"Obviously," Bragge sniped—but Harriet noted she made no move toward the waiting carriage. No one did, not even Lestrange.

Harriet grit her teeth, sucking air through them. "Ruddy cowards," she muttered before moving from under the eaves into the torrential downpour. She didn't stop until she pushed herself up the metal step and swung into the empty carriage. Hermione and Elara followed a moment later, dashing out of the rain. No sooner had Elara ducked inside did the door swing shut once more, and the Thestral lurched into motion.

"Where do you suppose he's having us go?" Elara asked as she dropped onto a seat, grimacing at the wet squelch. "Is it too much to hope it's somewhere dry?"

"That's probably why he's not here. I can't imagine that twat standing in the rain."

"Probably Hogsmeade," Hermione murmured, ignoring Harriet's comment. She had the presence of mind to press herself against the door, peering out of the window to watch. "The gates are open."

"Is he allowed to do that?" Harriet asked, her unease growing, whatever bravado had propelled her into the carriage fading into nervous dread. "Blimey. I thought I wasn't allowed without my guardian's signature?"

"Technically, as a Head of House and a chaperon, he can take students off-site. And considering you have to register for this competition…."

Harriet cursed softly under her breath.

The carriage continued to trundle on, past the open gates with the boars atop their pillars, heading on toward Hogsmeade. Harriet swallowed, her mouth dry, and picked at the seam of her cloak until a thread threatened to come loose. They took a sharp, abrupt turn onto a smaller dirt path, and Hermione grunted as her cheek smacked the window.

"Where on earth are we going?" she demanded, rubbing her nose. "This isn't the direction of Hogsmeade. There's nothing out this way!"

They kept moving, and despite what Hermione said, a structure soon loomed between the winter trees. Harriet joined her friend at the window, their breath painting the speckled glass as they peered into the darkness. They could little see the building in the night, only the vague outline of stone and the warbling light of a bare torch illuminating a gaping arch heading inside.

The carriage lurched to a halt. Harriet cursed again.

"I guess the worst thing that could happen is we—I don't know, get locked in a cursed tomb or something?" she said, reaching for the door's latch.

"The worst thing that could happen is we get murdered, Harriet."

"Well, I wasn't going to say that, Elara! I'm not putting that out there!"

Hermione remained quiet during their bickering, though she appeared pensive, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. "Why would he bring us out here?"

"To scare us?" Harriet theorized. "Remember, Snape said this task is going to be more—mental than the others. Something about Slytherin wanting to weed out the cowards."

"There's more to it." Hermione shook her head as Harriet eased the door open and the sound of rain in the naked trees echoed into the carriage. "If that was his only aim, he could scare us easily enough at Hogwarts. There are plenty of mostly unexplored areas in the dungeons that would suit, don't you think?"

Harriet nodded, having discovered several questionable places while exploring. Hogwarts was a castle, after all, and at one point or another, Harriet wagered they'd kept something other potions in the dungeons and the deep, dark places. Slytherin needn't leave the school if he wanted to offer his students a scare.

They braced themselves against the rain once more as they stepped into the weather, the other carriages drawing to a halt on their own. This time Vuharith and Lestrange were the first to shed their reservations and enter the building, followed by Derrick and Bragge. Harriet stayed behind despite the rain splattering against her glasses, trying to discern just what they were meant to be walking into. Part of the structure had given way with time, and the front seemed to have been burned.

"Lovely," Elara snarked. The water plastered dark tendrils of her hair over her temples and brow.

They headed inside with Craft and Pucey in front of them, following the gentle, whispering tones of their fellows and the echo of dripping water. Noise resonated in the dim interior, lit only by a single torch inside and the residual light of the first torch by the uncovered entrance. It was…unimpressive, and though Hestia and Flora appeared unnerved, Harriet had seen more frightening places.

"What a rubbish tip," Desdemona Bragge said, sticking her nose into the air. Lestrange and Vuharith slung themselves onto one of the half-rotted benches strewn throughout the otherwise empty space, the latter crossing her legs while the former scoffed.

"Where's your sense of adventure, Bragge?"

"It seems I left it in my dormitory—along with the warm hearth and dry clothes."

Lestrange made a rough, laconic gesture with his wand that Harriet recognized as the beginnings of a Drying Charm, and Bragge snapped at him, her own wand extended. "Don't you dare. The lining of this cloak is Acromantula silk, and I won't stand for you ruining it, boor."

Craft laughed at that—loud and unbothered, not unlike how Luna laughed. Lestrange's dark eyes cut over to him, and the mocking set of his mouth twisted.

