Chapter Four: The Lions and the Snakes


Aside from sleeping and using the restroom, Draco had utterly attached himself to Harriet.

It was disconcerting and…kind of nice.

She especially appreciated his enthusiasm as she discovered just how much her House was loathed in the school. Even the Ravenclaws seemed to have a bone to pick with them. Gryffindors were openly hostile, and most of the Hufflepuffs vanished out of their way. It was like they had some sort of disease.

Slytherins weren't entirely innocent, of course. She watched from a distance as the older students taunted the other Houses, provoked them, and won their little squabble. She watched the way they walked down the corridors, proud but cautious, thriving in the school's general air of distrust. They were hated, yes, but they didn't give a damn. And by the end of the week, the feeling that the world was out to get them but they were going to win anyway had went to Harriet's head.

Yes, she was a Slytherin, and yes, she was proud of it.

"Double Potions with Gryffindors," Draco told her one morning, indicating to their schedules. "This is going to be good. Professor Snape will put them in their place."

Harriet looked up to the sullen Potions Master at the staff table; Professor McGonagall, the strict Head of Gryffindor, was talking to his ear while observing her students. Snape, on the other hand, looked angry, and seemed to be stabbing something on his plate with a fork.

The Gryffindor table looked disorderly as usual. Their voices echoed all over the Great Hall, and they were frequently shifting around, laughing about this and that. Her eyes fell on Longbottom and Granger at the end, Granger seemingly reading something out of a book while Longbottom listened gloomily.

A few seats down, Weasley and his two sidekicks, Finnegan and Thomas, were suddenly surrounded by soft wafts of colored smoke.

"They're all a wreck," Draco said, reading her mind. "Just you wait. I bet one of them will blow something up."

Harriet didn't doubt that Crabbe and Goyle would, either, but as Draco kept them hovering around, she said nothing.

The four eleven-year-olds made their way down in time to beat Granger. They occupied tables near the middle of the room.

"It's a bit…creepy, isn't it?" Harriet whispered, eyeing the mysterious jars lining the rooms, and the general dingy atmosphere. It was obvious they were in the dungeons even if they hadn't walked there, but she hadn't quite gotten used to the idea that the underpart of the school was her domain.

Draco shrugged. "Not really."

Behind them, Crabbe and Goyle were fumbling with their school things. It'd been a week, and they still hadn't said much of anything to her at all, unless prompted by Draco.

Greengrass and Parkinson came next, sitting in the table in front of them. Parkinson soon swiveled around, offered Harriet a curt greeting, and started some inane conversation with Draco. Greengrass listened intently, the ghost of a smile on her face, letting her eyes occasionally slide over to Harriet before darting away.

The two girls didn't present Harriet with any trouble, but they certainly acted reluctant to help her out of it, if that was the case. She found that she didn't dislike them, but that they came from two very different worlds that had a hard time overlapping. It wasn't that Draco tried to understand Harriet's past and upbringing, but rather he was determined that she plunge into Hogwarts at the same rate as him.

A pack of Gryffindors stumbled in next, taking their places on the other side of the room. Their voices dropped suddenly once they entered, their bright eyes dampened at the sight of their surroundings. Draco was smirking, and muttered something to Parkinson; she giggled, a shrill sound, one that earned her distasteful looks from two Gryffindor girls that were not Granger.

Granger had dragged Longbottom up to the front, and was speaking rapidly in hushed tones. Behind her, Weasley and his cronies had crumpled parchment, and were miming chucking it at the back of her head.

When the last of the stragglers took their seats, there was a moment of complete silence. It was perfect, because in that moment, in swept Snape, his black robes rushing behind him dramatically.

"Oh joy," he muttered under his breath, "more dunderheads to teach."

He glared for a moment at the Gryffindors, all suddenly shrinking in their seats, and took roll. When he came to Longbottom's name, he paused; the whole class held its breath, trying to hear what he was going to say. But he simply continued down his list. When he came to Harriet's name, his eyes narrowed into dark slits and his lip curled, before hurrying on to the next. Only when he came to Weasley did he make a sneering comment about how there were too many Weasleys nosing around, and promptly took away points for the crumpled parchment under his chair.

Weasley opened his mouth to complain, but Finnegan punched him; luckily for them, Snape wasn't paying attention anymore.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," he began in barely more than a whisper. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Harriet was under the impression that 'dunderheads' was Snape's favorite description of the general human population.

"Longbottom!" he said suddenly, and the poor boy looked like he was going to stutter himself to death. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion or wormwood?"

"The Draught of Living Death," Draco breathed to her while Longbottom squirmed.

"What?" she whispered back, but just a bit too loudly, as Snape's deathly glare found her next.

She found that she had far less fear that the Gryffindor celebrity. Beside him, Granger's hand was trembling in the air, and she was leaning forward in her seat, about to burst; Malfoy would have smirked and pointed her out to Harriet if Snape hadn't turned on her at that moment.

"Potter!" he snarled, "Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Granger's hand was still high in the air. "Er…"

It wasn't that Harriet had never heard of a bezoar before. She'd only been skimming the Potions textbook the night before with Draco before the fire. Instinct wanted her to blurt out a stomach, but if it was wrong, she'd just look like a fool.

"I trust in your cabinet, sir, as this is a Potions classroom," she replied coolly, nodding ever-so-slightly to the cupboards on the wall.

Now, that was the wrong answer. Snape was definitely going to kill her now.

