clxxiv. just harriet
Even in a daze, Harriet had the presence of mind to wonder aloud why Snape was walking her into the dungeons if he meant for them to speak with the Headmaster.
"Because the Headmaster is at dinner," the Potions Master answered in a short, clipped retort. "You could march the whole breadth of the school on your own, or you could avoid the attention by using the Floo."
They stepped into his classroom, and half a moment later, they exited the Floo into the Headmaster's office, Harriet wincing against the bright, late afternoon sunlight reflecting off the lake. Fawkes trilled and ruffled his wings in greeting but remained on his perch, more interested in the food laid out in his dish.
Harriet didn't wait for Snape's direction before sitting down on a padded bench shoved against the wall, her knees weak. Above her head, one of the old Heads scoffed.
"In trouble again, girl?" Phineas Nigellus asked, looking smug in his gilded frame. "It's only been a week, and you're already here to see the Headmaster. Oh, it might be expulsion this time."
She twisted and scowled up at the wizard. "I'm not in trouble. At least, I don't think so."
"Should I tell my grandson to expect you home? He's been in a terrible sulk ever since you and little Elara departed."
His fond referral to the youngest member of his depleted House made Harriet cringe and wrinkle her nose. She wagered that he wouldn't call Elara little to her face; he valued his portrait too much.
"Will you shut up?" Snape spat. Phineas recoiled, gasping.
"Well! How's that for a show of respect! And from a former Head of Slytherin no less!"
Ignoring him, Snape paced from the hearth to the Headmaster's desk, an expanse that included three short steps to the higher platform and a wide swathe of antique carpet. He completed the circuit twice before Harriet shook herself enough to gather her wits and draw a breath.
"Hermione and Elara," she said, freezing Snape in place. "They—Slytherin kicked them out of the room and sent them to dinner. They'll be worried."
"You mean they'll cause a scene," Snape retorted. "How typical. Wait here—."
Without waiting for further argument, he threw himself through the Floo and disappeared. Harriet didn't know why he'd be bent out of shape about her friends being worried if she disappeared, but decided he was upset, and Snape was always more of an arsehole when upset.
She removed her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes.
"Hmpf." Phineas huffed from the wall. "I don't know what that boy's problem is, but he has no business speaking to me in that manner."
"He's always been a rattlecap," said a plump Headmistress two frames over. "But Phinny, my lad, your blathering could test even the most stalwart of fellows."
"Don't be ridiculous."
Harriet replaced her glasses and sighed.
Snape returned some minutes later, swooping out of the hearth like an escaping plume of smoke, and behind him came the Headmaster, who appeared only marginally more cheerful than the scowling Potions Master.
"Good evening, Harriet."
"'Lo, Headmaster."
Instead of going toward his desk, Professor Dumbledore conjured a pair of padded chairs across from Harriet and lowered himself into one. Snape didn't sit, opting to loom at the hearth, facing away from them.
"Are you well?"
Harriet shifted in her seat and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm all right, sir. Just—." Scared. Petrified. Anxious. "Not sure what I should do. Did Snape—?"
"Yes, Professor Snape told me what he could when he came to retrieve me."
Harriet simply nodded, unsure of what else to say, if she needed to say anything at all. Some part of her tensed in expectation of Dumbledore getting annoyed with her bringing something so trivial to his attention, though logically Harriet knew he would never do that. Still, it seemed surreal to be so grim and terrified over such a small thing as a question.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to tell him," she confessed.
"You tell him no, obviously," Snape snapped by the fire, crossing his arms against his chest. "That was never in any doubt."
"Yeah?" Harriet retorted, heat rising in her neck. She didn't like the insinuation that she was an idiot for being uncertain. "Then why don't you go tell him that? Go tell him to sod off and then sit in his class for the next four years! It's not like you have to worry about getting your face hexed into a desk for demonstration purposes just because he's brassed off with you!"
Snape dropped his arms and whirled around. "You insolent—!"
