xxvi. reflections of desire
Harriet peeked into the deserted corridor, let the tapestry fall behind her, and released a relieved breath.
Professor Snape hated her. It was the only reason she could imagine responsible for his sudden, burning need to give Harriet detention every time they crossed paths; four days had passed since the rest of the student body went home and already Harriet had been given four detentions. One she spent chopping more potion ingredients, one cleaning cauldrons, one polishing trophies with Filch, and one lingering in the Transfiguration classroom. Professor McGonagall didn't seem all that pleased with Professor Snape and probably would have let Harriet go had Harriet not been convinced she'd only get another detention for leaving detention early.
He punished her for the stupidest things—for having messy hair or for dropping a book or for sneezing too loud. When Harriet protested, Snape gave her yet another detention, all while wearing a smug expression that dared Harriet to argue further so he could extend what rubbish penance he'd already assigned. Naturally, she wouldn't accuse a git like Snape of ever liking anyone, but Harriet'd thought he didn't hate her as much as he seemed to hate the Gryffindors—or Elara, who melted all his cauldrons and once caught her table on fire. She'd obviously been mistaken.
The corridor was Snape-free—or it looked Snape-free, at least. Harriet felt cautiously optimistic. She walked carefully as she headed for the library, which she hoped was close enough to Professor McGonagall's office to stave off anymore run-ins with the Potions Master. She tried coaxing Set into being her lookout, but her shadow remained obstinate and quiet, much to Harriet's frustration. She would've kicked him had she known where his shins were and if it wouldn't have bruised her toes on the stone floor.
One stairwell separated Harriet from her destination. She wanted to run, if only to get there quicker and find a quiet table out of sight where she could think about reading the books Hermione always pestered her about and probably settle on something more recreational. Harriet wished one of her friends could've stayed, but she understood better than most the importance of a loving family, and she wouldn't begrudge Elara or Hermione for wanting to go home and see theirs.
Maybe she could reach the Owlery. Elara had left her bird behind so Harriet could write if she wanted. Harriet would've used a school owl, but Elara said a school owl probably couldn't reach her because of the old enchantments covering her house. The owl still didn't have a name and Harriet kept trying to give him one whenever he stopped by in the morning for part of Elara's breakfast, yet the owl disliked every choice she gave him, leaving Harriet with nothing but nipped fingers for her efforts.
Raised voices in the stairwell reached Harriet's ears and she froze.
"—don't know how you're managing it, but I'll go straight to Flitwick, I swear—," one Ravenclaw snarled at another, his bespectacled face mottled with flushed red color.
"I'm not cheating, you're just a bloody moron." The taller Ravenclaw shoved the boy in glasses and took a step back. "You've never been top of the class so I don't get what your problem is—."
"I was top of the year last term—!"
"Yeah, that was sixth year," the Ravenclaw sneered. "No one cares about sixth year, dunce." He turned and climbed the steps toward Harriet, slamming his feet down as he went. The sound of his stride echoed in the enclosed space. "Get out of the way, Slytherin."
Harriet shuffled to the side, though the larger Ravenclaw still knocked his arm against hers. On the landing below, the bespectacled boy glowered at the taller student, his eyes hard—until suddenly he had his wand clenched in his fist and his voice rang in the stairwell when he shouted, "Slugulus Eructo!"
Really, Harriet had no desire to be in the middle of whatever issues the two older students were arguing about. She much rather be in the library, reading a nice story book, or in the Owlery sending a letter, or outside in the snow building snowmen and generally avoiding any of the school's professors, especially Snape. However, long hours in the Defense classroom or studying practical lessons with Hermione had drilled habit into Harriet's head; when the curse came flying toward the other Ravenclaw, Harriet had her wand in hand, incanting, "Protego!"
The spell struck her transparent shield and ricocheted into the wall, where it left a long smear of a green, slimy substance. It looked like bogeys to Harriet's eyes. "Oh, ew, gross—!"
The taller Ravenclaw whipped around on his heels and jabbed his own wand toward his fellow. "Calvario!"
Red light smacked the bespectacled boy in the face—and suddenly the brown curls atop his head fell from his scalp like dead leaves off a tree. His eyebrows did the same. The taller student barked with laughter, and the furious boy below took the chance to yell, "Locomotor Mortis!"
