cxlviii. protector

"Harriet Potter."

Harriet heard her name as if from a great distance, or maybe from underwater, her movements sluggish and ungraceful as she stared at the centaur who'd picked her up. He lowered her to the ground again, and she felt the pressure of it under her shoes, staring at Greyback instead. She didn't know if she felt glad or upset, relieved or angry or just plain sick; it mixed together in her head, in her middle, until she thought she might vomit her guts up and laugh.

"You," said one of the centaurs in a voice thick with authority, his black hair a wild tangle, Greyback's blood splattered across his dark, bare chest. Harriet's eyes followed the glutinous trickle along his torso, and her throat tightened, burning with bile. "You are the one who discovered Actagio in the lake."

Harriet's dazed attention slid to the spear he held, blood running from the sharpened tip to his rough knuckles, silver peeking through the ruby red. He had a cut on his leg, near his front hip, shaped like the werewolf's claws. Harriet guessed he didn't have to worry about contracting the curse, already being a magical creature.

"I am Magorian, the leader of this herd," the centaur said, testier than before, miffed by Harriet's lack of response. Her mouth was as dry as Hagrid's rock cakes. "Humans are not allowed to trespass on our lands."

A rumble of agreement went through the gathered centaurs, their hooves pawing at the rumpled earth. Two of the eight present remained next to Greyback—one aiming a spear, the other an arrow—though the werewolf hadn't moved. No, he stayed limp, white fur speckled in crimson.

Harriet blinked several times and parted her lips. "Sorry," she managed, voice as small as she felt standing among the towering herd.

"You know she is a child, Magorian," the blue-eyed centaur said. He had his bow strapped to his back still, his quiver full of feathered arrows. More arrows dotted the earth like perverse flowers sprung up from nothing.

"Not for much longer." Magorian studied Harriet from his great height, his expression not particularly hostile, but not friendly, either. His bloodied knuckles tightened about his spear, and Harriet had the morbid thought that after killing a monster like Greyback, one scrawny thirteen-year-old wouldn't prove a challenge for him. "You may pass this once. However, know our leniency is not unending, witch."

"I-I'll remember that. Thank you."

He nodded. "Firenze." The first centaur stepped forward, Magorian frowning. "Return the human to the school."

"Of course." He touched the top of Harriet's head, there and gone, probably because he would have had to bend to reach her shoulder. "Come, Harriet Potter."

She went, stumbling, her extremities buzzing and her lungs still tight and aching from her mad dash through the forest, but she stopped to bow to the centaurs once, clumsy and uncertain, yet nonetheless grateful for them saving her life. The centaurs stood, watching her go, and Harriet's last sight of the trampled clearing was of the proud creatures encircling the shadowed mass of Greyback's deceased form, spears jutting into the air, the grass black and glistening.

"Girl," Magorian called. "Tell your Headmaster the beast is dead."

Then, the scene disappeared. Crickets played from the foliage, Firenze's hooves making less noise than Harriet's tired, heavy feet. She was close enough to touch his side if she'd chosen to reach out, and she almost did, frightened by the idea of getting separated and roaming, lost. She looked up at the centaur, and though the moon remained sparse behind the thinning clouds and canopy, he seemed unnaturally bright and clean after everything she'd witnessed. He had not fought Greyback, instead opting to grab her and ensure she'd been taken from the werewolf's clutches.

"How'd you know my name?" she inquired, clearing her throat.

"I have long followed your story, Harriet Potter," Firenze replied, brushing aside a low branch, his tone light, casual. "We centaurs study the skies with great interest, and the stars tell us of all that has happened and all that has yet to be. The stories of our fates, including yours, are there for us to discern."

"Like Divination?"

"Not as you humans understand it, but yes, after a fact." He paused and turned to her, his head tipped in curiosity, but his face otherwise calm, passive. "I confess, it has always fascinated me, as it has fascinated many of the others. Yours is a destiny made of many trials—of loss, grief, and determination. The weight of our world will come to rest upon your shoulders and upon your choices, Harriet Potter, and the stars have yet to tell us how the tale will end."

