lxxix. changing skins

Despite the worry and trepidation hanging around the castle like dark clouds in the air, Harriet couldn't deny Hogwarts was beautiful at this time of the year.

Snow blanketed the grounds, and all around them, the highlands slumbered beneath the crisp white sheet and the trees swayed dark and solemn, the lake a solid, gleaming sheet of hoary ice. Icicles clung to the eaves, growing along the ramparts, and whenever one fell, it dissipated into a fuzzy swarm of magic and frost, fogging the windows and the unawares in dewy drafts. Hagrid dragged pine trees into the Great Hall and the professors decorated them with magic and delicate things, fairies hiding in the needles, their giggles seeming to follow Harriet wherever she went, fairy dust sprinkled on her shoulders and in her hair. A Yule Log burned in the Hall's hearth, Charmed to remain until the hols came to an end.

She enjoyed herself more than she had the year prior, simply because Elara was there with her. They snuck back and forth from Myrtle's loo with her Invisibility Cloak and hid in Harriet's trunk to pore through Hermione's exhaustive Polyjuice research. In direct contrast to Professor Slytherin's orders, the Headmaster had Snape come drag them out of the dungeons if they spent too long down there alone, and so the pair of witches went exploring, enjoying the library, or avoiding the Defense teacher. They did homework in the Great Hall by the fire and oftentimes a professor would come sit with them to help or chat.

On Christmas Day—or, well, the day of the Solstice—Harriet woke to find a smattering of gifts left on the foot of her bed, an occurrence that would never cease to surprise the bespectacled girl. Elara had the same assorted collection of presents, though she was far less enthused when poked away by her dormmate only an hour or so past dawn.

"Harriet, I'm going to murder you."

"Murder me after we open gifts, c'mon!"

They sat in their nightgowns with their coverlets pulled up around their shoulders to ward off the dungeons' chill and started in on their presents. Harriet received the same thoughtful, if trivial, trinkets from the old families, including another packet of parchment with her family crest from the House of Black. From Elara personally, she unwrapped a pretty, deep violet quill that shimmered with silver threads when she brought it up to her eyes.

"It's made from an Occamy's feather," the other witch explained as she prised open a Transfigured box. "It's for letter writing. Oh—are these gloves, Harriet?"

"Yeah! I ordered them for you. They're supposed to feel more…what's the word? Tactile? And they're water-repelling."

"Thank you." Elara pulled the black gloves on over her pale, slim hands.

"Hermione got me a kit for my broom, excellent."

"Did Malfoy send you anything?"

"His family—or his mum did, at least. Chocolate Frogs."

Harriet picked up one of her final gifts, a sizable, lumpy parcel wrapped in butcher paper and twine. She recognized the writing on the card, and hummed thoughtfully, wondering what it could be. "I got something from Mr. Flamel and his wife."

"What is it?"

The paper tore, and heavy, cool fabric puddled in Harriet's hands. "I think they're robes." They were black in color with fine, silver threads at edges and a silk, sage-colored lining.

"Go on, try them on."

Unearthing herself from the blankets and strewn packaging, Harriet got to her feet and tried to find where the robes opened. Wizarding fashion could be funny in its design. "Why are they so big?"

"You're putting them on wrong."

"No, I'm not. Look—." As soon as she stepped into the robes and pushed her skinny arms through the overly large sleeves, the fabric came alive and swaddled her, scaring a high-pitched yelp out of Harriet. The cloth drew itself snug about her frame, sleeves shortening and tightening, sash cinching tight as a silver brooch snapped shut on her shoulder, closing the front. The startled witch stood still, arms held out, and waited to see if the robes would move again.

On the other bed, Elara snorted, lowering the book given to her by Hermione. "It's just a sizing Charm. Though, I haven't seen one quite so…enthusiastic before."

"Me neither."

"Those are nice, though. Go look."

Harriet went to the mirror on the wall and gazed at her reflection, taking in the image of her bedraggled hair coupled with the clean, straight lines of the robes. The collar came up around her neck, hiding most of her scar, and the skirt and hem fell in gentle, tapered waves around her legs. The lining rippled with magic, shimmering leaves seeming to drift in an unseen breeze against the silk. Harriet owned a few pairs of robes besides her school outfits, but none of this quality, and none quite so lovely.

