"They did not die in a car crash," Snape growled, glaring at Harriet like it was her fault her relatives had lied. "They were murdered by the Dark Lord."
Harriet felt her cheeks color, but this time, she looked up to the dark man defiantly. "That's not what my aunt said."
"Your aunt is incompetent, and could never begin to understand the complexities of the magical world. She is hardly a reliable source on the topic."
"Fine," Harriet huffed, but quickly added, "sir." She watched out of the corner of her eye as Snape's black eyes darted around the pub suspiciously, leaning back slightly in his chair to have a better view. She thought he looked rather like a vampire, what with his black, billowy robes, his sallow face, hooked nose, and greasy, lank hair. He looked dead, or sick, or both. Either way, everything seemed to make him angry.
Harriet wasn't nearly so scary. Snape had called her a "pathetic little waif," whatever that was. She had a gut feeling it had to do with her small size, her spindly limbs, and her skinny frame. She had a pale, narrow face and messy, black hair that ran to her shoulders. Her glasses were what made her look pathetic, she supposed, mostly because the round frames were a bit big for her face and magnified her green eyes.
She stooped over, taking another large bite of her burger. Just as she had done it, Snape was snarling, looking at her with disgust.
"Don't slouch and stop inhaling your food," he hissed. Harriet almost considered glaring back at him and chewing with her mouth open, but another good look at him, and she easily changed her mind.
Perhaps Snape wasn't very nice, but he didn't hold Aunt Petunia's rule of "don't ask questions." Harriet swallowed, and waited for him to pay attention to her again.
"What's the Dark Lord?" she asked. "Sir?"
"An insane wizard who went around murdering people some ten years ago." He looked very tired of answering her incessant questions; he checked a watch, and if it was possible, his scowl deepened. "We still have to get your robes and your wand."
"Sir?"
"Finish," he ordered, his eyes darting around the pub again. Harriet took a few more bites before speaking again.
"Sir, why did he kill my parents?"
Snape pinched the bridge of nose as if he felt a headache coming on. He took a long time to answer, and finally looked at Harriet with something that wasn't resentment or irritation.
"They were in his way."
Some time later, Snape led her out of the pub and back into Diagon Alley. It was considerably less busy, but still fascinated Harriet to a great extent. She had yet to get used to all the wizards and witches strolling about in cloaks and Victorian-looking clothes, carrying around cauldrons and wands and owls. The group in front of the broomstick window was gone. She tried to go over to look, but Snape pulled her back forcefully.
"First years aren't allowed broomsticks," he said in his usual nasty manner. She huffed.
"Sir," she said, peering at the shop with the broomstick window, and a flier pinned to the door, "What's Quidditch?"
"A sport played on broomsticks."
"Oh." She noticed that he was leading her toward a place called Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. They were walking there at the same time as a blonde family with a boy who looked vaguely her own age. He had a pointed face and was dressed quite nicely, actually, and had a smug look about him.
The man, likely his father, halted his wife and son as he caught sight of Snape and Harriet.
"Severus," he drawled, tapping his cane with his fingers. It was very ornate and looked expensive. "Escorting...Muggleborns, are you?"
Harriet didn't like the way he looked at her, and unconsciously held herself up higher.
"Potter is no Muggleborn," Snape drawled back, nudging her forward. The man raised his pale brow with interest; the boy had narrowed his eyes, and was looking her up and down. Unlike the blonde family, Harriet wasn't dressed very well at all, even by Muggle standards. She was swimming in her cousin's hand-me-downs, all too big, patched up, and of the opposite gender.
"You're going to Hogwarts, too, then?" inquired the boy. He had grayish-blue eyes that were colder than her aunt's. "It's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."
He held out his hand. Harriet already didn't like him, but she figured it would be incredibly foolish not to take it. "Harriet Potter," she replied evenly.
"Why are you dressed up like a Muggle?" he asked. His mother cast him a warning look.
"Because I felt like it." Her face was burning with the lie, but she tried to only look angry with the question.
"Well, those aren't very good Muggle clothes," he told her. She regretted shaking his hand.
"Draco," his mother berated. He ignored her.
"Well, those aren't very good Wizard clothes," she shot back, which was far from the truth, but considering he was wearing them...
Malfoy looked astounded for a moment, and Harriet felt Snape's hand clasp around her shoulder. The adults exchanged a few brief words, and before she knew it, she had been dragged inside.
"Typical," he sneered. "Already making enemies...just like your arrogant father..."
"My father wasn't arrogant! Besides, he started it - "
But then, Malfoy entered the shop, his father's right hand rested protectively on his shoulder. He glared at her, and Harriet glared back. His father was looking at her like she was some sort of insect not worth his time.
"Hogwarts, dears?" A short, oblivious-looking witch all in mauve had appeared, and addressed Malfoy and Harriet. "Come right this way!"
They were led to the back and told to each step up on a stool. A witch draped long robes over their heads and then started to pin them. In the front of the shop, Harriet could hear Snape's quiet, silky voice conversing calmly with Mr. Malfoy.
"Are you poor?" Malfoy asked suddenly.
"No," she muttered snappishly. "I don't flaunt my wealth. I'm not arrogant," she added spitefully.
