clxxxv. distracted
When the dust settled and heads were counted, it came as a surprise to everyone involved that no one was seriously injured in the Tournament's first task.
The minders had been bruised and scuffed from their tumble across the rocks, but the one to suffer the worst injuries was actually Snape. Harriet hadn't noticed it at the time, but the wizard had gotten closer to the fire than she'd thought. For a week afterward, white, potion-soaked bandages peeked out from the end of his tight sleeve. He docked points from anyone caught looking.
One of the seating boxes had toppled when the Horntail struck the supports, but quick action from Professor Dumbledore saw them gently settled on the ground without a bruise to be shown. His action on the far side of the arena was why he didn't come rushing toward the dragon—that, and Snape and Slytherin were by far the youngest on the staff, able to run the distance over the connecting bridges faster than anyone else.
Longbottom escaped with nothing but a few scratches—and a massive bruise to his swollen ego. They awarded him five points for the sheer grit of entering the arena and showing up, but nothing more, not when he failed the task and left the golden egg behind. People snickered and mimicked choking noises wherever he went, and an article in the Prophet had decried the whole scene as a horrible thing for a child to endure. While Harriet didn't necessarily disagree with that, the wording in the paper made Longbottom out to be a pampered, snot-nosed toddler.
A stirring of guilt came over Harriet when she recalled Longbottom's face—the pale, sweaty sheen of sheer terror when he looked at the Horntail for the first time. Could she have saved him from that? Could she have prevented the whole nasty mess if she'd simply told Longbottom what to expect and what to prepare for?
Hermione said it wasn't her fault. Elara told her she was being an idiot. Still, Harriet could relate to the stunned trepidation of being faced with a massive, seething magical creature and not knowing what to do. She didn't have it in her to feel glee when Longbottom failed; she felt only guilt and pity.
The death of an endangered creature on foreign soil sparked an international incident. However, Slytherin—like the snake he was—managed to wriggle by without consequence, no matter his blatant usage of Dark magic in front of hundreds of witnesses. Remus told Harriet over tea about the different clauses and provisions that came with being a Defense Master and a Defense professor at Hogwarts. Those caveats included exceptions allowing Slytherin to use Dark magic and deadly force in defense of the school.
Murdering a dragon about to cook half of his House apparently fit those exceptions. Harriet and most of the people who'd been seated in the box with her ended up smeared in Equill-Emollient for two days from their proximity to the spell, the Dark magic sticky as a thick, cloying syrup. Exposure to it filled her nightmares with black-scaled creatures shifting in the dark, sibilant voices laughing in her ear.
Sometimes, when she woke, she found Set silhouetted against the bed hangings. She would feel a nebulous hand against her neck.
Life otherwise went on undisturbed in Hogwarts, especially for the student body. New buttons popped up in the population, sporting the words "SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY!" and "THE REAL HOGWARTS CHAMPION." Harriet had a hunch Malfoy had either facilitated or funded their making, but he kept mum on the subject, especially when Hermione saw them and frowned.
Rumor in the school had it that some parents had thrown a fuss over the Tournament and wanted it canceled after their children had been threatened. However, their anger didn't much faze the Ministry. That and the Tournament—by magic, law, or tradition—could not be canceled. Apparently, they hadn't been lying when they said once a person's name came out of the Goblet, they had to compete until the Tournament ended and the Goblet went out.
Three dragons returned home to their Romanian sanctuary—and a fourth stayed in Scotland. According to Hagrid, the officials disagreed for several days over what to do with the slowly smoldering corpse, whether or not its pieces should be returned to Romania or left in Scotland. They finally decided to inter the dragon in the Forbidden Forest. Several potioneers from the Guild of Ethical Potioneering and Standards—including Professor Snape—were allowed to harvest the necessary bits, like scales and claws and the igneous stones formed by dragonfire in its belly. Ollivander was given the heart.
Harriet leaned on the battlements and looked out over the twilit grounds. She folded her arms and hunched her shoulders, lost in thought about the Horntail as she watched its burial. Naturally, she couldn't see the actual burial taking place, but she'd watched local and foreign officials flit out of the trees for the last hour, joined by centaurs and Professors Sprout and Grubby-Plank. Birds continued to rise from a grove of trees in the distance, disturbed from their nests. Their screaming cries echoed for kilometers.
