xix. snake tongue

Harriet stabbed one of her eggs and yellow goo spread across her otherwise empty plate.

"You should really eat more," Hermione chided as her friend spread the yolk about with the tines of her fork. Harriet scrunched her face and didn't reply, intent on being glum. Every so often she would glance toward the High Table, where the professors sat enjoying their breakfasts and each other's company. Professor Slytherin chattered quietly with Professor Selwyn, Professor Snape scowled at his porridge, and Professor McGonagall leaned closer to the Headmaster so she could mutter near his ear. Professor Dumbledore glanced toward the Slytherin table, and Harriet looked down so fast she almost planted her face in her eggs.

It was a miserable way to start a Friday.

Professor McGonagall hadn't mentioned anything about her detention yet, but Harriet wasn't optimistic. If she got sent to Professor Slytherin, what would he do? Was caning still a thing at Hogwarts? State Muggle schools in the UK didn't allow that kind of treatment, but Hogwarts was an old-fashioned kind of place and Harriet plainly remembered that Smeltings had handed out those bloody sticks to their own students. She hadn't hurt Weasley. Her punishment shouldn't be so severe…right?

Livi moved his head where it lay upon her chest and Harriet hunched her shoulders so the shift wouldn't be noticed by others. "There are many riversss," he hissed. "And many bridgesss to crosss them."

Horned Serpents could occasionally say rather insightful things—though Harriet had discovered Livi was young enough yet to be confused by his own insights, and sometimes he said things that made no sense at all.

This was one of those times.

Harriet sighed and discreetly rubbed at his snout. The post arrived with its usual dusting of feathers and shrill hoots, and one owl swung away from the main group to hover before Harriet. It extended his leg for her to take the missive attached there, and she did so with trepidation.

Miss Potter—

I have decided to forego notifying your Head of House about your behavior during Thursday's flying lesson. Instead, Professor Snape has volunteered to oversee your detention himself. Please report to his classroom this evening after dinner.

I do hope you will reflect upon your actions and make better choices in the future.

Prof. M. McGonagall.

"Oh, this is worse!" Harriet said aloud, garnering several curious glances.

"Who's it from?" Hermione asked as she smeared marmalade on a piece of toast and laid it on Harriet's plate.

"Professor McGonagall," Harriet replied, hoping her voice held steady despite her misery. "She's set my detention for tonight with Professor Snape."

"So?" Malfoy snorted. Harriet hadn't realized he'd been listening in. "What's wrong with Professor Snape?"

"…nothing, I guess." Harriet glanced at the wizard in question. He'd finished glaring at his porridge and now glared at Slytherin, then at Dumbledore. "He's just…." Terrifying. Just looks like he might stuff me into a cauldron and boil me alive.

"Snape's great. He looks out for Slytherins," Malfoy said as he stuck his nose in the air. "Mind, I think it's ridiculous you got detention in the first place. The Weasel deserved a good punch in the mouth for talking back to his betters."

Harriet snorted. "I'm a 'better' now? Weren't you banging on about me being a blood-traitor just like Ron?"

"It doesn't matter; you're still in Slytherin, and that makes you better than any of the Weasleys."

Pansy sniffed and flipped a coiffed ringlet of hair out of her face. "A real witch would have used magic and cursed him."

"A real witch would have been expelled," Hermione sniped. She shoved her plate away and stood. "I'm going to the library before class."

"Nobody cares, Granger."

Harriet cared, so she stuffed the toast into her mouth—getting marmalade on her face—and departed from the Great Hall with her friend.

xXxXx

With every step that drew her nearer the Potions Master's lair, Harriet wished she had taken the detention with Professor Slytherin instead.

He's wicked scary, too, Harriet thought as she stopped before the door to the Potions classroom and took a breath. But at least his class isn't literally in the dungeons. I wonder if they actually held people here in the old days….

Harriet knocked and a cool voice responded. "Enter."

She did so, pushing on the door so it inched inward on thick iron hinges. The boards of the door were battered, dented and scratched and a bit twisted from Professor Snape entering his classroom in a snit, kicking it open and letting it slam against the inner wall with its rusted rivets bolted to the stones. Pickled things floated in the jars on the walls and Harriet always stared at them whenever she had Potions, both fascinated and repulsed by the strange things the wizard had preserved in innocuous glass containers.

The professor himself sat at his desk in the permanent semi-darkness of the castle's sub-levels with a quill in hand and a scowl on his face. His black eyes rose from the parchment before him when Harriet slipped inside. The scowl deepened. "Miss Potter."

"H-hello, Professor Snape. I'm here for my detention."

