cxiv. fortune teller
The first weekend proved a welcome distraction after only two days of class.
Harriet loved Hogwarts. She loved learning and exploring the old, twisting corridors, discovering new magic and figuring out how it all came together—but she didn't love the gossiping or the snide, sideways glances she got in the Great Hall or common room. She could do without that quite nicely.
In a strange twist of fate, so many strange rumors about Harriet had occurred in a such a limited time frame—the Dementor, the unicorn, the boggart—that no one could get their story straight, and the gossip-mongers started making up ridiculous tales even the most gullible of people didn't believe. Besides, they much rather talk about Sirius Black than some weird third-year Slytherin witch.
The rampant discussion regarding her criminal father meant Elara didn't want to leave the dormitory much, spending an awful lot of time writing to her solicitor, Mr. Piers, while Hermione claimed she had far too much homework to complete to do anything else. Harriet didn't know how Hermione could have so much homework after only two days of class. Had Harriet missed an assignment somewhere?
Harriet spent much of her weekend on her own, occasionally running across Luna and Ginny or the Weasley twins, who helped out in her map-making expedition by showing her a few hidden areas around the castle where she did, in fact, find another Moon Mirror. This one dumped her somewhere in the lower dungeons, and it took Harriet almost two hours to find her way out.
She avoided the second-floor corridor and the hidden passage by the library, knowing full well her best choice would be to find Rowena Ravenclaw and ask about her system of mirrors. She would have to go eventually, just to check…but not yet. Not quite yet.
So Harriet wandered about, made notes, and drew places around the castle that served as landmarks. Alone, she had ample time to sit, write her own letters, and also reflect on what had happened in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
It didn't make sense. The cupboard at Privet Drive, for all that it had been small and cramped and spider-infested, had more often than not been a refuge away from her relatives and their insults. It hadn't frightened Harriet, no more than Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia had, and definitely not more than Tom Riddle.
Harriet decided to push the why of the situation to the back of her mind, no matter the lingering splinter of disquiet still needling her. It wasn't important. When she crossed a boggart again, she'd be ready for it—and Professor Slytherin could just go stuff himself.
Sunday afternoon found Harriet farther afield than she knew she should be wandering, perched on a column outside Gagwilde Tower in the Sunweather Courtyard. The weather definitely wasn't sun-weather; the rain drizzled in intermittent bouts and mist clung to the forest's roots, pawing at the edges of the grounds like ghostly cat claws. She kept an eye out for Dementors but had failed to see any daring to cross the boundary.
The column wasn't very tall, perhaps only four meters or so in height, the flat top of it plenty wide enough for Harriet to sit cross-legged upon. She'd scrambled up it without problem from the stone railing below—and besides, it wasn't as high off the ground as the column in the courtyard's middle.
The upperclassmen called it "the Angel's Plinth," but on closer inspection, Harriet didn't think the statue on the raised platform looked much like an angel. It looked like one of the old woodcarvings depicting the fae. The summer before last, when Snape had been in one of his more contemplative moods, Harriet had chanced to ask about the fae she'd read in a Wizarding book, and Snape had said they were a part of an old belief about the origin of magic. Legend said they'd descended from the fae—but Snape attributed it all to a kind of creationism or a pagan religion that had existed before other religions like Christianity spread. Namely, it only held as much truth as one ascribed to it.
But that was neither here nor there; the statue didn't matter so much as what it held. The crumbling stone fingers were wrapped about the frame of a mirror, and Harriet knew it to be a Moon Mirror because Hermione had taught her a spell to test for the presence of Occamy-silver. It could only be seen from a higher vantage, and only by chance had she thought to jump onto the railing to check the odd, murky glimmer. She couldn't get close to inspect it, but the spell indicated from a distance, and Set had been the one to point out its location the day prior, all but tugging Harriet off her feet as she passed the tower on her morning run. Without a way of telling whether it was an entrance or an exit, Harriet settled for drawing the mirror, its statue—and the thick boards covering the grunge-encrusted surface.
