ccxlvi. points of weakness
An aggravated sound of disgust met Harriet's ears as she stepped through the open door to the library beyond.
A few days of living at the Tor had passed. Harriet had spent a nerve-racking amount of time on her first evening searching for a way back into the house, and had ended up squeezing through an open loo window, scaring a yelp out of a cleaning house-elf. She managed to sneak back to her room without incident, though she did curse Snape's name until blue in the face.
Otherwise, her time there had been rather unremarkable. Dreading her apprenticeship had built terrifying scenarios in Harriet's head, leading her to think every moment spent alone in Slytherin's presence would be one of intrigue or spine-chilling fear. Instead, the typical day consisted of those tepid, uncomfortable meals, then lessons in the study. Slytherin kept drilling her on new rune combinations, having Harriet mark them on the chalkboard, then correcting her. Truly, it was all rather…dull. And repetitive.
I eat breakfast with Death Eaters and find it boring, Harriet thought to herself, face twitching with the urge to laugh. What is my life becoming?
Slytherin's mood could be as capricious as she'd ever experienced it, though she often caught him being almost playful. Of course, playful for Slytherin was something akin to playful for a cat and a mouse, but Harriet couldn't puzzle out another way to think of it. She saw glimpses—instances where his smile charmed instead of revolted, where he teased and his followers basked in his camaraderie. Sometimes, when he spoke, going on in his winding monologues, he would make a comment or observation Harriet would nod along with, horrifying herself.
"You will find yourself agreeing with him on occasion," Snape imparted when Harriet told him. "Slytherin is not so entirely unique or unholy that he does not understand being personable. He does. It is part of the danger, Miss Potter."
"I don't understand."
"Seeing him as human makes it harder to do what must be done."
Harriet still didn't fully comprehend what Snape meant until she realized those times when Slytherin seemed less like a monster, when he delivered a sparse kindness or genuine compliment, he became a person to her, however nasty, cruel, or bigoted—and she was meant to learn his weaknesses, learn how to exploit them. By nature, Harriet didn't think herself very calculating or conniving. She never wanted to imagine how best to hurt someone, and when she stopped thinking of Slytherin as a monster—even if only in passing phases—she had to recognize that was exactly her intent.
She would have to hurt people one day.
Today, however, Slytherin had resumed his role as demanding taskmaster, setting Harriet to memorize and study combinations of runes while he dryly lectured on how the druids defined and established the first magical zeitgeist in England. He'd sent her out of the room to find a set of ceramic practice runes the Sangfort's kept, and her search had brought Harriet to the library. Gauthar was inside.
He leaned over a table laden with shadow boxes, each one holding a preserved butterfly, observing them with a brass magnifying glass. Harriet had peeked at the boxes before and didn't have any interest in doing so again; the butterflies twitched and thrashed, preserved by Dark magic and stuck in place by cursed pins. It was sad and unsettling.
Gauthar straightened, and his left eye twitched as he folded the magnifying glass with a damning click. He said nothing, so Harriet averted her attention to the shelves, darting over to grab the proper box. It rattled as she dragged it down from over her head.
"Do mind what you grab so enthusiastically," Gauthar said, derision clear in his voice. Harriet held the runes close to her chest, staring at the man. "Did your parents teach you no manners?"
"No," Harriet said, not missing a step. She wondered if he knew the Potters had died and was saying this to dig at her. Either way, she didn't let it bother her. "They're dead. I was raised by Muggles."
She admitted to herself seeing pure-bloods curl their lips and wrinkle their noses like she was a dog who'd messed the carpet each time she mentioned Muggles gave Harriet a perverse delight. On one hand, it infuriated her they could think any less of a witch or wizard simply because they'd been born or raised outside the community. On another, she thought it bloody hilarious they could be provoked by something so ridiculous.
"Surely the Muggles told you not to take with so little decorum? As I understand it, even their pets are instilled with a level of…obedience."
"I wouldn't know, sir." Harriet gave the box a deliberate shake, jarring the pieces inside so they clacked together. Gauthar's nostrils flared. "I gotta get back to Professor Slytherin."
"Yes…be sure to do that."
Harriet took the runes and returned to the lounge where Slytherin had decided to camp for the day. He was in one of his more garrulous moods and had wrangled Snape, Iris, and Myles Mirthcut into listening to his pointless droning, though Harriet guessed "wrangled" was the wrong word. He merely had to allude to a desire for having a discussion and the others leapt to his convenience.
Harriet took her pilfered box and chose a spot far enough from the others to discourage notice without being deliberately rude. She hunkered on the sofa with her back to the high, scrolled arm, not caring a whit about having her shoes on the cushions as she propped up her legs and used her thighs to support the rune-board. The box got left on the floor.
