ccx. the maw of the beast
The castle had never seemed so terrifying to Harriet before.
Night at Hogwarts had a strange quality to it. It seemed to swell and loom, becoming ominous rather than inviting, reminding trespassers it was foremost a castle and not just a school. The torches and braziers only sputtered to life in increments, just enough to give light to the path ahead before dying, smoke hissing from the fizzling embers. The uncoordinated snap of Harriet's shoes hitting the floor echoed, incriminating, and the hushed murmur of voices from the portraits trailed like accusatory ghosts.
Of course, Harriet had never experienced a night at Hogwarts with Professor Slytherin dragging her by the upper arm, so that could be contributing to the overall malice the castle seemed to exude. His fingers dug into her bicep and made the already sore muscle twinge with pain. He'd grabbed her in the common room not seconds after she'd defeated Lestrange and took her into the corridor. Now, she didn't know where they were headed, only that she'd tried to match his pace but couldn't find the energy to do so.
"Professor—," she tried, but he showed no inclination to listen to her. Instead, he stared straight ahead as they departed the dungeons and made for the higher stairs.
Harriet's heart beat quick and heavy in her chest. She'd never seen Professor Slytherin like this, and she couldn't predict how he would act. The uncertainty wreaked havoc upon her nerves, and her head swam, every breath stolen as if through a tight, narrow tube.
Exposing herself as a Parselmouth may not have been the most calculated thing she'd ever done. It had seemed brilliant in the moment; it showed her resourcefulness, and she and Snape had talked about Slytherin valuing those kinds of traits in his followers. She knew that one day Slytherin would discover she was a Parselmouth—it was inevitable Harriet would slip, and she had already had several near-misses with her dormmates and Livius' proclivity for snooping. Slytherin wasn't a vapid teenage girl willing to brush off snake-related peculiarities; he would notice eventually.
She winced when his fingers dug in, and they turned a corner, though she nearly sighed with relief when she realized Slytherin was leading them to his classroom. He didn't stop there, however, instead continuing through the pitch-black room as if he could see in the dark, moving with ease until he all but threw Harriet through the door to his office.
She had visited the professor here once or twice over the years, and it never appeared to change. Ever since the first time she'd been forced to come, Harriet had likened the office to Professor Dumbledore's—in a twisted, mirrored version of the space. The walls were rounded and covered in heavy wood shelves stained nearly black, leather-bound tomes hidden behind diamond-paned glass. They exuded an oppressive weight like a thousand hateful, leering eyes, and the tables interspersed with hard, uncushioned chairs held sharp, spiney instruments, some that looked like they could be used to torture unwitting students. The seat behind his desk could only be described as throne-like with its towering back and thick, scrolled arms.
Slytherin didn't go to sit in his ridiculous chair. He flicked his wand to ignite the empty hearth, and Harriet almost wished he'd left it dark to spare her the sight of his irritated face. He rolled his wrist, and his wand followed the motion, flaring as he stepped closer. Harriet flinched and threw her hand in front of her face, certain he was about to hex her—but Slytherin didn't. He snapped a strange spell and fired it toward the floor.
In her brief prior visits, Harriet had noted the strange line on the stones she had to cross in order to enter the room. The castle had many strange quirks and details to it, but this particular line had caught her attention because it looked as if someone had taken a hot poker and had repeatedly dragged it upon the floor until it carved a circle in the office's interior. The deep groove was stained with soot—and something thick like tar.
Slytherin used an incantation, and red light flared from the odd line like the fires of Hell crawling out of the earth's belly. Harriet jerked away from the growing barrier, terrified by the red, glaring light encircling them, and she nearly jumped into Slytherin when he swept over her.
A solid hand grabbed her face, narrow fingertips digging into her cheeks as he turned his eyes to hers. Her scar burned. "Don't—," Harriet gasped, not knowing what she was protesting—but then Slytherin's wand touched her temple, and she couldn't turn from his blazing, blood-colored gaze.
"Legilimens!"
A sudden blast like cold water bursting against her face hit Harriet, and though she tried to blink, she found she couldn't. Her view of Slytherin vanished, occluded behind a deluge of other images. It felt as though an icicle had pierced her brain, and the cold besieging her radiating from it—a pulsing, fiery pain splintering her thoughts, crackling like lightning, bringing memories into light.
A hazy, flickering image of a black-haired man, spectacles gleaming as he smiled from ear to ear and the stuffed bear in his hand wiggled its arms—.
"Go, Lily! I'll hold him off—."
A shared grave wreathed in autumn leaves, two names carved upon the stone. 'The last enemy to be conquered—.'
The lumbering shape of an overweight, mustachioed man coming through the front door, arm extended to embrace his son. Small, watery eyes land on her and narrow—.
The rustling of the morning paper, the sizzle and pop of cooking bacon. She stood at the hob, while the others chatted at the dining table—.
Jealousy swelling in her lungs, Elara Black at her elbow, the bitter statement of, "At least you have a father—!"
