cxii. liar
The rest of Harriet's first day back at Hogwarts proved relatively uneventful.
After Draco nearly got trampled by a unicorn and sent to stand off to the side by himself, Professor Grubbly-Plank lectured about the properties of unicorns, the various sub-species found around the globe, and their proper care. Though the subject interested her, Harriet found herself distracted by the sunshine and the slight, creeping chill still wheedling through her veins.
Madam Pomfrey had said coming in close contact with Dark creatures just a few months after what happened in the Aerie hadn't done wonders for her health—nor had the spill from the carriage or the time spent in the freezing rain. She'd probably come down with a cold in the next few days and would have to go back to the Hospital Wing—not that Harriet would go back, not unless dragged there by wild Thestrals or her well-meaning friends. She was bloody sick of waking up in the ward.
She saw Fawkes soaring across the sky during class, a mere smudge of Gryffindor red and gold flitting between gray clouds and dappled daylight. If she concentrated, she could hear the slightest whisper of his warbling song and it lifted some of the weight hovering around her heart.
When class came to a close, they gathered their bags from the fence, the bottoms slightly wet from the grass, and headed inside. Pansy whispered another nasty insinuation about Harriet under her breath to Daphne Greengrass, so Harriet muttered, "Offendimus," under her breath and sent the witch tripping down a—short—set of steps. As Pansy whinged about her skinned knees and broken inkwell, Harriet tucked her wand back into its brace and kept walking.
They found Elara in the Transfiguration corridor and took their usual seats in the front, waiting for Professor McGonagall to arrive. The professor opted to lecture instead of giving a practical lesson, discussing the history and typical application of the Animagus transformation. Harriet struggled to concentrate on her notes, but Elara watched Professor McGonagall change into a tabby cat and back into a person with rapt attention.
By the time lunch rolled around, Harriet felt tired and irritated—mostly by the continued, faux-fainting damsel shite being perpetuated by the older Slytherins and a few Gryffindors. She thought the people in her House might be doing it to get a rise out of her, but Harriet didn't appreciate the teasing. She wouldn't admit it, but running into that Dementor had been a horrid experience, and the less she was reminded of it, the better. She would've skived off History of Magic if not for the novelty of having a new professor and needing to make a good impression with the teacher she'd have for at least another three years. What she wanted more than anything was to go crawl into her bed and not wake up for a week.
Harriet shuffled into the History of Magic classroom after Hermione and Elara, and though the venue hadn't changed, the room felt…more welcoming than it had when Selwyn had darkened the front desk. Professor Selwyn hadn't kept any personal possessions in the room and the new professor hadn't set anything out yet, but the desk, floors, and windows had all been cleaned and the shutters opened to the afternoon light. Harriet took a seat between Elara and Hermione in the first row and put her head down on the desk. It smelled of polish.
Elara sighed. "Go see Madam Pomfrey for a Pepper-Up."
Harriet grunted.
"You are looking a bit peaky," Hermione mentioned as she rifled through her bag for the right textbook. "Maybe you should head to bed early after supper?"
Again, Harriet grunted. Elara nudged her in the ribs until she sat up in her seat with a baleful glance at her friend. "No, I'm not going to bed early. I'm going to do something else." The free period after History of Magic would give Harriet the perfect opportunity to go snooping about looking at Moon Mirrors, given much of the castle's corridors would be empty.
"What?"
"I'll tell you later."
"Tell us what—?"
The professor arrived a moment after the bell, a skinny bloke with a relaxed expression and faded, drab robes. Harriet couldn't guess at his age but thought him far too young to have so much gray peppering his brown, floppy hair. She didn't notice the facial scarring until he set his textbooks on his lectern and Wayne Hopkins leaned toward Oliver Rivers whispering, "Merlin, what d'ya think happened to him?"