She hoped it wasn't an exit, or her indiscriminate explorations might land her with her head stuck between two planks like an old stockade.
The breeze kicked up and played with the edge of her parchment, Harriet leaning on her palm to hold it steady. A sigh escaped her. "Hermione might have been on to something about paper being rubbish," she mumbled, studying the damp spots and stray streaks of ink caught by the rain. She cast another Impervius Charm on the stone beneath her, but the dew still welled and dripped over the top, soaking into the page and the seat of her trousers.
Water fogged her glasses and Harriet directed a second Impervius at the lenses. A glimmer of gold caught her eye—and she didn't almost fall off her perch when Fawkes suddenly appeared before her, though it may have been a near thing. "Hullo," she greeted as the phoenix clacked his beak and preened his pretty feathers. "You've been out and about more often than not this week, haven't you?"
Fawkes trilled a lovely sound and Harriet grinned—until he started nosing about in her open satchel. "Hey!"
He managed to scavenge a Chocolate Frog, making quick work of the packaging with easy snips of his beak. Harriet frowned as he tore the frog apart and tossed it back. "What if you get sick, you numpty?" she chastised, gathering the rubbish before it could blow away. "Oh, look. A Dumbledore card." She showed the bird and Fawkes cocked his head to study the portrait with one black eye. "I have a feeling you don't listen to him either—oof!"
Harriet got a mouthful of tail feathers when Fawkes spun around, graceful as could be, and hopped into the air. Harriet thought that to be it, his mischief accomplished—so she was not prepared for the talons that sank into the back of her jumper and hoisted her up as if she weighed no more than a biscuit. "Put me down, you bloody birdbrain!" Harriet cried, locking her arms so she didn't slip out of her overlarge jumper. The phoenix chirped—and then dropped the struggling witch a respectable two feet or so from the ground, letting her land in a heap by the waiting Headmaster.
"P-Professor Dumbledore!" Harriet exclaimed as she clamored to her feet, snatching her satchel up from where it had fallen in a puddle. "Sorry, sir!
"Hello, Harriet," he returned with a gentle smile. "It appears you and Fawkes share a fondness for high places."
"Oh, err—yeah?" She shot a sour look at the bird in question, who'd fluttered down to settle on Professor Dumbledore's shoulder, feigning innocence. "What brings you out here, Headmaster?"
"I thought it a lovely afternoon for a walk." Given the increasing rain and the low temperature insulting the summer date, Harriet knew he was telling a fib—or a bad joke. Did Professor Dumbledore do sarcasm? Either way, he knew he'd find her there. "What have you got there, dear girl?"
She'd had the presence of mind to snatch hold of her map before Fawkes snatched hold of her, and Harriet quickly stuffed it into her bag. "Nothin'. Just scribbles."
Professor Dumbledore wasn't convinced; in fact, he spared both Harriet and the Angel's Plinth a knowing glance and quirked a brow. Harriet blushed.
He brought her back to the school proper and Harriet expected one of those light but firmly-worded reprimands against climbing and wandering off, but the Headmaster said nothing about her misbehaving, only wishing her a wonderful evening. Later, when she returned to the dormitory after supper, Harriet found two books wrapped in paper and twine left on her trunk's lid, dropped off by an owl or a helpful house-elf.
There was no note, but Harriet knew where they came from all the same.
x X x
The Proteus Indices sounded like the title of a science fiction novel. The language inside certainly appeared as if it belonged to some forgotten alien species—but the book was not a novel. Rather, it was a text cataloging and discussing the existence and various applications of spells derived from the term proteus, the most notable being the "Protean Charm." Harriet managed to read—and understand—just enough to know the Protean Charm, in its most basic form, affixed one object to its mimic, changing it as it itself was changed.
Harriet scratched her head as she read this in the dead of night, her wand-light hidden by the closed curtains around her bed. Why would the Headmaster give her this? After some time, and shameless picture hunting, she learned the charm could be used in all sorts of ways—like potatoes at supper time. It had to be the daftest comparison she'd ever thought up, but it made an odd sort of sense to Harriet; you could boil, fry, slice, dice, or mash them up to your preference, and so too could the Protean Charm be tweaked or applied in clever ways to make something seemingly new or inventive.
