First-floor girls' lavatory, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland, Great Britain.
03:45 am, Friday, September 6th, 1996.
Olive Hornby was by far the worst of them all.
Her skin wasn't even that clear. She applied glamours to hide her pimples. She found me, you know. It was quite the show. Right in this very bathroom. I was kneeling close to my body when she waltzed in with that annoying confidence of hers. I think she said Professor Dippet wanted to see me. She thought I was sulking in here, you see. Everyone seemed to think that. My spectacles magnified my eyes quite a bit, so it often looked dramatic when I cried. Oh, and how they loved to make me cry.
I was the one to make her cry in the end. Olive, I mean. She shrieked when she saw my body and I laughed at her—actually laughed—because it was the funniest thing I ever saw. Her mouth opened very wide and all her glamours fell off. The left side of her face was covered in pimples and there was this huge wart on her nose.
Purebloods have a genetic predisposition for warts, you're lucky your mum was a muggleborn. My parents were muggles, you see, so I've managed to maintain my dewy complexion even in death.
She never forgot the sight of my dead body. And I made sure the school would know all about her glamours. Not quite so popular after that.
Did I tell you about that time that Olive stole my shoes?
Olive once jinxed my breakfast. I made sure to haunt her meals when I became a ghost, I don't think she was able to look at sausages quite the same way after a while.
Olive Hornby.
Olive Hornby.
Olive, Olive, Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
"Are you even listening?"
"Yes."
"You don't look like you're listening. You're lighting another cigarette?"
Harriet inwardly groans as she lifts her eyes to look at Myrtle. Half-emerged from a nearby wall, the ghost is looking at her with an intensity that makes her want to scream. "I need to unwind," she snaps, leaning her head against the toilet cubicle on her right with more force than absolutely necessary.
The night is dark, there are heavy storm clouds concealing the moon, and save for Myrtle's glowing aura and the occasional incendio concentrated in the tip of her wand, the bathroom is almost completely enfolded in darkness. To Harriet, this feels like being on the inside of her own body, enveloped safely in a cloud of nicotine that carries her inwardly, into parts of herself that have not been tainted by death, or guilt, that know no suffering. But when she exhales, she is plunged out of herself once more. The stone floor is cold and hard, the wood on which her head is resting, uncomfortable, Myrtle's girly voice yo-yos around the room loudly, often sounding like sharp nails against a blackboard. She has tried to hold her breath before in a desperate bid to prolong the feeling of safety she found inside herself, but it never worked, and each time she was expelled further out of safety, further away from herself. It stopped being enough a while ago, probably around the time the cutting started.
"People will forget about your Potions incident soon enough, you know. There's no point brooding over it," Myrtle offers with a small shrug, bringing Harriet out of her reverie.
"Yeah."
"Did you…you know?" Myrtle asks, making a slicing gesture towards her translucent wrist.
"No," Harriet says tautly, feeling herself bristle.
"Don't be like that, I was just asking," Myrtle shrugs.
"Well, it's none of your business!" Harriet pointedly replies. "I don't just do it every time something goes wrong."
"Then when do you do it?" Myrtle probes.
Sighting, Harriet looks away, wishing that Myrtle could dissipate as quickly as the undulating smoke coming from her cigarette. "It doesn't matter," she says after a moment.
"You know, people would think you're a freak if they knew—"
"Don't call me that!"
"But I mean, it does make you a freak. It's not a normal way of coping with things."
"Yes, well my life isn't exactly the epitome of normalcy," she snaps.
"Normal is boring."
"Not to me," Harriet says quietly, extinguishing the cigarette on the stone floor. It suddenly doesn't feel right. The shame caused by the viciousness with which Aunt Petunia always accused her of being abnormal stayed with her even after the wish for her aunt's love faded and then died altogether, buried deep beneath the floorboards of her dusty cupboard.
"Each to their own, I suppose," Myrtle says dismissively. After a moment, her eyes widen in excitement. "Did I ever tell you about that time Oliver Hornby…?"