"Hello, I'm Professor Remus Lupin. Welcome to your third year in History of Magic." He beamed, his green eyes flicking toward the front row, then away. Harriet hadn't seen the wizard teach yet, obviously, but she thought he had easy, unassuming confidence about him, his voice tinged with the slightest bit of nervousness that would probably fade by the end of the week. "I'll have to ask you to bear with me as I acquaint myself with life as a professor and learn how far we all are in the curriculum."
He retreated from the lectern to the desk and gave the scrolls stationed there an uncertain shuffle, peering at the titles. "As far as I understand it, before the summer holiday you were wrapping up studies on the International Warlock Convention?"
Heads bobbed in agreement. Someone had a packet of Bertie Botts open because Harriet could hear the distinct rattling sound of beans being shared, though she couldn't say who it was. Her bets were on Crabbe.
"Potter," Malfoy hissed behind her.
She didn't turn around. "What?"
"Switch me seats."
"Don't be stupid."
"Excellent!" the professor said, unperturbed by the silent argument and illegal sweets distribution. "That means you're ready to move on to the witch hunts and famous figures of the fourteenth century. Exciting stuff!" Professor Lupin looked up and gave them all a tight-lipped smile as he tidied his lesson plans, finding another sheet of parchment near the top of the pile. "I'm going to take attendance—apologies in advance if I mispronounce your name. Hannah Abbott?"
"Present."
"Thank you. E—?"
The professor froze and sucked in a sudden, short breath. He had one hand on the desk still, fingers splayed, and Harriet wondered if he'd pulled a muscle or something because he looked strange.
A full minute passed.
"…Professor Lupin?" Hermione ventured after exchanging uncertain glances with Harriet. "Are you all right?"
"I—." The wizard shook himself, a soft noise leaving his throat. "Yes, perfectly fine. I—bit of a cold I'm getting over. Not at my best—." Harriet could believe that. His face had the same peaky pallor as Harriet's. Had he gotten sick in the rain too? "E-Elara Black?"
Elara stiffened, perhaps sensing the same hesitation in the man's voice that Harriet did. "Present, Professor."
Lupin looked at her—wide-eyed and pale, the scars stark in relief. His eyes switched to Harriet, then back again, and the muscles in his jaw jumped in protest as he forced a smile. "Any relation to—." Elara's hand closed in a fist. "—M-Marlene McKinnon?"
Elara relaxed, though her puzzled stare conveyed her confusion. "…Yes?"
"Oh." Professor Lupin swallowed and looked away. He sat down suddenly, very nearly missing the chair only partly tucked under his desk. "Oh. That's—. Where was I? Attendance, yes. Ah, Susan Bones?"
"Here!"
He continued on down the list, staring at the parchment with total single-mindedness. Elara turned in her seat and mouthed the word, "What?" but Harriet didn't have an answer for her, so she shrugged. Maybe it had something to do with Sirius Black. Why else would the bloke act so weird when saying Elara's name?
Frowning, Harriet fidgeted with the corner of her textbook, folding the first page back and forth.
When he finished attendance, Professor Lupin moved on to the lecture without pause, using his wand to throw key words on the blackboard without bothering to stand and write them himself. Harriet pushed his strange behavior to the back of her mind in favor of taking notes—or drawing wobbly concentric circles and lopsided trees in the margins of her parchment. Twice Hermione muttered a soft admonishment under her breath and twice Harriet returned her concentration to the lecture only for her mind to wander a few sentences in.
Professor Lupin kept talking like he couldn't afford to stop.
"Circe's knickers, is he always going to be like this?" Zabini moaned from somewhere behind them.
"I hope not, he's going so fast," Nott whispered. "What was that bit about Balinda the Benevolent?"
"I thought it was Malinda the Malevolent?"
"Shite, seriously?"
Class came to an end with Harriet having little to show for it aside from a headache and ink splotches on her cuff. She shoved her things away into her bag as the others filtered out. Professor Lupin slumped when the bell rang and didn't stir.
"Can you wait a second?" Harriet asked her friends before they followed the rest of their peers.
"Is something wrong?"
