lxv. serpent charmer
Cold morning air cut into Harriet's lungs and she savored the burn, holding it in, until she let it go with a hard, shuddering exhale.
Her sneakers hit the ground under her with steady thumps, the earth unyielding, chilled, compacted by a thousand years of a thousand feet following the same trail along the edge of the Black Lake. Cliffs overshadow part of the path, the natural divots and shelves bearing evidence of forgotten parties thrown by the upper years, initials and hearts carved deep into the rocks. Ahead, the Forbidden Forest crawled up from the shore, and the path loped away from the water into the trees, skirting the deeper woods, passing the far Gagwilde Tower on its final curve to the North Gate.
Harriet paused below the cliffs to study the hundreds of names left behind from previous generations. The low waves lapped at the sand, and the sound echoed here, sparse sunlight reflecting upward from the water, casting incongruous lines on the rocks. Behind her, Harriet could hear Hermione and Elara trying to keep pace.
"You wouldn't have to do anything else," Elara told Hermione, words choppy and breathless. "You would only have to mix the potion. I've already gathered the dew, the moth, and will have the leaf soon."
"You need more than that," Hermione retorted, flipping her frizzy hair. "What about a place to store it, hmm? What if someone tampers with it? Or it gets disturbed? It's very finicky, according to the books."
"I've a safe box with a Stabilizing Charm on it prepared."
"Did you get that out of your precious journal too?"
"Yes, actually."
"What are you two arguing about?" Harriet asked as the pair drew level with her, and both immediately slowed their speed, red in the face, breath escaping in sharp bursts. All three witches wore shorts, high socks, and their school sweaters, though Hermione had managed to smuggle in a Muggle track jacket with a zipper somehow. They'd only been jogging for ten minutes or so, and already felt winded at best and outright exhausted at worst.
"Elara—." Hermione began, balancing one fist on her hip. "Wants me to make her an Animagus Potion."
"Animagus? Like Professor McGonagall?"
"Yes, exactly like Professor McGonagall."
Harriet wrinkled her nose in thought, knocking sediment from her sneakers. They weren't due to cover Animagi for quite some time, but Harriet had skimmed ahead, thinking it'd be awesome to change into an animal—until she read how devilishly difficult the whole process was. "Isn't that illegal?"
"Technically," Elara managed before Hermione could, scowling at the bushy-haired witch. "Just as that Horned Serpent you keep under your bed is technically illegal, too."
"I was just asking, Merlin. Leave Livi be."
"It isn't illegal to try," Elara continued, some of the tension leaving her brow. "There is nothing written in the school bylaws or Ministry edicts that prohibits trying; only success."
Harriet snorted. "Seriously?"
"Yes. I've checked."
"Just because it isn't illegal doesn't mean you should do it," Hermione insisted, both hands on her hips now, a lecture looming like a storm cloud in the distance. "Amateur Animagi transformations are incredibly dangerous—especially given your age!"
"At Uagadou, they learn when they're fourteen or so. A year is not a large difference, and there's no guarantee I could even attempt a transformation until next year, anyway."
"It doesn't matter! In 1962, Gail Patt attempted the transformation for her Transfiguration N.E.W.T extracurricular project and wound up getting stuck as a canary! A canary! They couldn't ever change her back, because she lost her humanity! The conversion between human and animal psyche is temperamental!"
"Will you lower your voice?" Elara snapped. "I understand it's dangerous, Hermione. I'm not a fool. For every failure, there's a story of success. It's something I wish—need—to do, no matter your feelings on the subject."
"You don't need to do it—just as Harriet didn't need to curse Professor Slytherin!"
Harriet winced. A week had passed since their disastrous practical assessment, and their Head of House still glowered at Harriet whenever he saw her. They hadn't had another practical—no one had, in any year, and Draco had been quick to blame Harriet for their increased theoretical course load, bringing down the scathing attention of the upper years on her head. Two sixth years almost tripped her down the stairs the evening prior.
"Don't drag me into this."
"I'm just asking you to make the potion," Elara said. "Not to attempt it with me."
