xv. professor tom

Harriet was not looking forward to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Her first day of classes had been amazing—up until Transfiguration, when Harriet had taken her wand out for the first time with the intent of using it and had transformed her match into a bloody javelin. Professor McGonagall told her to stay after class, then demanded to know which spell Harriet had been using. Harriet tried the spell again on another match at the professor's insistence—and, in her panicked rush, managed to make an even bigger javelin that almost toppled McGonagall's desk.

The professor gave her a very strange look as she told Harriet to practice her control.

"Control," Hermione told Harriet later while they were sitting in the common room by one of the windows, their homework spread out on the table between them. A strange fish kept making rude faces at them through the glass. "Refers to the amount of magic you funnel into a spell and how you mitigate it."

Harriet had no idea what that meant, but decided she'd best practice before she turned a house cat into a tiger and got one of her classmates mauled.

"Still working on that match?" Elara asked at breakfast the next day. The other girl watched Harriet drown her toast in syrup and seemed to find Harriet's almost overt enjoyment of the food at Hogwarts amusing.

"Yeah," Harriet glumly admitted, poking her sticky toast. "If you find a bunch of stakes in the common room's broom closet—they're not mine."

Elara smiled—well, the corner of her mouth twitched. Across the table, Hermione had her nose buried in the Herbology textbook, and three seats down Pansy was waxing on and on to a bored Daphne about her new necklace and how exceedingly expensive it was. She reminded Harriet of Aunt Petunia, always chatting up the neighbors, making sure they knew just how much the Dursleys spent on their car or their house or their clothes. Harriet imagined what Pansy would say if she told her she sounded like a Muggle, then snorted.

The owl post arrived with a flurry of feathered wings, the birds slipping in through the open slots in the Great Hall's eaves, seeming to plunge right out of the sky itself. Two owls dropped a crate of home goods in front of Malfoy and he crowed with delight. Elara's terrifying horned owl came swooping in and scattered the smaller post deliverers, startling some of the students with his baleful glare. Unperturbed, Elara stroked his head, tied a letter to his leg, and sent the creature on his way.

"Have you managed it, then?" Harriet asked. In response, Elara retrieved her journal from her school bag and cracked it open, revealing the horrid handwriting inside—as well as a few perfect silver needles tucked safely in the binding. Harriet pouted and scratched at Livi's belly beneath her vest. The serpent disliked remaining behind in the dorm and she hadn't been able to convince him to stay today.

"My…Uncle Cygnus taught me a little about control," Elara said, her tone careful, her eyes on the journal rather than Harriet. "To help mitigate…accidents. He says you can feel your magic like shouting."

"Like shouting?"

"Yes. He said it's similar to the feeling of pulling air into your lungs, how the muscles in your chest constrict and how your vocal cords vibrate to increase pitch. He told me that, if you concentrate, you can sense your magic doing something similar just before you cast a spell."

That sounded complicated to Harriet, but she tucked the information away, nodding her head. "Thanks, Elara."

"You're welcome."

They had Herbology again after breakfast which, ironically, Harriet found quite relaxing. She hated toiling Aunt Petunia's garden where she had to clip, trim, bind, and battle the wildness of nature into something her relatives deemed respectable, but Herbology wasn't like that. Caring for magical plants meant learning and understanding their oddities, letting them flourish any way they wanted, not in ways deemed "proper." Harriet earned points for Slytherin—which proved a good thing, because Elara kept losing them, muttering "it's the roses all over again" under her breath.

The bell rang and Harriet's dread rose. It was time for Defense.

"You needn't be so nervous," Hermione told her as they reentered the castle and made for one of the many staircases. Harriet had a wretched sense of direction and Hermione had mapped out three different routes to every class, so Harriet stuck to her friend's side like a limpet. "It's not as if you're going to set someone on fire or something."

Harriet quickly buried the memory of setting Uncle Vernon's trousers alight and prayed they wouldn't have a repeat performance today.

Voices in the corridor outside the classroom alerted them to the presence of the Gryffindors, the only House the Slytherins hadn't had a class with yet. Harriet only counted nine students wearing gold and crimson trimmed robes, which made their year considerably smaller than Slytherin at thirteen—most of which were girls. Longbottom more than made up for their lack of bodies however, as older students crossing the hall had to stop and stare at the boy, and voices around him swelled to almost intolerable levels.

"Must be difficult, Longbottom," Malfoy drawled, facing the Gryffindors across corridor. The door to the class was shut tight. "Trying to fit your fat head in the castle."

Goyle and Crabbe guffawed. Longbottom didn't react; his eyes flickered in Malfoy's direction, then tipped away as if Draco simply wasn't worth his time. Harriet thought living as a celebrity had probably thickened his skin—but that wasn't the case for Ron, who flushed red from his ears to his freckled cheeks.

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Or what, Weasel?"

Before they could find out "what" Ron had in mind, the door popped open in wordless invitation. Hermione—ignoring the unbecoming behavior of her fellows—was the first through the entrance, and Harriet hurried in after her.

