cciii. where our voices sound

Harriet watched with bated breath as bubbles broke the water's tension. The crowd surrounding her, all bundled in their thickest cloaks and scarves, shivering against the wind coming off the lake's surface, mirrored her anticipation and leaned forward, waiting. The gray stands groaned in the breeze. The bubbles increased, a black shape writhing beneath the tide, a head cresting the lake's white foam—.

Neville Longbottom threw his hair back from his forehead as he helped Dean Thomas toward the temporary docks.

"Circe's arse!" Harriet snarled, her voice drowned out by the wave of adoration spilling from the riotous Gryffindors. They made the floating seating arrangement shudder with their pounding feet. "Damn it, Diggory!"

The crowd had been waiting in the stands erected along the deepest part of the lake's shore for nearly an hour. Viktor Krum had returned first, rescuing his mate from Durmstrang; Harriet thought his name might be Ivan, but she didn't know, having never been introduced. He'd used a partial shark Transfiguration and had startled screams from many younger students when he came surging out of the water.

Fleur had returned next, though not of her own volition. She'd strayed too far toward the mire and had run afoul a nasty mix of grindylows and Hinkypunks. Despite the vicious gashes on her arms and legs, she seemed eager to get back into the water, and only the restraining hand of her Headmistress kept her in place while Madam Pomfrey worked.

Bloody Longbottom was the next to return successfully, much to Harriet's frustration. Ten minutes later, Diggory came along, sweeping Cho Chang onto the deck into the waiting embrace of warm, Charmed towels and blankets. He'd been third, and had Fleur not failed, he would have been last!

"Absolute rubbish," Harriet snapped. "Does he not know how to swim or something?" Next to her, Elara shook her head and rolled her eyes.

The coils looped around her torso shifted, a low hiss emanating from the triangular head resting on her chest. "Misstresss isss angry," a sleepy Livius hissed. Her bulky cloak and loose robes hid the serpent from view, but Harriet could feel his weight pulling on her posture. He'd grown almost too big to be carried around, but she'd made an exception for today.

"Mistress is annoyed," Harriet corrected, speaking into the scarf pulled over her mouth. "Mistress doesn't appreciate helping people just to have them bollocks it up."

The water rippled again. Two Mer came to the surface—and between them, they helped a tiny blonde girl kick and paddle her way to the shore. Delacour let out a strangled shriek and leapt back into the shallows, wadding over as quickly as she could to grab the girl up into her bloodied arms.

"That's Gabrielle," Elara muttered for Harriet's ear. "Her little sister."

"I'm surprised they let a child be put under the lake," Hermione said from her other side, a small sniff of indignation leaving her nose. "No matter the precautions taken. No wonder Delacour's in such a panic."

The judges eventually managed to extract Fleur from her sister and lead her to the floating stand before the podium. She stood shivering with the other three Champions, waiting for the results.

Naturally, Krum came in first place, leading the Tournament by a sizable margin. Next came Longbottom, and then Diggory—tying the pair for second in the rankings, a bare sliver above Fleur. Delacour, for her part, looked as if she didn't much care. She was in a rush to go back to Gabrielle.

"You can't count on Hufflepuffs for anything," Harriet groused as spectators cheered. Krum appeared as sullen and unaffected as he ever did, leaning away from the one-armed embrace of his victorious Headmaster. She couldn't hear what was being said, but Harriet saw Professor Dumbledore speaking with Longbottom and Diggory, his hand first on the former's shoulder, then the latter's, giving it an encouraging squeeze. She wished he'd push them back into the frigid water.

As Harriet's gaze passed over the Champions, she noted something odd. One of the judges—Crouch—had jumped from the platform to the shore, slipping on the slick, frost-coated rocks. He all but bolted up the uneven path despite his unsteady legs, running from the abandoned platform and the people gathered on it. Moody watched him go, blue eye whizzing.

What is that about?

A foot nudged hers, and Harriet looked around to see the other Slytherins rising to their feet. The stands swayed ever so slightly on the swelling tide. "Come on, Harriet," Hermione said, brushing off the tiny bits of sleet that had gathered on her shoulders. "Let's get back inside and out of this deplorable weather…."

Harriet nodded but turned to look toward the path again. Mr. Crouch had disappeared.

xXx

"Tell me of your competition."

Harriet paused in practicing her Shield Charms to look at Snape over her shoulder, the Potions Master having thus far been silent as she ran through the incantations. He had his arms crossed as he waited, unbothered by the sweat painting Harriet's red face or the frustrated glower she sent in his direction. Dawn had barely peeked its head over the horizon before a house-elf came with a summons for another lesson. Harriet couldn't forgive the bloke for ruining her Sunday lie-in.

She breathed heavily for a moment, the magic taxing, then asked;

"How do you mean?"

"Your competition. Tell me of those who passed Slytherin's second trial."

Harriet lowered her wand and turned to face the wizard, though she was confused. Didn't he already know who'd passed? Slytherin must have told him.

"Well, there's me—."

"Unless you plan on sabotaging yourself, do try to skip the obvious."