At first, she tried to listen to the conversation happening, but they were discussing some foreign policy affecting Durmstrang that Slytherin found distasteful, and it was as dull as anything Harriet had ever heard. Their voices droned in the background, replaced by the click-clack of ceramic tiles lining up on the board's lip. It felt like a game as Harriet studied the runes engraved on the tiles and tried to identify the hundreds of choices, then lined them together to make new meanings. The tiles would click into place, then a flush of magic would go through them—light flickering, telling Harriet what she'd made.
More often than not, the light flashed red, meaning she'd made a hash of it, but Harriet enjoyed experimenting. She liked the noise of the tiles moving. She liked—the domesticity of it. A little less than a week ago, she'd been in a courtroom, preparing herself to spend the rest of her life confined in a stone cell, and now she sat in new clothes on a comfortable settee, almost…relaxed. True, she'd rather be at Grimmauld, and she already desperately missed her friends, but Harriet contented herself with her current situation.
A Death Eater's house beat being in prison.
She paid less and less attention to her surroundings as the hour ticked on, instead concentrating on crafting longer strings of runes to see what magic they made possible. It involved more and more complicated configurations and delicate stacking, so much so the magic began to read positive and negative at once, and Harriet wasn't sure why. She set in on dissecting the strings, attempting to find where things went wrong.
The sudden winnow of wordless magic caught her ear, but Harriet didn't have a chance to look up before it snagged her by the waist and dragged her over on the sofa, rattling the tiles. Slytherin slid into the space she'd previously occupied, lounging with his arms across the sofa's back. Harriet nearly leaned into him when the magic released her, and she jerked to stay upright, knocking the tiles out of place.
What is he doing? she wondered, nervous, turning so she sat cross-legged with her back to the sofa's cushion. She sought out the others in the room, finding Snape in an armchair reading the Prophet nearby, Myles and Iris involved in a quiet discussion.
Slytherin's fingertips lightly brushed Harriet's shoulder, and she braced herself.
"What is it you want, Harriet?" The soft hiss of Parseltongue stirred the room, though no one dared to look at Slytherin. Only Harriet mustered her nerve to turn to him, blinking. "I must admit, I've given it thought, and though I've come to my own conclusions, I must asssk…what is it you want?"
"I…I don't know what you mean, Master."
"Everybody wants something," Slytherin said with ease, lifting a hand to gesture at the others. "People who come to me have a desire they wish fulfilled. I wish to know yours."
"I just want to learn."
Slytherin canted his head to the side, almost resting it on his shoulder with how his posture raised it toward his ear. He didn't speak for a long minute, and Harriet pretended to read her runes again. She began re-sorting the mussed arrangement and startled when he spoke.
"Gaunt threatened your friends, yes?" he said, not pausing for an answer. "I know he did. He's grown…uncreative in his success. He strove for a goal too easily met, and the details beyond it have proved…ah, how doesss that saying go? He is herding Nifflers?" His fingertips swiped against her shoulder again, a lazy, idle brush. He touched her as someone might touch their pet. "Perhaps this is a fault he and I share; we expect people to behave in patterns, but he has taken on an entirely different beast. He expects an organization to bend as a person will, and it is not the same. But I digress, where was I? We were discussing your happiness, Harriet. I strive to make my followers happy, dear girl. No need for…threats."
Harriet couldn't help how her eyes darted across the seating arrangement to the dark form in the armchair, and Slytherin saw.
"I hurt Ssseverus for his own good, you know." He caught the very end to one of Harriet's curls and ran his thumb against the edge like testing a knife. "He's been very naughty. That he still breathes is a privilege all its own."
Harriet swallowed.
Slytherin continued to toy with her hair, his gaze going distant, thoughtful. He didn't stir again until Nefaria came into the room to have a word with Iris, at which point Slytherin beckoned her over.
"Harriet requires tea," he told her—which Harriet most certainly did not. "Retrieve her some, would you?"
Voicing the request as a question was pointless, as anyone with half a brain in their skull knew Slytherin did not make requests. He did nothing without a second design.
So Nefaria departed—more than likely summoning a house-elf once out of sight so she needn't make the full trek to the kitchens. When she returned, she all but thrust the cup and saucer into Harriet's hands, scalding droplets stinging her fingers. The witch stepped back to leave, and Slytherin grabbed her by the wrist.
"Thank her," he said. At first, Harriet opened her mouth to do just that—and then she realized the wizard was staring up into Nefaria's rapidly paling face, and his fingers dug into her wrist without restraint. His nails blanched white with the strength of his grip.
"Th-thank you," the older witch stuttered.
"For what?"
"For—for allowing me to serve, my Lord."
Slytherin raised his chin, bearing straight, white teeth.
"And—and thank you, Miss Potter."
"Tell her she's welcome to use your home as she sees fit."
"You—you may use the Tor as ever you like."
His fingers uncurled like a trap pulling back its spikes one by one. Nefaria sketched out a nervous, shaking curtsy, then rushed away. Harriet didn't know what to make of Slytherin's behavior and looked down at her dark, swirling tea, not daring to drink it.
The cup and saucer vanished. Slytherin's hand moved from her shoulder to the top of her head, again reminding Harriet of a master and his dog.