For instance, it could—theoretically—be applied to another spell to create a magical relay of sorts, one capable of mimicking information to another spell or—perhaps—onto a map.
Harriet fell asleep reading and woke with the alarm in the morning, slurring, "It's all potatoes." Daphne Greengrass looked at her like she was a deranged goblin.
The next book didn't pertain to one spell in particular, being a part of an encyclopedia set Harriet knew she'd have to return to the Headmaster at some point, lest he forever be missing The Jargogle Jargon of Charms, Hiems Glassius through Illegibilus. One particular section had been marked for her review.
"The Homonculous Charm," Harriet read while sitting outside Ancient Runes on Tuesday, "is a circumstantial, non-renewing Charm specific to the schools of Animation and Translocation, as defined by the British Circle of Magical Mastery and Manifestation. The Charm, when applied to a proper medium, displays information pertinent to identity and movement of Ministry defined species classifications Beings and Spirits [Stump, 1811]. It should never be confused with the object known as a homunculus [pl. Homunculi, ref. The Jargogle Jargon of Transfiguration, Vol. 14, p. 321], an item of decidedly Dark origins sharing a Latin root with the Homonculous Charm."
"So that's how they made it," Harriet murmured under her breath. Dumbledore obviously knew she was making a map—and maybe knew about the Marauder's Map himself, though she couldn't say for sure. She would need to show this to Hermione and Elara when she got the chance. Both the Homonculous Charm and the Protean Charm built upon a knowledge of Charms Harriet hadn't had the chance to accumulate yet, and yet she wanted to understand it. The deeper she peered into the magic of it, the more fascinated she became.
The teacher arrived before the bell and shooed her waiting students into the classroom. Professor Babbling was a short witch with a cloud of red curls escaping from under her hat—and she spoke with both a lisp and the strongest Glaswegian accent Harriet had ever encountered. That meant she spent much of their first lesson gesticulating and drawing funny symbols on the blackboard, and by the time class ended, Harriet wasn't sure she hadn't been speaking a foreign language for the duration of her lecture.
After another grueling session of Defense Against the Dark Arts on Wednesday, the trio of Slytherin witches trudged their way up to the very top of the North Tower, Harriet especially grateful to Hermione for memorizing the way, as she believed they wouldn't have ever found it without her. They arrived first to the circular trap door at the tower's top, attached to which was a slender brass plaque.
"Sybil Trelawney, Divination Instructor," Hermione read aloud, a small moue forming on her upturned face. "That's curious."
"What? The professor's name?"
"No, not that so much as the fact that her name is there to begin with. I haven't seen such a plaque for the other professors."
Harriet leaned against the wall and rubbed her tired eyes, listening to the wind rattle in the high windows.
"Maybe she lives here," Elara said. "I haven't seen this Professor Trelawney out in the commons or the Great Hall before. Have you?"
"No, I suppose not."
More people joined them as the end of the break loomed, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and a few other Slytherins dashing up the long, spiraling steps. Last of all came the Gryffindors—led, of course, by their intrepid leader, Neville Longbottom.
"Merlin's arse," Harriet groaned aloud when the Prat Who Lived came around the corner, him and Finnigan and Weasley all panting for breath.
"Got a problem, Potter?"
"No. Never mind."
Neville scowled and appeared on the verge of instigating an argument, then paused and glanced at Hermione. Kneeling, Hermione had her hand in her bulging school bag searching for something, so she didn't notice Longbottom until he said, "Granger? I thought you had Ghoul Studies."
Hermione flinched and straightened, nearly knocking her head into Harriet's elbow. "Why would you think that?"
"Because Sophie's taking it and said you were in her class."
"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" She flipped her hair over her shoulder and turned away from the puzzled Gryffindor.
"But—."
