clxxviii. from the air, from the depths

Harriet stood and squinted at herself in the bathroom mirror for a long time.

The face peering back from the fogged glass was thin with a narrow nose and eerily green eyes. Her wet hair stuck to her skin, and the fringe curled over her brow, a mess of tangles and wild cowlicks. Spots of acne dotted her chin and forehead here and there, and her scar crept spider-like from her skinny shoulder, ropey white lines skittering over her chest, neck, and jaw.

Her ears didn't stick out too far, and she had a stubborn set to her jaw. Her brows lowered sharply over her eyes, and her teeth were fairly unremarkable; white but slightly uneven, her lips somewhat pale and chapped by the cooling weather. The residents of Privet Drive used to say she had a shifty face, and Harriet never really understood what they meant until she started school.

An impatient knock sounded on the closed door. "Are you ever going to come out of there? We're going to be late!"

"Gimme another minute."

"You said that five minutes ago!"

"Well, give me five more then."

"Honestly!" Footsteps thumped away from the entrance.

Harriet studied the things cluttering the counter. Each girl in their year had a shelf allotted for their bath things; Pansy had more junk than anyone, little bottles and vials and packets always overflowing across the stone surface around the sinks. Katherine Runcorn had her own standing mirror with a dozen reflective bits that looked like something out of Divinations, and Elara had an embroidered black valise hiding her medical potions.

Harriet's mouth flattened into a tight line as she studied her own shelf, which held one half-empty bottle of shampoo, a school-issued bar of soap, a little pouch for feminine products, a toothbrush and paste, and a boar-bristle brush in need of cleaning. She knew she had some other things in her trunk—a cream for her scar, some unguent against Dark magic and bruises, a potion for headaches nearing expiration—but nothing that needed to be added to her shelf.

She picked up one of Pansy's vials—a thin glass ampule about the size of Harriet's finger filled with a swirling pink-colored cream. The print on the glass proved too small for her to read, but Harriet thought the gunk might be age-proofing serum.

"She's fourteen, for Merlin's sake," she muttered, putting the vial back in place. She looked at herself in the mirror again.

In the weeks since Harriet's confrontation with the three seventh-years, she found she couldn't quite forget their words or their harsh, jeering faces. They stuck in her mind like the last bit of mess at the bottom of a scorched cauldron, and no matter how Harriet chipped away at it, the needling laughter persisted.

"Potter, you're such a freak!"

She shouldn't care what someone like bloody Squabs and her cronies thought. She didn't!

Harriet eyed her hair and the cowlicks and made an effort to flatten the worst offenders. They persisted despite the water and her best ministrations.

Glaring at her reflection, Harriet looked away, then dragged on the rest of her uniform and pushed her glasses onto her face. She fussed with the sleeves until they laid straight, and she tucked in her shirt. She did every button up to the top and tightened the tie as it was meant to be, though it felt strangling. She straightened her robes until they fell even on both sides and the folds turned at the right angles, pulled back at the collar and edge to display the barest inch of the inner lining. Finally, she clipped the brooch at the top.

She looked once more at her plain face, lacking any form of makeup or funny creams, her hair still disobedient and her expression vaguely sour. A sigh escaped Harriet as if released from the very bottom of her soul.

Stop thinking about what they said. They're just jealous munters, the lot of them.

Jealous of what? asked a nasty voice in the back of her mind.

"You look very nice," said the mirror. Harriet's shoulders slumped.

"Thanks," she mumbled before escaping the room.

Hermione must have gone ahead, as no one else yet lingered in the dormitory aside from Elara, who lay partially sprawled across the foot of her bed, perusing a letter as she waited for Harriet. She folded the top flap of the letter down and raised a brow at the younger witch's tidy appearance but didn't mention anything.

"Are you finally ready to go? We've missed breakfast."

Harriet grunted in affirmation and went to grab her satchel.

"What's had you preoccupied lately? I've never seen you take so long in the lavatory to get ready in the morning."

"Don't worry about it." She tightened the strap of her satchel and made to head out the door when her toe caught the edge of something solid sticking out from under the foot of Hermione's bed. "Ouch! What in the world is that?"

Elara rose to gather her bag and glanced at the fat-bellied cauldron Harriet had almost bludgeoned her leg on. The black surface had a curious green sheen on it, like the back of a snake, though that may be the color of the sunlight coming through the lake.

"Oh. She finally managed to talk Mr. Flamel into sending an Embolized Cauldron."

"Is that what that is? I thought Mr. Flamel would have sent it right off."

"Apparently, it's rather dangerous. He wanted her to make her case for it and outline what she wants us to use it for."