She moved back to the bed and found the card again. "He says they're spell-resistant. I wonder what that means, exactly."

Elara quirked a brow—then picked up her wand from the end table, and aimed a Stinging Hex at Harriet's side. Harriet jumped as the spell made contact, but the light fizzled out against the dense fabric. "Oh. Excellent. I wish I could wear these in Slytherin's class."

"It probably wouldn't help." Elara replaced her wand. "The spells coming back at you in Defense are your own, and undoubtedly more powerful than what a simple cloth enchantment can handle."

They finished opening their gifts, then set about getting ready for the day, Harriet showering and donning her new robes once again after Elara tugged her wayward hair into a braid. They journeyed upstairs for breakfast—then scrapped that plan when they peeked inside and found the House and High Tables replaced with a single table down the hall's middle, the only seats open left between Longbottom and Slytherin. Neither girl decided they had much of an appetite.

They escaped outside, and though it was bitterly cold in the breeze, it was much warmer in the open planter cloister by the greenhouses, the space filled to the brim with pots of all shapes and sizes and mostly dormant flora, gnomes snoozing in the dirt with crumpled leaves as their blankets. Snow heaped itself on the low walls below the arches and steam rose in ghostly sheets from the heated greenhouses below.

"Longbottom was watching us," Elara commented as they sat on a stone bench and she smoothed her skirt. "I don't think he heard a word Weasley was saying to him; he was staring at the doors, waiting for us to show up."

Harriet grumbled under her breath. "Bloody Gryffindor."

They played with the snow for a time, letting it melt in the little pots Charmed with heating spells, pouring the water out and using the Glacius Charm to freeze it into different shapes. Harriet made a passable—if a bit lop-sided and big-headed—bird, while Elara crafted a dog. "Look," Harriet said, holding her tiny ice sculpture in the palm of her cold hand. "I'm going to name him Draco, because—."

"Because it has a fat head?"

Harriet started to laugh.

The screech of an owl brought them to attention, and a miffed barn owl fluttered through an arch, clasping a tightly rolled newspaper in its talons. "Ah, the Prophet," Elara muttered, patting her pockets. "Do you have any money on you, Harriet?"

"Let me see." She had to unclasp the robes to reach her trousers' pockets, and after checking there, she searched her jumper. "Oh. I have a Sickle, though that's a bit much for a paper."

Elara sighed and took the Sickle, tucking it into the little leather pouch on the owl's leg so it would relinquish its delivery. "I'll pay you back later."

"It's fine."

The taller witch sat with her back to the cold, her shoulders stiff, and read the paper while Harriet tried to make an ice-snake to eat ice-Draco, and ended up with something that better resembled a hungry scarf. Elara made a sudden, thoughtful sound.

"What is it?"

"This." She flipped the paper about, folding it to show the main article on the second page. Harriet adjusted her glasses and squinted against the paltry winter light, trying to read.

"'Wizengamot questions Headmaster's eff—efficacy during troubled times. Defense Instructor's ability under scrutiny.' Well, the bit about Dumbledore is awful. Do you think they'll give Slytherin the sack?"

"Not hardly. But this could work to our advantage."

"What? Explain."

Elara gave the paper an impatient shake. "This. We could do it today, after lunch. It's Christmas—the Solstice, and I doubt they're serving pumpkin juice to the professors. You can leave this out, casually flipped to this page, and whoever sees it is bound to have a comment on it."

"And what if they want to comment on it to me?" Harriet asked, keeping her voice low. "What would Professor Sinistra say?"

"Something about the stars aligning, whatever the fates will, etcetera." Elara folded the paper and handed it to Harriet. "Well? Are you ready? Do you want to do it today?"

Harriet exhaled, wishing she could tell Elara she didn't want to do this at all, because it sounded precisely like the kind of thing that would get her in heaps of trouble, but Harriet kept quiet. "Yes. I only need to fold in the bicorn horn, and we'd have to wait for it to simmer."

Elara met her eyes, and then nodded. "Okay, then. After lunch."

xXx

Harriet could hardly eat a thing by the time lunch finally did manage to roll around. Worrying about the Polyjuice made her stomach twist up in knots, and she felt as if everyone at the table was giving her funny looks. Longbottom glared at her and Elara, his eyes narrow and shifty, Snape scowled every time she accidentally turned in his direction, and even Luna Lovegood, the only Ravenclaw staying for the hols, shot her several puzzled, contemplative looks.

