ccxxix. house-arrest

They Apparated into the open park, and Harriet's legs finally went out from under her.

"Mind yourself, Potter," growled Alastor Moody, his wooden leg thumping on the dry grass as he turned in place, surveying the barren estate. As far as Aurors available who were available to escort her home, Mad-Eye wasn't the worst choice. At least he was loyal and supported Dumbledore, so he wouldn't go running back to Gaunt with details about the area. However, Harriet still thought he was an arsehole.

Firm fingers gripped her under the arms, and Harriet startled. "Allons-y," Mr. Flamel muttered as he lifted her, and Harriet forced her wobbly legs to cooperate.

"Thanks."

The empty eyes of blank townhouses watched the motley group. Dawn lingered on the horizon behind the row, bathing the edges in dim lines of peach and gold. True daylight wouldn't break for several hours yet, but it made for a strange, ethereal time to arrive home after being released from prison. No one was awake, the heat had yet to set in. It felt as if the whole world slumbered, and breathing too loud would shatter the illusion.

"We need to get out of the open," Moody grunted, jerking himself into motion. Harriet thought it was more suspicious for him to rush, swinging his head from side to side like Dudley after pilfering the biscuit jar, but she kept that comment to herself. She did, however, hear a soft, exasperated sigh from Professor Dumbledore.

"Of course, Alastor." He offered his arm to Perenelle as they set off. Mr. Flamel rested his hand on Harriet's elbow, which proved useful when she stumbled on a rut hidden in the dying grass and almost landed on her arse. She clenched her jaw and forced her back straight.

Mad-Eye was the first one up the stoop, and he stopped at the door, rounding Harriet. She almost took a tumble, startled by the motion, and barely managed to keep her feet.

"Arm out, Potter."

Confused, Harriet did as he said. Moody pulled out his wand and held the point just below the top of her hands, not quite touching. He began to recite an incantation, twitching his wand in the specific, practiced motion of runes, an amorphous band of silver forming around her wrist. Then, the strangest thing happened; Mad-Eye suddenly looked skyward, both eyes, pointedly turning his attention away. Mr. Flamel's hand slid against Harriet's arm, pressing two fingers over her wrist. Doing so caused the ugly silver bangle to solidify larger than it should have.

Moody cleared his throat, and Flamel moved his hand. "Now," the Auror continued, all business. "That's the Aurory's monitoring Charm, set to alert the DMLE should it leave the wards of this house. Do you understand me, lass?"

"Yes," Harriet snapped, wishing he'd get out of the way.

Grunting, Mad-Eye lowered himself just enough to force Harriet to look at him. He smacked his solid, gnarled finger against the bangle. "This cannot leave. Do you understand?"

Ah. Harriet's gaze flickered toward her wrist, then to the side where Mr. Flamel stood just behind her. The Charm was meant to mold to her wrist, but now—. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Moody straightened, nodding his head toward Dumbledore and the Flamels. "I'll return to file confirmation of her drop off. One less thing for them idiots to fuss about."

"Thank you, Alastor."

He departed then, getting around Harriet by clapping her rather hard on the shoulder. She thought it might have been meant in a friendly manner—or, as friendly as the strange, paranoid bloke got. Whatever it was, Harriet ignored the departing Auror and reached to lay her hand on the door. The wards recognized her presence, and it gently creaked open.

Stepping into the cool, dark foyer of Grimmauld Place felt like sinking into a warm bath—or like laying your head down on a fresh, crisp pillow after a long, frustrating day. She paid no attention to the Flamels or Dumbledore as they came into the house after her and the door shut, sealing out the rest of the world. Harriet simply let her shoulders drop and sighed.

The stairs creaked under bare feet, cloth rustling, and Harriet gasped as a body collided with hers. Then, she wrapped her arms around Elara's middle as the other witch pressed her tight to her front. Hermione's weight settled at her side, squeezing them both.

"Heure d'aller au lit," Mr. Flamel muttered to the trio, and when Harriet blinked at him, lost and dazed, he remembered himself. "Time for bed, girls. You two should not have stayed up, waiting all night…."

Harriet remembered little else of what happened, only the strain in her calves as she climbed the stairs, then the murmur of hushed conversation in the corridor. She entered her dark room, the only light coming from the diffused gleam of Muggle lights outside the window, and threw herself atop the bed. A moment later, the mattress dipped, and a second body slid next to hers, and the warm, furry weight of a dog settled on her legs.

"I'm so glad you're all right," Hermione whispered. Harriet didn't know what all right meant anymore.

Sleep rose up over her like a tidal wave. Harriet did nothing to stop it.

xXx

Only a few hours passed before Harriet startled awake.