Harriet let out an aggravated sigh and kept walking. "I love the witch, but we're going to end up burning the dorms down, and I know I'm going to be the one blamed."

They left the dorms and ascended through the dungeons, hurrying into a light jog past the Great Hall in their rush to make it to Charms. They clattered through the door without a minute to spare, earning a chiding word from Professor Flitwick and a miffed look from Hermione.

"You didn't save us spots!" Harriet hissed, seeing Hermione seated between Malfoy and Zabini.

"I tried! I didn't know if you two were going to stop mucking about and leave the dorm," she snapped in return, glancing at Professor Flitwick as the short wizard began writing on his chalkboard with magic. "You were almost late!"

She said this as if it were a terrible crime, and Harriet huffed, resisting the urge to kick Malfoy in the shin. He looked much too smug, the prat.

"Miss Potter, Miss Black. Find your seats, please!"

"Yes, Professor."

Grumbling, Harriet went to the open desk by Crabbe and Goyle, while Elara crossed the room to sit with the Ravenclaws. Harriet dropped her bag with a bit more heat than needed, which earned another reproving look from Professor Flitwick that she chose to ignore.

"Good morning, everyone! I hope you are well-rested and finished your assignments, as we're ready to tackle Summoning Charms today! Now, to begin…."

Class started, and the lesson proved diverting enough for Harriet to forget her worries and lighten her mood. Goyle had smuggled in half a slab of Honeydukes' best fudge, and he begrudgingly shared with Crabbe and Harriet after they needled him to no end. She exchanged notes with Elara using the Switching Spell—until Professor Flitwick gave her The Look, which meant the jovial wizard knew exactly what she was doing and was reaching the end of his patience.

Harriet winced and hunched down at her desk and concentrated on the lesson.

After half an hour, she'd learned the spell well enough to Summon Draco's chair from under his backside. He tried to retaliate by Summoning her wand, and Harriet cackled, the Charmed silver with the Honor Among Thieves enchantment warm on her wrist.

Of course, Professor Flitwick took exception to her causing mischief, which resulted in Harriet losing two House points and having to quietly read a selection from their textbook for the rest of the period. Malfoy wore a smarmy smirk—until Terry came over to Hermione's desk and they traded off Summoning books from each other's hands.

Malfoy didn't appear quite so happy after that.

Professor Flitwick called Harriet back when the lecture ended and assigned her extra homework, both as a punishment for her poor use of class time and because she made such sufficient progress on mastering the spell. He was excited to see her proficiency expand. Harriet could only sigh and thank him.

"You have seemed distracted of late, Miss Potter. Is everything all right?"

"Yes, Professor."

"I know your Head of House can be…erm, difficult to talk to if you have a problem. You can always come to me or Professors McGonagall and Sprout if you need! And Professor Snape, of course. He used to be Head of Slytherin House." A strange, troubled expression flickered through Professor Flitwick's eyes. "For a time."

Harriet cleared her throat and fidgeted with the extra assignment in her hands. "I know, sir. Thank you, but I'm fine. I promise I'll pay better attention in class."

"Well, so long as you're sure…."

She made her excuses, and though still concerned, Professor Flitwick dismissed her. Harriet shoved the parchment into her satchel on her way out the door, and she ran along the corridor. She stopped in the vaulted stairwell, stuck behind the crush of bodies heading to the lower levels. It seemed much of the school was headed to the foyer.

That's odd. Why aren't they going to their next class?

She studied the back of the heads in front of her and recognized one of the younger Slytherins. She tapped Gabriel Flourish on the shoulder, and he blushed scarlet as he turned around to look at her.

"What's all this? Don't you second-years have Defense next?"

Flourish quickly shook his head. "No—I mean, usually, yeah. But didn't you read the announcement on the common room board?"

Considering Harriet had barely made it Charms on time, she hadn't loitered about to read whatever could have been added in the evening. She waited for Flourish to go on.

"The—the other schools are coming today. They're supposed to arrive after first period."

"Oh. Brilliant, thanks."

Harriet kept with the crowd until they spilled through the main doors out onto the grounds, the grass still sparkling with morning dew and perilously slick underfoot. Professor McGonagall stood not far off spelling mud from the backsides of young Gryffindors who'd fallen in the muck.

"Thanks for waiting for me," Harriet grumbled to her friends as she found them off to the side. They stood on the low part of a stone retaining wall, kept clear of the mud and running feet. "I didn't even know about all this nonsense."

"What did Flitwick want?" Elara asked, ignoring her jibe.

"To give me extra homework."

"Extra homework?" Hermione gasped. Her gaze honed in on the satchel hanging off Harriet's shoulder, a clear trace of greed glittering in her eyes.

"It's in my pocket, you daft woman. I'll show it to you later."