Nothing Harriet thought to say sounded right, so she said nothing at all, feeling like a ghost outside her own skin, like she hadn't just witnessed a murder—no matter how deserved—that she hadn't escaped being eaten alive by the tips of her fingers. One might expect being frightened or grabbed or attacked to grow old after a time, but it still scared Harriet just as much as it had the first time, just as much as it had when Vernon struck her, or when she drank poisoned tea, or when Tom Riddle tortured her, or when Professor Quirrell turned her own wand on her. Avada Kedavra. The Killing Curse; Snape used it in the forest tonight, that familiar green light, but Harriet hadn't realized it at the time.

He could go to Azkaban for that.

"Goddamn it, Potter, if I fall, keep going!"

"I dunno if I believe in destiny," she told Firenze, peering up through her scuffed spectacles. "I'm just Harriet. That's all I want to be."

"You will never be just anything, young witch. Destiny and Death come for us all."

They continued in silence for a while, and Harriet resisted asking how much farther, if there was a faster way, because her legs felt as if they'd been Transfigured to lead, and she desperately needed rest. Five extra hours to this day felt like a lifetime.

"There is great evil in this world," Firenze said, soft, like a friend imparting bad news. "And it exists in places we least expect. You will always choose to fight it, Harriet Potter, but you will not always win."

That shadowy specter of Tom Riddle rose again to chill her heart, and Harriet heard the echo of her own voice asking Professor Dumbledore if Voldemort would return, and the elderly wizard's reply of "Not today." Not today meant tomorrow—and tomorrow grew closer and closer all the time, until the memory of their conversation in Dumbledore's office haunted her waking thoughts.

Not today. Not today.

Something rustled in the underbrush, and Harriet froze, her heart skipping a beat in her sudden fit of nerves. Firenze touched his bow but didn't draw it, even as the noise moved deliberately in their direction. The bushes shook—and suddenly Hermione's wild mane burst free of the Invisibility Cloak, followed by her jubilant cry. "Oh, Harriet! You're all right!"

Harriet breathed. "Bloody hell," she wheezed, staggering forward into Hermione's open arms, nearly getting whacked over the head by the jar she carried. "You scared the life out of me."

"Me?! Scaring you?! You ran off without a word! I—." She glimpsed the centaur waiting behind Harriet and clammed up, her cheeks darkening. "Hello, sir. I'm Hermione Granger."

Firenze smiled, nodded. "I know." He didn't give further explanation. "I am called Firenze."

"A pleasure to meet you. Thank you for helping Harriet—or, well, I assume you helped."

Firenze nodded again. "Yes. My herd has been tracking the wolf wizard through our lands these long months, but he has evaded us until now. Harriet Potter proved a worthy distraction so the beast could not flee this time. Actagio has been avenged."

"How'd you find me?" Harriet interjected, pulling back, though she kept her hands on her friend's arms. The Invisibility Cloak felt cold under her fingers—no simple feat, considering how frozen her hands had become, both from shock and the rain. She still held her wand, and she feared it'd been permanently welded into her stiff grip. "You didn't go wandering about, did you?"

Hermione sniffed as if offended by the presumption of her wandering anywhere. Then, in answer, she shifted under the Cloak and revealed the hand not clasped about the jar, Harriet wincing against the sudden, bright blue light in her eyes. She held one of the glass lenses. "Of course not. I used the Atlas."

"Brilliant."

Tucking the Atlas away again, the light faded, and so did Hermione's pleased grin. "What happened out there, Harriet?"

"I—." Greyback's phantom weight tugged on the hem of her robes again, choking her, and Harriet rubbed at her sore throat. "I'll tell you later, okay? I—I really just want to get back to the castle and kip for about a thousand years. D'you get Pettigrew? Is Elara okay?"

"Elara is fine." Hermione held up the jar and showed the single, unmoving occupant. "Pickled rat, anyone?"

Snorting, Harriet said, "No, thanks. Though I won't feel so bad gutting them in my detentions after this, I'll tell you that."

"I don't think I will, either."