"No, just—. I'll be right back."
Hefting her bag a little higher on her skinny shoulder, Harriet returned to the front of the room. Professor Lupin heard her coming and lifted his head, startled eyes finding her own so quickly, Harriet almost stumbled.
"Err—Professor Lupin?"
He blinked and lifted his head a touch more, clearing his throat. "Yes, Har—Miss Potter? Can I help you with something?"
"No, I—thanks. For yesterday, I mean." Harriet dropped her gaze to her shoes. Had the professor heard the screaming, too? Merlin, it hadn't been her, had it? "For when I fell."
Professor Lupin fidgeted. He brought his hands together on the desk and squeezed hard enough for Harriet to see his knuckles turn white as bone. He was definitely odd. "Think nothing of it." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, the motion strained and uncomfortable. "You're feeling better, I take it?"
"Yeah—I mean, yes, sir." She glanced over her shoulder toward Hermione and Elara. Professor Lupin followed her line of sight and blanched, clearing his throat again as he shuffled the mess of papers in front of him. "I just wanted to thank you."
"Of course."
Harriet departed then, rejoining her friends on their way to drop their belongings off in the dorm. She didn't know what to make of Professor Lupin yet, nor of the man's rather strange behavior. Why had he reacted to Elara's name that way? And had he almost called her Harriet?
Well, she decided with a snort. As long as he doesn't unleash a prehistoric monster on the school, he's still better than Selwyn.
x X x
Remus started to tremble when the door shut with a gentle click behind the last of his students.
He'd woken that morning ready to face whatever the day had to throw at him—nervous, yes, but excited and pleased, eager to see James' daughter again, though he hadn't a clue what he'd say to the girl. If he'd say anything at all.
He should have known the day would turn when Harriet entered the Great Hall, fresh from the hospital wing, and sat at the Slytherin table.
There was no excuse for his ignorance; the green on her uniform could be seen from where he sat, as green as her eyes, as green as the uniforms of those surrounding her—and yet it had never occurred to Remus that she might have been Sorted anywhere other than in Gryffindor. Definitely not Slytherin. By Merlin, he'd take the knowledge to his grave, but James would've had kittens. He'd once—jokingly—told Remus that he'd disown any of his children if they became Slytherins, and though Remus knew the statement had been given in jest, he couldn't deny James' probable disappointment.
Lily wouldn't have minded, though. She was the most open-minded of them all. No, she wouldn't have cared in the slightest, not when she—.
Remus' gaze had slid to the dark-haired wizard seated next to him at the High Table. Snape refused to acknowledge his existence.
He'd prepared for her class. He'd prepared himself to see her again, to accept the reality of her Sorting, but—.
Nothing could have prepared him for her.
Standing, Remus wiped his sweating palms off on his trousers and started to pace. His thoughts jumped and jerked from place to place, disoriented as if scattered by a physical blow, and the urge to vomit curdled in his middle like something living. It burned in his chest, his tongue moving listlessly in a parched mouth. His knees weakened and he caught the rough stone of the wall to keep his balance, forcing his lungs to expand and permit air into his body. It rattled low and heinous in his dry throat.
The smell of charred earth and blackened rock. Ash eddying in the breeze, the perverse glint of sunlight where the water puddled in the new ruins' cradled arms—.
Gray eyes in a still face—confused, suspicious, rimmed in black lashes, a quirk of her brow that once belonged to her mother. "Present, Professor—."
Snow where the fire had ravaged the manor. He could smell the burning flesh still, God have mercy—.
"There were no survivors."
"He lied," Remus managed to gasp, heart racing. "He lied."
He lied about everything, didn't he? He lied almost as much as you lie to yourself.
An abbreviated knock hit the door before it jerked open, revealing the black silhouette of the castle's resident Potions Master. Snape appeared as murderous as he had the night prior—perhaps even more so in the light of day. His movements oozed displeasure and aggravation, his stride quick but stilted as if he fought the urge to kick someone, hard.