His eyes dropped to the parchment again in dismissal. "So you are." His arm lifted and he pointed one pale hand toward the far wall, where a line of cauldrons waited on the counter near the stone sink and the faucet shaped like a gargoyle's mouth. "Clean the cauldrons, Miss Potter. No magic."

That's it? Harriet thought as she scuttled across the room to the waiting mess. Harriet had plenty of practice in non-magical scrubbing, so this task hardly seemed a punishment at all. Well, what did you expect? she asked herself, peeved. You're such an idiot. You didn't actually think he was going to poison you or beat you or something, right?

Harriet didn't answer that, not even in the privacy of her own brain. Instead, she fished out the soap and cleaning implements from the proper cabinet and turned the water on. Professor Snape gave no further instructions. He went back to work, quill scratching away at the parchments Harriet suspected were student essays, and the water gushed from the gargoyle in a frigid, gurgling stream.

She removed her hampering outer robes, folding them carefully before setting them on the nearest dry table. Livi stirred beneath her uniform and Harriet paused to make certain his outline wasn't visible through her clothes. "Sss…cold," the serpent complained as he placed his head in the crook of her shoulder and left it there. One of his nubby horns jabbed Harriet in the neck and she poked him over, wincing.

"It'll only get colder," Harriet responded, her voice covered by the sound of the water. The dungeons would be frozen in the harshness of the highland winters and she didn't look forward to that. How did the older Slytherins manage? "Will you be okay? You don't—you don't hibernate or something, do you?"

"No," Livi said. "I am not like thossse othersss." He referred to snakes who weren't himself as "other," as if they didn't deserve to be in the same species as him. "I do not endure the ssslow ssseasson."

"The slow season?"

"Misstresss keepsss me warm. My blood doesss not cool."

Harriet snorted. Harriet Potter qualities: nice place for snakes to cuddle. Wonderful.

"Something amusing, Miss Potter?"

"No, Professor Snape."

He went back to writing again and Harriet concentrated on her task, ignoring her professor and Livi's complaining. The cauldrons proved harder to clean than expected, difficult to maneuver and coarse in texture, so the gunk and stains settled deep in the pitted metal and Harriet had to exert considerable effort to scrub the rubbish away. She didn't like to think about what she was getting stuck under the nails of her frozen fingers. Brains? Eyes? Dung? A mix of all three?

An hour passed before Professor Snape set aside his markings and came to loom behind Harriet, inspecting the cauldrons she had already finished. "Professor McGonagall tells me you struck Weasley. Why?"

Unlike the Transfiguration professor, Snape didn't sound accusatory; rather, he had a sharp, inquisitive air about him, reserving judgment until he better understood the situation. Harriet hesitated—but then decided Professor Snape probably didn't care enough about stupid childish spats to get Ron in trouble. "I didn't mean to," she grumbled. "He said some…some stuff and—I don't know. I got upset. I didn't know I'd hit him until it had already happened."

"What stuff did Weasley say, Potter?"

Harriet frowned at the brush in her hand, at the grimy bristles and raw spots on her knuckles. "He said my mum and dad would have been ashamed of me being in Slytherin because they were Gryffindors, but I don't think that's true." At least I hope not.

She didn't notice Snape stiffen. She didn't notice the way his hand curled into a fist behind his back, or the dangerous flick of light touch his eyes, because in an instant the emotion was gone.

"You shouldn't pay attention to the foolish prattling of Gryffindors," he sneered. "They are arrogant and foolhardy to the last. Your year will be especially insufferable because of Longbottom; the boy king of ignorance and unquestioning virtue."

Harriet didn't agree with that—or, well, she didn't think she did. A few Gryffindors were friendly enough, in that they didn't scowl or mutter or walk away when a Slytherin passed them by, though she rarely witnessed Slytherins themselves behaving friendly in turn. Malfoy excelled at antagonizing the House of Lions, berating Neville because he was famous or Ron because he was poor or Dean because he was a Muggle-born. Pansy made fun of Lavender's hair or Fay Dunbar's freckled complexion.

She paused in her work to rub at her sore skin. The dynamic in Slytherin baffled Harriet; on one hand, the House was filled with people like Draco: sharp-tongued, affluent, hateful. On the other, students like herself dotted the population: indifferent, patient, empathetic. Harriet wouldn't say she was kind, not when life with the Dursleys had honed her too much, like a knife sharpened until the metal became brittle, and her suspicions ran deep. She still didn't feel the need to be cruel like Malfoy, though.

Then again, Harriet reminded herself. I did punch Ron in the mouth.