"Well, I won't." Hermione stuck her nose in the air and crossed her arms, turning to the water. Elara let out a harangued sigh, and suddenly rounded on Harriet.
"Harriet will make it, then."
"Wh—? Hold on—."
"If Hermione won't, you will, won't you?" Elara arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.
"Wait—I don't—I don't know anything about the potion—."
"Oh, that shouldn't matter," Elara said, and Harriet saw how Hermione's shoulders stiffened. "After all, the efficacy of the potion isn't important at all."
An incredulous grunt left Hermione, and she whirled around. "I do not appreciate being blackmailed, Elara Black!" she snapped. "You know very well the potion's quality directly affects the success rate of proper transformation!"
Elara's widened her eyes, expression falsely innocent. "Does it, now?"
"Have you given any thought to what might happen if I messed up in making the potion? What would happen then?"
"You won't," Elara asserted, her answering smile softer, more genuine. It punctured Hermione's rising frustration, and her posture loosened. "And for the record, I believe Harriet could brew it as well—but, she's not familiar with the potion like you are, and if I brewed it, it'd be an absolute nightmare."
Sour, Hermione picked up her feet and started on the path again, urging them to follow along. "I'll think about it. That's all I'm promising."
"Thank you."
They walked for the remaining stretch by the shore, and when the steps led into the forest's skinny saplings, Harriet took the lead again, leaning into a slow jog. Flint and Boyle passed them at a considerably faster clip, both nodding their heads at Harriet, ignoring the other witches, and they saw Hufflepuff's Seeker, Cedric Diggory, as well. He was far friendlier, and actually matched their pace for a few minutes, chatting about Quidditch and classes and the Giant Squid, whose conspicuous presence loomed on the Lake's surface at their backs. He left soon after, though not without telling Harriet he looked forward to playing against her in their first match.
Thinking about having actually play Quidditch made Harriet queasy, and she pushed herself to run faster, Hermione and Elara chasing after her. What if she failed? What if she fell off her broom? Or froze in the air? She'd be the laughing stock of the entire school.
They hadn't even reached Gagwilde Tower, the school's farthest outpost, when the three witches stumbled to a halt, Harriet holding on tight to her side.
"Harr—Harriet, are you okay?" Hermione panted, bent over, hands on her knees. "Oh, I—I know I said exercising with you would be a good idea, but I forgot—forgot how exhausting it is—."
"My bloody ribs still hurt," Harriet complained, trying to rub the pain out of the offending injury. She knew nothing had been broken—since, thanks to Dudley, she was intimately familiar with the feeling of broken ribs—but the healing bruises ached, showing the outline of where her body had struck Lavender's desk. Honestly, Harriet had been convinced the wizard had killed her for a second after his spell landed. She'd never encounter a flipendo that powerful before.
Is that how he got it to bounce? she wondered. How did he manage to circle my shield? I didn't know that was possible.
"I told—told you to go to Madam Pomfrey."
"Madam Pomfrey reports all injuries to our Head of House."
"You're being ridiculous."
"Am I? Professor Slytherin would probably chuck me off the Astronomy Tower if he found out I went tellin' tales."
Elara suddenly sat in the grass, one hand to her chest, head down between her knees.
"Elara? You alright?"
The taller girl waved them both off with a hoarse, "Give me a moment," but when that moment passed and Elara continued to gasp for air, Harriet touched her shoulder. "I can't—can't catch my breath." Her face had gone deathly pale, almost blue, and her hand ran from her chest to her throat as if trying to coax the air back into her lungs.
"I think we should get her back to the castle," Harriet said. She grasped Elara's arm, and when the other witch didn't jerk away, she levered the arm around her shoulders and pulled. Harriet almost wound up in the dirt too, and would have fallen if Hermione hadn't hurried to catch Elara's other arm. Between the two of them, they got their friend upright, and set off as fast as they could across the grounds.