But Harriet doesn't listen. Myrtle's voice becomes indistinctive white noise, easily drowned in the waves of her own memories. Sirius was left-handed and it had been Dean's hand that she was watching just before her cauldron exploded. It all happened so fast that at first, she hardly realised she was causing a commotion. And then Snape's angry, burning look anchored her back into reality.
He didn't try to stop her when she ran out of the Potions classroom, but the feeling of impending doom hasn't left her all day. She knows, with almost certainty, that the next time the Potions Master lays eyes on her, he will most likely skin her alive. It is only natural, therefore, that she has been hiding in Myrtle's bathroom all day. Luckily, the ghost didn't appear until late evening, so Harriet had time to think and smoke whilst contemplating the ways in which she could bypass the constraints of time, space and irritating bodily necessities, like food and sleep, and spend the rest of her days in hiding. Perhaps she can even persuade Voldemort to come and fight her in the bathroom. She could charm the toilets to attack him when he least expects it, giving herself an advantage over his sophisticated necromancy. She almost smiles at the mental image such thoughts produce, but the there is something sobering and unsettling in the ridiculousness of her fantasy. Perhaps that would be the only way to defeat him. Perhaps she does have to rely on sheer dumb luck and ridiculous, childish tactics. Because what else does she have? An increasingly abysmal academic record? Skinny, noodle like arms that can no longer hold a wand with enough conviction to produce even a simple counter curse? No, she knows that she is living on borrowed time. For neither can live while the other survives. And he grows stronger as she grows weaker and nobody can see this. Nobody can see that she is a fraud, a stupid little girl leading them all to their graves, the only real power she seems to possess.
No matter what she chooses, no matter which path she takes, someone always dies. If she is selfish and stupid, someone dies. If she tries to be altruistic somebody dies. Her birth brought on the death of her parents. Friendship will indubitably bring death to those close to her. There is no winning. Nothing I do is ever right. He is always one step ahead. Snape was right. Snape was always right.
She just wishes she could look into their eyes and tell them how sorry she is. Even if they can't hear her.
"…and then I left with her when she left Hogwarts. She didn't suspect a thing, of course, I made sure to keep the haunting to a minimum at first. I did ruin her brother's wedding though, but I guess that's a story for another day," Myrtle says, faking an exaggerated yawn.
"Yeah, I wouldn't want to hear all the good stuff in one go."
"You should get some sleep, you know. You look awful."
"Thanks," says Harriet as the ghost begins floating towards the door. "Hey Myrtle?"
Myrtle stops and turns to face Harriet, the door visible in her right cheek.
"You haven't, you know, told anyone." She is aiming for nonchalance, but the voice that comes out is quiet and meek. She isn't prepared for it when Myrtle suddenly appears before her, her nose mere millimetres away from her own, her translucent hands cupping her cheeks, sending icy chills down her neck.
"Why are you so distrustful of me, Harriet?" she whispers, her magnified eyes filling with tears.
"I didn't mean to offend you, I was just—"
"It's almost like you don't consider me your friend." The chills intensity and the nerve endings in Harriet's skin begin to hurt. She imagines her face being submerged in ice cold water, or being paralysed face down in the snow. "It's almost as if I mean nothing to you, as if the time we spend together is a chore."
"That's not true, Myrtle." She wants to step away, the pain is now quite intense and her eyes begin to water. She wonders if the prolonged touch of a ghost can cause frostbite.
"You like this, don't you?" Myrtle whispers, her breath sharp like icicles, her eyes unnaturally large and dark. "The pain in your face. It brings you comfort."
Harriet doesn't know what to say. She could easily step away from Myrtle, it's not like the ghost's hands on her have any sort of physical hold, but every fibre of her being says it would be a bad idea, that she needs to let Myrtle feel like she is in control. She is transfixed by a greater sort of power. "It makes you feel alive," she goes on, and that at least, is something Harriet can't argue with. Myrtle watches her intently for a few more seconds and then she lets go, floating away and looking at her with an indecipherable sort of smile.
