ccxxxvi. a corridor below
After the Longbottom incident, a new rule was implemented at Grimmauld: no wands.
Harriet didn't know what aggravated her more—the fact that the git's smug face had set her off, or the fact that Sirius and Remus were quite serious about no one under the age of twenty using magic in the house. It meant a drastic reduction of noise during the day and night, but also resulted in all of them doing chores when they inevitably tried to subvert the rule. Mrs. Weasley had the twins scrubbing the downstairs loo by hand. Twice. Harriet had to beat dust from the curtains in the drawing room, and Elara had to sweep every inch of the stairwell.
Harriet mostly kept to the quiet of her room or joined Hermione in the study. If she wandered elsewhere, she found Longbottom haunting her steps. Not as he had in their second-year, like an obsessive stalker, but as if he wanted to get her alone to listen to something he had to say. Naturally, Harriet made certain to stay away from him lest she have another fit.
She didn't know why sparring with Longbottom had provoked such a reaction from her. Frankly, thinking about it embarrassed her. A lot of what she'd learned over the years in regard to dueling was the importance of control; she could almost hear the echo of Snape's drawl in her head, or Mr. Flamel's patient explanations. Both had extolled how important it was to keep her wits about her, and Harriet definitely hadn't in the garden. She was glad neither wizard had seen her act so stupidly.
She sat on her chair at her desk with her legs pulled up with her, her knees folded against her chest. She perched her chin on them, her mouth set in a crooked grimace, still thinking about their fight. The weather slunk with particular heat that evening, the sunlight heavy and thick as mist where it swaddled the whole of London in its tenacious warmth. Thick orange beams shone through the window and sliced across the floor, half the room dark, the other half seemingly on fire.
Harriet remained on her chair, glowering at the fresh sheet of parchment spread atop her desk and the waiting inkwell. She was meant to be writing a letter. She knew Slytherin wanted one—had been told half a dozen times by Snape and even twice by Professor Dumbledore. Neither Snape nor Dumbledore was used to saying things twice, but Harriet still hadn't written the blasted letter.
She kept thinking of Longbottom and that strange, hateful rush blazing in her veins.
Restless, Harriet dropped her bare feet to the floor and started to pace. Her snakes made for lazy observers, content to bask in the sun and simply follow her with sharp flicks of their tongues. Harriet wondered what they tasted of her mood, because she couldn't rightly say what it was herself. Disoriented. Angry. Despondent.
What does it matter? It doesn't. It doesn't matter at all.
She went to the window and opened it, the rails screeching in the track. Not a whit of air blew inside, and Harriet shut her eyes against the stifling warmth. The bangle at her wrist glimmered, almost beautiful in how it caught the light, but Harriet thought it an ugly, dehumanizing thing. Without another thought, she pried it over her hand as Moody implied she could, letting it hit the floor. She pulled at the magic nestled in her middle and let it shift her form, a mussed crow jumping onto the open window sill. Harriet beat her wings and flew upward to the roof.
She landed on one of the dormers, hopping, then transformed, wincing at the scalding feel of the shingles under her toes. She didn't quite have the control over her Anigmagus form that Elara or Sirius did. Old memories of Hermione and Elara chatting about the skill returned to her, talking about how its difficulty increased the farther one's form took them from human. Avian was decidedly farther than canine—though Harriet had no bloody clue how Rita Skeeter managed. Ruddy insect.
She sat in the shadow of the chimney where the roof wasn't so hot, legs sprawled in front of herself, savoring the thinnest breeze reaching across the rooftops. Her wrist felt lighter without the bangle weighing it down, but she knew she'd have to put it back on as soon as she returned inside. Escaping it would not be that easy.
Harriet tucked a hand through her fringe, sighing. Sweat prickled against her neck.
"—Podmore's dead."
"No—."
"—found him in—."
Harriet blinked, turning her head. She could hear voices coming through the window to the attic, opened to ventilate the sweltering rooms. Curious, she eased herself closer to the dormer, sticking to its shadow so she wouldn't burn, and she could better hear Remus and Sirius as they spoke.
"—Mungo's aren't sure how he died exactly, only that it wasn't quick, and it wasn't easy."
"Merlin," Remus softly sighed. "And there hasn't been any sign of who—?"