"Be silent, freak."

Again, Craft appeared unbothered. Indeed, he barely took any notice of Lestrange at all, choosing instead to lean against one of the crumbling stone walls, his arms crossed, wet hair tumbling down past his shoulders.

Meanwhile, Harriet ignored their snide comments and studied the enclosure. Seeing no sign of fallen walls or other barriers, she assumed it had been built as one cohesive space, which meant it must have been a meeting area of some kind. She scrunched her nose as she investigated one of the benches, the wood decayed until almost unrecognizable.

It looks like…a pew.

"It was a Muggle church."

The familiar voice startled a shriek out of Hestia, who flushed purple when Slytherin stepped from the shadows of the only room adjoined to the main sanctuary. Harriet hadn't heard the door open, nor had she seen the wizard enter. He made for a chilling, ghastly specter in that loathsome place. Slytherin sent a disdainful glance in Hestia's direction before speaking again.

"Many years ago, before the introduction of the Statute of Secrecy, Hogsmeade was not a solely magical village. The Muggles who resided in or near the area thought to bring monotheism into the Scottish highlands among the pagans, and when their religion encroached upon Wizarding lives…." A smile split Slytherin's face as he brushed a hand almost lovingly along a charred bit of wall. "No more Muggles."

An appreciative chuckle left Lestrange.

"I thought it a most…appropriate venue for tonight's activity." He stepped farther from the shadows into the ring of torchlight, still smiling. "Welcome to your second trial, my dear children. You have done well to make it this far, and I am…pleased with your progress. Behind me, you see a door. Beyond that, a room. Within the room is a table, and upon the table are thirteen runestones. Tonight, I will simply ask you, one by one, to pass into the room, retrieve a runestone, and return it to me. I will give you each five minutes to complete this task."

Harriet exchanged glances with her friends, knowing this couldn't be that simple, and Slytherin fluttered a pale hand as if forestall any questions.

"Though this may prove a simple endeavor for some of you, for others…my, my. A trip to Madam Pomfrey might be required before the night's end."

The weight of Harriet's sling felt more immediate as he spoke, heavy. Some of the others flicked their eyes in her direction as if expecting she'd give up now.

If only.

Slytherin drew his wand to conjure himself a nice chair, neglecting to provide seating for anyone else as he carefully pulled his robes to one side and relaxed. "First…let us have Miss Bragge enter."

Attention turned to Bragge, who paled under the scrutiny of her peers but nonetheless steeled her nerves and strode forward. She walked into the darkness of the room beyond, and Slytherin gave his wand another bored twist. The door slammed shut, setting loose a cloud of dust.

"What is the point of this?" Elara murmured, eyes narrowed at Slytherin's profile. Unperturbed, their professor held a pocket watch in his hand, giving it a twist every so often so he could read the time. "Do you suppose he's put a creature of some kind in there?"

"He wouldn't risk his position for a poorly veiled chance to maim his students," Hermione replied, her voice hardly louder than a breath. No sound emanated from beyond the shut door. Thunder churned far in the distance, and the rain battered the poor roof. "There must be a reason he brought us here."

"Outside of a chance to spit on Muggles," Harriet added. Four minutes had elapsed before the door creaked open on rusted hinges, and Bragge stumbled out.

To say she appeared frightened would be an understatement. Her haughty, if anxious, poise had vanished, and she shook like a tree in a summer storm, her legs threatening to give out from under her. She stared ahead of her, unseeing, and somehow managed to stagger to Slytherin and drop a small, smooth stone into his open hand.

"Very good, Desdemona. Take a seat against that wall over there."

Bragge nodded, mute, and did as told, collapsing onto the filthy floor with no regard for her expensive cloak.

"What happened?" Lestrange hissed at her in an undertone, attempting to keep his voice down. Unfortunately, Slytherin still heard him.

"Quiet, Mr. Lestrange. You will have your opportunity soon enough. Mr. Derrick, if you would."

Peregrine Derrick frowned slightly, then shrugged his massive shoulders. He disappeared into the room, and again Slytherin slammed the door shut, just as he had with Bragge. This time, however, Derrick didn't emerge after four minutes. He didn't emerge after five, either, and so Slytherin snapped his watch closed with a sigh and stood. He entered the room and returned all but dragging Derrick by the arm, the burly Quidditch player stuttering in terror.