Something of Harriet's mind persisted beneath the onslaught. Distantly, she realized a word kept resonating in the mess like the chime of a tuning fork. Father, father, father—a concept that Harriet truly had very little knowledge about, so with the images came the emotions of confusion, guilt, want, and sadness. Slytherin tore through it all, searching, grasping, letting it slip like sand through his clawed hands—.
Creaking floorboards under quiet feet, French voices in the air. A tap upon the door, beckoning, "Girls, réveillez-vous. Breakfast is soon—."
A bench in a summer garden, cold night air, a gentle voice murmuring, "It wears upon the heart to know those you come to love will go on without you one day—."
The dusty door creaked in on ancient hinges, and the first man through was draped in Auror robes, the second gaunt and haggard but smiling—.
Just as suddenly as the assault had begun, Slytherin pulled back—and Harriet fell to the floor, clutching her pounding skull. The pain seemed to throb through her eyeballs, and Harriet clapped her hands over them as if afraid they'd pop right out of her head. As the seconds passed, the ache dulled to something less brain-melting, and she pried her eyelids open.
What in the hell was that?!
The wavering light from the fireplace made it difficult to see at first, though she could discern Slytherin's form pacing in front of her inside that odd red barrier. He had a hand on his temple as if soothing his own searing headache, though that hand lowered when he noticed Harriet had lifted her head. She sniffled, wetness gathering and dripping from her nose.
A small noise of disgust left the Professor, and he conjured a flannel with a wave of his hand, flicking it in Harriet's direction. She had to pick it up off the floor and hold it to her bleeding nose.
She could feel his eyes upon her as she stood. Once she regained her feet, Slytherin swept closer again, and Harriet squeezed her eyes shut when he grabbed her face, bracing—.
"Stop fussing," Slytherin hissed as he tugged her closer to the fire and turned her toward it. Confused, Harriet dared open one eye to find Slytherin scrutinizing her again in the light, twisting her this way and that, ignoring the blood on her upper lip. When he finally let go, Harriet recoiled, backing up as far as she could inside the barrier.
"Wh—what did you do?" she demanded.
Some of her blood and no little amount of snot had smeared on Slytherin's fingers, and he vanished it with an appalled breath. "It is of no consequence," he told her. "You should be more concerned with your actions in the common room. Never thought to mention your little gift, did you, Potter?"
Harriet swallowed. With the way his tongue lingered on the mention of her ability, she knew he was using Parseltongue. He sounded different than she did—more snake-like, with a harder, lingering sibilance that cut across her like a razor's edge. Her mouth went dry with fear as she tried to gather her scattered wits.
"I—don't know what you mean. Sir."
He sucked air through his teeth. "You're going to learn lying to me doesn't get you very far, apprentice," Slytherin said. "Try again."
She couldn't help how her eyes darted around the room. Something about the red barrier felt…wrong. The castle around them groaned, and Harriet's ears popped with pressure. If her wits hadn't been scattered by dueling Lestrange and then having her thoughts turned on their head by Slytherin, Harriet would have tried to guess at the barrier's purpose. It must be the reason he dragged her all the way here.
"I—." Harriet cleared her throat. "Well, it's not very clever to let everyone know your strengths, right? So I never…told anybody."
"And yet you exposed yourself in front of the whole House." He hissed again with an out-flung hand, aggravated. "Foolish! I'm of a mind to think you did so intentionally!"
Harriet stared at her shoes, still wiping the drying blood from her nostrils.
He studied her again, suspicion written in the shallow lines of his young face, the firelight uncanny in the red glint of his eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak but changed his mind, seeming to weigh unknown, sinister thoughts. He had a calculating look about him, torn between smiling or scowling, and the indecision did nothing for Harriet's panicked heart. It thumped in her chest faster and faster as she shivered and waited for him to come to a decision.
"Tell me; have you any relatives who share our particular skill, hmm?"
His question startled Harriet. "Err, no?" she answered—regretting it when Slytherin smiled. Should she have lied? Said she had a cousin or another distant relative who could have a chat with snakes too? No, that wouldn't be a good idea. She didn't want to set Slytherin to hunting a non-existent person.
Then, he laughed, and it was a cold noise—a hateful noise. Inexplicable tears jumped into Harriet's eyes, and she held them back, feeling as if she were the subject of a joke she didn't understand.
"Very well. This has worked out…marvelously." Slytherin's mocking chuckle dwindled into a pleased grin. "Better than I could have expected. Off to bed with you, Miss Potter. Apprentice. We will attend the finer details of our arrangement tomorrow afternoon before supper." Professor Slytherin raised his wand and dismissed the red barrier, letting it fall back into the floor with a hiss like water dumped on hot coals. With it went the oppression feeling, and the castle stopped groaning and creaking.
Harriet wasted no time running for the door, but when she found it locked, she forced herself to swallow her pride and turn around. Slytherin stood looking very pleased with himself for several moments, making a point, before he unlocked the door. Harriet slammed it against the wall in her rush to leave.
xXx
The Vow had not stopped aching for hours.