"No. No great fucking green sigil in the sky, if that's what you mean. Dumbledore's almost certain it was Wilkes. Or Crouch. He doesn't believe the other Death Eaters would make the same spectacle in the Muggle world."
"I'm guessing Severus doesn't know?"
"Apparently not. Worthless tosser."
"Sirius—."
Something creaked, like an old sofa bending under weight thrown on its cushions. "I imagine that Dark Lord cunt is keeping Snape's nose out of it. Doesn't matter if he needs men, Snape's still knee-deep in Dumbledore's business, and if I was a great Dark wizard twat, I wouldn't trust the bloke as far as I could throw him. Guess I can't blame Snape for that, but I can be angry about what's happening." Sirius let out a loud, aggravated breath. "Damn Podmore."
"He was a good man."
"He was. He didn't deserve that." The sofa shifted again, footsteps hollow on the floor. "Ah, fuck, Remus. It's all so—." Sirius cut off. "Podmore, all the Muggles. Their Ministry's making announcements telling them to be careful, and they don't have a bloody clue what they're up against. Dozens of Muggles vanishing every week, and Gaunt's sitting there like the knobhead he is while the rest of us do nothing."
Their conversation went silent, replaced by the bump and shift of boxes moving. Harriet wagered they were going through the old Black rubbish, a preoccupation for idle, restless hands they'd all taken to doing when they needed distraction. Harriet folded her arms around her legs and leaned her head against the dormer, still out of sight of the window. The sunlight warmed her face, and she knew her cheeks would be sunburned later.
Remus broke the lull, and his voice came out so quiet, Harriet wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been near the window. "I'm worried about Harriet."
She sat up.
"What? More so than usual?"
"I'm not joking, Sirius. You, of all people, should realize what's at stake here."
"Why me 'of all people?'"
"Because, Merlin's forbid, what's to happen if—? I don't even want to say it aloud—."
Sirius grunted. "She's not going to Azkaban."
"You can't know that. They'll have her trial date set any day now. If the verdict—."
"—comes in guilty, she and the Flamels are leaving for France."
Remus paused. "You expect her to live on the lam? As a criminal?"
"It's a damn sight better than that place, but no. Nick and me have been working out a deal. You know the French are sympathetic to Dumbledore's views? Especially their Ministry and that big woman, what's her name—?"
"Madame Maxime?"
Sirius snapped his fingers. "Her. Their Ministry's prepared to offer Harriet and the Flamels asylum for unjust persecution without threat of extradition."
Remus must have been too surprised to respond, and he wasn't alone. Harriet hadn't heard anything about this—not from Sirius, and not from the Flamels. They'd been reticent to discuss the case with her beyond encouraging her to listen to her barrister, Mr. Dirigible, who remained adamant she should say absolutely nothing about Voldemort and play a stupid, gullible victim. He wanted her to appear "harmless" before the court, while the mere thought of pretending weakness in front of Gaunt made Harriet want to vomit.
She hadn't known about the Muggles dying. She'd met Mr. Podmore before and had found him a gruff, rather shy wizard, but also someone with incredible skill in potions and quite loyal to Professor Dumbledore. It felt surreal to know he was gone without warning.
"The Ministry would have to release her," Remus said. "If the Wizengamot finds her guilty, she will go directly into custody, and the Ministry will have to accept the asylum order and release her. Gaunt will have to let her go."
"We won't give him a bloody choice, if it comes down to it," Sirius argued. "Harriet will not go to Azkaban. I'll kill the bastard with my bare hands before I accept that."
"You know it isn't as easy as that."
Sirius laughed—a rough, uneven bark, a defeated exhalation caught in an incredulous net. "I know," he admitted. "I know."
Harriet sat in the fading afternoon light and stared off toward London. The sky stretched above, smeared blue and yellow and orange as evening approached—and she wondered what it would be like never to see it again.
xXx
The floorboards creaked under her trainers.
Harriet stared at the carpet, transfixed by the pattern woven into the fabric and how it seemed to ripple in the thick, putrescent light dripping from the gas lamps. She held herself still, but the floor kept groaning, as did the walls. Dust fluttered in the air.
A shadow moved at the end of the hall, hallowed by the glow coming through the door at his back. The click of hooves echoed.