"Just remember, there are things I can do for you," she says quietly, her eyes normal once more, just before disappearing through a wall and leaving Harriet alone in the darkness.
The Great Hall, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland, Great Britain.
8:30 am, Friday, September 6th 1996.
Hermione notices an uptick in her worry as she wraps a breakfast muffin in a napkin and places it surreptitiously in her bag. She can probably touch the exact spot where the worry is felt most viscerally. It lays somewhere between her sternum and her ribcage and it makes her feel helpless in a way she hasn't felt before.
She remembers first feeling this a few months earlier when they returned from the Department of Mysteries and Harriet's gut-wrenching sobs could be heard from the shower she refused to leave for hours. After a while, Hermione had to give up trying to talk to her, to comfort her. She found herself out of sorts, like no academic journal could have prepared her for this. Instead, she sat on the floor next to Harriet's shower cubicle, helplessly listening to the outpour of her friend's grief until it stopped and then she sat through the deafening silence that followed too. Later, when Harriet emerged from it all wet and raw skinned and puffy eyed, Hermione wrapped her up in warm towels and guided her back into the dorm, where Padma, Patil and Ginny had moved their beds together and lit candles, and incense and doused the bedsheets with the liquid comfort their mothers sent from home. You don't have to do anything, she gently whispered, as the other girls dried Harriet's hair and helped her change into pyjamas. And then afterwards, as she shivered violently from the shock of it all, it was Hermione who held her hand until she was able to succumb to her exhaustion and fall asleep.
The pushing of beds and hand holding lasted until the summer holidays when Harri was once again forced to return to the Dursleys. And then the worry grew when she stopped replying to letters, even though Hermione never stopped sending them, together with treats for Hedwig because she knew the Dursleys never fed her. At first, Hermione reasoned that her friend just needed the time to grieve, but the space in her sternum grew despite her self-assurance and when she next saw Harri again, she knew the inside of her chest wouldn't feel normal for some time to come.
"I don't know if this is a good idea." Ron's voice cuts through Hermione's thoughts. She looks up at him and then down at his plate, noticing his generous portion of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast, a fact that annoys her to unreasonable degrees, because how dare he have a healthy appetite when everything is so unbearably messed up. Also, how dare he look at Lavender's bum the way he did last night in the common room when their friend was missing?
"Do you have a better one?"
"Maybe we should tell someone. This is getting a bit out of hand. Don't you think we're enabling it?"
"I think it's dangerous for this to get out now. Between the Daily Prophet spewing lies and you-know-who recruiting new followers, she needs time to heal out of the spotlight."
"She doesn't talk anymore Mione, I think she needs more than just a bit of time," Ron persists between mouthfuls. "I can't remember the last time she came down for a meal."
"Well maybe she would be more inclined to come down if you tried to care a little harder," she snaps.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It doesn't matter," she says tersely.
"Do you honestly think that's the solution?" Ron asks, motioning towards her bag.
"I'm not going to let her starve."
"You can't force her to eat."
"One of us has to fucking try, Ronald!" Hermione snaps, making a group of nearby first years shoot them curious glances. Before she has time to say anything else, Ron drops his fork and looks up a spot behind her head. She knows who it is was even before hearing the waspish voice, having felt his eyes on them all morning.
"Breakfast is to be served in the Great Hall, Miss Granger, not carried around in crumbs at the bottom of your bag."
"I get hungry whilst studying, sir," she says, turning to face Snape with as much conviction as she can muster. She noticed him eyeing them when they sat down for breakfast earlier that morning, forsaking his customary scanning of the Daily Prophet or the matinal pastime of writing what she assumes to be detention slips. She also noticed him having a long, somewhat irate looking conversation with McGonagall the night before at dinner, during which her hawkish gaze did not leave the Gryffindor table and in particular, the empty seat next to Ron and Hermione.