Firenze led them forward, and after a time, they came upon a path that better resembled an animal trail than anything made by humans, but it saved Harriet from tripping on the vegetation. Hermione chattered at first, as she was prone to do when nervous, but even she fell silent soon enough. Skittering sounds from above startled Hermione into grabbing Harriet's free hand, and when Harriet glanced up, she spotted small, blue feathered birds watching them with curiosity. Jobberknolls. If they started to scream, Harriet thought she might cry.

The crawling, frigid cold chased the blue birds away.

"Harriet," Hermione whispered in warning, fingers clenching hard, Firenze easing his bow free as his tail twitched in agitation. Harriet already recognized what was coming. It was only one Dementor, and it slithered nearer through the trees rather than descending in the veritable horde that had attacked Harriet and Snape before. Had that already happened? Harriet didn't know, and only the single, gruesome creature floated closer, so she hoped its friends wouldn't be arriving soon after.

Hermione squeezed her hand.

The Dementor didn't swoop forward and attack, but it kept on its leisurely, maligning approach, the woods withering around it as the cold bit deep and white mist expelled from Harriet's lips. Firenze reared, knocking an arrow, but when he fired, it did nothing to deter the Dark creature. Harriet felt outside herself still, numb to the chill, unsurprised by the voices swimming about her throbbing head.

"—Go, I'll—."

"—please, not—."

"—foolish girl—."

"Kill me instead—!"

"I'm so sorry, Lily—."

That last voice was Snape. She knew it was Snape, but it'd taken her so long to recognize because Harriet had never heard him speak in such a tone before—desolate, aggrieved.

Snape leaned over her, rainwater on his face, starlight from his own Patronus in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Lily—."

"What happens if we run?" Hermione hissed at Firenze, and the centaur shook his head.

"It will chase you. It has no interest in me."

The Dementor curled a hand around the closest tree, and the bark flaked, its skin glistening in the warbling moonlight. Hermione said something to Harriet, but she didn't hear it, spiraling in her own thoughts like a leaf circling a drain.

Professor Snape looked away, flecks of white snow melting in his limp, black hair. "The Patronus relies entirely on the caster's emotion, on the encapsulation of sheer, unfettered joy."

Harriet lifted her arm.

Elara Black stood in an owl shop, dressed in new robes, a small smile on her mouth. "I'm sorry for being rude. I'm Elara—."

Hermione shrieked as Harriet jumped and threw her arms around her, and they toppled into the snowdrift—.

Shadow puppets roved on the cupboard wall—.

His dark eyes danced as Nicolas Flamel opened the door to his home. "Hello, petit oiseau—."

The Headmaster laughed with open delight as Harriet's misused Protego Flammae exploded every drink in the Great Hall—.

Harriet sorted through her frayed socks, and Elara looked over, saying without thought, "We'll go buy more when we go home—."

Home.

Thoughts of home filled Harriet as she stared the Dementor down, some distant part of her registering that it had risen above her, reaching, Hermione's hand hot over her own, tugging at her to no avail. Home wasn't Grimmauld Place, or Trefhud, or even Hogwarts. It definitely wasn't Privet Drive. Home existed in all those small, involuntary pieces of her heart that people in Harriet's life managed to accrue. Snape said the Patronus needed joy to be cast, but she'd felt his Patronus, had breathed in the light of it, and had wanted it to remain like star-speckled galaxies in her lungs, and she knew it needed more than a happy memory. It needed Hermione's lecturing voice in a sun-warm library, Harriet's head on an open book, Elara's rare smile, Livi's coils on her lap, under her hands, the brush of black wool when Snape pulled her from the Fiendfyre, stepped in front of a werewolf, Dumbledore telling her she didn't have to go back to the Dursleys—.

Harriet grit her teeth. "Expecto Patronum!"