"There is great evil in this world, and it exists in places we least expect," the centaur said, blue eyes blazing. "You will always choose to fight it, Harriet Potter, but you will not always win."
The floor kept creaking—wood snapping, cracking, splintering. She whipped around, gasping, the shadows rippling and pulling between the ruined boards until they massed into a hulking shape. Pale claws skittered across the wallpaper, the house wailing—.
A single golden eye leered from the face of the half-rotted werewolf. Greyback snarled, lips pulling back, then howled.
Harriet turned around and bolted. The centaur had vanished, replaced instead by the hazy silhouette of dragon scales peeling from the ceiling, Harriet's trainers seeming to melt as she ran. Fire licked against her shins, and she pushed against it, pushed against the pain ravaging her neck, ran as fast as she could from the beast at her back—.
The door waited. She grabbed it, threw it open—.
She was walking in a cool, dimly lit corridor. Stone and marble comprised its walls and floors, the solid heel of her shining oxfords snapping hard against the surface. Her bespoke cloak tugged at her broad shoulders as she moved, striding with purpose, her gaze fixed upon the door at the corridor's end.
It was not a particularly striking door, perhaps unusual in the placement of the knob at the center, a band of aged gold surrounding the outer edge, but otherwise painted black to match the black wall, the knob either gold or brass to match the fixtures for the torches and magelights. It held her attention with a singular focus, and as Harriet got closer, her steps slowing, something about it seemed to loom.
Her hand brushed its surface, large, pale fingers skating over an invisible barrier. Magic as thick as a brick writhed beneath her touch, and it turned upon her like a thousand open eyes, a great monster peering from its dark, shadowy nest.
She touched the wall by the door, her tongue flicking out across her lower lip. She would get inside. This wouldn't block her forever, she simply needed—.
"Minister Gaunt."
A figure had appeared from a crossing passage, garbed in dark navy blue robes with the hood pulled over her head. The brim of the hood was pointed, nearly reminiscent of a bird's beak, and magic dripped from it like a veil, obscuring the woman's visage.
"You're not meant to be here."
Harriet lifted her hand from the wall, and the magic disappeared. "My mistake," she said, unctuous, but her insides practically boiled with rage. She would get inside. She would get inside. They couldn't stop her forever, how dare—. They couldn't deny—.
Let me in—LET ME IN—!
"Harriet!"
A hand upon her shoulder yanked Harriet from that dark, cold corridor into the lamp-lit heat of Grimmauld Place. She panted for breath as her gaze snapped from the front door, the knob twisted under her hand, to Remus at her side. The both of them dressed in their night things.
Skeletal hands comprised of cool, moving shadows held tight to her ankles, driving into her flesh like stinging talons. They might have been the only thing keeping her indoors, sparing her from breaking her house arrest.
When had she gotten there? What was she doing? The last Harriet remembered, she'd slipped back inside her bedroom window, tired of listening to Sirius and Remus speculate on her future, and she'd laid down after skipping supper—.
"Harriet?"
Her body trembled, her skin drenched in cold sweat. It darkened the front and back of her old shirt, practically dripping from her face. She tried to turn her head but couldn't from the pain spearing through her neck.
Moving slowly, almost as if nervous about how she'd react, Remus pried her hand from the door's knob. Her nails ended in ripped, jagged points as if she'd been clawing at the barrier.
"Let's get you back to bed, all right?" Remus said, taking a firm hold of her arm. Harriet couldn't move until Set released her legs, and only then did she lurch into motion, the heaviness of her dream still clouding her mind.
There had been a corridor, a door. A woman in blue.
Had…had Harriet been Gaunt?
Remus saw her back to her room, back to her rumpled sheets and suspicious snakes, Livi's eyes following them from the darkness below her bed. He tucked her in, and exhaustion gripped Harriet like a clenching fist, the air quick to leave her lungs as she stared at the ceiling above.
Remus said goodnight, and she pretended she didn't hear him lock the door after he left. She shut her eyes and let sleep take her.
xXx
As dawn crested the city of London, an owl flew toward the houses of Grimmauld Place. The letter clasped in its beak bore the official seal of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
A/N: I think I've mentioned before, the Department of Mysteries is not like it was in canon, and while we'll get more into those differences later on, suffice it to say Gaunt cannot simply stroll inside.