"Leave off, Longbottom," Elara interrupted. Harriet gave him a steely-eyed, foreboding look—though, in her mind, she thought it was a strange kind of mix-up for Sophie Roper to make. But, then again, here Hermione stood, and it wasn't as if she could be in two places at once.
The trapdoor popped open and out tumbled a spindly silver ladder. Of course, Harriet and other girls gathered on the landing—all dressed in their uniform skirts and robes—frowned. Some of the boys, catching on, snickered, and Dean Thomas whistled. Neville lived up to his shining-hero persona by ordering his group mates up the ladder first.
"This is ridiculous," Hermione huffed as Malfoy shoved Crabbe and Goyle over to the ladder. "It's sexist and—stupid. Why do we have to climb a ladder to get into our class like it's a—tree fort?"
"At least I know to wear my shorts next time." Sighing, Harriet readjusted her bag over her shoulder, poked Kevin and Rick to still them in her robe pocket, and then climbed into the classroom.
The heat pressed upon her as soon as her head breached the floor, somehow both sticky and dry, fueled by a thick fire raging in a soot-stained hearth mixing with melting condensation. Harriet sucked in air laden with patchouli and frankincense, a tangible haze of it sticking to the rafters of the circular attic room, swirling around twisted baubles hung on frazzled twine. Among the low tables, chintz armchairs, and spongy poufs stood a skinny woman who had a striking resemblance to large, a bejeweled dragonfly. She'd draped beaded shawls over her bony shoulders and wore thick, bulbous glasses that accentuated the bugginess of her dark eyes.
"Greetings, greetings," the witch—Professor Trelawney—rasped, wafting her hands in a wide, lofty manner. The bangles on her wrists clattered together. "Find your seats, my children, find your seats."
Elara needed only take two steps into the room before she sneezed, twice, and cast an aggravated, teary-eyed glare toward the line of burning incense sticks stuck to the stained mantel. They went to the table set farthest from the hearth—which was, unfortunately, already occupied by a smarmy, pointy-faced git.
"Potter," Draco drawled as she dropped onto a pouf. He'd taken the only armchair available.
"Malfoy."
"Good to see you didn't faint on your way here."
"And you didn't get trampled by any sparkly horses this morning."
Hermione hissed at them both to be quiet as Professor Trelawney continued speaking.
"You have all found your way here—as I have foreseen. Today, you shall begin your spiritual journey in Divination, the most difficult of arts for one to accomplish—the art of divining that which has not yet come to pass. You!" She suddenly pointed at Michael Corner. "You, boy. Your name?"
"I—? Michael Corner, ma'am?"
"Beware the color green. It is not your friend this week!"
Michael's eyes widened—and he glanced at the Slytherins in fright. Harriet huffed.
"I am your guide, your adviser, your professor—Sybil Trelawney, and together we shall open your Inner Eye to the many wonders of the astral plane!" Again, the bangles clacked together like checkers on a board when she threw her hands in the air. The class stared. "But, alas, not everyone is capable of truly appreciating the marvelous gift of Divination. Few will prove themselves, as the Sight is a flighty wonder whose touch is felt by so very few! Books can only deliver one so far into this practical realm."
Hermione dropped Unfogging the Future onto the table and almost knocked over the candle.
"Disappointed, Granger?" Malfoy snorted, leaning his elbow on the table's edge.
"What are you even doing in this class, Draco? Didn't your mother tell you to take Ancient Runes instead?"
"Yeah." The slightest of pink tones tinged his pale face. Harriet guessed it could be from the stifling heat. "But Father said an 'O' is easier in this class, and it's not like I'll need an Ancient Runes N.E.W.T for Ministry work, is it?"
"Hmm."
Professor Trelawney came nearer their table, swaying in the dull, crimson light struggling to pass through the covered lamps. "This term we will be concentrating solely on tasseomancy—that is, of course, the study of tea leaves. A very important cornerstone of any magical ritual. One should never risk venturing from their home without first consulting the vagaries of the tea leaves."
Elara sneezed.