Running pell-mell on the dew-streaked grass proved more difficult than traversing the worn path, and by the time they came in sight of the castle's entrance, all three witches could hardly breathe, and Harriet felt as if a lead weight hung from her shoulder, yanking hard on the limb. Blood pounded in her bruises, and she wanted nothing more than to lay on the cold earth and pass out.
Sweating and wheezing, Harriet and Hermione managed to drag Elara—growing bluer than before—through the doors into the entrance hall. Given the early hour, no one was out and about to witness their graceless staggering, and Harriet couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. They still had half the castle left to traverse to reach the infirmary.
"What in the blazes are you three doing?"
Harriet jumped, and from the lower dungeon corridor came Professor Snape, slinking up from the depths like a foul-tempered bottom dweller, skin sallow and eyes ringed in black as if he hadn't gotten a second of sleep last night. He brought with him the smell of bitter herbs and brine—which only reaffirmed the ghoulish imagery in Harriet's head.
"It's not even an hour past dawn, and you're already up to no good, Potter?"
"It's Elara, Professor," Hermione said before Harriet could argue. "I think she's having an asthma attack."
The wizard lost his sneer and his eyes snapped to the witch in question, taking in her stark complexion and short, wheezing breaths. He stepped nearer, and his black wand appeared from his sleeve, Snape levering it at Elara's throat as she looked at him with wide, panicked eyes. "Anapneo."
Elara wheezed and coughed, but she did manage to breathe somewhat easier than before, the pained, pinched expression on her face smoothing.
Snape's wand disappeared back into his sleeve. "Bring her along. Quickly now."
"But, Professor—."
"Quickly and silently, Granger."
Elara leaned on them for support, and they descended into the subterranean dungeons, chasing Snape's black cloak cutting through the sputtering torchlight. He led them straight to his office, a place Harriet had had the misfortune of visiting once or twice for detention, though Snape usually conducted those in the classroom. He waved a hand to dismiss the wards and opened the door, leaving the three witches to follow after him into the cluttered space, pointing at the stiff, worn chair set before his desk. "Put her there."
They dropped Elara into the seat, and Harriet rubbed her sore shoulder with a groan of relief. The smell clinging to Snape thickened here, emanating from a little iron cauldron set on a narrow counter between an overburdened shelf and a rickety cabinet. She hadn't a clue what he'd been brewing. The professor himself stopped before a large portrait showing a turbaned man and two cobras, the painted wizard playing a low, winding tune on a carved flute— "A pungi," Hermione supplied in undertone, seeing where Harriet's eye had wandered. Snape touched the portrait's frame and it swung inward, revealing a second room larger than the office itself.
"Those must be his private stores," Hermione muttered, watching as Snape dismissed another ward and opened a thick-paned cabinet door, revealing several shelves stocked with all manner of potions. "I can only imagine what he has tucked away in there. Look, those are Hungarian Horntail scales! Those are highly regulated. And there—that's a jar of Banshee screams."
"Banshee screams? Isn't that just—air?"
"Don't be silly, Harriet."
Harriet didn't think it a silly question, but she nonetheless shrugged and let Hermione continue peeking inside Snape's storeroom while the man's back was turned. She let her attention drift instead to the portrait door, hanging not quite open and not quite closed, the charmer taking a break from his music to lounge on a reed mat. The snakes hovered at the edge of their basket, tongues flickering. One cobra turned to the other and hissed.
"The dark one isss having visitorsss, he isss."
"Hatchlingsss, they are."
"What doesss he want with them, we wondersss?"
The second, more cohesive cobra bobbed its head, peering at them. "The Mudblood and the mad one and the whissspering hatchling, yesss."
Harriet stiffened.
"What isss they doing here, we wondersss?"
"The Massster will want to know, he will."
"Yesss, yesss."
Snape shouldered his way into the office again, and the snakes quickly dipped into their basket, out of sight. 'Master,' the one had said. Harriet knew enough about snakes to understand the way they addressed people; their species shared a keenness for adjectives, the "loud one" and the "fat one" and the "dark one" common enough in their speech, while they referred to Parselmouths as "Speakers." Harriet had never heard the term "Mistress" until she chose to step past the Dursleys' threshold and follow Set into the unknown. She couldn't be certain, but she believed the difference in address came with allegiance—and she was damn sure the only Speaker in the castle who could be called "Master" was Professor Slytherin.