The second boy's legs snapped together and Harriet yelped when he toppled into her, almost sending them both down the steps. She grabbed the Ravenclaw by the arm in an attempt to keep him upright, but he was a great deal larger and heavier than Harriet, his weight dragging her down with him as he fell and smacked his face on the top step. The bespectacled—and bald, very bald—Ravenclaw started to climb, his wand raised, and because Harriet had crumpled atop the other boy, she knew any spell sent his way would hit her instead, so she grappled to right her grip on her own wand, eyes wide, mouth dry—.
"Enough!"
The sudden voice froze the three students in place and dread spilled along Harriet's spine like ice water. Professor Slytherin appeared at the bottom of the stairs, books tucked under an arm, his red eyes roving from the pile of hair strewn on the stones to the Ravenclaws and finally to Harriet herself, who shrank under his scrutiny and adjusted her glasses. "Are you injured, Miss Potter?"
"N-no, Professor Slytherin."
"Good." He flicked his wand and the mess on the floor burst into flames, the hair incinerating itself to nothing in a matter of seconds as Slytherin strode up the steps. "Forty points from Ravenclaw," he snarled. "Get up, Henge."
The boy on the floor—Henge—tried, but his legs were immobile from the waist down still so he could only manage an ungainly push-up. A small pool of blood had formed where he'd smashed his nose.
"Pathetic, the pair of you. Finite Incantatem." The cursed ended and Henge righted himself, wincing at the bruise forming on his face. He fired a furious look in the other boy's direction, then wilted when he caught Professor Slytherin's eye. "Henge, Sanders—you will both go to the Hospital Wing and wait there for the Headmaster and your Head of House. If I catch wind of even so much as a whisper of more fighting…." Slytherin allowed his hissed threat to trail off into nothing and the two boys ran for it, their quarrel forgotten in lieu of escaping Slytherin's wrath. Harriet tried to sidestep by him and make her own escape. His hand came down on her shoulder and squeezed.
"A moment of your time, Miss Potter," he said with a smile—one of those smiles that wasn't a smile at all, simply a tight curl of his lips like a snake preparing to open its jaws and devour a cricket whole. "I'm sure the Headmaster will appreciate an unbiased report of this embarrassing behavior."
He then proceeded to march her straight back the way she'd come, up to the top floor of the high tower, where Harriet had hid herself early in the day to escape Snape-the-dungeon-dweller. Slytherin brought them to a halt before a winged gargoyle crouching low with bared teeth, and the man said the words, "Pumpkin Pasty."
Harriet glanced at him, wondering if the wizard had gone mad, and the gargoyle shifted aside, revealing a set of spiral steps that began to revolve upward the moment Slytherin pushed them past the entrance. At the top of the stairs waited a door carved with intricate designs bearing an aged patina, though Harriet didn't have time to appreciate the picture because Slytherin shoved the door open without knocking. He ushered Harriet into the space beyond.
Harriet hadn't been called into the Headmaster's office before; she liked to believe she was rather well-behaved, punching-Ron-in-the-mouth incidents aside. The Headmistress in primary had punished her on occasion, so Harriet expected Dumbledore's office to be something like hers; wood finishes, a large desk, lots and lots of little folders for organizing. She did see a large desk ahead of her—but everything else in Professor Dumbledore's office was nothing like Harriet would have guessed. Shelves lining the lower walls were crowded with all manner of texts and above waited line after line of gilded portraits, most of the residents fast asleep, or at least pretending to sleep. Low tables held collections of odd, whirring instruments cast in silver, emitting thin puffs of steam or chiming with gentle song. By the desk stood a golden perch, and on the perch rested the most regal bird Harriet had ever seen.
She glanced about but found no sign of Professor Dumbledore.
Professor Slytherin sighed, rolling his eyes at the crimson bird as it warbled a bright melody that eased the tension in Harriet's shoulders and warmed her heart. "It appears we will have to wait for Dumbledore's return," he said as he settled in one of the armchairs facing the desk. "Wonderful."