"How disappointing," Slytherin said as he crossed the sanctuary filled with quiet, grim students, shoving Derrick down to sit by Bragge. Derrick gawped at the wizard—and reeled back as if afraid of being struck when Slytherin sneered. "Pathetic."

Harriet stared at Derrick and Bragge, the pair white as fresh sheets and covered in filth as if they'd rolled upon the floor. Her palms warmed with sweat. Bragge was a brilliant witch—and Derrick was their seventh year prefect, both physically and magically strong. What could possibly reduce them to two quivering wrecks?

Hermione's hand seized hers, and Harriet jumped. "Dark magic," she whispered, breathless.

"What?" Harriet hissed.

"It's Dark magic. That's why he brought us out here—no wards. If you cast Dark magic in the castle, there's a chance the Headmaster will know."

Slytherin summoned Vuharith forward next as Harriet chewed on this information. Yes, she could imagine Slytherin inflicting Dark magic upon them—after all, who would tattle? Not anyone who wanted to live to old age. And off of school grounds, was it even illegal for him to use it in a competition voluntarily entered?

It sounded bloody illegal, but if anyone knew how to manipulate loopholes and bylaws, it was Slytherin.

Vuharith completed the task, as did Pucey after her, the pair joining the others against the far wall, sweaty, shaken, and silent. Then, it was Hermione's turn.

"Good luck," Harriet said, giving her hand one final squeeze. She could hear Hermione's throat click as she gulped, then strode into the dark. The door slammed—and Harriet almost screamed at the wizard to open it again, consequences be damned. Elara's hand replaced Hermione's around her own, the leather of her glove tacky with water.

"She'll be fine."

"And if she isn't?"

"She'll be fine."

Each minute felt as if it lasted a dozen, and as they passed, Harriet's heart sunk lower and lower in her chest. She counted the seconds, willing herself to stay calm, knowing Elara did the same. When the fifth minute came, Harriet couldn't restrain herself any longer. She yelled, "Professor!" aloud. The volume of her voice startled the others.

"Patience, Miss Potter. Patience."

He took his time standing and straightening his attire, a smirk curling the edge of his mouth. He retrieved Hermione with the same blasé care as he had Derrick, and she came out of the shadows sobbing, muck streaked across her cheeks from her hands frantically wiping at her tears.

"Hermione!" Harriet cried, rushing forward. Slytherin jerked the other witch away from her, pushing Hermione toward the far wall. Hermione went, though when she sucked in a breath as if to say something, Slytherin silenced her with a look.

"Leave her be, Potter. It's nothing permanent."

Behind them, Lestrange laughed, still slumped on the best pew in the building, his arms stretched wide and comfortable across its top. "It's hardly surprising," he mocked as Harriet turned, fixing him with a warning glower. Hermione's sobbing curtailed itself into quiet sniffles, and she buried her face in her hands. "Who wouldn't expect the little Mudblood to be a coward?"

Harriet lunged.

A fist closed itself in her hair and yanked her back, Harriet yelping at the resulting burn in her scalp. Through teary eyes, she squinted at Professor Slytherin as he gave his hand another cruel twist, and she bent with the motion. She gasped, hoping he wouldn't rip her hair out at the roots.

"Enough of this. You next, girl."

He shoved her hard, and Harriet had no choice but to follow the motion, stumbling before she fell to her hands and knees beyond the room's threshold. Her wounded arm throbbed in dull agony when it bumped the stone. She staggered upright and turned just in time for the door to slam, plunging her into darkness.

Oh, fuck. You've done it now, Potter, she told herself, panting. He'd probably bloody leave you in here for the rest of the night if it was his choice!

She continued to breathe, shallow and irregular, the air damp and jagged in her lungs. She expected it to smell of must, what with the rain and their dilapidated surroundings, but the air tasted somewhat sweet—almost cloying. It reminded her of something she might have used in Potions, but Harriet was much too rattled to identify it properly.

As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she realized the room wasn't completely submerged in shadows. Instead, a vague, murky blue light limned the edges of shapes, giving form to the walls and the slumped figures of ancient, crumpled furniture. Harriet thought it might have been a rectory at one point, though Elara would probably know better than her.

She tugged her wand from its brace, whispering, "Lumos." The light blazed despite the stubbornness of the gloom, and Harriet shone it over the area, moving her good arm until she found the table Slytherin had mentioned, ten runestones scattered over its surface. There was also an open bottle with a thin tendril of green mist escaping its brim. No monster crouched in the corner, no other visible threat. It seemed to be nothing other than a plain, shabby ruin.

The taste intensified in Harriet's mouth.