"Do you take me for a fool, girl?" he intones, arching an eyebrow at her menacingly.
"No sir."
"Why is Potter not at breakfast?"
"She's not feeling well. I just wanted to bring her back something to eat."
"Breakfast in bed? I did not take you for a house elf."
Hermione's cheeks begin to burn. She had wanted to wait up for Harri the previous night, especially after storming out of Potions, but she didn't return to the dormitory until quarter past five in the morning, by which point Hermione had fallen asleep. When she tried waking her for breakfast, Harriet refused to stir. Intent on not letting her miss even more lessons, she reasoned that she'd have better luck if she let her sleep in before Herbology. "She slept through the alarm this morning," she says, reasoning that giving Snape some of the more innocent details would somewhat mollify his curiosity.
"And might that have something to do with the fact that she missed curfew last night?" Snape asks in a silky voice.
"She didn't—"
"Do not attempt to lie to me, Miss Granger," he says sharply, narrowing his eyes at her. "The note that summoned your sick little friend to my office yesterday failed to deliver, several times. Potter did not set foot in the Gryffindor common room all day and I want to know why."
"I don't know," Hermione says dejectedly. "We haven't seen her since Potions, at least until…"
"Yes?"
"Until late last night when she returned to the dorm."
A flash of something unreadable washes over the Potion Master's face, but it is gone before Hermione has a chance to further study it. "Ah, so Potter has been malingering to get out of lessons. How many?"
Ron casts Hermione a worried look. "I don't think—"
"How many?" he repeats, his voice harder and sharper.
"Two, sir," she says. "I don't think—"
"Which are?"
"History of Magic and Astronomy. But, sir, I don't think—"
"You and Weasley are to head straight to the greenhouses this morning. Attempt to contact Potter and I will know. I will also know if you decide to take a detour, or—"
"Sir, please—" Hermione begins to protest.
"Five points from Gryffindor for interrupting a faculty member. You are in absolutely no position to argue about anything, so I suggest you start making your way to your classes before you and Weasley find yourselves kneading flobberworms this the weekend. Have I made myself clear?" Snape says in a tone that brooks no disobedience.
"Yes sir," Hermione says despondently, just as Ron mouths a quiet I haven't even said anything. Snape glares pointedly at them both but just as he turns to leave, Hermione adds, "she really isn't feeling well, Professor."
"I will be the judge of that."
Gryffindor Girls' Dormitory, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland, Great Britain.
9:00 am, Friday, September 6th 1996.
Harriet welcomes the exhaustion nestling in the depths of her bones, and now that the dormitory is empty, she can finally give in to it, let it envelop her like a shroud. She is aware, on some level, that there is somewhere she needs to be and images of plant filled glass houses briefly flash before her eyes before dissolving into the darkness like smoke. They are abstract sort of images, and their brief appearance is not powerful enough to stir even a modicum of curiosity or concern that there may be consequences to her absence. Because nothing is as important as sleep in that moment. Yet, the more she tries to sink into it, the more she becomes aware of something pulling her away, into consciousness. Indeed, she can't shake off the nagging sensation that she is being watched, and there is something decidedly off about the air in the room, an electrical charge in the dust particles that wasn't there before. Padma probably forgot her Herbology book again, she thinks with some annoyance, opening her eyes to scan the immediate surroundings. Of course, without her glasses it is impossible to see anything with clarity, especially with the curtains mostly drawn around her bed, but once she is satisfied that nothing obvious is out of place, she nestles deeper into the covers and tries to give in to sleep.
And then it happens.
In one swift movement, the covers are yanked away from her by an invisible force and somehow—though she doesn't entirely understand how—she finds herself standing in the middle of the dormitory, wand pointed towards the door. She doesn't remember reaching for it, the action having been purely instinctual, but she knows, even without the aid of her glasses, that something ominous is lurking there, a tall, dark shadow that is out of place with the surroundings and which seems to be advancing towards her menacingly.