Remus knew that stride. In the past, it had usually preceded a violent confrontation.
Snape spotted Remus half-slumped against the wall and hesitated, his robes curling around his legs when he stopped short. Remus didn't miss how he palmed his wand.
Ah, Remus thought in a voice little resembling his own. Still afraid of the big bad wolf, Snivellous?
"Lupin," the man drawled, teeth cutting into the final consonant with particular force. "Slacking off already, are we?"
"No, no," Remus assured him, plastering a fake grin on his otherwise slack face. "Just lost my…equilibrium for a moment."
Gray eyes in a still face, a gloved fist held loose on the table between her and James' daughter—.
"Do you plan to stand there like an ignoramus or are you going to take this?"
He noted the goblet in Snape's hand, the man's pale fingers crimped tight around the stem. Smoke curled from the liquid's surface.
"Oh, thank you, Severus. Could you put it on the desk there for me, please—?"
"No," Snape spat, lip curling. "No, you're going to take it now, in front of me. I won't be held accountable if you have a sudden…lapse in judgment."
What does he mean by that? Sighing, Remus straightened and approached, crossing from one side of the room to the other. With each step, Snape held himself stiffer and stiffer, nostrils flaring, black wand clenched in a shaking fist hidden in the folds of his robes. Remus took the goblet from him and Snape recoiled, one of the tables screeching against the stone floor when the man's side struck it.
The sound lingered as Remus held his breath and drank.
Were he an uncouth man, Remus would have said the Wolfsbane Potion tasted like piss. Perhaps not uncouth so much as blunt: it tasted of piss with the curious undertone of Muggle battery acid, and he almost vomited the mixture right back onto Snape's shoes the moment it hit his stomach. "Can't you—? Is there no way to maybe…change the flavor?" he croaked, one hand braced against his middle as the remainder crawled down his throat.
Sneering again, Snape summoned the empty goblet from Remus' grip. "Even if it were possible—which it is not—I would not waste my time for your benefit."
"Thanks for that."
The Potions Master turned to leave.
"I mean that sincerely. Thank you for doing this. It means so much, and I know—."
"I don't want your fucking gratitude. I want you to shut up and never speak to me again if it can be avoided."
Snape was almost to the door.
"Severus?"
He kept walking without pause.
"Severus, I—wait! You have E—Miss Black in your class, yes?"
Snape stopped dead, one hand on the door's handle. The barest tip of his dark head indicated that Remus had his attention, no matter how fleeting. "Obviously."
"Can you—what…what do you know about her?"
"…Why?"
"I—." Why? What possible reason could Remus have for wanting to know about a young girl he had only met this afternoon? How could he possibly ask that? "No. Never mind."
Snape turned and fixed Remus with a harsh, calculating look, and again the werewolf had to reconcile the image of a scrawny, cruel Slytherin boy with that of the menacing Dark wizard before him. "If you have any sense at all in that cavernous space between your ears," he said, voice soft, cold. Emotionless. "You will stay away from Potter and her friends. I am not that Headmaster. I am not a fool—because I remember with perfect clarity the people you once called friends at this school. How far do those old loyalties extend, hmm?"
Remus swallowed. "I don't know what you mean."
"You know exactly what I mean."
"I have nothing to do with Sirius Black."
"And I do not believe you."
Anger flared in Remus, kindling alongside the memories of old laughter, boyhood antics, and the smell of his life burning to ashes. "And you, Severus? What of your old loyalties?"
In a whorl of black fabric, Snape disappeared once more into the hallway and Remus remained alone in the empty classroom. He straightened the desk the Potions Master had collided with—and only when he had his hand pressed to the wood did he notice the tears splattering on the surface.
Only then did Remus begin to sob.
A/N:
Remus: *Drops to the floor in a panic, caterpillars out of the room.*
Class: "…"
Harriet: "Still not the strangest professor I've had."
100% believe Snape is irrationally terrified of Lupin and werewolves in general.