Professor Dumbledore lifted his hand, stilling Snape's words. Harriet's eyes cut to him, and the anger flared again, her teeth gnashing and her throat tight, wanting Snape to open his mouth so she'd have an excuse to shout and yell and—.
"Enough," Dumbledore said. "Enough, Harriet."
She caught her breath and blinked, forcing herself to look away. The air filling her lungs sunk like syrup in her chest, and Harriet held it there until the itch under her skin dissipated, and the hands clenched into fists on her lap relaxed. She exhaled.
A full minute of tense silence passed them by before Professor Dumbledore spoke. "If you repeat your conversation with Professor Slytherin, Harriet. That would be most helpful."
She told him, beginning with the wizard's odd remarks on her reading material, continuing to his mention of the competition and the deadline. All the while, Dumbledore listened close, and Harriet refused to look at the black shape of the Potions Master lurking behind his chair.
"I don't have until October, really," she told the Headmaster. "No matter what he said. He made it clear he'd be offended if I took too long to make up my mind. I told him I have to talk to my guardians and hoped it would give me more time."
Professor Dumbledore made a noise of agreement, looking past Harriet, his brilliant mind stirring up thoughts she could only guess at. His brow furrowed.
Harriet wished she could be even half as bright as Dumbledore, or as powerful. Then she could tell Slytherin to jog on, and he'd have to leave her in peace.
But that's not true, is it? She reminded herself, heart sinking. Even Dumbledore has to put up with him. Greatest wizard of the century, and there's nothing he can do about the pompous git.
Apropos of nothing, the Headmaster stood and walked away, meandering up the steps to the dais that held his desk and most of his bookshelves. Confused, Harriet forced her weak knees to cooperate and followed, coming to a stop by the comfortable guest chairs. She rested her hand on the top of one, and her fingers drew anxious patterns over the fabric.
Dumbledore remained with his back to the room, head tilted as he looked at the many ancient frames of his predecessors and they looked back at him, waiting for him to speak. Even Fawkes had ceased nibbling on his dinner to study the wizard.
Finally, he turned.
"What would you say if I asked you to tell Professor Slytherin yes?"
The shock didn't have a chance to register, and Harriet hadn't yet opened her mouth before robes rustled behind her, and Snape stepped closer. She'd almost forgotten he was there.
"Have you lost your bloody mind?!" he thundered. The portraits yelped in indignation.
Dumbledore didn't answer him. He kept his blue eyes pinned to Harriet as she struggled to find her voice.
"Why, sir?" she managed after clearing her throat. "Do—? Oh. I think I get it. D'you want me to enter his competition and lose on purpose?"
"No, actually. It would be my intention for you to win."
Whatever semblance of relief Harriet had found vanished, and she thought she might vomit.
Snape, meanwhile, hadn't lost his ability to talk like Harriet. In fact, he had quite a bit to say.
"Had I know bringing her to you would result in your trite efforts of encouraging latent, suicidal Gryffindor tendencies, I wouldn't have bothered!" he snarled, earning a sharp look from the Headmaster. "Haven't there been enough martyrs in this war? Haven't enough Potters died under the Dark Lord's wand? Why on earth would you encourage this stupidity?"
"Severus—."
"No, perhaps I'm mistaken. Maybe I've misjudged your intentions. Perhaps you're simply a fan of short coffins—!"
"Enough!" Dumbledore shouted, and Harriet stumbled, having never heard him raise his voice before. Snape's mouth snapped closed with an audible click of teeth, his face flushed with anger as he glared at the Headmaster.
The two men stared at one another, sharing some silent, meaningful communication before Snape swiveled on the heels of his boots and stormed from the room.
The quiet that resulted after the door slammed and shook the windows twisted Harriet's insides.
"Why, Professor?"
Dumbledore exhaled, then moved to sit his chair behind the desk. That felt significant to Harriet, that he meant to talk to her as her Headmaster, her guardian, instead of as a friend or an equal. She found that…comforting, though she couldn't rightly reckon why. Maybe because it gave the illusion of him knowing all the right answers when she didn't.