Early morning sunshine warmed the covered window—and the room, the heat skirting the edge of intolerable. Harriet blinked dry, tired eyes and didn't move, staring inside at the ceiling as she often did after nightmares. She couldn't remember if she'd had a nightmare, but her reality of late had been terrible enough without her dreams also going to pot.

Grunting, Harriet finally stirred herself into moving, dragging her sweaty arm out from under Hermione, who continued snoring unabated. She had more difficulty shifting Elara, the great beast of a dog just as heavy as an actual human body, but eventually she managed, and Harriet sat up, rolling her sore shoulders.

The sheets stirred. It pulled back enough to reveal a large, horned head and dark coils of a riled Horned Serpent. "Misstresss."

"Hello, love," Harriet muttered, trailing her index finger over his snout to the gem atop his head, giving it a tap. "Miss me?"

He scrunched his head as he preferred to do when agitated, tongue flickering. "The Misstress went misssing."

"Not by choice. They made me go. They took me away." Harriet sighed, swallowed. "Liviif I have to go away, if they make me leave again, but for a long, long time, I'll make sure you go to Hagrid. You remember him? The big man with a beard? He'll take care of you."

Livius' head twitched, his body tightening. "The Misstresss will not go."

"Sometimes we don't have a choice."

"There isss always a choiccce."

"Hmm."

Shifting, Harriet caught one whiff of herself and grimaced, rising to find proper pajamas. She'd fallen asleep in the clothes she'd worn in the prison, though someone had thought to remove her spectacles and trainers. She wiggled her toes in relief to finally have the bloody things off her feet.

Harriet eased herself out of the room on tip-toes, holding her bundle of fresh clothes close as she made her way to the washroom. She ran a hot bath, pillaging Hermione's shelf for bubble bath, the smell of orange and vanilla rising off the water. Harriet yanked off her clothes, fully intending to toss them in the bin, and sank into the tub with a shuddering exhale.

Not two minutes later, the door popped open, and Harriet sat up with a yelp.

"What are you doing?!" she demanded of Livius as he came slithering inside, heedless of the door he left open to the hall. "Livius!"

The Horned Serpent ignored her, swaying ever so slightly as he rose up and slid into the water with her. When he broke the surface again, he hissed, "They will not takesss you."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Harriet went to grab her wand, but naturally, it was still in Ministry holding, and her second wand was tucked away in her room. Cursing, she got out of the tub, dumping water on the floor, and hurried to shut the door. "You're such a brat."

The remainder of her bath consisted of Harriet attempting to persuade a stubborn Horned Serpent out of the tub, finally giving in and muttering darkly under her breath as she conditioned her hair and checked the snake's scales for any concerning spots. Livi preened, tail swishing, spikes leaving scratches in the porcelain tub.

When she finished and dressed, Harriet wrapped her unruly curls into a towel and scrunched her nose at her reflection, swiping steam from the mirror. The scar on her collarbone remained stark as ever, perhaps a bit irritated, the white branches edged in redness. The shoulder had a new scar ringed around it from when Madam Pomfrey removed the arm after her disastrous first Animagus transformation. That scar was smaller, thinner, because Madam Pomfrey had taken her time in regrowing the limb and applying Derma-Bond.

Bracing herself, she tipped her head and studied the mark on her neck. The brand stood out, dark and raised, a single line about as wide and long as her index finger. She grimaced at it, shame and hate toward Gaunt curdling in her belly. She should tell someone, if only to see if it could be healed, but thinking of the fallout weighed on her like a sack of bricks. They'd be upset, angry, saddened—and for what? Clearly Gaunt wouldn't be punished for what he'd done. If anything, he'd point a finger at a Guardian who'd take the fall with a forced apology and an "Oops." Harriet didn't want to inflict that on her family and friends.

Harriet ferreted through Elara and Hermione's things until she found a bit of magic concealer, gooping it on her finger before spreading it across the brand. It didn't completely mask the mark, though the concealer changed to match her skin tone and rendered it less legible, blurry. It looked as if she'd smudged ink on herself.

She squirreled the bottle away again, wondering if she could convince Elara to part with it while not explaining why she needed it. She certainly wouldn't be going to Diagon Alley to get her own any time soon.

Harriet continued to look at herself in the mirror until she couldn't stand the sight. She tugged on her pajamas, but instead of returning to bed, she decided to pop down to the kitchens for something to drink. Then, she'd be right back to sleep. She might sleep the entire day just for an excuse to stop thinking for a little while.

Livi resisted all attempts to persuade him back into the bedroom. Instead, he followed Harriet, insistent, going so far as to bite the hem of her loose t-shirt when she tried to dash on ahead. His weight dragged her back.