Harriet traced the tiny, ancient grooves weathered into the stone, the pitted surface smooth and almost soft after a thousand years. She kept thinking about the magic she saw, kept remembering the black corona around Slytherin's hand, the weighty press of its presence before it exploded outward. Many people in the common room—mostly the blokes—had been impressed, and they talked in awe-stricken voices about the power Slytherin had shown. There were envious.
Harriet wasn't envious, or impressed. The display left her with a lingering sense of dread and revulsion—like watching someone swing a hammer at a rodent's head. The same shock, sickness, and fear overcame her. There was nothing magical about it, nothing to be admired in wielding spells like a bloody club. She didn't want to learn from him. She didn't want her magic to resemble Slytherin's in any way.
Footsteps turned her head, and Harriet straightened when she spotted Viktor Krum walking toward her. What's he doing up her? she questioned. The foreign students didn't have much of a reason to go this high in the school, not unless they went to visit the Astronomy Tower for lessons.
"Hello," he greeted with a sharp nod of his head.
"'Lo," Harriet returned, puzzled. "Can I help you with something?"
"I vas coming up here for some air," Krum said, turning his head to see the grounds, or maybe he meant to find what Harriet had been staring so intently at. He wore the buttoned Durmstrang uniform and his fur-lined cloak, the thick collar turned up against his neck. "It is a beautiful school, yes?"
"Huh?" Harriet blinked and gave herself a good, inward shake. Brilliant. Just brilliant, Potter. "Oh, yeah. But it's, um, better in the summer. A lot…brighter then, innit? November and December are a bit drab." She cleared her throat. She realized she still stunk of Lyre-flower from the Equill-Emollient and hoped the air carried the smell off. "Is—is Durmstrang nice looking?"
"It is. It is also very cold."
Harriet fidgeted, nodding despite knowing nothing about Durmstrang or its supposed temperature. She knew it was in Norway—which was more than most everyone knew, but Mr. Flamel had no such compunction about keeping the location a secret. Krum smiled, a slight hitch of his mouth at the corner more than a full grin, and Harriet again wondered what on earth he could want.
"You did brilliant in the first task," she blurted. "With the dragon. That spell with the net was great. You deserved first for that."
"Thank you. I vas happy vith the result, though it is too bad about the Horntail."
"Oh, well. I guess it's a shame, but I didn't much fancy being turned into charred bits."
Krum laughed, a deep noise that matched his rough, Bulgarian baritone. "You are Harriet Potter, yes? They say you are a talented vitch. A Quidditch player?"
"I was—before. A Quidditch player, that is. I'm still Harriet. And a witch. Still a witch. Not sure about talented." Why couldn't she turn off her sudden babbling? Morgana help her. "But no, not a Quidditch player now. There was—err, my guardian decided I couldn't play anymore. Not at school." Harriet decided not to drag old history about the team and her ignominious dismissal into the light. Merlin knew it made her sound like an incompetent flyer. She ignored the bit about people apparently telling Krum things about her. "I was a Seeker."
"Like me?" he pointed to himself.
"Yeah!" Harriet grinned, a bashful blush on her cheeks. "I saw you at the World Cup. That feint at the end was something else."
Krum propped an elbow on the merlon and leaned against it. He didn't appear all that interested in talking about Quidditch despite having been the one to bring it up. "I must confess I vas interested in talking vith you. I see you often in the library with the little ones when the Headmaster sends us there for material."
"…yes? I do a spot of tutoring when they need it. Nothing much."
"I find that admirable." Krum shrugged. "I like it. Not many take the time to help others."
Harriet fidgeted, her face still pink, a nervous feeling making her stomach flip. Viktor Krum thought she was admirable? Bloody hell.
He asked her about her classes and expressed his own interest in Charms and Defense. He told her about the subjects he studied under Karkaroff, and though it occurred to Harriet to question him about the potentially scheming Death Eater daylighting as a Headmaster, she enjoyed the reprieve from darker, uglier conversation.
That reprieve came crashing to an end when a hand settled on the back of her neck.
"Good evening, Miss Potter. Mr. Krum," Professor Slytherin said as he made his presence known, slithering out from the shadows cast by the lowering sun cutting hard upon the castle's walls. His hand weighed cold and heavy against her nape, his presence coming to stand at her shoulder. Harriet couldn't see his face, but she imagined it was unpleasant. He did not sound pleased.
"Err, good evening, Professor Slytherin."