"Elara—."

Snape flipped his hand, sighing.

"Nott. From my year."

Here Snape paused, then nodded, slowly. Considering. "The boy has no real talent with his wand. Next."

"What? Nott gets great marks. Better than me—."

"And therein lies his strength. Academia—theory, research. Not unlike Miss Granger." Snape scoffed at Harriet's scouring look, flicking back a bit of his hair from his brow. He showed none of her exhaustion despite the hour—though Harriet thought he might not have been to bed yet. "Not everything is meant as an insult, Miss Potter. If you could look past your wounded feelings, you would acknowledge the truth. Miss Granger's best ability does not lie in creativity or quick action."

Harriet disagreed with him, but years of dealing with Snape had taught her it was sometimes best to bite her tongue. Hermione was brilliant with or without her wand, and Snape could get stuffed.

"The same could be said of Mr. Nott. He has a knack for critical thought, but his talent is not in the field. Now, who else?"

"Carrow, the fifth year. Oh—Flora Carrow, not Hestia. Hestia failed."

"Either twin would not matter; again, their ability lies in areas beyond fighting or dueling. Next."

"Vuharith, the sixth year prefect."

This time, Snape said nothing, instead giving his chin a sharp jerk for Harriet to continue.

"Then there's Pucey and Lestrange—both sixth years, and then only Bragge from seventh. Derrick and Craft didn't make it."

Harriet finished listing off names, and Snape pulled out his wand, Harriet eying the length of black wood with a healthy margin of caution. This was only their second lesson, and though he'd volleyed a handful of hexes at her to test her wards, Harriet knew she hadn't felt a fraction of what Snape could unleash. She really didn't want to.

He conjured four mannequins out of corks found in his pocket, making each roughly human in shape, and a few quick slashes carved "PUCEY," "VUHARITH," "LESTRANGE," and "BRAGGE" across their chests.

"These are your main obstacles in defeating Slytherin's final trial. If my assumptions are correct—and they usually are—he will have three rounds, seven bouts total, rather than a melee. If you are incredibly lucky, two of your three fights will be against those already mentioned—Nott, Black, or Carrow. You will have no difficulty defeating them."

The assurance in his statement surprised Harriet. If Snape harbored doubts about her chances, he wouldn't hesitate to voice them. The unspoken confidence in her ability rattled Harriet to the point where she had to clear her throat twice to speak.

"And if I'm unlucky?"

He flicked his wand to send the ugly mannequins several feet away, spacing them apart. "You will face three of them." He gestured at the figures, then crossed his arms again. "It's my responsibility to prepare you for the worst possible outcome."

Harriet grimaced.

"You still have the benefit of knowing your opponents beforehand, however. In the real world, you are seldom allowed the luxury. Making assumptions about their basic ability is a skill that will take you time to hone."

He paced behind the first mannequin, Pucey, and held his hand over its misshapen head. "What can you say about him?"

Harriet fiddled with her wand, unsure what he wanted her to say. "About Pucey?"

"Yes."

"He's a…sixth year?"

Snape muttered something that sounded like "Salazar save me," then raised his voice. "I'm asking you to tell me what you've observed about the boy—his character, his behavior, and how that might translate into his dueling ability."

"Oh," Harriet said, lamely. When he raised an expectant brow, she flushed. "I'm…not sure."

"Try."

Her mouth twisted, and for a moment, she bit her lower lip, pulling at the skin. "Well…he's a sixth year, yeah?" When Snape scoffed, she rushed to continue. "Which means he should know silent spells."

Snape's face changed from derisive to flat, staring.

"Hermione told me that's part of the sixth year curriculum, and…uh. Pucey's a bit thick, but not like Goyle or Crabbe, so he'd probably have some skill with it, and he's got wicked reflexes because he was a Chaser. He's not a Chaser now, but I think that has more to do with Slytherin and his shite about not wanting his favorites to be on the team." Harriet scratched at her cheek. "Pucey's patient. He listens more than he talks, but I think he can be a bit…I dunno, gullible? He always went along with what Flint or Derrick said, even if I could tell he disagreed."

Snape watched as she spoke, his black eyes fixed on her. It unnerved Harriet, but she continued her thought to the end and didn't back down. "And how would you apply that in a duel with Mr. Pucey?"

Harriet spent a minute considering her answer. She stood before the mannequin and stared, the golden light from beyond the windows settling in the dips and curves of the lumpy face. She pictured Pucey in its place and flexed her fingers. "He'd wait for me to go first, probably. He doesn't have a lot of initiative. He'd want to see what I do, then react—a bit like a Bludger coming at him. He's got an idea of different patterns to fly and formations, but he wants to wait for the Bludger to come flying first. It'd be best to beat him on the first go before he gets a chance to make a better plan. Either that or force him to act first."

Snape said nothing. He inclined his chin and paced to the next figure, standing behind it again with his hand over the dented head. "Vuharith."