Before Hermione got the chance to ferret through Harriet's pockets, Professor Slytherin came stalking over like a boggart out of its closet and started gathering his students, forcing them into orderly lines. Harriet noticed the other Houses doing the same—but that did not explain how she landed next to Professor Slytherin in the line when the rest of the teachers lingered in the back.

She made to shuffle away, and his hand landed on her shoulder.

Oh, fuck.

Harriet stood still, stiff as stone, and refused to fidget or look up at the Defense instructor. Though his grip remained genial, a certain weight in his fingers felt restrictive, and she wondered what she could have possibly done now to earn his attention.

"The Beauxbatons delegation is approaching!" Professor Dumbledore informed the students at large.

Much chatter and excitement resounded among the crowd as the flying speck swooping low over the forest grew larger and larger until they could discern the shape of great, winged horses and a hulking carriage. Many of the younger students gathered in the front gasped aloud as the flying steeds descended, and Harriet flinched when third-year Galen Lament jumped back and trod on her feet. She curled her lip at the mud on her robes and splattered on her socks but said nothing.

She recognized the golden crest of the French school emblazoned on the carriage's huge door before the flying horses landed and the carriage eased to a halt. She also recognized the towering figure who exited; Madame Maxime couldn't be mistaken for anyone other than herself.

Many students gasped at the satin-clad giantess, the Headmistress shrugging off the gaucheness with an easy, practiced grace. Professor Dumbledore moved without hesitation to greet her, sweeping into an elegant bow that had many of the first-years giggling.

"Madame Maxime! How wonderful it is to see you again!"

"'Eadmaster Dumbledore. 'Ow do you do?"

As they exchanged pleasantries, the Beauxbatons students started slipping out of the carriage, using a bronzed set of steps to get down that their Headmistress had bypassed. The older teens dressed in powdery blues and navies stared at Hogwarts' high walls and turrets with trepidation. They shivered and crossed their arms, the light, fluttering silk of their robes not quite up to the October weather in rural Scotland.

A few other French adults aside from Madame Maxime joined her and Dumbledore or lingered by their cold students. One of the shorter, dark-haired wizards Harriet remembered being called Professor Henchizo, but she couldn't place any of the others. She thought she recognized one of the teenage blonde witches from her stay with the Flamels in France.

What was her name? Flo? Flora?

It did not take long for Durmstrang to arrive. A disturbance rippled over the placid surface of the lake, and Harriet watched the beginnings of a mast slice through the water, followed by the rigging and the gray shadow of a massive ship cresting like a breaching whale. The crowd cheered and shouted at the spectacle, and Hermione bounced in place, undoubtedly thinking about what kind of magic went into a vessel like that.

"How do they preserve a habitable environment under the water?" she whispered under her breath. "Did they take examples from Muggle submarines? What kind of Charms would actualize the pressure? Can it actually sail? Does it work like a real ship, or is it operating purely on magic—?"

"Hermione, remember to breathe," Elara sighed.

The boat came to a rest in the shallows, and people began to disembark.

"Ah, here comes Igor now," Dumbledore said, giving a name to the wizard who headed the procession walking from the shoreline. Harriet had to admit, Igor didn't quite match her expectation for a headmaster of a school noted for its Dark magic. He was tall and thin and white-haired, his goatee oiled and his bearing almost reminiscent of Lockhart's in its pompous, exaggerated movements. His tone was as unctuous as a snake oil peddler.

"Dumbledore, my dear fellow! So nice to see you!"

"Professor Karkaroff, the pleasure is all mine."

The two wizards shook hands—and Professor Slytherin's fingers shifted ever so slightly on Harriet's shoulder, fingertips pressing into the soft material of her robes. She'd almost forgotten about him and jumped when he moved. Slytherin scoffed.

The Durmstrang students followed up the slope at a more sedate pace, better dressed for the weather in their burgundy, fur-lined cloaks and thick-soled boots. Their three extra professors didn't look interested in joining Karkaroff with Dumbledore; they hung back, discomfort in their nervous postures, one of the older witches looking as if she very much wanted to get back on the boat.

A sudden whisper went through the Hogwarts students when Karkaroff called one of his charges over. The boy—more a man, really, broad-shouldered and tall despite his duck-footed gait—scowled at Karkaroff's back but went to him all the same.

"Viktor's got a bit of a head cold…I'm sure you don't mind if we head in…."

"That's Viktor Krum!" hissed fifth-year Finn Stein from behind Harriet. Next to him, Caia Verpia let out a small, eager shriek

"Merlin! Do you think he gives out autographs? Does he have a girlfriend—?"

"Be quiet, you vapid girl," Professor Slytherin snapped. "Before you embarrass yourself."

