xxxi. like an untimely frost
Yawning, Harriet leaned an elbow on the planter's edge and watched the Plufferupherius sob.
"I really don't know what happened," Elara said as she wrung her gloved hands and the plant's weeping increased. Professor Sprout gave her a stern look worthy of Professor McGonagall and Elara winced. "Really, Professor, I don't understand why this always happens. I'm not doing it on purpose, and I—."
The Plufferupherius' yellow petals drooped as it wailed and leaned away from Elara. Professor Sprout rolled her eyes and used a pair of pruners to nip off the blackened stem Elara had inadvertently touched while they'd been collecting the orange pollen. Their station was covered in the stuff now, their gloves stained from trying to sweep it up when the plant wheezed and threw a tantrum. Needless to say, Professor Sprout was less than impressed, which meant Harriet and Elara had to stay behind the rest of the class and try to explain themselves.
"I've never met a jinx quite so cursed as you, lass," Sprout said as she set the dead branch on the counter and stroked one callused finger down the Plufferupherius' prickly stem. The strange plant shivered and fell quiet, swaying slightly under her practiced ministrations. "We may need to 'ave a word with your Head of H—." She stopped, an odd expression crossing her face. "With Professor Dumbledore about that. Going forward next year we're going to be handling more of my rarer specimens and I can't 'ave you killing them." Sprout tutted, lost in thought. "Finish up your cleaning, then hurry to dinner, girls."
She shuffled off to check a few of her other plants in the greenhouse as Harriet and Elara hurried to brush the rest of the pollen into the folded parchment they'd been using to funnel the sticky granules into their vial. The Plufferupherius ignored Harriet but kept its eyes—well, the twiggy part Harriet thought it must see with—suspiciously trained on the Elara the whole time. Elara frowned at the dowdy little shrub and it sniffled, shedding more pollen. Harriet grimaced.
"I'm sorry for keeping you," Elara said. "You should probably partner with someone else in this class."
Harriet waved a hand. "I don't mind. Gardening's not all that bad; I used to do all the yard work for my aunt, you know." She managed to sweep up the last of the dust with the parchment's edge. "This stuff reminds me of the pollen that comes off lilies—meaning it gets bloody everywhere." The Plufferupherius gave her a scandalized look and sobbed. "Oh, budge up, you cry baby."
Glancing toward Elara, Harriet saw that the other girl had plucked the dead branch from the counter's edge. She held it between thumb and forefinger, twirling it slightly, the branch black and shriveled to half its typical size as if every drop of moisture had been sucked out of it. As Harriet watched, the branched changed. Veins of green returned between the bark's cracked husk, like blood seeping beneath new skin, and tender little vines sprouted from the end. A white flower blossomed.
"Wh—how'd you do that?" Harriet asked, gob-smacked. Elara jumped as if she'd forgotten Harriet was there and chucked the branch into the rubbish bin.
"It's nothing," she said, stripping off her gloves.
"It didn't look like nothing. It looked like—."
"Don't."
Harriet had never heard Elara speak like that before; sharp, but quiet, like the sudden jab of a spear aimed toward a shark circling her sinking boat. Aunt Petunia used that voice when Harriet dared mention the dreaded 'm' word. Harriet was dreadfully curious; she knew what she'd seen and wouldn't be convinced otherwise, but she shrugged and went about tidying up. Elara shot her a gratified look.
She brought that branch back to life, Harriet thought. But she didn't want me to know that. Why not say anything? Is it a Slytherin thing? Like Professor Snape telling me to keep my Parseltongue to myself?
The two girls delivered the last of the pollen to Professor Sprout, who then shooed them out of the greenhouse and off toward the castle. They hurried along, the evening air brisk where the breeze chased itself up from the forest and through the open courtyard, though the sun hadn't quite yet receded fully. Dinner would be commencing by now, and Harriet longed for something hearty to eat, something that would tie her over through the evening. They had Astronomy that night as they did every Friday and Wednesday night, and reading through constellation charts was excruciating on an empty stomach.