"Lower your wand, Potter!" the shadow orders in a familiar silky drawl, not waiting for Harriet to comply before reaching out and yanking it out of her hand. Wiry frames fly onto her face of their own accord and even when the world comes into focus, Harriet can't quite believe that Snape—Snape—is standing there, in the Gryffindor girls' dormitory, looking at her with a mixture of annoyance and something akin to disgust.
"What the fu—"
"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you," he warns, black eyes boring into hers.
Harriet closes her mouth because despite the resentment, her sense of self-preservation has not entirely abandoned her. Instead, she settles for a Slytherin-worthy glare that channels every ounce of hatred she feels towards the slimy dungeon bat. "You can't be in here," she eventually says, aiming for assertiveness, but finding herself suddenly self-conscious about the lanky old jumper and Quidditch shorts she haphazardly put on before collapsing into bed, especially when contrasted with Snape's authoritative black robes.
"As a senior faculty member, I assure you Potter, I most certainly can."
"McGonagall is my head of house," she says indignantly, hoping that the name alone will act as a protective talisman against Snape's presence, and for a second, she imagines him turning to ash or disappearing in a cloud of smoke. To her disappointment, however, the invocation of her professor's name seems to have no effect on him whatsoever as he continues to scowl down at her from his imposing height.
"Professor McGonagall and I had a little chat last night about the debacle you caused in my class yesterday. Needless to say, she was surprised to learn you failed to attend detention with me and has decided to leave the matter of your discipline in my hands."
"Fine, give me a week-long detention then," she snaps. "I don't—"
"Care? Yes, your lackadaisical attitude comes as no surprise, though I am certain that your head of house will be interested to find out why you have been skipping classes."
"I haven't—"
"Don't lie to me," he says, enunciating his consonants with such venom that Harriet fights the urge to take a step back. "Explain to me why you are not in Herbology this morning."
Harriet knows that further enraging him is not a game she should be playing, and yet there is something seductive in her anger, a delirious urge to tempt death perhaps, to allow the tendrils of her self-destructiveness to take over the last bastions of rationality.
"I don't see how it is any of your concern, given that it's not your chemistry class I'm skipping." The words slip out before she has a chance to filter them. From an uninhabited room inside her head, Sirius chuckles and the memory of his laughter disarms her, so that at first, she misses the anger flashing on the Snape's face. By the time the impact of her words register it is too late.
"Your insolence knows no bounds," he says in a deadly voice that is somehow far more sinister than the customary audible anger. "Remarkable habits you seem to have inherited from your dogfather. Such a shame his time with you has been so short." There seems to be a glint in his eyes and although his body language hasn't changed, the room is suddenly full of him and he is everywhere.
"Don't!" Harriet takes a step back as if Snape's words have physically struck her. "Don't you dare talk about Si—about him!" She is aware that she sounds shrill, but she cannot help herself, cannot stand hearing him mentioned by Snape, when she herself has become unable to speak his name, mute in the face of her grief.
Just then, the door to the dormitory opens and Padma rushes in. "Harri, have you seen my—"
"Out!" Snape yells, without turning around, without even taking his eyes off Harriet.
Padma shoots her a horrified glance before swiftly deserting the dormitory. The door closes behind her with a loud bang as a piece of parchment falls from a nearby chair and glides underneath Hermione's bed. It suddenly occurs to Harriet that Snape is starkly out of place, especially when contrasted with Hermione's lavender bed sheets and Padma'a poster of The Weird Sisters, amongst other teenage paraphernalia. She can hear her own heart beating in her chest, a violent sort of thud that makes her ribs ache. Her vision goes a little fuzzy and for a split second, she wonders if Snape is merely a nightmarish apparition constructed by her bedraggled, over-tired brain. She raises her hand slightly, almost as if trying to decide if she should poke him for confirmation, but when he next speaks, all doubt is erased and her hand drops by her side once more.