"Isn't he a Quidditch player or something?" Hermione whispered to Draco—when in the world did he get there? The sneaky prat—and Malfoy looked at her as if she'd lost her marbles.

"He's one of the best Seekers in the world, Granger! He played at the World Cup!"

"Oh, yes. I remember now. I didn't know he was still in school."

The Durmstrang students trailed after their Headmaster, followed by the Beauxbatons professors and their charges, with Hogwarts coming last of all. As her House started to move, Harriet made to shimmy out from under Slytherin's grip, but his hand remained in place, and so too did Harriet.

Swallowing her nerves, she turned her head to glance up at the wizard.

Slytherin observed her with the kind of blasé amusement one might grant a twitching bug with its legs torn off. Harriet felt quite like a bug without its legs, wanting to wriggle away from there but helpless to go.

"Erm, d'you need something, Professor?"

He took his time responding, bracing his hand with just enough pressure to force Harriet to turn a step in his direction, her fear roiling in her empty stomach. "You haven't given me an answer yet, Miss Potter. It's rude to make people wait. Very unwise."

"I—sorry, Professor," Harriet stuttered, unable to help how her eyes jumped about the grounds, searching for assistance. Merlin, where was Professor Snape when he was needed? Had he even come out of the castle?

"Sorry is not an answer." His grip tightened.

"Yes," Harriet sputtered before she could stop herself, before the cowardly part of her being jerked her feet out from under her and had her run for the castle. The word came out of her mouth, and her heart leapt in horror. Bloody hell! "My answer, sir. Is yes. I apologize for taking so long."

He released Harriet at last, his smile faint but present. "Very good, Miss Potter."

Harriet thought she might vomit on her shoes. She reminded herself that what she'd done couldn't be undone, and she had Dumbledore's support on her side. She needed to remain calm and in control of her emotions; Slytherin fed on reactions like a Dementor fed on despair, and she'd already given too much of her unease away.

So, Harriet cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. She pretended the wizard in front of her didn't scare the wits out of her and smiled. But, more than anything, it probably looked like a grimace.

A hand brushed hers, hidden by the sleeve of her robe, and Harriet startled. A second one gripped the other.

"Professor Slytherin," Elara drawled, cold and indifferent. "I would also like to enter your competition."

What?!

"And me!" Hermione interjected, beaming sweetly, though the hand that gripped Harriet's felt cold and clammy. "Is that all right, Professor?"

Slytherin arched a brow, but he didn't offer any resistance to their inclusion. "Of course," he said. "I do hope you're prepared for the…challenges ahead."

By then, much of the school had retreated inside, and Slytherin followed the final, lingering dregs without another thought toward Harriet or the others. Harriet gripped Hermione and Elara by the hands so tightly, she could feel the tremors running up her skinny arms.

"What in the fuck d'you think you're doing?" she demanded, her voice breaking on the final word, forcing Harriet to swallow. "Why did you do that?!"

Elara shook her off and rubbed at her palm, returning feeling to her fingers. "Why did you?" she retorted. "Because Dumbledore said so? Last I checked, the competition was open to everyone in Slytherin."

Harriet didn't understand. "But it's—! It's going to be dangerous!"

"And you thought we'd let you go it on your own?" Hermione huffed, adjusting her heavy bag on her shoulder. "Don't be ridiculous, Harriet. You haven't any idea what kind of qualifications Slytherin is going to impose, and having us with you might prove to your benefit."

"But—but!"

Harriet didn't have anything else to say. She didn't have any other choice but to be caught in the stream of her friends' logic—because as she'd just told herself, there was no going back. They were in this together now, for better or for worse.

"Come along, we're due for an early lunch. I wonder where the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students are going to sit. Do you think they'd answer questions about their curriculum? Oh, I'm so curious about what kind of lectures they give in Durmstrang! It must be fascinating how they navigate the uses of Dark magic and balance the well-being of the student body…."

Hermione turned heel and started toward the entrance hall. Seeming to understand she was still in shock, Elara retook Harriet's hand and pulled her along after them.

"We're not going to leave you on your own," she said lowly. "Whatever Slytherin…Riddle means by making this competition, you won't face it alone. Understand?"

Harriet's only answer was to squeeze Elara's fingers.

"Good. Now, let's go get Hermione before she starts harassing the visitors for a day-by-day breakdown of their lives. God help the poor, unsuspecting fools…."


A/N: My headcanon for the Triwizard schools is that Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had to have brought some of their own professors along to teach their students. They couldn't possibly have all (or a large chunk) of their oldest students missing school for the majority of the year. They would have had to qualify for a self-study program basically, and even then, they'd still need professors for assistance.