"I do not quite know where to begin. The idea first occurred to me when Professor Snape reported Professor Slytherin's intention to find an apprentice. In his cruel and uncaring way, our Defense instructor has always paid you particular attention, your experiences and deeds at the school earning his interest. I knew he would consider you a potential candidate. Though we have always discouraged that interest, I have at times wondered if it'd serve us better to encourage it."
Harriet said nothing, still standing by the chair as she watched Dumbledore, and he watched her, a slight tip to his head as he considered her expression.
"We've had discussions about Lord Voldemort before."
"Yes, sir."
"Discussions on his…similarities with Professor Slytherin and Minister Gaunt."
"Yes."
Dumbledore paused again as if carefully picking his words. Harriet wished he wouldn't. Cold, nervous sweat prickled on the back of her neck.
"Harriet," he murmured, voice soft and raspy. "My heart wishes for nothing more than to say you should decline Professor Slytherin's invitation and never suffer his attention again. If I could, I would send you far from here. You and Miss Black and Miss Granger. I would send you away from the shadows that have grown so long and dark over our community, and I would not have such a terrible burden placed upon you. I would see you and all of the children under my care happy and free."
Harriet lowered her gaze, fingers fidgeting again. "I don't think life's ever been that convenient for me, Professor."
He smiled, and it was a small, sad thing. "It has been considered in the past whether or not you would be safer at Beauxbatons."
A flash of conversation stirred in Harriet's memory, recalling the Flamels' mingling voices, Perenelle adamant in her desire to take Harriet and Elara in. Mr. Flamel had said no.
"Because ze danger does not exist in Poudlard alone; it exists in 'Arriet, and so long as some piece of Tom Riddle keeps breathing, she will be in danger. No matter where she goes."
The back of her eyes prickled, and Harriet sniffed. "I wouldn't want to leave Hogwarts."
"No?"
"No. Hogwarts is my home." She shrugged, not quite able to bring her eyes back to the Headmaster, her stomach doing anxious flip-flops in her middle. "And it wouldn't matter, would it? If I went away. It—. He would come for me eventually, wouldn't he?"
"Yes."
"Because Neville's not really the Boy Who Lived."
"No, he is not."
A sudden flash of anger returned to Harriet. It swelled white-hot from her chest to her mouth, unshed tears burning hot under her eyelids. "It's not fair," she shouted, voice strangled by emotion. "And I don't care what anyone says about life not being fair! It's not right! I never—I never asked for any of this! I didn't do anything! And because of some bloody red-eyed tosser who doesn't know how to die properly, I have to be scared all the time to be on my own or I might be kidnapped or poisoned, and I can't have a normal summer or family or a normal fucking school year—."
Throat tightening, Harriet jerked into motion, not sure what she meant to do or where to go, but the sudden flash of Fawkes' brilliant wings caught her attention, and Harriet went to stand before his perch. The phoenix began to trill a song as she reached for him, and she could feel the melody quiver under his warm feathers.
For a long while, Harriet remained there while the bird sang and the Headmaster didn't speak, the fire popping in the grate, the last of the sunlight vanishing on the horizon. Her anger didn't dissipate as quickly as before, lingering overlong like a bad smell, and when it did go, it left behind a sore emptiness, an acute sting of grief and embarrassment.
"I'm sorry, Professor," she whispered, barely audible over Fawkes' chirping. "I know it's not your fault."
She heard Dumbledore's bones creak as he rose and came to join her by the perch. "I would be a very foolish wizard indeed if I didn't allow a witch to vent her frustrations every now and again."
Harriet tried to smile, her mouth making vague motions in that direction, and Professor Dumbledore studied her face. He paid particular attention to her eyes before he inclined his chin.
"Tell me, Harriet; do you know why Professor Slytherin has always declined to teach the students dueling?"
"No," she said on reflex. "Or, well, wait. Because he doesn't want others to pick up on his weaknesses?"