"Don't you enjoy it, Harriet?" he hissed in Parseltongue, his fingers once more resuming their idle movement over her hair. "Ssseeing them bow and scrape when they're so quick to disparage your blood? No matter their wishes, they will give me whatever I wish…whatever YOU wish. Is that not wonderful?"
Harriet swallowed. "I don't like taking things from other people, Master."
"You don't?" He trapped one curl around his forefinger again, stroking the strands with his thumb before letting it go. "You'll come to enjoy it. I promise." A fingertip grazed the shell of her ear. Harriet wondered why he kept touching her. Slytherin never struck her as an affectionate bloke. "After all, they deserve it. You can sense their contempt. They would take everything from you if they could, dear Harriet. Do not be afraid to return the favor. Be happy. You're my apprenticcce, after all."
A sudden streak of boldness hit Harriet, and her mouth opened before she could think better of it. "That didn't matter before," she said in English, Slytherin's hand stilling on her person. She wanted to duck away from him, but she had enough sense to remain still, clutching the rune board. "When they arrested me. You didn't say anything against it. It didn't matter."
Sharp nails skated against her scalp, and Harriet winced. His arm came off the sofa to prop itself on her shoulders, and she was sure to the rest of the room the gesture appeared companionable—but Harriet felt like nothing more than a rat in a python's tightening coils. His arm curled around her, and his hand fell to her jaw to force her face to turn to his.
"Do you think I leave anything to chance?" he whispered, his lips unfurling in a devilish smile. An unsettling smell clung to him, to the dangerous fingers lingering so close to Harriet's face. Sweet and unnatural, a headiness indicative of Dark magic. "How naive. Tell me, Harriet. Do you know of prophecies? Do you believe in them?"
She stiffened, holding herself so tensely, her body cramped like a bow about to snap.
"I don't," Slytherin confessed, his eyes narrowing. "Perhaps I would have at a different time in my life, but I've come to a higher realization. Prophecies are traps. The first prophecy given was whispered by a snake into Eve's ear, and so sealed the fate of mankind." His thumb brushed Harriet's own ear, and she grimaced, then corrected herself. "Would Eve have taken the bait if it had not been pointed out to her? No. The foolish allow themselves to be instruments of Fate, but I am not so easssily led. I intend to live for a very, very long time, dear girl, and I make the reality I wish to live. I do not need to kill and maim to do so; the bird fights the cage, longing for the sky, but if you tell its children they cannot fly, they content themselves with the cage."
His teeth gleamed—sharp, terrifying. Tears prickled in Harriet's eyes, and her scar burned like a fresh brand against her neck, Slytherin's arm resting too close to it.
"Knowing this, do you truly believe you would escape to Azkaban when you've bound yourself to me? Oh, Harriet." He laughed then, a cold and high noise that sent shivers down the spine of every person in that room, and his hand returned to her jaw, turning Harriet's head. The angle he held it at forced her to look directly at Snape, and she felt Slytherin watching her—watching them both—over her shoulder. "People are predictable. Soft. If you know how they will behave, you needn't do anything at all to have your will enacted."
Snape still held the paper—but he hadn't turned a page in several minutes. His grip on the edges wrinkled the material, and his knuckles shone white. His gaze flickered and met Harriet's—filled with a harsh, inky anger, tension radiating through him as if the Potions Master meant to stand at any moment.
"And you think I don't make Severus happy."
All at once, the cryptic nature of Slytherin's message became clear, and terror blasted through Harriet like wind through the desert—scalding, sharp, blinding. Her lips parted on a silent breath, and she trembled. Slytherin chuckled.
He claimed to make his followers happy, but Harriet knew better. What Slytherin called "happiness" could be better defined as "pressure points," areas of weakness he could exploit whenever he wished. For Harriet, he apparently understood threatening her friends would earn her ire, not her obedience…but Harriet wasn't the only person in the room. She was not the person Slytherin meant to test.
The hand at her face stroked Harriet's cheek, and Snape's hands tightened on the paper. Slytherin huffed.
He'd allowed Snape to stay. He'd sent her studying materials with him, had Snape follow them through Deorc Wendan, let him trail them like a dark, silent shadow. Harriet recalled an unopened letter burning to ash, fury in Snape's face, ash raining on their feet.
"Somethings are more important."
"No," he spat. "They're not."
Then, Crouch was dead.
"You will not go back to Azkaban."
Snape had promised that. He'd promised it, and Crouch was dead, and Slytherin hadn't needed to do a thing.
Because he knew Snape would.
"And you think I don't make Severus happy."
He wasn't looking for happiness. He was looking for weakness.
The runes clattered to the floor when Harriet lurched to her feet, the board sliding from her lap. All eyes turned to her, but Harriet refused to raise her head. She fled the room, not needing to look back to know Slytherin's smug, amused grin followed her the entire way.
A/N:
Slytherin: *pets Harriet*
Snape: *whips out the No-Touch spray*