"There you two are!" Hermione said once Harriet and Elara slid into their places on the bench at Slytherin table. The merry raucous of dishes being shifted and laughter rising—especially from the Gryffindors—made it difficult to be heard in the Great Hall, but Hermione managed. "I was beginning to think you'd gone off to the dorms without dinner, and you know we have Astronomy tonight."
"Elara would've been fine," Harriet put in as she nudged a tureen of gravy closer. "She's better at it than both us." She was, too; Astronomy and Transfiguration proved to be Elara's best subjects, better than Hermione even, if only slightly. Being an absolute wreck and Potions and Herbology balanced her out. "Besides, we saw you getting along quite well with Mr Boot, didn't we, Elara?"
Elara smirked.
Hermione gave Harriet a look that said in no uncertain terms she did not care for what the bespectacled girl was insinuating. "Terry and I were discussing our last Charms class."
"Really? How…charming."
Hermione whacked her arm with the back of a serving spoon.
"Ow."
"He was telling me about how their Head of House, Professor Flitwick, tutors the Ravenclaws on the weekends in their common room." She poured herself a glass of chilled milk and let out a huffy sigh. "It's unfair, don't you think? Our Head of House hardly seems to realize he is a Head of House and I doubt he'd ever lower himself to tutoring first years on the weekend—let alone a Muggle-born." She scoffed and took a sip of her milk. "He's far more concerned with the upper years. I've only seen him in the common room twice if I remember correctly."
Harriet had a sudden recollection of tiptoeing from the dorm, disturbed by sibilant hisses rising in the otherwise empty common room. "I've seen him there," she told them in her gravest tone. Hermione's brow rose and Harriet glanced about at the other students. She would tell her friends more later, but too many ears were present to do so now. "But that portrait above the hearth? You probably shouldn't go telling it all your secrets, if you catch my meaning."
Both Elara and Hermione were clever—cleverer than Harriet, she thought—so they took her meaning immediately. There were several hearths in the Slytherin common room, and yet only one had a picture hung above its mantel, and that picture held only one occupant—an occupant of the serpentine variation.
Elara did as Harriet had and checked around them for eavesdroppers. Across the table, Malfoy was busy puffing out his chest and drawling to Parkinson, who reveled in his attention while Crabbe and Goyle ate their dinners and grunted about a Quidditch game posted in the Prophet. No one ever took much note of three random Slytherin girls. "When did this occur?"
"Yule holiday," Harriet replied. She reached for the carafe of pumpkin juice—and a cup of steaming tea appeared just under her hand. Harriet didn't much fancy herself a tea drinker, having only ever got the cold, bitter slop in the bottom of the pot at the Dursleys, but a cuppa before heading off to the library for homework sounded lovely.
"And he was just—just in the common room? While you were alone?"
"Well, I was in the dorm at first. He didn't actually see me." She blew on the tea and took a sip. It still burned on the way down. "I'm not mad enough to go out there with him mucking about."
"It's still very strange."
"We've spoken before on Professor Slytherin's oddity, Hermione. He—." Elara stopped and frowned. "Harriet, are you all right?"
Harriet's first reaction was to say "Fine," but she couldn't force the word past her lips. The burning she'd mistook as heat from the tea didn't abate and, instead, continued from her mouth into her throat and stomach, then her lungs. She choked as the burn intensified, then sputtered, coughing, a burst of red exploding out her mouth. Some splattered on Parkinson and she recoiled, glancing down at the sudden damp spots on her arm.
"Merlin, Potter, you're disgust—." Her voice cut off as her eyes widened. Pansy shrieked.
Harriet's fingers scrabbled at her throat in a bid to remove the obstruction. Nothing was there.
"Harriet!"
On instinct, she went to rise and only managed to throw herself backward, not registering the hard thwap of her skull smacking the floor in her desperation to breathe. Black spots bubbled to life. I can't breathe! I can't—! Someone had hold of her arm. Hermione screamed, "Professor Dumbledore!" and Harriet's vision tunneled until everything seemed to simply drift away.
Then, she knew no more.