Severus stared at his hand in his lap, limp, pale fingers curled against the black fabric of his trousers. Midnight had long since passed, and he imagined the girl either suffered nightmares or lay awake, unable to sleep. He was familiar with the feeling and had done the same after many of his meetings with Slytherin.
Albus leaned his arm against the mantel, staring into the flames. A deathly silence had overcome the Headmaster's tower once Severus had arrived to deliver news of Potter's victory and her subsequent return from Slytherin's interrogation. It seemed Dumbledore, like Severus, didn't know how to feel about the newest developments, so they kept quiet, entrenched in their thoughts.
"The entire House witnessed her use of Parseltongue," he said, thinking back on the moment when Potter's furious eyes had tipped toward the ceiling and that horrid, horrid rasp had fallen from her mouth. Severus had been moments away from intervening, from declaring Lestrange the winner no matter Albus' plan, simply to spare the girl Accipto's nastier temperament—but then Potter had proven herself too resourceful for her own good. "They all know."
Severus shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Glass rattled against glass, and he peered toward the hearth to find Dumbledore pouring liquid into a pair of conjured goblets. Given he was Headmaster and this was a school, the bottle of pricey single-malt scotch usually remained concealed behind the edge of a moth-eaten tapestry. The amber fluid sloshed in the vessel.
"I don't drink," Severus said, but Dumbledore still held out the goblet, and Severus still accepted it. He didn't even pretend not to sip from it.
"I had hoped he may never discover dear Harriet's talent," Dumbledore said as he sat in the winged chair opposite Severus. The Potions Master had sunk into his, slumped like a sullen teenager, long legs sprawled. "Ah, but I cannot fault her for doing her best when that is all we have asked of her."
"Next time ask her to be more circumspect," Severus grumbled.
Dumbledore chuckled, though it was mirthless. "You know, I expected you to be angrier than you are. I'm pleased you're taking all this in stride."
The taste of peat and honey turned on Severus' tongue. He didn't speak at first, didn't look away from the fire. His wrist ached.
"I'm tired, Headmaster," he said. "I'm simply tired."
Albus sighed, drank. It was far too late for either of them to be awake, too late for them to rest. Too late, too late. They drank—but this wasn't a celebration, no matter their victories. Severus could only think they'd lost something vital: the blade had sunk into their back without them noticing a thing.
"He'll assume Harriet is Voldemort's daughter," Dumbledore stated, setting his glass down to stroke his beard. He didn't smile, and Severus' entire body stiffened. "We can only hope that will give him more incentive to teach her and to take her into his confidence. He'll want to keep her safe from his own self, if only to satisfy his agenda."
Severus straightened and leaned forward, slamming his goblet down on the arm of his chair. He didn't care that the dewy glass slipped through his fingers and hit the rug with a thud, scotch seeping into the fibers. "The Dark Lord killed his entire family," he spat, teeth clenched, stomach churning. "He used to brag about it in certain circles. Even the delusion of the girl being his blood will not spare her his mistreatment! When will it end, Dumbledore? When will it be enough?"
The rage he'd suppressed earlier returned with a vengeance, and Severus could not bring himself to stay there a moment longer. He could not look at Dumbledore, could not stand the crackling warmth of the fire on his skin or the somnolent comfort of the Headmaster's tower. He had to leave.
They had walked Potter into the maw of the beast, and Severus had all but pushed her in.
The door to Dumbledore's study shut at Severus' heels as he descended the stairs. His shadow loomed on the wall, flickering in the torchlight.
Potter would be Slytherin's apprentice. Having already suffered years as the wizard's ally and confidante, Severus knew what she would face in her future. He knew the sensation of Slytherin's grip tightening, nails sinking in, both in the literal and figurative sense. He knew all this, and he would have to watch it happen without doing a thing to intervene.
What could he have done differently? Should he have sabotaged Albus' plan? Convinced Flamel to take Potter away? Send her to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang or bloody Mahoutokoro for all he cared? But would that have been the better choice? The Dark Lord would have come for her eventually. His interference was, in every sense of the word, inevitable.
His wrist ached. He stopped by his storeroom on the way to his quarters, finding a dusty bottle of Dreamless Sleep to send off with one of the house-elves. By the time he disappeared into the cold dark of his quarters, the pain began to relent. Severus imagined his guilt leaving with it, dispersing like birds toward the horizon, but it remained—stubborn as ever—long into the morning light.
A/N: I don't like how Legilimency is often treated in canon or fanon. We do (eventually) have an entire arc dedicated to it and Occlumency in CDT, but for now, it's enough to know that no, Slytherin cannot simply look into Harriet's head and have her whole life story pour out. He can only interpret images and emotions as he sees them, which means he doesn't necessarily know the context behind them.
Slytherin, studying Harriet: "…"
Slytherin, speculating: "…"
Slytherin: "I owe SO MUCH back child support."