The magic breathed through her like a warm summer breeze, pulling, a sore ache rising in her heart as the white light pooled and twisted from the tip of her wand. It wasn't like Snape's Patronus; it had none of that fierceness, that blazing, fervent edge, like a chest too full with laughter bubbling and cracking about the edges. Instead, her Patronus was quiet, almost fragile, but lasting—a mischievous hum, the quirk of a lip, less like the stars come down from the heavens and more like a glimmer of moonlight on still waters. The Dementor hissed in pain as the light flared, retreating into the forest again, and the trio watched the Patronus flap about their heads until it came to a stop on Harriet's shoulder.

"It's…a crow," Hermione breathed, her smile spreading as the translucent bird preened. Its feathers gleamed as if dipped in silver gilt, inquisitive beak turning to Harriet's ear like it had a secret to give."You did it."

Harriet touched the crow, and it dispersed, the light dying, though the warmth spilled through her trembling fingers in a welcomed rush. Too quick, the gentle comfort bled to nothing, and Harriet longed for it to return. I did it. I really did it.

Exhaustion rose, quick as Livi after a treat, and Harriet slumped, her knees gone weak and jellied. Firenze caught her under the arms, and before she could register it, she and Hermione were on his back, Hermione holding her upright enough to stay seated. "Centaurs do not bear humans as beasts of burden do," he told them as he set forth at a decent trot, his hair blowing back in Harriet's face, the wind cold on her hot brow. "But just this once, I will bear your weight. Because destiny can use extra strength now and again."

x X x

Harriet didn't register much about their return trek from the forest. She remembered sliding from Firenze's back, his faint voice saying goodbye, Hermione slipping the cool Cloak over their heads. She could recall the murky patter of their footsteps in an empty corridor, Hermione handing the jar off to the Headmaster, and then—.

"Miss Potter? Miss Potter, can you hear me?"

Harriet swayed, and Madam Pomfrey redoubled her grip upon her shaking arm. She looked round to find Dumbledore's blue eyes, usually so effusive, dim with worry.

She was finally back in the infimary, and her past self—or future self—had gone.

"Greyback's dead," she said, Pomfrey gasping, halting her ministrations. Dumbledore looked quite grim, standing there in the dim infirmary, his eyes fixed on Harriet's own. Something passed between the adults that Harriet was much too exhausted to decipher. "Magorian said to tell you. I don't think he liked me."

"Magorian? Yes, he has little love for any humans."

"Mm." Harriet blinked. Behind her eyelids, Greyback snarled and snapped, one yellow eye leering like a smoldering sun, white fur painted red. "I cast a Patronus."

Dumbledore's gaze softened, something like pride creasing the lines and wrinkles about his eyes. "Did you indeed? That's extraordinary magic, Harriet."

"It's a crow." Madam Pomfrey urged her to sit on her bed, placing a glass of purple potion in her dirty, scuffed hands. It was the same potion the healer had dosed the Potions Master with. Harriet glanced at the drawn curtains across the aisle. She could hear snoring. How bloody odd. "S'not very impressive. D'you know Professor Snape's is a phoenix? I saw it."

Apparently he didn't know, because Professor Dumbledore's brow rose, and he touched his mouth, tapping a finger against his lip in thought. "I didn't," he admitted, quiet and preoccupied.

"It was beautiful." She drank the dram of Dreamless Sleep and set the glass aside, her limbs growing heavy. It teetered on the edge before a spell from Dumbledore helped settle it.

"I'm certain it was, dear girl. I'm certain it was."

She slipped down, the starched sheet rough on her cheek. Harriet breathed in the clean scent—and remembered nothing else.


A/N: I changed Harriet's Patronus based partly on its symbolism — crows can represent death, magic, mystery, and resourcefulness, while stags represent pride, nobility, and heroism, which aren't necessarily things I feel Harriet lacks, but I don't think she has the same connection to James that canon!Harry did. Harry wanted to be like his father and reveled in all the similarities between them, whereas Harriet spends more time considering her mother. I thought about using Lily's doe, but some of the symbolism (kindness, passivity, grace) didn't match up and I did not want to use something Snape once had.

Harriet: "Expecto Patronum!"

[Unnamed Goose appears]

Harriet: "I—?"

[Unnamed Goose begins stealing Dementors' things, honking]

Harriet: "Excellent. My spirit animal."