"You're being ridiculous," she muttered, tugging herself free. He'd left holes in the fabric. "Oh, come on."

She trudged down the stairs to the foyer, then to the basement, Livius keeping close to her heels. Harriet walked into the kitchen, yawning—and immediately stumbled to a halt, her mouth frozen wide.

There had to be a dozen people inside, all surrounding the large dining table covered in dishes from an early breakfast, papers, goblets, used quills, and an ashtray dotted with smashed cigarette butts and the refuse from wooden pipes. The air had a pungent quality, a mix of fried eggs, ink, tobacco—and frustration. Harriet hadn't realized it, but she must have strolled right through a Silencing Charm, as she got hit with a singular blast of noise before everyone fell quiet at once.

They stared at the hissing Horned Serpent.

For an inexplicable reason, Harriet's reaction was to yank the towel from her head and cover Livi's, hiding him. The snake shook it off, and it hit the floor with a wet slap.

A chair creaked. Sirius leaned back from his place at the table and grinned. "Harriet!"

Her godfather rushed to get up, and Harriet released an "Oof!" when he caught her in a bone-crushing hug. "All right?"

At the head of the table, Professor Dumbledore said, "I believe there's nothing further for us to cover this morning. We'll reconvene in two days' time." His dismissal was answered by a wave of shifting bodies and muttered acknowledgments, chair legs screeching across the floor. Harriet peered past Sirius' shoulder and caught a glimpse of Muggle newspapers sprawled open before the witches and wizards Vanished them.

She hooked an arm around Livius to drag him out of the way as the group left the kitchen. They went one by one, some known to her, some not. Most were clearly spooked by the large magical serpent, and each person peered at Harriet with consideration, intrigue, fear, or irritation. After the first person went, Harriet kept her gaze averted, ears burning.

Sirius scratched the back of his neck. "Didn't think you'd be up this early," he confessed. "Not after getting in so late."

The last to leave was Professor Dumbledore, who stopped to give Harriet's shoulder a friendly squeeze before hurrying on his way. "Who're all these people?" she asked as Sirius directed her to take a seat. Remus was still there, looking as exhausted as Harriet felt, and he smiled at her over his cup of tea.

"The Order of the Phoenix," Sirius explained as he held a chair out for Harriet and she sank into it. Livius slithered up to rest as much of himself on her lap as possible, draping over the sides. "It's a group Dumbledore heads that fights You-Know-Who and all his bell ends."

Mrs. Weasley came out of the kitchen then, wiping wet hands on her apron. "Oh, Harriet dear," she said. "I wasn't expecting you girls to be up until noon. You must be famished!"

"Must I?" Harriet said, dry, but Mrs. Weasley didn't hear her, already bustling toward the hob. Mably hummed at the sink as she scrubbed dishes, and Kreacher lurked about the peripheries, grumbling under his breath. Harriet didn't have much of an appetite despite having had very little to eat in the prison. An empty knot twisted itself together in her middle, and she didn't think she had much room for food alongside it.

Sirius accepted a fresh cup of breakfast tea from Remus, who then poured another for Harriet, preparing it as she preferred. "Thanks," she muttered as he handed it to her. Mrs. Weasley settled a bowl of porridge in front of Harriet.

"Something light," she said. "To not upset your stomach. Can't imagine they've given you a decent meal in that place. The nerve of them…."

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley."

Harriet forced herself to tuck in, pushing her spoon through the oats and darker swirls of cinnamon and honey dotted with walnuts and chunks of fruit. Sirius and Remus watched her without saying anything, though understanding sparked in Sirius' eyes. Of anyone there, he probably understood best how the Dementors made one's stomach turn on itself.

Harriet cleared her throat, giving Livius' head a nervous scratch. "What was that lot doing here, then?"

Sirius shrugged one shoulder and exchanged a look with Remus. "Dumbledore's had the Order more or less operational for the last twenty years or so, but what with Voldemort's return, things are intensifying. I, well, opened the house for them to use. It's protected—better protected than any other place, save Hogwarts. I don't know all the ins and outs of what everyone in the Order does, but a lot of the shite is dangerous. It could follow people home to their families. So, the Order meets here, and sometimes people have to kip overnight. I may not like this rubbish tip, but it has its uses."

Harriet spooned porridge into her mouth. "How'd Elara take that?"

"Oh, you know. Brilliantly."

Remus snorted into his tea and quickly set the cup down, apologizing. Harriet almost felt like smiling. "Did she hex you or someone else?"