The Defense classroom had to be the largest of all the classrooms, though Harriet hadn't been to Potions or Astronomy yet. A wide aisle split the room's middle, the desks scattered on either side, and a small platform with a lectern dominated the front instead of a desk. The guttering torchlight cast shadows through the bones of the preserved creatures crowding the various display cabinets. Each of the soaring windows was shuttered closed.

"Take your seats." Slytherin's Head of House stood shy of the halo thrown by the nearest torch and his outline seemed strangely blurred against the dim backdrop—but then he stepped forward, black robes rippling, and the illusion dissipated. He had his wand in hand, texts tucked under an arm. "Quickly."

Hermione took one of the seats in the very front. Harriet wanted to sit next to her, but she felt increasingly uneasy, so she sat behind her next to Elara and Blaise Zabini. One side of the aisle had exactly thirteen seats and the other nine; a natural division was drawn between the Gryffindors and the Slytherins, the House of Lions drifting as far from Harriet's dorm mates as they could.

"You do not need your textbooks in my classroom," the professor said—and Harriet saw Hermione's hands stop before they could fully open her bag. "I have no patience for watching children read."

A few Slytherins chortled.

The professor's robes swept the ground as he stepped onto the platform and came to the lectern, flashes of emerald-green embroidery shifting on the hem like scales under a roiling tide. He set his books atop the lectern, then looked over the room like a king viewing his less than exemplary kingdom and Harriet still couldn't believe someone as young as him was a teacher. "Good morning, Slytherins…and Gryffindors." He added the latter in afterthought. "I am Professor Slytherin—yes, direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself, Head of his House, and your Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor." Professor Slytherin inclined his head and stepped off the platform, slowly pacing the aisle as he continued.

"Who here can define the Dark Arts for us?"

Hermione's hand shot up into the air.

"Name?" Professor Slytherin asked in a lazy drawl.

"Hermione Granger, sir."

"Tell us then, Granger, how you would define the Dark Arts."

"The Dark Arts are a magic that intends harm to those it is cast upon."

Slytherin shrugged a shoulder. "A prosaic answer," he replied, and Harriet saw Hermione's back stiffen. "But one that proves you reviewed the material before coming to my class. A point to Slytherin." He gave a languorous turn and paced the room again, wand still braced between his hands, index finger balanced on the tip. "There are seven distinct branches of magic: Transfiguration, Charms, Jinxes, Hexes, Curses, Counter-spells, and Healing-spells, each school with its own variations, disciplines, and cross-sections. The Dark Arts comprise all branches of magic, and though our vaunted Headmaster may disagree in my definition, you will cast many Dark spells in all of your classes during your years at Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts doesn't teach Dark magic," one of Gryffindors argued—Seamus, Harriet thought his name might be. "Me Mam told me Professor Dumbledore banned the lot of it when he took over."

Professor Slytherin paused, head swiveling to fix Seamus with a pointed look. The position finally brought his face directly into the light, and Harriet realized the wizard's eyes were red, as red as Uncle Vernon's face when Harriet had really messed up, red as the lining on the Gryffindors' robes, red as blood

A sudden prickling stole through Harriet's neck and she scratched at it, lowering her head when the professor's gaze swiveled over the Slytherins, his brow furrowed.

"Your name?" he asked when he turned to the Gryffindors again.

"Seamus Finnigan."

"Sir. You will address me as 'sir' or 'professor' or 'my Lord' if you're feeling particularly proper; I am, after all, Lord to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin." He smiled and it was not a nice expression. "Tell me, Finnigan; where did your 'mam' receive her mastery?"

"S-sir?"

"Where did your mother receive her mastery in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Finnigan?" The sentence rolled off his tongue dripping disdain and he leaned nearer the paling Gryffindor boy. Harriet shivered and Seamus looked too terrified to answer. "I will take your silence to mean 'Oh, Professor Slytherin, my mother never achieved mastery in Defense. Please do excuse my worthless interruption about the opinions of my ignorant family members. We should obviously take your opinions and advice far more seriously.'" Slytherin straightened and his face lost its mocking smile. Seamus trembled. "Five points from Gryffindor."

The professor returned to the head of the aisle and when he faced the class again, his expression was once more relaxed, almost approachable. Almost. "I do believe that's enough introduction. Let's do something practical, shall we? I will teach you the most basic of protection spells: the Shield Charm. Wands out!"

Harriet's nerves from earlier returned as she retrieved her wand from her brace, noticing many of the others had theirs simply stuffed into robe or pants pockets. Livi hissed something but Harriet didn't catch what he said.

"Now, the spell is simple enough. Copy my pronunciation and movements." Professor Slytherin lifted his wand, then brought his hand down in a slow, slicing motion, saying, "Protego."

The class mimicked him.

"Again."

They repeated this three time before the professor seemed mollified. Harriet wouldn't say Slytherin was satisfied; no, indeed, the young wizard wore the most bored expression possible while he led the first years through their paces. Satisfaction was far from his mind. "Enough. We'll see if you've managed it….ah, yes, Mr Longbottom. How about a demonstration? I'm told you've trained with some of the very best in the field." The way he said "best" conveyed Slytherin's clear dismissal of others' prowess in his subject.