"I will ask you one more time, Potter," Snape says, his voice dangerously low and very, very real. "Why are you not-?"
"I'm sick," she says tersely, looking down at her feet before he has a chance to finish his question, "Sir." Her own voice surprises her. The tiredness she feels in her limbs seems to have made its way into her mouth, numbing the caustic effect she hoped her words would have. Her arms begin to tingle, and she closes her eyes in a desperate attempt to quench the urge.
Snape says nothing and although there is still anger radiating from his person, when she finally looks up she notices him studying her, his dark eyes taking her in as if she is a complicated potion that isn't turning out as it should.
"Get dressed," he orders after a moment, "You and I are going to see Madam Pomfrey."
A feeling of dread erupts in the depth of her stomach as visions of the matron's diagnostic charms accost painfully her from all the corners of her mind. "No."
"What did you say to me?" Snape's voice is icy cold, the lines in his jaw sharp enough to cut through stone.
A delirious current washes through Harriet. "I have no intention of going to the infirmary, so if you don't mind, I would appreciate it if you just kept your nose out of my business and-."
He closes the gap between them in one long stride, the action so thunderously swift she has no time to protest. Instinctively, she looks away—she always looks away when Uncle Vernon marches towards her, though he isn't as deadly or light on his feet—but Snape grabs her jaw with iron tight force, tilting her head up until she has no other choice but to look at him. She is startled by the warmth of his hands and briefly wonders why everyone suddenly has the need to touch—or grab—her face, but she doesn't have time to follow that train of thought because Snape is unblinking and exact and for a moment, she doesn't realise what is happening, the darkness of his eyes drawing her in like the dead of night, but then she suddenly understands and the dread washes through her anew as she feels his mind inside her own, razon sharp and strong and unyielding. She tries to push him out, her attempts desperate, almost animalistic, and her magic vibrates painfully along her spine, but it is in vain, he is too strong, too masterful a legilimens, and the memories swirl before her eyes like mist. She tries to grab them, to shove them back in like clothes in an overfilled drawer, but Snape's hold on them is too strong and she is forced to watch them anew.
She is looking through the giant lunascope in the Astronomy Tower, trying to distract herself, the sky full of clouds that blur each time she blinks. She doesn't realise she is crying, though her face is wet, but it is not enough and the moon is hiding. She is in the abandoned Charms classroom on the third floor, waiting nervously for Terry who promised her monthly supplies of cigarettes in exchange for two Galleons and bi-weekend access to her Firebolt. Sirius falling through the veil, surprise the last expression that washes over his features. Staring at the ceiling in her dorm, adrenaline coursing through her veins like poison, her chest heavy, hot. She is scattered, unable to contain herself inside her brain, the nightmares leak into the waking world like blood. Sometimes, Cedric sits alone in the bleachers, watching her, sometimes sorrowfully, sometimes accusingly. She can't fly anymore, the thoughts ricochet around her head like bludgers, she's developed a fear of heights, a fear of falling. Guilt. She can't sleep again, barefoot in the girl's first floor lavatory, potions scalpel held against the soft underside of her arm, not understanding what she is doing until she does it. The exhilaration is timid that first time, but it does come, smooth and light like silk. She feels like herself again, the pain brings her back inside, only it doesn't last and each time, she needs to do it more, do it differently. She's good at knowing when to stop. Sirius falls through the veil. Sirius embraces her one final time at Grimmauld Place. Sirius—
Snape withdraws from her mind, letting go of her jaw so abruptly that Harriet stumbles back into the wall. She is both startled by its presence and thankful for the support it offers. It isn't an unfamiliar feeling, Snape abruptly drawing out of her mind like that. After all, she endured months of pointless occlumency lessons with him, most of which ended with her losing her balance and falling painfully on her knees, but this feels different, personal, dangerous. It feels shameful, like she has been folded and unfolded in every possible way, found wanting. Damaged. Broken. Because he finally sees her for what she is, a liability, a danger to them all. She is death.
"Show me."