"She had a go at Molly's twins, but everyone has been on their best behavior ever since. I made it a rule for the summer; everyone gets along. No fighting." Sirius scratched his neck again, something Harriet had learned was one of his tells. "Listen, I—. Yeah, Elara's not the happiest about this, but war's not exactly a happy time, is it? And it's gonna be war; make no bones about that. Voldemort might be keeping a low profile, but that won't last. It'll be another war in the end."

From across the table, Remus sighed. "Sirius."

"What?" Harriet's godfather bristled.

"Let her eat her breakfast in peace."

"She has a right to know what's going to happen."

Remus' reply came sharply. "She has a right to enjoy not hearing about this grim dross only hours after coming home. There is a time and place."

It occurred to Harriet to be indignant about them deciding what she should or shouldn't hear, but all she felt was an overwhelming sense of fatigue. A heavy, buzzing numbness fell over her, and it blunted the anger, the stress, the grief. War. Harriet had very little idea of what that word really meant, not when her entire life had passed her in a continuous, bloody battle. Terry was dead, Voldemort was alive—but had he ever really been gone?

Harriet thought of Professor Slytherin standing at the front of his classroom, red eyes looking down upon his nervous, naive students. She thought about Gaunt's fingers tightening in her hair as the brand came down against her skin.

Remus and Sirius argued. Harriet just ate her breakfast and said nothing at all.

xXx

The letters covered almost every inch of her desk.

Harriet made a go at sorting them, trying to force a system that would help her tackle the pile. She stacked them by date, by sender. She shuffled them by parchment color, then by envelope, then scroll. Nothing she attempted made the task any less insurmountable. Even one letter would be impossible. Harriet simply couldn't summon the energy to reach for her quill.

She could hear movement in the rest of the house. The Weasleys and bloody Longbottom were the loudest perpetrators, but the others occasionally moved through the rooms or spoke, voices drifting through the door Harriet had left ajar. Molly Weasley scolded her children to pick up after themselves, or Sirius would bark his harsh, abrupt laugh. Remus chatted with Hermione about some past Ministers for Magic, and Elara and Ginny were in the bedroom across the hall, voices too low to understand. Once, someone jumped too loud on the stairs and triggered Sirius' mum, her screams leaving a ghoulish silence in their wake.

Harriet wished for it to be quieter—or louder. She wished the silence would eat her thoughts or the noise would drown them, but either way, she wasn't going to get what she wanted. She shuffled letters around, took a deep breath, and tried again.

None of the words made any sense. She didn't even know who'd sent what she was reading.

Gaunt's voice kept rattling in her ears. "What has he told you? What do you know about the prophecy?"

Harriet didn't know rubbish about a prophecy. She knew there'd been one, that Snape had given it to Voldemort, and it sent Voldemort after her family—but she didn't know more than that. What did the prophecy say? Did Gaunt know it? Slytherin? Would Professor Dumbledore tell her? Did Harriet want to ask?

The floorboards creaked. Startled, Harriet turned toward the door—and found a familiar wizard standing just inside the threshold. Her mouth popped open in a silent gasp.

Snape arched one unimpressed brow, holding a stack of books under his arm. "You couldn't stay out of trouble while I was away, could you, Potter? How unsurprising," he drawled. Livi hissed at him, but Snape remained unmoved. "Though, I hardly expected Azkaban to be the forerunner of your holiday destination choices."

Suddenly, Harriet was on her feet, and before Snape could react, she'd embraced him around the middle. The Potions Master stiffened as the wool of his frock scratched her cheek, and relief pierced the overwhelming fugue that had taken over her mind. He hadn't died. He hadn't died.

"This is inappropriate, Miss Potter."

"Sorry," Harriet said, not giving a fig what was and wasn't inappropriate, but she did let Snape go, stepping back. She smiled at him, even as he scowled. "You're alive!"

"Obviously. Do refrain from repeating the obvious in my presence." Snape delivered the retort with no heat, his eyes settling on her face and remaining there. He looked as if he'd been ill, and Harriet wondered what nastiness Voldemort had forced him to endure. Dark circles marred the skin under his eyes, and he could use a shave. She wanted to ask a million questions—where he'd been, what he'd seen and heard, what he knew about the Dark Lord, why no one thought to fucking tell her he was alive—but Harriet took a breath.

"You…saw him, yeah? He let you go. Which means…your cover's intact?"

Snape inclined his chin once.

Harriet exhaled, a small, breathless laugh leaving her. Easy as that. "He's ugly as sin, isn't he?"

Snape rolled his eyes and shifted, bringing his arm forward to hold out the stack of books he'd brought. "Take these."

"What for?"

"They're from Slytherin."