The Slytherins behind her were absolutely hushed, while the Gryffindors snickered loudly. Luckily, Weasley happened to be making a fool of himself, and was easily Snape's next victim.

"Weasley," he hissed venomously, closing in on his prey. "What's the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Why don't you ask Granger? Indeed, it seemed to be killing the girl, as if the answer was eating her from the inside. She kept this comment to herself, however, unwilling to face Snape's ire again.

Meanwhile, Weasley's ears had turned to match his vibrant hair. "I don't know, sir," he squeaked out, trying to avoid his dark eyes at all costs. Finnegan and Thomas were both itching to flee.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Weasley?" At last, he chose to notice Granger. "For Merlin's sake, girl, sit down!"

With a theatrical swirl of his robes, he rose to the front of the class again. "For your information," he said, the words dripping like oil from his thin lips, "asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"


It turned out that Longbottom and Weasley had lost Gryffindor a total of seven points by the end of class; Harriet was only docked one, but quietly, as Snape passed by her table. When at last she and Draco hurried out of the dungeons, he snorted.

"I can't believe you didn't know the answer to that bezoar question," he told her. "Everyone knows they're in goats' stomachs."

"Shut up, Draco," she muttered embarrassedly. "And I did know it. Kind of. I was just worried it was wrong, and I didn't want to sound stupid."

"Likely story."

"It's true!"

They were walking toward the edge of the lake, Crabbe and Goyle long abandoned. The sun was peeking through kindred tufts of white cloud, and even as summer was dying out, it could not be denied that the days were still golden and warm. They settled themselves beneath a lonely tree and its cool shadow, dropping their school things at the base of its trunk. Harriet dug her fingers into the earth, tearing at the grass, while Draco tried to seat himself in the most confident way possible. He was not shy in watching the other passers-by, making them hurry on their way or glare back. None of them came near the pair.

"Why do you do that?" he asked suddenly.

"Do what?"

"That. Your hands will be filthy and—do you bite your nails? That's a horrible habit, you know."

"Are you being serious right now?" She turned to face him fully, a large clump of grass in her fist. "Since when do you care?"

"If you want to go far in life, you have to hold yourself to a high standard." She had a feeling that he was quoting someone, especially in the way his eyes drifted across the grounds toward the forest. "Hey, is that Longbottom?"

Harriet sat up straighter, looking toward the hut at the edge of the grounds. Sure enough, the distant figures of Longbottom and Granger were making their way to it.

"That's where Hagrid lives," Draco answered her unspoken question. "He's some half-breed that Dumbledore pities, from what I've heard. He's the gamekeeper."

"Why do you think they're going there?"

Draco shrugged, standing up. "Shall we find out?"

He would have looked hopeful if it weren't for the glint in his eye. Harriet sighed.

"I don't know…"

Longbottom wasn't a problem at all, despite being the Boy-Who-Lived and everything. Weasley, Finnegan, and Thomas were nowhere in sight. Unfortunately, Granger had an aptitude for magic that only increased her infamy as the local know-it-all. It was unlikely that such a teacher's pet would strike back given the rules, but Harriet didn't want to take that chance.

Gryffindors were a rowdy bunch, and there was a reason Granger had been Sorted there.

"Well? Are you coming?" Draco was already several yards ahead of her, beckoning her forth with a lazy wave of his hand.

Hurrying after him, she checked to make sure that her wand was in her pocket. Sure, she didn't really know how to use it, but it felt warm in her palm.

"I don't think this is a good idea, Draco," she said hesitantly, catching up to him. He rolled his eyes.

"Don't worry about it," he assured her. "Longbottom's a joke and Granger's just a Mudblood. Besides, I just want to find out what—"

Mudblood. She'd heard it ricocheting down the corridors, rising to the ceiling of the common room, spewing all over the place—and it made her sick.

She knew what it meant. She knew what it implied. It didn't take her very long—a day at most—and she understood how it all worked.

Harriet spun on him, her wand inches from his nose; to her pleasure, everything had drained out of his face. "What—"

"Don't say that," she hissed warningly.

"Say what?" he squawked.

"Don't say that word," she clarified, drawing back her wand. Draco looked angry, scowling.

"I can say whatever I want." He tried to huff himself out, but Harriet's glare made him recoil.

"My mother was one," she said quietly. "If you call Granger that, then I can only imagine what you think of me—what you think of her."

"You're nothing like Granger!" he blurted out.

"Oh, yeah? Then what am I like?" Harriet didn't give him a chance to respond. "You're always telling me what's wrong with me, and I'm sick of it! It's because I'm only half, isn't it? Because I'm not all—all—" she struggled for the word, gesturing angrily at all of him, "all that!"

Draco's expression contorted from loss and confusion into anger. But just before he was about to open his mouth to properly retort, Harriet slapped him.

For several moments, there was a stinging silence, one that seemed to implode from the back of her head. Her hand still hung in the air, her palm eerily numb, while she gawked openly at Draco; his hand lingered in front of a pink mark on his cheek.

Somehow, Granger and Longbottom were forgotten.

"I'm sorry," she said when she came to reality again, shoving her offending hand back in her robes. "I didn't—"

"—Forget it." Draco's voice was almost hoarse. "…And Harriet?" She focused on a point just past his ear. "I don't think there's anything wrong with you. Honest."

When she looked at him again, he was rubbing his cheek gingerly; she didn't notice that both, not just one, were bright red.