Confused, she stepped toward the waiting table, cautious, her lit wand held at the ready.

Something moved.

Harriet whirled about, a hex on the tip of her tongue, but the floor teetered, and she knelt, gasping. The shadows flickered and wavered, biting at the edges of her failing spell, oozing upon the dirt and pavers. The stacked stones of the walls rippled like black scales—the black scales of a Hungarian Horntail, yellow eyes hunting, circling, circling.

What is…happening…?

The centaur Firenze stood by the table, and Harriet wheezed at him, begging for help, the taste of rotten flowers upon her tongue.

"I dunno if I believe in destiny," she told him, just as she had in the Forbidden Forest, speckled in the blood of a one-eyed werewolf that now crawled upon the floor, growling, growling. "I'm just Harriet. That's all I want to be."

"You will never be just anything, young witch," the centaur said, his voice echoing as if he shouted. His blond hair wavered in no wind at all, plaits like ladders scaling his head. Above it all screamed a voice, a voice, hammering at no door that could be seen, demanding to be let in. To consume. "Destiny and Death come for us all."

The dragon was coming—the werewolf sunk his claws into her legs, pulling. The cold, rotted hand of a Dementor slid against her nape, its lips nearing her own.

"There's no such thing as magic!" Uncle Vernon bellowed.

The cupboard opened for her, waiting, beckoning, the inevitable fall against a flat, dusty pillow, to wake again to a torpid, suburban life—.

She bled, red on her hands, on her mouth, the dead eyes of her best friends peering with judgment from the dragon's flaming maw—.

Dead, they were dead—.

It's not real! Harriet screamed at herself, a tiny, lingering bit of her sanity rioting against the illusion. It felt real. Too real—.

"There is great evil in this world," Firenze said, words once given in a flat monotone bleeding into malice. "And it exists in places we least expect. You will always choose to fight it, Harriet Potter, but you will not always win."

"You will never win!"

Red eyes loomed in the darkness, a high, cold laugh—.

A flash of green, a woman screaming, screaming—.

Harriet lunged for the table, grasping, the smell intensifying—.

Nebulous, skeletal hands clapped over her mouth and nose, rising from the ground. The shadowy hands cut off her air, and Harriet struggled, clawing at her face, slamming her injured shoulder against the table's solid lip.

Set! her mind supplied as her last breath fluttered in her lungs. It's Set!

Harriet would have panicked at the continued loss of air, but as the edges of her vision sparkled with black spots, her thoughts ceased their restless, terrified barrage, and the creatures assailing her melted once more into the masonry. The dead, broken bodies of Hermione and Elara faded back into furniture, and Firenze disintegrated.

The runestone!

She fumbled to grab one, her heartbeat loud in her ears, as loud as a drum thrumming inside her head. She nearly dropped the bloody stone because of how hard her damp hand shook, but she held onto it, clasping it like a lifeline. She picked up her fallen wand. She wheeled about and staggered for the door, half-crawling, desperate for air—.

The knob gave under her fingers. When the door swung out, the hands clasped to her face disappeared—and Harriet gasped for fresh air as she slumped to her knees. No one said a word.

Slytherin hummed—a low, amused note. "The runestone is not in my hand, Miss Potter. Tic-tock."

An eternity had passed her by—a thousand years of horrid, malformed things, clawing at her flesh, digging into her very soul. But it had not been five minutes. Not yet, and as the anger billowed in her middle, Harriet wanted nothing more than to hurl the stupid stone at Slytherin's head. She wanted to bludgeon him with it until he was nothing more than blood and viscera under her fingernails.

Do it. Do it. DO IT—.

She didn't. She wouldn't. Harriet shoved the anger aside and rose like a puppet on taut strings. She pressed the runestone into Professor Slytherin's hand, ignoring how his fingers briefly passed over her own. She didn't stop until she reached Hermione's side, whereupon Harriet sat with her face buried in her friend's shoulder. Hermione's bushy hair was coarse against her damp cheeks, and Harriet shut her eyes, refusing to see anymore.

A/N: Chapter 200!

Title is from Paradise Lost, in which the devil is asking for assistance to make his great work.

Basically, Slytherin put a hallucinogenic potion upon the tables with the tokens. As one got closer to them, the potency intensified, confronting the participant with their worst terrors. The trick was to hold your breath before entering the room, which no one could possibly guess.

Harriet: "This looks ominous."

Elara: "There's like a 95% chance we get murdered."

Hermione: "Be more optimistic!"

Elara: "94% chance."