ccxii. dread and other terrible things
Harriet shifted from one foot to the other as Snape flipped through the rumpled parchment packet.
It had been a very long two days since her return from the C-triple-M. She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak, waiting for Slytherin to spin about and curse her or demand she do something terrible. However, he did no such thing, and school life continued much the same as it ever had—except for the nervous, terrified glances she got from students of the other Houses. No one had worked up the nerve yet to ask if she was the Dark Lord's illegitimate daughter, but she'd heard the rumors. She knew what they whispered behind her back.
She hadn't known who else to go to when Slytherin had ended their morning Defense class by dropping a load of documents bound in a loose folio on her desk. He told her to make herself familiar with the contents before their next meeting—whenever that would be. Harriet's first instinct had been to bundle the lot and throw them in the rubbish bin—but she wisely resisted the urge and instead brought it to Professor Snape. He'd been less than enthused by her barging into his office unannounced while he was marking essays, but he'd still set the lot aside to read through the packet.
"What does he even mean?" she asked, voice encroaching on a whine. "It's just—a bunch of random lines or words or symbols. It's not even sentences. What am I meant to do with that? I wasn't about to ask him any bloody questions."
Snape grunted and didn't answer Harriet, his office chair creaking as he leaned back in it and flipped to another page. He barely had his eyes open and appeared more tired than usual. Most of the staff had been looking a tad rough of late, and Harriet attributed their fatigue to the Tournament's rapidly approaching final task. Getting anyone to pay attention in their classes proved next to impossible as excitement and anticipation mounted.
Harriet didn't feel excited, just—drained.
Snape flicked to another page, then returned to it, one long, pale finger trailing down the list. "He intends for you to strengthen your baseline."
"Do what now?"
Snape let out an aggravated breath and leaned up out of his chair, the folio still in hand. He started out of his office without a word, and Harriet hurried to follow. Snape didn't go far, striding to the next corridor crossing and the portrait of the bored fletcher observing an arrowhead pinched between his fingertips. The portrait swung forward, and Snape disappeared into his quarters.
Harriet lingered at the entrance, unsure if she should come inside. "Professor…?"
If he heard, Snape chose not to acknowledge her, instead standing at his bookshelf searching the spines. He brought one hand to his face and tapped his mouth in thought, a full minute passing before he crouched and snatched up a volume.
"Here, Potter."
Harriet took that as permission to come inside and left the portrait, traipsing forward to take the second-hand book while Snape went back to looking at the shelves. She had to open it to the inset to find the title.
"'Druidic Meditations'," she read aloud, frowning. Snape dropped another into her hands. "'Melicast's Craft and Weft: A Primer for Spell-making.' What am I meant to do with this?"
"They're book. Inside, you see, there are pages, and on those pages are words. You're meant to read them, you daft girl."
Harriet blushed. "I know that! I meant—why does he want me to read this? I dunno anything about this druid stuff, and this other one is about making spells!" Harriet had learned enough in her years at Hogwarts to know creating one's own incantations wasn't as easy as throwing together words and hoping for the best. Hermione had briefly considered the field while they made the Atlas, and she'd quickly changed her mind when confronted with how difficult it was.
"The 'druid stuff,' as you say, relates to the art and history of spell-creation in Great Britain. He could have you research Latin spell creation, but the Romans have kept a very tight lid on the information for centuries. I assume Slytherin will eventually have you formulating incantations for him to prove your utility—but that is far in the future. As it stands, this area of study is also useful to your apprenticeship and could be the basis for your final project. Never forget, Potter, that he wants you to become a Master. The Headmaster and I theorize it is integral to his plans to bring another Defense Master into his fold." Another book joined the small pile. It didn't have a title, but when Harriet glanced inside, she found a bunch of charts and diagrams mapping the body's motion. "Based on his instructions, he wishes you to gain basic, foundational knowledge of the material."
"He just wants me to read?" That hadn't been what she'd been expecting. It seemed rather…anticlimactic.
"Do you find that difficult, Potter? Imagine my surprise."
Harriet nearly told him to shut up, then remembered herself, clearing her throat. When he failed to get a rise out of her, Snape crossed his arms against his chest and propped one shoulder against his shelf. He kept the folio in hand. "Slytherin deplores what he deems menial tasks. You've witnessed this yourself in his classroom. Count yourself lucky he feels no compulsion to oversee every moment of your education, though he will retain vigilant oversight."
A sigh worked itself out of Harriet's lungs, heavy and thick as a rain cloud. "I thought I was supposed to—not do this, but be learning his weaknesses? How to fight him?"
Snape studied Harriet, black eyes lingering on her face before he straightened and gestured for her to leave his living room. She thought that would be it, that Snape would slam the portrait closed and leave her to turn over her questions on her own—but, instead, he stepped into the corridor with Harriet and led the way back to his office.
"An apprenticeship, Miss Potter, is much like any other class you may take in that it entails a curriculum that begins with the basics and scales to the advanced materials." Harriet sank into the visitor's chair, wincing as the stiff wood creaked, while Snape leaned on his desk after sticking the folio in the top drawer. Harriet heard it lock when it closed. "Did you truly think you'd simply walk into his classroom and begin dueling him?"