"She's mean," Harriet replied, pretending the response didn't make her sound like a child. "She was nicer before, back when I first started Hogwarts. But then she started hanging around Lestrange and—Elara says they're together, but not actually together-together, whatever that's supposed to mean. She doesn't usually bother the younger students, but when she does, it's usually to be petty. She's prefect, but she fights all the time with Pendarves because she skives off the duties to take potions with Lestrange and Dread in the dungeons." Harriet paused, frowned, but assumed Snape already knew about Vuharith's extracurricular activities. "If I had to duel her...she'd attack first and try to embarrass or intimidate me because I'm younger. I don't know how well she'd handle someone standing up to her rubbish."

Snape walked to the next mannequin, his boots making small taps on the floor. "Bragge."

Harriet had to take a moment longer here. "I don't know her very well. She's snotty, but clever. Rumor has it she only lost out on prefect to Muldoon in their fifth year because she got in trouble with an older student after that student ruined Bragge's arranged marriage with some bloke." Her brow wrinkled, the specifics of the story muddled by the years and Harriet's initial inattention. Arranged marriages happened among pure-blood families still, and she thought it stupid. "She's not quick. She could probably hex me into oblivion if I don't keep her off wrong-footed and distracted."

Snape proceeded to the final mannequin. "Lestrange."

Shifting, Harriet fought how her shoulders rose toward her ears, discomfort shaking in her bones. "He'd try to hurt me. Really hurt me. He'd figure out the worst spell he could use without sabotaging himself, and that's what he'd default to. He's not terribly brilliant or inventive." Her mind stirred, the image of Dudley Dursley rising to the fore, his pudgy face spread wide in a malicious grin. "Then again, bullies don't have to be brilliant or inventive. They just hit hard."

"Their lack of originality is often their downfall." Snape came from around the wooden figure to stand by Harriet, the pair facing the line of mannequins. "A witch or wizard without ingenuity will meet a mundane, sticky end."

Harriet's eyes followed Snape as he moved, flickering up to the profile of his pale face when he turned, tracking the motion of his hands half-covered in his long, buttoned sleeves. He kept talking, the low drone of his baritone echoing—but Harriet's mind wandered, imagining him as one of the mannequins, "SNAPE" scrawled across his broad chest.

She tried to picture what'd it be like to duel him. Difficult, without question. And over quickly. He radiated competence, and though he could have a nasty temper, looking at Snape reminded Harriet of staring into cold, placid water. He was steady and predictable in that stability, but a single riptide could turn a simple swim into a deadly dive under leagues of numbing black water. He could be shallow, transparent, and then the tide would recede again to the depths and Snape became somebody else. There's no telling what could wash onto that shore.

She wondered what type of monster Professor Slytherin could be to challenge a wizard like Snape, or the Headmaster. The thought made cold sweat bead on the back of Harriet's neck.

"Are you listening to me, Potter, or am I wasting my breath?"

"Sorry, Professor."

Snape grunted, eyes narrowed. "As I was saying, learning your opponents and successfully guessing their actions can be more imperative than having an expansive spell repertoire." He tipped his head. "And the converse has similar applications."

"How do you mean?" Harriet asked.

"If you become predictable, you will face the same issues. As you try to read your opponents, they will try to read you. They will make assumptions about your skills just as you have made assumptions about theirs. Keep that in mind. Let them make all the wrong predictions and use them to subvert their defenses."

She listened to him, nodding just once. "And what will they assume about me, Professor?"

"That you're weak." He spoke plainly, tone sharp, uncompromising. "That you're fourteen and a witch. Soft. A half-blood with no familial claim to Slytherin House. They will see you as an anomaly who has made it this far by pure chance and think you an easy target. You will prove them wrong."

He made it sound simple, as Snape often did when things were not in the least bit simple. Harriet knew she'd had a few lucky goes of it in the past, that she wasn't a complete bumbling numpty with her wand—but she'd never been in a proper duel before. The professors expected her to win, and Harriet—well, Harriet thought she might be sick.

Snape banished three of the mannequins to the side of the hall and strode over to the remaining figure—Pucey. He used his wand to mutter spell after spell, the mannequin sprouting legs and arms, rotating joints and even a stubby wand in its right hand. When he finished, Snape turned to Harriet a final time.

"Don't act as if you're defeated just yet, girl. I told you this would take practice and dedication. You told me you were prepared; was that a lie?"

Harriet stiffened her spine and straightened up, tucking her loose hair behind her ears. "No, sir. I—I'm ready."

"Are you?"

"I can do this."

Snape smirked. Harriet didn't see what was so funny. "Good."

Suddenly, he shoved the mannequin—and its arms jerked up, wand aloft, and started toward her. Wide-eyed, Harriet gasped, then jumped into action.


A/N: I played around with the idea of whether or not Neville would go for Gabrielle. As much as I wrote him to mirror aspects of canon Harry, Neville isn'tHarry. Though Neville is, at his core, a good person, his upbringing has made him exceedingly selfish and competitive. I feel as if he has been trained to be a hero, but he is not a hero.

Cedric: *realizes he placed after Longbottom*

Cedric: *hears a particular Slytherin witch swearing in the distance*

Cedric: *sinks back into lake*