Neville simply stood, shrugging. Professor Slytherin flicked his wand at the opposing end of the aisle with a wordless spell and a red lion glowed on the floor. "Your mark, Longbottom. In case you get lost."

Several Slytherins snickered.

Holding his wand tight, Longbottom made his way to the lion and stood on it, his face set in a determined glare as he met Professor Slytherin's gaze. This amused the wizard. "I won't be instructing you in dueling until next year, but it would be beneficial for us to practice proper form, yes? Bow, Longbottom."

Both Neville and the professor dipped their heads and again several Slytherins laughed. Malfoy seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Cast the Charm."

Neville shifted his feet into a better stance as he faced his opponent, his wand steady when he slashed it downward and stated, "Protego!"

The air before him shimmered, milky as a ghost but not as opaque, rumpled at the edges like a sheet left too long in the drier.

Professor Slytherin aimed a flippant jab in Neville's direction. "Flipendo."

Nothing happened at first, then—BANG! Blue light flared and Harriet jumped when a girl from Gryffindor shrieked, the force of Professor Slytherin's spell rippling through the floor when it collided with Neville's shield. It held, if only just, Neville's feet sliding several inches along the stone floor until he came to a stop, panting hard. The Gryffindors broke into applause.

"Quiet," Professor Slytherin said, waving Neville back to his seat. "Decent. Though I expected better from someone meant to already know the spell. Five points to Gryffindor. Someone from Slytherin now…you. Name?"

He pointed at Malfoy's tallest friend, the boy with big feet and bristly hair. "Greg Goyle, sir."

"All right, Mr. Goyle. To the mark."

The red lion dissolved into a green snake and Goyle lumbered over to it. He and Slytherin bowed to each other, displaying a touch more respect than Neville had, and the duel repeated itself. This time, however, when Professor Slytherin's spell struck the milky distortion before Goyle, the shield gave wave with an audible sigh and the younger wizard went toppling backward. The other side of the classroom broke into smothered laughter.

"Deplorable. Return to your seat, Goyle." Slytherin rubbed his brow as Goyle stumped over to his chair more disheveled than he'd left it. "Do not mumble when you're casting. Enunciate. Let's have one of our witches redeem us, shall we?"

Hermione's hand once more bobbed in the air, but the professor ignored her, surveying the other seven Slytherin girls. Harriet shrunk herself down and stared at the top of her desk, furiously chanting 'Not me, not me, not me' in her head.

"You." Professor Slytherin tapped Harriet's desk to get her attention and she almost groaned. Shite. "Name?"

"H-Harriet Potter, professor."

Recognition whipped through those terrifying eyes, then disappeared. "To the mark, Miss Potter."

Harriet stood and almost tripped over her own bag in her rush, but she staggered upright to the waiting snake with her head held high. Livi tightened himself beneath her clothes and hissed, "You sssmell of fear."

"Shut up," she responded, quietly.

"What was that, Miss Potter?"

"Nothing, sir."

Harriet turned in place and met the watching stares of her classmates. Her face burned. I can do this, she told herself. Slytherin stood at the opposing end of the aisle, waiting, not a hair out of place. I can do this. What's the worse that could happen? Has anyone ever blown up a professor before? Can you get kicked out for that?

She mimicked the professor's stance and adjusted her glasses before clenching the hand holding her wand. The strip of wood hummed with excitement beneath her skin. "Protego!"

The air swirled and hardened like a thin cloud suddenly freezing in front of Harriet. She braced herself and thought she might feel what Elara had spoken of at breakfast, the sudden warm tension in her chest, the heat whispering down through her arm and out her hand—.

"Flipendo."

The blue light cracked against Harriet's shield and, for an instant, she thought she might go flying like Goyle—until the spell suddenly slung itself back at Professor Slytherin. Harriet gaped in horror—and the wizard quickly flicked his wand to divert the returning Jinx, sending it flying over his shoulder, riffling his tidy hair. The class gasped. Slytherin grinned.

Harriet had only a moment to act—. "Protego!"

"Flipendo."

The second spell came faster and didn't rebound. Harriet's feet slid like Neville's had, her arm shaking.

"Flipendo!"

"Protego!"

Slytherin's third attempt came quicker still and Harriet's hasty shield warbled until it collapsed in on itself. Harriet landed on her backside with an "Oof!" Livi hissed in displeasure.

"Excellent, Miss Potter," Professor Slytherin said as the members of his House clapped. The Gryffindors didn't applaud. "Take ten points for that demonstration and return to your seat."

She did as instructed, weak-kneed and dazed with her glasses sitting crooked on her nose. The mini-duels continued, most students sent sprawling on the ground like Goyle by their bored professor, others summoning a weak shield that nullified most of the energy in Slytherin's spell but still tripped them up. Hermione and Draco managed to stay standing like Neville—yet no one pulled off the Charm as well as Harriet had.

"How did you do that?" Hermione asked later, miffed, as they gathered their bags and headed to lunch. Harriet didn't know how to answer her. The move had been instinctive, easy. Despite her misgivings and the eeriness of the professor, Harriet thought she might like Defense Against the Dark Arts.

She wished her neck would stop itching, though.