"Exactly right."
"Then, his apprentice…." Harriet said, the metaphoric dots connecting as she looked up at Professor Dumbledore.
"Would learn those weaknesses, yes."
"…and the weaknesses of…." Her eyes widened. "Gaunt. And Voldemort. Because they're the same."
"Fundamentally so." Dumbledore nodded. "It has been my goal for many years to protect others from Dark wizards, most notably Tom Riddle and his followers. I fear that, more often than not, I have failed. Sometimes spectacularly so." Fawkes crooned a low, somber note as the Headmaster stroked one finger against his beak. "What I owe you more than happiness or blissful ignorance, Harriet, is the ability to protect yourself and the ones you love from those who would harm you. I could send you to Beauxbatons. I could lie and say I do not believe Voldemort will return or that he will not seek you out in time. However, these platitudes would not serve to protect you from the inevitable nor grant you the tools to carry on after my best wishes fail. If I can give you the ability to survive, I will see it done, even if Tom must be your teacher to sow his own ruin."
The firmness of his tone seemed to be reflected by the burnished glow of the lights, the blooming flicker of candles coming alive as the windows darkened against the coming night. None of the portraits dared speak, though they all sat at attention, watching. Waiting.
"I promise, one day, the world will not be so dark. Tom will answer for his crimes and be punished at the end of this long road. Then, it will be people like you, dear girl, and the children of this school who resist the tyranny of evil men, who will triumph."
Harriet lowered her hand from Fawkes and swallowed her trepidation. "You think I could defeat him? I—. Headmaster, I'm not—. I could never stand a chance against him, sir. If—when—the Dark Lord came for me, I couldn't best him."
"He is not as invincible as he pretends to be."
Grimacing, Harriet muttered, "But I'm not brilliant, or—powerful. I'm just—." She rubbed at her neck, scratching the raised, ropey skin of her scar. "I'm just Harriet, Professor. Just Harriet. Nothing special."
"And he is just Tom Riddle. Harriet Potter is worth far, far more than the creature he has become."
Harriet had to face away, her cheeks warm. A tiny wisp of hope escaped into her heart, and she realized her view of her future had long since dimmed into something obscure and elusive, tainted by nightmares of a madman's laughter and her own tortured screams. Since the end of her first year, she'd known Voldemort would return one day, and Harriet wondered when she'd begun to accept death as an inevitability.
For one second, Professor Dumbledore's words shone a light through the dark clouds, and Harriet imagined what the future could be. It was a world without Muggle-born registries or crooked Aurors, a world in which Professor Slytherin did not preside over bruised, terrified children and Marvolo Gaunt didn't get to ruin people's lives for sport.
It seemed very, very far away.
"D'you really think I could be his apprentice?" she asked. "That I could learn what I need to know and not be…tempted like before in front of the Mirror of Erised?"
"Yes. I believe in you, Harriet."
She smiled then, a brief flash of teeth before she bowed her head again, and Dumbledore chuckled. "I can try, I guess. But, Professor, it might be for nothing. It's a competition, and I'm almost certain Slytherin hates my guts."
"All I can ask of you is to try, and it would do Tom good to have his own sentiments returned in full."
Harriet snorted and gave Fawkes one final stroke, a warm, tingling sensation clinging to her fingertips after she moved away. "I'm still afraid, Headmaster."
He grasped her skinny shoulder and squeezed. "You wouldn't be alone. We would help you however we could."
Harriet didn't ask him what he meant by 'we.' When he led her to the door, and she passed down the spiraling stairs and through the gargoyle, she found Snape waiting in the corridor, still sullen and angry but nonetheless there. He sneered at Harriet, uncrossing his arms as he leaned away from the wall.
Without a word, they both turned and started on their way toward the dungeons together.
A/N: CDT reached 1m reads on FFN! That's awesome!
Dumbledore: "Ha, yeah, let's make her Slytherin's apprentice!"
Snape: "…"
Snape: "It's time you got put in a home, old man."