He gestured toward the accompanying chair and Harriet eased into it, nibbling on her lower lip, watching the man from the corner of her eye. The bird chose that moment to hop off its perch and come rest upon Harriet's knees, leveling her a searching look as it cocked its head to the side and clacked its beak. Nervous, Harriet lifted a hand to stroke the bird's striking plumage and it allowed her to do so, crooning once, twice, and then taking flight again, alighting through an open window into the gentle flutter of snow beyond. Harriet watched it leave and, for some reason, felt incorrigibly sad.
Whispering jerked her head around just as Professor Slytherin tucked one of his books into the front of his robes. Harriet caught only a glimpse of it; bound in black leather with brass tabs on the corners, it appeared to be a journal, and the second it slipped out of sight, the whispering stopped. Professor Slytherin met Harriet's inquisitive gaze and smiled. Again, the expression showed nothing but sharp teeth and something distinctly vicious that made Harriet swallow and look away.
"Something the matter, Miss Potter?"
"N-no, professor."
"Hmm."
The wizard studied Harriet, his thoughts unknowable, his index finger tapping his lower lip until Slytherin put aside his woolgathering and summoned a book off one of Dumbledore's shelves with a wandless wave of his hand. The cabinet door sprung open and the book made an audible slap of sound when it landed in Slytherin's upheld palm. Stare still lingering on Harriet, he popped the book open, then began to read.
If Harriet thought conversations with the Defense professor were nerve-racking, his silence was even more so. She kept shooting furtive looks toward his chest without meaning to, thinking about that journal with its weird whispering and the strange, gelatinous feeling of dread she'd gotten from just seeing it. Like tar, the feeling stuck with her despite the book's absence and left behind a smudged residue, something tacky beneath her fingers that Harriet couldn't help but poke and prod and scratch at.
She stood and meandered toward the Headmaster's tables of silver instruments, putting much needed space between her and Slytherin while also sating her curiosity. Harriet didn't know anything of what those contraptions did and could only guess and wonder to their function. She bit back the urge to touch things, a voice suspiciously like Aunt Petunia's snapping at her to keep her grubby hands to herself, though Harriet still craned her neck, twisting this way and that, to get a better look. She swore she heard one of the portraits snort, but they all resumed their naps when she glanced up in suspicion.
The was a room adjoined to the main office. Of course, there were several other rooms and a set of stairs Harriet suspected led to Professor Dumbledore's private quarters, but the door to this room stood partly open—or partly closed, the chamber beyond roughly the size of a large cupboard or a small study, illuminated by a single golden candle. Harriet poked her head inside for a look and saw nothing but a couple of closed trunks, a few shelves holding some broken oddments—and a mirror.
The door's hinges creaked as Harriet stepped inside. She stared at the gilded mirror that reached from floor to ceiling, spots of wear speckled on the silver glass, words carefully chiseled into the thick gold frame arching over the mirror's top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. Harriet wrinkled her nose and decided if that wasn't a bunch of gibberish, she didn't know what was.
Maybe it's some kind of spell, she thought as she edged nearer and peeked at her reflection. Maybe something to activate it—.
There were people standing right behind her.
"Frick—!" Harriet jumped and wheeled about, heart pounding. No one was there.
She glanced at the mirror and found that the image hadn't changed.
Is this room haunted or something? Does Dumbledore have a closet full of ruddy ghosts? Or is this some kind of joke mirror—?
A woman stood closest to her, and she passed her fingers through mirror-Harriet's hair, through real-Harriet couldn't feel it. She looked into the woman's eyes—and they were familiar, so familiar, and the man at her side grinned from ear to ear, black hair untidy, glasses sliding down his skinny nose, and behind them lingered more faces, all of them so achingly memorable—.
Harriet blinked. A hollow ringing built in her ears and beneath her feet Set curled, shadows clinging to her heels, slowing her laborious trudge toward the mirror as Harriet lifted a hand and felt the cold glass beneath her fingertips. "…Mum?"
The woman nodded.
As if she'd taken a punch to the gut, the air whooshed from Harriet's lungs and she gaped, wordless, hands trembling. The image blurred and shifted, the crowd in the background dissolving so two additional figures could appear with Harriet and her parents. A younger girl with hazel eyes gripped the wizard's hand and the witch had a third girl, a toddler with dark red hair, balanced on her hip. Siblings, Harriet's beleaguered brain supplied, and the thought plinked through her like a breeze in wind chimes, hollow bones resounding with a soundless, vibrating need she had never encountered before.