Usually, such a statement from Snape would be delivered with vitriol, but the wizard sounded genuinely curious in this instance. "I really don't know," Harriet confessed, touching one of the books he'd lent her, thumb fiddling with a bent corner. She'd been concentrating so much on the trials to become Slytherin's apprentice, her thoughts beyond that were nebulous—as vague as one of Longbottom's iffy potions and just as volatile. She was sick of being told how all of this would make her better and stronger in the future, when all Harriet wanted was to be stronger now.
"What was your master like?" she asked. "You had one, right? But for the—what did Hermione call it? The Guild?"
"The Guild of Ethical Potioneering and Standards," Snape drawled. His lips thinned as he considered her question and, undoubtedly, whether or not he should throw Harriet from his office. "My master was a man by the name of Hart Frangula."
"Was he anything like…you know?"
"No." Snape's mouth twisted with distaste. "Frangula had no Dark inclinations of his own, but he was a coward. During the war, when it became clear sides must be chosen, he was not hard to sway toward the Dark Lord's camp."
"So he—he worked for the Dark Lord?"
"Essentially. The Dark Lord was not so different from Slytherin in that he, too, saw the benefit of training his best underlings and having them become Masters in their own right." He tipped his head so his hair covered more of his face. "It was part of his lies, Miss Potter. Indebting apprentices to his puppets right out of Hogwarts. It was how he recruited those less inclined to debauchery and blatant terrorism."
"I don't understand."
"Don't you? Poor half-bloods from Manchester aren't given apprenticeships for nothing." He snorted and shook his hair back again, a hard, angry glint in his black eyes. Harriet didn't know if he was angry with her or with himself. "Every person has their price. Some come cheaper than others."
Harriet blinked and tried to imagine a younger Snape—poor, as he said, and a half-blood without those family connections pure-bloods enjoyed. She wanted to say he could have earned an apprenticeship on his own merit, and maybe he could have, but she wasn't unfamiliar with how unfair life could be. What would she have done if she'd lacked prospects and someone like Tom Riddle, at his most charming, came knocking?
"I can give them back to you, silly girl. What Voldemort takes away, he can return…."
Harriet's face pinched with anxiety, thinking about what might happen in her own apprenticeship, wondering if she too had a price. Would casting Dark magic get easier? What if it didn't? What if she started to disappoint Slytherin?
Harriet paled. Snape saw, and something indefinable wavered in his eyes.
"Your situation will not be the same," he said. "You are not…indebted to him, not in a manner that will allow him to…abuse you. Not as I was. Slytherin will test you in terrible ways, have no doubt about that, but he will benefit most from having you compliant and relatively happy." Snape tipped his head back and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Harriet wondered what Slytherin considered 'relatively happy.' "And as the Headmaster is so fond of saying…you are not alone. He cannot isolate you from your friends or Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall. And…I will be there. Always."
Harriet simply nodded, though the uncharacteristic optimism from the dour Potions Master flickered hope in her chest. Snape cleared his throat, looking away.
"I would estimate his more personal tutelage will not begin until next term. You'll have time to prepare yourself. Worrying before then is pointless, Miss Potter."
"It's not pointless, Professor," Harriet muttered, fiddling with the top book in her lap. She opened the front and, spying a splotch of ink on the yellowing page, squinted to read the spidery scrawl. "Oi. Who's the 'Half-Blood Prince?'"
Snape looked as if he'd swallowed something sour. It could have been the light, but Harriet thought his cheeks were a bit red. "Never you mind," he snapped. "You've your assignment now. Have you not somewhere else to be? Other unfortunate souls to annoy?"
"Not really," she admitted, shutting the book. "Classes are canceled for the rest of the afternoon, what with the final task being in two days and no one paying the slightest bit of attention. Elara's got choir practice for something with the Tournament, and Hermione's off with her boyfriend."
"Riveting," Snape replied in a voice drier than a bucket of sand. "But I fail to see how this should affect me."
Honestly, Harriet didn't have an answer for him. Yes, her friends were busy, but she did have other friends; Ginny and Luna were always up for company, and even the Weasley twins could be good for a laugh. She could stay in the common room and help the younger years frightened about their looming exams. She could pop down to Hagrid's hut for tea, or simply enjoy the grounds. She could sprawl in her bed, shut the curtains, and stare at the ceiling if she wanted.
Nothing seemed to calm Harriet's nerves. Slytherin's threat lingered with her. A haze of exhaustion and ill feeling followed her, dread like a mantle heaved upon her bowing shoulders, her shadow pinching and pricking and pulling at her skin. Harriet woke from unsettled dreams to find new bruises splotched upon her wrists and shins. Livi hissed ominous things when she sat up in the wee hours of the morning, shaking with cold, waiting for the dawn.
She felt as if something terrible was about to happen, and she was useless to stop it.
Snape watched Harriet quietly stare at her knees until he seemed to come to a conclusion. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "We might as well have a practice session if you're just going to sit in my office and pout."
Harriet looked up, eyes widening. "Really?"
"That's what I said, is it not? Let us find a Moon Mirror and be off."
Harriet jumped to her feet, still holding her books, and followed Snape through the door once more. They only paused when he retrieved his wand and warded his office closed.
"I don't pout, by the way."
"No? You could have fooled me."
Harriet tipped her head back to shoot him an unimpressed look as they started walking—but it didn't last, and Harriet smiled. "Thanks, Professor."
Snape nodded, smirking, and kept pace with her as they disappeared together into the corridor.