He scowled. "Why are you with Professor Snape, then?"
"My aunt didn't want to take me."
"Why?"
"She hates magic." She hadn't really meant to tell him that, and was about to say something else, until she saw that most of the aggression had temporarily abandoned him.
"Why?"
"I don't know. I think it's brilliant."
They fell into an awkward silence for a while, until one of the two witches working announced that Malfoy was done. "Well...er...do you play Quidditch?"
He had hopped down from the footstool, but for whatever reason, seemed reluctant to leave.
"No."
"Do you have a broom?"
"First years aren't allowed brooms," she recited in what was decidedly an uppity, authoritative voice. Malfoy snickered.
"Then smuggle it in."
Harriet smiled grimly. "Isn't your father waiting for you?"
"You're all done, dear," Madam Malkin said before Malfoy could reply. Harriet hopped down, determined to get out of there. To her dismay, Malfoy walked with her. Another silence consumed them.
"I suppose I'll be taking Draco to look at the racing brooms," Mr. Malfoy announced smoothly, stepping beside his son again, leaning on his cane. "Good day, Severus."
Snape nodded curtly, and Mr. Malfoy guided his son to the door. At the last second, as he was about to step through the threshold, Malfoy turned around to look at Harriet.
"See you at Hogwarts, I suppose," he said, already back to his drawling manner.
"Yeah, at Hogwarts," Harriet said, though she meant to say Good Riddance. When the door shut, she turned quickly to Snape. "I'm glad he's gone. Sir."
He cuffed her lightly over the head, muttering more about her father and arrogant fools.
"So, what am I, then?" Snape looked at her pointedly. "Sir?"
"Halfblood," he answered.
"Does it matter?"
"No," he said, but seemed to think for a moment. "It depends who you are asking."
"Well, I don't think it should matter," Harriet said mostly to herself. Snape made a noncommittal noise beside her, his robes swirling at his heels. They were heading toward the last shop called Ollivanders, where she was supposed to get her wand. It was very dingy and dark, and as soon as they stepped in, Harriet lost all desire to ask questions.
"Good afternoon."
Harriet jumped in alarm while Snape tsked beside her. An old man had appeared, his eyes so bright and pale they seemed to glow in the gloom of the room.
"Hello," she said, somewhat embarrassed. He peered at her, directly into her eyes.
"Ah, yes, I know who you are," he mused. "You have exactly your mother's eyes...and now that I look at the rest of you...a remarkable resemblance to your father. Harriet Potter, I presume."
"Er, yes. Sir."
"It seems only yesterday that I sold them their first wands," he went on. "Ten and a quarter inches, swishy, willow...that was your mother's. Very nice for charm work. Your father, on the other hand, had a wand a bit more powerful, excellent for transfiguration...eleven inches, pliable. Mahogany. Now, now, now...where to begin with you?"
He looked her over thoughtfully. Little tape measures had started to measure every inch of her, put he pulled out another from his pocket and instructed her to hold out her dominant arm.
After he pitched her his advertising spiel about the uniqueness of every wand made, he began pulling out wands for her to try.
But...every wand she tried, he quickly took away. Snape, glowering in the corner, was impatient.
"We are on a schedule, you know - "
"Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here, somewhere," Mr. Ollivander said happily. "I wonder, hmm, no one else has - but perhaps - oh, why not? It can't hurt!"
He tottered off to the back and came back with a very dusty box. He pulled out a rather handsome wand, handing it carefully to her. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."
As soon as Harriet took the wand, she felt something warm in her fingers. Excited that something was happening, she raised swished the wand randomly above her head, and a stream of red and gold sparks showered onto the floor.
"Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well...how curious...how very curious..."
As he was wrapping up Harriet's new wand in its box, Snape strode over to the counter, his lip curled in frustration.
"What, pray tell, is curious?" Harriet wondered if they were actually on a schedule, then, or if Snape was just sick of toting her around. Most likely it was the latter.
Harriet watched carefully as Mr. Ollivander looked up at him coolly, clearly not intimidated. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Professor Snape," he said softly. "Every single wand. And it just so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather in this wand," he tapped the box, "gave only one other feather. And how curious it is, indeed, Professor Snape, that the other feather went to a wand I sold a very long time ago, to a boy called Tom Riddle."
Harriet hadn't the faintest clue as to who Tom Riddle was, but she was amused by the way his face drained and he suddenly stepped back. Mr. Ollivander, in turn, smiled eerily at Harriet.
"This is a very powerful wand, Miss Potter," he said, sending shivers down her spine. "We should expect great things from you...very, very great things..."
As they left the shop, Harriet admired her new wand.
"Don't let that wand go to your head, Potter," Snape said, quickening his pace.
"Sir?"
"Not now, Potter."
"But sir," she persisted as they came to the brick wall at the end of the street, "is it true? What he said?"
"Your wand will only ever be as powerful as you, which is to say," he muttered, "not very much."
"Not that," she blushed, "I meant about my parents. What they looked like. Sir."
Snape stopped abruptly once they had passed through the Leaky Cauldron, and looked down at her, his expression blank.
"Yes," he said dully. And they stalked off, loaded with all her new school supplies, toward the train station.
She was out of questions for the day.