Snape criticized one of the cauldrons she'd already cleaned and Harriet hurried it back into the water. He retrieved his wand—black like Elara's, the design simple, obscured by his hand—and muttered a spell that lifted the finished cauldrons from their places on the wet counter so he could march them into the storage cupboard. His voice rose from inside when he spoke again.

"That being said, you cannot go about striking cretins, no matter what nonsense comes dribbling out of their mouths. It is unbecoming, especially from a Slytherin. Our House is held to a higher standard, Miss Potter, and your behavior must conform to that standard or you will be having more detentions. Let me assure you, I have far less pleasant tasks I could assign."

Shivering at the thought, Harriet raised her voice when she answered. "Yes, sir." Livi poked his invisible head out of her collar and flicked a curious tongue against her earlobe. "Ew, gross."

"What was that?" Snape returned to the doorway.

"Nothing, Professor."

Pausing, he folded his arms against his chest, looking more sinister than ever with only his pale face visible in the gloom, his eyes narrowed. "I don't appreciate backchat, Pot—." Snape's voice ended with a sudden breath when Harriet turned her head, reaching for a dirty ladle. "Miss Potter!"

Harriet jumped as he shouted and the ladle slipped through her fingers to clatter upon the stone floor. "P-Professor Snape?"

He had his wand out, pointed at her, and Harriet's heart raced. "Miss Potter, are you aware there is a highly venomous snake tucked into your bloody shirt?!"

"Sn—?" Harriet froze, because while she of course knew Livi was there, she couldn't fathom how Snape knew when the serpent in question was mostly out of sight and invisible to boot.

Professor Snape took a step forward, wand raised, and Harriet's hand flew to Livi's head. "Don't!" she cried, unsure what the wizard's intentions were. "H-he's my familiar, Professor."

His advanced stopped, as did the sharp movement of his black wand. "Familiar?"

"Yes. I know snakes weren't on the letter about pets, but he wouldn't hurt anyone, I swear! And I keep him out of sight—."

"You cannot keep a large, deadly snake, Miss Potter! Remove it!"

"Well, I tried to tell him that before and he said—."

If Harriet thought Professor Snape was pale before, she was abruptly treated to another level of sallowness when the professor sat down—hard—on the edge of the nearest table, as if his knees had given out on him. "He said?"

"Yeah," Harriet replied as she maneuvered Livi's head back under her collar and into perceived safety. "I mean—yes, sir."

Snape seemed to struggle with words for a minute, mouth opening twice without sound coming out before he ground his teeth. "You can…speak with snakes, Miss Potter?"

"Yes, sir. Most of them are real nutters. Mad about bugs." Harriet shifted under the uncomfortable scrutiny of Professor Snape's expressionless stare. "That's not…not normal, is it? Not even for witches?"

"No," he responded slowly. "It is not a common trait."

Aunt Petunia's voice rattled in Harriet's head like the last mint in a tin. Freak. Freak. Freak.

"Your ability is called Parseltongue, and you would be referred to as a Parselmouth, Miss Potter. Salazar Slytherin, our House Founder, was famous for having the same skill." He heaved a weary sigh. "Who else knows?"

"No one," Harriet said, then reconsidered. "Well, Elara I think. She saw me chatting with him at the store, but I don't think she knows I have him here."

Snape squeezed his eyes shut, muttered something under his breath, then snapped, "You will not tell anyone else—especially your Head of House. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." Harriet didn't really understand. She hadn't disclosed her ability to anyone because it would mean exposing Livi and she had become rather attached to the snooty snake. She didn't want him to be sent away. The Potions Master was quite earnest, however. "Professor Snape? Is it—is being a Par—Parselmouth? Is it bad or something?"

He didn't answer at first. Rather, Professor Snape rose to his full height and tucked his wand back into his sleeve. "It is not bad or good, Miss Potter, it is simply a skill almost wholly unique to yourself, and one often misunderstood. Should you have brains in your head, you will realize the advantage in keeping knowledge of your true abilities close so they cannot be used against you—and yes, they would use this against you in a heartbeat."

Harriet didn't ask him to explain his vague usage of they. "That's very…Slytherin, Professor."

Snape smirked—or at least Harriet thought he did. The expression dissolved into disdain quicker than milk dispersing into tea. His eyes glinted and Harriet gulped. "Leave the rest of this and return directly to the dormitories. I had best not see you in detention again, Potter, or there will be consequences."

"Yes, sir."

"Go."

She snatched up her robes and pulled her arms through the sleeves as she rushed from the dungeon. Harriet was almost back to the common room when she realized she never did find out how Snape had seen Livi in the first place.