She wound up spilling hot cider down her front, which was how she found out her new robes were stain-resistant, too, which was a nice addition.

Elara just held her head in her hands.

They split up after the meal, and Harriet went alone to Myrtle's loo, taking the long way, diving through at least one secret passage to make sure anyone—namely Longbottom—wouldn't be able to follow if they tried. She found the Polyjuice just as she'd left it the day before, settling in its cauldron atop the toilet, Hermione's magic still warding away the damp. Harriet rolled up her sleeves, opened the potions kit, and consulted Hermione's notes again.

It was a nerve-wracking thing, brewing a potion one intended to consume. She'd made dozens of potions by now, but each of those had gone to Professor Snape, and Harriet always felt a certain safety in brewing when she knew the potion wouldn't poison or kill someone if she made a mistake. A bit too much billywig? Not enough scarab beetle? No big deal. But now, as she used a flat stirring rod to carefully tuck and fold the potion around the sprinkled bicorn horn, cold sweat prickled the back of her neck.

What if she messed up? What if she bloody poisoned herself? Oh, Harriet remembered only too well how it felt to be poisoned after Quirrell spiked her tea. The thought of enduring that again made her ill.

Elara returned later, carrying a bundle under her arm, and found Harriet leaning on the partition next to the cooling cauldron. "It's done, then?"

Harriet nodded.

"Excellent. Well done, Harriet," Elara smiled—one of her rare, full smiles, and Harriet tried to return it, but she'd gone weak in the knees, her hands shaking. "Are you all right?"

"'M fine."

Hesitating, Elara touched her shoulder. "No, you're not. Harriet, if you don't wish to do this, then don't. You shouldn't allow anyone, especially Hermione and me, to pressure you into anything. The potion will keep if we bottle it up. You can give it to Hermione when she returns."

"It's fine," Harriet sighed through her nose and rubbed her eyes, thankful Elara didn't gripe about her touching her face. "I'm just—afraid I botched it. What'll happen when I drink it?"

"I could drink it, if you want."

"No," she shook her head. "No, if anyone's going to be laid up in hospital because I can't brew worth a shite, it'll be me."

"A terribly Gryffindor sentiment. What are we going to do with you?" Elara pulled out the bundle she'd brought, and when Harriet took it in her hands, she realized it was a set of robes, a dark emerald pair for a witch, done with constellations and stars stitched into the panels.

"Are these—these are Professor Sinistra's! I've seen her wear these before! How did you get these?"

"Laundry," Elara said without pause, turning the robes over to show Harriet the book and flask she'd included. When Harriet continued to stare at her, the other witch frowned. "Where did you think I went for so long? They're clean. I was bribing house-elves."

"Bribing house—."

"This—." Elara tapped the book, ignoring Harriet's sputtering. "Is the Quasar Quarterly."

"An astronomy periodical? How did you get that?"

"Well, just because Hermione thinks astrology is rubbish and you hate the maths doesn't mean I can't like the subject." She pinked in the cheeks and cleared her throat. "I would assume Professor Sinistra receives the same subscription. Just pretend to read it. Turn the pages every so often. And this—." She touched the flask. "How many hours of Polyjuice did you brew?"

"Twelve," Harriet recited. "Err, or less. Hermione said it's meant to be twelve—but this is our first time brewing it, right? So it might not be as potent, and if it's 'contaminated' at all, or watered down, it could be less. There should be at least six hours there."

"And one mouthful is supposed to last an hour?"

"Or less. 'A mouthful' isn't an exact measurement, is it? And different people have different sized bodies and stuff, and Snape always goes on about how the 'internal composition of organs and blood impact potion viability' and whatnot. So, I can bank on thirty minutes, then I have to drink again, just to make sure." She extracted the flask from the robes. "Is this Professor Sinistra's too?"

Smirking, Elara nodded.

"No! I wouldn't have fancied her a lush."

"I actually think she puts coffee in there, when she has to be up during the day. Her entire area of study is night-based, Harriet."

"Oh, my mistake." Sighing, Harriet put the flask, book, and robes up on the dry back of the toilet's tank. "Might as well get this over with."