Grimacing, Harriet accepted the tomes, already dreading what she'd find. They didn't have titles on the spine, and she guessed they'd be as dry as anything Slytherin ever assigned. She'd nearly forgotten about the stupid apprenticeship.

"He expects a summary of the contents within the week. He views house arrest as the perfect excuse for you to dedicate time to your studies."

Harriet cursed but didn't argue, knowing there wasn't a point. She knew Slytherin was going to be unreasonable in his demands. He always was.

The professor studied her and seemed ready to leave, but Harriet spoke before he could. "Snape?"

"What is it?"

She hesitated, fidgeted, then turned to set the books down on the mess of letters. Half of the scrolls and envelopes fell, and Livi scrunched himself deeper into the recess under the desk. "Is—is Slytherin angry? About Vol—the Dark Lord? What should I expect?"

Snape crossed his arms. Harriet noticed his hands for the first time. The long, thin digits had shallow scabs across the back of them. "No, he is…pleased, so far as I can tell. Slytherin's mind is his own."

"…Pleased? Gaunt's furious."

Again, Snape nodded, just a single sharp jerk of his chin. "Gaunt's the head of a political state, and no political state wants to be the one battling a terrorist. Gaunt built much of his early administration off the idea he assisted in defying and defeating the Dark Lord. Naturally, public credit lies with Longbottom, but Gaunt capitalized on the uncertainty that followed. The Dark Lord's return discredits him; it will make him unpopular, destabilize his platform. It won't prevent him from being reelected, but it will present unseen hurdles in his plans.

"Slytherin, in contrast, views this as serendipity. It draws attention away from him and his schemes and destabilizes his rivals. If magical Britain is fighting the Dark Lord, they are not watching Hogwarts' Defense professor. He moves best in silence, unseen, Miss Potter. He wants nothing more than for the Dark Lord's presence to be exposed."

Harriet listened to what he said, then nodded, her brow furrowed. "They want me to lie," she told him. "About what happened. The barrister said to lie about the Dark Lord returning."

"As well you should. If it keeps you out of a cell, say whatever you must."

"But what if that hurts other people? Lying lets Voldemort do as he wish without people any the wiser to his presence." Harriet lowered her eyes to the floor. "And it's not a given I won't go back anyway. If I could make people aware—."

The idea of martyrdom went against every Slytherin stereotype the magical world believed. People would call it a Gryffindor trait—bravery, self-sacrifice. Doing for others wasn't something associated with her House, and Harriet disagreed. If she could—.

Snape stepped forward, robes sweeping over the floor, and gripped her by the arm, startling Harriet. He lowered his face toward hers when Harriet looked up to meet his black eyes.

"You will not go back to Azkaban."

"You don't know—."

"You will not go back." His fingers tightened for a moment, then released, though Snape didn't back away. "Do as your barrister says, but if they return a guilty verdict, you will not be taken back."

Harriet searched his face, not understanding.

Snape had no intention of explaining himself, the moment hanging between them, the wizard unmoved by her confusion as his eyes blazed. Then, he blinked, and his expression shuttered. He turned to the desk and dropped an impatient hand on the top book.

"You will need to refer to Melicast's primer for this one. He will drill you on Druidic Meditations and how you can apply it to Caldwell's thesis. The thesis revolves around speculations of Roman spell-creation and etymology on the color spectrum."

"That sounds bloody complicated."

"It is," Snape agreed, shoving the top book aside to point at the second. "This is on the relationship between color theory and elemental bases. Spell-creation starts with a rudimentary understanding of where and why certain magics are conjured in the body, and which sanctified words trigger those pathways. This, here, is on golemnry, and I advise cornering McGonagall to help you disseminate the material." Straightening, Snape adopted one of his favored sneers, though truly he appeared too tired to hold it steady. "It'll be too much for you to get through. Memorize Caldwell's thesis and the meditations. The rest you can bluff through."

"Oi, are you helping me cheat?"

"I'm helping you survive, dimwit." The wizard snorted, then dragged a hand through his lank hair. "Do try to stay out of prison before our next meeting, Miss Potter."

"No promises."

He departed then, gone in a flick of dark black robes, and Harriet sank once more into her desk chair. Livi's tail curled about her ankle as she stared at the books Snape had left behind, and exhaustion made itself known in her chest. It settled heavy as steel in her poor, weathered bones, but Harriet lifted her hand and opened the first cover.

She started to read.


A/N:

Harriet: *hugs Snape*

Snape: "Gross."

Or

Harriet: "Who the fuck are all these people?"

McG: "Language, Potter!"

Harriet: "Sorry. Whomst the fuck are all these people?"