The fingers pressed in ever so slightly. "Mr. Krum," Slytherin said instead of replying. "I do believe the castle doors are due to close for the night. It would be in your best interest to be on the other side of them before then."
Krum's expression flickered, the scowl he often sported in public coming to settle on his dark brow. "Yes, Professor." He nodded to him, then to Harriet, granting her a close-lipped smile. "Good night, Harriet."
Krum departed while Harriet remained behind, feeling the total weight of Slytherin's displeasure settle on the back of her head. He did at least release her neck and pace around her instead of standing at her back, but Harriet couldn't quite bring herself to meet his eyes.
He stunk of Dark magic. It magnified the smell of Lyre-flower until Harriet choked on it.
"Do not become distracted, Potter," Slytherin told her, his tone cold, biting. "Especially by a tawdry, terminal romance."
The light flush on her cheeks drained away, and her eyes jumped to his on their own. Krum hadn't been interested in her, had he? No. That was silly. Nevertheless, embarrassment at being told off by Slytherin, of all people, made Harriet angry.
"That's not—. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sir."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Sir."
Slytherin scoffed, still considering her. "No, I don't suppose you do. I stand by what I said, however. Now is not the time to be distracted by pointless pursuits."
"Yes, sir."
"You showed initiative during the Ministry's little…game." He made a dismissive gesture with one of his hands, then folded them together before himself. "Moreso than the others who chose to gawp at their impending doom."
She remembered the disgusted look he'd thrown Flourish and Murton after he'd killed the dragon and turned to leave. He hadn't checked on anyone. Instead, he left Snape to tend to the students, despite Snape's blackened arm. "They were scared," Harriet defended, voice quiet. "They're just second years. They don't know—they haven't seen—."
"Ah. They're not like you, are they, dear Harriet?" The acrid smell of Dark magic intensified as he leaned forward ever so slightly, and his red eyes gleamed. "They haven't seen what you have. I suppose it takes more than a dragon to frighten you, Miss Potter. After all, they didn't see the Basilisk, did they? They didn't kill Quirrell—."
"I didn't—!"
Slytherin raised his voice. "They didn't kill Quirrell, and those poor, precious boys get to go home when the term ends to their mummy and daddy's open arms. Unlike you."
His mockery burned in her middle, crawled up her throat like clawed hands threatening to burst out of her mouth. She wanted to strike him. She wanted to punch him, no matter how ineffectual it would be, for bringing up her mum and dad when it was a monster wearing his face that took them from her.
Slytherin stared and didn't blink. She couldn't tell if he was amused or furious—if he meant to strike her across the face or give her arm a friendly pat. "Would you like to know a secret, Miss Potter? A secret, just for you."
"…what is it?"
"You and I share that in common. No mother or father waited at home for me, either, and my peers mocked me for it." He smiled as he had when the dragon died, when the blood splattered across his face and dripped onto his robes. "I assure you, they did not mock me for long. I made certain of it. Use that as a strength others cannot understand, and think very carefully before you turn that little baleful glare on me."
Harriet swallowed and looked down. Sweat beaded her palms, and she wiped them against her robes. "Yes, sir."
He studied her for another moment, then flicked his wrist, his wand appearing in his pale, slim hand. Harriet flinched, but Slytherin only pointed the wand at his opposite hand and incanted a spell. A brief snap of light later, and he held a black envelope.
"I will be holding the first trial for the apprenticeship soon. This is your invitation."
Slytherin held it out to her between two fingers, and Harriet accepted it, though she wanted nothing more than to drop it over the battlements and let the night swallow it whole.
He stepped around Harriet then, ready to depart, and Harriet held her breath. The edge of his cold robes brushed her arm as he passed much too close, and the lingering hiss of his voice told her, "Do not disappoint me, Potter."
He vanished the way he had come, only the soft thump of a door swinging shut marking his passage. Harriet waited until she knew he'd gone until she exhaled a shaky breath—and brought her fist down hard on the stone merlon. The pitted surface scraped her skin, leaving her knuckles raw and bloodied, but Harriet ignored the sting.
In her other hand, she held the envelope. Her fingers tightened upon it until the edges crumpled, and the birds continued to scream in the distance.
A/N:
Harriet: "Slytherin's invitation is on black parchment."
Elara: "…"
Hermione: "Slytherin is a goth girl, confirmed."