She fished the vial out of her pocket and removed the professor's single hair, letting it drop into the cauldron. For a second, nothing happened, and then the liquid morphed into a murky purple shot through with lighter bands of lavender and periwinkle.

"Put the robes on before you drink the potion."

Harriet glanced at Elara, confused—and then realized what the other witch meant. "Right. Thanks."

Elara stepped out of the stall, letting Harriet shut the door and shuck her own clothes and pull on Professor Sinistra's, the excess cloth puddling around her smaller frame. Minding the sleeves, Harriet ladled Polyjuice into the flask, and once it was almost too full, she stopped, looking at the dubious goop like it might jump out of the flask and attack her. Sighing, Harriet muttered, "Cheers," and drank.

The taste of dusty blueberries burst on her tongue and Harriet almost gagged, not because it was terribly unpleasant, but because it was unexpected and overwhelming. She held down her gorge and swallowed, having to do so several times as the thick, syrupy potion seemed to cling to her mouth and esophagus. "Ugh."

The effects weren't immediate; indeed, Harriet assumed she'd messed something up along the way, because all she felt was a slight queasiness in her middle. Then, the queasiness changed to a sharp, aching tightness, spreading from her middle to her chest, and Harriet squeezed her eyes shut, leaning on the partition. Her legs burned, pain shooting through her knees, and Harriet wanted to yell for Elara, tell her something was wrong, but all she could do was gasp and wheeze as the skin of her arms bubbled, darkened, and then—.

Then, it was over.

Breathing heavily, Harriet blinked, wondering what was wrong with her eyes—before she realized Professor Sinistra didn't wear glasses, and she lifted a shaky, unfamiliar hand to remove them. The astronomy professor wasn't a large woman by any means, but she was considerably larger than Harriet. The second-year Slytherin found herself too tall, her legs too long, rounded in unexpected ways with more weight in different areas. She touched her chest—until she realized she'd just groped her professor, no matter how inadvertent, and blushed from her cheeks to her toes.

"Merlin," she wheezed in a strange, husky voice. She thanked every force in the bloody universe that Hermione hadn't picked a male professor.

"Harriet?"

"I'm, um—."

Elara repeated her name with more urgency, shaking the door. Harriet reached out and unlatched it.

They stared at one another, a spooked shadow passing through Elara's colorless eyes as she found herself looking at one of her professors, sweaty and shivering in a loo, looking for all the world like they'd seen something ghastly. Harriet just couldn't believe how tall Elara was, given she could meet her eyes without looking down. "It—." Elara cleared her throat. "It worked."

"At least I didn't poison myself," Harriet said—then winced, because while she had Professor Sinistra's voice, she didn't sound quite the same. How odd. "Err, I better not talk. Sinistra has more of a Scouse accent than I do. I sound weird."

Elara nodded. "Okay. I'm going to go now and make sure Professor Sinistra stays in her office. Don't forget your flask, the book, and the paper."

"I won't."

"Okay. Meet you here before dinner?"

"Yes."

The other Slytherin left, leaving Harriet to gather her scattered wits and ignore the mirrors, not wanting to glimpse herself in its depths. She'd never use Polyjuice again; the invasiveness of it had her on edge, and Harriet couldn't convince herself the unsettled rock in her gut wasn't from drinking liquefied lacewing flies and whatever other nonsense Hermione had tossed in the cauldron. She stole several deep, calming breaths and tried to stand like Professor Sinistra would, which necessitated a brief stint in front of the mirrors, the pinched scowl she wore like nothing she'd ever seen on the astronomy instructor.

For all her planning, Elara hadn't given Harriet shoes, so she made do with resizing her own, happy the robes fell to her feet and concealed them. Eventually, she had no further reason to procrastinate and hang about, so Harriet schooled her expression and forced her anxiety back, thinking about all manner of unpleasant things, including each she'd lied to the Dursleys. She hadn't been a guiltless child at times, and now she tried to channel that same nervous steel she'd forced into her spine whenever faced with a furious Uncle Vernon.

Water dripped below the sinks as Harriet counted to ten and opened her eyes—a stranger's eyes. She could do this. For Hermione.

She gathered her periodical and her paper, tucked them under her arm, stepped out of the loo—

And almost collided with Neville Longbottom.

Shite.


A/N: Harriet: "I'm never drinking your funny toilet potions ever again, Hermione."