Harriet didn't know what her parents looked like. Here and there she'd heard a comment about her hair being like James' or her eyes like Lily's, but Harriet had never seen this for herself and now she could. She wanted desperately to know the name of her siblings, to know if they liked Harriet, if they spent time together as a family, if her mum baked cookies and how warm her dad's hugs were. What was growing up in a wizarding household like? She pressed her hand flat to the glass in effort to slip through it and join those on the other side.
"Ah, the Mirror of Erised. What a droll trinket."
Harriet jerked back. Professor Slytherin sauntered through the open door with his arms crossed and he smirked at her, and the mirror. Not wanting him to see her family, Harriet stepped to the side, out of frame, and her parents vanished.
"Figured out how it works then, Potter?"
She hadn't, no. Why did the mirror show her family? Her mum and dad had been real enough—but those two girls hadn't ever existed. Did it show some type of alternate future? A world that would never be? Harriet's heart ached in her chest and she laid a hand against it, fingers brushing the edge of her lopsided tie as she recalled the sudden burst of emotion that had erupted there, the sheer need—.
"It—it shows you what you want," she stuttered. "Whatever you want, even if it's not possible."
"Partially. Five points to Slytherin." The professor shrugged as he leaned his weight against one of the shelves. The shelf didn't appear very sturdy, and yet it didn't wobble in the slightest. "The Mirror of Erised is enchanted to show your most ardent desire, not the petty wants of everyday life. Many a wizard and witch have been fool enough to let the images depicted therein drive them to madness."
"So it's not real," she whispered, more to herself than to Slytherin, her eye still drawn to the mirror despite the absence of her family. She wanted to see them, just once more, just long enough to commit the image to memory, just so she could have the picture of them in her head—.
Harriet hated the mirror when she realized Slytherin was right, that someone could go quite mad wanting to look at that lying hunk of antique junk, even if just for a few seconds more. Her weight leaned precariously forward and Harriet had to smother the voice in the back of her head telling her to take that step, to bring herself into the mirror's line of sight, to look one more time. It's not true. It's pretend, like dreams in my head projected onto the surface. It's not real.
"What do you see, Miss Potter?" Slytherin asked. Her breaths still came in shallow increments when she turned to him, then lowered her chin, not wanting to meet his terrifying eyes.
"Err—I'm with my relatives. It's Christmas time," she lied, deciding it best to splice in a measure of truth.
Slytherin tipped his head and a curl of brown hair fell across his brow. "Yule," the wizard corrected her in a sharp voice. "Christmas is a Muggle holiday. Yule is celebrated by magical kind. Why, Miss Potter, it sounds as if you were raised by Muggles."
Then he grinned and Harriet wanted to sink through the floor and disappear. Her neck itched something fierce.
Movement at the door caught her attention. Dumbledore stood there in crimson robes striped with thin lines of gold, his sleeves lined with fur that looked particularly warm. "Hello, Harriet," he greeted with a gentle smile—then his blue eyes cut to Professor Slytherin and the soft creases on his brow became hard and deep. "Is there a reason you've brought Miss Potter here, Tom?"
Slytherin sucked air through his teeth and Harriet thought of how Uncle Vernon would've cuffed him in the back of the head for showing that kind of disrespect. "Miss Potter witnessed a fight between Henge and Sanders. I thought it best she give her account of the story, lest you question my bias."
"Oh, I'd never doubt your professionalism, Tom. Simply your methods." Something cold slithered in Dumbledore's normally jovial voice and Harriet shifted. The Headmaster extend his arm out toward her. "Come along, Harriet. It's best to leave the mirror alone and not dwell upon what is seen within. Dreams, while lovely, should not be pursued at the expense of living."
She placed her hand in the Headmaster's and, when his warm fingers closed over hers, a feeling of safety enfolded Harriet like a new cloak. That prickly misery that had reared its ugly head after encountering the cursed mirror deflated, and though Harriet could see Slytherin sneer in disapproval, Harriet smiled at Professor Dumbledore and followed after him.