Professor Slytherin had snakes watching Snape.
The Potions Master tipped Elara's head back and all but dumped the contents of a slim, slightly orange vial down the witch's throat. Sputtering, Elara shoved his hand away and retched.
"Hold your breath, Black. Do not vomit in my office."
Harriet frowned as Elara did as told, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth. "You could have warned her."
Snape narrowed his eyes.
"Err. Sir."
A tense moment passed them by, and finally Elara began to breathe without difficulty, her first inhalations raspy and stilted, but soon smooth and quiet, the blue color fading from her lips. Snape asked her questions in his bored, tired drawl—did her chest feel tight, did she feel the urge to cough, had her lungs cleared—and as Elara answered, Harriet thought about the portrait. Did Snape know about the snakes? She could admit he was bloody clever, but even clever people overlooked obvious things. Snape walked about in a part of the castle filled with snake totems and memorabilia; Harriet thought it plausible he might not realize just what he had hanging on his wall.
"You're fine," Snape grunted, banishing the empty vial back into his storeroom, slamming the portrait closed with a swish of his wand. "You do realize the track is out of bounds for first and second years, do you not? Don't lie to me, I know exactly where you were, girl. Did you dunderheads never think to consider this situation is precisely why you are not allowed out on the grounds before decent human beings have rolled out of their beds?"
He continued on in that vein for some time, and Harriet tuned the professor out, deciding he was exaggerating—or lying outright. She'd seen other Quidditch players out running, after all, and nothing in the rulebook said she couldn't go out simply because she was younger.
"Potter, are you listening?"
"Yes, sir," she replied, blinking. Snape did not look convinced, but the man had obviously had little sleep and couldn't be arsed with her attitude this morning.
"Black, do refrain from doing anything too strenuous in the future, lest you choke and expire." His tone implied he wouldn't be terribly upset if that happened, and Elara scowled, the haughty lines of her face sharpened with derision. "Get out, all of you. Breakfast is soon, and I mean to enjoy what's left of my morning before you pester me again."
Hermione hurried from the room, followed by Elara, who shot Snape one final withering glance the Potions Master ignored in favor of staring Harriet down, who lingered overlong by his desk, fidgeting with her sleeves.
"What is it now, Potter?"
She almost left, hating how he'd taunted Elara even as he assisted the witch, but Harriet's ribs kept throbbing, a stern reminder of Professor Slytherin's hateful, mocking teachings, and so she squared her shoulders and remained. "Sir? Can I have a bit of parchment? And a quill?"
"…why?"
"To write down those notes you wanted. From class, you know."
Snape and Harriet stared at one another, the former suspicious, the latter keeping her back to the storeroom, a fierce expression holding her young face. If he scoffed and tossed her out, then Harriet would go, and would keep what she knew to herself—but Snape didn't scoff. He held her gaze, searching for something, and though he looked wary, the Potions Master wordlessly slid a sheet of parchment and a tatty, prepped quill toward her.
It all seemed so very dramatic to Harriet, this cloak and dagger game, and she was certain any other professor would've demanded she drop the pretense and be frank, but Snape didn't. Harriet leaned forward and scribbled out a line on the page.
"Thanks for helping Elara, sir."
"Out, Potter."
She went, and after the door swung softly shut, Harriet didn't see how Snape took the parchment in hand and read the untidy line. She didn't see him hold the parchment over an open candle and watch the words burn.
The serpent charmer has watchful friends, professor.
A/N: Some random factoids! According to Rowling, the bit about Uagadou students becoming Animagi at fourteen is canon. Elara's birthday is January 17th, making her roughly seven months older than Harriet, and about three months younger than Hermione.
Harriet: "I have to run for Quidditch."
Hermione: "We should all do it!"
Elara: *literally dies*