"You, girl!" Elara froze. "Fetch me the teapot there. The big silver one."
Elara did as bid, rising and walking over to one of the many shelves lining the rounded walls to pick up a large teapot and bring it to their professor.
"My thanks. Oh, and dear? That which you are fearing will come to pass will happen before the Yuletime."
A ghastly pallor overtook Elara as she sank onto her pouf like a water droplet falling down a windowpane.
Professor Trelawney gave them further instructions while she quickly brewed a plain tea and distributed cups of the murky liquid. They split into pairs—Hermione drawing the short straw and grumbling when she turned toward a smug Malfoy—while Elara and Harriet settled on the other end of the table, drinking the tea and swirling the dregs about until they flipped the cups over to drain.
"Remember to consult the figures in Unfogging the Future! The references there will help uncloud your Inner Eye."
"My inner bullshite," Harriet muttered as she flipped through her book and looked for the index, more than a bit ticked off. The professor had no business saying something like that to Elara. Her friend was under enough stress as it was. "Hmph. All right, give me your cup, lemme see…."
Harriet spun the cup around in her hands a few times. She couldn't make heads or tails of what she was meant to be looking for and the low, obfuscating light played tricks on her eyes. "Erm, I think it's a—uh…a person, maybe?" She tilted the cup, face scrunched. "Or a gnome, or a dwarf? Let's see….dwarf…it says—oh, projections of calamity and disgrace. Let's just—." Harriet poked her little finger into the cup and manipulated the dregs about. "There we go! Now he's a cow! And cows mean…a profitable transaction! Brilliant!"
Elara rolled her eyes and dragged the book closer for her own inspection. Harriet did see a small smile at her lips, though.
Perhaps sensing Harriet wasn't taking this seriously or seeing her cup still face down on its saucer, Professor Trelawney picked her way over and snatched it up, leveling one owlish eye in her direction. "What do they call you, my dear?"
"Er, Harriet Potter, ma'am."
"Potter…Potter…ah, yes! There's a touch of destiny about you, I See it!"
Harriet glanced down at herself. A bit of dirt clung to her sleeves and arms from where she'd gotten down on the floor to talk with Livius under her bed. "I think that's just dust, professor."
Malfoy and Hermione pretended to be fascinated with their own cups as to not laugh aloud. Either Trelawney didn't hear Harriet or she just didn't care, because she kept going.
"Ah…geese in a flock…an unwelcome visitor will come to call upon you soon. And here—." She gave the cup a practiced swivel. "A tiger! A poor omen indeed. Your protectors will place you in peril through inaction or poor decisions! And last—the gallows! Tragedy awaits you, Miss Potter!"
Harriet gawked at the woman, her heart worming its way up into her throat, choking her breath. It doesn't mean anything, she told herself, tension making her neck and shoulders ache. She's just having a laugh, spooking the new third-years….
"Poppycock," Hermione grumped just loud enough for Trelawney to hear. The professor gave her a peeved once over as she set Harriet's cup back down.
"Your name, if you would be so kind?"
"Hermione Granger."
"Well, Miss Granger, it is a horrid fate indeed that we cannot all be blessed with the splendor of an Inner Eye. Oh, to live life so myopically—you have my sincerest pity, dear child…."
Trelawney may have been batty, but she had the good sense to flutter away before Hermione could recover from her shock. Fuming, Hermione slammed her book shut, face flushed and tea forgotten. "That—that daft cow!"
Malfoy started to laugh.
Harriet, on the other hand, didn't join in, her mood thoroughly ruined by prophecies of doom. Instead, she nudged Elara's cup aside to rest her head on the table, and by the time Trelawney flipped Neville's cup over and started to wail about finding a Grim, Harriet stopped paying attention and took a much-needed nap.
She didn't think she was going to like this class very much.
A/N: Petition for the wildlife to stop harassing Harriet.
Trelawney is honestly one of the hardest characters to write, wtf. And 90% of tasseomancy symbols are just "Doom awaits you, dummy."
